by Shana Festa
Striker just looked at me, his stare making me wilt. I tried to look anywhere else, but his death stare was too powerful. I was afraid if I turned my back he would shiv me. Finally, he looked away, leaving me feeling sufficiently chastised.
"They can't get through the fire doors, unless they exert enough pressure and come through the walls. We go out the side. Follow close, and don't stop for anything. You lose the group, you're on your own," said Striker.
Fear of God? Check. Potentially about to piss my pants? Double-check.
We got to the bottom of the stairs and Striker counted down from three before flinging open the door and stepping into the crisp night air. Dom, the last one through the door, slammed it closed with an echoing bang and earned a withering scowl from the angry man.
"Sorry," he choked out, clearly as uncomfortable under the stare as I had been.
Striker led us in a wide arc around the building, crossing to the other side of the street when we were far enough away to remain unnoticed. The moon was bright, producing enough light to make out the shadows of hundreds of corpses fighting to enter the small front door of the apartments.
My throat constricted with fear, threatening to cut off my airway, when I saw the massive horde. I turned my attention back to Striker's dark form as the distance between us grew and increased my pace so as not to lose him. I did not want to be on my own, even though I knew with every fiber of my being that my family would never leave me behind.
Elorie was tucked between Dom and Casey. They had armed themselves with large kitchen knives. The teen convinced them to allow her a weapon when she begged to copy Meg's knife sharpener, rationalizing that it wasn't sharp enough for her to hurt herself. I don't think they intended on letting anything get close enough to her to give her the opportunity to use it though.
Rounding the corner of a dilapidated house, we came face-to-face with a group of zombies. With buildings on either side of us, our only options were to go back the way we came, or through the group in front of us. I turned back, finding our escape blocked by several stragglers. Forward it was.
Like a cat stalking its prey, Striker launched himself at the first of the undead, penetrating its brain with one swift motion of the hammer. He turned, and struck another, effectively dispatching it with the grace of a ballerina. Silently, he, Jake, and Vinny cut down their numbers.
Confident the men had our front covered, I turned to the approaching group again. A runner broke free from the pack and rushed at us, colliding with Dom before I could shout a warning. The force knocked the knife from his hand, and Dom was driven into a window, shattering its glass on impact.
With the dim light and spasms of movement from the struggle, I couldn't risk striking out with the crowbar for fear of hitting Dom. Instead, I grabbed the zombie's bare shoulders and pulled, managing to only move him out of immediate bite range. Slimy skin slid beneath my hands and my grip loosened. The moonlight glinted off something in Dom's hand, a shard of glass from the broken window. He plunged the jagged piece repeatedly into the zombie’s face until it no longer moved and fell to the ground like a rag doll.
Casey rushed to her husband, doing her best to check him for bites in the dark. "Did it get you?" she asked. He shook his head, unable to form words yet, and dropped the glass to land next to the corpse.
His wife reached out for his hands, crying, and Dom winced in pain when she grabbed the hand he'd held the glass with. She gasped and stepped back, bringing her hand close to her face to find it slick with blood.
"Oh, my God, Dom, you're bleeding!" She exclaimed, crying harder now. Elorie ran to her father and wrapped her arms around his waist, burying her head in his shirt.
"It's okay, Case. It's not a bite. I cut myself on the glass."
Jake and the others backtracked to us, confused by the emotion the girls were displaying.
"Everything okay?" asked Jake.
"We're good. Dom cut his hand on a piece of glass." With our path clear, we started moving again. I touched Jake's arm, holding him back a moment, and put some distance between us and the others so they didn't hear us.
"What's up?"
"Dom cut his hand," I whispered.
"No shit. You just told me that."
"He was using it as a weapon." I saw his expression change as soon as he picked up my train of thought.
"Fuck! We need to say something."
I thought about it while we jogged through the next set of buildings, pausing to answer so I could pay attention to our surroundings. Vinny looked back, shrugging his shoulders and nodding at us, presumably to make sure everything was copacetic. Striker halted and we caught up to the group.
