Never Far Gone, page 35
I transition my aim toward the last two Lockers and begin as their gazes turn toward me. Trying my best not to close my eyes as the shotgun is discharged, I miss a few rounds before a set of buckshot connects with the upper torso of one of the assailants. I turn the gun to the other Locker and fire before he gets an opportunity to react. The man falls to the ground as the all-so-familiar-looking pink mist fills the air behind him; even with such an adrenaline rush, there is a sharp pain radiating from my ear as a warm stream of blood immediately seeps down the left side of my head.
Ah… My ear! Motherfucker!
Still crouched, I jump over the crate and sprint to where the shooter is firing from behind. The Locker who shot me is struggling to breathe as one of the buckshots seems to have pierced his throat; I consider it an act of mercy as I bring the shotgun up to his temple and pull the trigger. The metallic taste of blood seems to replace every particle of air around me as his body lies there, motionless. My face is dripping with blood, but I look up, seemingly unfazed, in Graham’s direction. With the shotgun out of ammunition, I throw it to the ground and remove the Kimber from my waist before flipping the safety off.
“I should’ve killed you when I met you!” I holler as I eject the magazine to double-check it’s full.
“Yeah, you should have. Maybe your friends and your little girlfriend would still be alive-” Graham proclaims before I stand up and start walking in his direction. With both hands gripping the Kimber, I fire a round with each step I take. He lets out incomprehensible profanities with every shot that rings out. In my anger, I lost track of the number of rounds I had fired and am, instead, graciously met with the slide in the locked position: out of ammo.
Shit…
Standing nearly twenty feet away with no cover in sight, I grab one of the corpses on the floor and lift it in front of me as Graham pushes off of the crate he was previously using for protection. He turns his handgun to me, the chrome body of which is considerably noticeable even with the lack of light within the room, and begins firing; most of his shots impact his deceased comrade’s body. The weight of the corpse, which seems to be compounding with each blow, forces my legs to give out from under me and fall backward as the body lands on top of me. As a result of such vulnerability, one of the rounds hits the side of my calve, causing me to wince in pain as Graham continues his advance. Within a few seconds of continuous gunfire, I hear the unmistakable click that is accompanied by a firearm failing to lock the slide to the rear once it is out of ammunition.
With this realization, I quickly eject the empty magazine from the Kimber, using gravity to let it fall to the ground next to me, as Graham does the same. While on the ground, I fumble into my pocket to grab a spare magazine with the weight of the Locker’s body still pressing down on me before raising both the gun and the magazine over my head so I can gain more room for the reload. As the magazine is inserted and a round is chambered, I hear Graham release the slide of his handgun. With one fell swoop, we both swing our guns toward one another and let our shots ring out simultaneously.
Bang.
I don’t know what happened. I don’t know who fired first. Did I hit him? Hell, did he hit me? My heart is racing, and it isn’t until I hear Graham’s gun drop to the floor that I realize he’s injured. He spits up blood, which spatters all over the ground in front of him as he stumbles backward before landing on the ground a few yards away. The round I fired had hit him in the head, but I can’t tell where. I break my gaze and let out a shout as I do my best to push the remains of Graham’s former subordinate off me; with blood and energy slowly depleting from my body, the corpse feels as though it has the same weight as a motorcycle. With the Locker’s corpse rolling onto the floor beside me, I push myself to my feet and ignore the crimson vitality seeping from my leg and ear as I limp toward Graham; he continues to roll around on the ground while simultaneously beginning to choke on his own blood.
For the first time, I finally know what Graham looks like when genuinely alone and helpless. Even when isolated in his cell all those months ago, this bastard couldn’t help but carry an arrogant demeanor that just spelled trouble; yet here, at this very moment, he actually looks afraid. As Graham breaks his gaze from me, he crawls toward the .357 Desert Eagle he had undoubtedly grown attached to. This was the weapon he had used to execute the girl on the roof a few days ago. As he inches closer to it, I can’t help but imagine how his victims looked as if they were on the other side of that barrel.
