Read Omega Pathogen: Mayhem Online
Authors: J.G. Hicks Jr
Jim's brought along forty AR-15 magazines this time. Located in packs attached to his load-bearing vest, each magazine filled with 29 rounds gives him a total of 1,160 rounds of 5.56 mm. He’s beginning to wonder if he’ll actually have enough to get back out.
Pausing behind a corner leading away from the stairwell, Jim takes a few pulls off his CamelBak hydration system and eyes the corridor left to right. The stairwell door behind him has been jammed shut by using a rechargeable drill and screws he brought along. Jim’s used the elevator shaft to ascend to the floors. This has been a safer tactic, but more taxing on his body while climbing with the extra equipment he’s carrying. Running smack into two infected in the first stairwell and having them grab and nearly take bites of his flesh made him change his tactics.
Regaining a normal respiration rate, Jim rises from a knee and heads in a crouched-walk to the halfway point of his objective. At the closed door of the blood bank and lab, he pauses to listen against the door. The disappointment written on his face would have been easily read by anyone seeing him. He hears no sounds of humming cooling systems or other electronic motors. His hopes of a miracle are crushed.
Jim takes a moment to listen more before he tries the doorknob. He hears a crunching sound; like that of someone chewing on pretzels or some other crunchy snack. If infected are behind the door, they must be surviving on leftover food from the previous uninfected occupants.
“Fuck it,” Jim mumbles to himself, and grasps the doorknob. Giving it a slow twist in both directions, he finds it locked. He retrieves the lock-pick gun and goes to work as quietly as possible on the door lock. The entire time, he can hear the faint sounds of munching. Just as he gives the knob another twist to check if he’s unlocked it, Jim hears the sound that could only be a canned drink being popped open.
The doorknob moves under his hand, indicating he’s defeated the lock. Jim stows his lock-pick gun and, sliding his AR-15 to his left out of the way, unholsters his suppressed Glock 17. With a complete twist of the knob to release the catch, Jim quickly forces the door inward with his Glock following his eyes.
“Who the hell are you?” asks a man, sitting on the floor between a snack-food and a soda machine, the Mountain Dew still held in his hand and close to his mouth. Jim closes the door. Holstering his Glock and keeping the man in his peripheral vision, Jim places three long screws into the door toward the top, center and bottom.
Removing the pistol from his holster, but not aiming at the man sitting on the floor with the can of soda still near his lips, he asks, “Who the hell are you?”
“I asked first,” the man says with a grin. “I’m the one with the pistol,” Jim replies. “If you’re going to be a dick-head about it, damn . . .” the man says as he stands up and transfers the Mountain Dew from his right hand to his left. “I’m Royce. Royce Barber. I used to work here as a medical technician until the world went to shit.”
Royce is around five-eleven. He has hair that, like Jim’s, had been previously cropped short and is in the process of growing out in all directions. His unshaven face seems friendly and honest. His brown eyes make the same expression but underlying fear and hope are there too. Understandably, the man is in desperate need of a shower and his formerly green scrubs should be burned.
Feeling more at ease with the man, Jim takes the offered hand and they shake. “I’m Jim Matthews. So you’ve been surviving here on the snack and soda machines?” Jim points with his head behind Royce. “Yeah, I have. Can you get me the hell out of here?” Royce asks, coming directly to the point.
Jim ignores that question and poses his own, the one he came here for, “Is the blood here any good?” Royce looks at him with a puzzled expression but answers, “It’s all ruined. No power.” Then Royce asks, “Why?”
Jim explains the situation briefly about his brother’s injuries and needing O- or O+ blood for an infusion. “I’m O+,” Royce says excitedly. “Just get me the fuck out of here and you can have as much blood as I can spare.”
Jim looks to the window, and can see the sun isn’t far from setting. This side of the building doesn’t give him a view of the MRAP. Getting outside needs to be done now, before the infected venture out for the night. Jim stands and looks out the window and is glad to see that it’s straight down with no other roofs blocking the way.
Jim explains his exit plan to Royce, who suddenly seems less enthusiastic about leaving. Jim learns why after some prodding. “I’m scared of heights. OK,” Royce says, and sits in a nearby chair. Royce sees the obvious and agrees to make his departure by the window.
After breaking out the windows, Jim removes the bag of rope from his back and secures the end extending from the top of the bag to the center support of the window frame. Jim then lowers the bag of rope off the edge and the rope extends as the bag drops toward the overgrown grass below.
Jim is already wearing a rappelling harness and finally must break the news to Royce when he asks, “Where’s mine at?” as he points to the harness as Jim tightens it. “You don’t have one. You’re going to be strapped to me and you’ll need to hang on,” Jim says as he removes his belt for his thigh-holster. Jim takes off the holster and stows it in his backpack along with the Glock 17. He then extends the length of the belt and adds his leather belt to increase it further.
The most difficult maneuvering is getting out the window while the two men have their fronts pressed against each other. The next is when Royce has to wrap his legs around Jim like a child being held. Both Jim and Royce begin to sweat heavily during the descent, Jim because he’s keeping them both from free falling to the grass below and the combined weight makes it very difficult. Royce sweats because he’s freaking out about hanging over a hundred feet in the air from what he thinks would be better described as a string instead of a rope.
Finally, they reach the terra firma with more than a little force. Jim’s arms are shaking from being strained, and he fumbles around releasing the belt holding Royce to him. Once unattached, they both collapse to the grass and lie on their backs breathing heavily, staring up at the window and exterior of the hospital they just emerged from.
Their short rest is over when Jim stands and extends his hand to assist Royce to his feet. Taking the hand, Royce rises and thanks Jim. “My brother still gets some of your blood, you know that, right?” Jim says and stares hard at Royce. “Yes he does,” Royce answers and hands Jim his two belts. “Your drawers are falling down, Jim. Better get one of these back on.”
Donning both belts, his thigh-holster, and then replacing the pistol, Jim points Royce toward the direction of the parked MRAP around the corner from their location. As they walk, they quietly talk, and both have their heads on a swivel. The sun is nearly set, so Jim encourages Royce to pick up the pace to a jog. They near the corner of the building and round the corner. Royce notices the wide-eyed Jim looking around and asks, “What’s wrong?” Jim doesn’t reply, he continues to look around. He knows this is the spot and he doesn’t know why or how. The MRAP is gone.
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J.G. Hicks, Jr.