by Amy Cross
"Can you wait here?" Henry asks. "I won't need long."
"You can't trust Bob," I say.
"I can."
"You can't. If you try to reason with him -"
"Trust me!" he shouts. "Trust me that I can make him see sense. Bob's not my boss. I wasn't working with him 'cause he brainwashed me, I was working with him because I agreed with him. We're equals. I can make him see sense. We'll leave all of this behind, but we're taking Bob with us."
"Is that right?" calls out a voice from nearby.
Turning, I see that Bob is standing a few meters away, a grin on his face and his rifle pointed straight at us.
"I was just coming to find you," Henry stutters, with panic in his eyes.
"So I heard," Bob replies. "I heard the whole damn caboodle. I've gotta say, Henry, I'm a little disappointed in the way your sister here was able to turn you so easily. I thought you'd put up more of a fight, but I figured I'd better test you first. That's why I left you alone with her. I'm sorry to say, you failed that test miserably."
"It's not like that," Henry says, stepping toward him. "I just listened to what she said, and maybe she's right."
"You're allowing old world feelings to cloud your judgment," Bob says. "You're not seeing the world as it truly is, Henry. Just because she's your sister, doesn't mean you have to swallow her bullshit. Do you really think the best option is just to go running out of the city and into the wilderness like fucking apes? Abandon everything we've got here? All that stuff about disease, that's not gonna happen. It could, but it won't. You know why it won't? 'Cause I've got a fucking plan. I'm gonna deal with it. I'm gonna stop it. I'm gonna make sure we're all safe. I just need some people with me who actually believe in what I'm doing, rather than having their head turned by their sister."
"But if we leave -" Henry starts to say.
"You know what?" Bob replies, interrupting him. "This whole family thing is overblown anyway. Brother, sister, all that shit. It's a relic of an old world. Who gives a shit whether you came out of the same birth canal? You're individuals. You're not joined at the hip. Elizabeth shouldn't mean any more or any less to you than me, or than Mallory, or than anyone. No-one bound to make dumb-ass decisions just 'cause they've got these stupid family ties."
"Henry," I say, "let's just go. If Bob wants to sit around here and rot, let him. But we need to -"
"Shoot her," Bob says suddenly.
Henry turns to him.
"What?" I say, my heart turning to ice.
"You hear me, boy," Bob continues, staring at Henry. "You've got a weapon. You know how to use it. I'm giving you a direct order. Elizabeth is a threat to our survival. She's shown time and again that she's not a team player. She hid the existence of that little library up in Harrison Blake's room and, more seriously, she went directly against my orders and freed that Mallory girl. Now she's trying to foment revolution. It's time to get rid of her, and throwing her out the door clearly ain't gonna work. So I'm telling you. Shoot her."
Henry turns to look at me, and I can see that he's torn.
"You can't seriously be considering doing this," I say, starting to back away.
Slowly, Henry aims the rifle at me.
"Henry -"
"Every second you wait," Bob says, interrupting, "is another question about your loyalty."
"Henry," I shout, "don't listen to him!"
"Family don't mean a thing," Bob continues. "If she wasn't your sister, you'd have no hesitation in gunning her down, so put all that familial bullshit to one side. In the world today, your family are the people who stand beside you, not the people who happen to have been born to the same bloodline." He pauses, waiting for Henry to pull the trigger. "If family's so fucking important," Bob says after a moment, "then how come it's basically a fucking accident of fate, huh? Why the hell are you supposed to be loyal and devoted to someone based on a fucking fluke?"
Henry stares at me, with the rifle pointed straight at my head.
"Henry -" I say.
"I'm sorry," he whispers, before turning, aiming the rifle straight at Bob, and pulling the trigger.
Nothing.
Just a clicking sound.
Bob stares at Henry for a moment, and finally a smile starts to spread on his face. "Just as I thought," he says eventually. "No fucking loyalty. You can't imagine how bad I felt, boy, when I emptied your gun this morning. But now I see I was right to do it."
