by W. J. Lundy
He placed a boot on the first step and approached slowly, pausing to listen after every movement. In the fading light, he could see the front door was partially open but still covered by a flimsy screen door. Shane crept closer, cautiously applying his weight to the floorboards of the porch. They felt sturdy under his feet and the years of built up dirt and moss concealed any sound of his boots. He sidestepped and put his left shoulder against the structure to keep the door in front of him. He looked back in the direction of Ella and listened. The moaning was present but remained far off.
Shane placed his gloved right hand on the screen door and slowly pulled it open. It let out a slight squeak, but Shane was already committed so he opened the door completely and used a block of wood he found on the floor to prop it open. As soon as he stepped into the home, he could smell strong scents of mildew and decayed death. Whatever had lived here passed long ago. There wasn’t even enough left to keep the flies interested. In a corner chair, he could just make out the badly decomposed form of an elderly woman. Her head was back and her mouth open, a red afghan blanket draped across her lap.
He quickly surveyed the room and moved on down a hallway, past a small bathroom, and on to a long galley style kitchen. The house was clean and well kept; pictures still hung on the walls and things were in their correct place. Shane swung into the kitchen door and looked beyond a tall countertop and saw that another body rested at a lunch counter—an old man dressed in denim coveralls and a stained white shirt. A John Deere ball cap sat hooked to the back of his chair. His right hand lay open on a scrap of paper, his left still clutching a small handgun. Shane raised the bayonet and approached the man tactically. As he neared, he could see the exit wound at the top of the man’s head.
First floor clear, he thought to himself and looked at the stairway leading to the second floor. He debated moving on, but he wanted to get Ella inside. His fear of being separated from the girl won out so he rushed back down the hallway and into the yard. Again, he picked speed over caution and quickly snatched up the bag with his right hand and let Ella take his left. He nearly dragged the girl back across the long grass and up the porch. Once inside, he dropped his bag and placed Ella on top of it. Shane put a finger to his lips and the girl nodded with understanding.
Shane slid the block of wood away from the door and let it swing shut before he closed and bolted the heavy wooden door. He approached and attempted to close the windows. The first easily slid into place, but the second was stuck, probably from the weeks of being open to the southern humidity. Shane took a chance and pushed hard at the sash, the swollen wood broke free and the window slammed home with a slap. It sounded much louder in the dead silence of the house. From the corner of his eye he watched Ella jump.
“It’s okay, it was just me,” he whispered.
From above them, he heard the creak of a floorboard and saw the girl’s eyes grow big as she looked up at the ceiling. Shane held his breath as he heard another noise: more creaking of boards, but confined to the same area. Walking on the balls of his feet, he quickly moved back to Ella. He hoisted the bag with her still on top and carried it to an empty corner of the room near a long sofa table. Shane pointed, and Ella dropped off the bag and quickly crawled under the table. They could hide here tonight and sneak out in the morning, leaving whatever lurked upstairs alone. No, that wasn’t the way to stay alive. “I’ll be right back,” he whispered hesitantly. Shane raised his rifle and patrolled back toward the stairs, careful to remain silent.
When he passed through the kitchen, he stopped at the dead man. Shane reached out and pried the man’s finger from the handgun’s trigger, then released it from his grip. A small Walther P22; not much punch, but it would beat throwing rocks. Shane released the magazine and saw rounds stacked in the top, which was enough for now. He cleared the weapon and dropped it into his cargo pocket. He again saw the slip of paper, the man had written a note but his decomposing hand had all but obscured the text. Another creak from above brought him back into the moment. Shane turned and walked to the stairway. He cautiously placed his left boot on the step and slowly applied his weight. The old wood treads protested and filled the home with a sound that was quickly answered by the creaking upstairs. Shane continued moving. The higher he got up the stairs, the more the creaking turned to pounding and then stomping. But still no moans or screams… yet.
The stairway topped out at a long, open loft. Three doors stood against a far wall; two of which were hanging open. It was the door on the end where the pounding came from. Even without the moans, Shane began to fear that other infected outside would be drawn to the sounds of the pounding. His urgency to silence the thing increased. Shane stepped quickly to the door and tested the handle. It turned easily, so he pushed lightly and felt the door swing in. He let the door rest just inches open, preparing for an impact. Nothing happened, other than the pounding became frenzied.
Fearing the worst, he forced the door open hard and pivoted in with the rifle and bayonet extended, ready to attack. As he rotated into the room the stench hit him in the face. He reeled back and nearly vomited before he caught sight of the creature. The terror of the bloodied and soiled beast chained to a floor anchor was more than he bargained for. His back stiffened and he felt his muscles tighten as his system surged with adrenalin. Shane stepped back, fear moving his feet involuntarily. He fought the muscles in his arms to keep the rifle up. His hands shook as the creature lunged at him, the links of the chain clanking with every move of the infected man.
He felt the door behind him and stopped his backward movement. He crouched and quickly searched the room with his eyes. It was a boy’s bedroom, a teenage boy. Rock posters hung from the walls, model cars on a shelf. But in the corner… that’s where it was, chained near a soiled and bare mattress. The thing looked at Shane with hate while its arms maliciously reached for him. Shane could see where the thing had pulled at the chain so hard, it created wounds and had torn the skin on its neck. Its mouth was taped shut and its hands were balled, covered with fabric–old socks maybe—and taped into mitts.
