by Brett Abell
Brown retrieves a gym bag and pulls out a pair of oh-my-god-those-are-big-sized running shoes. As he begins changing, he glances at the cadets’ shoes.
“Those aren’t going to cut it. Please tell me that you have your gym bags stored in the building and not sitting a mile away.”
The three have their bags stored in the basement armory. The “armory” only houses company and platoon guidons, plus the plugged M-1s for the precision drill team. So, it’s an armory in name only.
“That’s our first stop,” Brown says, knotting the laces.
Chapter Three
Brown releases the mag and looks at the gleaming brass cartridges, assuring himself that he has a full complement on board.
Twenty-one plus one in the chamber—not a lot of firepower, he thinks, slamming the mag home.
Turning to the three cadets, towering over them, he states: “I want you three to stay close to me and do exactly as I tell you. You aren’t sightseers on a tour bus. Our objective is to be as small as we can be. The infected ones seem to be drawn to movement and sound, so don’t be calling out everything you see and bringing attention to us. Is everyone ready?”
The three nod their understanding. Brown hands his gym bag to one of the cadets and turns back to the door. He steps forward and pauses. The dark smears on the other side of the opaque glass remind him of what he’s about to walk into. He halts so suddenly that one of the cadets bumps into his back
“Not that close, numbnuts,” Brown growls over his shoulder.
This, and with three puppies in tow, he thinks.
The officer cadets behind him ceased being that the moment this shit started. They’ll return to that status once this situation has been resolved, but for now, Brown considers himself to be in a combat zone—something with which the kids behind him have no experience. They can complain about their treatment later, but for the time being, they are his charges. He plans on living through this to enjoy his retirement and he’s not going to let decorum stand in the way.
With his hand poised over the knob, Brown listens for anything that might be on the other side. His heart pounds solidly and his mouth is dry from the adrenaline coursing through his system. He can feel the bounding pulse in his hand gripping the door, along the sides of his neck, and in his ears. Silence reigns in the hallway beyond.
He raises his handgun as he pulls the door open and steps into the hall, looking first in one direction, then the other. There isn’t anything in sight except for the smeared blood reminders of recent violence. Brown has witnessed some pretty fucked up things in his career, and knows the ugliness that toxins can create, but he’s never seen or heard of anything that would turn people feral. He can save his questions for later, though. It’s happening and he’s in the middle of it—survival the only important thing.
With his free hand, Brown waves the three cadets into the hallway behind him. As they edge down the corridor, he grimaces with each step at the clicking of the cadets’ heels on the hard, linoleum-tiled floor. At one point, he turns around and gives them a stern look, putting his fingers to his lips. The echoing clicks diminish some, but they still seem loud.
Fucking herd of rampaging water buffalo.
The faint, lingering iron smell of blood follows them as they descend the stairs. Brown expects an eruption of screams and violence on each and every floor they pass. The emptiness is surprising, especially considering what he had encountered in the commons just a short while ago. It doesn’t lessen his thankfulness for it, only that he’s taken aback. It reminds him of the quiet that would follow his squad’s searches into buildings in Iraq. The entire populace would seem to vanish at once, which usually signaled an ambush and upcoming violence. For that reason, rather than feeling relieved, it triggers alarms. His caution increases, slowing their advance to the lower floors.
“Interesting,” Brown mutters as they finally reach the basement armory, referring to the complete lack of encounters.
“Maybe whatever it was went away; like, dissipated or something,” Mendez comments.
“I highly doubt it. If this thing had run its course, we’d be hearing plenty of sirens outside,” Brown replies.
“True enough,” Clarke states.
“Everyone, grab your bags and change into your PT clothes,” Brown says.
They search the bags, eventually finding theirs among the rows of nearly identical digital camo patterns. Brown notices Clarke glance around the open room, looking for a shielded place to change.
“We’ll take turns,” Brown states, addressing her concern for privacy.
It takes longer, but they eventually transition from their short-sleeved uniforms to gym clothes. Brown is grateful for the freedom of movement it gives him. The thought of having to sneak through a hostile environment in a fitted uniform and Corframs was not comforting.
There aren’t any weapons stored in the armory, per se. Selecting three guidons and unclipping the flags, he hands them to the cadets.
“They aren’t much, but they’re better than nothing. Don’t use them like spears, but rather like staves. Grip them with both hands and swing the ends like you are punching,” Brown says, demonstrating.
He lets them practice for a couple of minutes to get used to the feel. They nearly take each other out with the first swings, but they manage to get the technique after a few tries. The wooden poles won’t help much if they have to face too many at once, and they’re still as liable to hit each other as an attacker, but, like he said, it’s better than nothing. Brown tells himself to keep a little distance from the cadets should it come down to a hand-to-hand fight.
Brown dons his nearly empty backpack and the group heads for the first floor, with only an occasional clack of the heavy, wooden poles hitting a wall, floor, or light fixture. He turns each time it happens and is met with an embarrassed look from the offending cadet. By the time they reach the main floor, all of the accidental noises have ceased.
