The Remaining

by D. J. Molles

  He put his hand on the wheel of the hatch but didn’t spin it. Slowly he leaned in and put his ear to the metal. The steel door was cold to the touch and smelled faintly like the inside of a warship—metallic and oily. The sound from the other side was complete, tomb-like silence.

  Lee withdrew his ear.

  He looked at Tango, who was watching him with what looked like suspicion.

  “Well, what do you think?”

  Tango smiled, wagged once, and sauntered forward so that he was standing at the door, facing it. Lee wondered if it was as tough for a dog to be indoors this long as it was for a human. He thought that it was probably worse, considering how excited dogs got about going outside. He supposed the dog truly missed being outdoors more than Lee did. To his credit, Tango was handling his misery very well.

  “Can’t hurt, I guess.” Lee rested his hand on the butt of his pistol. “Well, actually it can hurt a lot. We don’t really know what’s out there.”

  Somehow the concept of waiting to leave at the thirty-day mark, and then being snuffed out within hours of exiting the bunker seemed sickeningly ironic. It would be marginally better, then, if he were going to die upon exiting the bunker, that he should do it now, rather than wait another week in misery and loneliness.

  Maybe there are people outside. Maybe they’re good and maybe they’re bad. Maybe they need my help. Lee turned away from the door and walked back to the closet where all of his gear was still organized on the floor. At the moment he was wearing a pair of cargo pants and an old T-shirt. If he were to go outside, he would want to be wearing full PPE, in case things were worse than he expected.

  He dove into the closet and retrieved a duffel containing a fresh MOPP 4 suit. It was supposedly rated to protect against most biological, chemical, or nuclear agents. He was familiar with the getup from his time in Iraq. During the invasion of Iraq, anytime intel was received that hinted at WMDs being used, command would have everyone go to MOPP 4. He had spent many, many hours in that thing.

  Luckily, this one was new, unlike the one from Baghdad that smelled of old sweat and body odor. The smell never came out of those things. It was Lee’s theory that the charcoal lining sucked it up and kept it in there. Lee opened the duffel and pulled out the MOPP suit. Then he stood up. He grimaced. “You know what? This isn’t a good idea.” Tango tilted his head, ears forward. “You’re not gonna go anyway.” Lee waved him off.

  He thought for a long moment. Pros and cons of opening the bunker.

  First of all, he wasn’t leaving.

  Just opening the door, taking a quick peek out into the world. Recon. That’s all it was. And like any good special operations soldier, he needed recon in order to plan his mission effectively. Recon equals intelligence, equals good plans, equals victory.

  It was all very simple.

  He wasn’t even going to violate the protocol. Protocol stated not to leave the bunker until thirty days after his last transmission from command. He would not be leaving. He would be scouting out his area of insertion. Possibly clear it of any threats. Make sure that when he did leave the bunker at the appropriate time, it was smooth sailing. There was no directive that stated he couldn’t recon the area.

  Yeah… recon.

  “Okay.” Lee nodded to himself, then pointed at Tango. “But you have to stay here.”

  Tango couldn’t register the words, but he must have heard Lee’s tone and seen him point. He lowered himself to the ground, lying with his head up, curiously observing Lee as he readied himself. Boots went on first, a pair of Bates M-6 Desert Assault boots, which Lee swore by. After tying them snugly, he removed the thigh holster and set it on the back of the couch. He kicked his legs into the MOPP suit and then pulled his arms into it and zipped it up. He pulled on his gas mask and checked the seal. He put on his pistol belt, then attached his drop-leg to it and pulled the hood up over his head, making sure no skin was showing. Last on were his gloves.

  He breathed a couple of times with the gas mask on, got used to the feel of it. Then he walked to the hatch. He reached for the wheel, then thought better of it and returned to the closet, mumbling again to himself. “Can’t be too prepared…”

  He grabbed his go-to-hell pack and slung it over his shoulders. He snapped on the chest belt and pivoted his torso several times, then tightened the shoulder straps, then repeated the pivoting. Satisfied that the pack was secure on his person, he walked back to the door and grabbed the wheel with both hands.

