The Decline

by Jessulat, Christopher

  How long before he was in her sights?

  Was Isaac trying to set him up?

  If that was the case, Sully had to think it would take some serious work for Quinn or Cox to have convinced Isaac to commit Keeley to the deception. Sully didn’t know her well, but her demeanor and the way she carried herself seemed to discount that possibility. Far more likely Isaac would have concocted a scheme unbeknownst to her rather than her being a willing player in his execution.

  When it came to Anders, it’s possible he’d be looking for an angle to reestablish his loyalty to Quinn, but much more likely he would want to put as many miles between him and this place as possible.

  The guy from the infirmary was a wildcard, but it wasn’t farfetched to think someone who worked at saving all those people only to watch them get put down like lame animals could be looking for an exit strategy.

  The skepticism lingered, however.

  Maybe this is how Isaac earned his station in the compound.

  Lining up dissidents.

  In any event, Sully was confident that if Isaac betrayed him in the wastes that he would get the better of any exchange. So long as he wasn’t caught off guard, he would be the one to walk away.

  He would do what he needed.

  Conversely, if Isaac was good to his word… this might be the best chance any of them would get.

  Sully weighed his options as he dealt with another few corpses at the fence.

  Isaac waited patiently for a response, no longer noticing the dead.

  Sullivan stood silent for a long while and subtly nodded his head.

  ‘Alright pal,’ he began. ‘I’m in.’

  They’d be brothers at arms.

  …at least for now.

  Chapter 18

  Tonight would be the night.

  Sullivan allowed his eyes to wander aimlessly between the rows of buildings visible from the familiar trappings of the central nest.

  They didn’t know what they’d be in for, and yet Sullivan felt completely calm with their decision to leave. No performance anxiety, no friction.

  It reinforced his belief that this was the right decision for them all.

  The winds had picked up over the last few days, but there was no sign of precipitation over the harbour – the surf was rough, but the weather otherwise tame beneath the overcast ceiling.

  The scavengers hadn’t been allowed out of the compound for days. The only sorties were official and the civilians – even the experienced among them – were relegated to watch duty.

  With the combined pressures of the recent increase in ghoul activity and the subsurface tension between the civilian and soldier presence, Quinn controlled the deployment of man and material with hawkish scrutiny. Isaac and Sullivan had hoped to be sent on one final run before their escape, had hoped for an opportunity to squirrel away something useful – a weapon, some ammunition, food or water – but it wasn’t to be. Even here in the nest, Sullivan had his familiar SKS propped up in the corner of the space and a handful of cartridges.

  So tantalizingly close…

  But Sully knew every round would be meticulously counted.

  He’d never be able to bluff the armory attendants.

  This time tomorrow, the lot of them would be over the walls. No shelter, scouring the wastes to scratch whatever living they could find.

  Assuming they survived the night.

  As Sullivan swept the streets for activity with his binoculars, Erik slept soundlessly beside him. He was slumped against the nest wall, long since succumbed to either hunger or exhaustion.

  Sullivan lowered the aperture from his eyes and glanced over at his slumbering colleague.

  He had wanted to share the plan with Erik, but had always managed to stop himself before he gave them away.

  He wasn’t sure of the reason why.

  Maybe he was concerned how he would handle the news.

  Maybe he was concerned the kid would actually want to come with them.

  Sullivan rubbed his chin with a gloved hand, satisfying the itch of a tangled beard cultivated over several weeks.

  Erik didn’t have any trouble with it.

  Shit, the kid can’t even grow a beard yet.

  Erik has a chance here; probably even better than ours.

  Something gnawed at him, a dread feeling that he’d one day regret this silence between them.

  Sullivan subdued the notion and raised the binoculars.

  ***

  About damn time…

  After several days of turning over apartments with minimal return, Jacob finally had some luck. Several canned fruits, soups and pasta sauces satisfyingly stuffed his pack.

  He could almost smell the vitamins.

  This was the heaviest Jacob’s pack had ever felt; the distance he’d need to cart the stuff home would be well worth the effort, even on an empty stomach. Reinvigorated by the prospects of a decent meal, he slung the pack over his shoulders.

  Jacob was taking stock of anything remaining in the unit when his ears perked up.

  Something caught his attention, something he hadn’t heard in days. Something so woefully unfamiliar it scarcely registered.

  Laughter.

  Not jovial, not innocent.

  Raucous, braying laughter. Like a hyena.

  Jacob threw himself against the wall and peered through the curtains. His eyes darted about the streets below.

  He held his breath as he studied their movements, hoping to divine some semblance of their intent.

  Two men in tandem strode confidently down the center of the road, each brandishing an improvised weapon. One wore elbow pads and a chest protector for ice hockey, the other seemed to wear a few layers of improperly sized leather jackets. Jacob strained his ears, but from this high vantage couldn’t make out any of the words they were saying. Periodically the men would stop and motion at the various buildings lining the street; Jacob could only guess at their meaning.

