Inception_The Bern Project

by M James Conway

  It sounded better in his head, and, now that John thought about it, maybe it wasn’t gas masks. “Maybe not. Anyways, what’s going on down there?”

  “Well, if you’re done being Mr. Spy, why don’t you come back down? Frankie brought Helen’s kick ass vegan lunch. Come chill with us.”

  “Sure. Give me a few.” Morgan clicked the mic once in acknowledgement.

  John had an uneasy feeling, with Linda and her auras and what he thought were men with gas masks on a boat. He wanted to stay up there a bit longer, see if he could find that boat again. He looked to the north, and, if he looked hard enough, he could see the water between the trees, and, in between, the skyscrapers. A boat passed by, then he caught a brief glimpse of blue lights.

  He heard a hollow sound, followed by a brief flash, then a loud explosion. A cloud of smoke rose upward and just crested the buildings on the water. Seconds later, he saw the mystery boat clear the trees and the buildings. It was now in full view. It screamed southbound as a grayish blue smoke or fog was shot out of that black cannon like they were fire fighters spraying foam.

  It was pointed toward the shore and the mist was aided by a moderate wind coming off the water, as if nature was an accomplice to whatever it was they were doing. John followed the mist as it climbed the hill into downtown Seattle. Along Third Avenue to the north of the park, the mist broke through the buildings and side streets, enveloping several people. He could see other people starting to run east uphill, their out-of-shape bodies struggling against the might of gravity as they moved, soon to be overtaken by the fog.

  John watched as those who had been out for a normal sunny day stroll fell to all fours, coughing, hacking, clutching their throats in a desperate attempt to get clean air into their lungs. A few fell unconscious, while others fought as best they could to force air into their lungs, stumbling into buildings and alleyways.

  He glanced back out at the water, and found the boat barreling down the shore one hundred yards out, the man behind the cannon with dark gray camouflage and a gas mask, his red mutton chops squeezing out the sides. He saw the larger man wearing the same get-up, holding a rocket launcher of sorts, aiming behind them. This man fired and a contrail of smoke got bigger as a rocket shot toward the second police boat. It made contact and the boat turned into a large fireball, raining debris down onto the water behind it.

  “Morgan! Morgan, copy!” John was hoping to god Morgan was listening. He had to be made aware of what was going on or everyone at Pot Luck would be next. John waited a few seconds, heard nothing, tried again.

  Nothing.

  To hell with it, John thought. He looked once more, saw the boat about three hundred yards now from the north side of Myrtle Edwards Park. He looked to the top of Third Avenue – chaos. People were on the ground convulsing, and those that weren’t, were attacking other people, biting at their necks, the entire scene clouded in a fine red mist. If John had any hope of finding Morgan and Frankie, he had to leave now. God damn it, Morgan, you better not be stoned, John thought.

  He touched his ear, readjusted the earpiece and threw his scope in the bag. Instead of opening the door, he kicked it open and ran out, his feet having trouble trying to find footing on the loose gravel. “Morgan!” Still nothing.

  John ran into the stairwell and took three steps at a time, his momentum throwing him into the railing along the wall with each floor he descended.

  He got to the second floor door and sprinted down the hallway. He remembered the door opened out from the garage, and instead of trying to open it, he ran, jumped, led with his left leg half bent and kicked it open, almost knocking it off the hinges.

  A loud grunt and scream was heard, followed by the sound of someone falling down the stairs. John looked down and saw a man in a uniform, unconscious, lying at the base. Several broken flowers were lying on the steps.

  He ran down the stairs, holding onto the rails tightly with his hands as his feet glided down the steps over the soft petals. He got to the bottom, bent down and checked the guy’s pulse. It was there and there were no obvious deformities, so he assumed he was just knocked unconscious from the fall.

  John hoped, at least. He had no problem taking another life as long as the person deserved it, but he definitely didn’t want innocent people to die.

  He glanced down and saw “Burt” stenciled to the man’s uniform.

