The Remaining: Fractured (36 page)

He took a breath and pulled the trigger. Five shots, randomly spaced. The rounds punched jagged holes in the window—one, two—and then the window shattered completely. If Lee could have heard the crashing glass over the ringing in his ears, he would have winced at the racket, but there was nothing else that could be done.

He was committed.

He dropped the AK and picked up the AR. The smaller cartridge would be quieter, and the rifle was more accurate. He brought the rifle up and he pulled himself into a shooting stance, then he mustered his energy for the next part. For the physical strain of it, and the energy to make it sound legitimate. In the most excited and boyish voice he could manage, he screamed, “I got him! I fuckin’ got him!”

Then he sighted down the rifle, put it on the front door, and waited. His heart pounding in his chest. A trapper with his hand on the tripwire. Close to grim success. Waiting for the prey to enter the kill box.

His vision puckered along the edges.

Righted itself with a few blinks.

Hold it together just a bit longer, Lee.

Movement. Dark shadows. Pale faces.

Slow is smooth…smooth is fast…be accurate…conserve your ammo…

The ring of the AR’s rear sight encircled one of the faces, just covered up the top of the head. The post of the front sight bisecting the body. Breathe out. Wait for the natural respiratory pause. There it is. Slow, steady squeeze on the trigger. Hope he doesn’t move…

The crack of the rifle. A body pitching backwards, and then Lee transitioned, vision blurring slightly for some unknown reason. Couldn’t worry about it now. Just focused on the target, put that front sight post on it. On the Quiet Man. Moving right, towards the cover of a mailbox. Lead him just a bit. Maybe one body-width.

Fire.

The Quiet Man stumbled, dropping the shotgun, catching himself from hitting the pavement with one hand, barely shoving himself off, and then rolled into cover behind the blue box.

“Shit…” Lee inched closer to the window.

He could see the legs partially sticking out from behind the mailbox. They moved, but only slightly. The shotgun lay several feet away. Far out of reach. Lee considered putting another round straight through the mailbox—the little tin can probably wouldn’t stop a rifle round.

He scanned left, saw Shumate lying, curled in the fetal position at the front steps of the antique shop, his back to Lee. He didn’t move.

Dead?

Maybe. Possibly just dying.

Lee ported the rifle and moved to the stairs. He stumbled a bit, caught himself and forced himself to go a little slower than he wanted. His body was slow and unresponsive. He made his way down the stairs to the main level. To the front door. Stood there again, looking out from behind the bars that covered the doors and windows, his feet crunching mutely in a sea of glass shards, trying to listen past his own heartbeat for the sounds of infected.

Outside the shop, there was only silence. That big, empty sound of an abandoned place. All the nearby highways that would have filled the air with background noise, the white noise of trucks downshifting, the river-flow sound of cars passing, all of it silenced now. Just a hush like fresh-fallen snow.

At the antique shop door, Shumate’s body had not moved. Between it and the mailbox, Lee could still see the Quiet Man’s shotgun. Still in the same spot it had been when he’d spied it from upstairs. And then to the mailbox. The shadow of a man leaning up against it. Dead or alive, there was no way to tell. Very still, though.

He could still put that round through the mailbox, but he felt like he’d been lucky enough to manage to get both men with two shots. And maybe those two shots hadn’t been quite enough to get the infected out of their den, if they’d heard it at all. But he felt that the third one would be pushing it.

Had he not been uncomfortably close to the edge of his body failing him, and had he been alone, he might have put an extra shot in both men and hopped in the van to make his escape. But he still had to get Deuce from the roof, and he knew it would be a mistake if he drove out of this town without water and medication.

Maybe none of that made sense.

Maybe it was just delirium talking.

He pushed open the door to the sporting goods store, stepped out onto the sidewalk. He swayed. Found himself standing in the middle of the road. Looked both ways, then shook his head to clear it and continued on. He stopped at the curb and looked left, where the body of Shumate lay on its side, still facing away. Like he’d rolled over in his sleep. No rise and fall to his chest. No breath pluming in the cold air.

Just like that
, Lee thought, with a mental snap of his fingers.
You thought your buddy popped the dude you were looking for and you come running out like a moron, and then a split second later you’re a goner. Just like that.

