Stage 3: A Post Apocalyptic Thriller (17 page)

And just in time. At just that moment, the first of the swarm appeared in the ambient glow of his phone light; one of the big males that had broken down the fence at the Secret Garden. The creature had suffered a deep scalp laceration sometime between then and now, and his face was painted red with his own blood, but despite the injury, he charged headlong down the pipe, snarling and growling and raking the air with his claws. In another second, he would be at the ladder. If he happened to reach up at the wrong time, it would be all over. Mason managed to lift his foot another inch, but that was it. He was now as high off the ground as he could conceivably go. He watched the creature advance and felt his pulse thundering in his ears. At last, the big male ran by, caught his foot on the base of the ladder, stumbled, caught himself, peered blindly about as if searching for whoever or whatever had gotten in his way, then he turned back to his previous heading and charged away down the pipe.

There was no time for celebration. The others were right on his tail. Mason managed to release his breath and refill his lungs quietly, and then the rush came. Two others tore past the ladder and continued on after the first, then a fourth followed a few seconds later. But this last one didn't race by like the others. To Mason's horror, it actually slowed as it approached the ladder. It was another one of the big males from the hospital. Leather jacket. Biker type. Massive chest and thick neck. It no longer growled, but the sound it made while grinding its crooked yellow teeth together was not unlike the rasping of blades against a whetstone.

Mason's lungs hungered for air, and his legs ached from the awkward positioning of his body. He could feel Mackenzie's chest rise and fall against his back so he knew that she was breathing, but she was doing so as quietly as a kitten. He wished he could do the same as she, but by now he was well aware of that particular shortcoming. Still, as long as they remained frozen, the biker would pass them by, then he could breathe all he wanted. In another few seconds, the creature would surely tear off after the others and they'd be safe.

But then the unthinkable happened. Maybe it had sensed something in the air, or maybe it had heard Mason's heart hammering in his chest, or maybe it was just pure dumb shitty luck, but  whatever the reason, the creature slowed the closer it got and came to a sudden stop directly below. Once stopped, it stood at the very base of the ladder, turning first one way then the other, then it cocked its head to one side and stood perfectly still.

Seconds passed, and Mason could feel Mackenzie's tiny body start to tremble. She might be breathing alright, but she was crushed into such a tight little ball that her muscles were starting to protest. Too much longer and she would cramp up, then her muscles were start to spasm and there would be nothing either of them could do to stop it.

Mason considering dropping bodily on the creature while he still had strength, but even if he could somehow maneuver himself into the proper position without being detected, the impact wouldn't be nearly enough to incapacitate the barrel-chested biker. He would then be forced into a bare-handed fight to the death with a raging wildman twice his size. Such a struggle wouldn't be a struggle at all. It wouldn't even be a scrap. It would be suicide. And then Mackenzie would be alone.

As he gaped down at the monster, he felt a gentle tap on the back of his neck and a wetness beading under his collar. At first he thought that Mackenzie might have been hurt and what he'd felt had been blood dripping from above. But no, he would have noticed. Oh, of course! She was a child, after all. She must be scared silly. The poor thing was crying to herself in absolute silence, and what he'd felt must have been a teardrop. But wait. No. Mack wasn't like other kids. Even if she were the crying type, she would never allow herself to do so here and now. But if it hadn't been a tear, then what else?

Then he had it. The air in the sewer was dank and fetid, but it was also hot. The girl was sweating, that was all. In this heat, who wouldn't be? The revelation was so incongruous under the circumstances that he nearly disregarded it, but then his active mind followed the math, and a new fear gripped his heart. Who
wouldn't
be sweating….after all,
he
was sweating, too. Even now, the perspiration was beading up along his hairline and rolling lazily down his cheek. And here he was, directly above a creature whose every sense was attuned toward the detection of a living human.