  John sighed. He picked up the small man and threw him over his shoulder. He did a scoot-like run toward the van and walked up to the entrance on the passenger side. He laid Burt down in the driver’s seat and put the seatbelt on him. Why, John didn’t know. When the chaos got here, he didn’t want this guy to get attacked. He made sure all the doors were locked as he exited the van. He ran to the rollup door and closed it, looked around for the lock, found it, and put it on, making sure as best he could that the place was secure.

  John ran to the street and looked across. Everything looked normal for now, but he knew they had just a few minutes before shit would hit the fan.

  “Morgan, you copy?” Still nothing.

  With each passing second Morgan didn’t respond, John’s chest got a little tighter. People were milling about, the strong odor of marijuana was in the air, and Bobby McFerrin was telling people to not worry and be happy.

  He realized the best way to get to Morgan and Frankie was to go back the way he had come. The breezeway off Third Avenue was the quickest, yet most dangerous way. He couldn’t climb the barbed wire fence on both sides of the railroad tracks to head west, and going south would take twice as long. But John had never shied away from danger. Ever. He wasn’t about to start now.

  “Morgan, you copy?” John waited a few more seconds and took off at a trot, northbound. “Morgan!”

  John picked up his pace, taking glances ahead of him and to his left through the fence line. Screams were now heard coming from the north end of the park. He saw a gas cloud to the north, working its way east and south.

  He was at a full sprint now.

  “John, what the hell is going on?” Morgan finally responded.

  John felt relief, though his chest still hurt, but not from Morgan’s lack of response. His muscles were on fire, and his lungs burned with each breath as he ran full speed.

  Morgan remained silent as John told him what he saw, in between breaths, from the boat he suspected, to the people on board firing rockets at the police boats, the redheaded man spraying the crowds, the chaos it was causing…and how Morgan and Frankie had seconds to escape.

  One thing John loved about Morgan was his no bullshit attitude and the trust he had in John. Morgan had listened, hearing the energy in John’s voice. Instead of asking for details, he replied, “Copy that. We’ll wait for you. Where you at?”

  John looked north and saw the entrance to the breezeway being overrun by people running south on Third, trying to get away from the gas cloud.

  “Negative. You and Frankie take off. Now! I’ll get home. I’m not going to make it to you in time.”

  “Sorry, Hetebro. We’re waiting. I am not leaving you here.”

  “Are you armed?” John asked.

  “No.”

  “Then you’re not waiting. I’m armed, so I’ll be fine. Seriously, Morgan, get out of here now!”

  The screams coming from the park to the north side were becoming more intense. John couldn’t see him, but he imagined Morgan looking north, with the cool calm look on his face that he had when confronted with danger, the creases in his mouth turned up a bit in a welcoming smile.

  “Morgan?”

  “I’ll have you know I’m objecting to this mode of action you’re wanting to partake in, but given the circumstances, I know you’ll be fine. Remember, John. Head shots.”

  “Copy that. Good luck, Morgan. I’ll see you at home when I get there.”

  Morgan responded with a single click of the mic.

  John slowed a bit now that he was about one hundred yards from the breezeway. He reached down to his left,
pulled out his gun and clicked off the safety. He felt down to his waist, where the three spare magazines were resting on his belt: four high-capacity magazines filled with high-velocity nine-millimeter hollows and one in the chamber.

  Sixty-one rounds.

  People were running in every direction now. Screams and shouts had turned to cries and screams of terror. Most of the people running looked like they had been showered in blood, some with crazed looks on their face, others with blank stares.

  A few of them stopped what they were doing and looked in John’s direction. He didn’t stop. He kept going, picking up his pace. Six of them turned toward John and started towards him. They had found a target.

  John matched their pace and was now at a quick run, the gun up and pointed ahead, his breathing controlled. “Motherfuckers,” he whispered to himself.

  When most people aim with a handgun, they close their least dominant eye when aiming. Not John. Both his eyes were open and focused, the gun gripped firmly in his hands and pointed at his targets. He aimed at the closest one.

