One Blink From Oblivion (31 page)

***

Max and his new companion trudge across lawns, through flower gardens, over bushes and around trees in pursuit of their quarry. Max hopes that it is Johnny Buckets intention to keep Brooke as live bait until he has obtained recompense for the damage done to his ego on the bridge. He has already decided that if he must give his life to end the life of the freeway-man that he will do so willingly and without hesitation. This of course is far from his preferred course of action since he still has every intention of making it home to Big Mama.

The sound of rapidly approaching footsteps from the alley behind the row of houses causes both Max and the dog to freeze in their tracks. Moments after they stop, the sound of the advancing footfalls goes silent as well. Max takes a step to his left and is swallowed by a welcoming eclipse from a low hanging eave. The Shepherd instinctively clings to his side and stands perfectly still. Not so much as a pant escapes his mouth. Max is beginning to truly appreciate the animal and wonders what he ever had against dogs in the first place.

Max scans the street and yards in both directions but finds nothing out of place. In fact, their surroundings are eerily deserted. A dim glow from the moon is the only illumination as far as the eye can see. A hush echoes in every corner and reaches as high as the sky. Had he imagined the sound? He stands motionless a few moments longer but is anxious to get back on Brooke’s trail before she is out of his reach for good. He steps toward moonlight and no sooner than his boot breaks the plain of darkness, the German Shepherd erupts into a tirade of ferocious growls and fierce barking. Max stumbles back against the house and fumbles for his pistol. As he frees it from his waistband, he frantically checks his surroundings for signs of danger. The streets are still clear but the animal persists. Max gives the dog a quick look to try and gain some understanding. The Shepherd is looking up. Up at the roof to be exact. Max tilts his head back and finds himself face to face with two yellow-orbed beasts who stare back at him with hungry eyes.

***

The freeway-man once again drags Brooke along in his wake. He figures that this method of travel apparently is leaving a trail obvious enough for an idiot dog to follow so why switch up. Besides, he also gets the added enjoyment of yanking this feisty little bitch while she kicks and squirms. Unfortunately, he had to muzzle her with a torn swath of her t-shirt since she refused to keep her mouth shut. If and when he turns her, he will have to give serious consideration to removing her tongue in order to permanently quell this concern.

The freeway-man pauses as a gentle headwind brings with it the scent of a lower infected. The beast still carries the lingering sweet smell of human flesh beneath the newer pungency of evolution. It most likely is still in search of its first meal. A meal it plans to make of his captor no doubt.

The frail wisp of a thing finally materializes out of the mist and for good measure bares its teeth in a gesture of challenge. From the tattered scrubs it wears and the tag on its wrist the freeway-man deduces that the horde of infected once trapped in the mall must have found their way out. A glorious thing for his kind –as long as they keep the hell away from what’s his.

The imp may be small but what it lacks in size it more than makes up for in quickness and in a flash it is upon Brooke and diving headfirst into her neck. With the strength of a bear’s paw, the freeway-man stops the overly eager wraith dead in its tracks. Without ever relinquishing his grip on the struggling girl, he seizes this unwise fledgling by the throat, draws it to his mouth and rips through its jugular with his teeth. He drinks his kin, whom still possesses just enough human flavor to make it worth his while. Refreshed, he discards the drained shell and continues onward at a slightly faster pace to make up for the few lost moments.

***

For Max, the night’s events are beginning to take their toll and for the first time since he was a child huddled in the corner while his mother was being beaten, he can feel his hands tremble. ‘No time for a breakdown’ is his only thought before raising his weapon and unloading it at pointblank range into the head of the more menacing of the two. After he has fired his last round and the weapon’s slide is locked open -indicating an empty magazine- Max becomes aware of a harsh, half-crazed bellowing nearly as loud as the gunshots. The sound begins to trail off and he realizes it’s coming from him. His eyes are wide and wild and though the pistol is empty, his finger still yanks the impotent trigger. Whether it is the sight of its hunting partner’s brain tissue on the wrong side of its skull or the sound of Max’s mad caterwauling that drives away the second of his attackers Max is unsure. He regains control of his errant finger and lowers the empty weapon. He de-cocks it and returns it to his waistband.

