by John O'Brien
First things first. Get to safety immediately, then work out the details later.
With a last look at the infected group, Brown turns, unbuttons his fatigue top, and removes a key attached to a leather thong around his neck. He unlocks a bottom drawer and removes a handgun, double-checking the mag and racking a round into the chamber. He withdraws two additional magazines and stuffs those in his pocket.
“Okay, first, there’s a good chance that the agent is airborne, so don’t take your masks off for anything. The act of eating has been suspended. If you happen to have the superpower of being able to survive without breathing, now would be the time to enact it. I’m not sure how effective these masks actually are, but we’re keeping them on, indefinitely if we have to. Second, we are going to secure this building. There are very few entrances so it should be easy enough to lock down. We’re lucky that the flu may have helped us in an off-handed manner. No one showed up to work, at least not here. I’ve been staring out of the window all morning and haven’t seen a soul arrive,” Brown briefs. “Then, we make sure we’re alone. The infected aren’t exactly ninjas, so we should be able to determine if we have company easily enough.”
“Why don’t we sneak through and get away from the academy? Like we did the last time,” Hayward queries. “Why do we need to stay in the library?”
“Well, if you remember correctly, we didn’t exactly sneak anywhere. When we did manage to get away, it was after a day and night spent in the bunker. The infected spread outward, and those that remained went into some kind of stupor. That’s what I’m thinking we should do here. Lock this place down tight and wait it out until the ones running amok either leave or go dormant,” Brown answers. “The bottom line is that we need to find a secure place to hold up, and this is what we have.”
“Okay, fair enough. But how are we going to seal the doors?” Clarke asks.
“With this,” Brown answers, pulling a hex-like tool out of the drawer.
“Of course you have keys. Or what amounts to them,” Hayward states. “What about a fallout shelter? There’s surely one here, and I’m quite sure you know where it is.”
“I’m not sure that your memory is functioning, son. We almost didn’t make it to the bunker the last time. Outside is not where we want to be right now, especially with some five thousand cadets and staff who might be infected. Last time, it was incremental and the wave spread quickly outward. If Clarke is correct, I’m not sure we are looking at the same scenario. Now if you two are done playing this fun question game, we need to hurry. Like before, we go quietly.”
Brown steps to the door, looking over his shoulder to stare at Hayward. The last time they had to do this, the cadet nearly crawled up his ass. Seeing that he’s not about to be impregnated, Brown opens the office door and again checks the hall. The shiny waxed floor stretches for a short distance, several closed doors along its length. Brown slips into the hall. The quiet inside the building is in direct contrast to the tumultuous noise on the other side of the thick walls.
Stairs lead down into the core of the building, each floor mostly an open floor plan with picturesque windows overlooking green fields. Brown inches down the stairs, both hands wrapped around his sidearm. Hyper-alert, he listens for a snarl or footfall: anything to indicate that there are others in the building. The experience in Pineville taught him that the infected aren’t always running around screaming their heads off. Brown takes each step cautiously, forcing himself to go slowly, but wanting to get to the doors quickly before the infected racing through the campus decide that they’d like to check out the bookshelves to find their favorite one.
Brown pauses at each floor, glancing through the study tables and easy chairs arranged in groups around glass-topped coffee tables. The well-lit open rooms have few shadows where anyone can hide, but that also means that they can easily be seen through the large picture windows. He feels exposed descending the wide staircases that wind through the middle. He finds no one, the expanses with their gleaming fixtures, polished floors, and furniture in perfect position looking like they’re only for show.
He can’t believe the same shit is happening again. He knows that he was lucky the first time. Escaping from one city seemed improbable, but if this is indeed happening across the globe, then staying alive among millions of them would be impossible. He’s pretty sure he emptied his jar of luck on the first escapade.
Steady…steady. One thing at a time.
The cadets descend behind, their boots issuing only an occasional clop. Brown doesn’t know if the two are bad luck because they happened to be with him when it all started, or good luck for having made it through Pineville. With the exception of the faint shrieks from outside, the interior is completely quiet; the air hushed as if it’s holding its breath.
Behind them, a loud but muffled tone suddenly pierces the silence. Brown drops to his knees, instantly turning toward the sound, his handgun snapping to where his eyes are looking. Hayward sheepishly reaches into his pocket and pulls out a cell phone.
“You have to be fucking shitting me!” Brown whispers sharply. “Are you just some special kind of stupid? Silence that thing.”
“I did,” Hayward counters. “Apparently the emergency broadcasts don’t silence.”
“I’d say they’re a little late with that message. Turn it off.”
He observes Clarke hastily pulling out her phone to turn it off, just as the warning tones begin.
Although muffled through the walls, emergency tones begin riding the air along with the screams, coming from hundreds if not thousands of phones.
“Well, hopefully they didn’t hear it or think anything of it,” Clarke states.
Brown glances out of the windows to witness several infected in the wide field dance crazily in circles, searching for the source of the noises that sit in their very pockets. The tones must have silenced as the rave party in the lawn stops, the infected looking momentarily confused before resuming their search for others to attack.
