by Jeff Olah
To his left, the door that the young woman had disappeared through was still open, but only a few inches. She hadn’t hesitated, and also appeared to know the building like the back of her hand.
He didn’t.
The front doors were no longer an option and hadn’t been for the last few minutes. It was going to be the kitchen or the door to his left, neither instilling even a single ounce of confidence. Owen quickly ran through each route in his head, at least what he imagined they’d be. He had never actually entered this building before this morning, so anything was possible.
The kitchen might be a dead end, literally. There were too many what-ifs and without knowing the layout, he’d be running blind.
That left him with only one option—follow the woman through the door and into the hall. It looked to be better lit than the restaurant and although it was as much a mystery as the kitchen, the woman had appeared confident in her decision.
But again, it really wasn’t a choice at all.
Owen slipped quickly between the tables he’d positioned between himself and the crowd. He looked back toward the entrance and realized he may have miscalculated his place in the dining room. Three of those most near had broken free of the others and now seemed to be headed for the same door leading to the hall.
If he made it at all, it was going to be close.
Without slowing, Owen dipped to his left, and stayed along the wall. He kept one eye on the trio approaching from the right—moving much more quickly than he was comfortable with—and the other on the door dead ahead. With the Glock 17 in his left hand, he extended his arm and tracked a short male Feeder wearing a bright colored vest. He knew what firing even one round would mean, although he also understood that he may not have a choice.
Ten feet from the door, he again encountered the overturned table that had begun this whole mess. He slowed just long enough to push it to the right and into the path of the beast closing in on him. A makeshift roadblock he was hoping would give him at least a few additional seconds.
But it didn’t.
The small man hit the table like a running back plowing through an off-balance defender, already in a dead sprint. It only slowed the beast for a fraction of a second and appeared to anger him. The former city worker was missing a good portion of his right cheek and in opening his mouth to growl, spit out more than a few broken teeth.
Owen reached the door as the man in the orange vest rounded the base of the table and lunged for him. He made it over the threshold, but was thrown across the partially lit corridor and into the wall.
Reflexively bringing his legs up into his chest, Owen prepared himself to take the hit he was sure was coming. With his eyes pinched closed and his heart thundering in his chest—mostly from pure adrenaline—he placed his elbows against the wall and kicked up.
Nothing.
The short male Feeder had run into the door and fell backward into the mess of chairs six feet away. Owen scrambled to his feet, lining up a shot, as the next two began to claw their way over and around the fallen former city worker.
He was given an opening, a brief window to put some distance between himself and the crowd. The hall ahead was empty; however, he was still unclear of the layout. It wasn’t ideal, but for now it was all he had.
With the Glock trained on the door, he pushed himself up the wall, took a hesitant step forward, and peered back into the restaurant.
A female Feeder in a pair of tattered jeans and a blood-soaked leather jacket was having trouble getting by the short man who’d become entangled in the chairs. She stumbled forward and fell face first into the door frame.
Before he could react, there were two more behind her. Then another three. They were bottlenecking at the door, but also pushing the woman forward. Owen wasn’t going to be able to get the door closed. He cursed under his breath, raised the Glock, and turned toward the far end of the hall.
Kevin’s never going to let me forget this.
Three doors ahead. Three more decisions.
He didn’t like it. Each would lead to a first-floor suite and the odds of them being flooded with the same ravenous beasts were astronomically high. He needed to get to the second or third floors, get a better view of the street, and find another way out. But that would mean navigating the sixty-plus feet through the darkened hall and praying the stairwell was clear.
Owen didn’t like his odds.
But again, he was left without a choice.
Twenty feet from the door to the stairs and the smell was almost unbearable. He instinctively flinched at the acrid stench and took two steps back. He turned to the right, lurched forward—his torso convulsing—and emptied the contents of his stomach out onto the stained concrete floor.
The smell of his own vomit mixed with whatever was coming from the stairs had him down on his knees continuing to dry-heave for the next few minutes. As he crawled away from the mess he’d made and got back to his feet, the crowd from the restaurant had found their way out into the hall and were maybe twenty seconds from again reaching him.
Owen wiped his face with his sleeve, and without contemplating the source of the repulsive odor, jogged the short distance to the stairs. In through his mouth, he filled his lungs with air, raised his weapon, and slowly began to pull open the door.
A sizeable crash came from somewhere over his right shoulder. It sounded as though it may have originated from one of the three doors further back in the hall. Although, with his visibility now cut to less than ten feet, there was no way to be sure.
He just needed to move.
Owen held his breath, pinned the door back, and scanned the landing and the first set of stairs. A pair of Feeders lay half way between the first and second floors, their bodies a mangled mess of broken bones and disfigured flesh. They were in bad shape, although their arms and mouths were still completely functional.
Leaning in, he scoped the next flight of stairs.
Same story, same problem.
Pinned between the railings were five more. They fought to move away from one another, now turning their focus toward the sounds coming from the hall.