  Though there was nothing immediate to suggest they would have any ill intention towards him, Jacob couldn’t shake the feeling it’d be in his best interests to avoid being discovered. Benevolent or not, he didn’t like being at the disadvantage.

  A deep pit grew in his stomach.

  As the men continued their indistinct chatter, Jacob was about to turn from the scene when new movement caught the corner of his eye, further up the street from where the two men came.

  A third figure kept pace behind them, albeit a little slower.

  Jacob couldn’t risk disturbing the curtains for fear it would draw their attention, instead opting to freeze in place and wait for the last figure to come into frame.

  The straggler must have called out to the other two. They stopped in their tracks directly outside and turned about to face him.

  As the third figure approached, Jacob’s pulse quickened.

  The man raised a black rifle and pointed it skywards, resting the barrel against his shoulder.

  It was clearly semiautomatic.

  His finger never came off the trigger.

  Shit, shit, shit…

  He had to move.

  He needed options.

  Jacob was on the third floor; the front door was obviously out of the question. Surely there was a back way out – a fire escape, deck or balcony – and if not, he needed to find somewhere to hide.

  Jacob removed his hatchet from the hip support and wrung his fingers about the grip, finding some reassurance in its familiar weight.

  ‘Come on… come on…,’ he breathed nervously to himself as he lingered at the window, anxious for the group outside to settle on their course. Though his gut screamed at him to turn tail and haul ass, his head overruled instinct – he needed to know where they were heading and if they would split up.

  The three men milled a
bout in the street below, seemingly without urgency.

  Their complacency was unnerving. They seemed far too comfortable.

  Perspiration beaded on Jacob’s brow.

  The men seemed to come to some agreement between them and they separated. The two brandishing the improvised weapons headed to a building across the street, and the man with the rifle made his way towards the entrance to the building Jacob now found himself in.

  ‘Fuck…,’ Jacob muttered beneath his breath.

  He turned to leave the apartment, caring little for the noise as he careened for the exit. He had a fleeting opportunity and meant to seize every ounce of it. As Jacob exited the unit, he heard the wooden door splinter off its hinges, bowled over by the heavy boot of the man downstairs.

  As Jacob slipped toward the back of the building, he prayed the remaining units were empty.

  No time to clear them now.

  Jacob struggled to hear anything from the floors beneath him; some sign the man had entered an apartment, was climbing the stairs… anything.

  He could hear nothing over the dull pounding of his circulation.

  Ignoring the doors with numbers awkwardly tacked to them, he hurried to the shabby exit at the end of the hallway. Believing it to be his salvation, he leaned into it.

  But it wouldn’t budge.

  Frozen shut.

  Jacob had little time to consider his options; go through, or go back.

  Hanging the hatchet off his belt, he dropped his shoulder and threw himself into the door.

  It didn’t move.

  The pain was tremendous – the impact rattled his teeth and reverberated down his spine.

  Jacob still couldn’t hear anything from the floors below him.

  He took a few steps back and slammed his body into the door again.

  The frost shattered from the gaps between the jambs and yielded a few inches. The crusty snow amassed on the fire escape and resisted further.

  Little doubt anyone in the building heard it that time.

  The opening wasn’t wide enough for Jacob to slip through, especially with his burdened pack. He needed a few more inches. He grabbed the handle and slammed the door shut, hoping the force from another charge would give him the space he needed.

  Caring nothing for the throbbing in his shoulder, Jacob plowed into the door. He threw himself with such weight that he couldn’t properly compensate for his momentum on the slippery surface and spilled headlong on the sleet covered landing. He helplessly tumbled down the ice-covered stairs, vainly searching for a hand or foothold as the weighted pack shifted contemptibly as he fell.

  Battered, bruised and bloodied, Jacob finally came to a rest.

  He was closer to the ground; that much he knew.

  As he tried to haul himself up his breath sputtered into a vicious cough. There was little doubt he had damaged his ribs, but he had no idea to what extent. His hands still retained feeling but ached with the cold and feverish attempts to grab onto something. The back of his head was wet with a warm liquid, sufficient enough for his shirt collar to cling to his skin.

  Instinctively, his hand fell to his hatchet, and he was relieved to find it hadn’t abandoned him.

  Through sheer determination, Jacob willed himself to his feet. He scrambled down the remaining steps, doubled over the railing. He had precious little time and needed to create some distance between him and the three strangers.

  He hobbled through the snow, propped himself up on the buildings in the alley and stumbled along. He could hear muffled shouts and pounding behind him.

  Jacob swooned from the combined pain and effort, but doggedly kept his footing.

  He should be unconscious.

  Though his eyes grew heavy, they continued to feed images to his brain.

  And his brain stubbornly continued to process them.

  ***

  Andrew lowered the microphone and rested his weary eyes in the crook of his arm upon the desk. His other hand absently removed the headphones from his head, finally absolved from the enduring drone of static.

  He felt an abnormal sense of patriotism after the events of the day.

  The implications of their true predicament were very real to Andrew now; maybe for the first time since he had weaseled his way into the communications room.

