Dead World Trilogy (Book 2): A World Together

by Weir, R. K.

  "You saved me," I say, almost in disbelief. When it registers to me as fact, I pull her into a hug.

  "Are you alright?" she asks, pulling back.

  After experiencing at least five near-death experiences within the span of thirty minutes, I think I can confidently say that I am anything but alright. I can't even imagine how I must look, covered in burns and blood and bruises. My knees feel weak and unsteady, to the point where I think I might collapse. The only thing keeping me up is the urge to get as far away as possible from the ledge.

  I gently push Maisie aside so I can get past her, and then I see Gale's body. The sight of him propels me forward. My body is so exhausted I'm not sure if I can even make it to him. But I do. I collapse beside him and press my hand against his neck.

  A heartbeat greets my fingertips. He's still alive! My eyes frantically look him over, searching for a bullet wound, blood, anything. But I can't find a single speck of blood on him. Maisie kneels beside me and asks what I'm doing.

  "He was shot," I tell her. "We have to find the wound and stop the bleeding! He's still alive!"

  She looks down at him. "I think he just fainted."

  I'm in the middle of examining his left arm when her words sink in. She's looking up at the wall. I follow her gaze and find the small bullet-sized hole almost instantly, like a speck of dirt on the otherwise clean surface. It's too far up to have hit Gale. The bullet must have missed completely.

  I drop his arm and move to lightly slap his face. When his eyes flutter open I don't know if I feel like laughing or crying.

  "Goddammit, kid! I thought you were dead!" It doesn't take long for his eyes to widen to their usual frightened size. When they do, I give him room to sit up.

  "What happened? Are we s-safe?" he asks.

  I nod. "Yeah, we're safe."

  He relaxes slightly. "Oh, thank God."

  "You did good," I tell him, clapping him on the back. His face begins to redden and I can tell he's restraining a smile. "You fainted," I add, and he drops the smile. "But you did good with the bottles. Stella will be proud."

  Stella. Rocket. We're safe, but are they? There's no doubt in my mind that this was a trap set by the Gas Man. I can feel my heartbeat speeding up, my hands trembling again. Are they already dead? This thought alone sends another shot of adrenaline coursing through me. The exhaustion my body was fighting seconds ago abating enough for me to stand.

  Again I find my mind racing with a million thoughts, but one is constantly at the forefront.

  We have to get back to the museum.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Stella

  I'm panting heavily, my heart is pounding in my ears and my feet are slapping hard against the stone floor. But I can't hear any of this. All I can hear is the frenzied cries of the infected. I've never heard them sound like this before. It's as if this is the first time they've made noise in forever. I risk a glance back at them. More are still pouring out of the room, rushing out like a violent surge of water, completely filling every crevice of the corridor.

  Fresh infected are clawing their way to the front. Even they seem more desperate than usual, more hysterical and vicious. They have no tolerance for the slower members of their hunting party. They shove them aside, pull them back, knock them over, whatever it takes to get to the front. I witness a middle-aged man dig his fingers into the eye sockets of an elderly lady as he jerks her back and to the side, taking her place in the sea of bodies.

  A few of the infected are so emaciated they may as well be skeletons, but they all look starved. How long have they been locked in there for? Why were they even locked in there in the first place? I shake these thoughts away and turn my attention back to running. There are a million questions on my mind but asking them now is pointless. I need to live through this first.

  The door on the opposite side of the corridor has opened by itself. Or at least it would seem that way. Then I remember the Gas Man boasting about his automatic doors and I wonder if our best course of action is to follow the trail he's setting out for us. I consider taking us back into the janitor's closet and climbing through the vents but we sprint past it before I have the chance to suggest it aloud. There's nowhere else for us to go but straight ahead.

  Rocket has lagged behind me slightly. I turn my head so that I can see her. The fresh infected are closing in. The one at the very front, a bald man without a shirt and barely any shorts is starting to reach a hand out. "Come on!" I shout at her, but I know words will do no good. She's running as fast as she can and if that's not enough. . .