He looked right. Saw the two eyes staring at him, dark and moist. The Quiet Man leaned up against the mailbox, his legs splayed out before him, one hand hanging loosely on the pavement like he’d made a half-hearted effort to reach for his shotgun, and the other hand was wrapped around his midsection, glistening.

Chocolate syrup
, Lee thought.
They used to use chocolate syrup for blood in old black and white movies, because in black and white, you couldn’t tell the difference.

A random fact. Something floating around his disjointed subconscious.

The Quiet Man made a movement with his head, like he was about to lurch to his feet and try to run, but then he seemed to give up and laid his head back onto the mailbox with a huff. He grumbled something, his voice strained, but Lee couldn’t make out what it was.

Lee took a few strides in the man’s direction, then stopped again, standing about five or six feet from him. The pavement underneath the mailbox was bloody, the Quiet Man sitting in a puddle of it. Lee eyed the man’s hands, saw that they held no threats, then was glad he’d even remembered to do that.

The Quiet Man looked up at him. “You gonna shoot me?”

Lee thought it was an odd question. “You gonna die?”

The Quiet Man looked down at his wound. “Well, I’m gutshot.”

The world felt surreal. Like Lee was dreaming it up. “How’s that feel?” he asked, not out of sarcasm or malice, but because he was genuinely curious. And dream conversations are always brutally honest.

The Quiet Man shut his eyes. Tears ran out of them. “Feels like…someone’s got a hot poker in my guts.”

“I’m sorry,” Lee said, absently. “You should have left me alone.”

“Yeah.” The Quiet Man opened his eyes again, looked skyward.

Lee looked up and down the street again. It was very still. If the infected had heard the gunshots, they would have been there by now. He looked back down at the man. “You want me to kill you now?”

The Quiet Man gave it thought. Shook his head. “No.”

Lee swayed. Closed his eyes, then jolted them open with the disorienting sensation that time had passed, though it had only been a second or two. He refocused. “Where’s the medication?”

The Quiet Man breathed heavily, clenched his teeth. “Shumate’s got it…in his pocket.”

“Okay.” Lee turned away. “I’ll leave you alone.”

“Wait…”

Lee forced down a fever chill that shook his whole body. He looked back.

The Quiet Man still stared into the sky, like he was counting stars. Both hands clutching his belly now. He let out a sigh, almost like a sound of relief. Like perhaps shock was finally leaking its way into his system. “It won’t take long…”

Lee was so taken aback by it that he just stood there and stared. There was something about it that beleaguered him. Broke him down in the hardest parts of his heart. The sadness of it. And part of him envied the Quiet Man, because Lee was incapable of giving up, and so had sentenced himself to a lifetime of pain. Earning the scars brought on by “fighting the good fight.”

He knelt down beside the man. “What’s your name?”

A hitched breath, then, “Aaron.”

“What did you do before all of this, Aaron?”

Aaron’s mouth twitched in a weak smile that couldn’t quite break through the pain. “I was a landscaper, if you can believe that.”

Lee tucked his cold fingers under his armpits. “Did you enjoy it?”

“Yeah…hard work…but…”

“What did you like about it?”

“The sun,” Aaron’s voice grew faint. “Working outside.”

“Well, you think about that for now.”

“Okay.”

Aaron’s breath slowed deliberately, like he was meditating.

Lee hoped it wouldn’t be long. He was cold. He hurt. He needed water. But he seemed to have already made up his mind that he wasn’t going to leave the man to die alone, wasn’t sure why he felt compelled to do it. It wasn’t guilt. More like…responsibility. Strange, because he’d never felt like that before, and even in his hazy, fever-clouded brain, he still realized that he might not be thinking clearly.

Doesn’t matter
, Lee decided.

It didn’t take long. Lee watched him fade, watched the breath go out of him with the blood. Pressure in his veins dipped down to unsustainable levels. Not pumping to his brain. Systems shutting off. Maybe he wasn’t clinically dead right then, but he was no longer conscious, and death was no longer something you could haggle over in an emergency room. Nowadays you were dead the moment the bullet hit you, though it might take minutes, or hours, or even sometimes days.

