The Next World Box Set [Books 1-3]

by Olah, Jeff

  She took a half step away, wincing as she pushed the nine millimeter back toward the door. “I’m sorry.” Her voice was soft, but throaty. Like a nightclub singer, but with a silky edge to it.

  Owen thought about reaching for her injured left leg, but figured that may send the wrong message. “Who are you? What are you doing here?”

  The woman standing over him quickly turned her head toward the front doors and let out an audible gasp. She then stepped into the threshold at her back, slid the nine millimeter in close to his leg, and lowered her voice. “You and your family need to leave. Don’t wait, just go.”

  Owen quickly pushed away from the overturned table and sat up, but before he could respond, she had disappeared into the darkened hallway and was gone. Reaching for his weapon, he turned back toward the front of the restaurant a half a second too late. The doors now sat open and a group of eight Feeders had stumbled in off the street.

  Maybe Kevin was right.

  46

  Jerome Declan sat behind a massive mahogany desk and peered out through a bank of floor-to-ceiling windows that faced east. The penthouse suite he now called home had the faint smell of lemons and was warmer than it had been in days. The blinds had been pulled back, and the remaining furniture moved away, revealing every last detail of the city under the mid-morning sun.

  He turned away, pushed back from the desk, and started toward a young, short-haired man at the opposite end of the suite. “Why are you here? Why haven’t you done what I’ve asked?”

  Declan stopped twenty feet from the short-haired man and leaned into a sofa the color of chocolate, waiting for an answer he knew wasn’t coming. To his right, a twelve-foot painting hung lifelessly on the wall opposite the windows. Some abstract expressionism that Declan had felt the need to avoid since taking over the suite six days before. At times he wanted to simply pull it from the wall and burn it, destroy something beautiful. However, there was another part of him that felt as though the painting needed to be there. That it wasn’t just another overpriced piece of canvas, that it served a deeper purpose—maybe as the heart of the sixteen-story structure. Whatever it was, he thought it better to avoid the bad karma and just focus on something else.

  “Well,” Declan said, “what is it?”

  The man now standing just inside the doors to the suite appeared to be grinning, but Declan couldn’t be certain. His face was abnormal, in the way a dog looks to be smiling, but no one is really ever sure. He’d spent less time with this man than any other on his crew, and hadn’t yet figured out exactly what buttons to push.

  “Uh …” The short-haired man’s voice was abrasive, like it hadn’t been used for a good amount of time. “We know where the woman is, and that there are at least four others. Three are children.”

  Declan took a step forward and reminded himself that the ends had to justify the means. With the limited resources granted by Marcus Goodwin, he needed to squeeze every last ounce of usefulness from each of the men who had decided to stick around. No matter how badly he wanted to give in to old habits.

  “We knew that five days ago. Now I need you to bring her back here. And by my count, this is the third time I’ve had to ask.”

  The short-haired man exhaled heavily. He rolled his head from left to right and seemed to be contemplating his response. “We haven’t been able to get close enough to get a reliable head-count. Those things have taken over down there; it’s like they’re drawn to that side of the city.”

  Declan began to nod, before turning and starting back toward the windows. “Kirk … it is Kirk, right?”

  “Declan, you know my name, and you also know what we’re up against. We don’t really have any options right now. Trying to get through that crowd would be suicide.”

  “Where are the others?”

  “What?”

  “The others,” Declan said, “the rest of the crew, where are they right now? The guy that wears that dirty ball cap, the guy with the leather jacket and that other—”

  “DECLAN.” The short-haired man he’d referred to as Kirk hadn’t moved from his spot near the doors. “What are you doing, what is this?”

  Declan didn’t answer. Instead, he continued to the windows and again looked out over the city. It had been more than four days and instead of marching Dr. Dominic Gentry through the front doors of BXF Technologies, he was still unable to complete his first objective.

  After a beat, Kirk let out an irritated sigh and started across the suite. “These head games aren’t working, Jerome. We all know what needs to be done, but if we can’t get through that crowd, it’s not going to matter.”

  With his heart now racing in his chest and his anger threatening to take the conversation in a completely different direction, Declan took a moment to remember why he was given the assignment and the consequences of failure. Taking his right index finger and placing it against the window, he looked to the south and traced a line from where the interstate met the coast, to the foothills thirty miles away. “What do you see?”

  Kirk stepped closer, leaned from left to right, and then backed away. “Same as yesterday … and the day before that. Nothin’ but death.”

  “No, there’s something else.”

  “Okay, you tell me. What am I looking for?”

  Declan smiled. He turned from the window and moved back to the desk. Sliding down into the high-backed chair, he motioned toward another on the opposite side and waited for Kirk to sit. “Do you have a family?”

  The short-hair man again looked irritated. “What?”

  “No,” Declan said, “I’m serious. Do you have any family, anyone out there that you haven’t been able to reach? Anyone that could still be alive, anyone you’ve been wondering about?”

