Warren pulls his gun from its holster and nervously holds it, pointing at the ground.
15 seconds.
“I’ve never seen it take more than a minute for them to turn,” I say, balling my hands into fists so tight I can feel my fingernails break the skin. I know I’m probably imagining it, but I’d swear I can feel the vaccine course through my veins.
30 seconds.
Warren takes a tighter grip on the gun. I can see him study me for signs of infection. He stares nervously at my hands, waiting for me to lash out.
45 seconds.
I can feel my heart racing in my chest, and it feels as if there’s a hand gripping my neck, squeezing my airways. My breath comes in short, panting bursts. I feel a tear roll unbidden down my cheek and I wonder if this, right now, will be the last real thought I ever have. I wonder if these are my dying moments. I squeeze my eyes closed and try to stretch these last seconds as far as possible, to be aware of every breath, and every beat of my heart; just to be aware, for what could be the last time, of being human.
60 seconds.
΅
:::30:::
THE COLORED LIGHTS flash from the slot machines on the casino floor of the Luxor. A video poker game boasts that the pot is up to $37,500, and from somewhere unseen a defective machine spits out quarters onto the bloodstained carpet.
Down in the basement levels, in a deserted security control room hidden away somewhere amongst the labyrinthine corridors, a hundred monitors play live images from around the casino. Up on the guest levels can be seen the infected, sprinting along the corridors hunting for the refugees barricaded in their rooms. One guest suddenly makes a run for it, choosing exactly the wrong moment to leave her room and dash for the elevators, running right into an infected running the other way. They struggle together for a moment, and then the monitor records the two toppling over the edge of the balcony, falling silently in high definition to the atrium floor far below.
The monitors covering the casino floor show nothing but the endless repeating of patterns and colors from the gaming machines. Lights flash and buzzers sound, watched by no one. The monitors flicker through their programmed routine, displaying one part of the floor for fifteen seconds before switching to another. In all of them the images are still.
Except one.
At an escalator close to the north entrance of the casino a figure appears. It’s a woman, dressed in military fatigues and drenched with blood from head to toe. In her hand she carries a long knife, and before the monitor cycles to the next camera it catches her wiping the blade on her jacket and slipping it back in it sheath strapped to her belt.
The camera switches, catching the bottom of the escalator where a body lies. This one is also dressed in fatigues, but only a few scraps remain. The body has been torn apart. In the grainy image it twitches, uselessly flailing its arms and legs, or at least what’s left of them.
The woman limps into frame, carefully sidestepping the twitching body. For a moment she pauses, staring down at the wretch, before pulling out her knife once more and slipping it into an eye socket. The movement stops.
She pauses for a while, resting against the wall. She looks as if she’s exhausted the last of her strength, but as she slumps closer to the floor something distracts her. She looks down in surprise at something attached to her belt, and moments later pulls her radio to her ear, listening in rapt attention.
A smile cracks her lips.
She clips the radio back to her belt, and pulls herself up to her full height with renewed energy.
She starts to run.
΅
:::31:::
“AM I SPEAKING right now?” My voice emerges from my throat in a dry croak.
“Yeah, buddy, you’re speaking,” Warren replies softly.
“And I’m not trying to kill anyone?”
“Not unless you’re trying to do it with your body odor, no.”
I slowly open my eyes. Warren slides his gun back into its holster, and Dr. Wyatt grins excitedly as she looks at me. “Well,” she says pulling down my lower eyelids and leaning in close, “it didn’t kill you or infect you, love. I’d say that’s a pretty good sign.”
“I’m calling that a solid win, doc,” I reply, feeling my muscles relax for the first time in minutes. I look down at my hands, noting the small cuts in my palms where I dug my fingernails in. “It’s a weird feeling to know I’ve got the fungus flowing through my veins right now. Kinda scary, actually.”
The doctor waves her hand dismissively. “It’s no different from getting any other vaccine, really. I’m old enough to remember being vaccinated against smallpox, and that was some scary stuff, let me tell you.” She pats me on the cheek and smiles. “What doesn’t kill you only makes you stronger.”
