by Jake Bible
“I already told you I am horrible at poker,” Dr. Probst says, the pistol shaking in her hand.
“Do you see us playing cards?” Dr. Burkhorst asks. “Do you? I see no cards, Cheryl. This isn’t poker we are playing, this is life. This is the real thing, not some luck of the draw entertainment. No penny ante here, Cheryl. Big stakes. All the stakes.”
“I could go for all the steaks,” Dr. McDaniels says and looks down at her wounded belly. “My stomach is a bit empty right now.”
“Ha!” Dr. Scofield guffaws. “Now, that’s a joke!”
“I’m not killing myself,” Dr. Probst says quietly. “I have a job to do.”
“A job for whom?” Dr. Burkhorst asks. “For VanderVoort? That whore doesn’t care about you. Let’s say she succeeds in saving the world, do you think she’ll share the credit? No, she will not. She’ll take all the glory. She’ll take all the glory, birth that bastard growing inside her, and live the life you could have had. You’ll be a footnote, if you are lucky.”
“Let us free and you can be so much more,” Dr. Scofield adds. “Be the lead. Be the name on the top. The lone scientist that cracks the code, that discovers the thing that…well…you know. The thing.”
He starts giggling and shakes his head back and forth.
“Sorry, sorry, I tried,” he says to the others. “I just couldn’t keep going. Do you really believe a wimpy little thing like that could be more than a lab assistant?”
“I am more than a lab assistant!” Dr. Probst yells. “I was lead on the—”
“I was lead on the,” Dr. Scofield interrupts, mocking Dr. Probst with a high-pitched voice meant to be hers. “I was lead on the, I was lead on the, I was more than a lab assistant. Were you? Like what? Head of Giving Head? Handjob Manager?”
“You are disgusting,” Dr. Probst says. “All of you.” She whirls back to her laptop, setting the pistol on her workstation. “I have work to do. Important work that will help, that will save this planet, and I don’t give two shits if I get credit. I’m not in it for the credit.”
“Then what are you in it for, Cheryl?” Dr. Burkhorst asks.
The question hangs there, heavy in the room like the rancid smell of coppery blood that permeates everything.
“To save lives,” Dr. Probst replies.
“Not to stay alive yourself?” Dr. Burkhorst asks.
“Yes, of course,” Dr. Probst snaps.
“I can help you stay alive,” Dr. Burkhorst says.
“What? Forever, right?” Dr. Probst laughs. “That was just sad, Burkhorst. Dr. Bennet made it sound like your psychological skills were formidable.”
“Dr. Bennet is dead, Cheryl,” Dr. Burkhorst replies. “Killed by Marshal Morgan, her son, and that convict.”
“Lowell,” Dr. Probst says. “His name is Anson Lowell. And I don’t believe you.”
“It’s the truth,” Dr. Scofield says. “They killed Dr. Bennet. Blew his head right off then set him on fire. Hours ago. They’ve been slowly working their way through the facility, hunting for you.”
“Whatever,” Dr. Probst says. “If they’ve been doing anything they’ve been hunting for a way out.”
“No, they are hunting for you,” Dr. McDaniels says. “They will kill you as soon as they find you.”
“In fact…” Dr. Burkhorst smiles, grins, smirks.
There’s a loud bang against the door followed by three more in quick succession. Dr. Probst jumps and nearly knocks the pistol off the workstation.
“Huh. I wonder who that could be?” Dr. Scofield asks.
Dr. Probst rolls her chair to a different workstation and presses a couple buttons. The feed from the video camera right outside the control room door comes up and Dr. Probst does everything in her power not to shudder.
Lu, Lowell, and Kyle stand there, obvious signs of blood on them, none of them looking like they are in good shape.
Another bang and a far off voice.
“Thick door,” Dr. Burkhorst says. “It’ll take them a long time to get in. They’ll get bored and move on. Find something to use to cut through. We have that type of equipment down here. Cutting torches. I bet Lowell knows how to use one. He’s probably worked in a machine shop in prison at some point. What do you think a killer like that can do with a cutting torch on human flesh?”