Standing to one side of the main entrance, Brown peeks outside. The commons area is clear. He waits for several minutes, monitoring the open area and adjacent buildings for movement. Nothing appears. Over an hour has passed since the initial eruption of violence, and things seem to have calmed. Pushing open the heavy door a touch, Brown hears faint screams in the distance, drifting across the campus in every direction.
Well, whatever it is that happened, it’s not over—and it’s spreading, he thinks, continuing to look for any movement.
An image forms of a stone dropped in a pond, the ripples expanding outward, leaving an area of calm in the middle. This seems to be what’s happening. The frenzy is spreading in a circle as the attackers search for fresh victims. At the moment, he and the three cadets are in the eye of the storm. If they’re to extricate themselves, they’ll have to run through the cordon at some point, assuming this whole mess isn’t handled soon.
In the very distant background, toward the center of town, he hears the faint warbling of sirens. He can’t imagine what will happen once this reaches the heart of the city, but he doesn’t hold any hopes that law enforcement will be able to cope with it. By then, it will involve thousands and the local enforcement agencies won’t have the fire or manpower to deal with it. Unless the agent dissipates on its own, this won’t be over until the National Guard is called out. And that will result in many deaths.
No, this won’t be over for some time. We’re on our own until then.
“You did bring your keys, right?” Brown asks.
“Right here, Sergeant,” Clarke answers, jiggling her backpack.
“Okay, good. Remember, all of you, keep quiet. We’re going to skirt the commons and make our way across campus to the parking lot. Freeze when I tell you to stop, run when I say so. If we have to conduct a hasty retreat and we get separated, make your way back here,” Brown briefs.
They step into the late summer day, the smell of freshly cut grass no longer noticed. Brown keeps them near the outer walls as his eyes search every
window, every doorway. The faint echoes of screaming in the distance do not seem to be drawing closer. He logs every door for an escape route, mentally altering his path as they move.
The twenty-two total rounds he’s carrying seem even fewer out in the open. It may be enough to take down a couple of groups, but the sound will draw others and his firing will only extend his time remaining on earth by a few minutes at best. Swinging sticks at quickly closing hordes of attackers is next to useless. If he were Bruce Lee, different story. But he’s not, and there’s no use thinking he is. Realize what you’re capable of and perform within those limits—that’s always been his motto. It’s worked for him so far and he’s not about to change it.
Leaving the commons and its bloodstained grass behind, Brown leads them among the campus buildings. It’s unnerving, as there could be infected staring at them from every window, crouching by every doorway. There are no lanes they can skirt through without being seen from a hundred different places. Turning to the trailing cadets, Brown sees lines of sweat snaking down their cheeks, sees the furrowed brows and pinched lines around their eyes.
Peering around the corner of a building, feeling the heat radiate from its stone surface, Brown spots five figures gathered in a loose huddle in the middle of a pathway between two buildings. Their stationary forms are hunched over and shaking slightly from panting breaths. Brown has no idea whether they’re out of breath from a recent chase or if it’s a result of the agent. It doesn’t matter. In either case, Brown and the cadets won’t be able to cross the open area without being seen.
The pathway extends for some distance, bisecting the campus. Even if they were to try to cross at another point, they’d still be seen. They’d have a greater distance between them, but the screams would draw others—screams that are getting louder as they make their way through the campus. The only other option is to backtrack and try to circumnavigate the university, but that would take them nearer to the outlying edges of the expanding range of the creatures.
Brown eyes one of the doorways of a building across the path. Turning to the others, he briefly tells them what waits around the corner.
“Give me your guidon,” he says to Hayward. “I’m going to lead them away. When we’re all out of sight, continue to the parking lot. I’ll meet you there.”
“Why not use your handgun?” Mendez asks.
“Do you hear that?” Brown asks, indicating the screams coming from every direction.
Mendez nods.
“Gunfire will bring them running toward us, and I’d like to avoid that.”
“Won’t that happen if these guys spot you?” Mendez questions.
“Probably. But five gunshots will be significantly louder than a few screams. My suggestion is for you to head farther left before continuing on to the vehicle.”
“Are you going to bludgeon them, then?” Hayward queries.
Brown answers with a hard stare and snatches the wooden pole from Hayward’s grip.
“What if you don’t make it to the parking lot?” Clarke asks.
“You have your keys, right?”
“Yes, Sergeant.”
“Well, there you go, then,” Brown says, hoisting the guidon to test its balance and strength.
“Remember, wait until I’m out of sight,” he adds, and runs into the open.
“Over here, kiddies!” he calls to the gathering.
He makes sure that he’s only loud enough to draw the attention of the group on the path. Odds are that an entire campus of students will descend on him once he is discovered, but there’s no use in aiding that. The five come out of their trance, heads snapping in his direction. They scream once and race toward him.
