Reversion

by Paul B. Kohler

  Alex straightened and took a small step forward but remained intermixed in Clay’s group. Foreboding made Clay feel like he might vomit. Maia’s lips parted with sudden understanding.

  “That’s it, all right,” Alex replied.

  “What the hell,” Lane muttered. A tear slipped down her cheek.

  “Very good, son,” Malcolm purred. “That’s very, very, good. Better than I expected from you.”

  “And you know what? They have an extra battery,” Alex added, seeming to gain more strength as he spoke. “I’m not sure where it is, but that’s—that’s good for you, right, Dad? That’s gonna be helpful?”

  Chapter 51

  Malcolm raised his gun and aimed it at Lane’s face. Clay felt like he’d been struck by a giant fist. He held his breath—cognizant that if he made a single noise, Malcolm might blow Lane’s head off. He swallowed slowly, his nostrils flared. Focus, he told himself. In the silence, his eyes went once more to Alex, who seemed incredibly pleased with himself.

  “All right, girlie,” Malcolm said. “Where is this extra battery my son here’s telling me about? You know you should tell me. You know you WANT to tell me, even. It’s in your best interest. And it’ll get me and my men out of your hair just like that.” Malcolm snapped his fingers, still leering at her.

  Seconds ticked along. All the while, Clay was in a struggle with the voices in his head—spurring him, making him hungrier, wilder, than he’d ever been. He clenched his fists so tightly, his nails pierced his palms and blood began to flow.

  “Come on, girlie. Out with it,” Malcolm said.

  Lane’s chin shook with apprehension. Her eyes glittered with tears. But as Malcolm moved the gun closer to her face, pressing it to her cheek, she whispered, “It’s in the bus.”

  “The bus, huh?” Malcolm sneered. “Where is this friendly little bus, baby?”

  “It’s—it’s a few blocks away,” she said. “To the west.”

  Keeping his eyes on Lane, Malcolm directed one of his men to retrieve it with a jerk of his chin, but not before passing him the device. Malcolm’s man tore from the police station, allowing the screams and wails of a pack of crazed to echo in. Clay felt that he knew every nuance of their cries, now. And for a moment, he had far more compassion for the crazed monsters outside the door, than for the man pushing the barrel of a gun into Lane’s cheek.

  “All right,” Clay said. “You got what you came for. Take the device. Take the goddamn battery. And leave us the hell alone.”

  Malcolm removed the gun from Lane’s cheek. She gasped with relief, her hand rising to her cheek. Malcolm slid his gun into his holster and turned toward Alex, who was with Clay’s people.

  “I’m not just here for the device,” he said. “Just one more thing. Alex? You ready?”

  Alex gave his father a joyful nod, his face glowing. As he pushed through the crowd, he knocked against Alayna, shoving her to the side. And he went out of his way to pass Clay, shoulder-checking Clay’s bicep. Clay and Alayna had risked their lives to get medicine for Alex. They’d sacrificed to care for the boy, giving him everything they could find. Even when Clay had screamed at him—demanding to know where Maia might be, he’d recognized the boy as an innocent in the game. But now he knew he himself was the stooge.

  When he got to Lane, he thrust his hips against her. Clay nearly bolted forward, wanting desperately to beat manners into this asshole kid. Daniels put a warning hand on his arm, though, keeping him in check. Alex joined his father, and they hugged. Alex’s eyes closed, he was clearly savoring this moment.

  He’d probably been plotting it all along.

  “Alex. Have you—did you plan this?”

  Alex sneered at Clay, without speaking. From his pocket, he retrieved a small radio and held it up triumphantly. His grin matched Malcolm’s perfectly, making him look like a rat.

  “Well, as fun as it is to stand around this pretty little village and chat,” Malcolm said, “It really is time to go meet this general you’re all up in arms about.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Clay said, glaring at him.

  “Oh, I think you do,” Malcolm retorted. He wrapped an arm around his son, jiggling him from side to side. “The strong and powerful general up in Earlton, isn’t that right, Alex?”

  “Earlton. That’s right, Dad,” Alex said, clearly relishing the word. Clay could hear his joy. It was sour in his ears.

  “Wonderful,” Malcolm said. “Earlton. I know precisely where that is, son.”

