Free Survivor by James Phelan Page B

‘they’?” I asked, sitting there on the ground looking up at him. Chasers? Soldiers? Other survivors?
    â€œThem,” he said, pointing.
    I peered cautiously around the edge of the newspaper stand.
    Down Park Avenue, appearing around the corner from 53rd Street, were three Chasers. The deranged, hunt-you-down-for-what’s-in-your-veins kind. It was so very easy to pick them from the other kind now: those who just drank whatever water they could find were now shells after thirteen days of no nutrients.
    â€œThis is what they do now,” he whispered to me.
    They moved with purpose, alert, on the hunt, blood on their chins and around their mouths, glistening as if they’d just had a fresh taste.
    â€œI’ve seen them—”
    â€œNo, this is new. They’re a scout team.” He shifted position a little, readying for action, not taking his eyes off them. “Part of a bigger hunting party.”
    Watching the Chasers near, I pulled the Glock from my coat pocket and saw his eyes widen at the sight.
    â€œYou don’t need that,” he said. He motioned to his own gun, pulled a shell from his jacket pocket and passed it to me—a funny plastic cartridge the size of an asthma ventilator. “I got this from a cop station—it’s a riot gun; shoots rubber bullets and little beanbags like that. It’ll put them down for a bit, nonlethal.”
    I went to pass it back.
    â€œYou keep it,” he said. “Souvenir.”
    â€œBut if they come—”
    â€œIf they come close, even right up to us, we’re not gonna go killing them,” his look was full of disappointment or disgust. “These are people—they’re sick, but they’re Americans, yeah? You wanna do that? Kill?”
    â€œNo, but—”
    â€œYou wanna kill them, that’s your show. I’ll split and leave them to you.”
    He paused like he was actually giving me this opportunity to murder. Was it some kind of test? I’d set out, looking for people, for community, so maybe he was doing the same. Was I the kind of company he wanted to keep? I no longer knew who to trust—why wouldn’t he be the same?
    â€œNo,” I said, looking at the loaded gun in my hand, not for the first time wanting to give it away. “I don’t want to kill them.”
    â€œGood,” he replied, pumping a round in his shotgun. “I’ll drop them, then we double around 52nd to Lexington, got it?”
    â€œI’ve got to take that food with me.”
    â€œYou’re tripping, we gotta leave!”
    â€œI have to—” I started to protest.
    â€œWe can’t.”
    â€œThen count me out.”
    He looked at me, measured my resolve.
    â€œFine,” he said. “One bag each.”
    I nodded.
    â€œBut if it comes to it,” he said, “I’m not gonna get killed for a bag of food, so I’ll ditch it—and you—if I have to.”
    â€œOkay.”
    â€œOkay. I’ll count down, you make it to the bags and I’ll drop these guys. We leave once the third is down. You’ll follow me, got it? And put that pistol away before you shoot someone with it.”
    I pocketed the Glock and the beanbag shotgun cartridge.
    With his gloved left hand, he counted down from five, first his thumb, then a finger extending in time with each stride the Chasers took towards us.
    â€œI’m Caleb,” he said, matter-of-factly.
    â€œJesse.”
    His counting hand moved to the pump-action handle and he walked out to the street. The three Chasers looked up from the snow and saw him. I rushed over to the canvas bags.
    Caleb took aim. They started running straight for us, while I began dragging the bags down Park Avenue. Caleb fired a shot—a Chaser collapsed. Oblivious to their fallen comrade the other two continued towards us, picking up pace with each stride, thirst in their eyes. Caleb loaded a new round and fired