by Jeff Olah
He watched the muscles of his friend’s face tighten and go limp. It appeared as if Kevin was on the brink of consciousness, rocking back and forth through the agonizing waves of pain. He started to arch his back, then pulled his hamstrings off the desk, a seizure-like tremor running the length of his body.
And then it got really bad.
Kevin opened his eyes, but it didn’t appear that he was able to bring the scene into focus. He started with a scream that shook the walls. There were a few seconds of nothing, his head craning side to side, and then came the big man’s strength.
It took everything Owen had. Kevin slammed his rear end back down on the desk and twisted violently to the left, his right shoulder torqueing in the opposite direction as Owen nearly lost his grip.
Owen planted his right foot, braced it against the wall, and forced Kevin back to the desk. His friend shouted something incoherent, spat a mouthful of blood all over himself, and then turned his hands over, trying to push himself up.
Travis noticed it at the same time, their monumental mistake. “NOOOOO!”
Kevin was back, all the way back. He obviously didn’t know where he was or what was happening to him, but it appeared that he understood the pain. He understood that his friend was holding him down and that on some level the others were there to help. “Owen …”
“Wait, wait, wait buddy, we need you to hold still.”
Kevin was trying to pull his legs back, his arms into his side. Although with each second that passed, he fought less. The big man’s strength was beginning to fade. First his torso and then his lower body. Owen imagined him as a greyhound—unbelievable focus and power, but without the stamina to match.
Owen backed off by twenty percent. He still held tight to the tops of Kevin’s shoulders, but was no longer using everything he had to keep his friend down. There were a few minutes where he just breathed in and out, waiting for the second wave. However, when it never came, he slowly turned to Paul. “How long before we can—”
“I’m done.” The man with the grey beard moved the plastic tray aside and reached for a fresh gauze pad. His face was damp with sweat, the muscles of his forearms now engorged. He soaked the center of the pad in iodine, ran it gently over the sutures, and began dressing the wound.
Kevin’s eyes were open, but he seemed to be somewhere else. He licked his lips and took in a deep breath, filling his chest. And then slowly letting it out, he looked up at Owen. “What happened?” His voice was more normal now. His words came out slower, but closer to what it was before. “Where are we?”
Owen let up, moved around the opposite side of the desk. “We were attacked.” He didn’t feel the need to lie to his friend. He couldn’t really see the point, not anymore. “I think it was someone you knew from before.”
Paul had begun cleaning up and Travis cleared the room completely.
Kevin rolled his head to the right and looked toward the door. He blinked a few times and tightened his fists, the pain evident on his face. “Declan.”
It sounded more like a statement than a question, but as Owen started to respond, his attention was pulled back and to the right. Zeus sat just inside the door, looking first at Owen and then beginning to pant as he saw Kevin.
Paul finished wiping the top of the desk and the floor. He kept his eye on the massive German Shepherd as he scooped everything into a plastic bag, tossed in his gloves, and then tied it off at the top. “You said he’s friendly?”
Owen nodded, but then deferred to his friend.
Kevin carefully lowered his right arm over the side of the desk and snapped his fingers. Zeus trotted quickly to his side, again dropped to a sitting position, and licked his hand. “Where are we?”
Paul looked like he was going to respond, but Owen stepped forward. “There was another man, he helped us when we were out there. We would’ve never made it off that street. He brought us here.”
Kevin’s eyes were still only half open. He looked like he was on the verge of letting sleep take him, now resting his hand on Zeus’s head. “And?”
“And,” Owen said, “this is Paul. He just saved your life.”
28
Declan didn’t like this part of town. The streets were narrow, the buildings seem closer together, there were more coffee shops than in any other part of the city, and too many high-priced cafes with open patios that lined the sidewalks. He didn’t like it two weeks ago and now that the streets were filled with Feeders, he was on the verge of driving the BMW directly into the crowd.
But instead, he pulled to a stop alongside a mint-colored Volkswagen Beetle and cut the engine. With his hands still gripped tight to the steering wheel, he leaned forward and looked at himself in the rearview mirror, almost certain he could see his pulse beating against the left side of his neck.
“Not now, not here.”
When he felt that his heart rate had returned to normal, Declan pulled the keys from the ignition and sank into the driver’s seat. The closest of the horde were thirty yards away—more on the opposite side of the street—and had yet to notice him or his vehicle. They had their backs to him and seemed obsessed with whatever was beyond the brown delivery truck dead ahead.
Wait them out or go around?
He didn’t like either option. Although he liked spending the night in the cramped luxury SUV even less. It was definitely preferable to laying his head on the sidewalk or even a park bench; however, he made himself a promise after the first few nights he spent running from the crowds, and for now he wasn’t going back on that, no matter what he had to do.
Declan reached into the back seat, took a long pull of water from a discarded bottle, tossed it into the passenger’s seat, and reached for his weapon. Stepping out, he took care to close and lock the door without making any noise and then jogged to the sidewalk.
