Run: A Post Apocalyptic Thriller

by Rich Restucci

  “Huh.”

  6

  The Alcatraz survivors had gathered in the cafeteria at the behest of Detective Meara. He stood at the front of the room and addressed the small crowd.

  “Well folks, here it is,” he began. “There’s a group of people, mostly kids, trapped in a school about four blocks from the Marina Bay warehouses. We’re going to get them. I need four volunteers…” Instantly, hands shot up throughout the crowd; eight-year-old Sam had her hand up high. Meara smiled and looked at Rick, who was also smiling and nodding.

  “If you’re interested, come on up, and we can discuss the plan.”

  “Did you say four blocks?” a man asked.

  “Yes, a little less than three quarters of a mile. Again, if we could get the

  volun—“

  “Because if they’re four blocks from the wharf, they may as well be on the moon with all those people on the loose,” the man interrupted, “and I just don’t see the point in attempting a rescue if we’re going to send our people to certain death.”

  Murmurs of assent could be heard from the crowd, while snorts of disgust were more prominent.

  “Well Mr.…?”

  “Martingale.”

  “Mr. Martingale, there’s a bunch of kids stuck in a school, with few supplies, and a mounting force of infected just outside the walls. Now, I’m simply not OK with leaving them to starve, scared and alone. I noticed you didn’t have your hand up, so you can remain here and make yourself useful while the rescue team goes and gets them.”

  “Shouldn’t we let the military get them? For that matter, when are they coming for us? Haven’t you been in contact with them?”

  Meara sighed. “I didn’t want to bring this up until I was absolutely sure, but I’m fairly certain the military isn’t coming.”

  Shocked outbursts and demands for more information assaulted Meara. He held his hands up to quell the surge.

  “Please folks, please. I’ll tell you what we know. I was in contact with a friend of mine at USAMRIID, which is a military run infectious disease center. Now, as most of you know, there has recently been an outbreak of violence in Boston. This is the same stuff. It is an as yet undefined sickness that… that reanimates the dead into murderous savages…”

  “Ridiculous!” Martingale exclaimed.

  “How widespread is this?” a tall woman asked.

  “As I was saying, these infected people are, for all intents and purposes, dead. They have no vital signs, and can function with tremendous amounts of damage done to them. Damage that would incapacitate or kill a human being. Insofar as how far the infection has gotten, it seems to be everywhere. Every major city has had outbreaks, some are faring better than others, but Boston, New York, and most of the East Coast cities are… gone.”

  The crowd was silent. Even Martingale looked shocked.

  “The US military is in full retreat from most of the West Coast cities, and has left the East Coast already. I had contact with a National Guard convoy leaving San Francisco, but I lost them a few hours ago, and repeated attempts to reach them have gone unanswered. Part of the problem is that there isn’t anywhere to retreat to.”

  “As of right now, it looks like we’re on our own,” Rick added. “We’re going to have to survive for a while until the military can get to us. We’ll need to secure food, water, and weapons. Also, we will need roving patrols on the island until we can fortify it enough to fend off attacks, and not just from the infected, but from people who want what we have.”

  “When do we set up a system of government?” Martingale demanded. “We’ll need a voting system and elected civilian leaders to…”

  “Mr. Martingale please,” interrupted Meara, “we’re going to need to worry about staying alive first. Frankly, I’m surprised all of us made it out of the city with the numbers of infected being what they are.”

  “But the fundamental purpose of a government is to…”

  This time Rick interrupted, “We’ve got kids to save. If you’re not helping, then step back and let us plan,” he said angrily. “If you feel an-all important need to set up a government, then knock your socks off, but DO NOT tell us how to operate. As of now, this island is under San Francisco police control--” Martingale started to protest-- “AND if you don’t like it, you’re welcome to go back to the city. It’s a pretty tough swim I hear.”

  There were assorted chuckles from the small crowd. Martingale folded his arms and scowled, but remained silent.

