by Bobby Adair
Martin immediately struggled to push me away and get his feet beneath him. I elbowed him hard across his temple, and Martin's eyes rolled back in his head. With him dazed, I pushed him on his belly and put a knee between his shoulder blades. I took my roll of tape and sealed a strip over his mouth before unwinding the roll and wrapping it around his head several times.
Martin had come back to his senses by the time I finished, and was turning his head to try and see me.
I was feeling like an asshole because I’d let my concern over Murphy turn into anger, which turned into an elbow in Martin’s head when I could have just pushed him over and sat on him. I got off his back and told him, “Sit up.”
Martin struggled to get back into a sitting position.
I picked up my machete and leaned in close. "I've got some things to do. While I'm doing them, you're going to sit here, still and quiet. If I hear one sound out of you, I'll assume you're a liar, and we're not on the same side. You know what happens then, right?"
Martin’s eyes were on my machete as he nodded.
"Good.” I crossed the room to an interior wall. A neighboring office had to be on the other side. I ran my fingers across the texture and paint and rapped gently on it with my knuckles. Just as I suspected, sheetrock, not cinderblock.
I put myself in position in front of the wall with one hand on my machete's handle and the other on the dull side of the blade near the tip and started to dig, pushing and wiggling the tip of the blade back and forth. I was going to get through the wall, I had no doubt about that. I didn't mind getting through slowly because my most important need at the moment was to do it quietly.
Still, it went quickly. Sheetrock simply isn't that durable. In a few minutes, I'd made a hole large enough to allow me to squeeze between the two-by-fours. Unfortunately, the room I found myself in was not large, the door leading to the hallway had no window, and it opened into the hall at a place in the wall that had to be less than five feet from the door to the office where Martin sat imprisoned.
I guessed that the ambushers waiting for me had to be farther down the hall. If I was going to get behind them, I needed to go through a few more walls, but that would put me farther and farther from Martin.
I stuck my head back into Martin’s office and made sure he saw me watching him before I pulled back through. I went to work on the far wall with my machete.
Chapter 7
After cutting through sheetrock to get into the fourth office since leaving Martin, I figured I'd gone far enough. The flaw in my plan that hadn't occurred to me until I was standing behind that office's door was that if I were an ambusher waiting for someone to come out of a door down the hall, I wouldn't be standing in the hall, I'd be partially concealed in a doorway for cover, which meant I should have run into one or two of them when I came through the wall.
That got me worried. Would I have to work my way all the way down to the other end of the building? And if I did, why wouldn't the knucklehead taking cover in the office doorway not just shoot me when I started to break through the wall?
Then again, the guys I was dealing with were Survivor Army types, not bright. Maybe they were all outside, lined up across the hall. Hell, maybe they’d all grown bored while waiting for their ambush to develop and they’d fallen asleep.
Or the most likely scenario? It was all in my mind. I was getting worked up because I was stuck babysitting Martin when I should have been out killing White shitheads and searching for Murphy.
I crossed the office to the door. I quietly turned the knob and shoved the door open just enough to get a peek into the hall.
Nothing out of the ordinary.
Sure, there were papers on the floor, a few rolling chairs, some shattered computers, and the remnants of a desk, but nothing that looked out of the ordinary considering the end of the world and all.
I was disappointed and a little bit angry. The absence of ambushers meant my guess was wrong. Or at least, it was wrong for the moment. I was still stuck with not knowing whether Martin was a good guy or a bad guy. I wasn't any closer to knowing Murphy's fate. I'd wasted too much time digging through flimsy walls while Murphy was still out there, perhaps waiting for me to come to his aid.
Dammit.
I pushed the door open, wanting to slam it against the outside wall to vent some frustration, but the damper attached at the top edge slowed the door and left it hanging open and creeping back to closed.
Double damn.
I looked up and down the hall and saw nothing moving. Fuck it. I was spoiling for a fight. “Hey.”
Nothing responded to my call. So, I tried again. “Hey.”
Nothing.
No ambush.
I walked up the hall to get back to my corner office, rolling all the possibilities over in my mind. Mostly, I needed to decide what to do with Martin while I went out to find Murphy. Could I leave him restrained? That might be a death sentence with so many of the naked horde still around. It was unlikely they’d pass up on an easy meal even if Martin were a white-skinned survivor.
Taking him with me brought along a whole host of risks, but mostly for Martin. If some Whites decided he looked slow and scrumptious, there'd be little I could do to save him.
I shoved the office door open, expecting to see Martin sitting against the wall beneath the far windows where I’d left him. What I saw instead was a long strip of crumpled tape and loose wire.
About the time I was wondering where he’d disappeared to, Martin body-slammed me from the side and knocked me into the doorjamb.
“Dammit!” My machete clattered to the floor as I fell with Martin’s bulk coming over on top of me.
He punched me in the ribs, mustering all the strength his withered old muscles had left. Not enough, too bad for him. He rolled around on top of me, letting the weight of his big belly do the work of keeping me pinned down while he tried to position himself to put a fist in my face.
As I struggled to get from underneath him, I was irritated—creeped-out at the feel of a doughy old man sweating all over me. "Dammit, Martin."
