Omega Plague: Collapse

by P. R. Principe

  He turned around, looked out the back window, and raised his binoculars again. The morning light splashed across high flagstone walls, flanking both sides of the barely two-lane street. About one hundred meters away, the street curved up and around to the left, wandering out of Bruno’s sight and rising deeper into the wooded hills outside Sorrento. A four-level apartment building, studded with balconies, stood at the top of the curve on the left side, commanding the street stretching beneath it. The other residential buildings on this street ran along the top of the flagstone wall. Having been in the outskirts of Sorrento many years ago, Bruno vaguely recalled that behind some of these buildings, hectares of orchards, vineyards, and olive groves lay unseen from street level.

  No wonder they live here, mused Bruno. Defensible, with resources. A good spot. Bruno’s thoughts turned to the grim task of what to do next. All of his options were bad. He didn’t know how many there were up there, and all he had in hand was his pistol. Even if he went back to the cache and found enough weapons to start his own guerrilla war, what could he do? Shoot an RPG into the building? Kill everyone inside? If that was his best option, he might as well go back to Capri. Maybe if Bruno did nothing, DeLuca might actually stand a better chance at survival. Bruno exhaled, loud even in his own ears. For all Bruno knew, this whole damned rescue might be futile. By now, they could have changed their mind, and DeLuca’s body could be rotting away in the grass under some olive tree.

  Bruno gazed up the street. He couldn’t just storm the building, impregnable as a castle. No, he would choose another path, one of which DeLuca would approve—one that required a bit of faith.

  The crackle of his radio jolted him. Bruno had left it on just in case DeLuca managed to get a message out. But it was not DeLuca’s voice that emerged from his jacket pocket.

  “Show yourself or your friend is dead!”

  So much for any element of surprise. Bruno exited the car and looked up the street. The sun illuminated the tops of the buildings, but the street still lay in partial shade. The morning air hovered over Bruno, still and quiet, but sweat made his t-shirt stick to his back as the temperature rose and his nerves tensed. He walked on the left side of the street, hugging the stone wall. Though willing to take a risk, Bruno preferred not to give them an easy target. He knew this rescue could end with a muzzle flash and a bullet through his skull. The voice came on the radio once more.

  “You’ve got five minutes to answer or show yourself.”

  Bruno turned down the radio’s volume to almost nothing before proceeding. His boots made no sound as he approached their building. He stopped not far from the door in the long flagstone wall. Judging the distance to be about right, he shouted out loud, up towards the building.

  Instead of responding on the radio, Bruno shouted, “Hey! You, in the building! I want to talk!”

  His voice echoed across the stones and faded into silence. The wind picked up, shooting down the street, loud in Bruno’s ears for a moment, before it too died away. He forced himself to yell again. But his shouts echoed in impotent noise, met only by the wind. Bruno’s unease grew. He felt the urge to hide.

  “Up here!”

  The male voice came from the building. It sounded like he was maybe two stories up from the ground floor. Bruno kept his left hand on the wall as he leaned towards the center of the street and responded.

  “You’ve got my friend! I want him back!”

  The man laughed. “Oh do you? Why should we give him back?” Bruno saw movement midway up the building and curtains on a balcony fluttered as a man stepped outside.

  Bruno squinted, the sun now higher in the sky.

  “Why should we give him back?” the man repeated.

  Bruno took stock of him. Bruno guessed he was maybe twenty years old. Curly hair floated around his head like a mane, and scruffy black stubble ran down his face onto his neck. With a thin green nylon jacket hanging open over a soiled white t-shirt, he looked to Bruno like a throwback to the old paninaro look from the ‘90s. Bruno might have been amused but for the long rifle gripped in his left hand. Even from this distance, Bruno could see the wooden butt stock and black barrel. Older rife, bolt action probably. Even if it could hold more than one bullet, unless the kid was well trained, he would realistically get only one shot to kill Bruno.

  “Because he’s my friend. And he didn’t do anything to you!” responded Bruno.

