by Olah, Jeff
Now everything slowed. Owen watched as Declan started forward, retrieving a small pistol that had slid away from the motionless body. Beside him, the stocky man in the black vest now shouldered his shotgun and walked quickly toward Owen and the SUV.
Out of his periphery, Kevin lay on his back, his head pushed into the driver’s side front tire. His legs were bent at an odd angle and his arms laid out at his sides.
And he wasn’t moving.
Owen pushed away from the SUV, bringing the Glock back around and tracking from Declan to the short man in the tactical vest. “NO!”
The man continued forward, slowing from a jog as Owen fired another shot. He flinched and nearly lost his footing as the round buzzed by the side of his head. But now standing less than five feet from the hood of the SUV, the stocky man pointed the shotgun at the windshield and fingered the trigger.
Four ear-splitting explosions came in rapid succession.
Owen dropped the nine millimeter and grabbed at the sides of his head. “NOOOO!”
Less than a second later, the man in the black tactical vest was thrown sideways, the right side of his head peeled back, chunks of flesh and brain matter tossed to the street. The man’s body instantly went limp and the shotgun bounced on its stock and slid to a stop near the front bumper of the SUV.
The next three shots came at almost the same time. And before Owen had a chance to turn away, the man nearest the BMW was hit just above his right clavicle, his head torquing violently to the left and the projectile nearly decapitating him. His body appeared motionless as it spiraled to the ground.
To the right, the tall young man who had looked out of his element since walking into the intersection now wore a horrified expression as he dropped his weapon, turned on his heels, and sprinted back to the BMW.
Out in front, Declan stepped back as the street exploded only feet from where he stood. Fragmented asphalt blew outward from the softball sized depression, the shockwave peppering not only the man Owen intended to kill, but also Kevin’s already battered body and the massive black pickup.
With his eyes darting between the downed men, Owen quickly retrieved the Glock, and moved to the driver’s door of the SUV. He took a look inside. Nat, Ava, and Noah were all still huddled on the floor. Thankfully, they were also still in one piece. He was going to make sure it stayed that way.
He was going to end this.
Turning back and raising the nine millimeter, Declan was gone. The man who’d ordered him dead had also sprinted back to the BMW and was now climbing in behind the wheel. The motor appeared to be idling, although the luxury SUV had yet to move even an inch.
From the bed of the pickup, Lucas leapt into the street, and started toward Kevin. The teen looked over his shoulder three times. He appeared to be focused on a row of apartment buildings not more than fifty yards from the intersection.
“OWEN, HELP!”
Owen ran to his friend, but watched out of the corner of his eye as the BMW finally began to back away, its windshield punctured near the upper left corner. He wasn’t sure if it had been his handy work or the last of the mysterious gunfire. Either way, there were still two men he needed to kill.
Lucas had come in over Kevin and was checking for a pulse. His eyes were wide and his mouth hung open. He looked like he was second guessing himself and just about to hyperventilate.
“LUCAS.”
“Uh, yeah?”
Owen turned to face the BMW and planted his right foot. “Is he okay?”
“I don’t know.”
Owen tracked the luxury SUV as it began to back into a turn. He dropped his index finger over the trigger and emptied the magazine. The first two rounds went high—less than six inches above the hood. The next three punctured the driver side front quarter panel, each ripping a hole in the otherwise pristine SUV. The last entered through the window behind the driver’s door, sending a hailstorm of fractured glass through the interior.
His heart felt like it was going to jump out of his chest as the BMW rolled to stop.
“LUCAS, IS. HE. OKAY?”
Behind him, the passenger door opened. Harper leaned out. Her hands were shaking and her lip quivered, tears were running down her cheek. “Owen?”
Without turning to face her, Owen said, “Stay put, we’re getting out of here.” He moved out away from the truck and scanned the street, searching for the Beretta. But as he found it laying a few feet from his friend’s foot, he could hear the low rumble of the BMW’s motor as it pulled out from the sidewalk and raced away.
He scooped up the pistol and started to run, but it was too late. The high-priced SUV had turned the corner and was gone.
“DAMN IT!”
“Owen.” Lucas’s voice was weak. “I … uh. I don’t think …”
Owen swallowed hard and turned back toward the pickup. He watched as Lucas cradled Kevin’s head and looked down at his body. The teen shook his head, fighting back tears of his own. “I … I don’t think he’s breathing anymore.”
61
The barrel was still hot. Waves of radiating heat warmed the right side of his face as he brought it in next to his ear. The man sat at the window, staring out over the long city block, debating whether he needed to do anything else to help those people. He had already told himself what she’d want him to do, and now just needed to convince himself that he would have actually listened to her.
He started to grin at the thought of her face tightening up, and then the tilt of her head. She’d have told him that he was better than any of this, and that there wasn’t really any question at all. He needed to do whatever he could—that was just who he was.
The man stepped away from the window, straightened his black t-shirt, and tucked it into his pants. He’d made his decision; well he’d actually made the decision when he lined up the first shot, but he never really had a choice.
