Craig Dilouie - The Killing Floor

He stares at it for over an hour, watching the shadows claim the land.

The air fills with a rhythmic shrieking sound, growing louder. Snapping out of his reverie, Todd jumps to his feet and runs to the tree where he left his rucksack and carbine. Shouldering the weapon, he flicks the selector lever from SAFE to BURST, and waits.

The high-pitched rhythm is too regular to be a monster. It’s a machine, close enough for him to hear the roar of the engine. The shriek sounds like tank treads.

The beat-up armored vehicle crashes through the foliage fifty yards away on the hill, chugging puffs of exhaust, and grinds to a halt at the top of the slope, where it stands idling. Whoever is inside it is apparently stunned by the scenes of devastation in the valley below.

The sun is bleeding into the horizon. Todd could get away from these people easily if he wanted. He doubts they have spotted him. All he has to do is back into the trees.

He needs people, however. Shouldering his rifle, he steps away from the tree, hands raised in the air, and approaches the vehicle.

I hope these guys are friendly .

As he closes the distance, he spies the legend on the turret through the humid, smoky air: BOOM STICK.

Despite the horrors he has seen, Todd laughs. It is the laugh of the Infected, a sound one cannot easily distinguish from crying.

A dismembered leg falls from the sky and thuds onto the turret with a final arterial spray of blood, bouncing into the grass. Two bearded men and two women, dressed in motley uniforms, scurry from the back of the tank, glaring at him over the barrels of their rifles.

Todd keeps his hands in the air, his heart racing.

“I don’t know you,” he says, starting to worry.

The Bradley’s hatches open and Sarge and Steve emerge.

“Oh my God,” Todd says, swallowing hard.

“Hey Kid,” Sarge says, using his old nickname. “Where you been?”

Todd barely notices them, his attention focused on the beautiful woman striding toward him in a black T-shirt and baggy camo pants, a police-issue pistol slung low on her hip.

“Wendy,” Todd says, bursting into tears.

She breaks into a run and launches herself into his embrace.

“Hi, Todd,” she says, grinning.

Dr. Price

Travis tells Fielding to take off his watch and any jewelry and badges. To remove anything sharp in his pockets, such as pens or keys.

“Step into the coveralls,” Travis instructs him, finding a certain satisfaction in giving the man orders. “Now get the boots on. After that, we’ll put on the facepiece.”

Fielding pulls on the suit, flexing his hands inside the attached black gloves, while Travis closes the zipper running diagonally from his hip to his throat. Using the coupler, he connects the air hose to an appendage jutting from the mouth of the faceplate.

“Now we’ll put the air tank on your back using the harness,” Travis murmurs, concentrating on his work. Fielding’s breath hisses rhythmically through the respirator. “How does it feel?”

“Hot as hell, but it works,” Fielding says.

“Now you even sound like Darth Vader.”

“Very funny, Doc.”

“We put the suits on using the buddy system. I check your suit for rips and you check mine. The idea here is to achieve an isolated atmosphere within the suit. If one germ gets in, you’re toast. Especially check for holes along the seams.”

“Got it,” says Fielding.

The soldiers are returning on their motorcycles. Travis watches as Sergeant Rodriguez walks away from the Stryker to greet them. He likes the sergeant, wishes Fielding were a little more like him. It’s too bad they are enemies.

“Hope they brought the spray paint back so we can cover up this yellow,” Travis says.

“I would keep it,” Fielding tells him. “The yellow makes us look friendly. We want the guy not to see us as a threat, so he doesn’t get spooked or decide to attack us.”

Travis unzips the man’s coverall and then removes the facepiece and harness. “Do you really think he might attack us?”

“We won’t know what he’s going to do, Doc. Hell, we don’t even know what he is. He may walk like a duck and quack like a duck, but he’s not a duck. For all we know, Wildfire is guiding his every thought and action. He might not even be able to tell the difference.”

“What are we going to do if he does attack us?”

Fielding sneers. “Doc, leave that to me. Just pray real hard he shows up.”

“I’ll bet you wish he doesn’t,” Travis says, sneering back at him. “You’re the kind of guy who’d be perfectly happy to see the world end, as long as you get to shoot me with a big told-you-so smile on your face.”

Fielding laughs. “You know me too well, Doc.”

“Why do you hate me so much?”

The man steps out of the coveralls, stretches and punches him in the solar plexus, knocking the air out of him. Travis doubles over, hugging his ribs and gasping.

“Her name was Sandra Forbes, you piece of shit. The woman you got kicked off the helicopter so you could save the world. She was a travel planner. She worked for the chief of staff.”

Travis comes at him, fueled by sudden rage. He throws an awkward punch that connects with Fielding’s chin. The response is quick, vicious. Travis wakes up on the ground lying on his back.

“Breathe, Doc. Breathe.”

He rolls onto his side, coughing and gasping. “I never would have guessed she was a friend of yours,” he hisses. “I didn’t see you rushing to give up your seat.”

“So it’s my job to rescue everyone?” Fielding says, standing over him, his hands clenched as if itching to hit him again. “And if I don’t, their death is my fault, is that it?”

“What’s wrong with wanting to stay alive?”

“You’re a freak, Doc. You don’t know shit about honor or principle. If it were me, I would give up my life without a second thought if it meant ending the epidemic. You? You want to save the world, but only if others take the risks and do the dying. You’re a coward.”

“Hey!” Sergeant Rodriguez shouts, jogging toward them. “What’s going on here?”

“Just some personal business, Sergeant.”

“Captain, you are fucking up my op. Take a hike.”

“Fine, you can babysit him. He’s all yours.” He leans and whispers to Travis, “I really do hope I get to kill you, Doc. It almost makes me wish your guy never shows.”

Fielding walks away as Rod approaches and kneels next to Travis. “You all right, Dr. Price?”

“Yes, I think so,” Travis says, rolling onto his back and looking up at the blue sky, enjoying the simple act of breathing. “Thanks for that.”

“You mind telling me what that was all about?”

“It’s complicated.”

“Your body is your worst enemy,” the soldier tells him. “Your breathing, your vision.”

“Tell me about it.”

Rodriguez laughs harshly. “You don’t know the half of it. When the Infected come screaming at you, it’s not them you got to worry about the most, it’s your body’s response to stress. That’s their greatest advantage over us; the Infected, well, they don’t know fear. Even now, when I see one of them running at me, I get a jolt to my system, like an electric shock. But then the training takes over and I do what needs doing.”

“What are you trying to tell me?”

“The point I’m making is a fistfight is not so different. The body reacts the same to fear. Maybe you’ll remember that the next time you decide to take a swing at the Captain. You could never beat him fair and square. The guy has military training from somewhere, and you’d never get past it. He knows how to take punishment, and he knows how to dish it out. He let you off easy with what you got. So don’t antagonize the guy, okay? We happen to need you.”