  I make it through the open doorway and slide to a stop. Twisting back around, my hands clamp onto the edges of the door, ready to slam it shut the second Rocket passes through. Only, the infected are so close behind her – practically on her heels – that I'm not sure if I'll be able to get the door shut in time. There's no time to think of any other option. As she comes bursting through, I throw the door out as fast as I can and slam myself against it for good measure. I almost have it shut when the first of the infected barrels into it.

  An arm snakes through the gap and I have to stab at it several times with my knife until it retreats. Rocket pushes her weight against the door as more infected pile up on the other side. The wood shakes beneath our hands as they try to batter and claw their way through. It becomes too much to handle, the door slowly presses open until another arm makes it through the gap.

  "You have to keep running!" the Gas Man shouts through the speakers, his tinny voice practically lost over the roaring flood of infected.

  I glance at Rocket, unsure if she'll be able to outrun them. There's no way I can give her a head start, the door will collapse on me the second she moves away. I can already feel it opening now. We don't have much time. We lock eyes and I know she's thinking the same.

  "Ready?" she asks.

  I bite my tongue and nod.

  "Now!" she says.

  The door flings open the second our fingers leave the wood. We almost don't make it away in time. It even catches my heel before slamming against the wall. It throws me off balance, nearly trips me over, but I somehow manage to stay upright. Our new area is an exhibition. None of the displays look familiar at a glance. We're moving too fast to get a good look but there are large planes hanging from the ceiling, and I don't recall the Gas Man showing us a room with any such models.

  We're in a different part of the museum. One I don't recognize. If we can just get somewhere familiar, maybe we can make our way back to the entrance. But we're coming to the end of this exhibition and our only viable route is to go up a set of stairs. We must be at the back or side of the building because the entire wall next to the stairs is made of glass. I can see the sky through it.

  I consider trying to break the window, to hurl my knife up and hope the entire thing shatters. But the glass is probably too thick to break that easily, and if I throw my knife I'll be weaponless. We don't even have time to stop and look for something to try and break it with, the infected are snapping at our heels.

  We could try and climb one of the displays. On the other side of the room is a tank. This exhibition must be dedicated to one of the World Wars. If we do that we'll be trapped though. I'm trying to think of any other option besides going up the stairs, because if we go up them I don't think we'll ever come back down.

  But there's no time to think of anything else. We reach the stairs and climb them two steps at a time, gripping the banisters to haul ourselves up. I glance back to see that the infected are at least somewhat slowed down by the steep incline. Their legs are unsure of how high to lift up. Their feet slip on the edges of the steps. Many of them trip over in their haste and end up bringing others down with them.

  The sight of them is almost comical. Bumbling idiots having a difficult time climbing stairs. If I weren't their prey, watching from someplace safe, I might even laugh. Is the Gas Man laughing now? He hasn't said anything since he told us to run, but surely he must be finding entertainment in this.
What other reason would he put us on camera for?

  While the infected are still climbing over each other near the bottom, Rocket and I have almost reached the top. Even though we've been afforded this small advantage, I'm not sure it will be enough for us to get away. We'll need to find another set of stairs after this so that we can get back to the first floor, and we'll be navigating our way through a part of the museum that's entirely new to us.

  I'm going through a list of plans and strategies in my head when the tip of Rocket's boot catches on the edge of a step and she goes sprawling forward. There's a horrible impulse to keep running, to leave her behind, and while I would usually follow that impulse, I push it down this time and turn to help her.

  "You're okay," I say, pulling her up. But she isn't okay. She steps forward with her left foot and curses at the pressure put upon it. I glance down at the infected. They're still fumbling around, but they're slowly making their way up. "Come on, let's keep moving."

