by Kolin Wood
With her hand stretched blindly in front of her, she crossed back. She felt hair, and then the denim of Becca’s shirt, and pulled the girl gently backwards a few steps.
“Get behind me, both of you,” she breathed as she lowered the gun and moved in the direction of the door.
Chapter 32
Tanner sat watching the square from the window. The candle had gone out, leaving him with limited vision. The rifle, now empty of rounds, lay across his lap, and Tanner set it down against the sill. He’d used the whole clip of bullets, probably counting fifteen or so, and had scored a direct hit with every shot. After the first few random targets, he’d picked his shots, saving them like an angel of death for those who really needed his help.
Not bad, Tanner. Not bad for a one-armed cripple.
He coughed and rolled the stiffness from his neck.
Night-time had slithered in and now lay in the streets and alleyways of the city, covering everything not lit up by flame. Here and there, pockets of fighting still continued as the people of the Refuge fought to defend their homes and families from the remaining crazies. Cries of pain were now the predominant sounds of those still left. The main offensive had come later. The last hour had seen the worst of it. At one point, it seemed like they had orchestrated an attack and struck from all sides at once, leaping, biting, and tearing flesh from bone; a real shit show.
But, against the odds, the city folk had done well. The man, the big one in the plaid shirt, had taken on the role of leader in the fight. Tanner had watched him draw those around him into a closed circle to defend the wounded and fight back against the waves of the onslaught. The tactic had worked and Tanner had been impressed. With the darkness now set in and masking much of the scene, it was impossible to tell for sure, but he was confident that the big man had not fallen in the battle.
Even after dishing out death with his rifle from the window, watching the people fight below without him had been a tough pill to swallow for Tanner. He wanted to be down there, side by side with those brave enough to step foot on the battlefield; those warriors willing to risk their own blood to protect what they believed in.
But, as annoyed as he was, he was also not stupid. He’d been barely able to stand. With the speed and ferocity that the things moved at, he wouldn’t have stood a chance; not in the beginning.
However, with every passing minute, he could feel his strength returning to him. In his pocket he held a key to the room on the ground floor. In that room was the barrow containing all of their remaining supplies from the Capital—food, tobacco, and a Glock 19, high-powered pistol with several boxes of ammo—that they had stashed before venturing out in search of Doyle. Whatever else he did, he needed to get down to the gun.
Tanner glanced behind at the empty bed. It had been a good hour since Charlie had gone looking for Juliana, not that he expected them back any time soon. At a fast pace, it would take his friend at least two hours to reach the building, and only if he didn’t run into any of those things along the route. His friend had only taken his knives; but Tanner knew from first-hand experience just how deadly Charlie was with a blade—the man was a certified killing machine.
With his mind made up, Tanner stood. The breeze outside carried the smell of death and smoke on it. The faint flicker of firelight cast the room in a subtle, red glow. On a partly-broken shelf sat the extinguished candle; the wick had burned all the way down to the base, rendering it useless. Glancing around, he was sure that he had no more available to him in the room. Plenty more downstairs though, but it meant heading down in the dark with nothing more to protect him than his fists. Not ideal, given the circumstances, but a situation that was unlikely to change by sitting around on his haunches either.
He had to do something. The brave people outside needed his help, and with a pistol of that calibre, he could go out and finish off any of those fucking things that were still alive and breathing. Help clear a way for his friends’ return.
Ignoring the throbbing pain in his shoulder and neck, Tanner picked up his empty satchel from the bed and walked as confidently as he could manage to the door. His perception still lay a little off, but he was pleased to find that his body responded to basic commands. Some food from the cart would help with the any of the latent furriness that remained.
Outside, Tanner held onto the black, iron railings and looked over the side, down into the stairwell. A single flickering light lit the deep green paint of the landing below. Every door remained closed; those that had committed to the cause already out fighting or dead, leaving family members locked away upstairs.
Still, better some than all, he thought. Perhaps, when the fighting was over and the blood had been sluiced from the streets, the children that were left would be able to stand in the square with the sun on their faces once again.
Tanner refocused on the task at hand. The night was far from over. Using the railing as support, he walked the landing quickly, eyes scouring the ground directly in front of him, and stopped at the top of the stairs. The painted floor felt slippery under his boots. A fall down the stairs in the state that he was in would likely finish him off. He would need to move carefully.
Slowly he began his descent, one surefooted step at a time. He reached the first landing and turned without stopping, not wanting to kill his momentum. Three more easy flights and he was home free.
He traversed the second flight much like the first, only offering the slightest nod to anybody that he caught sight of, peeking with scared faces from behind their doors. Sweat dripped liberally from his head and stuck the t-shirt to his back. It still felt like he had a fever. His glands had swollen up in his neck, but at least he was moving.
Down the third flight, this time a stumble sent him slamming sideways into the sharp railings, luckily on the side holding the rail and not the other one otherwise the pain might have been enough to have him pass out.
