Capital Falling Trilogy Box Set [Books 1-3]

by Winkless, Lance

  My right arm lifts from my side and I immediately think I was wrong about my pain levels. I persist though and force my hand out searching for the bottle. All it touches is fresh air, however. I try to force a smile at the term fresh air when I consider the stench I’m sat in, but my bone-dry mouth protests.

  Agony rips up my arm and into my back the longer my hand waves around in mid-air searching, and my arms drop as I’m forced to stop to rest for a moment. I go again, this time forcing my back to move and lean into it, using my left arm to push off from behind, to further my reach. My back cracks and creaks in agony as if it is a rusty old hinge, with every millimetre of movement. Still nothing, but I keep going forward, accepting the pain, my left arm levering me out. I brush something with my fingertips; it has to be the bottle.

  My arm stops waving, now knowing where to go; I just need to lean out a bit more to grasp the bottle.

  Racked in agony, I force my left arm to push me that little bit further, and it does. It pushes me too far, and my back tries to pull me back in but it spasms, unwilling to cooperate. Slowly, I tip further and further, about to fall; it is inevitable, just as the pain will be when I land. On the way down, I try to grab the bottle, not thinking about the fact that my body might shatter when it hits the hard, tiled floor. My hand doesn’t close quickly enough around the bottle, it knocks it flying. I hear the bottle hit the floor just as I bang into it.

  For a second, I think that the fall wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be. But then cold, aching, excruciating pain waves up and down me. How many bones have I broken? My right arm tried to catch at least some of my fall; surely it must have shattered?

  The right side of my face is flat against the tiles with my right arm stretched out behind my head. In my holster, the handle of my knife below me jams into my ribs. A glugging sound is also coming from behind my head as the knocked-over bottle empties its contents. The top couldn’t have been on it. Just my luck, I think to myself as I lie contorted on the floor, wincing.

  To my surprise, my pain levels drop quite quickly. Every part of my body still aches but it isn’t in agony, not by the standards I have become used to. The weight has also been taken off my bum, and I feel the blood start to return to it--a small relief but I’m taking it as a win.

  My hand rests on something and I feel around to find a few cellophane packets of what must be food. I reach back and forth, further around, hoping to find another bottle of water. But in amongst the other stuff, there are no more bottles, just more packets and boxes. If only I could open my bloody eyes. I try again to pull my eyelids apart and fail miserably.

  Okay, next plan of action, I think to myself lying there and then the obvious answer dawns on me. Situated behind the door of Sir Malcolm’s private bathroom is his shower. It’s virtually next to me. Surely, I can drag myself a few feet to it, reach up and turn on the tap? The thought of a nice warm shower is bliss and nobody could argue that I don’t need or deserve one.

  The thought is bliss but there is no chance in hell that when I turn the tap, I am going to be greeted by welcoming torrents of warm water. If I can make it, it’s going to be a cold shower for me. The building's power is out which means the boiler won’t work, which means no hot water. I will take a cold shower, welcome it, anything to be able to see again and wash away the stink. It’s not as if I haven’t had plenty in the past while on duty, sometimes under the stars. Once you get over the initial shock, they are very refreshing and invigorating, I kid myself.

  I get my body into position to slowly start the pain-stricken, arduous task of pulling myself across the floor, in what I am sure is the direction of the shower. My muscles burn and protest fiercely and my joints creak, rubbing together like sandpaper as I go. The grimace on my face is fixed as is the determination. My legs are still dead, useless, and follow my body on a free ride as my hands and arms manage to do the work. Eventually, the shower door rattles in its runner to itself as I touch it. My sense of direction hasn’t failed me, and I pull at the bottom of the door to roll it back. The small ledge up into the shower is tricky but soon mounted and I turn over and grab whatever I can to help me sit up so that I can pull my legs in.

  Sitting with my back against the back wall, I rest. Could it be that using my body has loosened it up a bit? The trip hurt, that’s for sure, but it could have been worse.