Okay, so this is bad.
Another thunderous roar came from back in the hall, the shockwave pulsating against the wall at his back. Less than a second later, a voice shot through the darkened hall. It was faint and somewhat muffled, but certainly recognizable.
“Owen, get back.”
6
His friend was out of breath and looked much older than he had just a few minutes before. He was hunched forward and wiping his batons on his pant legs, not yet ready to make eye contact with Owen or even acknowledge what a colossal mistake in judgement had taken place back on that rooftop.
With one final swing, Kevin eliminated the last of the Feeders and then motioned back toward the second door on the right. “Let’s go.”
“Thank you.” Owen knew it wouldn’t help, but felt the need to say it all the same.
“Right now … we have to go … right now. The street is filling up … and the gate’s still unlocked.”
Kevin led the way back through a sea of downed bodies, each face down and pushed into one another. Owen stopped counting at ten. They moved quickly back through the open door, sidestepping a massive commercial refrigerator and then a large oak cabinet that lay in a heap in the middle of the room.
Owen followed Kevin toward the entrance, still feeling the need to cut the obvious tension. “This was all you?”
Kevin dipped between a pair of folding tables and increased his pace, but didn’t respond.
Owen wasn’t really expecting him to.
They hit the door, crossed the street, secured the gates, and quickly made their way back to the entrance to Cecil’s.
Kevin finally turned, still attempting to catch his breath. He stood in front of the doors for what seemed like a full minute, then looked back at Owen. “This is the last time I’m going to say this, and it’s more than you even deserve right now.” He p
aused for a long moment, before stretching the stiffness from his shoulders, and continuing. “I’m sorry for the things that are happening in your head and don’t completely understand it, so just know that.”
Owen nodded. “Thank you, I appreciate—”
“But now you need to stop using it as an excuse.”
Owen took a step forward, sensed a change in his friend’s tone. “What?”
“You need to figure it out, pack that stuff away. There’s no room for it anymore. I’m sorry, that’s just the way it is now.”
“Easier said than—”
Kevin cut him short once again. “No, you don’t have a choice.”
Owen felt his pulse beating in his temple. “I’m not sure who it is you think I am, but before eight days ago, I couldn’t tell you the last time I actually fired a weapon. I’ve only been in a handful of fist fights, and most were when I was a kid. I’m not usually the guy who runs toward danger, and I’m definitely not some testosterone-fueled super soldier who’s been prepping his whole life for this. I’m just a normal guy from the city.”
“I’m not asking you to be anything that you’re not, I’m just telling you that this version isn’t the one that’s going to keep his family safe. That’s probably hard to hear, but it’s something you need to hear all the same.”
Owen let out a breath and slowly shook his head. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Kevin stepped back, peeked inside, and then closed the doors. “Let me ask you a question.”
Owen just stared back.
“Your wife … you think she’d ever give a guy like me a chance?”
The beating in his temple was back, now like a jackhammer. “Excuse me?”
“She’s a very attractive woman, you’re a lucky man.”
“What are you doing?”
Kevin leaned back, rested against the wall beside the doors, and lowered his voice. “She seems like the type that would enjoy a man who takes charge, someone who puts her in her place every now and again.”
Owen stepped up onto the concrete path, now less than foot from Kevin. “I’m going to pretend that you’re having a mental breakdown or that I didn’t hear you right.”
“How does she like it? Rough … a little dirty? Or maybe she’s into—”
Owen was now face to face with the man he called a friend ten minutes earlier. “I don’t know what it is you’re doing, but I’m only going to tell you once … you need to stop. If this is some sort of demented payback for having to come save my ass, then I get it. But it’s over, I already thanked you.”
Kevin now leaned in, a heavy smirk sliding across his face. “I’m going to take her from you, your kids too. And as a matter of fact, I’m going to let Lucas have your daughter. I think they’d make a great couple, don’t you?”
Owen pulled back and swung hard in an upward motion. He hit Kevin on the right side of the face, throwing him back into the doors, and then straight-away to the concrete. Before he had a chance to give thought to what he was doing, he was on top of the larger man, pummeling him with a series of lefts and rights, each more intense than the one before.
The world around seemed to fade as Owen slid onto one knee and dropped his left elbow into Kevin’s eye. He landed three more strikes to the same area, and then sat back as a thin line of blood ran out of the wound and onto the walkway below. Out of breath, Owen quickly shifted his weight and brought back his right arm, preparing the next blow.
There came the sound of shuffling feet and then as the doors rocked inward, his wife stood staring down at him.
“OWEN!”
He was out of breath and filled with adrenaline. He looked from Natalie to Kevin, and then back to Natalie. “He … uh …”
“WHAT IN THE HELL IS GOING ON?”
“We … uh … I don’t.”
