by DeWitt, Dan
"Yeah, yeah! Bring me up!"
I hit the stairs again. All of a sudden, I had a bad feeling. I couldn't explain it, but I drew my weapon and headed back down. I whispered Merrick's name. I got no answer. I stepped off the last stair and repeated his name.
"Yes, sir!"
I was wound so tight at the moment that the casual nature of his response kind of freaked me out. I holstered and walked back into the office. He had a set of keys and was trying each one in the safe. "Have any luck?" Seeing as the safe wasn't open, it was obvious that he hadn't.
"No. He's got a million keys. When do we leave?"
"Should've been a couple of minutes ago. Let's move."
He nodded, defeated. I didn't check to see if he was behind me; I just assumed that he'd followed. I was halfway to the second floor when I heard, "Wait, there's something in his hand..."
It all clicked. The wires. The smell. Ruddy was exactly the type of guy who, in the face of death, would want to take as many enemies as possible with him.
The explosion confirmed my thoughts, and the concussion knocked me out.
Thankfully, not for long.
I was face down on the stairs, pointed downhill. I could hear, but everything sounded like it was coming through a hundred feet of hose. I opened my eyes and tried to blink away the dancing white spots. I wasted five seconds doing that before I noticed the numerous shapes moving at the front of the store. The shapes were clumsy but determined, and they moved without any concern for the dancing orange lights between us
I heard someone yelling my name, asking if I was okay. I turned my head and saw the radio a few feet away. It barked at me. "Holt! Holt! You okay!" I grabbed it and tried to respond, but the words wouldn't come. I pushed up and got my feet under me. Unsteadily, but I was up.
I tried to yell for Merrick, but if it came out at all, I don't know. I became aware of the heat on my skin and the smoke finding its way into my lungs. Mutt yelled at me again. "Holt! Hold on! I'm coming back in!" I shook my head, trying to clear the cobwebs. It didn't work, but the sight of all those things pouring through the blown-out doors and windows did.
I turned and ran up the stairs as fast as I could. I heard thunder on the stairs behind me. I screamed into the radio, "Negative! NEGATIVE! Those things are inside!"
I slammed Ruddy's door and hoped they didn't know where I went.
Pipe dream.
They pounded on the door, and I held it as best I could. The rope dangled outside the window, tantalizingly close. I wanted to think that I had enough time to get a good grip and be hauled to safety before those things got to me, but I didn't like my chances at all.
"Holt!"
I smelled burning flesh behind the door. Those things were on fire. And still coming. "I'm here." My mind raced, looking for a way out. "Mutt, how deep is the ledge?"
"What?"
"The ledge right beneath you! How deep is it?"
"About a foot! Oh, God, bad idea ..."
"I gotta go for it! That'll give me a chance to grab the rope!" I was halfway out the window and trying to find a handhold. I literally had only a five second head start before the door collapsed beneath the onslaught. As I'd suspected, most of them were on fire, but moving as if they didn't even notice. I swung the rest of my body out onto the ledge and made a grab for the rope, but it was whipping around in the chopper's downdraft, and my fingertips just brushed it.
That was the only chance I got. The zombies reached the window and started reaching for me. I tried to stretch out and grab the rope, but it had gotten tangled up in one of the flaming monsters and was now on fire itself.
Of course it was.
I tried to melt into the brick, because the downdraft was trying to knock me to the street.
My situation was bad. Flames were licking out of the downstairs windows. The undead were on fire and spreading it even faster; Ruddy's room was just about engulfed. I was on a ledge, and I had no escape rope.
I looked up. The chopper began to move, and I thought they were going to leave me. But it was hovering and moving sideways enough to give clearance for the rope ladder. It was still out of reach, and Mutt motioned for the pilot to descend more. I managed to grab the bottom rung with both hands and willed myself to climb. The ladder swayed too close to the zombies, and I felt one of them grab my boot. I thought it was all over, but it was off-balance. It lost its grip and fell to the alley below.
My muscles screamed as I climbed hand-over-hand until I could slip my legs through a rung and form a makeshift seat. I twisted my arms around some rungs and held on for dear life.
From the helicopter, Fish motioned for me to climb up, but I just shook my head. He got the message and we headed back to the hospital.
The ride was actually thrilling. I was still foggy from the explosion, and the August wind helped clear my head.
As soon as I was thinking clearly, I wished I hadn't.
I'd lost the kid. His life was in my hands, and I'd failed him. I wanted to blame Trager for forcing another one on me, but he was my responsibility, regardless of why he was there.
We descended to the helipad, and I saw Lena waiting for us. I was the first to touch down. I untangled myself and got clear. She ran to me and put her hands on my face. All she said was, "What happened? Cam, what happened?" I didn't answer, and she didn't force the issue. We watched the helicopter land. Its occupants climbed out and tossed the bags on the pad. Lena would have done the math by now.
The pilot powered down the chopper. My teammates gathered around me. Mutt asked if I was okay.
"As soon as every one of those motherfuckers is dead, I will be."
