by Karpa, Boris
Suddenly, his vision was filled with fire and smoke. A gun roared just over his head, the sound of the shot battering his ears. The dead creature twitched, and let go of his left leg – not because it could feel pain, but just because one of its arms was shattered at the elbow. The gun roared again – and again, and the monster slumped down, a single bleeding hole appearing in the top of his head.
“What -” – Arthur tried to clamber back to his feet. His hands were still shaking. He saw Jake standing over him, offering him a hand.
“Get up.” – said Jake.
Without a second thought, Arthur grabbed Jake's hand, and attempted to pull himself up – but instead, the youth simply collapsed on him, giving a yelp of pain and surprise. For a brief moment, they were a jumble of arms and legs.
- “I... sorry, man, sorry..” – Jake moaned, pulling himself away on his forearms, crawling away until he disentangled himself from Arthur. In one hand, he still held the now-empty revolver – “I think I broke something... Drillmaster Jameson, he must have broken my rib something...”
- “I'd not be surprised!” – Martin shouted. Both boys spun their heads around. A dozen yards away, the advisor was standing in a triumphant pose, his feet in a wide stance, his pistol trained on the brush line. – “With how he flipped out on you, you're lucky he hasn't broken more than a rib!”
There was a brief pause as they just looked at each other. It seemed each of them was trying to evaluate their position. The fight was over, for now – at the very least, no more of the dead creatures were coming through the broken-up bush. Arthur listened to the feelings in his own body – nothing seemed to be hurt. His hands shook slightly as he searched for his rifle and shook the sand off. Next to him, Jake got up once more. Coughing viciously and swearing like a sailor, Martin looked over the young man he had rescued.
“Thank you.” – said Arthur, looking up at Jake. It was only now he could get a good look at the young man. He was taller than Arthur by half a head, and very thin – you could almost see the outline of his ribs through his pale, bruised skin. His head had been shaved recently, with the new growth of hair only barely visible – as if the skin on his head was a few shades darker than the rest of his body. He had gray eyes, and his face was decorated with at least three bruises. He tried to smile at Arthur and blood appeared on his broken lips. – “You saved my life... I think.”
“That thing was going to eat you.” – Jake said. – “I had a gun. I just did... it was instinct. It's you who saved my life. You and...”
“Martin. My name is Martin.” – said the advisor. – “That thing,” – he motioned towards the broken pile of flesh and bone that was drillmaster Jameson. – “That thing was going to kill you. We heard the screams. It was instinct.”
“Thank you.”
“Shut up.” – the advisor said, tiredly.
“What?” – Arthur and Jake said in near-perfect unison.
“I don't think our friend Jake here looks all that well. And this here sack – “ Martin pushed at Jameson's corpse with the toe of his boot – “has given me quite a beating, too. Let's just drive and get help. Talk later.”
“I...” – Arthur wasn't quite sure what to say.
“Don't talk. Help Jake. He's in a worse shape than me. Up the hill.”
It took them ten minutes to scale the sandy, three-yard slope. It was not much – or rather, would not be too much, were they all healthy. But Jake could not move up the slope on his own at all. Only with some struggling and the help of Arthur and Martin did he finally negotiate the slope. Martin tried to first get up the slope himself, and then fell down on his knees. It would be on the second try that he got upwards, grabbing branches and roots with his hands. It was difficult to imagine a sandy slope this low could be this hard.
The bushes, on the other hand, were far easier to bypass this time around. Wide paths had appeared where the ghouls had come through the bush. In one place, branches and stems were broken and a ghoul lay on his back on top of the broken plants, a single black hole marking its forehead. Martin had shot this one at some point during the fight.
