I give him no answer.
We are half-way to the food court when Red Star stops us. I look around and find an elevator with its doors open and a few shops—nothing that can help me escape. Voices come from a nearby corridor.
“Let’s check that out,” he orders me.
We find a man and boy. The man carries a big camping bag seeming full of equipment. I pity him for that. His first reaction on seeing us is to push the boy behind him.
“Look what we got here, a pair of boy scouts,” Red Star strides in, getting face to face with the man. “Going on a trip?”
“Please, we don't want any trouble.”
“Good. We have that in common. Give me your stuff.”
“This is all I have. I need it to take care of my son.”
“You can't take care of your son if you are dead.” Red Star points his gun at the man's chest. “Give me your stuff.”
The man takes his bag off slowly at first, and then pushes it against Red Star’s body, unbalancing him. Father and son sprint in the opposite direction. Red Star throws the bag on the ground then aims. The first shot misses, but the second hits the father in the back. I watch, silently and completely still, as the boy screams and tries to get his father up. Red Star aims again.
Something inside me cracks and breaks. I run and push Red Star's arm away with force. The gun goes off but hits the ceiling above us. When it's over, the boy is already gone.
“Fuck, Professor. You messed up my aim and ruined the fun.” He opens the bag and turns it over, letting all of its contents fall on the floor. Red Star grabs a few things and shoves it inside one of his many pockets: batteries and some candy bars. The rest is useless junk — a portrait of a happy family, a car toy and books.
“That's all? What a waste of good bullets. Let's move. You owe me a briefcase.”
He leaves the bag on the floor and we walk over to the fallen man, who still breathes, a pool of deep red around him. Red Star steps on the man’s body and points his gun at the back of his head and shoots. The body goes limp.
I need to leave this place, quickly. If possible, I also want to punch this bastard in the face repeatedly. Before when civilised society still existed, I would be against resolving issues with violence, but I am not afraid of it. Just like many people before me, I had a rebellious streak during my youth, involving punk rock bands and hooligans gangs. My teenage years in Old London had their fair share of dumb decisions, a bad habit I seem not to have shaken off. Either way I can take this disgusting bastard if the right opportunity presents itself.
I hope it does.
We reach the second floor and the food court, but there are no sign of the infected. My time is running out.
Red Star pushes the gun against my side with force, telling me to move and keep my hands up. “I have a history question for you, Professor.”
“Oh, fire away. I do enjoy teaching history as much as I enjoy giving students a F minus.”
Our walk is slow, and Red Star's gun always finds itself stinging my back at some point.
“I was wondering about Genghis Khan.”
“Oh?” My arms are starting to hurt from the continued lifted position.
“Seeing as I’m a fan of his now, what do you think he would do with a coward bastard that uses tricks to win the game?”
I let out a small laugh, trying to ignore the implicit accusation. “He would have promoted him to his right hand, I suppose. He did like intelligent people. As a capable and loved leader, he was one himself.”
Red Star's silence intrigues me. Was he considering making me his right hand? Impossible. The man is not that easy to manipulate, surely?
Then he laughs his throaty laugh. “Got you wondering, didn't I? Sorry to disappoint, but trust is everything to me. And you, Professor, just ruined your chances of me ever trusting you.”
Yet, here we are. You are trusting me to take you to the briefcase. The corners of my lips shoot upwards.
We walk for two hours and find no infected or human distraction. Time is running out as fast as Red Star's patience.
“How long until we get there?”
“Soon.”
“You know, Professor, I'm thinking you are lying to me again,” he whispers close to my ear. “And I think is time you stop with the bullshit.”
“Young man, you need to learn patience. A good leader needs learn things have their own time.”
“Turn around.”
I do what he wants, only to be greeted by a punch so strong that I fall to the ground. I can barely feel the pain of it before he pounds me with his foot, kicking my stomach multiple times.
“Tell me where it is, old man. Do you want to die?” Red Star raises his voice, followed by the sound of a click. “Do you?”
I cough blood, spitting after. “If I die, you die too, friend. Most gruesomely, as well. I am starving.”
He kicks me again, and I try my best to muffle my reaction. I will not give him any pleasure of seeing me suffer. I force myself to turn, blood dripping from my mouth, filling it with a metallic taste. As I do this, I see a pair of eyes watching me from under a nearby bench.
A girl? Is that a girl?
She places a hand over her mouth and disappears from my view. I have no time to process this new information before Red Star kicks me again.
“Where is it? I’m not going to ask again.”
Yes, you will. You will keep asking, because I will never tell you where it really is.
“In the bottom of a lake, slowly sinking into oblivion. I wish you luck in finding it.”
The shot echoes around us, starling me enough that I lift my hands up in a feeble attempt to protect my face. When I realise my body has no holes in it, I get up.
“Yes, well, clearly drawing attention is the best course of action right now," I say, unhappy he took this long to act, now that I am injured, and a little girl is hiding under a bench, susceptible to being bitten. I wanted a personal, risk-free distraction.
He shoots the ground once again, making me wince at the high-pitched sound. “That’s the point. Let’s see if the threat of being eaten alive is more motivating than my gun.”
