"Let's take a look at him," I say. I grab its shoulder. Cait takes a leg. Jointly, we flip it onto its back. Its visor is intact, only one small hole where the bullet passed through. I clamp my fingers around its helmet. "Damn, this thing's on tight." It will not open, sealed shut. There must be another way to remove its armour.
A light catches my eye. A dull glow, pulsing in all manners of colour. "Look at that," Cait says. My eyes fall to its torso, to the light emanating from the centre of its chest. A small patch, shaped like a teardrop. "Look familiar?"
Such colour, swirling together, overlaid with a complex pattern resembling printed circuitry. I have seen it before. "Rose. Her hand," I say. The markings are almost identical to the wound they inflicted. I lift my chin, study the contents of its head that now coats the floor. "What kind of bullets are they? Explosive?"
"Hollow-points," she says. She pulls the gun, ejects the magazine. "See?" I do not see. It is too dark to see. Besides, a bullet is a bullet to me. I do not know much about them.
"Give it to me," I say sternly. I hold out a hand. She gives me a look, a curious glare that says, why the fuck should I? "Just give me the gun, Cait. I won't ask again." She hands it over slowly, timidly, as if she fears what I will do with it. She settles as I eject the magazine, unscrew the silencer and tuck it all inside my jacket. "You really think I'd want to hurt you?"
She shrugs. "I wouldn't blame you if you did." I shake my head, give her a look of derision. She feigns a smile, pretends it was a joke.
"Where now?" I ask brusquely. Her smiles fades to despondency. She stares into the darkness, points with her eyes. I hold a hand towards her intended direction. "Lead the way."
"Sure," she utters stoically. She is on her feet before her emotions have chance to manifest. She cannot hide it from me. I know she is hurting.
She leads me through the corridor. Doors line the walls on either side. She does not stop at any, not even to check the sullied placards staked to each door. She knows where she is heading.
She stops suddenly. "This is it," she says. Dr Jenson, the placard reads.
"How do you know?" I ask. Her face is distant, ponderous.
"He was my dentist." Her eyes are filled with the sadness of memories long past. "He was a kind man, as far as I can remember. Wouldn't hurt a soul. He would have died quickly when they came."
I want to console her. I want to place a hand on her shoulder, or wrap my arms around her. Instead, I utter, "Let's hope so."
She grunts a sorrowful laugh, snorting back tears. "It's in here, I'm sure of it. He had the only one in the whole surgery." I do not contest the fact. She knows better than I do. I grip the knob firmly, twist it. The door creaks open, panels scraping against the swollen frame. Moonlight filters through the crack. She stays my hand, presses against the door until only a slither of light remains. "Do you hear that?"
I listen. Nothing. "No," I say. She places a finger to her lips, peers through the crack. "What is it?"
"I thought I heard something."
"From inside?" She does not answer. She continues to watch. I continue to listen. There is nothing, not even the dull groan of wind in the distance. I press my palm against the door. With a shove, it swings open. "We don't have time for this," I say. I raise a hand, gesture inside the deserted treatment room. "See? Empty."
"And what if it wasn't, John?" she snaps. "I know you're upset, I really do. It's no reason to act like a reckless prick."
I want to let it out, the pent-up rage that simmers inside. I feel I could choke the life from her and not bat an eyelid. I am fooling myself. "I'm sorry, Cait." My tone is solemn, contrite. "You're right. Let's just get this done." She gawks at me, unsure of what to make of it all. I want to argue, to tear her to shreds. Every ounce of me begs for it. But that will not help us here. "It's okay. We'll talk later."
She is instantly placated. As she turns, I catch her hand. Her eyes meet mine, hold them with animalistic ferocity. "I wasn't lying," she says softly. "You're all I've ever wanted."
"Bullshit," I grumble. "If that's true, why'd you do it?"
Her lips contort. A saddened smile riddled with regret. "I needed somebody. He was available," she says as she turns away.
"You could have come to me."
"I should have." Her voice breaks, swallowing back tears. "But you were never there."
I let her hand go, let her walk. I do not want to. There is nothing more I can say. Nothing that can ease the pain of what has passed. She did wrong, no doubt. But is it wrong to need affection in such a lonesome existence? To long to feel the warmth of a lover's touch? As much as it hurts, I cannot blame her. Not fully.
