Dawn of the Planet of the Apes: Firestorm - The Official Movie Prequel

13

David didn’t turn, as the voice had directed. He ran like hell. It wasn’t a strategy or the result of a conscious decision. It was just what he did.

This time he heard the high-pitched whine of a silenced gun firing sas he sprinted back toward Church Street, with nothing but open ground around him. Then he heard it again. He didn’t hear the third shot because he was too busy being hit by it. White heat blazed through his back and the ribs on his right side, and his lungs suddenly felt hot, as if he’d been running all day.

He stumbled, trying to keep his feet under him.

The only part of his brain still working was the part that wanted to live, which meant he had to keep running, no matter what.

Except he couldn’t.

“Hey!” he heard someone shout, and realized it was the old man with the dog. He was holding a pistol.

Shit, David thought.

He heard the thwimp of the silenced weapon, then the explosion of the decidedly unquiet weapon in the old man’s hand—once, twice, three times. David lay there, feeling the blood leaking through his ribs, wondering why he wasn’t dead yet.

He finally lifted his head and saw the soles of the old man’s feet, close by and pointed at him. When he turned around, he saw a younger man with dark glasses, lying in a similar position.

David sat up cautiously. He saw a few people running away—everyone else had already gone.

He pushed himself unsteadily to his feet. The old man was clearly dead, but he checked for a pulse anyway. The dog, a Pomeranian, whined and licked at his deceased master’s face. The other guy—the one who had tried to kill him—had a bloody hole where his nose once had been, and another in the middle of his chest.

David stumbled back to his knees and began to vomit. When he was finally done with that, he shakily took out his cell phone and dialed 911.

The phone told him that the network was overloaded.

He looked around. There wasn’t another soul to be seen.

Swearing at the pain in his side, trying to get his thoughts in order, he began searching through the murderer’s jacket. He took his wallet and his phone, but didn’t find anything else of significance.

Then he left the scene, limping, holding his side. He stopped and looked at the old man again, then at the body of Linda’s sister.

God, what have I done? he thought.

He couldn’t think of where he should go. All of the hospitals were slammed, and if he went to one, he would probably catch the plague anyway. He had a first-aid kit at home, but going there seemed like a bad idea. Had they followed her or him to the meeting? Was his phone tapped? What if another guy with a gun was waiting for him at his apartment?

How did he have a hole in him? How could someone shoot three people in a city park? This happened to other people, not to him. Other people in other places.

But now it was happening to everyone, wasn’t it? He felt a sudden plummet in his gut as he realized how fragile civilization really was. All of this steel and stone and glass around him seemed strong, durable, and dependable. It was built to withstand earthquakes.

But a civilization wasn’t made up of its buildings. The pyramids had outlasted the pharaohs and the Colosseum remained long after the Roman Empire. Civilization, in the end, was about rules and norms that people agreed to follow. And that was weaker than tissue. He remembered a satirical article he’d once read, about people who had resorted to cannibalism after being stuck in an elevator for fifteen minutes. He’d thought it was hilarious at the time.

Now it didn’t seem funny at all.

He needed an emergency room, but he knew they were all slammed.

Talia, he realized, then. She didn’t live far from here.

He buzzed five times before she answered.

“Who the hell is it?” the intercom crackled.

“David,” he said. “Talia, it’s David Flynn.”

He heard the intercom click off, then back on.

“David, I just pulled a seventy-hour shift,” she said. “I’m not in the mood—”

“I’ve been shot, Talia,” he sobbed. “I don’t know where else to go.”

“Shit.” A pause. Then the door clicked. “Get in,” she said. “Wait for me in the foyer.”

She was down a few minutes later, wearing flannel pajamas and slippers. She had a tote bag with her.

“David?” she said, kneeling beside him.

“Thanks, Talia,” he murmured as she examined his wound.

“Damn,” she said.

“Is it that bad?”

“It could be a lot worse,” she replied. “You’ve made it this far. Let’s get you upstairs.”

She helped him to the elevator and up to her apartment. She had gotten a new couch since he had last seen it, and moved things around. It looked like she still lived alone, though.

She moved him to the bathroom and pulled his shirt off.

“How did this happen?” she asked, as she examined the wound more closely.

“I met a source in Delores Park,” he said. “Somebody shot her, then shot me. Then someone shot him… Ow!”

“That’s a lot of shooting,” she observed.

“Some old guy walking his dog just happened to have a gun, or I’d be dead.”

