by Sam Sisavath
“Don’t mention cake,” Blaine said.
“Where’s Delaware?” the woman who wasn’t Gaby asked.
Danny shook his head.
“Shit,” the big man with the machine gun said.
Danny turned to Gaby. “Hey there, kid.”
“What are you doing here?” Gaby asked. “Aren’t you supposed to be back on the Trident, safe and sound?”
“And what, miss all this fun?” He pulled his night-vision goggles out from his pack and slipped it on. The newcomers did the same. “Well, let’s get this show on the road. I got places to be and babies to watch being born.”
Danny hopped down the platform and walked over to where he stood with Keo. He couldn’t see the man’s lips behind the mask, but he assumed Danny was grinning at him.
“Nice, if I do say so myself,” Danny said. “I should open my own fashion line when this is all over.”
“This getup’s your handiwork, too?” Keo asked.
“Most of it. The ladies helped with the sewing and such. My hands are way too manly for that sort of stuff.”
“What about the guys chasing you?” Blaine asked as he and Gaby walked over to them, the other two newcomers following behind.
“I doubt they’ll come down after us,” Keo said. “It’d be almost suicide, and I don’t think they’re that stupid.”
“Someone’s being overly optimistic,” Danny said.
“But just in case, James and Angie, stay behind on the platform. Shoot anyone that tries to come down after us.”
“Go; we got this,” the woman said.
Danny walked over and nodded at him.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he said.
“Can’t let you hog all the glory,” Danny said. “Okay, Willie boy, it’s your show. Lead the way.”
All eyes turned to him, the faces he didn’t recognize staring the hardest.
“Let’s go,” he said, and turned back into the dark tunnel.
They moved silently, labored breathing pushing against their masks. Adrenaline coursed through their veins, increasing their already rapid heartbeats. Every one of their steps sounded like crashing ocean waves against his ears even through the thick wall of the helmet.
He knew exactly where to go because he had planned it to the exact step, and stopped when they came to the section of the wall where the tunnel curved left. There was nothing here to indicate that this section was anything special, but he knew better, because he could feel and smell and hear them on the other side.
“Here?” Keo asked.
He pointed.
“I’ll take it that’s a yes,” Danny said. He stepped forward and unslung his pack. “Just like old times, huh?”
“Not quite.”
“Close enough. So this is your big plan.”
He nodded.
“What’s the matter, sewer rat got your tongue?” Danny asked.
“Be careful,” he said.
“Aw, I didn’t think you still cared.” Danny glanced back at the others. “You boys might want to make some room. It’s been a while since I’ve done this, and I’m definitely not paying for any missing eyes or ears.”
His nostrils twitched at the smell of plastic and chemicals as Danny brought out the pack’s true contents.
“I hope this tunnel was built to city specs,” Danny said as he began attaching the malleable material to the wall, creating an almost door-shape design above where the water ended. “Or, er, hopefully they didn’t. Whichever one keeps it from falling on our heads.”
“Don’t jinx it, man,” the big man said from the back.
“I’m just kidding, Hanson, relax. I know exactly what I’m doing.” Then, slightly under his breath, “Mostly.”
Behind him, Gaby and the others took a few tentative steps back. Their pulse accelerated further, the force of their breath against their masks increasing accordingly. Although it was cold, damp sweat covered their skin from head to toe and dripped down to the filthy water around their knees.
As they watched Danny work, Gaby said, “This is it. The end of the line. I didn’t think we’d ever get here.”
“Didn’t think I’d ever be alive to see this, either,” the big man, Hanson, said. “That’s him? Frank?”
“That’s him.”
“What’s with the wardrobe?”
“Protection.”
“From what?”
“What’s on the other side of that wall.”
“What is on the other side of that wall?”
“Glory, boys,” Danny said, standing up. He looked back at them. “When I mentioned you should all take a few steps back, what I really meant was, keep going until I say stop.”
Tentative steps as they started backing up again. Danny followed, unfurling a bright yellow cord from a spool as he backpedaled.
“Is the tunnel going to hold?” Gaby asked.
“Should,” Danny said.
“Should?”
“There’s not enough C-4 to take out the whole place, just enough to punch a big hole in the wall for us to go through. So it should, theoretically, hold.”
Gaby sighed. “I hope you’re right.”
“Yeah, me too.”
“Man, I don’t like the sound of that,” the young blond said.
When they had put enough room between them and the turn up ahead, Danny flashed them one last look and chuckled. “Remember, you guys volunteered for this.”
“We’re all going to fucking die down here,” Blaine said from somewhere in the back.
“That’s the spirit,” Danny said. Then, as the others lined up and hugged the wall behind him, Danny turned to him. “You sure about this?”
He nodded. “Do it.”
“I told you Carly’s pregnant?”
“I know.”
“Of course you do. We’re still thinking about a name. Got any suggestions?”
He shook his head.
