RAGE (Descendants Saga (Crisis Sequence One)) (6 page)

Hu sp
eaks up. “They’re infected with a pathogen!” He says
infected
and
pathogen
on purpose. You don’t just blurt out the word zombie, if you want to be taken seriously.

The driver stop
s momentarily, stricken by the words.

“I’m a doctor
, and I’m telling you those people back there are infected,” Hu says. “We’ve got to leave them and the train here and make it to the next station.”

The driver t
akes in Hu’s clothing, putting two and two together. A doctor. Of course, that makes sense. He must know what he is talking about.

Instantly
, she climbs down from the train car and motions them forward. “Let’s go,” she says, looking terrified now. “It’s probably only a mile or two ahead. Just be careful of the third rail.”

Hu and the others nod, passing the driver. Hu turn
s back, wanting the woman to get ahead of them with her flashlight. Then he sees a single, slight figure standing at the edge of the car where Sharon was last seen. The woman is backlit by the train car’s fluorescent lighting.

Her arms and hands h
ang slightly flexed at her sides. Her hair is mussed and wild looking. It has to be Sharon. Then they hear her scream rise above the noise of the engine car. She leaps from the train, sprinting toward them along the opposite tracks.

“Run!” Hu shout
s.

The others hear the scream and see the woman leap away to come after them. They d
on’t need any further convincing. They turn and run.

Ahead of them, lights com
e down the tunnel. It is the driver who calls out to them then. “Train! Get on our side of the tracks!”

Hu and the others d
o so, passing the engine car. The headlights from the engine fill the immediate space in the tunnel. They fall into the whitewash of the headlights, running after their own shadows cast upon the tracks before them.

The train running in the opposite direction
barrels down upon them from the tunnel ahead. However, they know it is held to its own tracks, and they are in little danger over here. Hu wonders.

He turn
s as the train passes them. The headlights illuminate the tunnel and the side of their train. Sharon still pursues them. Mindless to the approaching danger, she runs full on, even as the headlights wash over her. The train plows into Sharon. There is a terrible thump, and Hu hears bones breaking inside his head.

They stop
running as the other train’s brakes squeal in anger. The driver brings the snaking beast to a stop, realizing they have hit something, perhaps even seeing the crazed woman right before battering her. No doubt they will open their train cars, feeling the need to investigate what has happened, why the other train is stopped on the tracks with its doors opened.

“We have to warn them,” the driver sa
ys.

“That will only waste time,” Hu
argues. “We have to get away now!”

T
he driver heads back toward the other train with her flashlight sweeping the ground. She hasn’t seen Sharon’s face, hasn’t seen her attacking the other passengers, killing the police officer. Yet, the man and the woman with him saw her. They saw a crazed Sharon beating her bloody face into the safety glass, trying to get to them.

“I’ll go with her,” the man sa
ys unexpectedly, taking up after the driver.

“Are you crazy?” Hu
asks.

“Somebody has to warn the others on that train,” the man sa
ys. “Besides, the woman was hit by the train. There’s no way she survived that.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Hu warns
.

T
he man shakes his head. “You go on, if you want to. I’m no coward.” He shoots Hu a disdainful look and then starts after the driver again.

Indignant, Hu shout
s after him. “No, you’re a fool!”

The man d
oesn’t even bother turning around, but jogs to catch up to where the train has come to a stop. Passengers mill around inside the last few visible cars. There aren’t many, but they are standing, holding to the rails looking confused about the sudden stop.

“I’m not hanging around here,” Hu sa
ys. He turns and starts jogging up the track toward the next station. The woman passenger follows.

“Wait for me,” she sa
ys, matching his jog. “I can’t stay here. Not after seeing her face.”

Hu kn
ows exactly what she means. He feels the same way. The best thing they can do now is make it to Westbourne Park Station and notify the authorities there. If fiction even comes close to the truth, they are going to need military intervention as soon as possible to stop this outbreak.

The jogging only lasts for about fifteen minutes. Hu isn’t in the best shape for a man his age. He doesn’t have a lot of time for exercise with all of his coursework.

When he slow
s and starts walking, the woman slows as well. He breathes hard, maybe harder than her. She is young and possibly in better shape.

