The other two guards hiked up the slope. With their backs to the bridge and the gate unguarded, this was my shot. Move, I told myself. Now! My legs didn’t obey.
“Over here,” Cruz called to the other two. He ran a hand over his bristling dark hair.
The flashlight beams bounced across the hill until they landed on the writhing maniac on the ground and set his drool glistening. Cruz glanced up the hill even though there was no way he could see much in the darkness. Still, I stayed down and turned off my dial. As much as I wanted to keep recording, I couldn’t risk someone spotting the tiny red light that indicated my dial was on.
When the other guards got close, Cruz asked, “How did he get infected?”
“How should I know?” said the stocky guard with biceps as thick as his thighs. “I was on gate duty and Bangor shows up.” He flung a hand toward the crumpled man. “Says the captain wants me. So, I go, right? I’m maybe twenty feet down the path and I hear the bolt slide open. I look back and Bangor’s yanking on the gate. That’s when I yelled for backup.”
The gate. Right. I redirected my attention to the bridge’s dark silhouette and crept several bushes closer to the landing strip. The hill wasn’t as steep here. Staying low, I dashed down the slope to the nearest jeep and crouched.
“Okay, he’s out,” I heard Cruz say as I snuck along the row of vehicles. When I reached the last one, I stole another look at the guards. Their eyes were locked on the man on the ground, now deathly still.
“He was on river patrol today,” said the third guard, whose blond crew cut looked like baby chick down. “They found a raft on the west bank. Maybe Bangor found the owner.”
“More like the owner found him,” said the stocky guard.
“Hey, maybe it’s not —” The blond guy shifted uncomfortably. “Maybe Bangor just cracked from the stress.”
Cruz dropped to a knee and touched the tranquilized man’s forehead. “Maybe.” Even from fifty feet away, I could hear the lack of conviction in his husky voice. “Take him to the infirmary.”
“Why? He’s turning,” the stocky guard said, his voice rising.
“Because the doctor is going to want to know what bit him.”
“We know what,” the guard snapped. “A feral.”
“Yeah, but which strain?” Cruz shot a glance up the hill — probably trying to check on me.
“Who cares?”
“Are you trying to find a cure?” Cruz got to his feet, which gave him the height advantage. “No? Then shut up and get him to Dr. Solis.”
Dr. Solis, the very person I was supposed to find. And maybe now that wouldn’t be such an impossible task. I could follow these guards right to him.
The blond guard stepped away, hands up. “He might bite.”
I twitched, remembering a line from a documentary about the outbreak: Ferae killed half the nation, one bite at a time.
“So what?” Cruz asked. “Even if he has Ferae, it won’t get into his salivary glands for a while.”
“Did you read that in one of your science books?” the stocky guard sneered.
“Fine.” Cruz unclipped something from his belt and tossed it to the blond guard. “If you’re so worried, muzzle him.”
“I’m not putting my hand near his mouth.” He tossed the leather strap to the stocky guy. “You do it.”
That one didn’t even bother to catch it; he just let the strap bounce off his chest and fall to the ground. “Not a chance.”
“Oh, for — He’s unconscious.” Guardsman Cruz sounded like he was at the end of his patience.
I had to get out of there before he realized that I wasn’t waiting for him to come arrest me. At least he hadn’t told the other two about me.
“If you’re so freaking sure, you muzzle him,” the stocky guard said.
Cruz dropped his dog tag and badge down his shirt and scooped up the piece of leather. “Move.” The other two had several years on him and yet they jumped out of the way as he bent over the tranquilized man.
With the guards’ attention wholly on their task, I slipped through the gate, which they’d left ajar. Rock music drifted out of the darkness upriver. I pressed against an iron support beam and peeked back at the trio on the slope. Cruz stepped aside as the other two guards slung the maniac’s arms over their shoulders and lifted him. If they were following his instructions, they’d take the infected man to Dr. Solis. All I had to do was keep to the shadows and trail them.
Layers of rust stuck to my palms as I peeled away from the beam. Ugh. But there was no time to whip out the hand sanitizer. I sprinted for the gate at the far end of the bridge, not trusting the soft wood beneath my feet — it felt rotten — but at least it muffled my footsteps.
Lights appeared from around the bend and the music grew louder as a patrol barge cruised downriver. Onboard, patrolmen aimed spotlights at the banks. I pressed against another support beam, trying to make myself invisible, only to hear a clank as the guards lugged the unconscious man through the gate. Cruz wasn’t with them — probably because he was searching for me on the ridge. How long would it take him to realize that I wasn’t there?
I stayed plastered to the iron beam. If I dashed through the gate now, the approaching guards might see me. But I couldn’t stay here. They’d be on top of me in a minute. Jumping was definitely out. The river looked not just fast, but schizo. With all the cross currents, I’d get swept under in a heartbeat.
Peering down through the planks of wood, I watched the patrol boat cruise under the bridge. When a guard tilted up his light, I jerked back from the gap. The guards behind me dragged the unconscious man to the railing as the boat emerged on the other side. “Hey,” the stocky guard yelled down.
“What are you slack-offs doing up there?” a voice shouted back.
Go go go! I dashed for the gate — left open and swaying in the night breeze.
“Nothing good,” he called down. “Tell you when you’re back in camp.”
I slipped through the gate and into the shadows beyond. Six rows of barracks lined up before me, with several buildings per row. That was housing for a whole lot of guards, and who knew, there might even be more. The bridge I’d crossed was located at the southwest tip of the island and Arsenal was a very big island. Luckily, the bridge faced the backside of the barracks. The six-story clock tower read one o’clock and yet spotlights blazed throughout the camp. A security measure? I dashed into the narrow alley between two barracks and made my way to the front of the building. I peered around the corner, only to have my heart plow to a stop.
There were line guards everywhere.
Young men and women, all in gray fatigues, stood in distinct groups in a courtyard that was bound on all sides by barracks. Under glaring arc lights, the guards slammed their guns around in some sort of rhythmic line dance. Or maybe this was what they called a drill. I edged back into the shadows, but couldn’t tear my gaze from their syncopated movements and implacable faces. If they marched en masse in my direction, I had no doubt that they’d mow me down without noticing and pound my body to a bloody pulp under their boots.
Watching them, it was hard to believe the fact that before the plague, the line patrol was a private security force for indoor theme parks. These guards were all too young to have worked for Titan back then, when the company was known for its elaborate labyrinths that were acres wide and fifty stories high. Clearly the guards’ training now involved more than helping people through a maze.
I ran back down the alley to watch for the guards who were going to take the yellow-eyed man to the infirmary. I crouched by the back corner so that my vest would disappear against the building’s cement foundation. My heart thudded, keeping time with the relentless stomping from the courtyard. How was I going to make it to the infirmary in a white vest — muddy or not — without one of the robots noticing?