Tom released his grip on the dead man’s throat and let him fall. He stood over the body, staring at it. In that moment he couldn’t believe he had ever been afraid of him. Look at the guy, he thought. So small. So broken. So insignificant. He shrugged. Oh well.
He exited the passageway, leaving the corpse where it lay, and wiped the dripping remnants of Carl Pendergrass off his stomach with his bare hand. A brisk wind blew across his forehead, carrying with it the moans of countless angry souls. He looked through the gate—a tall, triple-thick structure, lined on its top with coiled razor wire—and squinted into the dimness beyond. A multitude of wicked faces he could feel, but could not see, gazed back. He closed his eyes and listened to the wind. No crickets chirped, no birds cheeped, and there was no distant grind of automobiles on the highway. Everything felt dead. He turned around to see four sets of glowing eyes stare at him from atop the roof of the garrison. Tom grew worried.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
He started running, his feet pounding the concrete in a clumsy gallop. I have to get away from here, he thought. I have to drive far away. Please give me that much time, at least. It was the rational part of his brain that said this. The other side, the fraction infiltrated by a foreign persuasion, stayed calm. It spoke to him in a voice that he found soothing, despite its cryptic warning.
This place is to be obliterated like all others, it said. I will give you time to leave despite your disobedience, but never deny me again.
He burst through the front door of the town house. His foot struck one of Shelly’s boots, which had been abandoned on the kitchen floor, and he lost his balance. He skidded to his knees like a baseball player sliding into home plate, only stopping when his shin rammed the dining table’s buttress. Pain shot up his leg, through his thighs, and into his gut. He shrieked.
“Honey?” asked Allison with a startled voice.
She appeared in the living room doorway, looking disheveled and scared. A distant animal began to howl. Shelly, snug in her mother’s arms, jumped. She wiped at her eyes with her balled fists and stared at her father.
“What’s going on, Tom?” asked Allison. “What’s happened?”
Tom swallowed his pride. “Get your things, Allie,” he said. “We’re leaving.”
“But when, Daddy?”
“Right now.”
CHAPTER 12
REFUGE
SOPHIA’S FOREHEAD WAS ON FIRE. Josh sat beside her as she lay on the couch, gently stroking her sweat-drenched hair. Her chest rose and fell much too slowly while he counted the seconds between breaths like a midwife overseeing a pregnancy. Her eyelids fluttered and she moaned. Josh’s heart sank.
“It’s okay, Rascal,” he whispered. “You’re gonna be fine.”
He wished that were true.
An explosion rocked the house, causing dust and wood splinters to fall from the unfinished basement’s ceiling. Josh yelped and covered Sophia’s body with his own to shield her from the debris. He glanced over his shoulder and saw his parents sitting hand-in-hand on the floor. They stared back, their expressions displaying a kind of anxiety he’d never imagined would enter their world, all clenched-lipped, wide-eyed, and shaking. He feared they might pass out from the terror of what was going on above them, but then his father offered him an unyielding wink that set him at ease. Don Benoit put a finger to his lips and nodded. Josh gave the ‘a-ok’ signal in return. It wasn’t as if he didn’t know they had to keep quiet.
The basement’s only furnishings were the couch, the loveseat opposite it, and boxes of old toys that could be used as stools if the mood so struck them. The concrete floor was covered by an old throw rug. Cold air seeped in through the tiny, blacked-out windows. This was the refuge that Josh had sought, uncomfortable, dark, and frightening as it was. The house lost power only minutes after Josh had convinced his parents that they needed to take shelter, leaving them trapped with no food and a sparse supply of bottled water.
The only light in the room came from the two candles his mother had had the foresight to retrieve from beneath the kitchen sink. Gail’s face was like granite, staring at him from above the ghostly shimmer of the twin flames. He glanced again at Sophia. She looked sick as a dog. They had no medical supplies in the basement, not even a spare vial of aspirin. He understood, though, that even if they had some, it wouldn’t be of much help. What Sophia needed was a doctor, and soon.