  The kid shifted around on the balcony, getting a better grip on the rifle. “So, friend, tell me something. Why shouldn’t I just shoot you right from here? Why not?”

  Bruno knew from hostage negotiation training long ago that the longer they spoke, the better, and that the chance for violence diminished with every phrase exchanged. Yet for the thousandth time, Bruno wished for his body armor and a carbine. Then, maybe he wouldn’t have to trade words with this little shit. Bruno breathed deeply before speaking, calming his anger. What Bruno was about to say might decide the fate of them all, and he couldn’t afford to cock it up.

  “Because you need me.”

  The kid laughed, as Bruno expected. But he didn’t respond to Bruno’s statement with an expected question.

  “What’s your name?”

  The question took him aback and for a moment, fear gripped Bruno. He looked around, checking the street behind him. Was the little prick playing for time? Were there others around that Bruno couldn’t see? Then the kid spoke again, his voice raised louder.

  “Are you deaf? I said, what’s your name!”

  “Bruno. My name is Bruno!”

  The kid on the balcony nodded. “My name is Stefano. I’m listening.”

  “Show me my friend and we’ll talk.”

  Stefano glanced back over his shoulder. From inside the flat, out shuffled DeLuca, hair tousled and face pale.

  Bruno called up to him. “Hello, old man! You okay?”

  DeLuca nodded at Bruno. “In quarantine with these . . . young men. I’m all right! For now.” DeLuca glanced sidelong at his captor.

  Stefano shooed DeLuca back indoors and spoke once more.

  “I’ve showed you he’s alive and well. Now, tell me why we need you?”

  “Your rifle. Bolt action, isn’t it? Don’t you want something better? Something better than they had in the 1800s? And how much ammo do you have? You can’t have much.”

  “What’s your point?”

  “Weapons. I can get you modern weapons. And ammo.” In one breath, Bruno told him about the weapon cache, the door, and even its general location.

  Even from this distance, Bruno saw Stefano’s eyes narrowing. “So, what do I need you for? Why shouldn’t I just shoot you now and be done with you, take the weapons myself?”

  Bruno laughed. “Feel free. Door’s probably half-a-meter-thick steel. Something tells me you lot would never get through.”

  Bruno tapped his temple. “No, that combination is right here. So, listen up, picciottu: don’t even think about hurting the old man. And if you take a shot at me, you’d better not miss, or I’ll come for you . . .” Bruno paused but Stefano said nothing, so Bruno spoke again. “Well, what do you say?

  Stefano shifted. “And if I don’t believe a fucking word you’ve said? What then?”

  Bruno shrugged. “Guess you can find out the hard way.”

  Stefano started to speak, but a voice from above cut him off.

  “Enough!”

  A figure stepped out onto the balcony one floor above Stefano.

  Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail, mostly grey with a few black strands. A man’s oversized button-down shirt hung from her shoulders. She gazed down on him in silence. Before everything fell apart, Bruno might have thought she was in her late sixties. But now, without trips to the salon and spa, Bruno wondered whether she was in her fifties, or maybe even younger. Before the world fell to pieces, Bruno would have said she was a dried-up hag. Now, he’d say she was an angel.

  “We need those weapons,” she stated with no emotion. “How did y
ou know about this cache?”

  “I was a Carabiniere,” he said, obscuring a lie of omission in the truth and hoping it would be enough.

  “Yes, I know you are,” she answered, responding in the present tense. “He said you’d come for him.”

  Cazzo. Bruno wondered what else DeLuca had given up.

  “How do you know the weapons are still there?” she called down.

  Bruno shook his head. “I don’t.”

  She took a step back and rubbed her forehead. Then she bent down and spoke in low tones to Stefano on the balcony below. Bruno couldn’t hear what they said, but whatever she said agitated Stefano.

