by Lukens, Mark
Petra scooted forward along the dirty floor while the Dragon’s attention was on the door. The floor was littered with trash and tools—she found a tire iron; she grabbed it. She kicked out as hard as she could at his knee, pouring every bit of strength she had into the strike.
The Dragon cried out, dropping down to one knee, trying to muffle his own scream at the last second.
Petra was up and on her knees in a flash, the tire iron in her hand. As the Dragon reached for the AK-47, she swung the tire iron down at his outstretched hand, smacking it. She heard the cracking of his bones as the metal struck his wrist. He collapsed onto the ground, holding his wrist, his mouth open in a silent sob, still trying not to make any noise.
Petra didn’t care if the rippers heard them. She only cared about killing the Dragon. If the rippers broke in and killed her, then so be it; at least the Dragon would be dead.
She kicked the AK-47 out of the way and then swung the tire iron down and hit the Dragon’s forehead before he could bring his cradled hands up to defend himself. He went rigid for just a second, like he’d been electrocuted, then he was limp, falling backwards onto the floor, his legs bent underneath him, tissue and cartilage tearing from his awkward fall back. He was out, but just for a second. A gash had opened up on his pale forehead—his own DA brand to wear—the blood pouring down the side of his face. His eyes rolled back for a moment, then focused again somewhere up at the ceiling.
He moaned, clawing at the inside of his coat, trying to get his broken hands to grab the gun holstered there.
Petra hit him again in his hands, bones crunching. “That’s for Sharon,” she told him in a harsh whisper.
The Dragon cried, cradling his injured hands and wrists together, straightening out his long legs and then drawing them up to protect his groin and torso.
Petra struck him again and again. Once in the knee, another one in his arm, one in his shin. She hit him as hard as she could, over and over again.
She stopped swinging the tire iron, breathing hard, staring down at him. He was moaning louder now, sobbing, not worried anymore about the rippers hearing them.
Petra hadn’t been concentrating on the rippers. She hadn’t heard any more shattering glass, and it didn’t sound like any of the rippers were in the office now. None were at the door to the office or at the rollup doors. Maybe the small mob of rippers had moved on.
“This wasn’t the way it was supposed to happen,” the Dragon whispered, staring up at her with wide eyes, his mouth drawn down into a frown. “This wasn’t God’s plan. This wasn’t the vision He showed me.”
“You’re delusional,” Petra said. “You’re nothing but a monster. An insane monster. Just like all the other monsters I’ve seen.”
The Dragon’s eyes widened as she brought the tire iron up again and swung it down at his face. He raised his ruined hands up to protect himself, but the tire iron got through, slamming down onto his nose, smashing it down flat with a big crack. He howled in pain.
She brought the tire iron down again and again until he was silent, until he was limp and unconscious. She hit him again and again, his hands plopping down to his sides, his body still. She hit him until his face turned to mush, until it was caved in like the man she’d found earlier.
Finally she stopped, breathing hard, sweating a little even though it was cold inside the mechanics’ bay. The tire iron was slipping out of her hand from her sweat and the blood splattering it. She let it drop down onto the Dragon’s chest. She didn’t bother checking his pulse. He was dead, and if not, he would die soon.
A wave of dizziness came over her, and for just a moment she was sure she was going to pass out, collapse to the floor beside the Dragon, laying there, just another piece of meat for the rippers to find. She walked on weak legs and bent down, picking up the AK-47—it felt so heavy. She stumbled over to a large toolbox on wheels, leaning on it, letting it support her for just a moment.
“Come on,” she whispered to herself. “Come on, hold on.”
Her body felt weak. Her nerves tingled, her hands almost numb from striking the Dragon over and over again. Her stomach turned, then convulsed. She waited to vomit, but there was nothing in her stomach except water—the only thing she’d been given in the last few days.
“Come on, hold on.”
