“Yeah, because I don't blurt out half-baked ideas, until I've -” “ No, you don't blurt out any ideas, because you wait until I've already done all your thinking for you, and then -”
“ Fuck you, Captain Ego. I certainly don't need you to do any thinking for me. If you were half as smart as you think you are, you wouldn't have joined the fucking Army.”
“I actually had to work, you just got everything handed to you by that bastard father of ours, so why don't you just -”
“Why don't you just fuck off. I worked hard to get through college, and I earned my -” “ Enough!” Isaac's deep, booming voice echoed in the tiny room. “I've had enough of this nonsense. Everyday, you two bicker, and everyday, I get a little more fed up with it. We're supposed to be sticking together. Now, play nice.”
John stared down at his feet, cheeks tinging with red. Paul flopped down on the couch, and just stared up vacantly at the ceiling. A thick, unpleasant silence followed, and it lasted for several minutes, until Isaac's laughter startled them.
“Ha! I got it!”
Paul sat upright and looked at him. “Got what?”
“Where we can go for food.”
“Where?”
“The elementary school.”
The two brothers looked at each other for a moment, before their lips curled into smiles. John walked over to the window. “That's perfect. It's right around the corner, and the cafeteria should be loaded. I doubt anyone else has looted the place yet.”
“ Good, it's agreed then. Tomorrow morning, we'll make a run for it. We should probably get to bed early.”
“ Right, let's eat and crash.” Paul walked to the cupboard and cracked the can of green beans, splitting the meager contents into three bowls.
They ate quietly and prepared themselves for bed. Isaac contorted his old, thin body into various yogic postures. John brushed his teeth and stripped down to his boxers, neatly laying his clothes out for the next day. Paul simply stretched out on the floor and put on a pair of headphones. He listened to music until the batteries died and then, too tired and lazy to change them, he set them aside and fell fast asleep.
Paul ran, as hard as he could, but his legs refused to move properly. It was like he was treading through water, each leg swinging slowly forward, the air resisting heavily. Behind, the crowd closed in, only a block or two away. John ran far ahead and was almost out of sight.
“John, wait for me!” He cried out weakly. John turned and looked at him, before continuing his run. Soon Paul was all alone, with only a crowd of the hungry infected to accompany him. They soon caught up and surrounded him. Forming a neat, perfect circle around him, they stood at attention, and saluted.
He knew he should salute them back, but he refused. Out of the circle, stepped his drill sergeant, wearing his father's face.
“Failure to salute will not be tolerated, soldier!”
Paul grimaced and saluted. His father's eyes bored into him. “What's the matter? No wise-ass remarks? You lazy shit, go do your chores.”
Paul shook his head. “No.” His father continued to stare, with his bloodshot eyes. “I thought so. You always were a disappointment.” He started clawing at his own belly, ripping into the flesh. One hand started pulling out intestine and it coiled on the floor. “See what you made me do? You're worthless.” He continued pulling out his own innards and began coughing violently, blood spewing forth from his mouth. A few more moments passed before he collapsed. From the floor, he raised his finger and pointed to Paul. “Kill him!” He growled and continued his retching.
The crowd slowly closed in, moaning, with hands outstretched, like zombies from a Bgrade horror flick. They started tearing at him and he tried to scream, but no sound came out. And then, darkness.
Paul bolted upright, panting. The first rays of dawn glimmered through the window and Paul stood up. He crept towards the window, careful not to wake the others. The glare off the glass temporarily blinded him and he winced. With a quick yank, he readjusted the curtains and lay back down. Still exhausted, he quickly fell back asleep. He would need it.
John sat up on the floor and spent a quiet moment staring at his sleeping brother. The tension between them had been rougher lately and it left John feeling a deep regret. They were brothers, and brothers were supposed to fight and argue, but not in the midst of the terrible disaster that had come crashing down on their heads. As he did every morning, he swore to himself to make peace with his brother. He had to, for all their sakes.
