Entombed (9 page)

Eventually, I did stop. The first thing I became aware of was the sound of my own breathing. I was hyperventilating. My arms hung limp at my sides, and my shoulders sagged. The floor seemed spongy and uneven, and my feet felt wet and sticky. When I glanced down with half-open eyes, I saw why. I was standing on top of what was left of George. At first, I didn’t recognize him. Both of his eyes were blackish-purple and swollen shut. His lips were split and swollen, too, and his nose resembled a squashed kiwi fruit. There was a hole in his cheek—a ragged, raw wound that looked
chewed
. Blood leaked from his nose and ears and the corners of his eyes. It covered the front of his shirt and had dribbled down his neck. I stared at him in confusion, wondering what had happened. Then I realized that it was
me
that had happened to him.
I
had done this. I’d killed him.

My fists were still clenched. I uncurled them, wincing with pain as I did. The knuckles on both hands were sore and bloody, and the middle finger on my left hand was starting to swell. There were cuts on my hands from George’s teeth. I licked my lips and tasted blood. At first, I thought it was mine, but it wasn’t. I’d bitten that hole in George’s cheek. I spat, wiping my mouth with my forearm. It hurt to breathe. My chest ached. I checked myself thoroughly to make sure George hadn’t stabbed or cut me. Other than the lacerations on my hands, I didn’t seem to be injured, though my shirt was torn.

I looked around for the pocketknife, but couldn’t find it. I assumed it must have been tossed aside during the fight. I got down on my hands and knees, searching for it. I found the weapon lying beneath one of the diesel generators. It had slipped beneath the skid and the plastic sheeting surrounding the unit. I pulled it free, closed the blade and slipped the knife into my pocket. Then I checked the bodies, just to make sure the three of them were dead. George wasn’t breathing, and neither was Jim. In the case of the latter, it was obvious what had killed him, but despite the obvious physical damage to George, I couldn’t believe that my beating alone had killed him. When I rolled him over, I saw that it hadn’t. The back of his head was cracked open and his hair was matted and sticky with fresh blood. He must have hit his head on the concrete when he fell. Clyde was bloodier than both Jim and George. He’d bitten the tip of his tongue off when I’d kicked him in the chin. I looked around for it, but didn’t see it anywhere, so I assumed he swallowed it. Maybe he’d choked on it, or maybe he’d bled to death. I couldn’t be sure—but then again, it didn’t really matter, as long as he was dead and not trying to eat me anymore.

A thought occurred to me then. There was no reason why Chuck and the others had to continue hunting me. If it was food they needed—if they were determined to offset starvation by eating our fellow survivors—then I’d actually done them a favor. Why hadn’t I thought of this before, when I killed Krantz? They could eat him instead. And with the bodies of George, Jim and Clyde, it was like a four-course meal. There would be enough to feed everyone.

I tried freeing my spear from inside of Jim, but it was stuck on something. I didn’t want to consider what might be obstructing it—bone, probably. Maybe one of his ribs? Each time I tugged on the shaft, another gout of blood bubbled out of his mouth. He’d shit and pissed himself in death, and when I jiggled the spear, his body moved, making wet, squelching sounds. The stench was atrocious. Finally, I gave up and retrieved the second spear from where it lay. Then, gripping it in my hand, I stepped over their corpses and peeked around the cul-de-sac wall.

The corridor was empty and quiet. The only sound was the ever-present rumbling of the generators in the power plant. I decided that I was sick of skulking around and hiding. There was no sense in it anymore, given that the others were dead. All I had to do was explain it to Chuck and his followers. I stretched, turning my head from side to side and cracking my joints. Then I walked down the hall, spear in hand. The lights seemed brighter than before, and the corridor seemed even longer. As the adrenalin left my body, my stomach began to ache again.