“Go ahead... Grab it,” I instruct in a suggestive yet slightly sarcastic tone. After casually tucking the Kimber behind my belt near my lower back, I grab the revolver from my faded black shoulder holster. He doesn’t even seem to acknowledge my statement as he continues crawling toward the weapon without any deviation in his body language. Blood is trickling from his cheek, and a portion of his jaw is hanging. His odds of survival are already minimal, yet his incessant slithering on the ground leaves a red blood trail that only worsens his condition. As he begins to reach for the handgun, I align my sights with his fingers and pull the trigger. Three of his fingers are severed in one swift shot, which is accompanied by an ear-shattering screech soon after as Graham clutches his fingers with his other hand.
“That… was for me…” I say as I bring my hand up to reveal the stump where my fingers used to rest before Damien’s interrogation, directly caused by the man lying before me. He continues to clutch his hand before slowly looking up at me. I kick out his leg and align the barrel of the revolver with Graham’s knee before firing once again. The blood that expels from his wound lands all over the place as he rolls around on the ground to alleviate the pain.
“That was for David…” I whisper as the ringing in my ears continues. As he lays on his back, I step on his head slowly and bring the gun up to his stomach before firing another shot. The bullet seems to have expanded within his stomach, as no exit wound is visible once he rolls onto his stomach. His cries for help seem to be diminishing as the pain is compounded.
“That was for your brother. For Derrick…” I mutter as I pull the hammer back on the revolver. At this moment in time, he isn’t even attempting to escape. His previously futile attempts to do so have only made the situation worse, so he lies still with his torso rising and falling with each breath he struggles to take. With his bloodied cheek resting along the dusty wooden floor, I bring the weapon up to the back of his head as he closes his eyes in submission.
“And this… this is for everyone else,” I say with unwavering conviction. With my finger resting on the trigger, the thought of everyone he has directly or indirectly inflicted pain onto enters my head at supersonic speed as the sound of banging echoes from down the hall. Within seconds, the cracking of wood is soon replaced with the agonizing moans of countless Specs turning the corner and stumbling toward where all of the noise had been coming from: toward the gym. I stand there with the gun still pointed at my immobile adversary as an idea comes to mind.
“Y- y- you… w- will not make it out of h- here, Miles…” Graham says while glancing at me with his peripherals. Although he’s not able to lift his head from the ground due to his weakened state, Graham lets off a devious smirk that is reflected in the dark puddle of blood pooling around him.
“Maybe. But neither will you,” I say as the revolver’s hammer is decocked. I limp toward the west wall of the gym facing the sidewalk and shoot the lock to the gate separating us from the windows. At such proximity, the bullet ricochets and forces me to wince; the door creaks open just as I turn around to see the Specs stumbling into the gym. With as much effort as he could find from within, Graham pushes himself onto his back and glares at the starving threats approaching him. While digging through my pack, I pull out the flare gun and slowly lift it until the sights are aligned with Graham.
Control…
Almost as if everything unfolds in slow motion, the flare impacts Graham with incredible force, engulfing him in flames as his clothing catches fire. The screams that follow sound inhumane, even for someone with Graham’s stature, and the sudden illumination attracts the attention of every Spectral in the area. Without so much as a care in the world, the flesh-eating humanoids begin piling on top of the burning man, causing the size of the fire to grow with each body added to it. I can’t begin to describe the sounds filling the air. The smell of decay and burning flesh is even worse than anything I had ever experienced.
