Last Chance--A Novel

by Gregg Hurwitz

  I was hoping the units would topple like dominoes across the store, but I wasn’t that lucky. The bread unit landed at an angle a few feet above the floor, propped against a rack of Tabasco sauce. I threw myself into the shelves of Tabasco, leading with my shoulder. The rack was already wobbly from the impact, and I sent it over the tipping point.

  It hammered through into Drinks & Snacks. I landed painfully on top of the metal shelves. Two-liters of Coke battered my shoulders.

  Behind me I heard screaming and shotgun blasts. As I shoved myself up onto all fours, Rocky fell on me, knocking me over.

  “Sorry!”

  We fought to stand amid rolling cans of Sprite and Fanta. Together we leaned into the next unit. Alex was swearing loudly and prolifically.

  The unit tipped up and back, up and back, a little more each time. Finally Rocky and I shoved it through into Dry Packaged Goods. The soda shelves smacked into a wall of Campbell’s soup cans, the weight of which uprooted their housing unit immediately, sending us spilling into—at last—Baking Supplies.

  I skidded out atop a wash of soup cans, somehow staying upright as I freestyle roller-skated my way to the edge of the mess. I leapt clear from the fallen items onto a patch of exposed tile and bolted up the aisle, my eyes scanning the shelves.

  “—please be here please be here please—”

  From behind me: Boom. Screech. Boom-boom. Screech.

  “Chance!” Alex screamed. “I hope you know what the hell you’re doing!”

  Finally I spotted it near the end of the aisle. I grabbed the sturdy bag off the shelf, hugging it to my chest.

  I sensed a presence at my side.

  A Hatchling towered over me.

  He’d circled, coming up the row from the rear of the store.

  I struggled to open the bag, but it was fastened tight. Cheery red letters jumped out at me: CHILDPROOF SEAL!

  I swore.

  The Hatchling reared back. His claws flashed.

  It was survival instinct. A flinch. Holding up my arms to protect my face from the death blow. Only my hands weren’t empty.

  They were holding the bag of table salt.

  It exploded on impact, covering the Hatchling in a cloud of white crystals. His front half melted, a landslide of orange flesh. His head corkscrewed back on his neck, and he howled.

  I dug my boot deep into the mound of spilled salt and kicked as hard as I could. The steel-reinforced toe of my boot, crusted with salt, hammered him right between the legs.

  Whatever noise he was making ratcheted up another level.

  His body liquefied in patches. He fell onto the tiles, which were coated with more salt. He squirmed, his flesh sticking to the floor and pulling away from his bones like taffy.

  I grabbed an armload of bags and ran past Rocky toward the others. “Grab more!” I shouted, and he scrambled off to do so.

  Eve lost her footing on the soup cans and fell hard onto her back. A Hatchling pounced, landing right on top of her on all fours. His head cocked, teeth bared.

  I dropped the salt bags except for one, which I swung like a baseball bat into the side of the Hatchling’s head. The bag broke open, the flesh dissolving off his skull instantaneously beneath the onslaught of salt. Eve screamed, her hands flailing. Droplets of mucus fell on her, acid eating through her clothes.

  I grabbed her wrist and yanked her out from beneath the Hatchling just before he collapsed.

  Patrick and Alex backed into me, Patrick firing into the breach again. The five remaining Hatchlings darted over the cascade of fallen shelves, spreading out, readying for an attack. Their skin changed constantly in swirling patterns, picking up the bright colors of the cans and bottles all around them.

  “I gotta reload,” Patrick said.

  “Fall back here.” I grabbed his sleeve and shoved him into Alex, sending both of them tumbling off the cans into the clear part of the aisle.

  Rocky was running back and forth with salt bags, holding them over his head and flinging them down into the floor. He’d built up a nice line of salt on one side. Eve had already caught on, and she was knocking more bags off the shelf on the other side and stomping on them, splitting them open.

  We huddled within the ring of salt. Patrick dropped to a knee, reloading the shotgun as the Hatchlings advanced. The first two hit the salt perimeter at the same time. Their legs buckled, their knees striking the thicker spill, and then they were belly down in the granules, thrashing and screeching.

