Chapter Forty-Seven
Doyle feels that he understands them now, in a way he never has before, in a way that perhaps he couldn’t understand people who weren’t sick.
They’re defending their territory. They haven’t come looking for a fight. But if Doyle runs, they’ll pursue, because if he runs he’ll be prey. And they’ll get both him and Kyle, because he doesn’t have enough bullets to stop them.
Five left. Who would have guessed that ammunition would be the first resource they ran out of? Something else he’s kept from Kyle. Doyle has never been a good liar, but it occurs to him that he has a talent for lying by omission.
They’re approaching cautiously. He suspects that they recognize the gun for what it is. Their eyes are on him, not on the doorway through which Kyle vanished. So long as that’s the case, Kyle has a chance. But there are only five bullets. Five bullets, six Sickers. He can’t get past them. He has no means to stop them. So this isn’t likely to end well.
Doyle starts walking toward them, for no other reason than that it seems the last thing they’ll expect. They stop advancing, the front two even backing up a pace. All six are male this time, none of them too young or too old, and that makes the prospect of what’s coming easier. They’re not a family, not a tribe, they’re a hunting pack. He realizes then how much he’s been itching for a situation this straightforward. These are just people, sick people. Everything Aaronovich told him was right. But here, now, they’re a direct threat. If he runs, they’ll give chase. If he doesn’t, their weight of numbers and his intrusion upon their territory will make it impossible for them to back down.
There’s a dozen feet between them. Advancing any farther will lose him the one advantage he has, which is range.
Doyle shoots the nearest Sicker squarely in the chest. The man is wearing the tatters of a logger’s jacket; the rotted fabric bursts into confetti. He doesn’t get even the barest murmur out, just jars backward like he’s on a piston. He bowls down one of the others, and Doyle feels momentarily good about his chances.
Then they’re coming. Doyle takes two steps back and fires, aiming left. The result is another chest wound, off-center but good enough to suit his purposes. He’s going for damage, for chaos. He needs their undivided attention.
Had he really believed they wouldn’t be able to follow? Or, on some level, had he anticipated this?
One more rapid step back, the last he’ll get, and Doyle fires again. The shot goes higher than he intends; a face erupts, spewing teeth and gobbets of meat. Its owner leers appallingly, staggers, but doesn’t stop. There’s no distance left between them, and only now that it’s too late does Doyle want to turn and run.
They don’t attack as people would attack. They get close straight away, limiting their own offense. Nor are they quite like animals. But the assault is effective. It leaves him few options. All Doyle can do is slide one hand into a pocket, grasping the object he’s stashed there, and at the same time fling his gun arm up in defense and give way, so that their momentum carries him toward the ground instead of smacking the air from his lungs.
He lands roughly. The weight of them is almost enough to paralyze him, half-starved though they are. A mouth gnashes inches from his eyes, filling his nostrils with a reek of putrid meat and halitosis. In picturing this as a fight to the death, he hadn’t considered infection. He’d thought that they might kill him, like his own body is killing him. He’s reconciled himself to that, but sickness is a different prospect. It appalls him as death never has.
Doyle resists, pushing harder, lest they bury him. Hands clasp the gun; the four of them might as well be one creature. He flails the pistol, not hurting them, only trying not to lose his hold. His other arm he manages to tear loose from his pocket, fingers still gripping cold plastic. Already, both arms ache. They’ll soon wear him down.
Sure enough, the gun goes first. Something unseen – a shoulder, a knee – crunches on his wrist, and the pain is impossible. He can no longer feel the muscles of that hand, but he’s aware of the absence against his palm and fingers. Then his left arm comes free, and so Doyle jabs for the nearest neck.
The Sicker directly on top of him arches back, scratching at the yellow plastic handle that juts from his throat. Doyle discovered the sharpened screwdriver beneath Plan John’s desk, on his initial day of searching the apartment. At the time, it had been one more mystery, but he’d kept it, because a weapon was a weapon. Now, whoever the shiv once belonged to, it’s saved his life, at least for an instant. Doyle jams a suddenly uncovered leg into a Sicker’s chest, kicks with every bit of strength he has, and the whole knot of them roll aside, finally giving him space to slither free.
