Survivor Response

by Patrick J. Harris

  Paul ran behind him as Stanley flipped a switch on the canister he set on the fourth step. A white, silver vapor hissed and clouded the stairway. Stanley spun and lurched for the bag full of explosives and jogged to Paul, Julian and Nasher staked out at the door. The mist rolled down the stairs and followed down the hallway.

  Boots pounded, descending the stairs, their tempo interrupted by a concussive boom. Shards of off-white dry wall and aged wood hailed through the smokescreen. A pair of bodies smacked the floor and thumped against the opposite wall.

  Paul shuddered at the boom, and Stanley readied another grenade. Through the mist, feet scraped and kicked the floorboards. One black figure crawled, its gloved hands pulling forward and kicking two stumps shredded at the knees, trailing black sludge behind it. Another hobbled as its left foot flopped and twisted with each step. A blackened eye and septic flesh peered through its cracked visor. More footsteps came from upstairs, but slowed as they approached the top of the steps.

  Paul raised his hand. “Don’t throw the grenade. Just aim for the visor and they’ll stop.”

  Nasher pulled his gun and aimed for the commando with the cracked visor, and fired. The commando jerked its head to the right, and the bullet bounced of the side of its helmet.

  “It’s like that damn shooting gallery at a state fair,” Nasher said. “Rigged from the get go.” He double tapped the trigger, adjusting for the commando’s movement. The first bullet bounced off the edge of the visor opening, but the second exploded a rotting mass of blood, punching the commando to the floor.

  Nasher holstered his gun and stepped back to scan floor near the outside wall. Slow footsteps creaked down the stairs, while the crawling commando skittered along the tile.

  “Boss? Nash? Want me to blow this guy with a grenade?” Stanley said.

  Nasher grumbled, reaching and tossing scattered boxes aside. “No, no, save whatever we have. This one,” he pointed, not turning around, “just needs a kick in the head.”

  Julian stepped to the inside wall and scanned the floor. “Will this do?” he said, raising a crowbar.

  “Perfect,” Nasher said, accepting the cold, steel bar. He flipped it with the curved part down and wrapped both hands at the top. He stopped in front of the crawling figure, and stomped his left heel down, crushing the figure’s right wrist. It writhed as Nasher torqued his body, raised the crowbar, and swung low as if to hit a golf ball the size of a human head. The steal crunched and buckled the visor and the neck of bar hooked the inside of the helmet. Pulling back, Nasher jerked the crowbar up and ripped the helmet off. It flew and bounced off the ceiling and slid along the floor.

  “What the fuck? A zombie?” Nasher said. His lips sneered and his eyes narrowed at the grey face. Bits of the visor’s glass protruded through the skin and black liquid streaked down its cheeks. Its eyelids had been removed and its teeth permanently bared with its exposed jaw. It wretched and screeched and its free hand flailed, failing to clutch Nasher’s foot. Nasher gritted his teeth and swung the bar down through the top of the zombie’s skull, splitting it in half and spilling dark grey clumps of brain matter onto the floor. Its face collapsed flat on the ground and revealed strands of wire snaking from between its shoulder blades and in into the back of its skull.

  Nasher brushed the wires with the bloody, curved hook of the crowbar and tapped the round port where the ledes connected. He looped the hook under the wires and yanked. The wires split from the connector and the zombie’s body shook. “I’ll be damned,” he said.

  “Nash, to the roof?” Stanley said.

  The footsteps neared the end of the stairs and the cloud of smoke now dissipated. Nasher backed away, and the crowbar clattered as he let it fall to the floor. “Yes, to the roof. Watch the stairs as we open the door and break for it.”

  “Got it.”

  Paul stood behind the door and peeped through the opaque glass. A solid outline of a black figure stood several feet from the door. He pulled the mail flap open and confirmed that a commando stood motionless, its fist balled and feet squared and the streetlights reflected off its visor.

  “Julian,” Paul said.

  “Yeah?”

  Paul pointed to the slot. “Put your shotgun right here. When I open it, you jam your gun through it and fire. Got it?”

  Julian gripped the stock and its short barrel and eyed the mail slot. “Got it.”

