by DeWitt, Dan
Mutt checked his watch. “Lena has got to be covering for us right now. We need to move it and get back there. I don't want to split up, but we don't want to be coming out of the tunnel in the center of town in daylight, so let's do as quick a sweep as possible. Tim and I will take the first floor. Go.”
“Anything we should know about upstairs, Tim?”
“No, they're just classrooms and labs. Remember that there are stairwells in all four corners. Just in case.”
“Got it.”
Sam and Fish got halfway up the stairs when Mutt instructed, “Hey, you see anything out of the ordinary you come get us or yell. It looks empty, but we've lost guys to complacency before. Get your asses back down here ASAP.”
“Right back at ya, Mutt,” Fish responded. “And take care of the rook.”
Tim led Mutt around the first floor, intending to end at the gym. They each took a side of the hall to search. They didn't open any doors unnecessarily; they just shined their lights through the windows to see what they contained. When they encountered a door with no window, they teamed up, one of them opening it slowly and the other one covering him.
The search was over quickly, and they stood in front of a set of heavy double doors that led to the gym, waiting for the other two to finish up and meet them.
Something was nagging at Tim. He knew from experience that the feeling normally resulted from seeing or hearing something that could prove to be important but not making the connection. When it happened on TV, another character would say something to jog the main character's memory and he'd put it all together just in the nick of time. Mutt wasn't being very helpful, because he'd stepped into the men's room to take a leak.
He tried to mentally retrace all of his steps, but it was useless.
It's gotta be right under my nose. Frustrated, he backtracked down the hall and around the corner, trying to see every square inch exactly as he'd seen it before. The school was absolutely still, and he heard a door close quietly.
“Mutt?” Even his whisper echoed.
“Yeah. Where are you?”
“Coming back to you. I'll explain in a bit.”
“Copy.”
Tim slowed his walk almost to a standstill.
Goddammit, what was it?
* * *
At the same time down the hall, Mutt again looked at his watch and grew impatient. Damn, we have to boogie. Let's just clear this gym and blow. He grabbed the handle and pulled.
* * *
Tim saw it.
A flyer on the floor in front of Tim's old locker (That's weird, was the last thought before it clicked). It was made to look like an old-time theater invitation. It was for the Lost Whaler Island Casino Day being held at the high school.
In the gymnasium.
On August 22nd.
It took him a few seconds to get his mouth to work. By the time he was ready to let Mutt know to stay away from the gym, he heard a rattling sound.
“Mutt! Don't open the door!”
The rattling intensified, and echoed like gunshots through the still corridor.
* * *
The two men upstairs had finished their search and were almost at the main stairwell. For some reason, they found themselves in a semi-heated argument about which pitcher would have won the American League Cy Young award if the season had finished. Sam was about to cite some statistics when they heard shouting downstairs.
They sprinted down to the first floor, ready for anything.
* * *
Tim heard bodies pounding down the stairs. “The gym!” was all he said as he ran.
He rounded the corner, and Mutt was standing in front of the gym doors, shining his light up and down.
"Mutt!"
“Jesus, Tim, you scared the hell out of me."
“I scared you?!?”
The other half of their team rounded the corner. Tim screamed and everyone jumped. Miraculously, no one was shot.
For a few seconds, the only sound that could be heard in the corridor was that of heavy breathing trying to return to normal. Everyone's adrenaline came back down to an acceptable level.
“Okay, are we done with the Keystone Kops routine? Come here and look at this, you three. By the way, you guys see anything upstairs?”
“The only thing that stuck out was Fish's glaring lack of baseball smarts."
He explained the discussion to Tim, who nodded and said, "Yeah, Fish, you're wrong."
"He has three more wins-"
"Would you guys quit screwing around and look at this?" He traced the beam of his flashlight along the seams of the door, or where the seams would be. "This is weird, yeah?"
Sam grabbed the handle and jiggled it. The hardware itself was loose, but the welds had no give whatsoever. Sam pounded on the door. "Anyone in there?"
The noise made Tim antsy, but he kept his mouth shut.
"What the crap is this?"
"It's bothering me, too. Keeping something out, or in?” Mutt pressed the illumination button on his watch. “Yikes. We've been AWOL for hours. Orpheus is going to kill us. Then he'll kill me again.”
They left the gym and headed back to the main entrance. Before they got there Tim said, “Do we have five more minutes? I forgot that the school built disaster shelters when I was a freshman. We can probably get some useful stuff from there.”
Mutt agreed. “Building's been cleared, so why not? Lead the way.”
“That reminds me,” Tim said. He told them about Casino Night.
“That must be what's locked in the gym,” Sam said. “Works for me.”
They followed Tim downstairs, but they could have found their way easily on their own. Once they knew what to look for, there were several posted signs that led to the shelter. Tim rounded the corner and stopped short.
"Whoa, what is it?" Mutt asked.
Tim pointed. "That." They couldn't miss the gigantic pile of human that blocked half of the hallway.
Fish said, "Now that is the fattest zombie you'll ever see." He moved forward and kicked it in the ribs. "Doorknob."
