The Alpha Plague 2

by Michael Robertson

  Rhys wrung the handle of his bat but didn’t reply.

  “You fucked up by leaving him with Vicky, you know? Oh, and you were right about that too; you never told me her name. I’ve known Vicky for some time now. We go way back. She’s not who you think she is, and you trusted her with your child… pretty fucking dumb, if you ask me.”

  Rhys’ breath quickened. “What are you talking about?”

  “Turn the order to incinerate off and let me out.”

  “No.”

  “I’m not telling you anything then. Let’s just hope your boy’s okay when you get to him, eh? Not that you’re going to make it back through the city.”

  Rhys shook as he retrieved his walkie-talkie from his tight pocket. He took a deep breath to calm himself before he switched it on.

  Static hissed out of the small speaker. No signal. Rhys pressed the button anyway. “Vicky, it’s Rhys. Can you hear me?”

  Nothing but static.

  Oscar laughed. “Poor little foolish Rhys. The man who trusted too much.”

  “You’re right, I did trust too much. I knew you were a bad egg from the start, but I ignored my gut feeling and that’s on me. I should have cut you loose immediately, Oscar, you fucking prick.”

  “Brendan,” Oscar said.

  “What?”

  “My name’s Brendan. Tell Vicky that Brendan says hi when you speak to her. Watch her reaction.”

  Rhys frowned so hard it hurt.

  “She was a good fuck, you know.”

  While he backed away, Rhys shook his head. He had to get out of there. Time spent with Oscar ate into the time he needed to escape. He looked at Flynn’s Superman watch. Just over one hour and forty-five minutes before the city burned hotter than hell.

  Oscar grinned and waved at Rhys as he backed away. “Bye bye, Rhys. You ain’t making it out of this city before it burns. Not with the hell you’ve just released out there and not without someone to bail you out as much as I have.”

  “At least I have a chance, you sick fuck. You have none. Good fucking riddance, you horrible bastard.”

  The sound of Oscar, or Brendan, or whatever his fucking name was, chased Rhys as he ran down the corridor away from him. “I should have fucking shot you when we were in the lift.”

  Rhys stopped and turned around. “But you didn’t, did you? And you know why?”

  Oscar paced up and down as he stared at Rhys.

  “Because you needed me to survive; that leg of yours is fucked and you couldn’t last without me. Sure, you did bail me out, but with your leg as it is now, you’re less than useless.” Rhys headed for the first set of doors.

  A string of shouted abuse preceded several more thuds as Oscar kicked the shit out of the doors. But Rhys didn’t look back. When he got to the first quarantine door, he swiped his card through the reader and it opened.

  After he’d stepped through, he waited for the door to close behind him, lifted his baseball bat, and looked at Oscar one last time. With gritted teeth, he yelled and smashed the small black box off the wall.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Once Rhys had passed through the last door at the end of the long corridor, he smashed the card reader from the wall as he’d done with the others. The brittle plastic shattered and tinkled on the ground. A black rectangular plate remained with wires that hung down from it like entrails.

  The section closest to the lift stank from the metallic stench of blood combined with the diseased reek of rot. Rhys could almost taste it.

  A glance back to the room at the end sent a chill through Rhys when he saw Oscar. The big man dipped his head and watched Rhys from beneath his brow while he rocked from side to side. If he doesn’t burn when the city goes up… Rhys shook the thought away. It didn’t serve him to think about it. Besides, how the fuck would Oscar get out of that room and off the island before it burned?

  The lift doors closed most of the way, but bashed into the leg of the dead scientist lying half in the lift and half in the corridor. Then the doors opened again. Each time they opened, a pre-recorded ting punched through the silence. The repetitive sound rang as the final ingredient of the madness that surrounded Rhys. Like a broken child that did nothing but head-butt a wall, it needed someone to stop it.

  When Rhys got close to the man, he looked at his name badge again rather than the deep wound in his face. As he lifted his feet, he said, “Sorry, Wilfred,” and pulled him back.

