Bending
down next to Jack, Tom said, “We’ve got you now, don’t worry. How old are you
Jack?”
“8
and a half.”
“Well
you’re just a bit older than my son Sam.” The words caught in his throat as he
thought about his family.
Tom
turned away from them, clearly wanting to get to a different subject. “We
can’t stay here. We need...”
Stepping
forward, the elderly woman cut him short, “Stay…its fine…please.” She looked
distraught, agitated.
“No…it’s
not that. We have to get out of the city. Portland is going to be a death
trap…if it’s not already.” Tom glanced out the window again. “I’ve been
thinking. Somewhere around half of citizens get the flu shot each year. If the shot is
truly what is causing this…” He left the rest unsaid.
“It’s
crazy out there, how can we get anywhere?” Rachael asked.
“We
have to stay. It will be safe here…we’re upstairs.” The elderly woman was
nearly in tears. She began shaking, her face reddening.
Tom
put both hands out, trying to calm everyone. “I think I have a plan...let me
think it all through a bit.”
The
elderly woman started to say something, fidgeted a bit, and then turned and
walked into what Tom assumed was the bathroom.
Tom
and Rachael exchanged glances, but said nothing.
“I’m
hungry,” Jack said. Leave it to the little one to be able to push aside
everything to focus on the necessities.
Rachael
placed her hand on his shoulder. “Let’s get you something then Hun.” The two
of them headed for the kitchen to see what they could find.
Worried
about her mobility, Tom watched her walk gingerly into the kitchen. She
definitely favored her other ankle, but he was glad to see that it did not
hinder her too much.
Too
anxious to hold still, Tom went back over to the window to check on the street
below. A slight breeze was blowing in thick smoke from one of the fires
farther up the street, but even through the haze, he could make out figures
working their way toward their car. He could not believe they would stay
out in the open, walking right down the middle of the street. Trying to decide
if he should go downstairs to protect their getaway car, he continued to watch
them.
As
they got closer, he began to notice their walk was awkward and even erratic at
times. It was almost as if their feet wanted to run, but the rest of their
bodies were perfectly happy taking their sweet time. This had to be the
uncontrolled walk of these demented, crazy people. Up until now, he had only
seen them running, but maybe when no prey was in sight, they meandered
aimlessly, focused on just putting one foot in front of the other.
His
thoughts were interrupted by a loud banging from behind him. Turning to
see where the noise was coming from, expecting to see Jack or Rachael banging
on a jar of food, he was surprised to see both their heads turned
toward the door the elderly woman had disappeared through. The banging stopped
abruptly, followed by a guttural scream, animal like and filled with
rage. Even backing away from the door as far as possible, there was not enough room in the small kitchen for Rachael and Jack.
Jack
crossed the room and picked the shotgun up off the kitchen counter. The
elderly woman had an impressive set of lungs, but the scream did finally come
to an end, followed by more pounding at the door. She was thin and frail in
appearance, but Tom didn’t know how long the thin door could hold up to the
brutal pounding.
Suddenly
the air was filled with the unmistakable sound of shattering glass. This did
not come from the bathroom, but below them, in the bookstore. All of the racket
must have drawn the attention of the two demented outside by the car. Cracking
the breach on the shotgun, he verified there were two rounds loaded and ready.
He snapped the gun back together.
Over
the incessant pounding at the bathroom door, he could hear bookshelves being
tipped over in the store below. Unless he could find more ammo for the shotgun, he had
three targets and two rounds. He had to prioritize. The elderly woman was
currently contained, so the two below would take precedence. “Stay up here,
but if she starts to break through, then follow me down.”
Like
a cat burglar in the night, he crept down the stairs, focusing on stepping near
the wall, where the boards were least likely to creak. The sounds of books
hitting the floor and angry grunts echoed up the narrow stairway. Pressing the
shotgun tight to his shoulder, he neared the bottom of the stairs, where the
corner became too tight for the long barrel. He didn’t like it, but he dropped
the front of the shotgun to make the turn into the hallway.
On
the far side of the office, through the doorway, an overweight man in dark
sweatpants was busy shaking one of the bookshelves. Even with blood covering
his armpit stained t-shirt, he looked comical, almost as if he was shaking a
vending machine hoping for free snacks to drop.
Tom
raised the shotgun back up to his shoulder, and got a tight bead on Sweatpants.
Not feeling right about just blowing away a man that currently showed him no
aggression, Tom began working toward him, heel to toe. The old Fox Model B had
two triggers, so he kept his index finger and middle finger each on a trigger,
ready for both demented if necessary.
