Omega Plague: Collapse

by P. R. Principe

  The Juventino and One-Ear went back into the pharmacy. The remaining thug loomed over the old man, still berating him. The way he kept after the old man made Bruno wonder if they were looking for someone. For the moment the thug stood with his back facing Bruno, and he shifted the grip on his crowbar. He would have to wait for the right moment. His hands grew slick with sweat.

  Bruno stood partway up and almost on tiptoes, moving around the bench and down the stairs. Once he reached the bottom of the stairs, he took refuge behind a jumble of upturned tables and chairs. The thug shifted as he turned his head to call towards the pharmacy.

  Bruno had to be careful. So close now. The man’s stringy, dark hair swung as he turned back to his captive.

  “So, what should I do with you?” said the man. Then he laughed.

  Shooting this piece of trash would bring out the other two for sure, and Bruno had no desire to face off against a rifle, even if it was only a .22, with his pistol. At least not unless he had the element of surprise. Seconds passed. He fidgeted, wanting to shout. Then the man turned, his back again facing Bruno.

  Bruno leapt forward, closing the gap in a silent run. The old man, lying on his side, opened his eyes and yelled as Bruno bore down on them. The thug whirled around just in time for Bruno’s crowbar to split his forehead open with a crack that reverberated down Bruno’s arm. The old man screamed as the thug collapsed on top of him. Bruno raised the crowbar up and brought it down once more on the thug’s head. It made a wet, smacking sound, like a watermelon falling on cobblestone. Bruno did not linger as the old man screamed, darting toward an alley just to the right of the pharmacy entrance.

  Bruno wedged himself past a man-sized three-wheeled motorino that nearly blocked the alleyway. For an instant, it pinned him against the wall, and he thought he would be trapped, stuck in the mouth of the alley, easy prey. But with a heave, Bruno shifted the vehicle just enough to let him pass, as the two men stormed out of the pharmacy.

  He stood in the alley between two buildings, lurking in the shadows behind the tall motorino. Bruno flattened himself against the pharmacy wall and looked to his right, watching as the Juventino and One-Ear hauled the old man to his feet. They whirled the old man around, and his back faced Bruno as they yelled, “Who did this? Where is he?”

  The old man, his face painted with the blood from Bruno’s victim, muttered something Bruno couldn’t hear. Whatever the old man said enraged them, and One-Ear smacked him in the face.

  Leaning the blood-and-brains-streaked crowbar against the wall next to him, Bruno eased his pistol from its holster. The three men stood on the cobblestone street, not quite fifteen meters away. But the way the motorino stood wedged up against the wall gave Bruno only a narrow aiming window. Both men had their backs to him. He leaned against the stone of the building and raised his pistol, targeting the Juventino. But just as Bruno pulled the trigger, the old man decided to fight, and he pulled to one side. Bruno’s shot echoed over the cobblestones and One-Ear dropped.

  Bruno swore. Before he could take aim, the Juventino grabbed the old man, whirling him around. Now the thug had his back to the sea, and the old man in front of him, facing toward the buildings in the Marina.

  The Juventino shoved the rifle in the old man’s back as he shouted, looking wildly around. “Where are you, stronzo? I swear I’ll blow his fucking heart out if you don’t come out!”

  Bruno didn’t doubt the old man’s life stood on a razor’s edge. “All right! Don’t hurt him, I’m coming out!” Bruno shouted. The Juventino shifted behind the old man, his attention now focused on the alley where Bruno hid.

  Bruno pushed his way past the motorino, onto the cobblestone street. As he emerged from the alley, the thug spotted him. Bruno walked one step at a time, at almost a shuffle, as he carried his pistol in his right hand over his head.

  “Drop it or I’ll kill the old man! I’ll put a bullet in his fucking back, you get it?”

  “All right—stay calm!” Bruno squatted and dropped his pistol to the ground.

  “Now kick it away from you!”

  Bruno shoved the pistol away with his right foot and continued to move towards the two men, his hands not nearly as high over his head as they were before he dropped his pistol.