She closed her eyes, afraid the darkness might bring the blackout on even faster, but she wanted to close them for just a second. She listened, concentrating on any sounds coming from the office where one of the windows had been shattered, concentrating on any sounds coming from outside. She heard rippers out there, but they all seemed far away now, at least a block or two away. Maybe they were rushing toward the town, the walls, the smoke and the fires. Or maybe others were running away, afraid of the fires.
“You’ll be okay . . . you’ll be okay.”
She was crying. She used one hand to wipe at her face, her other hand holding the weapon. She knew she should fish the pistol the Dragon had been reaching for out of his coat, but she didn’t have the energy. She wasn’t crying for the Dragon, not at all. She didn’t feel one bit of empathy for him. Maybe he believed he was committing his atrocities for the right reasons. Maybe he’d gone insane after the Collapse, maybe all of them had to one degree or another, but she wouldn’t let it be an excuse for him. He had hurt, he had stolen, he had killed. And now he was gone.
Jacob was still out there. Jacob wasn’t dead. He would come after her, as relentless as The Terminator, like a robot killer that wouldn’t quit looking for her, a monster that couldn’t be stopped. She imagined him stalking her, following her tracks, or perhaps even following her energy, honing onto it like the Dragon would have.
The thought of Jacob getting close spurred her into action. She was still scared of Jacob finding her, but at least she had a weapon now. Could she outshoot him? Probably not, but she’d sure as hell try.
She looked over at the big black truck parked in the third bay, the nose of the truck only two feet away from the rollup door, ready to pull out of the garage and escape. She pulled her hand away and stood next to the tool box for a moment, making sure she was strong enough to stand on her feet, strong enough to walk.
A moment later she was shuffling across the floor, avoiding other toolboxes, pieces of equipment and hoses strewn across the floor. She made her way slowly even though the rippers were getting louder outside, maybe getting closer. She grabbed a stack of rags from a bench and wiped at her face. She put the rag against the back of her head, the rag soaking up the blood a little.
Maybe she had a concussion. She was almost sure of it. The light-headedness was coming back, the waves of dizziness. She felt like she was higher off the floor than she should be, like her feet were floating a few inches above the concrete, like she was drifting along through the air, not really walking.
She got to the truck, holding onto the side of the bed. Her legs felt weak and more tingles buzzed along her skin, a wave of darkness passing in front of her eyes.
“Hold on,” she whispered, closing her eyes as the world spun. “Hold on.”
After a few slow, deep breaths, exhales of breath misting up in front of her, she moved down the side of the truck to the front. She was going to need to get the garage door open to get out. Once the door was open, any rippers around would spot her in front of the truck. She would only have seconds to get into the truck.
Maybe she should wait.
Another window in the office shattered. There were only going to be more and more rippers coming around. It was now or never.
She slid the lock on the side of the garage door open. The sound was so loud, but not nearly as loud as the rumbling of the door when she lifted it up, pulling as hard as she could, pushing it up until the momentum took over and the door rolled all the way up.
Petra didn’t look outside or even aim her weapon—she didn’t wait around to see if any rippers were running toward her; she just assumed they were. A sudden energy overtook her, an urge to s
urvive, to not be cut apart and eaten alive. She had the AK-47, but she didn’t know how many bullets were left—not enough bullets for all of the rippers out there; she was sure of that.
She grabbed the doorhandle of the truck, wondering if it was locked, wondering if the Dragon had the keys on him, wondering if she had just made a terrible mistake.
The door opened. She swung it open and tossed her assault rifle inside and got in the truck, slamming the door shut, locking it.
The rippers were coming. She could hear their roars. They’d heard the garage door open, maybe even seen it. Now they were coming.
“Where are the keys?”
Petra checked the ignition, then the seat, the visor. She found a key fob with one large key attached to it in the center console. She grabbed it, stuck the key into the ignition and twisted. The truck started right up, rumbling with power.
She looked out the windshield as she shifted into drive, her foot on the brake pedal.