“Is there anything else? Alarms set on your watches? An unquenchable desire to start playing a trumpet?” Brown asks the two cadets.
They shake their heads, Hayward with his eyes downcast and looking particularly ashamed. The cadet’s feelings of inadequacy return, remembering all of his prior gaffes.
“Look, son. Don’t let it get to you. Acknowledge and own the mistake, put the lesson in your bag of tricks, and move on. Don’t linger in the mud or it will sink you. There’s still shit to be done. And honestly, mine would probably have gone off if I didn’t have it turned off and locked in my drawer. I hate those things,” Brown comments.
Without waiting for a response, Brown turns and resumes the slow trek to the ground floor.
At the heavy wooden door at one of the entrances, Brown hesitates. There isn’t enough room between the latch and jamb to work the hex key into the slot. Brown edges the door open as the shrieks in the surrounding area rise in volume. Without a window to judge when to inch the door open, Brown has to pull out what’s left in his jar of luck, hoping there is still a little left and taking the chance that the present moment is the best time. Pushing on the bar, the door creaks open. He quickly slides the hex into the slot and twists. He then eases the door closed and releases the bar, making sure that the door latch is extended and secure.
With the back door and one of the side doors locked, Brown and the cadets creep down curving stairs into the entrance foyer housing Thomas Jefferson’s statue looming over a large seal emblazoned on the floor. The main entrance comprises an inside and outside set of double wooden doors with panes of glass occupying almost the entire frame. Shadows pass the windows as infected race by. Some scream while others remain silent.
“Well, this is going to be fun,” Brown states.
“Why is that?” Clarke queries.
Not bothering to answer, Brown waves his hand to keep the two cadets out of sight and edges along the outside of the rotunda. He peeks around the corner of the entranc
e in time to see three shadows streak by the entrance. The bright light streaming through the portal makes it hard to see anything other than dark figures. With the large panes, the doors won’t stop any determined infected for long, but locking them will keep out the ones just looking for a tour.
The screaming has diminished in volume, indicating that the infected have moved farther outward, or that their initial excitement is drawing to a close. Brown remembers that they only seem to shriek when they catch sight of or hear a sound associated with prey.
Brown goes to the floor and crawls from the corner. The gleaming aluminum that shields the bottom of the doors from the shoes of the thousands of cadets is barely taller than his prone body. At the first set of double doors, his firearm in hand and flat on the floor, he pushes on one of the doors and slithers through. He could just lock the inner set, but doesn’t know the mentality of those infected. Getting through one door and then being blocked may only encourage them to find a way to enter.
Aware of his very precarious situation, Brown momentarily rethinks what he’s doing. There are five thousand cadets and staff, most, if not all, infected with the sickness. He’s not sure if all of them will turn, but even if only half of them do, then the others will shortly follow.
As long as they don’t outright die.
The deep anxiety of being in a position where he can easily be discovered gnaws at his stomach. His only source of comfort is knowing that it’s lighter outside, which makes it more difficult for anyone passing to see what’s inside.
Come on you weakling, don’t freeze on me now.
Brown crawls forward, the well-polished floor aiding his movement. At the outer door, he pulls his body parallel, switching his sidearm to the other hand and pulling the hex key out of his pocket. Rising just enough to peek through the glass, he sees that the wide walkway outside is clear. He pushes to his knees and places a hand on the door, easing it open just enough to insert the key into the slot, and then allows the door to gently close. Shuffling forward, he pushes on the second door and hears the clicking of heels running on a hard surface.
Releasing the door, he drops to the floor, making himself as flat as he can. The door shuts with a soft hiss of air and faint click. With his head turned to the side, Brown sees the light dim as infected cross through the beam. The sound of running feet stops, the shadow deepening.
Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck!
His stomach tightens and it feels as if something has a firm grip around his heart. The air inside his mask suddenly seems overly warm, his breath short and nearly panting. Brown tightens his hold on the sidearm, analyzing at what point to rise and fire. Slowly, he lets go of the hex key and transfers the weapon to his right hand. He moves as close to the door as possible without triggering an opening and presses into the floor, trying to sink through the hard surface.
The shadow deepens even further, almost entirely blocking the light through one of the doors. Brown feels the slickness of sweat as it gathers on his brow and trickles to the floor below. The coolness of the surface is in direct contrast to the heat he feels building inside. If any of the infected outside get remotely close to the door, they’ll easily see his large form huddled on the floor.
Okay, time to keep your cool, man. T’aint nothing but a thing. Shoot your way if you have to and figure the rest of the shit on the run. You didn’t make it through those tours just to be taken down by a—
A scream erupts on the other side of the door, interrupting his thoughts. Brown’s nerves are so tight that he nearly comes off the floor without any muscular involvement. His finger closes around the trigger, his mind alerting the rest of his body that it needs to spring into action.