  “And what the hell do you think the general will do to you if you confront him?” Clay asked. “You can’t trust that monster. He isn’t human any longer. The ego—”

  “Ah, my poor, misguided Clay,” Malcolm said, clucking his tongue. “It does seem like such a pity, that moral code you can’t shake, even at the end of the world. Think how powerful you could be, if only you could ignore that big, selfless heart of yours. How boring.

  “But I think an alliance between that General and myself would help us both prosper. Don’t you agree, Alex?” Malcolm turned to leave, Alex following him like a dog at heel. “Someone’s going to be the ruler of this new world. And I imagine the two of us will get along just fine.”

  “You can’t leave us like this,” Clay said. The crazed were ravenous—he could literally feel their hunger. And they were waiting.

  “Oh, I certainly can,” Malcolm grinned manically. “I’ll leave you just the way you left me. Completely defenseless, surrounded by the crazed. Imagine just how angry you’ll be—if you get out of this, Clay. Maybe you’ll be angry enough to shed your useless morals and give me a real run for my money.”

  Malcolm and Alex slipped out. The door clicked closed behind them, leaving Clay and his group in complete silence. They listened as gunshots ricocheted outside, clearing a path for Malcolm and his son to fight to the trucks. And then, seconds later, there was the sound of revving engines, before they ultimately faded into the distance.

  Chapter 52

  The police station was dark, shadowy. In the minutes after Malcolm had sped away, no one had spoken. Clay leaned heavily against the front desk, trying to parse the direness of the situation.

  He was meant to be their leader. He was meant to guide the way. And yet, he felt hollow. He’d trusted the boy. And yes, sure: he chose the moral high ground. He’d assumed, with his sheriff, “good guy” mentality, that if he followed the “rules,” everyone would be all right. But now they were trapped in the police station, without even a gun to their name. And they were about to be dinner.

  “I wish there was a goddamn window,” Daniels said. He made his way across the lobby, placing his hand against the door. “We can’t even see how many of them there are. And we’re losing light.”

  “It’s worse than that. We’ve already been through the station, and there’re no weapons to speak of. And we don’t have any supplies,” Marcia said. “My god. We’re going to die here. Jesus. I’d rather be torn to bits out there—”

  “Stop,” Alayna said curtly. “We can’t dwell on things like that. We’ll drive each other crazy.”

  Clay covered his ears, trying to tear his mind away from the hungry thoughts of the crazed. “Dammit. I’m sorry, everyone. I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have let Malcolm live. I put us in this position … I shouldn’t have gone down without a fight. We have nothing to save us, and we’re trapped …we’re defenseless—”

  Daniels snapped his fingers, interrupting Clay’s melancholy. He slid up his pant leg, revealing a small pistol. His eyes twinkled as he pulled it from the ankle holster, saying, “Not completely defenseless.”

  Clay smiled sadly. The pistol was no bigger than Daniels’ palm, and Clay knew it could take out only five or six of the crazed before they were overrun. He sighed, patting Daniels’ shoulder.

  “If only,” he said.

  “Hear me out,” Daniels said. “This pistol here, it’s enough to get me to the clock tower. And you know what’s up ther
e?”

  Brandon stepped around Maia, his eyes dancing. “Of course. The sniper rifle.”

  “It’s still there?” Clay asked.

  “Of course it is,” Brandon said, smiling at Clay. “Left it up there when you ordered me down. If we run, I think we can make it.”

  Clay had a sudden flash of little Brandon, teenaged, bratty. That Brandon had died along with so many others, leaving this strong, impassioned warrior in his place.

  “While you clear a path to the bus, I can guard the trapdoor to the bell tower,” Brandon said. He rummaged in the desk and came up with a nightstick.

  Daniels nodded. He looked at Clay, seeking approval. Clay shook his head. “No. If anyone’s going to do that, it’s me, not Brandon.”

  Brandon swung the baton like a baseball bat, warming up. “Sorry, boss,” he said, his smile widening. “But you know as well as I do that you have to stay here and protect the others.”

