Rick Yancey - The Infinite Sea

But he could have been taken. He could have been forced to swallow the green capsule. He could have been thrown back out into the world and left to wander until he stumbled onto a group of survivors who would take him in and feed him and fill the room with their breath. It could have happened that way.

What’s bothering you? Zombie wanted to know. They had gone across the parking lot to find a CO2 canister in the old diner. Zombie had given up talking to him unless he was giving an order, and he’d given up trying to get him to talk. When he asked the question, Zombie really didn’t expect an answer.

I can always tell when something’s bothering you. You get like this constipated look. Like you’re trying to crap a brick.

The canister wasn’t that heavy, but Zombie was hurt and took the point on the way back. Zombie was nervous, jumping at every shadow. He kept saying there was something wrong. Something wrong about this Evan Walker and something wrong about the situation in general. Zombie thought they were being tricked.

Back in the hotel, Zombie sent Dumbo upstairs to get Evan. Then they waited inside the elevator for Evan to come down.

See, Cake, this goes back to my point, right back to it. EMPs and tsunamis and plagues and aliens in disguise and brainwashed kids and now kids with bombs inside them. Why are they making this so damn complicated? It’s like they want a fight. Or want the fight to be interesting. Hey. Maybe that’s it. Maybe you reach a certain point in evolution where boredom is the greatest threat to your survival. Maybe this isn’t a planetary takeover at all, but a game. Like a kid pulling wings off flies.

As the minutes passed, Zombie got more nervous.

What now? Where the hell is he? Oh Christ, you don’t think…? Better get up there, Poundcake. Throw his ass over your shoulder and carry him down here if you have to.

Halfway up the stairs, he heard a heavy thump over his head, then a second, softer thump, and then he heard someone scream. He got to the door in time to see Cassie’s body fly past and hit the floor. He followed her trajectory backward and saw the tall girl standing beside the room with the busted door. And he didn’t hesitate, he burst into the hall and he knew the tall girl would not survive. He was a good shot, the best in his squad until Ringer came, and he knew that he would not miss.

Except Cassie tackled him and the tall girl slipped from his sights. He would have killed her if Cassie hadn’t done that. He was sure of it.

Then the tall girl shot him through the wall.

Dumbo tore open his shirt and pressed a wadded-up sheet into the wound. He told him that it wasn’t bad, that he was going to make it, but he knew he wasn’t. He’d been around too much death. He knew what it smelled like, tasted like, felt like. He carried death inside him in the memories of his mother and the ten-foot pyres and the bones along the road and the conveyor belt carrying hundreds into the furnace of the power plant at camp, the dead burned to light their barracks and heat their water and keep them warm. Dying didn’t bother him. Dying without knowing what happened to his brother bothered him.

Dying, he was taken downstairs. Dying, he was thrown over Zombie’s shoulders. And then in the parking lot Zombie fell and the others gathered around and Zombie pounded the frozen pavement until the skin on his palms burst open.

They left him after that. He wasn’t angry. He understood. He was dying.

And then he got up.

Not at first. At first, he crawled.

The tall girl was standing in the lobby when he dragged himself inside. She was beside the door that opened to the stairs, holding a pistol in both hands, bowing her head as if she were listening for something.

That’s when he stood up.

The tall girl stiffened. She turned. She raised the gun and then she lowered it when she saw he was dying. She smiled and said hello. She was watching him beside the front doors and couldn’t see the elevator or Evan dropping down into it from the escape hatch. Evan saw him and froze, like he didn’t know what to do.

I know you. The tall girl was walking toward him. If she turned now, if she glanced behind her, she would see Evan, so he drew his sidearm to distract her, but the gun slipped from his hand and landed on the floor. He had lost a lot of blood. His blood pressure was dropping. His heart couldn’t pump hard enough and he was losing feeling in his hands and feet.

He dropped to his knees and reached for the gun. She shot him in the hand. He fell onto his butt, jamming the wounded hand into his pocket as if that might protect it.

Gosh, you’re a big, strong boy, aren’t you? How old are you?

She waited for him to answer.

What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue?

She shot him in the leg. Then she waited for him to scream or cry or say something. When he didn’t, she shot him in the other leg.

Behind her, Evan dropped to his stomach and started to crawl toward them. He shook his head at Evan, gulping air. He felt numb all over. There was no pain, but a gray curtain had drawn down over his eyes.

The tall girl came closer. She was now halfway between him and Evan. She aimed the gun at the middle of his forehead.

Say something or I will blow your brains out. Where’s Evan?

She started to turn. She might have heard Evan crawling toward her. So he stood up for the next to last time to distract her. He didn’t stand up fast. It took over a minute, boots slipping on the tile wet from melted snow, rising up, flopping back down, the fact that he kept his hand in his pocket making it twice as hard. The tall girl smiled and chuckled, smirking the way the kids did at school. He was fat. He was clumsy. He was stupid. He was pig lard. When he finally got to his feet, she shot him again.

Please hurry up. I’m wasting ammo.

The plastic of the cake wrapper had been stiff and crinkly and always made a noise when he played with it in his pocket. That’s how his mom knew he had it the day his brother disappeared. That’s how the soldiers on the bus knew, too. And the drill sergeant called him Poundcake because he loved the story of the fat kid coming into camp with just the clothes on his back and a wrapper full of stale cake crumbs in his pocket.

The plastic sandwich bag that he found just outside the hotel doors didn’t crinkle. It was much softer. There was no noise when he pulled it from his pocket. The bag slid out silently, as silent as he had been after he was told to shut up, shut up, shut UP.

The tall girl’s smile went away.

And Poundcake started moving again. Not toward her and not toward the elevator, but toward the side door at the end of the hall.

Hey, what have you got there, big fella? Huh? What is that? I’m guessing it isn’t a Tylenol.

The tall girl’s smile came back. A different kind of smile, though. A nice smile. She was very pretty when she smiled like that. She was probably the prettiest girl he had ever seen.

You’ve got to be very careful with that. Do you understand? Hey. Hey, you know what? I’ll make a deal with you. I’ll put my gun down if you put that down, okay? How’s that sound?

And then she did. She laid her gun on the floor. She took the rifle off her shoulder and laid that down, too. Then she held up her hands.

I can help you. Put that down and I’ll help you. You don’t have to die. I know how to fix you. I’m—I’m not like you. I’m definitely not as brave and strong as you, that’s for sure. I can’t believe you’re still standing like that.

She was going to wait. She would wait until he passed out or fell over dead. All she had to do was keep talking and smiling and pretending she liked him.

He unzipped the bag.

The tall girl wasn’t smiling now. She was running toward him, faster than he’d seen anyone run in his life. The gray veil shimmered as she came on. When she was close, her feet left the ground and she javelined into the spot where the first bullet hit him, hurling him backward and smashing him into the metal door frame. The baggie flew from his numb fingers and slid like a hockey puck across the tile. The gray veil turned black for a second. The tall girl pivoted as gracefully as a ballerina toward the bag. He hooked her ankle with his leg and sent her sprawling.