  The Juventino straightened up. “Now stop where you are!”

  Bruno stood with his back to the alley, now maybe less than ten meters from the two men. The thug shifted position, partially emerging from behind the old man.

  Bruno said nothing, doing his best to look as defeated as the old man. The thug noticed Bruno’s respirator. “Your mask? Where did you get that?”

  “The hospital here on the island, before it burned.”

  “We need some of those in Naples. And meds.”

  “I have more masks and meds, but first let the old man go.”

  Bruno was trying to close the distance without seeming like a threat. His hands drifted lower now, palms out and still facing the two men, but now only waist height.

  “No! You’ll take me now or I’ll kill him right here!”

  Bruno could sense the Juventino’s rising confidence, as he had almost fully emerged from behind the old man, but with the rifle now drifting away from against the old man’s side.

  “I’ll take you,” Bruno said, nodding, shoulders hunched, deflated. “You win. But first, tell me, why did you come here? Are you looking for someone?”

  The Juventino laughed. “Maybe. But I call the shots here, stronzo! First, you tell me who you are, you piece of—”

  Bruno dropped to one knee, yanked the second pistol from the small of his back, and pulled the trigger.

  Both the Juventino and the old man fell to the ground. Bruno approached one step at a time, blood pounding in his head and ears ringing. He focused on the Juventino. Bruno kicked the rifle out of his hand and it clattered on the cobblestones. Blood from multiple bullet wounds stained his jersey and the stones beneath it. Bruno had never before fired Battisti’s pistol.

  Bruno thought he had hit the old man, or maybe the rifle had gone off, but when Bruno tapped him with a foot, he opened his eyes.

  “You okay?” Bruno asked.

  The old man sat up, panting, feeling his chest. He didn’t speak, just nodded.

  The sound of a motorboat cut through the wind and soft waves. It was pulling away from one of the concrete piers extending into the marina. He holstered the pistol at the small of his back, scooped up the rifle, and fired at the fleeing boat.

  Bruno pulled the trigger until the dull click told him he had emptied the magazine, but the boat sped away unaffected. Bruno cursed out loud. He had been stupid. He should have known they’d leave someone with the boat. Whoever it was now would bring back word of his presence. And that he was a threat. Bruno looked at the rifle more closely. The weak snap of the bullets had told him for certain, even before he examined it, that the rifle was a .22. But unless any of the dead had more ammo, the rifle would now be little better than a club. Bruno threw it to the ground in frustration.

  By now the old man was on his feet. They studied each other in silence. Bruno broke eye contact, saying nothing as he walked over to gather his pistol.

  “Thank you,” said the old man. Bruno noticed his voice sounded strange, hoarse. He probably hadn’t spoken in months, making Bruno’s practice of talking to himself seem at least semi-rational.

  “We’ll see how much you thank me if more of them come back.” Bruno moved towards the bodies on the ground, patting each one of them down. None of them had any bullets.

  “They must have left any extra ammo on their boat,” Bruno said, speaking more to himself than the old man. Bruno looked down at the Juventino.

  “And look at this guy. Wearing a Juventus shirt in Naples. Forza Juve, pezzo di merda.” Bruno kicked the Juventino, then looked out over the Bay of Naples.

  The Juventino moaned. Bruno looked down at him again. Still alive. Bruno would have to act quickly. He stood over the man, but didn’t ben
d down.

  “Why did you come here? Did someone send you?”

  The Juventino’s eyes opened. His lips moved. He made a sound.

  “Who sent you? Tell me and I’ll make it quick,” said Bruno.

  Bruno bent down closer. The man’s lips moved again. Blood trickled at the corner of his mouth. Bruno thought he heard words that he had hoped never to hear. But the way the man was choking on his blood, he couldn’t be sure. Then the man’s eyes rolled back in his head.

  “Figlio d’una zoccola!” Bruno swore.

  The old man spoke up. “Look, you saved my life and I owe—”

  Bruno turned, his pistol pointed at the man’s chest.

  “Stay away from me,” said Bruno. “Hands. Show me your hands.”

