Humanity's Edge- The Complete Trilogy

by Paul B. Kohler

  Alayna didn’t reply. They heard Lane trotting up behind them, panting, clearly appalled at the blood and murder before her.

  “Jesus,” she gasped raggedly. “This is a nightmare.”

  The words were so understated that Clay had to force himself not to laugh. But death had become almost comical, now that he’d grown so accustomed to it. He supposed you could get used to anything. Even the apocalypse.

  Chapter 33

  Alayna stepped forward with a burst of renewed energy, planting a boot squarely mid-pane of the entry door panel. Clay whistled, impressed, as the glass shattered, revealing the maroon-colored carpet of the hotel lobby and a winding staircase beyond. It was a once-gorgeous place—a destination for those coming to Dearing, and had probably been built over a hundred years before.

  “Let’s go inside, shall we?” Alayna said, walking away from the pile of corpses. “I don’t want to stick around for one of them to wake up again. Or for the smell to attract their friends.” She stepped through the now ventilated entrance.

  As Clay reached the door, he found Alayna standing frozen just inside the lobby. He slipped his rifle from his shoulder. He held it at the ready as stepped across the threshold. Once inside, he scanned the immediate area, taking in the surroundings.

  “The survivors were here, all right,” Alayna said, her voice a stark contrast to the solitude of the abandoned hotel. “But I don’t think they’re here anymore.”

  At the far side of the lobby was an auditorium and what appeared to be the dining room. Each was filled with countless mattresses and cots, with single sheets and sad-looking, lumpy pillows. Food waste, in the form of wrappers and old chip bags, littered the interior. Holding his breath, Clay tried to listen into the depths of the hotel—hoping to get a sense of whether there were people upstairs. But he heard nothing.

  Alayna and Lane joined him, leaning heavily against the staircase rail. Blood was beginning to trail down Alayna’s left cheek, a departing gift from the crazed.

  “So they were here?” she asked hoarsely. “Do you think they left in a hurry?”

  “It would seem so. Everything seems to be in a rush these days.” He entered the auditorium, walking between the rows of cots. Would he recognize Maia’s bunk if he saw it? Would she leave anything behind—anything he would know?

  It had been so long since he’d seen her, since he’d held her. A depressing thought suddenly overwhelmed him: would he even know her face if he saw it?

  “We should search the entire property. Don’t you think?” Alayna said from the doorway. “I don’t think we should assume anything from this one empty room. They certainly could have used the rest of the hotel.”

  “Sure,” Clay said, nodding slowly. “But I think we should stick together. For all we know, one of the crazed might have gotten in. They could be hiding anywhere.” His glanced at Lane, as an image—perhaps a premonition—appeared in his mind. Popping into a room, unaccustomed to the fighting and blood of this post-apocalyptic world, she’d find a crazed latched on her neck in no time. She’d fall to her knees immediately, her crimson blood becoming a horrific accent on the white walls.

  Jesus. No. After all they’d been through, he couldn’t allow it to happen. Not like that. He had to protect them.

  “Up the stairs, then?” Alayna asked, pulling him from his reverie. She gripped the staircase railing and bounded up the steps. “This place gives me the creeps. The sooner we know what happened here, the sooner we can move on.”

  Clay and Lane joined her on the second floor landing, looking up and down the hallway. The carpet was old-fashioned, patterned, as if it had been styled for the turn of the 19th century. Clay imagined that Maia would have been fascinated with it, probably even thinking that when all this was over, she’d want her bedroom changed. She’d always liked odd, old-fashioned things, things that reeked of a time past, a time she hadn’t known. She’d poured through old movies as a younger girl, things like Casablanca and An American in Paris.

  Clay had teased her at the time, for not liking “normal things.” But he’d actually loved this about her, telling Alayna often that his daughter was “going somewhere, someday.” That she would find more out of life than he had, as a simple man with a basic job in a quiet town.

  He wanted more for her.

  Alayna opened the first room. “Nothing in here. Although it does appear that they were sleeping up here, too. Looks lived-in. More food wrappers left behind.”

  “Anything to eat?” Lane asked.

  “Just packaging, mostly.”

