Interestingly, as I stood there contemplating “Cain’s” words, I recalled something Dr. Justin Case said back in early May. Just four days after he was injected with the test sample of E-rase, he explained how he felt more ‘alive’ four days post-injection. He said that, not only did he feel no negative effects from the E-rase injection, but he actually felt invigorated. He thought that, perhaps, E-rase was actually altering the physical aspects or components of his body.
I had thought nothing of it at the time. Dr. Case had taken the test sample which ultimately resulted in our survival. None of us has felt any unusual side-effects from E-rase—at least, not that anyone has shared vocally. Perhaps the property of E-rase which affected Dr. Case, whatever that might have been, was exacerbated by the error in Toronto’s vaccine; and, that error caused the bodies and minds of the inoculated to go haywire. I resolved to discuss that theory with Dr. Shevchuk as soon as I was able, if I wasn’t eaten by the then-docile nudists outside our door.
In any event, none of us was anxious to open the door, and there was no back door to our room. A window in the bathroom appeared to open into the alley between our building and an adjacent motel building. The distance between the front door and the alley was less than 30 meters.
“Do you think we can make it?” Anta asked, looking toward the back window.
Angel answered. “Based upon what we know of the Skins’ speed, strength and endurance, it seems probable that the strength of their senses would also be increased. It would probably not be difficult for them to hear any sound we made opening or breaking the window to escape.”
“Is this some wild theory of yours about supernatural abilities?” I asked. I immediately regretted it. Angel hasn’t attempted, at any time, to persuade us to believe that the Skins fit into her classic model of supernatural genetics. “I’m sorry,” I said quickly.
“That’s okay,” Angel replied. “And, the answer is ‘no’. It just seems logical, that’s all.”
“I agree,” Anta said.
“Then, the only possible ways out of here are to either lure them away from the building somehow, wait and hope they leave, or fight our way out,” Street concluded.
After a short break, the baritone voice of Cain on the other side of the door renewed its plea for “help”. Soon, other voices began to offer their pleas, which became increasingly angry and ugly.
After another conference, we concluded that our best chance for survival was to suddenly burst from the front door and attempt to shoot our way to the safety of the Fluxor. Only Street had any real experience with guns. More importantly, however, I didn’t want to kill any of them. Everything within me told me that such an act would be murder. To kill a human, regardless of whether he or she has an unusual mental capacity or some physical limitation—or, in this case, physical adaptation—is still murder. Nevertheless, we had no other option, and they clearly didn’t feel the same way I felt about the value of human life, based upon the prior actions of their fellows in eating human flesh. So, a quick weapons tutorial from Street taught us most of what we needed to know about how to kill and escape with our lives. Then, we attempted our escape.
After a much-too-short “count to three”, Street yanked open the door and rushed out in the general direction of the Fluxor, swinging his arms and his gun wildly in the process. His fist first connected with the nose of the man closest to the door. A crunching sound and audible moan escaped from the man’s mouth immediately thereafter. He struck a couple other Skins before I finally joined him on the doorstep, gun raised to eye level. The surprise attack had caused the Skins to fall back away from the door, allowing the women to join us outside the room shortly thereafter.
I had already unlocked the doors of the Fluxor remotely from the motel room, and its doors were just waiting for us to open them and climb inside. But first, we had the privilege of witnessing what may be one of the more spectacular displays of gun fighting, and street fighting—no pun intended—our world has witnessed in decades.
Rushing from the door step where I was still standing, Street slammed his body into the first row of Skins, including the man he had already hit, knocking several to the ground. Some were slow to get up, but others jumped right back into the fray. Between punches, Street was “popping” (to use his vernacular) Skins in the foreheads, backs, chests, etc. with whatever type of gun he was carrying.
Street’s first few targets went down easily, owing to the surprise attack. Thereafter, however, the fighting became more intense. Street stood bravely in the middle of the naked throng, swinging, shooting, kicking and head-butting. Using the back end of his gun, his fists, his feet and his forehead, Street continued to attack and defend himself with amazing speed and tenacity.
