S.W. Tanpepper's GAMELAND: Season Two Omnibus (Episodes 9-11) (134 page)

“They comfort me, asshole,” Stu told him, and stepped a little closer.

Eric braced himself.

“Are you comforted too, Mister Copper Man?” Stu asked. “Would you like to see what it's like to walk through the valley of the shadow of death?”

Eric shook his head. He already knew, perhaps too well, what that was like. And, yes, he did fear. He feared it terribly. He feared the evil that lurked there, and the death. He feared becoming a permanent resident in the valley of the shadow of death. It was not a place for the living. Nor was it a place for the truly dead. Because what lived there was something in between, something truly fearful.

He brought the shiv up just as Stu pounced, and he sunk the blade deep into the man's neck. He pulled it out and thrust it back in without waiting to see if he was dead. Stu slumped against him, and Eric stabbed. Again and again. He couldn't stop himself.

Finally, the man, more tattered flesh than anything recognizable as a human being, slumped off the bed, leaving Eric drenched in blood and shivering with terror.

He planted a knee on the man's chest, then reached down and grabbed his head and gave it a vicious twist. The neck snapped.

But even then, Eric wasn't finished. He picked up the shiv and began to saw the rest away.

* * *

He was horrified at himself, horrified at how he'd lost control. Something had snapped inside of him, something that had been holding him back from the brink of insanity for years, it seemed. He'd felt it let go, and the freedom it ushered in had felt wonderful and terrible all at the same time.

But now he was horrified at what he'd allowed himself to do.

His eyes flicked from the headless body on the floor next to the bed, to the head itself beside him on top of the bed, to Marco over by the bars. He looked at the cuff on his wrist. Finally, he lifted the shard of metal in his free hand and ran a thumb over the edge. It was jagged, though not very sharp.

And he was running out of time.

In a tiny apartment on the outskirts of Greenwich, a telephone hidden deep inside a bathroom vent rings. The volume has been turned down, but the call triggers an alert on the apartment renter's Link. It's four in the morning, but he jumps from his bed, all traces of sleep flung away from him like the blanket that had been covering his body. He hurries into the bathroom and pries away the grate. He reaches in and plucks the handset from its base and announces his identity by saying his name.

Two thousand miles away, in a dingy hotel room a quarter mile from a highway truck stop outside of Santa Fe, Larry Abrams similarly identifies himself. There are no salutations, no friendly exchanges or asking about the other's health, no apologies for the indecent hour, though the men have known each other, and they have known the other's family for years. He simply launches right to business: “What are the conditions there right now?”

“Chaotic,” the man replies. “We've had focused outbreaks in several locations, which I've been able to trace back to the initial infection at Sisters of Mercy Hospital.”

“I thought that was fully contained. What happened?”

“That's what the mayor told the public, and we know he's in Arc's pocket. Unfortunately, about a dozen carriers managed to elude the dragnet we set up around the site. They infiltrated the community, where they incubated the disease until they died a day or two later. After that lull, we had several new spontaneous outbreaks all happen within a few hours of each other. By far the worst is the prison. The entire facility has been classified a total loss. The Feds have ordered it be sterilized.”

Abrams sighed unhappily. “How could that happen? Who's running things there?”

“Like I said.”

“I'm talking about Necrotics Crimes.”

“Head of the department was arrested and transferred to lockup. The group exists only in name now. The rest of the police department is poorly equipped to handle these sorts of situations. They're trying, but it's become an untenable situation with no easy solution.”

“You can't bring in specialists from surrounding communities?”

“Nobody wants to give up their NCD teams now, not with the Stream completely down everywhere.”

The man coughed lightly. His throat was scratchy from lack of sleep, and his eyes felt like sandpaper.

“Containment's a huge challenge right now for us. After the outbreaks here, half the officers in the department have abandoned their posts, so the shelter-in-place hasn't been enforced. People are fleeing, trying to get out of the country. Canada has positioned every available security and medical screening resource they can muster all along the northern border.”

