Robert Ferrigno - Heart of the Assassin

"The cross okay?" gasped Moseby.

"Fine." His legs still rubbery, Rakkim walked over to where Moseby slumped against the wall. "How about you?"

"I'll make it." Moseby checked the camera. Nodded.

Rakkim examined Moseby's suit, hands trembling as he held the flashlight, taking his time. No tears, no breaks, no loss of integrity. Then he had Moseby do the same thing for him. Good news all around. After they changed out their air filters, Moseby looked up the tunnel, shook his head. "How's the claustrophobia?"

"Thanks for reminding me." Rakkim stepped over the skeleton near the doorway. The reinforced door was jammed, but there was room for him to squeeze out. A long hall ran down the full length of the building. The flashlight still had plenty of power…but it seemed dimmer, lost in the expanse of flat gray paint.

Moseby joined him in the hallway, limping.

"I may convert to Christianity," said Rakkim as they trudged down the hall. He hefted the pouch with the piece of the cross. "This thing's already bringing us good luck. Like you said, it's a miracle."

The Montgomery Farms milk truck hit a pothole, Rakkim's head whipping forward. Third time in the last half hour. Driving too fast, Rikki. He stayed off the brakes anyway, looked over at Moseby curled in the passenger seat. "John?" Dust swirled in through the seams in the doors and floorboards, radioactive dust and probably worse. "John!"

Moseby lifted his head. "I'm alive."

"Good," said Rakkim. "Go back to sleep."

Moseby slumped back down.

It had taken Rakkim and Moseby all night to find their way out of the safe room in the Vietnam War Memorial depository, most of the exits blocked, the darkness stifling. They had walked for miles, backtracking, lost in a maze of corridors and stairwells. He was grateful to be in the sunlight now, grateful for the toxic breeze that blew around them-better to die outside, better to die anywhere than die underground.

Rakkim checked the rearview. An actual mirror not a screen. Milk truck must be thirty years old. One of those jury-rigged zombie jobs that offered only transportation, not protection. No wonder the zombies they had stolen it from hadn't chased them far. Figured the truck would kill them anyway.

Last night, there had been a point when they had found themselves at yet another dead end, a point where Rakkim had almost given up. His light had fallen down a grating, and Moseby had turned his own light off while they rested, wanting to conserve the batteries. Rakkim had felt himself starting to panic, unable to breathe, certain that the ventilation system in his suit was malfunctioning. Moseby must have heard him gasping, because he suddenly reached out, put the flashlight in Rakkim's hand, told him not to turn it on, just know he could if he needed to. The panic attack dissolved. A few minutes later, still in total darkness, Rakkim gave him the flashlight back and they continued.

It had been Moseby who finally figured out that the way out was counterintuitive-they had to go deeper underground to find the passage that led them up again to the outside. When they finally crawled out the emergency exit, the sun was just coming up, a hot red ball over the marble monuments of the dead capital.

After Moseby had filmed the two of them, he bowed his head for a moment, then looked up at Rakkim. "You don't pray anymore?"

"God and I have decided to ignore each other. It's for the best." Rakkim had stopped, his glib relief at being outside dissipating.

The van was gone.

"We got…what we came for," said Moseby, coughing up a pale pink mist. "We could try walking out."

Rakkim held up his machine pistol. "Or we could get the van back."

Another pothole disturbed his reverie, Rakkim lurching forward as he put one hand out to keep Moseby from hitting the dash. Moseby slept on as Rakkim carefully drove around stalled cars and a motorcycle with melted tires. The van would have rolled right over the obstacles, but they hadn't gotten the van back and the milk truck's transmission slipped in and out of gear.

Rakkim checked his rad-meter. Might as well roll down the windows for the protection the truck gave. Useless piece of shit, but it was still better than walking. Most of the spare air filters for their suits had been in the van; they wouldn't have survived the hike. As it was…midafternoon and they were almost out of the city. Maybe another five or ten miles before the radiation level dropped appreciably. A couple hours after that and they'd be back at the Colonel's place. Get Moseby into the field hospital the Colonel had set up.

Moseby groaned in his sleep.

No way to care for him. Couldn't open up his suit and stitch him up without him getting a fatal dose of radiation. He was just going to have to hang on until Rakkim could get him help. Rakkim accelerated, the truck's engine protesting, revving way too high.

They had found their van at the site behind the Capitol building, the zombies working on something at the rear of the building, over a dozen of them going at it with jackhammers and laser torches, filling a large flatbed truck with bits of marble…marble heads…presidents, probably, or senators who hadn't gotten caught. They circled around the site, approached from the north where the zombies would least expect it.

One of the zombies was taking a torch to the rear compartment of their van, trying to fix the seals that they had ruined breaking into it. Guy didn't even have a homemade rad-suit, just a rubbery face mask like painters used. Rakkim closed within twenty yards of the van, Moseby a few steps behind, the two of them leapfrogging closer and closer, until they took cover behind an abandoned taxicab. A briefcase was still in the backseat of the taxi. Looked like alligator.

As Moseby sprinted to the van, he slipped on some loose rocks, twisted an ankle. He didn't make much noise, but the zombies stopped jackhammering at that moment, and one of them turned, saw Moseby. Everybody had a gun, of course.

Rakkim shot three of them, then raced to help Moseby, bullets splintering the pavement around them. Moseby got hit just before Rakkim reached him, pitching forward. Rakkim knelt beside Moseby, slowly sweeping the machine pistol across the site.

Three of the zombies scurried over to protect the van, set up a fire perimeter.

Rakkim had no choice but to retreat, providing cover fire as Moseby limped ahead of him. Moseby got hit again, spun around but didn't fall. Rakkim carried him to the first zombie vehicle he saw. The milk truck. Montgomery Farms, Home of Contented Cows. Piece of shit truck with useless radiation shielding and no air filters. He drove off, the zombies pocking it with gunshots. He stopped a few blocks later, slapped a couple of pressure bandages on Moseby's wounds, sealing the holes in the suit at the same time.

Rakkim drove on the shoulder of the road now, bypassing the line of abandoned cars alongside the Marriott Hotel, its ragged front awning flapping like a flag.

"You're a lousy driver," said Moseby, his voice raspy.

"Glad you're awake. Time to change your air filter."

"You take it," wheezed Moseby.

"I just changed mine." Rakkim fished the last air filter out of his side pocket, replaced the one on Moseby's suit ventilator. He examined the used one, filthy, three stages beyond replace. Tossed it aside. His own was in the same condition.

"You…you sure ?" Moseby breathed deeper with the new one installed. "I thought we only had one filter left."

"You miscounted. I replaced mine about a mile back."

"You're not pulling some dumbass stunt, are you?" said Moseby.

"I look like a hero?" said Rakkim.

"You look like a guy who should have left me back there," said Moseby.