No Safety in Numbers (24 page)

Lexi shoved into the crowd after him and they moved slowly through the undulating bodies, being tossed one way, then another, at times being lifted off their feet entirely. It was like swimming, only unpleasant and loud and terrifying. Lexi felt the hot mist of people’s breath on her skin like a poison. She tried to hold her breath, but that only made her feel sick. Her father pushed forward, every once in a while barking with pain as someone hit his shoulder or arm. Somehow, after an eternity, they pressed against the plywood of the PaperClips’ barrier.

They slipped along the outside of the crowd against the wall to the door. Lexi had to throw herself back into the throng to eke open the door, but somehow they both managed to jam themselves into the empty space behind the plywood. The door was slammed shut behind them. Dad tumbled to the floor.

Lexi shouted for help, but with all the screaming and shouting, who could hear her?

“I’ll run in and get someone,” she said. Her father nodded.

The people began banging on the plywood wall. The beams groaned.

“Hurry,” he said.

Inside, Lexi saw only people on gurneys. Coughing, screaming, prostrate patients, but no doctors. She yelled for help, flapping open each curtain as she ducked through the maze of rooms. But there was no one.

The wood groaned louder. Snapped.

Dad.

Lexi bolted back toward the entrance. He’d be crushed. She had to save him.

The wall collapsed, crashed into the glass entryway of the PaperClips. Lexi turned from the spray of shards, throwing her arm over her face, and crouched behind a gurney. Then the gurney was on top of her. She screamed with pain—the bed had fallen across her legs just above her knees, tossing the patient who’d been in it onto her back. A wall of curtain fell on top of the pile. Feet trampled the fabric around her, but the bulk of the gurney must have worked to drive the masses of people aside.

She wiggled her toes—her legs must not have been broken. She curled her head down and wrapped her arms over her skull and neck. The person on top of her coughed; luckily, the body lay perpendicular to her over her butt, the head several feet from her rear.

The feet pounded. Voices screamed. Glass crashed to the floor. More shouting. More crashing. Then less. Fewer voices. Then only the cries and groans of the other people buried in the wreckage.

Lexi strained against the weight of the gurney. She could not move. She screamed for help. The only answer was the hacking cough of the dying patient on top of her.

R
yan pulled the thick jacket tighter around his shoulders. The shivers were overwhelming now, rattling his teeth if he unclenched his jaws. He was cold, so very cold, and couldn’t get warm no matter how many jackets he buried himself under.

They’d hidden in Harry’s after escaping the jail in the parking garage. Mr. Reynolds had thought they could hole up in one of the back sections between the crowded racks and avoid the cops. He’d been right—not a soul had bothered them. Ryan had excused himself, saying he’d hurt his shoulder tackling the guard, and curled up in the winter coats. He wasn’t sure how many hours had passed—he’d fallen in and out of consciousness. Once, he’d opened his eyes to darkness, a spinning black that terrified him like he was a kid again. Cracking open his eyelids now, he saw the comforting glare of the overhead lighting. It
seemed unsteady, but swirling light was somehow better than swirling black.

“Ryan?”

The voice was nearby, though it sounded muffled to Ryan’s ears. A hand shook his shoulder.

“Shrimp.” Mike peeled back the jacket. “Oh shit.”

It must have been bad. Were his fingers blue? His eyes red? When would the coughing start? How long until he died?

Mr. Reynolds stood a good distance apart. “We should leave him,” he said. “No way he’s going to make an escape in that condition.”

“We don’t leave a man behind,” Drew said from somewhere behind Ryan. “I’ll carry him.”

Mike tucked the jacket tighter around Ryan’s shoulders. “He’s too sick.” Mike stood. Ryan wanted to plead with them not to leave him, that he could walk, but his brain had lost contact with his mouth. He groaned. It was the best he could do.

“We have to get him some food, medicine.” Mike wiped his hands on a T-shirt hanging from the nearest rack.

Mr. Reynolds stepped closer. “We have to get out of here.”

Mike stood. “This isn’t a negotiation.”

“Don’t fuck with me, kid. I’m not blowing our escape just to save your pal.”

“Let me say it again.” Mike pulled a gun from his waistband. “This isn’t a negotiation.”

