Respire

by Cody Prough

  “That ain’t no joke. He’s holdin’ them accountable for ol’ Dorian out there.” Garrett nodded towards the wreck of the SUV, through the shot-out window at Dorian's remains, now heavily coated in fresh snow. George, apparently bored with this conversation, had decided to head upstairs with Rob, maybe he had something more interesting to discuss.

  “Speakin’ of that, Garrett. Who’d’ya think’s gonna take that number two spot?” Trevor inquired, sitting down and propping his feet up on the living room table.

  “Fuck if I care. I just hope it isn’t Tennessee. Guy’s a grade A fuckin’ lunatic. If we thought Tommy was crazy…” Garrett shuddered, looking around, Trevor’s eyes darted back behind Garrett, a worried look on his face at the mention of Tennessee’s name. “Look, Trevor. For all I care it can be Jim-fuckin’-Bob. All I know is if we don’t do somethin’ times are about to get bad, man. I think Tommy’s about to lose it. Big time.”

  “Shh.” Trevor hushed Garrett, looking down at the stairs. It was quiet down there; Tennessee has been down there for a while…

  “Look, man. We need to make a break for it. Grab one of ‘em trucks an’ leave. Maybe a couple guns. We can do it. Tonight. That supply bus is about to come! All that we need is in the supplies back at base, man. Maybe we pocket a few from here” Garrett gestured around the room, a few boxes with rations, and the bags of medicine and other items recently taken from Tommy's men. “Think about it, Trev, we get back to base and after everyone’s layin’ down we take out one or two guys, head south… Just think about it.”

  Garrett walked off to go upstairs, taking his shotgun with him, leaving Trevor in a quiet silence in the kitchen, the former council chambers of the Sick Ward. He decided on some fresh air to clear his head; he was getting anxious being inside, who knew what these people had? He could hear Garrett upstairs, pushing open a door on the other end of the house and joining the conversation with George and Rob. He couldn’t make out the particulars, but it sounded like they were all laughing.

  Trevor managed a few steps out of the door before taking his last deep breath, an arrow came soaring through the air. The head of the arrow pierced through his neck quickly, causing a steady stream of blood to pour down his neck, covering his torso, then down the front of his shirt towards his legs and trickling onto the snow. He began to stumble, reaching for his neck. Slowly, he turned back to the house before Steve got to him from the side, the butt of his rifle swinging like a club and smacking him on his face, the wet snap that followed came from his nose as it broke into pieces. As he fell backward the tip of the arrow in his neck snapped, he lay on his back just a few feet from the door. Patrick had started limping over, Lamar had stayed at the tree line with the bow in his hand, tears starting to form in his eyes.

  Patrick glanced back, jerking his head towards the house. Lamar slowly stepped out, crossing the road, he looked back at the tree line then farther down the road to the wreckage of Dorian just south of them. Steve had moved Trevor’s body out of sight, but not before Lamar caught a glimpse of him, and the arrowhead still on the ground where it had snapped off. Patrick started snapping his fingers, looking at Lamar. “Focus up, kid.” Patrick unslung his AK.

  “Come on.” Patrick started wobbling into the front with Lamar taking up the rear, his shotgun held in his less than stable hands as he checked the shells, checking the street out of habit as he crossed.

  Patrick took point, injured but alert, he listening to every creak upstairs and down as they pushed into the front of the house. Steve, having moved the body, now joined them from the rear of the house. His rifle replaced by his sidearm as he scanned from room to room. He met up with Patrick and Lamar in the living room, perfectly center in the first floor.

  Steve, nodding to Patrick, took the AK-47 (with, one would admit, much reluctance) and Patrick took Lamar’s shotgun as a replacement. Patrick moved and pulled a chair over, placing it at the head of the steps leading towards the basement and across from the staircase that lead up to the second floor. Looking at Lamar, now with Patrick’s handgun and Steve, with the AK-47. “Best of luck, gents.” Patrick saluted them, aiming the shotgun at the stairs, propping it up on the back of the chair he pulled over. Steve nodded, smacking Lamar on the arm, drawing Lamar’s attention to the task at hand.

  Steve took point, the assault rifle guiding him down the steps. He could hear the faint sound of people arguing on the other side of the door as he pushed it open. What his eyes caught first were the people that were dead.

