The old, dilapidated leather factory had been the producer of a top-of-the-line sneaker in its heyday. A multi-million dollar business. Now it just looks sad in the predawn light.
Hulking monstrosities of machinery loom in the shadows like ghostly dinosaurs just waiting to be brought back to life by workers that no longer exist. Half the ceiling has long since caved in and now litter the floor with bits of steel, broken tile, and glass that crunch under our feet as we walk. Graffiti covers the remaining walls, featuring dire warnings of doom and death and end of the world predictions along with passages from Revelations. One budding artist, Rocky according to his tag, has even done a very lifelike spray painting of a leech erupting from a person's throat with all the exploding blood and gore that accompanies it. His message underneath simply reads, “We are fucked.”
No shit, Sherlock, I think as I read the message for the umpteenth time. Like always I find myself wondering what happened to Rocky. Had he found a place to survive or had he, in his own words, been fucked? I guess I’ll never know. But if I ever come across a survivor someday with that moniker, I’m sure as hell gonna ask how handy he is with a can of spray paint.
We stop in front of the rickety stairs leading up to the office. Luke and Badger pull away the heavy metal shelf placed strategically across the bottom steps, just enough so we can squeeze by. To any outsider it looks like it had simply toppled over, but for us it’s a security measure.
"Gordo, check the seal," Luke orders, and the boy nimbly climbs the ten steps to the metal door.
"Still intact," he calls down. I breathe a sigh of relief. An intact seal means it hasn't been breached by other survivors or ravagers, and that nothing is lying in wait for us on the other side of that door. Plus it means none of our supplies have been looted.
Each of our safety zones are set up with anything and everything we need when out on patrol. That in turn keeps what we carry in our backpacks down to a bare minimum, so we can move faster. This includes sleeping bags. As pumped as I was at the run in with the leeches, the past 24 hours are catching up with me and all I can think about now is sleep.
We take the stairs one at a time, not trusting it to support all of our combined weight. By the time I make it up Luke already has the lamp lit, so I go to work on setting up the paint can heater/stove he taught me to make. Simple enough. It consists of a roll of toilet paper with the cardboard center removed and stuffed into an empty paint can and then saturated with rubbing alcohol. It burns amazingly well, is smoke free, and safe enough for us to use inside to keep us warm in the drafty old building.
Toilet paper and rubbing alcohol. They rank up there on our list of priorities along with any sort of food product when out on patrol. Who would’ve thought that finding a stash of ass wipe could be almost as exciting as winning a lottery back in the old days? Kind of funny if you think about it.
As soon as I have a nice flame burning, I put the metal grill over the top. Badger plunks a tin pot full of water on it and then throws in a couple of chunks of Cookie's dried herb and veggie concoction. It tastes like shit, but the hot soup always fills our grumbling stomachs, so none of us complain too much. Well that and the fact we don't dare complain in case word got back to Cookie. Nobody wants to face that wrath.
We eat in silence sitting around the makeshift heater, our ears alert for any sound of ravagers having followed us, but it remains quiet. My mind keeps hashing over what Kingsley suggested and wondering if it has any connection with what happened at St. Joseph’s. Hell, maybe those leeches are the people from St. Joseph’s. My mind won't let go of this idea, and finally I voice it out loud to the others. Kingsley stares at me over the flickering flames.
"Anything’s possible," he responds quietly to my words.
Gordon stops slurping his soup and looks up.
"You think so, Kingsley? What really happened at St. Joseph's? Do you even know?"
Luke chimes in. "Maybe we all should get some rest first before we dive into that can of worms. It's been a long night, and I'm sure we'll think better after some shuteye."
"No," I say with my customary stubbornness. "Cooper said Kingsley would fill us in en route. Now is a good time. How do you expect us to get any sleep with the idea of newly infected bouncing around in our heads? Coop knew more about St. Joseph's than he was willing to admit, isn't that right, Kingsley?"
I omit mentioning the fear I’d seen in Cooper's eyes. Most of us consider that man a legend. I didn't want to tarnish him with his show of weakness, as much as it had scared me. I'm hoping Kingsley can shed some light on the reason for that fear.
The man in question takes his time sipping his soup, not even looking at us. Almost as if he doesn't know where to start. Finally decision made, he raises his eyes.
"Lois left out some of the story. She called us in--Coop and me--as soon as she heard that distress call. The guy was screaming like she said, but he was screaming about monsters. Not ravagers or leeches. Monsters. And there was something else. There was this sound I've never heard a leech make before. You could hear it above the guys screaming. You could hear it as the poor sonofabitch was being ripped apart. I don't know why we could hear it. Maybe his mic was locked on. Maybe it stayed in his hand right up until he died. The radio went silent after that. We thought it was over. But then...then it came back on for a split second, and I can't be sure but I swear we heard the words 'You next.'"
Gordon puts his tin cup down like he’s suddenly lost his appetite.
"You next? Like in the Grand is next?" he asks, with bug eyes.
"I can only assume."
"So was it ravagers?" I ask. Then more firmly, "Well, it had to be. No leech has the smarts to speak, let alone operate a radio. But how the hell did ravagers get inside? St. Joseph's defenses were just as good, if not better than our own."
"No, that's the scary part. I don't think it was ravagers at all. You had to have heard this voice—these sounds. They weren't human. I'm certain."
At first I think Kingsley is just shittin' with us. But then I see his face.
