“I did warn you, asshole. You fell on your ass instead. Paul, be grateful you’re still alive, and right now, I don’t need you to get Julian across town. I only gave you the gun since I know you’re halfway competent to shoot it, which I now regret with this bat shit freak out you’re having. Again. I could easily shoot you right now, and give the gun to Julian. Punch me again, and that’s what will happen.”
Bobby and Paul stared at each other. “Then quit being reckless,” Paul said, turning his back to Bobby. “And quit being such an asshole.”
“Guys, work it out later, we have people walking toward us,” Julian said, looking over the bridge to where they recently came.
Two figures in black walked at a casual pace in their direction, light glimmering off their helmets. Paul turned and squinted. “They look like the guys from Belleville.”
“Can we lose ’em in Foxer?” Julian asked.
“Think so. We’ll need to zigzag through places to lose them on the way to Clyde’s,” Bobby said, peering to the oncoming figures through the rifle’s scope. “They look armed, and definitely shot out our tires with one of our ZMT long rifles. Must have stolen it from a rig, along with other weapons.” He clicked his tongue, “I do not want to fuck with them at all.”
Julian began stepping backwards. “Then let’s move along so we don’t have to fuck with ’em.”
The three men jogged the remaining length of the bridge. Paul occasionally looked back to see the figures still trailing them, now matching their pace. He considered it unbelievable two people could chase them on foot for several miles across the city.
“We’re headed to that club, Besson’s, the one with the red and white sign,” Bobby said, pointing to an electric sign that outlined the club’s name in a broad flourishing script, as if someone took a neon paintbrush and wrote the name in cursive.
“All right,” Julian said.
Paul nodded. Only a few cars were driving along the road, making their crossing free from screeching brakes and blaring car horns drawing attention to them. The sidewalk absorbed the electric glows and reflected a muted haze through streaks of grim. Trails of water dribbled from building vents, and worn poster bills peeled from the brick walls. Few buildings fronted windows, and those that did, a sheen of varnish coated the inside. Pairs of thick-skinned bouncers stood by metal doors holding thumbprint or iris scanners. None blanched as the trio walked by, openly carrying their guns, although pairs of eyes watched them closely as they passed their respective doors.
Two doors up from Besson’s, a graying man with high cheekbones and wide smile stepped outside with a woman on each arm. The woman on his left pulled her fur coat close as she leaned her head and brown curls into the man’s neck. The woman on his right, with a blonde pixie cut and crimson red dress that hugged her figure, held onto his arm with both hands. Their footsteps shuffled and their laughter carried.
Bobby smirked. “Lucky bastard. Having a better night than we are.”
Julian and Paul ignored the comment and continued their approach to Besson’s, hyperaware of any movement. A patter of footsteps came from behind, and Paul jerked to look back, only to see the previous bouncers leaning against their club’s walls. The man and two women approached them, their voices louder and conversation discernible.
Footsteps beat the pavement again, this time from above, as if someone were running from the rooftops. His eyes traced the roofline, its edges uneven and and indistinguishable due to awnings and neon signs. A shadow of a figure peered over, and a kaleidoscope of light warped and glinted across a helmet.
“We’re being followed,” Paul said.
“The guys from the bridge,” Bobby said, turning. “Yeah, I see them, keeping their distance. We’ll lose them soon.”
“In a bar?” Julian said.
“No—well, kind of. We’ll exit through the back and cut through some alleys.”
Paul looked up again, saw the top of a head moving at their walking pace. “Someone’s on the roof, following us,” he said, keeping his voice low. “They have a helmet just like the guys from the bridge.”
Bobby and Julian glanced up, and the figure disappeared. “The only people on the street are the bouncers and the lucky guy that just came out of the bar ahead of us.”
They neared the man and the two women, whose demeanor quieted as they moved aside to let Paul, Bobby, and Julian pass along the edge of the sidewalk.
“Good evening,” Bobby said, waving his hand, not bothering to hide the rifle over his shoulder.
The women stopped smiling and drew closer to the man, who nodded, and said in a low voice, “Hello.”
