One Blink From Oblivion (23 page)

              Max gingerly works his way to the back door of the room while doing his best to not step in anything that was once attached to someone. He finds the door smeared and hand printed with a mix of blood and what smelled like vomit. It looks as though the few that made it to the back of the store had tried in desperation to beat the steel door down with their hands. At least one of them had purged himself here, whether out of fear of disembowelment or the putrid smell of the same Max does not know. The door is not only locked but a beefy deadbolt inserts neatly into a metal frame. The room is barren save the scattered and heaped body parts throughout. Unless he intends to ram the door down with a bloodied femur, or pick the lock with a dried length of tendon, he will have to leave via the front door. Venturing out into the open mall with no promise of cover or escape seems to Max like a death-march, ‘
Dead man walking
,’ springs into his mind as he reluctantly takes a step in that direction. 

              As he winds his way back through the obstacle course of the recently dismembered, a cold understanding washes over him like skinny dipping in a frozen lake, ‘
no one turned
.’ Not one of his cellmates had turned into one of the blood-drinkers, and that was exactly what the freeway-man had intended. Initially Max had thought the rampage to be an act of a crazed maniac, merely playing out its most carnal animalistic desires. He now recognizes the cold calculating move for what it is. With one foot, Max nudges a disenfranchised torso –no arms or legs and only a piece of lower jaw remained- just enough to roll it onto its back. He studies the neck and nods when he verifies what he expected to find. The neck has been ravaged by a wolf-like bite mark but the amount of blood inside the bite is negligible. This man was dead prior to being bitten. His limbs were torn from him while he still had breath enough to scream out in horror at their subtraction. Max hasn’t the stomach to check additional trunks for similar signs and satisfies himself with the evidence he has already found. For the first time, Max understands that it will not be enough to survive the hordes of vampiric infected, he now must also contend with an adversary of unbelievable strength, quickness and cunning that kills not just to satisfy a voracious appetite but merely for the sport of it. “Johnny Buckets,” Max speaks the name out loud as the image of the freeway-man’s face clears in his mind.

Max has been an avid follower and practitioner of mixed martial arts since a very young age, his father had insisted upon it since he expected Max to follow in his footsteps and become his muscle as he got older. Aside from constant training, Max was encouraged to watch matches both live and televised. Jonathon Brentley -a.k.a. Johnny Buckets- was given that moniker due to the number of buckets required to clean up the matt after he had brutalized one of his opponents. Unlike most fighters, who were constantly looking for the quick knockout or submission, Johnny Buckets would draw his fights out to the last possible second of the final round before finishing his opponents. He would beat them mercilessly but never enough at once to cause the referee to intervene and call a stop to the bout, and never so much that the other fighter was no longer able to at least give the appearance that he could continue. He fought not for titles –though he won many- but for the pain and punishment that he inflicted on others. His method of drawing out all of his fights was quite unpopular with fans and detractors of the sport alike -the former calling for him to be banned from competition and the latter using him as a poster child for why the entire sport should be banned altogether. Eventually, the fans won but not before Johnny Buckets ended the careers of several veterans and a score of promising up-and-comers in the sport.

              A man like Jonathon Brentley -who was already a soulless sadistic destroyer of those who are widely considered the most formidable men on the planet- given the unbridled abilities of the infection, is more dangerous and deadly than any horde of common infected. He is a well-trained highly motivated reaper of men. This night is his latest bout, and Max his newest opponent, he would draw out his demise until Max could take no more and finish him with a flourish and cheers from the crowd.

              Max’s cellmates were dismembered first and drained second specifically to retard the spread of the virus to someone who might victimize Max while he lay unconscious. Johnny Buckets apparently preferred Max in his current state –whole and uninfected. The giant neatly folded at Max’s waking feet was not only a gift but also a demonstration of how easily Johnny dealt with a man with whom Max had been unable to defeat. It was a challenge to Max that said, ‘Time to pick up your game or next time I’ll make
you
into origami.’ He had already failed his mother and now Big Mama; Max would not allow this sadist’s fascination with him to further jeopardize those few loved ones that remain around him. If once more given the opportunity he had on the overpass, he will not let go, he will ride him all the way down to the pavement and let his own shattering two-hundred pound frame drive through that of the freeway-man finishing him once and for all.

