Hour 24: All That's Left

by Robert Barnard

  “There’s no way,” Nolan said, “that we’ll let that happen. He’s an idiot with a gun and a shitty basement. He’s not some—some—some James Bond villain. He’ll slip up, and when he does, I’ll fucking kill him.”

  Chloe smiled. “I’m sorry I let this happen.”

  “You didn’t let anything happen.”

  “If I’d been paying attention back at the hospital, I would have seen his truck pull up on us.”

  “If I hadn’t shot that officer, he’d had never found us,” Nolan said. “There’s no use for either of us to try and trace the root of the blame. He’s had it out for you for a while, from the looks of all of this. And this was his opportunity to pounce. And he took it.”

  Chloe rolled onto her side. “I wish…I wish my father was there,” she said. “He wouldn’t have let this happen.”

  “I know he wouldn’t have,” Nolan said, and he trembled. “His last words to me…he trusted that I would take care of you.” Tears stung at the corner of his eyes. “And not more than ten minutes after I promised that I would, we ended up here. In this asshole’s basement.”

  Chloe swallowed hard. “Was it…was it quick?”

  Nolan choked on the words before they could leave his mouth. “It was, Chloe…it was…it was fast. He looked…he looked relieved. I don’t know how better to explain it. He wasn’t himself, and he looked relieved that it was over.”

  “I found him one afternoon,” Chloe said, the words wavering as they left her lips, “trying to get the lawn mower started in the garage. It was near the end of our first summer in Colorado. I was making lunch in the kitchen, and I’d hear him yank on the starter to get it going, and then I’d hear him cough and curse when the damn thing wouldn’t start. I walked into the garage, right before he let out a terrible cough, and a giant glob of blood hit the floor beside the lawn mower. It was terrible, Nolan. I fumbled for my phone to call 911. When he caught me behind him, he yelled at me—he was so angry. He was so angry and terrified that I’d call an ambulance. He made me promise not to. I should have known something was wrong. He carried it since New York, and it ate away at him, and he was too scared to get help.”

  “He didn’t want to be taken away,” Nolan said. “He wasn’t scared or selfish. He’d been locked up twice during NYVO when they tested him for EV1. He didn’t want to be sent to some secret facility, never to see us again. Never to see you again. He did it for you, Chloe. He did everything for you. Surely you know that.”

  Chloe started to sob and sob.

  Nolan curled up into a ball and tried to fight the drowsiness that crept up the back of his skull, but it was no use. Whatever drug Fuller had slipped him, it had taken complete hold of him now. His eyelids grew heavy, and even though the hard, cement floor offered no comfort, he fell into a deep, deep sleep.

  NINETEEN

  Nolan heard the sound of squeaking, first, before he opened his eyes. The sound was steady and rhythmic.

  His eyelids opened, and his gaze immediately darted towards the couch on the other end of the basement.

  Squeak, squeak, squeak.

  Long, slender, milk white limbs hung over the couch. Locks of blonde hair were matted against the arm rest.

  Squeak. Squeak, squeak.

  Chloe was motionless on the couch, her movement debilitated by Fuller’s mysterious drug. She was nude, the clothes torn off of her and tossed beside the sofa.

  Knelt above her was Fuller, who’d positioned himself like a gorilla, was rocking back and forth above Chloe’s lifeless body. When he noticed that Nolan was watching the two of them, he locked his eyes with Nolan’s and grinned.

  Nolan tried to scream, but no words would leave his mouth.

  Fuller continued to smile, continued to bounce up and down atop the sofa cushions. His eyes began to bleed, and then his nostrils and ears, too. Drips of it foamed at the corner of his lips.

  In a demonic voice, Fuller screamed: “You let this happen, kiddo!” And then Nolan woke up, screaming.

  Soft, morning light had filtered through the narrow windows at the top of the basement walls. Chloe was sound asleep across from him, but she started to stir at Nolan’s shouting.

  Instinctively, Nolan tried to stand up. When he did, his wrist caught against the handcuff that kept him chained to the support beam.

