The fan spins softly, turning more slowly than usual while the compound is on emergency power, but it’s enough. I crouch down and pull the air filter from its cradle, exposing a gap in the vent. My breath shivers past my lips as I unzip my bag.
I hesitate, caressing the vials in my palms. I think of the citizens in this compound, the people I’ve cared for over the years. I hate that I’m taking this choice from them, they deserved the chance to come to their own decision. But Howell has stolen that choice from them.
He intends to save only the select few, but I have a different view. It’s all of us… or none of us.
Judith, sad and frail, dying, told me, Reducing human suffering is exactly what you signed up for.
And with that thought, I release the vials into the ventilation.
26
Lori
When I finally wake up, I have no way to guess how much time has passed. It’s still pitch black, as expected, but the air has a different feel to it. Whereas when we stepped off the elevator, we may have been able to describe it as stale, now it’s almost muggy. Like our own sweat and panting breaths have turned to steam, making it harder to pull the air into my lungs.
“Brent?” I whisper. “Are you awake?” When he doesn’t respond, I reach out with my fingertips, inching along the unfamiliar landscape of dust and concrete. Washing machine, heaps of clothing and towels, the edge of a shelving unit. No Brent, no Dad, and more importantly, no flashlight.
My breath hitches in my parched throat. The room suddenly feels smaller than it was just moments ago. The air thickens, and my breath comes out in a pant. Stars dance across my blind eyes as my blood comes roaring through my veins, rushing in my ears. “Brent?” I call louder now. “Brent, you asshole, you’d better answer me right this second!”
“Hey,” he says softly from just inches away. I jump then reach out and slap where I assume he is, finding only empty air. He chuckles and clicks on the flashlight, only to sober when he sees the panic displayed starkly on my face. "Hey, it's okay. I'm not going anywhere."
"Yeah, maybe not voluntarily," I snap. I've lost enough loved ones for a lifetime. I know that it isn't something we have any control over.
Brent sidles up to me and drapes an arm across my shoulder. "How about we make each other a promise."
"What kind of promise?" I ask. Even though I know promises are completely pointless, and too easy to break, I also can't help the tiny speck of light that it stirs within me. Promises have a nasty habit of making you hope for something hopeless.
"I'm not stupid enough to promise we're going to be okay," he says, and I scoff. He reaches up and gives the end of my hair a tug. "I'm going to pretend you don't believe I'm that stupid either. How about we promise each other that no matter where we go, we go together."
Silence stretches between us. "Even into death?"
"Even into death," he confirms.
I hate to imagine living in a world without Brent, but I'm not really a fan of him abandoning his own life just because I'm not around to share it with him. "I can't agree to that," I tell him after a pause. "I don't ever want you to throw yourself into the great beyond just because I've died. It seems like such a waste."
He tilts his head down, throwing his face into shadow. "My life is mine to live. And mine to end, if I so choose."
"Brent," I say softly, putting a hand on his arm. He raises his eyes to meet mine, but they're shuttered. "We don't have any way of knowing what's left in this world. There could be some amazing life yet to live, maybe in some peaceful community in Canada, where they're just dying to offer you an apology. Eh?" A ghost of a smile touches his lips.
"Is this my gloomy sister giving me a pep talk?"
"Hey, I'm not gloomy. I'm... realistic." I rest my head back against the washing machine, a solid base propping me up. "I'm just saying, it's not time to throw in the towel just yet. Okay?"
He nods slowly. Brent is just one more person whose choices I can't make for him. I can't protect him any more than he can protect me.
Dad rolls over from his spot on the floor. "It was a good pep talk, Lori."
"Not a pep talk! There was no pep!" I say, jabbing my finger at them.
"Sure, honey. Whatever you say," Dad says as he props himself up on his elbows. The color in his cheeks looks more normal; sunburned, rather than feverish.
"How are you feeling?" I ask him.
He pauses for a second while he takes inventory of his symptoms. "Not bad, actually. I mean, obviously I'm not going to be dancing a jig anytime soon, but I feel like I may actually be making some headway against the infection."
