Survive (Day 3)

by Wise, A. R.

  Kurt shrugged and said, “Maybe the Chinese are here already.”

  “Quit it with the World War Three crap.”

  “This is your stop, pal,” said Kurt as he came to a stop near the football field. “Good luck.”

  The younger cop got out and opened the back door. He helped Red to his feet, and led him towards the field.

  “Can you cut me free?” asked Red.

  “No, sorry.”

  June was being similarly led along, cuffed. “You okay?” she asked Red as they grew closer.

  “I’m fine. This isn’t exactly how I thought our day would go.”

  “It could be worse,” she said.

  “I’m still pissed they left Porter back there, but this guy said he’d…”

  A gunshot silenced him. Its distant explosion was immediately followed by the smash of glass.

  “What the…” the young officer looked around, confused.

  Kurt threw open his door and stumbled out, his cheek bleeding. Red saw that the breaking glass he’d heard came from the windshield of the squad car. Kurt had been shot, and was holding his cheek as he ran towards the safety of the concession stand beside the football field.

  “Who’s shooting?” asked the officer guiding June.

  “Go, go, go,” commanded a soldier with an assault rifle who came running towards them. “Get in the school.”

  Another shot rang out. The bullet struck the road between Red and the squad car. Red and June started to run, and the cops went with them. Kurt was bleeding bad, and was helped along by his partner. They got inside the school, and were quickly ushered to a gym that’d been converted into a triage. Doctors and nurses in masks met them, and quickly took Kurt to one of the bedrolls.

  “What happened?” asked one of the doctors.

  “He got shot,” said the young officer. “Who the fuck’s out there shooting?”

  A grey-haired doctor said, “The helpers.” She pulled off a pair of latex gloves and tossed them into a bin that was near full.

  “The helpers?” asked the cop. “Since when are they shooting at us?”

  She lowered her mask and said, “It started happening a few hours ago. We’re not sure why. We think they’re dipping the bullets in blood before shooting.”

  “Does that mean Kurt’s infected?”

  “No, probably not,” she said. “There’s nothing infectious on the bullets after they get fired. Still though, he’ll need to be quarantined. I take it that’s what these two are here for.”

  “Yeah, we picked them up on the road,” said the young officer, his attention focused on his partner. “Take them, I’m going to check on Kurt.”

  “Danny,” said the doctor to a nearby nurse. “Cut them loose and take them to room twelve. We’ll get to them when we can. I’ve got a feeling it’s going to be awhile.”

  “Wait,” said June. “I’ve got a million questions first.”

  “I’m sure you do,” said the doctor. “And I’ll answer them when I can. Right now, we’ve got a lot to deal with. Wait in the room and we’ll come talk to you as soon as we can.”

  “This way,” said the nurse as he opened a set of double doors leading to a hallway.

  The school was sparsely lit with halogen lamps on the floor connected by a line of orange cord. There were multiple soldiers running past them, towards the football field, their weapons clattering as they went.

  “Jesus,” said Red. “What the fuck’s going on?”

  “Where’ve you been the last couple days?” asked the nurse, his extreme fatigue apparent in his voice.

  “We’ve seen lots of infected people,” said June. “But none of them were using guns.”

  “Yeah, well, a lot’s changed,” said the nurse. “We’ve been getting shot at for the last couple hours.”

  The nurse led them to a dark, windowless classroom, and then cut the plastic zip ties that bound their hands. “You can wait in here.”

  “In the dark?” asked June.

  “Sorry,” he shrugged, sorry only in sentiment. “Someone will come get you when we can.”

  “Wait, wait…” June tried to stop him.

  “Sorry,” he said before shutting the door and locking it. He looked in through a thin window on the door and said sorry again before leaving.

  June shook the handle and said, “Really? God damn it.”

  Only a sliver of dull light came in through the reinforced window, revealing little about the room they were stuck in.

