Salvation: Secret Apocalypse Book 5 (A Secret Apocalypse Story) (3 page)

It takes exactly three seconds for the infected to reach the door and slam into
it with all of the weight and force of a freight train. I count the seconds in
my head and I see the seconds fall away on my death watch.

One, one
thousand.

Two, one
thousand.

Three.

Bang.

The door is
rocked and the whole thing shudders and buckles. But it holds. The man was
right. The dead lock will buy us some time.

At the moment
the man is crouched behind the desk. He is rummaging and scavenging and looking
through the draws. The desk is covered in paper and files.

Architectural
blue prints.

A layout.

A map.

He reaches into
the draws of the desk and retrieves a small box. He has the box in his hands.
The box makes a rattling noise.

It is
ammunition.

9mm bullets.

The bullets are
for a handgun. Most probably a military standard issue Berretta. Or a police
standard issue Glock. All these facts and figures run through my mind because
Kenji has burned these facts and figures into my mind. In the weeks and months
of walking through the Australian bush, and then the desert, we spent ninety
percent of the day scavenging for food and water and ammo.

And in the time
when we weren’t scavenging, Kenji taught me the basics. For example, most military
handguns, like the Beretta, use small 9mm bullets. 9mm refers to the diameter
of the bullet. Not the length. Larger rifles use larger bullets. The most
common size being 7.62mm. This sounds like a smaller bullet, since it has a
smaller diameter. But it’s not. It is longer and heavier and contains more gun
powder.

Kenji taught me
how to load a magazine. He taught me how to load each bullet individually. It’s
not like in the movies where The Hero unloads with a never ending magazine of
ammo. A hundred rounds. A thousand rounds. It doesn’t really matter. As long as
The Hero saves the day and gets the girl. And then when he re-loads, he throws
away the magazine. Never pays it a second thought. But you need those
magazines. You really, really, really need them.

Kenji even
taught me how to cut the head of certain bullets with a knife in a way that
would make the bullet break apart, and balloon open on impact. You can only do
this with bullets that are non-full metal jacket. This technique allows the
bullet to create massive internal damage. And this proved to be most useful
when killing infected people. When you need to kill a monster by delivering a
death blow to the head. Where you need to destroy the brain. Shred it to
pieces.

I wish Kenji was
here right now.

But he’s not.
And I need to focus.

The man’s hands
are shaking and he drops the box on the desk, bullets spill everywhere. He
bends down and picks them up.

“Who are you?” I
whisper.

“Who am I?” he
answers. “Who the hell are you?”

Rebecca. I say
in my head. Rebecca Robinson.

From Brooklyn,
New York.

From Sydney,
Australia.

Survivor of the
Sydney Harbor Massacre.

Survivor of the
Oz virus.

The Australian Apocalypse.

The Secret
Apocalypse.

The only person
who had escaped from Australia. Made it all the way to LA, the city of angels.

A fool who chose
to come back.

I say this in my
head.

“Introductions can come later,” the man says.

He has a name tag. It reads: ‘George Walters. Prison Administrator’.

“George,” I say.

And he looks at me like he doesn’t know how I know his name. But then he
grabs his name tag, clutches it, like it means something, like it’s a part of
who he is, like it’s his actual identity and he figures it out.

George Walters.
Prison Administrator.

The name tag has
a little passport sized ID photo. Below this is a barcode.

“Yeah,” he answers.

He places the box of ammunition on the table and there is a thump at the
door. A loud, forceful thump. George jumps and flinches at the noise.

“Where is everyone?” I ask. “Where are the prison guards?”

“They’re dead. They’re all dead. I’m the last one.”

I just knew he was going to say that.

“What’s your name?” he says.

“Rebecca.”

“Rebecca, we need to barricade the door. The deadlock will buy us some
time but we need to reinforce it.”

“I couldn’t agree more.”

The infected are banging on the door. It won’t take long. We need to
move fast. George pushes the bookshelf over to the door. And I stay pressed up
against the frame for as long as I can. Together we slide the bookshelf against
it and reinforce the barricade with the desk.

We do this as quickly as we can.

The infected continue to smash into the door.

Boom.

Bang.

The door holds.

The barricade holds.

We have bought ourselves some time.

We have bought ourselves some breathing room.

And this is the first thing I do. I breathe.

In and out.

Just breathe.

George says something. But I don’t hear him. The sedative that the man
in the gas mask pumped me full of is still flowing through my body, my veins,
my arteries,
my
blood stream. Every single one of my
muscles feels weak and lethargic and heavy.

“So, who the hell are you?” George repeats. “What are you doing here?”