All of us had begun to suffer the physical, emotional and mental side-effects of starvation. A few of the women had stopped getting their periods. Some of us had gotten weird rashes, or began losing hair. Drew had battled a bad case of diarrhea, which had left him weak and dehydrated until it stopped. I’d suffered from constipation, depression, social withdrawal and insomnia. I don’t know if they were directly related to my lack of food, since the symptoms had first manifested themselves with the divorce. All of us were more irritable, and if the events of the last few hours were any indication, the others were now transitioning from irritability to full-blown psychotic episodes. I’d have to choose my words carefully when I confronted Chuck. I didn’t want to challenge his Alpha Male status. Obviously, it was something that was important to him. I couldn’t be perceived as a threat. But more importantly, I needed to appear reasonable and logical. I needed to persuade him that I no longer needed to die. Indeed, I’d killed so that the rest of them wouldn’t have to. They didn’t need to worry about it. The blood was on my hands, and from it, the others would stay alive a little while longer.

The lights buzzed overhead, the sound faint and ghostly. I clutched my spear tighter. Something moaned behind me. I spun around and gasped, my eyes widening. Clyde stumbled into the corridor, supporting himself with one hand against the wall. His other arm hung limp at his side. He was hunched over, but he lifted his head and stared at me with half-lidded eyes. The blood on his face made his skin seem stark and pale and ghostly. When he opened his mouth to speak, his teeth were bright red.

“I thought I killed you,” I said. My voice seemed to echo down the hall.

“Uck oo, Eet…oer ucker…”

“I can’t understand you, Clyde.”

“Uck oo!” Clyde raised his hand and gave me the finger, relying on universal sign language to communicate for him.

“Listen…” I laid the spear down on the floor and held up my hands. “We don’t have to do this, Clyde. You’re hurt. You’re hurt real bad. Let me go get you some help. You don’t have to kill me. If you guys are determined to resort to cannibalism, then I won’t stand in your way. But it doesn’t have to be me that you eat. We can start with Krantz, Jim and George. Okay?”

Clyde drooled blood.

“Okay?” I asked again.

“Uck oo!”

“Fuck me? No, fuck you, Clyde. You’ve got two choices. You can sit down right here and let me get you some help, or I can finish the fucking job and make sure you’re the first course at dinner tonight. Now, which do you prefer?”

He stared at me, his mouth hanging open, his wounded, bloody tongue lolling from between his lips like a dead fish. He swayed back and forth, and then slumped to the floor with a sigh. It was a slow, laborious process, and he grunted with pain as he pushed his back against the wall. His eyes never left me. They seemed accusatory, angry and distrustful.

“Good,” I said, softening my voice. “That’s good. Now you just stay right there, Clyde. I’ll go work everything out with Chuck and get you some help. Stay calm and don’t move. Just rest. I’ll be back. Okay?”

He didn’t respond, and I wondered if he understood me at all. A string of bloody drool dribbled down his chin. Then Clyde nodded slowly, and I saw a cautious hope in his gaze. The tension seemed to go out of his body. He closed his eyes. His head and shoulders sagged, and his chin drooped against his chest. I stood there for a moment, watching him, making sure that he wouldn’t get back up and claw his way after me after I’d turned my back on him, but he didn’t move. Were it not for the slow rise and fall of his chest, or the occasional twitch of his legs and feet, I’d have thought he was dead. I resisted the urge to prod him with my shoe. In truth, seeing him like that, I felt sorry for Clyde. I didn’t feel guilt. At that point, I was beyond guilt. Maybe I was in shock. Maybe it was a mental defense mechanism—my psyche’s way of shielding me from the crushing totality that I’d murdered three people and injured a fourth. Yes, it had been in self-defense, but at that moment, the facts didn’t matter. Maybe you can’t understand that. Maybe you have to have killed someone to sympathize with how I felt. I pitied Clyde, but I was also secure in the certainty that he’d brought it on himself.

After arming myself with the spear again, I started back down the corridor, passing by the restroom and heading toward the power plant. The roar of the generators grew louder and I could feel the floor vibrating slightly beneath my feet as I drew closer to the power plant. I turned around once, just to make sure Clyde was still there. He was. Then I focused my attention in front of me. A sign on the power plant door warned me of electrical hazards. That made me grin. Getting electrocuted seemed to be the least of my problems right now. Taking a deep breath, I pushed the door open and stepped inside.

