The big guy begins to speak, “Look here son, that little white dude over there tells me if I stomp you out I can get the fuck up outa’ here. So I hope you don’t take this beat-down personal but me and my boys are ‘bout to get in that ass.”
Max is paying less attention to what the man is saying and more to his -soon to be attackers’- movements and body language. He is attempting to ascertain the threat level of each individual so he can deal with him accordingly. The three cohorts flank the leader like extras in a Michael Jackson video and Max half expects them to break into dance. The one to his left is close to Max’s size and relative build. The man’s skin is dark enough to make reading of his expression in the dimly lit room difficult, but there is no mistaking his eyes. Unwavering and steadfast in their connection with his own, he likewise appears to be sizing up Max.
The well-muscled man continues, “If you lay down and take it, we let you live, if not…”
Before the man can complete his last sentence, Max strikes him square in the throat with a lightening fast punch that catches all four men off guard, especially the big man who drops instantly to his knees gripping his throat and gasping for air. With the main threat -at least temporarily- out of commission Max turns his sights on the one who he considers to be the next most dangerous of the three that remain. Max had come to this conclusion not due to the size of the man but by the lack of fear in his eyes. He probably had at least a kill or two on his resume and appears eager for his third.
Max slides to the man’s left and toward his own strong hand effectively lining up all three of his attackers. Max is hoping it’s been a while since the man was jumped-in to his set and consequently he’ll be rusty with his hands. He is disappointed to find this is not the case when the guy lets loose a rapid combination of punches; left jab, straight right, followed by a right hook. Max dodges the first two punches leaning right and then left. When the right hook comes around he aptly ducks it, and plants a straight right of his own directly into the man’s solar plexus. All the wind the man has in his lungs is immediately and forcefully pressed out through his pursed lips and nose along with copious amounts of spittle and mucous. The man stumbles back into one of his two friends that remain upright who makes the mistake of catching him. Max goes directly from his coil into a jump kick over the breathless man and connects harshly with the underside of his savior’s chin. The man’s teeth crash together snipping the end of his tongue and before the two intertwined men can fall, Max follows up his first kick with a sidekick directly in the chest of the first breathless man again. He kicks with enough force that the two men are knocked off of their feet and down for the count. Out of his peripheral vision Max can see the big man beginning to rise and knows he only has a moment to deal with the last man standing before he has to address that situation.
Max saved this one for last due to the fact that when earlier they had approached him, he had been sure to stay a step behind the big man. A smallish individual, he was apparently the type that preferred to cheer-on his friends from a distance, or at least from cover. Until now, the big man had probably proved a more than adequate screen from any real violence. Max reads his fear and as it turns out, he isn’t wrong. While Max had been dealing with his buddies, the man had stayed in the background hoping for the best. Now it was his turn and Max can see the fear dancing across his face as it causes his eyebrows to twitch and deposits tiny beads of sweat on the coward’s upper lip. His eyes shift left to right and he clicks his teeth behind severely drawn-back lips as he looks for a path of flight.
The man retreats and Max stalks him like a panther tensed and ready to pounce. Max knows that once the big man reenters the fray the frightened man before him will regain his false confidence and be more dangerous than ever. He has to be dealt with immediately. The man stumbles backward, pushing innocents between he and Max as the distance between them closes. Observers who had previously formed a fight circle are now scrambling to get clear of the fray.
Max backs him to the wall and the coward attempts a quick move around Max to his right. Max steps with him like an angry reflection, cutting off his escape. Max feints a punch and the man immediately covers up. Max grips the back of the man’s neck with both hands and whips his head downward toward his knee that is simultaneously speeding upward to meet it. Max’s knee and the man’s head collide with such ferocity that the shattering of his nose can be heard over the roar of the crowd and blood immediately pours to the bare concrete floor like hard rain. The man drops and Max knows he is no longer a threat. Max turns to reacquire the big man and is startled to find him only a breath away and towering over him once again, but this time the dimple has been replaced by an angry pulsing vein over a tensed angular jawbone. The eyes that once sparkled are now cold and they wordlessly tell Max playtime is over.
Chapter 18- Exodus
The freeway-man sits silently on the cold hard floor with only his rear and the soles of his shoes making contact with the cement. His arms are stretched down between his legs to the floor where his shackles have been bolted to the cement. He remains fully dressed in his blood-soiled shirt and pants since there was no reason to strip and decontaminate those that were obviously already infected. Not to mention that there weren’t exactly a lot of volunteers for the tasks of bathing the biters.
He knew he was nothing more than an expendable lab rat. Once they had taken their pound of flesh, he would be disposed of like yesterday’s paper. A few other lab rats were shackled in the room with him and tugging incessantly against their chains in attempts to free themselves. He knew that tactic was pointless so he sat calmly and conserved his energy.
With his back to the guards outside the gated entry, he concentrated hard on his tasks. One more bolt was all that remained between him and sweet freedom. The first three bolts had proven most difficult and the smears of his blood as well as bits of skin on the bracket, bolts and chains stood as a testament to his determination to be free. Several of his fingertips had been whittled down to the bone in the process of unscrewing the first three bolts. If there had been any pain as the nails and flesh were torn from his fingers he hadn’t noticed. He was single minded and set to his tasks. His dinner guest awaited his arrival and it was rude of him to keep them waiting.
