by Derek Gunn
“Relax. Look, he’s begging now.” The thrall laughed again and pointed at Warkowski as the man made his way to his knees. “Should I put him out of his misery?”
As the thrall came closer, Warkowski allowed himself to fall forward, pleading and using the thrall’s clothes to scramble up. The thrall went to brush the pleading human away, but Warkowski slipped a grenade from his belt, pulled the pin and stuffed the explosive down the thrall’s open shirtfront. The thrall looked quizzically at the human for a moment, and then blanched when Warkowski showed him the pin on his finger.
The thrall started a comic dance, stuffing his arms into his fatigues and trying desperately to get at the grenade. His companion looked totally confused, and in that moment of indecision Warkowski struck. He launched himself from the first thrall and ripped his knife from its scabbard. Even with its superior speed the thrall was taken by surprise when Warkowski rammed the knife through his neck and up into his brain.
The blood spurted everywhere after Warkowski pulled the knife from the wound and threw himself to the ground. He rolled as fast as he could away from the two thralls. The creature he had stabbed fell like a brick to the ground and lay unmoving. The second thrall still gyrated as he tried to locate the grenade. Warkowski rolled and rolled, the pain in his side secondary to his survival instinct. The explosion, when it came, was loud and very messy. Warkowski glanced back and saw the thrall’s lower torso still standing in the middle of the road. The upper part, however, was splattered over the entire street.
“That’s the problem with these bastards,” Warkowski quipped, “one little rejection and they fall to pieces.”
Warkowski felt as if each step he took toward the building stuck a knife into his side. The door was locked, of course. He spent a further few minutes kicking the door until it finally gave way and slammed against an internal wall. Glass shattered with the force and littered the floor of the foyer.
“Three floors,” he muttered as he looked at the stairwell in despair, “why couldn’t we have lived on the ground floor?” He gritted his teeth and began the long, painful climb. On the second floor landing he slumped against the wall and looked at his watch, shocked to see that he had taken seven minutes to climb this far. He was now about five minutes behind schedule and knew he’d be a lot later by the time he got the girls out in his condition. He pushed himself away from the wall and continued his climb.
When he finally reached the door to his apartment he hesitated. All his doubts, fears and dreams crashed into him with a physical force that made him stagger. The last few weeks of worry about his family had affected him badly. Would they be safe, or even alive, when he got there? His whole body ached, not just physically from the beating he had taken, but it was emotionally drained from the weeks of worry. He looked at the door knowing that all the answers lay on the other side. All he had to do was enter.
His hands shook when he reached for the handle.
Locked
“You dumb shit,” he berated himself “of course it’s locked.” He took a deep breath, steeled himself, and rammed his shoulder into the door. Pain shot through his side and he stifled a scream. He put all his weight again and again against the door until the pain became a dull constant. Finally, the door flew open and he stumbled into the room.
There in front of him stood Sarah and little Jill. Relief flooded through him at the sight and he moved toward them.
“You’re okay,” he rejoiced and grinned.
Both of the girls cowered, though it was more of a flinch because the serum prevented them from responding fully to their terror. Warkowski stopped when he saw the fear in their eyes.
“Sarah, it’s me,” he stammered, confused that they would be afraid of him. “Don’t you recognise me?”
Just then he caught his reflection in a mirror behind the two girls. His face was streaked in blood and dirt. The cuts on his cheek still bled and his body was covered in gore and blood.
Most of it’s not mine, thank God, he thought. He looked hellish and couldn’t blame Sarah for not recognising this gore-spattered figure that had violently entered their home.
“Sarah, it’s me,” he repeated. He raised his hands and slowly approached them.
Sarah’s face didn’t change, but her eyes suddenly grew wider. Warkowski could see recognition replace the fear, and then a softness that he thought he would never see again. A single tear fell from her left eye. Warkowski was amazed that she could portray such emotion with the serum blocking her bodies” reactions. His own tears welled up as he scooped both of them into his arms and hugged them tightly.