He walked the final landing slowly and then he stopped to take a breath. Salt stung his eyes and his head thumped like it had before. Perhaps he had not been completely truthful about the true state of his health. Maybe his rest time at the shooting gallery window had sucked him into a false sense of security. Fighting the growing nausea in his belly, Tanner stumbled to the top of the final flight of stairs and looked down. There would be no Charlie to come and rescue him now. One more flight and he could lock himself away in the safety of the cart room. There, he could drink, eat, and sort himself out properly. He was even sure that they had some medicine to help him at least regulate and take the edge off his fever.
From where he was stood, Tanner could see through the open door at the bottom. Several bodies lay strewn in the entrance. Blood covered the walls and floor. A young man whom Tanner recognised from the block, wearing a three-quarter length black coat and with his long black hair tied in a tail at the back, sat amongst the gore, his eyes staring straight ahead and his jaw missing. The handle of a small axe lay embedded in the yellow, shaved head of one of the things at his feet, its blood-covered mouth twisted open in a final scream. His battle had been a bloody one, and the man had held the final line in a show of courage worthy of any soldier.
More slowly than before, Tanner began to move down the stairs. His sweaty hand gripped the banister rail tight, threatening cramp in his forearm. Every step jolted his spine and stabbed the back of his head. He shook his arm as he walked, angry at his own stubbornness to refuse to believe the true state of his own well-being. He was a fucked up mess; whether he wanted to believe it or not, that was the truth.
Another few paces and more of the carnage revealed itself to him through the entrance. Torches of flame lit up the space.
“Hold the line!” somebody shouted.
Though his eyes were largely blurry, moments of clarity allowed him to see the edge of the circle of men and women, still holding strong in the centre of the square. At its periphery, hunched shadows darted around, and Tanner was sure that he saw several of them move at speed right past the d
oor.
Aware that one of the circling things could stop and notice him at any minute, Tanner concentrated on the final steps, breathing a huge sigh of relief as his feet found the solid floor at their bottom.
Down there, the air lay heavy with smoke and thick with the pungent stench of blood. The walls glistened with it. The room containing his supplies lay behind him, a few doors farther back. The position of the room and its convenient proximity to the entrance had cost them a premium, one which they had very nearly refused. Now however, Tanner was relieved that they had been too tired to argue.
He turned around and blinked in the smoke-filled corridor. He could see the door, painted a garish red like all the others, about five back on the left, and he began to move painfully toward it, still confused at how his body could have gone downhill so fast.
The infection worried him. He hoped that he did not have sepsis or something worse, otherwise, it might all have been too late anyway.
The paint of the door felt cool under the skin of his forehead, and Tanner rested against it, his eyes shut as he fumbled in his pocket for the key.
Outside and all around, the screams intensified. Suddenly, it sounded as though every single person still alive was shouting all at once. The air turned electric and the pounding of people running on the slab sent tremors that he could feel through the soles of his feet. The noise hurt his brain so bad that he had to suck in a breath.
It took a few attempts to fit the key into the lock. He turned it and the door opened with a loud crack!
Tanner fell into the room, barely able to maintain his balance and crashed into the side of the barrow. The flash of pain from his shoulder was excruciating. Behind him, the screaming continued, unrelenting in its fervour. The thundering of feet sounded closer now and Tanner was sure that he could feel the walls of the building shudder around him. People had come inside, he assumed, and were now running up the stairs and along the landings above. What could have caused them to break their ranks so fast?
Something exploded outside and a blast shook the foundations of the building. With a grunt of frustration, Tanner ignored the pulsing in his temple and struggled to manoeuvre around the barrow.
It didn’t take him long to locate the large bag that he was looking for. The rucksack contained the pistol, ammo, and, as luck would have it, a bottle of water and a long-handled, metal torch.
Pinning the bottle of water against his side, Tanner struggled with the lid, turning it until it came loose in his hand. He then took three long, hard pulls on the gritty fluid. It had the desired effect, immediately clearing a layer of the fog that had surrounded his fevered mind. He tipped some more on his head and shook it to clear away the salty sweat that was stinging his eyes. Feeling more alert, he re-screwed the lid, dropped the bottle, and reached for the pistol. The grip felt textured and heavy, comforting in his hand. A quick check showed a magazine in place at the bottom. A box of ammo fell with a jangle from the bag, and Tanner realised that, like with the rifle, it would be hard to reload in the heat of combat. He would need to make every shot count. In one slick, well-practiced movement, Tanner slid the pistol down against his belt and loaded the gun. It was a trick that he had been shown in the forces, in preparation for a situation just like this one.
He set the pistol on top of the piled cart next to the flashlight, and bent to pick up the box of ammunition, placing it in the empty satchel which hung at his hip.
Something moved behind him, changing the shape of the shadows in the room ever so slightly.
Tanner froze, turning his head as slowly as he could manage in the dark. His swollen neck and the back of his skull throbbed under the controlled pressure.
A shape sat hunkered down on its haunches, filling the space at the bottom of the doorway. Tanner listened and could hear it breathing, even over the noise of the commotion outside and all around them. Accompanying the breathing, another sound, like the squelching of somebody chewing loudly with their mouth open.
