Fall of Man (Book 1): The Break

by Sisavath, Sam

  Cole pushed off the wall and moved toward apartment 510 on the other side.

  Nothing—and no one—burst out of 509 at him from across the hallway. Even so, Cole kept one ear open for sounds coming behind him even as he lasered in on 510.

  The door was closed, and when he got closer, Cole saw that the doorknob was covered in blood, as was the floor immediately outside it and the walls to the left and right.

  “Oh, yeah. Ol’ Ellesway definitely had himself some action yesterday,” the Voice said.

  No shit, Captain Obvious.

  “Don’t shoot the messenger.”

  He thought about returning to Dante’s apartment and rejoining Zoe and Ashley. Did he really need that gun? If there was even a gun still in there in the first place…

  “A little too late to be talking yourself out of this, don’t you think?” the Voice said.

  Maybe.

  “Chickenshit.”

  Go to hell.

  “You first,” the Voice said, and laughed.

  Fuck it, Cole thought as he reached for the door—the blood was dry and rough against his skin—and turned it and pushed it open without resistance, almost all in the same fluid motion.

  Cole lunged inside, raising the bat to strike.

  The living room was in shambles. One of the windows along the far wall was shattered, the pieces of jagged glass on the carpet in front of it stained with blood. The walls themselves were polka-dotted with craters, and an LCD TV had smashed on the floor. A large man wearing a Hawaiian print shirt, who had to be a good 300 pounds if not more, lay half on and off a sofa, as if he couldn’t quite decide whether to sit or lie down. There were bloody patches across his back and what looked like two holes in his shirt that shouldn’t have been there. A bloody knife lay on the floor exactly where the dead man would have dropped it upon collapsing onto the furniture after he was shot.

  “Ellesway?” the Voice asked.

  Cole had no idea because it had never occurred to him to ask Dante what the ex-cop looked like. Cole had just assumed an older man—he was, after all, retired ex-law enforcement—but the dead guy couldn’t have been older than forty-something. That was old enough to retire if Ellesway had a medical reason.

  He glanced around at the living room, searching for some kind of picture of the apartment’s owner, but there weren’t any. Whoever this Ellesway person was, he had a spartan sense of décor.

  Cole crossed the living room, pausing briefly when something clinked against his shoes. He followed the brass casing as it skidded across the floor and into the kitchen, where it disappeared behind a partially-destroyed dining table. It looked as if an elephant had sat down on it. Or a very, very heavy man carrying north of 300 pounds, anyway. Chairs were upended and more blood covered the tiles, leading into the back hallway.

  He stepped over two more empty casings and made his way toward the bedroom, following the trail of blood and brass. Someone had clearly made his escape in that direction, disappearing into one of the rooms.

  The main bedroom, from the looks of it.

  The door was open, and Cole expected to see someone—maybe Dante’s ex-cop neighbor—pointing a gun at him, finger on the trigger. The thought of getting his head blown off was intimidating, but Cole pushed on and peeked inside quickly, fully prepared to jerk his head back out a split second later.

  But he didn’t have to.

  The bedroom was intact, even though the trail of blood led across it and to a dresser on the far wall. A man sat on the floor, back against the long and thick furniture, a black handgun laid between his spread legs. He looked to be in his sixties, with gray hair, and one of his hands was pressed against his stomach where something had slashed the flesh underneath, repeatedly. Blood had been pooling under him for some time and had only stopped recently. The dead man had made it in here but had only ended up bleeding out.

  “Sucks to be him,” the Voice said.

  Yeah.

  “So let’s not end up like him.”

  That’s the trick, isn’t it?

  “That’s always the trick, buddy. That’s why you need me.”

  We’ll see about that.

  Cole looked around briefly, making sure there wasn’t someone else hiding inside the bedroom, before walking across and crouching in front of the dead man. Ellesway, probably. It was tempting to look for some kind of ID, but Cole picked up the gun instead.

  It was a Glock 17, which wasn’t unexpected since the brand was popular with cops and ex-cops. It was just over eight inches, and the polymer grip felt good in his hand…and much too light.