“I think probably everyone who owns a piece is carrying it right now,” she told him. “I’ve seen more gunshot wounds in the last few days than in my entire career.” She looked over at him. He’d forgotten what beautiful, dark eyes she had.

“I think it just went through the ribs,” she said. “I don’t think it nicked your intestines. If they were perforated, that would be bad. Still, there’s enough tissue damage that some of it might go necrotic.”

“How bad is that?” he asked. “Can you fix it?”

“I can sew it up,” she said. “Stop the bleeding. But you need antibiotics, which I don’t have here.” She caught his gaze and held it. “I don’t have any anesthetic, either.”

“How about vodka?” he asked.

“You know me that well, anyway,” she said. “I’ll be right back.”

David woke up, head throbbing, and realized that between the pain and the vodka he had made it all the way through the operation. He was lying on Talia’s bed. She had cleaned and sewn him up in the tub, and so she had stripped him down. He was still naked.

She lay about a foot away. She had changed pajamas.

He contemplated the fact that he had never seen Talia in pajamas. Lingerie, yes. T-shirt, yes. Birthday suit, check. Never pajamas. He didn’t even know she owned any. And they had seen each other for the better part of a year. It had been good, really good, but then things had gotten busy for both of them, and they hung out less and less. Nowadays he never saw her in the bars and restaurants where they used to go. He guessed that she was either too busy at work, or had hooked up with a different crowd.

Fortunately for him, she hadn’t moved to a different apartment.

She stirred, and her eyes flickered open.

“Well,” she said, smiling. “You finally stayed the night. How about that.”

“I never stayed over?” he said, trying to remember. “That was stupid of me.”

“No, that was just you,” she said. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I got hammered while someone worked a needle into and out of my skin.”

She touched his cheek, and for just an instant he thought it was a gesture of affection.

“You’re warm,” she said. “I should check your temperature. And you need to hydrate.”

She brought him orange juice, and found that his temperature was just over a hundred.

“I go back on shift this afternoon,” she said. “But I’ll try to get you some antibiotics before that.”

She looked so tired. “You should rest,” he said.

“I got a few hours of sleep,” she said. “It’ll do. Hey, I’m young, right?”

“It’s bad out there, isn’t it?” he asked. She nodded.

“And getting worse,” she said. “Half the staff are down with it.”

“Don’t go back,” he said. “Just don’t go back.”

She gave him another weary little smile.

“Don’t think I haven’t considered it,” she told him. “But too many have already taken a walk. Somebody has to try.” She patted his arm. “I’ll be back. Hopefully with antibiotics.” She rose, went to her closet, and selected a pair of scrubs.

“Talia,” he asked. “Why did we stop hanging out?”

She looked down then, frowning a little.

“I liked you,” she said. “A lot.”

“Yeah,” he said. “I liked you, too.”

She drew her gaze up to meet his.

“I was tired of liking you,” she replied. Then she left the room. A little while later, he heard the front door open and close.

He lay there for a moment, then gingerly levered himself up. He went into the living room, got the satchel, and brought it back to the bed. Inside were an ultralight laptop and several file folders. He switched on the laptop and waited for it to boot up as he flipped through the files.

“Holy shit,” he said, after a moment. He found his cell phone, but he didn’t have any service, so he picked up Talia’s landline and called his editor.

“Sage,” he said, when he got hold of her. “Flynn here.”

“Where the hell have you been?” she demanded. “I have an assignment for you.”

“I’ve already got a story,” he said. “You’re going to want to leave some space on page one. And if you’ve got anybody inside the mayor’s office, I’m going to need to get a couple of things vetted.”

“You’re going to have to give me a taste,” she said.

When he was done, there was silence on the line for four, five, six heartbeats.

“You’re sure about this?”

“I’ve got original Gen Sys documents,” he said. “Paper and ink. With signatures. I just want to see if we can get corroborating information from House’s office.”

“I think I can swing that,” she said. “Are you at your place?”

“No,” he said. “Somebody actually tried to kill me, if you can believe it.”

“Are you kidding?”

“No. He shot my source, and he shot me. Then someone shot him—it gets complicated.”

“Are you all right?” she asked. “Are you safe?” “Yeah. You can reach me at this number. Do not give it to anyone else.”

“Don’t you need medical attention?” “I’ve got the best I’m likely to get,” he said. “Just get that stuff for me.”

“I’ll get back to you,” she said. “Go, write. You’ve got six hours.”