“So have the Southern States,” Abram adds. “Except without the screenings. Borders are completely locked down. Guards have been issued orders to shoot-to-kill on sight. Nobody is to cross.”

“Christ.”

“You don't need to worry about that. I've got a man dealing with it for when it's time to bring you in.”

“I can't think about that right now. I'm waiting for a transfer. I'm hoping they'll provide some insight on what's going on with the network.”

“Explain.”

“I don't have many details other than that a call was placed to NYPD about some possible hackers attempting to cross the Sound to Long Island.”

“Christ,” Abrams says, exhaling in dismay. “Hoax or real?”

“It appears to be real. Last night, a New York patrol car picked up a pair of Greenwich high school kids in a Class B zone across the Sound from Long Island. A third individual escaped. NYPD tried interrogating the two. The mayor pulled some strings to get them transferred back to us. Apparently, they admitted to planning to break onto LI before lawyering up.”

“Try to find out what's going on. And don't expose yourself.”

“At this point, I doubt anyone's paying attention anymore.”

Larry Abrams stands up from the edge of the bed and starts to pace. He pauses at the window and looks out at the gray landscape that is his view of the parking lot, at the pockets of pale gold cast by the burning sodium street lamps.

There's a tiny patch of green in a concrete-bordered island. By day it's dirty green, but at this time of night, it looks black. Plastic wrappers flutter here and there, stuck to the cement by chewed and spat-out pieces of gum and bits of the over-processed food they once held. A paper cup rolls in an arc, driven by the hot, dry breeze. It spins, changes orientation, but keeps going in the same direction, traversing the cement like a sailboat tacking a rough sea.

He is deeply bothered by what Constipole told him just an hour earlier. It's the reason he's calling.

“Those kids may not be very helpful,” he says.

“What do you mean?”

“We back-traced the order that triggered the contingency. It wasn't from inside the arcade, only made to appear that way.”

“Then who? One of our own?”

“I wish I knew. Clearly someone who wants New Merica to fall. And us to fail.”

The line is silent for several long seconds. Then Abrams says, “I want you to get out of there.”

“That's not going to be easy. Interstate border checkpoints are starting to refuse access. And you just said the Southern States aren't letting anyone cross.”

“We'll get you back,” Abrams promises. “Your kids are eager to see you. They miss you.”

Officer Hank Gilfoy doesn't speak for a long time. And when he does, his voice is tight. “Tell them I love them,” he says. “Tell them their daddy will see them soon. I just have some things I need to do here before I leave.”

“You be careful,” Larry Abrams says, and he disconnects.
Please, don't make me be the bearer of bad news.

 

Within minutes of setting off, the three in the raft passed a warning buoy. “I don't mind saying this,” Reggie murmured, “but I'm pretty scared shitless right now.” He held up his hand in front of his face, but it was so dark that he couldn't even see how badly he was shaking.

They paddled silently for an hour while Doctor White sat at the front with her Link in the water. She'd downloaded an app which sent out a high frequency sound pulse. The app was meant for fishing, but she figured it might help them detect — and avoid — any intact mines.

“So much for them all being exploded,” Reggie grumbled.

They could feel the island getting closer— not the wall, but the land itself, a looming invisible presence, threatening, silent, vigilant. They sensed it in the way the water rocked them and the way it sounded on the approaching shore, at first almost inaudible, but then steadily louder until they knew they had survived the most dangerous part of their crossing.

Every so often, the doctor would raise the Link and check the screen, offering them course corrections. Kelly asked where she was planning on landing, and how they were going to get inside the wall, but she kept her plan to herself, which didn't help Reggie's mood any.

At last they came to the rocky shore. Looking back, they could see the distant lights of Manhattan far to the west and the emptiness that had been their launch point, close to where Micah had rented a boat so long ago. The headlights they'd seen earlier had soon been joined by a second set, one of which had flashed red and blue. But all of them were now gone.