Another bang on the door. Another thump. It sounds like the infected
have begun using their heads as battering rams. The wooden door begins to
splinter. They know we are here and they won’t stop.

They are relentless.

“We have to get out of here,” I whisper.

I’m whispering because I’m under the impression that we need to be
quiet, even though the need to be quiet has long passed us.

I look around the room.

It’s a concrete box

There is only one door.

One entry.

One exit.

It’s a concrete box. It’s a prison. Within a prison.

And we’re trapped.

I’m still trying to figure out why I haven’t given up yet.

Why don’t I just quit?

I could let go. Right here.

I could die here.

I could let the sedative take over. I could rest my eyes.

I don’t know why I haven’t given up.

Is it a survival instinct? Is it self-preservation?

Maybe I am still in denial about this whole messed up situation. I look
at my watch. Maybe I am still in denial about how I’m going to die in exactly
fifty-three hours and fifty-two minutes.

The man climbs on top of the desk and he reaches up to the long life
fluorescent lights. They are so bright they hurt my eyes and I am momentarily
blinded.

The lights are built into the ceiling panels.

Ceiling panels.

The ceiling is not made of concrete. Not in this room.

One of the ceiling panels has been slid out of place.

“Turn the lights off,” George says. “I don’t want to get electrocuted.”

The light switch is right next to the door and I hesitate.

I can see the door moving with each thump and head butt. Each blow
nearly knocks the door completely out of its frame and nearly knocks the book
shelf over. The wood continues to break and splinter.

“Come on!” George says. “We don’t have long.”

I switch the lights out and the room turns black. I am completely blind
and the darkness amplifies the noise of the infected. Their moaning howls.
Their screams. Their assault on the door. It sounds like they are about to
break through. They sound like they are about to destroy the door.

George, the prison administrator, turns on a small pen light. He places
the pen in his mouth, between his teeth. He slides the loose ceiling panel
further out of the way and pops another one out to reveal an air-conditioning
vent.

The grate of the vent has already been unscrewed. The ventilation shaft
is our escape route.

George shines the torch at me. “Come on. Let’s go.”

“Where does that lead?”

“It’s the air-conditioning vents. We can climb through it to get to my
office. Come on.”

I climb up onto the desk as George climbs up into the vent.

“Give me those bullets,” he says.

I reach down and give him the small box of ammo. It feels
disappointingly light.

“And those blueprints,” he says as he shines the torch on to the table.

I see a couple of rolls of long paper. I hand those up to him as well.

George then offers me his hand and I climb up into the ceiling, into the
air-conditioning vent. And just as I climb up, I see the book shelf fall over,
I see the door splinter and break apart. I see the infected on the other side.
I see their bloodied heads. Their bloodied and disfigured faces. They are
literally smashing their faces and skulls into a bloody pulp just trying to get
in here.

And they don’t care. They don’t care that their faces are being
destroyed.

They don’t care at all.

I am huddled in the air-conditioning vent. I am sort of hunched over. I
don’t know which way to go. I don’t know what to do.

“Move out of the way,” George says. “Move ahead.”

“Why? What are you doing?”

“I need to replace the ceiling panel and the vent. They’ll find us
otherwise.”

I wriggle my way forward, crawling on my stomach. George places the
ceiling panel and the air vent back, covering our tracks.

“Come on,” he whispers. “This way.”

We climb and shimmy and squeeze our way through the air-conditioning vent. The
ventilation shaft itself is barely wider than my shoulders. This is no place to
be if you suffer from claustrophobia.

George leads the way. Pen light in his mouth. I follow the soles of his
shoes. They are caked with dust and blood.

“Where are we going?” I whisper.

“Not far. It’s basically one office away. But we’ll be separated from
the interrogation rooms.”

“Are you sure it’s safe?” I ask.

“The interrogation rooms and my office are separated by two sets of
security doors. So yeah, we’ll be as safe as we could be.”

This is the first good news I have heard all day.

“And besides,” George continues. “She’s waiting for me. I can’t just
leave her.”

“Who is waiting?”

“Her name is Kim,” he answers. “She’s a soldier. One of the General’s, I
think.”

Kim.
She
had somehow escaped from General Spears and his death squad. She had somehow
avoided all the infected who had infiltrated the inner-sanctum. And most
importantly, she had avoided the man in the gas mask.

“She’s hurting bad,” George continues. “I can’t leave her. It was her
idea to check for ammo. Smart kid.”

“Yeah,” I say. “She is smart. But she’s not a soldier. At least, I don’t
think she is. She’s a cop. Or was a cop. Once upon a time.”

“Huh? You know her?”

“Yeah.”

“How? Where are you from again?”

“Sydney. I was in Sydney when the Oz virus hit. When ...”