The last bolt proved easier than the first three since the bracket now twisted freely on its axis. With a final tug, the bolt is free and so is the freeway-man. Without words, it is instantly conveyed to the others in the room that he is free. He waits until the single sentry is distracted and he slips to the side of his closest neighbor. He grabs hold of her chains and issues no more then a single grunt. As the two pull in unison the concrete around the bracket begins to give way and crack.
The sound of clattering chains draws the interest of the guard who has been busy checking out a nurse standing near the rail on the level above. With heightened senses brought on by the infection, the freeway-man hears that the guard is turning to investigate and he uses his chain -still tipped with the bracket- as a whip. In one smooth motion, he has taken out the cells over-head light and bathed the room in blackness. Light from outside the room is rather dim and only penetrates a few feet through the glass that comprises the store’s front. He immediately returns to the task of freeing his cellmate.
The soldier was too slow to catch what was happening before the room went dark, but calls for backup just the same. He cautiously approaches the accordion style gate that covers the glass while doing his best to listen for signs of what has transpired. He reaches the chain that secures the gate and fumbles for his keys in order to open the lock.
The freeway-man has emancipated the first of his cellmates and his newly freed accomplice goes about the tasks of liberating the remaining infected inside the room. Two by two, they rip the shackles from the concrete in a ferocious display of strength and determination. They’ve silently worked together toward their common goal. A room full of strangers with a better understanding of how to obtain a group goal tha
n most friends and families could learn in a lifetime. Now that all of the shackles have been broken and their brethren freed, they now stand patiently and still, awaiting what comes next.
The guard hears the clatter of military-issue boots fast approaching and completes the job of unlocking the chain. The moment the lock clicks open the guard’s skull is pierced with the rusty edge of a shackle bracket trailing a length of heavy chain and bits of shattered glass behind it. Before his vision goes dark, he has a moment for one last sight through the newly formed hole in the glass. A gray haired man stands a few feet beyond the broken glass with his arm extended and grasping the other end of the chain that now terminates within the soldier’s skull.
The freeway-man smiles wryly at his accuracy and creativity and wonders why it took the end of the world for him to finally cut loose and have some fun. He fancies the chain as a reverse umbilical cord, inexorably linking him and the guard, but robbing life instead of giving it.
The infected immediately explode through the glass and tear the gate aside just as the soldiers arrive and open fire. Some are hit but most make it through to the guardsmen and a bloodbath ensues. The freeway-man walks calmly from his cell and crouches next to his victim. He reaches for the lifeless guard’s belt and removes a ring of keys. He locates the proper one, unlocks his cuffs and lets his shackles clatter to the floor. He again smiles in self-appreciation as he watches his diversion at work. The infected he freed meant nothing to him but a means to an end, and they were serving their purpose quite well at present.
He turns from the bloodletting in search of more interesting game. Their scents are faint but they can’t be far.
***
Sounds of gunfire and screams jolt Vinny from his ever-deepening drug fueled stupor. In keeping with his grand design, he had decided to just say ‘fuck it!’ and let the intoxication ride -after a prolonged yet futile attempt to fight the effects. After all, it had been days since his last drag and he had nowhere to be. Armed soldiers were everywhere and for the first time that night, there was no need to keep a constant vigil. ‘Pop..pop..pop!’ the sound of gunfire looms ever closer. Vinny rips the needle from his arm –‘oh that sweet syrupy goodness it delivered’- and rouses himself with two stiff slaps across his face. The adrenaline the strikes bring will temporarily heighten his senses and counteract the effects of the drug. He had learned this trick from the occasional traffic stops he’d been subjected to while under the influence of alcohol. When the police pull over a suspected drunk driver they will let you sit for a while in your car before they even approach you. The idea is that the lights and sirens of the patrol car coupled with the fear of arrest cause your adrenal gland to start pumping. In some cases, the effects of the increased adrenaline can sharpen your focus and aid you in passing a sobriety test, so the police sit patiently and allow you to calm down before they knock on your window. Vinny hopes that the same method will work in this scenario. He has been administered an unknown substance that may or may not react similarly when mixed with adrenaline, but it’s worth a shot.
