Omega Plague: Collapse (9 page)

“Bruno, I’m sorry. I—I wasn’t quite sure how to tell you.
But things,” Cristian pointed to the monitor, “are coming to a head.”

“‘Coming to a head?’ Fucking right things are coming to a
head! You’re in charge here. You can’t just desert!”

“Why not? Don’t be so goddamn naïve. I’m not spending my
last days in misery alone.”

“But what about Carla?”

“At the hospital, I’m sure she’s safer than we are.”
Cristian waved his hand. “What do you want from me, Bruno? Carla is a great
woman, but I have a daughter—
she
needs me! My daughter comes first. What
do you know about it? You don’t even have a family!”

“I have my father and Carla, you arrogant prick.” Bruno
spoke slowly, spitting out each word. “You are a coward.”

“Don’t you get it? It’s over! We’re all going to die! And
I’m going to spend my last days with my family. Like everyone else!” Cristian
took a deep breath. “Look, Carla’s much safer staying here. Why don’t you come
with me for a while? I could use your help getting out of Naples. Then you
could make your way to Nusco and your father.”

Bruno sat down and leaned back in the chair. “You got enough
room in your boat for my motorcycle?” Bruno shook his head. “Walk nearly one
hundred kilometers from Naples? By myself? Even if I could, I need to talk to
Carla first, at least.” Bruno looked down at his feet as he asked what he thought
was a question with no good answer. “How the hell are
you
going to get
back outside Rome? That’s a three-hour drive on a good day!”

Cristian responded with a quizzical look. “My car, of
course. I’ve kept it in Naples. I haven’t had to drive it in weeks, so it’s got
a full tank. Which is good, since I doubt I’ll find any fuel on the way, not
with everything that’s going on.”

“But—” Bruno started, thinking of everything that might
stand in Cristian’s path on the way back to his home, from a single blocked car
choking a road, to thugs bent on nothing more than theft and murder, to
mosquitoes that sometimes even this late in the year buzzed, hungry for blood.

Before Bruno could complete the thought, Cristian raised his
hand. “I
will
find a way.”

Bruno nodded. “All right. Leave. Go then.”

Cristian put his hand on Bruno’s arm. “Bruno, listen to me.
The government is falling to pieces—the Carabinieri are falling apart, too. If
you don’t leave now, what are you going to do?”

Bruno pulled away, not angry, but simply resigned to his
decision. “I can’t. I need to get to Carla or—” Bruno had to admit, at least to
himself, the real reason why he didn’t want to go with Cristian. It was not his
devotion to duty, it was not the thought of being a hero; it wasn’t even Carla:
Bruno stayed because he was afraid. Thoughts of that ship on the way as rescue,
as salvation, as a way to somewhere safe, had already been racing through his
mind. The ship would spare him the agony of facing the world; the ship would
take him to comrades-in-arms; the ship meant he would live. And even if it
never came, he could always stay here on the island, sheltered from the chaos.
Once he and Cristian parted ways after arriving on the mainland, Bruno feared
what would happen on a journey alone. That fear shamed him, it paralyzed him.
For all of Cristian’s faults, bluster, and foolishness, Bruno was sure of one
thing about his friend: he was the brave one, not Bruno.

Cristian began to back away. “Fine. I can’t force you to
come.” Cristian walked with heavy feet into the storage room. When he came out,
he had a bulging duffle bag slung over his shoulder and his mask covered the
lower part of his face.

Bruno stood in the short hallway leading to the back
entrance. “What about the weapons locker?”

“Already tried, and I couldn’t get in. They must have had
better things to do than update the biometric access.” Cristian shrugged.
“You’ll have to bust it open, and I don’t have time to try.”

“I will, believe me.”

Cristian gazed at Bruno, his eyes steady. “Watch yourself.
Don’t let your guard down. And tell Carla I’m sorry.” Cristian offered his
hand, and Bruno took it.

“Looks like
you’re
the Omega Man here,” said
Cristian.

“Stay strong,” said Bruno.

With a final wave, Cristian turned and walked out the back
entrance into the now-dark alley behind the station. The door shut behind him
with a clang.