“What’s your name?” he ask
s, continuing down the tunnel.

“Amy,” she sa
ys. “How about you?”

“Hu.”

“You.”

“No, my
name
is Hu,” he says. “Hu Takashi.”

“Oh.”

They walk a little while longer.

“Hu, I just wanted to say I’m very grateful to you for warning us. I can’t believe what happened back there. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Yeah, me neither,” Hu says.

They walk a little longer.

“How long have you been a doctor?” Amy asks.

“What?”

“A doctor,” she says. “You seem so young. I just wonder how long.”

“Oh, not that long,” Hu sa
ys, unwilling to get into that subject.

They walk
on.

“How long do you think it’s been?” Amy ask
s. “I’m surprised we haven’t seen any more trains.”

Hu consider
s it. “The whole system is probably locked up. They monitor all of the trains by computer. They would know those two stopped.”

“So, they’ll
be forced to come and investigate?”

“They would probably radio them first and try to find out what’s going on.”

“I guess that sounds reasonable,” Amy says. Then she points up ahead. “Look, there’s light.”

“It must be
Westbourne Park,” Hu says.

They start running again, anxious to get out of the dark tunnel and into the light. He fumble
s in his pocket and finds his cell phone. Fingering the power button, he makes the screen come on. The time is later than he anticipates.

“What time is it?” Amy ask
s, running beside him.

“
Almost 11:30PM,” he says. “We were further away than I thought.”

“At least we’re here now,” Amy sa
ys as they come out of the tunnel into fluorescent lighting given off by the platform. A train waits on the other track, but it is neither loading nor unloading. The motor hums, but the headlamps are off.

“Look there!” they hear someone shout as they c
ome toward the platform wall.

Hu notice
s a number of policemen congregated on the platform, as well as security guards who must work for the London Underground Transit Authority.

“What are you two doing down there on the tracks?” one of the officers sa
ys, shining a light down on them as others came up to the edge of the platform.

“We’re from one of the trains stopped in the tunnel,” Hu sa
ys.

A couple of policemen help haul them up onto the platform from the tracks.

“The trains in the tunnel between here and Paddington?” an officer asks.

“Yes,” Hu
confirms.

“Do you know anything about the accident? The driver of one of the trains said a woman was struck down there. She also said a lot of them
were attacked by one of the passengers.”

“We’re you one of them?” another officer ask
s.

“What?”

“There’s dried blood on your face and your shirt,” the officer says, pointing.

Hu panic
s momentarily, until he recalls how the man shoved him into the door. His nose bled a bit and stained his shirt. It is still a bit sore, now that he thinks about it.

“No,” he sa
ys quickly. “I’m not injured. I wasn’t bitten.”

“Bitten?” a policeman ask
s.

“Yes,” Hu sa
ys. “And it’s not really an accident. A woman is infected. She became violent and killed a policeman on the train.”

“Are you sure about this?” one of the officers ask
s.

“Of course
, he’s sure,” Amy says. “Can’t you see this man is a doctor? Tell them, Hu.”

Hu only nod
s. He doesn’t want to lie to the police, but he does want them to take him seriously. If letting them think he is a doctor accomplishes that, then so be it.

“She’s a nurse at St. Mary’s where I work,” he explain
s. “I think she may have become infected by the boy who broke loose there yesterday and killed a security guard working our med surg floor.”

The police officers perk up at the mention of the hospital attack. They either heard about it
, or were involved as first responders. They become all business, now that something about this mystery seems to fit with a known incident.

“All right,” one of the officers sa
ys. “We’re going to need statements from both of you. We’ll have an officer take you up top in a few minutes and give you a ride to the precinct.”

“You don’t understand,” Hu sa
ys. “You need to get the military involved. This is big.”

“We’ve got a team preparing to take this train down the tunnel,” the officer sa
ys. “Everything is under control.”

“No, it’s not,” Hu
insists.

“Sir,” the officer sa
ys, holding up a hand to Hu’s chest, “Don’t get excited. We’re professionals. We can handle this.”