  He rose carefully. Unlike Chloe, who was chained to the floor, he could stand if he squatted and stood slowly. He looked at his wrist; it was red and bruised. Fuller had cuffed him tight, and he must have agitated it during his night terrors.

  “What’s happening?” Chloe mumbled. “What’s wrong?”

  “It was just a nightmare,” Nolan said, and he couldn’t help but laugh. At least the nightmare was fictitious, was a product of his stressed subconscious and imagination. What better was reality? Being locked away in Fuller’s basement was the real nightmare, one that was not so easy to wake up from.

  The door at the top of the spiral staircase squeaked open. Fuller started down the narrow stairs, groaned: “What the hell is going on down here?”

  “It’s nothing,” Nolan said. “A bad dream.”

  Fuller stepped off the bottom step and strode across the cool cement of the basement floor. In each of his hands were a saucer with two burnt pancakes on them. Wedged under each of his armpits was a bottle of water.

  “Here,” Fuller said. “Both of you eat up. You’ll need your strength today.”

  Fuller handed Nolan a plate and a bottle, then left Chloe’s breakfast beside her and stepped back. He studied each of them carefully, then clapped his hands.

  “I know the two of you don’t appreciate this much,” Fuller said, “but I’ve got something that might cheer you up. Let me show you something.”

  Fuller slumped onto the couch on the other end of the room, lifted the television remote and powered on the TV set.

  Chloe and Nolan took nervous looks at one another, unsure of whether or not they should eat the breakfast that their captor had brought them. Nolan was the first to dig in—he didn’t care if it’d been poisoned. He couldn’t remember the last time he ate. The pancakes were dry, doughy, burnt. It didn’t matter. His stomach growled as he choked them down.

  “Name a news channel,” Fuller said. “Any of ‘em.”

  “CNN,” Chloe said, softly.

  Fuller thumbed a three and then a two into the TV’s remote control. The set turned to channel thirty-two. Only white noise appeared. The television screen filled edge to edge with snowy static.

  “Name another one,” Fuller said, and he snapped his fingers.

  “FOX,” Nolan said.

  Fuller entered a three and then a five into the television remote. When it changed channels, there was again nothing but white noise.

  “They’re gone,” Fuller said. “Every major news network stopped reporting around four this morning. Every fuckin’ one.” He laughed. “Is that crazy or what?”

  “Maybe your cable is just out,” Nolan said.

  “Yeah, you’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Fuller replied. He punched a one and a nine into the television remote. The channel flipped to a station owned by a family of religious zealots. A prayer hymnal played on screen, set to an endless loop, over the image of a flying dove.

  “The family values channel,” Fuller said. “Based out of Pensacola, Florida. Been playing the same prayers and hymns all morning long. Some broadcasts are still getting out.”

  Fuller cracked his knuckles, leaned back on the sofa, and the springs beneath him squeaked.

  Nolan shuddered, recalled his nightmare.

  “It’s like you’re standing in front of a failing dam, right?” Fuller said. “And a couple of leaks start to spring. So you plug one with your thumb and another with your index finger. Then a few more cracks appear, and with them, a few more leaks. So now you have to use both hands. But you’ve only got ten fingers, don’t you? So when that eleventh leak appears, you’re shit out of luck.” Fuller laughed. “Last night, this cou
ntry had ten fingers and a million leaks. And the whole damn thing crumbled faster than a fat kid running after an ice cream truck. I had a contact at the department of defense—called me a few times before the capitol went dark. There was an EV1 outbreak yesterday, my dudes, and it was NYVO to the one-hundredth power. We’re on our own. It’s over. We’re in the wild west, now—”

  “I gotta piss,” Chloe said.

  “You know, I don’t appreciate how you like to interrupt me. You didn’t show this much insubordination when I hired you,” Fuller said.

  “Are you gonna uncuff me or not?” Chloe asked.

  “Sure,” Fuller said. “But not before you take your morning medicine.”

  Fuller hopped off of the couch and strolled towards Chloe and Nolan. He pulled out his bag of white pills from a pocket on his cargo pants and dispensed a single pill to both of them.

  Chloe took hers and gulped, swallowed it down.

  Nolan slid his into his mouth and held it there for a second before he swallowed, too.

