Greg was vulnerable in this situation. The dumpster acted as a pathetic fortress, leaving him vulnerable to outside threats. There was most certainly a threat outside, and it was silently searching for remaining prey. Greg needed to exit and get to higher ground. He needed to be able to see his surroundings, examine the damage, and have time to formulate a plan.
Fear was his biggest problem, even more than vulnerability. He would always be vulnerable as long as he weighed one hundred-thirty with his six foot tall frame. He adjusted himself to a seated position, and despite his loss of smell, he could taste the dumpster’s atmosphere. His survival was due only to dumb luck. Every action had been a failure until the hero in the leather jacket found him and stored him here.
Vulnerability mixed with fear becomes dread. His stomach ached, not from hunger, but rather, similar to the pit in his stomach after realizing he slept through the interview yesterday morning. The need to break out brought clarity, and Greg cracked the heavy plastic lid.
The breeze cooled his face as he scanned from his bunker looking for immediate threats. It made him think of examining cells for irregularities during his internship in the pathology department at the university.
Only empty cars and debris.
“Hello,” he said. He didn’t commit to yelling. The volume was better suited for the library or the laboratory. Anything louder would come after a full exit and identification of the safest route to a nearby roof. No immediate response was a positive, but further movement was a risk. Greg needed to get out, and it was safer outside of the dumpster’s confines.
The green paint peeled under his grip while pulling himself to exit. His legs quivered as he patiently lifted himself out of the dumpster onto the alleyway’s concrete. Greg tiptoed to the edge of alley, hoping to avoid detection from hiding threats. Pain shot through the open wound on his head while he leaned around the corner of a building. He was trying to get a view of downtown and his hopeful, eventual pathway to safety.
Abandoned vehicles left a breadcrumb trail through smoke emitted from the fallen structures and still-burning fires. The grey sky faintly clouded the half-demolished buildings. Greg thought about 9/11 and the probability of a terrorist attack on such as place as Salt Lake City. “No way,” he thought aloud, and there was certainly no way something like this could have happened by a few people with bad intentions. Not unless they were able to mind control a mass of Americans into becoming blank-faced murderers. Not unless they were able to create someone like the man in the suit.
In Greg’s short moments of seeing him, the man in the suit appeared only human in flesh. He had as much in common with Greg as Greg with a pig. The man in the suit was the apex predator. The one all the rest followed. The way they looked at him was with adoration like a cult leader or devoted pets. The Apex’s reign was felt as the dust slowly settled on the aftermath of the biggest catastrophe in American history.
Where was the rest of the country? Where were the rescue efforts and search teams scanning for survivors? Terrorism or not; someone should be here. Unless this was a national event… unless this was global.
-
The aged mechanic inhaled his final cigarette on the roof of his old apartment. Below him, a kid was struggling to escape his wrecked hatchback. It was a relief to see another living person from The Commodore’s third story roof. His eyesight was not what it used to be, hitting the ripe old age of fifty-eight, but the kid down there looked to be in pretty good condition. He was still alive, at least.
Richard Harrison, or Harry, was still alive too. It was ironic how one of the only surviving men in Salt Lake City was the coward who drunkenly came to this roof with intentions of jumping off. Harry came up here to die, but instead witnessed the deaths of thousands of others. At any time he could have jumped down but his resolve was lost watching the freaks take over. Harry wasn’t one of those pansy depressants. He was a man without purpose and tired of living. Only what he saw from the roof made him unwilling to jump down. The risk of not dying was too frightening. Those freaks would have beaten, ripped, flogged and dragged him away screaming. He wanted to go out quietly with a suicide note and broken neck.
The wild side of his early twenties and thirties earned him every wrinkle on his grey and red-bearded face. Somewhere deep inside him was a charming, Irish drunk, only masked by the angry loner with two ugly ex-wives. Despite his beer belly and old knees, Harry was a strong man from years of working with his hands. He was extra strong at the bottom of a bottle, and extra hateful too, which is what brought him to the roof.
His temper was gone now. A man cannot hold on to those emotions when people are being torn apart a few feet away. Now, Harry just wanted to get down and help the poor kid stuck in the car. It was embarrassing that it took this tragedy to give Harry a new lease on life, but he had one all the same. An undeserved second chance is still a second chance.
Harry locked the door back into the apartment. Even with a few drinks in him, Harry knew he would get cold feet, but if there was no turning back, then the only way to go down was a swan dive forty feet down. He flicked his cigarette off the roof. It would be the only thing jumping, as he searched for another way down.
-
Robert’s breathing was slow under the ugly, purple comforter. The love of his life was standing five feet away from him, frightened by his lack of reaction when she kicked him. The deep gurgle in his throat did not belong to him. Robert was quiet, passive, and never gross, but that noise was bubbly and messy. A good girlfriend would reach down and make sure he wasn’t choking.
Jenna didn’t even want to be in the same room as him. Let alone touch him.
Then leave… Walk out like you always do.
She couldn’t do that. He protected her last night through all the chaos, blood and noise. He was the only reason she was back at their suite. He was the only reason she was safe, and for once in their relationship, she was going to take care of him. Robert deserved that.
