Arcadia (Book 1): Damn The Dead Page 24
Her boots lost their grip. She slid down the duct several feet. The thunder of wracking sheet metal was so close, she was afraid if she tried to see behind her that they would be almost on her.
She wanted to live.
She needed to get out of this place.
Char was not going to stop. She dug in with the toe of her boots, and kept on moving.
Her hands hit something. Her fingers raked across a grate. The end of the duct? A vent cover?
It was a way out.
She punched at the cover. If the screws at this end were rusted, she might be trapped. She punched hard, using the heels of her hands. The vent didn’t seem to budge.
Time was running out.
She wasn’t about to get caught. Not now.
Not this close.
There wasn’t room enough to get much leverage. She wished she could turn around and kick the vent out. That wasn’t possible.
She struck the vent over and over.
Over and over.
Something gave.
They were almost directly behind her. She knew it now. The sound was louder, different.
She slammed her heel of her hand into the vent, over and over. A rage filled her. She thought of Kilmer trying to rape her, of Tony, of Sam. . .of Grace, alone and in a coma in a hospital bed. She thought of Cash and her father.
An anger filled her, coursed through her, and exploded from her fists in a strike that knocked the vent free of the screws that secured it in place.
She reached her hands forward, and pulled her upper torso out of the duct.
She felt blindly around for some kind of hand hold. There was nothing. Her eyes never adjusted to the darkness. There just wasn’t any light to assist.
She turned so she was sitting in the duct, and felt around for the top of the lip. She then pulled out her legs and dangled. She had no idea how far down the drop was. Looking down the duct she saw light. A flashlight beam played on the metal. They’d caught up to her.
She dropped. It felt like freefalling. Then her feet hit the ground. She relaxed her knees, fell, and shoulder rolled. Her left elbow crashed into something jagged, and sharp. Pain shot up her left arm. She cradled it as she struggled to get to her feet.
She thought the river would be right there, right in front of her. As best she could tell, it wasn’t.
She heard the trampling of feet on crushed rock.
They pursued her from inside the duct, and knowing where the duct exited, must have sent a team to retrieve her.
She was a fugitive.
She saw several flashlight beams run across the walls of the cave she was now in. Their shadows danced across the walls as big as giants.
More light came from above, from the duct she’d just jumped out of.
She heard the river to her right.
There were no options left. She walked as carefully and as fast as she could toward the water.
She didn’t want to look back. She didn’t need to know how close they were.
The back of her neck became suddenly hot. She clapped a hand over the area. It almost felt like her skin was on fire under her clothing.
It was the tattoo. The burning feeling was circular.
She lost her footing.
She couldn’t see a thing, and braced her arms out in front of her.
Her hands splashed through water. Her body followed. She was submerged in an icy river.
She fought to get back to the top. She’d swallowed water and choked on her way up, taking in more. Her head broke through the surface. She was all turned around in the darkness. She knew she was moving, and that the water was swift, but she felt lost and weightless. Her leg struck something under the water, and she went under with barely time to catch her breath . . .
Chapter 36
The knock at the door was insistent. Vincent Forti pulled his pillow out from under his head and stuffed it over his face.
“Coming!” No one could hear him. He was upstairs in his bedroom.
He threw off his blankets and slid his legs out of bed. His feet slid into slippers, he stood up and stretched while letting out a big, loud yawn. “This better be important.”
He reached for his bathrobe on the back of his door and tied the belt around his waist as he shuffled down the short hallway to the staircase.
The knocking persisted.
Moonlight came in through the windows on either side of the door.
“Coming!” He took the stairs carefully, a hand on the railing. “Better be a fucking emergency.”
He unfastened the chain, and disengaged the deadbolt. Arcadia might be pretty safe, but Vincent was never one to take unnecessary chances, and safety was a top priority, regardless.
He opened the door. “What is it?”
George Hermann’s hair was unkempt. He shook his head. “We’ve got a problem.”
# # #
She kept her hands up, and they scraped against low rock ceilings, but helped her keep from smacking her head. Her legs were out in front of her. She was trying to float with the current. Water splashed inside her mouth, up her nostrils. She gasped and coughed.
The river sounded like a locomotive. It picked up speed. She worried there might be a waterfall ahead. That’s what she always recalled in any movie where someone used a river to get away. A treacherous waterfall.
The water was so cold, but did nothing to relieve the burning on the back of her neck. Rebecca Bowman had done something to her. She knew the sensation was somehow related to the powers the mystical woman had spoken of. What else could that woman do? What else did she know?
Then the ceiling disappeared above her hands.
She didn’t lower her arms. She might just be in a. . .
Above was light.
Bright.
She saw the moon. Stars.
She was out of the mountain.
She put her legs behind her, swam with the current but angled for the bank. The water carried her quickly to it. She kept expecting to have her body slammed into a partially submerged boulder.