  Footsteps tapped the tile and through the last strands of smoke a commando stepped out. Stanley pulled the pin on the grenade and lobbed it under hand, smacking the commando in the chest. It bounced off and hit the floor. The commando lowered its head and the blast sent it through the air and into the main room, atop Richard’s body.

  Paul pulled the mail slot open. “Now!”

  Julian planted his back foot and gripped the shotgun. The metal on metal clacked and the trigger clicked a deafening boom. He caught the gun’s recoil and stepped aside.

  Paul swung the door open. The commando’s body lay strewn along the steps, its clothes tattered, black welts seeping through the cloth. Its visor was broken and pock marks of buckshot filled its face.

  Nasher crossed the threshold first and kicked the body with his heel. It remained still. He stepped over it. “Come on.”

  Stanley followed, tossing a smoke canister between Paul and Julian, and kneeled, pulling out a mine from his bag. He wedged it face forward across the dead zombie commando’s torso. “Go, go. I’ll set this just in case.”

  Paul and Julian hopped over Stanley and rounded the corner. Nasher pulled the white-striped escape ladder down and began to climb. Julian swung the shotgun behind his back and ascended hand over hand. Paul cursed the lack of a shoulder strap on the shotgun and gripped a rail with one hand while his other held the weapon. He leaned against the escape ladder and swung his free hand to the next rung and followed with his feet.

  A boom vibrated the metal rungs, and Stanley ran to the foot of the ladder, huffing with each footstep. He tapped the rung between Paul’s foot, and grinned. “Bastards didn’t learn the first time.”

  Paul grunted and climbed. Nasher pushed up and stood on the second floor landing of the fire escape. Black scorch marks and jagged debris outlined the window the zombie commando’s breached minutes earlier. Nasher looked in. Wooden boxes and metal cargo containers sat still in the darkness of the room, lit by a hallway light that entered through the door frame. He knocked the broken brick, bit his lip.

  Julian rose on the landing and tapped Nasher’s shoulder. “Things will be fine for the time being.” He knelt down and extended a hand to Paul, who was laboring to climb and hold onto his gun. “Give me the gun.”

  Paul wrapped his left arm around a rung and extended the weapon to Julian with his right. He gripped the ladder and shook his left arm, recirculating the blood. Attempting to hold on to the strapless shotgun, he sprinted upward and jumped on the landing. “Thanks,” he said to Julian, who handed back the weapon.

  The fire escape wobbled as Stanley climbed in a hurry. Nasher looked down, nodded and began to ascend the zigzag of stairs to the roof. Julian followed while Paul waited for Stanley and helped him onto the landing. Stanley breathed heavily, readjusting his bag and eyed the window. A shadow flickered inside—

  “Oh fuck!” Stanley shouted.

  And burst through the opening, arms first.

  The commando’s hands caught Stanley’s shoulders, while its boots clipped Paul across the chest. Stanley and the commando collided against the perpendicular bars of the railing, sending the fire escape clanging and scraping against the brick. Paul regained his balance, and Stanley yelled, batting his arms against the commando as it rolled on top of him.

  Nasher and Julian stopped midway through the third flight of stairs. Julian turned, but Nasher pulled him back around, shaking his head.

  Paul gripped the shotgun, stepped forward and kicked the commando in the head with his heel. It let go of Stanley, rolled and bounced against the railing. Stanley, freed of
two hundred pounds pinning him, scrambled, kicking and clawing for distance between him and the commando.

  The commando swung its left arm, catching the strap of Stanley’s bag, and yanked. Stanley lost the few inches of space between them as he slid back and a pair of arms bear hugged him. The arms were hard and the hands knotted into his sternum, pounding air out of his lungs. He gasped, retched for a breath, his mouth wide, gulping for any air between the pulsing vice of a bear hug.

  “Stanley!” Paul shouted.

  Stanley ducked his head forward as Paul rammed the shotgun into the commando’s neck. He pulled the trigger; the helmet and skull muffled the blast. Black blood exploded over the barrel and the back of Stanley’s neck. The commando’s grip released, and it slumped against the railing. Stanley spit and coughed, wheezing for a series of complete breaths to fill his lungs. He rolled and steadily pushed himself to stand.