Not now and not five years ago.
He took a quick inventory of the room, figured his chances of returning were less than half. He took the rifle and stepped quickly to the center of the room. Everything he needed in a three-foot square, it was simple as well as effective. He was ready, always ready.
The backpack was next. It held the food and supplies he’d gathered over the last three days. Everything he’d need to get him through at least another seven. He slid the straps over his shoulders, placed the SIG into his waistband, and hurried to the door.
Listening for a moment, he tapped the wall alongside the frame and gave a count of three before opening the door and peering out into the hall. Six bodies, exactly where he’d placed them two nights before. Three near the entrance to the stairs, two outside the elevator, and a large female positioned dead center in the hall, less than ten feet from where he stood. Nothing better to keep the dead away than the dead themselves.
He reached the landing outside the third floor before there was anything other than the sounds of the pulse in his ears and the rapping of his boots against the stairs. The hollow thud against the wall and the low guttural moans caused him to miss the first step and catch the outer edge of his right foot on the second.
Before he could reach out for the railing, he slammed into the wall, and was launched forward. There was two seconds of weightlessness that seemed like a full minute. What his eyes couldn’t see, his mind replaced with the horrific images of what might lie below. The thought of crashing headfirst into a pile of decomposing bodies was only slightly more appealing than the alternative. He may end up covered in blood and smell like death for the foreseeable future, but he decided that was much better than a broken arm, or something worse.
Then his right elbow hooked the railing, or at least that’s what he was picturing. He was pushed back to the center of the stairwell, his arm going numb from finger to shoulder. He leaned back, extended his legs, and although he couldn’t see his own hand in front of his face, he closed his eyes, bracing for impact.
Another second or two and as the underside of his pack
caught a step, he was tossed into the opposite wall, stopping on a dime as he met the next landing. His right arm had come back to life and now there was an odd pain pressing in on his lower back. The kind of pain where you aren’t sure whether you’re going to be walking funny for a few hours or end up bed ridden for a week.
But for the moment, he had more pressing matters. That pain, whatever it was, would have to wait. He’d deal with it when he was done with whatever this was.
Up on his feet, the man in the black t-shirt pushed the rifle back, re-cinched the straps on his pack, and started again. He made it to the first floor without incident and sprinted through the lobby, finally stopping at the doors and sliding aside a pair of eight-foot potted palms.
Pushing open the doors, he checked his watch, moved to the sidewalk, and continued out into the street. With his hand over his eyes, he spotted the pickup truck and the light-colored SUV. They sat less than fifty yards away, and now there appeared to be at least three more people.
He took a deep breath, wasn’t exactly sure he was making the right move. He really knew nothing more than what he’d seen from the window and couldn’t be sure these people even wanted his help.
She would tell him to trust his gut, and right now his gut was telling him to start moving.
It was a short sprint to the next block. He stayed hidden behind a large delivery truck until he could hear their voices. There was a man barking orders, a woman responding to the requests, and what sounded like a boy who was firing off questions in between.
Go wide and show yourself before they find you.
Around the rear of the delivery truck, he again tucked the rifle into his back, began raising his hands above his head, and walked quickly toward the coming intersection. He hadn’t quite reached the halfway point when the boy—who looked to be high school aged—first spotted him.
The tall young man was covered in blood from neck to waist, his eyes wide, and his face wet with sweat. He was squatting beside another man who didn’t appear to be moving—who he remembered as the man who took the bullet to the shoulder.
After pausing for a moment to stare at him, the young man twisted on his knees and looked back toward the light-colored SUV.
“Owen, there’s someone. Uh, you need to get over here.”
A second man—probably early forties, maybe late thirties—appeared from the front of the SUV. He held a pistol in his left hand and as he approached, he brought the weapon up, pointed it at him. “I’m going to give you one second to turn and run, if you don’t I’m going to kill you and not feel bad about it. Your choice.”
The man in the black t-shirt continued to hold his hands above his head. He figured that there was a fifty-fifty chance that things would end this way, but he was in it now. No going back. The time to turn and run was long gone.
“Listen sir, I don’t want any trouble, but I’m guessing your friend there is going to need some help, maybe more help than you or your friends can give.”
The man’s face softened, but he continued to hold the pistol steady. “I told you to turn and walk away.”
Now or never. “Sir, there isn’t time. Your friend isn’t going to—”
The man with the gun stepped forward, now shaking his head. “What are you doing out here? You need to—”
“Owen.” The kid looked like he was trying to lift the body. “He’s waking up.”
The man with the gun turned quickly. He took a beat to glance at the kid, but then swung back around, looked like he had finally put the pieces together. He leaned to the left, stared at the rifle. “Wait, are you …” He again shook his head, this time slower. “You’re the one.” He motioned toward the intersection. “You’re the one.”
The man in the black t-shirt nodded. “Yes, I am.” He began to lower his hands. “My name is Travis Higgins and I’m here to help you and your friends. But we’re gonna need to go, right now.”