“Be reasonable, my friend. There is nothing in there that will help you.”
And it is true, in a way. Red Star has no way of utilising what's inside of the briefcase. Only a precious few are capable of utilizing it to its full potential.
His next bullet goes in the direction of the bench. We hear footsteps echoing, but they are too slow to be infected. Unless their bones are broken, they usually run towards inviting sounds. A human, then? Red Star's backup? He did have a radio still on him.
“Hear that? They’re coming. I have a gun. What you got, friend?”
Infected or not, I cannot risk them reaching here. Their presence might complicate things even more. The fewer variables I need to be mindful of, the better. It is imperative to work fast with what is already here. My eyes meet the bench once again; eventually Red Star will notice the little girl, and it is better if I can control when.
I am truly sorry, my dear, but the greater good requires much sacrifice.
“A girl. Ready to come to my defense.”
“The hell are you talking about?”
I point at the bench, hoping against hope she will not run and risk being shot in the back. “She is right over there, behind the bench.”
“Is this some lame trick?”
“Perhaps, but what if it is not? Can you risk it?”
I feel half dread, half triumph when he walks towards the bench, gun finally away from my face. Curiosity: the greatest and worst trait of mankind. And of cats, if the saying holds any truth to it.
“Get up. Hands over your head,” he says with a hoarse voice. “Now.”
A little girl appears, bright dark eyes, round face smeared with dirt, and messy short hair. Her haircut is recent and badly done, still a wise thing to keep it short to avoid hands grabbing it. She appears to be thirteen, perhaps
fourteen, and the bag she carries looks heavy, enough to suggest she's alone. Her clothes are ripped in some parts, stained with dust and dried blood; only her shoes appear to be new. She looks scared, focusing on the gun pointed at her.
“Who are—”
I tackle Red Star, forcing him to the ground. The gun flies out of his hands, and I am free to punch him. Something I looked forward to doing very much. My fists hurt, but it is an enjoyable pain, one full of satisfaction. His face turns into a mess of bloated black and red skin. I smile; then I remember I am not alone. Killing a man with my bare hands in front of a child is not quite a story I wish to have associated with myself. Red Star lives, for the moment. I lift myself from his injured and unconscious form, take the car keys from one of his many pockets, and then smile at the girl. Let us see if I can play the part of a nice uncle after this violent introduction.
“That went surprisingly well,” I say, offering my hand. “You can give me that now. Our friend here is quite unconscious.”
She raises her gun at me, and I can't help but laugh. I do enjoy smart people. Noticing my hands are stained with blood, I hastily dry them against my pants. There is no point of pretending I maintain my personal hygiene with much care, but blood does send the wrong message here.
“You are very quick on your feet, aren't you? What is your name?”
Her face is full of suspicion, and the gun isn't shaking either. This little girl is quite the survivalist. She won't be easily persuaded to cooperate.
“Why do you care?”
I finish cleaning up, flexing my fingers and feeling the bruised knuckles. I had forgotten how painful punching can be. Every force has an equal reaction, and all that. “Usually bonding with someone makes that person think twice before shooting you. I am Professor Spencer; it is a pleasure to meet you.”
Honesty does not sway her in the least. She takes a step back, the gun still firmly pointing at me. I really hoped it would work and do not wish to take the weapon by force. Seeing I am about to leave this place without protection, alone and with no knowledge of the territory, I need every advantage I can find. There is also the fact that it’s better if the adult had the firepower. With that in mind, I move closer to her.
“I don’t care who you are.” She watches me, noticing my intentions. “Just leave me alone.”
“Well, that is unfortunate, because I would love to have that gun back. Since it would come in handy soon.”
“No. I’m keeping it.”
For a brief second, I consider tackling her, as well. She is little and someone I would easily overpower. Yet, I do nothing. She could have killed me by now, or incapacitated me by shooting my leg and leaving me to bleed to death. She chose not to, at a great risk. What am I doing in this country, risking my life, if not to ensure the life of people like this very brave and smart girl? Should I really rob her of a weapon she could use to survive in the long term? Long enough to wait for me to deliver the briefcase?
I do not care for the foolish, the arrogant, the power hungry. I can abandon my values and morals in the name of the mission, killing and leaving behind the weak and unprepared. I can punish sociopath murderers without waiting for the law to decide their fate. I can do all this and more, but I see now a point of no return I do not want to reach. It surprises me somewhat. After leaving my home, I promised myself I would stop at nothing to fulfill my promise to my brother.
“Very well. I draw a line at robbing children. Apparently. There are things a man just will not do, I suppose. Keep it. I will leave and I suggest you do the same.”
I walk forward, with the intent of passing her by. The temptation of just grabbing the gun from her when she is unable to see me coming is hard to resist.
“No, go to the other side. I want to see you leaving.”
I give her a smile, now with no doubt I made the right decision. I truly hope she survives all of this and passes on her genes; the world will need people like her.
“You are quite bright. Perhaps we should team up.”
While the notion of babysitting is hardly inviting, I do think in my current situation, company would be a good idea.
