by M. W. Duncan
Tears came. Gemma reached out, touched his shoulder. He recoiled as if Gemma sought to do him harm.
“Don’t touch me! I won’t let anyone touch me here.”
“Okay, I’m sorry,” said Gemma, her hands raised in apology. “I’m going to do my best for you, George. I’ll look for you in the morning.”
“Nowhere is safe,” he repeated.
***
Ryan marched through the double doors expecting the worst in a situation he did not understand. Instead of cohorts of henchmen waiting to dispose of his body in the most untraceable of ways, he found a solitary man scribbling furiously at an opulent desk, tubular table lamps at two corners. Mr. Crispin?
Crispin was unsmiling, and set aside his pen, sat back in his chair and tented his fingers. “Welcome, Ryan. Please, take a seat.”
Ryan smiled as if meeting a good friend — it couldn’t hurt — and took the offered seat. The man before him was older, maybe late sixties, small fashionable glasses perched on a slightly hooked nose. He wore a beard, more grey than black now. When he spoke, he did so with an accent of education. English, with the fading hint of an expatriate.
“I trust your journey here was uneventful despite the new restrictions at the border?”
Ryan nodded. “Yes, sir, Mr …”
“I’m Hector Crispin. You’ve come to know me as Mr. Nippon. A silly, little title designed to protect my identity when dealing with unknown factors. You should know, Ryan, that very few people meet me face to face. Our meeting tonight isn’t by chance. Everything results from a perfectly calculated decision. Had we not seen something in you that was worth our investment you would not be here.”
Ryan cleared his thought and shifted in his chair. “Of course, Mr. Crispin. I mean, Mr. Nippon.”
There was no clarification as to what title this man expected.
“What I require of you will become evident over the next few days and weeks. We’ll be spending time together. You proved yourself useful once to us, Ryan, and assets that prove useful are compensated for their efforts. There is no limit to what we can achieve together. Now, for the next few days, I’d like you to acclimatise yourself with your surroundings. Some of our associates will no doubt make themselves known to you. I would ask that you do not leave this building for the time being. Tokyo is a vast city, easy to become disorientated in when you don’t know where you’re going. Is all understood?”
“Yes … um, what do I call you? Mr. Nippon?”
“Mr. Nippon has served its purpose between us, Ryan. You may call me Hector. If there’s nothing else? I’m sure you’re fatigued.”
“Who are we, and who is us?” The words hung in the air. For one terrible moment, Ryan believed he stepped too far.
“We are The Owls of Athena, Ryan. And you are made welcome.”
***
A hand clamped down on Gemma’s mouth, violently rousing her from sleep. She fought the unseen assailant, fingernails digging into skin, her legs kicking out.
“Gemma. Gemma. It’s me. Dylan. You need to calm down.” He shook her. “Be quiet.”
The sound of the soldier’s voice reassured her enough to stop the fight as the bonds of sleep fell away. Dylan knelt on the edge of her bed. She pulled the covers tight to her chin. He pulled his hand away from her mouth. In the dark of her room it was difficult to focus, the light poor.
“What is it?” she hissed.
“Trouble. I need you to stay calm. Get dressed.”
He went to the door, rifle in hand, watching the corridor. Gemma grabbed at her discarded clothes and using her bedcovers to maintain some dignity, pulled them on. Not that Dylan took any interest. He stayed at the door, his back to her. She slipped from the bed and pulled on her boots. She had no idea how long she had been asleep.
“What’s happening?”
Dylan moved from the doorway to the corridor window. He motioned for Gemma to join him. She peered out into the night. The streets were empty, yellow streetlights guarding against the night.
“I don’t see anything.”
“Over there, to the right, beside the shop.”
Gemma leaned closer to the window until her forehead touched the cold glass. Nothing. Darkness. Snow. She was about to question him again when movement caught her attention.
“Jesus. No.”
Lurking in the shadowy recess of the building, a horde of infected, their jitters and jolts and circling betraying their affliction.
“We’ve got to warn everyone.” Gemma pushed back from the window.
“They already know. We’re trying to secure the building. There’s only one way in.”
“Why are they waiting?”
“We’ve seen this before. A group forms. It’s like they wait for their full strength before charging.”
“Like strategy?”
“Could be. It gives us vital minutes to prepare. I better get downstairs.”
“Why did you wake me?”
He turned. “This is why you’re here, to document stuff like this, right?”
“What do I do now?”
“Start documenting. But stay in your room and wait for one of us to tell you further.”
He left, his footfalls echoing in the stairwell. Gemma went back to the room and grabbed her camera. She filmed the infected as best she could from behind the glass. The picture blurred and was distorted by the snow. Opening the window would grant her a better picture, if she could negotiate the safety locks, but something about the sealed window reassured her.
George’s words revisited her. Nowhere is safe.
***
Gemma waited for as long as she could. She could take it no longer. The infected still clustered in the shadow of the shop. She crept to the stairwell. The stairs were empty and she descended as quickly as she could. The main lobby, in contrast to her floor, was a hive of activity. Gemma snapped open her camera and filmed the men at work.