Max looks down and finds that the dog still stands dutifully by his side. The Shepherd looks back at him without an ounce of judgment in its stare. Max places an unsteady hand on the dog’s head and moments later is beginning to feel like his self again. The limp dripping carcass slumps over the rain gutter with its dead yellow eyes looking at Max accusingly. The eyes are nearly all that remain of what was once its face. The overkill was a mistake that may end up costing him the lives of the two women dearest to him and he wishes he could take the bullets back. That of course is not an option, so from here out he must work smarter not harder, if they are going to survive. With the option of being loud now gone and the option of being quick not feasible since they are tracking Brooke, Max determines that it is time to revert back to being invisible. He and the dog pickup the trail but this time they stalk from the shadows.     

After what seems like an eternity of creeping and avoidance Max and his companion pause outside of an old office building. The structure rises eight stories up from the ground in concentric squares with each level fractionally smaller than the last. Against the pale blue night sky, the design presents the illusion that it could all very neatly accordion back down into itself and be hauled away. The mason walls are all earth tones and inset with foggy old glass windows. It looks as though it’s been empty for some time. Max doesn’t recall noticing or at least paying any attention to it before. Though the immediate area around the building seems quiet enough, Max can still hear the battle cries of the infected -as well as the desperate bawls of those they torment- in the distance.

According to the dog, the trail stops here. This dusty, outdated, dark, mildew stained building is the place that Johnny Buckets has chosen for their final showdown. A flimsy looking chain that once barred the front door, looks to have been pulled apart by some very powerful hands. Max pushes on the door and it swings inward freely. He removes the flashlight from his pocket for a moment before returning it. Max figures it best not to be seen as he searches the offices inside. In addition, the bright beam would hinder his night vision and possibly put him at risk.

Max turns to his companion, “Sorry man, this is where you get off. I appreciate you getting me this far but I’ll take it from here.”

Max justifies this move by telling himself that one bark from the dog could get them both killed. In reality, he just doesn’t want to see the animal get hurt.

He tells the dog to sit, opens the door and closes it behind himself. Assuming the dog will follow him just as it did before Max blocks the door with a nearby sandbag apparently used to keep water from leaking through the bottom of the doorframe during a rare southern California rain shower. He takes one final look at the animal that he once treated as just another obstacle but now considers a friend. He nods in the dog’s direction, who in turn answers with a set of perked ears and a low moan that’s audible even through the closed door. Max turns and disappears into a catacomb of blackness.

***

The freeway-man readies himself for his opponent’s arrival. Ignoring the admonitions his mother so often gave, he would play with his food prior to consuming it. He doesn’t know when he will again have such an opportunity for a delicacy such as this. It is of pinnacle importance that his quarry’s adrenaline saturates his bloodstream to the fullest before he partakes in its glory. He knows that this one won’t scare easily so he will have to mix in a bit of combat to do the job right. He will allow him enough hope to keep him fighting until he is ripe enough for the kill. The freeway-man has discovered this night that the apathy of hopelessness gives the blood a rather bland flavor that doesn’t quite agree with his distinguished pallet.

***

Max moves silently and deliberately through the abandoned office building. He really has no choice but to search in this manner due to the near total darkness with which he must contend. Every pitch-black alcove or crumpled tarp on the floor is a potential harbinger of death and his usual cool demeanor is beginning to rip at the seam. He already lost it once tonight and he can’t afford a repeat right now. He feels his way along hallways pausing at each office door long enough to study its recesses before moving on to the next. Given the lack of light, the process is arduous and he struggles against the temptation to turn on his flashlight and move quickly. He silently reminds himself, ‘Be invisible. If you can’t be invisible then be quick, if you can’t be quick then be loud.’ For now, he must remain invisible. Since he can’t out-quick or out-bark the infected Johnny Buckets, invisibility is the only chance he has of surviving long enough to save Brooke. 

