by DeWitt, Dan
“Exactly. That's why what we do is so important. Anything less than perfection means that someone who needs our help, who needs saving, dies. None too pleasantly, either.”
Another bite. “I've had enough of death. We all have.”
“I get it, sir.”
“You need to understand one thing, Tim: once Scythe comes in, they do not stop for any reason. They are a fail-safe. They're single-minded when it comes to their reaping: they will do it. They're not combat troops, but what they have in spades is a complete lack of empathy for other human beings.”
Sam said, “It's true. We tried to call them off once because we thought we got a transmission on the walkie. Lena tried to buy us thirty minutes to check it out and be sure, but they went about their business. If we'd been in their way, I don't think they would have thought twice about greasing us. They might have enjoyed it even more, I don't know.”
“Who are they?”
“Survivors like us,” Orpheus continued. “This team right here, there's a reason we stick together, a reason why any one of us would die to protect the others. Scythe, on the other hand, is made up of, for lack of a better word, sociopaths. They enjoy killing just a little too much.”
“That seems like a dangerous group to give weapons to.”
“It is. But they're perfectly suited to walking into this place and mowing down every zombie they see. I think I knew that when I inadvertently founded them.”
* * *
Holt disappeared into the bowels of the building for a while, as Mutt knew he would, because he did it every mission. "His 'me' time," he explained to Tim. "So leave him alone. In the meantime, I'll tell you a story."
Scythe began when Cameron Holt was blinded by anger, and he'd found a group of like-minded men to join him. They went among the survivors that were housed in the hospital and found whatever weapons they could, which wasn't much. One of the men, Anders was his name, had the idea to raid the weapons cache of the private firm that provided the building security. They disarmed a guard and forced him to open the weapons safe ("Almost puked with a gun in my face," Fish added). Holt even went so far as to threaten his life if he didn't comply. He was never quite sure if he really meant it or not, but months later he was still afraid that he might have.
Weapons in hand, Holt had no greater plan than to go out into the streets and kill as many of the creatures that had taken his family from him as he could before he ended up dead. His rage emboldened the other men, and they took to the battle.
Holt stood on the street and looked for a target. Their immediate area was clear. The remains of the small island police force had barricaded both sides of the street and were engaging a large mob of the undead. This sight focused him a little; he looked through the windows of the hospital building at the panicked mass of people inside. He knew that he could do something more productive than just random zombie-killing. He was, for the moment, capable of trying to protect the people behind him. Holt and half of his impromptu army joined one barricade; Anders and the rest joined the other.
There were only two officers left in Holt's barricade. He took up position right next to the one with the most stripes on his arm, picked out a target, and fired. The zombie fell and made the large pile of dead-again bodies slightly bigger. That pile was dwarfed by the amount of zombies still on their feet. There were easily hundreds, and their numbers seemed to be growing by the minute.
He chose another target and fired.
The sergeant yelled without turning his head. “Normally, I'd tell you to get the fuck inside and let us handle it, but we need all the help we can get!”
“Is this it? Is this what you have left?”
“Most of my guys are with them now!” Holt didn't have to see the sergeant's nod toward the undead to know what he meant. “All comm's down. No cells, land lines, we even have a satellite phone that shit the bed! We're on our own, pal!”
Holt chose another target and took it down. His approach was almost robotic: point, shoot, point, shoot. Reload. Point, shoot. He tried to block out the worrisome whoops and cheers from the other men he'd “recruited” and just think about the next target, especially the fast ones. But all he could really think about was the island's population: approximately 30,000. And that didn't count the summer folk that probably pushed the number closer to forty.
The dozen of them had no chance of holding them off.
None.
“Sarge, we gotta get inside!”
“I-we-” The sergeant was torn between his duty and the painful truth. “Fuck it, live to fight another day, I hope! Fall back into the building doubletime!” Holt echoed it as loud as he could, but the other group either didn't hear him or ignored it altogether. “Anders, you idiot, pull them back!”
Anders definitely heard that. He turned around and smiled. Holt knew right away that he'd made a mistake in throwing in with that man in any capacity at all. If he was ever all there, he wasn't anymore, and Holt knew that he would have to deal with him at some point.
For now, he began to move toward the building, and Holt found himself being slightly disappointed that the time wouldn't be now. They retreated to the stairwell and started to file to the first floor.
The rest happened fast, but it seemed to take forever.
A blue box truck careened through the mob, knocking bodies flying. It clipped one of the police cars as it tried to sneak by and was knocked into a sideways slide. Its wheels hit the sidewalk and it overturned. Its momentum carried it halfway into the parking area under the building before it came to a stop. The mob changed course and headed for the truck.
The cargo doors were pushed open, and four people fell out. They were shaken up but fought to their feet as the zombies closed in. They screamed for help.
The sergeant yelled, “Cover 'em, for Christ's sake!”
They fired behind the four people as carefully as they could, but soon they threw caution to the wind. Holt thought there was a lot of them before, at the blockade. When both of them were overrun and the two separate groups joined together, he realized how dire their situation really was. The only positive thing was that the throng of zombies was so tightly packed that the men would have to actually try to miss with their bullets.