Maybe Lee was dead now. Maybe that bullet from Eddie Ramirez was the one that would eventually kill him, but it was just taking its sweet time.

He came to his feet. Wandered over to Shumate’s body. Rolled it with his foot. Shot through the chest. Probably did some damage to the heart and lungs. Probably all of seconds for him. He bent down, groaning as the ache in his bones seemed to grow. Rifled through Shumate’s pockets, found a bottle in Shumate’s jacket. A white bottle with a fish on the front.

Fish Mox, it claimed.

500 milligrams of amoxicillin.

Captain Mitchell had a thing for predatory fish. Had a favorite called an Oscar. Lee remembered talking with him about the upkeep of fish, remembered Mitchell saying he had a medicine cabinet full of medications just for his fish. Just pop a tablet in the tank, let it dissolve in the water. Not FDA-grade, by any means, but it’d do for humans in a pinch.

He rattled the bottle, heard about a half-dozen tablets ringing around inside. Hoped Shumate hadn’t replaced them with rat poison, just to fuck with him, but wasn’t sure if it really mattered at this point in time. Wasn’t sure if he could even reverse the infection.

He looked at the weapons lying on the ground, but knew that he could barely carry himself and his rifle, let alone any more firearms or ammunition. He pointed himself in the direction of the van and began putting one step in front of the other. He realized about halfway there that this was more than just the fever getting to him. It was the crash that came after combat. When your body shut down after all those little stress toxins had been purged from your body. When your body simply threw its hands up and said, “I’m done.”

He’d seen guys fall asleep standing up. Fall asleep in the middle of a firefight. Bricks and mortar became soft pillows. Cement floors became feather beds. Like a junkie crashing. It felt like you could sleep for days.

Put a pill in your mouth
, Lee ordered himself.
Get some water from the van—God I hope there’s water. Don’t close your eyes. Don’t stop moving for a second. Go get Deuce. Gotta remember to get Deuce.

He fumbled with the bottle of Fish Mox. Managed to defeat the child-proof lid. Rattled a tablet out. A big, round, white pill. Popped it in his mouth. It tasted bitter on the back of his tongue. Powdery. He couldn’t feel it dissolving very much on his tongue, then figured there probably wasn’t much saliva to dissolve it in. His mouth was dry and gummy.

He reached the van, leaned into the back.

Lot of blood. Some bullet holes. Either Kev or Shelley had been ripped apart in the back. There were pieces of them on the concrete behind the van, like little bits and pieces of two broken toys scattered about and intermingled.

Lee laughed.

He rummaged around in the darkness, finding objects and squeezing them to see what they were. A can here. A box there. Something fleshy over there. Finally, he felt a plastic bottle. Picked it up, felt the weight of it like picking up a gold bar. Relief, and a desperate want that overpowered his fatigue for a moment.

He pulled himself out of the van and looked at his prize by starlight. An unopened bottle of water. Factory fresh. He twisted off the lid, hands trembling. Put the bottle to his lips and drank, got enough of a swallow to take the pill still sitting on his tongue, but then his dry throat seized on him and he coughed and spluttered.

He bent over slightly, felt the cold water running down his tongue, over his lips, dripping off onto the pavement. It was one of the most wonderful things he’d experienced in his life. The relief of drinking that water. The quenching of that desperation. He lifted the bottle again, drank with more self-control this time and managed to get two gulps in.

Good enough for now
, he thought. He would need more, but right now, he needed to get Deuce. And they needed to get somewhere safe. Somewhere out of town…

Then he thought about it. Out of town wasn’t safer. He had the whole goddamned night ahead of him, and he had no idea where he was, or in what direction to go to get back to safety, or even which direction safety was in. Besides that, he barely had the strength to carry himself and his rifle. How the fuck did he think he was going to get that damn dog down from the roof on a ladder?

Could just leave him.

“No,” he murmured to himself. “Fuck that.”

He took another small sip of water, capped it and slid it into one of his pockets. Then he lumbered clumsily into the van, searched around for another bottle and perhaps something to eat. Came up with an old candy bar, smashed and melted, but still in its wrapper, however deformed it was. Found another bottle of water. Then he leaned up through the two front seats and turned the van off and plucked the keys from the ignition. Before that, he noticed the gas gauge hovered over E.