Another explosion rocked the basement. The rafters shook once more, raining fragments of termite-eaten struts on his head. The crack of splintering wood came next. It seemed to come from just outside the small window above them. Josh wheeled around to see his father sprinting toward the cellar steps. He ascended them, with Josh on his heels. their feet, clad in old stockings, thudded softly on the creaky planks. His father pressed an ear to the door and tried the doorknob. The latch rattled but didn’t give. He bent to check the nails he’d driven into the baseboards (Just in case, son, he’d said), and gave Josh the thumbs-up.
They hustled back down the stairs. Another crack echoed around them, followed by a loud boom. Animalistic screams sounded from above. The ceiling shook.
“Gail,” whispered Josh’s father, “blow out the candles. They’re in the house.”
The family formed a triangle around Sophia. Josh was afraid to breathe. The air around them trembled and the sounds of the riot upstairs rose to a deafening level. Josh heard what could have been dishes being smashed in the kitchen, as well as the splintering rip of cabinets being torn from their moorings. Sophia muttered in her fevered haze, and for a moment Josh feared she would begin coughing again.
That fear was soon replaced by another, more prescient one. The doorknob at the top of the stairwell rattled. He had a moment of clarity, thinking how foolish they’d been to think that a flimsy lock and a few nails would protect them. He squeezed his arms around his parents in the pitch-black room, pulling them in close as if to fortify their defensive barrier through bodily contact. He wished he’d brought a weapon with him: the gun he’d dropped in the woods, a knife, a crowbar, anything.
The knob continued its clatter. Josh held his breath and imagined his parents doing the same thing. Then, with one final, violent scream, an object struck the door with such force that they heard the wood split. The rattling stopped. Gunfire rang out from the street, a sound Josh had grown much too accustomed to over the last few hours. The melding of sound caused the moment to seem unreal, like a movie within a movie. Explosions, gunshots, and shouts played on, in tune with his rapid heartbeat. It pulled him into a nightmare realm where every passing second carried with it the promise that their sanctuary would be infiltrated any moment.
As quickly as they’d arrived, the trespassers departed the house. He heard their thunderous footsteps as they pounded their way out the back door, their shrieks entering his head as the noise seeped through the windows and echoed off the foundation.
A few minutes later, they were gone. Only the far-away resonance of a world at war remained. Josh let out a relieved sigh and let his shoulders slump. He felt lightheaded from holding his breath for so long.
“Do you think it’s safe?” he heard his mother ask.
“Not yet,” replied his father.
Not ever, was all Josh could think.
* * *
Minutes became hours, which in turn became a full day, perhaps more. The outlying crash of discord faded into an eerie, absolute silence. Josh relit the candles, thinking, or maybe hoping, that they were safe.
The family took turns caring for Sophia, doing their best to comfort her in any way possible. Josh felt her head; her body temperature remained scalding. She was still asleep, and her incomprehensible muttering grew more prevalent with each exhale. Josh wondered if the fever could cook her brain.
His mother held Sophia’s head in her lap while his father stood beside her, his hand on his wife’s shoulder. Both looked down at their child with expressions of quiet reservation. Never once did they vo
calize whatever fears played out in their minds. As if reading his thoughts, his father glanced up at him and winked.
“Everything’s going to be okay, son,” he said.
It amazed Josh how well his parents were dealing with all of this. Their sense of duty far exceeded anything he thought himself capable of. They were still taking care of him, as well as their sick daughter, even though the world had gone to hell. He felt so weak by comparison—insignificant and needy, like seaweed clinging to ocean rocks.
“How is she?” Josh asked.
“She’s fine, honey,” his mother answered without looking up.
“Well,” said his father, “maybe not fine, but still with us, I think.”
Josh sighed. “What do we do now?”