On the road, four or five ghouls were clustered around the two cars. They turned their heads towards the humans – but this was nothing like the fight they'd just had. Martin's pistol and Arthur's rifle barked at once. Two ghouls fell to the ground like marionettes with their strings cut. Arthur moved forward, on half-bent legs, shifting his aim from the rightmost ghoul to the next one, leftwards, like a sportsman in an exercise. To his left, Martin performed the same task, holding his pistol in two outstretched hands. They hit the last ghoul simultaneously. Its head exploded like an overripe watermelon. For the briefest second, it remained upright, a horrible wet stump of a skull remaining in its place, ending just above the jaw. Then it fell.
“Quickly.” – Martin said – “Get into Jameson's truck here It's in better shape than our Yo-Mobile. Jake, get in with Arthur. Follow me. We can't leave the truck here. They'll find it and know he's dead.”
“But...” – Arthur tried again.
“We need to get help. We can't leave the truck here. They'll find it and know what happened. We need to go. The Florentines have a doctor. Follow me.”
There was no arguing, it seemed. Minutes later, the small, scratched-up red crossover began to move. The greenish pickup truck followed soon after, with Jake strapped into the passenger seat and Arthur clutching the steering wheel.
“So... is this normal?” – Jake asked.
“What do you mean?” – Arthur replied with a question. The road was nearly empty, but he still needed to pay attention to tracking the red car as it bobbed through the wreckage. He had never been a very good driver, and this wasn't quite the right opportunity to learn.
“Well. I've only been at Serenity Bay since it all started. Is it normal like this on the outside?”
Arthur forced a smile. “Not really. Although it might be in Martin's job.”
“At Serenity Bay they say...”
“I know. I've been there.” – Arthur smiled – “They tell you that if you run away, the ghouls eat you. Well, you ran away. Did the ghouls eat you? I see you alive and healthy.”
Jake paused. – “I was really afraid they might. I hoped I could get to the next place over – I knew there are other places, because Serenity Bay trades with them. But then during the night. During the night I saw some of these... things...” – he shuddered – “I hid in a house attic. The creatures didn't find me.”
“But the drillmasters did.” – Arthur nodded, spinning the wheel to avoid the husk of a motorcycled. The riders was still here – his skeleton, rather, picked dry by crows and ghouls, it's skull like a yellowish ball lying on the tarmac a few yards from the rest of the body.
“You've got that right.” – Jake nodded, shuddering – “Look... I feel tired as hell. Do you mind if I just fall asleep right here. I've not slept the night. “
“I don't think that's good. “ – Arthur shook his head – “I think I'm supposed to keep you conscious.” – he heard something like that from Martin. He also remembered stories of injured people drifting into unconsciousness and never waking up again.
“How long?”
“Until we get to these Florentine people Martin keeps talking about. They have a doctor. I think they're going to help us out.”
“The Florentines? What are they like?”
“The Florentine Republic.” – Arthur paused. – “I don't have the slightest idea what they're like. Martin says they'll help.”
“I guess...” – Jake tried again, the words slurring together in his mouth – “I guess we're going to find out.”
11:30
The first impression that Arthur got of the Florentine Republic was that it was a mixture between an armed camp and a gang. Its entrance was a tall fence cutting off a city street, with a double gate for entry. The w
indows of the apartment buildings have been blocked – in some places with bricks, in others with bars and wire meshes. Arthur only spotted one armed man, standing openly on a fifth-story balcony. He was holding an assault rifle much like Arthur's own gun. Only shoulder-length dreadlocks disrupted his soldier-like appearance. A large colorful flag, the size of a bed sheet on a king-size bed, waved from one of the houses. On the wall of the other one, a large portrait of a Jamaican man with dreadlocks, puffing on a giant roll-up cigarette, was drawn.
“Isn't that Bob Marley?” – Jake breathed out, nodding towards the image.
“That he might be.” – Arthur replied, shrugging. – “It looks new. I wonder if they drew this Before, or After.” – there was no need to explain what Before and After meant. The paint looked as if it was fresh – ruling out it being over six months old – but it was difficult to imagine people would find the time for wall paintings when the apocalypse raged around them.