Turning my head from the growing inferno, I shimmy between the heat pipes before slamming the metal door in front of me. With the lock having been destroyed, I know it won’t remain locked. With the light from the fire stirring up some of the other Spectrals in the room, the ones who aren’t participating in Graham’s mutilation let out a wretched shriek as they begin shuffling toward me. Without much thought, I start unraveling the paracord bracelet around my wrist. I had always worn it, even in the military, because we were taught how it could always come in handy if the right opportunity presented itself. I guess this proves it. I insert one of the loose ends through the metal slot in the gate before yanking it and tying the other end tight. I create a knot strong enough to hold the door shut as the feeling of false safety temporarily grants me some satisfaction; I nearly slide down the wall as my back is brought up against it.
There’s about two feet of space between me and the monsters propping themselves against the thin metal gate standing tall an arm’s length ahead. This is the first time I’ve ever been face to face with a Spec for this long, so I can’t help but notice something: their eyes. They’re a nearly transparent, milky white resembling an authentic white pearl; although I had not noticed that before, they don’t seem as lifeless as I had once expected. With the fireball near the middle of the gym becoming snuffed out due to the plethora of bodies piling on top of it, I get a better visual of the infected in front of me as their aggression gradually diminishes. There is no hatred or resentment in them, no anger or spite. They seem… lost, like a deer that turns to look at a hunter who stepped on a branch nearby. In any case, one thing is clear: I need to get out of here.
I place my bag against my leg and start rummaging through the contents inside; a thin stream of blood begins oozing from underneath the material of my dark cargo pants, creating tiny crimson dots on the wood floorboards below. I feel a spare cartridge for the flare gun and use the dwindling light to my advantage as I insert it into the weapon once it’s opened. After tucking the flare gun behind the front of my belt, I take the Kimber and carefully place it in the bag; after glancing around the gloomy room, nodding as if taking pride in what was just accomplished over the past few minutes, I zip the bag shut and nearly strain my shoulder as I stand to put it on my back.
Glancing over to the window, I pry it open, instinctively letting out a grunt of pain while I do so, and peer out to look below. With the small amount of light from the rising sun above, it’s easy to make out the carnage that has unfolded before me. The spent bullet casings are strewn around the concrete below. Corpses, unmoving and otherwise, litter the sidewalks. The engines of various vehicles idle on the sidewalks. Blood spattered along every crevice I could lay my eyes on. There is only one word that I can use to describe the immeasurable disarray plaguing the streets accurately: War.
I turn to face the rooftop above and notice it’s within reach. If I can prop my body on the windowsill without plummeting five stories to my death, my chances of getting out of this are still marginal at best, considering the wear I feel on my body, but I have to try. I tighten the straps on my bag before extending an arm out of the window and propelling myself onto the edge of it. Doing my best to refrain from looking down, especially with the breeze hitting the back of my neck only heightening my paranoia, I grab onto one of the exposed bricks on the Consulate’s outer wall and lift myself as much as possible. Before I know it, I’m standing straight up alongside the exterior wall of the building.
This is insane. This is crazy…
With my eyes glued to the ledge above, I try to leverage myself onto it before noticing it’s just high enough to be out of reach, merely inches away. With the excessive gusts of wind around me, I take a few deep breaths before bending my knees and using all the force I can muster to jump toward the ledge above. Even with eight fingers and a substantial amount of sweat built up in my palms, I find myself letting out a relief-ridden chuckle as I grip the roof’s edge. Not wanting to fumble and lose my grasp, I do my best to stabilize my body before attempting to pull myself up. As I reach around with my support hand, I hear the sound of groaning that my entire organization has grown to dread over the past year. I can’t tell where it’s coming from, but it doesn’t take long to figure it out as a sharp pain erupts from my left hand.
Ah! What the fuck…
I quickly retract my hard as best as possible without letting go of my grip on the ledge before pulling myself up slightly and noticing the periodic jaw movement of a severed head resting just inches in front of me. A familiar-looking severed head: It’s Derrick. His head, along with a few others that I can’t positively identify, is lying on the rooftop with blood-stained ropes attached to his dark, unkempt hair. His ivory-shaded eyes are filled with the same sense of loss I had seen in the other Spectral just minutes ago. With the pain in my hand still at the forefront of my mind, I glance over to it and realize one of my worst fears was about to become a reality.
