Respire

by Cody Prough

  Fuck!

  Hellfire had spread across his face; Tommy could only assume. The left side of his face was scorched and sizzling. Alverez, what little face that was left, stumbled backwards and ultimately off the roof to her death. The second one went off, then third. The left side of Tommy’s body was sizzling. He was burning, he could feel the chemicals burning through his appendages, the bastards were using chemical warfare. He couldn’t see out of his left eye, somewhere in the distance the shrieks were closer, another homemade explosive went off, Tommy could make some of this out with what remained of the right side of his face, now partially covered in chemical burns as well. He fumbled towards the side of the roof, hoping to find something to land on. His rifle long since fell from his hand, his precious handgun lay on the roof yards away. He was just a couple feet away from the edge, now.

  As Tommy stumbled towards the side of the roof a bullet whizzed by, then a second, finally the third came, it connected at his left knee, followed by several more shots almost in the same spot. That’s funny. Tommy thought to himself Why won’t my left leg move? Tommy stumbled like a drunk, his hands flailing out for something to grab. He landed with a thud on his side, rolling onto his back. The moon shining down on him. It was a full moon, huh. That happened fast. What’s goin’ on tonight, anyways? It seemed terribly lonely and cold up here…oh, yeah, my leg… Oh who is this guy with the bad cut on his face and the rifle? Oh fuck. It’s that Sick Ward dude. He looks pretty hurt; I wonder if he knows what’s goin’ on. He’s comin’ this way.

  “Hey, cripple.” Steve slammed his foot down on Tommy’s shot up left leg. “Where is she?” Tommy’s mind jumped back to the situation at hand; the pain snapping him to attention. He tried to squirm, he was dying, and he knew that now, but he didn’t want to. “Who?” Tommy managed a weak laughing cough before Steve sent a kick to his ribs. “If you don’t fuckin’ answer me.” Steve lifted the rifle, kneeling, slamming the butt down on Tommy’s left leg multiple times. Shrieks from the lurkers were getting louder, the screams of Tommy’s fleeing men, being cut down by them, was also heard. “They’re comin’…better just run.” Tommy managed weakly. He closed his eyes, reopened them when the butt of Steve’s rifle found his leg again. “Want me to let ‘em eat you? Or I can just make it quick.” Steve pushed the barrel of the gun down above Tommy’s left eye, hovering above. Tommy tried to squirm away, whimpering quietly. How could this happen to me? I was in charge. “West.” Steve looked around, he could see the lurkers now, they were entering the visible eyeline, but slowly, they already had plenty to eat. His gun felt so heavy; the adrenaline leaving his body. “Where? West to where?” Tommy’s good eye rolled back in his head. Steve look at him, shaking him profusely. At the entrance to the stairs, a familiar voice peaked out. “Steven…” Doc stood there with a bandaged arm, Lamar behind him, brandishing his shotgun and gas mask. Steven didn’t look up for a moment, keeping the gun aimed on Tommy in disbelief. “Steven, we must find shelter before those…things get to us.” Steve looked up, barely noticing Doc. “Don’t worry, Steven. She’s fine. I saw her leave, but we need to hide. Come, to the basement.” Steve slowly walked off, leaving the scarred and burned corpse of Thomas C. Warlock and Alverez’s dead troops on the roof, possibly until the end of time for all he knew, or cared. Let the lurkers have them.

  He limped slowly down the stairs. A few of Tommy’s men had returned to the school, not as scared of them as they were the lurkers, they were primarily supportive people behind the scenes, anyways. They all returned to the basement, Doc being the common factor and broker between both groups had managed a peaceful resolution. He had, in a short time, talked down the remaining forces with reason and patched everyone up with the supplies on hand. So, in the basement, seven of them sat. The lurkers were picking apart the bodies of those unfortunate enough not to make it out far enough. The feasting, as Lamar was thinking about it while in the basement, was going to last the lurkers for weeks if they wanted. They weren’t going anywhere.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  As luck would have it, Clarence and Ash went out and came back with a vehicle, apparently some guy had been stabbed in it and the woman shot. It had enough room in it for the three of them, though. Clarence and Ash managed to get it after just a few days, sidestepping any activity from the lurkers and pushing the vehicle over to their new shelter. Patrick, using some spray paint he found in the garage, took time to leave a message. If by some chance Lamar did make it out, he’d want to see him again.