Warren takes another syringe from Dr. Wyatt’s pack and fills it from the cup, injecting himself with all the confidence of a lifelong junkie. “If this kills me and leaves you alive, Tom, I’ll be seriously pissed off. Doc, your turn.”
The doctor lets Warren jab her without so much as flinching, or even turning away from her examination of me. “I hope we’re not stuck here forever,” she says, glancing over at Warren. “That was my last clean needle, and my insulin doesn’t work if I drink it.”
“Don’t worry, we’ll get you out of here as soon as we can,” Warren replies. He sets down the syringe and wanders through to the main bar as Dr. Wyatt pokes and prods at me, checking the injection site for any kind of reaction. She eventually lets out a curt harrumph, which I take as a particularly British way to say ‘OK, I’m satisfied you’re not going to die,’ and she turns back to the pot warming on the stove.
I’m rolling down the sleeve of my jacket when Warren returns from the bar, and as soon as I see his face I know something is wrong.
“Doc? How long does that stuff need to stay on the stove?” I can tell he’s trying to keep his voice casual to avoid alarming her.
The doctor ponders the question for a moment. “Hmmmm. Well, I’d say half an hour at this temperature should be enough to kick start the growth, but if you’re asking when we’ll be able to start administering it I’d say a day or two at 90 degrees would give us a decent batch.”
He looks back through the circular window in the door, stepping from one foot to the other. “And what’d happen if we took it off the stove now? Would it be ruined?”
“Oh no, not at all. The vaccine would just replicate a lot slower, but you can’t spoil it.”
Warren sighs with relief. “OK, here’s what I want you to do. Pack up all the gear you’ll need as quickly as you can.” He turns to me, widening his eyes and nodding his head back towards the door. “Tom, can you grab the pot and turn off the stove?”
I grab a dish towel from the edge of the table and lift the warm pot by its handles, struggling for a moment under the weight. “Where do you want me to take it?”
Warren peers out the window again. “OK, we’re all gonna step quietly through the door and take the first door on the right. That’s the staircase. You good, Tom? OK, Dr. Wyatt, I don’t want to alarm you, but I need you to know that we’re not safe here any more. Do you understand?”
The doctor nods stiffly, her face draining of color “They found us?”
“Yeah,” Warren sighs. “The front of the building is blocked and I can’t seem to find any kind of fire escape, so we’re gonna head for the roof, OK?” He pulls out his gun. “Ready? Real quiet now.”
The doctor and I line up behind Warren, and after a deep breath he slowly pushes open the door, taking care not to let it hit the wall outside, then turns back and holds a finger to his lips. It isn’t necessary. Even from back here we can hear the infected outside, and as soon as we step out into the hallway we can see them. Through the plate glass windows about two dozen of them mill around the Jeep, seemingly confused and docile.
When we’re halfway down the hallway I suddenly realize why they’re here. From the front seat of the Jeep comes a stati
c crackle. Warren stops in his tracks as he realizes it’s his mistake that drew them here. He left his radio out in the car.
Dr. Wyatt goes on ahead, tiptoeing down the hallway towards the doorway to the staircase. I adjust my grip on the heavy pot in my arms then step forward to reach for the handle, but the doctor beats me to it. She reaches out and turns the handle, but as the door swings open she loses her grip on the spatula in her hand and it falls to the ground. We all freeze, watching it as it tumbles, but we know there’s nothing we can do to reach it in time. As it hits the ground with a clatter I close my eyes and grit my teeth.
Out front the infected snap their heads up from the Jeep and face us, and for a moment it seems they haven’t seen us. It looks like they’re staring at their own reflections in the plate glass window, but then one of them steps to the side and gets a clear view of us through the open front door.
We don’t wait to see what happens next. Warren shoves the doctor through the door and chases close after her, waiting for me to lumber through with the pot before he slams it closed behind him. We’re suddenly plunged into pitch darkness, and Warren blindly searches the door with his hands for some kind of latch but comes up wanting.
