Survivors

by Z. A. Recht

  The BL4 laboratory was sealed to all but Anna and Rebecca, but Mark Stiles didn’t mind waiting outside the heavy steel door for the pair to exit. It took longer than he’d thought, and by the time the pair had called it quits for the night he’d been leaning against a steel guardrail for the better part of an hour, a covered tray in front of him.

  Anna and Becky seemed surprised to see him.

  “Stiles!” said Anna, with a smile. “Come to check up on our progress?”

  Stiles shook his head. “I came to bring you dinner.” He gestured at the cart. “Pasta, I think. And something that I think is supposed to be some kind of red sauce. It’s almost ketchup. Almost. Not too bad, though.”

  “That’s nice of you,” said Anna, uncovering the food. She grimaced at the sight of it. “Or maybe you’re trying to kill us.”

  “Hey,” shrugged Stiles. “I didn’t cook it. I’m just the delivery boy.”

  “Thanks,” was Rebecca’s simple reply. She grabbed a plate from the tray and walked off toward the stairwell that led to the Fac’s upper floors.

  Stiles stared after her. Anna caught the look.

  “Well?” she asked.

  “Well, what?”

  “Well, follow her! She needs company. I’m the only person she talks to, and I’m pretty boring.”

  Stiles hastened to reassure the Doctor. “Aw, Doc, I’m sure you’re not as boring—”

  “Ribonucleic acids have been the keystones to deciphering the pathological structure of filoviridae in every known strain—”

  Stiles waved his arms, unable to control his laughing. “Okay, okay, I get it! Enjoy the dinner.”

  Anna smiled at him. “I will. Now, hurry up. Becky eats on the roof, where she can be alone.”

  Stiles favored the Doctor with a smile of his own, nodded his goodbye, and took off at a dogtrot in the direction Rebecca Hall had taken.

  Anna stood alone in the doorway to biosafety level four laboratory, the tray of pasta at her waist. She stared after the soldier and medic, a wistful look creasing her forty-one-year-old features. “Oh, young love.” She turned her attention to the food, and poked at it with an experimental finger. It wiggled like Jell-O at her touch. “And old food. Eck. I’d rather eat Marburg samples.”

  Doctor Anna Demilio left the tray where it lay, spun on her heels, and reentered BL4 to pull another shift, her only company for the evening microscopes and test tubes.

  Rebecca had just settled down on the edge of the Fac’s roof, her legs dangling over the edge, when Stiles appeared.

  “Ugh,” muttered Rebecca upon sighting him. She picked at her pasta. “What part of ‘leave me alone’ don’t you understand?”

  “Oh, I understood it,” Stiles said, plunking himself down next to the young medic with the dirty-blond hair. “I just don’t care.”

  “So you’re not an idiot . . .” said Rebecca.

  “Nope.”

  “. . . you’re just an asshole.”

  Stiles stuttered over that one a moment, and let it go.

  “Hey, your reasoning, not mine,” said Rebecca, twirling pasta on her plastic fork.

  “That . . . wasn’t really the reaction I was going for,” admitted Stiles. He shrugged. “Look. Let’s start over. Pretend we’ve just met. I’m Mark Stiles. Private. U.S. Army. You are?” Stiles extended his hand.

  “Not interested.”

  Stiles looked disappointed. He held his hand out a moment longer, but when it became apparent Rebecca had no interest in taking it, he dropped it to his lap and sighed.

  For a long moment, silence reigned on the rooftop. Rebecca managed a few bites of her pasta, then gave up and set the plate on the edge of the roof next to her. The pair stared off at the ruined cityscape as night fell. In days gone past, it would have been alight, with activity in every building, headlights on every boulevard. The sounds of HVAC systems and traffic would have wafted over them, drowning out the noises of the night. Now all was silent, save for the chirping of crickets and the buzz-saw rhythm of cicadas. The high-rise buildings in the distance were dark and abandoned.

  Stiles, suddenly feeling nostalgic, began to speak.