Paul still felt an unease. The sounds above didn’t match the clicking of the women’s heels, and the two men from the bridge now walk past their crashed vehicle, nonchalantly ignoring the scene. If more than two people were following them, getting to Nasher’s location without compromising it would be difficult. The amount of trust in Bobby’s ability to get them through the ward, let alone keep them alive, was low.
Boots clapped the pavement, and a woman shrieked, “Oh my God!”
A man in black fatigues and reflective motorcycle helmet stood up and shoved aside the man and two women, who stumbled and yelped as they fell. The pair of bouncers jogged away from their door. The goateed one attended to the trio on the ground while the taller man with a buzz cut reached for the black clad figure.
“Hey, man, you can’t pull that shit down here,” he said, his fists clutching the fatigues.
The figure kneed the bouncer in the groin. He released his grip, groaned, leaning forward as the figure wearing the helmet slammed the front of his helmet into the bouncer’s nose.
“Gah!” The bouncer collapsed to the ground, blood streaming from his broken septum.
“What the fuck!” The other bouncer shouted, scurrying away, leaving the man and two women for themselves.
The figure faced Paul, Bobby, and Julian; a Rorschach of blood spread across its visor. The three men scrambled backwards, Paul and Bobby drawing their guns.
“Aim for the visor,” Paul said, sighting his pistol.
The figure began to strafe side to side, rocking its head left and right.
“I can’t get a good shot,” Bobby said. “Julian, run, go inside the bar.”
Paul waved his gun to follow the figure’s tempo. Its movement remained even to where after the fifth jump to the side, Paul’s sight stayed with its torso, as the head movement was still uneven. He dropped his aim toward its knees and fired.
The shot connected with its left knee, knocking it forward to the ground. Two more shots burst behind Paul. Bobby hit the helmet, exploding the top to a plastic crater, and its movement ceased.
Julian ran to the door. “C’mon!” and stepped inside.
“We’ll lose them through the back,” Bobby said. “From there we can get to Nasher’s by alley ways and a few safe houses.”
“You said that a minute ago, but how far is that?” Paul said, jogging with his gun still drawn.
“Depends.”
“’Depends?’ What do you mean, ‘depends’? You said you knew where we were going.”
“I do, but I got to check with the bartender where Nasher will be tonight,” Bobby emphasized. “ I know where four of his safe houses are, so it’s which one of the four. There might be a fifth, but he hasn’t told anyone yet.”
They reached the door, and Bobby swung it open. Paul tucked his gun into the small of his back and eyed the room. Bobby shifted the rifle over his shoulder and scanned for Julian. Besson’s ambiance mixed bright neon lights shaped like cocktail glasses against high ceilings and mirror and glass walls. Stone-colored counter tops reflected a muddied violet glow. Bottles of liquor and sets of glassware stood in front of a wall of white light. Bartenders dressed all in black shook ice in silver cocktail shakers serving a crowd of about twenty people. The din of conversation mixed with the bar’s jukebox, playing the synthetic pop of the 1980s. They spotted Jul
ian leaning against the end of the bar, his head bowed and massaging his temples. Bobby approached, and Paul followed him, weaving through the crowd. Most of the patrons appeared to be older, maybe late 40s and up, with greying hair and extra wrinkles on their faces. Despite Bobby carrying the rifle over his shoulder, no one noticed them. They were just another pair of guys going to get drinks at the bar.
“Molly!” Bobby said, waving his hand to a black-haired woman making a whiskey sour. She caught his eyes and nodded back.
“What are we doing here, Bobby?” Julian said. “We need to keep moving.”
“I need to get a location from Molly, and we’ll be off.”
“He doesn’t know where we’re going,” Paul said, hands gripping the bar.
Julian rolled his eyes. “Jesus.”
“I will once she tells me. Ease up, bub. I just need to know which place to go to.”
Molly walked to the end of the bar. “Bobby. You’re late.”
“Had to roll with some unexpected events. We’re here now.”
Molly eyed Julian and Paul and cocked her head. “Which one is he, and who’s the other?”