  “Chef” Kim was laying on her cot, she had been repeatedly smacked with a blunt object. She was naked from the waist down, though covered by a blanket he could see most of one bare leg sticking out. Her face looked like it had been caved in. The next was Aaron Deeks, he had been a bartender. Came down with cancer shortly before and had been wasting away here. He had seemed to be trying to defend Kim, he laid just a few feet from her cot, a single stab wound between his ribs, he bled out applying pressure. Terry Jenkins had been terribly sick with something Steve couldn’t remember, but wasn’t doing well, he may have died possibly in the month or two, but without treatment had passed away during the commotion. The ones that were left had been herded into a corner by the short man, Tennessee. Nobody from the Sick Ward had noticed Steve creeping in, they were too busy being threatened and tied up by each other at gunpoint when Steve brought the barrel of the gun to the back of Tennessee’s head, aiming it at an upward angle. He had been in the middle of screaming something about all the pain they were about to be in, and how that fucking bitch shouldn’t have resisted and the kid deserved it, these guys would listen if they knew any better, when the touch of the barrel cut him off.

  “Boy, I hope you’re just happy to see me. ‘Cuz if I turn around an’…” Steve pulled the trigger, the single bullet fired upward, ripping the top part of Tennessee’s head off, clearing a wide opening in his cranium and misting the basement when he fell. His body dropped quickly, Lamar had the handgun trained on Tennessee, but his face was one of shock and worry, seeing Steve kill Tennessee wasn’t part of the plan. Lamar quickly bent down, emptying his lunch on the floor.

  That’s roughly when the first shotgun blast upstairs went off, echoing throughout the house. By the time Tennessee was losing his head and Lamar was losing his lunch, Patrick trained his gun on the stairs, waiting until he had a shot before pulling the trigger.

  Garrett was plunged back against the wall by buckshot. He dropped his gun instantly, streaking the wall behind him with a fresh coat of red. Patrick groaned; more movement was heard as another figure came back down quickly. Apparently not learning, he ran down the stairs and fired two shots at Patrick, missing widely. The shotgun blast ripped Rob’s right leg off, sending him down the stairs like a tipped over tree, landing on Garret’s body. A second shot tore into his back, spraying more blood on Garrett’s dead body.

  Thank God I could do that stationary.

  More noise was heard upstairs, Patrick grunted, mentally counting his remaining shells. “How many of you are left?! I got shells for days!” A shaky voice replied a moment later. “George, Go…Gorgeous George.” Patrick squinted, peering at the stairs where a pair of sneakers stuck out from the top steps. He yelled back “Toss whatever gun you have down the steps. And come down, slowly.”

  Patrick took a deep breath, steadying his aim. A handgun was tossed down the stairs, followed by the clip. Then, slowly, a pair of sneakers came down, showing the full body of “Gorgeous” George Harris, in a blue pair of jeans, an old jacket, black shirt shaking and on the verge of tears. He kept his gun trained on George, gesturing to the couch. “Sit.”

  George worked his way over cautiously, sitting across from Patrick on the red plaid couch, stuffing pouring out of the cushion to his left. “Where’re the rest of ya’?” Patrick sat down on the chair, resting his legs now, the shotgun aimed casually at George. “Come on, don’t get tongue tied now, Gorgeous. Which has to be an ironic nickname, right? Nobody falls for that bl
onde-haired shit anymore, pretty boy.” George slowly ran his fingers through his hair, laughing nervously. “Did I say you could laugh?” Patrick aimed the barrel at George’s crotch, a grin appearing on his face. “Where is everyone?”

  George started spilling everything he knew, by the time he was done Lamar had joined them up the stairs, after getting some fresh air first. Steve, choosing to stay down the stairs to talk with the people, eventually came up and devised a plan with Patrick and Lamar (after George was out of earshot and tied up). They were going to rest and wait for a call on the radio, George had told them they were coming back once they dropped off the people they had just taken. Then, they’d radio when they were on the way back so they could get the rest of the supplies and whoever else could move. It was imperative that they take as many people alive as possible, Steve had almost snapped at that point, seeing Kim and Alan the way they were. But George had agreed, Tennessee was a known psychopath. He sometimes took liberties with the rules.

