“It went from being a practical bomb shelter to housing soldiers and government officials during the end of the world to a luxury refuge for the superrich,” Emily had said when she was filling him and the others in on what to expect down here.
The others, of course, were all for that. Anything with the word luxury sounded a lot better than military bunker, which was what LARS had been during its governmental days. It had changed a lot since then, and there were things even Emily didn’t know about; as a result, she couldn’t warn him beforehand.
For one, the place looked good. Damn good.
Cole could see himself living down here for months, maybe years, without ever missing the outside world. Okay, so maybe that last part wasn’t entirely true, but what he was confronted with as he made his way down the entry hallway was better than what he’d been expecting. Even though he knew he was getting more “luxury getaway” than “doomsday prepper,” he was still pleasantly surprised.
The metal walls were a smooth white, as were the floors and ceiling. Bright LED lights powered by the same background power source that was responsible for the ever-present humming around him led the way.
“We teleported onto the set of Star Trek or something?” the Voice asked.
Yeah, Kirk would love this.
“Kirk? I was thinking more Picard.”
I’m a TOS man.
“Really?”
Yeah. You didn’t know?
“Who are you kidding? You do remember that I’m you, right? And that I know for a fact you like Next Generation more.”
Whatever, Cole thought.
He was relieved that he wasn’t going to have to move around in the dark. He had brought a flashlight, attached to the barrel of the Remington, just in case. Instead, he got something that looked ripped out of a science fiction TV show.
He kept the shotgun flashlight turned off as he took his time through the hallway. He could see the end up ahead. Another 20 yards. His footsteps barely made any sounds as he moved. The absence of noise, other than the humming, was…eerie.
An arrow decal on both sides of the walls, floor, and even the ceiling for some reason, indicated he should walk straight to the end. As if he could have done anything else. There were no doors, just slick and bright metal walls on both sides of him.
As he moved, Cole thought about turning around and heading back to the elevator. It was the fifth time he’d considered the option. Emily was up there, and he had no way to contact her. No, that wasn’t entirely true. He had a way, but it wasn’t a very reliable one. And right now, unreliable might as well be nothing.
So why didn’t he just turn around and run back now?
“Sounds like a good idea to me,” the Voice said.
It’s not.
“How you figure?”
I came down here to do a job. And I’m going to do it.
“Is that job dying?”
I’m not going to die.
“Famous last words.”
There’s no one down here.
“You think so?”
I don’t see or hear anyone.
“Doesn’t mean there isn’t anyone down here.”
They would have shown themselves already.
“Are you trying to convince me or yourself?” The Voice laughed. “Never mind. I just remembered: You are me.”
The Voice laughed again, but Cole forced it into the background in order to concentrate on the task at hand instead.
Fifteen more yards to the intersection up ahead.
Fourteen…
Thirteen…
His ears were open for any sounds other than his own breathing, which managed to pierce through the constant humming somehow. There was a slight jolt of adrenaline, but not enough to cause him to hurry. Instead, he took it slow.
Easy does it.
Easy does it...
“Speaking of adrenaline,” the Voice said. “Remember?”
Yes, he remembered. There was no way he’d forget. Not after the three days he’d gone through to get back to Emily.
Was it possible LARS was actually empty? That seemed somehow…illogical. At the very least, there should have been guards topside, either inside or outside The Welcome Room to keep uninvited people out. Except there hadn’t been. There was no one to keep an eye on the only way down here. There weren’t even any signs they’d been around the place in recent days.
The whole thing smelled wrong.
“Among other things,” the Voice said. “You know what else doesn’t smell right? You coming down here alone. Talk about rotten ideas.”
He didn’t have any choice. It was either come down here alone or bring the others with him. And of course by others, there were really only two viable candidates: Emily and Bolton.
Emily was a nonstarter. He wasn’t about to risk her life down here.
As for Bolton… Well, Cole still didn’t know what the chopper pilot was capable of. Sure, he was a vet, but it’d been decades since he was flying birds for the U.S. Army. The man hadn’t touched a gun in just as long a time, and Cole just didn’t feel comfortable having someone who hadn’t owned a firearm, never mind used one, for that long to watch his six.
So it was just him.
“You. The big, dumb idiot,” the Voice said.
It was the only choice.
“Was it?”
Yes.
“You sure?”
Absolutely.
The Voice laughed. “Say it again and maybe you’ll actually believe it this time.”
It didn’t matter what the Voice thought. Cole knew why he was down here, ten stories from Emily and the others. He accepted the risks. Besides, he’d been down here for at least a good five minutes, and there still hadn’t been any signs of people. And despite the quiet—or maybe because of it—the elevator’s arrival would have made a lot of noise.
So where was everyone? How many could be lurking around the place?
“Anywhere from ten to fifty,” Emily had said when he asked her how many could be down here.
