“Take it.” He offers me the gun with a smile, and then he screams, “Just fucking take it!”
I do. The metal isn’t as cold as Peter’s face.
“Now shoot me. Kill me. Do it.”
My arms raise, my hands are firm. The man laughs with full satisfaction. “Yes. That’s a good girl.”
His mouth keeps moving, but I don’t hear anything else besides my own heartbeat. I killed once. I cried, and begged, but I did it anyway. I shot Mrs. Patterson, like she asked me to, straight into her head. I could do it again. I could do what this evil man wants me to do. It’s not that hard. It takes just a second and it’s over.
I shake my head and lower the gun. “Go away.”
“No. No. You have to do it. Fucking do it!”
“Shut up. Just shut up and leave me alone!” My scream hurts, like it’s ripping apart my throat. I stare at the ground, tears falling.
I hear the crunch of snow before I see him move away. He limps, dragging his right leg, breathing heavily. I don’t know how long I watch him. He bleeds all over the ground, and each step seems harder. He doesn’t go far.
When he falls down, grunting and then whimpering, I sit down to wait. He tries, but fails to get up and instead needs to drag himself along the ground. Blood smears the snow. He stops moving. I don’t smile, but satisfaction grows inside me. He didn’t deserve a quick death. He didn’t deserve the easy way out.
He didn’t deserve the few bullets I still had. He didn’t deserve any of it. Just to suffer. I hope he suffered. I hope every second he died a little more, every single part of him hurt like he hurt Peter.
I throw the gun away on the snow. I move Peter’s body, dragging it away from the man. His only eye stares at me.
“I’m sorry, Pete,” I whisper while taking off his gloves. Yesterday, I let him keep our only pair so he could stop complaining about the cold. He won’t complain anymore.
His hands are cold and stiff. I take off his shoes too. I feel bad about it, but I need them more than he does now. I strip him from his coat for a different reason.
Finally, my shaking hand goes over his face. I close his single eye and then cover his upper body with the coat. Kneeling next to him, I cry. My nose runs, and my eyes sting. I cry so much, my throat aches and my head throbs. The cold stiffens my knees, but I can’t bring myself to leave yet.
This is all my fault. If I had acted faster, if I didn’t turn my back on that horrible guy….
My sobs stop.
No. Peter didn’t listen to me, he provoked him. He tried to take the gun and woke the guy up. He didn’t stay put like I told him to. He was a hotheaded dummy. It was his fault, not mine.
I shouldn’t have listened to his stupid idea. I should’ve stayed in the city, where there was food and shelter. I should’ve ignored his smile and laugh and funny theories about Star Wars.
I can’t do this anymore.
Snow falls again, forcing me to move. Before I leave, my hands explore his pockets to find the compass and his map. I have no idea where I am exactly, but I can figure it out. I can do this.
I can move faster, without stopping every few minutes to rest. I can stop feeling guilty about everything and anything.
I’m better off alone.
The Last One Out VI
December 18th, Friday, 7 am
The car dies one day from Redwood. Outside, it’s snowing. I eat only one piece of bread, since my supplies are dwindling far too quickly for my comfort. Music keeps me company for the night.
I wake with the sun shining directly at my eyes. The snow has melted and the road ahead is empty. I delayed my departure from the car’s protection for too long. I get out.
If I could change one decision on the long list of mistakes I have made, I would change my choice of attire. The resistance group offered me a pair of comfy sport sneakers, perfect for jogging. Instead, I stuck with the pair of Italian penny loafers I had picked up from the body of a millionaire. The reason escapes me right at this moment, but perhaps it had to do with looking good during my brother’s send off. More likely I didn’t want to be caught dead in stupid sneakers while wearing my brown suit. Now I will be caught dead in fine Italian leather.
Whatever past reasons, I regret it more than anything else. My feet are killing me. Perhaps literally since I’m walking like a drunk pirate with a wooden leg and probably won’t be able to run very far if an infected finds me.