  He pulled out the magazine. The gun held seventeen rounds, but there were just ten left. If this was Ellesway, he was either a very bad shot or it had taken a lot to take out his uninvited visitor in the living room.

  But Ellesway was an ex-cop with a gun. It was unlikely he was going to have just one magazine’s worth of bullets lying around. Bullets were cheap, and Cole would bet anything that Ellesway had more stashed somewhere, if just out of habit. Cole had learned the mantra “No such thing as too many bullets” a long time ago. Cops like Ellesway would have, too, during their careers.

  He stood up and went hunting. Where would Ellesway put his extra ammo? Someplace he could get to it, if needed, but not someplace out in the open. Where—

  He turned back to the dresser that Ellesway was propped up against. Maybe there was a reason Ellesway had found his way here and not just because he needed a spot to sit down and rest for a bit.

  Cole began opening drawers, starting with the two to Ellesway’s left and right. To get to the ones in the middle, he’d have to move the ex-cop—

  Bingo. There were two boxes of 9mm bullets shoved way into the back of the top right-side drawer. Why Ellesway had chosen that one, Cole had no idea. He pocketed the box that weighed the most, then opened the other (it was only half full) and reloaded the Glock with its bullets. He also scored two spare magazines in the bottom left-side drawer. Both were fully loaded and Cole pocketed them. Why Ellesway had put the ammo in one drawer and the mags in the other was a mystery.

  “He took that mystery to the grave with him,” the Voice said.

  Yeah. I guess so.

  He headed back to the door, moving as quickly as possible, when he stopped and glanced back at Ellesway one last time. He was about Cole’s size, but like most older guys, Ellesway had put on some extra girth around the midsection that he probably didn’t have during his law enforcement days. He was barefoot, which meant he had been caught unawares by his large friend in the Hawaiian shirt.

  Cole’s eyes drifted to the dead man’s feet for a moment before he looked down at his own loafers. It wasn’t the blood that covered the soles that bothered him, but the fact he was moving on, well, loafers. They hadn’t been all that effective against Donnie yesterday and had taken more effort than necessary to put the driver down. If he’d had something heavier…

  He went to the closet and poked around until he found a pair of sneakers that looked big enough for him. Cole tried them on. Perfect fit.

  Thanks, Ellesway.

  Before he left, Cole took an extra moment to search Ellesway’s closet, looking for a shirt or pants that might also fit. Unlike the shoes, the ex-cop’s wardrobe was all too “comfortable.” Ellesway, apparently, didn’t see any need for slim-fitting clothes since his retirement.

  Cole gave up and left the room.

  He left 510 with the 9mm in his front waistband and the bat in his hand, feeling better and more capable of surviving the next few days than he had since he stepped into the Mercedes with Donnie less than a day ago.

  “Told you this was a good idea,” the Voice said.

  Yeah, yeah.

  “It pays to listen to me.”

  Do I have a choice?

  “No,” the Voice said, laughing.

  Cole smirked to himself and was about to turn down the hallway back to Dante’s apartment when he heard the slow creak of a door opening.

&n
bsp; 509!

  The same apartment he swore he’d heard noises coming from inside earlier.

  Cole quickly slid across the hallway and pressed up against the side of 509 as its door slowly, oh so slowly, opened.

  Just a crack, enough for whoever was on the other side to see out into the corridor.

  “Peeping Tom is doing some serious peeping,” the Voice said.

  Cole leaned the bat against the wall and slid the handgun free, then held the pistol across his stomach with the barrel pointed in the direction of the ajar door. The Glock didn’t have a hammer, so it was squeeze the trigger and shoot. He’d had enough practice with different versions of the Austrian-made brand to feel very at ease with it in his hand.

  He was so close—less than two feet—from the edge of 509’s doorframe that his target would have to be the size of a fly for him to miss at that range. And even then…

  509’s door opened wider.

  Just a little bit—the man continued to be, smartly, overly cautious—before a head of pink hair (“Pink?” the Voice said.) appeared outside.

