Haven (Apocalypse Chronicles Part 1)

by Falter, Laury

  “You think?”

  “I know it,” I said. “He wouldn’t have pulled out the shotgun for a cleaning if you came to the house.”

  Harrison tilted his head back and laughed, a sound that caught the attention of the Infected below and caused them to release a louder round of hisses and growls. Harrison didn’t appear to pay them any attention.

  “I would have liked to have met him,” he said, his voice rumbling deeper than usual.

  “Yeah,” I whispered. “I would have liked that, too.”

  From the corner of my eye, I saw him staring at me. When I turned to meet his eyes, I found his gaze was tender, and I saw in him an underlying desire to reach out and take me in his arms. But that tenderness quickly turned to something more as the magnetic pull that always lingered between us grew stronger. I could see him struggling with it, indulging it and then pushing it back down. Then the muscles in his jaw tightened in one final attempt to subdue his craving and he exhaled harshly before turning away. By that point, my heart was pounding hard in my chest and I realized my hands had ended up clenched. I loosened them and took a deep breath.

  Once again, Harrison returned to observing the Infected below but without any real awareness of them. He seemed deep in thought and surprised me when he mumbled something seemingly to himself with a slight sense of puzzlement. “Gave no warning about me at all. Huh…”

  “Hmm?” I asked, unsettled from the experience of having Harrison so close and yet so untouchable.

  He blinked and shook his head as if he were clearing his thoughts. “Nothing,” he replied a little too fast for me to believe him. “Just trying to figure something out.”

  In an effort to fully recover, I tried to keep the conversation going by asking, “What’s that?”

  He breathed heavily and sighed, taking the time to process his answer. When it finally came, it was both cryptic and seemed to sum up whatever it was he was contemplating. “Why I am the way I am.”

  My immediate reaction was to question why my dreams, having given no warning about him, would explain some underlying mystery he’d yet revealed about himself. For some reason, he thought they might be linked. I saw no connection. There was no place for him in my nightmares.

  Without giving me a chance to respond, he abruptly changed the subject. “So we won’t mention this to anyone,” he stated.

  I gave him a blank stare. No…No, I wouldn’t share our conversation with them.

  “About the gate’s vulnerability,” he clarified.

  “Oh,” I muttered and laughed at myself. My head was still spinning from our topic before. “No, no, we won’t.”

  He nodded firmly in agreement, before settling into a quiet, observant state, his focus entirely back on the Infected. Still, I got the sense that he was torn between wanting me to stay or to leave. Opening his mouth several times and closing it before speaking again was a pretty clear sign. So I made the decision myself.

  “I’ll see you inside.”

  “Right,” he replied, reluctantly, and I got the impression that he was let down. “Right…”

  We actually didn’t see each other again until dinner. Doc and Mei served chicken tortilla soup and a strange, but tasty, chilled lentil salad, and we sat around the table they had dragged into the kitchen from the cafeteria’s dining side. They’d set up our personal “chef’s table” the first week and I liked it. Sitting in the cavernous room with all the empty chairs was a grim, awkward reminder that we were the lucky few who made it inside the day it started. Beverly wandered in just as the dinner was being plated and left the second she was done eating. But in the interim, she was mildly pleasant, stowing her sarcasm…for the most part. There was only one moment when she cut into the conversation and asked the table if her hours on the roof were paying off and if she looked any tanner. We said yes and she muttered something about not wanting to let herself go like the rest of us had. Doc’s jaw tightened and that simple motion brought out an apology from her. The back-and-forth interaction between them reminded me of the frustrating, but ultimately rewarding, victory of training a dog, and I knew eventually Beverly would “get it”. Harrison strolled into the kitchen a few minutes later. His eyes landed on me and slipped away just before he took a seat from me across the table. He didn’t eat, as usual, having already explained that he liked his meals late and at irregular hours. Instead, this was time for him to hang out with the rest of us, and to sneak glances at me when no one else was looking. Throughout the conversation we remained silent about the fence, as agreed upon, but it never left my mind, hovering in the recesses until the dishes were done and everyone but Harrison was asleep in their makeshift beds. Then the image of the broken fence near the maintenance area was replaced with Mr. Chow’s shop and a mental map on how I could reach it.