He calculated the crowd at somewhere close to fifty, but it was just a guess, as he couldn’t see past the first two or three rows. They continued to close in around the delivery truck, now moving in and around the driver’s compartment.
Before tucking the pistol into his waistband, Declan checked the load—twelve rounds. He had more fire power in the rear hatch, but for now he was secure in the fact that he’d at least make it into the building.
Fifty yards to the door. Without any unforeseen complications, he could cover that in seven or eight seconds. Less than he needed, but not by much. There was also the door, but from his vantage, it looked like it had been propped open.
Maybe his luck was about to change.
He took another minute to just watch the horde. They moved in smaller groups here. Twos and threes, less like the crowds that flooded the streets of the old garment district. But these moved at a quicker pace—it seemed as if these Feeders were different, newly turned maybe. He wasn’t sure and couldn’t be from this distance.
How to time his run? He could wait to see if they decided to move away from the delivery truck. Or maybe just pick a spot on the opposite sidewalk and give it his best. He was exhausted, pissed off and at present, wasn’t exactly in the mood for a confrontation. But it was less than an hour before sundown and it had started to rain.
“Alright.” He stepped out into the street. “Let’s do this.”
Ahead, the rear door of the delivery truck shot open. A short man wearing a yellow windbreaker and blue jeans stepped through the opening and looked side to side. He was followed closely by another who wore the same type of windbreaker, although in red.
The pair hurried to the street, kicking small cardboard packages out of their way and looking back into the truck. They carried identical green backpacks that couldn’t have been more than a few days old.
The first man moved quickly to the second, hunched forward and was speaking into his ear. They turned at almost the same time, were facing him, but not seeing him. They spoke quietly to one another and then looked back at Declan’s building.
Yeah, I don’t think so.
He pulled the ni
ne millimeter from his waist and broke into a run. Before he was halfway there, the men again looked back down the block and now saw him. They began to wave, motioning him over. They hadn’t called out just yet; he figured they were still hoping to avoid the attention of the horde.
Declan increased his pace, now at nearly a hundred percent. He ran in a wide arc around the men and the delivery truck, stepping up on the opposite sidewalk, and was finally noticed by the more than one hundred Feeders.
Initial estimates aside, he would still make it to the door, although he needed at least another ten seconds. He didn’t have a ton of experience directly battling the dead. That was something—that up until now—he typically avoided, left for someone else to figure out. He had more important things to attend to.
The men appeared stunned as Declan continued past them; however, they must have been inspired by what he was doing. The man in the red windbreaker looked at his friend, back at the crowd, and then at the doors to the building Declan was running toward.
Red windbreaker man then shouted at his friend and also started running. He was small with short limbs, but moved fast. His legs a blur as he darted away from the nearest grouping of Feeders, increasing his lead even from the first few strides.
Declan slowed as he approached the entrance to the building. Two massive stainless steel and glass doors, at least ten feet tall. The left side had been held open by a small plastic ice chest placed in its path. There was little doubt he’d make it, although finally looking back and acknowledging the two men, he had another idea.
“LET’S GO!”
If it was possible, the man out front picked it up once again, his upper body dipped forward like a running back darting through a hole in the line of scrimmage. But what caught Declan off guard was the second man, less than two steps behind the first, their strides nearly identical.
“HEY,” shouted the man in the yellow windbreaker, “HOLD UP!”
Declan slipped through the opening, slid the ice chest aside, and pushed his back into the door. He nodded at the men, waved them forward, and gave a quick thumbs-up.
At his back, the lobby of a rundown office complex. There was a reception stand, two chairs, and a computer monitor. He looked further, toward a bank of elevators. Outdated linoleum, worn carpeting, stained and torn in places, it wasn’t clear whether from before or after the end of the world.
Wouldn’t have been his first choice of places to spend the night, but for now it was free of the infected.
The men came in quickly off the sidewalk, not slowing as they reached the door. Declan stepped aside, motioning them in, before moving away and allowing the door to swing shut.
“Boys, give me a hand.”
They worked to slide the desk, chairs, and few filing cabinets in the way of the door. It wouldn’t hold for long, although he wasn’t planning on using the lobby as his home base.
The two men followed Declan away from the lobby and into a dimly lit hall that led to the stairs. The one in the yellow turned to the other and then to Declan. “Thanks dude, you really saved us.”
He wanted to correct the man in the yellow windbreaker, but then he saw it, couldn’t understand why he hadn’t before. He smiled wide and held back a laugh. “Twins?”
They looked at one another, held a goofy grin for a moment, and then speaking in unison said, “Yep, all our lives.”
They broke into what seemed to be rehearsed laughter, the man in red stepping forward and extending his hand. “Jacob Jackson, nice to meet you. This here is my brother Joshua, younger by eight minutes.”
Declan looked from one to the other, his right arm never leaving his side. “Well, that’s interesting. Which one of you has the highest pain tolerance?”
Joshua took a half step back, looked at his brother. “Wha … what are you talking about?”
Declan shook his head, let out a forced laugh. “It’s a joke, come on, lighten up. I thought you boys had a sense of humor?”