Doyle lurches back to his feet. Three of them are up also and already circling warily. When they come again, he won’t be able to stop them. His arm is numb, darting pain through his shoulder. Doyle looks for the gun, can’t find it. There are just two bullets left anyway, not enough to end this.. But surely he’s done what he needed to; surely Kyle has got away? If only he could be certain. Everything that’s happened might have taken seconds, and so he has to keep going somehow, to buy a little more time.
Much too late, Doyle perceives that the three still standing aren’t even looking at him. Simultaneously, he becomes aware of a tendril of noise, rising and falling. He’s heard it before, though he requires a moment to identify it: an animal sound, but not issuing from any animal throat. He doesn’t want to turn his back to the Sickers. Instead, he edges against the wall, placing them on his right, and steals a glance.
The Sicker girl is stooped over, virtually on all fours. Her gaze holds the three beside him, as their dark-specked eyes are focused upon her. She’s approaching in fits and starts, scurrying a pace or two and then hesitating. And close behind her is Kyle.
He must have traversed the front of the building on the first floor, have come back up by the opposite staircase. Maybe he saw Abigail and chased after her; maybe he returned deliberately. In the end, the details hardly matter. Doyle has sacrificed himself for nothing.
“Get out of here!” he roars, sure that the commotion alone will trigger the remaining Sickers.
Yet they scarcely seem to notice. Nor does Abigail, who’s scampering nearer, on two legs but hunched like the werewolf in an old movie. Only Kyle looks at him, with brief disregard. He’s gained a weapon from somewhere, a length of wood that might once have been a chair leg. He’s hurrying to reduce the gap between himself and Abigail.
Then everything is in motion, too fast to interpret, bodies blurring, noises collapsing together. The impact as one of the Sickers goes for Doyle tears him off his feet, and he distantly registers the fact that Abigail has flung herself at another.
In a gap of whirling limbs, he snatches a glimpse of Kyle, close enough to be sucked within the gravity of the exploding violence. “Go,” Doyle spits through gritted teeth. “Kyle, just go!”
He can’t say more because an elbow punches into his stomach, sucking the wind from his lungs. He almost loses his grip on the body against his, and whatever glimmer of energy he’s using to keep the Sicker from gouging his throat out. Doyle manages to hold him back, but not to shove him away; he hasn’t the strength for that. He’s stalling, playing for seconds, and at any moment this will be over.
An earsplitting crack engulfs the garbled confluence of sound. Half deafened, Doyle can make no sense of the eruption; not until he sees that one of the Sickers has reared back, not until he sees the blood. It’s the gun. Kyle has the gun. The shot wasn’t a good one, but at that range he couldn’t have missed. And now Kyle is looking at Doyle, his eyes desperate. “Come on, Johnson!”
He can’t. There are still two of them on their feet, two that will follow if he moves, that will be quicker than Doyle can possibly be. “Throw it to me,” he says.
Kyle does as he’s told. The throw is a good one, thankfully, slow and underarm, better
than the shot. In a flash Doyle has the gun up, trained on the remaining Sickers. Even while they’re registering that, he’s moving, edging through the gap in their ranks. He doesn’t dare look toward Kyle. The slightest faltering, the slightest hint of distraction, and they’ll be on him.
“Kyle,” he says, “you can’t wait for me. Get out, with the girl. Do it. Right now.”
Nor can he look to confirm whether the order is being obeyed. However, he can hear the scamper of feet. Abigail, at least, has retreated. Doyle aims at the crowd of Sickers: two watching him warily, a couple motionless and likely dead, and the last two nursing wounds, though still unquestionably threats. Doyle tries to keep the gun on all of them. He has one shot left, but they have no way to know that. Yet there is knowing, he thinks, in the eyes of the two that are staring at him, knowing and terrible self-assurance.