It was such a movie cliché that Mason might have actually laughed had the situation not been so dire. Imagine being undone by an errant bead of sweat.….. It was utterly ridiculous, and yet the danger was all too real. He wondered if the creature would feel it if it was struck by a single drop. If so, would its puerile mind be able to put two and two together? Doubtful, but it might very well react with a flailing of arms, and Mason was barely a foot above its head. But what if that drop missed the creature and splashed into the mire at its feet. Would it hear it? Would it react the same way? Mason didn't doubt either possibility for a second. With the imagery complete, he slowly drew his head back as far as he could and tucked his chin neatly into his elbow. Now his sweat could safely accumulate, but there was a downside to this new position. With his head tucked into his arm, he could no longer see the creature. But no matter. What difference would it make? With a grim realization, he knew that the beast would either reach up and find his foot, or not. Despite his best efforts, their fate was suddenly no longer in his hands.

Mason closed his eyes, and for the first time in more years than he could count, he began to pray.

Even as he beseeched a God of whose existence he was dubious at best, he knew in his heart that it was less a question of faith than it was of how much longer he could hold his breath. Thirty seconds had already gone by since he'd last filled his lungs. Maybe more. The way his chest was burning already, he figured on another thirty seconds. Forty, tops. Mackenzie might be able to draw breath without a sound, but he couldn't. As soon as he gasped for air, it would be game over. Dispensing with his one-way conversation with an improbable God, he instead made a deal with
himself
, then and there, high atop that rusty ladder. When he finally reached his breaking point twenty or thirty seconds from now and simply had to breathe, he would do so even as he launched himself down at the biker-creature. With luck, he might land directly on top of the thing and buy himself a few seconds. If he could manage a kick to the knee, he might stand a fighting chance. More probably he'd be torn to pieces, but he might live long enough to lead the creature away from Mack. Either way, at least he wouldn't be handing this monster its dinner on a platter.

He counted off the seconds in his head. By the time he reached ten, his pulse was thundering in his ears. At fifteen, his diaphragm began to spasm. At twenty, he had to physically clamp his mouth closed to keep from exhaling. And from then on, every second was an eternity. His lungs felt as if they were about to explode from his chest, and a sharp pain shot through his temples with every beat of his heart. Finally, when he counted off another ten seconds, he knew his time was up. He tensed up all of his muscles and made himself ready. At last, with nothing left to lose, he released his grip on the ladder and flung himself downward.

And missed!

He landed hard on his shoulder in two inches of muck, and felt shocks of pain radiate through his back and up into his neck. He lay there for a second, gasping for breath, then he saw legs beside him and knew that he'd thrown away his one chance. In another second, the beast would be on him, and it would be over. Claws at his face. Teeth at his throat. Well, he wouldn't go down without a fight! As the last desperate act of the condemned, then, he rolled onto his side and lashed a foot out at one of the legs. And he missed again!

Then one of the legs bent and a knee was dropped into the mire. A body hovered over Mason and the ashen face of Doctor Walker came into focus.

"Are you okay?"

Mason leapt to his knees, ready to fight for his life, but he couldn't understand why he was seeing the doctor's face instead of the biker's. Clearly, his oxygen-starved mind was playing tricks on him. He assumed a ridiculous pose with his hands curled into fists, ready to battle to the end with the big leather-clad creature, but again the pale, thin face of Walker hovered awkwardly before him.

"Are you okay?" the face repeated.

Mason spun one way, then the other, but the biker was nowhere in sight.

"Where…." he managed between great heaving gasps.

"Oh, he ran off after the others," the face of Walker said, and a hand was lowered.

Mason took the hand and allowed the doctor to help him to his feet. The man looked like death warmed over, but that horrible, pinched face was the greatest thing Mason could have imagined seeing.

"Are they gone?" he panted, holding a weak hand to his heaving chest, "How did you….."

"I hid," Walker said, "Well, I didn't hide,
per se
. I fell, so I just curled up and stayed quiet and they ran right past me. And yes, they seem to be gone. At least for now."

By now, Mackenzie had unfolded herself and descended a few cautious steps down the ladder.

"Mace?" She hushed.

"Right here, babygirl. Can you still hear them?"

