by Jeff Olah
Griffin drifted right as he turned to glance at the trio that had come from the visitor stands. They were closer than those at his back, but moved much slower. He increased his pace and at the edge of the field, stepped out onto the lowered track with his left foot.
Still focused on the fence, Griffin’s left leg buckled as it touched down, a wave of nausea running through him. He crashed onto the track, slid on his left side into lane number six, and without allowing his mind to take inventory of what this meant, pushed himself back up and started again.
The trio at his back were overtaken by the two crowds coming out of the stands. They were much closer than he was comfortable with and another misstep would mean they’d certainly reach him before he cleared the fence.
Off the track and crossing a small patch of upturned grass, Griffin tasted blood. It ran freely from the wound along the right side of his head, dripping into his eye and pooling near the corner of his mouth.
Ten feet.
And then he was there.
He stepped last off his right foot and leapt to the ten-foot fence. Gripping near the top, he pulled himself up as the first row of Feeders came at him from behind. He avoided his left leg and instead used the untapped strength from his upper body to climb.
Three quick handholds and he was waist high along the top of the fence. As he swung his left leg up and over, he was grabbed from behind. There were at least two who had ahold of his right pant leg just below the knee. He was able to continue pulling his left leg over, but now straddled the fence.
Griffin leaned away, pulling from the hip.
No luck.
He tried to kick free, but again was unable to shake the pair. A microscopic tear in the fabric just above his knee began to give to the downward torque and as he became aware of what it meant, he shouted into the night.
“COME ON!”
The small split in the denim quickly turned into a larger hole, and as he continued to pull up, the lower half of his pant leg finally gave way. It slipped down his calf, caught on his boot, and both were torn from his leg.
As the resistance from the opposite side of the fence dropped away, Griffin cartwheeled backward from the top of the fence and hit the ground flat on his right side. He slowly rolled onto his back and for a moment just laid on the ground staring up at the beasts ten inches away.
“HA!”
As the crowd pushed into the chain-link fence one behind the next, Griffin took in a deep breath and turned his eyes toward the thin shards of sunlight reaching out over Sixth Street. He scanned the area to the north and although he had no idea what came next, one thing was for sure. He’d been given a gift and he wasn’t about to let it go to waste.
217
Hours had passed, and still he sat with her. Ethan had his mother pulled into his chest and he spoke quietly into her ear. He’d long since given up hope that she’d respond or even show any sign that she understood. She was slipping away and according to his sister, there wasn’t anything that he or anyone else could do to stop what was coming.
And now after everything, he understood that this was better, that she never wanted this … any of this. His mother missed her husband and now she could be with him. She could finally rest.
With the others having moved out into the lobby, Ethan brushed his mother’s hair away from her face and kissed her cheek. Her chest still rose and fell, but at a much slower pace than even just a few hours ago. She was warm to the touch, but relaxed.
Emma told him it could be minutes or it could be hours. He didn’t like either option, although for now there wasn’t anything he could do to change that fact. He could only make his mother comfortable and hope he could offer her some level of dignity. She deserved better than this, much more than he could ever give.
Reaching down, Ethan held her hand. “Mom, I love you.”
He paused. Not waiting for a response, but allowing his words to sit.
“I hope you know that Emma and I are okay.” He turned his eyes up and looked out into the lobby. Offered his sister a weak smile. “We’ll be okay, I promise.”
Ethan kissed her again. “You always asked me when I was younger if I understood just how much you and Dad loved us. I always said yes, but I never told you why.”
He took a slow breath in through his nose. Wiped at the corners of his eyes.
“I was eight years old … I think. Maybe nine or ten.” He stroked her arm.
“Dad had just left for work and we dropped Emma off at school. I asked you why I wasn’t going and you told me about the doctor’s appointment. You knew I didn’t want to go. You knew how much I hated the doctor, how I always had. But you smiled, you told me this time was going to be different, that this time would be fun.”
Ethan continued to hold tight to her hand, now resting his chin next to her forehead.
“I remember still being scared for the entire ride from Emma’s school and not being able to think about anything but getting another round of shots. You always said it was for my own good, but I never did like those needles, and still don’t.”
Picturing the memory from nearly thirty years before and the way it eventually played out gave Ethan pause. He knew the rest of the story as if it happened the day before—he just wanted the words to be perfect.
For her.
“Sitting in the waiting area and then in the exam room, I don’t think I spoke, not even once. I wanted to ask you why we were there, what the appointment was for, but I already knew the answer and didn’t want to hear you say it.”
Ethan again looked out into the lobby and now saw Emma leaning in toward Zach. The boy giggled as he listened to his sister, almost unable to contain himself. The others sat in a half circle, speaking in hushed tones and avoided glancing back into the hall.
As Ethan started again, he sat up higher and pushed into the corner. “When Dr. Garner finally came in, I was ready to run. My blood pressure and heart rate must have been through the roof. I think I was sweating and probably almost peed my pants, but when he sat down in the chair across from you and just smiled, something changed.”