  He looked at Tango, as though seeking approval.

  “Fuck it. I’m doin’ it.” He cranked the wheel hard to the left and broke the seal.

  CHAPTER 4

  Break Out

  Lee pushed the door out and it swung open on well-oiled hinges, not making a sound. He stood to the side of the doorway, half of his head peering into the gloomy tunnel beyond. In any case, he wanted to avoid backlighting himself in the doorframe if there were any hostiles. This was known as “avoiding the fatal funnel.”

  He doubted any hostiles had made it through his house, into the basement, and down into the tunnel that led underground to his bunker. His house was secured with steel doors and steel frames, and all of the windows were hurricane-rated glass, made to withstand severe impacts.

  Still, if someone were determined enough or saw the strategic value in his house, he or she could put the work in and find a way not only into the house but into the tunnel to his bunker. Part of him didn’t believe that it could be so bad out in the world that people would be looting houses, especially ones as fortified as his.

  But as he had once told a new lieutenant, fresh out of Officer Candidacy School and deployed to Iraq, Complacency kills. Paranoia is the reason I’m still alive.

  The tunnel before him was high enough to walk upright but lower than a normal ceiling. Dim emergency lights glowed at regular intervals on the walls, bathing the length of it in a dull red. The width of the tunnel was a few feet wider than the frame of the door. Just enough for two people to walk abreast of each other. The tunnel floor was at a visible incline for about fifty yards, at which point the incline grew steeper and the remainder of the tunnel was hidden from view.

  Lee visually inspected what he could of the tunnel and listened for almost a full minute before he was satisfied that there was no movement in the tunnel.

  He still proceeded with caution.

  He wasn’t sure at what point he had drawn it, but he realized that on reflex he had unholstered the MK23. He held it in a relaxed grip and kept it tucked close to his body. Moving quickly, he scooted through the doorframe and sidestepped to the left. Out of habit, he avoided the center of the tunnel but didn’t hug the wall. He moved heel to toe down the cement corridor. The heavy fabric of the MOPP suit swish-swashed with each step and Lee could have sworn the sound was echoing down the tunnel. The concept of stealth was canceled out when wearing the damn thing.

  With each step down the tunnel, a little more of its incline came into view. In the dim red light ahead, as he neared the point where the floor took its steep incline, he thought something moved.

  He stopped. There was no cover or even concealment in the long tunnel. He suddenly felt very exposed. If he wanted cover he would have to run back to his bunker. He wanted to look behind him to gauge the distance back to the bunker door but didn’t want to take his eyes off the tunnel ahead.

  Lee clenched his teeth and shot a quick look behind him. Down the tunnel he could see the oblong oval shape of the door to his bunker. The inside of his bunker was well lit compared to the tunnel and he could see the light pouring out, silhouetting the frame of Tango, still sitting obediently but attentively at the door.

  Tango was most definitely in the fatal funnel, but he didn’t seem to care. Lee faced forward again. The cold cement tunnel stretched out in front of him. Silent and still. The movement had been a trick of his eyes. Probably.

  He proceeded on.

  The tunnel ended in a set of short steel stairs that led up to a ci
rcular hatch with a locking wheel, similar to the one on the door to his bunker. The hatch appeared to be secure and could not be opened from the outside without significant efforts. Lee relaxed for a moment, taking the time to blink rapidly, testing the acuity of his natural night vision. It was nearly 1200 hours and would be broad daylight outside; however, the hatch was in the bottom of his basement, which he had left unlit and assumed was still dark. He didn’t want to use the light attached to the underside of his MK23 for fear it would draw attention. Recon was about stealth.

  He holstered his sidearm but didn’t clip the retention strap. He then climbed the five stairs to the hatch. He cranked the wheel to the left. The locks disengaged with only the slightest of metallic clanks, but the noise still made Lee cringe.