  “Thanks,” Stanley said, his voice breaking. “Let’s get to the roof. I’m tired of these assholes.”

  Stanley’s climb started as a trudge, regrouping his senses and catching his breath, but as they neared the final flight, Paul needed to quicken his pace to keep up. On the roof, Nasher and Julian opened the doors to a helicopter parked neatly between pipes and cables. Its tail cleared the roof access door by only several feet. A tattered orange strip of cloth hung from a pole cemented in a coffee can, serving as a poor man’s wind sock.

  Stanley jogged to the pilot’s side door, handing his bag to Julian, who climbed into the back. With a flip of a switch Stanley turned the interior and exterior lights on. Four black jumpseats and seat harnesses sat inside.

  “How in the hell does the city not know about this,” Paul said, eyeing the rotors. “And who’s the pilot?”

  “You mean, how does Alan not know about it,” Nasher said, tapping the helicopter’s nose as he walked around the front. “We keep it covered most times, and we rarely fly it and only when we’re confident it won’t be noticed, which is damn impossible. Often, we have to create a diversion in a different part of the city.”

  “And I’m the damn pilot,” Stanley said, cupping a headset over his ears. “Get your ass in the back so we can leave.”

  The rotors spun to life, and Paul ducked, despite plenty of clearance between his head and the blades. He rounded the front as the rotor’s whine grew to a screaming gust of wind and opened his passenger door. Paul looked over his shoulder to scan the rooftops looking north.

  At varying distances, three different figures sprinted and hurdled along blocks of brownstone roofs. The closest leaped over a long bed of flowers two buildings away. Paul hurried himself into a jump seat, slammed the door shut and screamed, “Go, go, go!”

  “We’ll get going in a minute,” Stanley said into his headset mic, reading his controls.

  Julian adjusted his headset and looked past Paul’s panicked face. A commando tucked and rolled and sprung upright to the building next to their makeshift helipad. “Stan, we gotta go, now. One of ’em is about to be on our roof.”

  Stanley jostled his head. The commando weaved between patio furniture a building over. “God damn it. This may be a rough take off. Buckle in.”

  The helicopter lurched off the ground, pivoted forward and swung to the left. Paul looped the safety harness across his chest, feeling the click of the buckle. He pulled his headset from between the seats and fitted it over his ears, peering out the window as the commando landed on the roof. Stanley steadied the tail movement and began to climb. The commando’s arms pumped, and it sprinted for the rising helicopter.

  And leaped.

  The helicopter rolled to the right, hooked by the commando’s outstretched arms on a landing skid.

  “Did one of those fuckers just hitch a ride on my chopper?” Stanley yelled, looking side to side.

  “Keep flying, I’ll handle it,” Paul said, exhaling and tugged his buckle. “Julian, give me your sawed-off.”

  Julian handed Paul the weapon. “You’re going to shoot through the door?”

  “No.”

  Paul opened the door, letting in a torrent of cold air, and a light flashed inside the cabin. The helicopter rose upward and forwards, now hovering over the street. Rooftop objects grew smaller with the climb.

  The commando swung side to side, attempting to catch a foot along the bar. It moved its hand sideways and hung below Paul. The rotors gushed air over his hands. He lowered the sawed-off shotgun directly above the commando’s helmet, inches away from its visor. He angled the barrel at its shoulder and fired.

  The shot exploded out of the barrel, tearing through the commando’s arm, severing it at the socket. The commando jerked and flailed to the left, its other hand still gripping the bar. Paul recovered from the recoil, threw the gun to his feet and grabbed his full-length shotgun. He leaned out the door and fired at the commando’s hand.

  And it fell, crashing headfirst into the pavement.

  Paul pulled the door closed and leaned back into his seat, taking deep breaths.

  Julian grinned and patted him on the shoulder. “Good job, man.”

  “Excellent work, motherfucker. Excellent work,” Stanley said, taking the helicopter higher over Greenport.

  Nasher turned in his seat. “Very good work, Paul. Now, we’ll see about doing the same to Alan.”

