The Alt Apocalypse (Book 4): Affliction

by Abrahams, Tom

  Nick Smith yelled after him. His call was a collection of alternating commands, observations, and heavy breaths. “Stop. Whoever you are, it’s not worth it. Don’t run. You can’t get far. Stop!”

  Without looking over his shoulder to be sure, Danny knew they’d gained on him. His trip and near fall had cost him what little distance he had on the pursuing trio. He couldn’t tell if they had their weapons drawn.

  They were armed. They were soldiers, military police. They had to be armed. It was only a matter of time before they opened fire, right?

  Danny skirted the taut line and stake of another tent and spotted Maggie some fifteen yards ahead of him. She was headed somewhere with purpose. He hoped he could make it wherever that somewhere might be.

  Smith called after him again at the same moment Maggie turned left between two of the tents at the edge of the encampment. Instead of following her, he darted left parallel to her course and then cut behind the tents to find her.

  There was an eight-foot-high chain-link fence a few feet ahead. Maggie squatted and then squeezed underneath a tear folded back at one of the posts. Danny knew he couldn’t fit underneath it. Instead, he jumped and caught the fence with his gloved hands, much as the woman in the pen had done days earlier. The boots didn’t provide much help. They slipped and Danny was sure the trio would grab him by the legs and yank him to the ground.

  With what strength he had left, and the flexibility he’d earned through hours in the dojo, he managed to swing one leg up to the top of the fence and catch it in the coiled concertina wire. That gave him enough momentum to lift himself just out of their reach as they closed in on him.

  The wire snagged the suit, but didn’t cut through it enough to injure Danny. Wincing with expectation, he grabbed the fence just underneath the wire and heaved himself over it.

  He swung to the other side of the fence but caught on the wire. He hung there awkwardly on the opposite side of the fence, facing the three men who’d been chasing him.

  The wire, and its sharp blades, did cut his left hand. He was pretty sure one had nicked the back of his leg as well when he’d essentially tumbled over the top.

  Smith reached through the fence and grabbed a handful of the suit. He was seething. Danny could only partially see Smith, given his sideways position on the fence, but he could hear the angry frustration in the man’s voice.

  “We have orders to shoot you if necessary,” said Smith. “Is it necessary, Mr. Blake?”

  He stressed the word Blake as if he knew it was a pseudonym. He spat as he said it. It wasn’t intentional, Danny didn’t think. The man was nearly wheezing.

  Danny tried yanking himself from the wire. A blade cut deeper into his hand, and he grunted then sucked in air through his teeth. Sweat dripped into his eyes, and he tried blinking away the burn.

  The blood was beginning to rush to one side of his body, and his shoulder ached. It was supporting much of his weight as he hung from the wire. His hand was throbbing now. The burning sensation was pulsating. Warmth spread across his palm and between his fingers. The cut was bad. No doubt about it.

  “I asked you a question,” said Smith. His breathing was less labored. He puffed air through full cheeks and inhaled deeply through his nostrils. He’d turned his body so he could look directly into Danny’s reflective visor.

  “It’s not necessary,” said Danny.

  Still gripping a pluck of Danny’s suit, Smith glanced at one of the two MPs and motioned toward the hole in the fence. “Can you fit under there?”

  The soldier frowned but dropped to the ground and tried squeezing through the opening. It wasn’t wide enough. “Can’t do it,” he said.

  “Cut it wider,” ordered Smith.

  “With what?”

  Smith grunted. Then he cursed. “Go around. Find a way past this fence and get to the other side. Take Bustello with you.”

  The two MPs exchanged looks, acknowledged Smith with a nod, and started jogging along the fence line to search for an opening. A third MP appeared at Smith’s shoulder. He was out of breath, the knees of his uniform were soiled, and a streak of road rash ran along the side of his face. It was freckled with spots of blood and was beginning to bruise at his cheek.

  He was breathing hard and bent over at his waist. “I’m here,” he said through ragged breaths. “Got tripped up by that cart. Think I twisted my—”

  “Not interested,” said Smith. “We’ll take a look at your injuries after this is finished. Can you help me now or not? What’s your name?”

