Adaptive Instinct (Survival Instinct)

by Stittle, Kristal

  “What floor is that on?” April asked as he picked up the set.

  “Uhhh,” River looked over the numbers. “Twenty-third.” That was two floors from the top and would be one of the extra nice rooms.

  “No good. Find something that’s on one of the lower floors. Second, third, maybe fourth.”

  River grumbled. All the rooms were nice, but the lower floors were the crappier, more basic rooms.

  April noticed his grumbling. “The power’s out. Do you really want to carry all this stuff up twenty-three flights of stairs?”

  River did not. He found a set of keys from the fifth floor. All the rooms lower than that were booked, or at least had their keys taken.

  They headed for the stairs.

  ***

  Several hours later, they were in their room and settled in. One of the hockey bags had a small container of litter in it so they were able to make a shit box out of a dresser drawer for Splatter. Robin was laid out on one of the beds, still out of it. Even Quin wasn’t sure if it was because of the drugs, or because she was so upset about what had happened that she was just refusing to wake up. Seemed like a cop-out to River. April had been coughing a lot more, and that concerned him. Weren’t the zombies created through an infection? And with Robin out, he and Quin had no idea what happened to them on their trip to the grocery store. Quin didn’t seem concerned, but he could just be fried again. It was up to River to look after him.

  April lay down on her side of the bed next to Robin, and started coughing again. She said that she was exhausted, that she had barely slept in the BMW. Even while she tried to sleep, she clutched the sword in one hand. Quin lay down on the other bed; maybe trying to sleep as well, maybe just out of it to the point where lying down was the best thing to do. He still hadn’t had any drugs and was soon likely to be taken by the shakes and shivers that had plagued him the last few days.

  Having slept quite well in the BMW, River wasn’t tired at all and occupied a plush chair in a corner of the room. He was going to stay awake and watch over them. He was going to make sure that April didn’t suddenly try to eat Robin and Quin like Zach had.

  As he sat there, River thought about all the places he had been in his life. All the countries, cities, and hotel rooms. He had seen so many people in his lifetime. Oceans of faces. He wondered how many of those millions of people were still alive, how many of them had been turned into zombies. He thought of his mom and was glad she had passed away many years ago. She wouldn’t have been able to handle this; it would have cracked her mind. She would have gone screaming out into the street, gibbering madly as the zombies brought her down. Everyone River cared about was dead, save Quin. His mom, Mitchell, Zach, Gregory, all dead. Even the people he only somewhat cared about, either were dead or could be presumed dead: their manager, Jared, the bodyguards, Harris, Terry, Lewis, and Fred, his estranged wife, Lucille, and his ex-wives, Paris and Suzanne.

  The next person who came to River’s mind actually surprised him: his father. River hadn’t known the man much. He was just a guy who showed up once a year on his birthday to give him a present, take him out to a hockey game, and give his mom a wad of cash. River realized he had no idea what his dad did for a living, or why his mom never talked about him. He had never asked her, and just accepted things for what they were. He remembered his dad as a harsh man who never took shit from anyone. There was one year when someone tripped on the steps next to them at the hockey game, and spilled a drink all over River’s dad. He proceeded to give that guy an earful, threatening to rip his head off with his bare hands. River thought his dad could do it too. Although he wasn’t very big, there was a fierceness to him. After his thirteenth birthday, his dad just stopped showing up. River never learned why, never even asked. He had been scared of the man and was totally fine with spending his birthday with his mom and his friends. River’s dad had given him one life-changing gift though. He had been the one to give River his first guitar and his first guitar lesson. How he could have forgotten that, he didn’t know. He wished he had that guitar now: a simple acoustic guitar with steel strings and a bird-wing sticker stuck to the back. Being able to play something now would have been great, soothing. Instead, he had to listen to April coughing in her sleep. His dad would’ve known what to do about that.