  “I saw an IED go off in Iraq once. First tour,” he said. He didn’t bother looking over at Rebecca, instead focusing on the darkened buildings in front of him. “It’s not really like they say in the news. On TV, you only ever see the aftermath, after everything’s been cleaned up. In real life, it happens out of nowhere. One second, everything’s fine. The next . . . you don’t even know what hit you. It’s like—for a second—the world stops. They tell you what it’s like, but it’s nothing like being there, seeing what . . . seeing what these things do. But I—I saw a . . . it’s just that . . . a few seconds before it went off, I saw a wire. Just a little thing—like a cable cord, you know, that they run into houses?”

  Rebecca had stopped staring off at the skyline of Omaha, and was watching Stiles out of the corners of her eyes, a blank expression on her face.

  “This guy, Sergeant Wellton—funny guy, I could tell you some stories—anyway, he’s walking ahead of us, and he’s watching the buildings on either side of the street. And in front of him’s this dark spot. Disturbed earth, I mean. Where someone had been digging. And I saw it, and the wire, and . . . I don’t know, I just . . . froze. I didn’t say a thing. I don’t know why. Maybe I thought that if I was wrong I’d get chewed out, or . . . maybe . . . I don’t know. Wellton—no, wait, his name was Anthony. Anthony Wellton. He was from Pittsburgh. And he stepped right on it.”

  Rebecca’s face remained expressionless.

  “When I came back to my senses I was lying on the ground a few feet away. Couldn’t hear a thing. Just a high-pitched whine, you know? Nothing else. There was smoke everywhere. Dust. I couldn’t breathe. Then I remembered Anthony. I had a couple of pieces of metal in my arm, felt the blood and all, but I crawled over to him anyway. I found his leg, started to pull myself up to see if he was all right, but . . .”

  Stiles trailed off. His eyes were moist.

  “That was all there was. Just his leg. They said”—he paused a moment to gulp for breath—“they said they found some of him across the road. And they found the rest in a ditch a few feet away. A ditch!” Stiles’s voice became filled with anger. “A fucking ditch! He deserved better! He had a daughter! A two-year-old. Oh, Christ, I could’ve saved him! I saw the wire! I saw it coming! If I’d said something, I could have saved—I could have saved him! Oh, God, I could’ve saved him.” His voice trailed off.

  The pair sat silently for a long moment more, the silhouetted cityscape their only distraction from the words of each other. Finally, Rebecca spoke.

  “You think you killed him,” she whispered.

  Stiles didn’t answer.

  “You think you killed him. And that’s why you tried to kill yourself to save the rest of us in Hyattsburg,” Rebecca went on.

  “You know what I did that night? After Wellton died, I mean?” Stiles finally asked.

  “What?”

  “I sat in my barracks. Took out my pistol and held it up against my head. I figured it was my fault that girl was going to grow up without a father. I wanted to punish myself. Make things right,” Stiles said. “Then something happened.”

  “What?” Rebecca asked, her attention now fully focused on the soldier.

  “There were some guys playing poker at the other end of the building. I could hear them talking. One of them lost big. He just said, ‘Well, shit happens.’ I know, corny, right? And it didn’t make me feel any better about Wellton, but it did make me think. Sometimes, things just go wrong. I might have been right about that wire, but what if it had been someone else in my spot? They might not have even seen it. So now I don’t think about suicide. We’re all going to die some time. One of these days, shit’ll happen to every one of us. It wasn’t my turn that day. Even in Hyattsburg, when I thought I was going to turn into one of those things, I couldn’t pull the trigger. I kept thinking, if I’m g
oing to die, I’m going to die, and there’s nothing I can do about it. And now I’m waiting for it to be my turn for the shit to happen to me, just like everyone else.”

  Rebecca sat silently a moment, thinking it over.

  “Sometimes things just go wrong,” repeated Stiles, eyeing Rebecca expectantly.

  “Sometimes they do.” Rebecca’s answer was little more than a whisper. Her arms were folded in her lap, and her eyes stared off at nothing.

  For a moment, there was silence on the rooftop of the Fac. Then a voice broke the stillness.

  “You know,” drifted a gruff voice from across the rooftop, “we can hear you over here.”