Soldiers moved sacks of sandbags to the entrance, building a wall already to the height of Gemma. Along the base, they created a firing step, where two men could conceivably stand side by side to look over at whatever enemy lay on the other side. One soldier stepped up and rested his rifle on the parapet. He held a pair of binoculars to his eyes, scanning down the corridor and out into the dark.
Dylan stood off to the right, checking weapons and magazines. It was clear they expected the worst. The officer that spoke to Gemma earlier in the night barked orders to his men. Their situation was reported repeatedly by the dishevelled radio operator, but no acknowledgement came back.
Gemma counted the soldiers. Sixteen, including the officer. Not the most comforting of numbers when guarding against a charge of many hundreds.
“You there,” shouted the officer. “Get back up to your room and stay there.”
Gemma lowered her camera. The officer stared. She understood his impatience, and dared not defy the order a moment longer.
She headed back upstairs to her floor, and looked out the window. Some of the infected stood in plain sight, their focus on the hotel. They knew. They knew people were inside. She was pulled away from the window.
Dylan. “We don’t want them charging in here after seeing a pretty, little blonde do we?”
Under other circumstances Gemma may have considered that flirtation, but she was too scared to think that way. “They know we’re here.”
“And the last thing we need is a panic in here. We’ve done all we can for the moment.”
“Is it enough?”
Dylan smiled, a false expression. It marred his handsome face for all of the falsehood’s ugliness. “Of course. You’re safe here. You should get some sleep, we’ll protect you. That’s what we’re here for.”
“Please help me!” A woman exited her room, she wore a dressing gown that fell open, her pencil-thin body a mess of weeping sores. She raised her hands, palms painted with blood.
“My family,” she said coming closer, “they’re sick, worse than me. Please.”
Dylan raised his SA80 to his shoulder, and Gemma sidled in behind him.
“Stop,” he commanded, aiming down the iron sights. “Won’t tell you again.”
Gemma snapped her camera open and aimed, too. She somehow felt safe behind the lens. It wasn’t a weapon, but it created an improbable sense of security.
The woman took another step. Dylan snapped the safety off his weapon. Gemma popped the camera just above his shoulder.
“Gemma,” Dylan growled.
“I’ve got to capture this.”
“No. Get back to the stairwell.”
The woman’s eyes never settled on either of them. They grew manic.
“He said he was there to help. Injected us. We were fine until then. My child … my husband.” Her whole body jittered. “There to help.”
“Who? Who said they were there to help?”
Gemma stepped past Dylan. “We can help.”
“Gemma!”
The infected woman’s eyes fixed on Gemma, bloodshot and losing all appearance of humanity. She moaned. “The medic.”
A figure dashed from the room behind her, screaming guttural rage at Gemma and Dylan.
“Her husband?” Gemma gasped.
“Gemma, get out of here now!”
The woman turned. A male, the lines of sores on his body moist, smashed the woman with a balled fist. Her neck cracked, and she fell to the ground, wheezing and clutching at her throat.
Dylan fired off two rounds, the air cutting uncomfortably close to Gemma’s ear. She dropped to her knees, her camera bouncing at her chest, and she scrambled away. The rounds struck the infected in the chest. He stumbled, hands raking at his wounds, then charged again.
Three more shots, four, five, tearing into the neck and head. It went down with a gurgle, the body twitching. Dylan raced over to the fallen and placed a foot onto its chest. He lowered the barrel of his weapon and fired a single shot, point blank into the skull. All movement ceased. Dylan turned and executed the infected woman in the same fashion.
She was infected. Of that there was no doubt. But to see someone still able to communicate in some form, and yet killed, chilled Gemma to the core.
“Was there nothing we could do? She was still talking?”
“Her neck was broken. If that didn’t kill her, the infection would’ve taken control of her. It’s better that she died quickly before she could hurt anyone else.” Dylan checked his weapon. “Stay here.”
He entered the bedroom the two infected came from and closed the door behind him.
Gemma whispered to herself, “The woman said her husband and baby succumbed. No.”
A brief scuffle came from beyond the doorway followed by a single shot. Gemma jumped. A terrified face appeared from a room at the far end of the corridor. Gemma shook her head, waved her hands and gestured to get back into the room. The door slammed shut.
Gemma grabbed her camera and pointed. The woman. The male. Her stomach lurched. She dropped the camera, ran into her own room, pulled the duvet and sheet free of the mattress and dragged them back to the corridor. She threw them over the two dead.
Dylan returned from the room and pulled the door closed. He shook his head, and she understood. Don’t ask.
“Should we move them?” She pointed at the covers. “Them.”
“We don’t have the gear to safely move them. They’re covered, that’s the best we can do.”
He moved to the window and swore. “They’re moving.”
Gemma joined him. Outside, the infected streamed toward the entrance to the hotel. Tracer fire ripped through their ranks but they pressed on regardless. The gunfire sounded distant from the fifth floor.
“I’ve got to get down there, they need me. Stay in your room.” He pointed behind Gemma.
“I’m not staying here on my own.”