  The first tug didn’t move the fat man. A deep breath and Rhys pulled harder. This time he moved, but only slightly.

  After several more tugs, a layer of sweat stood out on Rhys’ body and his shirt stuck to him. He put his foot in the way of the door so it didn’t close and removed his walkie-talkie again. The hiss of static responded when he turned it on. He pressed the button. “Vicky? Vicky?” A loud wash of white noise answered him. “Fuck it.”

  ***

  The confined lift smelled as bad as the hallway, if not worse. No matter where he stood, Rhys couldn’t avoid the sharp vinegar tang of decay. Although Rhys had fought the scientist in the hallway, Oscar had killed him in the lift and a large patch of blood had spread out over the floor.

  Adrenaline shook Rhys’ hand when he pressed the ground floor button. As the doors closed on the nightmare that had spawned this entire fiasco, Rhys took deep breaths. He’d not even begun to see the worst of it yet. Thousands more people released into the city could only end badly. The only way he could survive would be to take advantage of the early insanity. If he did, then maybe he’d have a chance… maybe.

  Rhys’ stomach tingled as the lift lowered with a monotonous whir. He checked his watch; one hour and forty minutes left for him to get out of Summit City.

  When the button for the tenth floor lit up, Rhys rolled his shoulders and swayed from side the side. The diseased fuck who had tried to get into the lift when they went up would no doubt be waiting for him at the bottom.

  At the ninth floor, Rhys chewed the inside of his mouth and waited. Oscar had said Vicky couldn’t be trusted, but Rhys had trusted her.

  Floor eight.

  He’d trusted her with the most important thing in his world. What an idiot.

  Floor seven.

  Maybe Oscar said it to get under Rhys’ skin. Rhys must’ve mentioned Vicky’s name, which is where Oscar got it. The guy was imprisoned now and had a ticking clock on his existence. In well under two hours, he’d be burned to ash. He’d say anything to get out.

  Floor six.

  Wouldn’t he? But what if he did know Vicky? What if there was something about her that she hadn’t told Rhys?

  Floor five.

  Rhys rocked back and forth. She had the most important thing in his life with her. She could do anything to him.

  Floor four.

  A shake of his head and Rhys focused on the lift’s descent.

  Floor three.

  Without the space to swing the bat, he held it horizontally with the thick end pointed at the doors; much like he had when they went to the top floor. With one hand in the middle and the other at the handle end, he had it ready to drive forward like a mini battering ram to smash the nose of the infected fuck on the other side.

  Floor two.

  She wouldn’t do anything to Flynn. She could have fucked Rhys over at any point and chose not to.

  Floor one.

  The smug face of Oscar with his wide grin came into Rhys’ mind’s eye.

  Ground floor.

  Panic fluttered through Rhys’ chest and he bounced on the spot. There’d best be no more than one diseased when the doors opened. He couldn’t cope with more.

  The ‘G’ button turned green and the lift eased to a gentle stop with a slight bounce. A light ping sounded out. Rhys drew a deep breath and stared at the crack in the door with unblinking eyes.

  A gap opened up in it and the phlegmy death rattle of the diseased snaked into the lift with the reek of death. The stench caught in Rhys’ throat and his eyes watered. He remained
alert, ready to lunge.

  The doors opened as if in slow motion. First, he saw one bloody eye, then two. A wide mouth hung beneath them. The thing snapped its jaws and butted the doors as if trying to ram through.

  Adrenaline surged through Rhys, but he held back. If he attacked at the wrong time, it would be game over. The first blow had to count; he wouldn’t get a second chance.

  When the gap opened to about a foot wide, the thing lurched forward. It came to an abrupt halt as it crashed into the doors, its shoulders too wide for the small gap.

  With a clenched jaw, Rhys pulled the bat back.

  The door opened another inch and he drove the thick end of the bat forward. With his entire body behind it, he rammed it square into the centre of the monster’s face.

