by D. J. Molles
With his free hand, he grabbed the rung of the ladder and began climbing, having to keep his body in tight to the ladder as he climbed so that he could fit the bulk of his body and Deuce’s through the hole in the ceiling. As they moved into the narrow space, Deuce began to buck violently against him, trying to break free.
“Keep it together, buddy,” Lee groaned, trying to keep his grip on the dog and on the railing, his arms shaking, feeling weak and used up.
A shattering boom. Stampeding footsteps.
Deuce’s paws moved spastically as he fought against Lee’s grip, the dog simultaneously moving against him and trying to claw his way up Lee’s torso towards the daylight only a few feet above their head.
Lee grit his teeth. “Come on, motherfucker!”
He slammed his back against the hole as though he were going to chimney up. He bent his torso so that his chest and stomach were a platform for the dog, and then hauled the panicked creature up onto him. With his back rigidly pressed against the wall, his legs creating counter pressure against the ladder, he let go of his grip and took hold of the dog with both hands, shoving him up towards the opening. His muscles screamed, cramped, didn’t want to cooperate.
Screeching from below. The sound of the chase.
Deuce’s front paws clutched at the roof as Lee pushed him up, his hind legs seeking purchase on Lee’s arms, his claws digging grooves into Lee’s skin.
Something pale and sinuous hit the ladder below him, sending reverberations up the rungs. Lee looked down, through the narrow gap between his arm and his torso, and he could see the dark, wild eyes staring up at him, the gaping, bloody mouth, the foul odor of it carried up and out by the suction of wind across the roof access.
The infected jumped onto the ladder and seized hold of Lee’s right ankle. Lee let out a shout of panic and slammed his foot down onto the thing’s face. The grip slackened on his ankle, but did not let go. Lee grit his teeth together and put everything he had into it. A spurt of black blood erupted from the infected’s face and splattered the white paint of the wall. It made an animal mewl and fell backward off the ladder, only to be trampled under the feet of three more infected, their wraith-like figures pushing and shoving for a grip on the ladder.
Lee pulled with his arms, pushed with his legs, climbed the last few rungs of the ladder and rolled onto the roof, his chest heaving, his stomach and intestines looping around each other in slippery knots. Deuce stood with his feet spread wide, a few paces from the roof access hatch and barked at it. The black hole in the roof growled back, as though it were the throat of some beast that Lee had just escaped from.
Lee struggled to sit up, a violent tremor working through him, something that he could not control. A dreadful feeling of weakness followed it, and he strangled and stuffed it back down. He would not be weak. He could not afford it, and would not let it poison his mind any more. Anger was his universe now. And it was a useful drug, breathing hot life into his trembling limbs, putting a fire in his cold gut, and masking all the pain and terror.
A hand clawed its way out of the roof access hatch and gripped the side. So pale that the skin seemed translucent, like the hide of some cave dwelling creature crawled out from under a rock. Lee slung the rifle from his back, sitting spread-legged just a few feet from the creature as it hoisted itself up out of the hatch. Its other arm ended abruptly in a scabbed and tattered stump just at the wrist. It reached for Lee with the hand that it no longer had and its mouth stretched open wide as though it already had a hold of Lee and was drawing him into its mouth.
Lee shot from the hip, pulled the trigger three times. The first round chipped a chunk of flesh from the infected’s bony shoulder, the second poked a hole in its throat, and the third took the right side of its face off as it toppled backward into the hole.
Lee followed it as quickly as his body could be forced to move. He couldn’t seem to stop breathing so hard, and the exhales came out in grunts and groans. He hit the roof access, kicked the hatch closed and realized that it only latched from the inside.
“Fuck…” he mumbled breathlessly.
Then something hit him from underneath. It beat violently at the hatch, nearly bouncing Lee off, and screamed at him. Lee hung onto the hatch, trying to make his body weigh enough to hold it down, but the thing underneath was incredibly strong, and it shoved up at him, nearly toppling him off the hatch.
Can’t sit here forever.
