Arisen: Death of Empires

by Glynn James

  “Nope,” Burns said confidently. He had been a civilian until about five minutes ago, but being responsible for a whole group of survivors had left him with something of a military bearing. “Whoever or whatever came into this room didn’t leave it again.”

  “Then they must still be here somewhere,” said Wesley, looking at the boxes stacked in the corners and kicking an empty can that lay at his foot. It rattled against the opposite wall and rolled back toward him.

  None of the boxes were big enough to hide a person.

  Unless they happened to be an incredibly talented contortionist. But even that was impossible. The boxes were all open, the tops strewn around the floor along with the contents, which appeared to be more bottled water and canned goods. Wesley paced the room, and then stopped again and stood there, just looking confused.

  Melvin said, “I don’t see any maintenance access panels.”

  But then Judy barked.

  Wesley turned to see that the dog was in the far corner, behind a stack of boxes, where they had already looked. He lifted his gun, as did the others, and edged around to see what she was looking at, but still he saw nothing. He stepped closer, thinking she must be smelling something that couldn’t be seen, and then he finally spotted it – small drops of fresh wet blood on the floor, right in the corner, amid the dust and dirt.

  Judy barked again.

  “Heel,” Wesley commanded, and she complied quickly, moving behind him, but still watching the corner intently, her tongue hanging out as she panted with excitement.

  Wesley crouched down, searching until he finally spotted the edge of a panel in the deck that was sticking up higher than it should have been. It was only a half an inch, but it was definitely not flush. He turned and gestured at the crowbar hanging from Melvin’s utility belt. Melvin pulled it from its pouch and stepped up to the side of the panel. The four men nodded to one another, and then Melvin counted off a silent three… two… one.

  Then he jammed the bar under the panel, pulled hard, and grabbed the edge as it lifted up. A startled cry came from underneath as Melvin pulled the panel away, and Wesley, Burns, and Browning aimed weapons, and Wesley’s light, into the cavity under the deck.

  “Don’t shoot!” came a frightened voice. “Please! Don’t shoot.”

  The man was lying in a space no bigger than a car trunk, didn’t appear to be armed – and held both hands over his face, as though they could protect him against the guns.

  “Show your face!” said Wesley.

  “Please don’t shoot!”

  “We won’t. Now show yourself.”

  Wesley wondered if this was a stowaway – someone who had somehow got on board while they were stuck on the sandbar off Virginia Beach, and had been hidden here ever since. Or maybe he was a member of the crew who no longer wanted to be. He looked to be injured in several places, with bandages around his wrist and his ankle. These might go some way toward explaining why he had hidden himself – and Wesley backed slowly away, motioning the others to do the same.

  At this, the man lowered his hands, and stared up into the light as Wesley shone it on his startled face. But it wasn’t an unknown stowaway at all.

  It was fucking Anderson – that treacherous bastard who had abandoned them all and driven away when they were under attack by those swarms of runners, trying to help the survivors in Virginia Beach.

  Anderson, who had left them all to die.

  “Oh, you so just got found by the wrong fucking search party,” said Melvin.

  His voice, usually so cheerful, was now pure acid.

  Zero Options

  JFK - Stores

  Wesley stood looking down into the hole in the deck, at the man hiding below.

  Anderson.

  Wesley had always guessed the guy was weak. All the time they had been out in Virginia Beach he was constantly coming up with reasons for not doing whatever needed to be done. Leaving him in the truck had seemed the best way to deal with the guy at the time – keep him out of the firing line and away from anything that might cause him to flip out and screw things up.

  Wesley had intended to have him reassigned the moment they got back to the JFK – ideally to some area with fewer guns, and where he wouldn’t be a threat to everyone on his team just by being there. But he hadn’t had the chance, and Wesley’s choice to make him the driver had backfired in spectacular fashion.

  At the moment he’d been most needed, Anderson had driven away, leaving the small team to fight off an overwhelming number of fast-moving and vicious runners. If it hadn’t been for the help of the very people they had gone out to rescue, they all would have died. By some miracle, Scott was the only man they lost, though the survivors also lost people in the fight.

