The Remaining: Extinction

by D. J. Molles

  No. Obviously not. You’re not going to muscle your way out of this situation.

  It’s brains over brawn, but you’ve done that before.

  Abe was never big. Through every unit he’d ever worked with, he’d always been one of the smaller guys. The big guys tended to muscle their way through things, but Abe had always been forced to use his head. It was no different now.

  Just remember who you’re dealing with, Abe told himself. These boys seem like operators. They know what they’re doing. It’s going to be tough to catch them with their pants down.

  His hammering heart and hard breathing were making his stomach fall into rioting. He gagged, burped, and tasted Salisbury steak and gravy, churned through with his own stomach acid. It burned in the back of his throat.

  What are you gonna do?

  I’m going to puke. And I’m going to pass out. And I’m going to hope to God that someone is watching…

  Abe sank to the ground. He could see just under the door. A tiny crack, and on the other side he could see the bottoms of boots and the shadows cast by a pair of men. Probably Norseman and his smaller partner, if Abe were to take a wild guess. Maybe they were paying attention, or maybe they weren’t. Maybe they had cameras in the room. In any case, there wasn’t a whole lot that Abe had going for him. He was improvising with nothing.

  He began to rock back and forth on his knees. Just the thought of it was already making saliva coat the sides of his mouth. He took a few short breaths, eyes locked on the underside of the door. He scooted a little closer. He made a strangled cry, and then said, “Help me… please…”

  Then he shoved two fingers down his throat. His throat seized around them. Then he could feel everything opening up as Salisbury steak and gravy came rushing back up. He retched once with nothing, and then it all came out at once, a light brown chunky mess that spewed out onto the door and the floors. He retched two more times, and then collapsed in a puddle of his own vomit.

  His eyes rolled back. His eyelids fluttering while his body shook violently. His face and lips were smeared with his own vomit. The pool of the mess he had just created began to seep under the narrow crack at the bottom of the door.

  It took a moment, but then there was a cry of alarm from the other side of the door. Shuffling of feet, rubber boot soles squeaking on linoleum tiles. A few loud curses. Then the door was flung open. The air outside was noticeably cooler, and it chilled Abe’s vomit-covered face. His eyes were still looking up into his own head, and he could not see who it was that was standing in the doorway.

  “Holy fuck…”

  “Hey! Get the fuck up!”

  “Dude, he might be for real.”

  “God damn it… call the doc.”

  Abe coughed and spluttered and took shaky breaths. He blinked rapidly. It was Norseman standing over him, straddling the puddle of vomit, leaning down with his hands on his knees and inspecting Abe with a suspicious eye. His leaner partner was just outside the door, nose wrinkled in disgust, but eyes softened with pity.

  The leaner one pointed. “Roll him on his side so he don’t choke on his vomit.”

  Norseman avoided the puddle of vomit and stepped over Abe’s legs, reaching for his right shoulder to pull him onto his side.

  Abe did the only thing he could—he kicked with everything he had, and landed a hard blow into Norseman’s groin. The air came out of the man’s lungs in a whoomph, and he made a sound like groaning steel as he toppled forward onto Abe. The man was a righty, and his pistol was on Abe’s left. As Norseman landed on him, Abe’s left hand snagged the pistol from its holster on his belt—a simple quick-draw design with no safety retention in place. And then Abe was almost smothered by the man’s 250-pound frame.

  The lean man jumped forward, his pistol appearing in his hand, but then saw the pistol in Abe’s hand, and jumped back out of the doorway. Abe was almost completely covered by the big man. Even a good pistol shooter would have had to take a second or two to properly aim at the inch of Abe’s face that was peeking out from under the moaning form. The lean man hesitated, and didn’t take the shot.