  I’d estimate an hour passed before I got out of bed. By then it was around midnight, I assumed, and the others were deep into REM sleep. Our beds were lined on both sides of the hallway, forming a short, broken runway right toward the main entrance’s glass doors, but exiting that way posed several problems, not the least of which would be to alert the others that I was leaving. So I went in the opposite direction, stopping a few feet away at Beverly’s locker. It was open, but she was laying in front of it, which meant I had to lean over her to get what I wanted from inside, which also meant I had to wait for a break between Doc’s snoring in order to confirm she was asleep. Beverly had one odd trait, which had been discovered during girls’ night sleepovers. Once she was in deep sleep, she whistled on her exhales, a peculiarly happy trait for someone so much the opposite. So I didn’t move until I heard the soft pitch of her whistle. Then I carefully pulled the ring of master keys she’d taken from Harrison off the hook. Using Doc’s snore as cover to conceal the clinking of their collisions, I settled them into one palm to prevent them from moving further.

  It was essential, an absolute requirement, that no one woke up. If any of them knew what I was about to do they’d stop me, and probably bind me to a desk for my own good. I’d have to thank them for it too…until the Infected rushed the school and I was eaten alive.

  My next stop was at the clothing pile where I fished for the black leather jacket I’d seen there weeks ago. Had Beverly claimed it, had her shoulders not been too broad, it would have been hanging in her locker right alongside the keys where her eagle eyes, which had always been acutely aware of her possessions, could keep it under surveillance. But I only had to wiggle it free from under a few sweatshirts and slip it on. It matched my body perfectly, and more importantly, was the sturdy thick leather I needed to keep the Infecteds’ teeth off my skin.

  Quietly, I left the main hall, stopping briefly in Admin to pull my hair into a ponytail with a rubber band I found on Ms. Cleary’s desk. I then headed toward the south end of the school, listening carefully the entire time for Harrison’s footsteps, freezing just once when I thought a door clicked closed in the direction of the auditorium. He would be my first obstacle, but thankfully he wouldn’t be watching for me because he didn’t expect me to leave the security of the school. Why would he? It was an insane move. I knew this and still my feet kept moving in the direction of the south side’s entrance since the part of my brain that doesn’t abide warnings wouldn’t allow them to stop. This was because it was locked on something else, the understanding that eventually the Infected would get through that vulnerable spot in the fence and we’d become a nice little meal of sitting ducks. We needed to defend ourselves. We needed weapons for that purpose. Someone needed to leave the confines of the school to get them. That someone was me. Very simple. Cut and dried. I hoped…

  The south side was hit less than the rest, which I attributed to the smaller parking lot – used primarily for substitute teachers, the nurse, and visitors – and the fact that commercial buildings lined that side of the school’s property blocking the Infected from roaming there. Fourteen of them straggled through the now decomposed bodies as I left the building, carefully c
losing the door so that I didn’t draw their attention. The night air was at a standstill and carried a chill because the fall weather had now arrived. The moon’s light filtered down through translucent clouds and tree branches, giving everything it touched a bluish-grey tint. But it was the night’s stillness that stood out to me. The scuffs of the Infecteds’ feet, their hoarse inhales, their muted groans were magnified in the silence. No car motors, no humming street lights, nothing absorbed their presence. Their existence was distinct and unavoidable.

  I hadn’t been this close to them since the day of the outbreak and I’d forgotten how they made me feel. Intrigued but cautious. I realized with a certain amount of surrealism that was exactly the feeling I got with Harrison. Brushing aside the comparison, I decided to stop wasting time.