Rising to his feet, he stretched his arms high above his head and yawned. He was still tired and with no coffee to help him start his day, he knew that he had to do something to wake up. Quietly opening the door and closing it back behind him, he headed for the rooftop access, and climbed the narrow staircase.
The stairwell was pitch black and he ran his hands along the sides of the wall, stumbling occasionally in the darkness. When he reached the top, he flung the door open, blinking into the bright sunlight. He stepped out and sighed.
It was a beautiful day, but there would be little time to enjoy it, so he took pleasure in the warmth of the sun and peered over the ledge. The streets below were littered with corpses and crashed cars, small pieces of paper lazily fluttering in the light breeze. He stepped back from the ledge and started jogging in place, trying to get his blood flowing.
He was quickly out of breath and he stopped, sinking back to the gravelly floor. He had never been much of a runner and the past few weeks of relative inactivity left him in worse shape than ever. He was a thin man, but as he well knew, being thin didn't guarantee any sort of physical fitness. Promising to himself that he'd make an effort to start getting in better shape, he worked out an exercise routine in his head and told himself that this time, he'd stick to it.
A cloud drifted overhead, blocking the sun, and a shadow fell over him. He laid back against the floor and stared up at the sky. It was a peaceful shade of blue and the clouds looked as if they had been painted on.
His thoughts soon turned to the coming day and he felt sick, a heavy sense of dread lining his stomach. He was afraid and the idea of leaving their safe haven left him feeling tired and exposed. They were sure to run into trouble, he knew it, and he silently prayed that the three of them would make it back alive.
Isaac had grown on him the past few weeks and he couldn't bear the thought of losing him. Not only did losing a fellow survivor seem like a terrible waste of life, but Isaac was almost grandfatherly and him and Paul both took an instant liking to the kindly old man.
He definitely didn't share Paul's confidence in their future successes. Paul's brief tenure in the Army left his brother with a certain arrogance, a certain overzealous appraisal of his own abilities. Not that he'd ever seen combat. There was no war going on, save for a few small skirmishes in the Middle East, and Paul had been stationed far from any fighting. But he'd had the same training that all soldiers shared and Paul did score remarkably well on all accuracy tests. He was a great shot and Paul used to joke that his skill was owed to the large amount of video gaming he'd done as a child.
Either way, he was indispensable to them, being the only man who knew his way around a gun. A deep pride in his brother swelled within him and for the first time in a while he found himself thinking of Paul's positive qualities, instead of focusing on the negative ones.
He felt safer knowing that his brother would be joining him on the food run and started to think that maybe their odds weren't so bad after all. Paul had grown into a capable man and John was forced to remind himself that experience does come with age. By that logic, Isaac was the most capable of them all, having seen so many years of life. He'd have trouble believing that the old man could handle himself in a fight, if he hadn't seen it with his own eyes. Isaac was old, but the man knew how to throw a punch. And he was smart. Very smart. Isaac's eyes burned with a fierce intelligence and even before he first opened his mouth, John knew that he was speaking to a very bright man.
&nb
sp; An hour passed before he stood up and walked downstairs to wake the others. They would need to leave soon and John wanted to make sure that everyone was awake and alert beforehand. He would take no chances or unnecessary risks. They would be prepared, for whatever may happen.
Chapter Eleven
Friend and Foe
“Dante! Please, pour me another.” Ben slurred and waved his glass in the air. Silence followed for a moment, before Dante replied. “Sure, buddy.” He filled the glass full of cheap whiskey and Ben took a large, sloppy gulp.
Ben sat in his favorite armchair, facing the window. He continued his rapid consumption of liquor and stared outside. “You know what, I don't... I – and then, what if – I...” He struggled to find the right words through his incoherent babble. “I mean, what'll we do, Dante? What'll we do when it's all over? What'll we -”
Click. “ Goodbye, old friend.” Dante pulled the trigger and the blast shot through the back of Ben's skull, exiting his face. Blood sprayed across the glass and dripped down the sill with a steady plink, like a leaky faucet. He grabbed Ben by his shoulders and dragged him out of the chair, over to the alley side window. With a grunt, he lifted the heavy body up and heaved him over the edge. Ben toppled out the window and landed in the dumpster below, the lid clanging shut on top of him. The noise echoed through the alley for a moment, before the deep silence took over.
