Chapter 29: Michael
I laugh to myself. Perhaps saving the day was a bad idea. I really wasn’t expecting to die out here.
But it's okay. I guess it's worth it.
The convertible speeds away, leaving behind a trail of dust. I told Richards to cover it the best he could with the last of the 50
cal ammo. I follow it with my eyes and take out a few soldiers who turn to aim at it. One Humvee starts to follow it, but Richards takes out the driver before it can accelerate. Ryan retreats towards me. He moves slowly, dragging his left leg. He’s laying down a trail of blood.
“Now what?” he whispers. He fires behind the convertible, taking down a few soldiers who shoot at the escaping vehicle. “We can't make it much longer. Can you get this thing started?”
Once the convertible is out of our sight, I look into the bus as Richards runs behind the wheel and tries to turn the engine. Ryan concentrates on the soldiers in the toy store. He shakes his head. “Michael, it still won't start.”
I step back and breathe heavily; gunshots continue to ricochet off the bus and the wall behind us. Holes are appearing in the thick steel. It's never been through this much before. This may be its last journey.
It's probably my last journey.
Another uniformed soldier runs around the side of the bus. I quickly drop him with a three round burst. How many of them are there out there? It seems that for every one I shoot trying to
come around the side, another two appear a few moments later. We are caught between the tiny triangle of safety between the bus and the barricade, and without the others, it's going to be gone soon. I need to get back to the front of the bus to check the engine.
“Ryan, cover me as best you can,” I yell. He looks at me and nods while raising his weapon to his shoulder. Bursts of gunfire boom from his rifle. I step back to the front of the bus. I grapple a few pieces of steel and lift up. Sparks from bullets break out from all around me. The thick metal swings up, exposing the engine block. Thick steam quickly escapes into the air. The last thing I did didn't fix it. Perhaps my next efforts will.
“Damn it, turn.” Richards yells at the wheel while turning the ignition and bringing down his foot. I study the engine as it struggle to come to life. What am I missing? I've tinkered with a half a dozen things in the past ten minutes-
There.
The intake hose is loose and the air is leaking out. The impact into the store must have knocked it free from its connector.
How the hell
did I miss that before? I reach in and clamp it down. Please be all that is wrong.
Finally, the engine roars to life. I pull down the cover and follow Ryan as he limps into the bus. My body flinches as a few more shots pepper the grill in front of me. After shutting the door to the bus, I take over the driver's seat, and Richards runs to the back gun. Throwing the clutch into reverse, I press down on the gas. The bus begins to exit the store. Come on. We can do this.
SLAM. I fall forward, nearly hitting my face into the steering wheel.
The bus stops moving. I press down harder and harder on the gas pedal. I smell rubber as the bus peels out, but it fails to move.
“Michael,” Ryan says approaching from the back of the bus. “There's a Humvee driving directly into us. It's trapping us in here!”
“Well, shoot the driver,” I say back, admittedly annoyed.
“I did,” Ryan says. We hold a stare for a moment. “He must have collapsed on the gas pedal.”
I slam on the emergency brake and run to the back of the bus. Richards has left the 50
cal and now fires with his assault rifle out of the grates. The large gun must be out of ammo. That was the only thing keeping them back. If we can't move this Humvee, the bus will become our casket. I look through the small opening. A Humvee pushes into the rear of the bus, smoke rising from its own tires still in place. With that in our way we'll never make it.
“We have to move it,” I state, retreating from the porthole. The three of us exchange nervous glances.
How the hell are we going to do that? We are completely surrounded. Without getting up to speed, the bus won't be able to shove it out of the way.
“I'll take care of it,” Ryan answers, briefly raising his hand. He turns to me, puts his arm on my shoulder, and squeezes lightly with a slight nod.
“You'll never...” I begin. It's suicide.
“I know,” he answers, with a slight grin. “Get out of here. Get this bus in reverse. I have to do this last mission myself.”
“Richards,” I say, “take the wheel.” He rushes to the front.
