by Mike Staton
“Sir?” Wolt called from upstairs.
Percival stepped closer to Sarah, stopping her next downward swing. “He’s dead…”
She froze at his touch, staring at the corpse beneath her. She let the Maglite go and it toppled noisily to the floor as her arms dropped to her sides. Percival stepped in and slid his arms around her, feeling her very fine tremors and silent sobs as she broke down against his shoulder.
“Sir? Are you alright?” Wolt’s voice sounded closer.
“Sarah? Hon, I love you. More than words can express. You just saved my ass, and I know how hard this is,” Percival said quietly. He leaned in and continued the conversation right next to her ear, “But I can’t have you breaking down on me now. I need you.”
Sarah uttered a soft whimper. Percival heard footsteps, he assumed Wolt’s, near the top of the stairs.
“Get the fuck up,” he said into her ear. He loosened his hold on her and when she didn’t sag out of his arms entirely, he let her go. Wolt was coming. He eased the pistol out of his waistband.
“That’s going to make noise,” Sarah said softly. She didn’t sound like herself. Her voice came out distant, almost as though she were speaking through a long tunnel.
He nodded once, and looked for the flashlight that Proxies had carried down. It wasn’t hard to find as the light was still on. He tucked the pistol away and sprang after the flashlight. It was another Maglite, a little larger and heavier than the one he’d liberated from Greyson.
When he turned back, Sarah was already pulling items of use off of Proxies’s body. Percival noticed she kept her eyes down and off of his Proxies’s destroyed cranium. He could understand and was glad that it had been as dark as it had been in the hallway as he looted Greyson.
Percival moved quickly back to almost the same place that he’d used to jump Proxies. His leg and side ached from the kicks he’d received, and his left thumb throbbed from its earlier use. But he ignored these injuries, cocking the flashlight over his shoulder.
He cast a quick glance at Sarah, she hadn’t fallen into despair and was even quietly checking the chamber of the pistol Proxies’s had dropped.
“Sir? If this is some sort of joke, it isn’t funny,” Wolt said. It sounded like she’d stopped just short of the basement landing. She was out of range for Percival’s flashlight attack.
Percival’s arm was beginning to cramp as Wolt continued her descent. The barrel of her rifle cleared the doorway first. She uttered a soft gasp as her flashlight found Proxies and the circle of gore around him.
In that moment, Percival lashed out. He reached out, gripped the rifle with the meat of his left hand in a mantis grip and yanked her forward. In the same moment, he lashed out with the Maglite. The hard metal cylinder crashed against her chin.
Wolt’s eyes rolled back and her legs crumpled beneath her as she collapsed with the impact of the improvised weapon. She fell in an uncomfortable looking heap on the floor and Percival was worried for a moment that he’d killed her with the single blow. He stared for a moment until he saw her chest still moving.
“Wow,” Sarah said quietly. She’d donned Proxies’s belt and holstered his pistol. “One punch knockout. Color me impressed.”
She still didn’t quite sound like herself, but at least she was starting to joke again. Percival hoped she would bounce back entirely from her experience. He reached up and casually wiped a fleck of blood from her cheek. She flinched at the gesture.
“You… You should probably get her stuff. We don’t likely have a lot of time before the rest come.” She stepped past him and looked up the stairs.
“I don’t suppose you know where they stuck our stuff?” he asked. He pulled Wolt into a position that was likely far more comfortable, and easier to pull her belt off from. It wasn’t easy with only one hand.
“Somewhere not in the basement,” Sarah said. “I haven’t left this place since we came down here… and I’m more than ready to get out now.”
Percival threaded Wolt’s belt through his belt loops and cinched it tight. He ejected the magazine from Greyson’s pistol, checked it against one of Wolt’s, and discarded Greyson’s pistol. He picked up her M16.