He motion
s for another officer to come to his aid. A female officer walks over and leads Hu and Amy to a bench on the platform. “Let’s have you two take a seat for a bit, all right? We’ll get to you as soon as possible.”

As soon as possible turns out to be better than an hour later. A team of officers boards the train on the opposite platform. Hu hears enough to know all traffic on this line is halted, or diverted to other lines.

B
ottled waters are given to Hu and Amy from one of the machines. Otherwise, the officers busy themselves with putting their team together and getting the equipment they might need for this kind of rescue onto the train. None of them appear to be taking the infection aspect seriously.

Then the bustle on the platform transform
s. Amy shakes Hu by the arm. He opens his eyes, realizing he fell asleep on the bench listening to his MP3.

Amy
stands to her feet. Hu looks up at her, and she begins to scream. Then his eyes turn to the tunnel ahead and the police officers. People flow out of the tunnel, attacking the officers on the opposite platform.

There
are no Armed Response Officers here, no guns are fired. Only Bobbies with nightsticks were present to perform this simple rescue of two train cars and the reported accident. They are unprepared for what comes out of that tunnel.

Hu run
s. Police officers are overwhelmed behind him. At least a dozen crazed individuals, like Sharon, swarm onto the platform. Hu loses sight of Amy. He doesn’t even care. He just has to get away.

Chaos erupt
s on the platform. Hu runs for the stairs leading up to the main level of Westbourne Park Station. A weight hits him from the side, knocking him to the pavement. Someone crouches on top of him.

Hu turn
s over, trying to get up. Sharon’s face is there. She screams with bloody eyes and teeth hanging cracked in her mouth. Her face is a massive bruise from the impact of the train. How did she survive?

Hu c
an’t believe it. She should be dead. She has to be dead. This must be some terrible nightmare. He has to wake from it. His whole life lies before him—a career, a wife and a family. Then her mouth comes down, her teeth ready to sink into his flesh. Hu Takashi’s scream echoes across the platform and then fades into the cacophony of woe at Westbourne Park.

Essence of Folly

Pre-infected world or Post, the scum still rises to the top like algae on a pond—Jonathan Parks

15 Days Earlier

Foster care isn’t the worst thing in the world. I mean, at least I have a home with two people there who can help me. Harold and Jeannette Lemon are good people. They’re willing to provide for my needs, a structured environment, all of those basic needs. However, they aren’t my mother and father. They know it, and I know it.

I just turned nine when I lost my grandfather. My grandmother passed years earlier. My grandfather
was very old. He simply died in his sleep.

They lived in Gloucestershire and Baltimore before that with my mother. I never knew her. She died
after I was born. I didn’t know until I was almost nine. I guess my grandfather wanted to tell me. Maybe he realized his time was short. At least, he explained to me what happened.

My mother
was sick, but none of them knew it. The doctors tried to save her, but she died anyway. I always carry this picture of her in my mind, looking down at me. I don’t know where that comes from. Still, the image is the same woman in the pictures on my grandparent’s mantel.

I
’m glad he told me. I didn’t want to wonder all my life about what happened to her. She was their only daughter. There was a great difference in their ages though. Maybe she was born when they were older, but it seems to me they were too old by then.

Of course, the obvious mystery
is my father. My grandparents never mentioned him. When I asked my grandfather, he claimed not to know. My mother was gone for some time, evidently, and when she showed back up on their doorstep, she was with child. With me. Any knowledge of his whereabouts or identity died with her.

There
are no answers to any of these questions. My whole family is now gone. I’m still a minor and find myself in the custody of the state. I went into the foster system with an inheritance that would be used by those who care for me until I turn eighteen and can take care of myself.

I can honestly say I
have grown to love Harold and Jeanette. It is more like an aunt and uncle familiarity, though I’m only guessing at the comparison. Still, we’ve grown to care for one another.

My grandfather taught me to be respectful, to work hard,
and to trust God. Even when I can’t understand my circumstances, to trust God. He took me to church when he could, but insisted I go on the bus even when he wasn’t able. He was a good man. I still miss him.

Harold and Jeanette
took over where he left off. They’re firm but fair. They lost a child, a son, to Leukemia when he was young. I think he may have been near my age when he died. His name was Shane.

