Those Who Remain

by Priscila Santa Rosa

  Describing what happened to me these last weeks would require the presence of a certified therapist to confirm that I am not out of my mind. I only escaped death thanks to a resistance group, who believed in my mission. They gave me back the briefcase and a ticket to freedom. Not everyone was lucky as I was. The plane I entered was the last one to leave my country.

  Somehow, the pilot did a marvelous job of flying under the immense pressure he was probably feeling and the plane arrived safely. Unfortunately, my troubles are far from over. I spot a passenger from my flight: a fellow British compatriot. He paces around, a hand on his forehead and eyes glancing back at the enormous window facing the airstrip. This man understands me, though we never met. We both fear what may be arriving soon. We both know not all planes will contain healthy passengers. Something else may be travelling with them.

  Our line moves at last. I tighten my grip on the briefcase’s handle and take two steps forward. Progress, I suppose.

  The glass windows start to vibrate, then shake. A humming sound of turbines echoes around us, growing louder. Heads turn. Hands lift mobiles to capture a silver form, becoming larger and larger on the sky outside. Gasps follow. One woman calls for God.

  A plane cuts the air like a speeding missile intent on one target only: us.

  There is no line anymore. Panic spreads like wildfire. I run with the briefcase safely against my chest, bumping on the rotund lady and leaving her behind. The authorities try to stop us at first, then join us in our stampede.

  The sound of crashing, metal against glass, and explosions make my ears ring. The heat burns my back, like the devil with a whip. I am flying, tossed aside like a ragged doll.

  When I awake, I am facing the ground, with debris all around me. My chest aches, pressed against the briefcase. Something lies on top of me. I get up, forcing it to fall to the side. The something is not a something at all, but a woman, badly burnt.

  This woman saved me. This human shield, who had no real choice in the matter, saved the last hope for humanity. I take two steps back. I could check her pulse, but I do not. There is no time to help anyone but myself.

  Smoke fills my lungs and irritates my eyes as I stumble around, the briefcase firmly in my hands. I will not let go of it. It is all I have to offer the world.

  Coughing hard, I glance back at the destruction. Pieces of the ceiling hang dangerously, fires are everywhere, and sprinklers do nothing to help. I hear screams and crying, as the fire alarm rings to warn us of the obvious.

  Body parts, splatters of blood, cracked skulls and tufts of hair cover the mismatched floor. Metal grinds and grates, threatening to fall and crush everything under it. The plane’s nose is still visible over the smoke, but it is the smaller shapes below it that worry me. A person less knowledgeable on current events would think survivors are getting on their feet.

  I know better.

  With the proper motivation, running is not that hard. Staying alive can push anyone into a speedy rhythm, no matter their immense dislike for a nice jog.

  Other people join me, but not for long. Some are too slow, too hurt or too fast for me.

  I reach a still intact hallway, connecting us to rest of the airport, only to find a blockade. Officers with high and sturdy riot shields stand their ground against a wave of desperate people, myself included. They shout orders that no longer matter to any of us. We push, they push us back. This macabre dance lasts too long and the corridor is quickly overrun by a different kind of desperate creature.

  People scream, but the soldiers are incapable of understanding why. I look for an exit. After shoving and actually hitting someone with my briefcase, I find a door.

  I open it and three people follow me. We close the door and press our bodies against it. It thumps and thumps, shuddering against us, until it stops.

  Nobody speaks. Nobody knows what to say. We can only breathe, sigh and cough.

  The man to my right is tiny and angry, tattoos screaming his personality to anyone who cares. To my left, two identical girls stare at the door, holding hands. I do a quick inspection for wounds and bites, and let out a sigh of relief.

  “Is it safe?” the man asks us, reaching for the door.

  “Don’t open it!” one of the twins says, while the other gasps at the suggestion.

  “We cannot stay here indefinitely, enclosed spaces are too dangerous,” I whisper, though I am not looking forward to leaving either. “This is not a sturdy door. It won’t hold them out for long.”

  “Hold who out?”