I crawl over beside him and pull the bandage from his neck. It’s still blackened around the edges, the skin peeling off in layers, but what used to be oozing yellow pus is now a clear liquid. The red streaks that had been tracking up his neck are now in full retreat.
I feel a huge weight lift from my shoulders, and I savor the feeling, knowing that it's not bound to last long. I'll have plenty of heavy baggage to pile on soon enough. I change his bandages to a clean set, and as I put the first-aid supplies back into my bag, an image of Bob is pulled unbidden to the forefront of my mind. Yet another innocent life taken. I wonder if we’ll ever have a chance to slow down and mourn everyone and everything we’ve lost.
Before anyone can question my dark mood—though, seriously, I think I have earned the right to be as dark as I wanna be—I crawl back into my towel nest. "I know something that will make you feel even better," I say.
"Oh? What's that? I'm all for feeling better," my dad says back with a smile.
I pull my backpack into my lap and bring out a tin of baked beans and some granola bars. Dad gives me a skeptical look. "I know that I'm going to sound ungrateful, but... I really hate baked beans."
"You're right, you do sound ungrateful." I dump the food in front of him, and he takes it with a sigh. I pass Brent his own share of food. We don't have an unlimited supply of food, but we haven't eaten in what feels like forever, and we definitely need to replenish our energy after everything we've been through so far. Dad needs the extra calories to help fight off the infection, while Brent and I almost got us all killed yesterday. We need to have enough muscle mass to be able to push washing machines around. Well, not precisely for that, but you know what I mean. What if we get stuck in another situation where we need to protect ourselves? The way things are going so far, I’d say that’s a safe bet. I don't care if these tins contain our most hated food ever. Bring on the Brussel sprouts! I would gratefully choke down chicken livers, if it meant getting through this desolate wasteland intact.
I use the pull tab to open the lid, then flip it over to use it as a spoon, scooping the sloppy beans into my mouth. Ugh. Maybe my dad had a point about the beans. They don't taste anything like the beans from the compound garden. They're mushy, packed in an orange sauce that I can only assume is supposed to be tomatoes? They have a slightly metallic taste after years of sitting in these cans. I wonder if they always tasted this bad, or if it's just a product of the apocalypse.
Maybe the granola bar will taste better. Except when I peel back the wrapper, I'm faced with a rectangular bar that may actually be harder than the concrete currently putting my ass to sleep. "Umm..." I bang the bar against the floor with a hard rap. I'm surprised the concrete doesn't crack or chip. "Maybe if we boil them it'll turn into oatmeal?" As if I haven't had enough oatmeal to last ten lifetimes. I look over to see Brent sucking on his, trying to soften it enough to break off a piece. Not a bad idea. I stick the end of my own bar into my mouth and savor the sweetened oats. Yep, better than beans.
After we're finished up with our breakfast, we change into a clean set of scrubs from the shelves. The fabric isn't quite as soft as I'm used to, since our own compound scrubs spent the past few years being washed and rewashed until the fabric was barely holding together. These are practically new! I gently run a finger across my stomach where a crease has left its imprint on the fabric af
ter years of sitting forgotten on this shelf. I wonder who wore these scrubs before me. Are they dead? Or did they make it to the relative safety of the compound? Maybe they're still eking out a living in the wilderness like Bob.
Brent has already changed and is repacking our bags. "We'd better get moving before the sun gets too far overhead. We may have a lot of distance to travel before tonight."
"But..." I start, the overwhelming uncertainty feeling like it's crushing me.
"What?" he asks, and Dad turns towards me to hear what I have to say.
With two sets of eyes flashing in the lamplight, I start again. "We haven't even talked about what to do next." When neither of them speak up with some earth-shattering ideas, I straighten my spine and get ready to demand answers. "I have no intention of just walking out that door without at least some clue as to where we're going next. We have no way to defend ourselves; have you seen those things? Their skin looks thick enough that we would need a rocket launcher just to give them a paper cut."
