They Live

"Well damn man. When you go nuts, you really go fucking nuts." I snort, "Seriously man, I think she's dead."

His eyes are wild and pupils blown wider than a thin chick's after smoking a big ass reefer. His sandy blonde hair is tousled in a way that models spend hours trying to accomplish. (Who knew the trick to perfectly messy hair was attempted murder?)

Whatever.

Harlan gets off the doctor; his eyes are locked on me now. His face is blotchy from crying but there's an unmistakable, predatory grin twisting his tear-stained features.

A chill runs down my spine.

"Ha-Harlan?"

That seems to bring him to senses. The creepy as fuck grin dissipates. "I got to get out," he whispers, the words rushing out of his mouth at breakneck speeds. "Where's the exit?"

I give off a nervous laugh. No way am I going to let this homicidal maniac into the streets. I mean, yeah, what happened to him is tragic, but he can't go killing people. That's how societies fail. "I think you killed the one who would know," I say. But thankfully I can see Dr. Schmidt's flat-as-a-freaking-board chest rise and fall so she isn't really dead. Let Harlan think she is. Then she can like, come up behind him with a fire extinguisher or something and bash his brains in or something. Hell, I wouldn't even complain if she got some on my shoes.

In a second, he crosses the gap between us and grabs a fistful of my sweater in his hand and all but lifts me off my feet.

"No," he growls. Something dark, animalistic and evil glints in his eyes. "They let you leave. So you're going to lead me out."

My mouth falls open in shock. "Yeah," I stammer. "Sure. Just. Just lemme down, big guy? Can't very well lead you out--"

He drops me on my ass.

"-- ow, fucking ow! Jerk." Brushing myself off, I push past him. "Come on, asshole. Looks like I've got to reintroduce you to civilised society again."

A short pause stretches out as I reflect on my admittedly poor choice of my words.

"At least, you know, what's left of it. The whole bomb carpeting thing didn't do the outside world any favours, you know? You're gonna want to pick a direction and stick with it until you're out of the dead-zone."

He says nothing in response but honestly? I'm kinda good with the whole "socialising with the asshat who tried to kill Schmidt" thing.

There are multiple exits and entrances to the underground complex and the entire thing sprawls underneath the city like a labyrinth. A labyrinth with genetic monstrosities and horrific crimes against humanity. So yeah, actually, pretty close to the original myth, especially the Mino--

I'm pulled out of my thoughts by a firm hand trying to choke me by jerking my collar backwards.

"What?" I snap, but my frustration is short lived as Harlan's face twists into a fantastic, sneering grimace.

"Where are you taking me?"

I blink. "You're kidding, right?" I could navigate these halls while blindfolded and drunker than a skunk, or in this case while talking and keeping a wary eye on a violent psychopath. "Outside. Gonna take you out on that back alley near the soup kitchen."

"There isn't a soup kit--"

"Right," I interrupt hastily. Last thing I need is Mr. Barely-Sane getting all unstable and violent again. "You've been down here for a while. It was built while you were being..." Nope, nope. I am not opening that can of worms.

But, absolutely fucking wonderful, he opens it himself. "Tortured."

I hum noncommittally. You couldn't pay me to touch that with a ten foot pole. This whole set up is crazy enough for five lifetimes; and I do not want to have to fend off Mr. Murder-mcStab-Stab and his murderous rages. I may be older but he's so much taller and for all his talk of being tortured, he has way more muscle mass than I do. (Well, wait that's not exactly fair. I am 0% muscle.)

When we come upon the ladder, I stop and gesture vaguely in its direction. "There. Up through the manhole, into the city. You're probably not gonna have an issue with it but try to make sure no one sees you crawl out from the sewers like a slimy mutated mole rat."

I shift my weight and tap my foot restlessly. Schmidt could be conscious again -- (let her be conscious, please) -- and I so don't want to leave her in a dark corridor for too long. As soon as Harlan decides to kick his ass in gear, I'm making a beeline for her and apologizing because damn, I really should have seen that Harlan had escaped his binds while the power was out.

Tick tock, tick tock. I'm not getting any younger pal. I throw an irritated glare his way.

The man seems like he's just a bundle of tightly wound, shot-to-holly-hell nerves, one slight tap away from rebounding off the walls and eviscerating everything in his path. Jumpy, his eyes dart from me to the exit back to me and then back to the ladder. "This'll let me out into the city?" An obvious edge of distrust runs under his words like an undertow.

"Didn't I just say that? Now go. Shoo. Be free. Go to your natural habitat--" Only now do I recognize that dark look in his eyes and before I can even pivot on my back foot, his iron grip clamps down on my shoulder and upper arm.

"You're going to lead me out."

I can't help it. Panic turns my voice reedy and shrill. "I did! This is the way ou-- ow ow OW!" His hands tighten until he's practically crushing my bones; the pain burns and slides up my arms along my nerves. My thoughts scatter like frightened ants. He throws me bodily over his shoulder and, in this way, hauls me up the ladder and out of the underground.

The city looks like hell. The sun is shining though, there's a faint breeze, and the dust clouds swirl languidly across the ground.

I have just enough presence of mind to thrash in his grip. My wild, frenetic movements cause him to loosen his hold. Maybe realising this, he throws me to the ground.

My elbows now sport rather large abrasions and my hip is likely bruised but as he looms over me, I leap up with an uppercut and send him staggering backwards. Hissing in pain, I clutch my hand to my chest. "Holy fucking Christ, what is your face made of?" I ask, unthinkingly. Then my brain kickstarts. I remember the man I just punched has recently tried to kill someone (seriously though, how does one forget those sorts of things?) and I take off, running like a bat out of hell.

From the lack of thundering footsteps trailing behind me, I can only assume he doesn't feel like chasing me down through the city.

I want to head back to Envirex, but Harlan might predict I'd come back to my little sanctuary and set up camp in order to ambush me. I've got to waste a day or two at least.

Well.

I could check if there are any survivors. Anyone in their basement, bunker, or lucky enough to outrun the destruction probably survived. Surprisingly, the thought leaves me with a bitter taste in my mouth.

The streets shouldn't be this empty. On all the small scale simulations, the population never dropped below forty percent.

Plus, it's been nineteen days. Nearly twenty now, as the setting sun can attest to, so why hasn't the outside world responded? You can't just sweep a demolished city under the rug.

The dead have -- had -- families who live outside the city. At the least there should be a plethora of pissed off relatives demanding search and rescue crews.

Where the hell's the Red Cross? The army? The government would have to be blind and deaf to not call this (however erroneously) a terrorist attack. All that war on terror and Isis and stuff I really never cared about.

There should be planes and helicopters flying overhead and searching the rubble for traces of survivors but our skies are filled with smoke. Maybe that's why, there's too much smoke, I reason half-heartedly.

Quelling the worst of my concerns I make my way into the nearest building that still has a roof. It's an apartment, and the shattered, burnt and torn photographs are almost enough to drown me in a swell of guilt.

Then, furious for reasons I don't quite understand, I kick the nearest frame and send it careening across the room.

"Fuck."