A second shriek comes from further away, followed by another sounding like it came from the same location. Brown can almost hear panting coming from the infected blocking the light. The sound of shuffling shoes reaches through the door. Brown can almost sense the infected’s hesitation, as if it knows there’s prey close and wants to find it. Although he tells his body to wait, he remains taut, ready to spring into action.
A third scream comes from the same direction as the first, amid scurried shuffling outside. A shriek, sounding more like frustration than anticipation, vibrates the glass panes. The shadow moves away, bright light again filtering through the doors. Footsteps pound on the concrete walkway, fading away.
Fuck me! Well, that does it for my jar of luck. It has to be empty now.
Brown is surprised to find the legs of his pants dry as he finishes locking the last of the front doors. The infected was only a step away from being able to see him in all his shining glory. Brown feels exhausted, not only from the intense flow of adrenaline, but from understanding what lies ahead. He doesn’t know if he has the strength or energy to face the future, but really doesn’t have much of a choice.
I’m not sure to what end, but I’m not about to roll over and give up.
He’ll just take one step at a time, focusing on each one before worrying about the ones that follow. Although he keeps the big picture in mind, contemplating it all at once is overwhelming. He wouldn’t have as much worry if he didn’t have his two tagalongs—and unlimited firepower would be nice—but neither is part of his reality. The cadets are part of this and he has three magazines. That’s the situation; there’s no use wishing for something different.
Hugging the wall to minimize his silhouette should anyone look in, he inches down the hallway toward the final side door. Radiant light shines through the glass-filled doors at the end. His ears are attuned to anything slipping in behind, but his eyes are focused on the doorway to the front. Although his muscles are relaxed, geared to spring into action if needed, every nerve feels like a high-tension wire, quivering with each step. The hallway feels closed in; the double doors at the end loom large.
Arriving at the final set of doors, Brown peeks around the edge of the glass pane.
“Ah, shit,” he mutters.
Several figures are running through the middle of the field, being pursued by a larger number of infected. It quickly becomes apparent that the distance between the two groups is closing. If the ones that are being chased don’t find someplace safe, they’ll soon be overrun. Brown doubts that they’ll even make it across the open area. Turning to the two cadets, he tells them to head back to the rotunda and to stay out of sight.
“Why? What are you going to do?” Clarke asks.
“Something stupid,” Brown states, turning back to the door. “Now go!”
Fuck me! I can’t believe that I’m about to do this.
After checking that the immediate vicinity is clear, Brown, with a deep breath followed by a forced exhalation, opens the door and steps out. He stares at the two groups, the pursued and pursuers, gauging the chances that the non-infected can make it to the door should he signal them. A split-second of measuring the odds tells him that it will be close.
Good enough.
Still clasping the handgun, he brings his fingers to his mouth and whistles, the shrill sound carrying across the campus. All eleven, seven infected and four running for their lives, turn in his direction. Without breaking stride, the four turn toward the building, the ones behind altering their path as well.
You’ve gone and done it now, Brown thinks, knowing the entire campus could well descend on him.
Taking that single action, he forwent his original idea of becoming a hole in the ground. He could have kept the infected unaware of his presence, leaving the four to their near-certain demise. Although he knows that it’s the right thing to do, he’s kicking himself for doing it. While the four race across the lawn, wide eyes full of fear, Brown uses the hex key to lock both of the doors.
Gazing back at the rapidly closing groups, he sees that the distance between the two has dramatically closed. Screams erupt from other distant locations, indicating that more company would be arriving soon. A quick glance at his surroundings shows that it’s still clear of any hostile infected.
&nb
sp; “You need to fucking hitch that shit into a higher gear,” Brown yells. “And stop looking over your shoulders, you morons!”
One of the cadets in front responds, pulling ahead of the others. The other three have already reached their top speed and apparently don’t have a higher gear.
It’s going to be close, but those three may not to make it. If the building were twenty feet closer…his thought trails off.
The groups rapidly draw closer, the thudding of running footsteps changing as they flee off the grass and onto the wide concrete walkway. The four, all wearing blue masks, express outright terror. Their eyes are glued to the door, but obviously hear the pounding footfalls right behind them.
The one in the lead races past Brown and through the door, stumbling and falling to the floor. The other three are close, but the pursuit is right on their heels. Like a surging wave, the infected roll over the three cadets. Their piercing screams of surprise and terror rise above those of their attackers as they fall. One hits the pavement chin first with a loud crack, her shriek cut short. Another stumbles forward, but falls with two infected on his back, looking much like a lion pack taking down prey. The third vanishes under three others, his screams muffled under the bodies piled on top.
Not waiting to see the rest, Brown pulls hard on the door, forcing it to close. The hydraulic arms resist his efforts. On the sidewalk, the attack on the three is short-lived, the three cadets having been bitten and the virus transferred. The seven rise and, seeing new prey, scream with such intensity that it nearly scrambles Brown’s mind. Brown weighs the speed of the closing door with that of the infected closing in.
“Fucking hell,” Brown mutters, forgoing his efforts and stepping fully outside.