Surviving Chaos

21

“You hear those screams?” said Cynthia, her voice rising in panic.

“Of course I hear them,” said John.

“Then why aren’t we doing anything about it?”

“I told you…”

“Yeah, yeah, we can’t risk ourselves for someone we don’t even know.”

“Someone who knew he was making a terrible decision,” said John. “We couldn’t help it. We did what we could.”

“Then why are we still here?” said Cynthia. Her tone was caustic. John knew she had a point. “You’re wondering if we should go in and try to save him. Aren’t you?”

“There’s no saving him,” muttered John. “The only question is whether we could put him out of his misery.”

“That’s nonsense. Maybe they’ve just cut off his ear or something.”

It was a very strange conversation to be having. Or, more accurately, it would have been a strange conversation to have before the EMP. But, now, this was the norm.

John had a brief and unexpected flashback. A memory came cropping up, a memory from his luxurious Center City apartment. He’d been on the couch, his date snuggling up to him. She’d been a well-known modern dancer, who John had had the luck of impressing one evening purely by accident by talking too loudly at a bar. They’d made arrangements at a restaurant, but had gone back to John’s place at the last minute instead, abandoning the fancy restaurant for delivered Chinese food.

“John?”

“Huh?”

“Are you OK?”

“Yeah, why?”

“Your eyes were kind of, I don’t know, glazed over or something.”

“Oh, it’s nothing,” said John. “Just tired, I guess.”

“Sure,” said Cynthia, sarcastically. “But you don’t fool me. I know that look.”

“What look?”

“The long lost love look,” said Cynthia. “You’ve never told me who she was, but I’d recognize that look anywhere.”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” muttered John. “Plus, this isn’t the time to be…”

Another scream pierced the air.

It was blood-chilling. It completely stopped their conversation dead in its tracks.

John didn’t want to admit it, but Cynthia was right. He was wondering whether he should go in and try to do something. Maybe Tom the ranger was an idiot. Maybe he’d done something incredibly stupid. Maybe he deserved to die. In a way. But he certainly didn’t deserve to be tortured. By the sound of it, they were doing something horrible to him.

John had been, in a way, lying to himself. He’d told himself he’d transformed. That he was no longer the man he was when he’d left Philadelphia, the man who was used to living in the comfort and comparative luxury of modern civilization. And now that that very same civilization was crumbling, or gone, depending on how you looked at it, John figured he had toughed up to the point where things like this no longer bothered him.

He’d seen plenty of death. He’d fought. He’d killed. He’d done what had needed to be done. He would have thought that he could deal with a little screaming, that he could deal with a stranger being tortured to death while he himself escaped with his life intact.

Another scream. This one more horrible than the last.

But had he really changed?

Maybe he’d just adapted to his environment.

Too much thinking.

It was bad for him.

Bad for the situation.

Who cared if he’d changed? It simply didn’t matter.

He was coming to his senses.

Maybe.

John’s grip tightened around his gun.

Wordlessly, he crawled out of the structure and stood up.

“What are you doing?” hissed Cynthia. There was anxious worry in her tone.

She cared about him. John knew that.

John took a step forward, holding the gun up and ready.

Now that he was acting, Cynthia’s sarcasm fell away. She was scared. He heard it in her voice.

“John! What the hell are you doing? Are you really…?”

John turned to her and put a finger to his lips.

“Stay there,” he hissed.

Cynthia looked terrified.

John approached the building. The screams continued. He stood silently outside, pressing himself against the wall. His gun was ready. His finger was on the trigger.

He counted three separate voices. The fourth must already be dead. Good, Tom had gotten one of them at least. That explained the shotgun blast he’d heard.

They were laughing, telling crude jokes, and having a hell of a time. And they were torturing Tom to death. It sounded like they were taking their time, too.

“Please,” came Tom’s weak voice, garbled and high-pitched. “Please, just… kill… me…” It took him forever to get the words out. The words were drowning in his pain. Intense pain. It was unmistakable.

The three of them laughed.

“Don’t think for a second we’re going to stop.”

“Hell, I could do this for hours.”

“Hours? What about days?”

“Come on, be realistic. He won’t last days with the way you’ve been going at him.”

John glanced back to the little hideout. He couldn’t see Cynthia. Good, that meant she wasn’t coming, that she was safe inside.

A pang of guilt hit him. If he got himself killed, what would happen to Cynthia? Didn’t he have more loyalty to her than to some stranger?

John felt like he was being weak, that he was returning to the man he’d been.

Whatever.

He’d already made up his mind.

But that didn’t mean he was going to simply rush in without taking stock of the situation first.

He walked quietly, pacing his footsteps slowly on the cold ground. On the other side of the building, there was a small window.

He took the risk. He looked through, popping his head up for just a moment. Just enough to catch a glimpse of what was going on inside.

Tom was on a table, tied down.

The three men were peering down over him, clustered around him.

John popped his head up again.

Tom’s face was bloodied and distorted. His mouth was opened wide in a scream.

John looked again, risking a longer look this time.

The fourth man was dead, slumped over in the corner. Blood pooled up all around him.

The three men weren’t paying attention to anything but torturing Tom. They were clueless to what was around them. John felt like he could have stayed there with his head at the window for ten minutes without them noticing. Their guns, unfortunately, were nearby. But they’d been laid down. They weren’t in their hands. They had handguns, though, tucked away in holsters.