  She called down. “We’ll let you in! Follow the stairs up to the entrance to the apartments. Don’t move until I say so. You’ll stay in a ground-floor apartment in quarantine for three days. From where you are, we’ve got the upstairs blocked off, so don’t waste your time trying to come up.” Then the woman smiled. “I’m sure you’re armed. So, don’t leave the apartment. You try anything we don’t like, and we’ll put a bullet in your friend’s head, then yours next, understood?”

  The woman turned towards the inside of the apartment and spoke in a low voice. Then she turned back to Bruno.

  “Paola. My name is Paola, in case you’re wondering.”

  Bruno was about to respond when he heard scraping and movement from the door in the wall in front of him. He took a step forward, but Paola shook her head. Bruno waited, uncomfortably exposed in the high morning sun, until she called down to him to go ahead.

  Bruno stepped forward until he reached the door in the flagstone wall and with a deep breath, he turned the door handle. Paola called down to him again.

  “One of the ground floor apartments is free. The door is open. There’s food and water for three days. After the quarantine, we’ll come down to you. Lock the entrance door behind you before you come up.”

  Through the stone doorway, Bruno looked up. Flagstone stairs stretched up to the ground floor of the apartment building. No overgrown underbrush spilled onto the stairs. The browning grass on each side of the staircase and poking between the stones were the only obvious signs that this place was not what it once was. The apartment building rested at the top of the rise, to Bruno’s right as he looked up the stairs.

  Bruno stepped through the doorway, turned around, and threw the deadbolt lock on the door. He walked up the stairs, glancing to his right towards the building. Stefano glowered down at him in silence. Paola, too, watched him.

  Cresting the top of the stairs, Bruno could feel sweat running down his back. The flat, grey stones made a large patio encircling the ground floor of the apartment building. Glass doors and windows enclosed a lobby on the ground floor. The sunlight made Bruno squint as he surveyed the area. Beyond the patio, an enclosure the size of a small park rolled down in front of him. Olive trees dotted the area, and Bruno noticed a patch of tomato plants tied to stakes.

  Bruno un-holstered his pistol, approached the glass door, pushed it open with his left hand, and entered the lobby. Down the hall to his left, he spied an open door. Carefully, he approached and entered the apartment. Bruno checked each room, pistol in hand. The apartment was of modest size, with a combined kitchen and living area, a bedroom, bathroom, and a sliding door to a small patio facing into the green area beyond the building. The place had been stripped bare, and he could find no trace of the previous occupant. The only things of value were cans of food and a few bottles of water sitting on the counter near the kitchen sink. Enough for three or four days. Bruno holstered his pistol. He took a bottle of water into the bedroom and sat on the bed. Though he had no idea how many of them there were, at this point he was all in. Either they were going to kill him or they would be true to their word. He didn’t see any sense in doing anything but settling in. He hoped the rest of his gear would be safe in the car. He lay down on his back, pistol on his chest, and rubbed his forehead.

  The certainty of three lost days, waiting, sleeping, wasting time, lay heavy in his thoughts, but he didn’t see any other way. He spotted a glossy magazine on the floor and picked it up. On its cover, the face of a smiling, almost certainly dead, celebrity stared back at Bruno. Her shining-white teeth seemed to light up the room. Bruno threw the magazine against the wall and lay back down on the bed.

  ***

  September 23

  A loud rapping startled Bruno out of a deep slumber. The glow of the early morning sun bathed the bedroom in diffused light. He threw on his pants and boots, grabbed his pistol, and made his way into the living area.

  “Hey, Signor Bruno!” a man called from outside the apartment door. “You still alive?”

  “Still here, and still healthy!” responded Bruno.

  Bruno heard the keys clinking and the click of a bolt.

  “I’m opening the door,” said the voice. “Wait thirty seconds, then come out and meet us.” Bruno heard footsteps, as whoever it was retreated back down the hall.

  Bruno paused, with his hand on the door handle. He understood that since they had the key, they could have come in and killed him any time in the last three days. Logic told Bruno that they were hardly likely to kill him now. And yet he still hesitated.

  “Well, are you fucking coming out or what?”

  “Yes, yes, coming out now,” answered Bruno.