  Abe did. Firing weak-handed with a man on top of him. He fired rapidly, hoping his volume of fire would make up for the lack of accuracy. But out of five rounds, four struck home except for the last one, which went high and to the left. The lean man, standing half in and half out of the doorway, yelped and danced as the bullets plunged through him and he fired reactively, the bullets slamming high into the wall behind Abe. Abe cringed when the man shot but forced himself to fire two more times, one striking the man low, on his thigh, and the other catching him right in the clavicle and cutting off his voice. The man tumbled against the wall, his chest still hitching for life though he was, for all intents and purposes, dead.

  Abe heaved with everything he had and managed to get the big man off of him. Norseman’s body was stiff, his arms beginning to work again as he was regaining some of his faculties. A blow to the testicles could be quite a shock to the system, but Abe needed to be out of arm’s reach by the time the man was back into fighting capability, because he held no illusions that he would win a grappling contest with him.

  Even as he was squirming, the man reached out and tried to grab hold of Abe’s neck, cognizant enough to know that Abe was trying to get away. Abe managed to pull out of his reach and then the man’s hand started grabbing at anything it could. Abe hit it hard with the slide of the pistol, right on the wrist where the nerve endings were. The Norseman growled and retracted his hand, but his body was rising up onto his knees, one hand still hovering protectively over his lower abdomen and groin.

  Abe scooted back, his feet slipping in his own vomit, but he managed to get out of striking range, with his back up against the wall. He switched the stolen pistol to his strong hand, and sudden, full-blown panic hit him hard: What the fuck was he thinking? He just fired shots inside of a building. If there was anyone else in this building, they were coming, and they were coming prepared for war.

  What the fuck was I supposed to do? I can’t overpower them.

  You needed strength to make a silent kill. Strength and endurance, of which Abe had neither in his current state. But whether or not taking shots was his best or only chance was a moot point now. It had happened. And he didn’t have a lot of time. He had to assume the cavalry was already on its way.

  He began to crawl up the wall and onto his feet, the pistol pointed at Norseman. “Don’t. I’ll fucking put one through your head.”

  The big man stared at him, still recovering, his face pale, but there was enough hatred in his eyes that Abe thought he could still be dangerous. If the man rushed him, he would have to take the shot. He wasn’t going to risk a physical confrontation with someone close to twice his size.

  “What are you doing?” the man said, accusation in his tone. “Same fucking side, you piece of shit. Unless you really are from President Briggs.”

  Abe shook his head, felt it swimming. He wasn’t going to go down this road. Maybe the man was being clever and trying to set Abe off balance, or maybe he was telling the truth. There wasn’t time to find out. “I’m not from Briggs. But I have no way of knowing if we’re on the same side, and I’m not taking my fucking chances. Where is my friend?”

  “Who?”

  “Captain Lucas. My friend.” Abe felt his voice rising. “I want to know where he is.”

  “I don’t know who that is.”

  “The man that was with me!” Abe shouted. “He was with me when you took me prisoner! I need to know where he is!”

  The man opened his mouth, but Abe could already tell that it was going to be another denial, and he simply wasn’t going to have it.

  Abe fired a shot that struck the big man in his shin, likely shattering the bone in two.

  The man screamed and Abe felt panic rise again. Another gunshot? Another one?

  Fuck it. If they’re coming, they’re coming. I’m completely fucked either way.

  Even if he did
make it out, what did he expect was going to happen? He was sick, partially starved, mostly dehydrated, with no transportation, no weapon save what he held in his hand, and barely any clothing to protect himself from the cold. He wasn’t going to get far. But these were worries for another time and another place. Right now all that mattered was momentum.

  “Where is he?” Abe demanded.

  The big man had his eyes squeezed shut. The shot to the shin had been convincing enough. “He’s in the other detainee building. Across from this one.”

  “How many guards?”

  “Fuck…”

  “How many?!”

  “Two. Just like for you.”

  “Where’s the device?” Abe said, stepping forward, beginning to shake.

  “I don’t know…”

  “No!” Abe bent down, still out of arm’s reach, but close enough. “You need to tell me where the fucking device is. It is very, very important that I get it back. You don’t understand what the hell is going on right now! You’re fucking killing everybody, you stupid sonofabitch! Don’t just follow orders—think for yourself! Think this shit through!”