  I try to remember where the tap to the shower is. I haven’t been in this bathroom many times and barely took any notice of the shower cubicle. With a creaking back, I reach above my head, to find the tap.

  Before I turn the tap, I prepare myself for the onslaught of cold water, ensuring my body knows to expect the assault. Nevertheless, my body goes rigid with shock as the water starts to rain down. My clothes give me some protection at first, but they soon soak through as the water penetrates through to my skin.

  Almost immediately, I put my head back and rest it onto the wall behind me, allowing the water to splash directly onto my face and crusty eyes.

  A loud crash reverberates into the bathroom, from one of its outside walls. The shock makes me jump, my head springing upright as if to look what is going on. All I see is darkness and panic grips me. The noise from the shower has alerted the Rabids to my presence. Visions of them bursting through the bathroom door play across my closed black eyelids and my panic grows.

  My hands come up to my eyes as fear flows through me. I put my head back again and my knuckles rub the water into my eyes, desperately trying to wash away the globules of sleep. Another crash is followed by muffled screeches and then another crash. Are they coming through the wall? I keep rubbing, massaging the water into my eyes. Taking my hands away. I urgently try to open my eyes and feel the corner of my left eye pop apart slightly. I rub again, encouraged that it is working. I can feel the hardness of the crust start to soften. I go to open them once more and both eyelids do prize apart. My eyelashes linger, stuck in the goo but I persist, straining to get my eyes open. Gradually, the eyelashes slide free and at last, my eyes are open.

  Darkness still fills my vision though, and for a moment I think that I have lost my sight. My hands wash the last of the residue away in the hope that will bring my sight back, but it doesn’t. More crashes and screeches sound out and in a futile act, I slide my Sig out of its soaking wet holster, ready to defend myself. I don’t even know if it is loaded, I can’t remember—and I don’t fancy my chances of hitting a headshot when I’m blind.

  The feel of my trusted weapon in my hand brings with it reassurance and my panic subsides a bit. Enough to let my brain work at least and realise that I haven’t lost my sight. The room is in pitch darkness, I think?

  At least my sudden panic has taken my mind off the shower’s cold water, which actually isn’t that cold. The commotion outside the bathroom continues but I just sit there waiting for something to happen and letting the water wash over me.

  The Rabids don’t burst in and eventually they settle down, obviously having gotten used to the new noise of running water.

  After a time, I realise that they aren’t breaking in and my guard starts to drop. I put the Sig down and start to undress. The process is a struggle and painful. My muscles have relaxed more as my skin has soaked up the water, but my joints haven’t; they are still in turmoil with every movement. I place the important pieces of kit close by, just outside the cubicle, like the Sig’s holster and my body armour. All the clothes I am wearing, however, I throw as far as I can out of the shower. Especially my soiled trousers and underwear, which were a nightmare to get off, as were my boots.

  Finally undressed, I have one more thing to try before I can fully relax for a while. I have been afraid to try it in case my body rejects it but I can’t put it off any longer if I mean to carry on. My head leans back, and I open my parched mouth to allow water into it. My dried-out tongue tells me immediately that the water is welcome as it soaks it up like a new sponge. The water slides down my throat and into my stomach like nectar, and it feels amazing. I drin
k in the most refreshing water I have ever had, even though it is travelling through pipes that are not meant to carry drinking water. I have to stop myself from gorging myself, a few gulps are all I allow myself. I have to take it easy and see if the water will settle into my infected body.

  That done, I lower onto the floor of the shower, again taking the pressure off my bum. I curl up on my side and let the shower do its job, thinking how pleased I am that the water is staying put in my stomach.

  Dozing on the floor of the shower, but not sleeping, I am still aware of the water washing over me and the sound of the shower. I think about the horrors of the last few days. The carnage is brutal and horrible to remember, and I can’t help playing it back in my mind. The blood and guts stain my thoughts and are hard to escape. Friends and colleagues butchered, many in front of my eyes, fill me with sadness and guilt. Especially Dan, my best friend, he could have made his excuses and got the hell out of Dodge. Instead, he was by my side until the end, fighting my fight and always with a smile on his face. I don’t feel the tears I shed for him; they simply join the water raining down on me to be washed down the plughole as if they were never there.