Ryan grabs the back latch in front of the large gun, and nods to me. I scan the ground. I raise my rifle to give him cover. It's my last few bullets. Ryan opens the hatch, and daylight pours into the bus. Bullets deflect off the Humvee as Ryan steps directly onto the hood of the Humvee, firing his blindly pistol out into the street. I grab the latch and close it behind him. He limps as fast as his good leg will carry him.
BANG.
Ryan's body flings forward, and he lands on the hood face down. No. He doesn't move. A stream of blood runs over the hood.
He's dead. And the Humvee continues to press into the bus. I hear the bus's engine roar, but it doesn't have enough horsepower. What are we-?
Ryan's arm stretches out and grabs onto the frame of the shattered window.
He's alive.
Ryan pulls himself through the broken glass and into the passenger seat. He looks up to me, and then to the wheel. His hand grabs the clutch and slams it into neutral. The bus pushes it backwards slowly and gathers speed. Ryan reaches to the wheel and pulls it down hard, and the Humvee rolls to the side as the bus completely exits the toy store. Ryan escapes my vision as he sits in the passenger side. Maybe we can get to him. I quickly move along the bus, and try to see him. Between a tiny slit in the welded steel, I see through the
windshield. Ryan's head now tilts down, his eyes wide.
And
blood now covers the right side of his face.
Thank you, Ryan.
The bus continues to push through the New American line. The more speed it gathers, the harder it will be for them to stop it. I crouch down and look through the small opening. Richards is a hell of a driver; he should be able to back us out of this mess. A few bullets ricochet around the crack, and I pull my head back. Forcefully, I hold my head down by the hole as the bus guides through the crowd. I fire a few shots out of the side. It looks like a war-zone out there.
I'm down to my last clip, but it looks like we may just make it out of here alive.
Chapter 30: Paige
Carter ‘s scream fills the movie theater as Nichols sets him down gently onto the maroon carpeting in front of the moth eaten white screen. Blood trickles from the wound. Getting out of the city
was easy compared to this.
I quickly kneel beside Carter and probe the wound. With all the movement and chaos, I haven't had the chance to mend it properly. This wound is the kind that I used to run and get him to fix. I am alone. His pale face winces as I examine the gaping hole in his gut. The bullet went straight through.
And although the blood loss has been massive, if I get this stitched up he should be okay.
“Carter,” I say. He stares blankly up at the ceiling while his chest quickly heaves and releases. “Carter, you're gonna be alright.”
He turns to me, his pale face nodding slightly.
Nichols runs up with a steel box clutched in his hand.
“I found this in the manager's box,” he says, setting it beside me. Jo kneels down with me, opening the case. I glance to it. There's gauze, Band-Aids, and a lot of other junk. It'll have to do.
I move my fingers over the box. My hand shakes uncontrollably. Jo grabs it with her own hand.
“You've got this,” she says, managing a smile. I nod, and my hand steadies. Nichols stands above us and shines the flashlight down directly onto us. Not too long ago, Carter was where I am, and I was where he is.
I can do this.
I reach into the container and begin.
* * *
Carter still lies across the floor beneath the screen. He's unconscious. The bleeding has completely stopped, and he has regained color in the past hour. It's going to be okay. Nichols and Jo sit on the seats. I continue to sit next to Carter with my back against the padded wall beneath the screen. Nichols gazes blindly up at the white screen.
“You okay, Nichols?” I ask. He looks down to me and nods.
“Things. They got ugly back there,” he says. Jo reaches over and places a hand on his knee. “I barely knew them, and I can't believe they're all dead.”
I feel his pain, but after all this time, I guess we've gotten used to losing people. We've lost so many, but now all I feel is numb. You can't mourn when you aren't safe. Nichols has been by himself
so long, the loss is understandably harder. Perhaps he's a little more human than the rest of us. His gaze returns to the screen.
Jo looks at him. She lifts the armrest between the seats and leans in close to him. She wraps her arm around him and squeezes gently. Nichols breaks his gaze and smiles slightly at her.
“You think they made it out?” I ask. Nichols looks back to me.
“I've been praying,” he says. “Although I'm not sure there is any point to it.”
He's probably right. Things were bad when we left. Although after we were a few blocks away, the danger completely passed. Perhaps the New Americans realized that we weren't worth the chase anymore. We gave them hell back there.