  “What is it?” the big man said through clenched teeth.

  “It’s something that doesn’t belong to you. It belongs to someone else, and he needs it back. And if he doesn’t get it back, lots of bad stuff is going to happen, do you understand me? Bad, bad things. And bad, bad people.” Abe pointed the pistol at the man’s other leg. “Tell me now, or you’re not walking for the rest of your life. This ain’t last year, big guy. These are the bad times now, when they can’t fix shattered legs like this. You think anybody has time to teach you how to walk again, motherfucker? You want to walk, you tell me where it is.”

  “Jesus…” The big man was sweating profusely, rocking back and forth. “Carl has it. In his office. I don’t know where.”

  “Where is his office?”

  “I can show you…”

  “You can’t walk. Where is it? Tell me how to get there.”

  The big man took a few breaths to steady himself. “It’s in this building. Top floor. Has a sign on it that says, BEWARE OF DOG.”

  “Good.” Abe made a wide circle around the man. “Scoot in here. Scoot in.”

  The man did as he was told, the two of them trading places. Abe was now standing in the doorway. Abe bent down and scooped up the other guard’s pistol, shoving it into his waistband. He turned back to the big man, who was leaning against the far wall of the cell now.

  “I’m sorry about your partner here. I didn’t want to kill anyone.”

  “You traitorous piece of shit…”

  Abe closed the door on him, making sure that it was locked.

  TWO

  RUN

  ABE RACED DOWN HALLWAYS that were unfamiliar as a labyrinth to him. None of the doors and long stretches of hallways seemed to be in the right spot. He had almost memorized the ones outside of his old, chilly cell, but now that they’d transitioned him to the new, warmer one, he was completely discombobulated.

  He wanted to stop to listen and see if there were shouts, or the slamming of doors farther away in the building—the sound of people coming to take him out. But he didn’t dare stop. He had to keep going, keep running, though his run was weak and he was finding his right hip felt somewhat painful and out of whack, though he wasn’t sure why. It was causing him to lurch along like a man with a gimp leg.

  He was looking for stairs.

  Stairs. The Norseman said Carl’s office would be upstairs.

  And Lucas. He couldn’t forget about Lucas. He had to get the GPS first—Lucas would have to understand that the mission came first—and then he would find Lucas. In the building directly across from this one. The detainee building, the Norseman had said.

  How many detainees do they have?

  Abe kept passing doors and not finding himself confronted by any guards. Unless they filled cells and then let people rot, he had to assume that perhaps he and Lucas were some of the only detainees that Carl had. Perhaps he just kept them in separate buildings to have an extra buffer against them working together.

  What was it that Carl had said?

  “We’re what’s left…”

  So maybe there weren’t that many. Maybe the majority of the Eighty-Second Airborne and Delta had packed up and ran off to hitch their wagons to President Briggs. But if they had, it was news to Abe. That was the part that bothered him. He’d never been told about the Eighty-Second Airborne or men from Delta being inside their base city, Greeley, Colorado.

  But then again, Abe didn’t put it past President Briggs and his Army lapdog, Colonel Lineberger, to hide them from Abe. Back in the Greeley Green Zone, it’d been a constant political battle between Abe, who had access to all the supplies, and Briggs and Lineberger, who commanded all the forces that were kept fed and armed by the Coordinators. It was a power struggle. They didn’t like that Abe was the hand that fed them. And they’d slowly begun to squeeze him out, seizing more and more control of Project Hometown, until Abe finally read the writing on the wall and bailed.

  Those sons of bitches, Abe thought venomously. They were just waiting to get enough control of Project Hometown before they pulled the big red handle and sent their dogs after me. Well, fuck the both of you. I made the first move. And I’m keeping it alive. I’m keeping Project Hometown alive.

  He stumbled to a stop, realizing that he was at the door to a stairwell.

  Up. Gotta go up.

  He pushed through the door and up the stairs. He stopped on the first landing, almost wheezing. He coughed to clear some air space in his lungs, then took a moment to listen. But the building seemed quiet around him. Maybe the shots had not been heard.

