Up From the Depths: Book 4 Movement to Contact

by J. R. Jackson

  ***

  Larkin burst into the main hallway of Victory, sword held ready and stopped dead. The hall looked like the aftermath of a frat party that had ended very badly. Upturned furniture, smashed pieces of vase and glass littered the floor like jagged snow. Paintings hung askew on the walls. What changed the perspective from the aftermath of a college party were the bodies that shared space in the hall amongst the wreckage. Soldiers and infected lay twisted on the floor like discarded children’s toys. Blood stained the carpeting and streaked the walls and ceiling.

  The building was silent save for the steady drip of bodily fluids.

  Larkin cautiously crept forward expecting an attack at any moment. He stopped and looked towards the main dining room. The hall leading there appeared to be clear of infected. Turning and moving towards the Medical Bay, he eased along the walls, avoiding open doorways until he reached the end of the hall where it turned. He leaned back against the wall and took a breath to calm down. Closing his eyes, he listened for any noise.

  The firing from outside and the hammering of his heart prevented him from perceiving any small sounds. After quickly looking around the corner too fast to discern anything, he tightened his grip on the sword and leapt into the hall ready for an attack.

  There was no one there.

  He slowly moved to the main door of Medical to find it sagging open. The remaining smoked glass that stubbornly clung to the frame showed bloody handprints like a child’s macabre finger-painting. Using his foot, he nudged the door open before it stopped against something lying behind it.

  Stepping through the gap, he looked behind the door and saw the decapitated body of an infected, its head lay a few feet away. A soldier and an infected lay intertwined together like lovers. It was obvious that the soldier had killed the infected then killed himself with his sidearm when he realized he had been bitten.

  “Leesa!” he called out as he advanced down the hall past the exam rooms.

  Each exam room doors had been thrown open, the interiors trashed in a mindless rage. Stopping at the broken door leading to the office for the resident doctor, Larkin gripped the sword tight enough that his knuckles turned white.

  Kicking open the door, he stepped inside. The overhead light had been partially ripped from the ceiling and dangled down as it flickered, illuminating the room with bursts of white. The office was a charnel house of gore, blood and body parts. The heavy desk was overturned; papers, diplomas, certificates and infected littered the floor. One body had an IV tree shoved through its mouth pinning it to the wall. Several of the infected lay around the desk. A broken chair leg had bashed in a head; a bookend had done the same. Pens jammed into the eye and ear sockets.

  It was apparent that Leesa had used whatever she could to fend off the infected.

  “Leesa?”

  He stepped further into the room, searching. His foot hit something that slid across the floor with a strange rattle. Looking down he recognized it as a sheath, like those he had seen on the soldier’s belts. It was dappled with blood. Stepping to one side of the room, he strained his eyes against the random light bursts. On the floor by the overturned desk he saw a shoe. Stepping over one of the infected, he moved closer. It was one of Leesa’s.

  Quickly moving to the desk he saw that she was lying behind it. She was curled up in a fetal position, her clothes soaked in blood, arms crossed over her stomach. Kneeling down next to her, he touched her face. Her head lolled to one side revealing a serene expression on her face as if sleeping. He gazed at her, not knowing if she was dead or alive. Her eyes opened and she coughed several times, expelling blood. Larkin recoiled in shock, falling backwards against the bookcase and dislodging the few remaining books which tumbled down on him as he dropped the sword. He crawled back to her and cradled her head in his lap.

  “Jack?” she said weakly.

  “I’m here. I’m here,” he said as he moved her blood soaked hair out of her face.

  “Jack, those things, they got in and…they bit me,” she said removing her hands from they were clutched to her stomach.

  Larkin tried to keep the revulsion from his face as he saw the wound. It was bloody and raw, he was sure that he saw the greasy, gray ropes of intestine poking out of the opening. Larkin quickly looked away, closing his eyes, willing away the bile that rushed to the back of his throat.

  “I tried, Jack. I tried,” she said softly.

  “It’s okay. It’s over now,” he said, looking into her eyes and concentrating on not looking at the injury her hands covered.

  “Oh, Jack, it hurts so bad. I don’t want to die,” Leesa said, her voice breaking into sobs. Larkin held her tight, not wanting to let go.

  “You have to do it,” she said looking up at him, her eyes clear and knowing as tears tracked down her face.

  “I can’t.”

  “You have to. It’s the only way. It has to be you. I don't want to be one of those things.”

  Larkin looked down at her, his vision blurring as tears flowed. He nodded, gently moved her head to the floor and stood up.

  “I’ll be right back,” he said before leaving the office. He walked out into the main hall and looked around. There, over by the wall was what he was looking for. Crouching by the body of the soldier, he reached underneath and hit the release for the duty belt. Pulling it loose he buckled it around his waist, adjusting the holster. Squatting back down, he picked up the Browning Hi-Power from the soldier’s dead hand. He took the time to check the sidearm before he holstered it and walked back to where Leesa lay.

  He knelt down by her and cradled her head again.

  “Please, Jack. Let me go,” she said. “For all of us.”

