Salvation: Secret Apocalypse Book 5 (A Secret Apocalypse Story) by James Harden
Authors: James Harden
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from the goddamn prison. I feel like I’ve been kicked in the guts. I feel downright
stupid. I open my mouth to answer Jack, to say something, to say anything.
Something like, “Oh don’t worry, we’ll totally be all right. We’re fine. We’ll
figure it out when we get there.”
But I don’t get
a chance to say this pathetic excuse, this pathetic sentence, because standing
a few doors down from us, to our right, towards the horde, is George Walters.
Prison
administrator.
The warden.
He has the gun
pointed at us. At me. Directly at my chest.
He has a look of
absolute desperation on his face.
“You’re not
going anywhere,” he says.
And I believe
him.
Chapter 18
George is standing a good fifteen feet away from us. A few holding cells away
from us. He looks like a demon in the red glow of the emergency lights. For a
second I think about running, or jumping into one of the holding cells so I’m
out of the line of fire. But as soon as that thought enters my exhausted mind I
push it out. There is nowhere to run to.
Nowhere to hide.
The holding
cells are a dead end.
They are nothing
but potential tombs.
This whole
corridor is a dead end.
“You can’t shoot
us,” I whisper. “You’ll draw their attention. They’ll hunt you down.”
“You wanna take that risk?” he fires back. “You wanna play Russian roulette?”
The gun is in
his hand; his finger is on the trigger. His hands are shaking. If he squeezes
too hard he’ll fire the gun. He’ll probably hit one of us. But that will be
beside the point. The main point being, if he fires that gun, the infected will
hear the shot. And then they will come running.
“You,” George
says. “All of you are staying here. One way or the other. All of you. I am
leaving.”
One way or the
other means dead or infected. These are our two options at this point in time.
“You’re
leaving?” I ask. “Where are you going to go? You’re trapped. Just like us. Just
like everybody else down here.”
“No. He is
coming back for me. I opened the cells just like he wanted. He is coming back.”
I shake my head.
“He is not coming back. Not for you. Not for anyone. He has left you for dead.
The only way we get out of this, is if we work together.”
George clutches
his name tag. “He didn’t leave me. He needs me. I am the warden of this prison.
He needs me.”
As he tells us
how much he is needed he is clutching his name tag.
George Walters.
Prison Administrator. The name tag has a little passport sized ID photo. Below
this is a barcode.
He is clutching
the name tag because it represents who he is. It is a part of him.
People like to
think that their job, their profession, their occupation, does not define them.
But sometimes it does. And to other people, your job definitely defines you.
People define you, they judge you, they put you in a
box.
You are a
student.
A soldier.
A police
officer.
A nurse.
A doctor.
A prison
administrator.
And sometimes
you begin to believe it, to accept it, to let this actually define you. And you
become the job.
Somewhere along
the line, George had become his job. He was the warden through and through. He
was the boss. He was in charge. He was in charge of the guards and of the
prisoners.
Everyone had to
do what he declared.
The problem is,
that right now he thinks his job title gives him control in this arena, in this
messed up situation. But he is not in control. He hasn’t been in control for a
long time.
The game has
changed.
The rules have
changed.
Society has
crumbled.
The world has
ended.
And he is no
longer in control.
There is a man
in a gas mask stalking these hallways and these tunnels. He is stalking us and
hunting us. He is controlling us and manipulating us and he has pushed George
over the edge.
From way down
the other end of the dark hallway, we can hear the moaning howls of the
infected.
George looks
over his shoulder and I think about charging him and so does Kim. Kim
from the goddamn prison. I feel like I’ve been kicked in the guts. I feel downright
stupid. I open my mouth to answer Jack, to say something, to say anything.
Something like, “Oh don’t worry, we’ll totally be all right. We’re fine. We’ll
figure it out when we get there.”
But I don’t get
a chance to say this pathetic excuse, this pathetic sentence, because standing
a few doors down from us, to our right, towards the horde, is George Walters.
Prison
administrator.
The warden.
He has the gun
pointed at us. At me. Directly at my chest.
He has a look of
absolute desperation on his face.
“You’re not
going anywhere,” he says.
And I believe
him.
Chapter 18
George is standing a good fifteen feet away from us. A few holding cells away
from us. He looks like a demon in the red glow of the emergency lights. For a
second I think about running, or jumping into one of the holding cells so I’m
out of the line of fire. But as soon as that thought enters my exhausted mind I
push it out. There is nowhere to run to.
Nowhere to hide.
The holding
cells are a dead end.
They are nothing
but potential tombs.
This whole
corridor is a dead end.
“You can’t shoot
us,” I whisper. “You’ll draw their attention. They’ll hunt you down.”
“You wanna take that risk?” he fires back. “You wanna play Russian roulette?”
The gun is in
his hand; his finger is on the trigger. His hands are shaking. If he squeezes
too hard he’ll fire the gun. He’ll probably hit one of us. But that will be
beside the point. The main point being, if he fires that gun, the infected will
hear the shot. And then they will come running.
“You,” George
says. “All of you are staying here. One way or the other. All of you. I am
leaving.”
One way or the
other means dead or infected. These are our two options at this point in time.
“You’re
leaving?” I ask. “Where are you going to go? You’re trapped. Just like us. Just
like everybody else down here.”
“No. He is
coming back for me. I opened the cells just like he wanted. He is coming back.”
I shake my head.
“He is not coming back. Not for you. Not for anyone. He has left you for dead.
The only way we get out of this, is if we work together.”
George clutches
his name tag. “He didn’t leave me. He needs me. I am the warden of this prison.
He needs me.”
As he tells us
how much he is needed he is clutching his name tag.
George Walters.
Prison Administrator. The name tag has a little passport sized ID photo. Below
this is a barcode.
He is clutching
the name tag because it represents who he is. It is a part of him.
People like to
think that their job, their profession, their occupation, does not define them.
But sometimes it does. And to other people, your job definitely defines you.
People define you, they judge you, they put you in a
box.
You are a
student.
A soldier.
A police
officer.
A nurse.
A doctor.
A prison
administrator.
And sometimes
you begin to believe it, to accept it, to let this actually define you. And you
become the job.
Somewhere along
the line, George had become his job. He was the warden through and through. He
was the boss. He was in charge. He was in charge of the guards and of the
prisoners.
Everyone had to
do what he declared.
The problem is,
that right now he thinks his job title gives him control in this arena, in this
messed up situation. But he is not in control. He hasn’t been in control for a
long time.
The game has
changed.
The rules have
changed.
Society has
crumbled.
The world has
ended.
And he is no
longer in control.
There is a man
in a gas mask stalking these hallways and these tunnels. He is stalking us and
hunting us. He is controlling us and manipulating us and he has pushed George
over the edge.
From way down
the other end of the dark hallway, we can hear the moaning howls of the
infected.
George looks
over his shoulder and I think about charging him and so does Kim. Kim
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