  Kirk turned and looked back through the windows. He stared for a long while and then back to Declan, began to nod. “My aunt, she raised me, from the time I was eight.”

  “Cynthia Evans?”

  Kirk sat up in the chair. He wiped his face and cocked his head to the side. “Wait, how’d you …”

  “Your mother’s name was Mary Ann, your father was Bruce, and your older brother’s name was Tom. They died in a car accident on May 18th, 1994. You left your home in Memphis a few weeks later and were sent to live with Ms. Evans out here on the coast. You attended University High School and were hired by BXF Technologies just over two years ago.”

  “Yeah, that’s about it.”

  “Okay then, have you had any contact with your aunt in the last eight days?”

  “No.”

  “Do you have any idea where she might be, what became of her?”

  Kirk bit hard into his lip. “No.”

  “Okay, but what does your heart tell you?”

  “That she’s dead.”

  Declan leaned back in his chair, placed his feet on the desk, and crossed his legs. “But what if she isn’t?”

  Kirk stood and pushed away from his chair, leaned into the backside of the desk. “Listen, I don’t know if you get off on these games, or if you just have some sort of mental condition that turns you into an incoherent fool, but I think you need—”

  “Look again.” Declan motioned toward the windows.

  “What?”

  “That line I drew, that’s as far as we’ve gone. Beyond that, those things have taken over. And we haven’t been able to get to Mrs. Mercer because of them. So, we need to come at this from a different perspective.”

  The younger man still looked agitated, his eyes darting from Declan to the window, and then back. “There’s no way, we’d need a hundred more men.”

  Declan shook his head. “No.” He then reached for a glass vase that held six bright red tulips and tossed it to the floor three feet from the window. “I want you to pretend that your sweet aunt Cynthia is on the other side of that line. How would you get to her, what would you be willing to do?”

  Kirk backed away from the desk. “You’re a disgrace.”

  “Maybe,” Declan s
aid, “but it’s a valid argument all the same.”

  “You’re going to get everyone killed, including yourself.”

  “Again, you might be right. But that still doesn’t change what we need to do.” Declan motioned toward the half dozen tulips laying near the window. “I’ll give you till the morning to figure this thing out on your own, but if Mrs. Mercer isn’t standing here by the time the sun comes up, if I’m not able to hand her one of those sweet-smelling flowers, then we’re going with my plan. And I can guarantee that you’re going to wish you came up with something else.”

  47

  The main dining area was mostly dark, the sun now filtering through in short bursts as Owen got back to his feet and fumbled for his weapon. He moved slowly toward the kitchen, attempting to track each of the eight Feeders as more began to pour in off the street. He could get to the door with what remained in the nine millimeter, but would be left out to dry once he hit the sidewalk.

  He was going to have to find another way.

  Owen pushed back into the wall, looked toward the kitchen, and quickly placed three tables between himself and the approaching horde. He then watched as the bulk of the group continued toward him, their heavy footfalls seeming to shake the foundation.

  To his left, the door that the young woman had disappeared through was still open, but only a few inches. She hadn’t hesitated, and also appeared to know the building like the back of her hand.

  He didn’t.

  The front doors were no longer an option and hadn’t been for the last few minutes. It was going to be the kitchen or the door to his left, neither instilling even a single ounce of confidence. Owen quickly ran through each route in his head, at least what he imagined they’d be. He had never actually entered this building before this morning, so anything was possible.

  The kitchen might be a dead end, literally. There were too many what-ifs and without knowing the layout, he’d be running blind.

  That left him with only one option—follow the woman through the door and into the hall. It looked to be better lit than the restaurant and although it was as much a mystery as the kitchen, the woman had appeared confident in her decision.

  But again, it really wasn’t a choice at all.

  Owen slipped quickly between the tables he’d positioned between himself and the crowd. He looked back toward the entrance and realized he may have miscalculated his place in the dining room. Three of those most near had broken free of the others and now seemed to be headed for the same door leading to the hall.

  If he made it at all, it was going to be close.

  Without slowing, Owen dipped to his left, and stayed along the wall. He kept one eye on the trio approaching from the right—moving much more quickly than he was comfortable with—and the other on the door dead ahead. With the Glock 17 in his left hand, he extended his arm and tracked a short male Feeder wearing a bright colored vest. He knew what firing even one round would mean, although he also understood that he may not have a choice.

  Ten feet from the door, he again encountered the overturned table that had begun this whole mess. He slowed just long enough to push it to the right and into the path of the beast closing in on him. A makeshift roadblock he was hoping would give him at least a few additional seconds.

  But it didn’t.

  The small man hit the table like a running back plowing through an off-balance defender, already in a dead sprint. It only slowed the beast for a fraction of a second and appeared to anger him. The former city worker was missing a good portion of his right cheek and in opening his mouth to growl, spit out more than a few broken teeth.

  Owen reached the door as the man in the orange vest rounded the base of the table and lunged for him. He made it over the threshold, but was thrown across the partially lit corridor and into the wall.

