by Olah, Jeff
“Where, what are we doing?”
“No time.” Owen stepped out, fired on a male Feeder, sending him quickly to the ground, and then pointed Lucas toward the black pickup. “Come on.”
Kevin rolled the truck forward, stayed just ahead of the approaching crowd. He lowered the passenger window and shouted from the driver’s seat. “OWEN, GET GOING!”
Owen ran to the bed of the truck and continued to pull Lucas behind, finally releasing him near the rear wheel. “Get in and stay down.”
Lucas climbed into the bed of the truck and began to ask another question, but Owen had turned and sprinted away. He disappeared around the front of the truck as Kevin gunned the engine and cut the wheel hard to the left.
Owen breathed a brief sigh of relief as he saw the horde had thinned near the SUV his family sat inside. He continued to run toward the driver’s door, slipped in behind the wheel, and handed Natalie the Glock. “We’re all safe now.”
She didn’t speak for a long time and just looked at him as he followed Kevin out into the street and away from the crowds. His children were also quiet in the back seat, except for the soft whimpers of his daughter.
When Natalie did speak, her voice was different, somehow more delicate. Not anything like it had been. Not in all the years they’d been together. “You saved that boy’s life.”
The adrenaline was still pumping hard through his veins. He was now a sweaty mess and felt like he could take on an entire army of the dead. “He’d have done the same thing for me, for you, for any of us.”
Natalie looked into the back seat at her children, then cut her eyes at him and leaned in really close. She reached for his face and dropped her voice to a soft whisper. “I love you, more now than ever.”
Owen smiled as he followed Kevin through the next intersection and slowed near the sidewalk, now nearly a mile beyond the massive horde. “We’re going to outlast this thing, I promise you that.” And finally turning back to her, he said, “And, I love you too.”
59
He’d found the vacant studio apartment three days before. There were more of the dead in this part of the city, but less people. In fact, he hadn’t seen another human for the last forty-eight hours, and that was just fine with him. The sixth-floor location suited his needs and offered a generous view of not only the downtown area, but also the highway, and his pre-planned route away from the neighborhood.
The interior was sparse. A tan leather sofa he’d placed three feet from the window, a round wooden dining table with just one chair, and a red and white ice chest he had yet to find a use for. His backpack was placed in the center of the room, as well as his SIG Sauer P226, and an old hunting rifle that he mainly used for its high-powered scope.
Exactly what he needed and nothing else.
Crouched at the window, he stayed just out of sight and took another quick glance out over the streets. The rapid gunfire had stopped once again. He couldn’t quite pinpoint its location, but it was close. Much closer than he was comfortable with, probably less than two or three blocks. He’d seen the crowds growing over the last several days and figured that most everyone had already left the area. But he was wrong.
And that was going to be a problem.
Back to the sofa, he retrieved a black t-shirt, slipped it on, and paced the room from one end to the other. Kitchen to bathroom and back, seven times, counting each repetition before striding to the dining table, and finally taking a seat.
If the gunfire returned, he'd have to make a decision. One that he knew he’d eventually have to make. Stay and hide, get involved, or find a new home. It was going to happen—he was just hoping it wouldn’t have come so soon.
He folded his hands together, stretched the stiffness from his neck, and turned to look at the rifle.
"No."
His voice sounded different to him. He hadn't used it today and didn't recall using it the day before either. Maybe he did, but he couldn't remember. The days were all starting to run together. The mornings, the afternoons, and the nights. He was sleeping at odd hours and without the calendar he’d found in the apartment down the hall, he wasn’t even sure he’d know what day it was.
But he did.
It was Thursday. And back before the world died, he’d have lunch at Billy’s. They made the best sandwiches and had maybe the only fresh lemonade within walking distance of his former condo. It was Thursday, but for the moment that sandwich wasn’t the only thing he was craving.
“No.”
He leaned back in the chair, let his legs relax, and stared up at the ceiling. He wanted to clear his head, get back to center, and focus on something other than what had been running through his mind for the last several hours.
“You have to forget, they aren’t coming back, and there isn’t anything you can do to—”
His voice still sounded odd, but there was something else. It was a low hum, just below the volume with which he spoke. It was a familiar sound, but one that he also hadn’t heard in days.
A vehicle, maybe a newer truck or an SUV. It moved slowly, accelerating and braking multiple times. It was also close, but further than the gunshots, and coming from the opposite direction.
The man breathed out slowly, sat up in the chair, and pushed away from the table. He slid the chair back into place, straightened the front of his shirt, and in one motion, reached for the rifle.
“Okay.”
He checked the door and returned to the window, sliding the red and white ice chest below the sill. There were other vehicles, more than the first few days, although the numbers had dropped off significantly since the bloated horde moved to this side of town.
It was still odd. There wasn’t a reason to be that close, not unless someone was looking to get themselves killed. Death by undead mob. Not exactly the way he’d have chosen, even though he had been down that very same path more times than he could count in the last several years.
So this made him curious. Was it simply someone who had made a series of wrong turns or something else? He didn’t know, but for once he was excited to find out.