  After two hours, River came to a decision. He rose from his chair and walked over to April. Gently, he took the sword from her dangling arm. April stirred a little, and drew her arm up to her chest, but didn’t wake up. He took the sword out of its sheath, gently placing the wooden case on the ground. Slowly he positioned the point of the blade over April’s head. It would be quick, and it would be painless. It was a far better fate than becoming a zombie. He raised the sword.

  Just before he plunged the sword down, he glanced at the other side of the bed. Robin was awake and staring at him, her eyes wide. Before River had a chance to say anything, the girl let an ear-piercing shriek rip free of her lungs. It wasn’t like the shrieks he heard at concerts; it was a shriek of utter terror.

  Didn’t matter, he had to take care of business. He directed his attention back to April, who began to open her eyes. It would be better if he could finish this before she became aware. It would be more humane that way.

  Just before he could bring the sword down, Quin tackled him. The sword was knocked from his hands and clattered to the floor.

  “Quin!” River shouted at him. Clearly, he didn’t understand. “This is for your own good!”

  River tried to shove Quin off of him, but he was so much stronger. They tussled on the floor until River got his legs under him and kicked Quin off. He spotted the sword nearby and snatched it as he got to his feet. Quin stood between him and the girls. April was curled up in terror against the headboard with Robin’s arms wrapped protectively around her.

  “What are you doing, man?” Quin shouted at him.

  “She’s infected,” River pointed his free hand at April. “We have to kill her before she can infect the rest of us.”

  Quin looked back at April for a moment, and then turned back to River. “She’s not infected.”

  “You’ve heard her coughing.” There was no way Quin couldn’t have.

  Quin didn’t respond because, of course, he had.

  “We were out in a rain storm,” Robin came to her defence. “You don’t think it’s possible she might have gotten a cold? She was never bitten.”

  “You can’t be sure of that. Did you watch her every second of the day?” Even if she hadn’t been infected yesterday, that didn’t mean there wasn’t a chance of infection from some other day.

  “She’s not infected.” Robin’s look was dead sure. Her eyes were cold. She wasn’t going to let River kill April without a fight. So be it. If he had to take out Robin to save Quin, he would. He liked Robin, and he would feel bad about it, but Quin came first. Besides, April would kill Robin anyway if he let her get in the way. River’s true battle was with Quin right now. He had to make him see.

  “Quin, she’s infected. You remember Zach, right? He got sick first.”

  Quin didn’t say anything.

  “We have to protect ourselves. It’ll just be harder later, when she’s trying to bite us, to infect us as well. You have to see that.”

  Quin looked back at Robin and April again, then back at River. “You’re sure?”

  “Positive.”

  “Quin!” Robin was surprised at how easily he was giving in. River wasn’t. He had known Quin most of his life. They were family.

  Quin stepped to one side. He was giving River permission. As River stepped toward the girls, Robin pushed April behind her. She had no weapons; her shotgun was still in a bag across the room. The sword would deal with both girls quickly and easily.

  Pain exploded in River’s temple, causing him to stagger into the wall and drop the sword again. He turned and saw Quin standing in a boxer’s stance. He had just punched River in the side of the head.

  “You son of a bitch.” Ri
ver put up his own fists. “Fucking pussy wanker, ass bitch.”

  Fast as lightning, Quin’s fist flew at him, connecting with River’s cheek. He stumbled back into the wall, struggling to keep to his feet.

  “You killed Greg.” Tears had welled up in Quin’s eyes. “And I saw you, I saw you light the fire.”

  “I did it for Greg!” River charged, hitting Quin in the waist. He drove the other man into the wall across the room. Quin’s elbow smashed down into River’s back, then a second time, and a third time into his head. River fell to the floor. He watched as Quin’s boot came flying at his face.