“Go!” he hisses. “Get her to the roof!”
Something slams against the door as I begin to climb the staircase in the darkness. As my eyes adjust I can see nothing but the faint outline of the stairs, and a little further up the vague shape of Dr. Wyatt, her breath ragged with sobbing panicked gulps as she reaches out ahead of her. I see her stop suddenly, and beyond her sobs I hear the click of a door handle.
The stairway is suddenly lit by sunlight from above. Dr. Wyatt steps through and holds the door wide open, allowing Warren to finally see what he’s doing.
“There’s no fucking lock here!” he yells, twisting towards me as he braces himself against the door. By his waist I can see the handle turn downwards, and the door bursts halfway open before he manages to push it closed with his shoulder. “Find the roof access, now!”
I set the pot down on the floor and look around at the new floor. I’m in an office of sorts, cramped and sparsely furnished, with every available surface covered in old craft beer magazines. A little further back is a small bathroom, and beyond that a flight of steps ending in a wooden hatch.
I push past the doctor and leap up the stairs, thanking God when the hatch pops open as I push against it. I poke my head up and see it leads to a flat, tar-coated roof.
“Doc, get up here,” I order, climbing through the hatch and out onto the roof. I turn back and reach down, taking the doctor’s hand and pulling her out into the sunlight. “Wait for us up here, OK? I gotta go get the vaccine and fetch Warren.”
Wyatt nods and turns to scan the roof, and as I begin to climb down into the hatch she stops me. “Wait! Tom, look at this,” she says, pointing out to the west.
“What is it?” I ask impatiently. Down below I can hear Warren struggling to hold the door.
“I... well, I think it might be rescue.” The doctor smiles broadly and gazes out over the rooftops, and I climb back up and look in the same direction.
About a block to the west an image appears through the heat haze, and then another, and another. Vehicles. In the lead of the convoy an open top Jeep clears the way, a rifleman perched on top of the rear seat scanning the street, and behind it two canvas topped M939 trucks follow, trundling slowly towards us. As they approach the Jeep veers off and takes up position on the opposite side of the street, while one of the trucks rides right up against the wall of the building as Dr. Wyatt excitedly waves her arms back and forth. It stops with a sigh, and moments later I hear a voice that sends me rushing to the edge of the roof.
“This is the second time I’ve had to save your sorry ass today, Tom.” I look over the edge, and I can’t quite believe what I’m seeing. Slowly, carefully and with what looks like great pain Vee pulls herself from the cab of the truck and climbs up to the taut canvas roof. Her clothes are torn and she’s covered in so much blood it’s hard to tell her from the infected, but there’s no mistaking her smile.
“Come on, climb down.” Over the sound of the engine she hears the angry snarls of the infected inside. “I’m guessing the stairs aren’t an option right now.”
I hold up my hand. “Wait there, I gotta get Warren.” I turn back to the hatch, so excited I’m almost skipping across the roof, and lower myself through. I take the steps two at a time and run through the office, skidding at the top of the stairs.
“Warren, we’re saved! Get your ass up here quick. There’s a hatch to the roof on your right at the top of the stairs. I’m taking the vaccine up, OK?”
Warren turns and nods, clearly struggling to hold the door. “Any way to lock the hatch?”
“No idea,” I reply. “But it doesn’t matter, there’s someone up here you’re gonna be very happy to see.”
He lets out a panicked gasp. “This door’s about to give!” Almost as soon as he gets out the words one of the flimsy door panels begins to break, and an arm reaches through almost far enough to grab Warren by the hair. “Get the fuck up there!” he yells, “and be ready to close the hatch behind me. Go!”
I grab the pot of vaccine and hurry back to the steps, hefting it up one step at a time until I can lift it over the lip of the roof. I climb after it, dragging it aside before poking my head back through the hatch. “OK, Warren, I’m ready!”