That was the only thing I said before I left the pad and headed straight to Trager's office. I flung the door open; it slammed against the wall and started to bounce closed, but I was already in.
Trager didn't seem all that surprised to see me. I wanted to reach across his desk and punch him in the face, but only because it would make no sense to punch myself. He shared a little of the responsibility, but only a little.
Before I even got to his desk, he said, "I heard about Merrick. He was a good kid. I'm sorry."
I wanted him to be an asshole, and his contrite response actually made me angrier. "He shouldn't have fucking been there in the first place."
He raised his voice. "I know you think five's a good team size, so don't pin this on me." He took a deep breath and steepled his fingers again. "It's not on you, either. That's a freak thing."
"How do you know what happened?"
"Jameson radioed me about the explosion as he was getting you off a ledge. I put two and two together."
I collapsed into the chair. "Goddamn survivalist nutcase. I never thought he'd wire his place to explode.”
Trager nodded, then switched the subject. “How'd you do? Weapons-wise?”
I pinched the bridge of my nose between my thumb and forefinger. “That's one thing we don't have to worry about for a while. If what we grabbed isn't enough, then we're screwed anyway.”
“Good. Good. Let's talk about the med truck now.” He got up from behind his desk and grabbed a bottle of Scotch. He filled two glasses and offered me one. “I'd give you the good stuff, except I can't seem to find it.”
I chuckled at that. He was an ass, but he wasn't completely devoid of a sense of humor. “Tomorrow night. I'm checking out the last place I know my wife was first. Non-negotiable.”
“Fine by me. Just stay alive and get the truck, Holt.”
“The truck. I used to think that we could just recon and clear from the helicopter, drop in, and grab the truck.”
“And now?'
I took a healthy swallow. “That part stays the same. But I want to adopt more of a scorched earth policy when it comes to the zombies. If we have no use for the airport anyway, I want to make s
ure that we kill as many as possible. We have guns. Do we have access to anything heavier?”
“Heavier?”
“Something good for large crowds. Something that doesn't need to discriminate.”
“We don't have an A-bomb laying around, Holt.”
“No shit. In case you forgot, this is a medical research facility. There must be some nasty stuff floating around in the labs that we could use.”
Trager took a more deliberate sip of his Scotch. He hit a button on his phone. A voice on the other end answered in a tone that suggested he resented the interruption. “Yes, what is it, Martin?”
“Vin, I'm coming up. I have a question. And I'm bringing a guest.”
“I'll be waiting.”
The call disconnected, and Trager motioned for me to follow him.
When we got to the lab, Trager swiped his ID card and the door slid open with a hiss. The security measure seemed completely unnecessary given the new state of the island, but I supposed that, as long as there were living people, there would be a threat.
There was a man in a lab coat waiting for us. He looked about early-50's, average size … nondescript. The only thing that really gave him any personality was the fact that I noticed him tapping his pen impatiently against the edge of a table when we walked. Then I noticed him stop immediately when Trager got close.
It wasn't too hard to figure the dynamic here.
The doctor and I shared a quick handshake, then Trager got right down to brass tacks. He told Dr. Vincent what I'd asked about. “W-weapons? Surely you don't think ...”
“Not weapons, Doc. Just something that can be used as one. The nastier, the better.”
“Our purpose is in this research is to advance science and eradicate disease, not take lives.”
He held my gaze for a second before Trager butted in. “Calm down, Vin. It was just a thought.”
“And one I resent.”
I didn't buy it. Now, I wish I had, although I doubt that it would have changed anything in the end. “You're full of shit.”
“I-I beg your pardon?”
I half-expected Trager to say something, but he just watched.
“I remember the guys in the service saying the same thing. Then they got drunk and would say all kinds of different shit. Guys like them … and you … just can't help fiddling around when no one's looking. So quit wasting my time.”
Trager said, “Damn, and I thought I didn't trust people. Vin?”
I remember the look on Vincent's face. He might as well have held up a sign. “Never mind. I'll find it myself.”
Vincent pulled out his key ring. He began flipping through them one by one, thinking. He finally said, “Follow me.”
I had to do something really distasteful: I had to ask Anders for help. The first mission to the gun store was supposed to be precise, a quick in-and-out job. If not for a completely unpredictable turn of events, we would have been fine.
But the subsequent missions?
Those were going to require a lot of killing.
I couldn't think of anyone better to indiscriminately slaughter what used to be the inhabitants of The Whale.
I knocked on his door. When he answered, I wasn't sure if he was surprised or not. What I was sure of was that he'd grown to dislike me a hell of a lot in a short time. I cut to the chase and told him what the plan was. When I told him what we got during our gun run and how we'd have to give them a workout at the airport, and also of Vincent's little surprise, I thought I might have made his Christmas card list.
“Sounds like a good time.” He actually clapped me on the shoulder.
I've seen and done a lot in my life, but it was among the most chilling moments I've ever experienced.
But desperate times ...
The pilot, Jameson, was going to have to make two trips this time. One for me and my team, the other for Anders' team and the equipment that they'd need for the experimental scorched earth move.
