Dead World: Hero

by D. N. Harding

  Jack reached for the door.

  Machine gun fire erupted in the distance. Yet, it was close enough to vibrate the car with its noise. It reminded Jack that the hospital was one block away. The military rescue of St. Michael’s was beginning. Doctor Shirley Baker and her patients would soon be under military protection. Weariness crept into Jack from somewhere deep in his soul. He wiped his eyes and nose with his good arm. The longer he sat there the more the despair receded. Suicide was not the answer.

  Still, he had murdered six people. He wanted to live, even if that meant spending the rest of his life in prison. Right now, all he wanted to do was get to the hospital — for more than one reason.

  The car shook unrelentingly as the crowds immediately outside continued their pursuit of him. The pain in his arm and shoulder caused him to break out in a cold sweat. Gunfire continued somewhere up the block. Apparently, it was enough to siphon off a number of the infected as they found themselves distracted by the commotion. Those that could not immediately see Jack moved in the direction of the noise until he could see gaps through the crowd around the car. He could also see the bodies of those he had killed and it left a hollow feeling in his stomach.

  I’m a murderer. Shaking his head to clear the thought, Jack looked past the moaning milky-eyed men and women to the nearest building. Fifty yards from the car was a glass door. A small rectangular sign read, Exit Only. It would be locked from the inside, he knew. He also knew what the infected were capable of and what they were not. If the secondary doors pulled open, then breaking the glass of the exterior door would pose no problems for him.

  His eyes traced a line up the four-story building to the roof. From that vantage point, he would be able to see the hospital and they might be able to see him. He pulled his belt off and refastened it. Draping it over his shoulder, he used it as a sling for his left arm. Now that the pressure was off his shoulder, the pain subsided a little. He turned his attention to the problem at hand. How was he going to break the glass in the door? It was probably tempered to prevent the very thing he wanted to do. He looked at the pistol in his hands and then at the backpack outside the door. That would be the simplest answer. But how? Then it occurred to him.

  With as much force as he could muster, Jack pushed the car door open, shoving those outside away from it. He turned in his seat so that he could kick at the two other fellows trying to take advantage of the moment. They fell back and he grabbed the backpack and pulled it inside. Before he could secure the door, however, hands began to pull it back open. With the use of only one arm, he had miscalculated his ability to accomplish his goal. The door was ripped out of his one handed grasp and now he was forced to kick and punch frantically at his assailants as they tried to drag him from the vehicle.

  Stars filled his vision as his tailbone hit the pavement the same moment his left elbow came down on the floorboard of the car. All he could think to do at that moment was flail his limbs in the hope that they would not find an easy place to bite him. The pain curdled his stomach. Bile rose in his throat and he realized that he was about to vomit. In a last ditch effort, he kicked his legs out in a sweeping arch that managed to topple those standing closest to him. He sat up, climbed to one knee, and finally stood in a crouch. He had taken advantage of the moment. It would be best if he continued to do so.

  Falling back on his high school years as a football player, Jack lowered his good shoulder and plowed through the line sending several men and women sprawling. When he finally broke out into an open place, he stood up to get his bearings. He was a stone’s throw from the glass door. With measured deliberation, Jack fished out the ammunition for the pistol and loaded the weapon. His would-be attackers shambled after him at speeds no faster than a limp. By the time he was standing in front of the door aiming the pistol at the glass, he had drawn the attention of several hundred people.

  A single shot and the glass cascaded down like a waterfall of little diamonds. Stepping into the vestibule, between the exterior and interior doors, he realized his error. He had been so preoccupied with breaking the glass of the door that he failed to consider the path the bullet would travel after doing the deed. The interior doors were made of glass as well. They also shattered leaving their remnants scattered all over the polished tile floor. To his chagrin, he found that he was right. The interior doors would have kept out his pursuers because they did indeed pull open.

  The crunch of glass behind him sent him sprinting down the hall. His arm pulsed painfully at every step. The air, once climate controlled, now smelled musty. It washed over him like a bad memory. The polished floors reflected the light from windows and exits. His boots squeaked and left black scars on its shiny surface, at intersections. At one point, Jack stood for a moment at an elevator, pressing the up button, before he remembered that there was no power being supplied to the building. To the right of the elevator, he found a door marked, Stairs. The moans and wails of the hundreds of infected that followed him into the building were cut off when the stairwell door closed. He ascended in silence.

  The roof was expansive — though not as wide as it was long — and covered in pea gravel. Jack traversed over the length of a football field just to get to the side of the building that he hoped would afford him a view of the hospital. His only disappointment was that St. Michaels was much further than he had anticipated. They would not be able to see him.

  Jack pulled the binoculars from his pack and gazed down the hill toward the hospital. He could see dozens of people standing near the edge of the roof looking down at the camouflaged vehicles parked in front of their building. The roof of the hospital had been converted into what could only be described as a Hoover Town. Makeshift shacks and shanties sprawled across the space. Doors and windows were covered in blankets, sheets, and towels to give the occupants a measure of privacy. The people that crowded against the edge of the roof were clothed in an array of dress. Doctors and nurses in their white coats and smocks stood out next to patients in their robes and gowns. Maintenance men and janitors stood in their darker uniforms, while visitors peppered the crowd in their own variety of dress.