“Shame,” he murmured. He knew they didn’t have time to search the house for their things. He still had the keys and that was what was ultimately important. They also had weaponry procured from the soldiers that had imprisoned them. Still, the thought of leaving the house without his helmet didn’t exactly send tendrils of confidence shooting through him.
“Follow me. No ifs, ands, or buts,” he said over his shoulder as he lifted the M16 up. It felt a little odd to balance the weapon on his forearm instead of holding it tight, but… he regretted injuring his thumb ever so slightly.
“Why would I complain about having to follow your sexy ass?” Sarah said. She was finally sounding more like herself, and less like a disconnected zombie. The smile she gave him was still weak, but he was more than willing to accept it as a sign she was getting better.
Or, at minimum, she was coping adequately until they had a better moment to freak out.
He climbed the stairs, sweeping the rifle back and forth. He could hear a slight commotion on the floor above them: a shout of surprised and hushed, angry words. The metaphorical beehive had been kicked and they were still in the middle of it.
He cleared the stairs and crossed the living room floor, snatching up the laptop on his trip to the door. He ignored the sharp, stabbing pain that sparked from his thumb until Sarah took the computer from him, freeing his hand to pull the front door open and let them out into the night.
Boots crashed down the stairs amidst “Stop them!” and “Those fuckers killed Greyson!”
The angry words chased Percival and Sarah out onto the street. He lengthened his stride as they hit the pavement, positively sprinting away. He felt warmth bloom in his center. The street only had a couple of zombies on it, and those were well away from the house. They turned at the sound of Percival and Sarah’s flight, but were far enough away that there really was little chance any of them would or could catch up.
The night air whipped through Percival’s hair as he set foot to Roy Joy’s front porch. He crashed through the door as the night was split with a staccato of gunfire. He toppled forward, rolling on his shoulder and clearing the doorway. The warmth he’d felt internally spread hotly through his side and across his middle.
It took him a moment to realize that a bullet had passed through him. He loosed his hands on the rifle to clamp them over the hole in his side. The pain struck him a moment later as an icy hand holding onto his guts that drove everything else out of his mind.
He quivered, seeing spots dance before his eyes, and swallowed back bile. He shuddered, rolling onto his side. All sensation vanished from him as his eyes came across Sarah.
Chapter 21
She lay on her back, gasping for breath. A trio of holes painted her chest a lovely crimson color. The red, Percival refused to accept it as blood, spread with each shuddering breath Sarah took. He crawled his way over to her. His side sent shockwaves of pain through him that were immediately ignored as he pulled her into his lap.
She trembled beneath him, mouth working to produce words, but nothing but a trickle of red crept out and down her face from the corner of her mouth. He cradled her, rocking lightly.
“Shh, shh, Baby,” he murmured. He could feel something ripping inside of him.
She gagged and lifted a hand as silent tears leaked from her eyes. Whatever words she tried to get out died on her lips in rivulets of silent red.
“Don’t talk. Just… Just stay with me,” Percival positively sobbed. He slipped his hand into hers.
Sarah’s hand gripped his once with a fierce tightness that he was honestly surprised she had still, then slid away. Her head wilted against his shoulder. Her ragged attempts at breath ceased and she was absolutely still in his arms. Her eyes, still open, no longer saw anything as they took on the distant, unending
gaze of the dead.
“No, Baby. Sarah? Honey,” Percival cooed. His very soul felt as though it were shearing in half, ripping steadily down the middle. He squeezed his eyes closed, rocking her as the pain of her loss seeped into him. The pain of his injuries paled in comparison and for a moment, he lost all sense of the world around him.
He had to move. He knew that. But he didn’t want to. He didn’t want to leave her behind. He knew she would want him to though. She’d want him to continue living. But how could he without her?
He shivered. He had other responsibilities still. He knew it. He knew the people back at the college still needed him. He knew the soldiers outside would be there soon. He knew they’d prevent him from leaving. Hell, they’d likely shoot him on sight.
