The other two prisoners had had to go through the same process and by the time they were done they were crying too. But Simpson couldn’t pull the trigger on the last one, he just didn’t have it in him. And the man, even though the infection hadn’t taken him yet, jumped Simpson, biting off two of his fingers before two dogs swiftly dispatched him.
“Son, you are on the thirty minute plan,” Tarver said, handing Simpson his sidearm after they’d bandaged his hand. The general turned to all of them, his voice still that same even tone. “Each of you has a responsibility to your brothers. To take care of your brother and for him to take care of you whenever either of you is unable to take care of yourself. Man can no longer afford to be an island unto himself, he is part of the greater community of humanity. We owe Ziggy our gratitude; he has reminded us of this.
“With or without honor,” he turned and looked at Simpson. “The choice is yours.” The younger man looked at the gun in his hand, looked at Tarver, looked at all of them. His eyes were great big pools, ready to flood at any moment. That was the first time Danton had heard the term ‘thirty minute plan’. He didn’t know what it meant, but he was slowly getting the idea. He’d seen men turn two hours after being bitten. He figured in a half hour a body could get himself right with the Lord if he was motivated.
But Simpson seemed unsure. Ten minutes had been used up stopping the bleeding. Tarver glanced down occasionally as they all stood around, watching the man with the gun. Danton later saw Tarver’s palm-sized pocket watch.
Twenty minutes went by. Twenty-two. Twenty-four. Simpson didn’t seem to be able to do anything more than shift from side to side and stare down at that gun like some mighty anchor holding him to the earth beneath his feet.
Twenty-seven. Twenty-eight.
Nobody else seemed to move except him and Danton. And Tarver’s head going down-up, down-up, every minute or so. Even Gibbons, the other prisoner, was still as a statue.
Twenty-nine.
Danton didn’t know why he felt unsure what to expect. Either Simpson would do it or he wouldn’t. Why was he so nervous?
“I-I can’t,” Simpson said. “Can’t we just wait to, y’know, be sure?”
Nobody answered. Danton wanted to chime in and say he’d watch over him. That he would take care of Simpson if and when he turned. But he couldn’t even open his mouth.
“That’s time, son,” General Tarver said, stepping up to Simpson and holding out his hand for the gun. Simpson was afraid. He raised the hand with the gun, holding it out limp before letting it slide from his palm. “It’s all right now.” Simpson’s arm fell back to his side.
Danton felt nervous energy pour down and out of his feet. If he’d been tired after the last three days of no sleep and constant fighting for his life now he felt like a hundred pound weight had been tied around his neck.
The gunshot jerked him erect again and he looked up to see Simpson pressed against the wall behind him, his head against a giant red Rorschach blot. His eyes were half-lidded and he was gone before his butt hit the floor.
Tarver holstered his other gun and turned back to the dogs.
“The same for every single one of you. If you cannot die with honor, you will still die with dignity. I will not abide Ziggy amongst our ranks, either former or present. Neither will you. We will approach Ziggy without animosity, without hate, but with the certainty that we will absolutely do to him what he would not hesitate to do to us.”
By the time they’d reached the base Danton was a full-fledged dog. He’d been ready to take on Ziggy but General Tarver had been cautious, negotiating them away from Ziggy as often as possible. But eventually they’d had to engage and Danton had acquitted himself well. He didn’t know if anyone else kept count, but he’d personally slaughtered seven ziggies.
The last one had been the hardest.
Danton felt his anger ease and he was able to think more clearly, though the first thought that popped into his mind was a pipe dream: killing that brain Boyle. On the one hand he felt he was doing what was the right thing in finding and destroying Cargill, but on the other he felt his hand had been forced, like he’d been manipulated into handling this all wrong.
Either way, Cargill would be destroyed. But he hoped Boyle wouldn’t be far behind.
Danton smelled something. Lemons! He ducked behind a section of sidewalk that was standing almost vertically out of the ground. Earth clung to the underside of it. The ground in a forty foot radius was deeply pitted as if it had rained fire here. A moment later and he began to hear the groans of Ziggy.
The lemon scent swelled in his nose. This was definitely them. He drew his machetes. Danton didn’t have enough ammo to put them all down and he didn’t care to anyway. He was only doing this to get to Cargill. Ziggy could be caught off guard and if he gave them the bum’s rush he could get away with his skin still intact.
They were twenty feet past, walking to his right when he spotted Cargill right in the middle, eyes straight. He estimated thirty so far. This was going to be harder than he thought, but still doable. They were in an ovular pattern and Cargill was three or four bodies in.
Danton rushed them, slicing off the first two ziggies’ heads. One of them grabbed his shoulder and he spun and sliced off its hands. Another ziggy lunged and his blade sliced through its head and eyes, blinding it. He shoulder bumped the last one between him and Cargill and was about to bring both his machetes down on his brother’s head when he saw Cargill’s eyes.
He was alive.
Considerably thinner and gaunt-looking but those were the eyes of a human being. Danton checked his dual swing and tumbled away from another ziggy that lunged at him.
Cargill blinked down at him and his mouth fell open.
“Danton?” His voice was a whisper.
“I have to get you out of here.” Danton chopped into another ziggy’s dome and his machete made it midway down its forehead before it slumped to the ground. The pack was beginning to turn on him. He had to get away.
Danton began slicing at arms and hands and mouths as they drew nearer. He kicked one center mass, pushing it back into four others and creating a small gap he might be able to squeeze through. A hand grabbed his shoulder before he could jump and he smelt cold, rancid-fruit breath as another ziggy’s mouth drew much too close.
Cargill elbowed the ziggy aside and broke the grip of the one holding him. He grabbed Danton and shoved his way through until he’d broken the pack.
Danton was ready to fight them off; he could definitely do it from outside the pack. Maybe he could take them all down. He was fast enough even though his eyes burned from the thick citrusy smell from within the pack. But they stopped where they were.
Danton didn’t get it.
“I’m their… I’m their leader,” Cargill said, his hands resting on his shoulders. “We protect each other. I don’t understand it, probably something Boyle put in those canisters. Maybe it has a symbiotic effect on living humans in relation to Ziggy.” Danton didn’t know what that one word meant, he figured it must have meant ‘calming’ or some shit like that. “But that’s why they broke in the base and took me. They sensed me—sensed I was one of them. Except I’m still alive.”
“Why aren’t they eating you?” Danton asked.
“I can control them, for the most part. It’s a low level grunting kind of thing. I warn them away from dangers and keep the pack tight. There’s another pack following us.”
“The ones that smell like burning wood?”
“Yeah, that’s them. You’ve seen them?”
“No, but I was close. Got a good whiff.”
“Good. Avoid them. When we first saw them there were only a dozen. I don’t know where their numbers are coming from, but three days ago there were twenty at least. And I think they’re all singles.”