"You think it was leeches? But leeches can't fucking talk," Dom says, and for the first time in a long time, his words aren't filled with his usual arrogance.
"No leech we’ve ever met, no. But Cooper and I think this is something entirely new. Some new form, some mutation of these leeches, maybe? We know they assimilate to their host bodies’ senses. They use their sense of smell, sight, and hearing. Why can't they have assimilated their intelligence as well over the years? It would make sense..."
"Nothing about this makes any sense," I interrupt, refusing to believe our shit situation can get any worse. "You said the St. Joseph's dude was screaming about monsters. Ravagers dressed in their attack skins would look like a monster to anyone not used to seeing them. Right?"
I look around at the others, desperately seeking their agreement. But no one agrees.
"So you believe we’re dealing with a totally new evolved strain of this parasite," Luke speaks slowly, as if he doesn’t want any misunderstanding in the slightest.
"I do," Kingsley answers.
"And that this new strain has the ability to think, speak, and to infect new hosts?"
Kingsley nods in response, and my pent up breath escapes in a low groan. Great. Just what we need.
"Fuck me," Gordon whispers, wrapping his arms around himself as if warding off a sudden chill.
I can't help but shiver myself. If what Kingsley believes is true, if there’s a smarter breed of leech, then we don't stand a chance in hell.
"Why didn't Cooper tell us this at the debriefing?" I question harshly, still refusing to believe the implication.
"We were going to. Then we found out the council members wanted to attend, and well, he didn't want to start a panic. As well-meaning as they are, some of them are known for flapping their lips. Until we know for sure, we don't want to create a plague of fear throughout the Grand. That’s why he left it up to me to fill you in."
"So that's your job? To find out if what you suspect is true? This isn't about finding Kelly and the others?" I ask.
"Of course finding our people is still a priority. But we have to admit, the odds of finding them alive aren’t the greatest," Kingsley answers.
"You don't know that.” I fire back. “There could be any number of reasons why they've broken radio contact."
He gives a measured nod. "I agree, and I hope to God you’re right. But our main focus is to find out what the hell attacked those people at St. Joseph's and exterminate any threat it may cause to our people."
"And how do you propose we do that?" Luke asks in his even tone, his calmness only accentuating my surliness.
"That pack there in the corner is our plan," he says, pointing his chin at the heavy canvass backpack he's been carrying since we left the Grand. "It's filled with C-4. If we find whatever attacked St. Joseph's is still there, my orders are to bring down the building immediately. We’re not to hesitate at all. Do you understand?"
"Jesus H. Christ. You've been carrying around a goddamned bag full of explosives? All the while we've been shooting guns and shit?" Dom looks horrified at the mere idea, but Kingsley just gives him a patronizing look.
"Relax. The C-4 is stable. It needs a detonator to do any damage. Bumping it around or shooting at it won't set it off. I used to be a demolitions man before all this went down. Trust me; I know what I'm doing."
Ah. So that's what Cooper meant by a set of unique skills. Still, what Kingsley is implying doesn't sit well with me. I study the faces of my crew to see if this tidbit of info bothers them as much as it bothers me. Their expressions mirror all stages of understanding; the insinuation of Kingsley's words finally dawns on them. Kingsley and his two men however, sit as stone faced as gargoyle statues.
"Blow it up? But you mean after we've searched it for survivors right?" Gordon asks, and his voice is tinged with confusion. "I mean, we have to find Kelly and the others first. My brother, Mike is part of that group."
"Smarten up you dumb fuck," Dom stares at Gordon in disgust. "This ain't no rescue mission." His eyes switch back to Kingsley. "Is it, Guard? We're not going to St. Joseph's to get anyone out of that building. We're going to make sure whatever’s inside that building stays in."
Kingsley doesn't even try to lie.
"You all saw those leeches earlier, same as me. They're newly infected. We can't take any chance of bringing that infection back to the Grand. If there's any indication of any type of parasite at St. Joseph's..."
"If there’s any indication that our people are still alive, then yeah, we’re getting them out," my words are meant for the young ginger, but my eyes stare defiantly at Kingsley. Don't know what kind of shit he’s trying to pull, but we are not turning our back on any survivors.
"Cooper's orders are to bring that building down, Bixby. Are you going to defy the Captain's orders?"
My top lip curls in anger, but I don't bother to respond to the softly asked question. I truly don’t know if I could defy a direct order from Coop as much as I don't agree with it.
"No sense arguing over things we know nothing about yet," Luke interjects, once again trying to defuse the situation. "Those leeches back there...well, could be any number of reasons why they didn't look worn down. Maybe they were locked in somewhere when they turned eight years ago. We know for a fact those infected that don't get to feed seem to go into a form of dormancy. Maybe they've been cooped up for years and just recently got released, and that's why they still look fresh. Sounds reasonable enough, doesn't it? Now why don't you all get some rest? I'll take first watch."
A couple of halfhearted murmurs follow Luke's question, almost as if agreeing with him is easier than acknowledging the glaring truth. No one wants to admit that a new wave of infected can even be possible. We’ve been fighting the infected for eight years now, and we’re nowhere close to winning this war. Christ, truth be told, we’re barely surviving. So the thought of more infected to fight, well, it kind of makes me want to cry. And if Kingsley is right, now there’s a whole new threat to worry about. If the alien parasite is evolving and has learned to speak and think, then to quote Rocky's waxing poetic words, “We are fucked.”