The noise from the plaza had escalated. Both sides were incredibly tense. Abruptly, the doors clacked shut and the SUV started rolling. We were inside.
We dropped from the car stealthily and rolled out from underneath. Zephyr was impressively quiet and we managed to tail the driver, catching the door to the stairwell just before it closed. Two steps at a time, we sprinted to the third floor and found a vantage point. There were at least ten security personnel outside, matched by almost twice as many military soldiers. The captain (or commander, or sergeant, or whatever they’re called) had lowered his rifle and was trying ineffectively to encourage others to do the same. He stood right next to the van.
Step two-point-two. I took out my phone again and sent a message. I could almost feel the little bits of information flying out into the air and scattering around in the sky, whizzing back and forth before coalescing and combining in the form of a sixteen-character text message. In the overturned van, another phone buzzed and set off a trigger.
It was a small blast, as explosions go. The captain was flung across the road, arms and legs bouncing hilariously along the tarmac. Shrapnel howled into the night, and both sides opened fire. Above the noise, I heard yells from inside; heavy footfalls stormed down the stairs in order to join the conflict. We waited until the din was fully localised outside, and dashed back to the stairs.
I knew the cameras had caught us, hence the face-masks. It would be a matter of minutes until one side won or the situation diffused. Time was the limiting factor, not detection. I pitched Zephyr through the fourth floor door and continued leaping stairs.
My legs were throbbing by the time I reached the twelfth floor, but I allowed adrenaline to do the heavy lifting for now. I’d recover tomorrow. The radio in my left pocket stuttered.
“I’ve got one. No sticky notes, but guess who her favourite child is?”
“Almost there.”
I took out my pistol—still silenced from Sturrock—and shot four rounds around the lock before kicking the door in.
Fucktruck!
“You’ve got to be fucking with me,” I cursed into the radio.
“What?”
“Not a server room. A break room.”
Zephyr swore richly. We had to adapt.
“Call it,” I hissed.
“What?”
“Call the server room. There must be a number at the desk. Call it. With any luck, it’s still on this floor.”
I listened, trying to drown out the livewire and gunfire. A few deep breaths later, and I heard it. It was faint, but definitely nearby.
“Keep ringing!”
I dashed up and down the corridors, zoning in on the sound. Eventually I found it, on the second dial from Zephyr. I repeated my entrance.
Two bullets left.
“Okay, Z. I’ve got it. What now?”
“Find the hub. Lots of network cables connected into a big panel.”
“Got it.”
“Look for one labelled ‘four-point-zero-nine’. Disconnect the other end and plug it into anything beginning with fourteen or higher.”
I rapidly rearranged the cables as instructed. There was a tense interval before my switch took effect.
“Reconnecting... I’m in!”
“What about the scheduler?” I asked.
“Ignore it. They’ll have switched to regular comms by now.”
“Coming down.”
I stopped by the window before taking the stairs. The gunshots had faded. The military presence had doubled. RailTech had lowered their weapons—outnumbered rather than outclassed.
The elevator pinged.
Shit.
I didn’t wait to see who was inside. My legs launched me down the stairwell in massive, jarring leaps.
“Someone’s still inside. Move fast.”
There was no response. I abandoned all pretence of a calm descent and started hopping over the railings, taking entire flights at a time. My knees would regret it later, but I’d make it up to them by not being dead.
I swept into the fourth floor, scanning the blind spots for an ambush. Zephyr’s face was lit up by computer 4.09. His mask was off and he seemed to be staring through the screen. I tried to get his attention.
“We have to bail, Z. We have to bail right now.”
No reaction.
“Zephyr! Wake the fuck up!”
I ran to his side and looked at the monitor. One look at the image, and I knew I’d lost him. I lifted my pistol and dropped him with a shot to the knee. This broke the seal: he started screaming, a wordless, ghastly sound that was comprised of more anguish than pain. I checked the flash disk and the file copy: almost complete. I cancelled the transfers relating to his daughter. Fifteen seconds, no, two minutes, no, ten seconds.
