by B. T. Wright
9
Again, there was noise in the distance. This time gunfire. The noise reverberated through the canyon, then carried into the stadium. Hunt realized after each shot, the infected in front of her would momentarily stall. She couldn’t take her eyes away or help but wonder why they would cease coming toward her. Were they connected somehow? Did they feel? Or maybe they could sense when one of their own was in trouble and were being called to the hive for support.
But as she ran and watched the infected, she quickly realized they weren’t going to take their eyes off the prize for long. The infected woman adjusted her gaze, and a shiver coursed through Hunt when she saw the coal black of her eyes.
Up ahead was another gate. She wished to take it, but where would it lead? She didn’t know the stadium well enough to know. It could lead her into a trap, deep within the cavity of the stadium where many more infected could’ve been hiding. But she couldn’t think about that. It was not like she could outlast the ones who currently gave chase, not around the entire stadium.
Running for the corridor, Hunt pushed through the entry of the section, stopping only to glance left, then right as she ducked into the belly of the stadium. She scanned the area and saw nothing but the cement columns that held up the structure. They were thick, thick enough to hide behind, and her mind went crazy at the thought of multiple infected who could be lurking there.
As she whipped her head around, catching her bearings, a sign came into her view:
USAF Falcon Locker Room
There’s gotta be a place to hide in there. But if she followed that path under the stadium and into the locker room, she was unlikely to find another way out. Typically, locker rooms led to only one other exit—field level.
And again, there was the risk of more infected being locked inside. Coaches. Players. Who knew where they had been when Armageddon struck?
But a shriek from behind encouraged her onward. Without turning, knowing an infected was close, and most likely communicating with another, she sprinted for the double doors and pushed the handle down. To her surprise the door clicked open, and she stepped inside, but stopped walking instantly.
Inside the hallway, she clung tight to the door so it would close softly and not alert the infected of her position. She was surprised to see a stack of tackling dummies at her feet. Each had to weigh upwards of 100 pounds. They were pushed tight against the opposite wall. Lucky for her, they weren’t flush against the door. She reached down and grabbed for one, but she couldn’t make it budge. Damnit! She kicked the bag with her shoe.
The other peculiarity was the presence of an orange extension cord. The cord had been fed under the door and pushed tight against the wall. It ran deep into the locker room.
She followed the cord with her eyes until they met the royal blue walls, which seemed to stretch for miles as she peered down the hallway. Her first step was light and quiet. She made herself flat against the wall, listening intently for the heavy breathing she’d been accustomed to hearing over the previous three days.
There was none. But that didn’t mean she was out of danger. Far from it. At the end of the long hall was a giant A, and slightly below, an F. When she turned the corner, she found the mascot—a falcon—that stared into the center of the room.
As she proceeded, a smell drifted into her nostrils. Not a smell she had expected in a men’s locker room—not sweat stained jerseys, socks, pads and helmets—no, this smell was rotten. Spoiled, like food that had been left out too long. Hunt lifted her shirt and rested the cotton over her nose and mouth to block out the nasty stench.
Soon the hallway would end. When it did, Hunt lowered her shirt, held her breath, and leaned her torso forward, getting a better vantage point of the center of the room. A giant circle was carved into the ceiling to highlight the A and F stamped onto the carpeted floor. As she stared at the floor, she imagined, the entire team gathered in the center on game day, coming together in a war cry before taking the field of battle against their rival. However true her imagination might have been, the routine of College Football Saturday could only be a distant memory.
Following the curvature of the wall that jutted out at a ninety-degree angle, Hunt hid behind the twelve inches of space and once again searched for any sign of infected.
Leaning, then turning her head to the right, she saw something. A cluster of flies swarming over a box of food. The foul food was sitting on a table in the middle of the room. It could only have been the game day meal left behind.
At the sight of the spoiled food, bile rose in her gut, and Hunt dry heaved, but held back what she had inside. She adjusted her shirt again, closing her eyes to keep the nastiness out of her mind.
Turning the corner of the ninety-degree angle, Hunt stuck to the wall like glue and ducked under a large screen on which she imagined the team could watch game film, or something else to get them pumped up to take the field.
When Hunt reached the first set of lockers, she quickly dropped to her knees. Each one of the lockers was also a seat, and beneath the seat was storage. A safe locker the men could use for personal belongings. If she was lucky, maybe something had been left behind. Water. Food. Anything.
She reached down and lifted the hatch upward but paused as it rose only two inches. The squeak echoed in the room. Subconsciously, she closed her eyes and set the door down lightly. She waited, kneeling on the floor with her eyes stuck shut. If an infected was inside the room, surely they would have heard the noise and would likely attack her any moment. And if that happened, she didn’t want to see it coming.
After what seemed like an hour—but was only thirty seconds—Hunt opened her eyes and let go of the breath she held inside and lifted the hatch, this time forcing it open fast to abbreviate the muffled screech.
Her shoulders fell.
The cavity was empty.
Lucky for her, there were more lockers. Many more to search. After making it through the first row, she’d found a half-eaten Clif Bar and an unopened bottle of warm water.
