by Brant, Jason
The brass crunched under their feet as they climbed the stairs.
“We’re going to hide in there,” Emmett huffed.
Greg didn’t respond.
His feet shambled along, but didn’t support much of his weight.
The way his head lolled with each step didn’t bode well for how responsive he’d be for the rest of their retreat. If they could find a decent place to hide inside, Emmett would go to work on his friend.
One of the decayed stairs crumbled under Emmett’s weight, the concrete sliding under his shoe, almost sending them careening backward to the sidewalk. His free hand shot out, grabbing hold of a rusty railing and keeping them upright.
He paused for a second, getting his bearings, trying to calm down. His eyes shifted from the damaged step to the broken windows to the rundown neighborhood surrounding them.
Twenty years ago, when he was a young medical student trying to find his footing in Pittsburgh, Emmett had heard a lot about the plight of urban decay in the city. Old steel mills and factories, long empty, fell apart, pulling the city down with them.
As he took in the area around them, he saw the cancer eating away at the memories of the old world.
Decay.
The Vladdies had devoured mankind. They’d abandoned humanity’s old creations, the remnants of their incredible society, to decay.
Everything would eventually crumble and be nothing more than dust in the wind.
The great heights humankind had reached would be gone, retaken by the earth, long forgotten by the new rulers of the planet.
A man hollered from around the corner.
The Bandits had closed in on them.
Emmett shook his head, fighting the existential dread building inside him, and shifted Greg’s weight closer to him. He would have time to ponder the death of mankind later. For now, he had to save his friend, get back to his family. Everything else would have to wait.
They climbed the remaining stairs and hurried to the row of doors leading into the building. Emmett tried pushing two open, but neither budged. A pane of glass was smashed out of the bottom of one, so he ducked down, scooting underneath a cross bar in the middle of the door. His quads burned as he squatted, holding up both of their weights as he slid sideways into the building.
Greg groaned when one of his knees banged against the bottom of the door.
He didn’t do anything to support more of his weight. Emmett’s breathing grew labored as he finally cleared the door and straightened. One of Greg’s shoes caught on the corner of the door as they stepped farther inside, tugging them backward.
Emmett tried to stay upright, but lost his balance, spilling to the floor. Broken glass sliced into his elbow as he fell. His mouth opened to cry out as pain twisted up his arm, but he managed to stay quiet. Greg didn’t stir beside him. While they lay on their sides, battered and bleeding, Emmett caught sight of the Bandits rounding a corner half a block away.
Three men walked into the street, their eyes glued to the concrete.
They were searching for footprints.
Emmett flattened himself to the floor, trying to hide behind a metal strip at the bottom of the broken door. His chest rose several inches above it, but he hoped the men might not spot him.
The glass crackled underneath him as he shifted his weight.
“You see anything?” the lead Bandit asked. He wore a battered, discolored leather jacket with too many zippers on it.
“Don’t see shit.” The man in the back, with hair that reached his shoulders and a beard to match, kicked at something in the street. “The tracks died twenty yards back or so. Goddamn wind is blowing the dust away.”
“Keep looking,” Leather Jacket said.
“Should I go through some of these buildings?”
“Not yet. Let’s see if we can pick up the prints again before we start going door to door.”
Emmett hoped Greg wouldn’t wake up as the men walked in front of the building. They were less than thirty yards away now, searching the street in a staggered pattern. The men were close enough to hear any noise Greg or Emmett might make.
Blood seeped from his lacerated elbow as Emmett watched the Bandits from over Greg’s chest. The stinging sensation persisted, but it was tolerable.
Glancing away from their pursuers, Emmett took in the expansive room around them. They were at the entrance of a massive lobby area. The ceiling was twenty or thirty feet high and ten times as wide.
Banners for a MMA event hung from the ceiling, ruffled a bit by the breeze blowing in through the broken windows. Metal detectors lined the floor ahead, restricting access to the inside.
They’d entered some kind of a stadium or event hall. A facility that big would have a myriad of hiding places, but it also might attract the attention of the Bandits if they decided to search the buildings around the block.
A t-shirt stand, toppled on its side, the garments spilled to the floor, were set beyond the metal detectors. Though they would be filthy, Emmett thought he could turn some inside out and use them as makeshift bandages for their wounds.
He glanced back at the Bandits, saw they’d headed farther down the street, had almost slipped out of sight.
One cursed, slammed his fists down on the hood of a rusting Honda.
Emmett put his hand over Greg’s mouth, shook him a bit.
Greg moaned against his palm.
His eyelids fluttered, but didn’t open.
“Damn it,” Emmett muttered.
When the Bandits finally turned down another street, Emmett climbed from the floor, hissing as his joints snapped and popped. He was getting way too old for gunfights and running through cities.
His back threatened to go as he reached under Greg’s arms. Lifted his upper body from the floor. It took all the strength he had to drag Greg through the metal detectors. He managed to get them behind the t-shirt stand with what little energy he had left. After positioning him in a place where he was hidden from the front doors, Emmett grabbed several shirts from the floor.