The room is brighter than the corridor. Moonlight pours through the bay window on the far wall. It is a welcomed respite from the darkness. That is all I seem to see of late. I could use a little more light in my life. Cait makes for the far side, to the device we have come out into the night and risked our lives for.
"Is that it?" I already know the answer. It was a feeble attempt at easing the tension.
"Yeah," she utters with a deflated breath.
"Will it work?" She shoots me a glance. A look that says, how the fuck should I know? I hold my hands up."Just asking."
"I don't know," she says. She unplugs it, hits a switch, twists a knob. "It's hard to say. The internal battery's dead. We won't know till we rig it up to the genny."
"And you can help Ryan with this?" I ask. "Fix whatever needs fixing?" She shoots me another glance. "Then why the hell are we even out here if it can't help him?"
"It's not for him," she says. "I just said that so Rose wouldn't argue." She grabs it by the handle, wheels it back a little. It stops dead, restricted. Chained. "Damn it." She slams her fist down on the adjacent desk.
"Calm down," I say. I reach for her shoulder, but snatch my hand back before it touches. Instead, I check the desk draws. Stapler, a few pens, lighter, a pack of cigarettes; no padlock key. "I've got a hacksaw in the car. No need to worry." Her eyes glisten in the moonlight, sparkling.
"What?" she asks. I had not realised that I was staring.
"Um." I shake it off, regain focus. "Who else, ahem ..." I pound my fist to my chest, clearing the build-up in my lungs. "Who else is it for?"
Hers eyebrows knit together, a look of peculiarity. "Rose, of course. Are you okay?"
"I'm fine," I say. I am not, really. I want to be firm with her, to stay angry, but I cannot. She has a hold over me. All it takes is a look. "Why? What's wrong with Rose?"
"You haven't noticed?" she asks. I shrug, oblivious. "Her hand." She rattles the padlock. It remains fixed, strong, unyielding. "She has full use of it."
"And?" Another glance. This one says, you're joking, right? "Is there something I'm missing?"
"Yeah," she yaps, like an aggravated child, "considering she has a gaping hole that has clearly severed her central metacarpals and lumbricals. Her middle and ring finger should be dead weight, yet she can move them as if nothing has happened." A sinking feeling envelops me. I had not noticed. Have I been so blind of late that I completely disregard my family? "It's unnatural, defies the laws of nature. I want to see what's going on in there. I can't help Ryan, I'm sure of that, but maybe I can help Rose."
I stay silent, head hung in shame. "Sorry, Cait. I-"
"I don't need your apologies, John." Her eyes are soft, sympathetic, yet her words are as sharp as a razor blade. "I just need your help."
She eyes me expectantly. I understand her meaning. I do not need to be told twice. "I'll get the saw," I say. I am thankful for the escape. If I had to bear one more look my heart might crumble completely.
I turn without another word, make a swift exit. I hear her snivelling as I step over the threshold. I stand for a moment, eyes sealed shut. There is no other noise. Just her. She whimpers. An angry noise. One of guilt, frustration. I force myself to walk on. I cannot bear to listen anymore.
The corridor seems darker than before. I can barely see the pl
acards adorning the walls. I stumble blindly. As I remember, it was a relatively straight path on the way in. Only one corner en route. As I turn the corner, I freeze. Things are not as I had expected. The lobby is still dark, still untouched, but something is missing.
The body.
I creep forwards. I hear nothing, see nothing of note. It could not have just disappeared, could it? My heart races, adrenaline pumping. I reach inside my jacket. My finger meets the trigger, caresses it delicately. The safety is on, magazine ejected. Somehow I still feel safer with it resting in my palm. I take a few steps into the lobby, into the moonlight. I instantly regret it, quickstepping back into shadow. I do not feel safe anymore. A gun with a handful of bullets cannot save me. There, out on the street, they stand, bunched together. Dozens of them.
There is no movement amongst them, no attempt to enter the premises. They are waiting. It is a trap. The one inside, the one we killed, was only meant to stall us. I cannot make it to the car. To try would be suicide. I need to warn Cait. I need to get her out of here. But how?