Society crumbled. When the world ended. When the
military ordered their containment protocol.

“Kim was there with us,” I say. “She was with me. We almost got out. We were
so close. But we got separated.”

“She’s been down here awhile now,” George says. “I think she was part of
some experiment. I’m not sure what they did to her. But whatever they did, they
messed her up real good. She’s not doing so great.”

I think back to the last time I saw her. She visited Maria and me when
General Spears was holding us captive in the shipping container. I got the
impression then that something was wrong with her. I hope she’s OK.

We continue to shimmy along. It was slow going. I was glad for the fact
that we didn’t have to go far.

“Maybe you can figure out what’s wrong with her,” George says after a while.
“She comes and goes. But she’s struggling. Is she diabetic or something? Does
she have a history of illness?”

Kim? She was a fitness freak.

“I’m not sure,” I say.

We finally arrive at another air-conditioning vent.

“This is it,” George says.

The grate has already been pushed aside, so all we have to do is climb
down.

This is harder than it sounds.

George climbs down first. He basically climbs over the man hole, and
then drops his feet and legs down into the office. He then climbs down
backwards.

I hand him the ammo box and the blue prints and then I climb down,
following his lead, climbing down legs first.

Kim is there. She’s curled up in the corner of the room. She is in the
corner furthest away from the door. She’s either asleep or unconscious or
dying. She looks pale. She looks like the last time I saw her in New Zealand,
after she’d been shot, suffering from blood loss and extreme dehydration. This
is weird because when I first saw her a few days ago, when she met Maria and me
at the pier, just before we met the General, I thought she had looked fitter
and stronger than ever before. Her gunshot wound had completely healed. Her
skin was glowing.

What has happened to her in those few days? Why does she look so sick?

I try and think how long it’s been since I last saw Kim. How long had
Maria and I been locked up in that shipping container for? How long were we
held captive by General Spears?

It was almost a week. Maybe six days.

I lean over Kim and whisper her name. “Kim?”

Her eyes flicker and open. She recognizes me. “Rebecca?”

“Yeah, it’s me. Are you OK? What happened to you?”

“How did you... How did you get away? From the General? How are you
still alive?”

I shake my head. “I don’t really know.”

Kim lowers her head. It is taking her considerable effort just to talk.

“So how exactly do you two know each other?” George asks.

“It’s a long story,” I say.

“How?” Kim asks again. “I thought you were dead. I thought it was all my
fault.”

“No. I’m here. I’m fine,” I lie, trying to put on a brave face, trying
to act tough, trying to put her mind at ease. “What’s wrong with you? What did
they do to you?”

“Nothing,” she answers. “I’m good. I’m fine. I just need some water.”

George hands me a canteen. “It’s our only one.”

I suddenly realize I am thirsty as hell. And hungry. But Kim obviously
needs it more than I do. I give her the canteen but she can barely raise her
arms. So I have to feed her the water. Slowly, carefully. I do not want to
spill any. I do not want to waste any.

Kim gulps it down.

Almost all of it.

The canteen is now extremely light. I know there is not much left. I
feel rude and awful for asking but I need to. “Can I have some?”

“Might as well,” George says. “It’s not like we can stay here anyway. We
have to keep moving. We’ll probably need to get some supplies from the
cafeteria. That’s our best shot.”

I drink the rest of the water. A few mouthfuls. It is not enough. I try
and remember the last time I’d drank some water. Ate some food.

But it is hard to think.

My mind is blank.

My mind is dark.

I can’t remember.

It has been too long.

Too many dark days in that god forsaken shipping
container. Waiting to die. Waiting to be executed.

Kim gets to her feet slowly and leans against the wall for support. She
takes deep, deep breaths. Her face is sweaty. She is shivering. Her skin is
pale and covered in goose bumps.

I have no idea what is wrong with her.

George walks behind his desk and sits down at his computer. He begins
tapping away on the keyboard.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“Checking the security cameras. I need to know how many of them are out
there.”

His fingers moved over the keyboard with speed.

“Who are you again?” I ask. “What is your job here? Or what
was
your job here.”

“I’m the administrator of this prison facility.”

“Administrator? What does that mean?”

“It means I’m in charge of this prison. I’m the warden. These rooms here
are just the offices and interrogation rooms and holding cells.”

This was another piece of good news. At least George would know his way
around this place.

Kim doubles over and starts coughing. She coughs hard like she is
choking. She tenses up like she is having some sort of spasm or convulsion. She
drops to her knees and crawls over to the waste paper basket next to George’s
desk and throws up.

She doesn’t get all of it in the basket. Her vomit is pitch black. Like
oil.

“What the hell did they do to you?” I ask again.