Lee got one foot up, tried to situate himself.
The hatch burst open, throwing him back a bit.
Three arms, four arms, five arms, scrabbling for purchase, all of them arching up and out of the hole like some arachnid creation cobbled together from human body parts.
Lee just pointed his rifle and shot. Blood and bone and flesh flew from limbs. A head appeared and was pulverized. On his hands and knees, Lee shoved the muzzle of the rifle into the hatch and kept firing, kept firing, until it seemed like he’d beaten the unholy creature back into its hole. Only as he felt the familiar and discomfiting sensation of the bolt locking back on an empty magazine did he come to his senses and pull his finger from the trigger.
He tingled all over.
The roof spun around him in lazy circles.
He slammed the hatch closed again and screamed at it, just a wordless sound of desperation. Pinpricks across his face. The sensation of hot and cold. He put his forehead against the hatch and closed his eyes, trying to stop the spinning, breathing so hard that gobs of frothy spittle cooled his lips.
He breathed shallowly, rapidly.
Don’t pass out! Don’t pass out!
Underneath the hatch, there was the sound of something wounded clinging to its last tethers of life. But nothing screamed at him, nothing screeched. Nothing battered itself against the underside of the hatch.
He rolled onto his back, still pinning the hatch closed. Stared up at a sky that was as blue as any he’d ever seen, though it shimmered and seemed to boil in his fevered state.
Am I hallucinating?
He brought the rifle up so it lay across his chest, stripped the old mag out, fished the new one out of his pocket and slammed it in. His fingers found the bolt release and it clunked forward, recharging the rifle.
I’m good to go. I’m good to go.
The sound of infected on the street seemed to shiver in the air, like the bustle of a crowd, but with something wrong in the pitch and timbre. The inflections were just meaningless jabber. Every nonsense syllable made strange and aggressive in their feral state. They didn’t screech though, didn’t chase anything or attack anything. Lee pictured them just milling about on the street, sniffing around for food and water like some giant pack of wild dogs.
Maybe they’re calm. Maybe they’ll go away.
He worked his tongue around his mouth, found it dry, his gums covered in paste, his lips crusted and flaking. He closed his mouth, forced himself to breathe through his nose, but the cold air stung his sinuses. He needed to calm this prickling feeling in his chest, the anger that made him waste an entire magazine. He needed to calm down.
And calmly, he thought to himself, I’m dying. This is me dying.
A bird flitted past the corner of his vision. It looked like it sparkled in the air. Made him dizzy.
His head began to pound unmercifully, all the aches and pains returning as the adrenaline ebbed like a receding tide. He almost wanted the danger again, wanted to be thrust into it, so that it would kick that magic drug back into his veins.
This is me dying, but I’m not dead yet. I’ve got some time left. I will need to find water. I will need to find antibiotics. If I can find those things in the time I have left, then maybe I will get more time. That’s what’s important. Getting more time.
This is me dying, but I’m not dead yet.
“HAAAR-DEN!”
Lee hadn’t realized he’d closed his eyes. They shot open at the sound of the scream, his fingertips tingling. Had he been sleeping? How long had he been lying
there?
“Harden, you motherfucker, you hear me?”
Excited whimpers rippled through the horde of infected on the street as they heard the sound of human voices coming from nearby.
“You’re not gonna get away with this!” Shumate’s voice. Desperate. Out of his mind. “We know you’re up there! We’re gonna find you, you sonofabitch! You’re gonna die for what you did!”
Lee almost laughed. But the sound that came out of him was just a sad wheeze. And his expression was not one of humor, but rather a death’s head grin. Because it was all so fucking ridiculous.
In this collapsed world, the sociopath, the psychotic, the cold hearted killers and criminals, they would always survive. They would always be there. Because they were unfettered. They were unbound by such immaterial concepts as “Common Law.” After all, what were all the world’s great leaders and generals if not sociopaths and mass murderers, turned into heroes and forefathers by history’s love of a victor?