At least twenty rippers were rushing across the street toward the mechanic shop’s parking lot, waving sticks, pipes, knives, machetes, chunks of rocks. They were men, women, and children. Different ages, different people at one time, but they all looked like monsters to her now, all of them grubby with caked dirt and blood, all of their eyes wild with hunger and a thirst for blood.
She stomped down on the gas pedal, the back tires spinning on the concrete, screeching, smoke filling up the back of the bay. Then the tires grabbed and the pickup shot out through the open door, striking the first of the rippers, mowing them down before the others could get out of the way. Rocks and sticks thumped against the sides of the truck, but none of the windows broke. Petra held onto the steering wheel with both hands, screaming as she drove onto the street, as she turned right, then stomped on the gas pedal harder, picking up speed. Leaving this place. Going back to the store.
CHAPTER 52
Ray
Ray held the pistol in his hands, but it was too dark now to see where to shoot. He had given Mike his gun, the Sig Sauer that Luke had given him. He’d made sure the safety was off, and Mike had chambered a round. Josh had the M-16, but he’d been beside Emma, still holding onto her, making sure she knew he was right there. Ray didn’t know if Gerald had grabbed the rifle that he’d aimed at them when they had first seen them in the hallway, right in this same spot. Ray hadn’t had the time to worry about Gerald, he’d been concentrating on the rippers exploding out of the elevator at the end of the lobby, and then rushing down the hall toward them.
And then the world had gone dark.
Mike had groaned, fighting back a scream.
Emma wanted to know what had just happened—Josh told her the lights had just gone out.
“Stay where you are,” Ray told them. “Don’t fire yet. I’m getting my flashlight out.”
They didn’t have time. Any second now the rippers would be on top of them, tackling them in the dark, knocking them down, stabbing and beating at them, tearing at them. Ray’s fingers trembled as he pulled the flashlight out of his pocket, still trying to keep his gun in his hand, trying not to drop either his gun or the flashlight on the floor. He didn’t want Josh and Mike shooting right now, not knowing where everyone was. Josh could shoot Mike, or Mike could shoot them. It was pitch-black inside Avalon now, an impenetrable darkness, they couldn’t trust their shooting.
Josh and Mike held off shooting, fighting back the panic. It seemed like it took Ray hours to get his flashlight out and turned on, but finally a light beam lit up the hallway, illuminating a horror show coming straight at them: wide eyes, flashes of metal weapons, dirty and bloodstained skin, torn and tattered clothing, the smell of gore and shit, the roar and screeches of animals.
“Now, Josh!” Ray yelled.
Josh shot the M-16, a burst of gunfire that threatened to pop Ray’s eardrums. He didn’t have a second to wait. He pushed at Gerald, still trying to keep the light pointed at the rippers, some of whom had fallen from the gunshots. Others were backing up, some ducking into the other hall that led to the dining area and the kitchen.
“Where do we go?” Ray yelled at Gerald.
Gerald pulled away from Ray, rushing across the hall to the next door, opening it. Ray had no choice but to pull the flashlight away. Josh had stopped firing. Some of the rippers were down, some dead and some dying, but not all of them.
“Mike,” Ray said. “Where are you?”
“Here,” Mike answered in the darkness.
“Grab on to me, Mike. Get Emma. We need to follow Gerald into the room.” Ray was right on Gerald’s heels, afraid the man was going to lock the door, lock them out in the hallway.
Ray got Mike and Emma inside the next hallway Gerald had escaped to, then he waited in the doorway, turning the flashlight back toward Josh who was only a few feet away, staring down the dark main hall with his M-16 aimed.
Roars and screeches came from the darkness, sounds of pain as they died from gunshot wounds; others were sounds of rage and hunger.
“Now!” Ray yelled again at Josh.
Josh opened fire, holding the weapon tight as it bucked in his hands, the muzzle fanning back and forth, bullets pelting the dead rippers on the floor, bullets dotting the metal walls. Then Josh was out of ammo.
Ray kept the flashlight beam shining down the hallway, but it wasn’t powerful enough for them to see everything, just lighting up the small area of the hallway in front of them. He swore he saw movement somewhere in the darkness beyond the fallen bodies on the floor, but he couldn’t be sure.