Oh well. My corpse will be well dressed at least.
Aside from my pessimist musings, the road proves to be safe. By noon, I arrive at a gas station. I have no weapon, so besides a desperate need to pee in a civilised, if not clean, bathroom, I figure a scavenger hunt for blunt protection is needed. But what truly interests me is an abandoned black SUV.
The last-year model remains parked to the right of the gas pump with its doors wide open. I find no keys in the ignition, but the back seat has enough bags and luggage for a long trip. The car's owner probably had the intention of escaping the chaos, but perhaps met a gruesome fate before finishing his or her journey. I stare at the convenience store just a few feet away, its windows blocked by wooden planks. The wind blows a few yellowed leaves from one side of the gas station to the other. Besides that, nothing moves.
Knowingly going inside and risking making the same mistake of others is not an easy decision. On one hand, I have no weapon to protect myself from anyone lurking inside the store and my supplies are not yet so low that I have to scavenge for food. On the other, walking to Canada alone, with my current shoes, seems like a slow death. An abandoned car and a convenience store are luxuries, and I may not be so lucky during the rest of the journey.
Not only is the bathroom inside the store, but so are the car’s keys. Deciding to throw the dice, I look through the luggage in search of something to protect myself. Turns out the best thing to loot is a pair of neon green sneakers. With less regret than I anticipated, I take off my Italian pair of fine leather and exchange it with the considerably more comfortable, but less stylish shoes.
Inside the shop, medicine and other first aid supplies are scattered around the floor. Drops of blood decorate the path towards the bathroom door. I hear shuffling and something bangs against the wood.
On my left, there is the clerk’s counter, where behind it the clerk himself stares back at me, with half of his brain exposed. Cockroaches climb over his shoulders and explore the wide hole in the middle of his chest. A shotgun remains on his fallen form. The familiar smell of rot stings my nostrils, but I am long past the nausea. I am far more concerned with the constant banging. To my disappointment the clerk provides me with no keys.
I form a theory about the clerk’s body and the not-so-mysterious person inside the loo. The car owner was bitten. He or she decided to pull over the station. Maybe to find help. The store clerk was less than enthusiastic about the whole thing and decided a shotgun might scare the person away. Too bad the driver also had a weapon. The shootout is quick and both are worse for the wear, although only one dies immediately. After killing the clerk, feverish, confused, the bitten victim grabs a few things to clean the wound. She or he locks the bathroom door, just to be sure, and inside slowly succumbs to the virus.
Which means, sadly, the car's keys still remain with the person currently trying to tear down the bathroom's door.
I sigh.
The clerk’s shotgun is loaded and I find three more rounds on his left pocket. Better than nothing, I suppose. Before I let the creature out, I place the briefcase on the counter. After that, I press my body against the wall next to the bathroom to stay out of the immediate view of the infected.
I aim the shotgun at the base of the doorknob and shoot it off. The wood burns and explodes, almost hinting my face. The door swings open, and a blur runs out towards the front door. It takes me a few slow seconds to reload the shotgun, placing the rounds inside the barrel. The heaviness of the gun complicates matters. While I try to keep the weapon raised despise my shak
ing arms, something falls over me, teeth closing in on my ear.
The pain of having one's ear ripped off is not something words can describe. My vision blurs and a scream threatens to rip me apart from the inside. Warm blood flows freely from the left side of my face. It finds its way to my wailing mouth. I cough, spit, and try to fight against the body clashing against me.
My finger finds the trigger and the shot propels the thing off me, hitting the wall with a loud thud. The blood dripping from my ear reaches my neck. Afraid to touch the wound, one of my hands goes inside my pocket to grab another round of ammo. It hurts to turn my head around, but I do it anyway. The face of the woman who bit me is filled by tiny black holes, destroying her bony facial features. Knowing she's no longer a threat, I aim the shotgun at the other infected.