Just
before reaching the office, there was a shuffling noise, and a man dressed in a
business suit stepped right in front of him, filling the doorway. His hands
and face were covered in dripping red blood. Blood shot eyes, filled with rage,
locked on Tom, and between grimy teeth, he issued a low growl. With no room for
hesitation, Tom pulled the first trigger, turning the business man’s head into a
red cloud of mist as he toppled to the ground. Through the mist, he could see Sweatpants
running into the office, headed for the desk. Tom put the bead on him, pulling the second trigger. Sweatpants was just trying to leap over the desk
when the shot slammed into his chest, flipping him backwards onto the floor, out
of view.
Cracking
the shotgun open, and flinging the smoking shells onto the floor, Tom stepped
over the business man into the office. Even with his ears ringing, he could
hear through one of the shattered front windows, the patter of running feet, and
animal like growls. There were several dark flashes as people sprinted past the
store front.
The
gunfire was drawing more of them.
A
sense of relief flooded over Tom as the sound of their footsteps faded, but the
relief quickly disappeared when he heard crackling of shattered glass. Looking
at the surveillance monitor, he could see at least three people walking near the
broken front window, peering in with curiosity. Whether it was haste or their
inability to pinpoint the location of the gunshots, the first few ran past
leaving the slower stragglers. At least Tom hoped they were slower...not
smarter.
Knowing
this could get real ugly, real fast, he stepped over to the desk and began
rifling through the drawers. She had to keep more ammo somewhere, and this
seemed like the logical spot.
More
glass breaking, followed by agitated grunts, let Tom know they were working their
way into the bookstore. He glanced up and saw two of them already in the
store, stepping across the glass, stumbling on jumbled books. His heart raced
as he continued digging through the drawers.
There
was a sudden pounding of footsteps from behind him. “She’s getting through the
door!”
He
turned to see Rachael making the corner below the stairs, Jack right behind
her. The demented heard the noise, and let out loud, angry screams. Everything
was happening too fast.
Turning
back to the desk, he began ripping out drawers and spilling their contents,
until finally at the back of a drawer he came across the familiar green of a
torn Sellier and Bellot box. Both Rachael and Jack let out ear piercing
screams when they saw what was barreling their way. Tom jammed his hand into
the box, grabbing two shells. He could sense them nearly on top of him. The
hairs on the back of his neck stood on end and the pounding of his heart
thumped against his chest. He cracked open the breach, rammed in two shells,
and in a single fluid motion, slammed the gun closed, and brought the weapon to
bear.
The
distorted face at the end of Tom's barrels nearly filled
his vision. Snot was streaming out of both nostrils, smearing across his
cheeks. His eyes had the same look of the other demented, red rimmed and
filled with hatred. Tom immediately pulled the trigger, making the face
disappear.
In
the background, another one was working to get up off of a mess of books that had tripped him up. Rather than give him the opportunity to rise, Tom pulled
the second trigger, flattening him back on the books, legs and arms splayed out.
Quickly
loading two more rounds, Tom jammed a remaining handful of ammo into his
pockets. “Come on!” He yelled while rushing around the desk toward the front
of the store.
Another
demented was climbing through the broken window, ripping his own leg wide
open on a shard of glass. Oblivious to the wound, he crawled through the window,
and got back to his feet. Tom pulled the trigger on the shotgun, sending the thing crashing back through the open window.
Loud
screaming caused Tom to slow and turn. The elderly woman had made it
downstairs, had a hold of Jack’s shirt, and was reaching out with her other
hand. Rachael had a grasp on both of Jack's arms, pulling, trying to get him away
from the crazed woman. As Tom raised the shotgun to take aim, Rachael lost her
grip, and Jack was pulled into the old woman’s clutches.
With
unimaginable strength, the old woman slammed Jack to the ground, jumping on top
of him. Ripping at his neck with her hands, she chomped down on his face with
her open mouth, turning his screams into grotesque gurgles. Dark blood ran out
onto the hardwood floor, forming an ever increasing crimson pool.
Simultaneously
Tom and Rachael yelled, “NOOO,” but it was too late.
Tom
had barely known the little guy, but a life should never be snuffed out so soon,
and this was surely not the way to go. Using his shoe, he shoved the old woman
off of Jack. Rolling onto her back, blood covering her face, she looked up at
Tom, growling with rage. Blood and spit flew out of her mouth. Tom pointed
the shotgun at her head and ended her life.