“Let’s get inside the room,” Ray told Josh. Ray was already in the doorway, holding the metal door open for Josh to get inside. Josh backed up, still aiming his weapon even though he didn’t have any bullets left in it. Then he followed Ray inside the room.
Ray closed the door, shining his light down at the doorhandle. “Is there a lock on this door, Gerald?”
“No,” Gerald answered back from the dark.
“Where are we?” Ray asked, turning and shining his light around. They were in another hallway.
“This hall leads to the sleeping quarters,” Gerald said.
Ray remembered walking down this hall earlier before Gerald had aimed his rifle at them, before they had talked to Gerald about the Ripper Plague.
Movement beyond the door, harsh whispering sounds and grunts. Some of the rippers were still alive and coming this way, more cautious now after being shot at. Ray shined his light at Mike and Emma, making gestures to get down the hall.
There was no way out of this hall—Ray remembered that now. The hallway had doors on each side that led to the sleeping quarters like Gerald had just said, the hallway coming to a dead end about a hundred yards at the other end. It looked almost like a miniature version of the main hall outside the door.
Gerald helped Mike and Emma into the first room on their left as Ray and Josh backed up slowly from the closed door, both watching the door. Josh pulled out a magazine from his backpack and loaded it into the M-16. Ray kept his flashlight aimed down at the floor, not pointing it at the door because he didn’t want the rippers to see the light shining underneath the door, but maybe in this complete darkness they would be able to see the faintest of lights. He wanted to turn the flashlight off, but not yet, not until they got into the sleeping quarters Gerald had just gone into with Mike and Emma.
A horrifying thought came to Ray. If Gerald was working with the Dark Angels all along, what would stop him from taking Mike or Emma hostage to save himself? A panic rose up inside of Ray: equal pressures from the rippers in the main hall and the possibility of Gerald hurting his son. He rushed into the room, again wondering if Gerald would close and lock the door.
Ray shined his flashlight around the room. Emma was at the far end, against the wall between the two bunk beds on each long side of the room. Mike was right in front of her with his gun in his hand like he was guarding her. Gerald stood in the middle of the room with his weapon down by his side. He looked defeated, l
ike he was giving up already.
After Josh was inside, Ray closed the door.
“No locks on this door, either,” Ray hissed at Gerald as he shined the light at his face.
Gerald squinted, his eyes nearly shut.
“Why did you bring us into these rooms?”
“They were the closest to the storage closet,” Gerald said. “Right across the hall. We had to go somewhere. We had to run.”
Ray exhaled a long breath, trying to calm down. “There are other rooms where the doors lock?”
“Yeah, but none of the locks are going to open with the electric out. All the rooms that need a keycard are going to stay closed.”
That closed off a lot of choices, Ray thought. “So we can’t get into any of the locked rooms, and we can’t lock any of the doors in the other rooms? That about sum it up?”
Gerald nodded.
They were all quiet for a moment. Ray listened, standing closest to the door. It didn’t sound like any of the surviving rippers were in the hallway outside the bedrooms yet. But it would only be a matter of time before one of them stumbled into the door and got it open. There were some rippers still alive in the main hall—he could hear them beating on the walls or doors, some of them screaming and yelling.
“We can’t stay here forever,” Ray said. “We need to think of something else, somewhere else we can go to be safe, or somewhere we can pick off the rippers as they come to us.”
“What about the air ducts?” Josh said, shining his flashlight up at the big vent on the wall above Emma and Mike.
“Maybe,” Gerald said.
“How big are the ducts?” Josh asked Gerald.
“I don’t know,” he answered.
“I bet they’re commercial ductwork, maybe big enough to crawl through,” Josh said. “We could get to one of the locked rooms. Get down inside. The rippers wouldn’t be able to follow us inside.” He laid his rifle on a lower bunk and climbed up to the top bunk, holding onto the wall to peer into the vent with his flashlight.