by DeWitt, Dan
The rest was up to Ethan.
"This isn't going to work."
"Yes, it is," Tim said. "You couldn't hear it, but you sounded exactly like your father back at the drive-in. Just keep your voice low and stay angry."
"That won't be a problem."
Sam made his second transmission, then handed the radio to Ethan. He cleared his throat and began the exchange. He was surprised that Anders bit so quickly and completely. The statement about Lena threw him, but with a little prodding from a visibly shaken Tim, he composed himself and went on. "Doubt it. I'll be gone by the time you get here. But I'll see you real soon"
The group held its collective breath. Either Anders would just head back to where he was keeping his father, and they'd have to wait for him to pass and follow him, or...
"All Scythe members! Get to the conference rooms, and go hot!"
Tim yelled, "Yes! C'mon, follow me!" They wasted no time and hit the stairs. They'd have to try to not beat Anders there, but there were no guarantees about anyone else.
One of the Scythe members responded that he was almost to the conference room, and Anders started barking out orders. He was surprisingly efficient and organized, even on short notice. Ethan supposed that his rage (and, yes, fear) focused him. Ethan was familiar with that.
The five of them had the conference room in sight. Anders was beginning to organize his men via radio.
Ethan's heart sank; it sounded like there were a lot more than five.
And Anders knew the layout, knew exactly where his father was, knew how many men he had at his disposal...it could end up being a slaughter, if Scythe was organized. If not, they had a chance. Also, they needed time to get his father free, or all of this was for nothing.
Sam barked out orders and pointed out defensive positions. "Rachel, go get Holt! Give him your pistol! Ethan, just inside the doorway, provide covering fire as soon as you see a fucking unfriendly face! Ethan, sound off!" Sam looked around, confused. "Where the fuck is the kid?!?"
* * *
The kid raced back down the stairs at Anders, who was coming up at the same time, and in the middle of giving another order. They closed on each other too fast for Ethan to have a shot, so he launched himself in a flying tackle and took him around the shoulders. They spilled end-over-end down the stairs. Ethan hoped that that Anders would break something vital during the fall, but no such luck. He did, however, hear his own gun fly out of his pocket and clatter away somewhere. Ethan was the first one to his feet. He made the split-second decision to delay attacking his foe in favor of grabbing the radio and smashing the holy Hell out of it against the tile floor. Leaving Scythe leaderless was the important thing, and it was the best he could do for his friends at the moment.
He succeeded in disabling the radio, but the price he paid was a fist in the back of his head. It staggered him slightly, but instead of caving in to instinct and fighting back right away, he did as his father taught him and sprinted away. This allowed him to clear his head and get back on even ground with his opponent. He made it into a deserted hallway and turned to face Anders, who stalked him. Ethan had him in height and weight, but the guy looked crazy.
"Why the fuck aren't you dead?"
"Because your brother wasn't good enough." If you can't kill him, Ethan, just keep him occupied. Buy time. That's your job. "Looks like that runs in your family."
"I'm going to enjoy killing you for good, you little shit. Then I'll take my time with your pops." He stopped in his tracks as if he realized something. "That was you on the radio."
"You're a genius."
"What'd you do to my brother?"
"Left him for zombie food," Ethan bluffed, not knowing that Jason has seen to it that it wasn't a bluff at all.
It was the right thing to say. Anders charged in recklessly. Ethan met him with a straight right hand to his face. Ethan felt the nose explode under his fist, but Anders' momentum took them to the ground again with Anders on top. Anders, blind with pain, lashed out with a series of rapid punches, a few of which landed solidly. Ethan rolled with them but they still did damage. He tasted blood, and knew that he was in a bad, potentially fatal, position.
He worked the weak spot and hit Anders in the nose two more times. The man's face was ruined, and Ethan cut his knuckles on some teeth, but he managed to knock him off-balance enough to escape from underneath. He got to his feet, eager to finish it, but a wave of dizziness and nausea hit him; he was in worse shape then he had thought.