  Another tried the same from the other side of the aisle, liquefying into the floor. Rocky kicked up a spray of white, catching the one behind him as he readied for a leap. As the Hatchling staggered, Eve grabbed up a fistful of salt and hurled it into his eyes. He fell back, his claws tearing at his brow and cheeks, shredding through his own flesh until all that remained was a concave face. He fell back against a rack of Doritos and stayed there, propped up and lifeless.

  Alex whipped her head around. “There were ten. Where’s the last—”

  A clang overhead jerked us upright. A Hatchling leapt clear over the aisle, banging into the BAKING SUPPLIES sign overhead.

  We dove in opposite directions. We must have looked like a human grenade exploding all over the place. But we cleared the way.

  Everyone except Patrick.

  He wasn’t looking up. He was still on one knee, loading the shotgun.

  “Patrick!” I yelled as the Hatchling pounded down on the tile right before him.

  The Hatchling bent over Patrick, mucus dripping off his torso, tapping the tips of Patrick’s front boot.

  Patrick remained calmly on his knee, the shotgun propped before him, its butt resting on the tile. His head still lowered, his face invisible beneath the brim of his cowboy hat. He didn’t have a chance.

  I braced myself to watch my brother die.

  The Hatchling flicked its claws and dove in.

  Boom!

  The Hatchling went airborne, flying backward, a hole torn clear through his chest. He whapped the floor a good six feet away.

  Patrick hadn’t moved. He hadn’t even looked up.

  He’d simply hooked his thumb inside the trigger guard and applied five pounds of trigger pressure.

  Patrick stood up, adjusted his hat. “Like I said. Just have to let them get closer.” He turned to face us. “What are you waiting for? We got work to do.”

  He cycled the shotgun one-handed and started for the front gate, already digging the key from his pocket.

  ENTRY 39

  The survivors gathered in a solemn semicircle at the base of the bleachers. Never had I heard it so quiet.

  Ben sat midway up on one side, me, Patrick, and Alex on the other.

  Dr. Chatterjee perched on the top bench, staring down imperiously like a judge. Which was appropriate, given what we were dealing with.

  When we’d first strolled in, Ben had blanched. But he’d swallowed his astonishment quickly, regaining his usual bluster. After the initial happy surprise of our return, everyone had looked past us at the empty doorway, the mood turning.

  Ten of us had left the school. Only seven had walked back in.

  No one wanted a replay of the Patrick-and-Ben brawl, so at least fifteen kids had gotten between us and Ben, steering us to opposite ends of the gym until tempers cooled.

  Once everyone had settled, Dr. Chatterjee had called for a meeting. I had to say, even though we had no procedures in place for a court hearing-type thing, he was doing a pretty good job.

  “You lied in your recounting of what happened at the grocery store,” Chatterjee said.

  “I didn’t lie.” Ben crossed his arms, the sleeves pulling tight across his biceps. “I said they were stuck in the grocery store.”

  “You didn’t say you were the one who got us stuck in there,” Alex said.

  “How ’bout Dezi?” Ben said. “He’s dead because of the sprained knee Chance gave him—”

  “That’s irrelevant and off topic,” Chatterjee said. He looked at
me. “And no, it’s not Chance’s fault that he defended himself when attacked.” When his spectacles swiveled to Ben, the moonlight turned them into glinting circles. “But the deaths of Kris Keuser and Jenny White…” Here he paused. He rasped a hand across his stubble, regaining his composure. “Those children died because of your actions.”

  “No,” Ben said. “They died because Hatchlings ate them. Let’s not lose sight of who the enemy is here.”

  “You ran away.”

  “Okay, okay.” Ben spread his arms wide. “You say you represent the law. Is it a legal obligation to rescue someone? In the world how it used to be, I mean. Would you punish someone for not running into a burning building?”

  “No,” Alex said. “You’d just think he was a—”

  “You didn’t just not help,” I said. “You locked us in.”

  “You guys were surrounded,” Ben said. “I thought you were dead. I was protecting myself and my crew. Like in a submarine when you have to close a hatch, cut your losses when a cabin floods.”