“This is Julian, our guy,” Bobby said, patting Julian on the shoulder. “And this is Paul, who’s been helping me tonight.”
“Clyde didn’t say anything about someone else helping.”
Bobby smiled and leaned in closer to Molly’s face. “Like I said, I had to adjust, and Paul is one of those adjustments. I can vouch for him. He’s cool.”
“Well,” she raised her voice, “He’s not going to be cool with it.”
“Guys, hurry up,” Julian said. “They’re here.”
Molly leaned between Julian and Bobby to glimpse at who walked in. “I hate bikers in my bar.”
“Molly, where to,” Paul said. “And those are not bikers.”
She looked at Paul and frowned, then turned to Bobby. “Go to The Cellar. He should still be there.”
“Thanks, Molly,” Bobby said. “If someone asks, we’ll take the long way.”
Two figures dressed in black walked toward the bar, bumping into anyone in their way. A blond man with gauged ears stumbled into a short woman with frizzy brown hair. His beer slipped out of his hand and the bottle cracked on the floor, spilling its contents on a small group near by.
“Bobby, let’s go. Molly, back door that way?” Paul said, pointing to a swinging black door at the other end.
She nodded and a groan and a shriek called out behind them. Chairs stuttered and clattered to the ground. The blond man yelped as his body sailed over the ducking patrons at the bar and smashed against the wall of liquor. Sharp fumes of alcohol filled the space behind the bar with pieces of glass spread along the floor and counter.
Bobby jumped over the bar, turned and motioned for Julian and Paul to follow. People in the bar dashed to the exit and streamed outside. A pair of men punched the two helmeted figures, receiving the losing end of fists to the face and blood streaming from broken capillaries. They doubled over and crawled across the room to the far walls opposite the bar.
Through the swinging door, surprised wait staff jumped back, one dropped a tray of assorted beer bottles crashing to the floor. The bright white room and brick red floor stood in contrast to the previous. Bobby stopped at the corner of a counter and an industrial refrigerator stocked full of champagne and expensive beer.
“Paul, help me tip this on to that counter over there.”
“What? No, that won’t—”
A black figure came through the swinging door and punched a goateed waiter in the jaw, sprawling him to the floor.
The remainder of the wait staff ducked and scattered. Paul drew his gun, instinctively aiming for the head and fired two rounds. The assailant dodged the bullets as if anticipating them, and tile splintered through the air. Again, Paul fired two rounds, but aimed lower with the shots hitting its thigh and knee. The black figure twisted and fell, its helmet clanged against a stainless steel dish rack.
“Paul!” Bobby yelled, standing in the foyer of the back entrance, having given up tipping over the refrigerator. He turned and disappeared, a shadow receding to the black of the back alley. The injured pursuer stumbled, and its partner barreled through the galley door from the club and tripped, sliding into the base of the refrigerator. Only two feet away, Paul fired three shots in quick succession at the top of the helmet, and it ceased moving. Paul leaned over and yanked the rifle from its shoulder and moved to the exit, fearing he may lose his guide.
Outside in the alley, Paul gripped the handgun tighter and swung the rifle behind his back. He darted his head, assessing the alleyway too fast, and a wave of vertigo swept through him. Fatigue was setting in, and the constant surge of adrenaline only made it worse. The shadows and murky brick walls stretched long and tall. A pair of slanted figures rounded a corner to a connecting alley way. Paul jogged on, sucking in the garbage stale air for whatever oxygen he could get, squeezing his eyes and shaking his head. It had been nearly eight hours since his exposure to the zombie blood. He didn’t know if this was a symptom.
At the corner, he leaned against the wall and thought he saw Julian hoisting himself to the second platform up a fire escape while Bobby hand over hand ascended to the first. The vertigo hung close and made the ladder a pair of rusty, diagonal stilts with handles between them. Paul staggered to the opposite side of the alley, away from the ladder and Bobby and Julian. A burst of footsteps came from above, and Julian shouted, but Paul couldn’t understand it over the clanging and scraping of the metal fire escape. A third figure with a glint of glass now descended the steps a level at a time. Jagged footsteps scraped behind Paul as the commando he shot in the leg limped in pursuit.