The pain was intense but he didn’t care. He hugged them, kissing their foreheads as relief flooded through him. He left dark stains on their skin from the mix of dirt and blood, but they still looked beautiful. Tears flowed freely down his face. They couldn’t hug him back. He knew that, but that would come later when they got that damn serum out of them. For now it was enough just to feel them in his arms. Later they would make their way back to the meeting point, but for now this was enough.
Chapter 17
“Drop your weapons.” The words reverberated around the room.
John Pritchard was behind the door when he heard the command. He quickly ducked behind a filing cabinet and peeped out to see a rather stocky thrall issue the command with obvious relish and his weapon was levelled evenly at Scott Anderson. The five other thralls quickly spread out behind him and covered the rest of the small group. The thralls” arrival had caught them completely by surprise. He watched as Scott gave the signal to the others to comply and dropped his own machine gun with a sigh. Bill Anderson threw his weapon down in disgust. Jenny White, who wasn't actually armed, laid down the bags she carried anyway. Hackett merely placed his weapon at his feet with a resigned shrug.
“How can you work for those bastards?” Scott Anderson asked. Pritchard wasn’t certain, but he thought that Scott had seen him duck behind cover. The fact that Scott was directing attention at himself and away from Pritchard was a good sign. He pressed himself further against the wall and listened to the exchange.
“Oh, it’s not really so bad,” the stocky thrall replied. “They leave us pretty much alone to do as we like, and I do mean whatever we like.” He winked lasciviously and the others thralls grunted agreement.
“But you’re human,” Scott countered.
“Oh, not anymore we’re not. We’re so much more than that now. We’re stronger and faster than ever before, and we’re the ones in control.”
Thoughts raced through Pritchard’s mind. He explored every avenue he could think of to rescue something from the fiasco they found themselves in. Stupid, he chastised himself; we should have had a guard on the door.
As silently as he could he searched the bag he carried. He quickly disregarded the two grenades he found. They would probably do too much damage and injure his friends in the blast. Just then his hands found a slightly larger, misshapen grenade and he looked up to the ceiling and offered a prayer of thanks.
The thrall rambled on about being more than human and Pritchard risked a quick peek. He had to give Scott some warning if his new plan was to have any chance of working. He looked around the edge of the cabinet and immediately saw that all the thralls were gathered close together. Like fish in a barrel, he thought. He brought the flash grenade out just past the edge of the cabinet and caught the slow nod from Scott.
“Wait a minute.”
Pritchard heard the shout interrupt the argument, but didn’t recognise the voice
“There were five of them. Where’s the other one?”
Shit! He thought. It’s now or never.
The grenade fell to the ground and everyone turned automatically to the noise. Scott Anderson shut his eyes tightly just before the flash grenade exploded and had already hit the floor before the blinding light filled the room. He landed on his arm and grunted with pain just as a huge explosion seemed to shatter his eardrums. He opened his eyes a moment late
r.
The intense light was gone but his ears were still ringing painfully. The thralls were screaming in pain and crashing about with their hands to their eyes and ears. He could see thin trickles of blood dribble down from the ears of the nearest thrall and then a sudden movement to his left caught his attention. Pritchard came out from behind the cabinet with his machinegun bucking in his hands and his mouth open in a silent scream. Strangely, Scott couldn’t hear anything at all and he saw two thralls shudder as bullets thumped into their flesh repeatedly. He looked about frantically for a weapon.
There, he thought. He saw the butt of his machine gun over to his left about five feet away and dived towards the weapon. His shoulder hurt like hell, but he ignored the pain and scooped up the weapon. He checked the magazine and opened fire. He still couldn’t hear anything but the gun shuddered in his hands and he saw the thralls begin to fall.
