Adam Baker - Terminus

He didn’t want to die alone. He wanted the comfort of people and voices.

Sudden fury.

Rage flaring like a struck match. Clenched teeth, left hand balled into a fist. Tired of being an outsider. Treated with contempt by soldiers back at Ridgeway who saw a correctional officer as some kind of sleazy, low-rent mall cop. Ostracised by a rescue squad that seemed to hold a sneaking admiration for his gang-girl prisoner.

He composed speeches in his head. Things he should have said:

‘I got no reason to feel ashamed. I got a flag on my arm, same as you. I swore an oath and did my job. I punched the clock each day and put myself among the meanest, most vicious motherfuckers to ever walk the earth. I did it so you guys could sleep safe in your beds. Fuck yourselves, okay? Army. Fire department. Acting all superior. You can all go to hell.’

Faint noise from the plant room. Distant voices echoed down the conduit.

Lupe:

‘Close the damned door. Quick. Close it. Get it shut. Here, use this.’

Cloke:

‘Put him down there.’

‘Is he alive?’

‘Just.’

Tombes:

‘Where’s Donahue? Did anyone see Donahue? Christ, she must still be out there.’

Galloway touched his face. Needles protruded from his cheek.

He wanted to be back among Lupe, Donahue and Sicknote, even if they despised him, even if they wanted him dead.

He wept metal tears.

Donahue ran to the IRT office and slammed the door. Fists pounded the wooden panels.

Heart-hammering panic. She gripped the handle. Her boots squeaked and slid across floor tiles as she struggled to keep it closed. Brief glimpse of hunched skeletal thing wearing a Dunkin’ Donuts cap. It gripped the doorframe. It leered.

She threw her shoulder against the door and slammed it closed. Bone crunch. Blood spurt. Severed fingers pattered to the floor.

She slapped deadbolts in position.

Heavy impacts. She grabbed a wooden chair and held it above her head ready to strike.

Gun-crack pop. Sudden darkness. A brief moment of what-the-fuck, then a wave of frustration and anger as she realised she had smashed the single bare bulb that lit the room.

She set down the chair.

She unbuckled her watch. A yellow G-Shock. She used the weak face-light to examine the door. The bolts and hinges looked like they would hold.

She caught her breath. She backed away from the door. Glass crunch. The floor dusted with bulb fragments.

She pulled a bandana from her pocket and wiped sweat from her forehead. A dark stain on the bandana. She touched her face. Blood on her fingertips. She hurriedly explored her scalp and neck, passed the watch-light over her arms and legs looking for bite marks.

Plenty of spray. She had kicked a couple of infected creatures to the ground in the ticket hall, stamped on snarling faces until their skulls shattered and pulped.

No wounds.

She mopped blood from her pant legs and boots.

She walked to the back of the office and slid to the floor. She listened to fists pound the door. The fusillade of blows slowly diminished to silence.

She waited.

She unhooked her radio and whispered into the handset.

‘Lupe, do you copy, over?’

No reply.

‘Lupe. Anyone. Can you hear me?’

Tombes:

‘Donnie. Holy shit, girl. Are you all right?’

She turned the volume way down. She crouched over the radio, cupped her hand over the mouth-grille and whispered:

‘Just.’

‘Where are you?’

‘I’m in the station office. I’ve locked the door. Not sure how long it will hold if they make a concerted effort to get inside.’

‘We’ll figure something out. Just stay put. Stay out of trouble.’

‘Are you guys okay?’

‘ Yeah. Yeah, we’re good. We’re safe. We’re in the plant room.’

‘This is so messed up.’

‘We’ll be fine. Just got to keep our heads and think our way out of this mess.’

‘Don’t leave me in here, man. You’ve got to get me out.’

‘We aren’t going anywhere without you. You got my word. Is there anything else in there with you? Anything else you can throw against the door?’

‘Not much.’

‘Are they still trying to get in?’

‘They were pounding at the door for a while. They’ve quit. For now.’

‘Can you hear them?’

‘I can sure as shit smell them. Hold on. I’m going to check.’

‘Don’t make a sound, for God’s sake. Do it quiet as you can.’

Donahue got to her feet and quietly crossed the room.

A peep hole in the door. She wormed dust and grime from the lens with her finger and put her eye to the hole.

She stifled an involuntary gasp. A ghastly, skeletal face, close-up in fish-eye distortion. Dunkin’ Donuts .

Something in its mouth. It chewed with a ruminative roll of the jaw. A human ear.

It leaned close like it was sniffing the lens.

Donahue kept absolutely still. She slowed her breathing. No sound but the pounding blood-rush of her pulse.

The creature couldn’t see her. A one-way spy hole. A bead of black glass. But it pressed against the office door like it could smell the intoxicating scent of fresh meat.

Donahue slowly backed away from the door. Crackle of bulb glass underfoot. She froze. No reaction from the creature outside in the hall. She kept walking.

She crouched in the corner and whispered into the Motorola.

‘I can see one of them in the ticket hall. Maybe I could take him.’

‘You’ve got a weapon?’

‘I lost my axe. Buried it in some guy’s head. Pretty sure I could do some damage with a chair leg. Drive it into his eye.’

‘These bastards are dumb, but they’re patient. They’ll wait us out, be ready to pounce the moment we show our faces. They’ll wait a week, a month, a year. They’ll never quit.’

‘Then we’re screwed.’

‘Leave it to me, okay? I’ll figure a way out of this mess. Get on the radio. Talk to Ridgeway. Tell them to send the damned chopper. Don’t take any shit from those guys. Get a firm ETA.’

‘I’m on it.’

Donahue hefted the transmitter and laid it on the floor. She sat cross-legged. She fumbled headphones in the darkness and positioned them on her head.

She flicked on. The power light glowed brilliant green.

She passed the watch-light over the transmitter panel. She tapped needle-dials, checked battery levels, volume and frequency.

She jacked the microphone and pressed Transmit.

‘Rescue to Ridgeway, do you copy, over?’

It took fifteen minutes to raise a reply.

The Chief, shouting through whistling static.

‘Go ahead, Rescue.’

‘This is Donahue.’

‘Where’s Captain Nariko?’

‘Dead, Sir.’

‘Say again?’

‘The Captain is dead.’

‘What about Ekks?’

‘We found him.’

‘What is his condition?’

‘Unconscious. He’s sick, heavily irradiated, but he’s breathing.’

‘Has he spoken? Has he talked?’

‘No, sir. Completely unresponsive.’

‘What’s the status of his team? Are there any other survivors?’

‘They’re dead.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘They didn’t survive the bomb. But we have their papers, their data.’

‘Good job, Donahue. Tell your people. Outstanding work. The site is secure?’

‘Negative. We’re losing ground. We’re drawing heavy heat down here. Getting worse by the minute. There are still plenty of infected people among the ruins, messed up but moving. They’ve sniffed us out, big time. We’re pretty much overrun. We need backup, anything you got. Guns, grenades, RPGs. We’ve got a serious fight on our hands.’