Most of the offices are devoid of any real furnishings. A few are still sparsely populated with broken down desks or the odd office chair that over time has been slowly reduced to nothing more than a decorative pile of scrap. Still, even through the darkness it is evident that in its day this complex was a swanky establishment that catered to the well to-do. Every office is of equal size and shape. Each possesses its own window of about eight feet square in size made of a single pain of glass. The building apparently predated the use of Plexiglas because zigzag lines of various sizes fractured several of the glass panes into smaller abstract designs. So far, the first floor has been all private offices, with the only exception being the receptionist area and small bathroom in the lobby where Max had entered. This, unfortunately makes the task of searching for Brooke that much harder. The bottom floor is just one big horseshoe shaped hallway intersected by a series of office doors recessed in their own private alcoves trimmed in decorative oak. Each door Max approaches presents another opportunity for death to strike. For Max the feeling is akin to high diving off of a cliff into stormy waters over and over again.

Max checks the final office on the ground level and turns to the stairwell in the back of the main lobby. Matching elevators flank the stairwell and the three together mimic two squared eyes and a gaping rectangular mouth that beckons him inward and upward toward whatever fate awaits. He plants his foot on the first tile-adorned step and wills himself up into the dark expanses of the second level. He takes the steps two at a time in order to lessen the chance of an inopportune creak from a loose board.

Upon reaching the top of the stairs, Max hears a brief growl followed by a fleshy thump and dragging sound from below and behind him. He freezes in place, caught between the unknown before him and menacing sounds behind. He does a quick mental calculation and review of his search pattern on the first floor. Did he miss something? No, he’s sure he was thorough. That means that the sounds he heard were probably of someone making their way past –or through- the dog and forcing the door with the sandbag open. A multi-legged chill skitters down his spine from nape to waist as he considers the idea that rather than walking into an ambush, he had willingly stepped into a cage and the door has just been shut behind him.

While still frozen in indecision, Max hears a creak from the floorboards overhead. With no more time for consternation, he convinces himself that the previous sound he heard was not the trap springing shut but instead the dog forcing its way in behind him. Without further delay, Max commences his reconnaissance of the second floor.

Max’s search of the second floor goes without incident, and since the floor plan closely mimics that of the first floor -with the exception of no lobby and slightly less overall square-footage- Max moves with greater familiarity and confidence throughout. He finishes this floor in a fraction of the time the first floor required. With gaining momentum, he sweeps the next four floors. Since each floor is concentrically smaller than the last, each successive level takes less time to search than the previous one. The completion of each floor brings with it a further sinking of his heart, as well as his hopes. Perhaps the dog had been wrong about this place. Could he have been following the trail of a particular stray cat that might have peaked his canine interest the entire time? Is it possible that Brooke is clear on the other side of town, with the life dripping from her neck, or worse, yellow-eyed and frothing at the mouth like a rabid animal? Max agrees with the devil’s advocate inside himself, that anything is possible, but his gut tells him he’s in the right place, and that the devil himself is waiting just around the next corner.

   As if on cue, Max hears another creek in the floorboards above his head. Whomever or whatever is the cause of the old wooden planks to moan in their inanimate agony had to have some weight to it. Even at his size and moving quickly, he had not buckled a beam on any floor yet. Johnny Buckets however, was definitely heavier than he.

Max fights the temptation to run up the stairs that stretched out in front of him at top speed and lay into the monster with everything he has. But, after witnessing the aftermath of what Johnny Buckets is capable of back in the mall, he knows he is no match for him in a straight-up fight. He needs a plan of attack.

“Max run!”

The voice echoes through the emptiness of the dead space surrounding Max, though its fragile vibrato is filled with uncharacteristic terror and pleading it’s unmistakably Brooke’s. He does exactly as she asks, but not in the direction she intended. Max bolts directly up the stairs despite her admonishment for him to flee. With the moon beginning to set on the horizon there is no twilight to welcome him. He is engulfed by the emptiness. 

***

Max reaches the seventh floor landing and begins a frantic search of the surrounding offices. With the element of surprise no longer attainable, Max sees no reason to spare speed for sound or light for concealment. The flashlight now blazes brightly from his left hand; the empty gun is in his right. Though the weapon is powerless, he hopes that it may serve as a means to bluff his way through Brooke’s rescue. If not, he could always throw it at him.