Don’t play games with me, Windows.
The computer flashed a message. There was probably a beep, but Zephyr drowned it out. I pulled the stick out—no time to Safely Remove—and met Zephyr on the ground.
The elevator pinged. They were here.
“Zephyr! Z! Listen to me. You are going to die here. You know what they do. You do the right thing.”
With that, I pushed a grenade into each hand and pulled the pins. He barely seemed to notice, but he kept his grip on the safety levers.
“Hold tight. Cheers, Z.”
I vaulted a desk and hugged the shadows as the doors slid open. Three figures ran out and surrounded Zephyr, glancing past me in their cursory checks. The transition from a bright elevator to a dark room saved me from detection.
Slower, but with a familiar sense of purpose, the fourth figure strode up to my partner. An alien-looking combat helmet, sleek and black, hid his face. His torso was protected by what looked like standard body armour. It probably wasn’t.
“I could recognise that hair anywhere. It has been a while, Zachary.”
The voice was crisp and textured. It sounded like autumn leaves getting crushed underfoot. I edged towards the elevator, pistol ready.
One bullet. Reloading too noisy.
“Where is your friend? Or, whatever you would call the one who shot you and left you to die. Not a friend, surely?”
Drop the grenades, ‘Zachary’.
Zephary’s screams had surrendered into a miserable moan. Black Helmet took out a handgun. There was a crack, and the moaning stopped.
The light ptup-ptaps of grenades hitting the floor was almost imperceptible after the sound of the shot. To his credit, Black Helmet moved quickly. He launched himself off the men on either side and vaulted over a desk in reverse before rolling another few metres behind cover. His partners (subordinates?) weren’t so lucky. The noise was deafening.
I staggered to my feet. A gaping hole had opened up in the side of the building, pulling a cold breeze through the room. Shreds of paper swirled in the air. A coughing came from the corner, and Black Helmet rose from behind a fragmented desk.
My reaction speed saved him as I instinctively raised my arm and spent my last bullet, throwing his head back with a disconcerting clang. In a calmer time, I’d have waited for a cleaner shot. Of course the helmet was bulletproof. I kept the gun trained on the desk and closed in while I patted around in my coat for a new magazine. A cold voice rose from the debris.
“That is a Beretta Px4 Storm, point-four-five caliber. Ten rounds at most. I count four in each door upstairs, one in your friend, and the last one for me.”
I stopped advancing, and he spoke again.
“We will find out who you are. We will find you. We will end you.”
He rose again from behind the desk. Spider web patterns radiated out from the centre of his visor. With one hand, he lifted it off his face. The other held the handgun. I had no time to reload.
“Alternatively, I could just kill you now.”
It was my turn to move quickly, flattening my form and diving towards the elevator. Two shots bit the wall beside me. The doors slid shut, sealing him out. I mashed the button for the basement.
I sucked air into my lungs. I knew that face. I knew that brown hair, those intense blue eyes. I knew that sharp jaw. I think I’d spoiled my chances for a date.
The parking basement was deserted. Not for long, I was pretty sure. I set off at a sprint, straight past the booth guard. There were shouts, but I curved out of sight before gunfire followed. I didn’t stop running until I reached the crossing point.
#0437
“Things are finally quieting down. The cordons have been successful. The Isolation Doctrines have done their job. The gutterages have been quarantined.
“The police have been fully replaced by the military. I’m not complaining, mostly. I have a new place to call ... home?
“For all the changes ... For all the changes, and the death and carnage and chaos, I’ve remained the same. That’s why I’m going to kill you. The only way to lose against the apocalypse is to lose yourself. “The grinning flesh won’t win just yet.
“I’m in a strange mood, so I’ll let you choose. Claw hammer or ice pick?”