He was a fool. He had been on for some time now. Holding so desperately to his old morals and his outdated codes. Honor had brought him nothing but pain. He would not continue. He couldn’t, and still expect to live.
You cannot be what you were.
And Lee knew it was true. He knew it through and through, and he felt it like the loss of a limb because it was a part of himself that he was hacking off. The part that wanted to be “good” and “right.” But those parts of him were no longer useful to him. They’d become dead weight. And no matter how much he wanted them back, he could not have them back, just as you could not breathe life back into dead, gangrenous tissue. You had to cut it off before it killed the whole body.
Lee didn’t move. He stared up at the sky still, watching the slow movement of a small cloud as it made its way east. This degradation of morals was an infection in and of itself. The “bad guys” were the carriers and they infected the rest of the world with it. They made people like Lee do things he didn’t want to do. It wasn’t enough that he’d ripped a man’s throat out with his bare hands, or that he’d bashed a young woman’s brains in with his knee. It wasn’t enough. They were going to force him to kill them all.
Because they would never turn over with a “reasonable” amount of force.
They required brutality.
You cannot be who you were.
“You’re not leaving this town alive!” Shumate screamed, his voice cracking, going hoarse. “It’s just a matter of time!”
Lee knew exactly what Shumate meant. Eventually, the infected horde below would lose interest, or become distracted by something else, or night would fall and they would return to their den, wherever it was. Once they were gone, it would be Lee’s opportunity to escape from this rooftop, to find water, and hopefully medicine, before his fever cooked his brain and dehydration rendered him immobile.
Shumate was right. It was just a matter of time.
Lee closed his eyes again. Hugged his rifle. “We’ll see,” he breathed. “We’ll see.”
CHAPTER 15: MISINFORMATION
Angela laid the blanket out on the ground inside her shanty, pulled a folding knife from her pocket. Abby stood beside her, leaning on her mother and twisting about in the fidgety manner of all small children. Angela opened the knife and cut a hole in the center of the blanket—a small, rectangular affair, not meant for much more than to be draped over a couch.
With the cut made, she draped it over her daughter, putting the little blonde head through the slit she’d created so it hung on the girl’s shoulder’s like a poncho. Abby looked down at it and swished it back and forth, as though feeling out how drafty it was.
“Still cold,” she said, then swiped at her nose.
Angela smiled and rubbed her daughter’s shoulders. “It’ll do until I fix this one for you.” She picked up the small, black winter jacket and displayed the ragged hole in the elbow. She stared at it for a long time. Just another chore to do. It all felt like busy work. Like she was just biding her time. Like it was all just a bunch of distractions, trying to get her to stop thinking about the truth.
Stop thinking about Jerry.
Stop thinking about Bus.
Stop thinking about Lee.
The worst part was that none of it worked. Mothering Abby and Sam. Cooking meals. Mending clothes. Helping out with some of the chores around the compound. Like some domesticated dream that she was being forced to have. And all she wanted to do was wake up. Get out of this dream world. Take the action that needed to be taken.
Is any of this ever going to feel normal again? How long do I think I can fake it?
Abby tapped her shoulder. “You okay, Mommy?”
Angela forced a smile. “Yes, Honey. But you need to be more careful when you play.”
“It’s not torn that bad,” Abby touched the torn fibers of the jacket. “I can still wear it.”
“You’re just gonna make it worse.” Angela stood up. “It’s not like it was, Honey. We can’t just go to the store and buy you a new coat. We have to take care of our stuff now.”
“I know.”
The tarp that covered the front door swung aside and Sam poked his head in, the .22 rifle he’d got from Mr. Keith slung on his shoulder. It struck Angela how adult he appeared lately, always concerned for Abby, always serious. Oddly, he often asked Angela how she was doing, as though he felt that it was his responsibility to fill in for Lee.
“Sam,” Angela waved. She grabbed her own coat, put it on. Her fingertips went to her hip under her jacket, wanting to touch the cold metal of her gun, but it wasn’t there. She hadn’t got it back from Jerry when he’d let her out, and she had no inclination to ask him for it. “Where’s Mr. Keith?”
