by Justin Bell
He had to do something. Jackson pushed himself to his feet, angling around to shuffle out into the open lobby of the theater, and the figures appeared at that exact moment, four men in combat uniforms, holding automatic rifles, blocking the view out of the broken window. Jackson halted and dove left as they all lifted weapons and rattled off gunfire, bullets devouring the soda machine and glass cases on the opposite sides of the counters. Metal buckled and glass shattered, spraying foamy soda residue and jagged shards over his shoulders as he hugged the ground.
Sweeping the M4 up into both hands he brought the rifle up over the counter and opened fire before he could even get eyes on the targets. He knew all four of the men had been outside the window, so he aimed in that general direction and let loose, finally getting his eyes on the scene as the figures scattered away. He couldn’t tell if they were dodging or falling, he had no idea if he’d hit anyone, though he didn’t think so.
Someone swung back around up near the front and fired again, shots blasting chunks from the top of the counter just to Jackson’s right. He shifted the opposite direction and returned fire, exploding the passenger window of the truck that he’d been hiding behind a short while ago. Ducking down, narrowly avoiding a short burst of fire, Jackson removed the magazine and plunged a full one back into the weapon, coming up from behind the counter. One of the men had taken advantage of his hiding to begin an advance and was crouch-walking across the lobby, within eight feet of Jackson and he had to dodge left, swiveling right, opening up with the automatic, spraying a blinding throttle of muzzle flashes in a tight horizontal spray. The advancing soldier spun left, shouting as he stumbled, his weapon spinning up into the air as he toppled forward. More gunfire exploded from the front and Jackson lurched right, barely avoiding being caught in the spray. Slamming back down onto the floor behind the counter, stars burst in his eyes and more pain flooded his body. This diving to the ground stuff wasn’t like it seemed in the movies.
Bullets continued smashing into the concession counter, pummeling it, tearing off broken chunks and throwing them up into the air, mixing with smoke and sparks, debris and endless crashing noise turning the theater into the opposite of a sensory deprivation tank. It was a small, enclosed space that was abusing every single sense Jackson had, touch, taste, smell, and hearing most of all. He couldn’t tell which way was right or left, which way was up or down, and for one frantic moment, he thought he was caught out in the open, his heart hammering as he glanced around, looking for an exit that wasn’t there.
The counter continued to break away, and light was shining through some of the gaping holes in the shattered wood. It wasn’t going to last much longer, and when the counter went, so did he.
He kicked his legs frantically, sliding across the shrapnel ridden ground on his backside, pushing himself away from the counter, his back pressing up against the smooth wall behind him. He desperately tried to put some space between him and the men near the front, but there was nowhere else to go and the gunfire echoed from the walls and the ceiling, chunks of counter caught in mid-air, mixing with the lingering smoke, bracketed by the pale light of outside and there was nowhere else to go.
But then the gunfire stopped.
The men near the window shouted. Called out. Screamed at something that wasn’t him. He heard more gunfire blasting away, heard more shouts and screams, and for one blessed moment, realized that the men who were firing at him now had their own bigger problems.
***
Broderick was the first out the double doors, coming out from the Town Hall onto the sidewalk bordering Main Street, a newly freed M4 in his hand, courtesy of the canvas bag Melinda had found in the closet. Clark came out on his right shoulder, still clutching the AR-15, and as they looked across the street, they saw the smoking remnants of a blue pickup truck and the shattered front window of the old movie theater.
“Over there!” Broderick called out, pointing to the small group of soldiers who were huddled by the front window, firing in at someone.
“Who are they shooting at?” asked Clark. “You think it’s Jack?”
As Broderick and Clark veered toward the road, Javier came up on their rear, holding the Scorpion EVO semi-automatic rifle that Clark had refilled prior to their escape from the holding cells. Melinda remained by the Town Hall entrance, not wanting to venture too far out.
