Thuds on the door came more erratic and screams and yet more gunfire—automatic spits.
I handed the small pistol to the wall man and she looked at it where it was outstretched and shook her head. “Keep it holstered,” I said, “Take it. Go on.”
She shook her head again, glancing to the corpse in the hall. I shoved the gun flat against her chest and she grabbed ahold of it, a startled expression was planted across her round face. She took the gun and slammed the thing onto her hip.
“Move the corpse,” I angled over to the legs and began to lift them. The woman which had guarded the body remained still and didn’t offer a thing to say. “Grab the head.”
The wall man swallowed and hunkered down to grab the dead girl’s wrists. We awkwardly shuffled her to an adjacent room—servant quarters? Upon returning to the hall, I grew faint and stabled myself by the woman which sat on the floor, and I shook her with my hand on her shoulder. “Up,” I said.
She shook her head.
“Goddammit, c’mon. Was it your daughter? Sister? What? Get up or you’ll be trampled to death when we open that door.”
“Daughter,” she whispered.
I motioned for the wall man’s help and she came over and we lifted the poor woman by her armpits and helped her to the room we’d placed her daughter. Among the rows of bunks and trunks and dressers, we’d lined her beside the nearest bunks and the woman, upon reseeing the corpse, froze and there wasn’t a good moment to offer condolences or to apologize, though the wall man tried.
“I’m sorry,” said the wall man—sweat beaded across her upper lip and she was shaking just as much as the mother as she shifted the woman around the corpse and sat her there on the bunk nearby. The mattress made a long noise and the mother stared at her dead child and while the wall man tended to them, I ripped the blanket from the bunk beside and tossed it over the dead girl.
“C’mon,” I said to the wall man, “Do your duty then. When I open that door, it’s going to be a mess. Wounded probably. You got any supplies for that in the underground?”
“Sure,” said the wall man; she removed herself from beside the crying mother and we shut the door behind and stood in the hallway for a moment; the ghastly strikes against the door began to grow weaker and a few others that had escaped to the underground returned to the hall entrance—probably to see the ruckus; I shot a hand to them to say they should move out of the way.
“Get on then,” I said, “I’ll get the door. Go get them supplies. No reason to let them die beating down the door like that.”
“You’re crazy. You could just leave them out there.” said the wall man and then she was gone too, and I stood there by the door alone; I hadn’t even a moment to respond.
“Fuck,” I mumbled. The door latch was cold in my hands, and I shook my head hard to send away the faintness which had come to me; the sleepless days in the cell had done a number—the fighting, the running, everything.
I yanked the door free and was immediately propelled backwards by the force of the people from the other side. I put myself against the wall and watched scared faces rush by, stumble through; some panted thanks to god without a break in their pace and their footfalls were like thunder through the underground as they rushed past. It took biting my tongue to not scream at them stepping over my feet to or elbowing me as they went; the wildered expressions were too panicked to worry about me, too worried about survival.
Once the immediate flow of folks rushed past, I went to the door, pushed it half-shut and investigated the dark and moist basement which led to the kitchens. Another person came down the stairs and I watched them, thought of slamming the door on them, but upon them staggering to the threshold, I sighed and threw it open; Lady spilled into the underground, staff suspending her bent back from tipping over and she carried past without acknowledging me. I continued to watch the door and waited and listened; the destruction of Golgotha came in waves—the smell of burnt flesh travelled even to where I stood and the screams of the burned did too. The mutants and demons rampaged, and I listened to that too and waited and sometimes a person or a handful of people came through and I let them pass then returned to sentry.
People piled in the hall while others went deeper into the underground, to disappear in hiding or to die somewhere quiet from their wounds—still, the ones which languished in the hall, twenty or more in that long and narrow thoroughfare, all seemed injured either bodily or by their mind. Hisses and moans escaped the survivors whenever they adjusted themselves in the way they sat, and I watched through that door into the lightless basement and glanced to the opposite end of the hallway where it T-sectioned.
I hollered at the crowd, body in the doorway, leaning tiredly. “Anybody got cigarettes? Tobacco?”
A man by the doorway in which we’d ushered the dead girl through raised a hand and there was a little boy by him; the little boy had a blackened left hand but otherwise seemed coherent enough—the scrawny kid was maybe six. “I’ve a pipe!” shouted the man.
The fellow sent over the boy which catered to him, and the boy approached me stiffly, waywardly, as though he were afraid something may burst through the door at any moment. I attempted a smile, though I can’t say I looked like good company. The boy offered up a handheld pair of tins on a hinge and upon opening it there was a small stash of dry tobacco, a tiny pipe, and only four matches.
“I’d thank you to just leave me some—that’s all I ask,” said the man from where he sat; he smiled then laughed a bit and the laughing became a terrible wet cough and the man’s eyes watered, and the boy returned to the man.
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I nodded a thanks in the man’s direction and began packing the pipe and sat there at the threshold while the door remained cracked. Upon lighting the thing, I puffed deep and coughed a bit myself then closed my eyes only for a moment to gather a deep bout of smoke into my mouth; I sucked it back into my lungs. The tobacco was a bit stale, but it was delicious, and I vaguely thought I might never get another chance for it.
“Don’t be deceived!” screeched Lady as she hung among the crowd of injured; she lighted the incense which hung from her staff and continued: “God won’t be mocked. Whatever we sowed then we too reap, and we have sowed! Now comes reaping!”
A crying man added to the grumbles, “Someone toss that bitch out on her head!”
I waited to see how poorly the crowd may turn on Lady, but she shut up and everyone else continued in their own small conversations. Lady tried to continue her tirade but disappeared into the recesses of the place.
The gathered warm bodies made the tunnel air wet and the smell of the incense alongside the unwashed grew pungent; I smoked deeper to hide the scent.