“No, thank you. Now, please leave. If you try to follow me, I’m going to shoot you in the face.”
By her frown, I gather she does not like me or enjoy my amusement at her threat. Amusement that does not come from thinking she will not follow through, but from the exact certainty she will shoot me if I dare disobey her. If Red Star had convinced me in the same way, I would have probably been afraid of his bravado. Of course, his ambition and desire to use the briefcase and its contents to help his climb to power left me sure my life was not at risk.
We go our separate ways and I leave the building with no more problems. I stop by Cobra’s floating body and grab her by the leg, pulling her closer to myself. Her body is already rigid and her eyes are wide open. They stare right at me. There is no way to close them since her eyelids are too stiff. Not even this I can give her. While doing my best to avoid Cobra’s empty eyes, I search her pockets and find a gun.
Inside the safety of the vehicle, I go back to my little friend. He is still barking away, guarding my briefcase against view. His laments almost doom him, as the sound of his barks has attracted two infected, a man and woman. My brief firearm training does not go to waste, and I dispatch them quickly with two bullets to the head.
Somehow, the little fellow seems to be grateful for the rescue and lets me pick him up. I cut him loose from the chain and take the briefcase from the doghouse. We leave Whitefield behind.
I have no way of knowing where I should go, besides the obvious need of avoiding the road where the rest of Red Star's guerrilla are waiting. I have no more allies or resources to count on. The plan of being taken directly to my end goal is impossible now. The only location familiar to me, thanks to the map I saw in the farm, is Redwood. From Cobra's description, it appears to be a town ready to face the outbreak. They may not be so welcoming of a stranger, but I do have some knowledge I bet they would be very interested in having, in exchange for a map and a compass, at least. If nothing else, they’ll provide distraction in case Red Star is hunting me down, as promised.
“Well, my little friend. It seems we are headed to Redwood. Let us try to get there before Red Star, shall we?”
The dog stares at me with his tongue hanging and tail wagging.
The Geek VI
December 17th, Thursday, 10 am
Life in Redwood slowly finds a new normal. A few days after Paul’s death, the number of zombies drops quickly, allowing Roger and I to plan a routine for the town, one that gets people accustomed to hard work and constant vigilance. The few luxuries we offer—showers, good food, warm beds and safety—keep people sane. Some days are harder than others, with people fighting over our decisions and zombies showing up. Not everyone survives. Our little cell has more visitors as the weeks go by. Louis' fate did cause people to be afraid of being bitten, but also guaranteed everyone knew what was at stake. Families cried while the infected were burnt, but moved on, sober and harder.
Almost a month since Louis' incident and my first zombie kills, we reach a stability I never thought possible. The patrols are efficient and continuous, the wire fence is eighty percent done and Douglas, an ex-engineer, offers to give it an electric current—a project I'm very happy to help him with. Rations begin to become less diverse with more bread, fewer cookies, but the two farms we protect near Redwood provides us with tomatoes and milk every day. Water is not a problem for now, and the generators are keeping up with the demand. Even without the extra guns, we make do with pipes, axes, and other bludgeoning weapons to fend off any zombie attack. They don’t appear often, but when they do, we are ready.
Everything is going so well; Roger and I decide to host Movie Night every Friday. With the help of bed sheets tied together and my DVD player, the whole town watches Die Hard and its sequels with great enthusiasm at the school's basketball court. I even play video games
with Carl and other kids on Sunday.
We all celebrate Christmas together, after Ma decides we could spare some supplies to make a special dinner to commemorate the holiday. I give Ma some combat boots and I share with Roger my last six-pack of imported German beer.
Every day I keep expecting something bad to happen. Something that would make the whole house of cards tumble down and never recover. I watch Ma with hawk eyes, appointing myself as her personal bodyguard on every patrol we go on. I can't shake the fear this is all going too well. If this were a movie, I would know for sure that something was lurking just around the corner to ruin our happiness. It's a rule of every horror story: when someone is too happy, or things are going too well for a character, then the next scene his head is rolling down the floor, with the psychotic murderer making a surprise return from the dead.
Unfortunately, I am proven right during a chilly Thursday. Roger and I are watching the main road up on the roof of the truck that blocks the town's entrance. I sit on a plastic chair, while Roger surveys the road with his binoculars. We hear a car engine. I get up. Roger takes his gun out. A few minutes later a badly damaged Ford Fiesta comes straight for us. The car leaves a trail of black smoke, before stopping right below our truck, with a screeching noise of the brake going off.
“Get out of the car, and show yourself,” Roger yells, the gun pointed at the driver's seat. “Slowly.”
The car's door opens, and a small Yorkshire dog jumps out, barking happily. I raise my eyebrows at the animal, while a man also gets out of the Fiesta, obeying Roger’s request for slow movements.
“Hands where I can see them,” our Sheriff says, following protocol.
Now I can see the man better: he's bald and looks around fifty. He wears a badly damaged brown suit, torn and dirty with a mixture of dust, earth and dried blood. He holds a steel briefcase with his left hand and raises the other to show he isn’t carrying a gun.
Those Who Remain Page 18