“We're close,” White said, climbing out. She immediately set off toward the east.

“What do we do with the boat?” Kelly asked.

But White seemed oblivious of them now, so he and Reggie carried it between them as they followed.

It was tough going, and the humid night and exertion took a toll on them all. Reggie stumbled, scraping his hand badly enough to require a bandage.

At times, the water reached their knees, while the dense reeds cut at their skin. And the mosquitoes were relentless.

They stopped for a rest at what had once been a wooden dock descending from a private residence. The house was now cut off from the shore by the wall, and the dock was little more than a few storm-ravaged pilings.

“I can't believe we actually made it this far,” Kelly said. Other than warnings of slippery rocks or thick mud, they were the first words out of his mouth since arriving.

“And thanks for not sharing that with me sooner,” Reggie replied.

Doctor White reached into her pack and removed a pistol, which she handed to Kelly. She offered another to Reggie, but he shook his head. He pulled a machete from his own pack. “I don't like guns,” he said. “Especially now. I'd rather stick with my hands. They're what I know.”

“They're not for the Infected,” she told him. “They're in case we meet up with any Live Players.”

Reggie shrugged. “Living or dead, I'm not taking any chances. If it's a zombie or not, I'm taking off its head.”

“Reggie,” Kelly murmured. He turned to Doctor White to apologize.

“What?” Reggie complained. “I'm not supposed to want to kill zombies?”

Doctor White's eyes glistened darkly in the moonlight. “You didn't tell him, did you?” she quietly asked Kelly.

“Tell me what?”

“She wants to find her daughter.”

“Okay?”

“She was . . . infected.”

“Treated, you mean?” Reggie asked. “Was she with Heale's people?”

“No.”

“I don't understand. If she hasn't been treated, then she's . . . .” His eyes widened.

Doctor White patted her backpack. “I'm going to cure her.”

 

“You are
not
going to die on me!” Jessie growled at Brother Walter. “Not now. Not after what we've been through.”

They'd spent the night in the back of a service station that had partially burned down years before. Jessie hadn't liked the looks of it, but it was the best she could manage after he collapsed on the road. The night had not been easy for either of them, filled as it was with terrible dreams and, in his case, the pain of the gunshot, but the rest did them both good. They were back on the road at daybreak and making good time.

He soon faded.

His wound was bleeding again. Fresh blood dripped from his fingers onto the searing concrete and baked dry within seconds.

“You have to leave me,” Brother Walter told her. He pulled his hand away from his side to inspect it, and a large clot slid from his palm and splattered to the road. He tried to push her away, but she wouldn't let go. “I'm just slowing you down.”

“She's not coming,” she told him, glancing nervously back and half-expecting to see Jo there despite her assertion. “Not right away.”

It had been Andy Emerson's body which fell from the top of the wall. He'd climbed the ladder unnoticed as Brother Walter monitored Jessie's progress down the rope, and he wasted no time attacking and overpowering the injured man. But then came the gunshot, which had not originated from his own pistol, but from Jo's. And instead of hitting Brother Walter, it slammed into Andy's hip and knocked him over the side.

The two were tangled as they grappled, and if not for the fact that Brother Walter had a hold of the rope to keep it from abrading on the edge, he would have fallen, too.

“
Burn it
,” he'd screamed Jessie as he climbed down. He wasn't even halfway down the wall. “Now! Light the rope on fire!”

Jessie was still digging the matches out of her backpack when he landed hard on the ground beside Andy's shattered corpse, grunting in pain and trying to untangle himself from the rope. His hands were flayed.

She expected Jo to appear at the top of the wall and start shooting at them at any moment, and her hands shook so much that she had a hard time keeping the match lit. Brother Walter reached over to help, but his hands were useless. He clutched his fists against his chest and cried out in agony.