  Day Three – 6:29 pm

  Porter felt like he’d been sitting alone for hours, trapped in a prison of clear plastic walls. The wound on his leg had been sewn shut, and there were a couple stitches on his palm from where he’d cut himself. The rest of the wounds on his hands had been bandaged, although none of them were deep enough to require stitches.

  Three of the cell’s walls were made of plastic with quarter-sized holes drilled in them to allow airflow. The fourth wall was brick. It appeared as if the three plastic walls had been set in place inside of a warehouse, and pressed against the existing wall to form a cell. The door had no handle on the inside, and was secured by several bolts. There was a rectangular slot in the door with a locked lip to allow items to be slipped in and out.

  A block of five cells had been created, but Porter was the only prisoner. The other side of the long room had a table with a couple folding chairs beside it. An electric lantern normally used for camping sat on the table beside a clip board and a pair of pistols. The lantern provided dim light that didn’t reach the corners on the far end of the room.

  Porter sat on the cold, cement floor, his back pressed against a corner where one of the plastic walls met brick. He tongued the wound on his lip where he’d drawn blood before biting Gracie. The wound was still raw, and he pressed at it with his tongue until it started to bleed again.

  A set of double doors opened, and daylight flooded the building, temporarily blinding Porter as he stood and rushed to the door of his cell. “Come here. Let me out.”

  The doors closed, and Porter saw two men in plain clothes. He recognized one of them as the older man who spared his life.

  “Hello Porter,” said the cheery man as he approached. “Sorry it took us so long.”

  “Let me out of here.”

  “You know we can’t do that.”

  “I can help,” said Porter.

  The other man shook his head in disapproval. He was taller than Porter’s savior, with a combover of thinning, black, greasy hair. His cheeks were sunken, and one of his eyes was constantly squinting as if in pain. His hand rested on a pistol at his side.

  “Let me introduce myself,” said Porter’s savior. “I’m Doctor Harding, but you can call me Jeff if you’d like. This is my friend, Doctor Paulson. We need to ask you some questions, and if you cooperate with us, we’ll let you help some people. How does that sound?”

  “What sort of questions?” asked Porter, leery and distrustful.

  “We need to understand you, Mr. Law. You’re different from the others,” said Jeff. “Back on the road when your friends were killed, you tried to run away. What compelled you to try and escape?”

  “You were shooting at me. What else was I supposed to do?”

  Jeffrey nodded, and looked at his companion. Doctor Paulson grunted, and then walked to the table to retrieve a clipboard. He returned, taking notes as Jeffery continued.

  “Tell me how you got infected. Tell me what it was like when you were helped.”

  Porter looked at the bandage on his left palm. He showed it to the doctor. “I got cut here.”

  “It was a cut that infected you?” asked Jeffrey. “Are you certain?”

  “Well, I got some blood in my mouth right before I got cut.”

  “Infected blood?” asked Jeffrey.

  Porter nodded.

  Jeff turned to his companion and said, “That must be it. An early immune response that alters the virus’s effect.” He turned his attention back to Porter. �
�How long before you got stabbed did you get the blood in your mouth?”

  “A few minutes, maybe less.”

  “That’s too quick,” said Doctor Paulson. “His immune system couldn’t generate an antibody that fast.”

  “Usually I’d agree,” said Jeff. “But there’s no other explanation for what we’re seeing.”

  “Sure there is. We could be looking at a mutated virus.” Doctor Paulson took a page off his clipboard and pressed it to the glass. “Porter, can you read what’s on this page?”

  Porter tried, but couldn’t decipher the jumble of lines. He shook his head and said, “It doesn’t say anything. It’s just a bunch of jibberish.”

  “It’s your name,” said Doctor Paulson before putting the page back on his clipboard. “I’m going to check on Tally and see how the blood samples are coming along. Are you staying here?”

  “Yes, I’d like to ask him some more questions.”