  I clear my throat; my lungs burn with exhaustion and smoke. “The infected. Or, well, zombies, if you wish.”

  The man laughs. The three of us shush him quickly.

  “Please, not so loud,” the left twin says, when her sister sniffs a cry.

  I do not attempt to enlighten the tattooed man, as this is hardly the time to worry about others. My briefcase is the priority.

  We are inside an employee-only office, small and with the bare necessities: water-cooler, coffee machine and a plastic table for cards. What catches my eyes is on the opposite wall—another door.

  Our exit, if they wish to follow.

  Time is of the essence, so I open it, revealing a slim corridor. Blinking lights hang precariously from the ceiling, but still offer some guidance. I have no intention of waiting for the others. Their breathing behind me is the only sign of their presence. My steps are hasty and I ignore my legs screaming for reprieve. The body is truly a magnificent machine, ready to take the reins from the pettiness of the mind.

  We find no one. The small offices are empty except for papers scattered on the floor, phones hanging from their lines, and discarded coats still on the back of chairs.

  I stop to catch my breath. The twins are on my heels, the man barely visible behind them. I find it amusing he decided to join our little exploration despite the earlier dismissal of my explanations.

  We follow the corridor crossing the employee-only areas, hoping against hope to reach an exit soon. Finally, I spot a sign saying “Baggage Claim”. If I am not mistaken this leads to an exit terminal, which is probably our best chance of escaping the airport. Now, only twenty-five yards separates us from freedom. Yet, a problematic issue still stands: I cannot cross the path ahead alone, too many infected block my safe passage.

  I have a black thought. It creeps like a snake offering me the apple: bait. Such a simple word, hiding such horror.

  “What now?” the small man asks.

  Always with the questions. Why not a suggestion, my fellow survivor?

  “The good news is that we are close to an exit.”

  “And the bad?” he asks again.

  “The way is possibly full of people wanting to kill us. Sadly I am afraid this is our only hope of escaping.”

  “Okay, old man. We keep going.”

  Old man! I am barely fifty, for goodness’ sake. I immediately choose him as the bait. Nevertheless his easy trust is unexpected and, currently, unwelcome.

  The girls decide to stay and wait for help, too afraid to risk a direct confrontation. I almost explain no help will come, but the briefcase is heavy on my mind and arms. Instead, I give them a smile and a handshake.

  “Cheers, my dears.”

  Perhaps, someone, somehow, will find them later. Perhaps even alive.

  We arrive at the door that leads to Baggage Claim. I open it a little to survey the outside. Piles of luggage clog the baggage carousel, with an insisting thudding sound against the metal. Carts supporting bags were left behind and malfunctioning panels flicker between displaying flight numbers and static. My heart beats a little faster at the distant sound of gunshots.

  My newly acquainted friend and I keep walking onward towards the exit terminal.

  The meet and greet area is overrun by death and destruction. Broken chairs and overturned plant vases, red-stained carpets, water dripping from the ceiling mixes with smoke. Bodies are everywhere. We are lucky they are almost completely eaten or dest
royed. The fewer body parts left, the more our chances of escaping them when they start to move.

  I nod to my companion, and we quietly move in. The man has the foresight of grabbing a bloodied riot shield, left behind or lost. Pity it will do nothing to help him in the long run.

  I let him take the lead. He seems eager to do it after finding something to protect himself. The creatures are roaming the main hall. Someone screams on the second floor. We are lucky indeed, as the sound draws the infected to its owner.

  My tattooed friend gains confidence as we get near the row of transparent automatic doors. I am not as optimistic.

  From a careful walk to a jog, we are halfway there. He doesn't seem to notice the lack of power. Those doors are not opening easily, friend.

  Not the most careful fellow he runs towards the exit. When the door fails to open, he grabs the shield and tosses it against the glass, shattering it to pieces and creating a way out.

  The mistake on his part is forgetting that breaking things makes sound.

  They come as hungry animals, tripping over themselves, minding no obstacle. Some lack hands, arms, proper clothes, while others are as fit as they are deadly.