The blankets and the gurgle grew louder.
“Babe. Please wake up. Let’s go home.”
She had to help right now. Robert didn’t need her to cure him, but he deserved something. Jenna had to at least act more loving than kicking his foot.
She kneeled down and gently touched his leg through the blankets. The heat of his skin radiated through.
“Babe.”
The gurgling stopped.
So did his breathing.
Jenna stood up, needing distance from him, just to think. What could she do? Robert was hurt. She couldn’t help him even if she tried. Jenna didn’t know what to do in these situations. Robert’s dad would, but the stupid cell phones were all dead. She needed to go find someone.
She picked up the hotel phone and dialed “0.”
Dead too.
Big surprise, Jenna. Just leave.
And so she did.
-
Tightness began to settle down Greg’s neck to the back of his legs. Each muscle felt exceptionally heavy as he moved. This was the first time he had run in years, and the first time ever he had been in a fight. It felt like there was a cinderblock sitting where his nose was supposed to be.
He glanced around the corner and saw two empty sidewalks with cluttered streets in between. There was a small, random tree on his opposing sidewalk about fifty feet away that looked like it had been covered in the dust from the fires. The sun was not clear enough to cast a shadow beside him. All he could see on the streets were red stains and pieces of debris.
“When the world stops, where do you go?” He said to himself. It sounded more poetic in his head than it did out loud. Greg would go to the only place he ever felt at home, truth. It wasn’t quite as basic as utilizing scientific method to work his way out, but Greg had his own theory on problem solving.
First objective: identify the elements.
Salt Lake City was not highly populated nor was it known to have an above average crime rate. Greg never heard of rioting taking place,
and looking at the surrounding buildings, it appeared no looting happened. Thus, a downtown-only quarantine was unlikely, and there were no signs of police officers, unless the city had been completely overrun.
How does a city of under two-hundred thousand people become a ghost town overnight? The short answer is, it does not. There had to be other people. Greg could not be the only person to have found safe haven. The odds were in favor of more people. It was not wise to rest on chances, especially when Greg could not even fight off an American model-sized woman. How would he fight off more when they were no longer distracted by a fully populated city? Greg needed there to be more people. Where would people immediately find shelter? The list would be a short one. Most people would panic and hide behind a light pole before they would actually come up with a plan.
Before searching for others, it was best to find a safe house to properly protect himself. Just because there would be other survivors did not mean they would be friendly. Greg needed to find somewhere with locks, places to hide, and a planned escape route.
All he could think about was the library. The newly built, state of the art mausoleum of literature was a few blocks away, and its roof would offer a perfect hiding place, as long as he could access it. Sound carried well inside, which meant any intruder would certainly be heard, but at the height of several stories, sound would not carry down to any potential allies at ground level.
Allies? Yes, allies. Greg would need allies. The biggest problem with there being no police was there would be no law. If there was no law, regular people would be as dangerous as the blank-faces. He would need to be careful in who he trusted and what he entrusted them with.
Second objective: identify the non-absolutes.
Non-absolutes are varying elements of the experiment. The list would be composed of elements one could not rely on nor be built around. One must to identify these in order to prepare for the change, while not allowing any non-absolute to dictate the process.
To phrase it in more basic terms; know the curveballs.
First non-absolute was his health. He had never suffered a concussion before, but his thoughts were cloudy enough for him to self-diagnose. People often felt tired, weak, and distracted when suffering from the after effects of blunt-force trauma. Greg would need to be aware of his body and any potential symptoms that could sneak up on him.
Even without the concussion, he was in no position to fight, run, or build. He was weakened by blood loss and eating nothing since lunch yesterday. A library would not be a source of food, so he would need to scavenge nearby. Somewhere with open spaces and multiple exits.
Second non-absolute were the blank-faced people. The question of “What are they?” meant very little right now. He would never get close enough to one to calmly ask the question, as if they would be willing (or able?) to respond. Despite Greg’s deepest desire, he understood the difficulty in finding their truth. However, it would be beneficial to know 1) location and 2) movement. This would not be accomplished if he were consumed with finding out the origins of the Apex and his brood of blank-faced soldiers.
He would need to observe the blank-faces from a safe, quiet distance and figure out the best strategy of avoiding them. Maybe he could even figure out their weaknesses. He could do this from a high place but not too high. He would need to be secure and sound, while still able to clearly identify details. Language, movement, and intentions. Intentions, like the stone-faced woman?
Safety and security were a priority. He realized how overexposed he was in this moment in the corner of the alleyway with nothing more than lint in his pocket. He needed an immediate place to hide.
“The Commodore” was an apparent low income apartment complex a block away. This could make a secure, temporary home before a more long term stay at the library if he chose to go. Plus, judging from the outside of The Commodore, it was an old building and may have its own bomb shelter and food supply. The residents would likely have plenty of canned goods. This would be the best first step.
Final objective: go into The Commodore and get to the roof.
-
Mickey looked around the totaled car. He wasn’t searching, but thinking; what if Andy was dead on the ground? What happens next? Could this all go away if he ran? There was a long trail of blood stretching ten yards from where Andy landed to where Andy must have ended up, but no Andy.