Jacob hadn’t moved, looking like he had seen something in Declan he didn’t like. “Yeah, sorry. My brother is just a bit skittish from all of this. I mean you know how it is.”
He waited a second, and then turned to the twin in the red windbreaker, grinning as he stood before the door to the stairs. “Yes, I know how it is. But he’s going to need to grow a thicker skin to get through this.”
Jacob stared back, the lack of trust apparent in his eyes. “Don’t worry, he’ll be just fine.”
Declan reached for the handle to the door. “You sure about that?”
“Yes.”
“Good,” Declan said, “how about you boys come with me, help clear the second floor?”
29
It had been raining for the last three hours, coming down with more intensity over the last few minutes. The night was dark and the rhythmic sound strangely comforting. Gentry now sat in the upstairs den across from Margaret, peering out the floor-to-ceiling windows and watching the street leading to her home.
“He’s not coming back.”
Gentry pushed into the plush leather recliner, running his hand through his hair. This wasn’t him. It wasn’t what he did. He was never one for useless emotion, and even less for trying to comfort those who were.
But this felt different. “You don’t know that, maybe he and your nephew had to stop along the way.”
Margaret looked away from the window. “He would have made it back by now. Something isn’t right.”
She was right. There were so many ways it could have gone wrong; however, he didn’t think it was his place to confirm what she already knew. “Is there a possibility he ended up somewhere else? Do you have any family or friends close by?”
“No, my brother isn’t from around here. He was out on vacation when everything started.”
“Those he went out to meet, they from the area?”
“Not really, out near Bakersfield. They were trying to get here.”
Gentry continued to stare out into the rain. He couldn’t think of a way to redirect the conversation that wouldn’t lead to the things he didn’t think he was ready to discuss. “You want to stay here tonight?”
The look on her face changed in an instant. From despair to disgust in the blink of an eye. Her mouth dropped open, but she didn’t respond. She only stared back, unblinking.
“Uh …” Good job, you just inadvertently caused her to assume that you were hitting on her in the middle of the apocalypse. “That’s not what I …” Just stop before you say anything else.
After a full thirty seconds, she sat back in her recliner and smiled wide, devious. “I got you, didn’t I?”
Gentry shook his head, trying to make sense of what just took place. “Wait, you weren’t thinking that …”
She brought her hand up to her mouth, giggled quietly. “Oh no, what are you like thirty years old? I’ve got you by at least twenty-five years. And trust me, I know when a man is hitting on me.”
He could feel his face start to warm, a line of sweat beginning to form near his hairline. “No, no, no. I didn’t mean that you weren’t … I mean … I guess …”
Margaret dipped her chin, leaned forward in her chair. “You’re doing it again.”
Gentry was terrible with this kind of thing. Small talk and playful banter were never something he felt the need to indulge in; they were a waste of time and brain power. But tonight, it was better than the alternative. Anything to keep her mind away from what was right in front of them. He also sat forward, folded his hands in his lap, and matched her smile. “No, you’re way off, I’m thirty-three.”
“And a doctor.”
“What?” He hadn’t remembered telling her.
“What kind of doctor are you?”
“How’d you—”
“I’m psychic.”
Gentry cut her a look.
“I saw the picture in Major Daniel’s office, the one with the two of you. That man labeled everything.”
“You got me.”
> “So,” she said, “what did you do before all of this? Brain surgeon, maybe plastic surgery?”
“Plastic surgery?”
She nodded. “This is California.”
Gentry figured there wasn’t a reason to keep it from her. There wasn’t really a reason to hide anything anymore. Nothing mattered after the infection broke free. Not a damn thing. He hadn’t talked about it to anyone in the last six months, but tonight it came over him like a tsunami, he was finally ready.
“Hey,” he said, “you want something to drink? I think I remember seeing a bottle of red downstairs.”
Margaret seemed to melt in her chair as she peered out into the night. “That would be nice.”
Thirty minutes later, they had worked their way through almost the entire bottle, Gentry still contemplating how he wanted to start. “Where were you when all hell broke loose?”
She continued to watch the world beyond the glass and through the heavy rain. “My husband was at work. He was trying to call me. I was at the market buying a few things for dinner.”
“Your husband? I didn’t know.”
“I’ve been forcing myself to keep it together, to try to forget.” She started to cry. “I didn’t know that anything was happening. I mean I had seen it on the news, but not anything like it was that day.”
Gentry was now second guessing his attempt at changing the tone of the evening. He hadn’t asked her about any of this before and hadn’t ever planned on doing this with anyone. Typically these things were better left alone; however, it seemed like this was something she needed to do.
Margaret wiped a tear from her cheek and turned away as she remembered. “When I finally noticed that I had missed his call, I was in the check-out line. I thought it would be okay to call him back from the car and was loading the groceries when I got his text.”
She paused, dropped her face into her hands. Her shoulders hunched forward as she cried harder. Gentry felt for her in a way he didn’t think he was capable of, but at the same time he was struggling to come up with a response.