Dylan looked ready to argue but instead took off for the stairs at a trot.
Gemma followed. Her foot burned. “What do you think about what the woman said?”
Dylan grunted.
“Do you have a medic operating here?”
“Yes, but he only treats us, not the displaced.”
“Everyone who arrived here was tested for infection, then suddenly a medic treated them and they get sick?”
“She was delirious, you can’t put stock on what she said.”
The sounds of gunfire and screaming grew louder.
“There’s a rogue medic in this building treating people.”
“One problem at a time. Stay back here.”
They reached the bottom of the stairwell. Dylan marched through the doors. Gemma followed cautiously behind, hugging the wall.
The barricade and sandbags wavered, heaving inward. Two soldiers leaned their weight into the barricade.
“They’re on the other side?” But no one replied to Gemma’s question. They couldn’t hear her, but more so, an answer wasn’t needed.
Another two soldiers jumped up onto the firing step, raised their rifles overhead and fired blindly into the screaming mass beyond.
Gemma fired off shots of her own, capturing the scene of chaos that unfolded.
Residents of the displacement centre filtered down the stairs behind Gemma. Some cried, others screamed, most watched wide eyed, shaking with terror.
One weapon was grabbed at from the parapet. The soldier wrestled to keep hold. In a desperate bid, he reached higher up the barrel. That was his undoing. He was pulled high and flew over the wall. Gone. More soldiers took his place, again firing blindly. Gemma covered her ears. It did little good.
“We need to get out of here,” shouted one of the displaced. He headed to the large exit that opened into the shopping centre of which the hotel was part of. A heavy security door sealed the barrier between the centre and hotel. “We can open the shutters and get out, close it behind us.”
More than a few listened to him, and followed.
“No,” Gemma yelled.
The soldiers kept firing. The group grasped the underside of the shutters and heaved against the weight.
“Out there isn’t safe!” Nobody could hear her. She pushed through to the ringleader and pulled on his arm. “You can’t do this.”
He shrugged her off. “To hell I can’t. I won’t stay here to die.” He cried out encouragement to the group.
A woman in a dirty, white blouse and black skirt waved something in her hand. “I worked here. I have the key.”
“Can you open the door?” called the ringleader.
“Yes. I think so.”
“Then quickly. Before they notice.”
“Don’t!” Gemma held her arms up. “This is suicide.”
But the woman busied with the key, all eyes on the shutters, hoping, praying.
Gemma headed to the reception desk and slid under the barrier.
Infected were spilling over the sandbag barrier becoming mixed with the soldiers who held the barricade in place. When one fell into the lobby, they were quickly surrounded and pumped full of rounds. One soldier, an older man, sat on the floor, his uniform stained in blood. He clutched at the wound and held a pistol in his free hand, firing into the infected when one appeared.
Gemma raised her camera but could not bring herself to take a picture.
Dylan was close to the entrance, reloading his rife, spent magazines and shells at his feet. Gemma called his name but he did not hear.
Gemma weaved her way through the concentration of soldiers, reaching Dylan. The gunfire hurt her ears. Infected fell over the barricade, more than could be killed. They were on the verge of securing a foothold, despite their losses.
Gemma hit Dylan’s arm.
“What?”
“They’re opening the side doors.” Gemma screamed to be heard, and pointed back to where the group wrestled with the shutters.
Dylan looked between the infected and Gemma. “Show me.”
She did.
It was a different scene.
The barrier was
gone.
The displaced had made it through, and into the shopping centre. But they were easy prey. The infected pulled down the slower women, and the others were being chased or cornered, and simply waiting for the pain. Screams mixed with roars. The caught wailed like sirens, their skin being shred and sliced and ripped.
Dylan sprang into action. He ran to the console and activated the mechanism to lower the barrier. Some of the lucky ones attempted to return. They found no escape. They banged on the door. Their frenzied attempts to return only drew the attention of the infected. Through the slits in the security barrier, Gemma could make out a swarm bearing down on them.
“Can’t we help them?” asked Gemma.
“We open that and we’re all goners. I won’t lose this facility to save a handful.”
Back in the hallway, the soldiers were falling back, infected snapping as they fought a retreat. One soldier, his rifle empty swung it like a club, smashing the teeth from the mouth of the closest beast. He was pulled down by a second attacker.
Dylan seized Gemma and propelled her toward the stairwell. The soldiers followed, barring the door after the last member was through.
The captain, bleeding from a scalp wound, breathed heavily and leaned on the banister for support.
“We’re losing control. We need to regroup, get the surviving displaced on the top floor and hold out for relief. Did we get a message off to C and C before we pulled back?”
The radio operator was dead. An infected slapped at the door, its face pressed against the small square of glass. It battered its head repeatedly, each strike a dull thud until the glass cracked. Gemma took two pictures, snapshots.
“Up the stairs,” ordered the captain. “I want eyes on this door. The moment it looks like it might give, I need to know.”
Gemma returned to her room, and awaited the flood of displaced. Could the soldiers secure the fifth floor? Was she safe? Was she going to die? Was she going to become one of those?