  He pulled the handle down, opened the door, and stepped out into the hallway.

  Gentle sunlight from the lobby scattered down the hallway, giving it a dull glow. Bruno saw several figures waiting for him at the end of the hall and he walked, in no rush, in their direction.

  As Bruno entered the bright open space of the lobby, he felt many pairs of eyes staring at him. Bruno hadn’t seen this many people together since before the Shakes. He felt cramped and crowded, feeling as claustrophobic as he had during the press of people at a Napoli football match. But when he counted, there were only six people in the lobby, and DeLuca was among them.

  They stood in silence for a moment, then DeLuca spoke.

  “Thanks for coming back, Bruno.” Emotion made DeLuca’s voice quiver.

  Bruno nodded. “You know I couldn’t leave you, old man.” He sized up the others gathered in the lobby as he spoke.

  “Your hands,” said Stefano.

  Bruno held out his hands. “Steady as ever,” he said.

  Each of them did the same. Bruno looked at each of them, then nodded. All of them lowered their hands to their sides.

  Paola and Stefano watched him, Stefano with a rifle in his right hand. Bruno noticed his fingers clenching and unclenching as he held the stock across his chest. Three others Bruno had never seen also stood in front of him.

  “I’m sure you’ve got a gun, yes?” said Paola. “So put it on the ground, slowly, and kick it to me.”

  Bruno complied. The pistol skidded to Paola’s feet.

  “Thank you. You’ll get it back once we find the cache.” Paola gestured around her. “This is Saverio, Mauro, and Aldo.”

  Bruno nodded and looked them over. Saverio and Mauro couldn’t have been more than eighteen or nineteen, their scruffy beards and long-sleeve print t-shirts making them look like hash-smokers fresh from a concert. Aldo, though, looked older, maybe in his late forties, brown hair thinning. Bruno noticed the skin around Aldo’s neck hung loosely, like he had once been paunchy. Aldo nodded, his watery blue eyes making him look like a sad sack to Bruno.

  Bruno spoke up. “So, how did all of you end up—”

  “Cut the bullshit, cop!” interrupted Stefano. “Take us to the weapons.”

  Bruno threw his hands up. “Okay, okay, take it easy. I’m ready when you are.”

  Paola shot Stefano a look. “I’m going to go up to a balcony,” he said. “To make sure no one is on the road before we leave.” Then he stormed off.

  The group made its way out of the lobby and started down the stairs. All of them wore long-sleeve shirts of one sort or another, despite the warming air. They hustled down the stairs, then
waited near the door leading out onto the street. They watched as Stefano peered down past the wall into the street for a few moments before nodding and turning back inside the apartment. They waited a moment in silence. Then Stefano came bounding down the stairs, rifle in hand.

  “All clear,” Stefano announced. Paola produced a key from her pocket and unlocked the door in the flagstone wall to the street. She and Bruno were the last ones out. She turned and locked the door. Bruno lingered back with her, and they quickly caught up to the group as it began walking down the street.

  “No one around?” asked Bruno as they caught up.

  “No, not for a long while.” Paola tossed her head back up toward the balcony where Stefano had surveyed the street. “But still, we’re very careful after that bunch from Naples came up.”

  Bruno stiffened, and DeLuca’s eyes met his. Bruno noticed Aldo, Paola, and Saverio look at him. This time Aldo spoke.

  “What? What do you know?” Aldo asked.

  “Wait,” Bruno said, not responding to the question. They had arrived at the car where Bruno had stowed his gear. “I have some gear here.”

  Stefano stepped forward. “I’ll get it.”

  Bruno gestured to the back seat. Stefano stooped into the vehicle and retrieved Bruno’s backpack. Stefano unzipped it and rummaged around before handing it to Bruno. “I don’t want surprises; got it, Bruno?”

  “No surprises from me.” Bruno slung the backpack over his shoulder and continued walking.

  Aldo persisted, his voice rising, “I said: what do you know about Naples?”