A World Together (Dead World Trilogy Book 2)

by R. K. Weir

  The wildlife gallery must be his favorite because once we reach it, he's unstoppable. He doesn't even take a minute to breathe. I didn't know there could be so many facts about bears, but he has a memorized list of them that goes on forever.

  We've been through three exhibitions now and we're still on the first floor. The place is ten times bigger than I expected it to be. So far nothing's jumped out at us. There hasn't been the slightest indication of anything sinister, but I'm not willing to let my guard down. One thing I have noticed though is that there are no signs. No exit signs. No information posts. No little maps telling you where you are or how far away a specific exhibition is.

  While I'm still on edge, Rocket seems to have relaxed slightly, and it looks like she's actually listening to him now, not just pretending. This doubles my anxiety, knowing that she's letting her attention slip.

  Apparently there are another three floors above us and plenty more rooms on this floor that we haven't seen yet. This translates to me as two things: whatever snare he's set takes up a lot of space, or he's trying to keep us occupied, to stall us. But what trap could take up so much space? And what could he possibly be waiting for?

  Then it hits me.

  The bandits.

  What did they say? The person they're looking for to help them isn't interested in the living? That they can have our bodies once we're dead? And if they refuse to help . . . the bandits will put an end to their project. The Gas Man said something about building his own exhibition. Is that what they were referring to? Is he just waiting for the bandits to come so he can hand us over to them?

  A very real fear overcomes me and it takes all the strength I have not to start shaking when the Gas Man turns to look at me. I must not be convincing because the corner of his smile tugs down. Only for a second, and then it's back up, dazzling white teeth flashing at us again.

  "We're almost at the exhibition I've been working on, I'm sure that's the one you've been most eager to see."

  I somehow manage to smile back but all I'm thinking about is how to reach the knife in my boot without tipping him off. How to communicate to Rocket that we're in serious danger.

  It's possible of course that this is all just a massive coincidence, that the bandits were speaking of someone else entirely. But I very much doubt this. I've been suspecting the Gas Man of hiding something since we first stepped in the museum, it just never crossed my mind that it might involve the bandits too. It explains why he split us up, why he's giving us an extended tour. He's waiting for them.

  I take in a shaky breath. There's still time. The bandits aren't in the museum right now, of that I'm certain. If they were, we'd be dead already. They wouldn't wait to kill us. They'd pounce like the spider-wolves they are. We're already in their web, they have no reason to wait.

  He's left his shotgun back at the desk, but who knows what he's hiding beneath that trench coat. While his back is turned I debate grabbing the baseball bat from Rocket and hitting him over the head with it, but he turns back to face us before I have the chance.

  "This is it!" he says, pointing into the vast, open room ahead of us. We've stopped just before the wide arch of its entrance. The room looks the same as every other one that we've been shown, only the displays are smaller and there are less of them. "Everything we know about the infection is in this room! Or at least, everything I know."

  He waves us inside. Rocket doesn't hesitate, but I do, waiting for him to turn his back again. He has more size than me. There's no way I can overpower him without the essence of surprise. His eyes stay trained on me though. I think he can tell I've figured everything out. So we stand, sizing each other up for a few moments until it becomes obvious that I have no choice but to continue playing his game. I step into the room.

  Rocket doesn't notice any of this, she's too busy inspecting a list of notes lined out along a table. "So what do you know about the infection?" she asks.

  "Well," he says, stepping into the room, "it all originated in Russia."

  "Really?" Rocket asks.

  "Yes, it started off as a project for anti-sleeping medication. Pills that would allow you to stay awake for as long as you wanted. They soon found that the long-term effects of the drug were disastrous. Needless to say things got a bit out of hand after that." He chuckles, but it sounds nervous in my ears.

  "Oh, I remember reading an article about those pills," Rocket remarks, picking up a page from the desk and skimming over it.

  "The company that manufactured them was really beginning to take off. I think they just commenced distribution in America when every user started to exhibit symptoms of rage and cannibalism."

  Despite my anxious state, I can't help but soak up every word. I remember the pills too. A couple of friends and I were considering buying them so we could stay up and party for days on end. One of the benefits of the drug was that it prevented hangovers for as long as you didn't go to sleep. A pretty small benefit all things considered.

  "How could they have missed such a negative side effect though? Don't they test for that sort of stuff in their research?" I ask.

  He shrugs. "Perhaps they cut corners so as to rush the product to market. Forged safety checks, faked whatever else necessary. It wouldn't surprise me if the company was corrupt. They did become a billion dollar empire practically overnight."

  "What was the company called again?" Rocket asks.

  "HypNox, a mix of the the Greek god of sleep and the Roman goddess of night."

  HypNox. That's right. There are still a few billboards up with their advertisements. I suppose even without sleep there wasn't enough time to take them down before the world ended.

  "How did you manage to find all this out?" I ask, glancing at the papers on the desk.

  "People pass through, they tell me their stories."

  "So this could just be rumors?"

  "No," he says. "They leave evidence." He points at the papers on the desk and then makes a sweeping gesture to the rest of the room.

