Awake

by Edward J. McFadden III

  No one spoke.

  The Glades choose that moment to erupt with life. Two birds fought in a nearby tree, insects hummed and buzzed, and leaves rattled in the wind. Conrad felt the change in the weather as well because he craned his neck, sniffing the air. Maureen watched him, shame filling her. An egret crash-landed and scattered a flock of night herons. The herons screeched and howled as they rose into the sky, disappearing over the trees.

  “While I was making this pole, I thought of a problem. Won’t he run when I approach him?” Raul said.

  “We’ll surround him,” Ping said.

  Nobody moved. Now that they had come to it, no one wanted to start, so Maureen did. Holding the rifle before her, she moved into the forest, and worked her way around Conrad, who tracked her every step.

  Wendy, Tim, Ping, and Saura fanned out as best they could, and created a wide circle around Conrad as he jerked his head around in a crazed attempt to see everything at once. Raul held the pole standing up at his side as he inched in, but Conrad didn’t appear to be paying any extra attention to him.

  The creature that had been Conrad barked and wailed as the circle around him got tighter. He clawed a tree, and whimpered. Maureen pitied him, and she wondered if Conrad was aware of what was happening, but unable to control his body? Did he understand where he was, and why they were treating him like an animal? Did he know he’d mutated or recall being Conrad? Was there any trace of the man left in the transformed monster? All she knew was when he woke, he wouldn’t recall what had happened and he’d be himself again.

  Raul raised his hand, and the group halted. A tense minute passed, then Raul walked toward Conrad, the tree branch held at his side. Everyone else stayed where they were. Maureen had a wild thought. What if he rushed one of them? Maureen had the gun and Raul the pole, but what did the rest have? Her worries were for naught, because Conrad’s attention was focused on Raul.

  Conrad stepped away from the cover of the tree and stood in the open, as if daring Raul to come for him. Veins pulsed as his muscles swelled and stretched his skin. He seemed to have grown, his arms and legs tearing what was left of his shorts and tank top.

  Raul paused, eyeing Conrad as he worked himself up. Raul appeared to shrink, his confidence fleeing, and leaving him to stand alone with his stick. To Maureen, the closer Raul got to Conrad the smaller the tree branch looked. When he was fifteen feet away, Raul let the pole fall from its vertical position until he held it out before him.

  Conrad didn’t appear to see it at first, and continued with his aggressive bluster; jumping up and down, pounding his chest with his fists, and watching Raul with eyes that told of a hatred Maureen couldn’t fathom. Saura gasped when Conrad lashed out at the pole with his fist, smacking it hard, and pulling his hand back in pain. Conrad let loose with a wail, and several birds took flight.

  Raul thrust forward with the stick, but missed, as Conrad knocked the pole aside. Conrad’s lips slid back revealing bloody teeth—he looked to be smiling. Raul drove the pole forward again, and missed, but this time Conrad got hold of the tree branch. He yanked on it, and Raul dug in to prevent him from getting possession of the pole. They circled each other, both men holding the stick.

  The awkward dance ended when Raul used Conrad’s own momentum and let go of the pole at the perfect moment. Conrad fell back and dropped the stick. Raul grabbed it, and attacked. He caught Conrad on the bridge of the nose, and pasted him to the ground, blood pouring from the wound.

  The blow didn’t wake Conrad. It enraged him.

  He snapped to his feet. Blood dripped down his face, jaws chomping air as he staggered forward in a spastic tumble, staring at nothing as if asleep. He screamed, and ran at Raul, who stood like a knight with no armor, holding his lance with the halfhearted posture of a man who can’t believe what he’s seeing.

  “Raul!” Wendy yelled.

  Conrad sprang when he was five feet from Raul, but Wendy’s wail had roused her husband, and he brought the tree branch up just in time. The impact knocked both men from their feet, as they once again wrestled with the pole between them.

  Raul took a hand from the branch, and punched Conrad with everything he had, but it barely fazed him, and he didn’t wake. Conrad grunted, and drove Raul back with the pole. As they wrestled, Maureen and the rest moved in, closing the circle further. Maureen held the rifle at the ready, and she kept Conrad in her sight, prepared to fire at the first sign of Raul losing.