              With new vigilance of purpose, Max hurries to the front door and kneels next to the pallid corpse of Cpl Steward. After a brief pause and reflection, he liberates him of his M16A1 rifle, 9mm sidearm, extra ammunition and boots. He doubts that leaving them was an oversight by the freeway-man. It was more than likely an attempt to give Max the tools necessary to win his freedom from the roving infected inside the mall. Max’s father frequently told him, ‘Never look a gift horse in the mouth,’ as a child Max misunderstood the meaning of the idiom to be; when unsolicited good fortune finds you, don’t ask where it came from. Max -now an adult- grasps not only the correct intended meaning but also the literal meaning of the statement. Literally, if someone gifts you a horse then you shouldn’t open its mouth to check its dental condition or age. Just say, thank you and accept the gift graciously. Figuratively the statement meant simply to be gracious in life. Either way, Max will take the weapons and he will be sure to thank Johnny Buckets later, both thoroughly and in person.

***

              For the freeway-man’s updated plan to succeed he knew he would have to aid in the escape and temporary survival of his prey. He considers it unfortunate that the best opposition he can find is in need of his assistance merely to survive until their main event, but until more worthy entertainment comes along, he will allow them to play their parts in his game. And then there was that sweet aroma that stained his memory with the delectable promise of sensual liquor to consider as well. He couldn’t very well let another of his breed harvest the pollen of Brooke’s flower that was meant for only him. As he had previously promised, he would consume her life in the light while Max watched impotently from the shadows. He would break him, but allow him enough life force to keep his hope intact, and then he would ravage Brooke in every sense of the word. He would rob her of her virtue as well as her confidence and spirit before he took her life… or turned her. Once Max had relinquished the modicum of hope allowed to him and begged for his own death to the freeway-man’s satisfaction, he would accept Max’s white flag of surrender as he imbibed his strength, force of will, and the very essence of what makes Max the man that he is. Max would offer his throat to him while his carotid artery bulged from a heart that hammered with a harried mix of fear and anguish. The crimson solution that spurts from his neck will give the freeway-man more power than any man, whether they be the un-evolved masses or a demigod such as he.

              He can sense that Brooke is close now, nearly close enough to taste. The main hall of the mall outside of Brooke’s holding room is awash with the bodies of soldiers and infected alike. Though the number of infected is less than that of the soldiers the battle still rages throughout the mall. However, the freeway-man’s minions are doing exactly as had hoped –keeping the guardsmen busy while he executes his plan. The infected may be small in number but they are quickly turning that around. As they fight, maim and feed, they leave most bodies intact enough to turn in short order and swell their rising ranks. Minute by minute another fresh warrior for the infected rises to join the fight. The familiar and once friendly faces of the turncoats have the added advantage of demoralizing those they prey upon and sapping their will to press onward. It can be quite difficult to fight the good fight when the comrade that only minutes ago fought by your side is now ripping a chunk out of it instead.

              The freeway-man detours around the fight and through a locked door that gains him access to one of the interior alleys that encircle the shops of the mall. The lock on the door is light and insignificant since the hidden hallway itself guards nothing of value. Every individual shop that accesses the hall has its own secured door to protect its valuables within.

As soon as he is out of the main hall and into the relative hush of the back corridor, familiar sounds of helplessness can be heard quite clearly. The freeway-man follows the high-pitched screams of suffering and shouts of despair to a solid door that trembles in its frame as a multitude of hands beat desperately upon it from the other side. He presses his left cheek to the door and listens. The room beyond the door is positively pressurized with the fragrance of fear. The scent -as well as the sounds from within- intoxicates him near ecstasy.