Dante stood up straight and stretched, cracking his back in the process. Ben had always been a big guy, standing over six and a half feet tall, solidly built with muscle, but he had put on weight the last couple weeks and carrying him had been no easy task. Dante bent backwards again and another satisfying crack followed. He stood upright, feeling slightly better.
It was no easy decision, killing Ben. They had history together, from high school, to the marines, to their time spent as mercenaries down south. They'd found themselves in a lot of tight spots, saved each other's asses more times than he cared to remember.
But if there was one thing he'd learned as a merc, it was that survival is all that counts. And anything that gets in the way of your survival must be eliminated, with extreme prejudice. Ben got in the way.
The past weeks, the man had fallen apart. Turned into a drunk and Dante was tired of constantly nursing him back to health, cleaning up after him. Once Ben lost the ability to help defend them, once Ben started doing nothing but drinking and consuming their food supply, he had to go. The man was a liability.
Still, it didn't make things any easier. Dante stared at the bloody window and his eyes traced the path he dragged the body over, a crimson streak serving as a grim reminder. With heavy, plodding steps, he approached the armchair and cringed. Bits of brain and bone had fallen to the floor and the blood was everywhere.
Sighing, he grabbed a towel and a bucket of water and started scrubbing. Best to clean it quickly, before it started to congeal. Forty minutes passed, before he was finally satisfied.
He got up off his knees, and looked around the small apartment. So empty. He felt strangely alone and stood there for several minutes, wondering what he should do. Finally, he decided.
Walking to the cupboard, he grabbed a bottle of tequila and poured a tall glass. The irony of his decision wasn't lost on him, but he felt the gravity of the preceding events merited a drink. He took a sip and his face contorted in disgust. He had never been much of a drinker and straight liquor always repulsed him. But, with nothing to mix it with, he was stuck. Ben had polished off the bar's supply of mixers days ago.
Fuck it. Instead of sipping, he tilted his head back and took several large gulps, resisting the urge to retch with every ounce of booze that fled past his tongue. His stomach trembled violently and he hunched over the sink, preparing himself for throwing up. Nothing came, though, so he staggered over to the cheap wooden chair by the table, and dropped down.
The alcohol was already starting to work its way through his system and he closed his eyes. Unconsciousness soon came and he slept for several straight hours, a dreamless sleep taking him.
Dante opened his eyes and groaned. His head felt several sizes too small and the sunlight streaming through the window made his headache even more intense. He wanted to get up and close the blinds, but the thought of moving filled him with dread. Surely, the slightest movement would intensify the burning in his belly. Turning his head slightly, he saw his shirt caked with dried vomit and he groaned again. He laid there, staring up at the ceiling.
Time slowly crawled by, before he finally realized he'd have to get up and eat
something, to ward off the nausea. He walked over to the cupboard, wolfed down several crackers, and finally started to feel slightly better.
The rest of the day passed slowly, measured in the spurts of pain and discomfort his night of drinking brought on. He accomplished none of the goals he had set for himself. Each nail he pounded into the barricade made his head throb, each bit of cleaning bringing on a fresh wave of nausea. When night finally came, he lay in bed and silently thanked God that he had an excuse to go to sleep.
But the sleep never came. His mind raced with thoughts and he tossed and turned, struggling to black out the painful sting of memories. Memories of Ben.
He reminisced about the time they were fighting drug smugglers in Bolivia, under heavy fire, outnumbered three to one. The job payed well, but the risk was high and a quarter of their unit was already downed. Ben was next to him and they took turns popping out from behind cover to lay down
suppressive fire.