Without taking his eyes from the doorway, Tanner slowly slid his hand up and over the bags strapped to the top of the cart. They’d packed it high, over six feet, and he had to stretch, groping blindly as his fingers felt for the gun.
Still the squelching sound continued, accompanied by the sound of breaths rattling through torn cartilage, and yet the shape did not move. It simply sat there, watching him. Tanner was sure that he could see a twinkle of eyes in the darkness.
His fingers touched down on something hard and he closed them around it, relief turning to agitation to discover that it was not the pistol but the handle of the flashlight. Still, he knew from experience how disorientating a sharp beam of light to the eyes could be, especially in a room as dark as this one. It would surely buy him a few seconds with which to locate the pistol and then give him a much better chance of shooting accurately, should the situation call for it. In the worst case, the torch was long and heavy—the type employed for security duties before the cull. Full of batteries, it would make a deadly cudgel if swung with enough brutal force.
Sliding the torch quietly and slowly down from the top of the cart, Tanner pointed it in the direction of the door and clicked the button. The beam shot out, spearing the night and lighting up the contents of the room.
Chapter 33
The sound drew closer.
Juliana reached behind to touch Becca’s shoulder and patted it as a signal for her to stop. She crouched, set the stock of the shotgun into her shoulder and waited, both barrels primed. She also had the knife in her pocket which she would use if the gun jammed again. Whoever —or whatever—was coming would not be going anywhere near the girl or her son. She would ensure that with her own dead body.
The noise drew nearer. Slow and cautious, sliding steps.
Clever. But not clever enough to dodge a bullet in the dark, she thought.
With the candle from the room pressed in her back pocket, Juliana waited in the dark. She cursed herself for not bringing the box of matches from the room where Becca had been held. But it had been in her haste to reach John. And it had been the right decision; a few moments more and who knew what horrors might have befallen him.
The approaching steps were so close that she could hear the abrasion of sand beneath shoes, yet still the darkness guarded them. For only a split second, Juliana considered pulling the trigger and taking her chances. But the room was so large that it was probably causing the sound to play tricks with her ears. She could not afford to waste the shot.
“Freeze, motherfucker!” Juliana shouted into the darkness, as her finger closed down tightly on the trigger. “One more step and I’ll cut you a new arsehole with this shotgun.”
Her voice rebounded around the sparse space. Juliana listened hard.
True enough, the footsteps had stopped.
She knew that she held the element of surprise, and that was as good as the situation was going to get. Behind her, she heard either John or Becca shuffle and hoped internally that they would remain still; less they should give their position away.
“Juliana?”
The voice was male, coarse and deep.
Juliana swung the gun in a semi-circular motion out in front of her body, confused.
How the hell do they know my name?
For a few moments, she did nothing.
“Juliana, is that you? It’s me, Charlie.”
This time, a tide of relief flooded through her.
Charlie. Tanner’s friend from the army. He has come to help.
But as quickly as the thought had shown itself to her, the worry follow in behind. If Charlie was here, then where the hell was Tanner?
“Charlie?” she called out, still holding the gun cautiously. “Where’s Tanner?”
“He’s back at the square. He’s fine, well, he’s alive. Look, don’t shoot, okay? He sent me to come find you. We need to get the fuck out of here; there’s crazy sons of bitches running about all over the place. Where are you?”
Juliana br
eathed out, lowered the gun, and stood up. Behind her, a hand reached out and squeezed her on the bicep.
“It’s okay,” she whispered back. “He’s with us.” And then she shouted out, “Charlie, over here.”
Juliana reached into her pocket and pulled out the thin, green glow stick. The lurid colour had faded from it but it still stood in stark contrast to the darkness around them. She raised it over her head and waved it slowly side to side. “Here, Charlie. We’re over here.”
The rustling of clothing and the sound of heavy boots followed. Somebody stopped within a few feet of them, and beside her, she felt Becca tense up. Juliana raised the glow stick. A wry grin of white teeth appeared surrounded by a thick covering of dark stubble.
“Fancy meeting you down here,” Charlie said, sarcastically. “Quite the spot.”
Juliana smiled slightly, but it went unseen.
“You about ready to leave?”
“Yes, we are,” she replied. “But first we need to go and try to find ourselves some weapons. There’s a bow and a gun up there in one of the rooms. I got a candle but no matches.”
More rustling and then a spark lit up the blackness, casting each of them into the light. Charlie lowered the small jewel of flame in front of his body and cupped it with his hand.
“What, these?” he said. He raised his arm, and in his hand he held a small cross bow and a half-full quiver of arrows. “Found ‘em upstairs. Place stinks. No gun though.”
Becca stepped forward and Charlie turned to face her.
“They’re mine,” she said, confidently holding out her hand.
Juliana thought that she looked like an elf next to the thick, sturdy frame of Charlie the Wop.
“Oh?” Charlie said, extending the lighter toward her. “And who might you be, pretty girl?”