She listened for a moment, then declared, "Just barely. They're still running the other way."

Mason put an arm around Mackenzie's waist as she clung halfway up the ladder, and reached with the other to shake the doctor's hand.

"I'm glad you made it, Doc, I really am. I wasn't sure. You were so far behind, and they were coming so fast…."

Walker's hand felt like a wet dishrag. Still, the man nodded resolutely and offered, "You did what you had to do. It was the wisest choice."

"The wisest choices aren't always the
right
choices, Doc," Mason said, bringing out his light and shining it to both sides nervously. "But let's continue this conversation up top, shall we? I think we've overstayed our welcome in the underworld."

CHAPTER XXI

By now, Mason had become quite adept at the discreet removal of manhole covers.

Once Mackenzie moved aside to give him room to work, he hoisted one edge of the cover an inch or two to assess the situation, then slid the cover back along the roadway, one slow inch at a time. At last, he tucked his phone away, secured his pack over his shoulder, and climbed out.

It wasn't hard to know where they were. This was a quiet side street, but even in a world turned upside down, Market Street was impossible to miss. He could make out that renowned thoroughfare just past a sprawling Texaco station at the end of the block. Referring to the map of the city in his head, he triangulated his position as being between Highway 80 and the 101, which would put them somewhere in the Mid-Market area.
Not bad,
Mason considered. Not counting the sideways diversion to the hospital, he and Mack had covered something close to five miles via their own personal subway. If his internal map was accurate, the park with the funny dogs was no more than three miles away. Mostly south and a little bit west.

He clicked his cheek, and Mackenzie popped out of the manhole. She made not a sound as she accepted Mason's hand and let him help her to her feet. Several long moments later, Walker's head appeared and hovered just above ground level.

Now that he saw him in the full light of day, Mason had to hold back a gasp at the sight. The man's flesh had turned as white as snow, his clothes were literally dripping with sweat, and his hair was plastered to his scalp as if he'd just climbed out of a swimming pool. But it was his eyes that unnerved Mason most. Holy
christ
, the eyes! The pupils had retracted into pinpoints, and the rest was the color of blood. One look at those eyes, and Mason thought the man might shy away from the light like a mole, but the doctor continued to rise laboriously, rung by rung, laying a shaking hand on the lip of the hole, and heaved himself up one more rung. At that point, the life seemed to drain out of him, and he hung there in mid-air as if deciding whether to continue up or drop back down to the sewer. Despite his feelings toward the man, Mason came around the doctor's back, slipped his hands under the his arms, and lifted him the rest of the way out.

And then they stood there, one catching his breath and the other surreptitiously wiping his hands on his jeans and scanning the entire perimeter.

Mason quickly realized that escaping the inner city was the best thing they could have done. They weren't out of the woods by any stretch, but at least the swarms would be thinner here. And yet, there was something about the very sparseness of the swarm that brought the horror closer to home. Now, instead of a faceless horde, they became that little old woman who might have been someone's grandmother, or the guy in the tattered suit who probably wanted nothing more a week ago than to land a decent job. A young punk emerged from a side street with his hoodie all bloodied and hanging off of one shoulder, and Mason thought,
that could be my nephew
. A middle-aged woman caught wind of something and tore past twenty feet away, and all Mason could think was,
that looked almost like Suzie at work
. A pretty young girl in a torn skirt stumbled around a corner and quickly disappeared from sight, and Mason actually found himself pondering,
was that the girl from Starbucks? What was her name? Emily? Emma? Amy?

At last, he gathered together his disparate little group and herded them south toward Market Street. The road was littered with abandoned vehicles and more than a few corpses in various states of butchery, but Mason could see a big Farragut's department store on the other side of Market that would be a good place to hole up. There would be supplies there; food, water, clean clothes. But really, it wouldn't have mattered if it'd been an abattoir. They needed to get somewhere safe and rest. A few minutes to catch their breath and figure out their next move. Time enough to wolf down a muffin and chug some water. God willing, maybe even an hour or two so Mason could close his eyes and Walker could get his shit together.