More banging. Dr. Probst waits, watches, shakes. She shivers and rolls to a different station and holds down the button on the adjustable mic.
“VanderVoort?” Dr. Probst calls. “VanderVoort?”
“Dr. Probst? What can we do for you?” VanderVoort asks, her face appearing on the main monitor. “Do you have something for us? Something we can use to stop these things?”
“No, not yet,” Dr. Probst says. “It’s just that Marshal Morgan, her son, and Lowell are outside the door. They’re banging and want in.” Dr. Probst looks over her shoulder at the bloody scientists. “My guests believe they murdered Dr. Bennet and may want to harm me.”
“They killed Dr. Bennet,” VanderVoort nods. “Sort of. He became something else. How are you guests? They still the same?”
“Became something else? What the hell does that mean?” Dr. Probst cries.
“It means you need to keep your guests alive,” VanderVoort says. “They change when they die. If one of them does die then get out of there.”
“Is this happening at the other facilities?” Dr. Probst asks.
“Not so far,” VanderVoort says. “But we have a theory about that. No time to go into it and I don’t want to skew your findings. I need you objective there. Are you objective?”
“Yes,” Dr. Probst says. “But I’d really like to get out of here.”
“I’ll tell you what,” VanderVoort says. “How about I get in touch with Marshal Morgan and have her work out some plan to extract the others from that room for disposal? Will that work for you?”
“That would be great,” Dr. Probst sighs.
“Excellent,” VanderVoort says then nods to someone off screen. “Gotta go, Dr. Probst. Big monsters tearing through the world and all that. You stay strong and we’ll get your situation all fixed up in no time.”
VanderVoort’s image disappears and Dr. Burkhorst chuckles.
“She’s lying,” Dr. Burkhorst says, nodding at Dr. Mannering’s corpse. “If we change when we die then Clark should have changed by now. He looks the same to me. If she was lying about that then do you think she was telling the truth about Marshal Morgan helping you? She’s shining you on to get you to keep working. Using you.”
Dr. Probst glances back at the security feed and watches as Lu, Kyle, and Lowell shake their heads and walk quickly away from the door.
“Now you have to wonder if they left on their own to find a way in or if they talked to VanderVoort,” Dr. Burkhorst smiles, grins, smirks. “We’ll all be quiet and let that mull around in your brain for a while. Until they come back, at least. Then we’ll all get to find out.”
Dr. Probst doesn’t respond. She rolls back to her station and gets to work.
“SKULL FUCK!” Dr. Scofield yells.
“Jesus!” Dr. Probst says, nearly falling out of her chair.
The three bloody scientists laugh, and laugh, and laugh.
***
He doesn’t know if it’s the ground shaking or the far off screams that bring him out of his sleep, but Bolton is awake and grabbing for his M4 CQBR before he even has his eyes open.
“Holt?” he whispers.
“I’m up,” Holt whispers back in the darkness of the tool shed they’d stopped at to grab a couple hours sleep. “Doesn’t sound too close.”
“Close enough,” Bolton says.
“Listen, Army, our objective is not saving civilians,” Holt says. “It’s to get down to Fort Carson and Shriever AFB, hope someone is still manning those bases, and get the drones and the weapon up and operational.”
“All so we can save civilians,” Bolton replies. “No point if the Godzillas eat them all before we save t
hem, now is there, Navy?”
“You suck.”
“You suck more,” Bolton chuckles. “Got your gear on?”
“Gear is on,” Holt replies. “Let’s have us a little recon and then decide, alright? No point in dying to save civilians if they’re already dead, now is there, Army?”
“Fair enough, Navy,” Bolton says.
They both get up cautiously, their senses tuned, ready for danger. Bolton goes first, pushing the tool shed door open quickly then stepping out into the early morning light. He swings his M4 to the left as Holt comes out, swinging his MK14 to the right, each men’s eyes sighting down the barrels, watching for any sign of aggression, no matter the source.
The two men step quickly across the overgrown and ash-covered backyard of the small ranch house somewhere in southern Idaho. Or they think. Again, no GPS, landmarks destroyed, towns ripped in half or buried under feet of ash, the mountains themselves barely recognizable anymore. Bolton guesses they are north of Boise, in some town maybe called Emmett.