  Clay peeked in. The blankets were stripped to the base of the bed, showing that whomever had slept there hadn’t liked to tidy up. Or maybe they’d left in a hurry.

  “It must have been horrible, to come all the way here and think you were safe,” Lane said.

  Clay frowned, moving on and checking other rooms on the floor. Each was similar, with sheets stripped to the ground, as if they’d left in a hurry—flinging themselves from bed.

  “Third floor, then,” Alayna sounded less and less hopeful. “We aren’t going to give up till the whole place is checked.” She put a hand on Clay’s back, showing a bit of compassion—despite feeling so disgruntled toward him earlier. “We have to keep fighting for this. And we will, Clay. For your daughter. And for Megan.”

  Lane nodded behind her, her jaw clenched tight. “No giving up.”

  “Worst case, we found shelter for the night,” Clay said, taking to the steps. “A silver lining, if nothing else.”

  But his heart was growing heavy. His fists clenched, nails digging deeper into his skin, nearly drawing blood, vengeance in his eyes.

  Chapter 34

  The third floor offered nothing. Just more empty rooms, more comforters tossed back, with trash in the wastebaskets and empty water bottles tossed into corners. For a time, the people who’d stayed there, the people who had found safety there, had at least had food, water, and shelter.

  “Why on Earth did they leave such a good situation?” Alayna asked. “And it’s pretty clear that the crazed didn’t get in. I mean. There’d be evidence of that. We’d see the blood. Possibly body parts riddled with bullet holes.”

  Clay nodded his head in agreement. They hadn’t found a single sign of struggle, nothing to indicate that people had died in the hotel.

  “It’s confusing,” Clay said. “Maybe they were taken up to Earlton after all, or maybe someplace else?”

  “So, just another dead end,” Lane whispered.

  “For every dead end we find, we’ll always find another trail,” Alayna said, her eyes hopeful as she looked up at Clay. “We have one more floor to check, and then we can rest. Regroup. Okay?”

  “Agreed,” Clay said as he began to climb to the fourth floor.

  The top floor was more of the same, until they reached the end of the hallway furthest from the staircase. There, the door was covered over with dark paneling and screwed to the wall, almost hiding the fact that there was a door there at all.

  Clay ran his hand across the wood, feeling the rough edges against his skin. “What the hell are they hiding behind here?” he asked.

  “I don’t know if we should go in,” Lane said. “I mean, if everyone bugged out because of whatever’s behind that door . . . I just don’t think it’s a good idea.”

  But Clay had already begun to rip the paneling from the wall with his now superhuman strength. With three quick jerks, the panel broke free and clattered to the floor. He shoved it aside with his foot before gripping the now exposed doorknob. Exhaling sharply, he twisted the handle and flung the door open.

  His jaw dropped.

  The room was laid out much like the others: with a four-poster bed, a large wardrobe, and piles of debris and other foodstuff along the walls. But lying on the filthy mattress, was a teenage boy—around fifteen or sixteen—tied to the bedposts. He was dressed in a pair of jeans and a black t-shirt. He was extremely thin, bones poking from his t-shirt, his arms stretched ab
ove his head. A putrid, urine scent met Clay’s nose—the boy had soiled himself. Darkness stained his crotch area and the sheets, which had also been sweated through.

  “Jesus Christ,” Alayna whispered. She brought her hand to her mouth, almost unable to proceed.

  Clay stepped in, concern on his face. Snot and mucus ran in thick trails from his nose to his mouth, and his eyes were closed. He was either sleeping, unconscious, or dead. Dark circles shadowed his eyes, nearly to his nostrils.

  In that moment, Clay understood: this boy was a monster, a crazed. He’d been locked away because of his altered state. Perhaps he’d been someone’s beloved son. Maybe he’d been a good brother, a kind friend. Clay swung his rifle around, pointing it at the boy’s temple.

  He needed to put him out of his misery. Now, and without prejudice. Standing there, as the seconds ticked away, he remembered all the people he’d seen go wild in the weeks since the outbreak. He should have shot them immediately as well, so as not to infect the others. He should have ended this the very day the outbreak had begun inside of his own jail cell. If only he’d listened to the colonel.