I move before my mind catches up to itself. Dr ... damn. What was his name? Ronson? Hanson? I cannot remember. I round the turn quickly, then my progress slows. I stop at each placard, read each name. Hopefully I will remember when I see it. Philips, Dorski, Masood, Wilson. Was it Wilson? I try the door. Locked. Not Wilson. I continue on. The further I get, the darker it seems.
I see a light, a door slightly ajar. I read the placard. Jenson. Fuck, of course it was. I fling the door open. Cait is kneeling, head bowed. "Cait, get up. We have a problem." She does not answer, does not even move a muscle to acknowledge my return. "Seriously, get up. There's a group of them outside the lobby." Still nothing. "Damn it, Cait. This is not the time to give me the fucking silent treatment." Her eyes snap to me, menacing, forewarning; then back to the window, at what stands before it.
My body seizes, shivers shooting through every last fibre. I hear it, the noise from my childhood that sends further chills down my spine. Clicking, like the rapid tick of a ratchet crank. Now I know what happened to the body. The moon is full and bright, casting a veil of glitter over everything it touches. As it stands in the window, staring up at the silver disk in the distance, a single beam of moonlight hits my eye. My hands tremble as I realise its trajectory; though the gaping wound left by Cait's bullet.
It reaches out, wraps its monstrous fingers around the neck of the radiography machine. As it squeezes, the device crumples. Its head rotates, faces Cait. The crushing hand holds strong. The other reaches for a handle that protrudes from its armour, pulls slowly. Grinding, the sound of metal on metal. A blade slowly materialises, long, sharp, dual edged.
"John?" Cait bleats as it steps towards her. I do not wait for the outcome. I pull the gun, slap the magazine in, safety off. I pull the trigger. It takes it in the chest, drops to one knee. It recovers quickly, back to its feet in seconds, keeps coming. I unload another two. I see the damage, blood spurts from the wounds. It does not matter. Still, it comes for her. "Take the head," she yells. I do as she says. I fire again. I miss my target by far, but accomplish my goal. I watch in horror, unable to avert my eyes. Its neck explodes, head hanging by a thread. It screams, primal, a piercing shriek that curdles the blood. I unleash one final shot, take the head as Cait asked of me. It falls hard, shakes the room. And then, silence.
"Is it dead?" I look at Cait. She is shaking, face speckled with blood. I rush over to her, place both hands on either shoulder. "It's okay, Cait." Her eyes find me as if for the first time. "It's not getting up this time." She nods erratically, frantic. "Hey!" I lean in close, hands clamped on either of her cheeks. "You're okay. We're okay. Okay?" I feel her settle. She begins to breathe steadily, then stop altogether when we both hear it. The primal shriek that it made as it died, now multiplied tenfold. They are inside. They are coming.
I hurry to the door, wrap my head around the frame. I see shapes in the dark. Their movements are slow, eerie, inhuman. I flinch as I feel pressure on the small of my back. Cait is behind me, startled by my sudden move. "Cait," I gasp. "Scared the shit out of me."
"John, I ..." She takes my hands in hers, eyes welling once more. "I can't lose you."
The screams grow louder, closer. "You might not have a choice," I says. I press the door to a close. It clicks as it latches, too quiet to be heard above the tumultuous wails.
"We can't give up." She reaches for me, presses her palm to my cheek. "Rose needs us. We can't leave her with-"
"Your bit on the side?" I snap. Stupid, really. Immature, given the circumstances.
"I know I've hurt you. I don't expect you to forgive me. I'll never forgive myself. But if you'll let me, I'll prove to you just how much you mean to me." She leans in, lays her pouting lips on mine. I allow it. As much as I want to stop her, to further torture her for what she has done, I cannot. I inhale deeply. Her scent is intoxicating, as is her beauty. No matter what she has done, I will forgive her. I love her. I always will. She sets my heart on fire every time I lay eyes on her. Fire. Of course!
I do not say anything. I blank her as I pass, unintentionally. My mind is set on the task at hand. I pull a canister from behind the desk.
"What are you doing?" Cait asks. She is startled, expected me to return her sentiment. Not ignore it completely.
"I'm gonna burn them," I say. I twist the canister's valve as she stares in bewilderment. I can taste the gas as it permeates the air, sweet, slightly metallic.