Rifle bursts echoed overhead. The bullets clinked off the steel and chipped and embedded inches into the brick walls. Paul couldn’t tell how many flights stood between them. Most buildings in Foxer were five or six stories, and the commando made it half way down after avoiding the gunshots.
Paul guessed five shots remained in the handgun’s magazine. He wobbled and fought to steady himself as he raised the gun and tried to refocus. The mortar outlines of the brick became a stone mesh grid and the limping figure now looked like two. He squeezed the trigger right as another rifle shot cracked, and Paul’s aim jerked to the right. The figure lunged and grabbed Paul’s arm, pulling them close, putting Paul in a crushing embrace with the gun drawn upward. He leaned back, attempting to aim the gun between them.
The helmet slammed Paul’s right temple, and streaks of white crossed his vision. He rolled his head and groaned, reorienting where the gun was and where the next blow would land. The helmet leaned back again, and Paul jerked his weight to his right, shifting their combined mass to the commando’s failing left knee. The leg buckled and both fell, twisting to Paul’s left. The commando’s grip broke and Paul shoved his forearm up his chest and rammed the gun into its jaw and unloaded the remainder of the clip.
More shouts came from above, and Paul only saw black ghosts floating on the fire escape and seeping through an open window and a shrill ringing spreading through his forehead as he closed his eyes.
Chapter 16
Alan strode into his office to find Ed sitting back in a chair across from Alan’s desk, too casual given the night’s events. Ed had lived in Greenport most of his life rising from a mediocre jock to a yes-man of a beat cop with the city’s police force. While a few of his rank and file superiors survived, most fled or died keeping the city safe, and for that Alan was grateful, as Greenport never fell into disarray, but it left gaps in the city’s governmental structure. Alan sought out those who stayed and weathered the death around them, like Ed.
“Ed,” Alan said, taking a seat at his desk, shifting his chest to adjust to the mesh suit. Despite the snugness, his arms moved with a youthful vigor of his younger self.
“I figured you’d call me in,” Ed said. “When I heard it on the radio, I knew I’d have to come in and see what you needed me to
do.”
Ed’s lack of initiative and intuition confirmed to Alan why Ed’s police career never went past street patrols, and made him a yes-man ready to take orders. “You figured right. Why don’t you fill me in on the details I can’t get from the Control Room first.”
“The clean up down in Belleville may take a few days, but we should get the street cleared by tomorrow sometime,” Ed said as a matter of fact, crossing his legs. He reeled off a list of the damage, the cars, the broken storefronts, the jack-knifed semi. “We cordoned off the semi and I’ve got guys stationed near it so people don’t go snooping.”
He was still too casual, but Alan let him lead. “Go on.”
Ed searched the floor and puffed his cheeks. “As for injuries…maybe a dozen or more minor injuries, two had major injuries and were taken to the hospital. Another’s leg had to be amputated after being bitten, so he had to go. Three civilian deaths. We’re taking witness reports, so you’ll get those ASAP.”
“Very good. I’ll go through those. Anything else?”
“Caroline’s been calling me.”
“She called me as well.”
“She’s in a panic, not sure what to do. She had all sorts of questions about the semi, the men in black.” Ed rubbed his hands on the armrests of his chair. “Who were those guys, Alan? They nearly cleaned out a whole ZMT crew dead.”
“They were part of tonight’s operation.”
Ed paused and leaned forward. “Why wasn’t I told about them? Jesus Christ, they were brutal. I have statements that one of them picked up a woman and bashed her head like it was cracking a coconut open. I—we haven’t seen anything that bad inside the city since we fended off that meth head biker gang.”
“I didn’t feel like you needed to be told. I asked you to clear some men, and get a batch of runners to drive the trucks. What was inside the trucks wasn’t relevant to your job.”
“Wasn’t relevant?” Ed’s voice raised. “Something that affects safety isn’t relevant?”
Survivor Response Page 16