  Minutes pass and my thoughts threaten to overcome me. I have to suppress them and change my train of thought. Rolling onto my back, under protest from my body, I open my mouth again to let some water in. After a few gulps, I roll onto my other side, determined to think ahead and not back. Getting comfortable, I control my thoughts, making myself concentrate on what I am going to do next despite my tired head.

  A chill shudders through me, waking me. I must have drifted off to sleep. Thankfully, almost immediately, I remember where I am for a change. I shiver again, the water is pulling my body temperature down. I have no idea how long I have been here, but it’s time to get out.

  I manoeuvre myself and sit back up. My body is still hurting all over, but I think—hope--it is improving. I look at my wrist in a hopeless attempt to see what the time is. My military-grade watch’s hands have lost all of their luminosity, useless. If I couldn’t feel the watch around my wrist, I wouldn’t know it was there. How long have I been in this room, I wonder to myself?

  My shivering is increasing. I need to finish up. My hands search around the outskirts of the shower cubicle and soon find a bottle of shampoo or shower gel, I have no idea which. I squirt a large dollop into my hair and start to give myself a thorough washdown.

  With some relief, I finally turn the shower off; if only it had been hot. Now I just need to get to one of the towels that I know hang on the right, on a rail, on the wall.

  I am forced to rest yet again when I finish drying myself, sitting on top of the damp towel, just outside the cubicle. My body aches and my energy levels are low, I feel so weak, but at least the shivering has stopped.

  The Rabids are quiet; there was a bit of commotion when the shower went off, it didn’t last, however. My legs are better and have feeling in them. I move them around on the floor to try and get them working better. Any minute now I am going to have to try and stand on them; I can’t keep crawling, although my confidence isn’t high.

  Through the glass-walled cubicle, a glimmer of light shines through the water droplets that cling onto the glass. It has to be coming from under the door. Is the sun coming up? Have I been here that long? It wouldn’t surprise me. I have been in a terrible state. If days had passed, I would have no trouble believing it.

  The prospect of light spurs me on. The time has come to see if I can stand and use my legs, no matter how much it is going to hurt. I use the wall and the glass door frame of the cubicle to steady myself and for leverage. My arms scream as I pull up on the door frame, trying to get onto my knees. My legs are not playing along, and the assistance they give is feeble. What hope is there that they won’t buckle under me when I go to stand? With my head against the glass for balance, my right arm pulls under my right knee to move that leg into position, onto its foot to stand me up. The effort is nearly overwhelming. I am panting, out of breath like I’ve just run the hundred meters. Controlling my breathing, I take a deep couple of breaths and go for the big push up.

  A funny wailing noise escapes my throat as the muscles in my leg contract. The strain is enormous as my right leg pushes and my arms pull against the door frame. Pain shoots to my brain from every part of my body as I slowly rise. As I go, I try to get my left leg involved to help but it won’t cooperate, I can’t bring it into position so that the foot is flat on the floor. My arms pull harder to compensate and my right leg keeps pushing. Determined not to give up and fall back down, gradually my leg straightens until finally the knee goes back and it locks into position with one last agonising jolt.

  Fuck me, how the mighty have fallen, I think to myself. I powered across the roof above me not so long ago, running from a horde of Zombies. Now it takes every ounce of energy I have to just about stand up.

  At last, my left foot decides to get involved and I manage to get it grounded. Now, my breathing takes on the sound of someone who has just run a marathon, rapid and harsh. I daren’t move until it calms down. My head is dizzy, and I cling onto the door frame for dear life. I doubt I’d have it in me to do that again if I fall or collapse back down.

  After an age, my head clears and my breathing recovers. With my hands still gripping the door frame, I try bending my knees, one at a time at first. The right one performs pretty well, but the first time I try the left, it trembles and almost gives way before it does lock back into position. I try it again and again before the bloody thing remembers what it is doing, and it stops trying to collapse. Finally gripping tightly with my hands, I bend both legs at the same time and then straighten them. They complete their task; I won’t be taking part in any races right now, but my legs are working.