  Fuller wrinkled his nose and raised his eyebrows. “I want us to have trust between us,” Fuller said. “I really do. But kid, I’m gonna need you to open your fucking mouth so that I know you swallowed your medicine.”

  Nolan opened his mouth wide and wiggled his tongue.

  Fuller, happy at what he saw, nodded and said: “Good boy.” Then, he uncuffed Chloe, whose limbs were already starting to droop from the effects of the mystery pill. He helped her to her feet and guided her towards the spiral staircase.

  Nolan slumped to the floor and waited to hear the door at the stop of the stairs click shut. As soon as it did, he shoved the index and ring finger of his right hand as deep down his throat as he could, and vomited profusely. When he finished throwing up, he rolled over atop the mess that he made, and shut his eyes.

  “The john is right this way,” Fuller said, and he was practically carrying Chloe over his shoulder.

  “Good,” Chloe said with a slur. As she walked, she could see the hallway of the first floor was decorated with pictures of Fuller in uniform, both from his time in the military and his time as an officer. There were photos of him accepting awards, of him meeting local celebrities, of him volunteering at a local youth shelter.

  “You’re a real hero,” Chloe said, and she stumbled into the first floor bathroom.

  Fuller hollered into the bathroom door: “Mention my name, you’ll get a good seat.”

  When Chloe had finished, Fuller guided her back towards the basement door.

  “Can’t we stay up here a little longer?” Chloe said, and she eyed the couch in Fuller’s living room. “It’s so warm up here...and I need to rest.”

  “It is pretty nice up here,” Fuller said. “We haven’t lost power yet. Nothing short of a small miracle. The longer we can go before we start running the fire place, the better. Gotta budget our wood ‘til spring, now.”

  “Please,” Chloe begged. “I just need one hour on your couch.” Her legs wobbled, felt tingly.

  “Before either of you get to live up here,” Fuller said, “we have to establish that trust. And I’m afraid we’re a long way from having any of that. You both hate me. And that’s understandable. But the world is ending, Chloe! And in time, you’ll both appreciate that I saved you. You and I, we’re Adam and Eve, and this is our ark.”

  “Those stories,” Chloe said, “aren’t even related to each other.”

  “See what I mean?” Fuller said. “The back talk. The disrespect. Oh, Chloe, we’re months away from me being able to let you stroll around upstairs, uncuffed and undrugged. As much as I’d like that.”

  Chloe groaned, and Fuller opened the basement door, guided her down the spiral staircase.

  When he reached the landing, he found Nolan face down on the floor and having a seizure. His body jerked and spasmed.

  Fuller dropped Chloe on the couch and screamed: “My gopher!”

  Chloe collapsed into the scratchy sofa cushions, and though she could barely move, she hollered: “What did you do to him? What did you give him?”

  “The same thing I gave you,” Fuller said, panicked. “He was fine when he took it last night!”

  Fuller knelt beside Nolan, rolled him onto his back. His shirt was stained with vomit. His eyes had rolled back in his head.

  “Do something!” Chloe said, and it took all the energy that she could muster to outstretch her arm.

  Nolan shivered and shuddered. His arms flailed beside him. He whispered something under his breath; it was hard to discern, the words slipped out between gasps and moans.

  Fuller knelt beside Nolan, gave his face a light smack. “What happened? What are you saying?”

  “I—I—I…”

  “You what?” Fuller said.

  “I—I…” Nolan said. The word left his mouth in stuttered whispers.

  “Nolan, I know we got some bad blood, but I need you, bud. Tell me what happened. Tell me what’s wrong, my man.”

  “I—I—threw…”

  Fuller squatted down closer, put his ear just beside Nolan’s mouth.

  “You threw what?” Fuller said.

  Nolan stopped his make believe shivers, darted his eyes back towards the front of his face. “I threw it all up.”

  Nolan sprung forward, dug his teeth into the side of Fuller’s face, and grabbed the sergeant’s hair with his uncuffed hand. He jerked his head back, tore Fuller’s flesh down to the muscle, then spit the glob of bloodied skin out beside him.

  Fuller howled with pain, and a river of blood gushed from the exposed tendons beside his lips and out onto Nolan.

