by R. K. Weir
"Maisie!" I hiss, but she either doesn't hear or chooses to ignore me.
What the hell is she doing? The damn kid is going to get herself killed. Then I remember my thought from earlier. Does her warped view of the world let her see the infected under a different light? A light that overlooks the disease and focuses on the humanity. Does she really see them just as people?
I'm not willing to find out.
I lean Gale against a car and take off running after her. Something catches my elbow and I think it might be Gale trying to pull me back because he's stuttering something out as well, but I don't have the time to stop and see what it is. Maisie's almost reached the infected, her free arm extending out to give it a hug. It's beginning to turn towards her now, its own arms reaching up to greet hers.
"Timmy!" she shouts, just as my hands grip her shoulders and tug her back. The extension cord of her lamp whips around and entangles itself between our legs, catching us in a snare that's about to trip us over. She has the good sense to reel it in before it does.
The infected's full attention has centered on us now. I just manage to push Maisie aside before its nails dig into the skin of her forearm. She falls to the ground, almost crushing the lamp beneath her. The infected turns its attention towards me. I throw my arms out and slam my hands against its chest, knocking it back several steps.
Only now do I realize that I'm weaponless. The metal rod was lost with the bandit when he fell to his death and in my haste, I left the handgun behind. Since there were no bullets left, I didn't think it worth keeping. In hindsight I recognize I could have used the butt of it as a club. The other two bandits had nothing on their corpses either. Now I only have my hands, which find themselves curled around the infected's neck in an effort to keep it away.
It’s growling and thrashing wildly like a rabid animal, white foam frothing at its lips with strings of saliva swinging out in every direction. It feels like a lifetime since I've dealt with the infected, when in reality it's only been . . . what? A few days? You'd think I'd be used to the sight of them by now but they're just as horrifying as the first time I saw them.
Maisie has picked herself up and is shouting at me. "What are you doing, Logan? That's not how you hug someone!"
The infected is snapping at my neck and she thinks I'm trying to give it a hug! The idea is so ludicrous that I find myself, not for the first time, wondering if it's really possible for her to be this mad, or if she's just been acting. She makes no move to intervene though, only squeezes her lamp closer to her chest, so I focus all my attention back on the infected.
Gray eyes meet mine before I push harder against its neck and it goes tumbling to the ground. I'm just about to grab a tuft of its greasy hair so that I can bash its head against the pavement when Gale yells something at me. The word is so stuttered and panicked that I don't understand what he wants until I turn and see him offering me a knife. I take it from him and swing it round quickly, stabbing it into the skull of the infected before it has a chance to get up.
With a squelching crunch I take the knife out, slick with blood. The infected drops lifelessly onto the road and the three of us stand for a moment, panting. Two new thoughts enter my mind during this time and I turn to Gale looking for an answer.
"You had a knife?" I ask.
His eyes widen and he stutters out a, "Y-yes."
"But you chose to throw bottles when I was about to get my head bashed in?" Gaze diverting to the ground, he struggles to form a response. In the end, all he can muster is a shrug. I suppose I can't be too angry with him. He may not have the courage to use a knife, but at least he mustered enough to throw those bottles. Without that spark of bravery I wouldn't be here now. I turn towards Maisie next.
"You called him Timmy?" I ask, using the knife to point to the infected at my feet. "Was he one of the people living in the shopping center?" It would confirm my suspicions of what I read in the journal, that Maisie is the strange girl referenced in one of the entries.
I wait for her to answer, but she's clutching the lamp to her chest, breathing so heavily I think she might be on the verge of a panic attack. "You killed him!" she cries. "Dead! You killed him dead! He's dead!"
So it's true, then. The lens she views the world through hides the infected, like wolves in sheep's clothing. To her, they really are just ordinary people. A part of me wants to stop now, explain to her that they aren't, help her understand. But even that part of me is hard pressed to do so. Despite the amount of distress that Maisie is in, getting to the museum is a more urgent matter, because I have no idea what kind of trouble Stella and Rocket are in. We're close by, too. Only another two streets or so.
In the gentlest way I can, I tell Maisie this. She just shakes her head. I try to coax her down the street, get her to start walking again, but she remains glued to the spot. There isn't time for this. I'm about to start shouting at her when I realize this has achieved nothing in the past. Instead, I turn to Gale.
"Take her into one of the shops and calm her down, I have to get to the museum," I tell him. Of course, this command sends him into a state of distress as well.
"You're leaving us?" he squeaks.
"I'll come back as soon as I find Stella and Rocket." This answer doesn't console him much. I consider giving him the knife, but I know he won't use it. I also know that I will.
"But I—"
"Goddammit! Just do it, Gale!" I snap. There's an image of a clock in my mind. All the hands are ticking, but they're slowing down. Once they stop I'll be too late. "Just take her and go!"
Too much time has already been wasted. I take note of what street we're on so I can come back for them, but I don't wait to see if Gale does as I've asked. Splitting us up might not be the best idea, especially when it involves leaving these two to fend for themselves, but I can't think of any other option. I just need to get Stella and Rocket from the museum. Once I have them, know they're safe, we can regroup and think of a plan.