Not that any of it was doing the survivors from the truck much good. Two of them were pulled backwards and swallowed by the mob no more than forty feet from the truck. The third fell only fifteen feet or so after that.
Holt yelled encouragement to the fourth who hobbled as quickly as he could on what appeared to be a broken ankle. “Come on! You're almost there!” He tried to believe his own words, because the zombies were closing the gap between themselves and the survivor faster than he was between himself and relative safety.
A fast zombie broke from the pack and Holt immediately targeted him as the most immediate threat. He hit the thing twice, but its momentum carried it forward where it crashed into the survivor and they tumbled to the ground. He screamed, “Get it off! GET IT OFF!” as he fought to keep its jaws away from his throat. He's not gonna make it, Holt thought. Goddammit. The survivor managed to throw off the lone zombie, but the rest had caught up and were starting to tear at his clothes and flesh. Holt had had enough and emptied his magazine into the poor bastard. It was the very least he could do, and he promised himself that he would be better the next time.
The five of them...Holt, the sergeant, Anders, and the two remaining members of their impromptu assault force...took the stairs three at a time as the door slammed shut behind them. The heavy metal door and the thick concrete that surrounded them served to insulate them from the insanity outside, if only temporarily.
That came to an end as soon as they opened the door to the first floor. The scene outside was awful; inside was almost worse. Here was a study in what hundreds upon hundreds of terrified people could do to each other when in a confined space. It was a combination of employees, people from the outside seeking sanctuary, and patients seeking information. There w
as screaming, crying, threats, fist fights, and impotent orders from the thoroughly overmatched security personnel. The din inside made Holt realize how quiet their recent battle with the undead had really been.
He felt a tap on his shoulder. “Hey, thanks for your help out there, uh...” the sergeant stammered.
“Cameron Holt.”
The sergeant nodded a hello. “Randolph Mutters. Mutt, to people I've fought beside. Hey, Holt, can I count on you here?”
“Of course. Do your thing.”
He blew a protracted breath between clenched teeth, not looking forward to calming the scene in front of him. He climbed on the low counter of the receptionist's desk and then stepped to the higher part to get as elevated, and look as authoritative, as possible.
He spread his hands apart like Moses. He didn't waste time telling people to be calm, proclaim his authority, or try to reason with anyone. He simply yelled, “Hey! HEY!!! Y'ALL SHUT THE FUCK UUUUUPPPPP!!!” Holt found it funny, especially in their current surroundings, and decided that he was going to be friends with the man. The command had a limited effect on the people closest to him, but no sooner had he gotten their attention than the rest of the people swallowed them back up in panic. Holt jumped onto another counter and lent his own considerable voice to the effort. Between the two of them, they regained some order within the mob within a few minutes. Holt's throat felt shredded, but the job got done.
Mutt finally had everyone's attention. “Thank you. Listen up...I'm Sergeant Mutters. Some of you in here know me personally, by face, name, or stellar reputation. Doesn't matter, because if you're familiar with me at all, you know I'm not going to put up with this shit. Period. We will maintain order in here. Anybody has a problem with that, there's the window.”
Mutt paused for a moment to see if there were any challenges. Holt wasn't exactly floored to see that there weren't any.
Mutt continued. “Okay, see that guy...wave, Holt...right over there? That's my new deputy, Holt. He's killed before, so I'd do what he says. He's going to be putting his team together, so if you are trained and can be trusted with a weapon, go see him. Now, who has medical training?” Several hands went up, and he motioned those people to him.
Well, I've just been voluntold, Holt thought. That hasn't happened since I separated from the Air Force. But someone had to do it.
He noticed that Anders was glaring at him, apparently upset that he'd been passed over for the spur of the moment promotion. He strode over to Holt, anyway. “Well, look at you, keeping my spot warm. What am I doing?”
Holt heard a familiar bell sound behind him, but it didn't register right away. “Find as many guys...or women, I don't care...with strong stomachs as you can. Then, we have to make nice with the head of building security, seeing as I stuck his own gun in his face. We'll need their help in locking this place d-”
Holt heard screams and whipped his head around. It took him less than a second to realize what the bell sound had been.
The elevator.
From the garage.
No way, Holt had time to think before the doors opened. Chaos took over in just a few seconds. When he had a moment to reflect later, Holt thought that what had happened with the six passengers on the second floor elevator was far worse than more horrifying than facing the thousands on the street. Holt immediately forgot about his problems and concentrated on the one thing he had the slightest control of: survival. He almost welcomed it.
When the doors opened, the unfortunates who were standing close were attacked immediately. A few, the lucky ones, died almost as quickly. The truth was that if everyone who was immediately attacked died they could have contained it right then and there; Holt, Mutt, and Anders were already moving with their weapons drawn and most likely could have dealt with the half dozen zombies before they did any more damage. As it happened, some died and the rest were turned with frightening speed. In some cases, only a few seconds passed between bite, death, and reanimation. There was no warning. Everyone else surged away as quickly as they could, but the bodies were already packed tightly and there was nowhere to retreat to. The slower, weaker ones were trampled underfoot.