The silence that followed enveloped Bruno like a lukewarm
bath, and he sat in a warm stupor for an age. Minutes crawled by, and the
temptation to sit there, to do nothing, almost overwhelmed him. But he clawed
his way back to reality. He needed to talk to his father.

He pulled the phone from his jacket pocket. After four tries
he almost gave up. Finally, on the fifth try, his father’s face filled the
small screen. The familiar grey-haired man looked at Bruno with evident relief.
“Bruno, thank God!”

“Papà,” Bruno whispered.

His father’s eyes stood out in relief, bloodshot, whether
from tears or lack of sleep, Bruno could not tell. His father’s voice trembled.
“I’ve been trying to call for days! I can’t get through to Carla at all.”

“Papà, it’s good to see you, too. I can’t get through to her
now either. But don’t worry, I know she’s staying at the hospital. I’m sure
she’ll be safe there. It’s guarded.” Bruno spoke rapidly. “Look, I’m not sure
how long this connection is going to last. I wanted to tell you I’m supposed to
leave for Naples tomorrow.” His voice brightened with a note of false cheer.
“The government’s decided they need more law enforcement in the city. So, they’re
moving me the day after tomorrow.”

“Naples!” His father shook his head. “Don’t you know what’s
been going on in the city? People are dying, and they’re trying to leave the
city as fast as they can—some are even making their way here, to Nusco.”

“But the orders said—”

“Do you think they told you the truth? They’re lying!
Whatever they’re saying is a lie!” he hissed. Then his shoulders slumped.
“Where will you stay?”

“They’ve got barracks set up.”

“Barracks? No, you’ve got to stay where you are! If you come
here, if you go to Naples, in cramped quarters with people who might be
infected, you’ll never make it out!”

“They’re coming to get me tomorrow night. I have to—”

“Find your sister! You don’t have to do anything they tell
you!” his father shouted, slamming his hand on an unseen table.

“You can’t leave the island—you’re safer there. Find Carla,
she’ll know what to do. Bruno, please listen to me. Do not come back. The city
is full of death.”

“Maybe I can come with Carla to Nusco after—”

“No! Bruno, you know it’s spreading all over. You’ve got to
stay where you are—stay away from people—anybody! It’s too late for us here,
Bruno. We’re not going to make it. But you—you have a chance. I want you to
live. Do whatever you need to do. Please—your mother—your brother—they—they
would have wanted you and Carla to live. Just live!”

Bruno nodded, not wanting to answer his father’s request.
Instead, he simply said, “I love you, Papà.”

“I love you too Br—”

His father’s voice cut off, and Bruno found himself looking
into a dark screen, the words “connection failed” blinking brightly. Bruno
began to weep as he tried to reestablish a connection to no avail. He sobbed
until numbness replaced sorrow. His limbs felt weighed down, and it was a
struggle just to move an arm, like someone fighting his way to wakefulness from
a deep slumber. Pulling himself from the brink of he didn’t know what, Bruno
wiped his face on his sleeve and dragged himself out of the chair away from his
desk. He gathered up the radio, turned it off, and made his way to the back
storage room.

Bruno looked around. The room’s narrow walls and lone
fluorescent tube flickering overhead made him feel cramped and claustrophobic.
Bruno spotted his body armor leaning against the wall in the far corner, its
dark-blue shape standing out against the whitewashed wall. Bruno grabbed it,
threw it over his head, and cinched the Velcro tight. The firmness across his
chest comforted Bruno, made him feel stronger. Along with the radio, he began
to gather anything he thought might be useful and put it in an old olive duffle
bag he found on the floor. Bruno looked at the name stenciled on the bag in
dark capital letters: “VERI, B.” He paused briefly, then continued to rummage
around the shelves in the back room, while the lights still worked. He found a
flashlight, a toolbox, some paracord, a first aid kit, and a few other items
that he might be able to put to use. He set the toolbox to the side, but put
the other items into the duffle bag. Then he turned his attention to the
storage shelf bolted into the wall.

At chest-height, a square metal box stuck out about a
half-meter from the wall, looking dull under the fluorescent light. The box had
a seam running down the middle, bisecting the front into two doors that opened outward.
In the center, just to the right of the seam, was an indentation with a tiny
glass window just the size of a thumb. Bruno stared at it a moment, then put
his index finger in the indentation. A white light shone from under his finger,
soon followed by a buzzing sound. Of course, his fingerprints had never been
registered. That was not going to stop him, not now. He opened the toolbox, and
at the bottom, his hand grasped a long, cold length of metal. The crowbar was
just what he needed, as there were two 9mm submachine guns to be had.