  “Shit!” he shouts, raising his shield, but it is too late.

  Standing behind him, I lift my briefcase then let its heavy weight hit his thick skull. Crack. The world is not kind to this man: he does not lose consciousness. Fortunately for me, I only need his lack of balance to save myself.

  Bait. Distraction. Dead man. I leave him behind, deaf to his screams.

  Time is running short and I am the last one out.

  The Doctor II

  November 23rd, Monday, 12 am

  The helicopter descends on a circular landing pad. Dust and gusts of wind hit me as we touch ground. Moonlight reveals a bunker entrance’s dark silhouette in the middle of a grass field, surrounded by metal fencing and nothing else. No men in uniforms greet us.

  The soldiers move with guns raised in synchronized steps, their hawk eyes darting around. I follow them from the rear, tired and with a crust of grease and blood covering every inch of my skin.

  Left open, a pair of heavy metal doors leads to a dark corridor. The Sergeant lifts his arm and stops his squad’s advance.

  “I thought you said it was safe?” I whisper to him, hugging myself. “What happened?”

  He narrows his eyes at me and places a finger on his lips. I gulp and nod, aware of my mistake. Something’s really wrong. The soldiers communicate with hand signals I don’t understand. Moretti moves next to me, giving me a smile, perhaps to reassure me everything’s okay. I doubt it is.

  We move in, one step at a time. I feel like a heavy troll, too loud and clumsy next to the swift and silent walk of my trained protectors. Each of their guns has a flashlight on its tip, but the ray of white light doesn’t offer much reassurance. Darkness prevails.

  What could have happened in the short time between the Sergeant talking on the radio to the base and now? What happened in here?

  My question has an answer already, although not one I want to be true. I witnessed chaos overtake the hospital in just a few hours. Things were tense at first: my team didn’t welcome the arrival of the military, but most of the staff was glad to have the extra protection. Police officers kept the riots away from St. Jude, but the noise of screams, fires and bullets were a constant outside our windows.

  I watched as soldiers carried patients out of their beds and into heavy trucks to be moved to an undisclosed facility. Anyone who wasn’t hooked on a machine had to leave. Under the watchful eyes of the Sergeant and his troops, the staff worked on treatments for this new disease. We needed results and fast, but the pressure was too much, and we only managed to argue, indecision forcing progress to a halt. That was the day before. Last night all hell broke loose. Infected patients escaped and, in a matter of hours, people were dying around me and I had no choice but to run.

  The possibility of having to face that all over again leaves me nauseous.

  We cross the tight corridor to a stairwell going deep into the bunker. The humid air clings to my already damp skin as we arrive at an intersection of corridors and doors. The Sergeant pauses for a second or two, surveying our options. His flashlight shines on each entrance, revealing nothing but dust particles floating against the darkness.

  As I wait for his decision, my feet shift around in hopes of finding some comfort. My body aches from all the running and death-defying escapes. Each of my eyelids feels heavier by the minute. I take a few steps back to rest against the metal wall.

  My body barely touches the wall when we hear a distant rumble, followed by pounding metal. I lean my head toward the nearest entrance. Nothing but black.

  The pulsating sound grows louder. Footsteps.

  We wait. My chest rises and falls painfully. I hear a moan, then a scream.

  “Doc, get inside the circle!” Tigh barks. Private Moretti grabs me by the arm and yanks me to the center of their formation.

  Something runs toward us. My heartbeat increases, I blink twice to clear the sweat from my vision. Rays of light dart around, focusing on each entry for a second before jumping on to the next. The four soldiers aim their guns at each entrance, flashlights blinking around me. Light, dark. Light, dark.

  They don’t know where it’s coming from. They don’t know where to shoot.

  A human form runs straight at us, arms flailing, wide, blood red eyes fixed on me. A shot hurts my ears and flashes of light blind me. I wince when another bullet cuts the air near me. The smell of burnt metal stings my nostrils.

  I barely let out a breath when more screams burst from another direction.

  “Three o’clock. Aim for the head.” The Sergeant’s voice echoes, betraying no fear or hesitation.