The noise immediately quadrupled in volume. To say it was loud inside the power plant was an understatement. Loud didn’t begin to describe it. Deafening was much more apt. It was the kind of noise you felt in your chest. I was used to it, of course. I had to experience it every time I’d given a tour. Still, after a few moments, my ears began to throb. If there was anyone inside the area, I’d never hear them, but on a more positive note, they wouldn’t hear me either. The room was huge, taking up most of the bunker’s upper level, and there were plenty of places for me to hide. In addition to the generators, the power plant held our massive fresh water tank and the center of the air filtration system. There was all sorts of other equipment, too. I was clueless to their origin or purpose, even as a tour guide and employee of the hotel. I’d never been mechanically inclined, and we’d never had to talk about them during the tour. But I didn’t need to know what they were to hide behind or beneath them. There were plenty of dark corners and catwalks and areas filled with pipes and conduit and wires. Between that and the noise, I could have hid in the power plant indefinitely. It occurred to me then that the power plant should have been my first choice. Maybe if I’d gone there instead of to the blast door, Jim and George would still be alive.

Despite the extremity of the power plant, I took my time, proceeding cautiously. If I encountered someone inside here, I’d have a hard time reasoning with them if they couldn’t hear me. It would be better to confront my pursuers outside of the area. I passed by a large, wheeled toolbox, the kind you usually saw in an automotive garage. It had belonged to one of our maintenance men. I paused for a moment, considering raiding it for more weapons. I experimented with the drawers and discovered that the toolbox wasn’t locked. I rooted through it. It was full of everything you’d expect—wrenches, screwdrivers, hammers, gauges, shop rags, pneumatic and compressed air parts, and various mechanical odds and ends. I found a cigarette lighter and half a pack of matches. I grabbed both and stuffed them in my pocket. I also took a flat-end screwdriver and a box-cutter. I pushed the button on the box-cutter and the razor slid out of the end. The blade was rusty, but sharp. I pushed the button back down and stuck both the razor knife and the screwdriver in my back pocket. I considered taking one of the claw hammers but then decided to keep my spear instead. It would give me more reach should I need it. I hoped that I no longer would.

There were other potentially useful items scattered throughout the power plant. I opened a locker and found cans of gasoline, kerosene, and industrial solvents. Fire extinguishers and emergency eye-wash stations hung on the walls. A grease gun dangled from a length of angle iron. A long, black hose lay coiled on a skid. There were mops and whisk brooms in a corner, along with a wheeled mop bucket. There was also a portable sump pump, a wet-vac, and other pieces of equipment. I made a note of their location, and then continued on my way.

At the far end of the power plant was a stairwell that led back down to the bunker’s lower level. I stood at the door for a moment, gathering my resolve. It would be futile to try to listen for someone on the other side, so I simply pushed the door open and stepped back, in case there was somebody waiting. There wasn’t, so I stepped out into the stairwell. The thick door slammed shut behind me, immediately muffling the monotonous, numbing thrum of the generators. I looked out over the metal handrail and glanced below. The overhead lights were almost burned out, reduced to a single working bulb, but despite the shadows, I could see that the stairwell was empty. There was a landing halfway down, followed by another set of stairs with a door at the bottom. Nodding to myself, I started down. My arms and legs felt shaky—whether from hunger or nervousness, or maybe both. I reached the landing without incident and was just about to go down the second set of stairs when the door at the bottom opened. I retreated a few steps, my heart rate instantly pounding, and flattened myself against the wall. I realized at that moment that I was screwed. If I made a break for it, whoever was coming up the stairs would see me running and know where I’d gone. I had no choice but to confront them, and hope that they’d listen to reason.

Footsteps padded up the concrete stairs, echoing off the walls. The generators rumbled above me. Then a figure emerged onto the landing. I leaped forward and thrust my spear at them.

“Hold it!”

The figure cried out, startled. I recognized the voice. Then he stepped into the light.

“Pete? Jesus fucking Christ…”

“Drew?” I lowered my voice to a whisper. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Looking for you.” He glanced down at my spear. The point was only inches from his stomach. “You planning on sticking me with that thing?”