“Approaching the building.” A distant voice cut through the fog of grief and pain Percival was suffering from.
“Be careful. They’re ruthless,” a second voice addressed the first.
They were coming and he was running out of time. Percival closed his eyes again, letting hot tears drop from his eyes onto Sarah’s face. He bent and lightly kissed her lips for the last time and eased her off of his lap and to Roy Joy’s floor. He swept a hand over her eyes, sliding them closed.
“Stop telling me what to do. I saw them both fall through the door. One or both of ‘em were hit.” The voice was at the porch.
Percival lifted Sarah’s arms to rest on her stomach. He stared at her for a moment longer. His angel and savior, his support and strength lay still and silent. He fixed her in his mind.
He looked up from her and at the front door. It stood open from where he and she had crashed through it. He leaned out, flinched at the pain in his side, and caught the edge of the door. He slammed it closed.
Nausea racked him, radiating in spiraling spears of pain from the bullet hole in his side. Black spots appeared in his vision and he fought to maintain consciousness.
“Well, at least one’s alive. Breach in three.” The voice forced its way through the door and waves of pain to register with Percival.
He sprawled, not the best idea as it caused more pain to burn through him, and snatched the M16 off the floor from where he’d dropped it.
“One.”
He turned it to the door and flicked the fire selector switch to full-auto.
“Two.”
He yanked the trigger back and sprayed the door with bullets. He didn’t know, and didn’t care, if he’d hit anyone behind the door. He held the trigger down until the bolt snapped open and the magazine was empty.
He dropped the weapon, trusting he’d bought himself a few more seconds. He looked back at Sarah for one more lingering gaze. He couldn’t express the sadness that welled in him at having to leave her behind. She was gone, he knew, but to leave her on the floor for who knew what to get to her?
He angrily wiped tears from his face, smearing blood, he didn’t know if it was his or hers, on his face.
“Get the fuck up, Percival,” he told himself, echoing her words of motivation to him from what seemed to be a lifetime ago. He closed his eyes. The radiating pain still burned in his side, but he was slowly getting used to it.
He bent, forced himself to his hands and knees, and picked up the computer he’d snatched from the military jackholes who’d stolen so many of his friends from him. He openly cried, both in pain and grief, as he forced himself to his feet.
He staggered forward and slammed into the wall. His legs didn’t seem to want to fully cooperate with his need to escape. He wondered if his body was wanting to stay with Sarah and embrace the oncoming soldiers and likely his death.
But he knew she wouldn’t want that for him. She’d want him to keep moving. He clamped his free hand over the wound, which felt hot and slick under his hand. He’d lost blood, apparently a lot of it, since he’d been shot and it showed little sign of stopping.
He staggered around the wall and through familiar rooms. He staggered through Roy Joy’s house, painfully aware of the clear trail of blood he was leaving behind him, to the backdoor. He heard the front door crash open as he pulled the backdoor open, leaving a bloody handprint on the knob.
“She’s dead. Move on. He’s bleeding out,” Voices called through the house.
He staggered out into the backyard. He half walked and half fell across the lawn. He didn’t know how he made it to the hedge, just that he did. His mind was growing hazy, the pain that had sharpened his thoughts now worked to do the opposite. He felt a chill that had nothing to do with the cool night breeze and the winter that was right around the corner as he pressed through the hedge and into the neighboring backyard.
Through sheer and indomitable willpower, Percival forced himself to keep moving to the next backdoor as he heard the voices of the soldiers coming after him. He tripped up the stairs to the sliding glass door that Carlos had so expertly broken into. He slammed into the wall, leaving a smeared handprint on the glass next to the handle.
With more effort than he should have needed, he pulled the door open. He glanced over his shoulder as the first of the soldiers emerged from the hedge like some mythical fairy-folk chasing their escaped quarry.
“I see him!” one shouted as he raised his rifle.