Looking
down, he wondered how the movies could get it so wrong. In the movies death was
clean, a little bullet hole with some blood oozing out. This was disgusting.
Chunks of meat, bone, brains, and who knows what else were scattered all over
the floor. A mixture of blood and other liquids flowed and bubbled inside
the wounds. There was also what could not be captured on film - smell. The
acrid, metallic smell of blood, combined with the stench of urine and feces, nearly
made Tom retch.
Rachael
knelt down next to Jack, trying to check his wounds.
Looking
into the small boy’s staring, glazed over eyes, Tom knew it was over, he had
gone somewhere better than here. “He’s gone.” He said, reaching down and
placing a hand on her shoulder.
Flinching,
she whipped her head around and glared at Tom, “We promised him!”
“Not
now.”
“Promised…”
Her head dipped and she began sobbing.
A variety of sounds were filtering in from the street. None of them sounded
good, spurring Tom to reload the shotgun. Checking his pockets, he found three
shells remaining, plus the two already loaded. This could not go on much
longer. He had hoped for more time to flesh out a full plan, but they were
going to have to make due on the fly. Taking his hand off her shoulder, he
said, “Come on, let’s get to the car.”
Hesitating,
she wiped her nose with the back of her hand, then slowly rose. Her eyes were
wet and swollen. Looking at Tom, she only nodded.
They
shared an angry, determined look, fully under the realization that this had
instantly turned into a cold, hard world.
Looking
in the rear view mirror, Tom could see several of the demented still chasing
after their car in a futile attempt to reach them. He felt a sense of relief
to be away from the mayhem of the bookstore; however the streets were not much
different. Everything was happening too fast.
Nearly
reading his mind, Rachael turned toward him and asked, “Where can we go?”
“We’re
about eight blocks from the convention center. If we can get there we have a
chance.”
“What’s
there?”
Tom
had to concentrate on the road, dodging wreckage, and avoiding the demented
still running the streets, so rather than go into details on his line of work and
specifics of the convention he simply replied, “Everything.”
The
streets were a disaster. Each block seemed to be the same - cars wrecked into
each other, buildings, and street posts. There were fewer people than Tom
would have thought, many lay along the streets and sidewalks, unmoving in pools
of blood. The gore was nearly overwhelming. Most of the bodies were ripped
into, innards spilling out, as if shredded by animals.
The
only living he saw were of the demented variety, and they all had the same
single minded rage. Whatever was happening to them, it was causing them to know
only hate toward the living. Many were too busy either pounding on business
doors, or tearing into wrecked cars to even notice them drive by, but occasionally
a few would pick up on movement. Seeing the motion of the car, a single minded
intensity would overcome them. They chased after the car like it was the only
ride off a sinking island.
Tom
wondered if they would have been better off never stopping at the bookstore.
Earlier, he thought if they had time to hunker down things would blow over a
bit, but it was clear now, things were not getting better.
Snapping
Tom out of his thoughts, Rachael screamed, “Look out!”
Directly
in front of them stood a small girl wearing a dirty pink dress. She held a tan
teddy bear by one leg, his head and one arm scraping the pavement. Staring
down at her feet, she rocked slowly side to side. The car tires squealed as Tom
slammed on the breaks, stopping just in front of her.
“What
is she doing?” Rachael said, while leaning right up against the front window,
squinting in hopes of getting a better view.
Nearly
there, one of the twin glass spires of the convention center could be seen just
ahead. Tom looked in the mirrors and out the side windows, trying to decide what to
do. He did not see any of the demented around, and decided to take a chance,
hoping they could try to make up for what happened to Jack.
Stepping
out of the car and glancing behind them, Tom could see no demented in sight. Turning
back to the girl, he hoped she would be gone, just an aberration, but there she
stood, exactly as before. “Hello?” Nothing. Inside he knew something was
amiss, but he also knew he could never live with himself if he got in the car
and just drove away.
Stepping
toward her, nearly within reach, Tom watched her slowly lift her head. His
heart began racing when he looked into her red rimmed eyes, the eyes of the
demented. Even focusing right on him, there was no rush to snuff him out of
this world, instead she just stood looking at him, or maybe through him.
Lifting her teddy bear toward him she opened her mouth to say something, but
only unintelligible gibberish spilled out. She stood staring, as if waiting
for a reply.
Tom
suddenly realized that with all the sirens and background noise, the demented
could be right on top of him and he would never know it until it was too late.