Brent says, "Don't you think you may be exaggerating a tad?"
"Obviously. It's what I do."
He smiles at me good-naturedly. "Smartass," he says, but then sobers. "I know what you mean, though. Those things are tough. The only thing that seems to do any damage is the sun."
"Gee, so all we need to do is stay in the sun 24 hours a day. Why didn't you say so in the first place?" I dodge his hand as he takes a swat at me.
I look over at Dad, and he has that look on his face, the one where he's thinking so hard it hurts. We decide not to bother him when he could very well be thinking up a way to save our lives. Instead, we work around him, packing extra scrubs into our packs. Our clothes from yesterday are already trashed, and I hate to think of how soon our current set of scrubs will get soaked in blood. Ugh.
I go over to inspect the roll-up door. We probably should've done this sooner, but I was hoping it wouldn't be locked. It's a bit surprising that no one has broken in here sooner. I hope it's not barricaded from the other side...
I can feel the heat rising as I approach the door. I place my hand against the metal and am shocked by the temperature difference. I've gotten quite comfortable in the relative cool of the sub-basement, but the heated metal beneath my fingertips reminds me of the excruciating trek through the deserted streets. Was that only yesterday? So much has happened in such a short period of time. I hope we didn't sleep longer than we intended. If the sun is too high in the sky, we'll get burned: we're screwed. If it's too late in the day, we'll be fine for an hour or two, but we won't be able to put enough distance between us and the Rippers before night falls: we're screwed again. Or, hey, maybe the monsters are just standing there on the other side of the door waiting for us. Yeah, pretty sure we're screwed in that scenario too.
But... if all the stars have aligned—if we didn't sleep too long, if the monsters aren't just standing there waiting to eat us, if we can somehow find our way to a safe spot for tonight—then just maybe we have a chance. That's a lot of ifs.
"It's time," Brent says to our dad behind me. He rousts our father from his deep thoughts, and he turns his gaze to us with an excited gleam to his eye.
"I think I have an idea," he says.
No time to talk it over just yet. We still have to get the hell out of this basement. Even if the monsters didn't find a way to get past our stellar security system in the stairwell, we still have a limited supply of food and water. They could easily just wait us out. The risk, however, would just get worse with every passing day. Best to get moving, and we can talk about the plan while we're on the go.
"The door first, Dad," I tell him. "Let's get out of this place and worry about where to head next once we have a clear path ahead of us." I can see by the pinch of his mouth that he's having a hard time keeping his lips sealed.
Brent and I each grab one of the handles along the door’s base and heave upward. Once upon a time, a motor would have made this a breeze, open sesame with the press of a button. Now, I’ll be lucky if neither of us pull a groin muscle. Nothing like trying to survive the apocalypse with a hernia. No! Go on without me! I have a hangnail, I’ll never make it! All the insignificant injuries that could knock you out of the running for Last Surviving Human. I’m suddenly feeling extremely vulnerable.
We’re lucky this time. Unlike with the washing machine, the door glides with relative ease. A squeal of metal rings out, and we all flinch. I hold a breath, waiting for the claws to tear into my flesh, but the door rolls all the way up without incident.
The darkness of the sub-basement, several floors underground, pretty much as dark as can possibly be, is interrupted by a grey haze. Bright by comparison to our surroundings, we all squint ahead. No looming monsters. There is, however, a ramp. Dad was right.
“Where does it go?” Brent wonders out loud.
“Up. Up is good,” I say, and they both nod in agreement.
We shoulder our bags and head up the ramp. The incline is gentle, and only lasts a short distance before we emerge into an underground parking garage. There are a few stray cars lying about, but none of them look to be in a state of use. The tires are mostly flat, the oxidized bodies perched almost flat on the buckled pavement.
“Any chances?” Brent asks like he can’t trust his own eyes. Maybe I can see something different in these automotive carcasses.
“I’m not even going to waste my breath on answering that.”
“And yet you’ll waste your breath on sarcasm.”
“Nothing about sarcasm is a waste.”