His father raised his eyes to the ceiling as if he could see through the floorboards. “We need help,” he said. “I don’t know what this flu is doing to her. She needs a doctor…or at least medicine.” He habitually glanced at his watch and then back at his daughter. Giving his wife’s shoulder another squeeze, he glided across the concrete floor and snatched his coat from its resting spot beside the staircase.
“It’s been quiet for a while,” he said. “I’ll go see if I can drum up some help.”
Josh whirled at the sound of those words and ran to him. “No,” he said. He snatched the coat from his father’s hands. “You don’t have to go.”
“Yes, I do, son. Someone needs to get some medicine, at least.”
“I know. That’s not the point.” Josh pointed at the two women, young and old, mother and daughter, who sat ten feet away. “Mom needs you here. Sophia, too. You can’t leave. You need to protect them.”
As if finally realizing what he was implying, his father said, “You’re not going.”
Josh closed his eyes. “C’mon, Dad.”
His father’s face twisted with concern. He reached out his hand. “Josh…”
“I don’t think you should go, either,” his mother chimed in.
Josh’s resolve stiffened. “I don’t care what you guys think. I’m younger and faster than you, Dad. And stronger, too. I mean, shit. You’ve got a bad back and bad knees. What’s gonna happen if you run into one of those…things? You gonna plow it over with your lawnmower?”
His father opened his mouth to retort, but Josh stopped him before he could say a word. “No, Dad. I’m not gonna argue anymore. The decision’s made. I’m going.”
Gail’s teary eyes glimmered in the candlelight. “Do you know what she needs?” she asked.
“I’ve been sick before. I’m sure I can figure it out. The pink stuff, the white stuff, whatever. I’ll get it done. I promise.”
Josh tossed aside his father’s jacket and snatched his parka from the pile of coats. He pulled it over his shoulders, letting its thickness wrap him up in a cocoon. The sensation caused him to feel strangely at peace with his decision. He gave his concerned father one last reassuring smile and started up the stairs. Halfway up he stopped and turned back.
“Don’t worry about me, you guys,” he said. “I’ll be back before you know it.”
CHAPTER 13
CLAWS & TEETH
HORACE FOLLOWED A SMALL BATTALION of soldiers down the hallway. He pushed the gurney before him as fast as his aching body would allow, cursing those in front. The other men could have helped shoulder the load, but it didn’t seem to be their top priority at the moment. He glanced at the young man in the stretcher, who looked up at him with confused, lethargic eyes. There was a bundle of bloody gauze wrapped around his waist that he held with both hands.
“What’s going on?” the kid asked.
“Shush now,” Horace said, out of breath. “We’re…almost…there.”
“Struder!” screamed Major Franks from the other end of the hall. “Hurry the hell up, man!” He held open a heavy wooden door and the soldiers dashed charged through it.
Far behind him and closing in fast, Horace heard a procession of metallic clanks, like fingernails tapping on slate. He gulped, swallowed as much air as his diseased lungs would allow, and urged his legs to move faster.
He burst through the door at full speed. Upon entering he tried to pull up, but his feet slipped on the polished floor. His hands lost their grip on the gurney and he tumbled like a kid trying to ice skate for the first time. His hip struck the ground, followed by his elbow, and then his head. The side of his face lit on fire when his skull bounced off the tile. His vision blurred. He heard a crash as the gurney smacked into the wall. The dull thud of another plummeting body reaching its destination came next.
Horace wanted to look up, wanted to make sure the kid, his charge, was okay, but he couldn’t. The pain surging through his body was eerily similar to how he had felt when, in his early twenties, he’d gotten himself into a five-car accident on the Merritt Parkway. The feeling will pass, he told himself, trying to stave off the buzzing in his nerve endings. Just let it go.
The door slammed and people dashed about him. His dizziness lessened, though the pain did not, and he tasted the coppery tang of blood on his tongue. He picked up his head.
Major Franks stood with his body pressed against the door. He shouted for everyone to “hold it steady, hang on”. His men congregated around him, leaning their weight into the door as it buckled and shook from the force of those pounding from the other side.