  He reached down and pulled his pistol out again as he slowly pushed the hatch open, clearing a few inches of space—just enough for him to peek out. Even with his eyes adjusted, the basement was too dark to see anything in detail. He took a long moment to listen for shuffling feet or rustling clothing. Anything that would tip him off to someone inside his basement.

  After another minute of listening, he felt satisfied and pushed the hatch all the way open. He swiveled and gave his surroundings a quick scan with the light on his MK23. He identified the usual occupants of his basement: the water heater, the freezer where he kept venison during deer-hunting season, the tool cabinet, the pile of boxes with Christmas decorations in them.

  Everything was quiet and undisturbed.

  He flicked off the light.

  Lee felt a wash of relief, his body relaxed from tension he hadn’t been aware he was holding. The sight of his belongings, all those normal, everyday things still sitting right where he left them, made it feel as though the world was the same one he had left more than a month ago. Whatever had happened could not be that bad if his light-up Santa statue was still lying in the basement, unharmed and collecting dust until next holiday season.

  Feeling more confident, Lee stepped out of the tunnel. He reached to close it behind him, paused, then pulled his hand back. The hatch lock was disengaged from the exterior by punching a code into a numbered keypad. While he didn’t want anyone slipping in behind him while he was out reconning, he also didn’t want to be screwing around with the keypad if he needed to beat a hasty retreat.

  If anyone slipped into the tunnel behind Lee’s back, Tango would discourage them from getting into the bunker.

  From where he knelt he could see up the basement stairs to the main portion of his house. The door at the top was closed, but he could see daylight illuminating the cracks, making it look like a large, glowing white frame hovering in midair.

  He made his way to the bottom of the stairs, keeping the pistol at low ready and keeping a sharp eye on the frame of light around the door, waiting for a flash of shadow to indicate movement on the other side.

  At the top of the stairs he repeated his stop-and-listen technique until he felt certain the house was empty. He opened the door and stepped through, quickly this time, checking right, then left… nothing.

  The basement door opened into the kitchen area. In front of him was a granite countertop that turned ninety degrees into a cooking area. Pans hung from the wall, cabinets were stacked with glasses and plates. The brown dishtowel with the white stripes still hung on the handle of the stainless oven. Everything was exactly where he had left it.

  Through the windows that surrounded the kitchen, he looked out into the wooded area around his house. The light from the outside world was so bright after a month in the bunker that it nearly sapped the color out of the greenery, making the leaves appear silver in the flashing sun. It was a shock not only to his eyes but to his mind. He realized that he had half expected some postapocalyptic world, where the trees were charred stumps jutting from the ground and the air was filled with soot.

  But this was simply his backyard.

  Lee hesitated for a moment. He could continue to clear his house and property, possibly get a better idea of what was going on, or he could return to his bunker and wait out the remaining days. Prudence told him he had pushed far enough and should go back… but now curiosity had taken hold and spurred him on.

  He turned left, facing the entryway to his living room. Over the top of the couch he could see through the windows that faced the front of his house and the yard beyond. His grass had grown surprisingly long and looked almost waist high. Large weeds had taken root in the cracks of his driveway and had grown to the height of small sapling trees. Amazing what nature could do if you left it alone for a month.

  Past the overgrown yard, Lee could barely see the tops of the split-log fence he’d installed along the front of his property the previous summer. A bit past the fence, Lee could just make out the two-lane blacktop of Morrison Street, shimmering in the noonday heat. He wasn’t in a neighborhood and the nearest house to his was about a tenth of a mile down the road.

  The Petersons.

  Jason Peterson was a cop and a good neighbor, as well as a friend to Lee. He’d helped Lee re-grade his backyard when water began building up after rainstorms and had displayed some prowess with a bobcat. He hunted with Lee on occasion, and when Lee couldn’t make it out to bag a deer, Jason always made sure to bring him several pounds of venison and some scraps for Tango.

  Lee clenched his jaw.