Doyle takes a step back, keeping the gun up. When one of them shifts, he snaps the barrel to them and the man pauses. Doyle keeps backpedalling, his free arm raised to feel his course along the wall. The second uninjured Sicker takes a half step, and Doyle pins him with the gun, daring him with all of his will.
Except that they aren’t people, and he can’t predict them. So maybe they’ll chance it. And Doyle is halfway to the unboarded window, that he’s sure of. They won’t just let him walk away like this. It’s gone too far for that.
Doyle turns and runs.
No, he’d been wrong, less than halfway. The distance appears much farther. He should have used that last bullet, should have put one of them down. Now they’re behind him, and they’re faster than he is. If he delays to aim, they’ll be on him. So Doyle drives all the strength he has left into his legs. He lopes along, feeling as though the window is somewhere far above and he’s crawling against the weight of gravity.
Only as he comes close does the impression of speed return, and then only as he realizes what lies beneath him. Not the jeep as he’d expected, for this isn’t that window. Below is nothing but distant asphalt. And even as he sees, Doyle is hurling himself over the sill, comprehending perfectly what’s coming, hoping it won’t be his head that hits first.
It isn’t. His right arm takes the impact. He hears it snap, a jagged crack. There’s no pain as such, but the promise of pain to come swaddles Doyle’s whole body. He thinks his head is in one piece. He wouldn’t lay bets on anything else. The thought of what’s happened to that arm makes acid vomit bubble in his throat.
Something unfeasibly heavy comes down on him and rolls aside, hammering his chest and sending the first real burst of agony shrieking through him. A second Sicker lands just inches away; the man’s ankle bends like a drinking straw before the rest of him crashes into the road. Twisting onto his back, Doyle spies a third poised in the window above, frozen by indecision. He’s the one Doyle shot in the face, and his cheek is a charred patch of torn muscle and black blood. He shouldn’t be moving at all, yet his gaze is cool and collected.
Then Kyle is standing over Doyle, reaching out a hand. “Come on.”
Doyle can’t communicate that the arm Kyle is grasping for is broken. In that moment, the anguish is all-consuming. The fear of contact is sufficient to get him to his feet.
Kyle stares at him, eyes massive, not understanding. “Come on!” he repeats.
The girl, Doyle sees, is already in the jeep. He starts toward the vehicle, dragging his feet as best he can. Kyle darts ahead, flings the passenger-side door open, and shuffles into the driver’s seat. Doyle tumbles in after. He has to contort to use his good arm to haul the door shut, and the torture of that is monstrous, enough that he can hardly believe he hasn’t blacked out.
He isn’t certain if the motion he feels is real or his battered mind tilting reality about him. Then he glimpses the side mirror, and in it the hotel, the Sickers, the entire scene receding. In another instant, a corner has erased the Alexis from view.
Doyle knows then that they’ve made it. Against all his expectations, he’s alive.
Chapter Forty-Eight
Aaronovich can’t guess why the convicts would have come back for Contreras, if indeed they have. Maybe they were just passing en route to other business. Maybe they’re tying off the loose ends of last night’s violence. Either way, they don’t seem pleased at his absence.
“Hey! Contreras! Where the fuck are you?”
She thinks that’s Stokes, though she can’t be sure. Even with such a relatively tiny population, Aaronovich has only ever been familiar with those few inmates she’s treated.
Then comes another voice, the two of them – or is it three? – conversing. Aaronovich is unable to make out words. It sounds, however, as if they’re arguing, and it’s easy to theorize about what. Aaronovich wonders why they should care where Contreras is, decides they probably don’t. It’s an irony of having any sort of power, she supposes. Suddenly you find yourself forced to worry about things that once would have meant nothing. Funland is theirs now – she assumes the new regime is basically egalitarian, as revolutions tend to be until the moment when they’re not – and they can’t have one badly beaten former guard wandering on his own. Also, no doubt, there will be issues of blame and responsibility. She doesn’t envy them, being the bearers of such news.
They make a cursory search. From the rooftop, it’s easy to track their movements within the building; they don’t try to be quiet. Ten minutes have passed, or less, before they give up and start back toward the cellblock. Aaronovich still can’t discern words, but there’s clear tension in their voices.
