Dead World: Hero

by D. N. Harding

  “Watch out!” Jack hissed and pulled Davis to his left.

  The pregnant woman made a grab for the old man and missed. The forward motion of her body caused her to stumble several feet into the intersection. Jack placed himself between her and the old man. The floodlights made her golden hair glow with an almost divine radiance. Jack raised an eyebrow as he realized that the woman was quite attractive.

  His intention had been to grab Davis and step around the infected woman, when the side of her head blew open spraying brain matter everywhere. It was as if she had been hiding a cherry bomb just inside her skull. Two explosions followed. One was the sound of gunfire catching up to the bullet that had dropped the woman where she stood. The other made the earth shake with such ferocity that both Jack and Davis were forced to kneel on the trembling concrete.

  The entire downtown area erupted into a fireball. Everything seemed to happen in slow motion. Amidst the boiling conflagration, the two men watched twelve or thirteen of the city’s largest buildings sway and then collapse — some falling slower than the rest. The giant 5th/3rd Bank that dominated the downtown skyline looked as if it was sinking into the ground as it came down. The sound of buckling concrete, shattering glass, and intermingled car alarms was deafening. Their ears popped with the shift in air pressure as the windows in the buildings around them exploded, showering them in diamond-like pieces. Dust and debris rolled through the city streets suffocating them.

  Jack pulled his shirt over his nose and tugged Davis behind him as he made for the cell phone store. Crunching on the shattered glass strewn on the ground around the window, the two stepped through working their way to the back of the showroom where they found a solid door. It was an office. Once inside, they managed to cough themselves into stomachaches. They were covered in so much powdered grime that it would have been impossible to distinguish who was black and who was white.

  There was a small window in the office that retained its glass. It took nearly an hour for the dust outside to settle enough to make out any distinguishing features beyond the little window. The first thing Jack saw, in the shared light of what was soon to be dawn and the electric illumination two blocks up, was the crumpled form of the pregnant woman who had tried to accost them outside. She had been shot in the head seconds before the hell storm erupted downtown. She was so completely smothered in a blanket of concrete, brick and drywall particles that the shape of her body was barely discernable. She was no more than a hump in the road. The world had been covered in grey snow.

  “Why did they kill her?” Jack said, thinking aloud. “Then again, why did they feel it necessary to kill all those thousands of infected people crowded around Main Street?” He just couldn’t get his mind around it.

  “They surely know more about what’s going on than we do,” Davis said. “What we need to do is get out of here and learn as much as we can about what’s going on. Sitting around in the dark asking questions that have no answers isn’t going to do.”

  Jack looked out the window to see the muzzle of a large olive green tank as it passed by the window. It growled and clanked, tearing at the pavement with its grinding treads. He knew the military vehicle was big, he just didn’t realize it was that big. Waving at Davis to join him, the two men watched as a convoy of armed soldiers in trucks and Hum-Vees filed past them. It reminded Jack of the movie Stripes, where Bill Murray razzle-dazzled a small company of would be soldiers into being chosen for a top-secret mission. Accompanying these transports were heavily armed soldiers. There was no joking or playing around. These men were all business. Their lines tight and their weapons held at the ready, the soldiers moved in synchronized motion.

  The convoy turned right and headed into the residential neighborhood. In the growing light of the early morning, Jack watched as groups of soldiers were strategically placed at the foot of every driveway. A second tank came down the boulevard and turned right into the neighborhood followed by more vehicles and soldiers. Seated on the turret was a man wearing a black battle dress uniform. His beret was red and he held a burning cigarette between his teeth. All eyes turned to him when he arrived. Even in the pale light of dawn, Jack could tell the man was hard with his broad shoulders and thick limbs. He’d seen that build on men in prison. You didn’t get that kind of body by just pumping iron.