  After they were done planning and removing the bodies Steve dug around and found some pain relievers for Patrick and some food for Lamar, he then went back to tending to his people in the basement. Lamar stayed on guard duty, eating snacks while casually checking up on George, who was tied to a chair in the laundry room. The radio was resting on the dining room table by the back door, next to Patrick, and within ear shot of Lamar and George. They were supposed to get Steve as soon as someone checked in.

  Patrick awoke roughly an hour later; the pills were a bit stronger than mild. Lamar was on guard duty with his shotgun, sporting a bag with his own gas mask that he came across out of the “repurposed” supplies from Tommy’s men. His feet were buried under a small mound of water bottles and chip bags. “Where’s the other guy?” Patrick rubbed his eyes, the pain in his ankle had subsided substantially. “Steve? He’s downstairs with his people. But it’s not lookin’ good.” Patrick let out a small coughing fit, making himself get up. “What do you mean?” Lamar looked at George, who had been moved towards the back door, closer to the radio. “Without a doctor most of ‘em were dying. Not to mention the ones that were dead when we got down there. Plus, he still has friends missing. A lot of ‘em.” Patrick groaned, moving towards the basement. “How’s that grunt?” Lamar looked at George, who was trying his best to stay warm in his chair. “Scared shitless, but he seems mostly harmless.” Lamar cleared his throat, glancing over to Patrick. “He’s apparently a recruit they just brought in, seems nice enough though. Lost a lot of people after it went down.” Patrick started to move down the stairs, looking back at Lamar after taking a few steps. “You good?” Lamar had moved away from George, following Patrick towards the head of the steps. He sat his shotgun down on the table. “I’m a little shook, man.” Patrick nodded, moving back up the steps to get a better look at Lamar, then through the doorway behind him at George.

  “You good to stay on guard duty?” Patrick exhaled slowly. “I can sit on the guy for a bit, give you some rest.” Lamar shook his head, looking back at George for a moment, then back to Patrick. “I’m fine, man. I just needed a minute. I uh…” Lamar cleared his throat again, looking down at Patrick. “Just a lot to process, y’know?” Patrick nodded, giving Lamar a genuinely sympathetic look. “It’ll get easier, hopefully one day we don’t have to do this shit at all anymore.” Patrick finally moved down the stairs, creaking under his feet as he limped down.

  He stopped momentarily before opening the door, his heart was pounding in his chest, his tongue dry from the pills. Patrick pushed it open, revealing three lumps under blankets in cots next to the wall. Steve had pulled up the blankets over their bodies, Tennessee (and what remained of his head) was slumped over in the corner, a sheet tossed over him. It was sticking to the giant opening Steve had put in his head, the blood pinning the sheet down and soaking into it.

  Patrick continued to walk, passing the first few cots he saw several more that were weakly breathing, a few seemed healthy enough to stand, but not many. Steve was tending to them as best he could. Sweat was pouring down his face, his hands were working on stitching up Mrs. Diaz, she had a large cut across her arm from being shoved around. The others had water, some rations, and were seated in Doc’s former area on cots. “Yo’.” Patrick worked his way over, leaning against the wall on his right side, taking weight off his left ankle. “I take it my gun was a big help, judgin’ from that guy back there.” Patrick glanced back at the sheet-covered man formerly known as Tennessee. “Mind if I get it back?” Steve didn’t look up, using his left hand he pointed to the AK-47 leaning against the wall on the far side of Patrick. “Right.” Patrick started moving towards the rifle, keeping an eye on Steve. The Sick Ward survivors were waiting quietly in their cots, the occasional murmur of concern over who Patrick was and why Steve was with these people. They wanted to know where Sarah was taken, and Doc.

  They were scared, they had every right to be. At Patrick’s count they lost three so far, with several more on the way and the others missing. “You got some people lookin’ rough over there, man.” Steve let out a dry scoff, he was done stitching Mrs. Diaz and was in the process of bandaging the wound. “Yeah? Well without Doc…” Steve tossed a bloody pair of gloves against the wall in frustration, throwing his hands up. “I can’t fuckin’ save ‘em. I was a photographer, not a medic.” Patrick let out a slow exhale, grabbing his rifle. “Hey, Steve…” Patrick cleared his throat. “Maybe you just uh…need to take stock of who you did save.” Steve sniffled, blinking and shaking his head, twisting in his seat and running his hands through his hair. In one of the cots a large coughing fit overtook a patient. Patrick watched as blood shot out of her mouth, she shook hard and stopped moving. Steve didn’t seem to acknowledge it, he turned back to Mrs. Diaz, who was in tears.