More screams fill the air followed by a distinctive roar the two recognize instantly. Bolton motions forward with his left hand and Holt nods, taking point as they start to jog, making it around the ranch house easily, eyes open, weapons up. Another scream, but cut short and then the wails of anguish. The men glance at each other, knowing looks guessing at the outcome.
“You sure about this?” Holt asks.
“Not really,” Bolton admits. “But I want to sleep at night at some point in my life. If we don’t try that’s going to be a hard thing to do.”
Holt nods and they keep jogging. They pass a row of crushed homes, brick, wood, and stone littering dead yards and spilling out into the street. The smell of fire, of rubber burning, begins to waft towards them, almost a welcome break from the never-ending sulfur and ammonia smell. Although the ammonia has cleared up considerably.
And they haven’t seen any sign of the flying egg-dropper monsters on their journey so far. Small miracles and all that.
Bolton skids to a halt and holds up a fist as the sound of angry voices reaches them. The two men bend low and crouch walk to a pile of scorched metal and asphalt where the street buckled and a driver didn’t respond in time. Slowly, they peer around the side of the debris and both nearly gasp in shock, but their professional training keeps them from revealing their position.
Holt looks at Bolton; Bolton looks at Holt. The two men glare and then check their weapons.
“Enough,” Bolton says, calmly stepping away from the debris, his M4 covering the six men that stand close to the trussed up beast. “Step away from the creature.”
“You four. Step away from the people,” Holt says, his MK14 covering the four men guarding a group of six straggly looking survivors- two older men, two older women, a young boy and a girl in her early twenties, maybe late teens. “I do not ask twice.”
“Neither do I,” Bolton says.
He sizes up the armaments- pump-action shotguns, good-sized deer rifles, 9mms and .45s strapped to hips, large hunting knives strapped to thighs or across the belts in the smalls of backs. At least two are former law enforcement, maybe ex-reserves, possibly National Guard. The rest are just yahoos having fun in the apocalypse.
They all look mean, hungry, and not in the mood to deal with strangers.
“Come on,” Bolton says. “Back away, all of you. Set your weapons down and take off. We help these people, put down that monster, and we’re gone. You can come back for your weapons later. We know what the world is like now. Not going to leave you unarmed in it.”
“We’re not?” Holt whispers.
“Doesn’t matter,” Bolton whispers back.
“I guess you’re right,” Holt says.
No one moves. Then everyone moves.
Bolton rushes to his right as Holt rushes to his left, both firing systematically at their targets. Triggers are squeezed, muzzles flash with fire, men cry out, a woman screams, a man shouts, bodies fall. Bolton and Holt stop.
“Shit,” Holt says and hurries over to the group of survivors, two of their number lying on the ground, both bleeding profusely. “Shit, shit, shit.”
Bolton moves towards the bodies close to the monster. Three stare up into the grey, grey sky, seeing nothing. Two lie face down and Bolton toes them onto their backs. They join in the nothing stares.
One man moans quietly, gripping the side of his head, blood pouring from between his fingers. He looks up as Bolton approaches and his eyes try to focus.
“Why’d you do that, mister?” he asks. “Ain’t none of your concern.”
“I don’t know,” Bolton shrugs, kicking away the shotgun lying by the man’s feet. “It upsets me to see people get fed to monsters. I’m weird that way.”
“We was teaching them a lesson, mister,” the man, which Bolton quickly realizes may have only started shaving a few years earlier, says as he clamps his other hand on his head wound. “They came in the night and broke into one of our storage sheds. Had half a bag of rice and two crates of canned vegetables in their hands when we found them. They shot Holly in the head. Gut shot Manuel. Manuel was a good guy. Quiet because he didn’t speak English so well, but good. We defended ourselves. That so wrong?”
“Maybe,” Bolton shrugs. “Maybe not. Either way, you don’t feed them to a fucking monster. What’s wrong with you?”
“Mutt was hungry,” the young man says. “He was getting sick.”