  Then it turned to look down the hallway—

  Cole reached over and grabbed a handful of that short pink hair and pulled.

  Someone screamed in pain, just before Cole threw the figure across the hallway into the opposite wall. As the person turned, Cole jammed the barrel of the Glock into their forehead, his forefinger against the trigger.

  “Don’t kill me! Oh God, oh God, please don’t kill me!”

  Early twenty-something, with blue eyes that were half-closed and half-peering back at him. Her hair was cut short, almost in a bob, and wasn’t entirely pink but just around the bottom edges. She was wearing black jeans and a white T-shirt, and a small silver cross dangled from a simple rope chain around her neck.

  “Please,” she said again, the word coming out almost breathlessly, as if she had difficulty breathing.

  “A girl,” the Voice said, cackling. “A fucking girl. With pink hair, natch!”

  Cole pulled the pistol away and took a step back, then glanced down the hallway to make sure no one had heard the sudden activity and the girl’s (though she was really a grown woman—twenty-five or six, if he had to guess) loud gasps.

  He lowered the gun and put a finger to his lips.

  She nodded quickly, understanding. She clamped down on her lips with her hands as if she was afraid she might let out a sound if she didn’t physically restrain herself.

  Cole gave her a quick look to make sure she wasn’t armed, then pulled her away from the wall and turned her around. It wasn’t like she had a lot of places to hide a weapon. The jeans were way too tight, and the shirt looked about a size too small for her, which only made her chest more prominent.

  He whispered, “Don’t make another sound, and don’t move.”

  She nodded.

  With the gun at his side, Cole moved across the hallway and peered into apartment 509. Unlike Ellesway’s, the girl’s looked intact, even though it gave off a slight smell. Not of death, but…something else. The window on the other side was closed, the curtains drawn, and there were empty cans of food on the floor. It looked heavily lived in and could have used a maid’s touch.

  He turned back to the woman. “Who else?”

  She shook her head, her hands still clasped tightly over her mouth.

  “You alone?” he asked.

  Nod.

  “Are you sure about that?”

  Another nod.

  He tucked the gun back into his waistband and held up his hand, palm facing her: the universal “Let’s relax and talk this out” gesture.

  “I’m Cole,” he said, keeping his voice low enough that only she could hear.

  She pulled her hands just far enough away from her mouth to squeak out, “Fiona.”

  “Sorry about that. You startled me. You can put your hands down.”

  She did, and gave him a forced smile that came out much worse than she probably intended.

  “My friends and I are in 505,” Cole said. “You know Dante?”

  She thought about it for a moment before shaking her head.

  “Wheelchair?” he said.

  That registered something, and she nodded. “I’ve never met him.”

  “Maybe it’s time you did,” Cole said.

  Chapter 15

  Zoe opened the door before he even had the chance to knock on it. She had apparently been waiting on the other side, peering through the peephole, the entire time. She was calm as she stepped aside to let him and the girl, Fiona, in.

  Zoe’s ability to adapt to what was happening around her continued to impress him. He wondered what kind of life she’d had before this; what kinds of trials and tribulations that her clothes and feminine demeanor didn’t immediately give away, that she’d survived?

  “Watch out, buddy, you have a wife waiting for you, remember?” the Voice said.

  Shut up. I wasn’t going there.

  “You sure about that?”

  Yes. 100 percent.

  “I bet,” the Voice said.

  Cole stepped back inside room 505, Fiona sticking close behind him. He had expected her to bolt and run back to her apartment at any moment, but she hadn’t. He wasn’t sure if that was because she was afraid he might shoot her or something else. She didn’t look scared, though. If he didn’t know better, he might think she was even…relieved?

  “Everybody likes a guy with a gun,” the Voice said. “Especially when that gun isn’t pointed at them.”

  Zoe looked at Cole first, then Fiona, and if she was surprised by the younger woman’s presence, she hid it well. “You found it,” she said instead, while closing and locking the door quickly (and as quietly as possible, he noticed) behind them.