  Clay wondered what he could say to convince the kid that it wasn’t worth it. That he didn’t want him to end up like Walt, like Ralph. His eyes fell on Hank, in the back of the room. His face was in his hands, sick from the memory of watching his friend die. Clay didn’t have the heart to say anything to him. Walt was gone. There was nothing, no band-aid, to heal that.

  “Okay,” Clay said, nodding “But goddammit, if you’re not careful …”

  Brandon gave him a confident smile—cocky, brave. Like the football star, just before he tossed the winning touchdown.

  “You’ve been out of my hair for a while, Clay,” Brandon said, sounding like a much older, much wiser man. “And I think I’ve grown up a bit. You don’t have to watch out for me anymore.” Brandon glanced back at Maia. It wasn’t lost on Clay. “And we’re heading to Earlton, right? Just get on the bus and pick us up on the way out. Don’t forget.”

  Clay grabbed his walkie-talkie and passed it to Daniels. “Okay. We can communicate with this. Lane still has hers. Be careful out there. And I’ll do my best to control the crazed. Think happy thoughts. I’ll slow them down as much as I can.”

  Chapter 53

  Clay closed the door behind Brandon and Daniels. He sighed, sliding his hand across the doorframe, and tried to focus his mind on the crazed outside the door. He shoved at the insane, flesh-hungry thoughts.

  PAIN. HUNGER. MUST EAT FLESH—

  And tried to replace them with his own. He thought of Maia and Valerie: birthday parties, that vacation they’d taken to the Gulf of Mexico. Cozying up in bed with the two of them and reading, Maia’s small head sliding lower and lower on his shoulder.

  Images of the past. They were stronger than anything from the present. And as he pulled these thoughts to the forefront, he could feel the crazed out front slowing. Their wailing tapered off.

  After several minutes—more time than was necessary to make it across the square—Clay tipped his head back, closed his eyes and began to count, knowing that if he didn’t hear the sharp crack of the sniper rifle soon, either Brandon or Daniels was probably toast. Three. Four. Five. He heard the soft prayers of someone behind him. Nine. Ten. Eleven. Was it Agnes? Thirteen. Fourteen. Fifteen. Someone else was crying softly. Suddenly, Clay reached twenty—no sound.

  “What’s going on out there?” Alayna asked. “Do you think—”

  Clay lifted a finger, telling her to wait.

  The first report cracked across the square. He turned to Alayna, shaking his head incredulously. “I can’t believe it. They made it.”

  Alayna wrapped him in a joyful embrace, one that felt spontaneous. Agnes’ hands were still folded in prayer, Quintin and Sherman were sentinels, their thick arms crossed over their chests, looking ready to take on any challenge.

  Their chance would come.

  Clay cracked open the door to find the town square teeming with the crazed. Still intent on controlling his own thoughts, Clay was pleased to see the difference in them. They were slower and more disjointed, but their hunger—and the sheer numbers—would destroy his team in seconds.

  But the sniper rifle was direct and accurate. Each of Daniels’ shots put down another one. One, two, three in a row created a small path through the crowd of crazed—one that filled up in a few seconds. But as Daniels grew more confident in the bell tower, his shots rang out faster, creating larger pockets in the pack.

  “He’s forging a path!” Clay cried. “Get up here, guys. Two at a time. You remember, the bus is two blocks that way—and we’re going to have to run. Hank? You good?”

  Hank got up, forcing his eyes to meet Clay’s. Without speaking, he nodded, joining Agnes. All of them were anxious. Maia bounced from side to side, squeezing her hands together. She was next to Alayna, just behind Lane.

  Daniels cleared a space in front of the station.

  “Okay. LET’S GO!” Clay cried, charging into the square, pulling Lane. Alayna and Maia held onto each other. All around them, Daniels’ expert shots shattered skulls, splintered bones and sprayed guts. Several times, Clay felt chilly fingers latching onto his forearm, then growing slack as Daniels executed them just in time. It was incredible that Daniels didn’t accidentally shoot one of their own. But Daniels was a professional. An artist painting in lead and gore.

