Survivor Response

by Patrick J. Harris

  A scattering of pebbles fell and dinged mutely against the steel fire escape. Paul looked up to a dark sky, stars hidden by the Greenport lights and scanned the edges of the rooftops. No shadows broke the brick seams; he closed his eyes, steadied his breathing and focused. When the Plague grew longer, a sharp sense of hearing meant life or death. And discerning between the footsteps of an animal, a person, or a zombie determined a set of actions. He exhaled and held his breath and counted to three before inhaling again. On his fourth breath he heard the crushing sound of shoes along gravel, each step slow and measured, stones popping, trying too hard to remain quiet.

  Paul removed Molly’s card from his pocket and palmed it in his right hand. He walked casually around the corner, resisting the urge to look up to scan the roof, and strolled the sidewalk. Potted flowers and herbs lined the first floor windows and wrought iron covered the outside of those on the garden floor. He descended a pair of steps to meet a steel door painted dark green below the stairs. Chips and flakes of paint revealed scabs of mottled rust. A brass mail slot seated under a square panel of glass no larger than a face. He tapped a trio of knocks as Molly instructed.

  Seconds passed and an obscured floating head appeared behind the glass. A nasal voice said through the mail slot, “Best to fuck off this time of night. Ain’t taking visitors at the moment.”

  Paul kept his face straight, expecting a hostile greeting. He raised his arms above his head and held Molly’s card between his fingers. “Molly gave me her card. Said it was good for a beer.”

  “So?”

  “She also said Nasher could use my fiancée’s help.”

  “We get fuckers like you all day all week offering something for something more. Now, get off or I got a reason to clean the door step with broom that goes boom.”

  “I doubt you’d make a mess that loud.”

  “Try me.”

  Paul rolled his eyes. “She works in dispatch. Her name’s Karen.”

  A minute passed. Hushed voices ebbed behind the door. The mail slot opened outward, revealing the silver nose of a Beretta handgun. “Let’s see the card.”

  Paul fed the card through the slot and small, calloused hand grabbed it.

  “Wait here. We’re gonna verify it, see if it’s forged.”

  “It’s hers, her signature.”

  “I can be an artist, too, when I need to be,” the man said, the scruff of a beard moving on his cheeks.

  Footsteps trailed away, leaving Paul alone at the door. The street remained empty, the cold of the night catching up to him. He exhaled a warm breath into his cupped palms. A shuffling of footsteps came from above, similar to the movement he heard in the alley. He turned his back to the door and strained his neck to scan the roofline again.

  Nothing but red brick and black sky.

  Down the street a pair of black helmets bobbed behind a row of parked cars, reflecting the umber glow of sodium vapor streetlights.

  “Shit,” Paul whispered, stepping back into the door.

  He scanned the street. How long had the bearded goon gone to authenticate Molly’s signature? Minutes, maybe? He knocked on the door, forgetting the sequence.

  He turned again. No helmets. He stepped out of the doorway and glanced down the other end of the street. The rows of junker cars continued below the occasional lit brownstone window. He focused his eyes on each car, staring into dark windows, comparing shadows, guessing the difference between a headrest and a resting helmet. A glint of light moved down the length of a blue four-door minivan.

  Paul whirled around to bang on the door, and met the open mail flap. A pair of eyes stared back at him.

  “Where’d you go?”

  “Checking around the corner.”

  The eyes narrowed. “You been followed?”

  “Just let me in, all right? You verified the card, right? It’s Molly’s, right?”

  The silver Beretta reappeared.

  Paul reacted. “Does Nasher need me or not? If not, I’ll just go hike back the way I came, back over the bridge.”

  A second, deeper voice spoke. “Let him in. Boss wants to talk to him, and Bobby said the guy is who he says he is.”

  The mail flap slammed closed, and deadbolts and latches clicked and clacked. Paul slid through the barely open door and adjusted his eyes to the silver white glare of an LED lamp. To his left stood a short, thin bearded man with a thin buzz of hair atop his head. The man’s eyes remained narrowed. He shut the door and redid the series of locks. At Paul’s right, a muscled and tattooed man of pacific island descent stood with his hands on his hips.