He cursed as each blow hit the box. He labored for a long
while. It was much stronger than it looked. Finally, the door buckled enough
for him to insert the crowbar into the seam. He jammed the crowbar in and
pulled with all his strength. The screech of rending metal filled the air as
the doors gave way. Bruno peered inside, expecting weapons. But what he found
was emptiness and betrayal. 

Chapter 7

Bruno pounded the remnants of the metal shelf with his fist.
The duty pistol strapped to his hip was now Bruno’s only firearm. Cristian had
left one box of 9mm ammo. Fifty bullets, that’s it. All that bullshit about not
having access—the son of a bitch! He yanked the duffle bag’s zipper open, grabbed
the box, and shoved it in.

“Thanks for nothing, prick liar!” Bruno shouted out loud to
no one. Bruno’s hands shook as he zipped the duffle bag closed. Anger like this
would make him careless. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply for a time,
gathering his thoughts.

Bruno sat down on the floor and removed the radio from his
bag. He wanted to hear someone’s voice other than his own while he thought
about what to do next. He turned on the radio. It was buzzing with the voices
of the same two commentators. He set the radio to scan and found the
government-run radio channel. A woman’s voice filled the room.

“. . . rats have tested positive for HAV—I repeat—the
European Centre for Disease Control and Prevention has found that rats may
become infected with HAV, yet remain asymptomatic. Whether or not rats, or
other mammals, may be carriers, infecting people directly, or by way of
mosquito bites, is still an open question. Remember, hospitals have now
reopened. If you have any signs of illness, please make your way to your
nearest hospital. We—”

On a whim, Bruno tuned the radio to the end of the AM
stations, close to the start of the amateur radio band where the pirate radio
station had broadcast those many months ago. To his shock, through the static,
Bruno heard a male voice. The pirate radio station had returned.

“For years the global elites have been watching, waiting,
planning
our
extermination. You didn’t believe me. You thought I was out
of my mind, didn’t you? But I was right! The day has finally come. They have
found a way to kill us all so that they can—”

Bruno could tell by the audio quality that it was probably a
low power station, so it couldn’t be that far away. Maybe it was even
transmitting from Capri itself, like the provincial command had suspected. But
its exact location would be impossible to find without specialized equipment.
Bruno turned the radio off and put it in his bag. Though he would have gladly
listened for hours to any voice, just to distract himself, he couldn’t stand to
hear what was said. He needed to get back to his home; there was no point in
lingering here any longer. Twilight had long past, and mosquitoes, if there
were still any this late in the year, were gone for now. It was about an hour’s
walk from the station to his apartment. He resolved to make it back in less
than forty minutes. As he rose from the floor, the sickly florescent light
flickered and went dark. Panic leapt from his gut to his throat, but he shoved
it down. Blackness blanketed the storage room, and he could barely see his hand
in front of his face. “It’s just the dark—it’s just the dark,” he mumbled.
Bruno felt around inside the bag until his hands found the short metal tube of
the flashlight. With a click of the button on the back end of the tube, the flashlight
sprang to life, casting a bright beam of light into the darkness. He gathered
up his duffle bag, slung it over his shoulder, and made his way back to the
hallway and the central office.

From where he stood in the short hallway, Bruno could make
out the outlines of the back entrance to his right, with its square glass
portal to the outside, as well as the large reinforced glass separating the
office from the waiting area. He didn’t want to waste time moving all the
barriers he and Cristian had placed in front of the main entrances, so he
turned towards the back entrance, shining the light down the hall.