  Up to the top of the next flight, where a door stood, closed and labeled LEVEL 2. He stopped again, trying to remember how far they’d dragged him up the stairs when they’d taken him to Carl’s office. Above him, the stairs continued up to the third and final level. But he didn’t think that they’d taken him up that far. He seemed to remember only one set of stairs.

  “Go with your gut,” Abe whispered, then yanked the door to Level 2 open.

  The interior of this level was much different from the one below. Where the bottom floor had been cement floors and metal doors and glaring fluorescent lights, this one was soft incandescence and carpeted hallways and neutral colors. Still very institutional, but it was obvious that this was where the people that ran the building stayed.

  Abe forced himself to move into this next long hallway, but he was racking his brain trying to remember when and where he had seen buildings like this at Fort Bragg. During his years in Delta he’d done time at Fort Bragg, and he thought that he’d been everywhere on base that there was to see, but he couldn’t remember any three-story buildings with holding cells on the bottom. Of course, maybe they weren’t originally holding cells. Maybe they had been repurposed. But they sure as hell seemed like holding cells.

  The hallway here was another long one, similar in dimension to the detention level. But the doors here appeared to lead to offices, and they were wooden, with smoked glass panels. Text was scrawled on some of them. Various ranks and names. Captain Something. Lieutenant Whoever.

  When they’d guided him up the stairs, they’d come through the door and hung a left, and then the office had been right there, and Carl had been inside. Abe mimicked the movement that he could remember, racing down the hallways and looking at the doors to his right, trying to see Carl or Gilliard in the name. But he wasn’t even sure that was Carl’s real name. And what if Carl wasn’t an officer? What if he didn’t actually have an office in here? Maybe he just took over someone else’s office.

  It’s got a BEWARE OF DOG sign on it.

  “Shit.” Abe had completely forgotten that in his haste. He began running now, down the hallway, looking at every doorway he passed, every office, to see if anyone had a sign hanging. Some of them did, but none of them were the sign he was looking for. Typical s
tuff on the windows. Comics. Old printouts from the Internet with someone’s face pasted obviously over the original.

  He kept looking ahead, thinking that there would be another stairwell door ahead of him somewhere, and that it would open and men would come spilling out. But the hallways remained abandoned. It seemed to be just him in this building. All alone and running amok.

  The hallway stopped abruptly, forcing him into a left turn. He took it and found another staircase straight ahead of him. Maybe that was the staircase he had come up. He ran to it and looked beside it. There was what appeared to be a utility closet, but then an office, and hanging on the door was a black sign with orange lettering: BEWARE OF DOG.

  The name on the office door read MASTER SERGEANT CARL GILLIARD.

  Guess he was telling the truth. Master Sergeant, huh?

  Abe was breathing hard. He tested the doorknob, feeling sweat beginning to run down his face and tickle his bearded jaw line. The door was locked. Abe looked around, more out of reflex than out of any need to do so, and then turned his back to the door and mule-kicked it. The locking mechanism wasn’t substantial and the door flew inward, the wooden framing splintered.

  Abe rolled into the room, sweeping it from left to right with his pistol tucked in tight to his body, ready for a threat, ready for someone to be hiding. But the room was empty. Abe checked behind the door, but found only a filing cabinet with a set of pictures on it. One was of a young, scrawny-looking Carl Gilliard in his dress blues, fresh out of basic training and thinking he was bad as fuck, as all eighteen-year-olds in the military automatically assume. The others showed different Carl Gilliards of different ranks, in different countries, fighting different wars, and gradually growing older both in body and in mind.

  Abe closed the damaged door behind him. It didn’t latch but it stayed closed. That would have to be good enough. He ran to the desk sitting in the middle of the room. Yes, this was the room he had been sitting in when Carl had given him his little speech. But who was Carl? Good or bad? Abe had asked him whether they were friends, and though the question had been a sarcastic one, Carl had said the truth.