by C. M. Wright
What!
Who does that?
Just before I charge out and begin shooting, my intuition tells me to stay put. I narrow my eyes as he takes a few more steps away from me, but when he suddenly turns and the expression on his face shows me he had expected me to charge him, I knew listening to my intuition just saved my life.
His frustration is evident, but he remains silent, holding back the curses I know he's dying to scream in rage; but his anger makes him careless and stupid because he forgets to go slow, he forgets to stalk, and instead storms back toward my hiding spot.
Shame on you, Mr. Dead Man!
As soon as I have a clear shot, I take it. His forehead is suddenly missing a good chunk, but his body finishes the last step he will ever take before it crashes into the hall. I step out of the bedroom and over his body, leaving the man to his after-death fate.
Back in the hallway, I close the apartment's door to signal that the occupants of the room have been dealt with and notice that all three of the other men had done the same. Apparently, they had gotten their jobs done a lot faster than I had.
I move on to the next open door and am surprised when I see that Gabe has tied a piece of cloth to the door handle. I listen for a few seconds and hear a grunt of pain coming from deep within the apartment, so I follow the sound, but keep my senses on full alert as I check the living room and kitchen before entering the hall.
Sandro had told us earlier, before going down the stairs to this floor, that the order in which he sends us in to the apartments, is the order we stay when moving on to the next so that we don't end up killing each other. If there's a problem and we need assistance, then we should tie the orange strip of cloth to the door that he had given to each of us.
But after finding a dead man in the first bedroom, no one in the bathroom, and Gabe easily handling the lone occupant in the second bedroom, I stand at the door with a look of confusion on my face. Gabe hears me when I tap on the door to signal my presence and looks up. He drops the man's head and the deep slice in his throat releases a few bubbles of blood. I tear my eyes away from the body and focus on Gabe as he walks toward me.
The teen's face is flushed and slick with sweat. He rubs an arm across his forehead to swipe some of the perspiration away, and I see his lips tremble.
Placing a hand on his other arm in concern, I ask, “Gabe? You okay?”
Gabe tries to speak but nothing comes out except for a single croak as his throat tightens up. His eyes fill with tears and I quickly wrap my arms around him and pull him with me further in the hallway and away from the sight of the dead man. I hold him, rocking him slightly as if he were my own child. My heart breaks for him, and I wish he never had to do this. I feel anger swirl through my entire body, making me dizzy from the intensity of it.
This is all Jake's fault. All of it. Funny how everything comes right back to that prick; but the responsibility of the zombies lies on his shoulders. None of us would be doing this, would have to do this, if it weren't for him.
Then again, the Krew members would still be around, terrorizing innocent people.
I allow Gabe the time he needs to release the worst of the immediate emotions; the pain, the horror, the disgust every normal person feels when they are forced to take the life of another human being.
We've all been there. I've been there, more than once. In fact, I'm there now. No matter how much I force myself to shut down my feelings, they're still there, hidden deep at the moment, but I know the trauma of what I've done, and will continue to do tonight, will play out over and over when I close my eyes. Every death, no matter how much it's deserved, will stain my hands, my body, my soul until the day I die.
I wish I could tell Gabe it gets easier, but it doesn't. Hopefully it never will, because how can a person live with themselves knowing they enjoy killing other people? How can a person believe themselves to be decent, honorable, caring and good when they dream of shedding blood? When they only feel satisfaction, and their cravings temporarily fed, when a life is taken?
No. If we lose our morals, our sense of self, then we can no longer be considered human, just as I had a hard time believing a serial killer was human before the apocalypse. I feel no different now. Monsters. We would all be monsters. No reason at all to care if our world or our families survived this. No hope, no love. Only death.
Not even the zombies are as bad as that. They don't know what they're doing. They're no longer human and are only doing what they were created to do.
Created by Jake.
Gabe's sobs finally begin to ease and he moves out of my arms. He wipes his tears away and then scrubs his face with his hands roughly. I know he's angry with himself, but he needn't be, and I tell him so.
“I'm all right. I just couldn't do the last apartment. I'm sorry,” he says then abruptly leaves the hall before I can ask him why.
I guess I'll find out soon enough on my own.
I exit the apartment, shut the door and untie the cloth, before heading back to the one Gabe was supposed to take care of first. I see Walker as he leaves the apartment across the hall and he gives me a nod. Besides a slight flush to his cheeks, he appears to be handling things relatively well.
I enter the apartment and feel a brief moment of relief that this time it's a decent enough place. Maybe not clean per say, but definitely not filthy like the first one. I keep my gun out, as I'm not sure what had Gabe so spooked, but I desperately hope I won't have to use it again so soon. The living room and kitchen are empty, and so is the first bedroom. The second bedroom holds a surprise I wasn't expecting. There's a man on the bed, asleep and naked.
No, that isn't the surprise.
The surprise is the female tied to the bed next to him.
The poor woman has both hands restrained above her head by a rope which is tied securely to the headboard. She's naked except for the bruises, cuts, and blood that covers her. Oh, and the filthy pair of once-white mens underwear that has been shoved into her mouth to keep her quiet.
