A blurred shape scraped along the floor towards her. Unable to make it out clearly, she kicked it away as she passed instead of shooting. Then, she shot two more ragged figures pitching towards her that were obviously not residents coming to her aid.
When she reached the terrace looking out over the courtyard, her vision was still too hazy to see clearly. Squinting to see down on the main level, she eventually made out the square shapes of the garden beds in the center. They were lit up by the soft white glow of strands of LED lights hanging on the chain link cage which gave them a bizarre, festive look.
There was a figure inside the cage, huddling near the tool shed, holding a shovel. Was it Gloria? Cheryl noticed a couple of bodies near the cage entrance. Their heads were distorted, flattened shapes, with dark, fluid ink blots pooling on the ground around them. It looked like Gloria (or whoever was down there) had smashed them before retreating to the cage.
Had she locked herself in there, figuring it was the safest place to be? Cheryl didn't think it was a smart refuge. Despite the fact that it might be secure for now, in a worst case scenario, Eaters could surround it and prevent an escape. She'd have a little food from the young spring crops and access to water…but it wouldn't last.
Two forms lumbered into view from the shadows. They made jagged lines towards the cage. When they reached the section near the shed, they clawed at the links, moaning with the desperation of their hunger.
The woman screamed.
It was Gloria.
More forms emerged from the shadows, some dragging along, and others propelling themselves at a quick clip. When Cheryl started shooting at them, Gloria screamed again. She ran to the other side of the cage, and tripped over the edge of a vegetable bed where young onions rose up like tiny green fingers from the soil. She picked herself up, flung the cage door open, and ran out of the courtyard, disappearing into a darkened hallway on the far side.
Wishing she could help her friend, but knowing she couldn't, Cheryl lowered her gun and booked it towards the staircase. She was one flight down when she paused on the landing.
There were flames on the second floor. A fire in the infirmary!
Oh God, no…
Her father was still incapacitated. There was no way he could have made it out of there on his own, and she hadn't seen any sign of a patient evacuation.
Once she reached the second floor, the smoke burned her eyes. Focused on the outline of the infirmary doors, she hesitated. Without fire gear, there was no way she could go inside. Another puff of thick, black smoke around the doorframe accentuated the danger.
Her fingers clenched around the barrel and trigger of the M16. After traveling hundreds of miles from Colorado to find her father in Tucson, how could she abandon him now?
You know he's not going to get better anyway. Why risk your own life to save him again?
I have to try…
Trying to breathe through the fabric of her shirt pulled up over her nose, she continued towards the infirmary, but when she reached it and touched the door handle, she quickly jerked her hand away. The metal was searing hot.
You can't go in there.
Damnit!
Not sure where she was going now, she edged back towards the staircase. Her legs felt weak, and her head was getting as fuzzy as her eyes. She rested against the wall, her breaths coming in shallow, burning heaves as her lungs strained to receive enough oxygen.
There was no sane reason to believe that her father was still alive. Tempted to simply "cry uncle", sink down to the floor and give up, she choked back a sob. This was the most hopeless moment she'd had in months.
If Mark was dead too…
More gunfire rang out. It seemed to come from multiple areas of the fort at once. After another second, she forced herself to move again. She took slow, agonizing steps, figuring she'd make her way towards one of the areas where she'd heard the shots, so she could join up with those defending the fort.
She hadn't gone far, when something zinged past her left ear. She ducked when she realized it had been a bullet. Looking over her shoulder, she saw that the shot had come from someone who'd barricaded themselves in the hall storage room. The door was cracked open just an inch, enough to get a muzzle out and take aim.
Had it been an innocent mistake? Had she been moving too slow and awkward, looking like one of the infected?
She had no desire to stick around and have a conversation about the state of her health.
A few more shots sang past her. After the firing ceased, she scrambled towards a pillar, moved around to the far side and crouched down. Knowing that her ammunition was low, she took off Kelly's backpack and found a new magazine. After clicking it into place, she switched the gun to fully automatic mode. Then, she took quick, hunched steps towards the staircase again. She was on the first step down when she heard the deep voice in her head.
No…head up…towards the roof.
What? She couldn't get to the roof—it was restricted access. Even if the door leading up there was unlocked, it would be stupid to get cornered there. She took another step down…
Go to the roof!
That definitely wasn't her own muddled brain speaking to her; it was Mark's voice in her head, and he sounded angry. That voice—that strange telepathy he seemed to sporadically have with her during times of crisis couldn't be ignored. Still…she didn't believe it was steering her right this time. Going up to the roof could be a serious dead end.
She took another step down.
Cheryl!
The voice was frantic now, screeching in a tortuous pitch.
Fine. She'd go up. But, if it turned out to be a mistake and she died, she vowed to find some way to come back and haunt him.
Chapter 7
The staircase to the roof was on the fifth floor…on the other side of the building. So, she turned around and headed back up, racing past the sniper in the storage room. By the time she was a half dozen yards down the walkway, her lungs ached, and she felt like dropping to her knees and crawling. After another second, she did just that, realizing that the smoke was rising to the top of the building, and she was inhaling more of it by standing up.