Waving them in the air produced a cloud that threatened to make him sneeze. When the urge passed, he pulled one onside out, found it be decently clean, and pressed it against Greg’s shoulder. It wasn’t ideal, but it was better than nothing.
The bleeding from the bullet wound had slowed during their escape. It didn’t appear as threatening as before, though it still oozed. Emmett kept pressure on it for several minutes before turning his attention to the cuts on his own elbow. The slices were long, but not too deep. He’d have to get someone to stitch them up, but he’d get by.
As he went to work on Greg, he glanced toward the front doors again. A blood trail led from a dark pool by the door, snaking through the metal detectors to the t-shirt stand. If the Bandits passed within ten feet of the doors, they wouldn’t have any trouble figuring where their prey had gone.
Emmett knew they had to keep moving.
After tying two t-shirts around Greg’s shoulder as best he could, Emmett glanced around for a better hiding place. His knees and back didn’t appreciate the exertion as he stood to get a better view.
On the left, he spotted closed food vendors. Metal curtains were locked in place across the serving windows. He had zero chance of forcing one open.
Restrooms and a souvenir shop were on the right.
An entrance to the arena was ahead.
Emmett grabbed hold of Greg’s belt to better support his weight as he picked him up from the ground again. When he felt confident he could carry his friend, he headed for the arena. A black curtain was pulled across the entrance, blocking any view of the inside. Stopping just before the curtain, Emmett checked their trail. Their wounds had finally stopped dripping to the floor behind them. They’d left a mess by the t-shirt stand, but there wasn’t any evidence of which way they’d gone after that.
It wouldn’t take a genius to guess which way they’d gone, but at least they didn’t have red streaks showing their pursuers the way.
Not having to worry about batteries had proven a big plus. Having something he could charge at any given moment kept him from having to carry around packs of double AAs.
All Emmett had to do to power the flashlight was shake it back and forth in his hand for thirty seconds. The motion charged a battery inside enough to emit light for several minutes. It didn’t produce the brightest beam, but it was sufficient for his needs. He wouldn’t fight off a Vladdie horde with it, but he could rummage through cabinets in a dark house.
The downside to the flashlight was Lance.
After watching Emmett charge it the first time, Lance had cracked wise about the hand motion looking like Doc Brown was jacking off. He hadn’t failed to bring it up since.
Emmett pulled the flashlight from his pocket. Jacked it off.
When he flicked the switch, a small beam illuminated the floor.
They pushed through the curtain, letting it flap closed behind them. Darkness bathed the area ahead. Without the flashlight, they couldn’t have seen a hand in front of their faces. Emmett swung the light around as they walked up a slight ramp. Stadium seating climbed the stands on either side, stretching most of the way to the ceiling. More seats, sectioned off in clusters, descended to the floor.
A rank smell wafted up to them.
Emmett recognized the stench of spoiled meat.
Vladdies were nearby.
Greg mumbled something incoherent while Emmett guided them onto shallow stairs. His feet fumbled with the steps, but ended up dragging down them more than anything.
The steps were short and shallow, making it difficult for the two to descend at a decent pace.
A metallic bang echoed from the lobby area behind them.
Emmett glanced back at the curtain they’d passed through. Didn’t spot any movement.
Though he couldn’t actually see the entrance now, light would have spilled into the arena if one of the Bandits had followed them inside.
Emmett’s arm and shoulder burned as he dragged Greg down the stairs faster than safety allowed. His ankle threatened to roll twice as he misstepped, his shoe sliding off the edge of a step.
His breathing came out in ragged gasps, his age catching up to him with every passing second. The stench of the Vladdies invaded his nostrils, filled him with dread. Though he couldn’t see what awaited them at the bottom of the stairs, he assumed it wouldn’t be anything good.
But he knew the Bandits were on their trail.
Facing the unknown seemed a better proposition.
Row after row of metal seats trailed away from them as they descended. Their feet kicked over soda cups and empty food containers. Emmett kept the beam of the flashlight on the stairs.
When they finally reached the floor, he paused, trying to slow his heart rate, let his muscles rest. Greg sagged against him, a dead weight that seemed to get heavier by the second. The idea of dragging him across the arena and up the stairs on the other side felt like impossibility.
He didn’t have enough gas left in the tank to pull that off.
With what little endurance remained, he pushed onward, searching for an alternative escape route.
Folding chairs were knocked asunder on either side, bent and twisted by a powerful force or heavy object. The reek intensified as they stumbled toward the center of the arena.
Sweat stung Emmett’s eyes, slicked his palms. Loosened his grasp on Greg.
His flashlight beam fell upon a cage in the middle of the vast space. Black cables snaked around it, running into the backs of destroyed audio equipment and video cameras. An MMA cage was set atop a platform standing three-feet high.
Most of the cage walls were destroyed, hanging down to the floor or sprawled across the shredded apron of the platform. The center of the fighting pit had a massive hole ripped into the fabric.
Though Emmett couldn’t see into it, he knew the Vladdies had dug through the concrete floor of the arena and entered the building through the cage. The darkness of the arena provided a perfect passage between their nests and the city above them.