Leaning into Jake, I whispered, "I think we should wait a bit. We have some time before he turns, assuming he's even infected. I don't want to start a panic." Observing the cold determination in the man leading us, I added, "Plus, I don't know how he'll react. He's unpredictable."
"You're right," he agreed, "Get in the middle, and keep a close eye on him."
Vinny switched places in line with me, and I caught the two of them huddled close for a minute before rejoining the rest of us. Striker looked annoyed at the delay, but to his credit, he didn't ask for an explanation.
"Hey, Dom, how's your hand?" I asked, taking a moment to look at him. The darkness made it impossible to see his features clearly; I could only make out his form. He had an arm around Elorie, making them look like a connected blob.
"It's okay. Hurts pretty bad and I think it could use a couple stitches, but I'll live."
Would he? I thought. That was the million dollar question.
"I'll take a look at it when we get somewhere safe."
"If you're done chatting, can we get a move on?" Striker asked, the sentence oozing sarcasm.
"Yeah, sorry," I replied, only half turning to him.
We were at the Sarasota Shipping Yard. Rows of metal containers were stacked five high, creating what looked like a small town. He pointed to a row on the far right, where the containers stood only one high.
"That's our destination. Third container on the left. We need to clear any dead in range before going in, or we'll just be trapping ourselves like sardines."
We wove our way through the rows on either side, clearing the few zombies that wandered the aisles. Well, technically, it wasn't a joint effort. Striker cleared while we followed his path. Before opening the metal door, he dragged the corpses to the end of the row and dropped them in a heap, adding them to an existing pile of remains buzzing with flies.
The large piles already amassed were evidence that he'd been spending a lot of time here over the last few months. The smell of decomposition was suffocating but diminished as we approached the container he'd pointed out. And for that, I was grateful.
Rusty hinges groaned as he pulled open the steel door and motioned us inside. Elorie paused, pulling on her father's arm. "Won't we run out of air?" she squeaked out in fear.
"No." Striker's lack of people skills were beginning to grate on my already-frayed nerves. I had to bite down on my tongue to stop myself from snapping at him when he started physically pushing us through the opening and into the dark space.
He closed the door behind us, which left us with not even an ounce of light. For a few seconds, I panicked at the thought of Dom turning right then and there. My breathing increased, and I sucked in big gulps of stale air. I reached out my hand in search of a warm body to connect with. I pulled my hand back, not wanting to grab the wrong person, and clutched Daphne's carrier like a security blanket. Even though the container was bathed in darkness, I couldn't bring myself to close my eyes.
Movement to my left caused me to jump back. I whimpered in fear when I felt a hand on my hip.
"It's okay, Em. It's me," Jake comforted. My body relaxed, just a little, and I leaned into him. Something fell to the floor on my right, echoing, and I heard someone crying softly. The sound was muffled, like they were crying into their hands, and I couldn't identify wh
o the sound was coming from.
"Shit," Striker exclaimed. His voice sounded distant in the enclosed space.
My eyes darted around, still able to see nothing, until an LED lantern slowly lit the area to reveal rusted blue walls, and ceiling, and a floor covered in a collage of area rugs.
* * *
Striker stood at the back of the unit where the lantern sat on an overturned milk carton next to a shabby floral sofa. A small card table with a single chair was in the back corner, and a rectangular shape rested on top of it. Various wires stuck out from the unknown box.
"Is that a ham radio?" asked Vinny, striding forward to get a closer look when Striker ignored the question.
Doors on either side of the container were folded back to sit flush against the interior walls and led into the adjacent containers. The small lantern illuminated only a few inches into the connecting metal boxes, giving an ominous feel to the dark spaces beyond. Large maps labeled with the names of surrounding cities were duct taped to the walls with green and red Xs, similar to the tacks used on Sanibel Island. These marked several locations. In many areas, green marks had been covered with red ones, no doubt an indication of areas that had been overrun. A small white box stacked on another milk carton caught my attention.
