His shirt lay at his feet a tattered mess, mostly soaked through with the kid’s blood. The cold night air bit at the exposed skin of his upper body and the horde—too large to count—was less than thirty seconds from overtaking them. He was still reeling from the events of the past several minutes, although there were more pressing matters.
Down on one knee, Ethan looked into Ben’s eyes. “Stay with me kid, you’re gonna be fine.”
Twice looping a torn length of fabric around the younger man’s arm, Ethan placed it just above the injury and tied it off. He watched as the flow of blood slowed, before moving in behind and scooping Ben off the saturated asphalt.
“Ethan, I’m cold and I can’t feel my arm.”
“It’s alright. I’m getting you out of here.”
Moving quickly to his father’s SUV, Ethan crossed the driveway without looking into the garage. He leaned into the front passenger door and reached under Ben’s legs, feeling for the door handle.
Stepping back, he pulled the door open. Carefully placing Ben atop the black leather bucket seat, he scanned the interior for his father’s keys. The ignition, the dash, the center console, and finally the driver’s seat.
Nothing.
Back over his shoulder, a few from the approaching crowd had taken to investigating the blood-soaked street as others moved up onto the sidewalk. They were now only seconds from the driveway.
Ben’s eyes began to close. “Ethan, I’m too tired, I can’t stay—”
“I need you to fight. Hold on to the door handle and don’t let go. I’m going inside to get the keys, but those things are going to get here before I get back.”
Ethan leaned in, reached around to the front of the seat, and stared into Ben’s eyes as he reclined the seat. Lowering his voice to a whisper, he said, “Stay awake, I’ll be right back.”
Stepping away and closing the door, Ethan turned to face the crowd. He stopped near the garage door and waved his arms in the air, attempting to draw the crowd back away from the vehicle.
“HEY… OVER HERE, LET’S GO!”
From the blacked-out street, the first few continued forward, only taking a passing interest in Ethan as they slowly stumbled toward the SUV. With their single-minded rage focused on the interior, the horde quickly noticed Ben sitting inside the vehicle and began filling in around the front and rear passenger doors. They began clawing at the frosted windows as Ben closed his eyes and turned away.
Again Ethan shouted as he started back toward the SUV. “COME ON, I’M RIGHT HERE!”
As the crowd continued to pour in off the street, Ethan was able to get the attention of a pair of Feeders coming in from the left. They’d yet to push in behind the crowd surrounding his father’s vehicle, and with nothing standing in their way, they turned toward the garage.
“Good,” Ethan said under his breath. “Now I just need the rest of you to follow your friends.”
And they did.
The growing crowd finally took notice of Ethan as he backed into the garage. He crossed the floor quickly and moved to the work bench. Reaching for the pair of nine millimeter pistols, he turned toward the door to the house. He avoided the other parts of the garage and the spot where the man who taught him to throw a fastball lay in a river of his own blood.
Over his shoulder, he confirmed that the crowd was still in pursuit and also gauged the timing of what he was preparing to do. If he knew anything about his father, the keys would be easy enough to locate. He’d kept them in the same dish for over thirty years without fail, the same dish his sister made in grade school. The same dish that was always placed by the front door.
Ethan just needed the growing horde to follow him away from the SUV and into the house. Divert their current flow and get them moving in another direction. That’s how this was going to work. There wasn’t time for anything else.
He had to forget his own grief for the moment, push it aside, and get Ben back to the others. Move through each step precisely as it played out in his mind. No room for error, not in the slightest. If something went sideways, one tiny little glitch—anything at all—he and Ben wouldn’t live another sixty seconds.
Time wasn’t going to stand still for him, it wasn’t going to wait, and it sure as hell wasn’t on his side. He had one minute to make this happen. There wasn’t anyone coming to help. He was alone with only one way forward; now he just needed to act.
Slipping one of the pistols into his waistband and gripping the other in his right hand, Ethan narrowed his gaze on the door leading to the house. Stepping into the laundry room, his eyes slowly began adjusting to the darkened interior. And with less than a five second lead on the crowd pouring into the garage, he paused.
Standing in the hall between the laundry room and the entrance to the kitchen, a candlelight flickered from somewhere beyond his current vantage. The living room sat to his left and something or someone moved quickly through the shadows. Whoever it was stayed low and darted behind the large sofa.
Ethan raised the pistol in his right hand, kept his back to the wall, and quickly turned into the opposite hall leading to the front door. There wasn’t time for a long drawn out conversation. He couldn’t spare even the few seconds it would take to question the person hiding in his father’s living room. Was it simply a neighbor attempting to hide from the dead, or was it the last of Maddox’s men trying to wait out the inevitable?