One scent in particular stands above the rest, “
Brooke, Brooooke,”
he chants low and long as he gently strokes the cold smooth surface of the door between them.

So tempting to take her now, take them all and use them, drink them, kill them in whatever order he saw fit, but that would not do, no not at all. He must put her on her path so he might continue his conquest of her – them. It is the anticipation of decadent promises that make them
ohhh
so much sweeter, but a demigod such as he could surely find a way to have his cake and eat it too. ‘
Maybe just a taste
,’ his large powerful hand grapples the doorknob and wrenches it free from its socket. He hears the round knob on the other side fall to the floor with a hollow clank and immediately a hush of anticipation sweeps the small room just on the other side of the thin (soon to be circumvented) barrier…

***

Though armed and more dangerous than most, max treads quietly through shadows and keeps his profile as low as possible. ‘When in dangerous and unfamiliar territory the best way to stay alive is to be invisible; if you can’t be invisible then be quick; if you can’t be quick then be loud.’ A nugget of wisdom imparted by his father long ago. The irony that his father’s teachings about survival were ultimately what led to his own death does not escape Max. Though his father departed a monster among men on earth and surely became a devil among demons in hell, Max had always listened to and heeded his father’s words. This night and the night he took his father’s life in particular, they have served him as a roadmap to salvation. He tried for years to be invisible in his home. He tried –at least inside- to be quick and run away but the tether of a son’s love for his mother disallowed such an act, so he was left with being loud. The night he strangled the man his actions were loud and clear, ‘
Your time is past, your life is done, it’s time for me and my mother’s memory to walk in the light, free from the suffocations of your shadow’
. If he had been able to speak that night, then those are the words he would have yelled loud enough for all to hear.

With all of the invisibility he can muster, Max treks silently toward the section of the mall where he believes the female civilians are being held. Earlier he’d seen a group of three women with green bands on their wrist being escorted in his current direction. He can only hope that he is on Brooke’s trail and more importantly that he finds her unharmed and before the freeway-man can.

***

Brooke stands with the stillness and silence of a mouse waiting with breath caught in her chest for what’s on the other side of the storage room door. An agonized groan from a woman trapped beneath the wreckage of shelves momentarily suspends the silence, but no one moves to her aid or even turns in her direction. All eyes are fixed intently on the three-inch hole left in the wake of the rendered doorknob now upon the floor. With the ladies nearest to the door unable or unwilling to break their scarecrow countenances and investigate the matter, Brooke takes it upon herself to step to the door to take a look. She tries to swallow her fear but it lumps painfully in her throat like a pill swallowed dryly. She presses through to the door anyway. As she touches the shoulder of the big woman whom she had laid flat on her back the woman turns slowly and looks at her with a twisted expression of contempt, disbelief and gratitude.

Brooke places one hand on the door and gives it a butterfly’s nudge. She wants only to test the state of the door, she is not quite ready to open it wide without knowing what lies beyond. The top bolt remains intact and the door secure. The hush in the room elongates as Brooke kneels down on one knee to peer through the open hole left by the missing knob. She gingerly places each hand on either side of the hole and leans in to the dark void to take a closer look. The darkness of the storage room and the hallway beyond the door offer little aid to her investigation so she leans in closer, closer, closer, closer still until the tip of her nose touches the cold plane of the door. Shockingly her gaze is met by another eye on the other side of the hole so close that she can clearly see the fibrous muscles of the yellow retina as it peers back at her. Brooke immediately recoils from the door, pushing back against it so hard that she slides back on her rear into the void created by the frightened ladies that moments ago had crowded her.  Immediately chatter inside the storage room breaks the silence as startled questions of, ‘what, who, huh?’ fill the air. Before Brooke finds the breath to respond the black hole of the door within this black hole of the storage room produces a long bloodied tongue that intrudes into the imagined safety of their small shadowy space and slowly searches the thin vapid air inside.