Oh, Christ…
Even as my grip is getting weaker every second, my eyes remain fixated on the various puncture marks on my left hand. Small yet infectious incisions caused by an excessive bite force are slowly spilling blood onto the roof above. The revelation causes a moment of hesitation, but I can’t afford to wait any longer: I need to get onto the roof.
With all of the agonizing moans below me, both in the streets and within the putrid-smelling room I had just escaped from, I can’t help but feel a warm blanket of relief cover my body from head to toe as I pull myself onto the rooftop. My feet start pushing my body away from the edge as I lie on my back, trying to catch a breath or two in the process. A moment of sorrow enters my mind as I grip my left hand tightly. With Graham dead, the realization that I had done the impossible, especially given the odds against me, overwhelms me. I begin to let out a few tears as my half-painful laugh fills the moist air above. Still, it doesn’t feel like I achieved anything other than a temporary solution to a lifelong dilemma.
With my jacket soaking up all the water on the ground from the rain, which has since stopped, I lift my upper body with an audible grunting. Transitioning my gaze to Derrick, whose mouth is consistently opening and closing as nearly inaudible groans fill the air, I use my forearms to position myself in his direction. Even with the moisture overhead, my eyes begin to water as the thought of my closet friend being put on display, like some twisted Christmas ornament, floats around in my head. Seconds seemingly turn to minutes as I sit there staring at what remains of the man I once considered family.
Every ounce of being within my body pushes me to do what’s right, but for the first time in a long time, I find myself struggling to maintain control of my emotions. Hesitation takes the wheel once I start reaching for my knife. My right hand is shaking ferociously as I do, and even with the blade hovering over the side of Derrick’s head, I find myself desperately searching for support one final time.
“I’m so- I’m so sorry…” I whisper to Derrick, unsure if he can hear my words as they leave my shivering lips. With the knife shaking in the air, I use my bloodied support hand to stabilize the trembling in my other before forcefully bringing the blade down onto the side of Derrick’s skull. The movement of his jaw seems to cease almost instantly as he lets out his final breath. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” I repeat over and over again as I place a hand on the top of his now motionless head. I can feel the tears running down my face as the words echo throughout the desolate rooftop.
Forgive me…
My breathing finally becomes more relaxed as a stream of cold air enters the atmosphere once I exhale. After a few minutes of sulking in the ambiance surrounding the ever-brightening horizon near the South, I place the palm of my hand onto the cold shingles below and lift myself onto my feet with one fell swoop. My legs start to tremble, yet I catch my balance as I glance at the beautiful sunrise ahead.
For the continuation of a good-
I jolt forward and stumble to my knees as a sharp pain emerges from my neck. Out of pure instinct, I try to take a breath, only to be met with a mouth full of blood as I do so. I slowly turn my head to glance behind me as I begin choking on the thick metallic substance flooding my throat. Even with my vision becoming more blurred with each failed attempt to breathe, I notice two silhouettes emerging from the entrance of the rooftop. The sound of footsteps splashing in the puddles below becomes louder with every step taken in my direction.
“We’ve gotta stop meeting like this, Miles!” a man shouts as his arms extend to his side in a hubris manner. My body slumps forward as I soon find myself on my stomach, crawling forward just as Graham had done minutes prior. In my weakened state, I still recognize the voice fostering a distinctive, authoritative tone accompanied by years of military experience.
“Luca!” I holler as loud as my blood-filled lungs would allow before hurling an abnormal amount of the crimson substance to my side. The thought of standing, or even sitting upright, is out of the realm of possibility; all I can do is use one hand to apply pressure to my wound as I continue to crawl toward the edge of the roof facing the rear courtyard with the other. Crawling toward what I had been prepared for over the past few weeks. Crawling towards my death.