  A moist crunch and the creature yelled then stumbled backward.

  Rhys jumped sideways through the gap into the foyer. His rucksack hit the doors, but he made it through.

  Before the diseased could regain its senses, Rhys—his vision blurred from the stink of the thing—switched his grip on his bat. He wrapped both hands around the handle and drove a full-bodied roundhouse swing at it. Its head snapped to the side and its legs folded beneath it. It hit the ground so hard Rhys felt the thud through his feet.

  Another swing—downwards this time—and Rhys cracked its skull.

  A loud scream and Rhys kicked the dead thing in the gut.

  It barely moved.

  He screamed again and his voice echoed around the large foyer. “Vicky, you cunt,” he yelled as he kicked it again, and again, and again.

  “You’d best be looking after my boy.” Each kick shifted it a few inches away from him.

  Tears burned his eyes and ran down his cheeks and he continued to drive blow after blow into its midsection. “I swear you’ll pay if anything happens to him.”

  Kick, after kick, after kick.

  ***

  Rhys’ ankle ached and his shin stung from the amount of kicks he’d driven into the corpse. Tears coursed down his cheeks and grief ran a heavy stutter through his breaths.

  Rhys dropped his head and heaved a heavy sigh. “Please let him be okay. Please.”

  Rhys finally looked around to see there were no other diseased in the foyer. Good job, really—he hadn’t given it any thought until then. Another fucking mistake like that and he’d be dead. Get your head together, Rhys. Don’t make Oscar right. All you can do is get to Vicky.

  He glanced at his watch. One hour and thirty-five minutes left.

  When Rhys moved, his back ached again. Two long strides and he broke into a run. It would have to hurt for the time being; he couldn’t slow down.

  Rhys’ footsteps echoed in the empty foyer and his back loosened up as he moved.

  When he reached the main doors that exited The Alpha Tower, he dropped his shoulders and heaved a weary sigh. “Fuck it.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  When Rhys pressed his face to the small window on the door, his breath turned to condensation on the glass. It put a misty blur over everything. Shame it didn’t dilute the insanity. He rubbed the glass clean with his sleeve and looked out again, careful not to press his face too close.

  Chaos tore through the square exactly as it had earlier, but on a grander scale. There must have been ten times the amount of people outside. The number of infected to uninfected weighed massively in favour of the uninfected, although that wouldn’t last.

  With no Vicky, and minus the psychopath upstairs, Rhys had to do this alone.

  The sun had sunk lower in the sky. It would be a few more hours until it was dark, but the place would be a fiery mess by then anyway.

  As Rhys searched the square in the hope he’d see a route through, he caught sight of Oscar’s bike in his peripheral vision. It remained propped against the wall where Oscar had left it—it even had the Molotov cocktail in the drink holder still.

  Maybe Rhys had a slight advantage over everyone else. After all, he knew what the diseased were capable of. Most of the people outside wandered the square, shell-shocked and panicked. Many hadn’t even worked out that they should run. Instead, they searched around, wide-eyed and slack-jawed. The diseased picked them off with ease. One after another, they tackled those too slow to react and bit into faces and torsos. Even the ones who fought back fell quickly. With so many diseased around, the only way to survive was to run. Because Rhys knew that, he’d be a much harder target than most.

  As Rhys watched events play out in the square, his lungs tightened, and his breaths grew shallow. Despite his theory that he’d be harder prey, he could still fall like any one of the poor bastards outside.

  A deep breath and hard exhale did nothing to still his hammering heart. He removed Wilfred’s card from his pocket and swiped it through the reader. The red light turned green and the door popped open. The hellish sound of a city dying rushed into the building.

  As Rhys pushed the door wide, his entire body turned to gooseflesh.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  After he’d mounted Oscar’s bike, Rhys paused for a second and stared across the square. The quickest route was in a straight line to one of the alleyways on the other side… as long as he didn’t get taken out by one of the many diseased that stood in the way.