  The old man held his hands out. They were as steady as could be expected after the carnage that surrounded them.

  “Keep back. Even if you weren’t infected, they might be.” Bruno gestured at the corpses.

  The old man nodded, dropping his hands. He moved backwards, one step at a time, away from Bruno.

  Bruno lowered his pistol. But as he stared at the man, trying to see if the whites of his eyes were jaundiced, something stirred in his mind. “You—I know you . . .” He lifted his pistol again and the man cowered.

  “Please, I’ll give you whatever you want.”

  “Why were you hiding down here? Why here in . . .” Bruno looked up at the green cross. “A pharmacy?”

  “I—I,” the old man stuttered, “my—my friend owned this pharmacy after mine got . . .”

  Pharmacy. Bruno stood in silence for a moment. Pharmacy. His eyes narrowed. Son of a bitch! “I know who you are,” Bruno said. “How could I forget you, of all people.”

  The old man’s brow furrowed. “I—I don’t understand. Whatever you want, take it, just let me live.”

  “You don’t remember me?” Bruno’s voice grew hard. “Take a good look, old man!” Bruno pulled off his respirator.

  Bruno enjoyed the look in the old man’s eyes.

  “Yes, it’s me,” Bruno said. “You remember now, don’t you.” It was a statement, not a question. Bruno took a step back and pointed the pistol at the old man’s forehead.

  “Please—I have medicines, supplies; you can have them—just don’t kill me!”

  “I don’t want anything that you have. You know what I want? I want you to bring him back. Can you bring him back?”

  The old man did not answer.

  “I asked you a fucking question! Can you bring him back?”

  “Look.” The old man swallowed hard. “I know it was my fault. I was selfish. I’m supposed to help people, but I didn’t. I failed him. But I-I swear I won’t fail you, if you let me live. Please let me live. Please.”

  Bruno tightened his grip on his pistol. His finger moved on the trigger.

  “Fine,” said the old man, his voice cracking. “Do it, then—kill me. Just make it quick.” He closed his eyes.

  Tears ran down the old man’s face into his scruffy beard, and he made no attempt to wipe them away. Bruno could smell the reek of sweat and piss. If there had been any others left to see the old man, they would have said his survival all alone was a miracle. But Bruno did not believe in miracles. He ascribed the old man’s survival to dumb luck. Much as Bruno thought of his own survival.

  Bruno lowered his pistol. The old man opened his eyes, still shaking from fear.

  Bruno studied the old man before speaking. “I’ll be back in three days. Gives us time to make sure both of us are still infection-free.” Bruno waved his pistol at the dead men around them. “No telling where these bastards have been.”

  The old man let out a long sigh. “Why? Why let me live?”

  “Who am I to deal out judgment and death, even if I think you deserve it?”

  Calogero DeLuca nodded without a word.

  Chapter 16

  September 7

  “I’ve patched the leaks in the trash bins on the roof. So we should have no problems gathering more water,” said DeLuca.

  “If it rains again.” Bruno looked up. Thin, grey clouds covered the sky, keeping the late-summer sun from beating down on them. Still, to Bruno they didn’t look like the kind of clouds that brought rain.

  “Hope we’ve got enough bottled water,” said Bruno. “Guess if we have to, we could start distilling seawater.” Then he turned to his companion and said, more kindly, “Thanks.”

  DeLuca nodded. “What’s the plan for today?” They stood on the street in front of Bruno’s place on Anacapri.

  “Today, I’ve got something to show you. Somewhere in Capri. And let’s take my moto. It’s around back.”

  “What about the engine noise?” asked DeLuca.

  Bruno shrugged. “We can risk it. I haven’t seen a trace of anyone else since I found you. And I want to stay a few days, so it’ll at least be a little easier to bring supplies.”

  “A few days?”

  Bruno nodded. “Yes, like I said, there’s something I want to show you.”