  Larkin pulled out the Browning, flipped off the safety and placed it against the side of Leesa’s head. His finger tensed on the trigger but then his hand began to shake.

  “I can’t,” he sobbed as he hung his head.

  “It’s okay. I understand. Let me help,” Leesa said as she brought her hand around and awkwardly gripped his wrist. She weakly pulled his arm until the Browning was again against her head.

  “It’ll be okay, Jack,” she said as she turned her face away from him.

  “No. No!” Larkin shouted.

  “Shh, it will be all right, baby,” she said soothingly as she moved her hand to cover his. The barrel of the pistol was against the back of her head. Her fingers curled over his and found the trigger.

  “Thank you,” she said softly. Larkin closed his eyes as she pulled the trigger. The handgun report was loud inside the small office. Tears flowed from his eyes as he hung his head and wept. His hand dropped limply to the floor where the handgun clattered on the tile.

  Larkin rocked on his knees, sobbing as he held her lifeless body. His mouth opened but no sound came out. He lifted his face to the ceiling and found his vocalization as he screamed for several seconds. When he finished, a transformation occurred. His eyes changed, becoming cold, merciless like a predator. He picked up the handgun and holstered it, pulled off his shirt and draped it over her ruined face, slid his arms under her lifeless body and stood up. He carried her out of the office and towards the exterior doors.

  Larkin stopped and leaned against the wall. His clothes were covered in blood and gore, most of it leaking from Leesa’s body. Bits of flesh and speckles of blood clung to his undershirt, face, and sprinkled his hair. Looking down at the woman he had loved, he nodded solemnly then looked back up and walked to the door.

  He vowed to himself that he would kill all the infected.

  He kicked open the doors to the building and encountered the rear security element of the soldiers fighting to contain the infected. Taking in his appearance and the look in his eyes, they moved aside, giving him room to pass. Larkin continued towards the main courtyard. Major Hyde-Smythe had come down from the roof to oversee the final mop up and removal of infected from the confines of RMA Sandhurst. He saw Larkin carrying Tobias and stopped issuing orders. A cloud of silence formed a
round Larkin as he carried Leesa past the soldiers and civilians. Larkin stopped in front of the officer and laid the body at his feet.

  “I brought her home, sir,” Larkin said, looking down, his shoulders shaking as he silently sobbed. “I brought her home.” He took a deep breath and looked up at Hyde-Smythe with a stare that made the seasoned officer mentally recoil. The battle was over but a new fight was about to begin.

  Out there were more of those things that had taken the one person from him that he truly loved.

  He would send them all to Hell.

  There was no place they could hide from his wrath.

  ***

  Chapter 5

  Firebase Cascade, former City of Tenino, Washington State

  Deck O’Toole walked down Sussex Avenue towards City Hall. Cascade had been transformed over the last few months into a bustling city. The population had grown as more survivors migrated to the area. This increased the drain on supplies but as a benefit, swelled the ranks of the Home Guard. What amazed him was the amount of foot traffic on the sidewalks even in this rain.

  People hustled about using carts and wagons instead of cars as fuel was rationed. This didn’t affect the residents as the city was still small enough that one could reach downtown from anywhere inside the secure perimeter in just a few minutes.

  Climbing the stairs to the mezzanine level of City Hall, O’Toole nodded to the two Home Guard members who stood watch at the doors. Pulling off his dripping poncho and stepping inside, he looked around the old city council chambers before closing the door behind him. The ornate sandstone and marble fireplace that was the centerpiece to the former council chamber, was in use. Its heat was already drying O’Toole’s poncho and warming the room to a comfortable level. Colonel Carter was seated at one end of the table in conversation with James Martin who was standing by a large map of the local area on the wall. Both men looked up as he entered. The other occupant of the room sat off to one side sipping a steaming beverage from a white Styrofoam cup. O’Toole eyed him warily, not sure why he was here. Hanging his poncho on the coat rack, he looked over at the third man in the room as he shifted his FN SCAR around to a more comfortable carry position.

  Giscard Epurer watched impassively as O’Toole entered. Beside him, leaning against the wall was his FA MAS rifle.

  “Captain,” Carter said in greeting indicating a chair. O’Toole nodded, removed his boonie hat, shaking it to knock the excess water off it then sat down. Martin nodded before he sat down and opened the file in front of him.

  As O’Toole waited for the colonel of 1st Special Forces Group to begin the briefing, his mind wandered back to the US Army Reserve Center in Tumwater where he and his forage group had taken refuge after leaving Capital Forest. Once they had secured the main portion of the building, he had sent out teams to search the interior for anything useful. Reports had come back that all the exterior doors were secure and locked. From the inside.

  That meant only one of two options. Someone was still inside the vast building, probably hiding out in the warren of rooms and offices. That was the best case scenario. The worse case was that whoever had secured the building could already be symptomatic and was waiting to be discovered.

  US Coast Guard Chief Petty Officer Porter rounded up his entry team and they began a systematic sweep and clear of all the rooms ending at the door providing access to the basement. When the reserve center had been built, the basement had contained a compact, four-lane small arms range while the rest was delegated as storage. Over the years, the range had been remodeled into storage areas, additional classrooms, and offices.