The infection traveled outward like a ripple in a pond. Zombie infects human, human turns, new zombie infects another, rinse and repeat.
“The stairs!!!” Anders screamed, and Holt thought that was a great idea. He had no chance of stemming the tide here, so he chose the better part of valor. Mutt apparently had the same idea, as did a few others. Those with weapons used them indiscriminately, as everything in their path either was a zombie or was turning into one. Anders made it first and slammed open the door. Holt had a vision of the man grinning crazily and slamming the door shut on everyone else, but he actually sent a few rounds in support, despite having already reached safety. Mutt, and several others caught up with him. Holt, the last one through, didn't bother taking another look before slamming the door and bracing it with his shoulder. He must have been spotted, because a vicious pounding commenced on the other side. A stocky black man added his bulk to Holt's, and Holt was grateful.
“We have anything to block this?!?” Holt bellowed.
One of the men who had made it was the security guard who Holt had drawn on earlier. If he held a grudge, he smartly didn't let it affect his current decision making. “The 3rd floor has a shitload of office furniture!”
“Go! Go! Everyone else help him! I don't give a fuck if you throw it down the stairs!”
Anders, Mutt, and the two others (Holt didn't notice that one was a woman until they came back) took the stairs two and three at a time and disappeared around a corner. A few seconds later they heard the 3rd floor door slamming shut.
The man next to him asked, “You think they're coming back?” He sounded out of breath. He looked in pretty good shape for his age (Holt guessed mid-50's), so Holt chalked it up to anxiety. He also knew there was a real chance that he sounded the same.
“Yeah. That cop is the real thing.”
“Will it make a difference if they don't?”
Holt considered the circumstances, the magnitude of what they were facing. He didn't know how to honestly answer that question, so he said. “If they don't, the good news is I have enough bullets to kill us both several times.”
“Oh, sorry, I didn't get you anything.”
Holt chuckled. “Man with a sense of humor. I-”
The 3rd floor stairwell door slammed open again. “Coming down! Get ready to move your asses!” Mutt's duo back came into view. He and Anders were carrying a very heavy-looking wooden desk. When they got near the bottom they flipped it up the long way and got a good grip.
Holt's companion knew what they had in mind.“You good for three seconds?”
Holt dug in as hard as he could. “Go!”
He scrambled to his feet as the other men butted an edge of the desk up against the door. Holt was wedged, but he wriggled out and around it. Though the door was only unattended for two seconds, the lock almost buckled from the pounding. It held, barely, and the desk slammed into place. Holt and his partner resumed their positions, this time with a slab of wood between them and the door. The extra weight was a welcome addition, but Holt was a long way from comfortable. “Keep it coming!”
He didn't have to wait long. Right behind them was a similar desk. The woman who carried one end was slightly built, and she was obviously struggling, but she held her own. Dozens of pieces came down, and Holt and his workmate Sam (Holt learned his name after the third desk) continued their dance until the furniture was packed tightly halfway up the stairwell. Then they relaxed, but not much.
“Come on,” Mutt said. “Third floor's abandoned.”
They all went upstairs. Abandoned was exactly the way to describe it. It was clear that the occupants of the offices had evacuated. It had the feel of a ghost town, which was a welcome respite from the pandemonium of the last few hours. They all collapsed in the chairs nearest to them. No one spoke for several moments. Holt thought th
at they might be in shock, but he just had nothing to say.
Anders broke the silence. “Damn, I dropped my smokes. Some zombie's probably lighting up on my dime right now.”
The woman reached into her jacket pocket and produced a pack of clove cigarettes.”I've been trying to quit, so this is the best I can do.”
“Works for me.” He took two and walked over to the window. Holt wanted to think he was being polite, but the smart money said he was just antisocial.
She held the pack out to the group. “Anyone else?”
Sam took one. “What he said, except cigars.”
Holt leaned over to Mutt. “This floor secured?”
“Yeah. We buried the other stairwell entrance, too. I don't think the elevator's going anywhere anymore.”
“Nice.” Holt picked up the phone handset on the desk closest to him. There was no dial tone. “Dead. But these phones might just be disconnected. There are a whole lot of other floors to check. Any vending machines?”
“I haven't seen any yet.”
The woman said, “There's a break room down that hallway. The machines are in there. Water, too.”
The rest of the group stared at her.
She peeked out from under her Red Sox cap. “I'm the senior network administrator here. Lena Moore.”
“Okay. It's good to have someone who knows the lay of the land, so to speak. If you wouldn't mind, Lena, take...” He looked to the security guard. “...take Officer Salmon here and smash 'n grab those machines. It doesn't really matter what you take, just take a lot of it. After we catch our breath, I say we head up, floor by floor, until we find the ideal place to hole up and figure this thing out. Those barricades will probably hold, but I'm not betting my life on it. Holt?”
He thought on it, trying to find any flaws. “It's as good a plan as any.”
“Got it. And call me Fish.” He and Lena went about their task. She led him first to the supply closet where they grabbed trash bags, presumably to load them up with empty calories.