  There was a footpath that connected his backyard to the Petersons’. It would only take five minutes to skirt the edge of the property and take a look at his neighbors’ house to see how they had fared. He figured it would be a decent litmus test of how things were overall.

  Plus, it was the right thing to do. Even just gaining a vantage point on the Petersons’ house would allow him to gauge how bad things truly were. Obviously his own yard would be overgrown, since he had been living in The Hole for the past month. It was not necessarily indicative of how the rest of the world was going. If he saw the Petersons’ yard clean cut, then obviously things couldn’t be that bad.

  Lee stepped into the living room and swept left and right as he had in the kitchen. All was clear. His front door was still secured and none of his windows appeared broken or tampered with. He moved through the living room to the front door. The door was steel, but he had installed sidelights with the impact-resistant glass he’d used everywhere else in the house. He liked to be able to see who was knocking on his front door.

  This made him think about receiving packages from UPS and he wondered if that would ever occur again.

  He cupped a hand against the sidelight glass and peered through. Everything seemed very still. The blacktop in the distance shimmered in the July heat, and the waist-high stalks of grass in his front yard lilted motionless in the baking sun. Not a breeze to stir a blade of grass.

  Lee twisted the deadbolt and heard the cylinder disengage with a clack, making him flinch. It sounded like the loudest noise he’d heard in ages. He turned the doorknob, felt it catch and release from the doorframe. The weather stripping crackled as the long-sealed door finally separated and swung open.

  The heat of summer hit him in the face like steam from a boiling pot. It smelled like grass and pollen and baking concrete. The calls of cicadas, rising and falling, seemed overwhelmingly loud. The air seemed full of flying insects, flitting back and forth across his overgrown lawn. It felt as though nature was completely unaware of his existence, or the existence of any man.

  He stepped out onto the front porch and felt the heat and humidity blanket him. Without looking, he pulled the door quietly shut behind him. He walked to the edge of the three wooden steps from his porch to the concrete walkway that led to his driveway. The grass around his front porch appeared flat. Trampled.

  He took the steps, looking to his left, toward the footpath to the Petersons’. The next thing he knew he was falling, landing hard on the ground. He felt the concrete bounce the side of his face and the breath came out of him with a whoosh.

  He heard something shrill, like a woman shrieking.
Something had him by the leg. He tried to roll onto his back but felt an iron grip on his ankle, pulling his leg through the stairs into the shadows underneath. He flailed, kicking with his free leg, then bringing his heel down hard on whatever held him. He felt his boot hit something and then his ankle was free.

  He rolled onto his back, holding the pistol between his knees. Two pale, bony arms reached through the stairs, trying to grab at his feet. In the hand of one was a small knife, slashing the air repeatedly in an X pattern. He tried to kick the knife, but the arms retreated under the stairs again. He scooted backward and pulled his legs underneath him, trying to gain his feet. Something came out from behind the stairs, scuttling toward him on hands and knees, making noises that he couldn’t distinguish as words. Instinct told him to launch with his legs and he thrust himself backward, landing again on his back. His attacker seemed small but was moving fast.

  In the half second before it tried to stab him to death, he had the impression of a young girl wearing a smock or a loose white dress, with long, wild hair hanging down around her face.

  She reared up and swung down hard, planting the small knife in Lee’s left thigh. Lee let out a noise like a cough or a bark and shoved his pistol against the top of the girl’s chest and pulled the trigger.

  He felt the pressure of the blast on his face and watched the back of her gown burst out. He swung hard with his right knee, catching her in the jaw. She fell to the side, pulling the knife out of Lee’s thigh as she went. He was on his feet fast, despite the wound to his leg. He breathed rapidly, his chest burning as the gas mask restricted his airflow. Each inhale and exhale rattled the filter. He pointed his pistol straight out in front of him, finger on the trigger, and backpedaled toward the porch.

  The girl—fifteen years old was his best guess—was down but getting up. Even over the rattle of his own breath, Lee could hear the gurgling of her chest wound. “Stay the fuck down!” Lee yelled.