He could fire into the dimly lit room, through the front of the tan leather sofa, and finish this without wasting another second. He could also just walk out through the door and let whoever it was die at the hands and mouths of those now pouring into the laundry room.
He didn’t particularly like either of those options, especially if it were just another innocent victim brought here by Maddox and his men. But he also wasn’t about to leave another moment of his life to chance. He’d already killed two men without blinking an eye and even though it was the right thing to do, he didn’t like the path he was now traveling.
Ethan backed toward the front door, and as the horde found its way into the adjoining hall, he looked to his right and found the bowl Emma had made all those years ago. Reaching in, he pulled out two sets of keys, shoved them into his pocket, and without turning, reached back and opened the front door.
“Whoever you are, you have less than five seconds to get out from behind that couch and get through the sliding glass door. I won’t harm you, but there is a large crowd coming your way that will. If you don’t go now, you won’t have a chance.”
The first few Feeders stomped heavily out of the hallway and into the living room. The next few turned away from the others and started for Ethan. They broke off in twos and threes, heading in opposite directions—half toward the person hidden behind the couch, and half headed toward Ethan.
Sliding behind the door, Ethan watched as the man behind the sofa leapt to his feet and took a step forward, reaching for his right hip. At this distance, he was only a vague silhouette; however, he wore the same black fatigues as the others, telling Ethan everything he needed to know.
As the horde continued to spill out of the hall—partially obstructing Ethan’s line of sight—the man thirty feet away again stepped forward.
Ethan trained his pistol on the man’s head and spoke only to himself.
Don’t kill him. You don’t have to. Get back to Ben.
With the crowds only a few seconds from reaching both men, Ethan wrapped his index finger around the trigger, waiting for the man to make a move. From across the room, the man locked eyes with Ethan and nodded, before turning and moving to the slider.
As Ethan lowered his weapon, the man slipped through the glass door, into the backyard, and disappeared into the night.
His heart pounding like a jackhammer against the inside of his chest, Ethan stepped out onto the front porch and closed the door just slightly ahead of the approaching crowd. They slammed into the opposite side with enough force to push Ethan out onto the porch, as he turned to check the front yard and the path leading back to the driveway.
Mostly clear.
The last half dozen or so Feeders from the street continued into the driveway, following the others into the garage, slowly finding their way into his parents’ home. Ethan quickly moved to the end of the walkway and checked the SUV. Only three remained at Ben’s window.
His friend needed help. He needed to get Ben back to the university and more importantly, back to Carly. Although Ethan also had one last thing to do before he hopped into the SUV and drove away from the area.
As the last few Feeders moved up into the home, Ethan turned and started for the garage. He needed to finish this tonight.
Cruising at an altitude of thirty-eight thousand feet, the Gulfstream G280 sliced through the night sky like a hot knife through butter. The flight had been quiet since leaving the West Coast, with the pilot only once appearing from the forward cabin. He sat in silence, peering out through the window and contemplating this unplanned trip.
Taking in a long slow breath, Marcus Goodwin turned in his chair and folded his hands into his lap. He glanced toward the front of the jet and then let his eyes drift back to the man seated five feet away.
“This shouldn’t take much more than a few hours. But this is something that is absolutely necessary.”
The small man with sandy brown hair and a wide nervous smile sat motionless, just staring back. He wanted to speak—simply offer up his opinion, his solution—but he knew Mr. Goodwin wasn’t yet finished. So instead, he sat up high in his seat and gripped the oversized tablet like his life depended on him never letting go.
Goodwin began to nod as he continued, “I realize you probably have many concerns about this little trip, but I promise you, we need these guys.”
Marcus Goodwin paused and now waited for a response from the man half his age.
The small man only offered a slight grin, not completely ready to put his thoughts into words. They’d come out rushed and most likely offensive. His well-mannered demeanor was beginning to crack.
Leaning forward, Goodwin studied the man’s face, practically assured of what he was thinking. “James Dalton… let me ask you a question, as it’s obvious that you’re second-guessing our plan.”
“
Our
plan sir?” As the words crested his tongue and left his mouth, Dalton was already regretting his decision to speak. He crossed his legs and then uncrossed them just as quickly. He sat back in his chair, placed the tablet in his lap, and attempted to slow his racing pulse.