I suddenly remember back to what Doctor Hunter had told us.

We saved her. We cured her.

“Nothing,” she says. “I’m fine.”

“It’s not nothing,” I say. “Doctor Hunter told us. He told us what they
did to you. He said they saved you. Rid your body of cancer. Injected the
nano-virus directly into the tumors.”

Kim is silent. I don’t know why she doesn’t want to tell me.

“Is it true?” I ask. “Did you have skin cancer?”

She continues coughing. Hard coughing. The veins in her neck are
bulging. Her face turns red. She is struggling.

“Where is Maria?” she asks between coughing fits.

I lower my head. “I don’t know. We were separated. The man in the gas
mask took her.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

At this point George completely stops typing. “What did you just say?”

I take a deep breath. I know I must sound crazy. I know I must sound
like a stupid teenager telling a stupid ghost story. But they need to hear it.
“There is a psychopath down here,” I say. “He is stalking these hallways. He is
wearing a gas mask. The gas mask is stitched into his goddamn scalp. And he’s
taken Maria. And he’s going to kill her.”

Kim sits down against the wall. “He’s taken Maria?”

I nod my head and a feeling of shame wraps itself around my body. I lost
Maria. I let her go. It’s all my fault.

“It’s over,” Kim says. “We’ve lost. We screwed up.”

“Who is Maria?” George asks.

“Maria Marsh.” I answer. “She’s immune to the Oz virus. She’s the only
person on record to have survived a bite from an infected person.”

George pulls up a file on the computer. It’s a picture of Maria. Her
school photo.

“Is this her?” he asks.

“Yeah,” I say. “That’s her.”

“So it’s true? She’s immune?”

“Yeah. It’s true.”

“So why are they going to kill her?” he asks. “That doesn’t make any
sense.”

“It doesn’t have to make sense,” Kim says. “It’s over. No hope. No
goddamn hope.”

“There is still hope,” I say. “We still have time.”

“What hope?” Kim says. “It’s over. Maria is dead. It’s over.”

“No,” I say, praying that she is wrong. “He’s not going to
just
kill her. He’s going to do it on
camera. He’s going to record it and broadcast it to the world. He wants to show
everyone. He wants everyone to watch. This means we still have time.”

I pray to god I am right about this.

“Why the hell would he do that?” Kim asks.

“Because Maria represents hope and innocence. She is the savior. The
world knows that Maria is immune. And once the world knows that she is dead,
they will know that there is no hope. They will know that there is no possible
hope for a vaccine or an anti-virus or a cure or whatever.”

Both Kim and George are silent, thinking about the ramifications of what
I have just told them.

I say, “This man, the one who has taken Maria, he is a psychopath. He is
a killer. A mass murderer. And he wants to show the world. But this gives us
time. It means he will need to prepare a connection. He will need to contact
the outside world. He will need to record it.”

Because he is a showman, I think to myself. He has a flare for the
dramatic. He will take his time. He will not rush this.

He is absolutely insane.

“But who’s to say he hasn’t already done it?” Kim asks.

“He can’t have already killed her,” I say because I don’t want to think
about it and I can’t admit it.

Admitting that I am wrong, and that Maria is already dead, means that I
might as well give up.

And I’m not ready to do that.

Not yet.

I look at my watch. Fifty-three hours and thirty-eight minutes. I have a
feeling this means something. I have a feeling this countdown will coincide
with Maria’s death. I don’t know how, and I don’t know why I have this feeling.
Call it a hunch. A sick hunch. A feeling in my gut. A cold, awful, sinking
feeling. Ben told me once that he would get a feeling like this in his gut when
something bad was about to happen. He had come to trust this feeling with his
life.

George shakes his head. “He won’t kill her. He won’t. Why would he? It
doesn’t make sense.”

“Trust me, he, the man in the gas mask, is going to kill her. He is
going to kill her because he doesn’t want to make an anti-virus or a cure. He
doesn’t want to save anyone. He doesn’t want to help anyone. He wants to...”

Again, I trail off because I can’t say it out loud. He wants chaos and
destruction. He wants total annihilation. He wants to destroy the world and
society so that we can start over.

He wants to burn the old Empires.

I can’t say this out loud because it is absolute madness.

“Like I said,” I continue. “The man in the gas mask is a killer. A
psychopath. A mass murderer.”

George stares at the computer screen. He is in deep thought. His brow is
furrowed in concentration.

“Where are you from?” George asks me again. “You’re an outsider. How did
you get down here?”

I catch him up. We were in the desert. We followed the tank tracks. The
tank tracks disappeared. And then the Vehicle Access Point opened up and we
were lowered into the Fortress.