That was a pretty big number. Even ten, the best-case number, was just a tad too big for comfort. (“Just a tad?” the Voice asked. “I’d say it’s a mite huge, chum.”) Not that Cole expected everyone that was down here when the shit went down to still be alive. Not all of them would have O-negative blood type, which was the only clue as to why any of them were spared the infection that had claimed Donnie and all the others five days ago.
“How many people have O negative blood?” Zoe had asked last night after Emily told them why she thought none of them were affected.
“About 7 percent, give or take,” Dante had said before Emily could respond. Then, when everyone had turned to look at him, the teenager grinned almost embarrassingly. “I read a lot, okay? Plus, the whole going in and out of hospitals thing. You tend to pick up a few useless facts most people don’t feel is all that important. Being, you know, useless facts and all.”
“Dante’s right,” Emily had said. “It’s around 7 percent of the world’s population.”
“So that means what? 7 percent of us weren’t affected five days ago?” Fiona had asked. “So how come there’s so few of us out here?”
“That’s easy to explain, little lady,” Bolton had said. “If they’re anything like us, they were trying to figure out what was happening while at the same time trying to survive those psychos. Chances are, most of them died by the hands of their loved ones. Those that weren’t O negative.”
“I guess that makes sense.”
Cole had laughed inwardly at that. Yeah, like any of this makes any sense, he had thought, before exchanging a look with Emily that told him she was thinking the same thing.
Because none of this made any sense. The truth was, they still didn’t know anything about what was happening out there, never mind the why of it. At the moment, Cole didn’t care, either. Right here and now, he just wanted to keep his wife and unborn child safe. That, more than anything, was why he was down he
re all alone with a shotgun, a Glock, a knife, and an annoying voice nagging at the back of his mind.
“Now, now, is that any way to talk to your savior?” the Voice asked.
You’re not my savior.
“Aren’t I? What am I, then? Please do tell.”
A wet stain on the soles of my conscious.
“I don’t think that was a compliment.”
You’re right.
“Meh. I’ll talk to you again when you’re in a better mood.”
The Voice might have scoffed, but Cole was too busy focusing on the end of the corridor—a three-way intersection—to give it any attention. The big, yellow arrow decal on the floor in front of him had morphed into two separate arrows, each pointing in a different direction. The word STAFF accompanied the arrow pointing left while GUESTS pointed right—
Cole stopped.
He could smell it even before he saw it.
Blood.
It was in the air, tickling at his nostrils and making the skin along his cheeks itch.
Old blood, too. Not that he could tell how old, but it’d been here for a while, tainting the corridor with its presence.
“So much for an empty LARS,” the Voice said.
Yeah, so much for that.
Cole changed up his grip on the Remington and quickly replayed the presence of all the essentials on his person: The shotgun in his hands, the Glock in a hip holster on his right side, the knife in its sheath on his left; extra shells for the shotgun in the pouch tapping behind his waist. Oh, what he wouldn’t give for a spare mag for the Glock…
This was the type of situation where he should have been perspiring, but he wasn’t because of the cool breeze blowing through the air vents along the ceiling. LARS had gone through many redesigns to accommodate its new private financing, one of which was a level of comfort that rivaled a shopping mall. Not that it was cold down here, but it was…cool.
Cole took a breath before stepping forward toward the intersection and quickly looked left, then right. His finger was on the trigger of the shotgun the entire time, ready to pull should anything lunge at him.
Nothing did along the left passageway.
Same with the right.
But he found the source of the stink.
Or sources.
There were bodies on both sides—left and right—and they were eviscerated. Men and women in gray work overalls lined the floors, some sitting with their backs against the walls. All of them dead. Cole knew that last part because they didn’t open their eyes or move when he revealed himself.
More than a few were armed with bladed weapons. Some of the ones with their faces turned to him had bloodshot eyes, but others didn’t. In all, he guessed maybe a dozen people were spread out on both sides of the hallway, almost as if they’d all started running for the exit at the exact same time…and never made it.
Cole took his left hand off the forend of the shotgun to unclip the radio, then raised it to his lips. He spoke into it. “Emily. You there?”
He released the transmit lever and waited for a response.
One second.
Five…
He tried again: “Emily. Come in. Are you there?”
This time there was a reply from the tinny speakers. “…here…situation…okay?”
He could barely make out her voice, but he’d picked up those three words. At least he thought those were the words. He could have been wrong.
“I got good news and bad news,” he said into the radio. “Which you want first?”
There was no answer this time.
“Emily…”
Nothing.
“Shit,” he said out loud, when the radio squawked.
Emily’s voice, the worry coming through loud and clear even through all the static: “…come in…”
He waited for her to continue, but there was nothing else. Either she’d finished talking, or he’d lost the rest of it.
“Well, this is frustrating,” the Voice said.
No shit. Thanks a ton, Captain Obvious.
He pressed the transmit lever on the radio again. “I got dead bodies down here. I repeat: I got dead bodies.”