  “You didn’t help because it was us,” I said. “If it was one of your guys, you never would have locked us in.”

  “Again, irrelevant. A mom can choose to risk her life for her own baby. That doesn’t mean she has to for any random person who might be in danger. No judge would sentence her for that.”

  Chatterjee nodded morosely. “Ben is right,” he said.

  Patrick stood up. Everyone in the gym stiffened in anticipation. It didn’t take much from Patrick to draw a reaction.

  Chatterjee gestured for him to sit down. Patrick held a few beats and then lowered himself back onto the bench.

  “A person wouldn’t be punished for not aiding someone.” Chatterjee glared at Ben. “But your cowardly actions are not befitting a head of security. You are relieved of your position. You are no longer entitled to stand guard or go on lookout duty.”

  An expression flickered across Ben’s face so fast you’d miss it if you blinked. It held a kind of anger that’s hard to put into words. But then he smoothed out his features into a mask of acceptance.

  Patrick said, “It’s not enough.”

  Dr. Chatterjee said, “Patrick—”

  “We should put him out,” Patrick said. “He got Kris and Jenny killed. He’s not safe to have as a part of us anymore.”

  “My ruling is final.”

  “Can we take a vote?” Alex said.

  Chatterjee pondered this for a moment. Then gave a sad nod. “All in favor of casting Ben Braaten out of the community?”

  A bunch of hands shot up. Chatterjee tallied them mentally. It was too close to count, and from our vantage on the bleachers we couldn’t see everyone anyway.

  Chatterjee said, “All those in favor of Mr. Braaten’s remaining?”

  Another set of arms rose. Chatterjee scanned the room, his lips moving as he counted. Then he said, “It’s a tie.”

  Ben cleared his throat. “I haven’t voted yet,” he said, and put up his hand.

  Patrick stood up, and this time no one told him to sit down.

  “Very well,” Chatterjee said to Ben. “You’ll have to turn over your stun gun now.”

  That same expression moved across Ben’s face, as fast as the flick of a snake’s tongue. But he managed a contrite nod. Still, he made no move to give up his gun.

  “Do you want to obey, or do you want to leave the community?” Chatterjee said.

  Ben smiled, the scars of his face moving into alignment. “No way I’m risking it out there.”

  “Your gun, Mr. Braaten.”

  Ben pulled the stun gun out from his waistband. Gazed down at it almost lovingly.

  Chatterjee said, “Eve?”

  Eve rose from her chair by the supply station, climbed up the bleachers toward Ben, and held out her hand.

  For a moment Ben ignored her. He kept staring at his stun gun. Then he lowered his head and offered it up. It was like he couldn’t stand to see her take it from him.

  Eve brought it down to the storage room and put it away. The congregation broke up.

  Ben looked across at Patrick and gave a smart-ass little smirk. Patrick started for him furiously, but I grabbed his arm.

  “Don’t get distracted,” I whispered. “Remember what we gotta do tomorrow.” Patrick started to pull away from me, but I tightened my grip. “We’ve got bigger concerns.”

  His gaze caught on Alex over on her cot, taping her fingers in preparation for the mission. He pulled his arm free, took a step away from Ben, and headed down the bleachers.

  I knew what had stopped him. He was thinking about Alex’s birthday, same as I was.

  Seventeen days away.

  ENTRY 40

  Patrick, Alex, and I left around noon, giving ourselves plenty of time to get to Stone Spread. We’d have to travel with extreme caution in the daylight. After retrieving the Mustang from the woods, we’d circumvented town, taking back roads until we hit the highway. Then we blazed west across the plains, veering around the occasional abandoned car. We didn’t see a soul. Or anything without a soul.

  I sat in the back, the hot breeze blowing across my face. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d ridden in a car during the day.

  We hadn’t spoken for the past half hour. The implications of what we were heading to do were so vast and complicated that none of us knew what to say. My thoughts returned to my parents.

  Scents came to me first: Lilac perfume. English Leather. That lemon soap Mom used to wash dishes. Dad’s baby-back ribs.