One Skin grabbed Street from the back and wrapped his arms around Street’s chest. Street, deftly and accurately, swung his head backward, striking the Skin in the nose. The blow caused the Skin to loosen his grip just enough for Street to spin around and, lifting his left knee upward in the process, catch the Skin between the legs. The man dropped in agony. Another Skin, a female, grabbed Street’s arm during the melee, lifting his arm toward her mouth. Just as the woman was about to bite, a shot from beside me caught the Skin in the neck. I turned to the left and saw a wisp of smoke rising from the barrel of Anta’s gun. It was beautiful.
I turned back toward the fray in time to see Street lift a thin, teenaged boy off his feet and then toss him to the ground. A loud crack, and immediate blood in the area of his head told us all we needed to know about that boy’s injuries.
During Street’s amazing display of fighting prowess, as he continued to lunge, twirl, shift and “pop”, Anta, Angel and I attempted to help from the doorway, shooting sporadically; both hoping to hit, and hoping not to hit any of the Skins.
As Street, with a little help from us, rapidly dispatched one Skin after another, though not always fatally, they began to drop back. Those that had not been wounded continued to attack, albeit with less zeal. Because they didn’t have weapons, they were clearly out-matched. Those apparently in pain, retreated first. Clearly, the Skins felt pain and would die. Unlike zombies in the movies of the past, those Skins were human enough to retreat when beaten. They didn’t appear to have an insatiable urge for human flesh. They were definitely not zombies, and most of them weren’t fighters, or so it seemed.
As Street made greater progress, we slowly made our way toward the Fluxor. By the time the three of us reached the Fluxor, only 20 or 25 meters from the door of our hastily-departed motel room, Street had “cut down” (again, Street’s vernacular) at least 15 of the would-be cannibals. Another four or five were on the ground at the hands, or gun barrels of Anta and I. I’m not positive whether Angel managed to hit any of her targets, but that she fought alongside us, regardless of success, is worth note, and I’m grateful for it.
As Street finally reached the door to the Fluxor, his back toward the remaining Skins, he was hit over the head by what appeared to be a wood mallet—the type that might be used to pound a stake into the ground to hold a tent in place. That was the only weapon I had seen, and it was used at a time most appropriate to be effective. The blow didn’t knock Street down, but he was temporarily out of action as he grabbed onto the Fluxor to keep his balance.
Sitting in the driver’s seat, I lowered my window and shot the offending Skin in his left temple, instantly killing him. Street then climbed in and we exploded away at a speed not even the Skins, with their amplified physical capabilities, could hope to catch. As we sped away, I realized that I would probably always live with the guilt associated with my purposeful destruction of that man’s life—at point blank range; but I did what I believed had to be done. We all did. Still, taking the life of that last man, knowing exactly what I was doing, was eating at me. I thought then, that, until the time I meet my maker, I would be haunted by the memory of what we had just done.
Street’s legacy, however, would also be forever remembered—at least amo
ng his colleagues on that night—as a fearsome and fearless warrior. His bravery and skill was the foremost cause of our eventual escape from the motel in Amqui.
During the melee, I caught a glimpse of the eyes of one of our attackers, a very tall and muscular man. A fashionable pair of sunglasses had slipped down his nose, but still clung to his moist skin. I thought at the time that he may have been the first man Street hit on his way out the door. There was no color in his eyes. Although it was dark outside, the blackness of his eyes was darker still. It was as if the iris had vanished, leaving a larger pupil alone to fill up nearly the entire eye cavity. That probably explained why the Skins wore sunglasses, and why we had only seen them at night. If the Skins’ pupils are really as large as they appeared in that man, perhaps no longer being able to dilate or constrict in bright light, any person with such a condition would need to find ways to minimize the amount of light entering the head. I’m no medical doctor, but that seemed likely the case. Like so many other things, I resolved to ask one of the doctors at the bunker about that later.
