Whatever It Takes (26 page)

Percival spent the day tied to the chair. Indiana stopped by to feed him water twice, but other than that, no one visited or looked in on him. He didn’t complain or make any noise. He worked at his wrists in his bindings, listening to the comings and goings of the soldiers. It sounded like five of them, and he knew a handful of names, worked a ‘day shift’ while the other three stood watch over night.

By the time the sun was setting, he had the very basics of a plan: wait for the five to go to sleep, slip his bindings, and stealth around the house until he found Sarah. They could then flee together. He wasn’t worried about finding their stuff. They could always procure more gear elsewhere. They had a small arsenal left at the Humvee.

Besides he didn’t expect it to last much past the slipping his bindings portion.

And as the room darkened into proper night and the day shift soldiers set into their various sleeping stations, Percival had difficulty getting step one of his escape plan into motion. While Indiana had certainly tied the zip ties looser than when Percival was initially bound, he was having a certain level of difficulty slipping them.

He found he could almost squeeze his left hand out, but the tie kept getting caught on the bone of his thumb. He tugged and pulled, twisting the plastic into his wrist enough to break the skin and bleed. As the darkness wore on and night deepened, weeping away toward the morning hours, he became more and more desperate to get free.

His yanks on his wrists became more frantic, pressing harder against the chair and tugging forcefully up and away. He closed his eyes and pressed his hand hard against the cold metal of the chair. He kept pressing, feeling the pressure build in his thumb. He lightly bit his lip to keep from crying out as pressure turned to pain. The sensation peaked with a lightning bolt of pain and a soft pop as his thumb dislocated.

He quickly scrunched his hand as small as possible and slid it out of the tie. He blinked back tears, hoping he’d not just permanently disabled his hand. His other fingers still worked just fine, so he didn’t think so, but it still hurt like no injury he’d had before.

He cradled his hand against his chest for a moment. In the darkness it was difficult to see his hand and assess the damage he’d just done. It was also hard for him to feel just how much he’d done without his second hand being free. His left hand had dulled down to a pulsing pain that served as a reminder for what he’d just done.

Taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly, and a little shakily, he worked his hand down to his still bound one. With fingers that felt numb and fat and pulsed with pain at even the slightest jostle, he fingered the zip tie still around his right wrist.

When that didn’t work, he started going through his pockets, carefully and slowly, for anything the soldiers might have left on him. He found the keychain with both the Humvee and the Dodge keys on it. It also bore a Masterlock key for getting through various padlocked gates on campus.

He couldn’t be happier that his pockets weren’t empty and doubly so when the key with the sharpest teeth he’d yet to encounter was still there. He kicked himself for not checking his pockets when he’d relieved himself earlier and possibly palming the key then.

Minutes dragged by as he worked the key against the hard plastic zip tie. His hand was cramped from the awkward way he needed to hold the key, without using his thumb, and even further sore when the piece of plastic finally split and popped off. He dropped the keys into his good hand, quickly slipped them into his pocket once more, and cradled his injured hand.

He took several quick and quiet breaths, rocking lightly with the hand against his chest. He felt the distended digit with his good hand. Each touch sent a fresh spark of pain, though it paled when compared to the pain of the initial dislocation.

He gingerly tried to move it of its own volition and quickly discovered that was impossible. Percival closed his eyes tight, felt around the base of his injured thumb, and in a smooth, quick motion, pulled the offended digit back to where it was supposed to be.

It shifted with a pop. The pressure that’d been building in his thumb was suddenly gone, though the aching pain that came with any injury remained. He could move the finger again, though he didn’t want to.

It was an improvement. He tucked the hand against his chest and got up from the chair that’d been his prison for two solid days. He slid toward the doorway. He expected to find Greyson, his resident guardian, in the same space he’d been sitting in the morning.

The hallway was dark with only a soft glow rising from somewhere downstairs. Percival crept to the edge of the doorway and slowly poked his head through. Greyson sat with his back against the wall the same wall as Percival’s doorway. He gave no indication of being aware that Percival was on the verge of escape. He didn’t even seem to be awake, his body shifting with the steady rhythms of someone asleep.

Percival watched Greyson for a solid minute before stepping through the doorway slowly and carefully. He kept his gaze locked on the body in the hallway as he padded across the hallway. There were two rooms he had to check in the upstairs area before he even considered leaving.

Keeping one eye on the sleeping, Percival’d decided Greyson had dozed off, guard, he slowly slid down the hallway. He kept his back against the wall, creating as small a profile as he could. In the darkness, if he was just a vague shape, he might well be overlooked.

He crept to just across the doorway and bent low before crossing the hallway and into the room. A darkened silhouette sat before the window on the stool. It was crouched over a long rifle that was balanced on a bipod on the window sill. Percival had a flash of anger for the person positioned behind the gun. He barely restrained his impulse to snap a kick into the back of its head.

This person might very well have been the one to put a bullet through Andrina. And he was going to leave them alone. He slid back out of the room. The gunman seemed none the wiser to his presence.

Percival let his breath trickle out and moved the couple of steps into the final upstairs room. He took several long moments staring into the darkness before they coalesced into the sleeping mounds of soldiers. He didn’t expect that Sarah would be among them, or that she’d have remained quiet for so long if it were required of her, and turned to leave the room once more.

Greyson stirred. He shifted on the ground where he sat, head twisting back and forth.

Percival panicked. If he was caught there was no way they’d let their guard down a second time. He moved faster and quieter than he knew he could as adrenaline flooded his system. Greyson looked up as Percival planted his forward foot and drove a vicious knee into his face.