Horace groaned and rose to his knees, his heart rattling inside its protective cage. He crawled in the other direction, away from the door, toward the overturned gurney. Its wheels were still spinning.
The stretcher’s occupant was sprawled out behind the thin mattress. His face was scrunched, obviously in a great deal of pain, and he muttered curses into the air. Horace wrapped his fingers around the young man’s calf.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
The prone young man opened his eyes. “Been better,” he replied.
“What’s your name?”
“Clyde Cooper, first…” He clutched at his stomach and winced before continuing. “First-year resident. Where are we?”
“Third floor, cardiology,” said Horace. He glanced around. A tall rack of equipment sat against one wall, a large metal washbasin lined with cleaning materials was against the other. Next to Clyde was another large door. An observation window lingered directly above them. “Looks like we’re in a prep station,” he said, pointing. “The operating room should be right through there.”
Clyde sat up. He winced again and then stared, wide-eyed, at the scene before him. “What’s going on?” he asked. “The last thing I knew, I was in pediatrics doing some paperwork. I think the wall…exploded. Or something like that. How did I get here?”
“We found you on the floor, and yes, you were in pediatrics. You had a bullet in your side. I removed it. We’ve been running around like mad ever since.” Horace coughed. “I’m too old for this, I think.”
“Why is it so dark?” asked Clyde.
“The power is out. The emergency lights are all we have left.” Horace jabbed his thumb at the wall, where a box was fastened, six and a half feet up, with a halogen lamp on either side. The lamps created sparse, ominous-looking illumination. “It isn’t much, but it’s something…but those will only last as long as the generator on the roof does. When that goes, well, we’re in the black until morning.”
“Where’s everyone else?”
“I don’t know. It all happened so fast. There was a lot of gunfire and screaming. I think some got out. Most didn’t. The area downstairs is horrible. There are bodies everywhere. I think we’re lucky to be breathing at the moment.”
Clyde nodded, peeled back the gauze around his midsection, and examined his injury. Filaments of nylon thread poked from his flesh like the hairs of an insect. The wound itself looked like a red and zigzagging cartoon smile. The young practitioner frowned.
“I’m sorry about the shoddy workmanship,” said Horace. “I had to stitch you up in a hurry. They were right outside the door at the tim
e, very much like they are now.” He cleared his throat. “And besides that, it’s been years since I practiced actual medicine.”
A half-smile crossed Clyde’s lips, which stood in stark contrast to the shouting still going on around them. “Guess it isn’t so bad,” he said. “Was it a clean wound?”
“I think so. I didn’t see much in the way of damage. The bullet was only a few inches deep. I found it just outside the intestinal wall. I think the coat you were wearing softened the blow a bit.”
“How about any other internal injuries? Bleeding?”
“You tell me.”
Clyde squinted. “What?”
“Are you in a great deal of pain? Do you feel constipated, or like you have a strong urge to urinate?”
Clyde twisted his trunk, grimaced, and said, “No, not really. I’m just sore. And hot, on the surface. My head hurts like a son of a bitch.”
“I would venture to say the bullet missed your kidneys, then. I think you’ll be fine, as long as you—”
“STRUDER!”
Horace spun his head toward the doorway. Major Franks squatted, flanked by his six remaining soldiers. He had his back pressed into the door with his feet braced in front of him. His boots skittered on the slick floor as he tried to gain traction. His men were standing, using their hands and shoulders to do the same and not having any more luck. The heavy door rocked inward, its hinges appearing only moments away from tearing loose. Horace stood up.
“What’s through the doors behind you?” Major Franks bellowed.
“It’s the operating room,” said Horace, though he realized that with his tone it sounded more like a question than an answer.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“And beyond that?”
“I don’t know, Jimmy.” In the moment he didn’t realize his slip, using not only the Major’s first name but a bastardized version of it, at that. Franks didn’t seem to notice, either.
The Fall: The Rift Book I Page 16