  Things didn’t go black, but they slipped into a haze. Everything was fuzzy and out of focus. He couldn’t think right, as if he was high on some terrible drug. There was a sound, like something smashing its way into the door. Zombies perhaps. They were all going to die now. He could barely make out the girls jumping off the bed and gathering up all their supplies. Someone was shouting, maybe more than one, but River’s mind couldn’t compute the words. It was like his head was trapped in a fish bowl. The door began to splinter, to smash in. Something shiny and silver came through a slot in the door. An axe. A fire axe.

  The door was kicked in, and a man in yellow firefighter gear was standing there. Zombie, must be. He didn’t charge at anyone though. In fact, Quin and the girls ran toward him. Not a zombie? But how? And who?

  Then he managed to make out one word from Quin, “Doyle.” It was the fucking fireman who had left them earlier. Blackness was invading the edges of River’s vision now. Still, he watched as they all left the room. They left him behind.

  Quin had abandoned him. He had abandoned him to die alone in the dark. What an asshole.

  14:

  Orson King – Day 15

  Orson King whistled as he drove the great big truck through the suburbs of Leighton. He was feeling very pleased with himself. He remembered his first thought about being released into the general population of the prison had been that it would be great, but he had been disappointed. There were very few private locations, and people were always watching each other. They were either just generally looking out for one another, or watching for infection. Orson couldn’t do anything he really wanted because of the close quarters. At least he was able to learn more about what had happened outside the prison. Although quite a few people didn’t want to talk about what happened, quite a few couldn’t resist. They loved that Orson had asked them, and that they had someone new to tell their tale.

  Zombies, how cool.

  It didn’t take long for Orson to get bored. At least when the prison was just that, a prison, they organized exercise time and a work detail. The people now in charge were trying to put together a work detail, get those who had useful skills to use them, but so far not much had come of it. The other prisoners seemed to integrate fine, talking to people, making friends, playing cards. Orson was sick of cards. Most of the day, he and Hank would sit and people-watch. Well, Orson would watch and describe things to Hank.

  Hank was the one who had come up with the plan: the one that involved cornering a single mom and using her kid as a hostage to get whatever they wanted. This, by itself, sounded good to Orson. However, Hank had figured that they wouldn’t be able to get away with it, that a mercenary would show up. Once that Asian chick entered the scene, they were able to use the mom and her kid to get the merc to do what they wanted, which was to get out. What the mercenary woman, Nicole, didn’t know, was that they had no plans to let any of them go. If it had been a dude who had shown up, they would have killed him once they got the truck and got outside, but a woman was more interesting alive.

  Now, they were cruising through the city with two women and a young girl in the back. Orson was going to have fun with those women, especially the chick who had busted his face. She was going to get it bad. The kid was just good leverage. Hank seemed to like the little girl for another reason. At first, Orson had been concerned about that. Even he couldn’t condone the abuse of a kid, but that wasn’t it. Hank missed his own daughter in a way. He had a seething hatred for his daughter, but missed her as well.

  At the moment, they were heading to Hank’s apartment building. Their first stop was going to be his home, where he could pick up a few things, as well as find out if his wife or kids were there. He wanted to know what happened to them if he could, and if they were there, they could join the collection in the back.

  Last night they had slept in the truck. They drove through the storm for a while, putting distance between them and the prison, but eventually had to pull over. Zombies had gathered outside the truck during the night, but Orson wasn’t bothered by them at all. In fact, the sounds they made were soothing in a way. Besides, he had no reason to fear them. In the morning, when they decided to get going again, he just had to start up the engine and run them down.

  He was happy, so he whistled. Hungry as well, but Hank said there was likely to be food at his place, so they could eat there. Yup, Orson liked his life at the moment.

  ***

  The visitor’s parking lot at the apartment building was almost entirely empty, but Orson wasn’t going to park there. He drove through the pick up and drop off lane and stopped near the entrance.

  “You ready?” Orson turned to Hank, who was sitting in the passenger seat.

  “Why wouldn’t I be?” Hank turned his head to face Orson. He could have been looking him right in the eye.

  “All right, let’s go.” Orson hopped out of his side of the truck.