  Reflexively bringing his legs up into his chest, Owen prepared himself to take the hit he was sure was coming. With his eyes pinched closed and his heart thundering in his chest—mostly from pure adrenaline—he placed his elbows against the wall and kicked up.

  Nothing.

  The short male Feeder had run into the door and fell backward into the mess of chairs six feet away. Owen scrambled to his feet, lining up a shot, as the next two began to claw their way over and around the fallen former city worker.

  He was given an opening, a brief window to put some distance between himself and the crowd. The hall ahead was empty; however, he was still unclear of the layout. It wasn’t ideal, but for now it was all he had.

  With the Glock trained on the door, he pushed himself up the wall, took a hesitant step forward, and peered back into the restaurant.

  A female Feeder in a pair of tattered jeans and a blood-soaked leather jacket was having trouble getting by the short man who’d become entangled in the chairs. She stumbled forward and fell face first into the door frame.

  Before he could react, there were two more behind her. Then another three. They were bottlenecking at the door, but also pushing the woman forward. Owen wasn’t going to be able to get the door closed. He cursed under his breath, raised the Glock, and turned toward the far end of the hall.

  Kevin’s never going to let me forget this.

  Three doors ahead. Three more decisions.

  He didn’t like it. Each would lead to a first-floor suite and the odds of them being flooded with the same ravenous beasts were astronomically high. He needed to get to the second or third floors, get a better view of the street, and find another way out. But that would mean navigating the sixty-plus feet through the darkened hall and praying the stairwell was clear.

  Owen didn’t like his odds.

  But again, he was left without a choice.

  Twenty feet from the door to the stairs and the smell was almost unbearable. He instinctively flinched at the acrid stench and took two steps back. He turned to the right, lurched forward—his torso convulsing—and emptied the contents of his stomach out onto the stained concrete floor.

  The smell of his own vomit mixed with whatever was coming from the stairs had him down on his knees continuing to dry-heave for the next few minutes. As he crawled away from the mess he’d made and got back to his feet, the crowd from the restaurant had found their way out into the hall and were maybe twenty seconds from again reaching him.

  Owen wiped his face with his sleeve, and without contemplating the source of the repulsive odor, jogged the short distance to the stairs. In through his mouth, he filled his lungs with air, raised his weapon, and slowly began to pull open the door.

  A sizeable crash came from somewhere over his right shoulder. It sounded as though it may have originated from one of the three doors further back in the hall. Although, with his visibility now cut to less than ten feet, there was no way to be sure.

  He just needed to move.

  Owen held his breath, pinned the door back, and scanned the landing and the first set of stairs. A pair of Feeders lay half way between the first and second floors, their bodies a mangled mess of broken bones and disfigured flesh. They were in bad shape, although their arms and mouths were still completely functional.

  Leaning in, he scoped the next flight of stairs.

  Same story, same problem.

  Pinned between the railings were five more. They fought to move away from one another, now turning their focus toward the sounds coming from the hall.

  Okay, so this is bad.

  Another thunderous roar came from back in the hall, the shockwave pulsating against the wall at his back. Less than a second later, a voice shot through the darkened hall. It was faint and somewhat muffled, but certainly recognizable.

  “Owen, get back.”

  48

  His friend was out of breath and looked much older than he had just a few minutes before. He was hunched forward and wiping his batons on his pant legs, not yet ready to make eye contact with Owen or even acknowledge what a colossal mistake in judgement had taken place back on that rooftop.

  With one final swi
ng, Kevin eliminated the last of the Feeders and then motioned back toward the second door on the right. “Let’s go.”

  “Thank you.” Owen knew it wouldn’t help, but felt the need to say it all the same.

  “Right now … we have to go … right now. The street is filling up … and the gate’s still unlocked.”

  Kevin led the way back through a sea of downed bodies, each face down and pushed into one another. Owen stopped counting at ten. They moved quickly back through the open door, sidestepping a massive commercial refrigerator and then a large oak cabinet that lay in a heap in the middle of the room.

  Owen followed Kevin toward the entrance, still feeling the need to cut the obvious tension. “This was all you?”

  Kevin dipped between a pair of folding tables and increased his pace, but didn’t respond.

  Owen wasn’t really expecting him to.

  They hit the door, crossed the street, secured the gates, and quickly made their way back to the entrance to Cecil’s.

  Kevin finally turned, still attempting to catch his breath. He stood in front of the doors for what seemed like a full minute, then looked back at Owen. “This is the last time I’m going to say this, and it’s more than you even deserve right now.” He paused for a long moment, before stretching the stiffness from his shoulders, and continuing. “I’m sorry for the things that are happening in your head and don’t completely understand it, so just know that.”

  Owen nodded. “Thank you, I appreciate—”

  “But now you need to stop using it as an excuse.”

  Owen took a step forward, sensed a change in his friend’s tone. “What?”

  “You need to figure it out, pack that stuff away. There’s no room for it anymore. I’m sorry, that’s just the way it is now.”