"Henry, let's go," I say, reaching out and grabbing my brother's arm.
"Fuck you," Bob says, pulling a handgun from his pocket, aiming it at us and firing.
"Get out of the way!" I shout, pulling Henry away, but I'm not quick enough. The bullet hits him square in the chest and he jolts backward, landing with a heavy thud against the concrete floor.
Chapter Four
Oklahoma
"That old thing?" Clyde smiles, but it's an awkward smile, as if he's been caught out. "Yeah, that doesn't work. It's had problems for years."
"But it might work," I say, eying him suspiciously. "I mean, it's worth a shot. What's wrong with it?"
"It won't start."
"So there's a problem with the ignition?"
"Maybe."
"Or the motor?"
He shrugs.
"And you never got it checked out?"
"Not really," he says. "I guess I always thought I had a little time to do it, but then things kind of snowballed." He pauses for a moment. "So, anyway, I found a bunch of towels. You're gonna need them if your brother starts bleeding. Not that they'll do much good, but it's better than nothing, right? I mean, blood's better in than out."
Heading over to the little key-hanger by the door, I quickly find what appears to be a key to Clyde's truck. Removing it from the hanger, I hold it up for him to see. "This the right one?"
He nods, but he doesn't seem sure.
"You mind if I go and give it a try?"
"It doesn't work," he says.
"What doesn't?" I ask, feeling that he's being deliberately vague. "The truck or the key?"
"The truck. The truck doesn't work."
"Huh." I put the key in my pocket. "So are you going now?"
"Me?"
"You said you were gonna get towels, and then you were gonna get out of here."
He sighs. "I guess that was bravado. I mean, how the hell am I gonna get past those things out there?"
"They're just standing around," I point out.
"And you think they'll keep just standing around if one of us goes out there?"
"Then you can out-run them," I say. "You managed it before."
"Yeah, but they're... There's so many of them, Thomas. There must be forty, fifty of the damn things. I'm not exactly in the prime of life. I can run down the street, but if they keep up, I'm gonna be screwed."
"Then what's your plan?" I ask. Something's definitely, definitely not right here. Clyde's inconsistent. He says one thing, then he says another. He says he wants to get out of here, but then he comes up with reasons why he has to stay. I know it's dangerous to assume that everyone's gonna be logical all the time, but I still feel as if there are hidden undercurrents with Clyde, as if there's some unspoken problem that's affecting his decisions. I don't trust the guy at all, and I'm pretty sure he's hiding something.
"I don't really have a plan," he says eventually. "My plan was for our brother to fix the truck, and then we'd get out of here."
"Which truck?" I ask. "Our truck, or your truck?"
"I don't have a truck," he says, seeming a little annoyed. "That's why I tried to take your truck the other day."
"But you do have a truck."
"It doesn't work!" He pauses. "Okay, I should have maybe asked your brother to take a look at mine, but I figured he was gonna get yours working eventually, and I didn't know those things were gonna turn up outside." He looks down at Joe. "I don't know if this is the right time to say this," he adds, "but your brother's getting sick. Real sick. Sicker than ever. I think we ne
ed to start preparing for the worst."
"He's not gonna die," I say, momentarily angry before I realize that Clyde seems to be trying to distract me. My questions have definitely rattled him, and I'm starting to see that I need to come up with a plan. "Do you have any spare bed-sheets?" I ask after a moment.
"Bed-sheets?"
I nod, reaching into my pocket and feeling the key to Clyde's truck. I need to hope and pray that this is the right key, and that the truck works properly. Right now, that thing is our only ticket out of Scottsville, and I don't have time to come up with a back-up plan.
"What do you want bed-sheets for?"
"I want to make Joe more comfortable. I was thinking of moving the table into your front-room, if that's okay? It's kinda cold through here."
"You think?"
I nod.
Clyde stares at me for a moment. "I guess," he says cautiously. "I can go look for bed-sheets. They're probably upstairs, I'll..." He pauses again, as if he's trying to work out what I'm planning. "I'll go get them."