She scarfed down the bar in three bites, then emptied the water in one guzzle. After searching each of the other lockers, there was nothing more than a few scraps of food. Broken granola bars, a few shards of beef jerky, and some crushed Pringles in a plastic baggie. She did her best to angle the baggie upward and dump what was left into her open mouth, but there wasn’t much more than a taste.
She chucked the baggie down, then considered searching the locker room again. To her left was another room. She stared at the placard on the wall and saw the name, then stumbled over something on the ground. The extension cord lead under the door and directly into the office of Head Coach: Jerry Logan
She approached the door slowly. She didn’t know why, maybe it was out of instinct. The door was cracked open when she reached for it. Pushing inward, she stalled for a moment before entering because she noticed faint light slicing through.
Generators? she thought. Out here?
Quickly, she scanned the interior of the office. There was a large oversized desk that protruded perpendicular from the cabinets stacked against the wall. But the peculiar thing was though the desk wasn’t disheveled, or dirty. This desk was clean. She didn’t linger on the cleanliness long, but rather turned her attention to the floor.
Bingo.
A mini fridge was stacked against the wall, precisely where the extension cord led. She bent at her knees and reached for the door. When it swung open, she was met with cold air.
Three bottles of water were the first things she saw. She reached in and grabbed them, then turned around and set them on the desk behind her. She dived back in to see a half-eaten loaf of bread. Next to it jelly. And then out of the corner of her eye she saw a jar of peanut butter sitting on the floor.
Sweet. She thought she’d hit the motherload, but there was something else she didn’t expect to find. Three vials. She squinted and picked up the jar to read its contents.
Beritrix. What the hell?
; As she read, a noise from behind her caused her to jump in fear. Someone was there, waiting to devour her. She expected them to inch closer. Maybe she could shove her fist into their throat. Her eyes danced around the room for anything to use as a weapon. The only thing was a collection of plastic silverware, no doubt to spread the peanut butter and jelly.
“I . . . I didn’t think there was anyone else left,” a man’s voice said.
She shot up from her knees and spun around. A wide smile grew on her face at the sight of another human. She didn’t even hesitate to lunge for him. She wrapped her arms tight around his neck, not knowing him from Adam.
When she pushed out of the hug, she said, “Coach Logan, I assume?”
“That’s right. And who are you?”
“My name is Cassandra Hunt.”
The color in Coach Logan’s face still hadn’t returned, but had the wherewithal to ask, “How are you still alive?”
“By taking Beritrix. I assume you have WD17?”
“That’s right.”
“It’s the only thing that protects us from becoming . . . one of them.”
“How do you know that?”
“Are you taking it still?”
“Well, yeah, my entire life.”
“There you have it. That’s why you’re not one of those mindless machines out there.”
“Right, but how do you know that’s the reason?”
“I—I read it on a classified document.”
“Huh.” Coach Logan nodded, then sat down to feel the warmth of something comfortable.
“Have you been in here the entire time?” Hunt said.
“Almost.”
“What do you mean almost?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.” His words were curt. “Aside from my house, this is the only other place that felt like home to me. Maybe more so with the hours I put in.”
“What about the players? The other coaches?”
“Practice had just ended when all this started. Most guys went home. I did too. I saw my wife and kids—” His face turned sheepish, like he wanted to say more but couldn’t. “Then I came back, and I found Jason.”
“Who’s Jason?”
“My assis—well, what used to be my assistant. He attacked me.”
“What did you do?”
Again, he stalled. Like he was ashamed of his next words. “I . . . I grabbed a helmet. I had to hit him numerous times. It was the only way to stop him from attacking me.”
“I’m sorry.” Hunt’s face fell. “I’ve had my own share of run-ins with some of my own friends as well.”
“What’s it like out there? Haven’t been out since that day. It’s quiet in here and not easy to get into.”
“I saw that. You have all those pad thingies by the door.”
“Those are tackling dummies.”
“I tried to push them behind the door. To block the infected out.”
“Don’t worry, I restacked them when I returned. I needed more bread. Found this from the concession stand.” He laid the bread on the desk.
“Sweet,” she said. “I’m starving.”
“So, what’s it like?”
She lifted her eyes off the bread. “There’s danger around every corner. But I’m surviving.”
“You sure are.”
“You sound surprised,” Hunt said.
“Oh, no, I didn’t mean it like that. I just know I could never handle it by myself. I envy you.”
She nodded, then felt her stomach turn. It ached to be filled. It whined loud enough to hear in the room.
“Sounds like you’re a bit hungry.”
“Do you mind?” Hunt nodded to the refrigerator.
“Not at all.”
She walked around the opposite side of the desk, bent down and opened the fridge to grab the peanut butter and jelly.
As she reached inside, Coach Logan spoke. “On second thought, why don’t you make me one too? It’s been a while since I’ve dined with someone. I know it’s not steak or chicken, but it sure as hell beats going hungry.”