  Raul took his hand off the pole again and punched Conrad in the face three times in fast succession. Three brutal rabbit punches that snapped Conrad’s head back like a target at a carnival shooting gallery.

  Still, he didn’t wake.

  Maureen watched Conrad fight for his life, and to her it seemed as though the last rays of the setting sun were burning his skin. She remembered the white scars on his face, and how he had already woken once. Maybe once was all you got? Perhaps it was harder each time? Maybe it was best to do as Wendy had suggested, just let the doctors handle it tomorrow morning.

  “Wait,” Maureen yelled. “Raul, leave him be. Forget it.”

  Raul looked over at her as he struggled with Conrad. “What?”

  “I’ll explain. Just back away. Please.”

  Raul let go of the stick and stepped back. Conrad was stunned, and paused. Raul stepped back again, and Conrad swung the pole, just missing Raul as he dropped out of the way. Conrad snarled and moved in.

  A loud guttural scream echoed from the mangrove trees along the water, and then another from across camp toward the woods. Maureen’s head bounced back and forth as she searched for the source of the cries. The screams didn’t sound like any animal she’d ever heard. She scanned the forest, and blocked out all sound as she concentrated. There was movement in the trees. Did she see long hair on the silhouette?

  Maureen heard the warning yells of Raul and Ping, and turned to see Conrad rushing at her. He was twenty feet away, and coiling to spring. She surmised he had figured her to be the biggest threat because she had the gun, so Conrad maintained some cognitive abilities. These final thoughts floated through her mind as she brought up the rifle.

  Conrad lunged at her, and she fired. The shot hit him in the face, and half his head exploded in a spray of blood, bone, and skin. Saura screamed, and Maureen dropped the rifle. The world spun, and she fell. In that instant, her humanity ran from her, and though every muscle in her body had tensed, she felt a peace she couldn’t explain. A release she’d never experienced before.

  Conrad’s body lay next to her, and so it was that Maureen saw the man she had killed. In death, Conrad returned to his original state. The blood retreated from his remaining eye as it receded into its socket, and the white scars reappeared on his skin as the veins returned to their normal size. Blood poured from where the other half of Conrad’s head had been, and white brain tissue, blood, and bone could be seen in the shattered skull. Maureen heard someone wretch, then another, and soon the entire party was dry heaving, and bent over in pain.

  Maureen got to her knees, grief overtaking her. When she was eight, Maureen had announced to her father she wanted to be an actress when she grew up. Maureen recalled feeling so very sure of it. Her father had explained how that wasn’t a realistic occupation, and then followed up with a dissertation on money. Maureen had decided right then that if she had to work her entire life just to survive, at least she would help people while doing it. Her entire existence had been about getting by while helping others. Now she was a killer. Self-defense and war are excuses, maybe even good ones. But the reality of mankind is there are some that can kill, accept those excuses, and move on. There are those who cannot, and Maureen was afraid to find out which one she was.

  She looked up, and everyone was standing around her, their faces drawn. None of them looked her in the eye. Maureen didn’t see Tim. Raul came forward and put his hand on her shoulder, and picked up the rifle.

  “You did what you had to do,” he said, and gave Maureen the
gun.

  She took the weapon with a trembling hand, but as her fingers wrapped around the metal barrel, her tension eased. She got to her feet, felt for the shells in her pocket, pulled one out, and loaded it into the rifle. Maureen dusted herself off, and brushed the tears from her eyes. Her stomach rumbled, and her throat was so dry it hurt when she swallowed.

  The Everglades had resumed its constant chorus, as if nothing had happened. A gust of wind pushed across the water, and the smell of peat and rot filled the air. A flock of wood ducks flew overhead in tight formation. Somewhere, a frog bellowed, and a gator grunted. Maureen said, “Where is Tim?” No one knew. Maureen had come to terms with the fact that he couldn’t leave the island, so his disappearance had solved a problem.