In front of them, Martin's car stood, its door open. Martin was waving his arms, shouting to the man with the dreadlocks. The glass made it difficult to discern what he said. Sometimes the man with the dreadlocks shouted back. The advisor shrugged, and began to walk back to the pickup truck. He bent down and knocked on the driver's side window. After Arthur rolled it down, he said:
“This guy doesn't know me. Can't blame him, I don't come here often. Stay put. In a few minutes someone will come. I asked him to bring his boss.”
“His boss?” – Jake asked – “Is that like a mob thing?”
“No.” – Martin answered curtly – “You'll see in a moment.” – with that, not adding another word, he returned to his car.
Five minutes later the gates began to open – outwards, of course. Slowly, like turtles, the two cars began to roll through the gate. As soon as the pickup entered, the gate began to close behind them. As they moved on, Arthur looked at his rear-view window only to see another man in uniform, this time wearing a strawberry-red beret – not a military-style beret, but a broad, pancake-shaped beret with a small bulbous shape at the top, with a completely nonmilitary look – locking the gate from within with a heavy padlock.
As soon as the gate had locked behind them and they were safely inside, Martin's car ground to a halt. Arthur stopped too. He wasn't quite certain what was going on, but he didn't want to just run into the advisor's car. Now that would be rounding out a perfect day.
In an instant, the cars were surrounded by people. Most of them, Arthur noticed, were not wearing camouflage at all – dreadlocks, shirts in strange colors, body piercings or simply long, unkempt hair were the order of the day. And, it seemed, these people had brought a stretcher.
Laughter and voices surrounded the two cars. A strange, musky-sweet smell invaded the passenger cabin as the two doors were opened at once. Arthur never had the chance to even put a word in as the young man next to him was nearly carried out of the pickup. He'd not even noticed when Jake's seat belt had been unbuckled. By the time he understood what had happened, two men just slightly older than Arthur himself were already laying Jake down on a stretcher.
“Are you all right?” – someone waved a hand in front of his face.
“Sure.” – he nodded. – “Just got a bit distracted, that's all.”
It was a woman, looking to be about twice Arthur's own age. The first thing Arthur noticed about her was that she wore huge glasses with a thick black frame, seeming to take up half of her thin face. When she smiled, her teeth looked slightly too large, as if borrowed from a different person altogether. A greenish-grey shirt that was three or sizes too large hung on her thin frame. Her arms looked as if they were made of matchsticks. Bead-bracelets clanked on her wrists as she moved – but perhaps strangest of all was the armband she wore – a piece of white cloth with a Red Cross.
- "I'm Doctor Amanda Cook." – she said – "I'm with the hospital here."
- "Hos.... pital?" – he mouthed. The word seemed like a miracle.
- "Yes. Florentine Municipal Hospital. We're going to provide you and your friends here with all the help you need. I think I need to look you over,"
- "Me?" – Arthur looked at her perplexedly – "But I'm fine. Really, can't you see I'm fine?"
- "You are not fine, young man. You are bruised all over and you have cuts on your face. Had I not known you'd come with Martin Schmitt, I'd be suspecting you've been bit." – Arthur made a mental note: these people know Martin and they trust him.
- "I'm not hurt." – Arthur tried to argue, even as he began to get out of the driver's seat. – "That's nothing, just a few scratches."
- "Don't you play the hero with me, young man." – the doctor said with sudden sternness, grabbing his wrist. Arthur felt as if he had gotten his wrist caught in a trap. – "Seven months ago if you came in to any nurse's office at a school looking like this, she would stop everything she was doing and get started on cleaning your face up. Do you want those cuts to be infected?"
- "Infected?" – Arthur started – "I'm not bit..." – but then he realized she was talking about a simpler sort of infection.
- "You know what I'm talking about," – said the doctor. – "Come with me."