I gave them hell, too. I didn't just sit there.
After reaching a safe distance, this old movie theater was the first thing we came across to take care of Carter safely.
I glance up to the screen, wondering what movie was the last one to
be shown on it. I want to be able to see a movie again, and perhaps we aren't far from being able to. That's a hope I'll cling to. The little hopes of tomorrow make today's pain endurable.
Carter quickly sits up. He lets out a moan, and grabs his side.
“It's okay. I'm here.” I say, quickly leaning forward and supporting him at his back. He nods. His words are labored as I lift a bottle of water to his lips. He drinks.
“I feel woozy, but I'm alright,” he struggles
out. I hold his head close and move my fingers through his hair. It's great to hear his voice. He clutches my body in return. He looks down to his side. “Good work.”
I merely smile and kiss his forehead.
“I hate to say this,” Nichols begins, “But we need to get to that border soon, or there won't be anyone left to save in this whole country. They're probably all pretty much dead anyway from the virus.”
“Have some faith,” Jo says, taking his hand. He looks straight down with a shaking head.
I agreed with Nichols; our efforts feel fruitless anyway. The plague must be nearly all over. By the time they try to synthesize it on the other side of the border, it'll be too late. Who knows if there will even be anything on the other side of the border.
Still, we have to try.
“Yea...” Carter manages while completely sitting forward. “We have to get it there.”
I place his arm around my shoulder and help him to his feet. Jo comes over and grabs the other arm. Nichols grabs what little we brought with us.
We return to the car parked outside. Carter lies in the backseat with his head in my lap. Jo takes the steering wheel and Nichols sits beside her. Both his pistols sit at the ready on his lap
Despite the cold air hitting my face through the holes in the windshield, my eyes feel heavy. Somehow, I doze off every few moments... I just feel so tired....
My body flies forward and then back into the seat. I glance out the front windshield. A giant fence and tower stand on top of the road. Thick snow covers everything. In the distance is Niagara Falls.
This is it.
“We're here,” Nichols says. I must have fallen asleep longer than I thought I did. I guess we didn't come across any other trouble. We get out of the car slowly and trudge onto the thick snow. Nichols helps me with Carter. Jo walks beside us, cautiously holding the syringe in her hand. We move slowly towards the fence. Several guards notice us and run out.
“Stop.
You are not permitted to cross the border,” a voice shouts over the intercom. It shouts again in another language. Spanish perhaps.
Two gunshots fire.
Dust puffs up into the air as the bullets bury into the ground in front of us.
“I’m warning you, don’t set another foot forward,” the voice screams again.
“We have the cure. There is nothing to be afraid of,” Jo yells. Holding the syringe in one hand and waving her arms back and forth.
The guards keep their guns up. I can barely make out his a command over their radio: “Captain, please report to the front gate.”
“We have the damn cure!” I scream again. The guard’s head moves around hesitantly. He nods. He receives some sort of response.
“You can’t take another step forward, but leave the syringe.”
“Hell no. Do you know what we’ve been through to get here?” Jo replies.
“Leave the syringe,” the voice demands.
“Why in the hell can’t we come cross this line? You gonna shoot me for crossing a line?” Nichols yells, releasing Carter and walking forward.
There is an explosion, and Nichols falls backwards. Jo screams while a look of horror covers my face as Nichols’s back collides with the ground. He doesn't move. Carter struggles to his own feet, but he nearly stumbles until I can support his weight again. Jo goes to Nichols’s side and collapses on her knees.
“No... No...” she begins to repeat.
She rips open the shirt beneath his jacket. A squashed piece of metal rests in the middle of his vest. Nichols sits up and coughs. Jo looks relieved, and I finally breathe out. I reposition Carter on my shoulder.
“Please. Back up,” the guard yells, nearly sounding relieved. He doesn't want to kill anyone.
This time we listen to his command.
“We don’t want to hurt anyone else. All of you get down on your knees and cross your fingers on the back of your head. Someone will be out there shortly”
We again listen and assume the position. Nichols groans while clutching his chest, but rises to his knees.
Several armed men dressed in all black with gas masks and guns appear at the fence and go through the gate.
They advance toward us.