It
was almost ten years after the death of their son when they decided to open their home to someone like me in need. I’m glad they did. They are like my grandfather in a lot of ways. They also attend church. They are both hard working people. They are genuine.

I
go to school and make pretty good grades. At least, I try. Math isn’t so great, but I enjoy history quite a bit. It is pretty interesting to find the patterns, how it repeats itself. People are like that. When we don’t learn from the past, we repeat the mistakes.

I
’m on the rugby team at my school. I make a good tackler. I have always been very strong. Some even say, I am unusually strong. After my fourteenth birthday, that only became more so. I’m careful, so I don’t hurt someone. Yet, I am still not that big a guy.

Tom Kennedy
is the hot shot. He is the captain on our rugby team—idolized by the kids at our high school. The girls think he is the man. Well, almost all of the girls.

It’s strange. Why is it when we are denied something, that one thing—that one person—becomes the very one we feel we can’t live without. That was how it happened. That
is why Tom Kennedy came after me.

Lori Strauss
is a junior. I am a sophomore. She likes me. Really, she is the only girl who pays me any attention. Maybe it is because they know I am a foster kid, that Harold and Jeanette aren’t my real parents. It’s hard to say. Sometimes, kids are just like that, but Lori isn’t.

For some reason, that bother
s Tom Kennedy. I’m not saying we were friends before. He shows a desire on the team to keep me down. They all know I can handle myself; that I can put them down when necessary. Maybe, he feels threatened by that, wants to protect his territory.

He start
s something after a thing on the field. During practice, I am the one to tackle him. He takes it personally. We push each other a little with the other guys circled up around us. Typical. They live for a good fight. The coach finds us first and breaks it up, sends us to the showers.

I hope it end
s there, but the anger doesn’t fall away for young boys so easily. I know this isn’t really over. Especially not with Tom Kennedy.

He f
inds me almost a month later, but he doesn’t come alone. It is an ambush. He and six of his friends, mates from our team who hover around him like planetary bodies to his sun.

I walk home every
day. Harold and Jeanette both work. Harold drops me off at school, but they aren’t home in time to pick me up. It has never been a big deal or anything. I don’t mind walking. Still, Tom knows the route I take, knows where I live and where he and his mates can lie in wait for me.

In fact, Tom wait
s with a bit more than just his friends. When he comes out of the alley on me from behind, he swings a cricket bat. He thumps the side of my leg before I know what is happening. The blow comes just north of my knee, and I go down immediately.

Tom ha
s known me for some time. We never particularly liked one another. Yet, we don’t come to blows until he decides he doesn’t like the attention I have come to receive from Lori Strauss. Tom also knows I’m not afraid of him, and I can handle myself pretty good in a fight.

However, he come
s with the intent to win this thing and teach me a lesson. Something along the lines of,
don’t mess with Tom Kennedy
, I suppose. Bullies are all the same. He is insecure, despite his good standing socially and his reputation. He means to hang on to all of that, which must mean zero tolerance for anyone who doesn’t act like Tom is God’s gift to our school.

At any rate, all of the psychoanalyzing in the world d
oesn’t make my leg feel any better at this moment. I have been forced into a confrontation. I am either going to defend myself, or take the beating of my life. I don’t have any idea what possessed Tom to go this route. He could kill me with that bat.

I f
all because of the leg, as his mates encircle me. I suppose they are only here to make sure I don’t try to run for it, since none of them have ever actually joined in a brawl. Can’t really blame them on that though. I could whip any two of them in a different setting. Plus, Tom is swinging that piece of hickory around. If they make a move at me, they are just as likely to have their melon smashed in.

Rolling to my back to find Tom over me, I raise my left arm defensively. It
is purely instinctive when I notice him swinging something at me. The cricket bat doesn’t fully register in my mind yet over the numbing pain shooting through my leg.

Tom br
ings the bat down on my forearm like Excalibur. I feel the arm give way before I register the pain of the break. That comes a second later with my screams.

However, rather than balling
up into the fetal position, something snaps inside me—something other than my arm. I tilt back to get the correct upward angle and then lash out with my right foot to the front of his left knee. Tom buckles and falls forward onto his hands.