"Well, someone had to kill it. This is a good sign."
Tim reached for the door. Mutt moved him back and said, “Always check first. Always.” He cracked the door open wide enough to get his light through and saw nothing, so he opened it wider. “Then check again...”
Chapter 10: Turn for the Worse
Richie Gilmore got into a car accident in his early twenties that cost him his leg. Years later, it would cost Randolph Mutters much more than that.
When Mutt looked inside the disaster shelter entryway, he did what any normal person would do if they were checking for occupants: he looked left and right at chest level. Seeing nothing, he let down his guard a bit, as anyone would do, and opened the door wider. Under normal circumstances (as normal as possible on the island, that is) Mutt would have seen Richie hobbling around on his prosthetic leg and slammed the door before he was in any real danger. Later on, in that alternate timeline, he and his team would laugh about the close call, and life would go on.
But somewhere between infection and the shelter, Richie Gilmore's prosthetic leg came loose. His coordination now being diminished to the point where he could no longer hop, he simply crawled, dragging his leg behind him. He crawled just low enough to avoid being seen by someone who wasn't looking for something like him.
After weeks, he had a chance to feed, and he took it.
He could lunge just fine with one leg.
* * *
“...check again...” Seeing nothing, Mutt was confident that they were alone. As a result, his first reaction when the thing that used to be Richie Gilmore drove its teeth into the exposed flesh between shirt sleeve and glove wasn't pain, or horror...it was simply disbelief.
The horror set in soon enough. He screamed, “Get this fucking thing off me!!!” His friends moved to help him. Fish lived up to his name by putting his weapon to its head and blowing most of it back into the darkness. Richie Gilmore's b
ody fell to the ground, wedging the door open.
The commotion alerted the hundreds of attendees of Casino Day, and they began to stream out of whatever dark places they had been in and towards the door. Tim tried to kick the dead zombie out of the way so he could shut the door, but he had no time.
The floodgates opened. Lacking any real options, the four of them ran. They left some behind on the stairs, but too many made it up with little problem, almost as if they were saving themselves for this opportunity. In a sense, they had, because, locked up as they were, they had nothing to focus on and no reason to expend any of their finite energy.
Tim and Fish were in the rear, and they tried to slow down the mob with well placed bullets, but running backwards against the undead was going to get them killed, so they abandoned that plan and just tried to keep up. Mutt was already slowing down, and they wouldn't make it back to the front doors.
“Back doors!” Tim yelled. “Here!”
Sam threw his entire body into the crash bar and exploded through the door. He held it open with one hand and fired his handgun with the other. He slowed down a few, but they seemed endless. He had a momentary thought to slam the door as soon as they were outside, but the zombies wouldn't be able to avoid hitting the crash bar and opening the doors if they tried, so when his friends were through, Sam followed.
They were running through grass, and Tim could make out a long white line on the ground ground. First base line. We're in right field, Tim thought. At least now they had a place to go. “The press box behind home plate! Stairs are in the back!”
Mutt was really laboring, and the group would only go as fast as he could. None of them even had a thought that he was already dead and they could just shoot him here and survive. Until the moment that he turned on them, he was one of them, and they would end it in a more dignified way on his terms, if possible. Sam and Fish just scooped him up between them and carried him.
Tim sprinted ahead to get the door. Please be unlocked. He thought of the padlock that was put on there in the offseason because a lot of kids liked to go up there and drink. He was pretty sure that he could just smash it with his momentum, if need be, but then they'd be down a door. The press box itself was on the second story, and the only entry was attic-type folding stairs, so if they could get up there and retract the stairs, they should be protected for the time being.
And after that, when they were surrounded by zombies, low on ammunition, with one of them infected? We're probably still good and fucked, but at least we can pass on what we've learned about Orpheus' son before we end it cleanly. That's something.
One thing went their way: the door was unlocked. Tim opened it, grabbed the cord for the stairs, and pulled them down. He wasn't sure if he should wait for the other three who were only seconds behind him or head up so he could assist Mutt, who would definitely need it. He opted for up.
He threw the shutters wide open, and was greeted with the zombie version of “A Hard Day's Night.” Two men carried a third while dozens of human-like things pursued. Worse, they'd closed the gap. Tim unslung his rifle and sighted in on the closest threat. He didn't care about kills. He just needed to buy time, so any hit was a good hit.
He got off seven rounds and granted them enough distance to get around the backstop and through the door. Sam pushed the door shut but had no way to lock it, so he used his body weight. As Tim suspected earlier, he needed to grab Mutt's forearms and pull him to the second floor while Fish pushed.
Fish scrambled up the stairs and he and Tim got into a prone firing position on either side of the hatch. Fish yelled, “Now, Sammy!” Sam didn't need to be told twice. As he let go of the door, a volley of bullets pierced it as he raced to join his friends. When he pulled the stairs up, they could see several bodies burst through the door after them. The stairs came up with a resounding slam. They heard muted thumping noises below them. The zombies were jumping up to get their prey.