Kevin slid out from under Owen. He wiped at his eye and then offered a quick nod. And then turning to back to Natalie, took in a slow breath through his nose. “We were just working through a few things. You know, guy stuff. And your husband is kind of a badass.”
Natalie looked out toward the street, then back to Kevin and finally Owen. “You’re both idiots.” But before either could respond, she disappeared back inside.
Owen sat back, stared through the doors for a moment, and then slowly turned to Kevin. He kept his voice low but firm, without an ounce of hesitation. “If you ever speak that way about my family again, I’ll—”
“Easy partner, I didn’t mean a single word of it.”
“What?”
“How’d it feel, you know, having me say those things about Natalie, about Ava?”
“You’re kidding right?”
Kevin got to his knees, started to stand. “No, I want to know exactly what you were thinking as I was digging in. What thoughts were running through your mind?”
“Honestly, I was thinking about the possibility that I may have to kill you.”
“Good.”
Owen also stood. “Good?”
“Yeah, you remember that feeling? You think you’ll remember it five days from now, five weeks, five months?”
“Probably gonna remember it a hell of a lot longer than that.”
“Then you know.”
Owen paused. He lowered his head but kept his eyes locked on Kevin, and in particular the line of blood running from the corner of his right eye. “This was a test?”
“No, not exactly. More like a gift.”
“A gift?”
“I wanted to see if there was someone else in there, someone who’d be able to do what’s going to need to be done. Someone that’s going to think and not just react.”
“I’m still not seeing it.”
Kevin offered a half smile. “Those thoughts you had, the dark ones. The ones about your family, and what you’d do to protect them. I want you to remember that, every single time you’re thinking of doing something stupid like you did this morning”
His friend was right.
It wasn’t a method Owen would have used, although its effectiveness was undeniable. It seemed to unlock something, an unrestrained anger he wasn’t completely aware he possessed. “I understand what you tried to do here, and why you did it, but I’m not sure it’s something I can just turn on and off like a light switch.”
“You’re gonna need to try.”
7
Harper Rhyes checked the hall once again. She took her time closing the door, admiring her handiwork before moving back across the suite and standing alongside the window. The group from down the block had long since disappeared into the four-story structure, and there had been no sign of the men since one of them chased her away earlier that morning.
It had been six days since leaving her apartment and two since she’d had anything to eat. Other than a warm can of soda and a few cups of tap water, she also hadn’t had any liquids either. Her mouth felt like a warm trash can and probably smelled even worse. Her stomach hurt even more today than it did yesterday and although she had it wrapped, her right knee began to swell once again.
She needed a break, just a few hours to get some sleep. Even a twenty-minute power nap sounded like a fantasy; however, she wasn’t quite sure she was ready to do what she knew she’d have to do to make that happen.
From behind, the floorboard creaked. Harper didn’t want to turn. She was near her breaking point and needed a moment to just collect herself.
“Harper, come here sweetheart.”
Her grandmother’s voice was weaker than even just a few hours before. She didn’t like what that said, but given their current circumstances, her options were limited.
Harper dabbed the corner of her eyes, took a slow breath, and turned to face the woman who had helped raise her. “You’re awake.”
The room had cooled considerably as the sun began to fade into the western horizon. And as Harper crossed the hardwood floor, she lifted a fleece blanket from the chair next to the window and went to her grandmothe
r.
“How’s your head?”
“I’m fine.”
For seventy-three, Cookie Rhyes was usually much more vibrant than others at least ten years younger. Before the world went to hell, she made it to the gym five times a week and had recently started training for an obstacle course run. Her endurance and strength were never in question, although with having only a few hundred calories the day before, she was like a shell of her former self.
“I’m going to find something for us to eat,” Harper said. “I promise.”
Her grandmother sat up in the recliner where she’d spent the better part of the last several days, pulled the blanket up to her neck, and smiled wide. “I know you will sweetheart. But really, I’m fine. Us old folks don’t need all that much. You should try to find something for yourself. You need to eat.”
Harper was typically able to match Cookie’s enthusiasm, but today was different. She was too exhausted to care and too hungry to find the right words. “Tomorrow.”
“Okay baby.”
“I’ll go further out, maybe try that bagel place two streets over.”
Cookie looked toward the window. “How about those people at the end of the block, don’t you think—”
“I don’t know.” She knew how the question was going to end. Her grandmother had been asking the same thing for the last three days.
“Harper, we’re going to have to trust someone at some point. Not everyone out there is bad. And you know we can’t do this alone.”
“Yeah,” Harper dropped her head, “but after what those men did, I’m not sure I’m ready to trust anyone else.”
“I don’t think we have a choice. We won’t make it out here all by ourselves.”
Harper knew they needed help, that they couldn’t do this alone, but for the last few days she felt it was better to be safe than sorry. She’d always been a bit skeptical of the intentions of others, even before the world fell. But now, after what she’d witnessed those three men in the BMW do to that family, she thought it might be better to just crawl into a hole and never come out.