Other than the cars, nothing else breaks up the layer of dust. “No footprints,” I say.
“I noticed…” Dad says slowly. As if he too is hesitant to trust our good fortune.
We tiptoe forward, making as little sound as possible beyond a dim shuffle. The dirt and grime muffle our footsteps, and our breathing is low and even. I keep our flashlight aimed down at our feet. We follow the faint arrows painted onto the ancient roadway; not enough sunlight underground to fade the paint entirely.
Up ahead we can see a brighter spot. As we get nearer, I can see that a portion of the ceiling has caved in. It’s bright enough that I can see without the flashlight, so I turn it off to save the batteries.
Dad gasps from behind me, and I swivel my head, watchful for whatever danger has made him gasp. Except the look on his face is one of wonder. “Do you see this?” He leans forward and reaches his hand towards the fallen debris dangling from the floor above.
The spot he’s reaching for has a slight greenish tinge to it, almost like the scum that grows on the surface of the compound's fish farm. “Looks like algae,” I say with disdain. We don’t have time for this.
“It’s moss,” he says with that same tone of amazement. “Have you noticed any other plant life?” he asks, turning to me with a raised eyebrow.
I sigh too loudly. “No, Dad. I haven’t seen any plant life. And before you get too wound up, let me stop you right there. Yes, scientifically speaking, this moss is important. But. Does it change anything?”
He doesn’t say anything, and his lips are pursed again. I continue, “Moss isn’t exactly the most helpful plant for us right at this exact moment in time. It won’t feed us. It won’t offer us shade. And it’s very much not a weapon against the unkillable beasts. So you go ahead and get excited about the moss, but do it while we’re moving.” I stop my tirade to find that my volume has been getting increasingly louder until I’m almost shouting, my words echoing off the walls. Dad lowers his eyes, effectively chastised, and shame burns through me. “Sorry,” I mumble, casting my eyes down.
“No, you’re right,” he says quietly. “I’ll speculate while we’re walking and make notes later once we’ve found somewhere safe for the night.” He nods at me and heads off in the direction of the exit.
I let the distance grow between us before heading after him.
“Way to put your foot in your mouth, Lori,” Brent jibes on the way past.
I let him walk on too. Finally, I bring up the rear of our little group, and because of where I am, I’m the only one who hears the clattering behind us. I look back the way we’ve come but don’t see anything out of place. My skin prickles with goosebumps, and I feel eyes tracking my every move. “Let’s pick up the pace,” I call to the boys, and we move into a jog. Something skitters over on the left, and we change direction accordingly, veering away. Another rattle of concrete sounds to our right now, and we shift once again. Shit, I think. We're surrounded!
My eyes dart back and forth, trying to pick up movement from the shadows. The momentary light from the broken ceiling has long since faded, and we are plunging once again headlong into shades of grey. I tap on the flashlight and wave it back and forth, but it does little to help dispel the darkness. We're running practically blind.
My adrenaline, which I had depleted entirely yesterday, seems to have replenished with sleep. It pings inside me now, lighting up my senses and reflexes. Over to the right, I can see the brighter glow of sunlight which must be the exit. Brent is leading us straight for it, but then he hears something that has him turning away fast. What the hell is going on?! There weren't this many of them yesterday, I'm sure of it. It's impossible, they seem to be everywhere at once!
My eyes track the direction of the noises we're hearing. Back and forth on either side of us, guiding us away from the exit, forcing us back the way we came. No way, I'm not taking the bait for this trap. I dart forward on light feet and take the lead from Brent. "They're herding us!" I shout back. "They're bluffing, we have to push through."
Though I hear something tap in the direction of the exit ramp, I turn sharply towards it, hoping I'm not wrong. Every muscle tenses, waiting for something to strike out at me, anticipating pain. But it never comes. Nothing happens as the sunlight envelops us in its sweaty embrace. We race up the last ramp, our blistered feet aching from the harried retreat, into the barren street above.
Prey (The Shade Chronicles Book 1) Page 23