  Sticking to the shadows, I slipped down the far side of the stairs, coming to a crouch on the bottom step. It was there that I saw it. Three of them, standing no more than ten feet away, lifted their noses into the night air and inhaled. And my heart stopped. It was the same exact motion Harrison had made when he sensed Beverly’s dad behind the dumpster. Their three heads were already turning in my direction by the time I had my hand in my back pocket and pulled Old Boy’s keys free. Their eyes were just about to land on me when I hit the alarm.

  In the distance, Old Boy’s beep-beep-beep disturbed the night, shattering its beautiful tranquility. The Infecteds’ heads not only jerked in its direction, but their bodies lurched into a spring toward him. Right now, Harrison was doing the same thing. I could guarantee it.

  I ran for the gate, rammed the key into the lock, and yanked the lever down. It loosened. I slid it open and slipped through. On the other side, I paused to close and lock the gate before sprinting across the parking lot and up against the side of the buildings. Then I turned off Old Boy’s alarm and took in a deep breath to calm my racing heart.

  I was in enemy territory now. Unarmed, alone, and without intel. All I had was a route, which I took as fast as humanly possible.

  A slim section between two of the commercial buildings, which I assumed had been created from a property line dispute, had never held much interest for me. I’d passed it countless times on my way to Mr. Packard’s car when he had driven me to school, before I got over my qualms about using Old Boy. Now, I was acutely aware of it. The ten paces it took to reach it made me feel like I was hiking through quicksand. Once there, I slipped into the narrow space and inched my way to the other side, stretching and snapping spider webs with my face along the way. At the end, I paused and searched for any indication of life. The strip mall I now stood on the verge of held a stop-n-rob, a dry cleaner, a frozen yogurt shop, and an all-you-can-eat sushi restaurant. Every single one of them showed signs of demise. If they didn’t have a shattered storefront then they had at least one victim slumped over inside its doors. On the curb outside the dry cleaners, one Infected was on his knees picking through someone’s torso. I assumed the victim had been attempting to make it to one of the multitude of cars still in the parking lot. I also assumed that those same cars could provide me cover. Realizing it was now or never, I tore across and crouched behind the passenger door of a Honda Civic. Ducking down, I peered in the direction of the Infected and didn’t find him coming for me. After reminding myself to breath, and to keep it up, I took the same caution and crossed the lot, running until I made it across the street and into a residential neighborhood. From there, I stuck mostly to the sides of houses and front porches, taking extra care with those that had their front doors still open. With the lights out, it was impossible to tell if anyone was inside those dark entryways. And I did come across someone, but she was in a home across the street. After stumbling through the door, she swiveled her head from one end of the street to the next. I wasn’t sure if the hedge I was hiding behind was dense enough so my defensive maneuver was already planned by the time she was staggering back inside. I crossed a park where a police car had collided with a school bus. Thankfully, there were no bodies visible. When I reached the heart of our little township, it was slow moving at that point. I used alleyways and hopped up on walls separating properties to pass unseen. Still, I couldn’t avoid the Infected altogether. Large, loose groups of them roamed the streets. Sometimes they ran, their feet slapping lazily down on the pavement or dragging a wounded limb behind them as they rushed for someone or something they thought was of interest. The first one I came closer to then I would have preferred was an elderly woman in a hospital gown wandering down the street with an arm half-bitten off. I slipped into the shadows of an alley and she kept going. As I passed a nail salon, a woman whose mouth was mostly eaten off slammed into the rear window of her store, a back office maybe. Luckily, she couldn’t make it through. Her collision and the clawing of her beautifully manicured fingers against the glass was enough to drive others toward me, so I took a quick detour down a small side street. Then I came across an entire group of them, dead, piled up next to a brick wall that separated the other subdivision. Someone had made a stand there and had been pretty successful. The Infected were stacked waist-high with gas cans strewn around them. But the bodies were not burnt, giving me a clear view of the injuries that had turned them. At that point, my stomach began to grow queasy. I had to focus on the one thing driving me…our defense against them. It got me moving faster and with heightened focus.