It got worse when he saw Anders pull out something that was probably only a normal-sized hunting knife, but, in his current state, looked like what was known in video game circles as a Big Fucking Sword.
Ethan tried to buy time as he looked around for a weapon, but the only thing close was a firehose. "You pussy," he said, trying to blink away the double vision. "Be a man."
"Fuck you, kid. I have work to do." Anders held the knife in a backhand grip. That meant he knew how to handle it, and Ethan's chances of surviving much longer fell off of a cliff.
Ethan backed up slowly in the increasingly slim hope that he could make the stairs. He heard gunfire coming from several floors away, and hoped his friends were faring better than he was.
Anders advanced for the kill.
Ethan knew he wasn't going to make it, and he was damn sure not going to take one in the back.
Anders took one more step, then stopped. The crazy in his eye morphed into something completely around the bend.
When a strong hand fell on Ethan's shoulder, he knew why.
He resisted the urge to spin around and embrace his father, because his survival instinct still wouldn't let him turn his back on Anders, but he was helpless to keep tears of relief from coming.
Worth it. Everything I had to go through...it was all worth it for this.
Orpheus' eyes locked on Anders. "Ethan, your gun's under the stairs. Go help our friends."
"Dad..."
"Mind me, Ethan. I'll be right behind you. They need your help more than I do right now."
Cameron Holt's voice said that, this time, there was to be no argument. "Yes, sir."
Ethan backed up to the door. He smiled when he saw that his father hadn't come unarmed; he had Rachel's pipe gripped in his hands.
"I love you, Dad."
"I'm proud of you. Go."
Ethan had to let the door shut behind him to get his gun. He snaked an arm under the stairs and almost dislocated his shoulder to get his pistol, but once he gripped it in his hand again, he felt better. It would be so easy, he thought, to just open the door and put a magazine into Anders' face. But orders were orders, and he had other people to help and limited ammunition to do it. His father could handle it. I hope.
He headed up the stairs.
Behind the door, Anders taunted, "You were stupid to send the kid away." He waved the knife in small circles, preparing his attack.
Holt's response was simple. "He's been through enough; he doesn't need to see me beat you to death." Anders' grin dropped noticeably, but he soon plastered it back on.
Cameron Holt had been on the run for what seemed like days, had fought countless zombies, hadn't slept in over twenty-four hours, and had recently been worked over.
It was never a fair fight.
* * *
Lena's apartment building loomed over the scores of zombies between the survivors and it.
"Jeez, I hate tourist season," Harold said. "If this was March, most of them would be dead already."
"Wishes and horses, Harold. We expected this. We only have to get inside and hold out for rescue."
"I know, I know. I'm just worried about the kids."
"Me, too. Jason, do you know what you have to do?"
"The same thing we always do. Jam the doors open and use them as shields."
"If it ain't broke..." Harold said.
"And I'll carry the power thingie. Ready? Here we go!" Ann reversed the van and backed up toward the entrance to Lena's building. Th
e occupants were bounced around as the van jumped the curb, but Ann had become familiar with the vehicle in a short time and corrected smoothly. As he had during the run to Ethan's truck, Harold barked out distances. At four feet, he told Jason to open the door. Ann backed up until she felt the impact. She wasted no time. She grabbed the jumpstarter and hopped to the ground. It took her a moment to figure out the door handle, and whether it was push or pull. In those few seconds, she was acutely aware of the zombies only a few feet from her. One look at the number of legs visible in the gap between the doors and the sidewalk told her that they'd better get this done, because they would never get back to the van alive.
She found the sweet spot on the handle and swung the door inward. "We're in!! Come on!" She held the door open for them. She slammed it as soon as they were clear. It was so close that she almost shut the door on Jason's ankle. The zombies slammed the now-unencumbered van doors shut with a bang. Neither door was true anymore, but the van had served its purpose admirably.