  The man said something unintelligible and the tank stopped halfway up the block. Jack could tell that he was yelling, but what he said failed to travel through the glass. However, the soldiers who did hear him cheered, “Hoo-ah! Hoo-ah! Hoo-ah!” Their voices rattled the window much like the tanks did when they passed.

  Two houses up the block from Jack was a small single story ranch with baby blue shutters. The screen door opened and a woman in a pink housecoat, her graying hair disheveled, stepped out on her porch. She seemed quite excited about having the military lined up on her block. Others shared the sentiment. People began to exit their homes. Some came out on their porches, while others stood on their lawns huddled in small groups. The relief on their tired faces a testament to their ordeal.

  “Maybe we should go join the families who are getting help,” Jack said. “It won’t be long and they’ll be helping your daughter.”

  “Maybe you’re right,” Davis said.

  Leaving the potato sack and provisions, Jack and Davis opened the door to the office and stepped out into the showroom. The place looked like it had been bombed. Shelves were shaken from the walls. Glass and sand-like particles covered the commercial carpeting. Desks and counters were overturned. To their left, across the hall, was a water cooler. It was mounted solidly to the wall. The small cups were still in their holder. The cooler gurgled as they washed the dust from their throats and then headed for the open window.

  Machine gun fire erupted from outside the store. Jack put a hand on Davis and swallowed hard. Davis’ chin creased and he shook his head as if to deny what he heard. People were screaming. Yet, their screams were short lived. Jack dashed back into the office. Through the window, he watched the soldiers finish spraying the homes, the families, and their automobiles with a shower of bullets. People lay tossed about their yards and porches as if they were no more than garbage. The soldiers positioned at the foot of the driveways were given a signal and they entered private homes as if they were searching for terrorists. Gunshots echoed from within the houses. Other soldiers, in orange helmets with face shields, moved around to each of the corpses putting a single bullet through their brain.

  Jack turned to Davis. The old man was sitting against the wall near the door. He stared out into the hallway. Apparently, he didn’t have to see it to know what was going on. “We need to get to your daughter’s house right away. We might be able to get your family out of there before the military gets to Willow Street.”

  “You’re right!” Davis said, purpose blazing in his eyes again.

  Jack led Davis back out to the hallway where they moved further into the building. They were going to need a different way out if they were going to slip past the soldiers. The deeper interior of the building was too dark to move with any speed, so as they explored the building looking for an alternative way out, they searched for flashlights. Fortunately, a utility closet provided them with what they needed.

  The cell phone shop was just one of several stores in the building. Yet, there were only two ways to exit the store, both of which would leave them out in the open and exposed to the soldiers.

  As Jack peeked out the back door, looking for an opportunity to make a run for it, Davis said, “Were just going to have to make another way out.”

  “Look,” Jack said. “There’s an alley back here. Maybe we could make a quick run for the next door down.”

  “Hold on, Jack. I’ve got an idea,” Davis said as he walked down a hallway and disappeared into an office. Curiosity pulled at Jack until he left the door and followed the old man. He found Davis tapping the wall with a knuckle. After a moment, he looked at Jack and said, “Throw that chair into the wal
l right here. Make sure you throw it as hard as you can. You need to break the drywall.”

  In a few minutes, Jack and Davis were through the wall into another office that belonged to a different commercial space. The carpet was soft, white Berber. The space had its own water cooler, desk, sofa and lounge chairs. There was an artificial tree in the corner, whose branches spread out like fans over the sofa. On the wall were various photos of a family posed together at different sporting events. There was also a picture of a young woman in a graduation gown holding up her diploma.

  Stepping out into another hallway the two men worked their way through the remainder of the building past various offices, a kitchen, restrooms, and finally past a row of snack machines into a large conference room whose windows had been shattered during the explosion downtown. Soon they were out, creeping down the street like burglars on the prowl. The way Davis had it figured, they should have fewer difficulties from the military if they travelled closer to the demolition site, which would also move them closer to his daughter’s house on Willow Street.

