by Barry Napier
“Is there a history of—”
Paul didn’t hear the rest. As the man started the question, Jolly gave Paul’s arm a squeeze and then a rather hard push. Paul didn’t need any further nudging. His knees had been ready for the last five minutes, his heart for the past few days.
When he sprang up from the bed, he grabbed the medical kit. He knew it wouldn’t do any damage, but it would be a nice distraction. By the time the tall man realized there was a medical kit flying towards him, Paul was up and moving forward. The man seemed to not be able to decide if he should block the kit or drop his tablet so in the end, he did neither. The kit struck him in the head, bouncing with a strange scratching noise from the protective hood of the suit.
Paul was already on the man by the time he thought to reach for his sidearm. Paul drove his shoulder into the man’s chest, slamming him back into the wall. As the man scrambled to retrieve his sidearm, Paul delivered two quick jabs into his ribs. He had no idea how much damage the blows were causing because of the suit, but he could feel the impact in his fists and that was enough for him.
As the man tilted to the side from the blows and tried to block any further shots, Paul reached for the M9 on the man’s hip. He pulled it but it would not come free. It was snagged because of the angle, and as Paul pulled on it, the man managed to throw in a weak blow with his left forearm. It caught Paul right in the chin, causing him to take a step back. When he did, he saw that Jolly was also coming for the man. The tall man cursed when he realized the betrayal, and in that moment, all three men seemed to understand that in order for the skirmish to come to an end, someone had to die. Until that point, Paul would have been content to just knock the man out or, at the very least, choke him out.
With the gun already pulled halfway out of its holster, the man had no problem freeing it. As he started to bring it up, Paul dove at him again. His left hand struck the man’s firing arm as it came up and his head and shoulders went directly into the man’s stomach. He was again driven back, hitting the wall hard.
Either the impact or the man’s panic caused the gun to fire. The hollow shot was deafening in the sealed room and for a moment, Paul was certain the shot had gone either directly through his back or the top of his head. He froze for just a moment and when he realized he was still alive, he sent a flurry of punches: to the ribs, the stomach, to the crotch. He now had the man’s right arm—his firing arm—pinned to the wall and another shot went off. This one ripped through the ceiling, making a strange tearing noise.
It was then that Paul realized how he could easily immobilize the man. It seemed almost barbaric, but he knew he had no choice. He noticed that Jolly had stopped in his approach and also recalled the stray shot that he’d feared had taken him in the back. He assumed the worst, and that made it easier for him to make his next move.
Still fighting to hold the man’s right arm against the wall, he noticed the binding along the man’s right leg—the place where the zipper and snaps that held the suit together connected. He reached down and grabbed it. He took a left-handed jab to the side of the head as a result but even then, he held on. When he pulled, he pulled hard and the seal came undone. He tore up, hearing the snaps pop and the zipper tearing free of the seal. The man’s reaction was pretty much what Paul had expected; the gun was forgotten, even the battle was forgotten. All he was thinking in that moment was that he was exposed.
The man started screaming as Paul gave him one final punch, this one straight across the face. The tear in his suit had only made it up to his armpit, so there was still the hood and plastic shielding, but it was a ferocious punch. The man went sprawling to the floor, the gun clattering away from the impact. Paul suddenly felt as if he were back on the job, trying to keep a violent man away from a gun. The instincts from his job kicked in and, for just a moment, seemed to override the frantic life-or-death situation (which, honestly, for his job, did tend to often overlap). Paul fell on the man’s back, driving a knee into his spine. As part of the same motion, he pivoted forward and, sliding partially on the back of the man’s suit and partially on the floor, he reached for the gun. He grabbed it easily and when it was in his hands, he wheeled around and got to his knees all in one movement.
When he saw that the man was still down, groaning and screaming and trying to figure out how to get the suit zipped back up, Paul got to his feet and took in the situation. Jolly had indeed been shot. He was lying on the floor, his suit spattered in red. Most of it was low on his left side. Blood was pouring out of the suit and onto the floor. He saw that Jolly was slowly starting to undo the clasps and fixtures that attached the hood to his suit. Paul assumed he’d been shot somewhere below the ribs and was finding it hard to breathe.