He took a seat atop the hardened plastic of the ice chest, opened the window, and pulled the rifle into his shoulder. Scooting closer, he dipped the end of the barrel out into the afternoon air and took in a slow, deliberate breath.
“Where are you?”
The crowd on the street directly below was dense. More than it was even an hour before. They must have been drawn to the gunfire, and now he at least had a point of reference. Pushing his right eye in tight to the scope, he quickly spotted the building two blocks down and then roved his way back toward the east end of the block.
Not much to see.
The crowds had nearly come to a standstill, now pushing into the alley behind the old garment factory. If their migration continued, he’d be safe, might even be able to ride out whatever this was without having to find a new home. And although he could see that the fences had come down, he wasn’t searching the right area. Whatever had happened there was already over.
The man turned away, set the rifle along the edge of the window, and reached for a tattered Polaroid. He looked at the smiling faces on the grainy picture and tried to remember why he needed to keep going. There were fewer reasons now that the world no longer cared, and less with each passing day. He wondered if they’d even know if he gave up, if they’d somehow hold it against him, or if they’d even care.
The unmistakable low rumble of a twin-turbo V8 pulled his attention back to the window, although this time, in the opposite direction. The crowds were thinner out there, only a handful stumbled through the intersection two blocks away, and even without the use of the high-powered scope, he was able to spot a shadowy figure behind the wheel of the white BMW.
He tucked the picture into his back pocket, took in a long breath and pushed into the frame of the window. He thought it was odd how far the sound of a vehicle traveled now that everything else in the world went quiet. It was as if it was magnified, somehow se
nt through a massive speaker, and then cranked all the way to ten.
The angle here was better; he had a straight shot up to where Sixth Street faded into the backdrop of downtown. The steel and brick buildings formed odd patterns against the blue and grey sky, their shadows slowly creeping east with the waning of the day.
Now there were two more vehicles, a large black pickup truck, and a cream-colored SUV. They stayed close, slowing and pulling alongside one another as they reached the opposite end of the intersection, now fifty feet from the front bumper of the BMW.
Again reaching for the rifle, he pulled it into his shoulder, slowly bringing his eye in behind the lens and the scene into focus. “Well, this should be interesting.”
60
Owen rolled the SUV to a stop alongside the passenger door of Kevin’s truck. There was something telling him that the white BMW sitting on the other side of the intersection hadn’t found its way to this location purely by accident. He rubbed at the bridge of his nose and before he could lower his window, the walkie to his right sent a short blast of static through the interior.
Next came Kevin’s voice. It was quick and stilted. Not rushed, but not his usual laid-back tone. “Owen, stay put. I’ll handle this.”
Owen quickly keyed the mic and looked from the truck to the street and back. “Whatta ya thinking?”
“Just stay back, keep the others inside.”
“Aren’t you gonna need—”
Another burst of static cut him off. “When I give you the signal, start backing down the street. Real slow.”
To his right Natalie had turned in her seat. She was leaning in close to Noah, holding his hand, and speaking under her breath. Owen was only able to make out every third or fourth word.
“Sure … who … try … down.”
Over Owen’s right shoulder and huddled low in her seat, Ava stared at her mother and her brother. Her eyes were wide and her mouth hung open. She finally looked up at him as her lower lip began to quiver. “Dad?”
With the intersection out of his periphery, Owen looked back at his daughter through the rearview mirror. He knew what she was going to ask, but at the moment, he didn’t have an answer for her. There was something happening, something he figured had to do with whatever Natalie and Kevin knew from before the end of everything. Something he also probably wasn’t going to like.
“Everything’s fine sweetheart. We’re going to Aunt April’s beach house.”
“But Mom told Noah that—”
Natalie shot up in her seat, now facing Owen. “I’ve seen those men before, that BMW. The ones I told you about from the city.”
Owen watched as Kevin rounded the front of the truck, his pulse starting to climb. “Same guys who took the shotgun and threatened Noah?”
“Yeah, I think so. Same SUV for sure, it has to be.”
Owen set the two-way radio back in the console and reached for the Glock. He pulled Natalie in close and kissed her forehead, turning his eyes back to his children. “You guys stay down.”
Noah shot forward in his seat. “Dad, wait. Those are the bad men!”
Owen knew the rest of the story. Natalie had explained every single detail of the encounter three days before. Although that wasn’t going to change what needed to happen. Eight days ago, he would have shifted the SUV into reverse and run from whatever this was, but not today.
“It’s okay buddy, I’m just going to talk to them.”
“But Dad, I don’t want you to go.”
“Just stay down on the floor, I’ll be right back.”
Before his son could respond, Owen opened his door and stepped out. At nearly the same time, four men exited the BMW and started toward the center of the intersection. A stocky man wearing a black tactical vest came from the driver’s side, holding a pistol in his right hand and a shotgun hanging from his left.
Owen dipped back inside and looked from Noah to Natalie. “That the guy?”
She wasn’t looking back at him. Her eyes were straight ahead and her hand shook as she gripped the center console. “Yeah, he’s the one.”
“Get down on the floor.” Owen slammed the door and walked quickly around the front of the SUV, raising his weapon as he moved.