Mason and Mackenzie strode softly, hand in hand, but even at the slow, cautious pace they'd set for themselves, Walker began to fall quickly behind. Every few yards, Mackenzie would tug at Mason's hand and bring him to a stop, and they would wait for the doctor to catch up.

"I'm not carrying him," Mason whispered to the girl.

She fixed him with a blind stare and swept back a handful of curls. "But you can
help
him."

"I
am
helping him," Mason hushed, "But he has to help himself first."

"He's sick," Mackenzie said, "If I was sick….."

He immediately cut her off, "It wouldn't be the same."

The girl gave his hand a gentle squeeze and shrugged.

"It
should
be."

Mason looked back to the doctor and regarded him with an attempt at sympathy. The pitiful little man was hunched over and wheezing horribly, and with every awkward step he took forward, his entire body shuddered and swayed as if a stiff breeze might blow him over. But he was an albatross around their necks, and worse, he was quickly becoming a real threat. If his shallow gasps for air didn't soon attract the swarm's attention, his scraping, scuffing footfalls would. The best thing Mason could do to protect himself and his young charge would be to leave the man behind. And yet, there was that nagging sense of morality, now sustained by his little red-headed conscience.

He sighed heavily, then he released Mackenzie's hand and went to the doctor's side. He pulled him upright, swung one of the doctor's arms over his shoulder, grabbed him tightly around the waist, and began hauling him bodily along.

Walker only moaned, but Mackenzie smiled sweetly and offered a whispered, "Thanks, Mace."

Mason did his best to take as much of Walker' weight as possible to mitigate the scuffling footsteps, but there was nothing he could do about the man's horrible, labored wheezing. Two males were close enough to hear the rasped panting, but thankfully they had the slow shuffling gait of the things in Ward C, so as long as the group kept moving, they would never be able to catch up. One of the other types was close, too, but it was hunched over a body and quite contentedly consuming it from the inside out, so Mason discounted it, but he never left it entirely out of his sight as they slogged along. There were three others in view, two females and a male in a business suit  tearing up from behind, so Mason halted his group, shushed them into silence, clamped a hand over Walker's mouth, and watched as the creatures tore past less than thirty yards away. Mason followed their trajectory and saw the object of their attentions. A young man was blindly groping his way along the curb further down the block. The man suddenly stopped and held himself still, but Mason could have told him that it was already too late. The creatures had his scent, and were on him in seconds. They tore into him like a pack of wild dogs, and even as his screams echoed through the streets, Mason looked on stone-faced. He then took a quick look over his shoulder, saw the two stumbling things on their tail gaining ground, and got his group moving again. 

It might have seemed to another that the best course of action was to keep close to the shadows, but Mason instinctively knew better. In this insane situation, it was better to stay out in the open. A solid brick wall might give the appearance of shelter, but every doorway and hidden recess held the potential for a surprise, and there would be little time or space left to react. Out in the open, one could see what was coming, and there was a full 360 degrees to make an escape. With this in mind, he led his group directly down the middle of the street, staying as far away from buildings and fences and other obstructions as he could. And with every step he took, he scanned the area to all sides, watching for movement and continuously plotting exit strategies.

A woman in a torn dress staggered about at the far end of a narrow parking lot.

Stage 3. Slow-moving. Not a threat…..

A male in shorts and a t-shirt was fifty feet away, crawling on hands and knees. His iPod was still strapped to his bicep, and a pair of earphones trailed behind amid a braided coil of intestines.

No threat while it's crawling. If it rises, reassess…..

A fat man stood in the middle of a parking lot on the far side of the street
.

Head cocked. He's listening
.
Stage 2, then. If he charges, duck behind a row of parked cars to block him, then back away and cut a parallel course…..

A sudden crash from behind, and the sound of breaking glass.
Mason swung around, but he could see nothing.

Keep an eye out, and proceed with caution.  If something appears, freeze and see what it does…..