They never really had a chance. The crossfire of bullets caught the thralls in a deadly hail and they jerked violently with each impact. Bullets whined around the room, and Scott saw Hackett clutch at his eyes and drop blindly to the floor. His brother, over by the window, blinked furiously and then launched himself at Jenny White, taking both of them to the relative safety of the floor.
The bald man who had shouted earlier wasn’t so lucky. He screamed as two bullets ripped into him. The first impacted just below the jaw line and ricocheted off the bone to continue on through his brain. The soft flesh didn’t even slow the bullet down and it exited out the back of his skull. The second round ploughed into his left shoulder and sent the man spinning across the lab table. He was dead before his body fell to the ground.
Pritchard stopped firing as the last thrall finally fell.
“Let there be light,” he sang in his best AC/DC impression but dropped his eyes sheepishly as he realised that no-one had heard him. He had been the only one able to cover his ears before the flash bang
“What kept you?” Scott Anderson shouted over-loud as the hard of hearing do when they talk and winked at him as he picked himself up to survey the damage.
Pritchard had a witty response all ready but shrugged as he realised that no-one would hear him anyway and instead he crossed the room and helped Jenny and Bill Anderson to their feet. They both blinked profusely and rubbed at their eyes, trying to get rid of the spots swirling in front of them. “Don’t worry it’ll pass,” he shouted to them but gave up when they looked at him in confusion. Great, he thought, now I’ve got to talk to myself until the effects of the blast wear off.
Over by the wall he heard Scott help Hackett to his feet and only then noticed the other white-coated technician. He crossed quickly to the man and shouted into his face.
“What’s your name?”
“R...Roberts,” the man stammered in reply though whether he had heard him and read his lips he wasn’t sure.
Either way he couldn’t resist another quip. “Well, Roberts, it’s your lucky day. You’ve just joined the resistance.”
Harris felt the air rush past him while he fell. Henshaw was still slumped over his shoulder from the tackle, still dazed from taking the brunt of the impact through the window, and Harris tried to turn in mid-air to avoid his friend taking the full impact. Amazingly he had time to think of Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid making their famous leap over the waterfall before the impact came and darkness enveloped him.
John Kelly jumped when the explosion came. He looked up in time to see two men crash through the third floor window and fall toward him. They seemed to twist in the air, and then they hit the ground with a sickening thud.
Neither moved.
“Oh, Jesus,” Kelly muttered as he ran to the two figures. His hands quickly found the artery in Handsaw’s neck and he sighed when he found a faint pulse. “This one’s still alive,” he shouted to Ashley as the man approached. “See if you can make him comfortable, but for God’s sake don’t move him.”
Kelly had already moved on to the other figure. His hands searched for a pulse. “Oh no,” he whispered when his fingers detected nothing. He clasped his fingers together and pumped Harris” chest, counted, then pressed again. He stopped to blow into Harris” mouth and then checked again for a pulse.
Nothing.
“Come on, Harris,” he urged while he continued CPR. Push, count, blow and then a second time, push, count, blow. Sweat ran freely from his brow and he became more desperate. He straddled Harris and used all his weight to pump against his chest. “Come on, you bastard. You can’t die on us now.”
Harris suddenly jerked and made a loud rattling noise as he sucked air into his starved lungs.
“Thank God,” Kelly sighed. “Don’t try to move yet. We have to see what damage you’ve done.” Kelly gently patted along Harris” body and watched for any reaction. Harris” left arm was bent behind him at an unnatural angle and Kelly lifted him gently to free the limb. Harris gritted his teeth as pain swept over him and he nearly passed out again.
“Okay,” Kelly soothed, “it looks like you got off lightly. Your left arm is fucked, but the rest of you seems to be okay. Can you try sitting up?”
“I didn’t know that “fucked” was an official medical diagnosis.” Harris winced when he tried to sit up.
“It is when you’re dealing with crazy bastards who jump out of windows,” Kelly replied. “How do you feel?”
“Dizzy,” Harris replied.
“Okay, stay there and it’ll pass.” Kelly turned to Ashley. “How is Henshaw?” he asked.