Bolton doesn’t know how to respond. He stands there, taking it all in. He looks over at the trussed up monster, seeing the outlines of bones under the slick skin. The thing is tied down with heavy, heavy chains that loop through hooks cemented into the ground. The chains stretch from tail end all the way up its neck, leaving it only enough room for it to open its hideous mouth.
It groans and grunts, alien eyes watching Bolton carefully.
Then it lets out a roar and Bolton knows the thing isn’t long for the world. The roar is pitiful, sick, weakening rapidly. Just making the sound seems to take all the strength out of it. Its head rests on the pavement in a pool of greenish-grey gunk and blood stains. A few swatches of fabric and the sole of a boot are stuck to its lower jaw.
“See? The thing is sick,” the young man sighs. “We was going to put it down, but these folks came along and we thought we could save it.”
Bolton stared at the thing’s mouth a couple seconds longer then turned back to the young man that wasn’t a man. “Why?”
The young man blinks for several seconds then shrugs, wincing at the pain it causes him. “Why not? What else is there to do? It’s their world now, right? Best make nice and see what we can learn.”
“Jesus,” Bolton mutters.
Then realization hits him. The men, the bodies around him, may not be the threat, after all. He whirls about and sees Holt untying the survivors. Bolton rushes over, carbine raised, and takes aim at the older man, the guy with the look of authority amongst the survivors.
“Holt, stop,” Bolton says. Holt doesn’t even flinch. He stops untying the young woman, flips his rifle forward, and steps back towards Bolton.
“What’s up?” Holt asks.
“Did you try to steal from these people?” Bolton asks. “Kill a couple of theirs?”
The older man sneers. “Man has to look out for his own. They should have just shared.”
“Did you ask?” Bolton responds. “Or did you watch and then take?”
“Man has to look out for his own,” the older man replies.
“Jesus,” Bolton says, shaking his head. “Shit!”
“We fucked this up, didn’t we?” Holt asks.
“No, it was already fucked up,” Bolton says. “Tie them back up.”
The two older women hold up their untied hands. One starts to stand, but Bolton motions for her to stay where she is and she eases back down onto her haunches.
“Please, sir,” the woman says. “We aren’t family. We just stumbled together one day.” She nods at the older man
that lies dead, half his head torn off by a shotgun blast then nods at the young boy, his chest ripped open by rifle fire, both dead as can be. “They was mine. This is my sister. We don’t know the girl.”
“Fucking cowards,” the young woman spits. “You was one of us when you shot that wetback.”
“Fuck me,” Holt says. “What the fuck do we do now?”
“Cover them,” Bolton says. He sees a glimmer in the older man’s eyes. “He’s a fucking SEAL, dipshit. You twitch and your head will be wide open. That goes for all of you. Do not move.”
Bolton slings his carbine and begins hurrying from stray weapon to stray weapon, unloading each and tucking the ammunition in his pack. He keeps a sawed-off shotgun -a good looking single barrel, 12 gauge Mossberg in nice condition- and two of the .45s, but leaves the rest to lie in the ash, empty, impotent.
He walks over and hands the .45s to Holt who quickly sticks them in his pack as Bolton covers the survivors with the Mossberg.
“Not tying them up?” Holt asks.
“Leave them,” Bolton says. “They can do whatever they want. I don’t care.” Holt brings his rifle back around and Bolton takes the time to strap the Mossberg to his pack. “But they aren’t going to follow us or harass us in any way, are you?”
The older man glares. “I make no promises.”
“Jesus,” Bolton says. “We’re letting you people go, even if you don’t deserve it.”
“Who are you to say we don’t deserve it? There’s no law no more, pal,” the older man growls. “You have your fancy uniform with patches and shit, but that don’t mean you actually are who you want us to think you are. Nobody is no more.”
“No, I guess they aren’t,” Bolton says.
He and Holt back away from the survivors. Bolton’s eyes never leave the older man’s until he is close to the bleeding young man by the monster. A quick glance tells Bolton the young man is no longer who he used to be either, his glazed eyes focused on the far off distance, seeing nothing.
“What about the monster?” Holt asks quietly.