"I'm gonna move the table," I say.
"You want help?"
"No," I say quickly. "I can do it."
"I'll just be a couple of minutes," he says, before heading over to the foot of the stairs. He glances back at me, as if he's started to realize that I'm up to something. For a moment, I think he might be about to confront me, but finally he smiles awkwardly, before going up to look for the bed-sheets. I'm guessing it'll take him a minute or two, because for some reason, I'm increasingly certain that this was never Clyde's house to begin with. I don't think he even knew that there was a truck in the garage, and I don't think he just happened to get caught by us the other day. For some reason, he seems to have wanted to get into this situation. I guess it's possible that I've become crazy and paranoid, but I can't shake the feeling that he's plotting something. He's definitely not what he seems, and I need to get away from him as fast as possible.
"Okay, Joe," I say, making sure to speak clearly so that Clyde will be able to hear me from upstairs. "I'm just gonna move you out of this draft." Grabbing the side of the table, I start dragging it across the kitchen, with Joe still on top. I'm careful not to nudge the sides, since I feel as if even the slightest bump could cause Joe's wound to re-open, but I have to get him through to the next room. What I need most of all is to get him the hell away from this place.
"Is that better?" I say, once I've got Joe through to the front-room. I hurry over to the door that leads to the garage, and then I go through and open the back of the truck. So far, everything's going according to plan. I quickly make a bed of towels, and then I head back to Joe. This is gonna be the difficult part. Carrying Joe to the truck would be difficult at the best of times, since I'm not exactly the strongest guy around; there's also the matter of the wound on his side, which looks as if it could start bleeding again at any moment. Finally, telling myself that I can't delay another second, I put my arms under Joe and pick him up. He's heavier than I expected, but I have no choice.
"Sorry," I whisper, as I struggle to carry him through the door and into the garage. To my relief, however, I'm able to quickly get him onto the back of the truck, and his wound seems to remain stable. The dried blood remains in place, and nothing else seems to be oozing out. Not yet, anyway. "We're out of here," I whisper, even though I'm not sure whether he can hear me. "I'm just gonna grab a couple of bottles of water from the kitchen." Hurrying to the front of the truck, I grab the key from my pocket and unlock the driver's side door. A sense of relief floods over me as I realize that I've got the right keys. I glance at the ignition; I know Clyde said that the truck doesn't work, but I don't believe him. I think the truck was news to him, and I need to get a move on before he comes back downstairs. He already seems a little suspicious of me, and I can't keep coming up with excuses to get him out of the way.
Hurrying back to the kitchen, I grab a couple of bottles of water. It's crazy to think that I'm going to just abandon all the supplies on the truck, but I can't risk going out the front door. These two bottles are going to have to be enough, at least until we can find somewhere to re-stock. Suddenly it strikes me that even if Clyde's truck is working, I have no idea whether there's any gas in the tank; I guess I just have to hope for the best. I can't have everything planned out in advance. Just as I'm about to head back to the garage, I hear Clyde coming downstairs. I have time to pull the door to the front-room shut, before Clyde reappears carrying a pile of bed-sheets.
"Here," he says, clearly suspicious of my actions. "Sorry it took me a while."
"Thanks," I say. "Put them on the side. I'll set him up in a minute."
"You managed to move your brother, then?"
I nod.
"How's he doing?"
"The same," I say. "I shut the door 'cause of the cold. I figure he needs to stay warm."
"I figure you're right," he replies, staring at me. "I still think he's hurt too bad, though. I don't think he can last much longer. You need to focus on making sure he's not in pain." He pauses, and finally something seems to change; it's as if the mask has slipped a little, and he's looking at me with different eyes. "I'm not fooling you at all, am I?" he says suddenly.
I take a deep breath, as I try to work out whether I can make it through to the truck, get the key in the ignition, start her up, and pull away without Clyde catching me. Then again, I didn't think to unlock the garage door in time. It's a large wooden door, so I figure I can probably just drive straight through it, provided I can build up enough speed in the tight confines of the garage.
