Behind her, a series of taps and thuds broke out. Karen turned. Jane’s arms twitched and her fingers extended and retracted in rapid fire, smacking the tile in a garbled Morse code frenzy. Her legs convulsed, kicking and pumping. Her head smashed and twisted, smearing blood over her face and matting her hair.
Karen spun around and quickly entered her username and password.
ERROR. LOGIN DENIED.
“Shit.”
She checked the caps lock key, and typed again, slower, precisely, assuring herself she knew her own login.
ERROR. LOGIN DENIED. SECOND ATTEMPT. MACHINE WILL LOCK AFTER NEXT FAILED ATTEMPT.
She glanced over her shoulder. Jane’s violent outburst stopped and small tremors vibrated her fingers and eyes. All during this, her jaw remained clamped.
Karen exhaled and ran her hands through her hair and rested at the back of her neck. Normally, Karen would reset her password at this point to prevent needing to get a third party to unlock her account.
“Let’s see. One more time.”
ERROR. MACHINE LOCKED. CONTACT SYSTEM ADMINISTRATOR.
She hung her head and beat the keyboard with her fists. She yelled again. She’d never been this angry before. Scared and frustrated during the opening days of the Plague, but outright violently angry?
Two quick pops burst from outside the room.
“No.”
Alan had finished debriefing Donovan and Thomas in the same way he finished debriefing Jane.
Jane’s arms swung and she rolled on her side, drawing her legs up to plant her feet and stand. Her head rotated left and right, moist clumps of coagulated blood strewn along her face. Her eyes wide and jaw now unclenched, she screeched, staring directly at Karen.
Frantic, Karen scanned the length of the workbench for something sharp or pointed. She grabbed a soldering gun within her arm’s reach with one hand and tugged on the keyboard with the other. The cable snapped free, and Karen slid her grip down to one end, her fingers slick with sweat and grime.
Jane stood, her undead limbs adjusting with stilted and halting movements. Her arms swung low. Her back rose to standing upright, and her legs stomped and flexed at the knee. Bloody footprints tracked along the floor while her face changed from blank and expressionless to a scowl of glaring eyes and bared teeth.
Karen blinked away tears and strafed sideways, baring the keyboard shield in her right hand and the soldering gun in her left. She thumbed the grip of the gun, discovering a button to turn it on. She held it up to her shoulder, checking if it was on. A blue light glowed next to the POWER label—the tip felt cool to the touch. Was this a hot or cold gun, she didn’t know. It was just a pointed object in case she needed it.
And it looked like she was going to need it.
Jane’s body ambled with more control, her face set in a curt scowl, hissing at Karen. Jane lowered her shoulders and lunged forward with her arms outstretched. Karen brought the keyboard low, torqued her body and swung her weight into her arm. The plastic black keyboard clattered and cracked against the left side of Jane’s face. Keys popped and sprinkled on the floor, and the board slipped from Karen’s hand as Jane fell sideways and palmed it loose.
Karen ran backwards, switching the soldering gun to her right hand and keeping her eyes on Jane, howling and shaking her head. Karen reached and pulled the stainless steel gurney between them. Its wheels trudged across the bumps in the tiles, heavier and slower than she expected, her arm straining to position it. She groaned, using her feet for leverage. Jane collided against the opposite end with her stomach and clutched the edge, shaking it side to side. Karen twisted her hips and leaned her entire left side into the gurney, pushing Jane back against the workbench. Pinned, Jane screamed louder, her arms flailing and feet, slick with blood, failing to gain traction to push back.
Jane raised her arms, and Karen pulled back on the gurney and slammed it into Jane’s stomach. Jane doubled forward, fumbling to hold on to anything. Her fingers caught the side and pulled, leveraging her weight for balance and flipped the gurney onto its side.
Karen’s body leaned into the gurney as it rotated and crashed to the floor, slamming her onto her left shoulder blade and clocking her head against tile. Her vision blurred and her back swelled with heat. She raised her right hand to her forehead, free of the soldering gun. She shook her head and blinked rapidly scanning for the tool.