13: The Military Has Taken Control
I didn’t make it home. Instead, I collapsed in a wreckage-filled apartment. I slept, despite the livewire. A fire had ravaged most of the building, leaving the structure weak and the pickings scarce. Scavengers wouldn’t be looking here, and squatters had better places to live.
The building whined in the gentle breeze, but no one listened to its complaints as I slept soundly. I woke with a twisty pit forming in my stomach. The sun slicked across my left eye. My muscles hurt, not ‘straitjacket-night’ pain but the dull ache of intense overexertion. I pulled my phone out and tried to inform Vincent of the situation. My texts didn’t deliver.
Zephyr was dead, but he had covered my escape. At least he was useful. Most people were too busy running towards the explosion inside to mind the shadow sprinting away. Lucky me. Black Helmet—Razorjaw—weighed heavily on my mind. I suspected it was his SUV we hitched a ride in with, but I couldn’t be sure. I’d have to check license plates, just in case.
There was something intensely cold and purposeful about him, nearly glacial. Every movement—save the lurch of his head as I shot him—seemed infinitely pre-planned and calculated. He struck me as a man who made very few mistakes. I felt that it would be wise to take his threat seriously.
I got to my feet, methodically. In exhaustion and desperation, I’d chosen this place, but in the morning light I could see how fragile the entire building was. To my left, less than two metres, a massive hole opened in the floor. A comfortable-looking cushion of jagged concrete and twisted steel lay at the bottom, a few floors down. I hadn’t seen it in the dark.
Soot clogged the back of my hair. It was fairly short-cropped, but that wasn’t much protection from the grime and sweat of the night. My face felt sunburned. I was not at my most appealing.
Slowly descending through the building, I spent some time clearing my head as I walked through the rooms. Singed family photos still hung unevenly on walls. Where there was less damage, I could still see dregs of past lives: red bills and half-filled calendars were still pinned to walls. ‘Job Interview’, scheduled for June 26th, with a smiley-face scribbled underneath. Unfortunate.
A nameless, worthless bum had started the chaos in this city. I don’t know why he vomited blood all over the road. Maybe it was swallowed from a nosebleed or burst from a stomach ulcer. Maybe it wasn’t blood at all, but cheap red wine. It’s as irrelevant as he was. With staggering, uneven feet he accomplished something more notable than the rest of his entire existence put together. I remember the scene, starkly. I’d been sitting just across the road, watching a target sip his coffee. The details of the case escape me now. They aren’t important.
I was halfway through a tuna salad when I heard a car alarm, followed rapidly by screams. Switching my attention, I saw the body splayed over the bonnet of a car, red spilling down the front. He heaved and sent out another wave of red. The screams intensified.
Everyone had been reading about Africa. We all knew about London, Berlin and New York. Every person in the city had seen the photos from Paris and the footage from Moscow. Same opinion, the world over: “The government will contain it. It won’t come to us.”
All witnesses panicked, myself included. A tiny voice accused me of losing my target in the mêlée. I told that voice to shut up and get with the programme. I like to think I was better prepared: since June 1st I’d been carrying a mask on my person. The vindication of my foresight did not encourage me to stick around. A ring of emptiness was expanding around the gusher, who had staggered into the middle of the road. A third convulsion sent the terror-inducing liquid all over the tarmac. I saw true fear that day.
It is uncommon for fear to be alone. It can be tinged with regret, tainted with false hope, diluted by courage or dulled by acceptance. It is the mind-killer, and the greatest opponent of clear thought; as such, we cut it with different feelings to save ourselves from its skaverous grip. Since that day, I’d only seen true fear once. There were no survivors.
Those first few minutes had been exhilarating and terrifying, anarchy cocaine (anarchaine?) in a pure torrent—straight to the brain. The surging crowds flooded the streets, sparking ancillary snowballs of violence and looting. I got away from people as quickly as possible. Sure, I had the mask, but all it took was an unexpected scuffle and I would be vulnerable again. I wasn’t planning on bleeding from every orifice, nor did I intend to keep my internal organs in a thermos flask. At the time, I had lived by the river in the north-west quadrant. I barricaded my flat, loaded my weapons, and waited.