10
Droplets of water began to pool on Colt’s eyelids as he ran. He brought his left hand to his eyes and wiped the rain away. His vision was cloudy as he bounced up and down with every push of his leg on the slippery earth.
Academy Drive was fast approaching, and the instant Bald’s foot caught the asphalt, he charged east, away from the rising foothills and the cover of the trees.
What the hell is he doing? Colt thought. He wished to yell at him—to tell him to get off the road—but perhaps this was the only way.
He continued sprinting, but the farther he ran, the more sure Colt became that the infected would see them, especially out in the open. Just as Colt was going to say something, they came to another road, one that went north.
Bald veered that direction but didn’t follow the road, instead he pushed through the grass toward what looked like a construction site. Mounds of dirt were stacked high next to a bulldozer. Of course, the bulldozer was unmanned, and the current project would go unfinished. There were hundreds of feet of uprooted grass and plowed topsoil that was now utterly useless.
Colt turned to his right as they ran. A building was there. Again, he wanted to stop. Maybe to look inside? Search for supplies? But he didn’t act. He followed Bald, because he knew best. Eventually, Bald would lead them to a building of importance.
The construction site was large and open, spanning at least two football fields long. Colt’s chest heaved, and his lungs ached. Mentally, he already had his hands on his head, sucking in air, or maybe was bent at the waist with his hands on his knees. But the more he wished to stop, the more he thought of his boys. They had to be tired too, but they didn’t show signs of it. Perhaps they were spurred by fear, or by the desire to find safety.
At the end of the open dirt field was another path that ran north. Colt followed the trees stacked on both sides. Perfect, he thought, but as they turned, Bald ceased running and held up a closed fist. Bald had seen or heard something, there was no questioning it. Colt gripped his rifle tight, never taking his finger off the trigger. His eyes moved to the trees on the right first. They were thick, but not as dense as the sagebrush that lined the path as well. There was rustling inside the wall of shrubbery, but neither Colt nor anyone else in the party could decipher the reason for the movement.
Maybe it was the dropping rain, or perhaps the wind that moved the plant. But Colt didn’t want to leave it chance. He was ready to fire at the first sign of an infected.
A trap? They’ve set another trap. He couldn’t be certain, but deep in his belly, it sure felt like that was the case.
Bald waited only another moment. Yet there was nothing. Then he proceeded slowly. But Colt knew if they went further, they’d come to another section of woods that did not offer useful sightlines. They had little choice—it was either walk the path or take their chances on the open road. The more he thought, taking the road might be the right course of action. At least they’d be out in the open and able to see the enemy approaching. This . . . this seemed like walking into a lion’s den with no escape, again.
Colt couldn’t take his eye off the wall of trees. The path wasn’t wide either. Maybe only twenty feet separated the two tree lines. But then Colt looked ahead, peering over Bald’s head. A clearing was near.
Thank God!
But a rustling from his right shook Colt from his thoughts. Immediately, he swung his rifle toward the sound. Colt was a hunter, always had been. His daddy had taught him never to shoot at anything unless there was a target. The rustling grew louder as the sage rattled. Colt’s heart rate sped and sweat appeared on his brow. He mounted the stock of his rifle to his shoulder, expecting to see an infected person at any moment. But what showed itself in that moment was something Colt didn’t expect to see.
A mule deer. A buck, with antlers protruding from the top of its head. Not a full rack, since they hadn’t grown all the way in yet, but there
all the same. When the buck saw Colt, it stopped, ceaselessly chewing what was left of the sage in his mouth. The animal wasn’t startled—he didn’t retreat. The deer and Colt shared a moment. On any given day—a day beyond the apocalypse—Colt would’ve appreciated this brush with nature. But he couldn’t continue to witness God’s creation, not then, because at the sound of a shriek, the deer shuddered, and disappeared.
“Contact!” Bald yelled. “Twelve o’clock.”
The sound of Bald’s gunfire brought Colt back to reality. His head whipped around, as he tried to lock onto another target, but there was none to be had.
Colt leaned into the path and around his boys and the vice president to see the lone infected laying at Bald’s feet. Bald stepped over the infected and proceeded forward, out of the path and into a sea of green grass.
The single-file line of men spread apart and became a cluster once their feet met the tee box of the golf hole. The hole itself was a dogleg to the left. Colt couldn’t see the green, from his position, but then Bald spoke. “I say we stick to the right side of the fairway.” Each man watched as Bald did his best to point the way. “If we do that, we’ll keep at least one hole between us and the main road. And if I remember right, there’s a dirt road—like a golf cart path—behind this green that will lead us all the way home to the academy.”
The rain stopped falling, and Bald walked along at a slower pace. Colt and the remainder of the group followed close and were on heightened alert for the first sign of movement. There was no way only one infected was hunting them.
After walking 100 yards out, they finally reached the rough—the grass that was cut longer than the fairway. Colt stared forward. He could see another opening, a pathway to another hole. There was no tree coverage at all. It was then that Wesley, turned to him and said, “Dad, I have to pee.”
Colt sighed and shooed his comment away. “Not now, buddy, we need to keep moving.”