I walk close to him, to be certain my shot will destroy the brain. I pull the trigger. Blood and guts slide of the glass windows. The body falls.
My hands run through the man's pockets. At last, the car keys are in my possession. The small victory is nothing but bitter. I should have known better. Nobody travels alone with so many bags inside a car. I should have accounted for the possibility that more than one person was inside the bathroom. I should be angrier at myself too, but instead I decide to pee.
As I wash my hands at the sink, my eyes stare at the mirror's reflection. I look like death itself. Of course, before all of this, I was not handsome. My intelligence was my only redeeming quality. Which now is quite ironic, since I proved to be an idiot a few minutes ago. This journey managed to turn a bald professor into the spitting image of one of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. My face is nothing more than bones with skin stretched over them. With my left ear gone I am now qualified to play, ironically enough, the part of a zombie in any horror picture.
Fitting, since I will become one soon enough.
So this is the end. After all I have done and survived, all the people I doomed, killed, and used, I am to lose myself to the disease my own brother created. The same brother who placed the responsibility of fixing his mistake on my shoulders. My mission is over. A failure. A catastrophic failure.
I still have a few more hours of clear thought, before the virus takes away my ability to think. Then I will die, for all intents and purposes. My body will remain, always hungry, always lurking to infect someone else, until the day a bullet penetrates my brain.
My feet take me back to the front of the store. I stare at the briefcase. My sweaty finger runs over the metal.
I could save myself with the only cure vial in the whole world. It could work even post-exposure. Selfish, but who would know? Who would judge me? Who would do any different in my shoes? We all want to live. We all fear losing ourselves. Why should I suffer for my brother's mistakes? Why shouldn't I use this, since it will be forgotten and lost after I am gone and unable to inform people of its importance?
I unlock the briefcase and take the vial out, uncorking it. My eyes close as my mouth opens. I raise the vial…
“Don't say what's inside the briefcase. Don't tell anyone about it, Alex. Don't place them in that position.”
“What position?”
“Of despair. Of temptation. People will want to rob you of it. Some might start with noble intentions of helping you, but as soon the inevitable happens, they'll place their selfish reasons above the greater good. To save a friend, a loved one, or themselves. So don't tell anyone, no matter how good or trustworthy they might seem.”
“You do not want them to suffer temptation, but have no worries about me? What if I use it?”
“You won't, little brother. I know you won't.”
“Why?”
“Because I trust you.”
The vial goes back into the briefcase. I turn around and search for a few things: duct tape, pen and paper. The letter is short. It makes no mention of the cure. Perhaps that's a mistake, but I trust my brother's instincts. I only say there is hope for safety in Canada. I tell them about the CDC facility prepared to face this type of situation and where it is located. If there is any hope for a cure, I write, it will be there. To be accepted inside I instruct my future reader to mention Alistair Spencer's name and show them the steel briefcase.
With the briefcase firmly in my right hand and the shotgun in my left one, I climb inside the abandoned car. I turn the ignition key and close my eyes for a second, as the engine roars to life.
I drive until the fever dulls my senses and blurs my vision. When my temperature boils my veins, I stop the car in the middle of the road. The briefcase goes above the bags of food. I want looters to find it. I glue the letter with duct tape on it.
With my right hand I feel the lumps forming around the bite. My heart beats faster.
Back at the driver's seat, I open the shotgun's barrel. My fingers shake as they slowly, unsteadily, fill the gun with the last round of ammo.
I cry. Openly, freely, and with abandon. I think of my parents, of my ex-wife, of my brother. I think of my choices, of teaching my students and facing my brother’s dark actions. I think of the mundane things I did, like grading a paper while listening to music. Of smoking and drinking with my college buddies after a rough game. I remember signing my divorce papers, burying my father and mother and reading my brother’s prizes and achievements on the front of a magazine one day, and on another, watching the news of his dubious alliance with a dictator. I remember the humiliation of being associated with a madman, a human rights criminal. The anger on seeing him again after all those years, only to be forced on a journey to fix his mistakes. The feeling of bitterness, the realisation everything was always about him, ever since we were children. I was never going to be the focus of his attention, no matter how much I wished for his approval.