  Upstairs, Lamar had been working his way through a candy bar he found while talking to George when Patrick came back. As he flung open the doorway to the stairs and Lamar put the last half of a candy bar in his mouth, Gorgeous George’s radio crackled to life. A voice with a slight Spanish accent came over. “Tennessee, you there?” Lamar started spitting out the candy bar, blowing half-chewed bits everywhere. “Don’t fuckin’ move.” Spewing some of the chewed peanuts out at George, who was still tied to his chair and away from the radio. “Jesus, man! Calm down!” George turned his face away from the crumbs, closing his eyes from the assault of chewed food. “Tennessee, we don’t have time for this! Do you copy?” More static for a moment, then the voice clicked back on “We need to get moving, repeat, Tennessee, do you copy?”

  George started shaking, looking at Patrick who had now joined Lamar, leaving the rifle on the table and pulling out his handgun, aiming at Gorgeous George. “Hey Kid, go grab Steve. Tell ‘em we got contact. Make it fast.” George was beginning to ramble and shake. “Come on, man. I don’t wanna’ be with them, man. I was just tryin’ to get by. Come on.” Lamar moved towards the stairs quickly, practically flying down the steps at a hurried pace. “How ya’ doin’, George? Look, here’s the plan. You don't tip them off and you'll be fine.” Patrick spit on the ground towards George as he nodded quickly. “Please, man. Please, please, please.” Lamar was returning from the stairs; Steve right behind him, a furious look on his face. “Who is she? On the radio.” George cleared his throat, sniffing. “Romero. She’s one of our… their captains.”

  “How many people does she have with her?” George closed his eyes, his fingers flew up as he counted, going up to six fingers. “Her units probably got six of ‘em in it.” He stopped whimpering, taking deep shaky breaths. “If I don’t reply she’ll be suspicious.” He glanced at Steve who slowly nodded. Patrick leaned over, resting his finger on the radio's talk button while looking at George. “Ask her how far away she is. Tell her nothing.” George nodded, Patrick pressed the button, it crackled to life.

  “Pri…rivate George, reporting.”

  “Where the fuck is Tennessee?” Despite the words Romero sounded a bit more relaxed than usual.


  George cleared his throat, looking at Patrick, his eyes glaring back at George insistently. “What’s your E.T.A, captain?”

  “Where. The fuck. Is TENNEESEE, SHIT-HEEL? I did not give you permission to ask me questions.” George closed his eyes, breathing slowly. Patrick bit his lip. “Tell her he went downstairs with a captive, he demanded radio silence.” George relayed the message, then waited for a reply with Lamar while Patrick and Steve discussed a plan off to the side.

  Romero was about ten minutes out while they prepared an ambush. Steve ran point, giving everyone a strategic setup. George was going to be outside; he was being trusted to lure Romero inside and watch the other guys. Patrick was to be upstairs and keeping an eye on everyone in the front. Lamar was guarding the front and back doors from the living room, crouched behind the couch and hidden from sight. Once Romero came inside, ideally alone, she’d get into the basement before being greeted by Steve and a hand cannon .45 he took off Tennessee’s body. The goal was to not fire a single shot, but to take Romero by surprise and disarm the men. If push came to shove, however, everyone had a vantage point on Romero or her people. What they’d do if the plan worked was another matter. They just had to figure out how to get to Sarah and Doc, first.

  About five minutes after they settled into their positions, the sound of the bus’s rumbling engine cut through the silence of the night as it slowly approached, stopping in front of the house with George flagging them down. Romero descended from the bus first, her Mac 10 in her hand. She was followed by only three men, much to Patrick's glee, who regarded George with a confused nod. “Where is everyone?” It was dark out, the moon’s natural illumination reflecting off the snow. lurkers would be stirring around if they weren’t already—there’s been so much noise already tonight.

  Her troops had the standard assortment of weaponry, a couple handguns and a shotgun. “Most of ‘em are down in the basement. Those fuckups Trevor and Garret went off lootin’ I think.” George replied, avoiding eye contact and taking time to pronounce each word as smoothly as possible. She nodded, looking at the supplies. “Load the last of the supplies. I’m gonna’ find this fuck up Tennessee.”