Tears began to run from the corners of his eyes.
“He told you what he was going to do, I think it was two or three shots, but all at once I wasn’t scared. I still didn’t like it, but I was okay. I watched him tell you and then I looked up and watched how you held it together. You knew I was watching and you made sure to stay calm, made sure that I didn’t see you stressing, that I saw the smile on your face. You changed how I saw the inside of that doctor’s office, all without saying a single word. You gave me something that day that I didn’t completely understand … but I do now.”
Ethan wiped his face with his sleeve and kissed her yet again. “Mom, I love you. Emma and I will be just fine, you and Dad made sure of it … so thank you.”
Emma had moved away from the leather sofa and was now speaking with Tom out away from the others. She glanced at Ethan a few times, smiled evenly, and then began to make her way into the hall.
She stopped near the elevator door, squatted beside Ethan, and reached for her mother’s hand. She turned it over, looked at the beds of her mother’s nails, and then placed two fingers on her mother’s wrist.
After a long pause, Emma’s face went slack. She shook her head and looked back at Ethan. “There isn’t much time now.”
Ethan again rested his face against his mother’s. “What are we talking about?”
“Could be another hour or two, could be a few minutes.”
“Yeah,” Ethan said, “you told me that like an hour ago, what about now?”
Emma narrowed her eyes. “I don’t know Ethan, I really don’t know. I’m not a doctor. I’m just trying—”
Ethan reached for her arm. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be taking this out on you. You’re the only one keeping all of this …” Ethan looked out into the lobby and particularly at Zach. “Keeping all of this together.”
“It’s fine Ethan, but right now
, for the next few hours, I’m going to need you to be here. For them, for me, and for her.”
Ethan met her eyes. “Yes, I said I was sorry. There’s nothing I can do about what happened now. I’ll be whoever you need me to be, you just have to give me a chance.”
Emma softened a bit, her expression now a mix of sorrow and desperation. “I just need you to be you. Just help me get through tonight and then whatever comes after.”
“I owe you more than you can possibly imagine. You’re the reason I’m still here, that they’re still here. You gave me something to fight for and I’ll never forget that, I swear to you.”
Their mother exhaled slowly and appeared to relax her body. Her last breath sound seemed to go on a bit too long and then she was gone. Emma realized it first and before Ethan could ask, she began to cry.
“Wait,” Ethan said. “No … no … NO!”
Emma sat back and melted into the wall. She blinked rapidly, fighting the tears that now fell freely down her face. “Ethan, she’s gone … she’s gone.”
He wanted to respond, but couldn’t find the words.
Emma looked quickly out into the lobby. “We have to do something. We can’t just—”
“Yeah, I’ll take care of it. I know what to do.” Trying to compose himself, Ethan pulled off his jacket and helped guide his mother to the floor. He leaned over her and hugged her with every ounce of strength left in his sleep-deprived body.
“What, Ethan? What are we going to do?”
His voice just above a whisper, Ethan motioned toward the lobby. “Tom’s friend, he knows the area?”
“I think so, why?”
“Can you ask him to come over? But I want to keep this quiet, the others don’t need to know what’s going on.”
Emma was still crying. “Ethan, she’s my mother too. What are you thinking?”
“Please, just have Bryce come over. We need to do this now.”
Bryce stood with Emma, visibly shaken and struggling for the right words. “I’m sorry. I mean, I don’t really know—”
Ethan didn’t let him finish. “How far are we from the coast?”
Bryce looked to Emma and then back to Ethan. “What?”
“The shore, where is it? How far?”
“I don’t know, not far. Why?”
“No,” Ethan said. “Exactly how far, how do I get there?”
“Maybe three miles, I don’t know ten minutes. But—”
Emma stepped forward. “Ethan what are you talking about? We have to do something—”
Ethan couldn’t get the words out fast enough. “Okay,” he said, turning back to Bryce. “Draw me a map, I wanna stay away from any of the populated areas if possible.”
“To the shore?”
“Yes.”
“Sure thing.”
As Bryce walked away, Emma waited for Ethan to speak. When he didn’t, she moved directly into his line of sight. “What are you doing, we have to take care of her.”
“Yes, that’s what I’m doing.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m going to do what I couldn’t do for dad, what I should have done for him … I’m going to bury our mother.”
Emma thought for a second and then wrapped her arms around his neck. She squeezed him tight and just as fast let him go. “I’m coming with you.”
218
Roland Mayhew woke to the sun stretching in through the narrow void in the boarded window over his left shoulder. He reached for the revolver, laid it in his lap, and stretched the stiffness out of his neck. The room was now much warmer than he remembered and the stench of death had become completely unbearable.
Again turning his focus to the corpse opposite him, Roland acknowledged its usefulness from the night before. It had brought something out in him that he didn’t know existed. He almost felt the need to thank it, like he owed it a debt of gratitude, but knew there was something more. He didn’t exactly know what just yet, but there was still time.