He tried to hit me in the face with a blow that glanced off my cheek.
I elbowed him in the head two times before I dazed him enough to subdue him. I pulled myself out from underneath and grabbed my machete. I looked out the open door to get a glimpse down the hall.
Noise echoed from one of the floors below. Something in the building had heard us and was coming.
Martin got up on his hands and knees.
I muttered, “Whites.” I wanted to kick Martin in the face and run into the stairwell across the hall.
Martin stuck his head out of the office and looked.
Judging by the noise, more than one White was coming. Three to five was my guess. I looked down at Martin. “You woke them. I hope you were lying about how fast you can run.”
Martin stared into the dimness at the far end of the hall. “I told you I can barely run at all.”
"You should have thought about that before you figured Sumo wrestling me to the ground was going to save your life.” It was a merciless, mean thing to say, but I was pissed. "I'm going."
“Where?” Martin got to his feet.
I crossed the hall and grabbed the handle on the stairwell door. "I'm going to try this way. Come if you want. I'm not in the mood to save your ass, so you better keep up."
“Keep up?” Martin was confused. “I thought you were going to kill me.”
"I haven't decided, but if you stay here, I won't have to.” I swung the door open and stepped into the stairwell, noticing immediately a White slinking up toward me.
Sneaky motherfucker!
The White’s eyes went wide as surprise worked its way through its slow brain. The White snarled and bounded up the stairs.
Too bad. I was already three thoughts ahead of him. “Sorry buddy.” I stepped into a ferocious machete swing full of Martin-borne frustration and sent a huge section of the White's skull spinning against the wall and
then rolling down the stairs. The White’s body slapped the smooth concrete floor at my feet.
“Are there more?” Martin whispered from a few feet behind.
Why waste the energy on an answer he could figure out himself? I motioned him toward the stairs and cautiously stepped over the White's twitching body. I peeked down through the gap between the alternating flights and saw only blackness. I heard nothing down there. I turned to Martin and whispered, "You gotta stay quiet. If we get trapped in here, we're fucked. Or I'll pretend I'm on their side so you'll be fucked all by yourself. I'm not dying to save your ass. You got me?"
“We’re white-skinned,” Martin whispered. “They’ll leave us alone, mostly, right?”
“Not these naked fuckers.” I headed down. “You saw what they did to your buddies, right?”
Martin nodded without a word and followed after me. At the first landing, as I made my turn to go down the next flight of stairs, Martin grabbed my arm and brought me to a halt.
“Help me.” He was dead serious. No defiance. No humility. “You know I fly helicopters. Save me and I can take you anywhere.”
Still on the fence as to whether Martin was partially responsible for whatever befell Murphy, I yanked my arm away and started down again.
“Please,” Martin begged. “Please. I can’t outrun them.”
I nodded up the stairs. "Go up there and hide somewhere. Maybe you'll get lucky, and they won't search the building looking for the noise you made."
Martin reached out and put a meaty, weak hand on my arm again, gentle this time. His eyes looked to be preparing for tears. “Everybody wants to go somewhere. Everybody dreams about sanctuary at the other end of the rainbow—a safe place. Wherever you think that is, I can fly you there.”
"Where the hell would I want to go?” I snapped. "The whole world is fucked.” Of course, I was planning on going to College Station with Murphy, but I wasn't going to tell this knucklehead even if I did expect his life to last only another five minutes.
"An oil rig,” said Martin. "There's got to be hundreds of them right offshore and farther out in the Gulf."
“The ones they evacuate every time a hurricane comes?” I scoffed. “Yeah, that’s a viable plan.” I pulled away and started down the stairs. “Follow me. Stay close. Stay quiet. Or die.”
Chapter 8
Through the blackness, hoping no naked Whites were sleeping on the landings or waiting on the stairs to ambush us, I kept one hand on the rail. Martin had a handful of the back of my shirt as he wheezed behind me, clomping his heavy feet and groaning at the pace. More than once I shuffled my feet through the rotting remains of something that had once been human. And it wasn't just the putrefying flesh on the floor, it was the crusty texture of dried blood on the railing, and worse, the sticky stuff left from more recent kills.
Then there were the goddamned maggots. On the rail. On the floor. On the walls. On the corpses, eating their way through the rotting flesh with tiny squishy sounds magnified by a million. The smell of the air trapped inside the stairwell was as foul as any I'd had to breathe. It felt like we were taking the maintenance entrance down to the devil's outhouse.
Then we ran out of stairs. I found a wall in the darkness where I expected another flight to be. I turned around, felt my way along the wall, still with Martin clinging to my back, and found a door. I pushed on the bar with my hip and shouldered it open to a rush of cool, sweet air.
I looked out as I slowly inched the door open. A helicopter sat in the grass halfway between our building and the nearest hangar. Several of the panels over the engines were off, and it looked as if someone had been working unsuccessfully to get it airborne again.
Plenty of naked White corpses were scattered across the lawn. Some of the grass was blackened from small fires. A vehicle was overturned, showing me its undercarriage. I didn't see any Whites moving, at least not any nearby. Several hundred yards distant, I saw a few hunched over a corpse, feeding. In the other direction, I spied a half-dozen more, jogging in a line but going somewhere else.