The zombies turned their attention to the entry door and began to pound at it, wanting to get at their prey just inside. It wouldn't hold forever, but it should give them plenty of time. They headed to the third floor and arrived at Lena's unit. At one point, Jason suggested that there might be survivors in some of the apartments; Harold countered that there might be zombies, too, so they should leave it alone. "If there are survivors, they'll still be survivors when rescue comes."
Ann tried the handle. "Locked. Who wants to kick it open?"
Jason, still feeling the adrenaline high, said, "Ooh! Me!" He raised his foot and put it flat on the door near the lock, measuring his kick. "I've always wanted to do this." he kicked the door and it shuddered, but didn't give. He did it again with the same result. "Maybe a little help."
Harold laughed. "On three." He counted, then shouldered the door at the same time that Jason kicked it. This time, it exploded into the apartment, banged against the wall, and rebounded. Harold stopped it with his hands, and they were inside. They closed the door and reinforced it with a giant leather sectional that dominated the room.
"Harold, go look for the radio, please. "Jason and I will look for useful things."
Jason held up a bottle. "Like Merlot?"
"That actually does sound pretty good right now."
"Make it three. I'll be right back." He headed down the hallway and looked in doors. The first was a closet, the second the bathroom. He stepped in and used the toilet which, mercifully, had been flushed after the last time it was used. He flushed out of habit. There was still water in the tank, and he watched it swirl down the drain. It was such a normal thing, and one that he'd missed for months.
He spoke to his reflection. "I'm nostalgic for a working toilet. This is rock bottom." He headed into her bedroom. Her tastes were simple: beige comforter on the bed, conservative floral prints on the walls, subtle lamp on the nightstand. He hit the sleep button on her clock radio. It only took him a few moments to recognize the song. "She's Not There" by The Zombies. "Now that's funny."
He opened the bifold doors on the closet and started moving aside the hanging stuff. His hand happened upon something soft and very pleasant to the touch. He pulled it off and admired the skimpy negligee, as well as the woman who was confident enough to wear it. There was more where that came from. "You naughty girl, you. Oh, there we go." He saw the radio on the floor and lugged it out.
It was smaller than he expected, because he'd been expecting a shortwave radio but he'd gotten an old Citizen's Band radio, instead. Next, he pulled out the antenna. CBs had nowhere near the worldwide range of shortwave, but it should have distance to spare. "I got it!" He yelled. "I got-"
Oh, dear. He had the power cord in his hand, and didn't want to believe what he was seeing. They had a perfectly good power source in the living room.
An AC power source.
The cord for the CB was 12 volt. As in automobile cigarette lighter. As in the van they'd just left and couldn't get back to. Ann and Jason walked into the room carrying a bottle of wine and three glasses between them. They stopped when they saw the look on his face. "Oh, God, we're so screwed." he held up the cord as an explanation.
"What does that mean?"
"What did I just say? It means we're fucking screwed!" He fought back the next stream of invectives. "I'm sorry, Jason, but we're in trouble."
"Can we get back to the van?"
Ann said nothing for a few moments, then nodded. "Yes. I believe we can."
"How on Earth can we do that, Sister? You saw how many of those things are surrounding it!"
"The Lord will show us the way."
"When? When will He help us? I've been waiting forever!"
"We just have to look closer, Harold. Come with me to the roof. Let's see what we're up against."
Harold's face was still buried in his hands. "I don't see the point."
"Humor me. Please."
Jason put his hands around Harold's arm and gently pulled him up. Ann scooped up the CB and antenna and they headed up. The door was secured with a heavy deadbolt. It was meant to keep people from getting in via the roof, and not for keeping occupants from getting to the roof for whatever reason suited them. Jason opened the door and they were on the roof in the predawn light.
They peered over the edge. The zombies were exactly where they'd left them, milling around the van and the door. "What did I say? Screwed."