  I glance at the papers again. Most of them are covered with scientific equations, or in-depth medical theories where every second word is something I can't pronounce. It could be written in another language for all I know. Interspersed with the sheets are a few newspaper articles though. I pick one out.

  HYPNOX: BRINGING NIGHTMARES TO LIFE?

  I can just imagine how much fun the media must have had coming up with headlines for such an event. Scanning through the story proves that everything he's said is true. But all that does is raise more questions.

  "How come I never saw this article?" I ask. Naturally, every network was focused on the fact that dead people were coming back to life. Television and social media were rife with theories. The wrath of God. A new strain of rabies. Biological warfare gone wrong. But I don't remember any of them mentioning HypNox.

  "Look at the date on that paper," he tells me.

  September 17th, 2018.

  "What you're holding is a treasure. One of the last newspapers to ever be printed. I'm not sure if they were even distributed. I only managed to find copies of them in the back of a delivery truck. Don't know if any made it into stores. If they did, I doubt people would have been reading them at that stage. Everyone would have been far too preoccupied with packing up their things and leaving the country," he explains.

  Fleeing the country would have done no good. Newscasts made it abundantly clear that what was happening was worldwide. But the mention of moving countries has me remembering Joey and everyone else on the bus.

  "What about Canada?" I ask.

  "Canada?"

  "Yeah, there are rumors that the infection can't survive in the cold."

  "Ah," he says, tilting his head back as if remembering a fond memory. I brace myself for the worst, because even though I never believed those rumors, a part of me can't help but hope.

  "I've been attempting to research that idea," he says. "Come! Come see!" He leads us away from the desk and towards a small pedestal on the othe
r side of the room. Sitting on top of it is a microscope, beside it a box of slides and a small notebook. He hands the book to Rocket who flips it open to the first page. "Have a look at one of the slides!" he tells me.

  Curiosity coursing through my veins, I do as he says. While my fumbling fingers secure a slide in place, Rocket flips through the pages of the book. With her eyes scouring over words, and mine scrutinizing bacteria, it isn't until I hear the sound of retreating footsteps that I realize neither of us are watching the Gas Man. By the time my eyes snap up, he's already too far away to be stopped.

  He's back at the entrance of the room, pulling a black security gate out from the wall. I know it's too late to stop him because by the time my feet start moving he's already pulled the gate halfway shut. My body collides with the hard metal just as he clicks the lock in place. Arm shooting through one of the diamond shaped holes of the gate, I try to grab a hold of him. My fingers just manage to caress the leather of his coat before he stumbles out of reach.

  "I'm sorry," he says. "I'm so, so sorry."

  This was his elaborate plan? To distract us with research so he could lock us in a room? I feel like an idiot! I retract my hand from the gate just as Rocket reaches my side.

  "What the hell do you think you're doing?" she asks. His gaze shifts to Rocket before he begins shaking his head. A frown is on his lips, more convincing than his smile.

  "I'm sorry," he says again. Then he turns his back on us.

  "You don't have to do this!" I say, but he's already walking away. Rocket starts shouting curses at him. Her words only grow louder once he's out of sight, more insulting. While her anger is directed towards the Gas Man, mine is angling itself towards her.

  "You agreed for us to stay behind! I thought you had a plan!"

  She looks at me. "I did! I figured we'd get the jump on him before he tried anything!"

  Well obviously that didn't work out. But I'm not about to start an argument with her. Arguing isn't going to get us anywhere, and right now, we need to be anywhere but here. How long do we have until the bandits arrive? An hour? A minute? I throw my hands against the security gate and give it a harsh shake. It's sturdy enough to withstand whatever the two of us can throw at it. It'll take more than what we've got to take it down.

  This fact doesn't deter Rocket. Hiking up her bat, she swings it down on the lock. I don't know what she's hoping to achieve, maybe knock the whole thing out, but I doubt she'll get anywhere with it. I don't say this aloud. Instead I take a few steps back to give her room. A part of me is hoping that I'm wrong. Her strikes aren't even leaving dents in the metal though.

  When she realizes that simply bashing the lock isn't making a difference, she moves to cramming the bat through the small gap that's left between the gate and the wall. It's a tight fit, but once it's lodged in place she begins to slowly push more and more weight against it, prying the gate away from the wall. The gap grows marginally, the first column of diamond shaped holes slimming as the gate begins to retract.

  That's when the bat explodes in her hands. Splinters and chunks of wood fly out like shrapnel as the gate snaps back against the wall.

  "Shit!" Rocket curses, stumbling back. Small pieces of wood have managed to find themselves in her hair.

  "Seriously?" I ask, looking at the shattered fragments of the baseball bat strewn across the floor. "You picked a wooden one?"

  "They didn't have metal!" she snaps.

  I resist the urge to roll my eyes at her, but let them roll around the room instead. When we first came in here I wasn't focused on the walls. My attention was centered solely on the Gas Man before it was torn away by the displays. Now I notice a small, grated square at the bottom of the wall opposite us. An air vent? There are no windows, so I take this as our only hope.

  "Come on," I say, placing a hand on Rocket's shoulder and turning her towards the vent. She throws out a few more curses before following after me.