Her entire body was trembling, including her aching knees when she reached the door that said, RESTRICTED ACCESS. She'd never been past it, so she didn't know what to expect on the other side. She stood, but immediately doubled over, choking and coughing for a few seconds before she was able to turn the knob.
On the other side, she slammed the door behind her and waited out another round of coughing. This time, she hunched over and heaved up a drool of blood and spittle. When she regained her composure, she saw a flickering fluorescent light in the small alcove, illuminating a metal staircase that led to the roof. Before she could take a step towards it, she heard a bang behind her. A horrific face smashed against the square window panel in the door. It was a man's face—or the face of what used to be a man. He had vacant eyes, cheeks and lips speckled with blood, and crusty fingernails that clawed at the door. Something about him looked familiar, and she realized that it was Frank Taylor—Sergeant First Class. She'd seen him earlier that evening in the hall outside the gym, talking to another soldier.
Worried that he'd figure out how to turn the door knob, she backed up towards the staircase with her gun aimed in his direction. Then, she stumbled up the steps to the next door.
As she feared, it was locked. There was a keypad next to it, but she didn't have any idea what the access code was.
"What's the code, Mark?" she shouted out loud. "What's the damn code?"
There was no reply in her mind. Even if he could sense her questions, he probably didn't know the code. He didn't have universal access to secured areas of the fort or information that only the higher ups had.
She took a couple of steps back and aimed her gun, forgetting it was on automatic fire as she pulled the trigger. The rat-tat-tat-tat-tat exploded into the door lock amidst a shower of sparks and flying gun shells. It took a
second round before she was able to yank on the knob and pull the door open.
A gust of wind hit her before she stepped through the door. Along with it came a strange new sound. She visualized it in her mind, a whir of turning blades, before she recognized what it was.
Stepping out onto the roof top, she saw the fleet of Black Hawks. They sat there like giant, black grasshoppers, with spinning wings, about to take flight.
There was an air evacuation? It wasn't possible. There were only six…seven…helicopters? Each held a three person flight crew and eleven passengers. There were over a thousand people in the fort! Even with the trucks and the Jeeps, there was no method of creative math that made it possible to evacuate everyone.
There's no more time! Get to the chopper!
Which one? Disoriented and still not feeling well, she squinted, staring at the twinkling of lights with eyes that still felt like they were rasped with sandpaper every time she blinked. One of the helicopters lifted into the air, then another…
They're leaving!
A figure stood near the helicopter furthest to the left, motioning to her. She ran towards him, remembering to duck as she neared the circulating blades. When she realized it was Mark, she fell into his arms.
"Thank God you made it," he said, squeezing her. "I don't think I could have held Jake here for another minute."
"Let's go!" the pilot yelled.
Mark helped her into the chopper.
Once they were on board, Cheryl wondered why the pilot was so anxious when it seemed that they had at least a short window of safety. Then, she glanced back towards the roof door and stiffened at the sight of a dozen Eaters streaming through it. Led by their outstretched decaying hands, they did a macabre dance, a shuffle-stumble, getting dangerously close as the UH-60 Black Hawk helicopter started to lift off the ground.
She plopped into the empty seat near the door, dropped the backpack between her feet, tilted her head back, and closed her eyes for a second. Along with the adrenaline still pulsing through her and the nausea in the pit of her stomach, she had a witch's brew of emotions churning inside. They were leaving what had been the safest of any place she been since the epidemic began last summer. Fort San Manuel seemed too big, too well-defended to fall…but it had. And here she was, escaping with her life once again. How many more lives did she have left before her number was called?
She hadn't completely given up hope that this was just a temporary evacuation. Maybe they'd just be leaving for the night, or a day or two. Surely, there were still residents fighting to halt the invasion. Many lives would be lost, but it might not be hopeless. It could be possible. It—
As they continued to rise into the sky, curiosity forced her to look out the window. Instantly, she realized that any hopes of defending the fort seemed to have been abandoned. It was helter-skelter on the ground. Someone had opened the drawbridge door that crossed the rebar moat. Instead of trying to keep the invading Eaters out, they were abandoning the fort. Men, women, and children were streaming out, running screaming into the night. Some were in their pajamas—little girls in pajama gowns, big girls in Victoria Secret silks, little boys in Sponge Bob tanks and shorts, and grown men in their boxers. They ran barefoot into a black, sandy sea filled with cactus and scorpions.
To the south, an orange glow lit up the night sky. Cheryl saw that the southern Baiting Station was on fire. Flames licked up from the center courtyard of the building, engulfing the suspended corpses. From her bird's eye vantage point, it looked like a horrific scene of crosses burning in the middle of the desert.
Then, something even stranger back at the fort caught her attention. Flood lights illuminated a section of perimeter fence and she could see ramps leaning against it. They were hard to make out as the chopper soared higher and higher, but they looked like dozens of telephone poles lashed together, and there were Eaters crawling up them.
Since she saw the first bloody Eater on the dance floor that night, she wondered how they'd gotten in. The last attack had gotten pretty hairy, but to her knowledge, before today, no Eater had ever gotten in from the outside. Now, she saw evidence of the breech in security.