Lisa drifted out to the sidewalk, keeping her knees bent and the Glock 17 clutched tightly in two hands. She glanced left as the pitched battle by the truck, then looked down the sidewalk, her eyes focused on the front wall of the library.
At least it had been a library. Recently it had been converted to a makeshift hospital. That would be where they’d taken Priscilla. Taking one last look at the front of the theater, part of her wanted to go running in that direction, wanted to fire at the men who might be shooting at Jackson, and wanted to do her part to save her fiancé. But they’d discussed it coming down the stairs, and had all agreed that someone had to go after Priscilla, and she knew the town best, especially the library, and begrudgingly she’d volunteered to go after her.
Her legs pumped as she remained crouched, darting down the sidewalk, the noise from the gunfight at the theater starting to fade, if only slightly. Lisa kept ducked down behind a few scattered cars that were still parked on that side of the road, and kept focused on the library ahead, moving toward the brick and concrete building.
She was so focused on the building itself that she almost didn’t see the two men emerging from the front door, angling toward Main Street, coming in as reinforcements, she figured. Luckily they didn’t see her in time, and she dropped into a firing position, drawing down on them.
“Hey!” the first one shouted as he spotted her and started to turn toward her. Lisa fired once, the pistol kicking in her hands, and struck the man in the throat, throwing him roughly to the sidewalk, his weapon clattering.
The second man whipped around, his M4 rattling off a swift burst of fire, but it went wide right of her approach and she fired three quick times, center mass of the second soldier, and he joined his partner on the sidewalk, face down. Lisa didn’t want to waste any time so she continued forward, threading between the fallen bodies, purposefully looking straight ahead so she wouldn’t have to see what she’d done to them, her stomach feeling sick with the encroaching reality of what was happening. She pushed into the door and went up the stairs to the landing, pausing for a moment, surrounded by old architecture and the familiar sights and smells of the old building. She’d known the library intimately; she’d been in the building more times than she could count from the time she was young, all the way up until when news of the destruction in Boston had emerged. One of the librarians had been standing right there.
Was she still alive? Lisa paused there for a moment, caught in a frozen moment in time, thinking not just of the librarian, but of her own parents, of at least a dozen different people in town who she hadn’t seen since this chaos had begun. Were any of them still alive? She stood stock still, unmoving, suddenly not able to take another step, her mind locked in place, thinking of all the citizens of Aldrich, all the people that could be laying in their homes right now, laying on the streets, just dropped dead, all of a sudden. What was happening in the world?
“Get over it, Martin,” she hissed to herself. “Don’t worry about those you can’t help, deal with the ones you can.” She picked up her foot and moved it forward, taking careful steps through the silence of the library, her footfalls inaudible against the carpeted floor.
As she drifted left, she caught a glimpse between the stacks, two of the tall, book-filled shelves that separated the front section of the library from the back. There it was. Nearly the entire rear of the building had been converted from the familiar surroundings she’d grown to love. Every bookshelf had been removed, taken down and moved, most likely to storage in the basement, clearing out a wide, empty area where beds now sat. Smaller shelves and dressers filled with a scattering of random me
dical equipment were set throughout the large room, everything looking cobbled together from school nurse’s offices, individual medicine cabinets, and ransacked from the local pharmacy. Nothing looked sterile, or particularly safe. There were five beds in the room, though Lisa could only see one person occupying them, a narrow shape under a draped blanket. Nearby, she could see the slender form of a woman rummaging through some of the equipment next to a makeshift sink.
“Priscilla?” Lisa asked in a hushed whisper as she walked between the two bookshelves.
The woman spun, her eyes wide. Well, one eye wide. The other eye was swollen to almost closed, buried within a puffy inflammation of bruised skin, the purple hued flesh covering the entire side of her face. Her lips were both fat and thick, and Lisa even thought she saw some dried blood at the corner of her mouth.
“Lisa?” Priscilla asked, her voice muffled through swollen lips. “My God, what’s going on out there? I didn’t dare leave.”