“I dunno,” Sam stepped through, looked behind him as though to make sure he wasn’t followed. In a lower voice, he stated ominously, “Talking to some people.”
Angela became still. She looked at the young man standing across from her, tried to take a reading from him, but his dark eyes let nothing on. God, he’s such a strange kid.
“Can I go play with Sam?” Abby pled. “I hate sewing.”
“You’re not sewing,” Angela rolled her eyes. “You’re watching me sew.”
“I hate watching you sew.”
Angela rubbed the fabric of her daughter’s torn coat, feeling a knot forming in her stomach. That little twinge of sharp pain every time the prospect of her child being in danger occurred to her. Was it safe for her to leave Angela’s side? She wanted the little girl with her, felt like she was more protected with her mother. But Abby wouldn’t understand why she couldn’t play with Sam. And Sam was old enough to watch her, wasn’t he?
She grit her teeth. “Okay…Sam, is that alright with you?” She prayed Sam would say he was busy with some other project. Some gross boy thing that Abby would not be interested in. Skinning rabbits or gutting fish or something.
But Sam just nodded. “Yeah, we can play soccer with the other kids.”
Abby looked relieved. “I’m good at soccer.”
Sam smiled. “You’re pretty good.”
Angela zipped up her jacket. “Sam, can I ask you to do something for me?”
“Yes?” Sam stuck a thumb in the strap of his little rifle.
Angela put a hand on his shoulder. “If Jerry or any of his guys try to come talk to you or Abby, you come straight to me or Mr. Keith, okay?”
Sam looked at her as though it were a strange request, but he nodded. “Okay.”
Angela watched the two kids exit the shanty, hand in hand. It’s gonna be okay. We’re all within earshot here. If anything happens…
She clutched her hands together. “Nothing’s going to happen.”
Angela left her shanty, wishing she had a way to lock it behind her. She felt open and exposed to this community that felt less like a community and more like strangers. Strangers who were neutral towards her at best. Openly hostile in some cases. So many of them were eating Jerry’s bullshit hook, line, and sinker, and
it made her clench her jaw until it hurt that people could be that stupid, that gullible.
But they weren’t all that way. There were a lot, but there were plenty that thought like Angela. And she was going to find them. She was going to find them and she was going to make this right. It was her responsibility. She had to take it.
“Angela!”
She raised her eyes from the gravel ground and found Jenny waving and jogging across The Square towards her. A hesitant smile played across Angela’s features. She raised a hand and waved, somewhat less enthusiastically than the former nursing student-turned-doctor. She looked around, saw that the few people in The Square hadn’t really paid them any mind.
“Hi, Jenny,” Angela said as Jenny drew close.
Jenny dodged all pretense and immediately put her arms around Angela, her voice thickening as it grew quiet. “I’m so, so sorry. I heard. I heard what happened. If you need anything…”
Angela’s smile turned grim. “I’m fine.”
When Jenny pulled away, there was the barest shimmer of tears in her eyes. “It’s horrible. I just can’t believe that Bus put you in that situation!”
Angela almost coughed. “What?”
“Holding you hostage…”
“Jenny!” Angela felt her face flush and fought the urge to slap the woman, as though she were a piece of machinery that had a stuck gear. Angela opened her mouth to speak, but took another glance around and this time found a pair of eyes watching them.
Greg, funny enough.
Jerry’s words jangled through her mind, harsh and reverberating like a cymbal crashed too close to her ears. Those men that do things for me might find you, Angela. Maybe in the middle of the night when you’re snug in your bed, cradling your daughter…
She turned quickly back to Jenny, found the woman staring with a perplexed expression that bordered on taking offense. As though the sharp tone had been completely unexpected, and obviously perceived as unnecessary.
“Angela…what’s wrong?”
Angela put an arm around Jenny, clutching the upper sleeve of her jacket perhaps just a little too hard. “Come with me. We need to speak in private.”