For now, though, a sense of urgency is restraining my mind from forming any course of action. My head is racing but panic is forcing every thought into a collision. I just focus on running, my speed confined to a slow jog because my body can't forge the energy needed to go any faster. Once I round a bend in the road and the museum comes into sight though, it doesn't matter how fast I'm going. What's in front of me turns my legs to stone.
Hundreds of infected are gushing through the open doors of the museum, spilling down the steps and streaming out into the streets. There are so many of them, as if the entire city is contained inside. More just keep coming out. They're breaking off in every direction, flooding the roads, moving as fast as they can. It's as if they're fleeing. The further they get from the museum, the more interspersed they become. A group of them are moving in my direction, but I'm far out enough on the fringes that there are gaps between them, large enough for me to dodge any attacks.
This explains where the infected man – Timmy I think Maisie called him – came from, but it doesn't explain why they're coming from the museum. How they're coming from the museum. I was inside there only a few hours ago. Surely I would have heard them. How could I not have? My stomach drops when I think that somewhere inside that building are Rocket and Stella.
Am I too late?
I shove the thought from my mind. They're in there, holed up in a spare room, safe behind a locked door. I just need to get to them.
My options are limited. Hide, wait for the infected to spread out more. But that will take too long. I could try going round, find a back door. That will take too long as well. I'd have to keep adjusting my path further and further outward to avoid clashing into them. I'm struggling to think of anything else when I see it. A small gap forming between them, almost a perfect line leading straight to the front doors.
It's an act of suicide, but I don't think twice about it. My legs start moving on their own accord. In no time at all I'm in the thick of things, completely surrounded. Arms are flailing out at me, grabb
ing tufts of my shirt, my bag, raking across my face. I'm retaliating with the knife, slashing out at limbs, stabbing into whatever I can.
Throughout all this I keep moving, staying on course, the gap quickly closing ahead of me. Whatever infected steps in my way, I barrel into and knock to the side. Most of them are so thin they're practically weightless. I've just reached the steps when a flash of blue catches my eye. For some reason my gaze locks onto it. It's a dress, torn and bloody but still as bright as the sky. Its wearer is concealed by the mass of bodies in front of it, but when a break appears and I get a good look at her, I hesitate.
My mind makes the connection instantly. It's the little girl from the journal. The one who made everyone smile. That would mean . . . these are the people from her camp. The people who cleaned up the city. Here, all this time, locked in the museum.
Did the Gas Man have the same fate intended for us?
The thought is cut off by a sharp pressure on my shoulder. I don't have the time now to inspect whether its from a grip or a bite, I just lunge forward, out of its reach. This causes me to trip on the steps, to leave me scrambling frantically the rest of the way up. I count myself lucky when I reach the doors and there are no more infected pouring out of them.
A hand has grabbed hold of my bag. There's just enough time for me to twist around, stab at it with the knife until it lets go, and then slam the door shut. I rest against the wood for only a second before realizing the other entry doors along the wall are still open. I rush to shut them all, barely having the time to shove the infected back before they cross over the threshold. By the time I reach the last door two have already found their way in. I shove one into the other so they both go tumbling to the ground and slam the door shut before anymore can get in.
The two infected on the ground are having such a hard time picking themselves up that I decide to check myself over before dealing with them. Head-to-toe I'm covered in blood, like I've been bathing in the stuff. It makes it difficult to search out any wounds, but besides the general ache that has been plaguing my body for a while now, I don't feel any pain. I slip a hand under the collar of my shirt and sweep my fingers over my shoulders and back. When I don't find any broken skin, I breathe out a sigh in relief.
The breath is quickly caught in my throat when a door on the right side of the room props open. I'm about to charge towards it, to slam it shut, when it swings open fully and two people step out. Neither of them are Rocket or Stella. They aren't infected either. One of them is a stranger, but the other is the Gas Man. Even though the sight of him fills me with rage, a slimmer of hope comes with it. Because if he survived, then I'm certain now that Stella and Rocket have as well.
They stop walking as soon as they spot me, surprise flickering across both their faces. I have no intention of speaking to either of them. All I see are murderers. Murderers who took strong, ambitious people, and turned them fearful. Only to then turn them into infected and lock them in a building afterwards. The image of the little girl enters my mind and a shiver runs up my spine.
My grip on the knife tightens. It's already slick with blood, and soon it will coated with a fresh layer of theirs. I'm about to start running towards them when a blur of movement catches in the corner of my eye. The infected on the floor have managed to organize themselves enough to pounce. I turn towards them just in time, right before one of their hands have reached my neck. Swiping its arm away, I thrust the knife up and through its jaw. The blade is long enough to reach the brain. When I pull it out, the infected falls lifeless to the ground.
A quick glance over my shoulder proves that the Gas Man and his friend are unconcerned by my presence. Maybe they think two infected are enough to take me out. If that's the case, they have a big surprise coming for them. They aren't even watching me. They're walking towards the information desk, their attentions drawn to something behind it.