# # #
George Hermann was seated at Vincent’s kitchen table when he came down the stairs fully dressed.
“Okay, so what do we have in place?” Vincent said.
“Team of guards went for the river, where the vent lets out.”
“She hits the water and she’ll be beyond our borders.”
“True.”
“Will they get her?” Vincent said.
“She’s crawling through an air duct. They’re running—it’s a roundabout way to get there, but yeah, they should get to her before she gets to the end of the duct.”
Vincent pursed his lips. A prison escape was the last thing he needed right now. Gary Priestly would exploit the hell out of this. Despite Vincent not having anything to do with a prison break, anything that happened in Arcadia, good or bad, reflected on him.
He wished he could think of a way to keep all of this secret. “So, what, only people in the Cog are aware of this?”
“So far, yes. You’re the first person I came to tell when I found out.” Hermann had his glasses in his hands. He used a paper napkin to wipe his lenses. “What do you want to do?”
“Your men can keep this quiet for now?”
Hermann shrugged. “They do what I tell them.”
“Let’s head back to the Cog. See if they’ve caught her. If they did, I don’t want anyone outside of that place learning about the attempted escape,” Vincent said. That was best case scenario. He mentally crossed his fingers.
“And on the off chance that she got away?”
“You said they would nab her where the duct exits.”
“I said we should be able to get her. We are supposing though. Suppose they didn’t catch her.”
“I know a guy, someone I trust to find her and bring her back.”
“If she’s gone, there’s no threat to Arcadia’s people. Banishment is just as harsh as punishment during times like this, if you ask
me.” He fit his glasses back onto his face. The lenses made his eyeballs pop through the glass.
“We have three years to find her.” Vincent Forti said. He’d win an election against Priestly without giving a race much pause, unless word of the escape went public. If he won another election, it would be essential in three years to have McKinney exit the Cog rehabilitated, and a free woman. “Come one, let’s get a damage assessment, prepare for a debriefing, and see how confined we can keep this news.”
Hermann got up from the table. “You’re the boss.”
I am, Vincent thought, but for how much longer?
Epilogue
Char stayed in the shadows of the woods and moved slowly, and cautiously around the fortress that protected Arcadia.
She figured if they came looking for her, they might assume she continued to follow the river. Hopefully, they would never think she was doubling back.
Guilt filled her heart. She hated leaving Grace alone inside that town.
There was nothing wrong with Arcadia, as long as laws weren’t broken. Grace would be alone, all alone.
So am I, she thought. I’m all alone.
There were silver linings that could not be ignored. She was free. She had escaped from a prison built in the bowels of a mountain, and the moon and stars had never looked more glorious. She knew that her father was up in the heavens somewhere looking down on her, and smiling. She had no doubt that he’d taken the job as her guardian angel. He was still with her. Helping her wherever possible.
She knew she was weaponless. She stayed alert. The last thing she wanted to run into was a herd of infected.
The irony of dying that way would be too much to accept.
There was the Gathering Patrol, too. Running into them, into Ben, could prove a worse fate, if only because she had no idea how he might respond. Would he arrest her and bring her in with the infected he’d caught for the night, or would he let her go?
Would he choose to go with her?
She shook her head to knock that last thought free. She didn’t want him tagging along.
# # #
Char knew the sun would be rising soon. She needed to hurry. On her knees in the forest of trees she dug up the earth with her hands. She shoveled away mounds of dirt, and kept thinking she was digging in the wrong spot. It was hard to tell if she was in the correct location. She was pretty sure she was.
For a few minutes, anyway.
Just about when she was going to stop and move to someplace else, her fingertips dragged across the bags.
She outlined them and removed them from the dirt.
Standing up, she secured the longsword’s belt to her waist and the machete on her back. She strapped the knives and sheaths onto her thighs. She picked up Tony’s bow and slung the quiver over her shoulder.
Relief flooded through her body, the tension spilling out of her pores.
She’d felt naked without her weapons.
She felt whole now.
She stayed inside the cover of the trees but followed the trail leading away from Arcadia, and back up the mountain. She figured the first place she’d go is back along the road to where they’d hidden the rig.
Something snapped branches.
Char stopped, knelt, and removed the machete from its sheath and listened, looking all around her. Two infected ambled between trees. They moved slow, sluggish. The guy’s face looked shredded, as if someone had raked fingernails across his cheek peeling back the flesh. Black bags encircled milky eyeballs. The woman wore a tattered skirt showing off bruised, dirt-caked thighs and soiled panties. She was missing an arm, and walked on a broken ankle dragging a limp foot behind her. They were skeletons, starving. Putting them down would put them out of their misery.
She didn’t have it in her. They weren’t coming for her. They looked too weak to pose any threat. She ran around them, past them, and never looked back.
Char stopped when she heard a noise, not a snapping of branches. She walked toward the sound, her heart beating heavy in her chest. She could smell the dead leaves all around her. Each step crushed and crunched the crisp leaves on the ground.