“It’s good that you didn’t,” Lisa said. “It’s all-out war. We escaped, Broderick and Clark are facing off against the town out there. I’m worried it’s going to get worse before it gets better.”
“Then what are you doing here?” Priscilla asked, her voice still slurred by the condition of her face.
“One way or the other,” Lisa replied, “we’re getting out of here. And there was no way we were leaving you behind.”
***
His town had been swallowed by chaos. Over the past several days, Bruce Harris had done everything he could possibly do to hold his town together—to set it up for success, to build a community that could sustain and thrive when so many cities around him were burning to the ground.
It had taken less than a week, and everything was falling apart. Standing a few blocks away from the Town Hall, he moved alongside some parked vehicles several buildings away, looking at the scene ahead. The one called Broderick burst from the double doors and angled left into Main Street, lifting his rifle and firing. The fat one, Harris couldn’t remember his name, came up behind him, moving with surprising fluidity for someone of his bulk, a calculated motion that told the mayor that he must have military training as well. Coming up on Broderick’s flank, he’d tracked movement quickly and fired his AR-15, throwing one of the uniformed soldiers roughly to the ground. Behind Harris, a military Humvee roared down Main Street, swerving around him and screeching to a halt, more men with weapons spilling out of it. A third man, the one watching over the young girl, had his own tactical rifle and opened fire as well, though his shots didn’t come close to hitting anyone.
Harris rammed his hand deep into the holster on his hip, wrapping his fingers around the handle of his pistol, which he withdrew, the muscles in his forearm clenching, veins bulging. He could feel his head swimming, feel the fog starting to force its way inside his mind, confusion clinging to his thoughts like wet toffee. How had this happened? Machine gun fire cascaded over the rooftops, smoke rising up toward the slate gray sky. Surrounding a wrecked pickup truck was an outward spiral of flaming wreckage, the front window of the theater smashed and broken. It was a historical landmark, he told himself, trying to squint through the cloud of confusion and peel back the layers of what he was seeing.
Who broke that window? He’d have to call the police. He could do that, he was the mayor.
Except the police were dead. They were all dead. The chief, the deputy, even the dispatcher, none of them survived the—
Survived the what?
Harris looked down at the ground, trying to focus. Someone needed to clean this up, and that someone was him. No one else could be trusted to do it. Maybe if he worked hard, he’d be done before bed time and could go home and tuck the kids in. They’d like that.
They were so tired these days. Everything was so stressful. He’d definitely have to get home by bedtime, little Tommy always liked to have him read to him before bed.
His fingers drummed the contoured handle of the pistol and he looked back up toward Town Hall. He glared at the young girl by the front entrance who had retreated part of the way up the stairs, tucked next to the wall, huddled there. She was the one who had started all of this. She’d kicked him and escaped and now everything was spiraling out of control. Mayor Harris took a step forward, bringing up his weapon, but a flash of motion to his left caught his eye and he swiveled that direction.
Lisa Martin. He saw her across the street, running up toward the library.
She was the one. It wasn’t the girl, it was her. This was all her fault, and there she was, completely unaware that he was watching her, completely oblivious to all of this chaos she had caused.
Oh, but he’d make her aware. She would be very aware. Painfully aware.
He bit back a growl of anger, tightening the grasp on his pistol and charged across the road as she turned and entered the library.
***
“Are you with me, Priscilla?” Lisa asked, pressing both palms to her shoulders and looking her square in the eyes. “Are you with me?”
Priscilla nodded softly, her eyes a bit dazed, stuffed within the swollen clumps of flesh that encompassed her face.
“Maybe if we’re lucky,” Lisa continued, “we’ll run into Mayor Harris on the way out and you can give him some of what he gave you.”
Priscilla smirked, her eyes glaring and she nodded again, this time more firmly. “I’d kick his ass,” she mumbled.