Rubbing his hands together, Goodwin smiled hard and shook his head. “Yes, that’s what I was looking for. I didn’t bring you along just because of the way you dress. While I feel that your decision to continue wearing three-piece suits even now is a bit odd, I do like your enthusiasm. It may just be what gets us through this—”
Goodwin stopped mid-sentence. He narrowed his eyes and looked toward the cockpit. Then back to Dalton, he rubbed at the two-day scruff along his face and neck. “Are we descending? There’s no way we’ve already arrived.”
Looking down at his wrist and pulling back his sleeve, Goodwin continued, “I’m calculating another twenty minutes, isn’t that right?”
Dalton nodded. “Yes, usually. But given the fact that we’re most likely the only ones in the sky, I assume that the pilots have taken some liberties with our scheduled route, which may have saved on fuel, as well as time.”
“Sounds logical, although maybe you should head up front and confirm. Also reiterate the importance of them staying with the plane while we are gone. I don’t want any excuses for us not hitting our target window tomorrow.”
Dalton pulled the tablet from his lap, powered it on, and closed the two windows he was working in. Before heading to the forward cabin, he placed the tablet back in his seat and turned to Goodwin. “I’ll make sure.”
“Before you go,” Goodwin said, “I want you to understand that this is
our
plan. Without you, there is no getting into that facility, not now, not next week, maybe not ever.”
“Thank you Mr. Goodwin, I appreciate everything you have done for me, including and most importantly, allowing me to stay at your side this past week. You didn’t have to keep me around, but I’m forever grateful that you did.”
He knew what Dalton was doing, but it wasn’t going to work. Marcus Goodwin didn’t have another side. There was not a single part of him that could be manipulated, and although Dalton was smart and quick on his feet, Goodwin was smarter.
“You’ve earned your rightful place here, so do yourself a favor and don’t try to patronize me. It won’t work. You know that I need your services, but I also need the men that we are here for. Without you and without them, this won’t work. Blackmore would be as good as lost.”
Attempting to come up with a proper response—one that would satisfy Goodwin, as well as put an end to this conversation—Dalton paused and looked back toward the front of the jet. He knew that no matter what he said next, it would somehow be the wrong thing.
As the uncomfortable silence continued, Dalton simply nodded his head and motioned toward the cockpit. “Yes, I understand. I will make sure they do as well.”
Goodwin didn’t respond, adding to the already awkward moment. He instead waited for Dalton to turn and walk away. He then reached for the glass bottle of artesian spring water that sat atop the small square table to his right. Tilting it back and taking a long pull, he again peered out the window.
Intently studying the devastated topography below, he spoke quietly and only to himself.
This world, not much different than the last… the only change, less weakness to deal with. Maybe this won’t be so bad?
A smile began to form at the corners of his mouth as Marcus Goodwin contemplated what the new world would look like. He pictured an existence where one day every man, woman, and child would know his name. Some would think him a visionary, while others would initially despise what he stood for and what he had created… but they would learn to respect him. They would one day see what he saw. But ultimately they would realize that this world—good or bad—was his. It would belong only to him.
This wasn’t exactly the outcome he’d originally envisioned; however, it was his all the same. The turn was unfortunate, but now he believed it was necessary and embraced his creation. The ends would one day justify the means. And he no longer cared about the whys or the hows, only that his legacy lived on—for however long that would be.
A backlit figure stepped out of the cockpit. Goodwin expected to see a reluctant James Dalton striding back to his seat, but was surprised as the co-pilot, a tall slender sixty-something man, walked quickly through the rear cabin.
Goodwin turned away from the window as the uniformed man approached. “Yes, Mr. Osborne, what can I do for you?”
“Mr. Goodwin, we have a problem”
“Add it to the list.”
“We can’t land, not at our assigned airfield anyway, we are looking into—”
“I don’t care what the problem is, land this thing or I’ll do it myself.”
The co-pilot looked out the window at Goodwin’s right side. “I understand your concern; we both do. However, we are running into the same problem as we did at take-off. There just isn’t enough asphalt to put down.”
Peering around the tall slender man, Goodwin focused on the cockpit. “I’d rather not have to come up there myself. You were hired to do a job, so just—”
Even as the co-pilot began to interject, he could feel the tension in air beginning to solidify. “Sir… that isn’t our only concern. There is one other issue that needs to be addressed before making any other decisions.”
Goodwin’s eyes narrowed as he sat forward. “I won’t tell you again. Land. This. Plane. There isn’t anything else that needs to be discussed. I have men on the ground just waiting for us to arrive. They are the reason we’ve made this trip.”
“Yes Mr. Goodwin, that’s the other problem.”
“
What
is the other problem?”
“The men we’ve come here for, they aren’t at the airfield and we’ve lost all communication with them… we have no idea where they are.”