He took a single step towards Jolly and that’s when the tall man behind him decided to attack. He came with no grace at all, just a terrified and screaming bundle of rage wanting revenge. Paul was only able to turn halfway around to face him before the man struck him in a weak football tackle sort of move. Paul acted on that same instinct, pulling the trigger on the M9 as he went falling to the ground. The muzzle was buried somewhere in the man’s suit when the shot went off and all of the strength went out of him even before he collapsed on top of Paul.
Paul lay there for a moment, crushed under the weight of the man. With a grunt, he shoved him off and slowly sat up. The man wasn’t moving, and the exit hole through the back of his suit indicated that it had come out right between his shoulder blades. Paul could see no movement at all, not even shallow breaths—though he honestly wasn’t looking all that hard. He again went to Jolly, now remaining on his knees and crawling over.
Jolly had managed to remove the protective hood, and Paul saw the man’s face free of its protection for the first time. His eyes were hazy and seemed to be staring at something far away. Paul assumed that, being a doctor, he knew the shot he’d taken was a bad one.
“Any chance we can get you fixed up here?” Paul asked.
Jolly shook his head. “No. We aren’t set up for this sort of thing. Just studying blood. But I’m dead anyway…hence the hood being gone.”
“That was stupid.”
“The shot…I’ll bleed out in like five minutes anyway.” He was struggling between words and each breath he took in seemed to be thinner and thinner. “I was telling the truth. The plan is to move you. This whole place…it’s washed up. Everyone is either dead or abandoning ship. Only Ramsey and the men that are very loyal to him are still here. They’ll either move you to another location or kill you.”
“Why kill me?”
“Because why not? Nothing is going their way. Right now, you represent failure and failure is not something they can be reminded of while they’re trying to save the human race. Look…the badge in the medical kit…”
He stopped here and shuddered. He let out a groan so pained that it sent a chill right down Paul’s spine. Paul wanted to try to get him up and out of the room, to find any help he could. But if Jolly thought it pointless, that was enough for Paul.
“..it belonged to a woman that died of the virus,” Jolly went on. “It’ll get you in and out of these room and open most of the doors. Olivia and Joyce are in mobile unit directly beside this one, on the left. The first room on the right.”
The reality of what he was about to do slammed into Paul like a rocket. He found himself gripping the M9 tightly and his stomach seemed to be filled with molten lead. But he knew he also needed more information if he wanted to get out of this alive.
“How many soldiers?”
“Essentially none. Maybe a few guards. A few doctors. They’ve started tearing the place down and anyone that means anything is in transit. Except Ramsey. He may be around.”
His words were getting slower, his sentences shorter. The pool of blood was growing larger on the floor and the suit was now stained completely across the center.
“Thank you,” Paul said. “You can’t—”
Jolly shook his head and waved the
comment off. “If you make it out, stay off the road a bit. The forests just behind here…go through those. Head south a few miles before getting back on the roads. Keep eyes open. Keep…”
He shuddered here and Paul could sense that he had very little time. He felt terrible for not being able to help him.
“Please,” Paul said. “What can I do for you?”
Jolly shook his head and, to Paul’s surprise, he started crying. “Just get that girl out of here. Get her to her father. I’m sorry. So sorry for…”
“Quiet,” Paul said, reaching for the man’s hand and taking it. He gave it a reassuring squeeze because he had no idea what else he could do.
“Go,” Jolly said. “Someone might have…heard…shooting. Go…”
Part of Paul wanted to stay there—to stay by the man’s side until he died. He did not want this man who had risked his life for him to die alone. But he also knew that if he didn’t move soon, it might all be for nothing. Slowly, Paul got to his feet. He checked the M9 and saw that there were seven rounds remaining. He then patted the solider down for more magazines, but found none.