Upon glancing back to the T-section, I saw the wall man, the woman which I’d sent for medicine—there was no part of me which expected her return, but there she was. Leather bags hung from both her arms and in front of her arms she carried a crate. She stumbled over the people in the hall, and she saw me there by the door and dropped the supplies to the side and approached.
“You a doctor?” she panted the words.
I shook my head, toked the pipe. Tiredness was so prevalent in me that it became an emotion. “You?”
“Basic field medic training, but I haven’t used it. Not for real.”
“Okay,” I moved to stand, and she offered a hand, and I took it and pressed into the frame of the threshold for good holding.
“Harlan’s your name, yeah?” she asked.
I nodded.
“I’m Mal.” She nodded like it meant something and then started in again, staring at the supplies. “Can you help these people?”
“I’m watching,” I looked through the door crack, listened to a bad solitary scream, smelled the burning earth.
“I’ll watch,” she offered; Mal lifted her 9mm free from its holster.
“It might be good enough to kill a girl, but it won’t do anything to anything waiting out there.”
She flinched at my words and reholstered the weapon.
“Sorry,” I said, and I meant it, “Alright. Shut it quick if you see anything bad.”
I moved from the door, and she kept her foot on the door and kept watch through the crack.
The supplies, though abundant, would have been better in the hands of a team of physicians; it was just me. I began to move through the crowd and offer what I could. A woman with a ruptured ear drum—there was no cure for that in the purses Mal brought and I merely offered pain medication; she continued to toss her head to the right as though she was trying to dislodge something inside of her cranium, but she took the meds. A man had a slice down his face—an easy enough fix; he applied the bandages himself with minimal aid from me.
I moved to the man which had offered me the tin and pipe and looked at the space between his legs and the boy sat beside him opposite myself. The man didn’t say anything. In my slump, I whispered to him, “Hey, thanks,” I reached out with the tin in my hand, “I left you some.” Examining him closer, there was a broke-sharpened rod impaled directly through his right hip; the object protruded from the front and the back, so he sat half-over and strangely—blood puddled under him. He didn’t move. “Shit.” I gave him a shake and there was no response; there was no breath when I held fingers under his nostrils, no shifting of the eye when I pulled on his cheek to open it.
The boy angled away from the dead man and looked up at me from where he sat. “You can help daddy, can’t you? It’s that,” the boy pointed to the rod, “Just take it out.”
Looking into the boy’s face, it became apparent that not only was his left hand shriveled and blackened and crimped stiffly against his chest, but his eyes had begun to take on a duller color. Briefly, the thought of killing the boy flashed across my mind; would it be like killing the girl from before? Would it be a mercy? I shook my head and frowned at the boy and the boy’s eyes glittered, and he returned to leaning on his dead pop without saying another thing; his head rested on the bicep of the paling corpse.
The earth continued quaking periodically, and as it would, we all would stop whatever we were doing, stare off into either the open air in front of us or at the ceiling; it was a strange vermin-like behavior and I didn’t feel good doing it, but the overwhelming nature of the situation brought it out in me. Mal continued her watch by the door, and I walked between the outstretched legs of the other survivors which laid or sat in their groupings; even surrounded as I was by others, I felt incredibly alone—it could have also been the fact that I was the only one moving through the crowd the way I was. Everyone else seemed comforted by their own impending doom; they’d assumed the role of the victim. Not me, never me, of course not. I could not do it. No, it was the tiredness in me; it caught up to me, dragged on my bowing shoulders with cold long fingers.
Where bandaging was necessary, I gave the wrappings, where water was asked for, I handed it away from the supplies, and where death was imminent, I offered pain relief. It would’ve been better to be a real doctor. There was an uproar inside of myself, a stupid anger which came up—why should I take care of them? Why could they not lift themselves up? I was exhausted and criminalized. Surely, there was someone better for the job. Surely, they would’ve appreciated Lady better or a Boss. Let Maron spend a few moments catering to the wounds of his flock. Let them perish. I was wearied.
Bringing myself back to the doorway, I lowered into a squat, back supported on the wall, and asked Mal if she’d seen anything. She shook her head.
“I let a straggler in since you did a round,” she whispered, “Don’t know if you saw them or not.”
“Mhm.”
“I can smell it. It’s brimstone, isn’t it? Like fire and blood and something else. Like rotten eggs. And poultry. They’ve killed our animals. I could hear it. God. I hope they don’t find us.”
I shrugged and let the pack of medicines slide from my shoulder and I relit the pipe and smoked it and cast a glance towards the dead man that had handed it off to me. “It is. Sulfur.” The words slurred.
“I’ve seen them once or twice on the horizon. Whenever I’d do rounds—I’m new,” said Mal, “They never trusted me with a long-range weapon, but they let me watch and spot and I’d see the demons out there in the ruins. They were probably just mutants. It's hard to tell when you only catch a glimpse of them.”
I puffed the pipe, spit a piece of loose tobacco which had come through. “Shut the door. Go on.” She looked at me, shifted the hinge hesitantly. “If there’s anyone worth opening it for, we’ll do it. Lock it for now.” I rubbed my forefinger and thumb against my closed eyes and listened to the awful grumbles of the other survivors. The air was hot.
Mal closed the door and latched it, and the ground shook again and a few of the children let go of little surprised noises.
“There’s food down here, isn’t there?” I asked Mal the wall man.
“Some.”
“Enough?”
“How long?” she asked.
“I don’t know.”
“I thought you were evil or something.”
“Something,” I nodded. I coughed and shooed away the gathered smoke with my free hand. “I need to close my eyes for a minute. Send someone for weapons. Might want them in case.”
It was longer than a minute, and I was fully unconscious, upright, and hunkered against the wall with the pipe hanging from the corner of my mouth. I was dead on my feet.