  On our way over we pass the pedestal with the microscope and box of slides. I knock the whole thing over just out of spite. A part of me considers trashing the whole room. If he loves history as much as he says, it would surely cause him pain. A more reasonable part of me recognizes that the items in this room are valuable though, to an extent I probably can't comprehend. If I wasn't in such a rush, I would take the time to go round and look at everything he's collected.

  I guess I'll just have to come back once I've stuck my knife in his gut.

  When we reach the wall I kneel down beside the vent and grip its frame. I give it a hard tug, but it remains firmly fastened against the wall, only rattling slightly. My fingers trail along its edges, finding the four screws holding it in place. My hands prove useless at twisting them loose. Cursing, I begin looking around the room for something we can use when I remember the switchblade in my boot. Pulling it out, I flick it open and stab its tip into the screws. At first I think it's working, only to realize after a few twists that the screw isn't moving. The blade is too thick.

  "Have you got it?" Rocket asks.

  "No," I say, my trembling hands sliding the switchblade back into my boot. "The screws are too small."

  "Here," she says, kneeling down beside me. She begins fiddling with her hands. I'm about to tell her that it's no use, the screws are in too tight, when I see her slip a ring off her finger. She holds it up so that I can see. It's the one she took from the jewelry store, the one the Jeep is broken down outside of. "Told you I was destined to have one of these."

  She slips it over one of the screws. The diamond makes it difficult to get a good grip – she really did pick out a ridiculously ginormous one – but once it's in place it proves to be an effective handle. She starts twisting the ring, and I almost feel like crying with relief when I see the screw turning with it.

  She takes the screw out half-way, until it's loose enough that I can do the rest with my hand, then she moves on to untightening the next one. We work together like this until all four are out and the grate slips off. I shove it away and peer inside. The absolute darkness of the small hole has me remembering the casino, only this time there are no candles to take. The hole itself is a bit smaller than what the grate made it out to be, but there should be just enough room to crawl inside.

  I look to Rocket, kneeling beside me. She's bigger than I am, but only slightly.

  "Do you think you'll fit?" I ask.

  She raises a brow at me. "You calling me fat?"

  Despite the tension of everything, I actually manage to smile at this. The corner of her lip cracks up too.

  "Get your boney ass in there," she says.

  There are a number of comebacks on my tongue, ready to be launched at her, but I crawl inside the vent instead of saying any of them. We don't have time to make jokes. I'll just have to try and remember them for later.

  The metal groans under me as I crawl forward. I stop once I'm a small distance ahead and look back to make sure Rocket is following. In the cramped space, it's difficult to see past my own arms and legs, but I can just make out the sight of her red hair, pulling up close to my feet. I start moving again before she bumps into me. There's barely enough space to lift your head up, but it's so dark in here there's no chance of seeing what's ahead either way. So with my head bowed, I focus on squirming forward, hoping that we'll find light soon, or any indication of an escape.

  After an eternity in the dark it begins to feel like no such thing is going to happen. In my haste to escape the room, I didn't stop to wonder where air vents lead. Once we reach the end are we just going to find some massive air filtration system? All the other grates we've passed have been bolted shut, and there's no way of unscrewing them from the inside. We're coming up to another one now, I can see the dull light seeping in through the slats. I'm about to tell Rocket that if this one is bolted shut too we should head back, when my hand makes contact with something.

  Instinctively, I recoil back from it. What could it be? There are only so many possibilities. I'm hoping it's not a de
ad rat. It didn't feel like a dead rat. It felt smooth. My hand reaches out and gives it a tentative tap. Definitely not a rat. It feels more like glass. I pick it up and hold it close to my face. Even with the small amount of light coming in from the grate it's difficult to see. In the end it's the smell that tells me what it is.

  A half-empty bottle of whisky.

  Hope swells in me, because if someone was using this as a hiding spot for their drinking problem, then surely they wouldn't have bothered screwing and unscrewing the grate every time? A previous guard must have hidden it in here so he could take a swig whenever he was bored.

  "Why have we stopped?" Rocket asks.

  In answer, I press my hand against the grate and give a small shout in triumph when it lifts up from the wall. The top two screws are still in place, but the grate lifts up enough for me to slide out. I do a quick scan of the room to make sure we're alone before turning back and holding the grate open for Rocket.

  "You good?" I ask once she's standing.

  "Yeah, you?"

  "Yeah," I say. We're both covered in dust and scratches, but the dust is easy to wipe off and the scratches aren't deep. I turn my attention back to surveying our new surroundings. A shelf stocked with cleaning supplies tells me this must be a janitor's closet. I move towards the door and press myself against it, my ear close to the frame. All I hear is the buzzing of electricity.

  Bending down, I take the switchblade out of my boot before slowly opening the door. The hall outside is wide and immaculate, just like all the others he lead us down. A few benches are interspersed down its length but besides that, there's nothing to distinguish it. On either end are wooden doors, both shut.

  I step out into the hall. "Left or right?"

  "Right is always right," Rocket says.

  Well, you can't fault that logic. We start moving down the corridor, our footsteps echoing on the stone floors. We make it about half-way towards the door before a familiar voice stops us.