Jane banged against the tipped gurney and crawled over the legs, her body lithe and quick.
Karen rolled right, her right arm sweeping the floor for the dropped soldering gun. Jane came over the gurney legs closest to Karen and scraped Karen’s jeans, clawing fabric and muscle. Karen yelped and kicked Jane in the head, who turned and climbed up Karen’s body to her waistband. Palms scurried underneath her shirt. Nails scraped her rib cage. A hand dug into her breast.
Karen screamed, tears blurring Jane’s pale, bloody, screeching face above her own. Her forearms burned, a fiery strain against an inhuman force pushing down, teeth bared and hot breath against her cheek. She turned her head and pushed up as Jane suddenly flew off and rolled on the floor. Karen’s screaming ceased.
Karen opened her eyes. Jane had stopped moving. She rolled on her back to see a pale-skinned girl—Red and grey clumps of brain matter stuck to the soldering gun in her hand. The girl pushed strands of red hair behind her ears, revealing a white streak.
“Sophie? What? How, how did you get in here?”
Sophie raised a key card from her back pocket and put it back. She tossed the soldering gun on top of Jane’s body and extended her hand to Karen.
Karen sat up on her elbows and studied Sophie, the person the ZMTs called Ghost Girl. Her jeans were worn, small tears scraping the knees. Her hips were wide, and she wore a thin, black, long sleeve sweater. She stood nearly as tall as her brother. Fading freckles dotting her cheeks and her eyelids. Her eyes were darker, more saturated than the picture at the memorial. She wasn’t the pixie figment Thomas heard about surviving on a whim. She was full and real. Karen accepted the outstretched hand, and Sophie pulled her up to her feet.
Karen twisted and stretched her left shoulder, still aching from the fall. She placed her right hand on Sophie’s left arm and gave a gentle squeeze. “Thank you.”
Sophie smiled and bowed her head.
Karen tilted her head. “Can you speak? I know I’ve seen you before, but I’ve never heard your voice.” She paused, frowning. “Of course, I never really spoke to you when I did see you. I’m sorry for that.”
Sophie’s voice was hushed, her eyes downcast. “Yes, I can speak. No need to apologize.”
“Do you speak, talk, often? To people?”
“Just Alan. The mayor, if she’s around. I try to avoid people, mostly.”
“Alan,” Karen said, spitting his name and rubbing her eyes. “You work for Alan. Shit.” And she stepped backwards, careful not to trip over Jane.
“No, I’m not here to hurt you,” Sophie said, louder. “I saw him take you and your friend in here. I knew it wasn’t going to be good. He did horrible things to the people he brought in here,” she stared past Karen and nodded to the glass enclosure in the back of the room.
“But you decided to help me? Why not them?”
Sophie bit her lip and turned away. “Alan said they were criminals who hurt the city. I believed him. But you? I knew he was wrong about you. You’re a good person. You’re good for my brother.”
“Paul.”
Sophie whispered, “Paul.”
Karen crossed her arms. “How long have you known Paul was alive? That he was living here, that he and I were together, Morgan?”
Sophie jolted.
“That’s your name. That’s what Paul knew you as, right?”
“Yes, Morgan was my name.”
“Why change it? Why change it to Sophie?”
“I didn’t want him to find me after what he did to our father. I picked a new name, and whenever people asked, I said ‘Sophie.’”
“No.”
“Yes, yes, he was. Think back. Why would Paul shoot his own father?”
“I don’t know!” Sophie said, balling her fist and wiping her eyes.
Karen stepped forward, closer to Sophie, slowly, seeing how easily Sophie must have run at the shock, the fright, misunderstanding Paul’s act of mercy. And in the ensuing years and Alan’s relationship with her, she never moved past it or developed any complex means to process it. “Okay, okay, we don’t need to argue this, but tell me, how long have you known he was alive, here, in Greenport?” She touched Sophie’s arms.
Sophie squeezed her eyes shut at the touch. “Ever since he arrived. I’d been here awhile. I saw his name pop up in the registry, and I’ve tracked him ever since.”