"But-" I act before she can finish. I grab the lighter from the desk draw, strike it. The flame brightens the room, casting sinister shadows in every corner. I hold it to the canister's hose. Nothing. I keep it there a while, wave it beneath the distorted stream, but to no avail. "It won't work" She appears at my side. "That's what I was trying to tell you. Laughing gas, nitrous oxide. It's not flammable." Something slams against the door. We both recoil. She grabs my arm, looks at me with a haunted countenance. We are out of time.
I rush to the window, look to the alley beyond the glass. Empty. Nothing waits for us out there. "We can run," I say.
"We won't get far." I know she speaks the truth. The car is too far. They will hunt us on foot, force us to hole up somewhere, keep us there until morning. Then we are as good as dead.
I look around, at the desk, at the shelves. No weapons. I am nearly out of ammo. There is not much left to do. I catch Cait looking, searching. Her eyes brighten. She has seen something I have not. "What is it?"
"Fire."
I shake my head. "We've been through this. It's not flammable. Do you want me to chase them around with the lighter?"
"Fuck the canister," she says. She gestures around the room, at the contents that I have overlooked: sheet paper, envelopes, folders full of documents. "Just burn the whole damn place down."
I knock on the wall. Dry lined. This could work. I act quickly, tearing the room apart. Once every piece of combustible material is in a pile against the wall I start on the bigger stuff. I kick the desk, break the legs out from under it. Onto the pile it goes. Cait does the same with the shelves, the chairs; anything she can get her hands on.
"Ready?" she asks.
"Ready," I say. I strike the lighter, torch the lot as best I can without burning myself. It does not take much. The room is ablaze in moments. "Cait, let's go."
She wastes no time in fleeing. She hoists the gas canister over her head, launches it through the window. The glass disintegrates, designed to shatter into tiny pieces on impact. The door splinters. Armoured fists appear, outstretched, grabbing at anything in reach. The flames lick at the lacquered wood. They are ablaze within seconds, shrieking as loud as their fallen comrade had.
Cait watches in captivated glee. I am out the window, checking our exit route. We are clear. "Cait, let's go." She does not respond, lost in a daze. "Cait!" She starts awake, turns. "Get your arse out here. Now!"
She moves in an instant, hurdles the window with effortless ease. The back alley is deserted, not
a soul in sight. The surrounding walls are alive with colours of red and orange. Crackles and bangs echo through the night as the flames spread voraciously. We circle the perimeter, towards the street. Cait runs on ahead, eagerly. Before she steps out into the light, beyond the safety of the shadows, I pull her back. There are more of them, now. Hundreds, maybe. The car is parked across the street. Close, but not close enough.
"Now what?" Cait asks.
"This way," I say. I take her hand, lead her further along the winding labyrinth. We exit past the next block of stores. "If we're quiet, I think we'll be okay."
We cross, creeping on light feet. None turn to face us. None move, even in the slightest. They have no reason to; the night's cacophony masks every step we take.
Cait reaches the car, crouches behind it. I see her teeth clench as she pulls on the door handle. It clicks loudly, but the sound is lost, drowned out.
"Why aren't they doing anything?" she whispers.
"They must think we're still inside," I say. I push her into the car, into the passenger's seat. "Either that, or they're mourning their losses." I can hear them, the ones inside. Their animalistic roars fill the night with terror. The others crowd the street outside, a vigil for the fallen. Do they feel pain? Suffer loss as we do?
I press the ignition. The car hums quietly, almost silently. As one, they pause. Their heads turn in unison, drawn to the active technology. Now, they are looking. Now, they are moving. I slam my foot on the accelerator. The car screeches into motion. They are fast. We are faster. "Thank fuck for that," I say as we leave them all safely behind. "Safe at last."
"Not quite." Cait's voice is high, quivers as if the words catch in her throat. As always, I do not need her to say it to know what she means. David.
CAITLIN
Sunday, 22:46
He has not said a word since we left town. I wish he would say something, anything, just so I know what he is thinking.
The drive seems to go on, and on, and on, never-ending. It feels like we have been in this car for hours, days even. I check the clock. It has only been forty minutes. I must be going mad. I dare a glance from the corner of my eye. His face is impassive. I had hoped to see a glint of warmth, anything to show he still cares.
Solar: A Post-Apocalyptic Survival Thriller Page 12