I leaned over and saw the Red Cross logo, reminding me of Dom's injury. Picking it up, I moved to the sofa, and motioned him to sit next to me. Inside the box was everything you'd expect to find in an at-home first-aid kit: saline, alcohol swabs, gauze pads, cloth tape, antibiotic ointments, scissors, bandages, and gloves. The real find was a small suture kit, a vial of lidocaine, and some tuberculin syringes.
As a nurse, suturing was outside my scope of practice, but our options were limited, and without proper treatment his wound would become infected regardless of his already questionable status. After putting on a pair of gloves, I cleaned the wound with saline and dried it with gauze pads. The entire palm of his hand had a deep gash, and it oozed with foul-smelling puslike drainage.
"This will probably hurt a bit," I warned him, holding up the syringe of lidocaine, "but not as much as it would if we had to do it without any numbing medication."
Taking care to stay close to the surface, I injected the solution into the surrounding tissue and waited a minute. When he confirmed the area was numb to touch—feeling only the pressure of my hands on his hand—I began the process of threading the needle through and tying off the sutures. Impressing even myself, I applied twelve stitches to the area, coating it with antibiotic ointment and covered the wound with gauze.
"How's that for skill?" I asked, puffing out my chest with pride for a job well done.
"Is there any aspirin in that kit?" he asked and used his good hand to rub his temple. "I've got a killer headache."
I kept my expression blank, keeping my game face intact, and dropped two tablets into the palm of his hand from a small packet of Tylenol. The back of my neck began to tingle as the little hairs stood on end. Dom's coloring looked pale, even in the harsh LED light, and his skin felt cold and clammy.
"Get some rest; nurse's orders," I told him. Moving to stand by Jake, I kept my voice light and asked Striker for the tour. "Why don't you and your mom sit with your dad and keep an eye on him," I suggested to Elorie.
I needed to get him alone, and I didn't want to raise any alarms just yet. The Dalton family all sat together on the ratty sofa, talking quietly. With a quick look to Vinny, I glanced between him and Dom, hoping he would understand that he needed to keep an eye on them.
He winked at me, slapping Meg on the back and spoke in a casual tone, betraying nothing. "Hey dork, let's check out that radio."
Striker, who didn’t miss a thing, raised an eyebrow at the exchange and said nothing as he led us into the next container and lit another lantern. This container was sparsely furnished with a double bed and card table identical to the one next to the sofa. More milk cartons held clothing along the wall beside the small table.
Standing in the cramped space, I avoided eye contact while I figured out how to break the news to him. The gruff man had little in the way of patience, but he was sharp, I'd give him that. Nothing got by him, which was probably why he was still alive.
"He's infected," Striker stated matter-of-factly. There it was…the cold, hard truth of our situation. "How long?"
I sighed, sad at the prospect of Elorie losing her father so soon after her brother's death.
"Assuming whatever this is hasn't mutated, an hour, two tops," I said, sealing Dom's fate.
"He needs to go."
"Go where? Out there?" I pointed to the door, my tone betraying shock.
For the first time since I met the man, I saw something other than the hard exterior. His eyes showed pity when he looked at me.
"Yes," his voice softened, taking on an alien sound. Regret, that was it. He didn't want this any more than we did.
"We can't do that to them. It will kill them."
"You think I don't know that?" he spat at me, his harsh tone stinging like the tail end of a whip. "I know, better than anyone, what that family has been through. What they've lost."
Jake stepped between us, his face inches from Striker's. "Back off, man," he warned.
The two alpha males locked eyes in a battle for dominance. For a moment, I was afraid the situation would escalate into a physical altercation, and I was surprised when Striker backed down and moved out of Jake's personal space.