  When I reached Mr. Chow’s store I was moving at a good pace, slipping down the alleyway behind it with the intention of entering through the back door. The screen was ripped in half, a split large enough to fit an adult body through, so I only had to step inside. Once I did, I came to an immediate stop…for several reasons. First, it was dark. Dawn was approaching, but the sun hadn’t breached the horizon yet. Only the dull half-light of morning drifting through the windows gave me any indication of what lay in my path. Second, the warning Mr. Chow had given during our last conversation came back to me and his heavily accented voice echoed in the back of my mind. Today no good. You take refuge. He had insisted on it, in fact, and had only let me go once I conceded. Somehow, he knew, and he had tried to tell me. Of course, I was missing the inherent ability to heed warnings, and that always worked against me. A wave of guilt washed over me in that moment, because I hadn’t listened and because I stood there alive and uninfected and that didn’t appear to be the fate for Mr. Chow. Third, a square piece of cardboard lay just inside and I recognized the words written in undeveloped penmanship instantly.

  The end is near. Redeam yourself. Give to the needee.

  A blood smear on one corner gave me a pretty good idea of what happened to its owner, who I’d last seen sleeping outside, completely exposed to the end that his sign had warned was coming. Finally, a stomach-churning odor of decomposing tissue permeated the air. None of these observations were particularly calming.

  As I quietly moved down the hall, I didn’t neglect the fact that either of them could be somewhere in the store. Unfortunately, the stacks of boxes that traditionally lined both sides of the back entry had toppled and created an obstacle course that slowed my progress and made me take my eyes off the shadows. I was surprised when I reached the corridor’s end without someone charging me. Taking a second to evaluate the store, I noted that the two windows on both sides of the front entrance were gone, shattered by some force that had either been trying to get in or get out in a hurry. My guess it was “in” because a majority of the firearms typically mounted to the walls were gone and the weapon cases at the register were broken and pillaged. My heart sank at the sight and I instantly wondered if this trip had been for nothing, just a nice little stroll into the bowels of the Infecteds’ dominion. Wonderful. I mentally crossed my fingers that whoever had looted Mr. Chow’s store didn’t know about the reserve of weapons in his office. From my vantage point, I could see through to it where his desk had been turned upside down and felt my expression shift into a frown.

  A cluster of Infected ran by on the street outside, but thankfully remained oblivious
to me in the shadows. Once they had all passed by, I got moving again, ducking and sprinting for Mr. Chow’s office door. I crossed the store in seconds to find myself inside a room no bigger than a closet. It had space for only a desk, a chair, and a body, which was slumped in the corner. Instantly, I turned my eyes away, but the image was already seared into my consciousness. Even while blinking in an effort to erase it, my mind conjured it back up and I saw Mr. Chow’s signature, long white moustache doused in blood and his skin chowed down on in a way that resembled a piranha attack. But I had to bring my eyes back to him because he had something I needed.

  It was still gripped in one of his hands.

  Bending down, carefully avoiding contact with his body, I reached for it, feeling lucky that the Infected wanted flesh far more than they wanted keys. Then I stood and pulled aside the painted canvas of a Chinese countryside to reveal the safe Mr. Chow kept embedded in the wall. The key turned in the lock without issue and I opened the door. Peering in, I drew in a breath and instantly felt a small measure of relief wash over me. There were fewer weapons than I’d anticipated. In fact, only one was resting against the safe’s cold, hard steel, but it had excellent stopping power. I pulled out the AR-15 with its 7-inch barrel and magnifier scope, and then shoved its eight 30-round magazines, filled to capacity, into my pockets. I then checked the magazine already inserted in the rifle, ensuring it was ready for use, clicked off the safety and turned on the scope before preparing to leave. Before I did, though, I stopped beside Mr. Chow and nodded to him in a show of respect.

  “Thank you,” I whispered, tensing at the realization that he wasn’t there to actually hear it. “Mission accomplished, Mr. Chow. I’m still alive.” Even if he couldn’t hear it, I needed to say it. Call it closure or catharsis or the need to retain the humanity that seemed in such great peril by giving credit where credit was due. Whatever…it was necessary.