Survivor Response

by Patrick J. Harris

  “She will do no such thing.”

  The faint whooping of a helicopter sounded in the distance. Alan frowned and looked up, turning his head to the side and his ear to the ceiling. His eyes narrowed as the whooping grew louder.

  Thomas seized the IV pole and swung it underhand like a crazed golfer, driving the pole’s feet at Alan’s forearms. Alan howled as the radial bone in his left forearm snapped. He twisted and fell, clutching his injured arm. The gun broke loose and flew through the air, bounced, landing with a scrape along the tile.

  Thomas raised the pole above his head to strike Alan dead.

  “Thomas!” Karen shouted.

  Thomas halted, the pole frozen inches from the ceiling. The helicopter was louder, now directly over the building; Thomas looked up and back to Karen.

  “We are not going to kill him. We’re going to lock him in here. We’ll get him later once we get Sophie to a computer to shut down whatever it is he created.”

  Thomas still held the IV pole over his head. He glared at Karen and yelled. “Why? Why, Karen? He purposely killed Donovan to kill me. For the hell of it. Did he do the same to you with Jane?”

  “Yes,” Karen said, her eyes fixed on Thomas’. “And I hated that it happened just as much as you. But we have a choice to be better than him.”

  “Better?” he huffed and shook his head.

  “Yes, better,” she said.

  “Fuck your moral superiority,” Alan said, his voice cracking in between sharp breaths of air. He clenched his jaw and squeezed his eyes shut and slid his uninjured arm across his body. From a coat pocket he retrieved a phone no larger than a deck of cards. “Morals don’t matter when you’re being chased by death, trying to survive, Karen.” His thumb slid atop the phone’s screen, drawing an imaginary pattern. The screen glowed and he tapped a series of colored boxes.

  Sophie stepped just past Karen and reached down. “Alan,” Sophie said, her voice soft and short. She gripped Alan’s gun by her side.

  “Yes, Sophie?”

  “No, no, no, Sophie,” Karen waved her hands in front of her.

  “Look at me, Alan,” she said, ignoring Karen’s protestations and Thomas discarding the IV pole beside him, sidestepping her line of sight and dove over the hospital bed.

  “Just a moment. I need to do something—” Alan said, gripping the phone.

  Sophie concentrated her hands to hold the gun tight, stiffening her arms. The first shot rang loud—Alan spasmed and tucked into the fetal position, drawing his injured arm over his head and the phone to his face. The trigger sprang into its original position, pushing her index finger forward.

  She squeezed the trigger back again.

  And again.

  Again.

  The second and third shots unfurled Alan’s spine, ripping through his right lung and lower intestines. The fourth shot punctured a grey ceiling tile and lodged into hidden tufts of insulation.

  Karen grabbed and held Sophie’s arms high and touched Sophie’s cheek. It bloomed pink, warm to the touch, and Sophie’s eyes blinked through the trickle of tears. Karen slipped the gun free and Sophie collapsed into Karen’s body, burrowing her face into her chest.

  “Okay, it’s okay,” Karen said, her voiced hushed, pushing the streak of white hair behind Sophie’s ear. “We’re going to get out of here, and we’re going to see your brother.”

  Thomas stepped over Alan’s shaking body to take the gun from Karen. He touched Karen’s shoulder and squeezed gently.

  “You know how they say,” Alan said through ragged coughs. “’Some want to watch the world burn’? I’m somewhat like that.” He laughed, wheezing. “It’s out of curiosity, mostly. It’s a shame I won’t get to see Greenport burn then, but I’ll be part of it.”

  “What?” Karen whipped her head around.

  Alan lurched his hand forward. Throughout the corridor the clicking and clacking of electronic deadbolts pulsed.

  “Since I’m good as dead,” he gasped, “consider this my dead man’s switch.”

  Chapter 23

  “Paul, when we land, we need you to get us to the command center,” Nasher said, holding his headset. “I’m sure your girl got back safely, and we’ll find her there.”