“Still the chatterbox, I see,” Danny said. Then, holding the trigger in front of him, “All right. Enough of this awkward reunion. Fire in the—”
“Wait, you’re not going to count to three?” Keo asked.
“Three schmee,” Danny said, and there was a click! followed by a BOOM! as the tunnel shook around them.
Loose chunks of brick plopped into the water, and a thick mist like some kind of living thing extended out of the blast with rubbery fingers. He didn’t need the helmet or the clothing to protect him against the flood, but he wiped at the goggles as they appeared…a moving forest of black eyes and frail limbs.
Too many.
Had he miscalculated? Or had Mabry summoned more down here since the last time?
There were so many he could barely make out any spaces between their twisting and gyrating forms as they surged forward toward the opening where the wall used to be and through the hole.
It took him a second—maybe less—to make the decision.
There were too many—simply too many—and the others would never survive to reach the other side.
He stepped forward, alone, and into the spreading clouds.
HE HAD REMOVED the helmet because it was too cumbersome and he didn’t need to conceal his identity anymore. He could move faster without it, and even though the extra weight was minimal, he needed everything he had—speed, strength, and agility—at their absolute fullest as he waded into the abyss.
There were a lot more of them than he had expected, that had survived the bombings, and they poured down the darkened hallway, so many that they were almost climbing on top of one another to reach him. He didn’t hesitate and stepped into them, the silver studs over his knuckles doing tremendous damage with every swing regardless of direction.
He punched through chests and heads and smashed bones, and this time they didn’t get back up when he felled one—two—a hundred of them. The silver was toxic to them and they collapsed, screaming in his mind, and somewhere, beyond, the blue eyes shouted through the hive, “Stop him! Kill him! Don’t
let him advance!”
But they couldn’t stop him. They never could before, and not now.
They flopped by the wayside, dying (again) as they fell, one by one by one. Soon, he began to smell the fear emanating from their pores, glimpse the horror on their faces and in their hollowed eyes as he continued cutting a swath through their numbers.
And yet they came, one after another after another, because they had no choice. This was what they did. They were the first line of defense.
Screams roared inside his mind, but he didn’t try to shut them out. There was no time—not even a second to waste on something so trivial.
“Stop him!”
And they kept coming, an endless surge of black eyes and limbs. The never-ending clacking of bones against the concrete floor as he smashed and tore and ripped through them two, three—five at a time. Still they came, pushing against his exterior, but doing almost no damage. He would have felt sorry for them if he could muster the emotion.
Behind him, shouting and gunfire echoed. Keo, Danny, Gaby, and the others. To help them would mean going back, and he couldn’t do that. He was too far in now that retreating would mean total and complete failure.
And he was close to the end. So, so close.
“Kill him!”
This wasn’t part of the plan, but it would have to be. Maybe he always knew it would be him alone at the very end, despite all his preparations. Despite his friends, despite Mercer’s tanks and planes. Who else could survive this? Who else could break through the onslaught of flesh and bone and teeth?
So he kept moving, pushing forward, doing whatever it took. He shut out the gunfire from behind him and wished them well, because there was more at stake than just a few men and women in a tunnel. A lot more.
“Tear him limb from limb!”
He fought and gained ground inch by inch by inch. The hallways blurred and he lost track of how far or long he had traveled. They were all identical—dark and dirty and swamped in the stench of the dead. There was no light, but that didn’t matter because he didn’t need light to see anyway. He could have closed his eyes and simply relied on his other senses. There were so many beating against him, from all sides, that he couldn’t move his arms in any direction without striking one, two, a dozen of the creatures.
And still they came.
“Don’t let him advance!”
And he punched and kicked and struck and tore and ripped and severed.
And still they came…
They seemed never ending, relentless in their need to push him back, to stop his momentum. But if they expected him to be cowed by their continued onslaught, they were sadly mistaken.
He pushed on, striking blow after blow, because he couldn’t stop.
Not now, not when he was so close.
“Stop him! STOP HIM!!”
THERE WERE FIVE OF THEM, their blue eyes pulsating in the shadows. They had been waiting here all this time, commanding the black eyes to attack. It was a smart strategy, he realized as he turned the corner.
He was tired and the gauntlets had ripped to shreds, each and every one of the silver studs dull and unusable, little more than stumps now. The seams of the gloves were beyond loose, and it would have taken too much effort to hold onto them, so he relaxed his fingers and let them drop to the floor.
Black blood oozed from his arms and legs and face, splattering the already filthy floor. Most of it wasn’t his, though some was. Teeth bites and missing flesh covered his limbs and neck, but nothing that would slow him down.
They stood watching him.
Waiting, unmoving, maybe trying to gauge his remaining strength.
And there, behind them, was the steel door. He was on the other side.
But not yet. That would come later.
He always knew there would be obstacles. The planes had taken away most of them, but not all. He had expected this, so there wasn’t really disappointment as he turned the corner.