Roland stood, slipped the revolver into his pocket, and moved to the doorway. He continued to stare at the dead man, now attempting to place the anxiety beginning to bleed into his every thought. He felt the need to put another bullet into the stinking corpse, but knew that wouldn’t suffice.
Over to the window, Roland pulled up the sleeve of his jacket, checked his watch, and then looked out through the two-inch gap. A few dozen Feeders roamed the street below, most appeared to be simply moving through, unaware of his presence on second floor of the vintage arcade.
Back to the opposite side of the room, Roland stepped around the body and grabbed a metal folding chair from behind a short stack of empty cardboard boxes. He held it above his head and tested its weight.
With a smile beginning to form, he set the chair under the window and moved quickly out into the hall. Down the stairs and into the dining area, he quickly came to the conclusion that he hadn’t missed anything last night and needed to go a bit deeper.
There weren’t many places left in this city that hadn’t been picked through a hundred times over.
Roland moved slowly through the back of the kitchen, allowing his eyes to adjust to the rapid change in illumination. Reaching the hall near the rear exit, he cupped his hands and placed them over his eyes and leaned into the long window that ran the length of the door to the manager’s office.
All clear.
But locked.
“Nothing that a cast iron skillet can’t fix.”
After two minutes of picking jagged pieces of glass out of the frame and contorting his left arm in ways he didn’t know was possible, Roland sat in the high-backed leather chair that belonged to Ms. Janet Potain. And if the gold-framed name plate stuck to the outside of the door was to be believed, the woman who once occupied the office was also the owner.
Pushing down into the well-worn leather, Roland squinted as he scanned the surface of the desk. Nothing of use. Next the top two drawers and then the bottom drawer on the right. Again, nothing but a handful of random pens, scattered paper clips, and a three hole punch.
Shifting in the chair and sliding back away from the desk, Roland stared at the last drawer. “What ya got for me?”
Behind a half-dozen files and under a neatly folded cardigan, he found what he was after. The plastic crackled under the weight of his overzealous grip, almost too much for him to stand. He weighed the contents with a quick calculation and as he rushed out of the office and into the main game room, he estimated that half the package remained.
Standing behind the door, Roland pulled back the resealable flap and held it up to the late morning sunlight drifting in from the world beyond.
“Eight, ten … fourteen, sixteen, eighteen.”
Eighteen peanut butter cookies. Not normally his favorite—chocolate chip always did it for him—but this morning they were his new best friend. He only wished Ms. Potain would have left him the entire package.
“Such a waste.”
Carefully sliding two of the cookies out, he closed the package, and moved to the twin duffles. He ate them slow and deliberately, tasting each bite separate from the one before, as if he could savor this one moment until his very last breath.
As he swallowed the last mouthful, Roland slipped the package into the first duffle and returned to the stairs. He had what he needed and now had to get to work on his next project. He was excited for the first time in weeks and no longer cared what happened to the eighty-four men and women—the Guardians of the New World—or what was left of them. They’d have to find someone else to lead them.
Up the stairs and into the stockroom, Roland moved quickly to the back wall, almost running. He lifted the chair, twisted right and tossed it through the window, shouting into the streets for good measure.
“HELLO … WHO’S HUNGRY?”
He figured it may take the better part of ten minutes to grow the sort of crowd he was looking for, so turning away from the window, he moved back to the dead man.
�
��This is going to be much worse for you than it is for me, but I really do appreciate you helping out, and if we meet somewhere in the afterlife, I’ll be sure to buy you a beer … I promise.”
He didn’t assume to know if this would even work. He’d only imagined that the infected ate the dead, he wasn’t sure. He never paid much attention to those things. It wasn’t something he’d put much thought into before this morning, but he really needed a win. Mostly for him, but also for the dead guy about to give himself to his master plan.
“Okay chief, you ready for this?”
Roland slipped his hands under the man’s armpits and slid him up to the window. He was surprisingly light, or maybe it was simply the massive amount of adrenalin coursing through Roland’s body. Either way, he had the badly contorted corpse up on the ledge of the window in less than sixty seconds.
Again checking the crowd’s progress, Roland leaned into the wall, attempting to stay hidden from those out on the street. The horde below had more than doubled in size and continued to flow in from the north. Allowing the dead man’s body to balance atop the window sill, he took a moment to consider his path away from the building and the school beyond.
“Well big man, I guess you’re up.”
Roland stepped back, placed the top of his shoe under the man’s legs, and angled him upward. Gravity did the rest, pulling the dead man’s body forward and then over the edge of the window. For a brief moment, the corpse appeared weightless as it skipped off the side of the building and then crashed to the sidewalk below.
There wasn’t a single part of him that was curious, and although he had a newfound appreciation for death, actually watching the crowd descend on the body seemed overkill at this point. And he was also on a schedule. He wasn’t exactly sure what would come of the next few hours, but he was hopeful.
Roland figured he had at least three full minutes to get to Porter Avenue before the crowd lost interest in his offering and decided to follow him. He needed to do this alone and without any distractions. There would be stragglers, there always were, but he needed this to happen today. It had to; he wasn’t going to get a second chance.