  Paul shifted in his seat, looking at the passing patchwork of rooftops, concrete and greenery amid the stitching of streetlights. “Will do, and thanks. I’m sure you’re right.” He took a deep breath, picturing Karen standing at her keyboard with her hands on her hips, surveying the room of dispatchers. She’d be commandeering the clean up response across the city’s departments. Safely. But the swelling ache in his stomach wasn’t soothed by those thoughts. His body didn’t agree to the vibration of the helicopter humming down the back of his neck to his feet.

  Stanley banked the chopper left and Paul leaned against his window and tugged his harness to allow his chest room to expand. “We’ll land shortly,” Stanley called out. “I’ll circle ‘round for a big enough spot to land. I’d prefer a big flat spot on the ground. Easier that way, but a roof will do.” He glanced over his shoulder to Paul. “Any suggestions where I can land?”

  Paul pulled a mental map of the buildings within the Central district into his memory. He’d only experienced the compound by foot or from a ZMT rig. Where in the hell he was expected to guide Stanley to? The road leading in and out was wide and flat, but if they landed there, the main entrance would be blocked. Inside the gate, a large parking lot contained ZMT rigs and city vehicles in various states of repair. It’d be possible, but a crowded lot would be tight. He didn’t trust the roof the ZMT bay—too many cables and pipes crisscrossed the surface. To the west of the bay lay a grassy courtyard that led to an empty infirmary Alan restricted access.

  “Stanley,” Paul said, pulling the mic to his lips, “There’s a courtyard, west, northwest of the ZMT bay. It’s near a long narrow building that connects to the bay, which connects to the building.”

  Stanley scanned the compound the below. “How will I know which building is—. Never mind.” He grinned. “Clever.” Broad strokes of white paint outlined the shape of a skull with crossed-out eyes. Its mouth rested atop the bay doors, as a ZMT rig spat out into the night.

  “Julian,” Nasher said. “You still with us? It’s been a long day for you.”

  Julian knocked the glass with his knuckles. “Still here. I could use a cigarette, though, to settle my nerves.”

  “When we’re done, I’ll make sure you get however many cartons you want.”

  “Sounds good, boss.”

  The chopper hovered over the courtyard, and Stanley turned back and forth, checking the clearance between them and surrounding buildings. Off-white walls and grime-covered windows rose as the helicopter descended, and rapid spinning of the blades reverberated back. Stanley landed unevenly, the right side bounced down and jolted the cabin. The commando’s arm still gripped the skid of the helicopter.

  Nasher removed his headset, turned to the back seat.

  “Paul, lead us in.”

  He patted Stanley on the shoulder and pointed to the bag full of what remained of his explosive ordinances. Stanley nodded, returning a thumbs up as he powered down the chopper.

  Paul jumped out, grabbing his gun, and he, Nasher, and Julian sprinted to the building’s back steps, the stamp of their boots drowned out by the slowing whine of the main rotor. Two concrete birdbaths, covered in brown sludge, framed the entrance. Nothing but black, empty windows lined the walls. He found it curious that steel burglar bars covered each one. Iron oxide welts bled from where the bars attached to the wall. He palmed the door handle and met a layer of soot. He turned the handle, and the tumblers held in place, keeping them locked out. He huffed and peeked through the door’s windows where a dimly lit hall with branches of closed doors went for thirty yards. Nasher and Julian stood behind him, eyeing the courtyard.

  He gripped the handle again. It didn’t budge.

  “Well?” Nasher said.

  “It’s locke
d.” Paul stepped back and gripped his shotgun by the barrel and its stock. “We’ll have to bust the door handle.”

  “With the butt of a gun?” Julian said. “That’s a steel door and most likely has a reinforced deadbolt. Ain’t gonna unlock it that way.” He turned to Nasher. “Stanley got any C4 or thermite in his bag of boom?”

  Nasher grinned. “Bag of boom. Mention that to him, and he’ll beam with pride. We’ll have to ask him.”

  A door slammed on the now quiet helicopter. “And here comes the man, now,” Julian said. “Stanley, you got in anything in that bag of boom to open this door?”

  Stanley was mid stride up the steps. He threw his head back and laughed in a nasal pitch. “Bag of boom,” he said, joining them on the steps. “I like that.”

  He eyed the door, knelt down and flipped the cover open and fished through the contents. He pulled out a six-inch flathead screwdriver. “Not everything needs a boom. Here,” he crawled across the foyer in front the door frame. “Help me knock the bolts off the hinges.”