The chemical was frightening. It ate away any organic matter it came in contact with, and it did it fast. The doctor had nicknamed it “Scythe,” and I don't think he meant it to be playful. He nearly glowed with pride when he went through the specifics of what it did and how to best deliver it. I think even Trager shivered, although it might have been caused by his anger of having these kinds of things developed under his nose with his funds but without his knowledge.
After that meeting, I knew I'd picked the right guy to head up that little part of the mission. Killing zombies as they come at me is one thing; each one I put down means that someone can finally rest.
But the ability to wipe out massive amounts of them without ever having to even see one of their faces lent itself to a godlike quality that I really wanted no part of.
Anders, on the other hand?
He was made for it.
Mutt, Sam and Fish were on the pad waiting for me. They stood apart from Anders' team, and I doubt that was coincidental. I'm glad the teams were making separate trips.
My guys seemed really reserved, even Fish. I never asked, but I supposed it was partly due to that being the first mission we'd been on since we lost Merrick ...
… and partly because they knew this was the first chance I'd had to look for my wife and son. I knew that they'd probably lost family, and I don't want to sound selfish, but there was nothing we could do for their families. We might still be able to help mine and, frankly, I couldn't bring myself to give a shit about anyone else at that time. I don't like admitting it, but I was wound too tight.
I joined the group, and we all stood there in silence. In hindsight, it was piss-poor leadership. I needed them to be loose.
Fish, bless his wiseass little heart, slapped Sam on the ass and said, “Let's have a good game out there.” That broke the tension, and we all had a needed laugh.
“I hope we rescue a shrink, because I'm going to need one,” Sam said.
We climbed aboard and took off.
It was time to check on my wife. She's more resourceful than I am, anyway, so I know she survived. I had weapons and a team I trusted. It was time to bring her someplace safe.
As instructed, Jameson headed downtown first.
But the pillar of smoke, visible for a couple of miles even in the moonlight, dented those hopes.
When we got closer, and I saw it coming from the area of the salon and surrounding buildings, they were crushed completely.
I thought I had more to say about the previous entry. I took a little time to get my thoughts together, and I think you deserve to hear it ... but I just can't. Not yet.
After I saw … you know … I told Jameson to not even bother landing. It was obvious that no one could possibly still be alive in the salon. If Jackie got out, and I have to believe that she did, she could be anywhere. If it had been just me, I probably would have wondered around the streets killing zombies and shouting her name in a a panic until I found her or was killed.
I wasn't going to put anyone else at risk. I couldn't even bring myself to ask, because I was afraid that they'd actually agree to it.
So I alternated between rage and depression as we headed to the airport.
I want you to know that I'm not talking about Logan International here. This is a small island airport. If you ever saw “Wings” you pretty much know what I'm talking about. When Ethan was young, I used to take him there a few times a summer to watch the planes. If I remember the informational sign out front, the airport covers just over 600 acres, has two runways, is 58 feet above sea level, and services about 50,000 flights per year.
So, imagine my surprise when I saw thousands of figures moving below me. I guessed that church isn't the only place people run to at the end of the world. Jameson's voice came over the headset. Jameson op
erated the helicopter's spotlight. “Jesus, I forgot how many of them were here. And we're dragging a shitload more behind us.”
I hadn't thought of that. Suddenly, I was even more motivated. I yelled above the engine. “Anyone see the truck?”
Mutt yelled back and pointed. “Unfortunately, yes!”
The rest of us looked where he was pointing. I blinked rapidly. I caught Sam mouthing something. I couldn't hear him, but I thought I could make out, “Christ on a cracker.”
Fish did the same, only his invective was more modern and much easier to make out.
The truck was surrounded by zombies. Not actively, no, but the hundreds and hundreds just milling around made for a problem. The odds were … not good. On the plus side, it was parked right next to the building
“Got any ideas?” Jameson said.
Actually, I did, and I told him as much. He wasn't a fan, but I knew he'd do as I asked. Trager wanted that truck, and I could tell that Jameson didn't want to have to explain why he came back minus four guys and the one thing that we were sent for.
For the second time in a couple of days, I found myself dangling from a rope ladder over a sea of dead people as they converged upon us. Believe me, you do not get used to anything like that.
We made it onto the roof without incident. I motioned for everyone to get flat, and they obliged. I low-crawled to the edge and risked a peek. Jameson took the chopper a few dozen feet away from the terminal building and dropped to about 15 feet above the ground. He held that bird steady as the zombies all made a beeline for him.
I'd been fighting for my life since the whole thing kicked off, and I hadn't really had a chance just to observe the zombies. I was not encouraged to see how fast they still were. If anyone found themselves facing more than a handful of those things at anything less than a distance, they were finished.
Jameson did a great job staying low and moving slow. Flying like that, he drew off most of the ones in front of the terminal and around the truck. On the other hand, he drew a lot of zombies from the back of the terminal to the front, but they were far enough away at the edges of the building that I didn't think they'd be a problem if we moved quickly.