  They all open fire at the same direction, blasting whatever came in running.

  Silence falls again. My own heartbeat pumps blood against my ears. Private Moretti kneels and examines the nearest body with his one free hand.

  “That was Martin.” Moretti turns his face to us, with a deep frown. “He was bitten.”

  “Stay alert,” his superior says. “Let’s keep going.”

  Keep going where? Deeper inside? Where there are probably more infected? Why? I can’t ask any of those questions out loud, I’m not sure I’ll like the answers anyway.

  We move into the nearest corridor. I stay in the middle of the line, studying the metal doors on both our sides. A door on my left is ajar, and on the floor, a collapsed body holds it door open.

  I get down on my knees so my fingers reach the wrist in search of a pulse. Nothing. My other hand grabs the door to open it. Maybe there are other people inside, people who need my help.

  “Doc, keep moving,” Moretti says with his free hand on my left shoulder. “It’s not a good idea to be alone in here.”

  “Maybe there’s someone inside...”

  He shakes his head. “Later.”

  I’m too tired to argue, too aware of the danger to insist. We join the three others.

  The exploration ends at the maintenance room, where the Sergeant finds a backup generator, which lights the compound. Electricity does nothing to make the place more inviting. Darkness is replaced by deep red, as the light reveals blood-smeared walls and corridors. My hope for safety and normalcy flutters away with every step and dry pool of blood.

  We keep moving at a faster pace, arriving at the security office: a small room with dozens of monitors showing nothing but static. A rolled chair and a cup of coffee knocked down onto the floor are the only signs the former officer left behind. Charlie, our helicopter pilot, sits down and types on the keyboard with swift fingers. Whatever he does, it turns on every single camera, showing live surveillance footage.

  A mess hall. The kitchen. Armory. Lockers and sleeping quarters. Corridors. A garage with trucks. A briefing room. Various offices. A sick bay.

  My eyes lingers on the medical room. Empty. Clean. Hopefully also fully stocked. S
omeone got in bitten, but decided not tell anyone, because most of the bodies and blood are in the sleeping area. Along with the two people we shot when we arrived, I count thirty-three, most torn to pieces and beyond recognition all over the base. I’ve treated thousands of wounds: gaping chest cavities, torn ligaments, bones protruding, lost thumbs and fourth degree burns. The inside of a lifeless body, the veins and organs, none of that shocks me anymore.

  Yet there is something new and horrifying in seeing a human head discarded in the middle of its spilled guts, surrounded by pools of deep red blood and slime. A foot. A hand. Displaced and tossed like plastic pieces of a broken doll. How can I fix something like that?

  “Shit. Damn,” Charlie says what everyone is probably thinking.

  I look at the Sergeant. From his square jaw, chiseled chin, and narrowed blue eyes, every single feature on his face reacts to nothing. He’s the only one in the room, besides myself, not staring at the dead. Instead, I follow his gaze to the monitor displaying an apparently empty room, its doors barricaded with metal tables.

  “What we do now?” I ask him. “Should we leave? There has to be some other base, no? Somewhere safer?”

  He stares at me for a second, then addresses the pilot, “Charlie, are the intercom lines up?”

  The other man types fast then nods. “Now they are.”

  “Good. Private Jones, come with me. Moretti stay with the Doc. Charlie, keep in touch, I want you to be our eyes out there. Tell me if anything moves.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The two men leave. We watch their movements through the monitors. On each doorway and corner they wait for Charlie’s all clear signal.

  “Where is he going? Shouldn’t we leave?”

  Moretti answers my question, “He’s looking for survivors. There were thirty five soldiers stationed here.”

  I feel bad for not thinking of the possibility that the Sergeant was more worried about his fellow soldiers than answering my questions. Part of me wants to dislike the tall, imposing man after he pressured me into abandoning his friend so easily. That same part also blames him for leaving my hurt colleagues, nurse Joy and everyone else behind, and finally is incapable of forgiving the military at large for bombing a city of tens of thousands of people.