Brown doesn’t see this, as he is already streaking for the entrance doors across the way. He hears the pounding of running feet chasing behind. He vaults up the stairs, taking the wide steps two at a time. Reflected in the glass panels of the doors, he sees that the five have nearly caught up with him, already gaining the bottom of the steps just as he reaches the entrance.
Fuck, they’re fast!
Carrying both a handgun and a long, wooden pole interferes with his opening the door quickly, but he’s able to swing the portal open before the quickly closing assailants reach him. The cooler interior is barely noticed as he sprints inside. The panting breaths of those chasing him are altogether too close; his own breath is coming just as hard.
Ahead, past a short entrance hall, a wide staircase climbs upward. Brown makes for it as the sound of the doorway being pulled open reaches him. The idea is to get all of them inside the building so the cadets can get by.
Well, that’s accomplished, he thinks, wondering if he’ll be caught before he reaches the stairs.
His plan now that he’s made it inside is a little more fluid in nature—meaning he’ll wing it depending on what presents itself. The large stairwell leads to an intermediate landing before turning in the opposite direction to head to the second floor. Brown’s plan at this point is to just run. The slap of shoes on the linoleum floor tells him that it’s his only choice, and that it may be a short-lived one.
He takes the stairs, leaping two and three at a time. Still holding the handgun, he grabs for a wooden railing to aid his turn at the landing. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees his pursuers scant feet behind. Their faces are contorted in what he can only describe as a deep-seated rage. Brown thinks to use his firearm, but to take down five would mean depleting his meager supply of ammo by nearly a quarter. He’ll use it as a last resort: that point quickly approaching.
Halfway up the second flight, with the infected an arm’s reach away, Brown grabs the railing and vaults over it.
“Maybe not such a good idea,” he mutters, sailing down toward the bottom steps.
He adjusts his angle slightly, trying to land squarely on the steps. Hitting an edge will roll an ankle and send him tumbling, pretty much ruining any further plans. He hits and bends his knees to absorb the impact; shock rolls up his legs and back.
Way too old for this shit, he thinks, looking up.
His five pursuers have stopped and are looking over the railing, growling their disapproval. They then turn and begin running back down the stairs.
“Not brave enough for that maneuver, eh?” Brown mumbles, and turns for the entrance.
He’s gained a little separation, but not enough for any other options than to keep running. Feeling winded, and the fall taking a little out of him, he’ll have to come up with something soon. He races down the short, blood-spattered hall to the front doors. Turning at the last minute, he hits the doors at almost full tilt, his hip hitting the opening bar.
The impact sends jolts of pain through his hip and shoulder, but the door flies open. Turning quickly, he puts his hand on the slowly closing door, the hydraulic mechanism hindering him.
“Come on … come on,” he chants, watching his pursuers closing in.
Comparing the closure rate of the infected and the unwillingness of the door to close, he knows he won’t make it in time. They’ll come crashing through before the door is completely shut. This is his only chance, though. If they reach the open area, he’ll be caught in short order. Besides, he’s already sacrificed the small advantage he gained in distance. Putting the handgun through the slowly closing opening, he aims at the nearest one and pulls the trigger.
The crash of gunfire is deafening, but most of the sound is contained within the building. The round slams into the leading infected’s chest, a puff from the cotton T-shirt denoting the point of impact. Blood blossoms from the wound and the assailant spins before crashing to the floor. A couple of those behind stumble over the falling body. Brown puts his aching shoulder against the door and pushes.
He’s gained a few seconds, and that’s enough. The door closes with a click. Stepping back, Brown shoves the guidon through the handles just as the infected slam into the door. Their faces press against the glass as they try to push their way through to no avail. Turning, Brow
n dashes away, wary of any others that might be closing in on his position, wanting to be far away before they arrive.
Chapter Four
The volume of the shrieks in the area increases as he draws closer to the parking lot. He doesn’t have high hopes that the cadets have made it this far, with them having had to avoid several groups of screaming infected. He hates that he’s left them on their own, but he didn’t see that there was much choice. He has his own keys, so, well, he still has a way out.
Approaching the lot, he crouches among the trees and bushes growing along the edge. The lot itself is a tangle of cars, a mass exodus of students and teachers creating the worst traffic jam in history. Even if he reaches his car, there’s no way he’ll be driving it out. However, the vehicles in front should still have their keys in the ignition, and may even be running, providing they had enough fuel to idle for hours—not a very likely scenario with college students.
Movement among the bushes catches his attention and sends his heart racing. From the proximity of the screams, he knows there are plenty of infected about. The continual stress of having to avoid them has left him exhausted, and he’s not sure that he has much left. And there’s still a whole perimeter of infected to get through. His plan was to just drive through them, but looking at the parking lot, he’s not sure the outlying streets won’t be in the same condition.
From the point of movement, he catches Hayward’s head poking out of the bushes. He studies it for a moment, satisfactorily concluding that he isn’t infected. Backing away from the lot, he edges toward the cadet. Near where he assumes their position to be, Brown gives a soft whistle. Three heads appear almost immediately, their relief at seeing him apparent.