The sadness of leaving him behind, of seeing his body swarmed by the creatures he created. The first victim of my selfishness.
I recall my angry friend at the airport and how I used him to survive. I think of Cobra, and her sacrifice to save someone so unworthy. I see that little girl watching me with fear and suspicion. Most of all I remember Lorraine and her town, as I abandoned every person in there to a fate I brought upon them.
Perhaps I should just let it go. Just wait for the virus to take control of my brain. There is no shame in being afraid of death. I have no reason to be prideful. No reason to keep any delusions about myself anymore. But I soon realise what scares me the most is not the possibility of not existing anymore, but the horror at the possibility that I might still be aware inside the body of a monster. What terrible things will I commit under the control of my brother's creation?
The irony does not escape me.
The barrel tastes bitter and cold. My teeth rattle against it. I close my eyes.
I tried, Alistair. I was arrogant, and prideful. I was scared and lost. But I tried. Perhaps the next person will do a better job.
My finger reaches the trigger.
The Doctor VIII
January 8th, Friday, 11 am
We walk for days. My wound begins to hurt, and while the boots Tigh gave me help prevent blisters, the harsh wind and the accumulated snow from yesterday’s storm tire me quickly. My lips are cracked and probably blue. Of two cars we find, neither work.
To make matters worse, we cross paths with two infected eating a dog on the side of the road. When one of them hears us, he runs directly at me.
I make the mistake of closing one of my eyes while aiming. The shot misses. The diseased man almost reaches me when another shot hits him squarely in the head. Tigh saved my life, once again.
To my surprise, the Sergeant doesn’t criticize me. Maybe he feels too tired to waste energy on correcting my dumb blunder.
When my cheeks are about to freeze, we find a black SUV abandoned in the middle of the road. It’s fairly new and appears to be in good condition. We approach it, Tigh always with light steps, but I admit my own are clumsier and less careful. After a whole morning of walking, staying tense every second is too tiring.
Please be working. I don’t want to walk anymore.
On the driver seat there’s a dead man; he’s wearing a brown suit, smeared in guts, blood and dirt. His head is half blown to pieces and there’s a shotgun fallen between his legs. A suicide.
I sigh, closing my eyes for a second. Tigh opens the front passenger door, and examines the inside.
“There’s a lot of food here. Plenty of camping equipment too,” he says, pointing at the back seats.
Someone’s tragedy is another person’s good fortune. While he works on getting the body out, I open the luggage trunk to examine the bags. Between equipment and food, something else catches my eyes: a metal briefcase, shining against the sun. I stretch out my arm, finding a space between the bags, and take it out.
It’s heavy, but what really surprises me is a note attached to it with duct tape. The handwriting is neat and careful, despite the drops of dry blood between the words. I walk to Tigh and show it to him.
“Look what I found.” I lift the briefcase. “Has a suicide note on it.”
He nods, but seems more interested in making the driver’s seat less covered with guts.
“Hello, my friend, I am now most likely dead.” I read the text aloud so Tigh can hear it too. “But while I was not able to reach my destination, perhaps you will. If you are able to reach Canada, cross its deep forests, you may find the safety I was searching for.”
I look at the Sergeant, searching for his surprise, but he keeps cleaning the seats with a paper towels. The letter isn’t over, so I continue.
“There is an island named Akimi.” The second I read the name Tigh turns to me. “This island is safe from all the chaos around us. A safe haven where you may find peace in a secure CDC facility ready to face these dark days. You only need to take and protect this briefcase, bringing it to the inhabitants of this island. Tell them the briefcase belonged to…”
I stop, eyes wide at the next word.
Those Who Remain (Book 2) Page 10