With sudden dread, he spun around. He will never know if it was instinct or
blind luck, but about a block behind them, several demented were racing their way. The wreckage is all that slowed them. With single minded focus, they
climbed and tripped over the cars, rather than dodging through them.
Tom
glanced back at the girl, who was still staring in his direction, then he turned,
and ran for his open car door. He was terrified to see the demented nearly to
their car. They were surprisingly fast in open space. Just as he was closing
his door, they reached the back of the car, and began pounding on the windows,
trying to gain access. Apparently, unable to remember the function of a door
handle, they continued to slam their open hands into the glass. Bloody hands smeared
the windows with crimson streaks. Turning to avoid the little girl, Tom
stomped on the gas, speeding away from her, and the demented.
In
the rear view mirror, he saw them running right past the little girl, completely
oblivious to her existence. “They ignored her.” He said.
Turning
in her seat to see for herself, Rachael said, “The groups don’t attack each
other either.”
Tom
simply nodded in agreement, not sure what it all meant.
Not
wanting to enter the dark confines of the parking garage, Tom drove right
through Holladay Plaza, coming to a stop next to one of the glass entrances.
The twin glass spires of the convention center towered over them. Having been
here over the last few days, he knew exactly where they needed to go. Tom
grabbed the shotgun off the back seat as they both exited the car.
Reaching
the front entrance, they discovered someone had already broken the glass out,
solving one of the problems Tom worried about.
“Looks
like someone had the same idea.” Rachael said.
Tom
looked down at the ground, and shook his head. “No…this was someone coming
out. Most of the glass is out here and see the blood over there.” He pointed
a few feet, away where the cement was dotted with small crimson circles. “Let’s
watch ourselves, the center would have been closed this morning, but I’m sure
some kind of crew gets here early. Watch my right on each entryway.” Holding
the shotgun tight to his shoulder, he stepped through the void.
Tom
immediately swept his shotgun to the left, and then scanned back to center, trusting
that Rachael checked to the right. Checking to make sure your partner was
checking is what got people killed.
Light
spilled in from the many windows facing the plaza out front. High on the wall
in the lobby still hung the white banner with large red text reading, “Survival
and Preparedness: How Much is Enough?” When Tom first got to the convention, this
seemed like a difficult question, and now even more so. He did know, what he currently had, was not enough.
As
they worked their way back toward the stairs there were pockets of darkness,
keeping them on edge. The stairs and exhibit entrances were well lit from the
glass spire above, however it looked like the exhibit rooms were shrouded in
darkness.
Tom
stopped before the large entrance to one of the exhibits, and craned his head
listening. “Hear that?” A scraping noise could be heard from somewhere in the
darkness.
“What
is that?” She said in a whisper.
“Not
sure, sounds like scraping metal.”
Rachael
took a step back, clearly terrified. “I can’t go in there.” Her eyes started
to tear up.
Stepping
away from the dark entrance, he said, “These exhibits are full of survival
equipment, all we have to do is get to the back of this exhibit. In the back
there’s a service corridor that leads to a smaller exhibit.” Tom grasped her
shoulder to make sure she was focused on him. “That is where the top weapons
manufacturers have been showing off their stuff. “
Rachael
slowly shook her head, saying nothing.
“We
need these…we need lots of things, and they’re all here.”
Wiping
her nose with the back of her hand she nodded her head.
The
only warning Tom had was a sudden intake of breath from Rachael, and widening of
her eyes, then it hit him. There was not enough time to raise the shotgun, but
he at least got his left forearm up to afford some space between himself and
his attacker. The momentum knocked Tom to the floor, sending the shotgun
skittering out of his grasp.
The
demented’s face was only inches from his own, the stench of this morning’s
bitter coffee clung to his hot breath. Bloody teeth gnashed in front of Tom,
trying to rip at his face. Straining with his forearm, Tom tried to throw his
attacker off, but he had no leverage. Rachael came in hard with a kick to the
side of the demented’s face. This gained just enough separation for Tom to shove with his forearm, sending the demented rolling to the side.
Turning
for the shotgun, Tom was glad to see Rachael had already grabbed it off the
floor, and was raising it to her shoulder. Not wanting to be a part of the
blast, he began rolling toward her feet. Just as he came around, he saw the
demented on all fours, rushing across the carpet, and then came a loud boom. In
her rush to get a shot off, she clipped the demented's left side, shredding his shoulder
and entire arm. Oblivious to the pain, he rose up on his knees and continued
toward them. With one final boom, center mass, he flopped down and lay still.