  Jack directed his gaze to the military personnel in front of St. Michaels. Adjusting the focus on the binoculars, He paused when he recognized one of the uniformed men. The Colonel that had burned Margaret alive was standing on the hood of a jeep with his arms crossed as his men mowed down hundreds of those who were infected. The infected were defenseless in their present state. He watched the Colonel smile past his partially burned cigarette. A familiar yet rare tightness pulled across Jack’s chest. He knew hatred when he felt it.

  Most of the troops he had expected to see were nowhere around. This could mean only one thing. They were in the hospital heading for the roof. Jack found himself inspecting the route he would have to take to get to the hospital. Most of it was packed with shambling crowds of infected who were being drawn to their deaths by the persistent sounds of gunfire. Like moths to a flame, the crowds were attracted by the commotion. There was no way Jack could get there in time. Even if he did, what could he do? How could he fight with only one arm? What chance did he have against automatic weapons? They would mow him down along with everyone around him.

  Jack released his tightening grip on the binoculars when he heard them crack in his hands. The soldiers finally made it to the roof. He could tell that the people were cheering for their newfound rescuers. A woman in a white coat stepped forward. She was easily in her late forties. Her sandy blonde hair was pulled back with her glasses. She was a handsome woman. The smile on her face was genuine as she extended a hand to a soldier closest to her. It had to be Doctor Shirley Baker. The soldier standing before her looked to his companion and smiled. Jack had seen that look and that smile on many different faces over the years he spent in prison. The man was a predator of the worst kind. The doctor couldn’t possibly understand the nature of the soldier’s raptor gaze.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  W ith the motion of a single
hand, the soldiers received their instructions. They began to corral the survivors against the edge of the building. Anyone who resisted was pushed from the roof. Jack watched, as a maintenance worker was the first to plummet four stories onto the pavement below. Others were soon to follow. Apparently, the soldiers were trying to conserve their ammunition. Doctor Baker tried to object to the mistreatment. She was met with such a stern blow to her abdomen that she spent the next several minutes on her knees retching.

  Over the next half hour, those who were able-bodied were cuffed. The sick, bitten, or bedridden were executed via a four-storied drop. The women were bundled together after the men were escorted from the building. At the front of the sobbing line of women was the doctor. She looked the worse for wear. Jack stood on the roof of the building and helplessly watched as the people were carted away in trucks, then one by one the remaining vehicles pulled away leaving the St. Michaels’ Hoover Town abandoned.

  Jack lowered the glasses from his face. He wanted to weep for the brutality of it all. Someone had to do something. Someone had to stop them. Someone had to make them pay for their crimes. Yet, Jack thought, am I any different? Is a man who kills eight people different from those who choose to kill more? The rage that had been boiling in his chest simmered at the thought. He wiped a hand across his face. The city seemed unnaturally quiet with the exception of those who moaned and wailed in the streets below him. The mid-day sun was pleasantly warm on his head and reflected from the automobiles on the street below. What should he do now?

  Jack raised the glasses and looked out across hundreds of limping, shuffling, and crooning people. He wanted to see if there were any survivors among those thrown from the building. With the exception of a few, most of the crumpled bodies lay motionless. Those that were not dead would soon be as the crowds of infected people closed in on the facility.

  It was then that Jack saw her. A girl crept onto the roof of the hospital. She couldn’t have been more than fifteen or sixteen years old. She came from the direction of the stairs. Her hair was raven black and hung down her back in rivulets. Her face looked deathly pale in comparison to the thick black lines that encircled her eyes. Even her lipstick and fingernail polish were dark. Her clothes seemed just as strange. She was dressed in some form of a smock. It was a black button down with a thin white collar. Her slacks were made of a loose black fabric that piled on the tops of her tennis shoes. Across her back draped what he could only guess was an AK47 assault rifle. She moved deliberately from shack to shack looking for survivors. The way she moved made him feel as if he was watching a wild animal prowl around. There was something about the girl — something he felt instinctively — something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Whatever it was, he felt an urgency to help her.

  When the girl finally determined that there was no one left on the roof, she sat down in front of one of the larger tents. She rested her face in her hands. Jack watched her shoulders begin to shake and then she wrapped her arms around herself. When she threw her head back to get her hair out of her face, he could see black trails of make-up staining her pale face. She was weeping. To his eyes she seemed so fragile and in need of his protection. It was clear that she had been part of the Hoover Town. She had been absent when the soldiers arrived. She didn’t know it yet, but it was a good thing she hadn’t been there. Jack wanted to tell her so.

  He was still watching her when he realized that she was looking directly at him. He pulled the binoculars from his face and looked down the hill to the hospital. Without them, he was too far away to see her in any detail. If he could barely distinguish her from this distance, she surely couldn’t make him out either. What was she looking at then? He raised the glasses to his eyes again. The girl was no longer seated in front of the large tent. She was standing several yards away looking through a pair of her own binoculars. She was gazing in his direction. Instinctively, Jack lifted his left arm and with a grimace, he waved at her. She waved back.

