Never Far Gone, page 32
Not even fifteen minutes later, the old geezer hops into a rusty box truck that I can only assume was filled with commodities from the Consulate. I guess I know what deal Damien cooked up with these assholes: My death in exchange for access to the Network. So much for ridding the world of these assholes.
I was also right about the patrols. 3 am seems to be the sweet spot. I’ll remember that. The heat was speeding up the decomposition of the two dead pricks lying dead in the stairwell, and the smell was too much to bear, so I dragged them out back where they wouldn’t be found should any more curious souls stumble into my newfound home.
Day 8: The handheld I picked up from my friends out back has proven useful over the past few days. I’ve come to learn that these assholes call themselves Lockers [three question marks back to back alongside the word]. I assume this egotistical fuck made that up using his last name. I can’t wait to put this bitch into the ground. I’ve also recorded every time the patrols have announced their shift changes. The only shift that doesn’t rotate is those lying waiting in the Overwatch Convoy, which I used to feel so safe around. As far as I can tell, they go radio silent after 2:20 am every morning. I have a feeling that will come in handy.
Day 9: Nothing new to report.
[Update @1:14pm] I saw him again… This time was different, though. Someone was shot and thrown from the rooftop for reasons I can’t comprehend. I could see the glare shining off of Graham’s stainless steel handgun as he mercilessly gunned down that poor woman. It looked like the woman I had seen in the window last week, but I don’t know why. Quite frankly, I don’t want to know why. The sound of the woman hitting the pavement made me wince instantly as I recall the moment I did the same and barely survived: a memory I’d eventually like to forget. I could barely understand what was being said over the radio as the chanting from various people caused me to dial the volume down. These guys are fucking sick.
Day 12: The food in the apartment is damn well near gone, and the juice in the radio isn’t too far behind. I have to be conservative now, but I think I’m coming up on the time to make a move. The dark clouds above tell me it will rain soon, and that may be EXACTLY what I need. I’ve got all I need about the outside, yet I need to know what’s happening behind closed doors… Tomorrow night will be the time to make that happen, and I’ve got a plan to do just that…
16
To my surprise, the stairwells leading up to the Bedford Park Station are still barricaded from when we had sealed off each entry point all those months ago. Deep down, I didn’t think a mix of plywood and two-inch thick metal chains would withstand the threats roaming the streets nowadays, especially when faced with human adversaries, but I had come prepared nevertheless. While positioning my body against the wooden panel, I discretely glance into the station to see if any sentries had been sent up here without my knowledge.
I don’t see anybody…
As I set down the half-full green jerry can near my feet, I pull off the bolt cutters hanging from the side of the backpack. Even though the tool is slightly rusted, it cuts through the metal as if the chain were a thin string of rope a boy scout would use to tie knots at summer camp. I quietly drop the bolt cutters alongside the severed chain lying idle on the floor before using both hands to position the pry bar between the wood and the doorframe; once set in place, I pull back on the pry bar with as much force as possible. With just a little effort and time, the sound of wood hitting the ground can be heard echoing from below the train tracks.
We’re in.
With the tools being dragged into the station and set to the side of the doorway, I grab the Glock tucked behind my belt and start twisting the suppressor onto the threaded barrel before ensuring a round is loaded into the chamber; after spending a moment listening for any movement around me, I lift the handgun in the air as I venture further into the musty, abandoned train station. As my barrel sweeps every corner of the room, I can’t help but reminisce about how crowded these places used to be back in the day. What I used to consider an annoyance is now serving as a sense of comfort as I try to maintain my composure while taking one step at a time into the unknown ahead.
While ascending the stairwell to the platform above, I do my best to stabilize my hand since the sound of the liquid splashing around in the metallic gas may as well be giving away my position to anyone lurking nearby. As my head clears the last step, giving me a clear view of the entire platform, I focus on two Spectrals standing idly near the end of the Downtown Platform. They’re about forty feet away from me but standing mere inches away from one another.
Shit, that’s where I need to go…
Without wanting to make too much noise, I quietly lower the jerry can onto the landing of the stairwell and glance at the other side of the platform behind me to ensure there are no more surprises. Clear on that end. I refocus on the Specs ahead and start shuffling in their direction. The cover of night helps suppress their speed and aggression, yet I know they can still see, so I do my best to mask my footsteps with the light rain hitting the metal shutters above our heads. They’re both turned the other way, so I use their lowered perception as an opportunity to remove my blade from its sheath.
Ten feet… Eight feet… Five…
The sounds of their groans make me quiver slightly as I inch closer, and the cold accompanying the rain isn’t helping, either; with a firm understanding of how fast things can turn for the worst, I don’t let them out of my sight for a second. When I am about an arm’s length away, I lunge forward and forcefully bring the knife down onto the top of the closest Spec’s skull. It let out a faint grunt as the knife went in, yet it ceased as quickly as it started as the weight of its body dragged itself to the ground. The other infected anomaly, which seems to be the deteriorating remains of a middle-aged woman who’s about half the size of the Spectral now lying at my feet, turns and lets out a shriek that is quickly eradicated with a single 9mm bullet from the suppressed Glock.
