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Something in what Corporal Ferrel had said penetrated the fog surrounding Jim’s thoughts.
“You see, that’s what they’re doing a few hundred miles away from here, across the river, a-across the Atlantic. They’re eating’ dinner, and they’re watchin’ the fuckin’ Simpsons. They’re sleeping in their beds next to their wives, but we’re here… chained to a fuckin’ radiator because the army has gone insane!” Jim frowned and tilted his head to hear better, “Starting the world again when the rest of the fucking world hasn’t even stopped.” Jim finally looked at Ferrell, “Just imagine. Just think about it. How could infection cross the oceans? How could it cross the mountains and rivers? They stopped it. And right now TVs are playing and planes are flying in the sky, and the rest of the world is continuing as fucking normal. Think… actually think about it,” and Jim was thinking about it. The world, normal again, Selina and Hannah safe. “What would you do with a deceased little island? They quarantined us. There is no infection. It’s just people killing people. He’s insane!” Somewhere among Ferrel’s mad ramblings about the Simpsons, there was some reasoning. A spark of hope lit in Jim.
Ferrel’s one sided conversation was cut off when a couple of soldiers entered the room. It was Mitchell and Jones. Mitchel stood with his head cocked back arrogantly, “time to go.”
Jim paid him no mind. The word quarantine repeated in his mind over and over. He was jerked to his feet in a daze and mindlessly followed the two gun toting soldiers. They went back up the stairs from the basement and exited the mansion. There was no chance of escape unless he wanted to get shot, so he followed quietly, biding his time. There had to be a moment they would let their guards down. They followed a well worn footpath from the mansion to the forest surrounding it. He waited but doubt crept into his mind as they got further from safety. They had walked deep enough into the forest that no hint of the mansion was visible, only trees as far as the eye could see.
Jims knees began to shake. He couldn’t remember the last time he had slept. Was it before Frank had died, the night he had the dream of being completely alone again? Last night he got a few snatches of sleep, but between Ferrel’s constant dialogue, the hard, drafty floor, and the pounding in his head, Jim couldn’t have gotten more than a couple of hours of rest. For that matter, when was the last time he had eaten a full, healthy meal?
Jim panted, exhausted from the hike and his ankle wavered for a moment, and before he could catch himself, his whole body slammed to the ground. Mitchel marched over to him with his gun held threateningly, poised to shoot if Jim made any wrong moves. Mitchell lifted his boot, “Please,” Jim begged, as Mitchel rested his foot on the side of Jim’s head. He didn’t know what he was begging for, did he want to be killed or spared? Ever since he got hit by that car while on delivery, his life had been one adrenaline inducing panic after another. He was tired of walking, tired of the ever present smell of rotting corpses, tired of constantly looking over his shoulder, and now he was going to die here, murdered by a trigger happy ass hole with a big gun and an even bigger ego.
“Believe me, I’m not interested,” Mitchell tilted his head as he taunted Jim, “You see, I’m gonna have the black one, and I’m going to make her squeal.”
Jim glared furiously, wishing he could be grinding his boot into Mitchel’s disgusting face. The thought of anyone laying their hands on Selena made his blood boil with fury. The moment of tense eye contact was broken when Mitchel’s attention and gun was pointed elsewhere. Jim jerked back, angry at Mitchell but also with himself for not fighting back.
Mitchells attention was caught by a shouting Ferrel, “Mitchel, I swear to god it’s gunna end badly for you.” He cringed in on himself, his confidence disappearing with the full attention of Mitchel, and his gun on him.
“Move,” Mitchel barked. When Nobody did anything he said again, “Come on. Move! Get up!” He kicked Jim as he stumbled to his feet, “Get up, you cunt! Fucking move! Get up, move your fucking ass!”
The group was moving through the dense forest once more. They must have been close because the smell of putrefied flesh was getting stronger. Soon enough they began to slow down a little. They rounded a bend in the path and the smell of rotting corpses was at its strongest. Various body parts and corpses littered the path. They slowed to a stop, having reached the largest mound of bodies. It was piled higher than six feet tall. They stood in the center of a graveyard. The bodies were everywhere, haphazardly strewn on top of each other, at various stages of decomposition. Jim stumbled to the edge of the clearing and leaned against a tree, hoping he could make a get away before his body was added to the pile.
“Come on, then, you fucking pansies. Do me first.” Ferrel challenged.