  Cole took it out. “Glock 17 and two spare magazines. Including one and a half boxes of 9mm bullets.”

  Dante rolled out from the kitchen with Ashley in tow. The two of them had made new turkey sandwiches while Cole was in the hallway. “You’re back.”

  “I’m back,” Cole said.

  “You find it?”

  Cole showed him the gun.

  “Nice,” the teenager said. Then, noticing Fiona for the first time, “Oh. Hi.”

  “Hi,” Fiona said.

  There was a brief, awkward silence as the two stared across the room at one another.

  “You guys know each other?” Zoe asked, echoing Cole’s unspoken thoughts.

  “No,” Dante said.

  “No,” Fiona said.

  “You live on the same floor,” Cole said.

  “I’m not exactly a social butterfly, in case you haven’t noticed,” Dante said, patting one of his wheels with a free hand.

  Cole nodded at the girl standing quietly behind him. “This is Fiona. She was in 509.”

  “Hey,” Fiona said, waving awkwardly at the others. She looked lonely standing by herself near the closed door, one hand rubbing her other arm.

  For a moment, no one said anything.

  “Your hair’s cool,” Ashley finally said.

  “Thanks,” Fiona said, grinning back at the girl.

  “Any news on Mr. Ellesway?” Dante asked.

  “Someone in a Hawaiian shirt stabbed him with a knife. He bled out in his bedroom yesterday,” Cole said.

  “Hawaiian shirt?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Big guy?”

  “North of three hundred easy.”

  “That’s Mr. Miller,” Dante said. “From 508. He’s always wearing those Hawaiian shirts. Ironically, I don’t think he’s ever been to Hawaii. He and Mr. Ellesway were good friends.”

  “Not anymore.”

  “Yeah, I guess not anymore.”

  “You knew him well, too?”

  Dante shrugged. “As well as you could know someone who lives next door, but you saw only occasionally.”

  “So no, then.”

  Dante grinned. “No, not really.”

  “I heard them fighting,” Fiona said from the
sofa, where she was sitting with Ashley, the two of them sharing a bag of Ranch Doritos. The chips were from a stash that Dante kept in his bedroom and generously shared with the others. The twenty-something woman talked between crunches. “When it all started, Mr. Miller banged on our door, but I saw him through the peephole and didn’t open it. He was crazed. Bloody eyes. All the banging got Mr. Ellesway to open his door and, well, what happened, happened.”

  “Why wasn’t Ellesway affected?” Cole asked.

  “I don’t know. Why weren’t any of us affected?”

  “That’s a good question,” Zoe said. She was standing against the wall across the room, next to the window that overlooked the same street they’d had the run-in with the crazies earlier. She’d been peering outside for a while now as if she expected something to happen. As far as Cole could tell, nothing had.

  “They’re hiding,” the Voice said. “They’re waiting for some idiot to step out into the open so they can attack. They’re crazy, violent, but not stupid. Let’s keep that in mind, shall we?”

  Cole had seen how the crazies attacked one another, but only after exposing themselves. Otherwise, they stayed hidden until an opportunity presented itself. That fact, in a way, made Cole feel slightly better. At least the crazies weren’t ganging up to come after them; they were just as liable to kill one another as they were him, Zoe, or the others.

  “Maybe they’ll knock each other off and save us the trouble,” the Voice said.

  Yeah, I don’t think that’s going to happen.

  “Hope springs eternal.”

  Not these days…

  “How did you survive yesterday?” Cole asked Fiona.

  She shrugged. “Luck, I guess.”

  “That’s all?”

  “Pretty much. I was working all night yesterday; graveyard shift. I don’t usually wake up until six, then shower and get ready for work again. Mr. Miller woke me up when he started banging on the door. I didn’t even know what was happening until later, when I looked out the window and saw the chaos outside.” She stared across at Cole for a moment between crunchy bites. “So, what’s going on out there? Why’s everyone suddenly homicidal and killing each other? Why don’t the TV or phones or anything work anymore?”