  Rick’s new friend Dallas came up to Rick and looked him in the eye. He turned around and faced the group. “They’re kids. I’m goin’.”

  The tall woman stepped forward. “My name is Juanita Del Carmen. I’m in.” Others surged forward as well.

  7

  Billy walked up the steps to the hospital and stepped through the smashed front doors, swinging the shotgun in a horizontal arc. “Clear!” he said to himself, and sniggered. He made it a point not to step in the blood on the floor if he could help it. There were bloody footprints, some bare, going in many directions. It was very dark, but he could see a little. He read the names on the opaque glass panes in the doors as he progressed, but he was more interested in the titles. Dr. A.P. Morgan, Clinical Psychology, Dr. S. Silverstein, Child Psychology, Dr. V. Prendes, Administration. The next door’s window was smashed, and there was blood everywhere. Something was making wet tearing sounds from the room.

  Billy looked through the broken window, but could only discern vague shapes. There were two indistinct figures low to the ground, huddled over something. The sounds of chewing were apparent. As he leaned in to get a better vantage, Billy shifted his weight and heard window glass crunch under his feet. He looked down, cursing himself for making so much noise in the confined hall. When he looked back up, there was a dead man in a red hospital orderly’s uniform staring at him through the hole where the window had been. The nametag read Carl. Billy backed up a few steps. The former orderly turned away, showing Billy that the uniform was actually white, just gore-stained. Two other dead things appeared from the darkness of the room, reaching through the broken window. Billy took a step forward whereupon both creatures lowered their arms turning back into the darkness.

  Billy opened the door and flicked the light switch, but nothing happened. The zombies went back to eating their unfortunate victim. The form on the floor turned out to be half a man. He was missing his head and both arms, and his chest was a dripping cavity. Half-a-guy had been a security guard before the madness began, and he had a flashlight on his belt.

  Billy stooped to retrieve the flashlight, careful to avoid the copious amount of blood on the floor. The torch was also slick with gore from the fallen guard. Wiping some of the blood on the back of a feasting zombie, Billy cleaned the light as best he could. He was about to leave when he noticed a set of keys on a ring attached to the victim’s belt. Retrieving the key ring, he stepped from the room and clicked on the flashlight. The beam cut the darkness with precision, only illuminating where it was pointed. Billy continued down the gloomy corridor, toward a set of double swinging doors.

  A bump from the other side of the doors made them open toward Billy for a moment. He moved forward cautiously. The bump occurred again. Obviously there was something moving on the other side of the door. A crimson puddle had spread across the entire hallway in front of him. Billy reluctantly stepped into the blood and pulled back the door. There was a small child sitting on the floor, slurping viscera from what used to be a human being. The creature looked up, but didn’t move. The child looked completely fine, except for the red eyes and the fact that he was covered in gore. Billy pointed one of the pistols at the dead boy and fired point blank into the creature’s head, destroying it. The shot was deafening in the enclosed corridor, and his ears began to ring, but not before he heard another inhuman scream from deeper in the darkened hospital.

  “Not your fault,” he whispered to the twice dead kid, and kept moving.

  The beam from the
flashlight cut the blackness like a knife, showing scenes of carnage and failed last stands, a small circle of light at a time. Here another drag-smear, there bloody fist prints on a broken door. As he came to a stairwell going up, he could see an assortment of chairs and other office furniture that had been thrown down the stairs to block access. The door to the stairwell was hanging on one hinge, and there was more blood on the furniture, but it looked as if this hasty barricade had held.

  A few more meters, and another set of double doors blocked his way. This time the doors were steel, with small windows at face height. The windows had an interlaced lattice of metal wires to prevent shattering. A placard above the doors read: Level 1. The doors were locked tight. This is where Billy needed to go. The drugs he wanted were certainly beyond this obstacle.

  Using the keys from the eviscerated guard, he tried several before he heard a loud snick. He opened the doors and stepped through. Even on this side of the locked doors, signs of struggle and death were evident. Gore smears on the wall, huge blood drops on the polished baby-blue floor tiles, another smashed window in an office door. Billy locked the doors behind him, and kept moving.

