Luke turned and pointed at the fire exit. “Go!” He propelled Sophie towards the exit. He whipped out his pistol, shot at one or two rats blocking their path, and kicked out at a third.
He left the shopping cart, wrenched open the door and slammed it shut behind them, as the rats pitched themselves at it. The thumps helped spur Luke and Sophie in their flight.
Luke saw light up ahead along the narrow corridor, when the first rat appeared ahead of them, Sophie skidded to a halt, and Luke shouted, “Keep going!” He fired and luckily shot the rat, flipping it up in the air before it fell on its back wriggling in its death throes. Within seconds, another rat replaced it. Luke shot at it but missed, the bullet hit the wall nearby, making the rat crouch into a smaller target, as they were almost upon it the rat jumped into the air in front of Sophie. She screamed in alarm, Luke shot it mid-flight, spraying her face with its warm blood making her shriek even more.
He grabbed her by the hand and forcibly dragged her along. The rats had pushed open the fire door and a swarming black mass hurtled towards them. “My God,” she uttered, hardly able to take in the scene. She stumbled at the frightening sight.
Luke shouted; “Run!”
Luke and Sophie burst onto the loading-dock into the blistering heat, where a half-full furniture truck stood. The loading crew dead on the ground, their bodies had been eaten by the rats and others scavengers. Luke ran to the front of the truck, opened the driver's door, yanked out the driver's remains, helped Sophie in then hopped up himself. She leaned over and locked her door, making Luke crack a smile, “I don’t think they’re that clever.”
Just as he spoke a rat launched itself at the windshield and cracked it, making Sophie scream. “Hotwire it, quick,” she yelled almost hysterical.
“No need,” he said and turned the keys left in the ignition. He pulled away as another rat smashed into the windshield, fracturing the crack further. Luke turned a full circle to find the exit ramp. The swarm of rats leaped from the loading bay and the exit was full with hundreds of bristling furry bodies.
Luke took great satisfaction, crunching them under the tires of the truck and enjoyed their death squeals, as they crushed under the wheels, but Sophie found it too distressing, she leaned over, turned on the radio, then burst into laughter when she heard, “Ben” by Michael Jackson, Luke laughed too, getting the irony of the song.
As Luke got to the top of the ramp, he slipped the gear and the giant furniture truck shuddered to a halt, “What's up? What’s the matter?” Sophie asked urgently, she looked in her side-view mirror and saw the rats rushing towards them.
“I stalled,” he replied flatly. He re-started the engine, engaged first and eased off the clutch slowly, not used to the low gearing ratio that the lumbering weighty furniture truck needed. He lurched out onto East Sunrise Boulevard and sighed in relief as they left the rats behind.
That’s one more thing to avoid, thought Luke, one more problem to consider and contend with in their efforts to leave the exclusion zone, rats. He smiled and joined in with Sophie singing along to Ben. It seemed absurd after what they had been through but they needed to seize the moments of light relief where possible. He cranked up the radio and lowered his window to let some fresh air into the cab and they smiled at each other as they sang together.
CHAPTER 35
18:00 PM
Prisoner 850416 Jenkins Forest cried in agony, or at least tried to, his parched lips cracked open and a strange strangulated sound came from within.
Kincaid had died some hours ago, and his body released what little fluid remained to add to the stench in the tiny cell.
Before he died, Kincaid had taken great delight in explaining to Jenkins what he could expect from dying of dehydration. He’d told him that he could live for weeks without food, Mahatma Gandhi would regularly fast, going without food for three weeks. He’d told him of prisoners in Europe back in the 1980s who had gone on hunger-strike. The last poor wretch had lasted seventy one days! Over two months without food, but in all those cases the prisoners had accepted water.
Life expectancy without water depended on overall fitness, and temperature amongst other things. He’d given him an example of a young baby left in a car on a hot day that had died within hours, but no such quick fate awaited Jenkins though, as he was a full grown adult. A grown man could go three to five days without water. It would be constant agony but it was doable, however, Jenkins had severe diarrhea days earlier and that would have weakened his immunity and would mean less fluid reserves to rely on, it was also swelteringly hot; sweating would not help his cause, a person could perspire three pints of fluid a day. Kincaid had calculated that Jenkins could perhaps last two day before drinking out of the john.
That target had been and gone hours ago, he looked in the shit-filled toilet and recoiled, no way, he’d rather die, which he thought kinda ironic because that’s exactly what he was doing.
Jenkins found himself flipping between hysterical and delusional, suffering from all the symptoms Kincaid had listed in savage delight. It was something to do with lack of fluid to the brain. His heart palpitated and he moved back to the john and looked down at the surface of the water. A stool floated right on the top, from back before they both got the squirts, he could see blood and vomit mixed in with the excrement.
Was this really his only choice for survival? He'd prefer to die, but he had no means at his disposal to hasten that, his body shuddered as he had another muscle spasm. The cell stank to high heaven. What had he done to deserve this?
Then, of course, he remembered; the tortures, the broken bones, the burnt skin and the pleasure he’d derived from inflicting pain and watching people suffer by his hand. He enjoyed the torment he caused. He’d gained such pleasure from the misery he inflicted upon his victims. He actually blamed them, in his twisted mind for living wonderful lives, whilst his was so shitty.
Kincaid had been right, this was payback. He must’ve already died and this was hell. He could not think of anything worse than to spend eternity in the tiny squalid cell, accompanied by a rotting corpse. His nostrils filled with the stench of excrement, vomit and urine. His whole body ached with thirst and in his delusional, befuddled mind, knew what he had to do, he crouched down by the toilet, used two hands to scoop up the fluid that would slake his maddening thirst and drank down the excrement-filled toilet water greedily.
18:05 PM
In a Humvee parked along Bay View Drive, a side street not too far from the ocean, Sergeant Hank Gruber removed the helmet from his sweltering hazmat suit and lit a cigarette and dragged deeply. “Hot dam, that’s good,” he uttered. He’d been gasping for a cigarette for hours, and could not wait any longer. He knew they were the only patrol in the area and therefore no one could catch them. Since yesterday they had had nothing to patrol, no activity, everyone was quietly dying, or already dead. Their armed presence was pointless, but he followed orders and patrolled his designated segment of Fort Lauderdale.
He savored the smoke as it entered his lungs and he took a second grateful drag, taking it deep down, “Ahhhh…” he sighed in a satisfied voice.
“I don’t think you’re meant to take your helmet off, Serge,” said a private.
Sergeant Gruber glared at the enlisted man. “Don’t tell me what to do, Private. Besides it’s only for when you’re around the victims; there’s no virus here in midair,” he said waving an arm around him to make his point.
“I don’t think so, Serge. It’s an airborne virus. It could be anywhere.”