  “What the fuck!” Fuller screamed.

  Nolan clenched his hand tightly around Fuller’s hair, then bashed the sergeant’s skull into the support beam he’d been chained to since the previous night.

  Fuller’s head hit the pole with a whack, and his world went dark for one nanosecond before rocketing back to life and vivid color.

  “Please…” Fuller burbled. “Stop.”

  Nolan dug his hand harder into Fuller’s hair and bashed again.

  Again, Fuller lost consciousness, but only for a moment.

  “Stop, Nolan,” Fuller said, weakly. “Stop. We can work it out down here. It’s not too late. You don’t know what you’re doing—”

  Wham. Nolan hurled Fuller’s head into the support beam for a third time. This time, the sergeant’s blackout wasn’t temporary. It took a solid twelve seconds for the lights in Fuller’s head to flicker back on, and when they did, the man was absolutely scrambled.

  “You can take the elevator up,” Fuller mumbled.

  “You’re not making any sense, asshole,” Nolan growled.

  “You can take the plane from the basement, fly right up to the living room,” Fuller said, weakly.

  “I’m not sure if you can understand me or not,” Nolan said, calmly, “but I’m about to fucking kill you, my man.”

  “Please, Nolan—”

  Wham. Fuller’s head bashed into the support beam so hard that it cracked from the top of his skull to the side of his right orbital. Loose bone punctured Fuller’s right eye, and it started to bleed. Fuller coughed up a splotch of blood, then collapsed beside Nolan, motionless.

  Chloe sat on the couch, sobbing. Her pale white limbs hung over the cushions, her blonde hair matted against the arm rest.

  In the moments that followed Fuller’s slaughter, Nolan slumped against the basement support beam and recalled a particularly vivid memory from his childhood.

  He’d been playing on the back deck of his home in East Violet, New York. His father sat across from him, reading the Sunday paper.

  In his lazy, summer boredom, Nolan spotted a daddy longlegs creeping across the railing of the deck. He cornered the poor insect, cupped it underneath his palm, and one by one plucked its legs from its body. When three had been removed, Nolan reeled back his arm; the daddy longlegs ran around in a circle once before the young boy smashed it with his hand.

&nbs
p; Nolan pulled back his palm and was shocked to see that, despite being partially squashed, the spider was still making rapid little movements.

  “Dad, dad!” Nolan called. “Look!”

  Greg Fischer set down his newspaper, looked downward at his son’s catch with disappointment.

  “Why is it still moving?” Nolan asked. “I squashed it.”

  “It’s just nerves,” Greg Fischer said. “Why would you do such a thing, Nolan? What did that spider ever do to you?”

  Nolan felt his face flush red with embarrassment. He felt awful, not for killing the spider, but for the tone his father used to lecture him afterwards.

  What did it ever do to me?

  Nolan made a vow to never do something so senselessly cruel ever again….

  Beside him, on the floor of Andrew Fuller’s basement, Sergeant Fuller jerked back and forth. There’d be an occasional shallow breath, or the sudden kick of a leg, but Fuller wasn’t there.

  It’s just nerves, Nolan thought to himself.

  “How did…how did you do it?” Chloe called out. Her words were slurred. Fuller’s mystery drug had taken its toll.

  “I threw up,” Nolan said, “as soon as you went upstairs. I figure, the pill didn’t have a chance to digest. I still feel a little woozy, but not as weak as you. Not as weak as we felt last night.”

  “That crazy…fucker,” Chloe panted. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine. Are you okay?”

  Chloe shook her head. “As good as I’m gonna be.”

  “I love you, Chloe.”

  “I love you too, Nolan.” Chloe moaned, rolled over on her side on the couch. Her world was spinning. “We have to get out of here,” she mumbled.

  Nolan shook his head. “You can barely move. We can’t go anywhere yet. It’s too dangerous.”

  “As soon as I…can stand…I’ll uncuff you,” Chloe said, and she curled up into the pillows on the sofa, and fell asleep.

  Nolan relaxed onto the floor, shifted to the side of the support beam opposite of Fuller. The air stunk of loose change.