  I thought of my first memory, a view from a bucket swing, sunbeams breaking through tree branches and my chubby hand reaching to catch them. Then others cascaded through my mind. Patrick behind me, teaching me how to swing a Wiffle-ball bat. My first school picture, the mustached photographer adjusting my shirt collar. Swaying on a hammock with Alex, naming the constellations, her bare arm pressed against mine. Uncle Jim helping me deliver my first litter of ridgebacks. Aunt Sue-Anne lying next to me in bed, reading me The Adventures of Tom Sawyer. Patrick teaching me how to drive. Alex: the Kiss.

  It occurred to me that my life was flashing before my eyes. Considering where we were going, that made sense, but the realization only packed mass onto the lead ball weighing down my chest. I looked at Patrick’s profile. He gripped the steering wheel tight with one hand, and his jaw was shifting like it did when he was thinking. I knew he was stewing in his thoughts just like I was.

  The signs documented Stone Spread’s approach: 127 MILES.

  113 MILES.

  97 MILES.

  Patrick screeched over to the side of the road. Dust clouded across the windshield and then drifted away. He squeezed the wheel with both hands now. Alex and I were looking at him. He was never like this. I didn’t know what was wrong.

  He said calmly, “I need to talk to my brother.”

  And then he climbed out and walked several paces into the brush at the side of the road.

  Alex and I looked at each other. She said, “Go on, then.”

  I got out and walked over to where Patrick was standing, his hands on his hips, staring at the horizon. His hair was matted down with sweat beneath his black cowboy hat. I stood next to him for a while, looking where he looked, trying to see what he saw, but there was nothing out there.

  When he finally turned to me, his eyes were moist. I thought maybe he might cry, but then I remembered that Patrick didn’t cry. Did he?

  He said, “We will get out there and we will do what needs to be done and save Alex and everyone else, but…”

  I tried to swallow, but my mouth was too dry. It was hard to look at him, yet I couldn’t look away. Inside, I felt like I was free-falling.

  Patrick said, “Remember when you told the dogs that their most important job was to protect their brother?”

  I found my voice. “It is. That’s what we’ve always said.”

  “I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you from this,” he said. “And … for me … it’s more than just th
at. You’re more than a little brother to me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean—I raised you.” His voice cracked, and I thought that if he started crying, I might die. “I raised you.”

  He shot me a quick look. In his eyes I saw the kind of unconditional love that you hear moms talk about on the morning talk shows.

  Before I could respond, he turned and walked back to the Mustang.

  * * *

  Weapons in hand, we stood on the specified coordinates on the battered-flat plain past the beat-down stables. It looked like what it was—a spot in the middle of nowhere.

  Wide-open sight lines all around made for easy surveillance. We’d spot anyone coming.

  The Mustang was parked behind us. But not too far behind us.

  The black helmet swung by my side. I’d brought it in case the Rebels didn’t show and tried to contact us again.

  Dusk was still a ways off, the sun a rich shade of orange behind a heap of fluffy clouds. We weren’t really sure what we were waiting for. But we waited just the same. The Rebels were late. Late enough so I was starting to worry that something was wrong. They didn’t strike me as imprecise.

  Alex spoke, pulling me from my concerns.

  “So you boys are gonna get your serum shots,” she said. “And then what? You just explode right here?”

  “I’m guessing they’ll tell us to get to a more populated area,” I said. “If we disperse the serum out here, the only things it’ll affect are the groundhogs.”

  “Not if it’s carried through the air,” Alex said. “Look at the Dusting. That wrapped around the entire globe in no time.”

  “I hadn’t thought of that. I figured we’d at least have more time to, you know…” My sentence trailed off. Even the air felt heavy.

  Alex swallowed hard, seemed to set aside her sadness. She cocked her head at me. “Play foosball?” she said.

  I grinned. “Work out a synchronized-swimming routine.”

  “Learn how to bake soufflés.”

  We were cracking up now, but Patrick wasn’t. He was steadily scanning the horizon, squinting against the setting sun.

  “Throw ceramic teapots,” I said.