  CHAPTER NINE

  T he city seemed nothing like a place where Americans lived in the twenty-first century. It looked more like a picture of downtown Berlin after World War II. Debris in the form of glass, stone, brick, drywall and dust coated everything. The closer to Main Street they walked, the more they could see telltale signs of the devastation. Buildings furthest from the blast were scarred by flying rubble. Two-by-fours, chunks of stone and warped pieces of metal protruded from the sides of these structures. Buildings closer to the destruction were missing walls, leaving gaping wounds open to the morning air. Furniture, shelving, picture frames, curtains, and any number of other things were mixed in the rubble at the base of those partial buildings.

  Jack found himself keeping his eyes near the ground. It seemed strange to look up into the vacant morning sky. The skyline that once set this section of the city apart from another was now devoid of its defining features. The lack of tall buildings seemed more like a wound than a mere absence, especially considering the cause behind the situation. Eventually, they were forced to backtrack and find a way around a particularly tall pile of rubble. Iron bones protruded from it like a colossal ancient corpse. Remnants of human bodies began to show up more frequently the closer they moved to the center of the destruction.

  In the distance, the sound of automatic gunfire was punctuated by individual gunshots. Yet, the closer they moved toward Willow Street, the louder the sounds of warfare became, until the two of them found themselves hunkered down behind some rubble watching military vehicles move up the avenue adjacent to Willow Street. Like before, those citizens who managed to come out of hiding at the sound of the approaching vehicles found themselves shot on sight. Most of them were not infected.

  Jack looked at the building to his left. Its back portion had collapsed, but what remained was just enough of a skeleton to provide them with the cover they would need to work their way to the next block. Keeping low, they moved from one pile of rubble to the next through the exposed building. Jack heard Davis gasp quietly. Looking over his shoulder, he followed the old man’s stare. His eyes were focused on a yellow ranch style home with green shutters not more than half a block from where they crouched. Jack smiled to himself and mouthed, “Almost there.” The smile, however, was smeared from his face when a green Hum-Vee passed their position and turned right up Willow. It had to be a sign that the military was nearly finishing with their current block and was preparing to move.

  Jack crept to the corner of the building and looked toward the primary force of military personnel. He was right. The soldiers were gathering in orderly ranks as they prepared for the move. The lone Hum-Vee disappeared up the block. He realized suddenly that if they were going to move across the street, they had better do it now.

  “Davis!” Jack whispered loudly. When the old man looked his direction, he waved him over. Davis stumbled clumsily over the pile he’d been resting behind and joined Jack. The two made a run for Willow Street. Their trip across the street wasn’t the type that would have given anyone watching the impression that they were trying to be sneaky. Nope. They ran flat out as fast as they could.

  Jack was crouched behind a row of shrubbery before Davis made it fully across the four-lane street. He kept his eyes on the soldiers while he waited for Davis to catch up.

  When the military vehicles began to move toward their position, Jack realized that the block would be overrun long before he could get Davis to his daughter’s house. They needed a way to move without being seen. Grabbing Davis by the arm, he rushed across Willow Street, through the front yard of the first house, over the backyard fence and around the house. The back yard had a swing set, a sandbox and a small shed nestled under a couple of apple trees. His heart sank as he watched the faces of three children peek out from under a piece of cardboard that was taped to a bedroom window. He imagined them staring out over the last few days at the swing set and sandbox wishing they could play outside. He wanted to tell them to run, to hide and not come out until the bad men left their neighborhood, but he also knew that there would be no place to hide in the house. For them, there would be no safe place.

  Jack and Davis ran from one back yard to the next as military vehicles filled the street in front of the homes behind which they crept. Occasionally, faces would peer out the windows at them — a father with a threatening scowl, a mother quick to realize that the men who travelled through her back yard were not infected, and more helpless children. At times, they were forced to crawl from one yard to the next to keep from being seen between the houses.