***
In Brooke’s cell everyone has crowded to the front glass hoping to see the cause of the commotion. Brooke is awakened from a deep sleep by screams of “Oh my God!” and “Help us!” She had apparently been incorporating these screams and the muffled sounds of gunfire into her dreams –or nightmares as it were. In her dream, she and Max were walking along a pedestrian’s bridge that spanned a sliver of a creek filled with Koi fish of brilliant colors and patterns. Some were painted with abstract patches of glowing gold across their dorsal ridges while others were solid colors of every hue one could imagine. The fish swam to and fro while splashing joyfully like young lovers in their most flirtatious courtship dance. They walked hand-in-hand until a repetition of loud cracks like a July 4th block party interrupted the tranquil scene. Moments later the surreal serenity was completely shattered by a pulse-pounding scream. Her heart had begun to race so fast that her ears ached and she was sure they would burst at any moment. She looked over the edge of the bridge and found the impish creek had become a rushing river, replete with severed heads bobbing with mouths agape and crawfish wandering out of the brain cavity through one eye socket and eating their way back in through another. Arms –torn from their joints- reached desperately out at nothing as they collided with other fragmented body parts while racing away down the blood tide stream. The bridge began to rise upward away from the water at an ever-increasing pace and vertigo gripped Brooke’s guts until she could no longer stand erect. She reached for Max who had let her hand slip away and was now standing on the rail of the bridge. She struggled to speak and deplore him to return to her. She was trying to convey that she would do anything if he would just stay and hold her hand for just a while longer, but before she could find the words to speak Max had calmly glanced back at her with a smile and stepped off the edge, dropping out of sight into oblivion. As he fell a scream of ‘Help!’ had risen from somewhere outside of her body and she finally forced herself awake.
Brooke blinks hard several times to shake the remnants of the nightmare as well as clear her vision. As the fog of dream and sleep fades, she can see her cellmates pressed against the glass with heads all cocked to the left and hands spread like starfish. From the crowd she can hear both hushed words of concern and loud prayers alike. Her fog fades a bit more and she can make out the sounds of screams -a bit more distant- and gunfire. She pops up and scrambles over her couch -which just moments ago had been the harbinger of ominous visions. She winds her way through the obstacle course of displaced furniture like a downhill-skier trying not to miss a gate and trips hard over a low display table. A moment later, she is startled by a whistling sound followed by a spray of glass an inch away from her face. She instinctively scuttles behind a nearby sturdy-looking display case and makes herself flatter than a roach under foot. Another lady is not so lucky and a random rifle slug passes like butter through the glass before her and permanently separates the two hemispheres of her brain causing all of her life functions to instantly and irrevocably cease.
A mad scramble like a cry of fire in a crowded movie theater erupts and ladies of various size and shape -wearing scrubs in a multitude of colors- run barefoot or sneakered for the back of the store. They push, pull, tumble, crawl, stomp and trample over one another on their way to the single doorway that holds the only promise of cover from chaos. Brooke convinces her body to follow suit as more misplaced shots riddle their storefront as well as those of their neighbors. She belly crawls around and over chairs, cardboard cutouts and a frightened woman -who has frozen wide eyed in place and is muttering something incoherent- on her way to the small storage room in the rear of the store.
***
Max and the giant stand silently and motionless -each waiting for the other to make a move. Max’s adversary was apparently a quick learner and wasn’t going to underestimate him twice. Max likewise knew that catching the big man by surprise again was out of the question and finds himself wishing he hadn’t held back on that first strike. The noisy crowd gives the two formidable looking men a wide berth from fear of being caught in the inevitable fray to come.
The giant reaches toward Max with a beefy arm resembling artwork that one might find in an Incredible Hulk comic. Max sidesteps the groping appendage easily enough and delivers what should be a debilitating knee-kick to the man’s left leg. To Max’s surprise the man’s leg neither buckles or breaks. The sheer muscle mass surrounding his kneecap is enough to prevent Max’s blow from hyper extending the joint and in turn toppling the hulk to the ground. Max believed whole-heartedly that his kick would drop the big man instantly and it’s that brief error in judgment that leaves him vulnerable just long enough for the behemoth to take hold. The man seems to suck Max in like a vacuum. For an instant, the giant is all arms and hook-like fingers too powerful to resist.
Max is pulled up into his grasp in a bear hug so tight that all oxygen is instantaneously forced from his lungs. Th
e man lifts and squeezes him like a mythical man-eating anaconda until Max fears he may loose consciousness. With his arms pinned to his sides and his feet off of the ground, he is left little purchase from which to mount a defense. He and the giant are nearly face-to-face and he can smell the man’s ironically sweet breath -like a rum dipped cigar- as he begins to laugh.
“What now bitch?” Max hears the man say from an increasingly distant place as tunnel vision overwhelms his sight.
Max explores his mind for a snappy comeback ala Vinny that he knows he won’t be awake to speak and his vision closes in on him even more until only a pinhole of light remains. A moment before that last infinitesimal flame is extinguished Max hears a low moan and feels a warm splash of something viscous across his face. Then, down, down, down into a deep and ancient darkness he slips, with no idea of if, or when he’ll return.
***
Vinny lowers a shaky right foot to the floor beside his gurney and follows it with an equally unsteady left one. He places just enough weight on his feet to see if they will hold. Although he doesn’t feel quite ready for a marathon, he believes he can manage a slow walk. He flexes his knees and with the help of his arms forces his gangly frame up and off the gurney. At once, he is hit with a head rush strong enough to sway him nearly forty-five degrees, his vision atrophies like the slowly closing shutter of an overworked lens and he is forced to retreat to the gurney. Even though he can hear Armageddon breaking out somewhere in the mall –or continuing as it were-, he forces himself to sit and count until the haze before his eyes dissolves and the whirlpool in his head subsides.
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