  “Welcome, friend. Forgive Stanley. His PTSD makes him wary of strange knocks in the night,” the man said. He extended his hand. “My name’s Richard.”

  Paul met his grip and shook. “Paul.”

  Stanley brushed past them. “Let’s skip the tender talk and take ’im to Nasher.”

  A short, narrow hallway opened into a large room, filled with furniture that appeared salvaged from urban recycling expeditions. A row of computer monitors showed video feeds that surrounded the building, and a wet bar stood stocked with rifles and shotguns instead of liquor and beer.

  Behind the counter stood Bobby. He waved. “Sup, Paul.”

  A voice like scraped gravel spoke. “Paul. Welcome. I’m Nasher. I’m grateful my sister could guide you here.”

  Nasher sat with his right leg crossed in a shabby corduroy recliner. His all-black outfit accentuated his leathered and bleached skin. Mottled spots of tan flesh spotted the right side of his face, which appeared to have received less of the burns. His lack of eyebrows and muscle tone appeared to Paul like a living skeleton with blue eyes.

  “She’s a good person, and I’m thankful she grabbed me out of the alley.”

  “Then you must’ve made an impression on her. She always had the patience to believe in people. Me, not so much. I’ll get right to it then, your fiancée, Karen, she’s head of dispatch.”

  “She is,” Paul said. Nasher nodded in approval. “But I don’t see how she can help you overthrow Alan.”

  “Paul, quit being an idiot,” Bobby said with an exasperated breath.

  Nasher held up his hand to silence him. “Paul, you’re not very good at computers, are you? Don’t answer that. More so, you’re not very aware of how much this city has become an experiment in wires, code, and behavior.” A half smile broke his lips. “We, as a human race, should be thankful the Plague happened when it did and no sooner. Once we got it under control, much of the technology infrastructure just had to be rebooted and polished. Power plants hummed along by themselves and shut down automatically when the people didn’t feed them fuel.”

  “A lot of those people died in that time it took for us to get it under control,” Paul said, leaning against a scuffed leather couch.

  “Yes, and those that survived, purely by a Darwinian chance, still held knowledge to operate the already existing technology. Everyone in this damn city has a purpose, or rather, a skill Alan deems needed. That’s why every damn person is screened upon entering the city. Not to see if they’re infected— everyone’s infected—but to see how useful can they be to Greenport.”

  “That’s good, right? People having a place.” Paul looked around the room. Bobby leaned against cabinets behind the wet bar with his arms crossed and shrugged. Richard swiveled in a chair near the bank of computer monitors while Stanley fidgeted at the keyboard.

  “Not a place, Paul, a purpose. Cog in the machine.”

  “Then what’s my purpose? I’m not even a college graduate with any special skills.”

  “Remember during your screening, there were all sorts of questions about what you did to survive?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You and Bobby and all the other ZMTs, all fit the survivalist profile.”

  “Don’t we all?”

  “I suppose, but you all are exceptional at it.”

  Paul squeezed the couch and shook his head. He never had the opportu
nity to be anything else. “And Julian is a cog for you? For your purpose? Did Bobby get him here alive?”

  “Damn straight I did,” Bobby’s voice snapped.

  “Yes, Bobby brought Julian here safely, no worse for wear,” Nasher said. “He’s upstairs resting. He’ll help Greenport rid itself of an experimental form of tyranny.”

  “There was another guy though—Micah?” Paul asked.

  “You must mean Miles. Yes, I had hoped he’d make it too, as a favor to a friend. I didn’t expect Alan to poison people.”

  “But Julian’s who you wanted. So he can crank out money. Fake money buys what? The end of tyranny?”

  “Yes. Outside the walls, cash is becoming currency again. With stable villages and towns, people no longer need to barter water, food, weapons for the opportunity to live another day. And people are trading higher order goods, electronics and materials.”

  “What if you get caught?”

  “In time I will, I suppose, but by then the money will be dispersed and spent ten times over. A truth is a lie that just hasn’t been disproven.”

  Stanley hunched lower over the keyboard, intensely clicking. Richard turned from the monitor and grunted. “Oh—”

  An explosion boomed upstairs, and pictures and wall hangings rattled and shifted. Stanley whirled and sprinted to Paul. “Motherfucker! You said you weren’t followed!”