  A tilt of his wrist and he looked down at his Superman watch. An hour and a half would have been a long time to get out of the city on a regular day, but with the insanity that surrounded him, and with Dave and Larissa to collect, it would pass in a heartbeat.

  Rhys squeezed the bike’s rubber grips and looked across the square. A spectator at present, he’d have to take the plunge. One bad decision and he’d be dragged into the carnage. The pedal ticked as he wound it back to get it into the correct position. With it high enough, he rested his foot on top of it. Before one of the diseased had the opportunity to see him, Rhys gulped a mouthful of warm, arid air, and pushed off.

  Although he had the alleyway as his final goal, Rhys focused on the next gap in front of him. He could only take one step at a time.

  Two people screamed as they ran across his path and narrowly avoided a collision with his front tyre. Before Rhys could react, they were gone. His heart beat a frantic rhythm in the aftermath of his panic.

  Rhys had to swerve to avoid three people who fell in front of him with a heavy thud. Two diseased had taken down an old man. His screams fell silent almost instantly.

  When another diseased ran straight for Rhys, he lifted his foot from the pedal and kicked out hard. He connected with the monster’s chest. It drove it back and diverted Rhys on a wobbly path, but he remained upright as the diseased fell.

  With the shutters gone, the low sun bounced off the reflective windows and lit up Summit City. The blood on the ground shone like a layer of molten wax. At seemingly random points, it had pooled into large puddles. When he rode through one of the puddles, the bike’s tyres threw blood up at him as a fine spray that he felt against his bare arms and hands.

  The smell of the diseased hung heavier than before. It damn near choked Rhys as he rode. If it had levelled out, maybe he would become used to it, but with every passing minute, another person became infected and it smelled worse than before.

  Rhys’ weak legs burned as he pushed on, his jaw clenched hard. His eyes stung from his refusal to blink.

  On the next sharp turn, Rhys hit a particularly slimy patch of blood and flesh. The back wheel of the bike kicked out, and Rhys’ pulse spiked as he entered a wobbly battle to regain control.

  With a jerk, he brought the bike into a straight path and focused on the alleyway out of the square. Any more sharp turns and he’d be on the ground with the diseased on top of him.

  The wet slap of thrown punches joined the roars, screams, and cries around him. Rhys shut off to it as best as he could and kept his tunnel-vision focus on where he wanted to go. He’d travelled about twenty metres, and had about fifty left to the edge of the square.

  Knocked down by a pack of crazed
diseased, a woman crashed to the ground in front of Rhys. One of them latched onto the front of her neck, and as Rhys narrowly missed them, he heard the hollow pop of what must have been her windpipe. Before she was out of earshot, he heard a shrill gargle as she drowned in her own blood.

  To Rhys’ right, an older gentleman became prey to several children. All dressed in the same school uniform, they swarmed over the man and latched onto him. He screamed over their snarls.

  Rhys passed the water fountain. The water had turned a deeper shade of red since he’d last seen it. It looked more like a blood fountain now.

  Rhys stood up to ride faster. The bike stung the inside of his knees as it whacked against them. Wherever he looked, he saw someone taken down by a diseased. The ratio of infected to uninfected seemed to have changed. Rhys now belonged to the minority.

  The roar of a woman caught Rhys’ attention. When he looked over his shoulder, his legs almost stopped working. About his age, maybe slightly older, she ran straight at him. With her arms out in front of her, she moved quicker than he rode, despite her uncoordinated sprint. He had no chance of getting to the alley before she caught him.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Rhys rode so fast the wind blew his hair back from his forehead. He fought against his weakened legs and pushed harder. Lightning bolts of pain tore through him and he yelled out, which helped him find more speed.

  Yet when he looked behind, he saw the woman had gained on him. Every ounce of his energy went into his escape, but she moved faster than he did. He had no chance against her.

  The effort turned nausea over in Rhys’ stomach, and no matter how hard he breathed, he couldn’t pull enough oxygen into his tight lungs.