It didn't make sense.
Even when she'd seen an organized looking congregation of Eaters back in a Colorado park, she really didn't believe that the infected had any true sort of intelligence or group think. Then, how in the hell did those ramps get there?
There was another odd thing: a caravan of white trucks heading towards the fort. There were strange markings on top of them. If the squiggly lines were words, she couldn't make them out, but she saw a triangular image on top of each of them that looked like it had the number 'one' inside like the universal recycling symbol. Was it reinforcements for those fighting the battle? Or, was the worst of it over and they had a grimmer purpose? Perhaps, they were part of some cleanup crew from a remote outpost, going in to remove hundreds of dead bodies. If that was the case, the men sitting on the back of the last truck, holding rifles were likely part of the team that would have the morbid task of putting down any of the newly infected. And the men carrying flamethrowers…they were probably prepared to burn the bodies.
Cheryl turned away from the window. She was about to point out everything she had seen to Mark and the other passengers when she noticed the woman sitting across from her. It wasn't a soldier, and it wasn't just some random woman from the fort who'd also been lucky enough to get a seat on the chopper—it was the tart from the barbershop.
The woman's body was stiff, and she stared straight ahead with her cheeks sucked in like she was in terrible pain…and maybe she was. She had one hand hidden between her knees. As Cheryl stared, blood seeped out underneath her leg and began to drip down the inside of her calf, trickling into the crisscross pattern of her sandals.
"She's been bitten!" Cheryl yelled, pointing.
"No. No…I haven't! I just got hurt. I hurt my hand—"
Cheryl leapt out of her seat grabbed her wrist, pulling the hand into view, revealing a bite-shaped gouge where her thumb had once been.
Mark and the other men around them looked at the two of them with their mouths agape.
"She's infected!"
"No…no…" the woman pleaded." It was an accident. I was—"
With one swift move, Cheryl grabbed a fistful of the woman's hair and yanked, pulling her out of her seat. They struggled for a moment as the woman tried to fight her off. There were shouts around her, but Cheryl ignored them as she was kicked and clawed. The woman reached for her throat with both hands and squeezed. Then, Cheryl's knee reflexively sprung up and connected with her stomach, causing her to release her hold and double over. It took a couple of pushes to shove her closer to the chopper door, and just a second more before she went flying out of it. There was a bloodcurdling scream, barely audible above the chopper noise as the woman fell several hundred feet to the ground.
As she returned to her seat, she felt the stares of the other passengers in the cabin boring into her, but Mark looked away from her.
"She could have turned in flight. I had to do it!"
No one disputed her defense. A young man with dark, curly hair and coffee-colored skin next to the woman's empty seat simply shrugged and the guy seated next to him who was even younger with corn silk hair and flushed cheeks, gave her a grimaced nod as if to acknowledge the difficult, but necessary choice she made.
The lack of condemnation didn't make her feel better. Although she'd killed countless numbers of Eaters, she'd never done anything like this before. Since the woman hadn't yet turned into a snarling beast, her actions could hardly be justified as self-defense. In reality, what she'd done was murder.
She studied the group around her. In addition to the pilot and co-pilot—whose features she couldn’t see because of their helmets—there were six passengers visible to her besides Mark. Like her they were all lottery winners in today's game of survival. Except for an older man in an Army uniform who looked like someone of importance, the
rest were all young men who appeared to range in age from barely twenty up to somewhere in their thirties. The predominance of men reminded her that she'd left Yvonne behind. Then, she thought again about her dad…and the countless other people left behind at the fort that she'd come to know and care about over the last six months.
Her lament was interrupted by the older gentleman with white hair in a camouflage uniform at the end of the facing row. He spoke in a southern accent, "Private Murphy. The door…"
A young man near Cheryl, a towering bean stalk with a shaved head, jumped to his feet and slid the door shut.
Then, the older man said, "Y'all need to strap in."
It sounded more like an order than a suggestion. Cheryl watched the couple of men around her who seemed to know exactly how to fit the harness belt over their head, around their torso, and lock it into place. Then, she followed their lead.
Barely a second after she was secured, there was a sickening drop in elevation. The bottom fell out of her stomach, and her fingernails dug into her seat.
After they leveled out, the pilot spoke over the intercom. "Sorry, folks. Just an evasive maneuver. Got another chopper on our heels. We're all in too big of a hurry to bail out of Armageddon."
Flying in planes had always made Cheryl nervous, and she'd never been in a helicopter before. She'd feel a heck of a lot better once they made a safe landing back on terra firma. The wide eyes around her revealed that the rest of them were uneasy too.
Not knowing where they were going increase her agitation. What safe place…
Wait. Safe? Where was the holy land of 'safe' now?
As if reading her mind, the man next to the vacant seat asked the question she was thinking. "Where are we going?"
The gray-haired man spoke up first. "Zone B."
No one had ever explained to Cheryl what the zones were or how they were divided. When she'd been on the road with her traveling companion before finding refuge in the fort, they encountered a sign at the Arizona border that someone had altered with spray paint to say, Zone A. She'd forgotten about it since then.
Eaters (Book 2): The Resistance Page 8