She returns to the shack that surmounts the stairwell. Contreras is resting, with Carlita tending him, which, given the limitations of their resources, means little more than keeping him company. Aaronovich can see from their faces that they too have been anxiously following the brief hunt through the building below.
“It’s time to go,” she says.
Contreras is stronger than he was the previous night. Not only is he able to stand without support, he seems surer of himself. Perhaps, like her, he’s simply more comfortable with a situation of transparent crisis, as opposed to the grinding dread of recent months. Whatever the case, Aaronovich dares hope that his presence may be a benefit rather than a burden.
Even by daylight, the Big House is thronged with shadows. Aaronovich leads the way to the entrance in the back right corner, which happens to be farthest from the cellblock. Outside, she glances along the building’s flank, half expecting inmates to be approaching from the other direction. But there’s no one. Maybe Contreras isn’t that much of a priority, or they’re just busy arguing over their next step. Still, sooner or later they’re bound to come, and there’s no time to waste.
Aaronovich points toward the administrative wing. “I’ll need you to take my bags,” she says. “If you cross here, you’ll mostly be out of view. Go around the back. Wait as near to the gates as you can and be ready to run. If you see a chance, take it.”
Carlita stares at her in horror. “What are you doing?”
“I’ll catch up,” Aaronovich tells her.
“Whatever you’re planning,” Contreras says, “let me do it.”
In that moment, the temptation is all but overwhelming. Because when she looks at Tito Contreras, at the bruises blackening his face and the dried blood where they’ve split his lip and eyebrow, she knows exactly what these men will do to her if they should catch her. Yet that’s the wrong lesson to draw from his injuries, for the damage to Contreras’s ribs, to his right thigh and calf, is much worse. He’s in no shape to run, should running be what’s needed.
And is she? Perhaps not. Regardless, the less time they waste here, the less likely she’ll be to have to find out. “No,” she says, “absolutely not.” She probes a pocket, withdraws the key that Contreras gave her the day before, and presses it into his palm. “This isn’t debatable. Please, do what I’ve asked.”
At first, she’s ce
rtain they’ll both argue on. Then Contreras grasps the rucksack she’s holding out, slings it over his shoulder, and takes the second bag she proffers. He puts his free hand on Carlita’s shoulder and says, “Come on now.”
Having watched until they reached the near end of the administrative wing, Aaronovich goes back inside. She knows where the generator is; among the instructions Johnson drummed into her, he’d insisted she have that knowledge. She makes full use of the flashlight, for speed is her only priority. She knows they’ll be coming soon. Indeed, she’s counting on that. What can’t be controlled can at least be manipulated.
The generator is smaller than she’d imagined. The room is a nondescript box of concrete, claustrophobic even under the restrictive beam of the flashlight. She checks the oil and gasoline levels as Doyle instructed, finds it fuelled just as he’d said she would. She hunts for the starter key, takes a trembling breath, and turns it. The machine chuckles petulantly and then settles to a steady rumble.
The instant she’s positive it’s working and will continue working, Aaronovich begins to run.
She’s never considered herself to be in bad shape for a woman of her age. Not in bad shape is one thing, running for her life is entirely another. By the time she’s reached the far end of the Big House, Aaronovich can still clearly hear the generator’s dissonant roar. Has it always been so loud? It seems like thunder. Amid the deep silence of Funland, the sound carries to an improbable degree.
The main gates are in full view of the entrance to the cellblock. Carlita, Contreras, and her, they can’t simply walk out. Hence, this becomes necessary: a diversion, suspicious enough to demand investigation but not so dramatic as to create widespread alarm.
Once more she leaves the Big House through the easternmost entrance. Once more she feels certain someone will be out there, hurrying toward her, and once more there’s no one. Then again, across the yard is by far the quicker route from the cellblock – which means that, if anyone is coming, they’re sure to see her as she crosses to the administrative wing. It’s half a minute’s fast walk, or if the fire in her chest subsides, perhaps a fifteen-second run.
A Savage Generation Page 36