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Martin turned to look for the source of that alarming, booming voice, but stiffened when he heard, “Don’t you dare turn around or I’ll clip that head of yers clean off!”
“All right,” he said. “It’s all right. We’re just here to—“
“Shut the fuck up, pretty boy!” the voice interrupted.
Martin raised his hands above his head (the voice didn’t need to ask). Everyone else followed suit, except Enrique who looked as if he was ready to retch.
“You in a world a shit now, sunshine” the voice said. “Turn around so I can see ya’s faces.”
“Great,” said Lara. “We survive an all out Variant attack only to be murdered by some unhinged Chicago Bulls fan.”
“I told you to shut ya mouth,” the voice hissed. They heard the crack of knuckles as he tightened his grip around the gun. “Why don’t you start by telling me what you’re doing here?”
“That’s a very long and very complicated story,” Martin said. “I’m going to turn around now.” He waited for the voice to respond, but when it didn’t, he said, “If that’s all right.” Still, the voice said nothing. Slowly, Martin turned toward it, half-expecting a gunshot to ring out and to fall dead in a pile of Scottie Pippin paraphernalia. But when he got fully turned he was startled to find the owner of that voice was closer than he initially thought. Standing before him was a tall and broad African American man. His shoulders would rival a Volkswagon and his features were sharp and jarring. He held the gun (which looked cartoonishly small against his massive shoulder) close to his eye, Martin’s forehead pinned in his sights.
“Long story?” he questioned. “If I'm a bettin' man--and I'd like to think I am--I'd say we're all gonna have some time.” The man lowered the gun to his side. “I take it you ain’t Variants then.”
“No shit, Sherlock!” Lara spouted.
“Thank fucking God for that,” said the black man, ignoring her.
“You the one firing at us from the rooftop?” she demanded.
“No…” he said softly. “No, I wasn’t.”
“Musta known who it was, though,” Captain Blake said gruffly. “You clipped our boy here!”
The black man’s eyes came to rest on Enrique. He was still propped up on Lara’s shoulder, his shirt a blurry mess of clotted blood.
“I see,” the black man said steadily. “Let’s get him upstairs.”
“What’s upstairs?” Lara asked.
“This man’s last chance for hope.”
“We’re not going anywhere with you!”
“Lara, calm down,” Martin told her.
“I didn’t shoot yer friend. You can believe that. Now, if you want to save his life, I suggest you follow me.”
The black man turned around and Captain Blake noticed the pale green Air Force fatigues he was wearing. Though, they were not American military. They were rumpled and filthy, and ripped in several places, but they were fatigues nonetheless.
“What’s yer name, solider?” Captain Blake asked.
The black man stopped and peered up at Captain Blake. His eyes were dark and alarming. He stood there with his back arched and attention ready. “Lieutenant Hughes,” he answered. “Lieutenant Russell Hughes, Canadian Royal Air Force.”
“Goddamn pleasure to meet you, Lieutenant,” Captain Blake said holding out his hand. “I’m Captain Richard Blake, United States Army. Retired, of course.”
“‘Course.” Russell took Captain Blake’s hand in his. He nodded toward Enrique. “Let’s get him upstairs. I’d hate for him to die on my watch.” He paused, surveying his audience. “Or by our hands.”
“Are there others upstairs?” Annie asked.
“Yeh,” he grunted. “Four more. C’mon, I think we all got a lot to talk about.” Russell waved his massive hand and led them to the elevators.
By the time the elevators started moving, Enrique had passed out. Lara had managed to slow the bleeding, but life continued to pour out of him at a snail’s pace. The purple bags under his eyes made his sockets seem hollow and old.
When the elevators opened on the second floor, Russell led them to one of the luxury suites overlooking the basketball court. Inside the suite were three exam tables, a cabinet full of antibiotics, syringes, bandages, and antiseptics. On the far wall were half a dozen microscopes, hundreds of slides and petri dishes, and a computerized display chart for testing. Everything inside had the blue and white CDC sticker plastered to its side.
“Help me get him on the table,” Martin said. He and Captain Blake propped Enrique up and tilted him back.
“Can you help him?” Lara asked.
“I don’t know,” Martin said. “Lieutenant Hughes—“
“Russell,” he interrupted.
“Russell, I need you to bring me any bandages you have, any gauze, peroxides, antiseptics, things like that.”
Russell nodded and, while Martin was cutting off Enrique’s shirt, he went about the room retrieving anything he could find.
“What the fuck is this, Russell?” a woman’s voice came from behind them.
Lara spun around, her .357s cocked and readied. Across the barrel of the guns was a striking young woman, twenty-one or twenty-two. Her blonde hair was recently shampooed and brushed, and her skin possessed no traces of dirt or grime. The clothes on her body were freshly washed and pressed. And from where Lara was standing, she could faintly smell the woman’s anti-perspirant. Slung over the woman’s shoulder was a Barrett M82 sniper rifle.
Behind the young woman was a young man, seemingly the same age as her. They had similar features and their hair was nearly identical in color. He had broad shoulders and a thin, goose-like neck. His blue eyes fell to the floor and he stood behind the young woman the way a child does when their parents introduce them to an adult for the first time.
“You’re the one who shot Enrique,” Lara said.
The young man stepped in front of the young woman and removed his sidearm with the quickest of draws. Lara barely had a chance to blink by the time his gun was pinned on her.
“This your muscle?”
“He’s my brother,” the woman said, noticing Enrique on the exam table.
“Harry, put that away!” Russell yelled, handing Martin a first-aid kit. “And Hannah, how many times do I gotta tell ya to shut the fuck up?”
Hannah’s eyes widened in humiliation. Harry looked to his sister who nodded at him with her eyes, and he holstered his sidearm.
“I thought you were Variants,” Hannah said.
“Well, we’re not, you twat!” Lara snapped.
“I saved your lives!”
“We wouldn’t have needed savin’ if your dumb ass hadn’t sent a hollow point through my friend here!”
“Lara, please! I need to focus!” Martin snapped.
Lara looked over and saw Martin start to work on Enrique. His wound bubbled as he poured fresh peroxide on it. The white foam mounded up like stiff peaks of meringue then transformed into a mountain of pink bubbles.
“Why don’t we go next door?” Russell suggested. “We’ll grab a drink."
"You said there were five of you," said Annie. "Where are the rest of you?"
"They're just in the other room," Russell told her. "Don't worry, I'll round 'em up." Russell looked over an uneasy Annie Walker. "It's all right, ma'am, you're safe now."
Annie rubbed her shoulders with the insides of her hands, suddenly cold.
"Come on, follow me. I'm sure we've all got stories to tell," said Russell. "You all right in here by yourself for a while, Doc?”
"You said there were five of you," said Annie. "Where are the rest of you?"
"They're just in the other room," Russell told her. "Don't worry, I'll round 'em up." Russell looked over an uneasy Annie Walker. "It's all right, ma'am, you're safe now."
Annie rubbed her shoulders with the insides of her hands, suddenly cold.
"Come on, follow me. I'm sure we've all got stories to tell," said Russell. "You all right in here by yourself for a while, Doc?”
Martin nodded, but never looked up. Russell nodded his confirmation and headed out of the suite. Hannah and Harry followed after him.
“I don’t like this, Martin,” said Lara.
“Just go hear what they have to say,” he instructed.
“I don’t trust them!”
“I said, ‘go!’”
Nobody wanted to be the first to move. But, eventually, Annie stepped around Captain Blake and left the room. He and Lara followed silently, casting one final glance back at their fallen compatriot.
The survivors’ world was changing. They were in the hands of the others now.
END OF BOOK ONE
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