The next sound I hear is of cracking wood, and something that sounds like the door slamming into the wall. There’s the sound of shuffling feet and panting, and moments later Warren appears through the door, scans around wildly and makes a dash for the steps as soon as he spots me. The first of the infected arrive just a few steps behind him, exploding into the room at high speed, rebounding off the far wall before turning and laying in pursuit.
Warren reaches the steps and bounds up them two at a time, and I reach down to lift him through the hatch. His hands clasp around my forearms and I pull with all my strength, but it feels as if he weighs a few hundred pounds. I can’t pull him closer, and it’s only when I look down that I see why.
One of the infected has managed to get a grip on his foot. He tries to shake off his boot and slip free but the laces are tied too tight. He kicks out with his other foot and scores a direct hit to the face of his attacker, but it’s not enough to loosen his grip.
“My gun!” he screams, twisting and kicking out wildly at the air. “Get my fucking gun!”
I let go of one of his arms and let him grab the lip of the hatch for purchase, and I lean through and reach down to his belt holster as more infected reach the steps. Warren kicks out at them and manages a lucky hit, sending two tumbling to the ground, but his other foot is still caught and the man holding it pulls close enough to bite down on Warren’s boot.
With a final stretch I pull the gun from the holster, and without taking the time to aim I squeeze the trigger in the general direction of the head. Before I’m even aware of the report in my ears the man falls to his knees, and Warren desperately scrambles up the steps and flips himself out onto the roof.
I pull myself back through and swing the hatch down, sitting on it to weigh it down while I search for some way to lock it. “Warren, give me your belt, quick!”
He doesn’t respond. “Warren!” I yell again, but still nothing. I lean back and reach for my own belt, careful not to lean my weight too far off the hatch, and yank it from my waist. With a quick movement I slip the leather strap through the padlock loops and pull it taut, knotting it as best I can before finally standing from the hatch. The wood shakes in its frame, but it looks like it’ll hold long enough to get to the truck.
“For the love of God, Warren, what the fuck are you...”
My voice fades away when I look towards him. He’s sitting on the tar, staring at his ankle with his trouser leg pulled up his calf and his sock pulled down.
Just above the lip of his boot is a pink half moon of teeth marks pressed in
to the pale skin. As we both watch a few beads of blood begin to form at the wound.
“Never takes more than 60 seconds, right?” He asks, looking up at me with fear in his eyes. He sighs. “Fuck. You know what to do if...” His voice trails off, and he nods to the gun in my hand.
I don’t say anything. There’s nothing to say. It’s all down to the vaccine now, and hope. Hope that the thing we’ve fought to bring across the country actually works. Hope that this hasn’t all been for nothing. Hope that this hasn’t all been just a cruel joke.
Warren closes his eyes and drops his head to his chest, his lips moving as he mumbles a prayer. Moments later Dr. Wyatt steps to his side and falls to her knees, taking his hand tight and joining him.
I’m not religious. I’ve never really believed. I grew up with the firm belief that it was all nonsense, and I only went to church on the holidays to keep my parents happy, but right now I realize it’s true that there really are no atheists in foxholes. I grip the gun tight in my hand, close my eyes tight and whisper a prayer. A prayer for Warren. For Bishop. For Lewis, and for Kate. For everyone who’s been taken by this senseless cruelty.
I feel a tear roll down my cheek. I don’t want to lose another friend. I don’t want to have to look into his eyes as I pull the trigger. Please, God. Please don’t make me do that again. I just want this all to stop. No more death. No more killing. Please.
I feel a hand on my arm, and I open my eyes to find Vee clutching at me, her eyes questioning and fearful. I nod towards Warren, and she understands. She clutches me tight and joins me in prayer. The infected hammering against the hatch are all but forgotten. Only one thing matters now.
I whisper amen, and I open my eyes as I realize a minute must have passed by now. As I look up the clouds above us break. The sun shines down on us. Warren looks up at us, his eyes red with tears.
Last Man Standing Box Set [Books 1-3] Page 42