The great wheel of turmoil rolled on late into the night. I passed the time by wiring IEDs and taking crack shots at rioters in the streets. I saved a woman as she was dragged from her car, dropping her attackers all over her windows. To even the score, I put four bullets through her windscreen and watched her choke to death on her lung fluids. Someone across the road tried to counter-snipe me; we shared a brief romance through our scopes until I switched windows and surprised him. His rifle spiralled out of the window and clattered to the street.
The military arrived on day two, June 28th. I was lucky enough to fall within the quarantine zone. Armoured vehicles worked throughout the day to clear the area. Fires burned in the distance, and gunshots could be heard from the south. I thought better of practising my aim on the army.
“Remain in your homes. This area has not been exposed to the Red Masque virus. The military has taken control.”
Despite the blaring announcement—every five goddamn minutes—I managed to sleep for the first time since everything started. I didn’t take the barricades down.
“This area has not been exposed to the Red Masque virus.”
Despite its haggard state, the city breathed a collective sigh of relief. I looked at the map on my wall and slowly started marking what I knew, using social media and word of mouth to calculate the areas worst affected. Army radio scanners further assisted in the cause, revealing all the makeshift fortifications and checkpoints. In the conflict the city had been divided in half, with the north quadrants remaining under control while the south continued to collapse. I drew a large, red circle around the Helix Institute.
“The military has taken control.”
I was less happy about that. I had contacts in the police force, but they were of little use to me now. I thought of Vincent, and wondered what he’d done. Was he even in this city? Valerie came to mind, too—that curious doctor with her pretty scalpels and morphine. How had she fared?
I had the feeling that she could handle herself. Vincent was probably holed up in a bunker somewhere, shouting orders into a telephone and checking his ammunition. For him, the distinction between military and law enforcement was less of a line and more of a blurry sine-wave. The last I’d heard from him was a message on June 1st: “Global clusterfuck is live. Heathrow, Domodedovo, JFK, Schonefeld infected.
Africa is lost. Get a mask. Good luck.” The tone had jarred me into action.
The conflict stretched over the next few days. The announcement now only repeated every hour, thankfully.
“The military has taken control.”
That was how things were, from thereon in. The military cruised in and never really left. Makeshift checkpoints were replaced with prefab structures, which slowly expanded into perimeter walls. Patrols replaced missions; tension replaced conflict. The Helix replaced my home. I still own it—technically—but it’s a relic of a past existence now—pre-apocalypse K. Everyone has to keep swimming, or else they’ll suffocate. Plus, it doesn’t have a series of medical-grade furnaces, six floors of laboratory or enough surgical spirits to give cirrhosis to an entire platoon. It’s the little things that add up.
I disengaged from my musings as I left the building. I had to get home and back up the flash disk, preferably in multiple places. With it, the mission was a success. Without it, I’d just made an enemy with a team that played neither nice nor fair, for absolutely nothing. The air hung on my body—hot, still and lifeless. First and foremost, I really wanted a shower.
***
Shower scenes are very overdone. Words like ‘rivulet’ and ‘shimmering’, ‘soaked’ and ‘drenched’ and ‘cascade’ and ‘stream’ and ‘trickle’ make every few words sound like a bell. A heavy, dolorous bell.
“The hot stream of water blasted through her hair, soaking her to the skin. Shimmering rivulets trickled down her face, combining into streams which cascaded off her cheeks to the floor.”
I always find myself waiting for the serial killer to appear. Usually they don’t. I remember giggling maniacally during a re-run of Psycho. Bates had such attractive eyes.
I turned the water on and stepped in. I rubbed my body and I cleaned myself in the freezing liquid—simple as that. No deep breaths and hot head-flicks. No steamy shower scene for me. Better that way. I was the one who would have been jumping in with the kitchen knife.
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