  They searched the areas where Maureen thought the yells had emanated from, and they found possible footprints in the peat, but nothing in the mangroves. The sun dropped below the horizon, and a dull grey light bled over everything. The group looked to Maureen for guidance, their faces filled with fear, angst, and pain.

  A gunshot rang out, and the ground next to Maureen erupted in a spray of peat. She dropped and rolled, pointing the rifle into the forest, but it was impossible to see anything in the half-light of dusk. In the back of her mind, she heard Tim yelling. She tried to ignore him, but the memory forced its way through. If whoever was shooting at them had Hawk’s gun, they only had two bullets left.

  When things had been quiet for a sixty count, Maureen said, “To the boats. We’re out of here.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Don and crew stayed out of sight the best they could as they snuck up Paloma Street toward Dempsey’s house. It hit Don then for the first time that Dempsey might not be at home. If that be the case, he’d search the place and hunker down for the night, and reevaluate.

  The landscaping on the block was lush and tropical, and if Don had been sick from the excess before, now he was vomiting inside. Houses that were too big for their property lined the street, each with a nice-sized backyard that went to the canal. On the opposite side of the waterway, mangrove trees stretched as far as the eye could see. There were boats of all shapes and sizes tethered along the docks, but Don doubted the boats were useable. He guessed the second somebody fired one up and headed for the sea, they’d be met by a patrol boat. The Navy would also run sonar along the entire demarcation line, monitoring everything under water.

  All the homes were clearly marked, and there weren’t many of them on the thin peninsula. Don was surprised the residents hadn’t blocked the short land bridge they’d crossed. That would have effectively cut the entire neighborhood off from the chaos, except for swimmers. When they reached the house before Dempsey’s, they ducked into a thick patch of saw palmetto and surveyed their target.

  “Tank, you go with Lester, you understand?” Don pointed to Lester. “Hide in those bushes right to the side of the front entrance. I will sneak around back, enter through the rear, and then let you guys in. If I fire two shots in fast succession, I want you to break into the house. See that garden rock?” Don’s finger pointed through the foliage across Dempsey’s small patch of lawn.

  “Yes,” Lester said. Don wondered what the man had done in life before his luck had turned. He seemed attentive and smart.

  “Pick that up and sail it through the window next to the door, and then reach through and let yourself in. Ignore the alarm if there is one.”

  “What then?”

  “Find me. If I call, that means I’m in deep doo doo.”

  Lester laughed for the first time since Don had met him. A thin sheen of sweat covered his brown face.

  Don covered Lester and Tank as they got into position. Tank followed instructions better than a human child, and as Don crept from the palmettos, he barely saw his two friends as they hid awaiting his call.

  There was a fence separating the front yard from the back, and Don vaulted over it. It wasn’t without effort. He was breaking down. Though he was used to not sleeping for long periods of time, he needed to eat, and recharge the batteries. If he didn’t get coffee soon, the people of Miami might have a bigger problem than the walkers.

  Don hid in a tight corner where the fence met the house, and listened hard the way they had taught him in Quantico. He took slow, steady breaths, categorizing sounds and blocking out the useless ones. He tuned out the beating of his heart, and a bird pecking at a tree trunk. Pain pounded through his leg wound, and a trickle of blood ran down his leg. A gentle breeze pushed across the mangroves and brought the fresh scent of hibiscus. No sounds came from within the house, and nothing moved on the street out front.

  He inched along the house into the backyard. A large deck with a spiral staircase heading to a higher deck protruded from the back of the structure. A hot tub sat in one corner, and various types of furnishings were strewn about, no pattern visible that Don could discern. There were sliding glass doors all along the rear of the house, but he couldn’t see inside due to dark blinds that were pulled closed. He paused there, listening.

  The blinds swayed slightly, and Don pressed against the house, making himself as small as possible. Someone, or something, had just walked past the blinds. He waited. Sweat dripped down his forehead, and he felt the griminess of his clothes and body for the first time. Don was filthy, and he was never filthy. He was never neat and clean, either. He liked to think he resided in that in-between zone where real men lived.