A woman's scream, somewhere up ahead on Market. A desperate scream. A dying scream.

Stage 2's on the attack. Close by. If something comes racing around the corner, make for one of the buildings on the left. If it's fast, grab Mack, leave Walker, and run……

Even as he kept his mind actively attuned to every sight and sound around him, he couldn't help but factor in a more immediate issue. Walker was fading fast. True, his feet no longer dragged and scraped on the ground, but what had been a rasping wheeze was quickly devolving into a harsh rumble deep in the doctor's chest, and every step forward was met with a low moan of agony. If they didn't rest soon, Mason would have to carry him after all. Both sides of the street were lined with a mixed bag of offices and shops, and Mason was confident that he could gain access to at least some of the buildings with a swift kick, but such a thing had to be considered a last resort. Once he laid foot to a deadbolt, the sound would attract the swarm. Even a small swarm would be able to surround a dentist's office or a cafe or a thrift shop, but if he could get them to that big Farragut's store, they'd have two floors of supplies and a multitude of exits to confound the swarm that would undoubtedly gather.

It was a grand vision, but they still had to get there. It was a hundred feet to the end of this block, then another hundred or so across the wide expanse of Market Street. Doable, but far from a sure thing. Such a major thoroughfare as Market was apt to harbor some unexpected challenges, and their progress thus far could hardly be classified as inconspicuous. Mason was bearing most of Walker weight, minimizing the scuffing of shoes on pavement, but he could do nothing to silence the horrible rasp coming from the man's chest. It was by the sheerest of luck that the only creatures within earshot were those two stumbling things following along behind like someone's pesky kid brothers, but it wouldn't stay that way for long.

Even now, the rattle in Walker's chest was worsening. The man was laboring for every breath, inhaling in a hoarse rasp, and exhaling in a beleaguered grumble. Edema, Mason figured. Fluid in the lungs. Early stages of pneumonia, even. The bitter irony was not lost on Mason that the very man who most needed a safe place to rest and recuperate was the greatest threat to them securing said place.

But then Mason became aware of a subtle change in the doctor's carriage. It was no sudden thing, but it seemed to Mason that he was gradually bearing less and less of the man's weight with every passing minute. Indeed, with every step they took, the less weight Mason had to bear, the steadier Walker's comportment became, and the more strength he put into the grip on Mason's shoulder. He took this to mean that the doctor might actually be on the mend, but he couldn't ignore the fact that the man's labored breathing seemed to only be worsening by degrees. Every rasping breath seemed to start as a rumble deep in the doctor's chest, then reverberate up to the back of his throat where it took on the snoring rattle of a slumbering beast. It sounded to Mason that such a sound could only come from someone at death's very door, but then, how to account for the fact that Walker was now walking almost under his own power?

As he pondered the contradiction, he felt a gentle tugging at his shirt. It was Mackenzie on his other side. Instinctively, he scanned the area thinking that the tug was a warning, but aside from the pesky Brothers Grim and the ex-jogger dragging his guts behind him, he could see nothing in their immediate surroundings.

"We'll be able to move faster soon, Mack," he hushed, "It looks like Doc's sprained ankle is getting better."

Walker's arm had been draped across his shoulder like a limp rag since leaving the sewer, but now the doctor grabbed a handful of shirt, and Mason could feel real strength behind the grip. It was a good sign. Walker was even able to draw himself further upright, though he still clung to Mason for support.

"He didn't
sprain
his ankle, Mace," Mackenzie corrected him in a whisper, "He
scratched
it."

Jesus…
..a
scratch? All this drama for a simple scratch?

"Must've been a hell of a scratch," Mason snorted, hoping Walker took note of the contempt in his voice.

"He said some woman scratched him." Mackenzie shrugged, "He said it felt like it was burning."

Mason absorbed the words with an exasperated sigh. A scratch. A simple scratch. Well, maybe there was more to it. A sewer wasn't exactly a sterile environment after all. But no matter. He was already regaining strength, so a few hours rest and a full stomach would put the man right.