Tim could envision the zombies leaping wildly like a zoo monkey after a banana on a string. “Do you think...they can...grab the rope?” he huffed out between breaths.
Sam didn't say anything, but he jammed his rifle between some supports and the floor.
Tim had his answer.
They heard a moan behind them.
It was Mutt, and he didn't look well. His head drooped into his chest. Tim flashed his light on him. What he could see of his face had grown ashen in a disturbingly short time. “Get this other one...” Mutt said. “...can't get my fingers to work right...”
It took Tim a moment to realize what he was asking, but then he saw the handcuffs around his wrist. He was trying to hook the other end around the thick wooden leg of the broadcast bench, but was having difficulty. Sam reached over and helped him.
“The other hand, too.” Sam grabbed his cuffs and attached Mutt's other arm to the backrest of the bench he was sitting on.
“Are you comfortable?” Sam asked.
Mutt shook his head like he was trying to rid himself of the last vestiges of sleepiness. “What?”
“Are you comfortable?”
“Comfortable enough. But I hurt like a sonofabitch on the insides. Did I just imagine it, or did I get bit by a guy with one leg?”
“We'll get you fixed up,” Fish said.
“Stop with that shit right now. The only fixing you'll be doing is a bullet to my skull. You guys have to figure a way out of here.”
“You were pretty out of it coming here, but I just don't see that happening.”
“Damn. We have to let him know what we found before...before. Make the call.”
On cue, they heard, “Scalpel 2, this is HQ.”
Chapter 11: Some Rescue
Orpheus was glad he grabbed a headset for the occasion. It would have been nearly impossible to run and talk on the radio at the same time, and he couldn't exactly stop to chat. “Sam, you guys are in the press box?”
“Yeah.”
“Describe your position.” Sam did.
While Orpheus was thinking, Sam said, “I can't begin to describe how bad an idea this is, boss.”
“Shut it. You guys have ammo?”
“Some.”
“Enough to clear a hole for me one time?”
“We can manage. Look, I have to tell you what we found.”
“When I get there.”
“But...”
“When I get there. Just get ready to make a goddamn hole.”
* * *
Sam relayed the plan.
“That guy is nucking futs,” Fish said. He sounded almost awestruck.
Mutt cleared his throat. “He-he doesn't want to lose anybody else. That's what drives him. That's why he's coming to the aid of guys he's only known for a few weeks, even though we're all probably gonna die anyway.”
He looked at Tim.
“And he especially wants to save you, although he probably doesn't know it..”
“Me? Why?”
“Shit, we all knew that from the get, bait. You remind him of his kid. He couldn't protect him, so he's compensating by rescuing you from deep shit. It's all psychology. I dated one of those, too.”
Tim felt a substantial pang of guilt. “That's stupid. He doesn't even know me.”
“It doesn't matter what you think of it, Tim. He sees us as his family for various reasons. And family almost never makes sense.”
“Make a hole! Make a hole!” Orpheus bellowed through the radio.
The three men who were able took up firing positions in the windowless opening. For the second time, Tim witnessed an army of zombies pursuing food to the press box. The only difference was that now there were two armies converging on him at once...and from opposite directions.
Each man, including the runner, had some variation of the same thought when they saw the other's circumstances: You've got to be kidding me.
They began picking off the targets in Orpheus' way.
All Tim could think of was how the man down there was counting on him. The
shots weren't difficult at this range, but nerves were the enemy. He just had to remember to aim, breathe, shoot, repeat. Bodies fell everywhere, but replacements were in long supply.
Orpheus pitched in with a pistol in each hand. He didn't fire them simultaneously; that only worked in action movies and video games. The one on his left hand would replace the one in his right when it was empty, because he wouldn't have the three seconds he'd need to reload. He emptied the first, threw it at a zombie, and started firing the second.
Almost there, he kept repeating. Almost there.
Bullets flew all around him. Most of them were on target, and creatures were repeatedly knocked away from him just as he thought it was over. He felt the ground rise beneath his feet and then drop away quickly.
Pitcher's mound. Only about eighty feet to go. He put everything he had into one final burst and emptied the magazine directly in front of him. He tried not to think that all it would take to bring him down within the next few seconds was a stray arm or leg. He leaped for the fence and scrambled up it as soon as he felt the cool metal on his fingers and palms. He climbed to the top and hung there for a moment, catching his breath. Zombie arms flailed at him but fell short by a comfortable margin.
He shimmied sideways until he reached the press box. Getting in it would be tricky. He reached for Tim's outstretched hand and grasped it firmly. Then, with one hand in Tim's and the other with a vice-like grip on the fence, he carefully allowed himself to be pulled in.
He fell onto the floor. He felt hands on him and heard a chorus of voices asking him if he was okay. All he said was, “Move!” Mutt looked worse than Orpheus had expected, but he was still alive. No one said anything as he pulled out the vial and the syringe. He pierced the cork with the needle and filled it halfway, mindful that he had no clue what the proper dosage was. He tried to visualize how much Vincent had given his former assistant, but came up blank.