“Well, then let’s get you out of here.” Lisa pressed a palm to her back and eased her away from the makeshift hospital beds, her gaze lingering on the body under the sheet. It shifted slightly, and a strange thought occurred to her as Priscilla walked on forward. She stood there momentarily, looking at the beds, seeing the body there, the sleeping form of someone.
The body.
Singular.
Why had Priscilla been brought here? To care for the men who Lisa had put there. But there had been two of them. The scrawny drunk and Lance, the ex-football star—
“Well, well, well… what do we have here?”
Lisa tensed as she turned, but Lance was already there, his right arm encased in a thick cast, his left leg moving gingerly, but he was still a good head taller than Lisa, shoulders broad, and he was moving fast, faster than she would have thought possible for someone whose arm she’d just broken a few days ago. The cast swung like a club, a thick and white padded battering ram, whipping toward her in a stiff horizontal arc.
“Watch out!” Priscilla shouted, back pedaling, and Lisa buckled, bringing up her own arm. She deflected the cast with her left shoulder, but he’d swung it with the force of a baseball bat and she gasped, stumbling toward the right, pain rocketing through the entire left half of her body.
“Looks like Santa came early this Christmas!” Lance growled and charged forward, slamming his opposite shoulder into Lisa’s body, picking her up off the floor and throwing her backwards. Her spine crashed into the rigid corner of a standing bookshelf, her head snapping back and sending her tumbling off to the left, dropping to the hardwood floor revealed under the thin area rug. Two grunts blasted from her lips with each impact and she lay on the floor for a few moments, supported by her knees and elbows, breathing ragged as he loomed tall above her. He took a steady, slow step toward her, rotating his shoulder to move the arm encased in plaster.
“I’m about to grab me some payback, and you know what they say about payback, right, Lisa?”
“Leave her alone!” screamed Priscilla, charging toward him. It was a half-hearted run, something she felt like she should do, but was afraid to do, and she eased up slightly as she neared him, already bracing herself for another painful strike to the face. Lance stepped back gingerly, his left knee twitching, but he held his balance, then pushed forward again, intercepting her charge and throwing her to the right. She stumbled, arms pinwheeling and crashed shoulder-first into another bookshelf, sending it tipping slightly and spilling hardbound books out onto the floor.
“Are you okay?” Lisa calle
d over toward Priscilla who was struggling to keep herself together, bent over the fallen bookshelf.
Priscilla nodded. “Okay,” she mumbled, then turned toward her.
Lance followed her gaze, striding past Priscilla and bearing down on Lisa, still slowly swinging his cast back and forth. She was still huddled on the floor, her knees bent, her torso slumped forward, one arm underneath while the other arm supported her weight and she glanced back at him as he stepped closer.
“I’m not going to beat you this time, I’m going to kill you. Nobody does that to me, you hear me? Nobody.” It all happened so fast. He lunged, his left leg giving slightly as he did, and his face looked a bit pained, but straightened quickly as he drew up over her, coming down, his full weight ready to crash down. Lisa only acted. The arm that was slung underneath her swung out, pistol in hand and she fired. The trigger pumped several times, each shot striking Lance in his broad, t-shirt covered torso, pushing him back a bit further. By the time the final shot struck him he was crashing backwards into a staggered pattern of hospital beds, slamming down on one of them, the springs popping, then he continued straight over the other side, both legs swinging up into the air as he toppled over, crashing down to the floor.
“Oh my God!” screamed Priscilla, pushing herself to her feet and rushing over toward Lisa. “Get up, get up!” she called. “Let’s go! Let’s get out of here. They’ll have heard that!”
Lisa wasn’t sure they would, not with all of the gunfire combat raging outside, but she had no desire to take any chances and extended her hand, wrapping fingers around Priscilla’s arm and letting her help her to her feet. Struggling, Priscilla took her arm, draping it over her own shoulder and helped her up, turning her and walking her toward the front door of the library. They took a few steps together before the shadowed figure filled the opened door.