  The blinds moved again, and whoever was moving within was heading away from him, because the swaying of the blinds cascaded away from his position. He followed along the back of the house toward the spiral staircase. If he could get up it, he might surprise Dempsey.

  A board creaked, and a figure moved across the deck above. Don raised the M16, his finger grazed the trigger, and the rifle loosed six shots. He hadn’t meant to fire. He cursed himself. Why not just send up a flare! He examined the ribbon of bullet holes on the decking, and as he moved, he calculated the approximate age of his weapon. Don knew this particular M16 had been retired a long time ago, because the newer versions of the weapon had a burst feature, giving you the option to fire a single round, or three in quick secession. Don recalled reading that this modification alone had saved 40% in ammo costs.

  He put his back to the wall. There was an arch to his left with a path that led around the house, and a retaining wall to his right that surrounded the lower part of the spiral staircase.

  “Stop!” The voice came from overhead. “I don’t want to shoot you. Tell me what you want and I’ll give it to you.”

  “My name is Don Oberbier, and I’m an investigator for the government. You are Rick Dempsey? I need to ask you a few questions.”

  Laughter echoed off the concrete walls. “Yeah. Sure. And I’m Batman.”

  Don said, “Can we talk?”

  “About what? Why me?”

  “You know Teapot?”

  No response.

  “Ride dealer from West Miami?”

  “Never heard of him,” said the voice from above.

  “Really? You have a thing for his sister, Sherri, don’t you?

  No response.

  “Whatever happened before is the past. I don’t care what you’ve done, but I need your help now. Your life depends on it.”

  “Is Sherri okay?” The voice was timid. It was the sound of a person who had already given up.

  Don moved away from the wall, and climbed the stairs to the upper deck. He held the M16 before him, his index finger resting on the outside of the trigger guard. There was nothing to be gained by accidentally shooting the guy before he could speak to him. He’d gone up three steps when the fourth creaked loudly.

  “I’ve got a gun! I will shoot you! How do I know you are who you say you are? And not some dope head coming after my stash?”

  “You don’t. But I have two others with me, and they’re already in your house, with guns trained on you.” Don started up the steps again. His leg ached, but he’d learned over the years
you always had to keep moving forward, especially when a suspect was talking, and being rational.

  Dempsey fired, but it was a poor effort. The bullet came nowhere near him. Don fired into the sky as he ran up the stairs, and burst out onto the deck.

  Dempsey wasn’t what Don had expected. He’d expected a young, golf club type, who made his money selling junk bonds and junk to local rich suckers, but what he found was a drug dealer. The man was short, stocky, and bald. Tattoos covered his arms, and he held an old six-shooter before him in a shaking hand. The barrel of the gun moved in small, steady circles as the guy’s hand shook. There was no way he’d be able to fire the weapon straight. This was a guy who went through a lot of trouble to appear tough, but who was a coward, a person who had others do his dirty work. Why that help wasn’t with him now, Don didn’t know.

  “Put the weapon down, and I’ll put mine down,” Don said.

  Dempsey eyed the M16, and Don could almost hear the gears of the man’s mind turning as he figured his odds. He lowered the weapon, and Don lowered his. Don strode forward, snatched the gun from Dempsey’s hand before he could protest, and stuffed it in his back pocket.

  “What the…?”

  Don grabbed him by the shirt and dropped him into a deck chair. He racked the slide on the M16 for effect and pointed it at the man’s head. All haughtiness left Dempsey. Don said, “Is there anyone else in your house? People, dogs, in between things?”

  Dempsey looked startled for an instant, and then shook his head no.

  “I will shoot you if you’re lying.” Don pressed the rifle barrel into Dempsey’s cheek. “You sure?”

  “Jessie is in there, but that’s all.”

  Don sighed. “Jessie?”

  “My dog.”

  Don forced the gun harder into the man’s face. “What kind of dog?”

  Dempsey pointed toward the sliding glass doors. A poodle the size of a New York rat lay behind the glass, watching them as if bored.

  “Inside,” Don said.