She heard the sound again, a snort and a neigh.
The horse stood still, majestic and beautiful on the edge of the trail. “Dispatch?”
It shook its head. It neighed again.
She looked up. “I love you, dad. I love you.”
She hugged Dispatch around his thick neck. She petted his mane.
She climbed up onto him, bareback. Before finding the rig, she’d retrieve the saddle she’d left behind. “Good boy,” she said, “that’s a good boy.”
Char knew she was leaving, but thought it might not be for good. She had questions for Rebecca Bowman, the tattoo had been tingling since before she fell into the river, and only now as she was on Dispatch’s back, did the sensation subside. . . Now armed, part of her wanted to storm Arcadia, launching an attack. It would be suicidal. It wasn’t the town she was upset with. It was Lou Kilmer she wanted to kill. The time she’d spent in the river did nothing to rid her body of his filthy odor. As much as she wanted to have questions answered by Rebecca, and as desperately as she wanted to check up on Grace, Kilmer would be the main reason she’d ever return to to Arcadia; not curiosity, not concern, but revenge.
Read on for a free sample of Sudden Death: A Zombie Novel
About the Author
Phillip Tomasso is an award-winning author of numerous novels and short stories. He works fulltime as a Fire/EMS Dispatcher for 911. As the father of three, he spends any spare time with his family, writing and playing guitar. He is hard at work on his next novel.
www.phillipytomasso.com
phillip@philliptomasso.com
@P_Tomasso (Twitter)
Special Thanks
No book writes itself. I have so many people to thank. I hope I do not leave anyone out. First, to my Beta Readers: Janice McFadden Mickolas, Amy Harps Rodwell, Amy Downs, Charles Vitale, Caroline Lee, Allen Gamboa, Dawn LaForce, Rosa Thomas-McBroom, Cathy Williams, Nikki Robbins, Kaaren Dziegiel, and Louis Schweigert. Next, I would like to thank my proofreader, Linda Tooch. She is by far one of the best out there, and I am lucky to have her in my corner, and as my friend. I would like to thank Gary, and everyone at Severed Press. They treat me well, respond to my countless emails, and answer my never ending list of questions. . .promptly! The constant love and support of family, friends, and readers is humbling. Thank you.
Novels
Mind Play
Tenth House
Third Ring
Johnny Blade
Adverse Impact
The Molech Prophecy (as Thomas Phillips)
Convicted
Pigeon Drop
Pulse of Evil
Sounds of Silence
Vaccination
Evacuation
Preservation
Treasure Island: A Zombie Novella
Blood River
Reading Groups / Book Clubs
I would like to extend an invitation to reading groups/book clubs across the country.
Invite me to your group and I’ll be happy to participate in your discussion. I’m available to join your discussion either in person or via the telephone. (Reading groups should have a speakerphone.)
Looking for discussion questions? Let me know which book your group/club is scheduled to read, and I can assist with developing a list of questions. You may have your own. If your book club comes up with any interesting and provocative discussion questions, please e-mail them to me.
Also, to schedule book signings, speaking events, or arrange for interviews, feel free to contact me.
phillip@philliptomasso.com
Chapter 1
Rajesh & Sally
Arkley Medical Research Centre, a five storey imposing building, loomed atop a hill overlooking north London. It was a drab, grey block, whose gothic facade made no attempt to portray any remorse for the suffering that went on within.
; A Metropolitan police patrol car passed by the front iron gates. A security guard, performing his rounds of the perimeter, nodded at the officers in the car. They ignored him.
“What’s that place?” Sheena, the female officer in the passenger seat, asked. She was fresh out of training school and still getting to grips with the layout of the borough.
“Vivisection labs,” John, the driver, replied. He had eight years’ experience in the job, the first five of which he’d spent in Camden before he’d come to sleepy Barnet. “All sorts of shit goes on in there. They use the place to play around with germs and viruses. I’ve heard they’ve got stuff like malaria, cholera, anthrax, and other things even worse in those labs.”
“Really?” Sheena asked, her eyes widening.
“That’s why if there’s ever an ‘I’ grade emergency call from there, SOP is to send a response car from this borough, one from Herts, another from Harrow, and another from Enfield all at the same time. Same with LAS and LFB.”
“Why?”
“In case there’s a leak of some airborne shit,” John explained. “That way, it doesn’t matter which way the wind is blowing. Someone should be able to get there alive.”
His operator’s eyes narrowed a little in disbelief. “Has that ever happened?”
“No,” John said, smiling.
He’d been spun exactly the same story when he had first come to this borough. Even now, he wasn’t sure whether the rumour was true.
“You sometimes get called to protesters outside the gates,” he told the woman. “Woolly-hatters and swampies with nothing better to do. They’re generally peaceful and you just let ’em get on with it, but you always get one or two idiots that are begging to get nicked. You know, climbing over the railings, throwing red paint.”