Chunks of the wall exploded next to Percival’s head as he staggered through the door. He fought to catch his breath, staggering through the house. He stumbled again, crashing into another wall. The world was beginning to lose focus.
He lifted his hand from his bloody wound and used it to push off as he staggered through a dark hole. He missed the first step of the stairwell heading into the basement and set himself tumbling downwards into the dark.
Percival tucked his arms, cradling the computer in the process, in close to his body as he bounced down the stairs. He came to a stop at the bottom of the stairs. The rank, death filled air assaulted his nose. He shuttered and twisted to vomit bile onto the floor. He uncoiled his body, aching and bleeding. He rolled onto his hands and knees and dragged himself across the floor.
He was hurt, battered, bruised, grieving, and all means of injured. What he wasn’t was broken. He may be bleeding to death, but he still had his determination to do his duty to the campus. Sarah had given him that; given him her strength and ability to go on.
He dragged himself to the center of the basement and moved the corpse aside, taking his place against the metal shelving.
“Down the stairs. Blood leads down into the basement,” the soldier said.
“What’s with these guys and hiding in the basement?” a second soldier asked. Their footsteps clomped closer to the stairs.
Percival set the computer down next to him and clumsily fingered the sidearm out of its holster as the footsteps started down the stairs after him. He drew painful breath after painful breath. He clamped his hand over the most serious of his wounds, the bullet hole, and let his head sink back against the shelving.
“Fuck it stinks down here. Smells like he shit himself.” The soldier hit the bottom stair.
“Probably did as his dying act. You’ve seen how much blood he’s lost. Let’s get the fuck out of here.”
A flashlight beam swept through the basement before the footsteps retreated. “If he ain’t dead, horde’ll get him soon enough.”
Percival let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. He closed his eyes and let blackness envelope him.
*
The dank smell of rotten meat is the first thing Percival perceived as he came up out of an uneasy sleep. He hurt all over and had difficulty recalling all of the events of… he wasn’t sure just how long he’d even been out. Minutes? Hours? Days?
He touched his aching side. His fingers sent waves of pain coursing through his body and spiked flashes of light behind his closed eyes. He’d been shot. Then the horrible realization that he was alone, he’d lost Sarah in the same instant that he received the wound, crashed down on him.
His head lolled forward into his hands, smearing blood across his fa
ce as he let out a sob. He could think of nothing more terrifying than facing the grim and excessively uncertain future without his partner.
He didn’t know how long he sat there, softly crying into his hands. Long enough that his full body sobs brought stabbing pain and a fresh warmth in his side as the bullet wound broke open and seeped fresh blood. He wiped his nose on his sleeve, felt for the computer he’d snatched from the soldiers, and dragged himself back to a standing position.
Dizziness assaulted him and he staggered, struggling to keep his feet beneath him without even moving. The ground where he’d been sitting felt sticky. It was slightly tacky with blood.
Slowly, and with great assistance from the metal shelving, he moved away from where he’d ‘rested.’ He staggered back to the stairs and stared up at the rectangle of light that was the top. He needed to find something to bind his holes and heal his injuries, but just climbing the stairs seemed an impossible task to undertake.
He coughed once, gripped the railing despite the protests from his injured hand, and pulled himself up the first stair. One at a time he moved up them. He needed to stop midway to catch his breath and let the ache in his side subside. By the time he’d made it to the top of the stairs, he had a near uncontrollable shiver and sweat dripped steadily from his forehead.
He stood still at the top of the stairs. As he caught his breath, Percival took in his surroundings. He recognized the house as the one he, Carlos, and Sarah – the thought of her still brought sharp, stabbing pain to his insides and tears to his eyes – had searched when looking for Roy Joy. They hadn’t done very well in that department, but at this point he suspected that the guy was either dead or well away from the suburb.
In his own little way, Roy Joy had tried to warn them about both the military and about coming back here. Had he come across as a little less crazy or been more articulate, Percival might have taken that particular piece of advice more to heart.