From the front of the station, the sound of breaking glass
stopped Bruno short. Turning off the flashlight as he crouched down, Bruno
moved carefully into the central office and took shelter behind the desk.
Beyond the thick glass window separating the office from the waiting area, he
saw no movement. He couldn’t quite tell in the dark, but he guessed that
someone had smashed the window on the door leading to the outside. Before Bruno
could say for sure, something flew into the waiting room, smashed against the
inner glass window, and exploded into flames. In seconds, fire engulfed the
waiting area. He heard someone shout “That’s what you get, pigs!” Bruno
snatched up what was now his duffle bag, hoping that whoever they were hadn’t
discovered the back exit. He ran to the back door, checking out the window as
best he could to make sure the alley was empty. Then, as flames flowed into the
central office, he burst into the cold air. The damp autumn night bit into him
as he looked around, trying to orient himself in the dark. The half-moon,
though, provided a silvery glow, giving him some light to watch where he
stepped.

The alley behind connected the station to clusters of
buildings to his right and his left off the main square. To his right the alley
terminated in a postage stamp parking lot; to his left, the alley wound back
towards the main square. Directly in front of him, a grove of scrubby pine
trees blocked his vision, as the terrain stepped down in terraced levels to
houses toward the sea far below. Body armor or not, Bruno didn’t dare wind
around back to the square, not knowing how many attackers still lingered. He
would have bet his right arm that the assailants on the station and the looters
he had spared were one and the same. He should have killed them when he had the
chance. The sudden anger of the thought startled Bruno, but he recognized that
if he wanted to live, matter-of-fact violence would have to become second
nature. But violence alone would not be enough. Bruno would have to act with
the ruthlessness of a frontline soldier, not with the controlled aggression of
a law enforcement officer. If he acted like a cop, he wouldn’t last long.

Shaking off his anger, he plunged into the copse of pines.
The soft silver light of the moon now gave way to a brighter orange glow behind
him as the station burned in earnest. The flames’ glow let him get a better
look around. He found himself in a narrow, grassy clearing on the terrace, on
the next level below the station. He knew if he continued down in this
direction he would eventually stumble on the road that wound up from the bottom
of the island, starting at the Marina Grande and leading all the way to
Anacapri at the top of the island. As he stood on the terraced hillside looking
at the shadowy houses to his left just below, his eyes wandered across the
water towards the coast. He saw orange specks dotting the arc of the coastline
from the peninsula of Sorrento jutting out towards the island, all the way
around the bay. Cristian’s words about Naples were not just hyperbole; they
were prophetic. The city was in flames.

The silent burning of Naples mesmerized Bruno, and he stood
for a time before plunging down the terrace, scrambling through an open field,
and ending up on a side street. He followed the side street, past darkened
houses, onto the Via Marina Grande, the main road that wound up the side of the
island back up toward his flat in Anacapri. But he was only going partway home.
First, he needed to get to the hospital. He needed to find Carla, make sure she
was all right.

Concrete buildings and stone houses crowded right up to the
street’s edge to his left, while to his right, a low wall punctuated by gates
to private dwellings ran along the side of the island on the downward slope.
There was no sidewalk to speak of. Bruno looked up the narrow road towards
Anacapri. In happier times, the road would have been brightly lit, with
streetlights and houses casting a glow into the night. Now, the darkness made
the already narrow road feel even more claustrophobic than before. Bruno
adjusted the duffle bag on his left shoulder and started up the long road. His
breath billowed in a white cloud as he quickened his pace. He followed the road
up and away from the station, above and behind him, then came to an
intersection, and a road sloped down to his right. He continued up the road and
found what he was looking for: the
traversa
, a long staircase and paved path
winding up between houses and buildings. It would save him some time. Instead
of following the road as it wound up the slope of the island in a long S-shape,
he would take the traversa, cutting off the bend and leading directly to the
higher level of the road. The danger was that the narrow staircase and landings
with doors into each dwelling limited his options if anyone caught him there.
But the quicker he could get to the hospital, the better, and he judged it
worth the risk.

He retrieved the flashlight from the duffle bag and held it
in his left hand, but then he hefted the bag onto the same side. It was
awkward, but Bruno wanted to keep his right hand free, in case he needed to use
his pistol. He debated even using the flashlight at all, as he didn’t want to
draw attention, but his fear of twisting an ankle or breaking a wrist
outweighed the fear of detection. A sprained ankle in this new world might be a
death sentence.