  As they retrieved his motorcycle from the small garage at the back of the building and began their ride, Bruno reflected on his time with DeLuca. The old man had some skills, whipping up a disinfectant salve from baking soda and bleach and cooking up seaweed and crabs from the shore into a reasonably palatable dish. Not to mention just having another set of hands to help and another pair of eyes to observe. And another person to ease the crushing loneliness.

  They pulled up in front of one of Bruno’s hideaways in the village of Capri. Bruno glanced around. Everything looked exactly as it had the last time he had been there, just before he had found DeLuca. As they dismounted the motorcycle, Bruno pointed up.

  “See those?” asked Bruno.

  “Yes!” responded DeLuca, his voice overflowing with enthusiasm. “Solar panels!”

  “And they work.” Bruno waved DeLuca on. “Come on, this way.” They went around to the back entrance. As they opened the gate, DeLuca stopped short, pointing to the pile of stones on the far side of the stone terrace.

  “What is . . .” DeLuca started to ask, but his voice faded before he finished his question.

  Bruno glanced back over his shoulder. “Former occupant. Couldn’t figure out what to do with him, so just buried him as best I could.”

  DeLuca grew pale.

  “Is he bothering you?” asked Bruno with a half-smile. “Oh, come on. He’s not gonna bother anyone.”

  Bruno fidgeted with the handle on the sliding glass door for a moment. Then it opened, and he stepped inside. DeLuca followed close behind.

  Though clouds covered the sun, the glass doors provided enough light to bathe the room in a diffuse glow. The room looked ransacked. The bed was torn up, chairs overturned, and the walled defaced with graffiti and smeared with feces and what looked like blood. The only semi-clean area was a desk. But it was covered with binders and papers, strewn here and there.

  “Jesus, Bruno, this place stinks like an old toilet. What the hell happened?”

  Bruno laughed. “The best way to put off anyone who might get curious, if they saw the solar panels, was to turn this place into a shithole. So, I did some redecorating. With my own crap, that is. You’ll get used to the smell after a while.”

  “I doubt it,” said DeLuca, breathing through his mouth.

  “I’ve hidden some pieces of equipment around the house. Only things I left in place were the inverter and panel on the wall and the main batteries under the desk.” Bruno pulled a sheet off them. “I was afraid if I tried to move them, I’d screw something up permanently. Now, let’s get moving.”

  For the better part of an hour, Bruno led DeLuca through the house, pointing here and there, and having him bring out various pieces of electronic equipment hidden away in rooms that had been torn up. Some were quite heavy.

  “I must say, Bruno,” grunted DeLuca as he hefted a particularly heavy box, “each of these rooms is shittier than the last. Literally.”


  “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  They arranged the equipment on the desk, and finally, after another hour of assembly, Bruno stood back, surveying their work.

  “Well,” he said. “What do you think?”

  DeLuca looked at the equipment on the desk, then back at Bruno. “Radio equipment?”

  “Exactly. This guy was a radioamatore, can you believe it? And with a solar-powered station.” Bruno gestured towards the terrace. “He was in some emergency communications radio club, I found his membership papers.” Bruno shook his head, smiling as he did. “The poor bastard. Probably all his friends thought he was out of his head: ‘Filippo is a moron, what is he doing, waiting for the Apocalypse?’”

  Bruno thought about that picture of Filippo and his family. Neither of them spoke for a time. In contemplation, Bruno moved items this way and that on the desk with no seeming purpose.

  Bruno moved a binder on the desk and found his phone. “Here it is,” Bruno said. “I thought it was here.” He plugged it into the charging cable, turned it on, and swiped his index finger on the screen.

  DeLuca waved a hand around. “So, why didn’t you tell me about this before?”

  Bruno replied without looking up from phone. “Needed to make sure I could trust you. After what happened with Veri, I needed to be sure about you.”

  He held up the phone. “Listen!”

  Bruno touched the screen on his phone. The bluesy African-American voice, singing in Italian but with a heavy American accent, boomed from the small speaker.

  DeLuca laughed. “I don’t believe you have him on your phone! I remember him—that song came out when I was a teenager, late sixties, I think! And someone your age has it on their phone?” DeLuca laughed again. “That I really don’t believe!”