  Over the couch, he slammed Paul square in the chest with an elbow, and both tumbled to the floor.

  Richard bolted upright and lumbered around the melee to the weapons rack on the bar, while Nasher twisted by him and peered at the computer monitors. Another explosion sounded, more distant, perhaps higher up. “We’re under attack. Whoever it is tripped the window alarms.” Cinder and smoke clouded two video feeds. A third monitor showed a trio of black figures running through a hallway on the third floor, entering rooms one by one. “Richard, get Julian out of here.”

  Richard slung a shotgun over his neck and pulled the bolt back on an assault rifle. “On it.” A pounding thundered down the hallway from the steel door.

  Gunfire ripped through the basement, cutting a line of bullet holes across the foyer walls, chipping plaster and glass. Two shots hit Richard’s chest, sending him spinning.

  As he fell, he aimed the assault rifle to its source behind the wet bar. A jagged line of bullets sliced from the floor to the ceiling. Wood and tile splintered and lead pinged, ricocheting against metal.

  Paul and Stanley broke apart, gasping, and hugged the floor, covering their heads. Nasher dove behind the couch, wincing as the .38 revolver holstered on his left side jammed his ribs.

  Stanley scrambled, spider crawling to the opposite side of the couch, hiding with Nasher. Paul kicked along his back to the far wall pinned against shelves stocked with electronics and tools. Richard lay facedown, his massive shoulders struggling to rise with each new breath, coughing blood on the carpet. The pounding at the steel door thumped with a fury. Creaking floorboards and slamming doors ruptured upstairs.

  “Motherfucker!” Stanley screamed, banging his fists against the foot of the couch. “You’re dead, Bobby. So fucking dead.”

  “I got you pinned down, asshole, and your shit psycho of a boss, too,” Bobby said. “One squeeze of this trigger, and I redesign that couch full of holes.”

  Nasher coughed. “But you haven’t. What do you want, Bobby? What do you want for crossing me? I give you money, guns, girls, what more can I give you?”

  “Where’s the money, the remaining money you’re using to buy all your shit?” Bobby said, aiming the rifle at the back of the couch.

  Footsteps bounded down the stairs. Bobby cocked to the left and fired into the corner of the wall, missing Julian, who yelled, covered his head, and dropped to the floor.

  “Jesus Christ, Bobby! What are you doing?” Paul said.

  Julian peeked out from the foyer on his stomach and gritted his teeth.

  “Julian, stay where you are. Alan wants a word,” Bobby said, aiming his gun low.

  Stanley yelled, “Fuck. You fucking fuck.”

  “You’ve been playing the system, Bobby. Working Nasher, working Alan,” Paul said.

  “Damn straight I’ve been playing the system. Played it all during the outbreak, even before the outbreak, and now, as soon as Alan’s goons get down here and take Julian away, I’m gonna take my winnings on the road.”

  “Those guys in black are working for Alan?” Paul said.

  Bobby smirked. “He created them. Now, where’s the money, Nash?”

  Nasher laughed. “Fine. You can have it if you get there. If Alan lets you get there. It’s back in my sister’s bar. In her freezer.”

  Bobby kicked the cabinets, popping them open, and huffed. “I just came from there.” He paced the small area of the wet bar. “You put your sister in danger, I’ll be sure of that. Never liked her much.”

  Julian glared at Paul and waved a hand. Julian pointed at Paul with his right hand while the fingers in his left hand folded into a gun, his thumb cocked. His middle finger pulled back on an imaginary trigger. Something about a gun.

  A gun.

  He pulled Molly’s gift from the small of his back, relieved Stanley didn’t catch it at the door or while they rolled and fought on the floor. Paul rested the gun by his side, nodding to Julian.

  Julian replied, giving a thumbs up. He pointed at Bobby with this left hand, pulling the trigger three times.

  Paul frowned, his heart thumping hard in his chest, and shook his head. He didn’t want to kill Bobby. They weren’t best friends, but being teammates created a fraternal respect.

  Julian bared his teeth and made a fist, again shooting Bobby with his hand.