The end of the chain had been anchored to the floor with a heavy bolt. Whoever did this knew the boy was dangerous, that he would turn.
“God in heaven, why would they keep it alive,” he mumbled.
Shane looked at the young man with pity, seeing it for the thing it once was. He stepped forward with the rifle held firmly. He slashed with the bayonet and felt the resistance as it lacerated the boy’s shoulder and neck. The thing stumbled back and then rushed again at Shane. The soldier was ready. He planted his left leg and lifted the blade to meet the thing. He caught it in the heart then, without pausing, yanked back on the rifle and stabbed forward to impale the thing’s face.
Instantly, the creature went limp and dropped to the floor, taking the bayoneted rifle with it. Shane stepped in and planted his boot on the thing’s neck, pulled back, and withdrew the blade from its skull. He stepped away from the dead creature, scanning the room as he backpedaled. Shane eased out of the doorway and pulled the door shut behind him, then leaned against the wall. He was breathing hard and sweat poured down his back. He rested there, catching his breath as the remaining light faded from the room.
His legs fell weak; he considered dropping to the floor and sitting against the wall, but moans from outside shocked him to his senses and reminded him of the girl. He should get back to her. Shane took a last deep breath through his mouth, trying to block the rancid air. He moved lightly through the room, reaching for the stair railing in the dark. He gripped the railing and cautiously walked to the bottom. The light was gone now, so Shane dug in his pocket for a small pen light. He covered the lens with the sleeve of his jacket and clicked it on.
Even with the lens covered, the surefire threw a soft glow over the floor in front of him. Shane only left the light on long enough to visually map the room then clicked it back off. He moved forward, making a wide path around the dead man. He padded through the kitchen and back in
to the doorway leading to the family room, where he had left the girl. Again, he clicked on the light, quickly searched the room, and clicked it off. He walked softly to the sofa table, reached down with his open hand, and touched the bag. He knelt down then dropped to his rear before he carefully scooted back until he felt the girl beside him.
Shane sat there and put his arm out. The girl grabbed his gloved finger and slid closer, then climbed onto his lap. They sat silently, Shane listening for every sound outside, every gust of wind, every howl, and every moan. The longer he sat, the more his eyes adjusted to the low light. Soon he could make out objects in the room and see the glow of moonlight coming in from under the doors and around the window’s curtains. He knew the front door was locked and bolted, but in his haste, he had forgotten to check for a back entrance.
“Shane,” Ella whispered.
“Yeah?”
“Can we leave? It stinks funny in here,” she asked.
Shane looked around the room. She was right; the dead grandma in the corner, mixed with the mildew and rot, didn’t make for a comfortable resting spot. He had only given the upstairs rooms a cursory glance, but at least there he could safely open a window. He heard more moaning coming from outside. They seemed closer now; he imagined them in the yard.
“Okay, let’s go,” he whispered to her.
Shane got to his feet and flung the heavy pack onto his shoulders. He grabbed his rifle and let it hang from its sling. He felt the girl reach for his leg, her hands slipped up until she had a solid handhold on his belt.
“It’s gonna be really dark but just hold on, okay?” he whispered.
“Okay, Shane,” Ella replied in low voice.
CHAPTER 10
Brad stood on the deck, suddenly tired. He looked through those crowded around him and watched the raft fade from view as it slipped into the darkness. Joey moved closer, a cigarette hanging from his lips.
“Sergeant, so what happened over there? Where are Sean and Brooks?” Joey asked.
“Huh, oh... we’ll be going ashore soon. The Brits have located a survivor’s camp. Chief’s making arrangements,” Brad answered, just giving away enough to feel honest. He turned and headed for the passageway to search for Gunner.
Chelsea moved in front of him. “Wait… aren’t you going to tell us what happened over there?”
“That’s all I have to say right now. I need to speak with Gunner; you’re welcome to come with me if you’d like,” Brad said moving around her. He walked to the port door and entered, turning to follow the ladder to the lower deck and galley. As he navigated the stairs, he heard the footfalls behind him and knew Chelsea had chosen to follow.
Brad stepped onto the landing and moved toward the galley door. The door’s latch was down and secured. The fact that the door was latched shut confirmed his suspicions that this was where Gunner had taken the visitors. He held up and stood at the hatch, just as Chelsea moved up behind him. She reached out and grabbed his forearm as he was about to knock.
“Brad what’s going on?” she asked.
He held his hand in the air, searching for the right words. “To be honest, I don’t know what’s happening and I don’t know how to explain it all.” As he finished he pounded on the door, then dropped his hand to open the hatch.
As he suspected, Gunner was inside with the visitors positioned around him at a table. Kelli had also moved from her position at the helm and joined them. They had all turned to look at Brad as he walked in with Chelsea following close behind.
“Ahh, great, you’re back. Chief Richardson here had just gotten off the radio with his superiors,” Gunner said.