Four smugglers, armed with cheap
Kalashnikovs, were spraying the jeep he was using for cover with a constant stream of bullets. He took one down, with a clean hit to the chest. As he slid back for protection, he saw a grenade sailing towards him. Dante froze, panicked. Ben looked over, calmly caught the grenade and whipped it back at the them. They won the skirmish, got paid handsomely, and lived to fight another day. Dante loved telling that story and Ben would always brush it aside, humbly. Ben had been, from that day on, something of a hero to him.
And now he was dead. Killed by Dante's own hand. Hours passed, as he stared up at the ceiling, wishing he could silence these thoughts that ran through his head like an unstoppable movie. Finally, unable to take anymore, he rolled out of bed and poured himself another tall tequila. Downing it in three big gulps, he laid back in bed and waited. Soon, the familiar numbing buzz crept over him and unconsciousness followed.
The jungle was hot and stifling, the humidity so thick it was almost palpable. The smuggler encampment was just coming into range, dimly visible through the trees. He crawled the rest of the way, silently approaching. When he came into view, he threw a wellplaced grenade into the center of camp.
The explosion signaled the start of the battle, and the smugglers sprang into action, laying down a thick haze of answering fire. The rest of his unit got into position and Dante ran for a nearby jeep for cover. Ben was already there and together they started shooting.
When Ben turned his back to him, Dante lifted his gun to the back of his head and pulled the trigger. Ben slumped over dead, head resting awkwardly against the front tire.
Then a grenade came flying towards him, in slow motion. He looked to Ben for help, but remembered he was already dead. Struggling to move, he found his feet unwilling to respond and he just stood and watched helplessly as the grenade exploded in his face. A hot, blinding flash followed and then, silence.
Dante woke up, covered in a cold sweat. The tequila was still working it's magic and he lay there, frozen by the nightmare, for just a few quiet minutes, before sleep took him again.
Chapter Twelve
Prison Break
“ Wake up, prisoner #655321. Your time has come.” A cold, harsh voice laughed over the intercom.
Tony sat upright on his cot, and looked around. Nobody was visible. He pulled back his loose, blond hair, and put it into a small ponytail. His gut rumbled, and he weakly wondered how long it had been since he ate. Too long.
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The intercom crackled again. “Ready for some fun?” His cell door slid open and he cautiously poked out his head. A few other living inmates lay weakly on their beds, but most were infected, or dead. Over near the entrance to the cell block, he saw movement. Squinting his eyes, he saw a short, fat guard. Harry. Shit.
“ Game on, scumbag!” Harry fired a shot at him and the bullet ricocheted off the wall, inches from his head.
“ Shit!” Tony took off running, praying that the entrance to Cell Block Four was unlocked. It hurt to move, his joints swollen from hunger and dehydration. In his path was an infected inmate, a cripple, fallen from his cheap wheelchair, arms flailing at him wildly. He leaped over it, just as another gunshot cracked. Shit shit shit.
He pushed himself harder, running as fast as his weakened legs would take him. Even in his current state, there should be no problem outrunning Harry. Harry was grossly out of shape, and ill-suited to work as a guard. Not just physically, but emotionally as well. The man was one sick bastard.
Many an inmate had come across the wrong end of his baton, for no reason. And, of course, since he was a guard, nobody believed that the attack was unprovoked. His cruelty and ignorance had made him the least popular of all guards, and many prisoners would fake illness to get away from him for a few days. At least in the medical ward, a man could find kindness. The head nurse was a cute, sweet little thing, and most inmates had developed a sort of crush on her.
Crack! Another shot, and he shook his head, snapping back to full alertness. Gotta keep moving. Tony had never felt such exhaustion. He reached the entrance to Cell Block Four and found the doors hanging wide open. With a plummeting feeling, he knew that Harry had set this up. He was going to die and there was nothing he could do about it. Where could he go, anyway?
He shook loose the grim thoughts again, and pumped his legs with renewed vigor. The obscene laughing behind him was terrifying, but he had to ignore it. Before he knew where he was, he burst through the main prison entrance, past Visitor Check-In.
The Outbreak Page 5