  “Oh, leave them alone, Thomas.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Looks like they’re settling in for the night, sir,” said a man in a black balaclava, squatted on a rooftop half a block from the Fac, lowering infrared goggles from his face. One red light on his radio transmitter blinked and stuttered. “A pair of them just left, too. Heading south.”

  Sawyer’s voice answered over the radio. “Let them rest.”

  “Sir?” asked the man, rolling his eyes, glad that the NSA agent wasn’t there to see him do it. “Why don’t we just take them? We have position. We have the advantage in firepower. We could storm that place. Why not now?”

  “Because,” grunted Sawyer, the grin evident in his voice, “I’m not there yet. And we’re bringing some extra party favors. Besides,” he continued, annoyance creeping into his tone, “don’t you think they’d be expecting an attack at night? They’ve got sentries, they’re watching.”

  Confused, but too intimidated to press Sawyer further, the man turned back to his goggles and resumed his watch, chalking up Sawyer’s answers as one of life’s little mysteries.

  Nighttime at the Fac was quiet. Since all the electricity was being channeled to the labs below, the rooms were dark, save for the flickering light of candles and oil lamps scavenged from the surrounding buildings.

  When Sherman wasn’t on the roof pulling a guard shift, the sound of music would drift through the hallways. Sherman was fond of classical music, saying it helped him fall asleep, and had brought in an ancient, wind-up phonograph and had accumulated a small collection of records. Tonight, with Sherman topside, the halls were silent save for a few murmured conversations in the various rooms.

  Rebecca Hall retired to her dorm, closing the door behind her. She twisted the lock on the handle and leaned against the cold steel of the door, arms folded across her chest, a sigh escaping her lips. She thought for a moment about the story Stiles had told her on the rooftop, and that thought led her to their newfound hope for the vaccine, and that thought, in turn, started her thinking about Stiles himself.

  She shook her head before the thought could establish itself, and cast about her small room for something, anything, to distract herself with.

  It was unsafe to become attached to anyone, she knew, moving from the door to the corner of the narrow cot she slept on. She sat down and planted her elbows on her knees, head resting on the palms of her hands. They all died in the end. Best to just stay alone and alive and soldier on until, as Stiles had put it, it was her turn to go. For shit to happen.

  Her eyes scanned the room around her. She’d never been one for housekeeping before Morningstar, but ever since, she couldn’t stomach disorder. What little she had was arranged neatly, almost obsessively. An unused table lamp sat just so on the edge of a filing cabinet that served as her dresser. Next to it was her pistol belt, canteen and ammunition pouches clipped inches apart on it. The pistol and holster themselves were missing. She felt the solid weight of the weapon digging into her side. Ever since the Ramage—ever since Decker—she’d never left the weapon more than a few feet away.

  Other survivors in the group had scavenged creature comforts on their forays into Omaha—posters and pictures and paintings, mostly, to liven up the dull block walls of the Fac. Sherman had his phonograph. Denton’s room was full of camera gear that he sorted through and cleaned during his downtime. Jack had brought in an acetylene torch and was fond of throwing together small metal sculptures. Brewster had found a portable CD player and speakers, but after one night of Metallica blaring through the Fac, the other survivors forced him to get a pair of headphones to go with it. Rebecca’s room, on the other hand, remained nearly as bare as when she’d first claimed it. The only addition she’d made was a calendar, each day that passed without her death marked off with a solid red X.

  Rebecca heard muted laughter from down the hall. It sounded like the sailor, Allen. He’d finally started to warm up to the soldiers, and last time she saw him, he was arm-wrestling for a bottle of liquor with Brewster. The other survivors were taking their time before turning in, telling jokes and sharing stories. She’d never felt any reason to join in. Once upon a time, she would have, but no longer. It was easier to watch a stranger die than a friend, or a lover.

  The thought made her gut churn, and she felt her breath catch in her throat. She held a hand over her mouth and clenched her eyes shut, stifling the sob she knew was coming. When the feeling had passed, she relaxed, and lay back on her cot, wrapping her arms around herself and drawing her knees up close, staring off into nothing. The moon was out, and it bathed the room in a dull blue glow. A single tear fell from her eye, rolled down her face and soaked into the pillow beneath her head. She paid it no mind. She merely lay still, and tried not to think about anything at all.

