Stephen Knight: Left With The Dead

“No one. They evacuated.” Her face was no longer blank and expressionless. She looked agitated. “Listen, I need to get to my son. You want to look around? Knock yourself out.”

“I’m good,” Gartrell said.

She pulled open the door, and it led into a stairwell. At the base of the stairs was a long, black Maglite. She picked it up and looked back at him.

“Close the door so I can turn this on.”

“Why don’t you forget about that for a moment and let me go up first,” he said. “You turn that on, my night vision gear will blank out, and it’s more useful right now than a flashlight. You get what I’m saying?”

“No.”

Gartrell sighed. “The zeds, they can key in on light real well. Not doing things like giving off light, loud noises, probably even smells like cooking food and things like that will go a long way toward ensuring our continued survival. And if there’s a zed in this stairway, for instance, it’ll see the light long before we see it. You reading me on that now?”

“You don’t want me to use the light. You want to use your night vision. Fine. Let’s go to the fourth floor. You first.”

Gartrell nodded and mounted the steps, taking them one at a time, his AA-12 at the ready. As it always was.

###

The climb up the stairwell was uneventful, but halfway to the fourth floor, Gartrell’s legs felt as if they were Jell-O and his lungs were on fire. He had to fight to keep from gasping for air, and he continued the climb through sheer force of will alone. He couldn’t believe how much of a struggle it was just to keep moving; he would have gladly surrendered his kingdom, if he’d had one, for the chance to stop and lean against the wall and rest. His body was sending him a strong reminder that he was well into his late 40s and had been operating at a punishing pace for virtually 24 hours straight. When he slowed to listen for any indication that they might not be alone, all he heard was the rush of blood in his ears.

The only thing that kept him going was that he didn’t want to look bad in front of the civilian, who just happened to be a female.

For her part, Jolie followed closely behind. Her footfalls were light, almost as quiet as a cat’s, whereas his echoed throughout the stairwell. Gartrell went through the usual motions, visually clearing each landing before stepping onto it, holding the AA-12 so that he could instantly fire on any zed that might appear. But the building remained as quiet as a crypt, and as far as he could tell, they were the only things-living or unliving-in the stairway.

Finally, they arrived on the fourth floor.

Gartrell pushed open the door and cleared the hallway, then reached back and touched Jolie on the shoulder. She slipped past him and walked to the left, her right arm extended, the fingertips of her hand brushing against the wall. Her tennis shoes made no noise on the carpeted floor. Gartrell silently closed the door behind him and followed, keeping to Jolie’s left so he could maintain a clear lane of fire. She stopped at a door just down the hall and unlocked its two security deadbolts. The sounds of the locks snapping opening were loud and harsh as they echoed in the hallway. Gartrell winced at the racket, but they elicited nothing untoward. The door squeaked minutely as she pushed it open. Light flared, threatening to overpower the NVGs-there must have been a small nightlight switched on somewhere inside the apartment. Gartrell followed her inside and took note of the number on the door: 4B.

She closed the door behind him and held a finger to her lips. Gartrell nodded, and flipped his NVGs up on their mount. Without the goggles, the darkness inside the apartment was almost absolute; he had no natural night vision to speak of since he’d spent the last few hours staring at the phosphor screens inside the NVG tubes. He removed his gloves and rubbed his eyes. They burned, from weariness and exposure to smoke and the heat of roaring flame. When he stopped and looked up, Jolie was gone. Gartrell stood there for a moment, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the tepid light. He locked the door behind him, and then flicked on the security chain for good measure. The door was painted metal, a fire door fitted inside a metal frame, but the hinges looked flimsy, the kind a cheap contractor would use. He turned away from the door and found he stood in a short entry foyer with closets off to either side. He walked down the short hallway. Dim light came from a doorway on his right. He looked inside, and saw the room beyond was a kitchen illuminated by a single, battery-powered LED light sitting on a dark silestone counter. Stainless steel appliances gleamed in the wan glow. Gartrell worried the light might be visible from outside, but not only had the shades been drawn, but paper was taped over the shades’ edges. Moving on down the hallway, he came to a return which led him to a darkened combination living and dining room. An expensive-looking widescreen LED television framed in what Gartrell thought was rosewood stood atop an equally-expensive media table. A surround sound system’s speakers were placed strategically through the room. Gartrell moved toward one and squinted to read its product label in the light generated by another tiny LED lamp sitting on a nearby bookshelf. Polk Audio.

Fine stuff.

A leather seating set was arrayed before the television. Next to the TV was a fireplace, though Gartrell couldn’t tell if it was real or one of those faux decorative touches he’d heard a lot of New Yorkers favored. Several pictures hung on the wall, and he leaned forward to examine them. Jolie was in many, though most featured a small boy with a distant expression. A man he presumed to be the boy’s father was in several photos as well. He looked to be in his 30s, and something of a cross between a hipster and a finance guy, with his expensive-looking business attire, skimpy beard, and artfully messed-up hair. He apparently dabbled in local politics as well, for there were several photos of him with political figures-all Democrats, of course. There was even one of him mugging it up with a ranking member of the U.S. Senate, a very liberal New York Democrat who was totally anti-war until the current president needed to show the nation how tough he was. Whenever that happened, the senator never met a conflict he didn’t like.

One ceramic frame held a family portrait. Names were written on the frame: Jack, Jolie, and Jaden .

Gartrell snorted. A family where all the names begin with the letter J. I guess I really am on New York’s Upper East Side.

A few works of art occupied high shelves in a display case-bronze statues, knickknacks from different countries, a framed coin collection. The lower shelves were filled with the trappings one might expect to find in a residence where a small child lived. Bright, smiling cartoon characters, toy trucks and airplanes and boats, building blocks, a small riding scooter. The dining area was a round table surrounded by four chairs; there were no place settings, and the table was covered with canned goods and other items-plastic trash bags, paper towels, bottled water and juice, a bucket full of cleaning supplies. Two North Face backpacks sat on the Persian rug beneath the table, packs that were probably more expensive than the one he had left in the white van the team had driven cross-town in their gamble to reach the East River and the cutter Escanaba . The packs were likely more comfortable, as well. Gartrell didn’t inspect them any further. He walked toward one of the shaded windows and stood next to it, listening.

The artillery barrage to the north continued unabated, a distant earthquake that went on forever. There was no other sound he could detect, no moaning dead, no wind, no distant horn blasts from the Escanaba -