  In a haze caused by adrenaline, Clay saw the bus—only half a football field away. He called out, “WE’RE ALMOST THERE!” But he knew they could hardly hear him over the squeals and wails of the crazed, and the popping noises of the sniper rifle. In the final stretch, he shoved his elbow against the wide, gaping mouth of a crazed, poised to bite down on him. And then, he opened the door, pushing his people up the steps as they reached him. First Lane. Then Maia, Alayna, Agnes, Lois, Hank, Marcia, Jacobs. Quintin and Sherman were last in, both of them stained with pus and bleeding from their knuckles. Without looking twice at Clay, they clambered aboard and went for their guns, but they were nowhere to be found. Sherman whirled and planted the heel of his boot in the chest of a crazed trying to get on the bus.

  “What are you waiting for?” Sherman asked. “Drive!”

  Clay fished the keys from his pocket, dropped into the driver’s seat, and revved the engine. Sherman stood in the stairwell, holding the door closed. Clay stomped on the gas pedal, driving straight through the crowd. He could feel bones and skulls crushing and popping under the tires. It turned his stomach, watching the crazed get pulled under the bus.

  The noise was deafening. But still, Clay kept going, checking his group in the rearview mirror. They looked petrified, staring out the windows on either side. It was like Clay was driving a submarine. Even the blood splattering across the windows was oddly beautiful—if you ignored the source.

  “ALAYNA!” Clay yelled as the bus neared the bell tower. “CALL THEM. TELL THEM WE’RE THERE IN THIRTY SECONDS!”

  Alayna shouted into the walkie-talkie. He kept motoring forward. And within seconds, they were stopped in front of the bell tower, the remaining crazed—seemingly hundreds, at this point, throwing themselves against the bus and rocking it. Sherman slid forward, doubling his pressure on the door. Quintin joined him, throwing his upper body against one side, while Sherman held the other. But still, the crazed were wild, banging against the bus.

  “THEY’RE GOING TO ROLL IT IF THEY DON’T HURRY!” Quintin yelled. “We have to move.”

  But Clay couldn’t leave without everyone. Standing at the bus driver’s seat, he saw Brandon dart from the church, pistol in his hand. In quick succession, he blasted the first half dozen crazed in the head. The gunfire from above stopped. Clay’s heart soared, knowing that Daniels was on his way down.

  Brandon stomped up the steps, panting and spattered with gore. Clay gave him a hearty slap on the back and was rewarded with a smile.

  “Adam was right behind me,” Brandon said, sliding in next to Agnes. Huge beads of sweat poured down his forehead, and his eyes were wide, sizzling with adrenaline. “But we gotta move. Daniels said that we’re completely surrounded on all sides. We don’t have a lot …”


  Daniels’ voice cut in from Alayna’s walkie-talkie. “CLAY. ALAYNA.”

  Clay took the radio and yelled, “YOU NEED TO GET A MOVE ON, ADAM. WE’RE DOWN HERE WAITING.”

  There was no reply. He stared at the gaping darkness of the doorway, waiting for Daniels to appear. But still, nothing. A row behind him, Quintin cut his hand across his throat, alerting them that he’d run out of bullets. “Nothing left,” he said.

  “DANIELS?” Clay tried again.

  “You have to get out of here, Clay,” Daniels replied firmly. “There’s no way for me to make it out. I’m out of bullets. I just have one grenade. That’s it.”

  Clay sputtered. “No fucking way, soldier. We’re waiting down here for you. Brandon still has bullets. We can cut a path …”

  But, much like Quintin had, Brandon raised his gun and shook his head. The crazed continued to blast against the bus, rocking harder, like a boat caught in horrendous, never-ending waves.

  “FUCK!” Clay cried into the walkie-talkie. “It can’t end like this, Adam. We’ve been through too fucking much.”

  Clay felt so angry, so helpless, he could hardly breathe. Quintin slid into the driver’s seat, ready to crank the engine. Clay stared up at the bell tower, looking for Daniels.

  It was the last time he would see him.

  “We have to save him,” Clay protested. “We can’t just leave him like this. No man left behind …”

  “Get out of here, Clay,” Daniels cried into the walkie-talkie. “I swear to God, if you don’t get those people to safety, I’ll come down there and kick your ass. Don’t be an idealist, Clay. Get the hell out of here, and don’t look back.”

  The wheels of the bus began to churn over the bodies of the crazed, taking them back toward the highway. Clay could no longer see Daniels at all.