Quickly, he looked back to Jolly. “Thank you,” he said again, almost in tears himself.
Paul went to the medical kit, resting where he had thrown it, and retrieved the keycard. The woman’s name was Samantha and he now knew without a doubt she had been among the first to speak to them when they arrived. She had gone out of her way to try to make Joyce feel comfortable. And now, like so many others, she was dead.
He placed the card against the little reader by the door. The hydraulics inside the thin walls sounded and the door unlocked. He pushed it open and quickly poked his head outside. The interior of the trailer was empty and though it was technically just as empty and as confined as his little room, the air smelled somehow fresher out there.
Paul took one final look back to Jolly and then stepped out. He didn’t bother closing the door, not wanting Jolly to feel trapped. He stepped out into the trailer and headed for the exit door at the far end. It was a very basic swinging door, perhaps one of the flimsiest he’d seen since coming here.
He walked towards it, nearly in awe of the little sliver of sunlight that crept through the tiny crack at the bottom. He reached out for the handle, raised the gun with his right hand, and started his escape.
Chapter 22
Olivia was starting to worry about Joyce. She wasn’t talking much and even when she was playing the matching game on the little tablet Samantha had provided when they’d first arrived, she seemed detached from everything. She was eating very little and, about four hours ago, had urinated in her pants. Olivia knew four year-olds had accidents from time to time, especially when sleeping, but Joyce had been fully potty trained by the age of two. She was simply not communicating and seemed to be drawing into herself. Olivia figured her little mind was trying to process all of the trauma the best way it could.
No one had come to see them since Chen’s last visit and that had been nearly twelve hours ago. They had enough food and water for another day or so but this was the longest period of time that had passed without anyone coming to visit. She’d heard gunshots the night before and wondered what, exactly, had happened. In her mind, she saw soldiers firing on one another, perhaps pushed to the limit as the virus had come through. And if that were the case, she wondered if there was a very real chance that the door to this room might never open again.
She’d tried convincing Joyce to let her change her pants but when she’d come close to do so, Joyce had cringed and pressed herself firmly against the wall. It was the only time Joyce had ever responded to Olivia in such a way and it had broken her heart a bit. She’d backed off and let Joyce be on her own for a while. That time had consisted of the girl humming a song Olivia was not familiar with, trying to make a little fort out of the pillow and sheets on the cot, and playing the matching game on the smart pad.
But now that the stench of urine was getting thicker in the little room, Olivia thought she needed to try again. They had nothing in the room to clean her with, but even fresh clothes at this point would be a blessing. And she did have fresh clothes, as Joyce had one change left from the seemingly random outfits they’d been given.
She went to the bed, the stench stronger there. It was a smell Olivia was used to because of her daycare experience, but she wasn’t sure she’d ever smelled it this strongly before. Not even in the fullest of diapers.
“What’cha doing?” Olivia asked.
“Playing this game,” Joyce said. She did not look away from the screen. Her eyes were mostly unblinking and her voice was soft and fragile-sounding.
“Sweetie, I think we really need to get you out of those clothes. Aren’t you wet and itchy?”
“A little.”
“So do you want to change?”
Joyce thought about it for a moment and then shook her head. Olivia looked to the girl’s arms, noting the twin bandages covering the area where the doctors had drawn blood the last two times. The idea of it all made her furious. They’d had no real choice in any of it and even if the goal at this messed up place was to find some way to stop the virus, there was no way they could—
A popping noise from somewhere nearby made her jump. It took her a moment to realize what it was. It was another gunshot. This one sounded much closer than the ones she’d heard the night before. She got to her feet, the stench of urine momentarily forgotten. Roughly seven seconds later, another shot came, from about the same distance.
