S.W. Tanpepper's GAMELAND: Season Two Omnibus (Episodes 9-11) (136 page)

A brilliant white light filled the walls ahead, accompanied by a shushing sound. Reggie could now see that they'd reached the end and that there was enough room that they could stand upright side by side. The light flickered, making it appear as if the walls were moving.

“What's she cutting it with, Kel?”

“Some kind of mini acetylene torch.”

“You brought a torch cutter?”

“I think you mean, ‘Damn, that was nice thinking,' Reggie,” Kelly said.

“It's not acetylene,” Doctor White explained. “It's a copper oxide-based metal vapor torch. The flame burns at five thousand degrees.”

The flickering went out and the sound ceased.

“What's the matter?”

Doctor White's muttered curse sounded loud in the quiet of the cave. “Cartridge is spent. I didn't expect it to run out so fast.”

“You brought more, though. Right?”

“Six. Total.”

“Well, you've cut through four bars, and there's . . . .” twenty-four total,” Kelly counted. “It's going to be tight.”

Doctor White loaded another cartridge and began to cut. “I once knew someone who used these to shape metal for her sculptures.” Her voice cracked. She cleared her throat. “She was an artist. Veronica was her name.”

“What happened to her?”

“She died.”

“Infected?”

“Murdered.”

“Jesus,” Reggie whispered. “Can we talk about something a little more cheerful?”

The light faded and went out.

“Only three bars that time. Better cut faster.”

“Fucking hell, guys,” Reggie said.

“I'm going to try cutting about eighty percent of the way through each bar and try to get through more.” She loaded another cartridge. “That way if we run out, we can try breaking through the cut ones with a rock.”

“Oh, that just sounds wonderful. Why didn't you just bring more?”

“Reggie,” Kelly warned.

They went through another three cartridges without talking, and when the fifth expired, White told Kelly to try and break through. He found a loose rock about the size of a melon and thrust it against the grate. The clang echoed down the tunnel.

Two more hits, and Kelly shouted out in triumph. “They're breaking!” he exclaimed, then complained that flecks of rock and rust were getting into his mouth and eyes.

“Yeah,” Reggie said, “and in the mean time every damn IU and CU around is triangulating right on us!”

But they couldn't hear him. Kelly hammered away until the grate hung by a single piece of rebar. He dropped the rock, reached up, and began to bend the grate away until it broke free.

“We're through, and the opening's even big enough for you, Reg.”

“Gee, that's awful considerate of you.”

“You can come on up now.”

“No, I can't.”

“Why not?”

“Because, asshole, I'm stuck.”

 

It was shortly before noon when Jessie heard the first whisper, a woman's, and she very nearly disregarded it as just another manifestation of her fatigue, which had been steadily suffocating her thoughts like the tsunami that killed all those people in their sleep in South Harlem years back.
Why am I here?
the voice wondered.
What am I doing in this strange place?

But then a second joined the first, the whispers emerging from out of the background of her troubled mind. This time it was the voice of a man. And it, too, seemed confused.

Puzzled, Jessie stopped her restless pacing at the front of the nave. She'd been waiting for Kelly to connect with her, hoping against hope that he would, but as the minutes ticked past noon without her Link pinging she knew he wouldn't. The device lay inert in her hands, and she cursed the Stream for still being broken, even as she was glad that it was.

She went from dusty window to dusty window, squinting through the beveled stained glass for a glimpse of the Undead Players whispering inside her head, knowing that they would be out there. But they weren't. The leaf-strewn street and overgrown lawn out front were empty.

And yet the whispers continued, taunting her.

She found them outside the south transept, which was closest to the main part of town— two Controlled Undead no longer being guided by their Operators. One was male, the other female. Jessie exhaled in relief. At least she wasn't going crazy.

There was little reason to fear them. Without the Stream to connect their Operators to them and exert their homicidal will, they were no different than the multitude of Infected Undead she'd already encountered, both inside and out of the gaming arena. Here, like this, they were uncoordinated, lacking any purpose but to feed.

But now she wondered what had drawn them here. She assumed it was the smell of Brother Walter's blood.

A pair of doors along that side of the building kept them out. Quietly, she tested their ability to withstand her pushing on them. The foot latches held, but the doors themselves felt flimsy. A good hard tug from the outside might defeat them. She knew that Uncontrolled Infected didn't pull doors open, they only knew how to push. Nevertheless, she found some fabric and wrapped it around the push bars, then tied it into a thick knot. There was no telling when the Stream might come back on.

Brother Walter was still asleep, his breathing quick and shallow. Some of the color had returned to his face and the bleeding had thankfully stopped. With the last of the compresses and much of the remaining tape securing the bandage in place, her efforts appeared to finally be working.

His eyes flicked behind his lids as he watched some vision inside his head. He had dreamed during the night, too. In fact, his constant murmurings and occasional shouts had woken her up a few times. Once, he'd asked her for water, and he had taken it from her, so she knew he was lucid.

“Brother Walter,” she said, gently prodding him. She needed to see if he could move.

How is he?
Micah asked.

Jessie sighed and turned around. Although she knew his body wasn't his to command anymore, she still felt strange not facing him when they were talking. “He looks better, but he's exhausted, weak. I don't want to move him. Unfortunately, it looks like I might have to. We need to find someplace else to hole up.”

We? You need to think about yourself.

“I'm not going to leave him. He needs help.”

I'll keep an eye on him for you.

Jessie snorted. “Nice to know you can still joke about it.”

Hey, my body's dead, not my sense of humor.

The smile slipped from her lips. She found she was unable to look at the trussed figure on the floor.

You can't blame yourself, Jessie. Not for what happened to me. Or for anything else, for that matter. This was my choice.