The three others joined the stocky man, now forming a wide arc nearly thirty feet away. There was a tall man, much taller than the others, at least by a good eight inches. He was younger too, probably in his early twenties, maybe even a late teen. He stared at Owen for a moment, then at the SUV, then to stocky man to his left.
There were a few seconds of pressured silence. Owen figured that if he allowed them to speak first, he could steer the conversation, maybe avoid having to kill every single one of them. And in front of his wife and kids.
But as the tall man turned on his heels and began to whisper something to the man in the tactical vest, Kevin stepped forward, now clutching the Beretta M9 that belonged to his wife. He looked beyond the four men and through the windshield of the BMW, his voice coming out louder than Owen thought necessary. “Let’s not do this.”
The four men stared at Kevin for a beat and then turned toward the vehicle they’d exited only seconds before. As the passenger door opened, Owen also took a step forward and under his breath said, “What are you doing?”
“Owen, go back, we don’t have time to debate this, I’m serious.”
From the open passenger door another man exited. He wore a fitted Henley, dark colored jeans, and had a jagged scar that cut a line from his right eye halfway down his cheek. He stepped quickly to the others and also held a weapon—what looked to be a Ruger nine millimeter. As he approached he locked on Kevin, his face quickly softening into a smile. “You’ve got to be kidding me … Kevin Rodgers.”
Kevin didn’t respond.
The man with the athletic build continued to grin as he turned to the men on his left and right, and then back to Kevin. “Well I’ll be damned, I was right. Goodwin told us that you had died back there in the city, that you had become one of those things, that you would no longer be a problem, nothing to worry about. But here you are, no worse for wear.”
Kevin took in a breath, releasing it slowly as he looked over the five men, finally resting with the man in the Henley. “Declan, I see you’re still running pointless errands for the man on the golden throne.”
The man Kevin had addressed as Declan began to nod, his expression quickly hardening. “And I see you chose to stand on the wrong side of this thing, I mean you can’t think this is going to end well for you,” he looked from Kevin to Owen and then finally to the SUV. “Or for any of them?”
Kevin began to nod. He also turned and glanced at Owen before looking down at the weapon in his right hand. "You know me Declan, you have for years." He paused, but then turned his eyes back toward the man in the fitted Henley. "Do you really want to do this?"
"You know me just as well, what the hell do you think?"
"I think you're overconfident as usual, but this time it just might get you killed."
Declan looked to his right and then to his left. "So I see you're still having trouble with even the basic concepts of math, specifically addition and subtraction. Although, it never really was something you excelled—"
“Enough.” Kevin used his free hand to motion Owen back toward the SUV. He narrowed his eyes and started to raise the Beretta, stopping just before he pushed past the point of no return. “I know why you’re here and what you’re trying to do. But it’s not happening, she’s not leaving here with you. Not without a fight.” He was now looking from one man to the other, pausing for a moment to meet each man’s eyes. “So the question is, which of you is ready to die for Marcus Goodwin. Who’s willing to sacrifice everything, just to further that lunatic’s twisted agenda?”
Declan took a step forward, again looking back at his men. He began a slow clap, laughing as he slowly turned back to Kevin and Owen. “Boy, in all the time I’ve known you, I must say that I had absolutely no idea you were such a
talented actor, or maybe a closeted motivational speaker. You really had me going there for a minute. What’s next, you asking us to join your little band of do-gooders and then we all ride off into the sunset holding hands?”
Kevin tightened his grip around the pistol, breathing in through his nose. He leaned his head slightly toward Owen and spoke in a raised whisper. “Go now, get them the hell out of here.”
Owen took another half step forward, now nearly shoulder to shoulder with Kevin. He didn’t respond or even look toward his friend. There wasn’t a reason to, and the men thirty feet away needed to see this.
Kevin paused for a count of three, bit at the corner of his lip. Looked like he was thinking over his next move. “Last chance to do this the easy way,” he finally said, “you’re not going to like what comes next.”
Declan turned away from Kevin, nodding toward the shorter man in the tactical vest. “Shoot Mr. Rodgers, and then the husband. And then if she still doesn’t get out of that SUV, go over and shoot her children.”
Before Owen or Kevin could react, the man to Declan’s left raised the pistol in his right hand and squeezed off three quick shots. The first exploded into the driver’s side headlight. Only inches from Kevin’s left arm; however, the next entered his shoulder, just above his armpit.
Kevin was knocked back into the grill of the pickup, and quickly toppled to the ground. He dropped his weapon, rolling onto his left side, and clutching at his injury.
Instinctively twisting to his right, Owen flinched as a lightning rod of white hot fire tore across the left side of his face. The super-heated projectile had ripped a line from his chin to his ear, sending a wave of excruciating pain down into the base of his neck. He bit into his cheek, tasting blood as he shoved away the thoughts of death and quickly fired back two wild shots of his own.
He lost track of the rounds the instant they left the barrel. Although as he stumbled to the right, now clenching his jaw and wiping away a handful of blood, he noticed the man on the far left had dropped to the asphalt, a pool of blood growing around his body.