  A pair of gunshots rang out. Rebecca found herself running toward the source of the noise, apprehension etched on her face.

  The gray steel corridors of the ship were narrow, but well lit. The hum of the engines was ever present, but even that couldn’t drown out the sound of gunfire. Rebecca turned a corner and saw General Sherman and a group of soldiers standing in front of a sealed door. They were arguing.

  “Sir? They might still be infected!” one of the soldiers was protesting.

  Sherman disagreed. “Open the door. They’re clean. They’ve been in there long enough.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Rebecca found herself running toward them. “No! Don’t open the door! Please, don’t open the door!”

  The soldiers ignored her. The man Sherman had been arguing with reached for the latch.

  Rebecca felt frantic. “No. No! Don’t open it! Please, don’t open it!” She grabbed at Sherman’s shoulders, shook him, pleaded with him. He merely watched the guard at work, ignoring her. “Please!” It was as if she didn’t even exist.

  The door swung open.

  Ewan Brewster appeared, sweat-stained and anxious, but otherwise unhurt.

  “Finally! After a week in there, getting some fresh air’s a nice change of pace!”

  “No, no, no!” Rebecca yelled, close to tears. “Close the door! Please close the door!”

  No one responded to her pleas. No one looked over at her. She may as well have been a phantom.

  Rebecca looked down at her hands, and saw that she had her pistol grasped firmly in her left. Her right was balled up in a white-knuckled fist.

  “Please,” she whispered. A part of her knew what was coming next. “Please, close the door.”

  “Get down!” came a cry from one of the soldiers in the corridor. He fumbled with his sidearm.

  “No,” Rebecca whispered.

  Behind Brewster, a figure rose up, eyes bloodshot, a feral growl emanating from its throat.

  Rebecca, lips trembling, felt the pistol in her hand come up until the sights danced before her eyes.

  The bloody-eyed figure grabbed Brewster’s shoulders, but instead of attacking, it looked up, and fixed Rebecca with a grim stare.

  It was Mark Stiles.

  “No,” repeated Rebecca. “No, not again.”

  Stiles opened his mouth and leaned forward to tear into Brewster.

  The pistol in Rebecca’s hand bucked. The casing tinked off the steel bulkheads, rolled to a stop against her foot. Stiles’s head snapped back, and
he fell, laying in a twisted heap on the floor, a hole drilled neatly in his forehead.

  With a cry, Rebecca turned and heaved the pistol away with all her might, but it wouldn’t leave her hands. She couldn’t let it go. It stuck to her palms as if coated in glue. Frantic, she beat the weapon against the nearest bulkhead. Try as she might, she couldn’t let go of the pistol. She looked down at it, and was horrified to see that a trickle of blood, instead of tendrils of smoke, was dripping from the barrel.

  She let fly a scream of grief and terror that echoed throughout the bowels of the ship and beyond.

  Rebecca’s eyes flicked open.

  Across from her sat the tan filing cabinet with its perfectly positioned but nonfunctional lamp perched atop it, and next to it, her pistol belt. The calendar hung on the wall, just as she had left it.

  She used to bolt awake after her nightmares, but over the months she had become so accustomed to them that she no longer shot upright, clutching at anything and feeling short of breath. She still felt the cold sweat that soaked the sheets of the cot, and the frantic beating of her own heart, however. Hardly a night had gone by since her journey on the USS Ramage without at least one nightmare plaguing her sleep.

  Rebecca felt her teeth chattering, and she willed them to stop. When that failed, she clenched her jaw tightly shut and pulled the thin sheet of the cot up to her chin. She hadn’t even remembered falling asleep.

  She hoped she hadn’t called out in her sleep. She’d done it before, and had been awakened by concerned group members when they were on the road and all slept in the same room. Here, at the Fac, no one would come running. They were all used to it, and some were far enough away down the hall that they might not have heard her at all.

  A soft knocking at her door drew her attention. Her eyes flicked in the direction of the noise, but otherwise, she remained perfectly still, curled up on the cot.

  “Wha—” she started to say, but found her voice was still quavering from the shock of the nightmare. She took a breath and swallowed to calm herself, and tried again. “What is it?”