Ike Hamill - Extinct

Free from Brad’s weight, Buster beat at the flames engulfing his hair.

Brad rose to his knees, gripped his fingers together into one giant fist, and brought them down on Buster’s head. For a moment, both men beat at the flames, but after Brad connected twice, Buster’s arms began to go limp. Brad continued to beat the older man’s head.

Christine’s voice hitched through a sob. “What’s happening?” she demanded.

Buster rallied and pushed himself up from the floor.

Brad shuffled forward on his knees and threw himself down on Buster, knocking the wind out of Buster with his shoulder. Brad positioned his knees on Buster’s chest and resumed beating him.

Buster went limp.

Brad’s arms burned with the exertion. He slid forward and brought his knee down on Buster’s chin and then repositioned himself to thrust his knee into Buster’s cheek. He felt bone split and cartilage crack under his knee. Buster’s breath gurgled up through his open mouth and sputtered out his nostril, making snotty bubbles of blood.

Brad fell away and regarded Buster. The man’s face looked wrecked. His hair was singed, his nose jutted off to the right, one eye was swelling shut, and his jaw hung to the side like a shutter on a haunted house. Brad kept a cold eye on the man as he brought his feet to his hands and started working on the knot at his ankles. He couldn’t reach the knot holding his wrists together, but figured he could reach the one on Christine’s wrists.

When he finished with his feet he kicked away the rope and backed slowly towards Christine. He was unwilling to look away from Buster.

Somewhere to his left the torch lit a cardboard box and yellow flames started to grow.

“What are you doing?” Christine shrieked when Brad’s hands touched hers.

“I’m untying you so you can untie me,” Brad said. The work was difficult with his bound hands, but Brad worked fast. When he’d finished with her hands he held out his own, but Christine turned her attention to freeing her own feet.

Brad ran back to Buster. The man’s breathing slowed. Brad kept a respectful distance but reached forward and stole the gun and knife from the man. He shoved the gun in his pocket, but turned the knife around in his hands and used it to slit the rope around his wrists.

Behind him, Christine threw off the last of her ropes and ran for the door.

“Glen!” she yelled.

“Shut up!” Brad said. “Keep quiet.”

She threw open the door and disappeared to the hall.

Bright red blood stained the blade from where Brad nicked his own arm. He stood over Buster and considered driving the knife into Buster’s chest. Instead, he walked to the burning boxes and kicked the stack away from the other boxes. He found the torch and turned the dial to extinguish the flame.

Brad drew the gun, took one last look at Buster, and moved to the door.

BRAD HELD THE GUN out in front of him as he stalked down the hallway. The walls, made of cinderblocks, seemed to absorb what little light came through the window at the end of the long hall. He wished he’d taken the lantern from the cardboard-box room, but it was too late now. When he followed Christine out into the hall, Brad closed the door and snapped shut the padlock hanging from the hasp. As far as he knew, Buster owned the only key and he was locked inside.

Brad stopped when he heard the scream. It sounded like Christine. Behind him was Buster’s door and the tiny window, mounted high up. Ahead, Brad saw one door on the left and two on the right. He knew the one on the left—at least he thought he did—he thought it was the room where he’d woken up. The scream sounded like it came from one of the doors on the right. Brad brought down each foot with extreme care, trying to make no sound at all as he moved forward.

Sobs followed the scream. The noise came from the second door on the right. Brad pushed the door open with the barrel of the gun. Inside the door a flashlight lay on the floor. It illuminated a grizzly scene. Christine squatted next to a bloody mess. She hugged herself tight, leaving bloody handprints on her tank top and naked shoulders.

When she heard Brad approach, she turned. Her face, twisted in grief, was streaked with tears and smeared with blood.

“Look what he did to Glen,” she said.

Brad nodded.

“Are there any more of them?” Brad asked.

“Of who?” she said. Her voice sounded strained and close to panic.

“Of these guys,” Brad said. “Your captors—any more of them?”

“I don’t know,” Christine said. She wiped her face with the back her hand. “I don’t think so.”

Brad assumed that the blood smeared on her shoulder and face was from the mutilated body of Glen, but he remembered her severed finger. Brad picked up the flashlight and swung it around the room.

“Wait here,” he said.

Brad did a quick search of the building. He didn’t find any other people and couldn’t hear any noise from the room where he’d locked Buster. He wondered if the fire had eaten all the oxygen from the room.

In the room where’d he woken up, Brad found some clothes, a couple of jackets, and a crate full of weapons. After donning his coat, he slung a shotgun bag over his shoulder and added an extra box of shells. Back in the hall, the final door led down another hallway to a door which exited to an alley.

Brad found his way back to Christine.

“Here, put this on,” he said, throwing her a jacket. “And then wrap this around your bad hand.” He tossed her a cotton shirt.

She moved like a zombie and stared at Glen’s corpse more than she paid attention to what she was doing. She bunched the cloth lightly around her stump, not putting any real pressure on the wound. In the light from Brad’s lamp, the oozing blood on her hand was black and shiny.

“Let’s go,” Brad said. “Faster, or I’m going to leave you here in the dark.”

She looked up at Brad with anger and sorrow in her eyes.

“Why are you upset? They were holding you prisoner,” Brad said, pointing a finger at Glen’s body. “Fine. Forget it.”

Brad swung his light away from Christine and turned for the door. He turned the corner before she ran after him.

“He died for me,” Christine said. “Glen never wanted to keep me tied up, it was Buster’s idea, and Buster was stronger.”

“Fine,” Brad said. He kept walking, walking down the hall to the exit. “Keep quiet, I don’t want to get jumped again.”

Brad pulled the door open, peering through the crack to the outside world before he made his way to the alley. The bricks were bathed in the mellow glow of what passed for daylight in their forever cloudy world. He headed towards the street. Footprints headed both directions were etched in the thin layer of snow underfoot.

Christine looked up and down the deserted alley before she spoke again—“They didn’t even really have a problem until you showed up. Everything would have been fine.”

Brad shoved the flashlight into the inside pocket of his jacket. He ignored Christine’s statement. At the mouth of the alley, Brad paused and leaned his head out to the sidewalk. He wasn’t familiar with the street. Christine moved in close behind him.

“Which way is Congress Street? Do you know?” Brad asked.

Christine pointed to the right.

Brad headed left and picked up his pace into a jog. The shotgun bag slapped against his back. Behind him, Christine kept up easily. They turned and headed down a slight hill, towards the highway. The sleds, loaded down with corpses, were gone. When Brad was oriented, he turned again, heading into the deeper snow. They slogged through snow halfway up to their knees before Christine spoke.