  But Wesley remembered Scott very clearly.

  And the reason Scott was dead was this man here, cowering in his hidey hole, desperately trying to burrow further in, and away from the vengeful men who now stared down on him.

  Or was he the reason? Sure, Anderson had driven off, leaving them stranded on foot and facing hundreds of runners. But wasn’t it Wesley who had made the decision to go after the survivor group in the first place?

  Was it really my fault? he wondered now.

  He had made the decision to keep the team on shore after Drake ordered most of the landing parties back to the ship. But Wesley had wanted to hold that observation tower – just in case Alpha and the Marines somehow managed to fly back and touch down, before the storm of the dead swarmed the coast. He had so wanted to do that one thing.

  We’d already been told we should evacuate, and that the plane would ditch in the sea if necessary – but I was stubborn, wasn’t I? I insisted on keeping the team there. And none of them – except for Anderson – complained or argued.

  Melvin’s voice pulled Wesley back from these dark thoughts.

  “Get out of there, you little fucker,” shouted the Scotsman, his usually cheerful voice now deeply scored with a coldness Wesley hadn’t heard before. “Get out or I’ll shoot you right now!”

  Burns stepped forward, placing his hand on Melvin’s shoulder. “Easy, man,” he said. “Back up and let him out. He’s not going to move with you towering over him.”

  “Then I’ll shoot the little shit where he lies,” said Melvin, leaning down into Anderson’s face, muzzle first. All Anderson could do was close his eyes and squirm. There was no place for him to crawl away to, and barely any room under the torn-away panel in the first place.

  Then Browning was there, reaching down to grab at Anderson’s shirt. He’d slung his assault rifle, and now knelt down on the floor – but then lurched back as Judy growled and snapped at his sleeve, coming between him and Anderson. Browning turned, confused.

  “What the hell is wrong with her?”

  Judy continued to growl, and when Browning reached out again, the dog grabbed his sleeve with her teeth and actually pulled his hand away. At the same time, Melvin stepped around Burns.

  “We should just shoot the bastard,” he said. Then, looking down at Anderson, “Scott’s dead because of you, you son of a bitch.”

  “Melvin, ease up, man,” said Burns.

  “No. I won’t fucking ease up. He left all of us – including you – to die.”

  Wesley realized that if he didn’t step in and take control, this situation could quickly spiral out of control. He stepped forward and pointed at Judy.

  “Heel,” he said. Judy went to his side and sat.

  At least she’s still obeying me, he thought, even if she is acting strangely.

  “Anderson,” said Wesley, looking down at the terrified man, while lifting his handgun and aiming it at his face. “I’m giving you five seconds to get out of that hole, and then I’m going to shoot you between the eyes. Do you understand?”

  Anderson’s gaze locked onto Wesley’s weapon, and for the first time Wesley thought he saw a glimmer of understanding.

  Wesley started counting. “Five… four… three.”


  He squinted over the sights of the gun, lining up Anderson’s head and wondering what he would do if he got to one. But with this, Anderson seemed to finally realize that Wesley meant business, and he sat up and started pulling himself out of the hole.

  “Okay! Okay!” he said. “Don’t shoot.”

  “Now back up against the wall,” said Wesley. He stepped forward to push Anderson against the bulkhead, and was surprised when Judy tried to step between them, once again growling. Wesley took a step back and looked down at the dog, puzzled.

  Why is she behaving like that? he wondered. She’d been totally well-behaved and obedient to Wesley right from the start. Now here she was, standing there growling at him, like she was protecting Anderson.

  “What the fuck is going on with that dog?” said Melvin. Wesley could see the man was losing control of himself, and something needed to be done to calm him down. But how the hell was Wesley supposed to do that, when he wanted to kill Anderson himself?