More interesting though, was that the man whose eyes I glimpsed, whose shoulder was cut with blood oozing from the ragged wound, had an angry, knowing look on his face. He looked as though he knew something I did not and was displeased with whatever that knowledge included. Was that “Cain”? He looked familiar.
About two and a half hours after our hasty exit, we stopped in a town called Shediac, about 250 miles southeast of Amqui. Shediac, or at least the sea adjacent to Shediac, must be lobster territory, based upon the numerous lobster shacks, restaurants and sculptures that line the main streets of this small town.
A faint light was creeping into the eastern sky over Prince Edward Island, in the Gulf of St. Lawrence, as we drove along the narrow main street toward what appeared to be the city center.
Unlike some of the other cities and towns we’d passed through, the town of Shediac didn’t appear to have suffered much from human destruction during the early days of the epidemic, when fear and desperation led to confusion, anger and violence. Few of the windows along the main street were broken and there was very little trash on the ground. It really looked as though this town hadn’t been affected by the tempest of human fear that swept through the country at the beginning of the epidemic, or the rage which bore down with ferocity during the height of the plague.
With the knowledge that the Skins only came out at night, we relaxed. I hadn’t realized how tense my muscles had been until I saw the first sliver of the June sun rise over the calm waves of the Atlantic Ocean. The adrenaline left me and my body felt more tired than it had in many, many days. I needed to sleep, but neither time, nor nature, was on our side.
After grabbing a bit of food from a quaint grocery on the main street, we sat down on some old wooden benches along a coastal strip at the north end of this small fishing village. Former friends and lovers had carved their initials all over the sun-bleached wooden planks. Even though our world had fallen apart, in some towns, this one included, the electricity was still on. We ate pre-packaged lunch meat and slightly-grainy ice cream bars as we watched the sun rise.
The sun reflected off the placid waves as it continued its rise. I pondered our current situation as the glistening waves slowly swam up the sand and then retreated the same way. The only reminder of the current state of affairs was a dead body, or what was left of it, floating in the surf 40 or 50 meters to the south, bloated and rotting. It was enough to remind me that the peace surrounding us was not as it seemed. A tear slipped from my eye, but I was content.
The longer we sat there, the more my body relaxed. My mind drifted into peaceful fantasies—surfing, a sand castle contest my nieces and I had joined a couple years ago in San Diego. I wanted so desperately to see that our world had not changed. I took solace in the fact that our Earth was still soaring around the sun, and still waking up each day as it had done for millennia. It was peaceful. I almost felt happy, until the quiet was disturbed by the sound of footsteps on a boardwalk somewhere nearby.
The noise startled me into immediate consciousness, and I simultaneously reached for my gun, slid off the bench, and crouched down. My companions did the same. My eyes darted left and right as I watched for movement, but I soon realized that the sound of footsteps belonged to a person with footwear. The clopping of shoes was strangely beautiful. The Skins we had seen thus far hadn’t been wearing shoes. Street apparently had the same thoughts as he slowly stood. Anta, Angel and I followed his example. But our guns were kept in firing position and my eyes never stopped moving.
We still had a tense 15-second wait before a young boy, clearly human—and normal—stepped out from behind a small stand of bushes between the boardwalk and the beach 20 or 25 meters away from us. He moved toward us very slowly. As I caught his eyes, he hailed us with a raise of his hand. We each reciprocated.
A short dialogue from a distance of approximately 15 meters (as he wouldn’t approach any closer), revealed that he was part of a larger group of survivors—13 of them—who were hiding in a small bomb shelter under a local hotel. They heard, through Mike’s communication database, that we had arrived in southeastern Canada.
Then, early this morning, Mike broadcast that we had arrived in Shediac. The announcement raised their spirits and they sent several people out to look for us, despite the danger likely still riding on the wind. Luckily, they found us.
The young boy, Julian, led us a block down the street and to the back of a small hotel where we descended a dark staircase. At the bottom of the stairs, Julian opened a thick metal door and ushered us inside. We stepped into a glass chamber just inside the entryway. The chamber closed behind us and a violent whoosh of air surrounded us. Seconds later we were welcomed into the light of a cramped basement bunker full of tired, dirty, anxious faces.