  “Francis.” The soldier wiped his palms on the side of his uniform. The motion left dark brown smears on the digital camouflage print that blended with the desert-colored fabric.

  “I sent Abbott and Bustello that way,” said Smith. “You go that way and try to find a way around the fence. We need to drag this guy, whoever he is, back to command. We can’t have him running around aimlessly. It’s too big a threat.”

  If he hadn’t been hanging by razor wire in an overheating Tyvek suit, Danny would have laughed at that characterization. A threat? That was laughable.

  Danny was a loner, a divorced loner whose wife left him for a wealthier man. He was a fry cook with endless debt and barely enough money for streaming service and a prepaid cell phone. His apartment, what passed for an apartment, was a dingy, water-stained, popcorn-ceilinged relic that shouldn’t have survived the last four-point-two tremor that had rattled the windows a month earlier. Plus, as much time as he’d spent at the dojo, he wasn’t any better at karate than some of the talented middle-schoolers who’d slyly wink at him when they’d outperform him. Danny wasn’t a threat to anyone or anything. He wasn’t sick, and he surely wasn’t dangerous by any measure.

  His dog, however, was a different story. Maggie was the threat. She’d proven she could defend herself and attack when provoked.

  Come to think of it, where was she? Where was Maggie? Danny twisted his head around without trying to shift his weight. He failed, and another deep burn exploded in his palm. He was going to need stitches and a tetanus shot. But the chances of getting either were unlikely whether or not he escaped from Cal Guard for the third time since the bacterial outbreak. He winced against the pain and suppressed a grunt. His eyes scanned the sideways world behind him.

  Maggie was watching him intently. She’d moved toward the fence and was twenty feet from Danny. She was whimpering at him in between prodding half-barks that signaled her impatience. She’d glance at the empty street and then at him. She wanted to go. She was imploring him to get unstuck and follow her lead. The dog shifted her weight on her front paws, from one to the other and back.

  Danny did too. But the more he yanked at the concertina wire, the more entangled his suit became, and the more damage he did to his hand. He jerked away again and managed to drop a couple of inches, but it twisted his body into a more uncomfortable position. It was like he was in some sadistic version of the old game Twister his parents had told him about.

  As Francis hobbled as quickly as he could alongside the fence in the opposite direction of the other two MPs, Smith turned his attention back to Danny. He let go of the fabric, perhaps realizing Danny was stuck there whether or not he held onto an inconsequential amount of Tyvek suit through the chain link.

  “What’s your real name?” said Smith. “Don’t tell me it’s Russell Blake. There’s no Blake, at least not one with the first name Russell, in the entirety of the guard. There certainly isn’t one in the fortieth battalion, C Company, out of Manhattan Beach. Nice try though. You had me for a half second.”

  Danny didn’t say anything. He was focusing on the pain in his hand. He was pretty certain a blade was stuck in his palm. If he moved the wrong way, it would tear through his hand and slice it wide open. His heart was pounding so heavily against his chest he could hear it in his helmet. The indicator display told him the auto filter had about forty-five minutes left of air. He’d burned through a lot of it by running and breathing hard. This time,
though, Danny wasn’t worried about the time remaining on the filter indicator. He’d be long out of the suit in forty-five minutes one way or the other.

  “You might as well tell me who you are,” said Smith. “It’ll make things easier once we get you back.”

  “How do you know I’m not Cal Guard Army reservist Russell Blake?” Danny asked, admitting the ruse but not giving up anything new.

  “It was obvious from the moment we put you in the back of the transport,” said Smith. “But you weren’t sick, you weren’t an immediate threat given your unconsciousness, so with my superior’s permission, I brought you to a solitary field tent, where I could find out exactly who you are and what it is you’re doing.”

  “I’m not doing anything,” said Danny, “except hanging around against my will.”

  The edges of Smith’s mouth twitched, but he didn’t smile. He pressed his face against the fence and positioned it so Danny could see him. He looked straight into the reflective mask.

  “I’m an average Joe,” Danny said. “Nothing special about me.”