Bruno’s heart pounded in time with his footfalls as he
started up the stairway. He progressed as rapidly as he dared, fearing the
clanking of the duffle bag would draw unwanted attention. He did not stop to
pause on any of the landings, but noted the shut doors of silent apartments.
They stood in mute testimony to their owners’ absence, or worse. He pushed the
burning in his legs and lungs aside as he bounded up the stairs, sometimes two
at a time. But the duffle bag weighed him down, his pace slowed, and his
footfalls became louder and heavier. Breathing heavily he finally stopped, perhaps
ten steps above a landing. Looking up, Bruno saw that the stairs ended, and the
path straightened and flattened out. Once he made it over this last flight of
stairs he was nearly at the end and would soon be back on the street. With a
sigh, Bruno started once more.

A great crash behind Bruno made him shout out loud. He
whirled around, but the duffle bag unbalanced him and he fell onto his side on
the hard concrete stairs with a clang. The bag took some of the force, but
Bruno felt a stabbing pain shoot through the ribs on his right side as he
looked down the stairs. The vest he wore had a rigid plate in front, but Bruno
had fallen on his side, and the soft fabric, while bullet resistant, provided
only scant protection for that kind of blow.

The door leading to the landing was flung open and in the
half-moon’s weak light, Bruno could see a figure standing there a few meters
below him. By some fortune, he still held the flashlight clenched in his left
hand, and he pointed it down the stairs.

The beam splashed onto the figure’s face. The shirtless
figure’s long, dark hair couldn’t obscure the oozing sores on her face and
neck, nor could it hide the coffee-colored fluid running down from her face to
her breasts. Her hands trembled as she shambled towards him.

“Please, help me!”

Bruno slithered backwards up the stairs, the pain biting
into his ribs as he tore his pistol from its holster. “Stop! Don’t come any
closer!”

“Please don’t hurt me!” she shouted, insistent. “My son,
he’s dead—I need help!” She shuffled toward him faster than he thought someone
that sick could. He dropped the flashlight and took aim at the center of the
dark figure below him as he rolled to his back. “Stop! Don’t make me shoot!” he
cried, and yet still she came. He yanked the trigger hard. He lost count after
the third shot. He saw her stumble backwards, falling onto the landing. Ears
still ringing from the shots, he held the pistol at eye level until he noticed
his hands trembling. Forcing them lower, Bruno holstered his pistol and scrambled
back to his feet. Pain shot through his ribs, making him wince as he gathered
his flashlight from where it lay next to the duffle bag.

“Please don’t kill me!” the voice below him shouted. Bruno
shone the light down onto the woman. Instead of clean shots to a vital area, he
must have hit her low in the gut. Her face was twisted with pain and she lay in
a pool of blood.

She sobbed as she spoke, her words coming out in stutters.
“P—lease, I don’t want to die!” He dared not get any closer, though he may have
already been exposed, for all he knew. Her sobs grew louder as she bled out
below him. He knew he should end her suffering; he knew it in his bones, but he
feared what more gunfire would bring. And yet, he couldn’t just leave her like
this, no matter what the risk. He pulled out his pistol with his right hand and
aimed the flashlight towards her with his left hand. He braced the pistol over
his left wrist and aimed.

By now, she had stopped writhing and was lying on her
stomach, moaning. As the light fell on her, she lifted her head and looked up
at Bruno. Everything else around her faded to darkness, but the light shone on
her face, spotlighting her eyes. She fell silent as her eyes burned into his.
Her mouth opened, dark spittle running down her chin, but she made no sound.
Instead, she raised her trembling hand towards him, fingers outstretched,
pleading with Bruno to spare her life with that quiet gesture. Bruno squeezed
the trigger as he gazed into her eyes. This time, the bullet found its mark,
shattering her forehead. He holstered his pistol and turned off his flashlight.
Though shadows shrouded the bloodshed below him, his gaze stayed fixed on what
he had done.

His second execution cut more deeply than his first. Wiping
away tears with the back of his hand, Bruno wondered if he had made too much
noise and she had heard his footfalls, or if the woman had simply wanted to
find someone, anyone. Anger welled up inside him, masking his fright. Damn her,
why did she have to come out? Why couldn’t she have just died in her house? She
was going to die anyway! His anger at the dead woman distracted him for a
moment from the pain in his ribs. But as the adrenaline ebbed, every breath
made him wince. He wanted to go down to her dwelling to see if there was
anything he could use, but he had no doubt her body could still spread disease.