A voice came from the distance, “Hey! Boy! You alright?” Mickey scoured the streets and scoured his mind for a believable excuse for what happened. This only made his head ache more. Hangovers and concussions do not mix well with stress. He looked over to the other side of the street, there was a security camera attached to the hotel, but no people. Mickey feared what kind of footage that thing might have from last night.
“Up here, boy!”
The cloudy, white sky stunned Mickey's eyes as he saw the silhouette of a man on the roof. “I, I can’t look up. It hurts!” he confessed. “I am sorry!” The tears welled in his eyes. He knew his life was about to change and end with him rotting in a cell. “I am so, so, sorry.” He said as he sat down on the corner and began to sob.
“Well, hey, it’s not that big of a deal” the man up high said.
Mickey was so sorry for drinking and driving. He was so sorry for letting Andy down and even thinking about getting away with the damage. He was so sorry for running over a stranger. All of this guilt flooded his mind. He couldn’t even bear to lift his head up. Maybe it was a dream.
“You alright down there?” The man returned. Mickey shook his head lightly.
“Hey! Boy! Are. You. Alright?”
Mickey scowled at the man from the corner of his eyes and said, “YES! I am fine! What do you want from me?” Everything was so bright and ugly. Mickey might pass out from the blood rushing to his head and trying to find his balance. To have this loud man torturing him with questions was too much. “Well okay, then. Get off your rear-end, and help me down. The exit door is locked, and there ain’t a fire escape from the roof.” He sounded like Mickey’s Uncle Dave; he could make a simple comment sound like criticism. Uncle Dave acted like the smartest guy in the room and made Mickey feel like the dumbest. Mickey was going to hate this dude already, and the man would probably hate him back too.
Mickey stood tall and tried to focus in the guy's direction but wasn’t really sure where he was standing. Mickey said, “Sure thing, boss. Just catching my bearings. I’m working on a heck of a hangover.” Guys like Uncle Dave always liked being called ‘sir’ and ‘boss’.
“Ya might as well work on the hangover while moving, boy. Those cranberry vodkas’ll wear off after a little while.”
Yeah, Mickey was going to hate this man, but he had the perfect viewpoint to be able to find Andy, and didn’t say anything. If Andy wasn’t here, where was he? Why didn’t he seem to care about Andy? He looked to the car from the corner of his eyes, “Whatever you say, boss.”
“The name is Rich Harrison, but my friends call me Harry.”
“Well, okay. I’m Mickey.”
“Like the mouse?”
“Kinda, yeah, I guess.”
-
With each door Jenna passed, she feared someone was going to jump out and take her. She could feel eyes watching. Maybe it was better to go back to the room and wait for the power to come back on. The hallway was lit by the dull sunlight shining through the windows at each end. Jenna regretted the decision to leave Robert and wished she could go back and snuggle him. That’s all he would need and then they could get out of Salt Lake City and never come back.
The idea of turning around was too intimidating. Someone was back there hiding; she knew it, so she kept moving forward as the noise of her cast made the silence of her surroundings all the more terrifying.
The elevator was a few doors away.
Just keep walking, Jenna. The elevator is dead. When the power is out, elevators don’t work, stupid.
Her hands quivered as she pressed the down button. She had t
o try.
Movement came from the other side of the hallway.
Surprised?
She wasn’t going to wait any longer for the elevator. Only a few floors were between Jenna and the lobby.
But what will be waiting for you down there?
-
Greg listened to the two men shouting from rooftop to car accident. They were cordial enough, but Greg would scout from a safe distance. Greg did not want to be caught in any potential crossfire. They were loud and obnoxious. People like this could have only survived by the same luck keeping Greg alive. The Apex and his blank-faces would soon come and kill these idiots before they developed enough sense to stop shouting. This was not the kind of survivors Greg wanted to surround himself with; they did not need to be perfect, but shouting from rooftops was a risk he did not want to partner with.
Greg searched the streets expecting to see someone running in his direction. He would gladly associate himself with the dumpster again rather than join forces with these guys.
Where were the blank-faces?
Not inside The Commodore, nor on the streets. They would be back, but when?
Greg had a clear look at the guy on the ground. Above-average height with a stocky build and dressed like he came from a rap concert. His backwards hat had "frat boy" written all over it. If that didn’t seal his fate, the chin strap facial hair did the trick. This was the kind of guy who used to talk down to Greg and call him cliché names like “nerd.” The beauty of a guy like this was he could be manipulated in the right setting. His type was desperate for loyalty and respect, even if they were averse to giving it out.
He was rummaging his way around the entrance. He looked like dog circling before going to the bathroom. Then Greg heard the sound of a zipper indicating this was exactly what the guy was doing. The splashing against the wall echoed in the streets.
“Enjoying the view, boy?”
Greg was hidden from the peeing guy on the street, but the view from above left him easily exposed. The red-bearded man from the roof was shaking his head in mock disapproval. “Care to help…oh man. What happened to your face?” His reaction indicated Greg looked as bad as he hurt.
Dark Genesis (Shadow and Shine Book 1) Page 4