  “You’re hiding something,” he said. “You’re working for somebody. You’re not an average Joe. An average Joe doesn’t do what you did. An average Joe doesn’t get that far into a secured area wearing a stolen Tyvek suit. There’s nothing average about you.”

  “Tell my ex that,” said Danny.

  He wasn’t sure from where his defiance had grown. How had he gained the strength, the wherewithal, the guile to do what he’d done and, up until this very moment, avoid detention in one of the state’s secure facilities? Maybe this guy Smith was right? Maybe his ex was wrong.

  “Tell me what you’re doing now,” said Smith, “and I promise I’ll put in a good word for you. You’ll get special treatment if I can arrange it.”

  A shift in his tone to signal a change in his approach. He was now a one-man good cop/bad cop, tough one second and sympathetic the next. He wasn’t very good at it.

  Danny told him the truth. “I’m not doing anything,” he admitted. “I’m trying to stay away from whatever secure facilities you people are running. I want to go home. I want to be with my dog. I want to sleep in my bed. I want to watch the news on my TV.”

  Smith’s eyes stayed fixed on Danny’s visor. He was listening, Danny could tell. He was soaking it in and trying to determine if he should buy what Danny was selling.

  He didn’t. “Okay.” He shook his head. “Have it your way. My men will be here in a minute, and you’ll be going back with us for what I’m sure will be an unpleasant debriefing.”

  Danny shifted his hand, and he felt the edge of the blade embedded in his palm for the first time. He winced, biting his lip as he moved his hand in the direction that he hoped would free it from the razor wire. His side and leg were still caught in wire that had uncoiled and was dangling from the top of the fence. Danny was maybe three feet from the ground now, but stuck nonetheless.

  Maggie inched closer. She whimpered, gurgled something akin to a grumble, and barked. Danny was angled now such that he couldn’t see her.

  “It’s okay, girl,” he said. “It’s okay.”

  “You know she can’t come with you,” said Smith. “We have no provisions for pets.”

  For the first time since he’d been forced from his home, anger swelled within Danny. It was visceral, coming without any warning, and nearly exploded from him. The tightening of his muscles only exacerbated the discomfort and stinging pain. His head throbbed while other parts of his body were beginning to tingle with the early stages of numbness. It was too much, and now this man who didn’t even know his name was telling him that he couldn’t keep Maggie.

  “Why are you doing this?” Danny snapped. “I’m not a criminal. I haven’t done anything wrong. You have no right to—”

  “Stop it,” said Smith. He eyed Danny with renewed intensity. He surveyed the tangled mess of suit and man hanging along a fence line. Danny couldn’t see his face anymore, but he could hear his voice. “We’re trying to keep people alive. This disease, this TBE, is mean. Its infection rate is absurd. It’s transmitted in the air, by active and latent contact. It’s horrible.”

  “I’m not sick,” Danny said. “Neither is my dog.”

  “We’re around the fence,” came the distant echo of either Bustello or Abbott’s proclamation. “We’re coming.”

  Danny tugged at the wire with a renewed sense of urgency. He dropped another inch. His hip twisted uncomfortably. He tried looking behind him to gauge how long he had. He couldn’t see them.

  “We didn’t ask for this job, Russell,” said Smith. “And we’re not the enemy. But if we ignored random civilians who stole hazmat suits, gained access to places they shouldn’t be, and then run off after being nursed back to consciousness, we’d be derelict. We would be the bad guys.”

  “Be there in a minute.” Another call from the MPs. It was louder. They were close now.

  Danny kicked his leg out, trying to tear it away from the constrictive razor wire. The fabric tore and his leg shifted. It dropped him awkwardly another few inches.

  “You have to ask yourself the purpose of your government before thinking our intentions are bad or conspiratorial or rights-restricting,” Smith said.

  Danny was half listening now. He didn’t want the lecture whether Smith was right or not. He wanted out. He wanted down that road and on the beach. With his free hand, he reached up and grabbed at a piece of fabric caught on the wire. He yanked on it, slicing his arm but freeing his leg. He half somersaulted to the ground. His heels slid against the backs of the boots as they planted firmly beneath him. It was just his hand now. That was all that kept him from freedom. It was virtually numb at the surface. He couldn’t feel it well enough to pull it free. All of the pain was deep within his hand.