  I’m eager to get to the door, to get to the light, but I need something before I dare to crack the door open. My Sig, which is still inside the cubicle, on top of the well, just inside the door. I thought about bringing it up with me but decided against it. I needed both hands free to get me upright and as I’m stark bollock naked, there was nowhere else to put it. I don’t delay this latest challenge and with a few dramas along the way, the Sig is soon in my grip.

  With no more excuses, I start shuffling over toward the door, using the cubicle to steady myself. I am full of trepidation about opening the door even though I am all but sure there are no Rabids behind it, in the office. If there were, they would have made themselves known by now. I don’t take it for granted though; my guard is up, not that I’m in any state for a fight, not by a long chalk.

  The bones in my feet feel so fragile, giving the impression they could crumble and snap with each shuffled step. In my hand, the Sig knocks against the glass as my hands support me on my slow journey. I keep averting my eyes to look at the light at the bottom of the door, like an addiction, afraid it could disappear. I can’t wait to get out of this tomb, and I hope I never have to return to this godforsaken place. I will have to come back inside though; when I’m ready, I will need to get my belongings and equipment.

  Coming to the end of the cubicle, I turn the corner and my hands move onto the wall that the door is built into. I am now very close to the door which I feel in just a few steps and my anxiety rises. My last few shuffles bring me to the other side of the door and to the door handle, and my left-hand curls around it, ready to open the mechanism. Before I turn the handle, I take a moment to prepare myself as best I can. I look down at the dull light that comes under the door to try and get my eyes adjusted to light as much as possible. I don’t want to be squinting as the door opens because my eyes haven’t seen light in so long.

  Naked in the dark, I am totally underprepared if anything unexpected does happen when the door opens. I gather my courage and tighten my grip on the Sig. It’s now or never. Slowly, the handle turns in my left hand until the mechanism frees from the door frame and the door is poised to swing in. Moving further to the right, so that my eyes are in line with the edge of the
door, I crack it open.

  Light streams into my eyes and for a moment, I can’t see anything as they squint and rush to adjust to the blinding light. My exercise to get them adjusted prior to opening the door proves to be an almost total failure.

  Fresh air chases in the light and while my eyes may complain, my open mouth and nostrils certainly don’t. They breathe in the new source of air greedily, filling my welcoming lungs to capacity.

  Quickly, my blinking eyes recover and start to focus as the fresh air gives my brain a new lease of life. The first thing I register is that the light in the room beyond the door isn’t as bright as I first thought and is actually quite dull. The initial assault of light had played tricks on my eyes. Now that they are adjusted, I see that the sun coming through the windows is weak. Whether that is because the sun is on its way up or down, or because it is still blocked by cloud and smoke, I don’t yet know.

  The Sig is raised next to my head ready to defend myself. My trusted pistol isn’t needed, however, not yet. I scan the office, taking in the horror laid out before me. Two contorted bodies in the centre of the floor make up the centrepiece of the carnage. One is face down in virtually the middle of the floor, the first Rabid I shot as it followed me down from the roof. The second body is face-up with its shoulders and head propped up on the legs of the first body, and its legs are bent and twisted to one side. It is the first time I get a proper look at the Rabid that sliced my cheek with its nails and infected me. I look at the dead face with dread and its dead eyes stare back at me, its mouth gaping. Chills run down my spine as I look at the bald middle-aged bearded man who put me where I am now. He scared the shit out of me when he attacked, but now he looks like an averagely built dead corpse. Hard to believe the terror and power he once possessed.

  The rest of the office is as I expected, a mess. The equipment we brought down to get into the safe is strewn across the floor where it was left, along with the rubble from the roof. Wires still run up to the safe door which is wide open, and ropes hang down the singed black wall from the hole above. The cleaners are going to have one hell of a time sorting it out, I joke to myself.