*
Amanda Cook's clinic office was similar to any doctor's office you could imagine. A copy of her medical license hung on the wall in a frame. A soft chair was prepared for patients to sit in, and tall white cupboards full of medicine and tools lined the walls. The only thing that hinted at the state of the world outside was a rifle propped up in a corner of the room.
Amanda herself was now wearing a light-green overcoat and latex gloves. Arthur was seated in the chair, grinding teeth in pain as the woman worked on his face, cleaning sand and small pieces of branches from the lacerations on his cheeks. Then she swabbed at the wounds with alcohol – something that seemed to be far more painful than actually running through the branches was in the first place.
- "Ugh." – Arthur granted in pain as the doctor moved her hand across his cheek, rubbing it with a small piece of cotton. The alcohol dripped down his cheek, clear and cold – but burning painfully anywhere it touched his cuts – "Is that really necessary?"
- "Here, here." – Amanda spoke to him as if he was a child – "Let me just clean you up. I think we're not going to need stitches on any of it. They're really just scratches, but I had to clean them. Wanted to be sure. Really, you're like a twelve-year old."
- "Well. I told you they're just scratches." – said Arthur, getting out of the chair. For a moment, he stopped to take a look at it. It looked almost like a dentist's chair – covered in blue, rubbery plastic, designed to keep a patient half-seated and half-prone.
- "You've clearly been out of civilization too long." – Amanda replied – "People who live outside often neglect injuries because they feel they're not life-threatening. I think it's the fear of the ghouls that makes them act like this. They fear that stopping to tend to a scratch or a cold might put them at risk. Distract them from taking care of bigger threats."
- "And you don't think that's true?" – Arthur looked at her, perplexed.
- "It's not true in here," – shrugged the physician. – "Take a look." – she pointed to the window.
For a few seconds, Arthur stood still in front of the glass trying to take in what he saw. The office was facing inward – away from the fortified walls and clumps of barbed wire that made up the borders of the Florentine Republic. Instead, it opened with a view to what had once been a small neighborhood park. But now, instead of playing children and men walking their dogs, it had become a campground. Dozens of tents – from small, silvery tourist tents to giant Army tents that could easily fit a platoon of soldiers – filled every available surface – quite literally. The roofs of the apartment buildings that surrounded the park were also covered in tents. Even on the balconies, Arthur saw laid out beds and sleeping bags.
But that wasn't what made this place special, Arthur realized. That would be the colors.
Everywhere he could cast his eye, people walked dressed in the most outrageous clothing. Here was a man with long gray hair rolling down to his shoulders, seated down at the entrance of his tent. smoking a pipe. There walked two men in black leather, gleaming metal spikes rising from their shoulders. But the most common were the men and women with baggy, multi-colored clothes – somewhat like Amanda herself, except with more colors and more audacity.
- "Open the window." – the doctor suggested. Arthur did – and for a moment, the world seemed to stop. He was overwhelmed almost instantly by the noise. Music of all kinds rose from different corners of the camp. There was the humming of several flutes, the sad drone of acoustic guitars and the grinding roar of electric instruments. And, above all else, there was the heart-pounding rhythm of several drums.
- "What the hell?" – Arthur shouted to Amanda.
- "Welcome to the Florentine Republic!" – the doctor replied, – "The only downside is that I have to keep my window closed when I work! I love those guys!"
Arthur glanced back at the doctor's sudden exuberance – but in a second it was beginning to fill even him. After six months in Serenity Bay, after everything that had made this world "After" – this was the most amazing and beautiful thing he had seen in his entire life. He looked at Amanda again, his eyes widening with excitement.
- "Thank you, doctor." – he said.
- "You're welcome," – the woman nodded. Behind the broad glasses, her eyes shone with childish mischief.
- "Where can I find my friend?" – Arthur spoke. He had not meant to call Martin his "friend", but it had come out that way. In a flash, he decided not to correct himself.
- "Do you mean advisor Schmitt?"- the physician replied – "I've seen him taken to Doctor Infante's office. That's down the hall."