  Gone west.

  Will leave signs along the way.

  Hope you made it out. – P.M

  Patrick stood back, eyeing the simple message on the living room walls, he felt a sting starting in his eyes. This is what you get for getting too close to people. Should’ve left him in St. Joe. Patrick thought. The remainder of the Sick Ward, the two people he was with, anyways, had been out looting while he tagged, they brought back more supplies. It was enough to last them a few days at least, and they’d be taking plenty of backroads between here and Kansas City. Tommy was probably dead, but the New America and their ruling council of the Brotherhood were still out there. Not to mention anyone else like Tommy, or worse.

  There was an impatient tap on the door, Clarence stuck his head in. “Ready to go, Patrick?” He eyed the graffiti on the wall indifferently. “Think he made it?” Patrick blinked, coughing and wiping his eye quickly. “Suppose we’ll find out.” He tapped his fingers on his rifle gently. “All right, kid. Let’s get out of here. Ash loaded up?” He nodded in confirmation, heading back towards the truck. Patrick let out a long sigh, tossing the spray paint to the side. The school was overrunning with lurkers the last time anyone checked. They were thinning out, but still at least half a dozen remained, popping up to take a body. He figured if they did make it out. IF they did, they were holed up inside. And if they didn’t? He chose not to think about it, but they couldn’t wait here forever.

  He turned away from the message, his rifle in his hand, walking out of the house quickly and taking the driver’s seat in the truck. He got in, handing his baby, the AK-47 over to Clarence. “All right, I suppose the next stop is somewhere west.” Patrick had a map on his lap, the trail he was taking outlined, alternative routes dotted off in opposing directions. “Now I’m reminding you all to keep all hands and feet inside the vehicle at all times, don’t wander off during the tour, no flash photography, do not fire your weapons, and please keep track of your rations. We may be out for some time. No telling what suburbs look like in the shit and I’m going to be taking as many sideroads until then as I can. Could be overflowing people, could be monsters ate ‘em…” Patrick trailed off, shrugging. “Could be we’re the only ones there. Patrick spit out of the truck window. “But, only one way to know for sure.” Patrick started the vehicle, driving off towards the west. His heart jumping up to his throat as he went, looking at the wreckage of the town that lay behind them, picking up speed as he moved around deserted and ruined cars, somehow the town was in worse shape than it had been when they arrived. It felt awkward in the truck, if only for a bit. Ash and Clarence were survivors now, too. But they still lost everyone they had spent the entire apocalyptic portion of their lives with, and now they were with Patrick headed aimlessly west. The conversation would eventually pick up, but it took a couple hours.

  By the time Lamar arrived at the house the paint had settled on the message a week prior. Doc, Steve, and a woman named Veronica, had followed him back to the house. The rest of the survivors from Tommy’s militia, at least the ones in the basement, had decided they didn’t want to be in any more organizations or factions. Choosing instead to travel the frozen wasteland alone, or in small groups of friends, until the bitter end.

  Lamar sighed. It wouldn’t be so unfortunate if they still had a car, but other than the ones they blew up, it appeared as though the others were missing. Who knew how long they had been in the basement, anyways? It felt like a couple weeks, maybe a month. He fi
gured Patrick left not too many days after he hadn’t returned. “Well, guess I’m goin’ west too then.” Steve shrugged at Lamar’s remark; he wouldn’t mind having some company on his way out west. “You are aware on foot this will be quite an expedition, correct?” Doc, chiming in with his usual cheerful optimism. “Can we just get our fuckin’ move on? We ain’t gainin’ more daylight gabbin’ like some fuckin’ Southern gals.” Oh Veronica, how sweet the sound of your voice… Lamar thought.