  Twenty yards to the breezeway…

  …John started firing.

  Chapter 12

  John aimed for the closest individual. The man was in his forties and his dad bod was tucked into the casual red, white, and blue boating attire that had adorned models in Tommy Hilfiger ads. His mouth was open, veins bulging out of his neck as he yelled. His eyes were bloodshot and a diaphoretic sheen covered his face.

  John fired a single round, hitting the man in the center of the forehead. A fine red mist left the back of his head, coating the two people on either side of him. The impact made him stop and fall onto his knees, with the rest of his body hitting the pavement, with a wet thwack as the open head wound made contact with the ground.

  John stopped running, planted his feet and took aim at the next closest person, whose demeanor was unchanged, despite being coated in Tommy Hilfiger’s blood. He shot the soccer mom in the face, the nine-millimeter hollow point putting a large quarter-sized hole just above her left eye, the left side of her head exploding outward. She dropped, unmoving. He shot the other four, the last one falling at his feet, causing him to back up a few paces.

  John looked ahead and saw the breezeway, the entrance hard to glimpse amongst the myriad of people running in every direction. He saw a lull in the motion and took off at a run.

  He was running parallel to the first section of the breezeway when he heard creaking metal and groaning concrete, as the breezeway struggled to hold the vast number of people trying to run away, their footfalls creating more movement and pressure than the structure could hold.

  Several people were falling over the side, some ten feet over, others fifty feet over, depending on where they were on the ramp. John tried not to focus on the screams and sounds of bones crunching, as some landed on their heads or on their legs, at odd angles, rendering them immobile from the impact.

  He looked to his left under the breezeway and through the fence line to the park. Tents were strewn about, the grass a battlefield of fallen products and clothing being trampled by people running. A few stoned people were standing around and turning in circles, mouths open, eyes wide, trying to figure out what was going on.

  The elevated ramp was at chest height for John. He decided to take a shortcut. The entrance was clogged by those trying to flee the park and those trying to flee Third Avenue, neither of which understood what the other was running from as they collided, forcing each side to push back against the other, bodies falling to the side, others getting trampled, creating great stress on the walkway.

  He saw an opening and grabbed the ledge with his hands to start to pull himself up. The breezeway slipped away from him as the sectioned-off portion he was climbing collapsed in on itself, sending people from both sides down into the newly formed pit. Bodies landed on each other, some inadvertently kicking John in the head. He pulled himself up and dove backward to avoid being buried by flesh.

  He fell onto his back and popped right back up, surveying the scene. He looked straight ahead and saw the rest of the breezeway swaying back and forth, close to collapse. Beyond the breezeway into the park, he saw where Frankie’s tent used to be and the tent beside it. He saw movement coming from underneath in between the footfalls of people running past and thought he saw a hand. Soon after, the tent flap lifted and he saw Linda poke her head through, an odd look on her face, equal parts fear and resignation.

  I can’t just leave her there, John thought. He took one more look at the breezeway and the cracking concrete pillars in their last throes to keep it up. He was about thirty feet from the fence and about twenty feet from the top of the breezeway as it crossed over the barbed wire fencing on both sides of the track with the park just beyond.

  He had an idea.

  He took off at a sprint toward the middle of three concrete pillars and lowered his shoulder. He did his best to form tackle the cracked portion, accelerating its demise. He felt an instant jolt of pain and heard a loud crack, not knowing if it came from his shoulder or the pillar. He backed up, rotated his shoulders, and, though sore, didn’t have any obvious damage. He backed up and took another run at it, aiming his shoulder at a spot just below the first impact, harder this time. Another loud crack and more pain shot down his arm. Several smaller cracks were heard and John felt small chunks of concrete hit the top of his head. He looked up and saw the concrete joints breaking apart.