  Porter’s group entered the darkened spaces and cleared the rooms one at a time until they came to the last classroom. Chief Porter had entered first and encountered a rifle stock to the back of his helmet then the world spun as he was thrown down, disarmed and brought to his feet to be used as a human shield. The man who had so swiftly taken him down and acquired his sidearm now demanded to speak to whoever was in charge; his voice had a distinct accent. Several minutes of yelling back and forth ensued before someone called for O’Toole. The conversation from that point on resulted in the man releasing Porter and allowing O’Toole to enter the room.

  The young Special Forces captain was unprepared at what he saw inside that room. Along one wall, cases of MRE’s and bottled water were stacked floor to ceiling. Blankets and sleeping bags were laid out in a small section of the floor near the back wall and in a far corner; a barricade of furniture protected a group of six young children. The man identified himself as a member of the French Consulate from Seattle presenting O’Toole with his identification.

  O’Toole handed the ID folder to Sands who had accompanied his 1IC downstairs.

  “Gas-card Hey Poo-Poo?” Sands asked trying to pronounce the name.

  “Giscard Epurer,” the Frenchman corrected him.

  “Gizzard?” Sands asked as he tried again to pronounce the name.

  “Giscard,” The man said slowly enunciating his first name.

  “OK, whatever,” Sands said handing back his ID. O’Toole knew that Sands was fluent in several languages, French being one of them and knew that his sergeant was checking the man out by purposely mangling the pronunciation.

  “Mr. Epurer, I’m Captain O’Toole, US Army. Can you tell me how you got this far south?” O’Toole asked. “We heard that Seattle had been overrun.” Epurer looked at the children then back at O’Toole.

  “We shall speak of this outside in the hall,” he stated, indicating the door. The soldiers warily parted and allowed him to exit then followed him outside.

  “Those children have been through enough. They don’t need to hear what happened to them all over again,” Epurer said once they were outside the room. O’Toole nodded agreement.

  “I’m sure they have but I need to know how you got down here and specifically inside this building,” O’Toole stated.

  “We were at the Tacoma History Museum. It was a field trip for the children of the consulate staff members. I saw what was happening and gathered all the children together and headed to the van. It was then that I realized that we would not be able to make it back to the consulate.”

  “Your ID says you’re Director of Consular Affairs,” O’Toole stated. “That position isn’t kid wrangler. If I had to guess, I’d say you’re DGSE which makes you a spook in my book.”

  Epurer gave O’Toole a Gaelic shrug.

  “Think what you will, Captain. What I am or was makes no difference now. All I am is a survivor,” Epurer said, gesturing to the men around him. “Like all the rest of you.”

  “OK, fair enough. How’d you get here?” O’Toole asked, taking a visual inventory of the French man. Epurer appeared to be in good health. His clothing was worn but not frayed. He wore a light beard like pretty much every male did since world had ended. O’Toole thought back to what the children had looked like. They wore a mix match of civilian and salvaged military clothing, presumably taken from the personnel lockers inside the Reserve Center.

  “I was able to get the children into the van after stopping and grabbing some supplies from one of the official cars.” O’Toole looked back into the room and saw a FA MAS rifle laying on top of a tactical vest on one of the tables.

  “Okay,” he said slowly nodding his head at Epurer’s reference to ‘supplies’.

  “From there it was just a matter of finding a way out of the traffic snarl on I-5. We got on Highway 7 and headed east. That first day, we reached Eatonville. It was there that the last member of the security team died from his wounds,” Epurer explained. “I gathered what food was left in that town and headed southeast staying on the back roads. The van broke down a few miles from here. I had considered using your state Supreme Court building as a viable location to secure but the bridge between this side of town and the state capitol had been destroyed.”

  O’Toole glanced over at Sands. It had been their team that had dropped the bridge that Epurer was referring to.


  “This building appeared untouched and structurally sound,” Epurer continued. “I hid the children in the fire station across the street while I cleared this building,” he said casually as if describing doing the laundry. O’Toole and Sands exchanged a sideways look. Both men knew it wasn’t a simple task to clear a building that could be inhabited by large numbers of infected without support.

  “After that it was only a matter of securing it and making sure there was enough food and water to last for a while.”

  “And Directors of Consular Affairs normally carry around a bugle?” Sands asked flawlessly in Epurer’s native tongue using the nickname for the French made bull pup configured rifle.

  Epurer chuckled lightly before fixing the sergeant with a cold look.

  “Of course not. The item you’re referring to was taken from one of the now dead security men,” Epurer replied in English.

  “And you just happen to know how to use it?” O’Toole followed up.

  “These are changed times captain, you either adapt to them or you die,” Epurer stated flatly. “As you can see, I have several charges that I’m responsible for,” he said indicating the six children still in the room.

  “Mr. Epurer, you’ve all but confirmed to me that you’re more than you appear. My sergeant here just used a nickname for the rifle in the other room and you knew it. That makes you more than just some desk jockey. Combine that with the fact you disarmed and took down one of my entry team without killing him and that all adds up to you being way more than some admin puke,” O’Toole stated. Epurer looked at him blankly.