A cramp twisted into Emmett’s arm.
He tried to push through it, but his hand refused to cooperate. His fingers contorted at odd angles, unable to hold any weight. Grunting against the pain, Emmett dragged his friend over to the cage.
A cloth curtain surrounded the platform, concealing the construction holding the cage off the floor. They knelt beside it.
Greg’s legs folded under him. Emmett had to roll him to his back, straighten him out on the floor. He stirred, eyes fluttering. “You fart, bro?”
“Sorry about that.” Emmett shined his light around, searching for a place they could hide. The only spot that looked remotely out of sight was underneath the cage, behind the black curtains.
“S’gross.” Greg stopped fidgeting, slid back to his dreamland.
Emmett worked his hand open and closed several times, grimacing as the cramp slowly released his muscles. A dull ache settled in its wake. Pins and needles stabbed at his hand and fingers.
“Hello in there!” A man’s voice echoed through the arena. The empty, lifeless quality of the sound chilled Emmett. “We know where you are. Come out now and save me the trouble of dragging you up these goddamn stairs.”
Emmett switched his flashlight off, hoping the Bandit hadn’t seen it. He glanced over the apron, through the cage, and spotted a bright light part way up the stands. A man stood silhouetted inside an entrance. He’d pulled the massive blackout curtain off to the side, letting sunlight flood the area around him.
The man had a flashlight of his own, the beam much more powerful than Emmett’s, which he aimed around the stands. If he actually knew where they were hiding, he wasn’t letting on. He looked around the seats above and behind him, before angling his light down toward the floor.
Emmett ducked down as the beam fell across the destroyed MMA stage.
“Goddamn demons have a nest in here, Frank,” the man yelled. “No wonder it smells so bad.”
Chancing a peek through a section of the cage again, Emmett saw the Bandit descending the stairs. It wouldn’t be long before he was on them.
There wasn’t a chance in hell he could drag Greg up the other side of the arena before the Bandit could catch them. Or shoot them if he were so inclined.
“Greg, can you hear me?” Emmett whispered. “I need you to wake up.”
He didn’t respond.
Emmett tapped his cheek, repeated his name.
Not even a bro escaped his lips.
“If you can hear me, I need you to pay attention.” Emmett lifted the curtain beside Greg, pushed his feet under it. He struggled to slide Greg’s upper body across the floor. He had to lift him over a two-by-four connecting other boards beneath the apron. Though it wasn’t an enormous hurdle, manipulating so much dead weight took everything he had. “I’m going to leave you here and lead the Bandits away. You need to stay quiet, no matter what you hear. Don’t move until I come back.”
Greg lay flat on his back, arms at his sides, one leg bent, his foot wedged against a support strut for the cage. He didn’t respond to anything Emmett said or did to him.
Emmett pushed his flashlight into Greg’s hand, wrapped his fingers around the plastic. “Stay quiet until we’re gone. I’ll come back for you!”
He let the curtain drop down, its edge brushing against the floor. Unless someone lifted it, they’d have no idea Greg was stashed under the cage.
Glancing over the apron again, he spotted the Bandit.
The man had almost reached the floor.
His flashlight was angled away from the cage, exploring a bank of seats with a red rope sectioning them
off from the rest of the floor.
Emmett closed his eyes.
Took a deep breath.
Thought of Megan.
Finn.
He had to get back to them.
“Over here!” Emmett popped up from behind the cage as the Bandit’s flashlight trained on him. He spun around and ran across the floor, focusing on maintaining his footing as he kicked overturned chairs out of his path.
Without his flashlight, he couldn’t see much of anything in front of him. Only the beam from the Bandit’s light gave him an indication of where he was heading.
“Stop, dickhead,” the Bandit hollered.
Emmett wondered what could possibly make the idiot think he would stop. The Bandits had shot them, tossed a grenade at their feet, and blown up their friend’s body. All in one morning.
A gun barked behind him, the blast shockingly loud in the arena.
Off to his right, two sections up, another curtain pulled away from an entrance. A second man stood beside it, shining a flashlight at the floor. It only took him a split second to spot Emmett running for the stairs.
The second cone of light gave Emmett a much better view of the mangled folding chairs in front of him. He skirted around them as best he could as another gunshot rang out from behind him. The bullet punched through a blue chair in the first row a few feet away.
Emmett didn’t look back as he reached the stairs, taking them two at a time.
The Bandits followed, firing and shouting orders.
13
Cass pointed her weapon at the open door, waiting for Joe Bob and Earl to show their ugly faces. She’d fired off several shots earlier and wasn’t sure how many rounds she had left. In her haste to get out of The Light, she hadn’t grabbed any extra magazines. When the rifle clicked empty, that would be it.
Fortunately, Lance had a battle-changing weapon—a flimsy table leg.
They were saved.
She stood behind an overturned couch, though she knew it wouldn’t provide protection from bullets. Or anything, actually. If and when they started firing, she hoped that ducking behind it would at least hide her exact positioning on the floor.