  There were no names on the doors in this corridor, only white cinderblock walls, interspersed with locked cells. Billy shined his light in one of the cells. The flashlight cast an eerie glow in the blackness of the room. Apparently the room was empty, save for a bed and some crayon-colored pictures on the walls. Billy checked each room on the way down the passageway, but all were empty. Locked, but empty.

  He came to a T-junction, and shined the light on the wall. Another set of placards told him where to go. Left was Levels 2-3, right was Level 4 and Pharmacy. He flashed the beam right, and noticed that one of the creatures was leaning against the wall, its forehead on its forearm. It was female, again dressed in the same garb as the speedy infected that had attacked Billy outside. It saw the light beam and turned to face him. Billy shone the light in its face and it shielded its eyes. “Quit it,” it said.

  “Patient?” asked Billy unperturbed.

  “What gave me away?” she replied. “The lack of shoes or this stunning attire I’m wearing?”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Nobody gives a shit. Now get that damn light out of my face.”

  “Really? That’s a crappy name. Your parents must have been real jerks.”

  The woman smiled at this and Billy lowered the light. “Name’s Ali. What are you doing here?”

  “I used to live here, but I didn’t get out much.”

  “I know how that feels,” she said in agreement.

  “Looking for Clozapine, you got any?”

  “Pharmacy is that-a-way,” she said and jerked her thumb over her shoulder, “but I wouldn’t go down there, it’s thick with those things, and one of them runs. They don’t care about me, but they might make a banquet out of you.”

  “Nope! They aren’t interested in me either!” Billy replied a little too enthusiastically.

  “Keep it down huh? They’ll hear us and start pounding again. Anyway, that fast one does care, and tried to get a piece of me, that’s why I’m in here. I was waiting for Doctor Purkayastha to come back. He locked me in this corridor and went to let the twos and threes out of their cages. He’s been gone a long time.”

  “Why did he lock you in the corridor?”

  “All three doors need an access key to get in or out.”

  “What about the fours?” Billy asked.

  “Huh?”

  “The level fours, are they still locked up?”

  “I hope so, they’re just as bad as the deads. Kill you just for fun, and wear your ribcage as a Sunday hat. I looked in the windows a while ago, and it looked like the fours were still locked up.” She indicated a row of security windows, ten or so inches square, with steel mesh covering them, a few inches above the heavy door to the level four wing.

  Billy looked a tad sad at her comments. He nodded and stared at the floor. When he looked back up, Ali was looking at him funny. Realization hit her like a bug on a windshield.

  “Why do you need Clozapine?” she asked quickly.

  Billy smiled. “Us level fours are harder to control with the sissy drugs. We need something a mite stronger.”

  “Oh shit… listen, I didn’t…”

  “Relax,” interrupted Billy, “you’re safer with me than alone, especially if I’m zoinked on my meds.”

  “How long have you been off your meds?”

  “Almost twenty-four hours now.”

  “Then I’m hardly safe!” she exclaimed. “But you’re right, we need to get out of here, and I’m not going with you unless you dose. But won’t the cloze turn you into a drool-fool?

  “Nope, I’m in the top two percentile for that. Works differently on me, I’ll be up and at-em in no time.”

  There was a heavy thud at the door at the far end of the corridor behind them, followed by a wet slap on the little window. A gore splatter covered the glass now. Pounding started on the other side of the door, and faint moans could be heard.

  “Is that the way your doctor went?” he asked, pointing to the now bloody window.

  “Yeah, and that’s why I wanted to be quiet,” said Ali. “That damn pounding is gonna drive me nuts…”

  They looked at each other and both erupted into laughter.

  “Do you like Bugs Bunny?” he asked her in between guffaws.

  “Can’t live without him. What’s your name?”

  “Billy. Let’s get my meds.”