Because the shots were so close, she could not help but wonder if someone had gone to Paul’s quarters to simply eliminate him from the equation. After all, Chen had insinuated that things were starting to break down and the facility was not operating well. And if someone had gone over to eliminate Paul…
She looked to Joyce and then to the closed door. Her heart seemed to somehow both sag and deflate at the same time. Deep down, she’d sort of sensed that their time here was short though she wasn’t sure if that was because she felt they’d be formally released or that they’d die here. Now, following those two close shots and the fact that no one had been in to see them in over twelve hours, she figured it might be the latter.
She stepped closer to the door, not sure how much time had passed since that second shot. A minute? A minute and a half? As she tried to figure this out, a third sounded out. Then a fourth. The fourth was followed by a shriek of pain.
Olivia backed away from the door. She slowly sat down on the edge of the bed, her hand to her mouth. She looked over to Joyce, but she was oblivious. She had retreated into herself, not really even playing the tablet right now but simply using it to occupy her hands and eyes. And though it was a morbid thought, Olivia could not help but wonder if, in the end, that might be for the best—because if someone was coming to kill them, maybe Joyce wouldn’t even be aware any of it was happening until that door was opened and they were taken out.
***
When Paul stepped out into the afternoon sunlight, it was dizzying. The air smelled slightly sour but the sun felt glorious. He was fairly certain they’d been here for around three full days but being confined in that little room made it feel like much longer. The fresh air and the sun was almost too much to take in at first. Also, he was surprised to see open space; the large structure that had been built into the sides of the trailers was gone. Everything was in the process of being broken down. Other than the trailers, there was a small mobile hut about halfway up the clearing and a little canopy that looked like it belonged at a tailgate party. Taking all of this in was why Paul’s escape attempt was nearly over before it had properly begun.
A man in one of those protective suits was standing about fifteen feet away from the set of metal stairs that led down from the trailer’s exit door. He was standing lazily against the hood of a truck, looking at a tablet of the same size and style of the man Paul had just killed. Because of Paul’s distraction, he did not really even notice this man until he was moving, his arm
going down to his sidearm.
Paul moved in a way that surprised him. He swiveled calmly but quickly, bringing the dead man’s gun up. He took aim and fired. The shot took the man high in the chest, just below the neck. He did not see the hole form in the suit but he did see just the tiniest bit of blood come out of the suit as the man stumbled back, rebounding from the truck.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, a voice was telling him that these people were only doing their jobs—that if Jolly had been right, most of them weren’t even soldiers but specialized doctors or guards. And here he was, killing them as if he were on the frontlines in some savage war.
Paul pushed that voice down, fully aware that he would have to process it at some point. But for now, there was only survival. There was only getting to Olivia and Joyce and then heading to the forest as Jolly had recommended.
He raced to the bottom of the metal flight of stairs. He could feel the adrenaline running through him. It was almost like a fever and almost like being high. It was running so rampant that he could actually taste it in the back of his throat, not too dissimilar to the taste of blood. When his feet touched the grass, he got a brief moment to check his surroundings. Many of the makeshift buildings that had been here when they’d arrived were gone. Lots of litter and empty boxes and crates had been left behind. There were several vehicles off to the front of the little clearing and, of course, the two trailers that he, Joyce and Olivia had been stored in.
In glancing around, he noticed the two men standing at the far end of the second trailer, about thirty feet away. One of them was coming forward in a terrible rendition of a shooter’s stance. The other was partially hiding behind the back edge of the trailer. They both wore the protective suits, which made it a bit easier for Paul to get a good aim.
“Drop the weapon, sir,” the man said.
Paul nearly started communicating with the man but knew it would be useless. This man had surely watched him come out of the trailer, had seen him shoot the man back by the truck. There would be no debates, no convincing. Paul said a silent prayer for forgiveness and pulled the trigger. He aimed low, taking out the man’s left knee. He shrieked in pain and right away, the suited individual behind the trailer took off running. Paul wasn’t quite sure, but in the final glance he caught of that glimmering plastic shield, he thought he saw a woman’s face on the inside. She went running to the right, toward the scattered trucks at the top of the clearing. Paul followed her with the gun but could not bring himself to shoot a woman in the back.