Hot blood spattered Percival’s knee and pants as he drew back and slammed his knee home a second time. The second brutal blow clipped Greyson’s chin and crushed into his throat. A third blow drove the man down to the side.

He made a soft gurgling sound that immediately made Percival sick to his stomach. In the dim light from below, Percival could barely make out the ruined remains of Greyson’s face. His jaw was distended and crooked beneath a caved in nose. Blood was spattered across his whole face and dribbled weakly onto the carpet from where he now lay. One of his eyes had been crushed back into his skull, while the other stared blankly into space.

Percival stood silent and staring at Greyson. The part of him that wasn’t horrified with what he’d just done actively listened for any indication that someone else had heard the violence and was coming to investigate.

The shock wore away from Percival. He’d taken another life. Not from a good man, he was convinced, but that hadn’t made it right. He drew a shaky breath, bent, and began going through Greyson’s pockets. He was hampered by his injured hand, but quickly searched the dead guard.

Percival didn’t have time to take the gun belt Greyson wore, but did take his pistol, two spare magazines, a set of keys, a small Maglite flashlight, and a pocket knife. Not the haul of a century, especially since he didn’t have the pouches or holster that Greyson had for carrying the articles.

Percival wasn’t about to complain over being armed again. And if Sarah was zip tied, like he was, the knife would be invaluable for freeing her. If she had more mundane cuffs on, the ring of keys might help.

He cast one last look at the man’s demolished face, fought back bile, and stepped over the corpse. He could blow away zombies day and night and had inflicted far more grievous wounds than what he’d left on Greyson’s face to just as human skulls. But it was the snuffing of light from this being that bothered him.

A part of him was glad as it meant he wasn’t a psychopath. Another smaller part could appreciate the ability to kill, and kill in horrific and efficient ways, without emotion.

He crouched down with Greyson’s pistol in his right hand and left held close to his body. He moved in a low crouch to the stairwell and peeked around the corner and down into the living room/command center. The light source was the laptop. The third soldier paced quietly in front of the window looking out on the street. She seemed oblivious to the movement behind her as Percival crept down the stairs.

He ghosted to the bottom platform and rounded the corner to the small door nestled in the side of the stairwell. Agonizingly slow, he pulled it opened and hoped it didn’t creak. At this distance he’d need to shoot the woman to prevent her from shouting and that would be just as bad.

The door opened as quietly as he could hope. The soldier didn’t turn to face him, content to continue to stare outside. It seemed that the dangers outside far outweighed those within.

Percival’d made that same mistake with allowing Morrbid to come along and trusting him alone with the rest of his party. He carefully closed the door behind him. He didn’t want her to see the open doorway and become suspicious.

He crept down the basement stairs and into complete darkness. He tucked the pistol into the waistband of his pants and took out the Maglite. He covered the business end with one hand before clicking it on.

The muted light revealed the basement in shades of gray and black. The steady chug of the generator drowned out most of the rest of the noise in the area. Its vibrating shape in the center of the room also dominated the area. He shifted his hand to let more light out.

“Percival?” Sarah sounded small and distant on the other side of the basement.

Percival’s heart leapt into his throat. He moved around the generator and crossed the basement in a handful of long bounds. She was seated on the dusty floor with her hands bound behind her back to a solid metal pipe. Her cheek sported a large, black and purple bruise.

“Oh, thank God. It is you,” she whispered.

“Of course it’s me,” Percival said. He couldn’t hide the joy from his voice. “Who else would it be?”

“They said they’d killed you,” Sarah said. She let her gaze drop. “After… After Carlos, I didn’t think they’d be lying…”

Percival set the Maglite down and gingerly reached out to touch her cheek. He traced a finger down her jawline. “I’m not dead, hon. Alive and kicking and all the better to know you’re… Who did this?”

“The jackass in charge. A bully with more power than he deserves,” she answered. She looked up at him, rare tears shining unshed in her eyes. “Didn’t like it when I spat in his face.”

“That’s my girl.” Percival leaned down and gently kissed her. “What happened to Carlos?”

Sarah closed her eyes and let her forehead sink to rest against his. She shook her head slightly as though that would banish the memory from surfacing. “When the big brute clubbed you, Carlos took an aggressive step toward Proxies. The guy with a gun on him freaked out and shot him. Think he spent the next half hour throwing up though.”

Percival could still remember his first experience with killing another person and could relate to the soldier who’d shot Carlos. “I’m sorry…”

“Not your fault. You were doin’ the best you could. There is one more thing you can do, though.” She leaned back from him.

“What’s that?”

“As much as I like being tied up for you, now’s not the time or place for such shenanigans. Cut me free, please?” She gave him a smile that managed to be haughty and innocent all at the same time. An undercurrent of sadness ran through the petite smile.

He nodded and shifted back onto his heels. He carefully dug the pocket knife out of his pocket and shuffled around to her side. He opened the blade and leaned forward, left hand bent so he balanced on his wrist and kept any pressure or force off of his injured hand. He pressed the knife against the zip ties and the pipe and began sawing.

“What happened to your hand?” she asked. “Was it something they did?”

Ever the observant person, she’d noticed his careful actions not to agitate the injury. He sawed faster. “I didn’t have a knife to work with when I got out of my zip ties.”

“Oh…” she nearly silently said. “Shit. Is it broken? Is it bad?”

“So long as I don’t jostle it, it’s fine. I don’t think I broke it. Just popped my thumb. I hope I didn’t break it.”

The zip tie severed with a soft pop and a gentle ping as the knife blade collided with the pipe beneath it. He rocked back onto his haunches as she pulled her hands quickly around and began rubbing her wrists. Two zip ties still hung from her arms, but they weren’t bothering her. “Thanks. Lemme see your hand.”