  Anderson tried to back away from Judy, almost as terrified of the dog as the circle of armed men. Wesley almost felt sorry for the guy, seeing raw panic in his bloodshot eyes.

  “Please,” said Anderson. “I didn’t mean to leave you there. I just panicked. I thought we were all going to die.”

  Bloodshot eyes, Wesley thought, and then scanned Anderson head to foot. Blood on his shirt. And when he leaned in closer, he could see very fine black lines around the eyes.

  “Thought that you were going to die, you mean,” said Browning. “We were the ones who nearly did.”

  “Why the hell shouldn’t we just blow his fucking brains out right here?” asked Melvin. “One shot and it’s done.”

  “He’s infected,” said Wesley, but no one seemed to hear.

  Burns stepped up to Melvin. “What, you want to just murder the man in cold blood? What the hell’s wrong with you?”

  He’s infected, thought Wesley. He has to die anyway. It doesn’t matter what he’s done, or not done, or whose fault it was. He has to die anyway. But what the hell do I do?

  “Not a damned thing’s wrong with me,” snapped Melvin. “Maybe we should go to the hospital and ask Derwin, you know, our friend who nearly bled out because that son of a bitch left us.”

  “I said, he’s infected,” Wesley said, louder this time.

  Everyone went silent.

  “Look at his eyes.”

  At this, everyone except Wesley and Judy took two steps away from him.

  “Holy shit,” said Browning.

  “How did it happen?” asked Wesley, still not lowering his weapon, but relieved that his was the only one now trained on Anderson. “When did you get bitten?”

  Anderson collapsed to the floor, back up against the wall.

  “Well?” asked Wesley.

  “I was on the deck with everyone else,” said Anderson. “During the battle.”

  “And it happened in the fight?”

  Anderson nodded.

  “And you hid down here?” Wesley felt rising disgust.

  “Yes. They were killing everyone who was injured, the ones who were bitten or scratched.”

  “So you decided to hide. Did you think that meant you would survive?” Wesley’s face was burning with anger, and he honestly wasn’t sure if he’d be able to stop himself from using the gun now.

  Anderson was willing to risk the lives of everyone on the ship just to buy himself a few more hours. First he abandoned us to save himself, and now he’s doing it all over again.

  “I didn’t want to die,” said Anderson, beginning to sob, but the tears only made him appear more pathetic. Wesley had no sympathy for the man.

  I should just pull the trigger, he thought. End this now.

  “We have to shoot him now,” said Burns. “No choice.” Wesley turned to the leader of the survivors, and saw he was staring at Anderson emotionlessly.

  “He’s a fucking zombie,” said Melvin. “Kill the fucker, or I will.” He started to raise his rifle once more.

  “No,” said Wesley. “If anyone’s going to shoot him, it’ll be me. Is that understood? Any one of you fires and I’ll make sure you’re court-martialed. That is an order.”

  Melvin lowered his weapon. “Then what are you waiting for? Do it. He has to die now.”

  But wait, thought Wesley. What was it he had overheard the doctor, Park, say in that lab? Something about a possible serum, that might cure someone who had been infected. Wesley had come in mid-conversation, and wasn’t really following. But some of it stuck in his head. He tried to replay it now.

  “You need someone infected but not yet turned.”

  That was what Park had said.

  And then somebody else, a woman, had said: “Anybody infected but not yet turned isn’t going to be looking at a lot of options.”

  Wesley shook his head. Right now Anderson has zero options.

  But in the back of his mind, the faces of Scott and Derwin tortured his vision. Scott had died because of this man’s actions, and Derwin was recovering, but had been grievously injured, and had nearly died.

  Wesley’s emotions now tore him in different directions. On the one hand, he didn’t for a second like the idea of executing a man in cold blood, whatever his crimes, with no trial or even military tribunal. And the fact that he could feel himself burning with vengeance, furious on behalf of his people who had been hurt and killed because of this shitbird… well, that made an execution even less palatable. Things couldn’t work that way, or they’d all be doomed in the end.

  Or would they all be doomed if they didn’t?