  She stopped laughing immediately. “Gimme a gun,” she said and pointed at his pistols.

  “Fine. How many down there?” he asked nodding his chin at the ominous double doors.

  “Lots.”

  Billy nodded silently, and the duo approached the doors.

  8

  A small group of thugs stood around a desk, intermittently pointing at a map. The map was old and beaten up, but it was clearly a map of the area between San Francisco and Pablo Bays, with a large inset of a detailed photo of Alcatraz

  “What if we hit ‘em from the north?” one asked.

  “No. No, they’ll see us coming for sure, and the hill is easily defensible,” Doc Murda replied. “From the west is where they’ll be looking all the time, back toward the city. The East is too far around to circle. It’ll have to be from the south. Also, I’m afraid, gentlemen, that the only way to do this is to attack by night.”

  No one said a word.

  “But…” one of the thugs started.

  “I know. The creatures are much more active at night, and they don’t seem to need to see to find us as we do them. It’s been barely two days, and the city is dead, but if we want that island, and what’s on it,” this brought snickers and murmurs of assent from around the table, “then we need to surprise them. We will also need a few boats of moderate size to transport our little army.”

  Doc Murda walked to the large windows of the warehouse and looked down at the docks, forty feet below. He stared hard at the docks and made a decision.

  “There’s a tug boat down there that will work nicely. G, take Ratt. Pick three other soldiers and go clear that tug.”

  “Cake,” said a self-assured looking tough. “Let’s go Ratt.”

  A skinny black man with a pick in his huge afro suddenly looked terrified. “Doc, can’t we…”

  “No, we can’t.” Murda stopped Ratt’s pleas before they could get started. “Pick three and leave immediately.” G shook his head and walked away. Ratt had seen Doc Murda’s rage when he was questioned, and knew better than to argue. Ratt turned on his heels and slunk after G.

  9

  “Hurry up Holmes, they comin’!” Ratt yelled.

  A voice yelled back from the wheelhouse: “Cast off then, and I’ll get her runnin’ while we’re floatin’ away from the dock.”

  Ratt and two of his cronies hurried to the port side of the large tug boat, the Crowley, and began to remove the heavy lines. Numerous dea
d were closing fast. The lines came off quickly, but the boat refused to budge.

  The staccato chatter of sub-machine-gun fire made Ratt dive to the deck, covering his head with his hands. He peeked out from his hiding place behind a huge cleat.

  “You gotta push us away, or we ain’t moving,” a calm voice told him. Ratt looked as one of his homies, Masta G, pointed the smoking barrel of an MP-5 past him and fired again.

  “What?!? I aint gonna--”

  “Then we’re all dead.” Masta G punctuated his statement with a third burst from the weapon.

  Twenty or so dead were within thirty feet. “FUCK!” yelled Ratt and jumped over the side of the Crowley. He put his feet against the side of the dock and pushed on the tug with all his might. The great steel hull didn’t budge. “Ricky, help him,” G said to another man.

  “Screw that, I ain’t--”

  G pointed the MP-5 at Ricky, “Now.”

  Ricky swallowed, but leapt over the side to help push. He took a potshot at one of the approaching dead and scored a lucky head shot. He stuck his automatic pistol in the front of his pants and mimicked Ratt’s motions. With both men were pushing, the tug began to inch away from the dock. Masta G stood on the edge of the deck and pointed his weapon down at both men. “Push until I tell you to stop.”

  Beads of sweat from the men fell to the gray boards of the dock as they heaved. Ratt tried to turn and look, but G told him to keep pushing.

  “Is they close?” Ratt begged.

  “No,” G replied, and fired again.

  “My fuckin’ ears, Holmes!” Ricky cried.

  “They’ll be eating your ears if you don’t push.”

  The boat was three feet from the dock when G raised his gun to fire again. One round was expelled, there was a click and the chamber remained open.

  “OK, get on.” G dropped the sub-machine-gun and pulled dual semi-automatic pistols, firing intermittently into the growing horde.