Letting the heated moment pass, Jake laid out our options. "Time is not on our side at the moment. Our main focus needs to be protecting every member of this group and, given current circumstances, we aren't left with many options."
Striker continued, "Then we give him the choice and let the man die with what little dignity he can. He can do it himself, I can do it for him, or he can just leave and let the inevitable happen. Whatever he chooses, though, it can't be here."
Three options, not a single one offering a reprieve.
* * *
We returned to the others, pausing just inside the door to build up the courage to tell them. When Striker tried to push past me, I put my hand on his forearm.
"No," I said, "I'll do it." I approached the family, each step bringing me that much closer to delivering Dom's death sentence. I looked down at the Dalton girls, and my heart ached knowing they would be devastated.
Meg smiled and opened her mouth to say something. Her words were lost when she saw the grim look on my face, and the smile faded.
"Dom," I began.
He searched my face for a moment and looked down at his family. "Girls, go in the other room for a few minutes. I need to talk to Emma alone."
The room cleared out, save for myself, Dom, and my husband. It was now or never.
"Dom," I started again, cut off by his response before I could finish.
"I know," he said. "I can feel it inside me, the infection."
Jake opened his mouth to speak, and I cut him off with an icy glare. I could do this; I would do this. He deserved at least that much from me.
"I'm sorry, Dom." I put my hand over his, feeling an overwhelming sense of compassion for the dying man. Strengthening my resolve, I continued dealing out the bad news. "It's not safe for your family if you stay here." There, I said it. I was disgusted with myself.
He looked at me with understanding, tears leaking from his eyes. "I need to say goodbye to my family."
I nodded. "Of course. Jake will go get them for you." I heard the sound of his boots on the rug when he left.
Dom squeezed my hand, leaned in close, and whispered, "You need to tell Striker not to let me turn. I don't want to be one of them. But, he can't let them see. They aren't strong enough to see him do it."
Our entire group reentered the room, and instead of responding with words, I squeezed his hand, looking directly into his eyes to make sure he knew that I understood.
"What's going on?" asked a suspicious Casey.
"Come sit down, sweetheart." He patted
the sofa beside him. "You, too, Ellie-bean. We need to have a serious talk."
The somber mood registered with the girls, and they walked to the sofa, slowly, and looked to me for any hints when they passed.
"Daddy? What's wrong?" Elorie asked, a concerned expression clouding her features.
He waited until they sat and looked between them, memorizing their faces before he broke their hearts.
"I'm sick, baby. The glass…" He looked down at his bandaged hand. "Some of its blood got in my cut, and it's making me sick."
Casey looked between her husband's face and his wound, finally putting the pieces together. "No, Dom, no. It couldn't have!" She wailed. Elorie, too, had figured out what he meant and joined her mother in tears.
Dom reached up, cupping his wife's chin and raising it up so their eyes met. "It did, and I don't have long. You need to get through this, Casey. You need to be strong for our girl. She's going to need you now more than ever before."
My skin crawled. I felt like a peeping Tom, intruding on their very personal moment. Jake's fingers laced into mine, and he pulled me closer to him.
"No, Daddy, you can't go. You're my daddy. I need you. Please," she sobbed, clutching the front of his shirt and pushing her fists into his chest. "Don't go."
Her voice trailed off into sobs, and he gripped his daughter, hugging her with a ferocity like only a father could.
I cleared my throat, nervous for their safety. Dom looked up at me, his eyes glassy and bloodshot. Sweat beaded his forehead and the telltale black tracers crept up his neck, indicating we were nearly out of time.
"Dom," I said, my voice hitching with emotion. "It's time."
He stood, his wife and daughter desperately clinging to him. Taking Elorie by the shoulders, he held her at arm's length. "Elorie, I'm so sorry I won't be there to see the beautiful, kind woman you will become. You're my entire reason for being. I have loved you since the first time I held you in my arms and just because I will be gone, does not mean my love for you will be. My love for you is never-ending, and knows not the boundaries between life and death."