  Lamar tapped his fingers on the barrel of the shotgun, slung and hanging by his gas mask at his side. Steve, his rifle slung over his shoulder, Doc with nothing but a bag full of medical supplies, and Veronica with a revolver holstered and single barrel shotgun of her own, began to head west, the sun already making its way down. The swarm seemed to lose interest in the area by this point, assuming all the food was picked clean by now, apparently.

  Lamar took a small candy bar out of his jacket pocket, a camouflage jacket not unlike Patrick had been when they first met. “Anyone know any songs?” Lamar asked inquisitively. Nobody replied, Veronica simply unscrewed a flask and took a swig, handing it to Steve and taking his hand rolled cigarette in exchange.

  Miles ahead, just off the path to Nilwood, Patrick and his two new friends were sitting around a poker table in someone’s basement, eating a fine meal of venison and drinking beer (they managed to keep it cold by sticking it in the snow) while they played Texas Hold ‘Em. Splitting some of the fresh venison between them they all joked and cheered. They had been there for a few days, stopping to gather supplies and rest. One of them, Ash, said he saw some Hummers refueling and resting in a town not far away when he was out on recon, so they decided to rest for a bit longer by Nilwood, which was fine with them.

  Sarah, riding in one of those Hummers, was now sitting in a hospital in Kansas City. Her room heavily guarded by several men with assault rifles. She had no idea what was behind these walls, she didn’t even know she was in Kansas City. She only knew that she and every other woman around them had come in unharmed and locked in the rooms in this wing. Aside from the armed security and restrictions on leaving their rooms, they were treated well. She even had a window. It had bars on it and the glass was reinforced, but it was a window still.

  During their stay they were given time to visit doctors, eat full course meals, religious practices were accepted within reason, and visit the library. They could work in greenhouses, the kitchens, and a variety of other places to keep busy and help feed and take care of the rest of the building. It would almost a perfect set up had it not been for the security that watched over them throughout most of their day.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Sarah had a full day, after going to see the doctor (her baby boy was healthy, she was considering naming him William Gibbs-Mintz) and was developing well. Jacob Canard had been spending time with many of the pregnant women in one on one sessions, none of them have given birth yet, the closest one being Alice. She was six months along, now. Sarah was only three.

  After the doctor’s visit she was usually in the garden, where they were given a fair amount of freedom. The workers were made up mostly of women who weren’t far along. They were going through large amounts of gloves and a lot of the cheap plastic tools they had been provided with kept breaking, the plastic was later discarded in the trash for them to dispose of later or by another “patient” ran cleanup crew.

  Once done with gardening duties they were often allowed their religious time, where her and several women were given their own personal choice of ways to practice their religious beliefs. Sarah, not being of any faith, simply chose a crucifix out of familiarity. They were given an hour and in their first service they ended up spending that time with a gentleman named Father Max. A Priest bound to a wheelchair, by what he called “unforeseen circumstance,” who had been brought in a month earlier along with several new staff members from “back east.” But they were given plenty of freedom there, even Father Max left the room frequently to attend to dealings and meetings. Giving the people plenty of time to converse and examine their items and, perhaps, plot if so inclined.

  Back in her room she was given her food and began to read her latest Stephen King novel, Misery, when the tray was finally taken away. She would be left alone for the night, there was no camera in there to observe her, luckily.

  Nevertheless, when the tray was taken away from her door she proceeded to the corner, lifting the far-left corner of her mattress, the one farthest from the door. Under it lay several pairs of gardening gloves. She took them out, beginning to put thumbtacks through one pair, then putting a larger pair on top of it. Making it an effective spiked glove. She continued this with more pairs, just a few rooms over her new friend Marcus was melting down old plastic guarding tools in to sharpened shivs, using a lighter they bought off a guard.

  A few floors below her another friend of hers, Keisha, was receiving some gifts from Father Max, a crucifix with a blade hidden in it, and a hollowed-out bible that could fit a small weapon. All Father Max asked for in return was their word that he would be liberated when they fled. He had a friend he wanted to get ahold of, assuming he was still alive, as did most of the people kept captive in Kansas City.