In a matter of seconds, a frail old woman—Agatha, we soon learned—hobbled over to us with a bright, warm smile and gave Angel and Anta hugs. After short introductions, we began vaccinations and continued when the others who had been out searching returned. We inoculated all 13 of them. Amazingly, none of them were sick with any signs of AE at the time of the vaccination, so I had great hope that all of them would live!
After the vaccination process was completed, we sat down on dirty chairs that were offered to us and ate a processed meal from a wall unit with our hosts. We spent the next few hours speaking of the catastrophe on the surface and our efforts in locating survivors. But the more interesting part of the stories told that evening revolved around the conditions and realities these wonderful people had faced over the past couple of months.
Agatha spoke of her life before the plague in this small town. The others in the room gave her all the attention a woman of her years deserved. They clearly respected her and loved her. Agatha regaled us with stories from her youth in Shediac, where she had lived her entire life. We laughed and cried with her. But things became very somber, very quickly when she began to discuss recent events.
In her 116 years of life, Agatha had seen illness, death, wars and other calamities, but nothing the likes of which we all face now. Her husband was one of the first in Shediac to catch the disease. She cried great tears of sorrow as she spoke of the death of her husband from AE—the way his body trembled with the pain and seemed to melt away before her eyes. She spoke reverently of his anguished cries as his life quickly faded and was lost to her. In a quiet, remorseful voice, with her eyes lifted toward the heavens, she humbly apologized to her husband. There was nothing she could do for the man with whom she had shared a bed and a life for almost 80 years. Her immense sorrow brought most of us to tears. It was amazing that she was able to remain healthy that close to the illness. She may be immune, but we didn’t discuss that. It wasn’t the right time.
Agatha was brought to this shelter by a young pregnant woman—Blossom. Blossom was Agatha’s neighbor and they had spent many hours together in the years leading up to this crisis, building a wonderful relationship o
f love and trust. Agatha was like a grandmother to the young woman, and when news of the crisis unfolded in Shediac, Blossom sought out Agatha and her husband to take them with her to her uncle Robert’s bomb shelter. But Agatha was alone when Blossom arrived. They didn’t fully understand the ramifications of taking Agatha, who had been so close to the disease, into a small room with other people. They were all lucky that Agatha was not sick.
Anta sat next to me, tears running down her face, immersed in the details of the story of this mother and the aged woman. Anta was holding Blossom’s newborn baby, Isabella, who had spent her entire seven weeks of life in this underground bunker. Isabella had not yet seen or felt the sun on her face. Her clothes and wispy blond hair were filthy. We learned that the people here have no way to wash. They have water to drink, but no sink or even a bucket in which to bathe or wash clothes. Blossom had nearly died during the baby’s birth, but Agatha and the others kept her alive through willpower and prayer. They refused to let another one of them “go the way of the Earth” as Agatha said.
Young Julian sat on the other side of me and held my hand while we spoke of both somber and lighthearted subjects. He is only nine years old. I had at first wondered why he was sent out to greet us until we entered the bunker and saw the other options. Of the 13 people here, only Julian and three others appeared to have the strength and health to walk more than a few steps.
While the group expressed much sorrow at the loss of the world above them, they also exhibited hope and spoke of the future now that they are free to leave. We warned them, of course, that to leave may be as dangerous as before, but from a new source of danger. We spoke of the Skins. Many seemed to not believe what we were saying, but Blossom’s uncle Robert, the owner of the hotel and this bunker, understood. He expressed that, once his leg healed from an accident a few days earlier in the bunker, he would make sure his people were safe. He knew where to find guns and ammunition. He also knew where he could take them to be safe now that they could leave. We imparted all of the wisdom we had to help them on their journey, and in their lives from here forward. We also left them with a supply of E-rase. Hopefully they would have an opportunity to use it.
Tomorrow We Rise (The Killing Sands Book 2) Page 7