  The last person he had meaningful contact with was buried behind his daughter’s garage. That was well over a month ago. The simple exchange of waves held great meaning for him. He missed social interaction more than he would have thought. It made him smile at how a simple exchange could hold so much significance. His arm began to ache again so he lowered it carefully onto the makeshift sling. When he turned his attention back to the girl, she was gone. He searched up and down the Hoover Town with his binoculars to no avail. Maybe she went into one of the shacks or tents, he thought to himself.

  It wasn’t until she appeared on the top step outside the hospital that he realized what she was up to — she was coming to him. He wanted to wave her off. He wanted to tell her that he would come to her, but now he couldn’t. All he could do in that moment was watch and pray.

  Her rifle was now slung across her front and the strap of a bulky handbag was draped across her shoulder and back. In her right hand, she held a large skateboard with cherry red wheels. She dropped the board and before it hit the pavement, she was on it, pushing it forward with a sneakered foot. It seemed so effortless, but Jack knew better. She was really good with it. She approached the steps with what seemed like a dangerous speed. Just when Jack was sure she was going to fly down them chin first, she hopped the board onto the rail and rode it to the bottom. He heard the wheels hit the pavement. So did hundreds of others.

  When Jack looked over the edge of the building, he found the crowds of infected men and women moving toward the sound of the skateboarder as she hopped, jumped and sped right toward the hungry teeming masses. He wanted to warn her but she wasn’t close enough to understand him. When she finally realized that she was not going to be able to pass through the gathering crowds, she simply stopped, hoisted her rifle and began to snipe at the crowd. Each shot counted as the back of their heads were blown open. Jack was appalled. She was killing people who were helpless in their sickness. How could she? Why would she? She was a freakin’ teenager for God’s sake! Where’d she learn to do that?

  He couldn’t believe his eyes and yet he couldn’t stop watching as she cleared a side path that would give her access to a small alleyway to her left. Soon she disappeared into the alley. The crowds followed this young Angel of Death. When she reappeared, she was sprinting across the roof of a small building, and then shimmied down a ceramic drainpipe. Apparently she entered the next building because when he saw her again, she was exiting that building and making a beeline across the street where she killed a number of sick people before breaking a large plate-glass window into which she climbed and disappeared for a third time. All of her movements were calculated. It made Jack realize that this was how she had been surviving. She had probably been forced to travel in such a manner. Her other option was to become infected or worse — be eaten alive.

  Kill or be killed, Jack thought. Can killing really be justified so easily? He thought about Davis. The memory made him smile. The old man sure was a character. He could feel the beaded necklace Davis had given him hanging loosely about his neck. He’d figured a Catholic priest to be something other than what he found in Davis. Davis was a man who loved life, loved God, and convinced Jack that they were one and the same. Holding his left hand to his breast, he felt the beads as they rested against his chest. To him, the beads meant something. They were a gift. Though the old man never said so specifically, he knew they were meant to remind him of something very important. In those beads, he found his answer. Killing cannot be so easily justified.

  It took the girl nearly an hour to find his building and make her way to the roof. She was prettier in person. Barely topping five feet, she didn’t weigh more than a buck and a quarter. Her black outfit was decidedly Japanese. Couple that with the fact that her dark eyes were large and almond shaped, she looked as if she had just stepped out of an animé cartoon. She leaned on her skateboard with a casual confidence as she quietly measured Jack with her piercing gaze.

  Jack returned the look. He wondered to himself whether or not he should
be concerned about his own safety. If she could kill so many without impunity, what was to prevent her from putting an end to him if it suited her to do so? Then he thought back to those he had killed to protect himself. The guilt and shame knotted in his gut and he realized that if she wanted to kill him, he probably deserved it. There was no use worrying about it. People get what’s coming to them — generally.

  “My name is Jack,” he said to break the silence.

  “Randi,” she replied. Her voice was breathy. She broke her gaze away and surveyed the rooftop. “Well, you don’t live up here. That’s for sure. What are you doing up here?” There was a mild sarcasm underlying her words.

  Jack noticed that her hand never strayed far from the weapon that hung from one shoulder. She was trying to come across as casual, but Jack could tell that she was trying to keep it together. He looked over his shoulder at the hospital. She probably thought that he was part of what happened over there. If he was in her shoes, it’s exactly what he would expect. She would think that he was planted to watch to see if anyone else returned. He turned his back to her. “I’m sorry for what happened over there. I couldn’t do anything to stop it,” he said softly.

  “What are you talking about?” she asked, the distress apparent in her voice.

  “I was standing here when they came for them. I saw the whole thing.” He didn’t want to play the game, but he also knew that if he wasn’t careful, she might take out her frustrations on the wrong person, namely him. When she stepped up beside him, she was looking through her binoculars at the hospital down the block.

  “Tell me. Please. What happened?” Her need to know was overriding her caution. She sounded like a scared kid who had lost her parents. She sniffed and wiped her nose on her sleeve before gazing back across the way using her binoculars. Her dark lips pursed and her narrow chin wrinkled. She was fighting the need to cry.