“And you never thought to reach out?”
“Never wanted to.”
“And yet, here we are.”
“Just because I, changed my name, ran away, never said hello, didn’t mean I didn’t stop thinking about him or wanting to love him as my brother.” She hugged herself. “And from what I’ve seen, you mean something to him.”
Karen smiled and narrowed her eyes, wondering how much of a voyeur Sophie was. “He means something to me, too.
Sophie returned the smile.
“Can you help me find him, contact him?”
Sophie moved to the workbench. “The last I saw him, he was in Foxer going into a bar, Besson’s. Is that familiar to you?” She stopped in front of the computer monitor, leaned over and abruptly leaned back. “Oh. There’s no keyboard here.” The grey keyboard laid face up, its cord trailed in blood and keys scattered like pebbles.
“No, the bar doesn’t mean anything to me or us, or I wouldn’t see any reason why he’d go there.”
“Let’s go find another computer. From there, I can see if he’s popped up again.”
Karen followed Sophie, who swiped the door with her keycard, opening it just a crack, to peek down the hall. “Alan’s not here. He’s probably back at the Command Center in his office.”
Staring over Sophie’s shoulder, Karen said, “What about the cameras? Surely he has cameras posted here.”
“I used an old trick that still works,” Sophie said, grabbing Karen’s hand and guiding her into the hall. “I put a recording on loop.”
Impressed, Karen laughed. “Paul always liked spy movies.”
“He did. So did our father.” She let go of Karen’s hand and broke into a jog down the corridor.
Karen wasn’t sure what to make of Sophie. She came across as smart and capable, adapting as needed. But she carried herself smaller, subservient, eager to disappear. Karen tried to do the mental math of how long Sophie lived beyond Greenport during the Plague and when she settled here. And when did Alan find her and make her his assistant? Sophie’s feet landed softly in their long strides, a brisk walking pace that Karen’s sore and tired body struggled to keep up.
They passed the door to the room where she last saw Donovan and Thomas, and stopped. “Sophie, wait,” she said. “I want to see something, if Alan killed them or just turned them.”
Sophie frowned, shaking her head and walking back to Karen, too late to pull her hand off the door handle. Karen pushed, gripping it, prepared to slam it shut in her own face, in case two zombies roamed the room. Cracking the door ajar similar to Sophie minutes ago, she saw a body laid flat on the floor, blood spanning its chest. A squeak of rubber and a shadow moved overhead. She inched the door open more. Donovan laid on the floor with two dark holes near his chest and, and all that remained of his face was his bright orange beard speckled with blood. Thomas stood in the corner, holding the stainless steel IV pole, covered in a thick syrup, ready to swing.
“Karen?” Thomas said, lowering the rod.
Karen entered the room, covering her mouth and scrunching her face. “Thomas, Alan didn’t shoot you?”
He shook his arms and rotated his shoulder. “No, the asshole shot Donovan point blank, thinking zombie Donovan would do the rest. Fucker doesn’t get that those who made it to Greenport had to do bad things to survive. Things they didn’t like.” He tapped the IV pole and shook his head.
“Alan tends to make assumptions,” Sophie said, hiding behind Karen in the doorway.
“Who’s that?” he said, shifting his eyes. When he saw the red hair, they went wide.
“Thomas, meet Sophie, or Ghost Girl, or Morgan,” she said, pulling her into the room.
“You’re real. And you’re—taller than the ZMTs said you were.”
She ignored Thomas and strode to the turned off computer next to him.
“She has access to the network, more than me, and may be able to find Paul,” Karen said. “Give her space.”
“Sure thing,” he said, and stood next to Karen. “Does she know what’s going on with Alan?”
“Ask her,” she said, pointing to Sophie.
The screen glowed to life and she tapped her ID and password into the login prompt. A series of screens flashed, and she said, “Alan’s attempting to assassinate Nasher with a controlled squad of drones.”
Karen and Thomas, in unison, said, “What?”
“Those things are drones?’” Karen asked.