He
was a bloody mess now, but they could tell from his utility belt and uniform,
that he was one of the security personnel for the convention center. Tom
pulled the flashlight and sidearm from his belt. The large flashlight was a
bit dim, in need of fresh batteries, but would make traversing the dark exhibit
halls much easier. He was happy to see that security guy’s sidearm was a
standard issue Glock G17, a fine weapon that used the highly accessible 9mm
round. He checked the magazine, and chambered a round.
Turning
back to Rachael, he saw that she was fumbling with the shotgun, trying to open
the breach. “Here let me help.” He showed her how to slide the release, and
then he loaded two fresh rounds. Handing her the final round from his pocket,
he said “We better move, that shot will draw attention. Follow me, stay tight,
and watch our backs.”
By
crossing the forearm of his flashlight hand under is extended pistol arm, in the
Harries Hold, he was able to focus the beam in the direction of potential
targets. This was Tom’s preferred hold with a large flashlight, since it also
offered stability for his shooting hand.
The
enormous exhibit room had natural light coming in from various openings,
but much of the interior between booths was still shrouded in shadows. Hugging
the interior wall, they worked their way toward the back of the room, nearly a
football field away. Shadows seemed to jump and shift with the movement of the
flashlight. Adding to the paranoia was the constant scraping noise that was
getting louder as they neared the back.
Reaching
the back, he could see the large opening to the service corridor, light spilling
out. He clicked his flashlight off, and wedged it in his belt. “Lights are
on…could be good…could be bad...” He whispered.
Rachael
looked much more comfortable now. Maybe it was the new confidence with the
shotgun or maybe she was just relieved to have made it through the dark
exhibit. Tom on the other hand, was too aware of their situation to be
confident. More than likely a place this big had more than one security guard,
as well as support staff that did the early morning work. Some may have left
through the broken entrance, but if the scraping noise was any indication,
there were others in here with them.
He
directed Rachael to stand a few feet off the wall and train her shotgun through
the entryway to cover him. Standing about ten feet off the wall,
Tom slowly began making a wide arc, side stepping toward and through the center
of the entryway. This way he could slowly gain more and more angle on the
entryway to the right, while not overexposing himself. He had always referred to
the technique as slicing the pie, where each new angle is a slice.
Stepping
fully into the service corridor he saw nothing but empty space in either
direction. “Clear.” He whispered.
Rachael
lowered the shotgun and joined him in the corridor. “That sound is coming from
down there.” She said, while pointing toward the end of the long corridor.
“Yeah,
that’s where we need to go”
Rachael
swallowed hard, nodding her head, clearly not excited.
In
the wide corridor they walked side by side, weapons aimed downrange to avoid
potential surprises. They both slowed as they neared an unmarked door.
Tom
took a step toward the door. “Definitely coming from in there.”
“Where
does the door go?”
“I’ve
only been in the convention center a few times, and it was always the
exhibit rooms.” Tom looked toward the ceiling, as if there was a map there that
only he could see. “I’m fairly certain this back side has the loading ramps
for getting everything in and out. Probably I.T. and security as well…seems
like they always throw those guys back away from the public.”
“Let’s
leave it.”
Tom
shook his head. “Someone’s in there…I don’t want them behind us.”
Rachael
looked worried, but nodded her agreement.
Reaching
out, Tom tested the door handle, and found it moved freely. The scraping noise
stopped, causing him to freeze. He looked back at Rachael quizzically,
shrugging his shoulders, and then with a sudden BOOM something slammed up
against the door. Startled, Tom jumped away from the door, and Rachael let out
a loud scream. Loud booms echoed down the long corridor as someone pounded
relentlessly on the other side of the door.
If
opened, the door swung inward, so Tom decided it would remain closed for as long
as something was on the other side. Over the loud pounding, several angry
screams could be heard from back down the hall. “The noise is drawing more of
them.” Tom said. Looking down the corridor, he saw another door about twenty
feet farther along the wall.
Another
scream out of Rachael caused him to look back. Several of the demented were
just coming around the corner at the far end. This looked like
the early morning support staff that Tom feared still wandered the building.
One was dressed in the blue overalls of a janitor. A couple others at the front
were dressed in jeans and bright yellow vests. These looked to be some of the loading
dock staff. Both Tom and Rachael watched in horror as several more rounded the
corner, their hate filled screams funneling down the corridor.