  Paulson gave Jeff the clipboard and then left. Jeff went to place the clipboard back on the table, but Porter said, “Wait, bring that back. Was he lying?”

  “About what?”

  “About that being my name. Let me see it again.”

  Jeff opened the slat in the door and carefully pushed the page through. Porter took it and stared at the scrambled mess of lines and shapes. “This isn’t my name. It’s not even letters.”

  “Yes it is. The virus affects the brain’s ability to comprehend words and numbers properly. We’re not sure why. There’s a lot we’re learning about…”

  “Give me a pen.”

  “I can’t do that. I’m sure you can imagine why. I do have this for you, though.” Jeff pulled a picture out of his pocket, and slid it through the door. The picture fell face down to the floor.

  Porter retrieved it, and turned it over. “It’s my family.” His words soft as he stared at his loved ones. “These are my boys.” He pointed them out. “Mark and Anthony. And this is my wife, Mary.”

  “Beautiful family.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Would you like to see them again?”

  “Of course. That’s where I was headed.”

  “You were?” Jeff’s interest was piqued.

  “I was until I…” Porter shook his head. He closed his eyes tight to quell the tears. “Until I started helping people.”

  “And what would you do if your boys were here with you?” asked Jeff. “Would you help them?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “You’d stab them?”

  Porter looked at the smiling faces of his two boys. “I’d help them.”

  “By stabbing them.”

  “I’d do whatever it took.”

  “And you don’t see any harm in that? In stabbing your children. The idea of that doesn’t bother you?”

  “I’d help them.”

  “And what about me? Would you help me?”

  “I can help you if you want,” said Porter, his words tinged with lustful excitement at the prospect.

  “I’ve got something else you might like to have, Porter.” Jeff went to the table and retrieved a handgun. He held it aloft in his left hand, and let it dangle from his index finger by the trigger guard.

  “You want to give me a gun?”

  “I’m going to kill you, Porter.” Jeff picked up the second handgun, and held it in his right hand. He returned to the cell, and put the tip of the gun in his right hand against the glass, pointed at Porter.

  Porter backed away and raised his arms in defense.

  “You don’t want to die, do you?”

  “What’re you doing?”

  “Here,” said Jeff as he pushed the other gun through the slot in the door and let it fall to the floor on the inside of the cell. “Hurry and pick that up.”

  “Why?”

  “Because if you don’t, I’m going to kill you.”

  Porter glared at him in disbelief.

  “Quicky, Porter! On the count of three I’m going to shoot you. Your only chance of survival is to pick that gun up and shoot me first. One!”

  Porter rushed forward to get the gun.

  “Two!”

  Porter didn’t hesitate before aiming the gun and pulling the trigger. His gun clicked uselessly.

  Jeff nodded in appreciation. “And that, my good man, is why I didn’t let them kill you. You’re different than the rest of the infected we’ve encountered. You’ve got an instinct the others lacked. When the virus infected you, it was altered somehow– either it mutated, or your immune system had a response that changed how it affects you. You’re interested in self-preservation. Most of the others are only interested in infecting people. They’ll charge head first into an army without a second thought. But not you. You’ll do whatever it takes to survive. Even if it means picking up a gun in self-defense.” Jeff sneered, as if enjoying the puzzle this provided. “And that’s the problem.”

  “Defending myself is a problem?”

  “Yes. A big one,” said Jeff.

  “Why?”

  Jeff didn’t answer, and walked towards the table, deep in thought.

  “Why is that a problem?”

  “Because you’re willing to kill to protect yourself from a perceived threat,” said Jeff, his back to Porter. He turned slowly, and continued, “How many others are out there who think like you? And how long before they start to look at everyone as a threat. If they know the police and soldiers will kill them, then what’s to stop them from shooting first?”

  Jeff tapped the gun’s barrel in his other palm, contemplating the situation. “The virus wants to survive, anyway it can.”

  Day Three – 7:14 pm

  “Someone let us out of here,” said June as she banged on the door, helplessly watching the flurry of activity in the hall.