  He could have saved the world with a single shot.

  Aiming at the boy—the crazed monster—Clay took a deep breath, ready to fire.

  “Wait!” Lane cried out, shoving past Alayna. Suddenly, she wasn’t the meek woman she’d been downstairs. She put herself between the barrel of the gun and the rail-thin boy. “Wait. I think we should check and make sure he’s actually infected.”

  “Can’t you see it?” Clay asked, reacquiring his target. He didn’t realize he was panicking. His eyes were manic, wild. “I need to put it down, now. It needs to leave this world.”

  “No,” Lane insisted. “Not. Until. We. Check. Him.”

  Suddenly, the boy’s eyes flickered open. Clay raised his rifle. The boy blinked once, then twice, revealing bloodshot, human, eyes.

  “Help,” the boy rasped through cracked lips. “Please. Help me.”

  Clay’s heart nearly skipped a beat, and he lowered his rifle. He blinked, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. Was he imagining it?

  Lane hurried to the boy. Clay slung his rifle over his shoulder and leaned heavily against the bedpost. The boy’s panic was muted by his appalling condition, and his words were almost dreamy.

  “What happened to you?” Alayna asked him, not daring to touch him. She stood a foot away, her eyes wide.

  “I—I don’t—” he stuttered. “I—I—can’t—”

  “He’s delirious.”

  “But is he infected?” Clay asked. “It looks as if he’s in the initial stages. Can you tell?”

  “Hey, can you hear me? Have you been bitten?” Lane asked, gazing into his eyes with all the compassion of a mother. “Can you tell us what’s going on? We can help.”

  What if they couldn’t? Clay thought. He closed his eyes, waiting the final fall of the ax.

  “I—I’m not—” the boy stuttered. “Please—Help me . . .”

  Clay and Alayna shrugged at each other. Lane leaned closer, whispering, “What’s your name, kid?” She reached forward, making her first physical contact, feeling his forehead.

  “Alex,” he breathed. “It’s Alex.”

  Chapter 35

  Clay leapt forward and began to untie the ropes.

  Alex. The kid’s name was Alex.

  He was coherent enough to remember who he was, that he had a past. He was a person, not at all one of the crazed. And someone had tied him to this bed. And left him to die.

  The ropes were wrapped multiple times, with the strength of sailor knots. Alayna started at Alex’s ankles. Lane continued to mop sweat from the boy’s forehead, muttering to herself the whole time.

  “We need to get him cleaned up. Now,” she said, unaffected by the putrid smell.

  That stench seemed to grow worse with each passing moment. Clay paused to swipe the back of his hand across his mouth, sensing he was on the verge of vomiting. Alayna was a pale shade of green. Their eyes met across the boy’s rail-thin body, both holding the same truth.

  “One second.” Alayna headed for the doorway. She disappeared down the hallway, the sound of retching echoing back to them.

  “You gonna do the same?” Lane asked Clay.

  “No. No,” Clay said, hoping it was true. He finished the last of the restraints, releasing Alex’s ankle. His skin was livid underneath. The boy’s eyes had closed again, but he continued to sweat, causing him to shiver.

  “We need to get him out of these clothes. Immediately,” Lane said.

  Alayna appeared, carrying new sheets and pillows. She tossed them to the side of the bed then instinctively wiped her mouth, clearing the last of the vomit. “Sorry about that,” she said, unable to look at either of them. “Just lost it for a minute.”

  Clay slipped his hand behind Alex’s shoulders, helping him ease forward. Alex coughed, his chapped lips growing whiter with each heave. Clay eased his legs over the side of the bed.

  “He won’t be able to hold his own weight.” He eyed Alayna. “Can one of you—”

  Alayna stepped forward, taking Alex’s other side and pulling him to his feet. He slumped over and leaned heavily against Clay’s shoulder, his arms hanging like twigs. Clay remembered photographs of concentration camp survivors he’d seen in antiquated history books: carved out cheekbones, lost eyes. Alex resembled them perfectly.