Mr. Reynolds backed away. “Where’d you get that?”

“The cop.” Mike held the gun level with Mr. Reynolds’s chest.

“Dude,” Drew muttered.

Mr. Reynolds put up his hands. “Fine,” he said. “We’ll get him some food.”

Mike lowered the gun. “Glad we agree.”

Sometime later, Mike woke Ryan again. “We have to move,” he whispered, handing Ryan a bottle of Sportade.

Ryan nodded. He sipped the liquid, which even at room temperature felt cold. Everything was cold. He slid his arms into the sleeves of the jacket. Mike zipped the front, then pulled him to standing. As Mike helped Ryan hobble down the aisle, he explained that an announcement had been made that the government was quarantining the mall because of some flu and that people had gone insane as a result.

“I have it,” Ryan said.

“No shit.” Mike smiled and gave him a light noogie. “But that doesn’t mean we’re not getting your sick ass out of here.”

Ryan could almost forget how terrifying Mike had looked holding that gun.

The plan was to go to the HomeMart and get a jackhammer and blast through an exterior wall. Mr. Reynolds hoped to break through after nightfall and then crawl through the shadows to safety.

The four took the escalator up to the second floor—the rioters crowded the first level.

“None of these sheep are getting out the main exits,”
Mr. Reynolds said, smiling that thin smile of his. “But we have to thank them for all the noise. The cops couldn’t hear a jackhammer if it was drilling directly into their skulls.”

The second floor was not entirely empty. Individuals and small gangs raided the abandoned stores, dragging loot out in piles. The four had to swerve around the looters and their troves.

Ryan tried to keep pace with the others, shambling along on feet that felt like they weighed fifty pounds each. Mike barked encouragement into his ear—You keep moving, step by step, Shrimp. You get to that goal. Ryan stepped over and over for Mike. But then his foot caught on something and the walls shifted and he was on the ground.

“Get him up!” Mr. Reynolds shouted.

The world spun again. Blurs of color swirled in front of him. Mike and Drew hefted him up.

“In here,” Mike growled, dragging Ryan backward out of the hall.

From the posters, Ryan knew they were in Shep’s. He liked that he would die in Shep’s. Maybe Mike could hold him against the climbing wall one last time. Mike sat Ryan on a weight bench and turned to tell Drew something. Ryan thought he saw a man in the back of the store.

Then Mr. Reynolds was screaming. A red-fletched hunting arrow stuck out from his shoe.

A voice came from the back of the store. “I’ve taken over Shep’s,” the man yelled. “Go find your own place.”

Mike dragged Ryan behind a display, then Mr. Reynolds
collapsed on the floor beside them and stared at his foot, whimpering. Drew stood at the edge of the display eyeing their attacker.

“One guy,” he said to Mike. “Back left corner. Compound bow. That’s it.”

Mike stood. He glared through a hole in the display wall at the guy. “I am sick of being fucked with.” He nudged Drew in the shoulder. “You distract him over by the kayaks.”

Drew nodded and skulked to the end of the aisle.

Mike grabbed Mr. Reynolds’s hand, which was on the arrow’s shaft. “Don’t pull it out.” Then Mike handed Ryan the Sportade. “Drink.”

Drew bounded along the side wall, ducking from display to display. Mike sprinted across the center of the store to the opposite wall. Ryan crawled to the edge of the display to watch.

Drew dove for the kayaks, knocking several over. The guy fired an arrow into the hull of the one closest to Drew. Mike appeared from behind the display nearest the guy and shot him point blank in the temple. The man fell forward across the counter. Red spatter marred the wall.

Ryan felt even colder. Not sick cold, but like he might never be able to not see that red stain. He dragged himself back behind the display. He wished he hadn’t moved.

“Serves the bastard right,” Mr. Reynolds said, gently prodding at his shoe.

Shadows appeared at the edges of Ryan’s vision. They were coming for him, the demons. He was dying and he had just witnessed a murder and he had maybe killed two cops himself and these shadows were coming now
for him. He didn’t want to die. He waved his hands, tried to push the shadows away.

Something grabbed his arm. The shadows were everywhere now. He begged them to leave him alone. He didn’t want to die.

The black took over and everything was cold.

FRIDAY