He imagined Danny’s voice in his head: “Five? That’s plenty manageable, buddy!”
The blue eyes hadn’t moved or looked away since he showed himself. Sports memorabilia littered the floor between them; torn posters and murals of men in bright costumes covered the walls. Memories of champions from the past.
“Look at him,” they said, their five voices sounding as one inside his head.
“He wears clothes…”
“He wants to be human again…”
“Why?”
“Pathetic.”
“We’ll be doing him a favor…”
“…putting him out of his misery…”
“Yes…”
“Doing him a favor…”
“He’s pathetic.”
“…not worth all the attention.”
“…pathetic…”
“Why don’t you just die?”
No, he thought, forcing the single word—calm and measured, but full of defiance—back at them.
They looked stunned by it.
“Finally, he talks,” they said.
“Finally, he gives in.”
“…he should have a long time ago…”
“Saved himself the pain…”
“…the misery…”
“Stupid…”
“Too late now.”
“He’s going to die…”
“…should never have come here…”
“You fool.”
No, he thought again, and began walking toward them.
The first knife slid free, then the other. His nostrils flared at the taste of fresh, untouched silver, but he pushed through like he always did.
The creatures snickered at the sight of the blades.
He clutched the handles tight, tighter. His only advantage. Whatever happened, he couldn’t lose them. The thing that left him gagging would now save his life, so long as he never relinquished them.
And he wouldn’t.
For them.
For her.
“Silver,” they said inside his head. “He uses the enemy’s weapon against us.”
“…still wants to be human…”
“We’ll show him…”
“…what it means to be human…”
“Weak…”
“Frail…”
“He’ll break easily…”
“…like before…”
“Do you remember?”
Yes. He remembered the pain. Every second of it. The days of healing from his wounds on the Trident. Having to drink from the two men, then later, the female. He told himself he hadn’t wanted to, that he needed them in order to regain his strength.
He had been telling himself that for a while now.
“You’ll die here,” they said, watching him approach.
“Alone…”
“Then we’ll come for her…”
“…Lara…”
“Such a pretty name…”
“We’ll play with her…”
“Until she begs us to stop…”
“But we won’t…”
“Oh no, we won’t…”
“…no matter how many times she begs.”
He smiled back at them.
They frowned in response, confused.
“Come then,” they said. “Come, and do your worst.”
“WELCOME HOME.”
It was fast. They were all fast. But the first one wasn’t fast enough, and he stabbed it in the chest and listened to it roar inside his head. It thrashed against the blade that he used to impale it to the wall, but before it could pull itself free, he plunged the other knife into the side of its head and it simply and immediately stopped moving.
“It’s been a long time coming.”
The air rippled behind him, signaling another impending attack. He dropped and the fist intended for him missed by an inch and cratered the wall instead. Specks of concrete pelted him, but he ignored it and spun while in a slight crouch, and lunged, driving both blades into the creature’s stomach. It squealed, but b
efore the others could come to its rescue, he slashed upward with both knives and severed its body into three sections. It stumbled back, and while its arms drooped from what remained of its torso, he stabbed it under the chin and drove the blade all the way up into its brain.
“You should have come sooner.”
He sensed the hesitation in the remaining three even as they attacked at once, converging at him from three different sides. He backpedaled, their blows glancing off his chest and head and face, but he shook them off. They were strong—as strong as him—but they were using fists whereas he had knives.
“What took you so long?”
He slashed, the blade slicing through its target without any resistance. The arm fell off, but its owner ignored it and reached for his throat. He cut again and its other arm flopped to the floor, and this time it paused for the smallest of nanoseconds before stumbling, even as the other two leaped over it to get at him. He saw them coming but didn’t react fast enough, and they pummeled him to the blood-slicked floor.
“Why did you waste so much time?”
They were on top of him, one holding his legs in vise-like grips while the other straddled his chest, pinning him to the hard pavement. There was no triumph on its face, no wasted emotion as it cocked back its fist to deliver the killing blow, when he drove the knife into the side of its head. Its eyes widened even as life sapped from them and it toppled off him.
“Why did you have to keep fighting your nature?”
He got his legs under the second one and launched it into the air. It slammed into the ceiling and came crashing down along with crumbs of loosened plaster. It was scrambling back up, but before it could straighten on buckling legs, he threw one of the knives and caught it in the forehead, and it collapsed back to the floor and remained still.
“Always fighting.”
He staggered to his feet and walked the short distance over to the ghoul. He pulled the knife out of its still form, then decapitated the head of the last creature, the one without the arms sitting against the wall. There was a spark of defiance in its eyes just before it simply ceased to exist.
“Kate was right about one thing...”
Finally, finally, he allowed himself a moment to rest, even as thick coagulated blood drip-drip-dripped off the blades, their rhythm intoxicating to his still-enflamed senses. Everything around him was slick with blood—the walls, the floor, the ceiling, even him. His muscles were sore and every inch of him ached.