  His mask was fogged with the perspiration that was collecting along the inside of the face shield. Blood resettled in places from which it had drained, and he wobbled. He was almost weightless and then heavy again. The blade dug into his hand.

  Smith wasn’t lecturing anymore. At least, he wasn’t lecturing Danny. His elevated voice, rife with an unusual combination of exasperation and anxiety, called out for action. “Move now,” he said. “Shoot at will. Do not let him get away.”

  Shoot?

  Danny was still stuck to the fence. Why would anyone shoot him? Weren’t they taking him back for an interrogation? What had changed? He almost protested then understood the unfolding situation.

  He turned, squinting through the haze of condensation and sweat on his visor, and saw the two MPs only twenty feet from him now. They were stopped, their arms extended in front of them, their hands palms out, as if staving off an impending attack. Neither of them had his hand on his weapon.

  Danny swung his body and saw Maggie squared and ready to pounce on either or both of them. Her teeth were bared. She was growling a warning that neither man should move.

  “If you don’t stop that dog,” said Smith, “I will.”

  “I’m not shooting a dog,” said Abbott.

  “Me neither,” said Bustello, shaking his head. “It looks like mine.”

  “If I go for my gun, that thing is gonna pounce,” Abbot said. “I’m not dying in a dogfight.”

  Smith cursed both of them. “Neither of you is worth your uniform.”

  Danny swung back, the blade twisting in his hand, and cried out in pain when he saw Smith remove his sidearm from his hip. Running his thumb along the side, he placed his finger on the trigger guard. He had it aimed at Maggie, yet when he spoke, it was directed at Danny.

  “Tell your dog to stand down. Get her to sit, or obey, or whatever it is you need to do to back her off the ledge. You’ve got three seconds and then I do it for you.”

  What was it with countdowns and Cal Guard? Was everything an ultimatum with these guys?

  Danny called out to Maggie as he jostled his hand, trying to pull it free of the embedded blade. He spoke softly through his teeth, trying to
ignore the pain that had become unbearable. He wondered if maybe he was going into shock.

  “Hey, girl,” he said. “Sit. You hear me? Sit.”

  Maggie licked her chops. She glanced away from her targets and eyed Danny for a moment. She stopped growling. Then she yawned and repositioned herself closer to Danny but still within reach of the MPs if they made a sudden move. Then Maggie’s attention shifted past Danny. Her ears pricked.

  “I made it,” said an unfamiliar voice joining the standoff. “I—”

  It was Francis, who’d returned from his voyage around the fence. He was favoring one leg as he stood there with his hands on his hips, nearly frozen. His wide eyes danced from Smith’s nine millimeter, to the dog, to the MPs, to Danny, and back to the gun.

  “Thanks,” Smith said without taking his eyes off Danny. “Since you’re closer to our friend here, help him from the fence. He’s stuck.”

  He kept the weapon leveled at Maggie while Francis obeyed. He inched slowly, one limping step after the other, to Danny’s side. Maybe it was his lameness, his other injuries, or something else that Maggie sensed, but she didn’t appear threatened by him. Her squared body, still ready to spring despite the lack of open, audible aggression, was fixated on the other MPs.

  Francis tried not to look Danny in the eyes as he worked to remove his hand from the concertina wire. He pulled a utility blade from his pocket and sliced through the Tyvek from Danny’s elbow up to the back of his hand. Then he peeled away the material and exposed the gore underneath.

  Danny nearly fainted when he saw the amount of blood staining his arm and hand. His knees weakened. Maggie whimpered as if she sensed it and moved next to him. She sniffed his legs and then curled around him to face the MPs. She growled at them and held her hind end against Danny, pressing it against him.

  “Stand as still as possible,” Francis warned, which was a task for Danny. Francis wrapped the piece of removed Tyvek around his own hand and gripped Danny’s wrist, while at the same time using his wrapped hand to grab the wire.