But maybe John had a chance.

Or maybe he didn’t.

Tom’s scream had become constant. Ceaseless.

John had to act.

He went around the building again, heading towards the door.

Someone was coming. He heard the footsteps before he saw her.

It was Cynthia.

“What the hell are you doing?” hissed John.

He was already endangering her by acting. He couldn’t let her actually put herself in harm’s way right here and right now.

“If you’re doing this, then so am I.”

“Don’t be stupid.”

“Why not? That’s what you’re being.”

She had her gun out. There was determination on her face. John knew Cynthia well enough to know that she’d never back down.

He had two choices, the way he saw it. He could back down himself.

But he wasn’t going to do that.

Tom’s scream was ringing in his eardrums. The laughter inside was louder than ever.

“OK.”

“How? What do I do?”

John looked around, scanning the environment. But his mind was blank. He didn’t have any ideas.

“What should I do?” asked Cynthia again. “Throw something against the side of the building?”

John thought for a moment. But there really wasn’t time to think.

He shook his head. “They’ll grab their guns and come out. No, don’t do that.”

“Well I’m doing something.”

“OK,” said John. Cynthia nodded at him. “I’ll be right behind you.”

“No,” said John. “Don’t do that. Just back me up when it’s needed.”

“When will that be?”

John shrugged, and ran to the building.

John flattened himself against the wall again. He was sweating in the cool air. He was breathing hard.

It was now or never.

He kicked the door open with his boot.

Three heads turned to him.

He’d taken them by surprise.

He squeezed the trigger. His aim was good. Right in the face.

Time seemed to be moving slowly.

The two others reached for their guns. One fumbled. One got his out.

John already had his gun trained on the second. He pulled the trigger. But his aim was bad. The bullet hit him in the shoulder.

The other had his gun out now, and it was pointed at John.

There wasn’t time to shoot him. He’d gotten his two shots. He wasn’t a superhero. He should have known.

Another shot rang out, coming from right behind John. His ears rang again.

The third man fell. It’d been Cynthia. It must have been. But there wasn’t time to turn.

John shot the second man again, right in the head. His body fell heavily to the floor.

John looked at the bodies, just to make sure they were really dead. He looked at the fourth man in the corner, just to double check. But he was clearly dead.

He turned to see Cynthia standing there, satisfaction on her face.

“Looks like you needed me after all.”

John didn’t answer. He moved over to where Tom was on the table.

“You might not want to see this,” he said to Cynthia, who was still standing in the doorway.

But she came in anyway. When she saw Tom, she let out a scream, and covered her face with her hands.

Tom was no longer screaming. Instead, he was making indistinct noises of pain.

His face was no longer the face he’d had. His nose had been removed, cut cleanly off with a sharp knife. He was missing an ear. Missing a finger, too. It looked like they’d been slowly dismembering him at random, for their own sick amusement.

Humanity was capable of viciousness and sickness. But John already knew that. He’d seen plenty of it since the EMP. In Philadelphia and outside of it.

Tom lay there, tied tightly against the table, moving slightly against the rope that bound him, obviously in pure agony.

“Is he going to live?” said Cynthia, her voice cracking.

Tom’s shirt had been cut open. And so had large sections of his body. His abdomen had been sliced open, torn into. Some of his organs were hanging out partially. There was massive blood loss. It was a miracle that he was still alive.

But there was no saving him.

He’d be dead soon enough.

Or maybe not soon enough.

Tom’s eyes were barely open, but he looked at John and John saw the recognition there. Recognition, along with a pleading look.

“Why aren’t you doing anything?” said Cynthia, her voice shrill.

“There’s nothing to do for him,” said John. “Except put him out of his misery.”

“You’re not talking about…?”

John nodded.

Then he looked at Tom. Right in the eye.

“Sorry, Tom,” said John.

He raised his handgun, pressing it right against Tom’s temple.

It’d be quick. Painless. He’d feel nothing more. And that was what he wanted. It was in his eyes, and all over his face.

“Thanks,” said Tom, his voice barely above a whisper.

John pulled the trigger. He gritted his teeth instinctively, but he didn’t close his eyes. He saw it all.

Cynthia let out a scream, and then she burst into tears, a wailing come from her. It wasn’t just Tom’s death. No, it was more than that. It was the simple and constant horror that they’d faced, and would continue to face, day in and day out. Humanity was tearing itself apart, and they had front row seats to the horrible spectacle.

Tom moved no more. No more screams. No more pain.

“Come on,” said John, putting his arm around Cynthia. “We’ll check these guys for equipment, and then we’ve got to get the hell out of here.”

John was trying his best to act practically. To do what needed to be done.

But…

Something had changed inside him. He didn’t know what it was.

But he knew the cause. It was seeing Tom like that, all cut up. Mutilated for no reason at all except amusement.

John tried to shake it off, but it was still there. And it wouldn’t be easy to escape. It was a darkness growing inside him.

He could deal with it. He’d dealt with more than this.

But what if it was just the seed? What if it was something that would grow and grow, and never stop growing?

That was crazy, he told himself. After all, he didn’t even have the words to describe what he felt.