  Chapter 22

  “If I’m being charitable,” Alan said, leaning casually against the door, “I should let you three all walk out of here, alive, and return to life as normal. Surviving is hard. It should be rewarded.” He laughed. “And the reward is another day to live.”

  Karen’s legs tensed up as her body shielded Sophie, who peeked out around Karen’s shoulders. Thomas stood in a corner next to the stainless steel IV pole he bludgeoned Donovan with and held his hands raised. Karen remained quiet, her eyes locked with Alan’s, and sidestepped to her right, guiding Sophie with her.

  “But Karen,” Alan turned to Thomas, “whoever you are, and now Sophie, my beautiful Sophie, so much like a daughter to me. Intentional or not, it hurts me you’re now caught up on the wrong side of all this. You knew what I was trying to do.”

  Sophie responded with silence, breathing quicker on the back of Karen’s neck.

  “Sophie? Come here, and we’ll work this out, and we can continue to make the city better.”

  “By sending those things?” Karen said.

  “Those things are drones—”

  “Drones? Like you sit in a room and control them?” Karen said, wrinkling her face.

  “To some degree, but for the most part, they run on their own.”

  “Killing on their own.”

  “It’s a part of the job they do, and I do.”

  “Killing isn’t part of anyone’s—”

  Alan rolled his head back and grinned. “Paul kills quite effectively.”

  The words cut her anger, gut-punched her off the moral high ground. She bit her lip and swallowed. “He kills what’s already dangerous.”

  “As do I,” Alan said, raising his voice. “Today, less than an hour ago, I was informed that Nasher has associates who traffic people, live people, into the city, and kills them and sells their body parts as feed for those who house dead family members as pets.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Thomas said. “That’s horrible.”

  Karen processed the mental image of unsuspecting truckloads of men, women and children entering the city to their deaths.

  “It is shocking, isn’t it,” Alan said. “Not only are those drones going to take out filth like that, they are going to make this city money, Karen. And by virtue, power and recognition. Greenport will no longer be a middle America river port city, in the shadows of more populated cities. We’d be leading the revival of civilization by recycling the very things that nearly led to its demise.”

  “The dead?” Karen said, cocking her head. “By turning them into drones?”

  “People, or governments, they’ll pay. If not here, definitely overseas in dictatorshi
ps still in the throes of the final stages of the outbreak. A programmable army.”

  “That’s fucked up, man,” Thomas said, scrunching his face. “The dead deserve to be dead. Have their peace.”

  “Spoken like an idealist. Tell me, were you an idealist when you bashed this man’s brains in?” Alan asked, pointing to Donovan’s corpse with the handgun.

  Thomas remained silent.

  “Didn’t think so,” Alan said. “I’m doing what needs to be done so Greenport survives.”

  “And how many will die in the process? Karen asked. “They killed a crew of ZMTs without mercy. Just slaughtered them. I’d say they can’t be controlled.”

  “The program needs to be refined. Machine learning behavior takes time to build the proper algorithms. It’s going to have problems.”

  Karen rubbed her temples. All this had something to do with the city’s grid. All the cameras and sensors feeding data to an algorithm, but now these commandos could act as violent, walking drones in a crowd. Bad data made bad decisions, but what if a bad algorithm made bad decisions? She blinked. What if you adjusted the algorithm for the output you wanted? Walking drones to enact martial control? She stared wide-eyed at Alan.

  “Oh my—You can sell these things, no, sell the program and adjust it however the buyer wishes. Right or wrong, morals be damned. You really don’t care about Greenport so long as whatever you do here helps you sell those things,” she said, turning her eyes to Thomas, who caught her shifting her gaze to the IV pole.

  Alan clapped his hand against the fist holding the gun and grinned wide and beamed. “Finally, a smart person in this city, a woman no less. Sophie, you’ve got some competition.”

  Karen tapped Sophie on the hip. “Sophie, can you shut those things down?”

  “Yes, but it might take—” Sophie said.

  “No, she cannot,” Alan boomed, his teeth bared and the gun now raised at Karen and Sophie. He swiveled, pointing the gun at the room’s computer and pulled the trigger. Bang. Karen and Sophie jumped as the computer monitor flipped to black.