  I take off at a run, only to quickly realize that Rocket is incapable of matching such a speed. While she's usually slower than me, this is a whole new level. I stop and wait for her to catch up, but she takes far too long. By the time she reaches me, the first of the infected are starting to appear at the top of the stairs.

  "Come on!" I shout at her. "You're gonna have to grit your teeth and power through it!"

  It's not the pep talk of the century but it manages to motivate her somewhat. Her eyes narrow into slits and she spits out a curse. She grunts loudly every time her left foot hits the ground. I can see how much pain it's causing her from the pinched expression on her face. She's determined though, especially now that the infected are on level ground again. I only have to slow my pace slightly to keep in step with her, and together we run down the hall, decorated with paintings, towards another open door at the end.

  She's practically right beside me, until she isn't anymore. I look back and see that she's lagging behind again. I'm about to shout at her when the words catch in my throat. The infected reach her, a hand locking around her forearm, fingers clutching at her hair. There's a split-second where I think I might have the time to pull her free, to stab the infected with my knife. A million plans and options buzz in my mind but a single thought accompanies all of them.

  If I leave her, I can get away.

  It doesn't matter. In the time I've taken to decide, it's already too late. More hands have grabbed her. Teeth have sunken into her shoulder. She's screaming out my name, her arm extended in my direction, her hand open, begging to be helped. I turn from her and keep running, trying to ignore the desperate sound of my name, the pleading tone she's using to expel it. Pain distorts it until it becomes nothing but a shriek in her throat.

  I reach the open door and slam it shut behind me. My body collapses against it and I slide down to the floor. I know I need to keep running, but I can't. I sit with my back against the door and clamp my hands over my ears, trying to drown out the sound of her voice. But I can't do that either.

  I listen to her screams until they become a howl, and then a gurgle, and then nothing at all.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Stella

  The realization of what has happened doesn't come to me straight away, and even when it does, the emotions don't. I expect them to come later maybe, when the ghost of her screams aren't echoing in my ears. But for now I'm too numb to feel much of anything. Too numb to think. Too numb to feel. Too numb to pick myself up and keep going.

  That's alright though. I have some time before the infected will start banging on the door. They're much too preoccupied right now to care about me. I can hear the snapping of her bones as they dismember her corpse. The sound of flesh being stripped away. I press my hands harder against my ears, nails digging into my scalp in a desperate attempt to clamp out all noise. But there's no silencing my thoughts.

  The scene, her arm extended towards me, her eyes terrified, is replaying over and over in my mind. There was that split second. That split second where I could have done something. I could have grabbed her hand and pulled her away. I could have thrown my knife out at the nearest infected.

  I could have saved her.

  Instead, I was too busy thinking how leaving her would help me get away. In a way, I killed her. Not directly, but I certainly played a part. If I had just taken her hand, she would be sitting next to me right now. Not on the other side of the door where she's being torn apart. She would be next to me. She would be alive. My hands slip from my ears and fall motionless at my sides.

  Logan was right. He was never wrong, but the implication behind the word has only hit me now. Selfish. That's what I am, and that's what killed her. For once I can think of no way to defend my actions. We both could have survived, and the only reason that didn't happen is because of me. No, that's not entirely true.

  I can blame the Gas Man. I can blame the infected. I can even blame the bandits. There's plenty of blame to pass around, but niggling at the back of my mind is the thought that I deserve most of it.

  I can hear the infected shifting, becoming restless again. Soon they'll be at the door, clawing at the wood and trying to break their way through. I need to start moving, but I've lost the will to pick myself up. Even the switchblade, sitting idly in my palm, feels too heavy to lift. I close my fingers around it, barely feeling the blade against my skin as I bend it down and force it to shut. Then I tuck it back into my boot.

  Something tickles my cheek before slipping down to hang heavily off my chin. My hand flies up to catch whatever it is, thinking it might be blood and I've been injured somehow. When I pull my hand back I find that it was only a tear. I didn't realize I was crying. Both my hands work to wipe them from my cheeks, to rub them from my eyes. The movement has woken me from whatever daze I was locked in and I take the opportunity to stand before I slip back into it.