He let go of the lever and heard right away: “…repeat…last…”
That was it. That was all he got.
Because for some reason he thought it would work—or maybe he was just so annoyed he couldn’t help himself—Cole banged the radio against the wall. It produced dull thud sounds but very little echo. Either the walls were extremely thick and protected against sound—which was likely the case—or the radio was designed to be that durable—
“Cole…” Emily’s voice, coming through the radio. Still static-filled, but at least he could hear her again. “…dead?” she said.
Static overwhelmed the rest of Emily’s words.
Cole sighed and was tempted to slam the radio against the wall again.
But he didn’t, and said into the radio instead, “Wait,” when he thought he saw something flickering on one of the bodies sitting against the wall in front of him.
The eyes. Had the man’s eyes just flickered for an instant?
“Something—” Cole said into the radio when one of the “dead” workers in gray overalls snapped wide awake and lunged forward at him. The man managed to grab onto his right ankle and yanked, sending Cole sprawling to the floor.
The shotgun, still clutched in his left hand, discharged accidentally.
Boom!
He landed on his back even as the “dead man,” who wasn’t dead at all, crawled toward him like some kind of crab monster, something sharp and covered in a coat of red paint (“Blood. That’s blood, chum,” the Voice said.) in his right hand, flashing before Cole’s eyes.
Cole was moving the shotgun to fire when the psycho, blood-red eyes wide open against the bright LED lights above them, lifted the sharp something—it was a piece of long metal sharpened into a blade, the “handle” covered with duct tape like some kind of prison shiv—to plunge back down.
Boom! as Cole fired again and the man’s right arm, at the elbow, vanished in a shower of buckshot.
The psycho seemed to pause momentarily before glancing down at what was left of his hand. It was just a stump now, blood dripping from the mangled flesh and shattered bone sticking out of his elbow. There was a look of…was that confusion?...on the man’s face, as if he had difficulty processing what had happened. He had been bleeding, dry blood caking most of his forehead and chin from some kind of scalp wound, some of the wetness joining in with the blood that leaked from his right eye.
He couldn’t have been more than eighteen years old.
Boom! as Cole fired a second time and half of the man’s head came undone, chunks of brain and bits of bone and buckets of blood splashing the bodies in the hallway, while the rest splattered the wall like some grisly painting gone terribly wrong.
The boom! of the third shot, in the confines of the facility’s corridors, should have left Cole’s ears ringing (he’d been too busy trying to get a grip on the situation to fully “hear” the first two) but it didn’t. Like his footsteps and every other sound in the place, even the blast from a pump-action shotgun had resulted in a muted, almost wet popping echo. Loud still, but not nearly as ear-splitting as it should have been.
Cole quickly scrambled to his feet and racked the Remington, even as something metal clanged! loudly behind him.
“Heads up! You’re not out of the woods yet!” the Voice shouted.
He spun around just in time to see a woman, also wearing gray overalls, land on top of a dead body. She sprang to her feet and ran at him, a sharp blade glinting dangerously in her right hand. A bandolier, homemade from a belt and more duct tape, hung across the front of her body, the makeshift “loops” stuffed with even more of the sharp instruments gripped tightly in her hand.
Blood that covered her face flicked off her pale white skin as she charged at him with a wildness he’d only seen in animals. Of course, the fact that sh
e’d been lying in wait inside the air vent all this time, waiting for a victim to cross her path, made her way more intelligent than any wild animal he’d encountered.
“Just shoot her already,” the Voice said.
Cole did, pumping most of the buckshot into her chest and knocking her off her feet. The woman slammed down to the floor, making the same muted noises that his footsteps had as he traversed the entry hallway.
“The radio,” the Voice said. “Don’t forget the radio.”
Shit. The radio.
It was on the floor behind him. Cole walked quickly over and snatched it up.
“Whatever would you do without me?” the Voice asked.
Be a lot happier, probably.
“Ouch. That hurts.” Then, with an annoying chuckle, “Just kidding.”
The radio looked fine even though he’d dropped it. There were no cracks in the neon case that he could see, and when he pressed the transmit lever, he got a squawk.
Now, if only it worked…
“Emily, come in. Emily, can you hear me?”
He waited again.
Five seconds…
Ten…
“Emily,” he said into the two-way again. “Come in. Can you hear me?” Then, probably a little louder than he’d intended, “Emily!”
“Now you’ve done it,” a voice responded.
What the hell?
The voice wasn’t Emily’s, because it hadn’t come through the radio.
“Way to get all of their attention, big guy,” the voice said.
For a second or two—okay, maybe it was more like five or ten—Cole thought the Voice had somehow transported itself from inside his head to outside it, and he was thinking about what a terrible thought that was.
But it wasn’t the Voice.
It was a voice, just not that Voice.
Besides, the words he could hear with his ears (Right? I’m not going crazy, am I?) were clearly being spoken by a woman.
Fall of Man | Book 3 | Firebase: Page 3