“He’s awake, but he says he can’t lift his legs.”
“Henshaw,” Kelly bent over the prone figure, “I’m going to lift you to a sitting position, so hold on.” Henshaw screamed when Kelly lifted his shoulders.
“Pain is a good sign,” Kelly encouraged, “it means you’re not paralysed.”
Harris looked over to his friend and the two men grinned at each other.
“Anything that doesn’t kill ya only makes you stronger,” Henshaw managed between gritted teeth. “I really hate to bring this up, but how the hell are we going to get back to the meeting point in this state?”
Kelly scratched his head and looked around, and then a broad grin appeared on his face. “Wait there, I have an idea.”
With that he sprinted across the street and disappeared behind the house. Harris lifted his left arm across his body and laid it in his lap to look at his watch.
Five minutes late already, he thought, we’ll never make it at this rate.
Chapter 18
The burst of fire impacted against the table that Reiss hid behind and sprayed debris into his eyes. He recoiled back behind the cover and looked around him to gauge how many of his men were still alive. Rodgers lay over by the stairs with his arm cradled in his lap. Tyson and Williams lay crumpled against the far wall; the angle of their necks left no doubt as to their condition. Fischer, Price and Wentworth all scrambled for whatever cover they could find. The others all lay still and Reiss couldn’t tell whether they were alive or dead.
He briefly considered using a grenade, but in these close confines the blast could cause as much injury to his own men as to the thralls. He rolled to his right, pointed his machine gun in the thralls” general direction and pulled the trigger. The thralls answered his fire and drove him back behind his cover.
Damn! He thought. This isn’t getting us anywhere.
Suddenly a door opened at the top of the stairs and three thralls appeared. They opened fire and Price and Wentworth screamed as bullets ripped through them. Fischer made a break for the window to try to avoid the deadly crossfire but, unfortunately, got caught by both sides and bullets thumped into his body. The thralls neared the end of the stairs and Reiss knew that they’d see Rodgers any second. He shouted a warning and let loose a sustained blast. He ignored the bullets that ricocheted around him and smiled in satisfaction when he saw two of the thralls fall and tumble down the remaining steps.
The thralls behind Reiss used the distractio
n to their advantage and advanced on his position before he could bring his weapon around. Bullets flew all around him, destroying the furniture in front of him. The volume of fire became too much. “All right, all right, I surrender!” he shouted over the racket and threw his weapon down.
The remaining thrall from upstairs reached the ground floor and kicked Rodgers viciously. He even spat on the wounded man as an added insult. The lead thrall grabbed Reiss and threw him roughly to the ground. When he thought about it later he realised that act probably saved his life.
The back door suddenly flew open and he caught a brief glimpse of Jenkins before bullets again decimated the small foyer. The noise was thunderous as bullets strafed around the room. Bodies jerked violently in a grotesque dance and then fell to the ground. Reiss remained on the ground with his hands over his head until Jenkins approached him and signalled the all-clear.
Reiss got to his feet and looked around him at the new carnage.
My God, how many have to die before this nightmare ends, he thought. He went to help Rodgers.
“We’ve got two more alive here,” Jenkins said as he examined some of the unmoving team members. “That makes twelve still alive, but only six mobile for now.”
He saw some of the men picking themselves up around the room and staggering over to help their team-mates.
Twelve still alive still means eight dead, Reiss thought. Eight good men dead in, he looked at his watch, only twenty minutes. “Okay, people,” he said, “those who can walk, follow me. Rodgers, get the wounded to the trucks. We’ve still got to get those supplies out and we’ve just run out of time.”
Warkowski led his family through the streets as quickly as his broken ribs would allow. The morning light had burned away all the shadows so they kept to the side streets as much as possible. He hoped they didn’t meet a patrol. The girls could only walk at a slow pace and his own appearance would be impossible to hide. He cursed the serum for the umpteenth time that night.