"You're thinking," Clyde says, with a smile. "Let me guess. You're wondering if you can get your brother through to that other truck before I manage to stop you. I'll save you the bother. You can't."
I pause. He doesn't realize I've already moved Joe to the truck, so at least I have a small advantage.
"How long have you known?" he asks.
"Known what?" I reply.
"You didn't think I just went away, did you?" he continues. "Or did you? Are you so naive, you thought I just stopped trying to get inside?" He smiles. "I stopped trying to get inside, dummy, because I was already here."
Hearing a sound over by the window, I realize the creatures outside have started trying to get inside again. Worse, I can tell from the look on his face that he's not Clyde; not really.
"I told you it was futile to run," he says. "I'm all around. I'm everywhere. I'm standing here, and I'm outside. All of me. So, really, there's only one thing left for you to do. Trust me, it won't hurt too much."
Chapter Five
Manhattan
"Henry!" I shout, dropping to my knees as I see dark red blood pouring from the wound almost dead-center in his upper chest. Panicking, I pull off my shirt and try to stem the bleeding, but it's no use. Whatever I do, blood is still flowing from the wound, and Henry looks up at me with wide, lost eyes. He opens his mouth, as if he's going to say something, but all that comes out is a trickle of blood.
"Touching," Bob says, stepping closer and aiming the gun at me. "It's a shame this had to happen, but at least I uncovered his disloyalty before it was too late. Imagine if the situation had been more perilous and he'd caused greater problems. Don't worry, Elizabeth. You two'll be together again real soon."
Realizing it's now or never, and feeling almost as if I'm frozen in a state of shock, I lunge at Bob, pushing him to one side as he pulls the trigger. I hear the gunshot echo across the room, but to my relief I realize he didn't manage to get me. Racing through the doorway, I emerge in the yard and make my way quickly to the back of the building, hurrying through the rear offices and into the foyer. The front door is locked, of course, and I suddenly realize that there's no way out. Turning, I can already hear Bob coming after me, so I run to the stairwell. Heading up to the next floor, I decide my only chance is to get back to my parents' apartment, find the BB-gun Henry was given for his birthday a few years ago, and hope it's powerful enough to take Bob down. Once I've done th
at, there might still be time to save Henry.
"Where the fuck do you think you're going?" Bob shouts up at me. "You can't go anywhere! You're just trapping yourself!"
I keep going, confident that I can outrun him. Bob's a lot of things, but I doubt he's the fittest guy around.
"Let's just get this over with!" he calls up to me. "Do you really want to be out of breath when you die?"
As soon as I reach the top floor, I make my way along to the apartment. The door turns out to be locked, but I figure I've got no choice. Stepping back, I pause for a moment before trying to kick the door down. At first, it seems hopeless; after a couple of tries, however, the locks breaks off and the door flies open, and I run inside and head straight to Henry's room.
"Come on," I mutter as I hurry to his wardrobe, desperately pulling out every box and every container in a bid to find the damn thing. I always hated the fact that it was in the apartment, and I don't even know if I can use it properly if I find it, but right now it's the only thing I can possibly think to get. Every second I waste is another second that Henry's bleeding, and another second that he's slipping closer to death. All I can think about is that I have to somehow get rid of Bob, and then I have to work out what I can do to save my brother.
"Shit!" I say, as I realize there's no sign of the BB-gun anywhere. After a moment, I realize it might be in one of the cabinets in the front room, so I hurry back along the corridor. Just as I'm next to the door, however, Bob comes lumbering through and grabs my arm, spinning me around before pushing me down to the floor.
"I was gonna kill you quick," he says, kicking me hard in the side of the chest as I try to get up. "But then you made me run up those fucking stairs, so I guess I'll take a little longer." He kicks me again, sending me sprawling across the floor. He towers over me, with a big grin on his face as if he thinks that somehow he's won. "You probably thought I couldn't catch up to you. What are you doing in here, anyway? What the fuck could you possibly use to stop me?"