Rage builds in my chest, but I fight it back. I must remain calm or I'll lose it worse than Gabe did. Right now, losing it is not an option.
I move toward the bed but stop when the woman's head turns toward me. Her eyes widen and she makes a muffled mewling sound as her eyes tell me what she can't say, Help me. Please!
The man stirs, but quickly begins to snore again. I put my finger to my lips and the woman nods. No sound comes from her again, and I continue to creep toward the bed. I put the gun away and take out my knife. I motion for her to turn away but she refuses with a brisk shake of her head. She wants– No. She must see him die after what he's done to her.
I get it.
I understand completely.
I use both hands to make sure the knife goes deep enough in one swipe and finish him. I wipe the knife on the blanket that has been discarded and is hanging off the end of the bed as I make my way toward the woman. The man's blood is slowing quickly now, but at first had gushed out and is now spreading closer to the woman, who's struggling madly to get away from it before it touches her. I grab hold of her arm and shake my head.
“You must hush! Do you want to escape, or would you rather be right back in this situation?” I snarl at her.
Harsh? Yes, but I have to be.
The woman settles down and keeps her eyes locked onto mine as I cut the rope from her hands. When she's free, she rips the nasty underwear from her mouth, then promptly throws up all over my shoes.
Chapter Eleven
The woman cries and apologizes over and over until I take her hold of her arms and give her a light shake.
“The puke is nothing, but I swear, if you get me or my people caught because you can't shut the fuck up, I'm going to kill you myself before they can disarm me. You got it?”
The woman's mouth snaps closed in shock and she nods at me again.
“Now, we're going to grab you something to wear and then we're going into the bathroom so I can clean my boots a bit
. After that, you'll be taken somewhere safe until we can get you out. You with me so far?”
“Y-yes.”
I gently pull her with me to the dresser and find a long flannel nightgown in the first drawer I open, most likely belonging to the woman of the apartment before the Krew took over. Not having the luxury of time to find anything else, I yank it and a pair of socks lying next to the gown out of the drawer and lead the woman to the bathroom. She cleans herself quickly then dresses while I take a towel and rub off the majority of the vomit from my boots. What I want to do is take my boots off and wash them thoroughly with soap and water, but I'm afraid of the squeak I'll making while walking if I do. That's the last thing I need.
I lead the woman out into the hall and catch sight of Sandro as he's walking toward his next apartment a few doors down on the opposite side of the hall.
“Sandro,” I call out in as loud of a whisper as I dare.
Sandro spins around, his eyes wide with fear at first, before realizing it's just me. Then he gives the woman a curious glance as he comes toward us, but understanding soon washes across his face and his anger is evident.
“I shouldn't be surprised, but I had given orders that no one was to visit the captives or take them out of the basement. I'd thought I'd made it clear that the men were destroying the captives, and at the rate they were going, there would soon be no women to violate. I guess I was only fooling myself that they would actually listen to me.”
“After we're done, hopefully those captives will never have to go through this kind of shit again, but there's nothing we can do now except what we're already doing. Can you take her upstairs with the others?” I ask him.
“Absolutely,” Sandro immediately agrees, but the woman isn't having it.
She begins to whimper and shrink away when Sandro offers his hand to her. I feel panic well up, terrified she will only get louder in her fear. I pull Sandro back and step between them, facing the woman. There's no way I can threaten her again, as I don't even think she is in the shape to comprehend the danger at this point. She's just too traumatized, too terrified of men, to think rationally.
“It's okay. Stop. I'll take you up myself.” I wave Sandro away and he leaves immediately. The further away from us he gets, the more the woman's fear abates. By the time he's disappeared inside another apartment, she's much calmer, though not all the fear is gone. It'll be a very long time before that will happen, if ever.
I guide her to the stairs in a hurry, terrified of how she will react if she were to catch a glimpse of Walker. As intimidating as he is, there would be absolutely no calming her down then. I take her upstairs and stop outside Sandro's apartment with my hand raised to knock, but frozen in place.
Shit! I forgot about the men that are hiding inside.
Now what?
Thankfully, an idea forms soon enough, and I lead the woman to the next apartment. Inside, I get her situated on the couch and kneel in front of her.
“I'm going to go next door and get another woman who will stay with you, okay?”
She nods and stares through terror-filled eyes at me, putting even more pressure on me to keep her safe.
“Hey,” I say softly with a smile as I attempt to ease her fears as much as I can, “What's your name?”
For the first time, I really hear her voice as she lightly says, “Heather.”
I smile a little wider and squeeze her hand.
“All right, Heather, will you be okay while I'm gone for a few minutes?”
She nods and says so quietly I have to strain to hear her, “I'll be fine. Just hurry, please?”
I squeeze her hand again and stand. Next door, I find the men all gathered at the kitchen table, looking tense and nervous, and with questions in their eyes.
“Not done yet. I need to steal Amanda and Gabby. We've found a woman captive and she's a little scared of men right now,” I tell them as I walk toward the table and stop next to the man sitting closest to my side.
“What's her name?” the man sitting on the opposite side of the table from me asks.
“Heather,” I tell him and the man next to me gasps.