  As Alex clung to Clay, Lane busied herself undressing him, with the air of a hospital nurse. She tugged at his soiled pants and then folded them for later disposal. She pulled his shirt over his head, undoing one arm after the other, and then turned in a swift motion and yanked the sheets from the bed, revealing the piss-stained mattress beneath.

  “All right then,” she said, her voice bright and cheery. “Let’s get these new sheets on. And get him cleaned up.” She looked at Alayna.

  “How?” Alayna asked. “There’s no water in the hotel. I just tried down the hall.”

  “Check the toilets,” Lane said firmly.

  Clay picked him up, carrying him like a child. The hotel room had a bathroom behind a closed door. When they opened it, they revealed an antique, gold-edged mirror on the far wall, which reflected manic-eyed Clay, the anxious and still green-tinged Alayna, and Alex, in Clay’s arms reeking of sickness and death.

  Alayna grabbed a basin from the sink and then begin to scoop the water from the toilet into it, as Clay eased Alex onto the counter. A washcloth, still new, hung in the shower. She grabbed it, dipping it into the water, and then began to wash him with a tentative hand.

  Clay watched as Alayna’s washcloth moved from the boy’s crotch to his feet, using the soap to make suds, eliminating the grime. Slowly, the stench was fading, allowing both Alayna and Clay to breathe through their noses again. Clay helped clean him then, taking a large towel and mopping at Alex’s head. With each dab of the towel against his face, Clay was reminded of all the times Maia was ill, sweat on her forehead and her eyes searching her father’s—begging for him to make her better.

  Lane appeared in the doorway. “The sheets are back on. I tossed the dirty clothes and sheets into the corner. I didn’t want to throw it out to attract the crazed. How’s he doing?”

  “Just about got him clean,” Alayna said, focused on her work.

  “I have about a million questions for him,” Clay added.

  The boy blinked up at him, almost on cue.

  “I want to know whether or not he knew Maia.” Clay stared directly into his half dead eyes.

  “Clay,” Lane said, hesitating. “I don’t think you should. I think it’s too soon.”

  “He was coherent enough to tell us his name,” Clay insisted. “He should be able to tell us something. Anything else. Hey. Alex. How did you come to be here? Who was here with you? Did they tell you where they were going?”

  Alex’s head lolled to the side, resting his cheek against the mirror. “Ummm . . .” he murmured, then began muttering to himself. �
��They were here. There they were. All . . . here.”

  “Who was all here?” Clay pressed. “Was someone named Maia?”

  “Clay,” Lane warned. “He’s too sick for this.”

  “Dammit. We’re all too sick for this,” Clay retorted.

  Alayna cleaned the last of the grime from Alex’s face, tossing the dirtied washcloths and towels into the bathtub. Alex continued to shiver uncontrollably, looking moments from passing out again.

  “Let’s get him back to bed,” Lane said, stepping back into the hotel room.

  Clay scooped him up and carried him back to fresh, clean sheets and eased him onto the mattress. Lane tucked him in, then pulled the comforter up to his neck.

  “That’s okay, Alex,” she soothed. “It’s going to be all right. We’ll get you better, won’t we?”

  His body continued to tremble for several moments. Alayna and Clay glanced at one another, with Clay’s thoughts centered only on what information he could get out of the kid, knowledge that could possibly reunite him with his daughter. They had to keep him alive if only for that.

  “Who were you with, kid?”

  Lane gave Clay a dark look.

  Alex’s eyes popped open. His lips parted.

  “Give him water,” Clay said. “Now.”

  Alayna rushed back to the bathroom, filling an empty hotel cup with toilet water, and delivering it to Alex. They watched as the boy gulped the water greedily.

  Licking his lips, Alex hunted for words. “Who the . . . who are you?” he asked, his voice raspy. He looked fearful, his eyes yellowed.

  “We’re here to help,” Lane reassured him. “We cleaned you up. You’re very sick. Try to stay calm.”

  “I don’t know you.” Alex’s his eyes darted from face to face. “But I—I don’t know anyone anymore.”

  “You were here with someone. They tied you up,” Clay said, lifting Alex’s head so he could drink more water. “We just need a bit more information from you. We need your help. Can you try and help us?”