Cradling my broken left arm, I roll backward and c
ome up on my feet. Then, like a raging bull with red in his eyes, I charge at Tom. He straightens on his knees, raising the cricket bat and swinging at my legs again.

I hop over it and kick out with my right foot, catching him on the chest just to the left of his sternum. His head whiplashe
s forward as his body is driven backward onto the pavement. I land astride his chest with my right knee pinning his left arm above his elbow and my left foot pinning his bat hand at the wrist.

His eyes boggle in shock then, a sneer crossing his face. I pop him with an open palm that thump
s the back of his head on the concrete hard enough to daze him. Then I give him another balled fist on the cheek like a hammer stroke to keep him down.

My self defense instructor always said the human skull is like a bowling ball. Best to thump somebody with your open palm, which g
ives you more control, or hit them with the fleshy outside edge of your fist to keep from breaking your own knuckles. After all, the goal isn’t to kill the other guy, just put them down hard and stop the fight.

I st
and then, scooping up the bat. Tom’s cronies still encircle me, and I don’t want them getting any ideas. Fortunately, other bystanders have also happened by. One of them is evidently getting video on her cell phone. Typical, I suppose.

I wave the bat around me, warning off the other boys. And, to the bystanders, I
yell for one of them to call the police. I’m not going to put up with this. How long will it take before Tom starts something again? And I’m at a disadvantage now with my broken arm.

It throb
s terribly. Cradling it does little to help, but it is better to have it tucked protectively against by body than dangling around. Still, it hurts a lot, even if I am hyped up on adrenaline now.

When the other boys hear the police w
ill be involved, they abandon Tom. They want nothing to do with assault charges. It’s every man for himself.

I ke
ep Tom down, waiting with the three people who stopped to see what happened. I press the cricket bat threateningly against his Adam’s apple. “Try to get up and you’ll have a few breaks to match the arm you gave me,” I warn.

Tom, almost surprisingly
, stays down.

This melee ha
s left us both bloody and bruised, not to mention my arm. We have cuts and scrapes all over, despite how brief it has all been. My hand is bleeding, probably from hitting the ground initially. Tom has a couple of nice bloody fist prints across his face and a few cuts of his own, mainly where I thumped him around the mouth, cutting his lips on his teeth.

We might
have shared a little blood, but I don’t figure that makes us brothers. I’m angry at him for this, but I can honestly say I don’t hate Tom Kennedy. I know what to expect from someone like him, so it isn’t like I’ve suffered some shocking betrayal. He acted exactly the way I expected.

Besides, Harold Lemon
taught me a few things over the years. He taught me never to hate anyone, even when they wrong you. Anger is just an emotion, and I can get over that. So, I let it go. Hatred is against God, like murdering someone in your heart.

So, I d
on’t hate him. I don’t want to get on his level. I choose to pity him instead. He is the one with the problem. I bested him today, even if I do have a broken arm. And Lori likes me. Tom hasn’t taken anything away from me, only from himself.

When the police arrive, I st
and up before they can get out of their car. They eye me warily, until I drop the bat, probably supposing Tom is the victim. At least until my three witnesses show them the video. I appreciate ubiquitous cell phone videos more and more.

My wonderful witnesses
arrived on the scene in time to see Tom with the bat in his hands striking a wounded me across the forearm. The break is ugly to watch on video and only makes it feel worse. The rest of the footage speaks for itself. Tom is the aggressor and everyone knows it.

However, much to my chagrin, he
isn’t going to be taken to the precinct for booking. Not only am I headed to the hospital for my arm, Tom is being sent for his mouth lacerations and a possible concussion from where I banged his head a couple of times on the pavement.

Paramedics arrive on the scene shortly after statements
are given. We each have to sit and have our wounds cleaned and bandaged. They also manage to place my arm in a sling that will keep it stable for the ride to St. Mary’s Hospital on Praed Street, not far away.

I
am loaded into the ambulance, since I technically have the greater injury. Tom is deemed fit enough to ride to the hospital, in style, in the backseat of the police cruiser. At that point, we part ways, but it won’t be long before we see each other again.