  On the other hand, of course, there was the fact that they killed the infected all the time. It was routine, nothing more than good zombie-apocalypse hygiene.

  And hanging over it all was this possibility of a serum – and the rare opportunity to test it on someone. What if it worked?

  And what if Anderson lived, after all this?

  What the fuck do I do? Wesley thought, for a moment not knowing whether to pull the trigger or drag Anderson up to that lab behind the hospital.

  Why the hell should he get a chance to live? When so many others didn’t – some of them because of what HE did?

  But then Wesley thought of everything they were doing there on that ship, so many hundreds of men and women, suffering and sacrificing… and he thought of the reason they had already faced a hundred impossible obstacles to get as far as they had.

  It was all because there were fifty million people back home, all of them clinging to life and to hope, and depending on a handful of soldiers and sailors to find a cure. Those people did deserve to live – and here was Wesley agonizing over whether to punish one man… or else help save the whole world.

  “We can’t kill him,” he finally said.

  Everyone in the room was silent for a moment, but then all were shouting.

  “What the hell?” said Melvin, shaking his head. “He killed Scott.”

  “He’s infected,” said Burns. “It’s too risky. We can’t let him live.”

  “Burns is right,” said Browning. “We can’t let him out of here. We can’t risk another outbreak.”

  Wesley raised his hands to try and quiet them. “Look, we need him.” His voice cut through the others, finally silencing them. “The scientist – the guy who has developed the vaccine? I was up there and overheard him talking. They were discussing whether it would be possible to use the vaccine to cure someone already infected.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Burns.

  “I mean they’re saying the vaccine will prevent anyone inoculated with it from being infected. But they can’t know whether it might cure an already infected person – not without testing it. And the only way to test it… is on someone infected but not yet turned.”

  Melvin looked at Wesley, eyes bright and hopeful. “They might be able to cure someone who’s been infected?”

  Wesley nodded. “They said it wasn’t impossible that it could slow or even cure the disease. But th
ey can’t know… until they have someone to test it on.”

  Everyone turned to Anderson.

  “Me?” he said, panic rising once more. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean they need a lab rat,” said Wesley. “And it might even cure you. If you’re willing to let them try it.”

  “He doesn’t deserve the chance to live,” said Melvin.

  “No, he doesn’t,” said Wesley. “But millions of other do.”

  Anderson stuttered some words that didn’t quite form, and then tried to stand up. “But what will happen to me?”

  “I don’t know,” said Wesley. “What I do know is that we’re going to put some cuffs on you, walk you up there, and then you’re going to volunteer.”

  “It might kill me.”

  “I’ll tell you what’ll kill you,” said Browning. “The Uniform Code of Military Justice – which says desertion during wartime, not to mention cowardice in the face of the enemy, are both punishable by death.”

  Anderson’s eyes went wide, and he whimpered.

  “Yes, the vaccine might kill you,” said Wesley, feeling a cold vehemence burning in his chest. “But the virus definitely will. And maybe this vaccine has a chance to save you.”

  “It might kill me faster,” said Anderson.

  Wesley shook his head. “You’re not going to become a zombie.”

  Anderson looked up hopefully. “I’m not?”

  “No. Because if you don’t do this, I’m going to kill you.”

  * * *

  Twenty minutes later, Wesley dropped himself down on his bunk, exhausted, but glad to be free of Anderson and that whole mess down there. In the end, the man hadn’t struggled, had even put the cuffs on himself, and did as he was told.

  Wesley remembered the surprised expression on Dr. Park’s face as they delivered this lab rat right to the medical bay and locked him in one of the examination rooms. Anderson had been strapped to a gurney, and stayed quiet the whole time, but never took his eyes off Wesley. Two of Wesley’s new recruits, both civilian survivors, had volunteered to stay and keep watch – and to kill Anderson should he turn. Melvin had volunteered as well, but Wesley didn’t like Anderson’s odds alone with him, and instead suggested he take an hour off.