Sister Ann chewed her lower lip. She put the radio equipment down. She walked to edge of the alley wall and stared at the fire escape. She shook the railing absentmindedly.
Then she had a plan. "I need something from her apartment. Wait here."
"What are you thinking?" Jason asked.
"No time to talk." She got to the door and looked back. She fished for something in her pocket, and tossed it to Harold, who snatched it out of the air. The jingle registered with both men.
The van keys.
"Use the fire escape as soon as you can. Be careful, boys. It's been my pleasure to know you both."
"Ann, what are you doing?" Harold moved to her, but she stepped through the doorway and bolted it. She heard pounding and yelling from the other side, but the conversation was over.
She really did need something from Lena's apartment. She opened all of the kitchen cabinets and grabbed everything that might be flammable: cooking oil, booze, anything else that would burn quickly. She lucked out and found a bottle of citronella lamp oil, too.
She carried as many as she could and headed to the entrance. Most of the zombies had, by now, given up their attempts to enter, but they renewed their efforts as soon as they saw her. "That's right, come and get me," she said, as she opened the bottle of cooking oil and started to pour. She walked up the stairs, soaking the carpet the whole way. When that was empty, she moved on to the rum and the rubbing alcohol. She saved the lamp oil for last, and concentrated that heavily on the stairs outside the apartment and before the roof access.
She still heard shouts from Harold and Jason, God bless them, but they would soon be motivated to finish the job. She found wooden matches and lit the two oil-fed candles on the dining room table. She closed her eyes and said a prayer, then she was ready. She carried the candles to the hallway and placed them on the floor. She walked downstairs and made herself visible again. The zombies went crazier, the glass viewing window shattered and the wood began to crack under the assault. She hustled back upstairs and waited, knowing that it wouldn't be long now.
She noticed the wine that they'd never had a chance to toast with, so she did it now. She filled all three glasses and clinked one, then the other. She brought her glass to the hallway and took a long swig. It was delicious, and the thought of it being akin to her last earthly Communion with the Lord helped calm her. The door below was on its last legs; she heard more cracking, then splintering, then feet on the stairs. She grabbed one candle and threw it down the stairwell. As it pinwheeled, the cap which held the wick came loose, and it explod
ed instantly into a large fireball. She stepped well into the apartment and threw the second. The hallway disappeared behind the wall of flames.
Sister Ann took her glass of wine into the bathroom and closed and locked the door. She dropped to her knees and clasped her hands together in front of her. She giggled and grabbed the wine glass again. She drained it at a reasonable pace, just as she heard the creatures enter the apartment and smelled the smoke and burning flesh. She tried to ignore the pounding on the door while she enjoyed her final vice. When her glass was empty, she clasped her hands again and began to pray.
She didn't pray for her life or absolution for her sins; she knew the one was over and the other was out of her control. She merely prayed that this act would enough to protect what was left of her charges, and, in a selfish moment, she prayed that the smoke be what took her.
Then God could do with her as He wished.
Chapter 25: The End
Dr. Vincent knew that he'd had enough as soon as he heard Anders panicked transmission. Holt's friends were here...so what? The doctor wasn't a fighter, and he wasn't a hero. He had everything that he needed right in his hand. The small doses of the cure that were stored in unmarked vials in the labs were irrelevant; he could manufacture more of that in his sleep. This new serum was beautiful, and when, not if, it worked, Dr. Vincent would be spoken of alongside the likes of everyone from Curie and Pasteur to Colt and Oppenheimer. He didn't care for such things much, he really was only about the science, but recognition for one's accomplishments wasn't something to be shunned, either.
Let Scalpel have their silly little joyful reunion. Let Anders have his petty revenge, if he was man enough to exact it.
None of it would last long.
Dr. Vincent threw a few things in a backpack and initiated a call on his satellite phone. While it connected, he heard gunshots. At first, there were only a few. Soon, more and more joined the chorus, and it sounded less like a random exchange and more like a war.