Kyle Kirkland - Sandbagging

“I won’t tell you,” said Quinton.

“Why not? You want half of the people in this community to die?”

“You couldn’t save them. Even if you wanted to—which I doubt.”

Timms leaned back. “Not enough material? I figured there was a reason you didn’t say anything at the meeting. Well, maybe we can scrounge up some more somewhere.”

“No, it’s a special order,” said Quinton. “You’d only protect yourself. And some of your goons.”

“Goons?” Timms looked genuinely surprised. “These people are scientists, they have doctorates—”

“Doesn’t matter. What you’re doing isn’t right. And what you’ve already done isn’t right. I don’t care how smart you are.”

“And what about yourself? You’re prepared to roll the dice?”

Quinton nodded.

Timms shook his head. “Come on, Quinton. You’re as competitive as anyone, including me. We’re both competitive, and that’s why we have so much success whereas others fail. I promise that you’ll be one of those we protect.”

“No.”

“I can’t believe you’ve gone so soft. You’re smart enough to know that there will always be winners and losers. And it’s better to win than lose.”

“That’s true. Winning is always better. But I guess I’m a lot more different from you than I thought. Where we disagree is on the definition of ‘winning.’”

Timms frowned. “I think you’ll tell us what we want to know, though we might have to do a little bit of persuading.” He reached for the intercom. “Believe me, Quinton, I hate to do it, but we’re fighting the clock on this one. You leave me no alternative.”

Quinton aimed and threw his flashlight. Timms saw it coming and ducked. The heavy cylinder bounced off his shoulder, but Quinton heard the thud of metal against bone. The flashlight had struck the professor’s clavicle.

Racing out of the room, Quinton was suddenly blinded in the dimness of the hallway. His night vision was gone—his eyes had adjusted to the brightness of the professor’s office.

But Quinton had walked these hallways day and night for a long time. He bumped into the wall a few times but still reached the stairs quickly. Just as he was racing down the steps he heard the heavy footfalls of pursuers.

Quinton stayed in the lead, finding the exit at the unloading dock and then sprinting up the ramp. He raced across campus, able to stay the course using starlight and the stray light of the flashlights of the people running after him. He won the race to the dorm.

With burning lungs and aching legs he galloped up the stairs. After he reached his room he yanked the deadbolt, clasped the chain, and pushed his dresser against the door for good measure. Then he collapsed.

As he lay on the floor in the pitch-black room, he heard thumps and scratches on the metal door. They’ll have to wait until after the sun rises to use power tools, thought Quinton. And by then it might be too late.

Quinton drew deep breaths. Shoulders, chest, abdomen rose and fell. Was he out of breath because of the unaccustomed exercise? Or was he one of the victims?

Maybe they’ll find the chemicals under the sink, he thought. But probably not. And even if they did, they wouldn’t know which one to use or how. “For once,” he muttered, “the playing field is level. Too bad for you, Professor Timms.”

He closed his eyes. His breathing softened, his thoughts drifted. If it’s going to happen, he figured, he should just accept it.

What would Timms do if both he and Quinton survived? How would Timms treat Quinton? What would he say, what would he do? And how could Quinton ever look at Timms again and not think of him as a cold-blooded killer?

But Quinton decided to worry about that later—if, that is, he had a later. His last thought was, what exactly is my definition of winning?

Clouds thickened during the early morning hours. By dawn a light rain fell on campus. The dark skies promised a wet, cloudy day. Lights would be dim all day and go out early in the evening.

The gentle rain unleashed fresh scents. Shoots of grass poked up between cracks in the ubiquitous concrete.

Quinton opened his eyes. Light filtered through the curtains. Rain beat a soft tattoo on his window.

“I made it!” he cried.

He rose and looked out of the window. The campus appeared active, lots of people walking about. Many of them carried umbrellas.

Quinton listened at his door. Silence. He moved the dresser and unchained and unbolted the door. He peeked outside. Nothing. But dents and scratches covered the front of the door.

He looked for his flashlight, then remembered what he’d done with it. A twinge of regret came over him. He wondered if he should have tried to escape without hitting the professor.

Curiosity wouldn’t let him stay in his room. He came out and started down the stairs. He met two sleepy grad students on the stairwell.

“What’s the news?” he asked.

They shrugged. Apparently, they knew nothing about what had happened last night.

Quinton stepped out into the misty weather. No one who passed by him seemed especially alarmed or affected.

Maybe DCC hasn’t released the toxins, he thought.

He wandered to the biology building. A postdoc he knew slightly went inside. He followed cautiously.

The first person he met was emeritus Professor Grange. He was carrying a plastic bag and striding rapidly down the hall when he saw Quinton. He stopped and stared, saying, “I wondered when you would show up.”

“What happened?”

“It’s all over the radio. I heard just a few minutes ago. They’ve finally taken down DCC and its zombies. We’re in the process of reestablishing an Internet connection.”

“DCC didn’t have time to carry out its plan?”

Grange muttered an expletive. “It was carrying out its plan, all right. It just wasn’t what we thought.”

Four men appeared in the hall carrying a covered stretcher. Professor Grange and Quinton made way for them to pass.

“My God,” said Quinton. “How many?”

“Just a few.” He watched the men carry away the body. “That was Borden. Borden Timms.”

“What—”

“He’s been stabbed.” Grange looked at Quinton. “I understand you and he and some of his friends had a set-to last night.”

“I didn’t kill him!”

“I know you didn’t,” said Grange, gently. “I heard what happened. I’m sketchy on the details, but I think I’ve got the general idea.” He reached into the bag and pulled out Timms’s gun. “He was clutching this in his hand. Apparently, he threatened somebody with it. Somebody who was a little faster than he was.”

“His shoulder,” mumbled Quinton. “Slow on the draw, I bet.”

“How’s that?”

Quinton shook his head. “Never mind. What did you mean when you said DCC’s plan wasn’t what we thought?”

“That genocide or whatever you want to call it. It was a lot of nonsense. DCC was never going to do anything like that. But that’s what it wanted us to think . It encouraged the rumor, spread it around, and leaked news of all kinds of schemes with which it would carry it out.”

“Why would it do something like that?”

“That,” said Grange, “is going to be the subject of a lot of research and debate over the coming years.” He closed the bag and wrapped it up tightly. “Once the police get on their feet again, I’ll let them dispose of this properly. In the meantime, Sandra Rebbin and I are getting the labs safely up and running again. Regular electric power will be restored soon, or so the city tells me.”

Quinton followed him.

“Professor,” said Quinton, “what really happened? Do you have a theory about DCC? What was the goal?”