  Soon Jack led Davis over a fence into a yard that had a two-car garage. There was a white Fiat parked hastily in the drive. Davis, though winded, stepped ahead of Jack and led the way up the back step. He didn’t bother to knock.

  Inside, Davis’ dry voice hollered, “Margi! Mack! Please tell me that you guys are alright!” Jack noticed that the kitchen was clean, but there was a distinct smell of urine in the air. It reminded him of his grandparents’ house.

  Around the corner, Jack watched Davis kneel beside a black woman in her late fifties lying next to a basement door. She reminded him of men he’d known in prison who had given up on life, who were merely waiting to die. While Davis comforted his daughter, Jack looked around and found the basement door sealed by a single slat of wood. Two other slats with sharp nails protruding dangerously from their ends lay abandoned on the carpet in the hall next to the woman. There was evidence that they had been removed from the door.

  A squeal of brakes outside sent Jack running for the front window. Outside, congregating at the foot of the driveway, were seven soldiers. They stood at sharp attention with their weapons at the ready. Jack rubbed a hand over his face. The nightmare was about to begin. Down the street, he watched the second tank turn slowly up the street. The behemoth stopped in front of the house. The broad shouldered soldier in the beret sat at ease smoking a cigarette. Now Jack could see the markings on his collar and shoulder — Colonel.

  The Colonel reached into the hatch next to him and retrieved a red and yellow bullhorn. When he turned it on, it squealed. “Attention! If you are in need of medical attention, we need you, and those who are able, to step outside your homes. We are here to assist you.” His voice held the slightest hint of condescension and it made the hair on Jack’s neck stand up.

  “Here!” a voice screamed from behind Jack. When he turned around, Margi was running for the front door. Her eyes were wild, showing too much white. Davis was sprawled on the carpet looking desperately at Jack. Jack moved for the front door a bit too late. Out the door the woman flew. She waved her arms in the air frantically as if no one was looking her direction. “Here! In here, my family has been infected. Help us first!” The desperation in her voice said that she had been waiting for this moment for several days.

  Davis tried to step under Jack’s arm to go after his daughter and bring her back inside. The nurturing and protec
tive part of the old man was overriding the knowledge of what they both knew to be true. They were going to kill her. He couldn’t save her. Jack grappled with the old man as he began to shout, “Let me go! I have to save her! Jack, they’re going to kill her! Let me go!”

  Davis managed to jab Jack in the groin causing Jack to let go of him reflexively. Yet, before Davis could make it out the door, Jack had him pulled back by his jacket. A fight ensued and Jack realized that if he didn’t do something the old man was going to join his daughter on the execution line outside. With great reluctance, he slid his right arm around the old man’s throat while placing his left behind his neck. After applying minimal pressure, Davis fell limp in his arms. Jack sighed, placing the unconscious man on the couch, and looked out the window.

  Up and down the street, residents where coming out of their houses. Most of them were in their ruffled nightclothes. Their squinting faces looking hopefully at their rescuers. A sense of helplessness nearly overwhelmed him. The questions raged in his mind. How could they? What right did they have? Then, his gaze fell once more on the Colonel now standing on the massive tank in the middle of the street. The look in his eyes made him shiver. He’d seen that look before. Prison was filled with the kind of men who took great pleasure in the pain of others. It was the look of a psychopath. His eyes were dead except for the growing excitement at the thought of what he was about to unleash on these unsuspecting people. It made Jack sick.

  The Colonel pointed to a soldier in a yellow baggy suit who was carrying what looked like a jet pack on his back. In his gloved hands, he held some sort of weapon that Jack could not recognize. Margi was standing in front of the tank pleading with the Colonel to do something for her family. The Colonel said something to her and nodded. His face was filled with feign benevolence. Whatever he said made Margi smile. It was a look of reassurance. Yes, her family would be helped. She wiped her mouth and slowly walked back into her yard.