He stands so abruptly that he knocks the chair over and I automatically reach for my gun, which causes all of the other men to stand. Two grab the man and pull him away from me, pleading with him to calm down. The third man pleads for me to relax.
“What the hell's going on?”
Everyone moves their attention to Amanda as she walks in the room, everyone but me and the man who startled me. Our eyes stay locked on each other.
“Canada, what's wrong?” Amanda asks as she comes up beside me.
“Not sure, but I believe he,” I nod at the man who's shaking so hard that the other men will soon be holding him up instead of holding him back, “seems to think he might know a captive we found.”
“Oh...kay,” she draws the two syllables out dramatically then turns to the man and says, “You realize we're on borrowed time here, right? Do you want to get your Heather out of this screwed up place, or would you rather continue to act like an ass and put all of our lives at risk? Up to you, genius.”
I guess she gets through to the guy, because he immediately collapses in his chair, and though looking desperate and impatient, waves us away. I quickly explain to Amanda that she and Gabby need to move and why. We get Gabby and I take them to the woman next door. Amanda locks the door behind me as I leave and I know the woman is in good hands, so I head back downstairs.
Halfway down, I hear shouts from several men and know that something has gone terribly wrong.
Chapter Twelve
I rush down the remaining stairs, pulling a second gun out as I do. At the door, I throw myself against the wall and peek inside the narrow rectangular window. Chaos. Complete and terrifying chaos.
Guns begin to bang and light flashes in the darkness of the apartments from the blasts. My heart pounds harder with each blast, each scream, and I know the guys won't make it out of this. Three men with few weapons against so many are not good odds.
The sound of a door slamming open somewhere below makes me jump. Frantically, I look around for somewhere to hide, but there is nowhere to go on this landing except up or inside the door.
Up it is.
I rush back up the stairs until I reach the brief landing between steps. Once I've turned onto the second set of steps, I drop down and watch through the bars, praying the new arrivals will be too distracted to look up here.
But when my own husband's face looks right up at me, I gasp and hit the stairs running. I slam into him and knock us both back into the wall next to the door. His arms feel so good wrapped tight around me and I can't stop a sob of relief from escaping.
“Oh, God! Will, we have to help them!” I scream in his face.
“Then let's go,” Will tells me as he gently pushes me behind him. His arm blocks me from moving until all of the others have passed by and enter the fight. Then he grabs my hand and pulls me inside behind him. Our people move fast as they spread out and enter each apartment. The sound of so many guns going off inside the building is deafening.
Will and I stay in the hall in case anyone escapes that shouldn't, or in case we get more visitors joining the fight. As Will watches the apartments and I watch the door leading to the stairs, he tells me that they had indeed gotten Sandro's thrown baseballs and the messages attached to them. They have already killed the two night guards, though he tells me it wasn't that hard, considering they were passed out drunk as well. They then went through the rest of the lower floors, and good thing they did too, because one of the men had died of what appeared to be natural causes on a lower floor and was quickly making all new zombies.
The three floors below this one are also Krew apartments, and they made quick work of the other members, much quicker than the four of us managed to do on a single floor.
Will asks me what had happened on our floor and I told him about finding the woman and taking her upstairs to safety, then
coming back down to discover shit had gone to hell.
“Before I could figure out what to do, I heard you all come up and ran,” I finish and his question goes unanswered. It's the same question I too wish I had an answer for.
What did happen here? How did everything go so wrong so fast?
The sound of Will's gun blasting so close behind me causes me to scream and drop to the ground. I look up and back to see Will staring down at me. He lowers a hand to me and helps me up, his mouth apologizing for not warning me, but his eyes telling me he isn't as sorry as he claims to be. I don't even resist the urge to call him an asshole, before turning my back on him and watching the doors again.
Gradually, the time between shots becomes longer and longer until silence washes over the building. Somehow, after all the noise, the silence seems even louder. One by one the apartments empty of our men, and we look over everyone to see who was missing, because some were missing!
Sandro and my brother, Ryder, are missing.
Panic fills my lungs and a whimper of fear escapes my lips. Will grabs my arm when I attempt to run to the room they had entered what seemed like so long ago. I fight him off, my only concern being my brother. Will gives up in his attempt at calming me and instead races after me to the apartment. At the door, I stumble and let loose a scream that definitely wakes anyone not truly dead.
I see Sandro just inside the door, but he's alive. For now. A bullet has torn through his stomach and he's been knocked out, most likely from the pain and possibly the loss of blood. His chest still moves from the intake of air, albeit slight, but slight is much better than none.
David and a few other people shove me out of the way and begin to administer to Sandro. I see the body of my brother lying still across the room by the windows and stumble toward him.
My ears fill with the rush of blood and adrenaline, and I barely hear Will when he screams for me to get down. I can't comprehend what that means right now. All I know is that my baby brother is hurt and needs me.
Something on the floor trips me and I feel my body soar through the air before landing hard on my hands and knees. I feel a sharp tug on my hair before I hear the gunshot. A second gunshot sounds, and I see movement from the corner of my left eye. I turn my head. Every movement is in slow motion. My ears feel as though they are stuffed with cotton, and I'm unable to hear sounds I know I should be hearing.