I make quick work of the second infected. It barely has the strength to lift its own arms. Once its body lies still with the other one, I turn and begin stalking towards the two men. Only once I'm a few feet away from the desk do their eyes lift up and they acknowledge me.
"Well it's about time you got here!" the Gas Man snaps.
"Yeah, we coulda used your help ten minutes ago," the bandit at his side says.
"He's always late, I should have fired him a long time ago," the Gas Man says to him.
What? Their conversation throws me off so much that some of the rage actually drains from me. My gaze locks with the Gas Man and it's clear from his eyes that he's trying to convey something to me. Only, I have no idea what it is, and I don't care to play anymore of his games. For whatever reason, he's convinced his bandit friend that I'm of no threat to either of them. I don't care why, I just take the opportunity to stick my knife in the bandit's head while his guard is down. When his body hits the ground, the Gas Man looks at me.
"Well, you certainly did that a lot sooner than I expected. I had a whole story planned out and everything," he says. His tone is so nonchalant, so carefree that it infuriates me.
Knife raised, I step towards him, and that's when he snatches the shotgun up from his desk and aims it at me.
"Let's be reasonable about this now. If I wanted you dead I would have let Jared loose on you. Instead I told him a lie so you could sneak up and . . ." he looks down at the body, "do that to him. Aren't you the least bit curious as to why I would do that?"
"Not at all. Every word that comes out of your mouth is a goddamn lie."
"That's not true, if you can just let me explain myself—" He stops abruptly when another bandit interrupts us.
He's come from around the wall with the giant poster of the pharaoh, his face flushed and sweaty. "Has Peter gone barking m—" He's cut off not by the sight of me, but by the blast of the shotgun. I'm certain it's me that's been shot but it's his body that's thrown back several feet, entire torso painted a dark red before he's even hit the ground. It's all happened so fast that I'm thrown into a state of shock by it.
The Gas Man looks to me. "Now have I got your attention?"
If him killing a bandit didn't get my attention, seeing the power of that shotgun certainly has. I'm at a weird crossroads with rage, fear, confusion and an array of other emotions that leave me speechless, but I manage a nod. For the most part, I'm just surprised that it isn't me on the floor with a gaping hole in my chest. Underlying all this is a deep rooted desire to still kill the Gas Man though, despite whatever temporary alliance we seem to have forged here.
"We don't have much time, we need to help your friend."
This snaps me back to a state where I'm able to from words. "Where are they?"
"She's in a bathroom on the second floor. We have to hurry." He glances at the monitors on the desk. There are at least six in total, each screen displaying a division of numerous squares, broadcasting live surveillance footage. He must have at least three cameras in every room. In one of the squares I just manage to see the two of us, standing by the information desk.
His eyes are scanning over the monitors, but I'm not sure what he's looking for. Surely he doesn't have cameras installed in the bathrooms? He must find it though because he looks back at me. Whatever it is, it can't be good. The lines of his face have creased into a frown.
"Peter's already found her," he says.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Stella
The crashing thunder of a door being kicked in is what brings me back to consciousness. For a disorienting moment, I can't place where I am or how I got here. My head is hanging over a white slope that curves into a bowl. Only when I lift myself up and realize that it's a toilet do I remember everything. My fight with Peter. Him releasing the infected. The sound of a thousand footsteps echoing all around me.
I strain to listen now, but instead of hearing a thousand set of footsteps, I can only make out the light tread of one. They're in the bathroom. Of course they are, the sound of the door being thrown open is what woke me. Is the door to my stal
l shut? I lift myself up to check and that's when a wave of nausea washes over me. I can barely hold myself up long enough to confirm that the door is shut and locked before I'm slumped over the toilet again.
The inside of the toilet bowl is pristine. Looking into it is like looking down a perfectly formed valley of snow. There's no sign of vomit. I haven't been sick since I came in here. This is good, except, for all I know, I might have only been in here for five minutes. My head is aching like it's been split in two, and maybe it has. I reach a hand back and run it through my hair, over my scalp. Jagged lumps of dried blood crumble beneath my fingertips. None of it feels wet though. I register this as also being a good thing. If the wound has stopped bleeding it can't be too deep. The one along my forehead has scabbed over with dried blood as well.
So besides the nausea, for the most part, I'm alright. Even my vision, while opposed to the bright ceiling lights, isn't blurry anymore. I don't dare to think what could be going on internally though. My self-examination is cut short by the crashing of nearby stall doors being thrown open.
"Little girl, little girl," the soft echo of his voice makes my blood run cold. "Which stall are you in?"
There's silence, and then the sound of Peter's footsteps as he moves to the next stall. Another door is flung open, slamming against the wall and making me jump. How many are there until he reaches mine? Fighting the nausea, I hoist myself up and twist around so that I'm sitting on the toilet. I can't hold my head up for long though and soon it's between my knees. But at least this way I'm facing the door.
"Little girl, little girl," he coos again.
There's no doubt that he's doing this for the sole purpose of torturing me. All he would have to do to find me is look under the stall doors, see my feet and know exactly where I am. I wouldn't be standing on the toilet even if I could. He would find me eventually anyway.