Brad moved across the galley and touched the coffee maker. It was warm and heavy so he flipped a lever and filled his cup.
“So you know then?” he asked.
Richardson turned in his seat and stared at Brad with concerned eyes. “Yes, it has all been sorted out, Sergeant,” he answered.
“Sorted?” Brad asked.
Gunner stood and walked over to fill his own cup. “Yes, Brad, Commander Stuart already sent us our destination. We’ll be starting the engines and moving that way very soon. If we sail through the night, we should make Charleston by first light.”
Kelli got up from her own seat. “On that note, I should be getting back upstairs. Nelson will have us at the North Pole if I leave him to navigate alone,” she laughed, “If you gentleman will excuse me.”
“Wait, Charleston? Why there?” Chelsea asked, taking everyone’s attention.
Gunner spoke first. “The Brits here say they’ve made contact with a group of survivors holding out on an island—.”
“They’re at Fort Sumter,” Brad finished.
“Fort Sumter… the one from the civil war?” Chelsea asked.
“One in the same,” said Gunner, moving back to his seat at the table. “Makes sense, really— small, walled compound surrounded by water.”
Chelsea moved across the room and sat in Kelli’s now empty seat. “Is there anything else? Did you get word from the government? Do we know what’s going on at home?”
Gunner waved a hand at Richardson, and then sat back in his chair. Richardson lifted his cup, sipped, and grimaced. “You really do not have any tea?” he asked. “I don’t know how you drink this bitter crud.”
He put the cup down and looked across the table. “Corporal Swanson, is it?”
Chelsea nodded. Before she could speak, Richardson continued, “From what Gunner has told me, you have all been out for some time. It’s rather remarkable that you have made it all this way.”
“Not all of us made it,” Chelsea said.
“Yes, lots of death. We haven’t had any official contact with your nation in over a month. Not since Washington fell,” Richardson said.
“That doesn’t make sense; they couldn’t have all just gone.”
“We know that as your government fell apart, some entities moved west into the mountains. Others broke apart and fell behind defensive lines—”
Brad rinsed his empty cup and returned it to a cupboard. “I know… we’ve already heard this story. Gunner was there as Washington fell. But still, how is it we haven’t heard from anyone?”
Richardson laughed sarcastically. “What do you want me to say? That we’ve picked up reports day and night of communities being overrun, listened to them scream and beg for rescue? Families barricaded in their homes begging for help? Is that the news you are looking for? I have plenty of that. I have a radioman that can’t sleep at night after the horrors he has listened to over the past month.
“I don’t bloody know why the radios went silent in recent days. Maybe the generators finally died, maybe batteries have been expended. I can’t afford to speculate; all we know is we have had consistent messages from Charleston. Have we reached out to them? No. But we still know they are there.”
“Why haven’t you talked to them?” Chelsea asked.
“Because there are others out there… others that want what we have,” Richardson said.
“You mean the submarine?” Chelsea said.
“That among other things,” Richardson said looking at Brad.
Chelsea saw Brad’s expression change as Richardson looked in his direction. “Why do I feel like I am the only one in the room being left out of something?” she said.
The boat’s engines started. Brad felt the vibration go through the ship’s structure then, slowly, it edged forward as the throttles opened. Brad placed a hand against the counter to steady himself as the speed gradually increased. He looked at the drawn faces in the room. Chelsea’s cheeks had turned red and he could tell she was upset but attempting to hide it.
“Why don’t you just get this over with, Gunner? No point in hiding it until morning,” Brad said, walking to a lone seat at a far table.
Gunner held his poker face and looked across the table to Richardson who nodded. Gunner sipped at the coffee then placed the cup on the table, holding it with both hands. “Okay, from
what I understand there is an American doctor on board the submarine that just may hold the key to un-fucking the entire planet?”
Brad shook his head. “Really, is that how you interpreted this? The doctor doesn’t have shit; he needs us for that.”
“I don’t understand,” Chelsea said. “Who is this doctor?”
Richardson quickly relayed Howard’s story, how he came to be on the submarine, and all about the patient. He told them about the mission they were planning to recover the sample and how the Americans and their vessel would now play a pivotal role.
Chelsea sat quietly absorbing Richardson’s words. When he finished, she looked up at him. “You think this little girl could still be alive?”
Richardson looked at her thoughtfully. “If the doctor is right, we have to try.”
“I’m going,” Chelsea said.
Gunner put his hands up. “Okay, let’s all slow down a bit. We don’t have to make any decisions tonight.”
Brad cleared his throat and stood. “Gunner's right. And to be honest, I’m tired of listening to these stories. I’m going to try to get some rest before I relieve the guys on deck. I suggest you all do the same, sounds like tomorrow is going to be a busy day.”
Brad turned and, walking through the hatch, left the galley. He worked his way through the ship and into the small berthing compartment he shared with the other men. The lights were dimmed but he could see that Parker and Joey were still above on the deck. Nelson’s rack was also empty—probably at the controls with Kelli. Brad found his bunk and sat on the bed as he removed his boots. There wasn’t much he could do tonight and he really was tired of discussing the mission to find the girl… or her remains.