She knew he was wrong. There was plenty to blame herself for. And she was sure this wouldn't have been his first choice if given another option.

“I- I'm going to check on the supplies,” she said, stepping quickly away.

But even though he was out of sight, she couldn't escape from his voice in her head. It followed her; it was inside of her.
Jessie, look, I'm sorry, but it's the truth. I've accepted it. At least this way I got a chance to tell you how I feel. At least now you know the truth about us.

“There is no us, Micah. There never was.”

I meant my kind. Us.

Just a few weeks ago they'd called the Undead
Them
.

“I'm sorry, too,” she murmured. She couldn't bear the idea of Micah dying, of leaving this place and being gone forever. And yet she knew that he was already gone, beyond her reach. She wanted to pull him back, to save him. And yet she was helpless to do anything about it.

She gathered up her backpack, inventorying what she had, then repacking it, discarding what she didn't need. Food and water were critically low. Regardless of what happened with Brother Walter or the Undead outside, she'd have to go scavenging again soon. She wasn't going to get far with what little she had.

You can leave him here. He's dying anyway. You know it.

The voice was her own this time, not Micah's, and she shoved it angrily aside, ashamed at herself for thinking such a terrible thing. Brother Walter had saved her life. He'd proven that he could be trusted. He deserved a chance to live.

She found more food inside his pack, but no water. There was a length of nylon cord, much shorter than what they'd needed back there at the wall, plus some matches and a folding knife. Trinkets, none of it of much use.

She pulled out a small, leather-bound book which had been tied shut with a pale green shoelace. It looked like some kind of journal. She was tempted to open it, but knew it would be wrong.

She set it aside.

The extra voices inside her head were still there, though by now there were more of them, maybe four or five individuals. The dead were gathering.

The meager contents of Brother Walter's pack formed a pitifully small pile on the marble floor. She picked up the tiny book and untied the string, knowing that he might never forgive her. Obviously he'd valued it enough to bring it with him.

The cover was stiff and it crackled as she opened it to a random page in the middle. It took her several seconds to realize that the scratches and symbols, written in a tiny, meticulous script, weren't English.

It was some kind of code.

* * *

“Micah?” Jessie crouched down beside him. She resisted the urge to shake him. “You awake in there? Knock knock.”

Very funny. Of course I'm awake.

“You mean you don't sleep?”

The thing that was Micah's prison grunted and writhed at her feet, but was otherwise unable to do much else. The tape was too constricting.

She thrust the book in front of the zombie's eyes. “Look what I found.”

Okaaay? What is it?

“I'm not sure. Brother Walter had it in his pack.”

“So why don't you ask him?”

“I intend to. I just wanted to see if you recognized any of this.” She opened the book and showed him a couple pages of the dense script.

Looks like code, maybe computer. I've never seen anything like it before.

“Yeah, I got that. So, nothing looks familiar to you?” She showed him a few more pages. “Nothing rings a bell?”

No. Should it?

She opened it to the very last page. “What about this?”

Is that an identifier code?

“Yeah, it is.”

Whose?

“Mine.”

She stood up and went back over to Brother Walter and shook him out of his torpor. He eventually opened his eyes.

“Where did you get this?” she demanded, holding the book up for him to see.

He opened his lips and tried to speak, but no sound came forth. Finally, he coughed weakly and asked for water. Jessie gave him a sip, then raised the question once again.

He tried to take the book from her, but he was too frail. “It doesn't belong to you.”

“Then why does it have my identifier code in here?”

“To your implant?”

“Don't act stupid.”

“I don't know anything about that.”

“Don't lie to me! Does this have anything to do with Father Heale's file? Tell me! Is this the key to unlocking the firewall inside my head?”

“No.”

She rocked back on her heels. “Is there a cure? I need to know! Is the file in my Link, the file Father Heale planted in the mainframe, a cure?”

He sighed and shook his head. “Heale tried for years. Came close a couple times, but there were terrible side effects— rage, hunger, pain. And madness. There is no cure. It can't be done.”

“There's a woman I know who'd disagree with you,” she told him. “She's a doctor at Sisters of Mercy Hospital.”

“I know of her. Never met her, but Heale did. He said she couldn't be trusted.”

“Why?”

“She had some sort of mental breakdown when her daughter became infected during the outbreak here.”

“Any parent would,” Jessie said. She couldn't believe she was defending the woman, after all she'd done to use them, but in this case, it felt justified.

“No, you don't understand,” Brother Walter said. “She intentionally caused the girl to become infected.”

“How?”

By forcing one of them to bite her.”

Jessie felt like she'd been punched in the stomach so hard that she couldn't breathe. “I don't believe you.”

“Heale watched it happen.”

“No,” Jessie moaned. “No no no.”

Kelly had trusted her. They all had. They'd had no choice in the matter.

“No,” she repeated, this time with conviction. Doctor White was the only reason little Kyle was even still alive. Whatever she'd done in the past, it didn't negate every single thing she'd done since.

“You don't have to believe me,” he said, “but it's true.”

“The file on my Link. Is it Father Heale's research?”

“No.”

Again, she felt the wind knocked out of her.

“What is it?”

“An antidote.”

“You just said there's no cure!”

“Not to Reanimation. It's an antidote to you.”

He's delirious
, Micah told her.
He's not making any sense.

“What do you mean?” she demanded of Brother Walter.

“You,” he panted. “You're a weapon against Arc, against the codex. Your grandfather . . . . He was willing to sacrifice you to destroy them, to destroy everything.”

 

Reggie couldn't remember ever having been happier to see the sun as he was the moment he climbed out through the creek's drainage tunnel. He was normally not claustrophobic, but there was something about getting stuck inside of it that drove him to the very brink of insanity. As far as he was concerned, he was never getting back inside of it again.