  Just in time, too, because as soon as I step away from the door it begins to rattle on its hinges. The violence behind it kicks me into motion and forces me to start running again. I glance back in time to see the door handle beginning to twist. I forgot they can open doors. It would seem that in my time away from the infected I've done all I can to remove them from my memories. Once they open the door, I doubt I'll be able to outrun them. The next best option is to hide.

  The first exhibition on my right is clearly dedicated to medieval history. Or at least, judging from a glass case filled with maces and swords I assume that it is. On the other side of the room is a wooden rack, lined with shields packed together so tightly they practically form their own wall. They're the type of shields riot police would use, except instead of being transparent, these ones are painted with patterns and colors that have mostly faded away with age. As soon as my eyes land on them I sprint over and dive behind them. The door in the hall crashes open the second I hit the floor.

  If I was to stand, the shields would just about reach my chin, and there are six of them in total, giving me more than enough space to lie down without being seen if I wanted to. But I curl into a tight ball instead and try to make myself as small as possible. My heart is beating so thunderously loud in my chest that I can't even hear the stampede of the infected. Through the thin slits between the shields, I can just see that they've reached the room.

  They move like an angry mob, thrown into a frenzy and rioting in the streets. They knock over several displays while senselessly hurling themselves around. There's nothing but pure rage driving them. One infected woman, its lips smeared with a coat of fresh blood, bends over and just shrieks. Another infected man, jagged white bones sticking out from its knuckles, is punching a wall. When its wrist snaps back and its hand starts flopping around uselessly, it starts slamming its head against the wall instead.

  An agonizing terror has trapped the breath in my throat and forced my entire body to tremble uncontrollably. The infected continue to tarnish the room, to claw at the walls and destroy the displays. I'm beginning to think my decision to hide behind these shields was
a bad one, when no more than a second later, I'm proven right. An infected woman, who's just thrown a glass case of jewelry and trinkets across the room, is now moving towards me.

  It reaches out and rips a shield off the rack, then flings it away where it crashes against a wall and splits apart. My hand is reaching into my boot, fingers curling around the switchblade, ready to flip it open and stab out at a moments notice, when the speaker in the room crackles to life. The infected ripping away my shields freezes, head snapping to the corner of the room where the speaker hangs.

  It's the Gas Man. He's saying something, a long string of words. It's impossible for me to hear any of it though. If I thought the infected were frenzied before, they're absolutely berserk now. Their screams have grown louder, their actions more violent. The infected woman that was attacking my shields is now just hitting itself in the head with its fists. I don't know what it's doing, maybe trying to drown out the static tone of the Gas Man.

  It doesn't matter. At this rate, the rest of the infected will find me in no time. They've almost demolished the entire room already. I stand no chance fighting them. I'll be overwhelmed and torn apart in seconds. The exact same outcome for if I just stay here, curled in a ball. Dead either way, but maybe if I lie still and shut my eyes, it won't be as painful. I don't think I have the energy, or the will, to fight anyway.

  Sometime during my deliberation, the Gas Man stops talking and the speakers dissolve to a hum before silencing completely. I'm about to close my eyes, to prepare for the inevitable, when one by one the infected slowly drain from the room. I watch them go, listen to the sound of their departure as their chaos transfers to the hall and slowly slips out of earshot. But why? Are they trying to chase the Gas Man's voice? Did they just grow bored of this room and decide to move on to the next?

  Whatever the reason, I'm thankful for it. I stay huddled behind the shields for a while after they've gone, only daring to stand once I'm certain my movements will go unheard. The room is completely trashed. Shards of glass and splinters of wood cover the floors. Only a few displays and artefacts remain standing. I move across the room and towards the hall carefully, cautious of where I place my steps. A single crunch of glass underfoot could bring back the flock.