I gave Martin a look. I pointed at the helicopter and whispered, “Follow me like they follow each other. Stay right on my heels. I won’t go fast. We’ll get in the back of the helicopter and scope things out before we go farther.”
Martin looked up into the blackness of the stairwell. The noises of Whites inside the building made it clear they weren’t far away. “If they come out after us?”
Don’t ask questions with unpleasant answers.
"C'mon.” I jogged slow enough that Martin could keep pace, slow enough that walking would have been faster, but it was the appearance I was going for—just two Whites, out doing what they do. Our clothes were a problem, but I wasn't ready to ditch those just yet.
Looking to my right as Martin plodded after me, I checked on the scavenging Whites I’d spotted. They didn’t have any interest in us. Way to our left, the jogging Whites disappeared behind a building. Good.
With Martin huffing huge gulps of air and moving more slowly with each step, I jumped through one of the open doors in the back of the helicopter. Martin collapsed onto the helicopter’s deck, bent over at the waist with his legs hanging out.
Cursing under my breath, I looked left and right as I grabbed his belt and hauled him the rest of the way inside.
With both of the rear doors open, the helicopter left us visible from two directions, but kept us hidden from the other two. Halfway was better than nothing. And we'd need it. Martin wasn't going anywhere anytime soon. The tense hike down the stairs and the short jog had taken everything he'd had in him.
Why is this guy still alive?
I helped Martin into a seat with his back to the rear bulkhead. He wasn’t hidden, but he wasn’t obtrusive. Hopefully, he’d have time to catch his breath before we made our way to the hangar.
A grunt caught my attention, and I looked back toward the building. Three Whites were cautiously approaching but still at a distance.
Fuck.
I looked at Martin, I’m sure with some new anxiety on my face.
His fatigue hadn't dulled his perception. He turned to see the Whites coming, and I saw despair wash over him. He shot a panicked glance toward the hangar, to the other buildings, and even the useless shelter of the overturned vehicle. Everything was too far away for him to have a chance of making it. He knew he was a dead man and his last moments under earth's happy blue sky would be spent feeling the dull teeth of dead-brained animals tear at his flesh until enough of it was ripped away that blood loss would steal his consciousness and death would follow. It was a slow, shitty way to go but it was damn near everybody's eventual future.
Martin mumbled something as he tried to catch his breath from the run.
“What?”
He closed his eyes, took a huge breath and said, “Leave me.”
Leave? Of course, that’s what I told him I’d do. It wasn’t my fault he was old and feeble. It wasn’t me who’d spent sixty years eating cheeseburgers and milkshakes. It wasn’t me who was hauling around a hundred pounds of excess weight on old, brittle joints with a heart too congested with cholesterol deposits to keep the blood flowing.
“Save yourself.” Martin leaned his head against the bulkhead and closed his eyes. In a whisper barely loud enough to hear, he said, “This day was bound to come.”
Save myself? Crap! He was playing the hero card on me.
I don't know why I do what I do sometimes. Murphy might argue that was most of the time, and he might be right about that. I'm sure he'd have told me at that moment to do anything but ditch Martin and run was a mistake. I wouldn't have argued with him. There was no reason not to do just that.
But I didn’t run.
The hero card? Damn him.
I jumped out of the helicopter, unzipped my coveralls and peeled them down to my waist, exposing my sinewy arms and bony chest, virus-white. I was one of them. They needed to know it. I raised my machete and barked a monkey challenge and dared the Whi
tes with my eyes.
Come on, fuckers.
They did.
I guess whatever passed for comparative math in their slug brains figured out that three-to-one were good odds with a large, tasty morsel like Martin draped over a flimsy jump seat in the helicopter behind me.
Unfortunately, they were smart enough not to rush at me full speed, a White behavior that almost always worked to my advantage, some naturally being faster runners than others, hence spreading them out as they came so I could take them down one at a time.
These three spread out in an arc and matched their speed as they jogged toward me, apparently not at all intimidated by my animal threat and big machete.
Too bad for them I was still smarter than all of them combined.
I lowered my machete, hung my head, and drooped my shoulders as I stepped aside, making it clear in animal body language my threat was bluster, and I was now surrendering. Tasty, tender Martin was all theirs.
One of them brayed and bounced high on his steps. He might as well have put on a nametag that said, ALPHA.
I positioned myself a few long steps away from the side door of the helicopter. Martin groaned as I went out of his sight.
The way was open for the Whites, and their attention focused fully on Martin as though I'd become invisible.
When they got within a few steps, still coming pretty fast, I jumped toward them, swinging my machete hard at the neck of the closest one. His momentum carried him into my blade, and his head flew into the air as his arms reached up following the last instructions they'd received before the connection to the brain was lost.
The headless White's knees gave way, and he fell as I spun and kicked the alpha White in the side. That bought me a second to bring my machete back for another swing.
Off balance, the alpha bumped into the female to his right, and their forward momentum smashed them into the Plexiglas cockpit window.
I hacked as the two fell and alpha boy raised a hand to block the blow, only to see his forearm fly away through a fountain of his blood.