The third oak-lined office door that Max encounters is the first one that he has found to be closed tightly in the entire building. ‘This is the one. Please Lord, give me the strength.’ Max Makes this silent prayer with his eyes closed, and is aware that this isn’t the first time he has asked God for the strength to take the life of another. He wonders for a moment what hell is like this time of year and fully expects to be welcomed there with open arms in just a few minutes.

Max tries the doorknob with no success. Although the knob would be easy enough to pick on any other day, he has neither the time nor resources to do so here and now. He takes two steps back and kicks the oak door with everything he has. It groans from his blow but does not give. Another kick, closer to the knob this time, seems to produce better results. This time the sound of splintering wood accompanies the door’s groan. The fact that Brooke has not made another sound since her initial cry has not escaped Max. He flings himself against the door with all the pent up rage of a rodeo bull. The doorjamb splits and gives a sneak peek into the space it protects. Unfortunately, more darkness lies beyond its threshold. Max rears back and delivers a final kick. At last, the door flies inward to reveal an empty room, with the exception of a single female form crumpled in the far corner.

Max trains his light on the figure and sees that Brooke lies face down in a heap…motionless…silent. He starts toward her but is halted by a cold wet drip across his forehead. By reflex his left hand wipes the fluid from his head and while doing so the light in his hand glints off of something above him. Max tilts his head back in time to see the grotesquely malformed face of who could only be the freeway-man, dropping on him like a giant voracious spider descending on an unsuspecting fly. The mad man’s facial features –once pleasant enough- have become harsh and angular. Where subtly sloped cheeks once resided, now live protruding bone and bulging muscle not even approached in the worst cases of steroid abuse. His eyes subsequently appear sunken and dark beneath an overly furrowed brow.

Under the weight of his attacker, Max’s body accordions to the floor. His gun and flashlight skid across the floor and his hopes for a bluff along with them. Max now lies flat on his stomach with the freeway-man straddling his back. The dropped flashlight has settled against the far wall, with its beam cascading back across the room and casting the shadow of the beast on his back like a ghostly oil slick on the opposite wall.

“How’s your ground-game boy?” the freeway-man’s voice is hot and stale with the smell of old blood against the side of Max’s face.

Seizing the opening the freeway-man has left him Max grabs both sides of the monster’s head over his left shoulder and pulls him forward while forcing himself to slide back between his legs and out from underneath him –a move he himself created. Max is up and on the freeway-man’s back before the villain has fully grasped what just happened. Max slips his left arm under Johnny Buckets’ chin and locks his right arm into position. He uses his legs to stretch the freeway man out flat before rolling onto his own back. Max squeezes with every ounce of strength his arms can muster. Forget putting this thing to sleep. He has every intention of breaking its neck.

The beast’s neck is thick and unbelievably powerful. Despite the fact that Max –who has been known to bench-press nearly four hundred pounds-, has a grip around his neck strong enough to asphyxiate a small horse, he can hear Johnny Buckets laughing the laugh of a demented circus clown. He’s laughing so hard that Max can feel the gyrations of his chest as each cackle escapes his blood-encrusted lips. Ignoring Max’s leg-lock on his lower abdomen, Johnny Buckets -with one mighty stomach crunch- rolls his body backward and up toward his head. He continues to do so until he has broken Max’s grip and is on his knees looking Max in his face.

Max stares into the upside-down yellow eyes of the creature that will soon end his life and hears its gravely non-organic voice say to him, “Are you taking notes boy? Today’s lesson will not be free. In fact, it’s gonna’ cost you your life.” Another crazed laugh punctuates his statement.

To Max’s surprise Johnny Buckets stands and allows him to do the same. Max takes this opportunity to steal a glance at Brooke as she lies face down in the corner. The freeway-man notices and laughs once more.

“I used her all up boy. I always did like to play a bit ruff, but I think I may have broken this one. If you don’t mind them cold, then you’re welcome to some sloppy seconds.”