Sophie ignored them, clicking and switching between a new set of screens for the city’s people tracker database. She queried the Foxer district from the facial recognition logs for when Paul passed one of the many cameras. “I found Paul. He’s in Foxer.” She arranged a four panel set of video feeds on the monitor. “I think. These are a few minutes old.”
Karen leapt and peered at the screen. Paul walked up to a brownstone row house and entered. In the top right screen three black figures followed him. In the outer edge of frame within the bottom right feed, two more silhouettes climbed a fire escape. She touched the screen. What are you doing?
“Sophie, can the drones be stopped?”
“Yes.” She closed the feeds and opened a black screen with a blinking green rectangle at a command prompt. “It’ll take some time.”
“Time, Sophie,” Alan said, stepping inside and closing the door. “I’m sorry to say, you can no longer have.”
Chapter 21
Paul arrived at the footsteps of a soot-covered brownstone row house. An alley divided it from the next string of unassuming brownstones that lined a deeper corner of Foxer, further from Greenport than any shift ever took him. Molly gave him directions to walk undetected by the majority of the city’s cameras, via a path that took him through abandoned buildings and bars with more spiders than people and insistent instructions to use fire escapes marked with a first rung painted white. Those marked with white had been surrendered to Nasher’s control, or safety as Molly called it. A fire escape with unpainted first rungs may be safe, but not guaranteed. However, he needed to avoid any painted bright red. Nasher kept many of his operations in these buildings, and the red paint kept Foxer’s numerous thieves at bay from retribution.
Paul emerged from a ground floor basement across the street and dashed into the alley next to Nasher’s location for the night. He eyed the fire escape rungs. Molly said two rungs would be red.
Two red rungs floated in the dark.
“But don’t take the fire escape in like you did the other buildings. This building, the windows are wired to explode if opened from the outside,” Molly said. “There’s a door underneath the front steps that goes into a garden apartment. Knock three times—” she tapped her fist in the air against an imaginary door— “and hand them this.”
Molly passed Paul a business card with the bar’s name imprinted on the front. He flipped it over and Molly’s wide looping signature undersigned a brief message: One free beer.
Paul had laughed. “I could use a beer.”
“Paul, I don’t give away beer,” she had replied, smirking, her voice curt.
Paul breathed in the dank air of the alley and fumbled f
or the card in his front jeans pocket. He closed his eyes, thankful it was still there, if creased and bent by the constant up and down of the meandering route to where he now stood. He pulled the orange gun she gave him from the small of his back. Thankfully, that held in place, too.
“But I can’t use this,” he said, putting it on the counter.
She had handed it to him again. “It’s been fixed. They can be hacked for anyone with a little know how.”
“Seriously?”
“Dead serious.”
He popped the magazine to find it full. Four rounds, if he needed them, and tucked it back in. He leaned forward and stretched his arms and shoulders, attempting to keep the day’s assault on his biceps and triceps from stiffening them to raw leather. The aspirin she gave him before he left soothed his headache.
He stretched, but he couldn’t unknot the phone call with a dispatch employee before he left Molly’s bar.
“She’s on the Central grounds, arrived with a ZMT crew but cannot be found?” Paul said, a flash of heat swelling across his chest.
“That’s correct.”
“Can you send someone to look for her?”
“We’re thin, as you’re aware of the incident in Belleville.”
“But it doesn’t make sense? Central is covered in cameras. Covered.”
Well trained, the voice at the other end remained flat. “I agree, it is odd, but I’m sure she’s safe and sound recovering from the day’s events and resting, away from all the noise that happens here.”
Constant motion of vehicles driving through the gates to or from a shift would send rumblings through the compound. Throngs of city staff or ZMT personnel tread without care to noise levels. Boots stomped, conversations shouted across maintenance bays, and machinery whined and cranked and pounded, reverberating to a din of white noise. Paul understood the dispatcher’s intent, but Karen wouldn’t remove herself from a hectic scenery of people when she knew behind it all. She could bring calm.
Survivor Response Page 20