Crack.
The sound of the bullet hitting the metal wall behind the Spec was louder than the shot itself, so I didn’t worry too much about giving my position away to anyone nearby. Within mere seconds after the ordeal starts, I’m left standing alone to embrace the ambiance of raindrops and all the mugginess accompanying it. With the gas can now back in hand, I hoist myself onto the train tracks below and make my way to the next stop: Kingsbridge Road.
The rain makes it difficult to keep my balance on the wooden portion of the tracks below, but I still manage to get close enough to the Overwatch Convoy. I place the gas can on the side of the track before gripping the pistol with both hands and cautiously approaching the idle train cars ahead. With each step I take, I am half expecting to hear chatter from within the Convoy, but it never comes. Without taking my hands off the weapon, I twist my wrist slightly and glance down at the black G-shock attached to my wrist.
2:51 am
With my eyes set on the train, I continue my advance until stopping near the end of the train car. Without lowering my sidearm, I grab the railing at the end of the train to hoist myself onto the ledge leading into the driver’s compartment. The distant outlines of four people, nearly two train cars down, can be seen as I glance through the window; they all seem to be sleeping, but I can’t verify the number from this distance. Expecting it to be locked, I push on the door and realize my assumption is correct as it fails to budge even slightly.
Well, shit…
I use the same railing to hoist me back onto the tracks and stealthily walk around the train, staying well below the windows. As I start pushing past the train car with the Lockers, I keep my body positioned against its naked aluminum walls with every step I take. Once I’m past them, I use both hands to propel myself onto the platform of the train station. Now that I’m on solid ground, it’s easier to maneuver around. With the gun raised, I slowly approach the train again before stopping abruptly at the sound of moaning from the bottom of the stairwell leading into the train station’s lower level.
Out of instinct, I divert my aim in the direction of the noise. After a second of hesitation, I quickly glance at the men in the Overwatch Convoy, unaffected by the various noises surrounding them. I refocus on the stairwell and quietly start descending them with my gun in the air.
As I descend toward the middle of the staircase, I pause and bend down to get a better view of the station without fully exposing myself to whoever, or whatever, maybe down there. As I scan the musty room from right to left, I notice a man sitting in the booth near the center. The man moans as I position myself against the railing on the staircase for better shot alignment. Even from about twelve feet away, I can see he’s looking at an explicit magazine that seems to be on the brim of falling apart in his left hand. I don’t even want to know what he’s doing with the other.
As I peer through the glass on the door separating the bottom of the stairwell I’m crouched near the center of the train station, I notice that the door to the booth itself is wide open. All I have to do is open this door without a sound, and he’s mine. Without taking my eyes off the back of the Locker’s head, I use my support hand to slowly fumble in front of me until I feel the door’s metallic handle. I glance at the door’s hinges, praying they don’t creak as I pull it open, then back at the preoccupied man as the door creeps open.
Don’t turn around. Don’t turn around. Easy does it…
As the door is opened enough for me to pass through, I pull a spare magazine from its pouch on my belt and quietly prop it under the door to keep it from slamming shut. As the door leading into the stairwell remains open, I cautiously approach the man until I am right behind him. Amidst his “leisurely activity,” I see his face turn white as he glances at me from the reflection emanating from the glass window in front of the booth. Before he can even stand, as best as he could anyways, given his pants were around his ankles, I drop the gun and place one hand over his mouth before wrapping my other arm around the man’s neck. His inaudible words are muffled, but I let out a slight shriek as he finds enough space to bite down on my hand.
Ah, motherfucker!
I let go of his mouth and, instead, use both hands to tighten my grip on his throat and restrict his airflow. With every thrash, with every thrust, the man seems to be getting weaker at the knees until his body weight gives out from under him, and he falls unconscious. I quickly pick up the handgun from the floor and throw myself into a 180-degree spin as I align the iron sights with the door I had propped open, listening to any sounds that may follow. A second turns into a minute, and the continuous sounds of rain hitting the windows around the station reassure me that no one upstairs heard the commotion. If they had, they’d be down here by now.
“Alright, I’ll be back for you soon. Don’t go anywhere…” I whisper to the unconscious man as I take a set of zip ties from my bag and secure his wrists behind his back. Using my hands, I forcefully rip the guy’s shirt off and tie it around his mouth using a knot he can’t undo unless he’s a magician. With the Locker temporarily out of commission, it’s time to play the rest of my cards.
Standing motionless between two train cars, I slowly open the sliding door leading into the compartment of the Overwatch Convoy, where the men are fast asleep. As the opened door amplifies the sound of the rain and wind outside, some of the silhouettes in the darkness start to shutter from the noise. None of the men seem bothered enough to care, though, as they all choose to remain asleep even as I make my way into the convoy.