  “June, we’ve got to find another way out of here,” said Red. “They forgot about us.” He stood on the teacher’s desk, and tried to jump up to the ceiling.

  “What’re you doing?”

  “Trying to find a way out. If shit hits the fan and we’re stuck in here, we’re as good as dead. ” He punched at the ceiling to test if the white tiles could be pushed away. He got the tile to move, but revealed less than a foot’s worth of space above. The air ducts were thin, and far too small to crawl through. “Shit, I thought we could get in the vents.”

  “This isn’t the Breakfast Club.”

  “I was thinking more like Die Hard,” said Red.

  “Do you really think they’d put us in here if there was an easy way to get out?”

  “This is the US Army we’re talking about here.” Red got off the desk, and then opened the drawers in search of something useful. There were pens, pencils, and a variety of useless stationary. In a second drawer he found a stash of items that had been confiscated from students including a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. “Look at this. Do kids still smoke? I thought that was passé.”

  “Maybe it belonged to the teacher.”

  Red pocketed the lighter.

  June pounded on the door to try and get the attention of a few passing soldiers. “Let us out of here! Hey, come on. Don’t…” She grumbled in dissatisfaction as the soldiers ran past.

  Red sat down on the edge of the desk. June came to sit beside him in the chair. She let out a dejected, angry grumble. “Can you believe this shit? After all I’ve been through, I’m going to die in high school. That’s some weird, awful karma right there. I hated high school. What about you?”

  “Huh?” asked Red. “What’re we talking about?”

  “You’re already starting to ignore me?”

  “Sorry. I can’t stop thinking about Porter.”

  “Don’t torture yourself. There’s nothing you could’ve done. You tried to save him.”

  “He always felt like he had to protect me, even in school.”

  June looked quizzically at him, and then said, “Oh, you meant your brother. I thought you were talking about the dog.”

  “No, I meant Port
er – the real Porter. Being in school made me think of him. No one used to bully me back then because of him. Everyone was terrified of Porter.”

  “He was tough then too?”

  “Oh hell yeah he was. I was a skinny little punk, and he was this huge, hulking dude. He used to get suspended from school for fighting all the time. That’s why no one messed with me. They knew Porter would kick their ass.”

  “It must’ve been nice to have him to stick up for you.”

  Red let out a quick laugh. “You’d think. But I still got my ass kicked all the time. If it wasn’t my dad, it was Porter wailing on me. I would’ve rather taken my chances with the bullies.”

  “Porter used to beat you up?”

  “Are you kidding?” asked Red. “All the time. You saw how we fought as adults. Just imagine what it was like when we were kids.”

  “What would he beat you up for? Did you used to steal his toys and that sort of thing?”

  “No.” Red didn’t elaborate.

  “Then why’d he beat you up?” prodded June.

  “He tried to be… I don’t know, it was weird at our house. Dad was a piece of shit, and Mom was great, but she had to deal with Dad all the time. It was like Porter was my parent, and he used to get so pissed at me when I fucked up. If I came home with a bad report card, I knew he’d beat the shit out of me. And if Dad was home, then I’d get my ass beat twice.”

  “Sorry to hear that,” said June. “It must’ve been tough to have a brother like that.”

  “Don’t get me wrong, I deserved to get my ass beat.”

  “No kid deserves to get beat up.”

  “I did. Porter was right, I was a screw up.”

  June shook her head and said, “I doubt it.”

  “Trust me.”

  “You’re too hard on yourself. Everyone’s a screw up when they’re a kid. It’s part of growing up. And it’s not like Porter was perfect.”

  “He turned out a hell of a lot better than I did.”

  “Would you quit with that sort of talk?”

  “It’s the truth.”

  “No, it’s really not,” she said before getting up and walking back to the door. “Porter had his issues, just like everyone. You were blind to them because he was your older brother, and you idolized him.”