  “Now, that’s clever,” Paul said.

  Stanley wedged the tip of the screwdriver into the rusty hinge and pulled, popping the bolt free. All three scraped loose after five minutes of wedging the screwdriver in and tapping it up and out the hinge. Paul and Stanley plied their finger tips to the teeth of the hinge and pulled.

  With the crack of a seal and a whisper of air, the door came loose. They laid it on the ground, stared down the empty corridor, and crossed the threshold. Paul had never been in the building, but knew it led to a doorway not far from the ZMT bay.

  After they passed the third set of doors, a symphonic clicking and clacking rattled down the hall. They each froze and narrowed their eyes on the row of door handles sounding to life.

  “Paul, what is this building?” Nasher said, low and muted, flexing his grip on his gun.

  “I don’t know, it was always empty, or I thought it was,” he said, raising his shotgun to his chest. “It was always off limits to personnel.”

  “Did you think it might be off limits for a reason?” Nasher asked.

  “Before tonight, no, but now, after what you and your sister told me, maybe so.”

  “And maybe we’ll survive this hallway,” Julian said, stepping forward.

  Halfway down the hall, a pane of light rushed out into the hall floor as a door swung open. Shadows were framed in the light. Stanley slid to the left wall, while Paul, Nasher, and Julian rose their weapons and squared their stances.

  A short male figure with black hair stepped out and glanced to his left and then to his right. His eyes grew wide.

  “Paul?” the figure said.

  “Thomas?” Paul said, lowering his gun.

  “What? Paul?” a female voice hidden in the room said. “Paul’s out there?”

  Karen burst through the doorway head first, pushing her hair from her eyes. She rushed at Paul, and crashed into his chest, wrapped her arms around him and exhaled.

  Paul raised his arms and absorbed her hug. With his left arm free of the gun, he draped it across the back of her shoulders and held her tight. He kissed the top of her head. “You’re okay, thank God, you’re okay.”

  She spoke into his shoulder. “Yes, I am okay. It was rough getting here. I’m glad you’re okay, too.” She looked up, her eyebrows raised. “You’re not infected? From earlier today?”

  Paul sighed. “Thankfully, no. It’s—what we know about the Plague, we don’t know much.”

  “That’s the truth,” Nasher said, still holding his gun, but pointed at the ground. “Alan can tell you most of it.”

  “I’m sorry, who are you?” Karen said, quickly kissing Paul before releasing her hold on him in order to see Nasher.

  “Clyde Nasher. I’m guessing you’re Karen.”

  She widened her eyes, opened her mouth to speak, but paused until she found the words. “I am. And Alan’s dead.”

  “Well, fuck,” Stanley said, pounding the wall.

  Nasher pursed his lips. “Hmm, that makes what we need to do easier then.”

  Paul leaned back. “Karen—Bobby...was working for Alan to get at Nasher. He led those things to Foxer.”

  “And now he’s dead,” Stanley said. “Your boyfriend killed him.”

  “Is that true?”

  Paul nodded. “Yes, he was going to kill us, or let us be killed. He played us—”

  Paul quieted as Thomas and a red haired woman came into Paul’s view. His heart pumped harder and his breath grew shorter and his grip on Karen’s shoulder tighter. He squeezed his eyes and shook them around. He blinked again and again. The red-haired woman stepped closer.

  “Morgan?” he whispered.

  “Paul,” Karen said, her voice soft as she turned around. “She’s alive. Your sister’s been alive all this time. She survived in Greenport. She goes by Sophie now.”

  Paul’s eyes welled with tears, and he squeezed them shut to will them away.

  “All these years,” he said, his voice breaking, “you couldn’t find me and let me know you were okay?”

  Sophie crossed her arms and held her shoulders, speaking to the hallway floor.

  “I didn’t know what to do.”

  “Didn’t know what to do?”

  Sophie squeezed her eyes shut. “I thought you went crazy, the Plague made you crazy. I thought you’d come for me next.”

  A rattle of metal came from behind the door closest to Stanley. He stepped back.

  Paul’s voice rose. “You’re my sister. I was protecting you—we, Dad and I were protecting you.”