Now that I have a better view of the train car, I can count five guys in total. With the sliding door quietly being shut behind me, I holster the Glock and proceed to take out my knife. As I tower over to the first Locker, who’s heavily snoring on one of the benches in the middle of the Convoy, he jolts awake as I cover his mouth with the palm of my hand. Unlike his half-naked associate downstairs, he barely has enough time to retaliate as I slide the knife into his jugular. There is so much blood, but I manage to maintain my strength as the man tries his mighty best to release his screams of agony into the open air, to no avail. As the man’s body is quietly laid back down, lifeless, the only sound I hear is the sound of the blade retracting from his skin as I remove it.
Without wasting much time, I do the same to the next guy sleeping mere feet away. Then the next. With only two guys left, I reach the one lying on a makeshift cot held up by ropes attached to the overhead railings. The smell of blood and iron fills my nostrils as I bring the tainted knife up for another swing. Before I can bring the knife down, however, I hear the only other male left alive in the room grunt as he wakes from his slumber and charges me with a collapsible baton. There is not an ounce of hesitation in his body.
Instinctively, I swing my body around and wait for him to get close enough before using my forearm to block the swing of the man’s baton. Even as a near miss, the pain associated with the sheer force from his swing suddenly coming to a complete stop seems to transpire throughout my whole body, but I use this momentum to twist the Locker’s arm and slam him onto the floor. Before he can gather the wind that was just knocked out of him, I bend his arm until his bone is protruding from it. The scream he lets out bounces off the walls of the train as he unconsciously grabs his broken arm once I let it go.
The man attempting to stand up from his cot is put down with two suppressed shots fired in quick succession from the Glock that is quickly drawn from my belt. The dusty white ropes hoisting up the cot become stained with dark red ooze that came out of the deceased man’s body as he slumps backward into an awkward position. I move my overgrown hair to the side to regain a full field of view and slowly turn to the incapacitated Locker. He’s fumbling for the baton with his good hand and manages to grab it and swing it at my legs with little effort. With ease, I grab his hand mid-swing and yank the blunt weapon out of it before using as much force as I could muster to swing it at his jaw. His face falls to the ground, accompanied by a few teeth, and I stand over his body before repeatedly swinging the heat-treated baton onto the back of his now-idle head. By the time I am done, I notice that the baton is severely bent as it’s effortlessly thrown onto the ground next to the ever-growing pool of blood gathering at my feet.
Well, that was dramatic…
The room is as quiet now as it was when I first stepped in. I glance around in the dark and take a mental note of everything now for the taking: firearms of various calibers, unopened MREs piled up underneath the benches, and a spotting scope to help with long-distance engagements. Not a bad haul. As I stand there in the dark, the blood in the convoy seemingly sticking to my pores, I remind myself that there’s one more thing that needs to be done before anything else.
With little room to move, the now fully naked Locker jolts awake from the brief coma I had induced nearly half an hour earlier, but he only manages to move the same distance a tortoise would if it were faced with the same dilemma. His eyes widen as he scans the room to better assess what’s happening. He catches me leaning against the desk in the booth we’re in before his eyes become fixated on me. The hatred that fills them is something I haven’t seen since I was last face-to-face with Graham over three months ago.
“Now that I’ve got your attention, let’s begin…” I say aloud as I use both hands to propel myself to my feet. The man tugs at his restraints, which are firmly holding his forearms against the cushioned armrests on the chair he was jerking off in before I got here, but lets out a sigh of disappointment as he realizes that his futile attempt to change the circumstances of his situation had failed miserably. I grab a pair of wire strippers I had brought for occasions like this before bending both of my knees until my face is leveled with his. “I have a feeling that I already know what you’re going to say, but I’ll do you the courtesy of giving you a chance to die with dignity. Where is Graham’s weapon cache?” I demand without showing any emotion.
“Y- you must be the one he always talks about…” the restrained male lets out alongside a half-assed laugh that only seems to agitate me. “I can see why you’re always the topic of discussion in that place. You’ve got a set of balls the size of the Empire State!” the man shouts as he starts to laugh again.
“And if you expect to keep yours, I highly recommend you answer my question,” I suggest as I stare into the man’s eyes. It’s as if I am looking into his soul for an answer, but I can’t say for sure that he understands the gravity of the situation he is in. His response confirms that suspicion.
“We both know how this is going to go, Miles,” he says in a near whisper as he grips the edge of the armrest with his hands. I place my hands on my knees and use my weight to stand up tall as my eyes remain fixated on the vulnerable man in front of me.
“Yeah, I think we do, don’t we?” I ask sarcastically before punching him as hard as I could in the nose. I know for a fact that it’s broken judging by the sound and the stream of blood flowing out of both nostrils; the man releases both of his hands from the armrest in response to the pain. With the wire strippers in the opened position, I grab his hand and place them near the base of his pointing finger before squeezing the tool shut as hard as possible and pulling the blades outwards. The man’s shouts are deafening as I forcefully strip the skin from his finger as slowly and methodically as I would for anyone else who calls themself a member of this sadistic organization. He closes his bloodied hand tight as I open the tool to remove the excess skin I had peeled from his finger.