  As he jogged around the front, Hank got out of his own side and closed the door behind him. Orson got to watch as he headed straight for the doors with no hesitation. From his pocket, Hank took out a set of keys. He had been given them when their personal effects had been returned at the prison. He and Orson passed through the first unlocked door and walked up to the second. This second door was locked and Hank got the key into the lock quicker than Orson would have been able to. It was simply amazing.

  Orson instinctively went to the elevator and pressed the call button.

  Hank placed a hand on his shoulder and laughed. “Guess you can’t hear it.”

  “Hear what?” Orson had just realized there was no power, but couldn’t hear anything.

  “The lack of an electric hum. It’s very odd; I’m not used to it. I don’t like it,” Hank admitted, a small touch of worry in his voice. “I’m used to certain things humming, so that I know exactly where they are, like that lamp.”

  Hank pointed to a lamp across the lobby. He must have pointed to it based on memory, because the lamp wasn’t actually there, emphasizing his point.

  Gently tugging his wrist, Hank guided Orson to a hallway. It seemed he didn’t know this hall as well as the rest of the building and trailed his fingertips across the floral wallpaper. Ahead, Orson saw a lamp shattered on the carpet. Perhaps it was the one that had been missing from the entranceway. When Hank’s shoes crunched the first pieces of glass, he startled and stopped.

  “What is that?” Hank cocked his head. “Sounded like glass.”

  “It’s a broken lamp. The one you gestured to near the entrance was gone. I think this is it.” Orson used the side of his foot to sweep the broken bits of lamp out of Hank’s path.

  “Tell me things like that.” Hank turned his large sunglasses toward Orson. With very little light from the front doors reaching them, the glasses were beginning to resemble hollow eye sockets.

  “Things like what? When there’s stuff in front of you? Sure, I should’ve done that, sorry. Wasn’t thinking.”

  “Also, if I mention something being somewhere, tell me if it’s not. It’s important for me to remove objects from my mental map.”

  “Okay, I’ll do that in the future.”

  Hank nodded, and began walking forward again. When they reached a door, Hank ran a hand over it.

  “This sign,” he traced a finger around a square, “does it say this is the staircase or a maintenance closet? I remember both being ne
ar here and the idiots that run this place forgot to put Braille on their signs.”

  It had gotten dark this far away from the entrance, and Orson had to squint to make out the letters. “Looks like the stairwell.”

  Hank pushed open the door and stepped into a black void. Orson quickly followed him and grabbed the back of his jacket.

  “What?” Hank stopped suddenly, thinking something was wrong. The door behind them swung closed, cutting off their meagre light source. The safety lights that usually came on when the power went out were also off. Their batteries had run out. Orson was as blind as Hank.

  “I can’t see anything,” Orson whispered. In so much darkness, he didn’t dare speak loudly. It was so dark, there was no difference when he closed his eyes, and for some reason, this made him open them as wide as possible.

  “It’s okay. I’ll lead the way. We’ll be following the inside railing so hold onto my coat with your left hand, and the railing with your right.”

  Orson did as he was told, groping through the dark until his hand wrapped around metal. Hank climbed the stairs slowly, giving Orson time to adjust to the size of each step. When Hank reached the first landing, he told Orson how many more steps there were until he would reach it as well. They rounded the corner and began the slow ascent to the next landing.

  Orson had never asked what floor Hank lived on, and didn’t dare ask now. He didn’t want to know how much farther they had to go. He just kept telling himself it was the next landing, they were just going to the next landing, and when they reached that one without stopping, then surely it was the next one. Being in such total darkness was terrifying. Orson couldn’t imagine living like this. How did Hank stay sane?

  This was the first time that Orson feared the zombies. They could be anywhere in the dark. Standing up ahead, waiting for Hank and Orson to come to them. Or maybe just below, slowly creeping after them, a rotten hand reaching out. Every footfall expected the crunch of brittle bone, the squish of loose flesh, but found only the hard, unyielding concrete.