“Maybe I won’t.” Mitchel responded as he pulled a knife out of a pocket.
Finally Jones spoke up, “Mitch just use the gun.” Being so far from safety was obviously getting to him. The man’s voice wavered with nervousness. Jim looked around for ideas. He couldn’t run, they would catch him or shoot him. He couldn't get over the fence fast enough without getting caught and shot either. His eyes scanned his surroundings, and rested on one of the dead bodies in front of him. That seemed to be his best option, but it all depended on what happened in the next few moments.
“You’re gunna stick me Mitchell, is that it?”
“Mitchell, shoot him!” Jones obviously just wanted to get back to the base.
“Why?” He spoke without a care in the world, slowly and leisurely.
“Because it’s fucking quicker!”
“Is that how you’re going to let your sergeant go out, Jones?”
“I’ll fucking shoot him then” Jones repositioned the gun, prepared to fire.
“No you won’t” Mitchell interrupted
“You’re gunna let him stick me, are you, like a fucking dog?” Ferrel spat on Mitchell.
Jim flinched, ready for Mitchel to exact his retribution. “I’m gunna enjoy this.” He stepped toward Ferrel with sadistic intent.
Jim jerked back as his ears were assaulted by the loud bang of Jones’ gun. Ferrel fell back, dead.
Mitchel was doubled over, his hands over his ears. The bullets had whizzed straight by him.
Angry from being disobeyed and frightened, Mitchel wheeled around and attacked Jones. “You stupid cunt! What are you doing?” He tackled Jones and held his gun to Jones, “what, you wanna shoot me, do you?” Jim took the opportunity to run. He dove down behind a pile of corpses and lay there motionless, hardly daring to breath. “You wanna fuckin’ shoot me? I’ll fuckin kill you.” Mitchel continued.
Jones frantically interrupted Mitchells angry tirade, “Look! Where’s he fuckin gone?”
Jim couldn’t see what was going on, but he could imagine them looking around, confused by his sudden disappearance.
“Fuck it!” Mitchell shouted, “Get up! Get after him!”
Jim could hear their footsteps and the rustle of their gear as they ran past him. “Jones, Move!’ Was the last thing he heard. It sounded like it was an adequate distance away for Jim to escape for real, he didn’t want them catching on to his trick and shooting him where he lay. He shot up from where he was and looked around wildly. “Jones, move left,” Mitchel’s demand was far off, but still too close for comfort. Jim pressed his back against a tree just wide enough to hide him from sight, just in time too. He heard the two machine guns let loose into the piles of dead bodies. His hands were still tied together, but the slope provided by all of the bodies helped him get high enough that he could jump toward the wall. The wind was knocked out of him, when he hit it. He couldn’t pull himself over but thankfully, the wall was in enough disrepair that he could lodge his boots in some footholds. When he managed to get both of his feet underneath him, he simply bent over, tilting his back to the barbed wire, and rolled over. He swung his feet over, hoping he would land on his feet. There was no other way he could see to get down. A brief second of complete disorientation later, and his feet hit the ground with enough force that the rest of him followed right after. His bare skin met the ground. Looking up, he could see his shirt caught on the barbed wire on top of the wall. There was no time to recollect himself however. He got back up to his feet, and took off again. The sound of gunshots still echoing behind him. He wished he could have seen the looks on Jones and Mitchel’s faces when they discovered he had escaped. He ran for a little longer, but without his hands to catch his balance, he fell to the ground, panting in exhaustion. He rolled over onto his back and stared at the grey sky, thunder rumbling in the distance. He didn’t know what he was going to do, the odds were stacked so heavily against him. He continued looking. He couldn’t believe it, Ferrel was right, he had hoped, but here was actual proof. There was a plane far above him in the sky. He could not give up now. He rolled back up onto his feet and took off again. Making his way to where it began, the highway exit that led to the fortress.
By the time he made it there, he had come up with the vague outlines of an idea. The rain was coming down in buckets now. His mind had never been clearer, his body moved with confidence and intent before he could even think about what he was doing. He scanned his surroundings with single-minded focus, looking for something he could use to draw out the enemy. He laid eyes on a hand cranked siren. Perfect. He grabbed the handle and rotated it. An eerie, droning wail came out of it. He let the sound go for a couple of minutes. He could feel the rain begin to come down. The soldiers back at the base had to have heard him by now. They would come to him soon. And he would be ready to take them down.