  It was coming down. He just hoped it would fall to the east and not the west, or else his plan wouldn’t work. He moved away from the falling debris, and, as he did, he heard more cracking. The breezeway increased its sway, producing louder and more rapid sounds of give.

  John heard screams behind him. He turned and saw five more people standing on the other side of Third Avenue, just fifty yards away. They just stood there staring, mouths agape, with blood-stained teeth. Several bodies lay at their feet, some writhing on the ground, hands clasped around their necks, blood pulsing between their fingers.

  John turned back to the pillar, now with a slight V-shape as it was ready to crumble. The five people ran toward him, arms flying through the air like they were swimming, wanting to get to him faster.

  John ran to the pillar and threw his body into it, every last ounce of energy he had, the pain be damned. His shoulder made contact and he pushed with all his might, boots pushing against pavement, bone on concrete.

  He felt it give and a loud pop signaled that the section was collapsing. It started swaying back and forth, gaining momentum with each sway, until the breezeway came tumbling down, the east end crashing to the ground, crushing two of the people that were running at John. The other three tripped over the fallen zombies. John used that opportunity to get out of there.

  He ran to the fallen edge, jumping over the three that were still trying to get up. He planted his feet and turned, aimed, and put three quick shots to the backs of their heads, dropping them permanently. He ran up toward the other end, which was resting sturdily enough over the barbed wire fence. He got to the top and saw the remaining section that went over the railroad tracks swaying from side to side, throwing people off the edge that weren’t able to keep their balance.

  Looking down, he saw that several of the infected people were waiting for them, like piranhas in a pool of formed steel and rust. Instantly, they were on those that fell, teeth gnawing at necks and limbs. The screams of their victims died away as they got dragged down.

  John took a deep breath and took off at a slow run, trying to counter the alternating sways with each step, careful not to fall over and become one of the victims. He laughed and shook his head, thinking this reminded him of the video game, Frogger.

  Without breaking focus, he glanced into the park and saw that it wasn’t as occupied as it was ten minutes ago, the majority of people having run for safety.

  He heard a pop and felt his feet giving out on him, the swaying becoming more prominent. The park was twenty yards away. Small cracks were sta
rting to form on the surface of the platform. Not wanting to wait, he took off at a run, reached the edge, and, just as the breezeway gave way, he jumped towards the top of the fence.

  His fingers brushed across a metal wire and involuntarily he turned his hands into fists, grasping on as best he could to the razor-sharp barbed wire, puncturing his skin, rivulets of blood trickling down his wrists. He bit his bottom lip to keep from screaming and instinctively wanted to let go, but fought his way through it. He looked down and saw a sea of blood-soaked hands reaching up, their fingers brushing the bottoms of his shoes as he kicked to get his footing on the fence. Finding it, he pushed up with his feet and dug two hundred and thirty-five pounds of pressure into the fence using his hands, feeling the flesh slice as he pulled himself up. Grimacing, he reached the top and hurried himself over the barbs ripping his clothes as he did. He dropped twenty feet to the ground to save his hands instead of climbing down.

  He landed with a thud and was able to tuck and roll to minimize the impact. Ignoring any pain, he jumped up and took off at a sprint toward Linda, hoping against hope that she was still there or at least alive. He pulled his gun back out and did a quick count in his head. He had killed the first six, then finished off the three at the base of the breezeway, leaving him with six rounds plus the three spares. Normally, he would switch out magazines now to have a full fifteen, but every round counted and he didn’t have time.

  He passed Frankie’s tent, stepping over a pile of T-shirts, and came up to Linda’s tent. He whispered her name and got no response. He bent down and raised the flap of the tent, but didn’t see anything. Not wanting to take any chances, he held the gun up in front, letting it be his eyes. He lifted the tent flap up higher and saw nothing but a pile of clothes in the center. He stood up and let the tent flap fall back down, and, as he did, the tent jumped back up and attacked him. Canvas arms swung at him and he found himself stumbling backwards, dropping the gun. He landed on his back and put his feet up, waiting for whatever it was to jump down onto him.