62
Declan backed the BMW into an alley and pulled to a stop alongside a blue, windowless Ford van. The doors sat open, but for the moment, appeared to be unoccupied. He shifted into park, brushed the shards of glass from his lap, and stared out through the shattered windshield.
Out of sight, at least for the next few minutes.
The area here was quiet. Maybe two or three miles from the intersection at Sixth Street, this end of the city was much different. There were less infected, probably only a few dozen, and most appeared to have other interests. As if they no longer mattered, like they were already dead.
After a few minutes of sitting in silence, there was a muffled ring that came from the glove box. Both men turned to look, but neither moved. Another ring came within a few seconds, and then a brief pause, and then another.
Declan leaned across the console, quickly opened the glove box, and reached for the satellite phone. He pressed the talk button, cracked his neck, and placed it against his ear. “Declan here.”
The voice that came through the speaker was clearly agitated. It also sounded like there were others in the distant background, all shouting over one another. “Declan, we have a problem.”
He glared at the phone, clamping down so hard his knuckles started to turn a pale shade of white. “And?”
The voice came back, now just short of shouting. “And, we figured you might want to know about it.”
He waited, let a full ten seconds go by, then turned to glance at Tommy and again put the phone to his ear. “You forget what it is you wanted to say or are you just waiting for me to guess? Because whatever it is, I can guarantee I don’t have the time or the inclination to care about it.”
“It’s Goodwin.”
“It always is.”
“He’s gone.”
Declan could feel his face beginning to warm, blood pooling in his cheeks and forehead. “He’s gone?”
“His plane went down somewhere in Vegas, no one has been able to reach him since early this morning”
He dropped his head, closed his eyes, and struck the steering wheel with the back of the phone. He could feel himself going to that place. That place where rational conversation would be virtually impossible. He’d hear the words spoken to him and even had the ability to respond, although with the way things had played out over the last few hours, he needed to stay in the moment. Listen, keep a level head, and above all else, not overreact.
“Okay, so what are we doing?”
There was a long moment where Declan sat in silence staring into the street. He rubbed at his chin, trying to imagine what this really meant. He never much cared for Goodwin as a person, however it was hard to argue with the man’s unwavering determination to make the world bend to his will. And now that he was gone—whatever that meant—it was time for a change of plans.
As Declan turned the phone over and stared at the display, the voice shot back thorough the speaker. “No one’s really sure. We were thinking about sending a crew to Vegas, see if there’s anything or anyone left.”
Declan nodded, as though the man on the other end could see him. “What about HQ, who’s watching the house?”
“Anton and the boys from Team Four have the place secured, but there’s talk they may try to get to Blackmore, find out why it’s been so quiet.”
He didn’t like the way that sounded. And without access to at least one of the other units, he was as good as on his own. He never really minded that before the end of the world, but now that carried a much different meaning.
He checked his mirrors. “How’s it look downtown?”
The man’s voice changed. It held an air of defeat, almost dripping through the two-inch speaker. “Worse than yesterday, and more dead with each hour that passes. It’s gonna be up to you to—”
Declan ended the call and tossed the phone into his bag. He had heard enough. There wasn’t anything left to be said, and the details no longer mattered. He would take care of things the way he always did. It would get messy, but it would get done.
Beside h
im, the young man he typically referred to as Thomas Jefferson released his seatbelt and sat up straight. He was sweating and covered in speckled blood, but didn’t appear to be injured. “Jerome … I’m sorry, Declan?”
It was the first time the tall young man had spoken since climbing into the BMW, but it appeared that now there was something he needed to say.
Declan kept his hands on his thighs, trying to control his thoughts as well as his temper. He rolled his neck from left to right and spoke in a rushed tone, his words coming one right after the other. “Yeah Tommy, what is it?”
Tommy turned toward Declan, a looked of shock starting across his face. “Whatta we do now?”
Declan looked at the instrument panel and then out through the windshield. “That’s up to you.”
Tommy hesitated, sounded like he swallowed a mouthful of mashed potatoes. “Uh … up to me?”
“Yep, from now on you get to decide what you do. I know what I’m doing and where I’m headed, but you have to decide for yourself what you want to do, where you want to go.”
“I don’t understand.”
Declan shifted in his seat, stretched his neck. “Let me ask you a question, how did it feel out there, doing what we did to those people? Did you like it, did you enjoy it? Or is the only reason you’re still here because you’re too afraid to find out whether or not you have what it takes to survive out there on your own?”
“I don’t know. I guess I just feel bad that—”
“Get out.”
Tommy narrowed his eyes, cocked his head. “What?”
“Get out.”
“What do you mean, why? I don’t understand what this is.”
“You don’t have it, you never did. I knew that from the very first day and so did the others. We also knew you wouldn’t survive one minute without us. But that’s probably a good thing now. You wouldn’t want to live in this new world anyway, you’re not built for it. And the sooner you realize that the better.”