  As if on cue, the door to the radio room clicked open. Andrew thought nothing of it, half surprised one of the guards hadn’t come to check on him earlier. Overtime was hardly something he was known for.

  Maybe he had finally gained some measure of respect around here.

  A moment later, Andrew still hadn’t heard a word or a footfall.

  Barely awake, he lazily lifted his head and turned toward the door.

  And there she was.

  Lynn eyed Andrew like a meal.

  She stood before him, lithe and taut, hair pulled back tight into a bun.

  Andrew had never seen her dressed like this before.

  Andrew had never really seen anyone dressed like this before.

  She wore a tight, black, spaghetti strapped tank top which openly exposed her collar bone and emphasized the contour of her breasts, and a tartan miniskirt with a long slit up the right thigh.

  Andrew spun the chair around far too sudden to have lent himself any degree of finesse; the momentum carried him a few clumsy inches to the side.

  Lynn strode confidently towards him.

  Andrew shrunk and shifted in his chair, visibly unsure of what to do.

  She stopped directly in front of him, dropped to her knees and set her hands to work at Andrew’s belt.

  ***

  Daniel nervously tapped his fingers against the tabletop, absently arranging and rearranging the cutlery in a vain attempt to pass the time.

  He had finished his last shift in the infirmary and managed to stuff a few spools of gauze and some assorted medications in his pockets. It’d be morning before their absence was noticed, and by morning he’d be long gone from this terrible place.

  And if not, he’d have far more serious crimes to answer for than simple theft.

  Finding no relaxation elsewhere, he’d made his way to the mess well before the appointed hour. He sat and watched the erratic flow of survivors as they filtered in and out.

  Despite their varied backgrounds, they all shared the same pale, long expressions. The same drawn out, spread-too-thin weariness that personified the compound.

  This place was dead; it just didn’t know it.

  Sheets of cold but gentle rain fell against the grimy windows and an overcast sky all but shrouded the moonlight. They’d have some cover, at least, but if the temperature dipped overnight, exhaustion and the elements would prove a danger. None of them had tasted fruit or vegetable in weeks; they subsisted on water and stale rice and the occasional bit of something tinned, with the rare addition of an expired multivitamin.

  Daniel hated Quinn; it was carved in his very bones. He despised the man, but as he anxiously shifted in his seat and surveyed the mothballed kitchen, he bitterly conceded there may have been some wisdom to Isaac’s assessment.

  So engrossed in thought, Daniel hadn’t noticed he was no longer alone.

  Isaac pushed open one of the faded double doors at the far end of the mess, allowing Keeley to slip into the room. She was wrapped in a stained woolen blanket, lint covered and pilled. As she entered the room he fell in behind her and the two strode over to join Daniel. The three sat without speaking. Daniel’s fingers continued to tap the table and Keeley nervously scanned the empty room leering over them.

  Just as the awkward silence was about to boil over, the double doors slowly opened again with the long drawl of a hinge begging for lubricant.

  The Irishman sauntered over to the counters where the rations were previously lined up. He didn’t perceptibly acknowledge t
he others; Isaac’s eyes followed his movements. Sully leaned against a wall and crossed his arms over his chest. He met Isaac’s gaze for a moment and subtly nodded before turning his gaze to his boots.

  The irregular drum of the rain quickened.

  Daniel studied Sully. They had never met, not formally at least, but Daniel knew of his reputation. He was tough – had been in the wastes as often as anyone – and he’d always made it home. His expression was serious, deadpan; a grizzled professional, the image complete with the short yet inexplicably wild beard. While Daniel trusted Isaac, Isaac was built more like a financier than a fighter.

  This brick shithouse was obviously built for this kind of work.

  Keeley pulled the blanket tight about her shoulders, trying to chase away the looming promise of a damp night spent running through the wasteland outside. Though fear smoldered just behind her eyes, she sat steadfast. Isaac placed his hand upon her shoulder and attempted a comforting smile.

  The moments dragged on, the tense silence punctuated only by the occasional flaring of the rain and Daniel’s nervous tapping. Everyone gathered seemed to hold their breath, as if the slightest sound shared between them would betray their every intention.

  Finally, the double doors creaked open, just wide enough for a slender figure to slip into the room. The form shuffled towards them in silence, scarcely lit by the dim moonlight filtering through the dirty windows. The limp was uncharacteristic, but unmistakable.

  Anders felt the weight of their many stares.

  Isaac studied Anders as he slid out a chair to join them. His face still retained the distinct evidence of a brutal beating. The swelling may have abated over the majority of his face, but his jaw hung unevenly. He looked weathered. Gone was the fair haired and happy-go-lucky Finn; before them sat a battered man.

  Isaac had to wonder about his state of mind.

  One of Keeley’s slender hands emerged from beneath the blanket and tucked some stray hairs behind her ear.

  Daniel’s incessant tapping reached a crescendo; he struck the table in finality and cleared his throat. The vast emptiness of the mess responded with a pitiful echo.

  Isaac glanced at Sully, who wordlessly confirmed they were free from prying eyes and ears. He shifted his feet and stepped away from the wall.