  “Karen told me.” Sophie’s eyes searched the floor, unable to look up. “I know that now.”

  A stuttering scrape of rubber reverberated near Nasher. He glanced down the hallway and focused his attention to everyone’s feet, studying their shoes. No one had moved.

  “Paul, she’s been with Alan all this time,” Karen said. “And she shot him dead.”

  “Morgan—”

  “Sophie,” Karen said, touching his chest. “Her name is Sophie.”

  Thomas leaned back into the room they’d come from. Streaks of blood trailed from the floor to the pried open window. “Shit.”

  “Sophie.” Paul looked up, and let go of Karen. He’d found his resolve. He moved toward his sister, treading each footstep as a catharsis to embrace a past he thought lost. “Is that true? You survived all this time with Alan? Did he treat you good?”

  Sophie blinked and shrugged. “Well enough.”

  “Then why did you kill him?”

  He was now an arm’s length away.

  Tears silently fell down the curves of Sophie’s cheeks; she pursed her lips and frowned. Her arms squeezed tighter and her breath grew short. She probably didn’t want to tell him now. Maybe she never would.

  In high school, Paul had done a research paper about Stockholm Syndrome, fascinated by the captors in the robbery that coined the term. Did Sophie sympathize with Alan? Paul would never truly understand the life she lived with Alan, and he didn’t want to fathom the ways he may have taken advantage of her, but in this moment, Paul would give her his love.

  A stride—clump, pause, clump—shuffled behind the door to a room closest to Julian. He placed his ear to the cold wood, and a long drawn rasp of air popped a high pitch croak.

  Paul had stopped just in front of his sister. Her short puffs of breaths bounced off his chest. Her arms pulsed to her rapid beating heart. He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close. Her hands let go of her shoulders and she matched his embrace, clutching the folds of his shirt.

  “Love you, sister. Love you so much.”

  She rubbed her face and sniffled into his chest. “Love you, too, brother. I’m—I’m sorry.”

  Julian back away from the door, and Stanley nodded to it. Julian nodded back and brought his shotgun around to his torso, as Stanley drew open his bag without looking, and fished out two shotgun shells.

  Thomas burst into the hall. “Alan’s go
ne.”

  “What?” Karen said.

  “He’s gone through the window.”

  A cascade of creaking hinges, wooshing air, and the crack of door stops flowed as every door in the hallway swung open.

  Julian turned to the shadows revealed by the door. A one-armed zombie covered in a jumble of red wires and dots of white electrodes crossed a threshold. The flesh around its neck peeled back exposing brown strands of muscle. Its windpipe pulsed with its raspy growl. He stepped back and extended his arm, gripping the stock of the sawed-off shotgun, and raised it eye level with the oncoming zombie. A boom erupted and sprayed lead buckshot. The frontal lobes of the zombie broke away in a splatter, knocking it backward to the floor.

  Sophie shook at the shotgun blast, and Paul whipped around as the entire hallway flooded with a torrent of zombies in various states of decay and experimental ornaments. He turned back to Sophie. “Do you have a gun, or anything?”

  “No,” she said, shaking her head. “But if I can get to a computer, I can probably stop them.”

  Paul repeated her words in his head, drawing the connection between Sophie’s access to Alan, the network, and the zombies. “You can turn them off?”

  “Or control them.”

  He looked into her eyes, reading her face. Staring back at him was the face of his sister, before she’d driven the Ferrari down the street. A little unsure of the outcome, but confident to see how things would turn out. He gripped her shoulder and squeezed. “Okay. Can you lead us to a computer? We’ll follow all the way.”

  Growls and screams filled the hallways. Sophie, shuddered. “Yes, but we’ll have to get to the ZMT bay at least.”

  Paul turned to the others behind him. Stanley high kicked an armless, naked female zombie in the chest. It screeched, flew backwards into its room with oily clumps of hair covering its face. It smacked back into the shadows, and Stanley grabbed the door handle with one arm and rolled a grenade underhanded into the room and slammed the door shut. He threw himself to the ground behind the wall and covered his head. The grenade thundered and its boom shook the floor. Tufts of dust and smoke seeped through the crack beneath the door.