  Between Paul and Julian, Richard’s breathing stopped and blood ceased coming out of his mouth. For how long Richard may have been dead, Paul didn’t know. But a three hundred pound, six-foot man would turn into an undead tank of raging muscle.

  “Bobby,” Paul said, cracking his dry throat.

  “Yes, Paul? Unless you’re going to help me, shut up and be a limp dick like you’ve always been.”

  A flush of heat swelled across his face. Footsteps stomped louder. He looked up, guessing a half dozen or more roamed the floors above searching room by room. A tremor shook through Richard’s fingers.

  “Bobby, we need to get out of here. We don’t know what the guys upstairs will do when they get down here—”

  “They’ll kill at least three of you, maybe Julian if he’s too much trouble.”

  “And you know this? Truly know this how?”

  His voice less firm, Bobby said, “The Chief, Ed, he told me. Told me about this job and that Alan would make sure I got my due.”

  “You don’t sound so sure,” Paul said, as Richard’s legs began to vibrate. “Besides—“

  “Besides what?”

  “You’re not paying attention.”

  “What the fuck does that mean?”

  Richard’s entire body shook, the shotgun slung along his back thumped with each bounce. Paul squeezed his eyes shut, drew a deep breath and exhaled, “Richard’s about to turn.”

  “Shit,” Bobby said. His assault rifle rattled as he drew it to his shoulder.

  Paul sprung, extended his arms and strafed along the wall. A bang recoiled the gun after the first trigger pull. Bobby only half turned when the first bullet hit his right bicep and exploded at the ball and socket joint. Bobby screamed and rotated his gun, as Paul pulled the trigger again. The second bullet shattered Bobby’s jaw and lodged at the base of his skull. Blood scattered in streaks against the cabinets, and Bobby reeled, collapsing to the floor with a moan.

  Paul twisted toward Richard, now pushing his trembling body off the floor. He fired his last two shots to Richard’s head and Richard’s body crumpled to the floor.

  Paul lowered his gun and exhaled. “We need to leave.” He turned his head to the feet stomping above. “Now.”

  Nasher rose. His joints popped and he g
roaned. “He always was too smart for his own good,” nodding to Bobby, whose eyes blinked while he struggled to clutch the back of his neck with his fingers slick with blood.

  Stanley rolled, leapt off the floor, and dashed to the weapons rack, grabbing an automatic shotgun. He tossed the fully automatic AR-15 to Nasher and turned to Julian and tilted his head back and forth as if to size Julian up.

  Stanley pulled a short-barrel shotgun from the rack and opened the barrel, filled with two shells. “Here’s a sawed-off with two shots. Point it, and make ’em count,” he said, handing the gun to Julian. He walked back to the wet bar, knelt down and sneered at Bobby wheezing his last breaths. Stanley pulled a green canvas bag out from a cabinet. He undid a drawstring and nodded. “Start moving to the garden door. I’ll mind the stairs.”

  “What?” Paul said staring at the bag.

  Stanley dipped a hand in the bag and pulled up a black box. Its top arced end to end in his hand, no larger than a large hardback book. “Our alarm system,” he said, pointing to an opaque eyelet, “has sensors that when tripped,” he raised his eyebrows and looked up, “go boom.”

  “Paul,” Nasher said from the foyer. “Let’s go. Stanley, be quick,” and he and Julian disappeared into the hallway shadows.

  The weapons rack now stood empty. Paul knelt in the bloody mass of Richard’s bodily fluids and worked to slide the strap attached to the shotgun out from beneath his body. He grunted as Stanley jumped over him. The strap caught Richard’s arm at one end and remained pinned under his chest. Paul growled and pinched the clips of the straps and took the gun. He stepped over Richard and turned to Bobby, his crimson stained arms listless and his head drooped to his neck. Paul bit his lip, narrowed his eyes, and raised his handgun.

  The crack of the gunshot burst and cratered the top of Bobby’s head.

  “That fucker didn’t deserve mercy,” Stanley said, holding a silver canister.

  “Maybe not. But as a ZMT, it’s what we do.”

  Stanley pitched a low hum. “Those test scores must mean you’re a cold son of a bitch. Get down the hallway. I’m gonna set a screen,” he said and turned to the foot of the stairs.