Omega Plague: Collapse (20 page)

“I’m going down,” Bruno said. “Stay outside, in case there’s
a problem. My radio’s on; it should still work unless this place is a lot further
underground than I think.” He tapped the inside pocket of his jacket and felt
the reassuring bump of the radio. “But I won’t use it unless it’s an emergency.
If I’m not out in twenty minutes, it means I
am
having a problem.”

“So if you’re not back, what should I do?”

Bruno smiled and patted DeLuca on the shoulder.

“Don’t worry. You’ve got the pistol I gave you, right?”

DeLuca nodded.

“Well, it’s up to you. If you think it’s too dangerous, run
back to the boat and get back to Capri. But if I’ve just tripped and bumped my
head, it would be nice if you came and helped. Look, old man, if you need to
run, to hide, then run, hide. I understand. Do what you have to do to live.”

DeLuca opened his mouth then shut it again, and simply
nodded as he spoke. “All right, Bruno. Whatever you say. I’ll open the door.”

Bruno nodded and stepped back. DeLuca pulled back the door,
but the only sign of movement was the breeze whistling down the street and the
chattering sparrows. Daylight illuminated a concrete ramp stretching down into
darkness. Bruno stepped onto the ramp and glanced back towards DeLuca.

“Don’t worry. Worst that could happen is, it’s empty.” Bruno
turned on his flashlight. “Remember, if I’m not back in twenty minutes,
something’s happened. Don’t initiate radio contact. If you see anything up
here, hide or come down and get me if you can. And shut the door behind me.”

“And what if it
is
empty?”

Bruno shrugged. “Guess we’ll try the one in Naples. What
else can we do?”

Bruno walked down the steep ramp and darkness swallowed him
as DeLuca lowered the door with a clang. The barest crack of daylight shone
through the seam where the metal doors met. He turned around and shined his
flashlight ahead as he walked.

The ramp sloped down at a steep angle, leveling out over
some meters. When he looked behind and above, he could make out the seam of the
doors, now two meters above and at least four meters behind him. The width of
the tunnel surprised Bruno as he shined his flashlight around, looking around
at the poured concrete walls and floor. He pressed forward, the beam of his
flashlight cutting the gloom.

The light landed on double metal doors. His pace quickened,
and he reached the wide doors in seconds. He swept his flashlight around. The
metal doors stood taller than a man, unpainted, and a fine sheen of rust
constituted their only decoration, except for a square metal handgrip jutting
out from the overlapping door. Bruno rubbed his hand on the door, feeling the
cold steel beneath his fingers. His hand strayed down to the handle. Bruno
tugged on it, but the door didn’t even jiggle. No key or any way to access the
doors’ locking mechanism could be seen.

Bruno swept the beam over the frame of the doors. On the
left side of the door, between the door and the tunnel’s wall, Bruno saw a
black square the width of a hand. He moved closer to the square, shifting his
pack to his right side, and shone his flashlight on the square.

Bruno saw the dark plastic keypad, with no visible numbers
or letters. He nearly swore out loud. A scramble pad. The position of the
numbers or letters moved to a different key every time it was activated, that
way no one could just learn the pattern or look for wear marks on certain keys.
He had assumed the code would be used on a physical device, like the
combination lock on a safe, not this power-dependent lock. How could he get in?
The power had to be off, and he didn’t have nearly enough tools to try to force
the doors.

For a moment Bruno stood there. Not sure what else to do,
Bruno touched the keypad. The keys lit up, glowing red, and they beeped in
acknowledgement. The keypad’s response startled him. Must be battery powered.
He wondered how long before the battery died, making whatever lay behind the
doors forever inaccessible. Bruno looked at the keys, now a matrix of scrambled
numbers glowing a dull red, with an extra row of letters underneath, and two
arrow keys on either side of the letter row. He had never seen one with that
extra row before. He typed in the number code and scrolled through the alphabet
until he found the right letters. He had studied the complex string of letters
and numbers from the transmission so much that it took him only seconds to
input them. Bruno paused for a moment, then he pushed the “enter” key. He heard
a buzz and a click from the door. Breathing deeply of the dusty air, he pulled
the door handle.

It surprised Bruno how much of his body weight he used as he
tugged on the handle. The door crept outward, with only the smallest creak.

As the door crawled open, muffled shouts, barely audible,
reached Bruno’s ears. The sounds drifted down from back towards the ramp.
DeLuca! Bruno’s mind played out his choices in microseconds—leave the door open
and risk having whatever was behind the door taken from him, or close the door
and risk not being able to open it again, maybe losing the opportunity forever
to acquire real firepower and whatever else might lay hidden behind the steel
door.

For a second he hesitated, paralyzed by the choice that
might determine his fate and that of DeLuca. Then he acted. Pushing the door
firmly closed, Bruno angled his flashlight toward the ground and jogged back
toward the entrance. The voices grew louder, but Bruno slowed as he got closer
to the entrance, fearful they might hear his steps. As Bruno approached the
bottom of the ramp, he turned off his flashlight. Figures moving back and forth
interrupted the crack of light that shone down.

“E con chìstu ccà, che cazzo ci facimmo?” asked a male’s
voice from above, speaking in the dialect of the region. “So, what are we gonna
do with this one?”

Someone laughed. A boy, Bruno thought. “Dunno. Let’s kill
him.”

A third male voice: “Screw that! We’d better take him back.”

“Why? What if he’s got the Bloody Shits?” asked the second
voice.

“You! Show me your hands!”

“He seems clean.”

“Doesn’t matter, we’ve still got to put him in quarantine.
Us, too. Three days, no less.”

“We need to find out who he is, why he’s here. Does he have
friends? Did he come from Naples?”

There was some muttering, but Bruno couldn’t make out what
they said.

“Fine. We take him. Cover his eyes!”

“Hold on . . .” That was DeLuca, but a slap cut him off.

Bruno had to decide what to do. And fast. He knew if he
tried to burst out from down there, guns blazing, he wouldn’t have much of a
chance. A thought from deep within bubbled to the surface of Bruno’s mind.
Bruno could abandon DeLuca. Yes, some dark part of Bruno thought, it’s his
fault this happened, it’s his fault we’re even here. DeLuca deserves this.
DeLuca caused Veri’s death. Why should Bruno ride to his rescue, yet again? ‘Do
what you have to do to live’ is what he’d said to DeLuca; why should Bruno do
any less himself? It would be so easy just to leave that old man, to wait until
they took him away, and then slink back to the boat. Back to Capri. Safe. Back
home. Bruno squeezed his eyes shut, fighting the urge to do nothing and wait
all alone in the dark until they were gone for good.

He heard steps and scuffling, and then the voices faded. He
walked up the ramp and pushed the door up just enough to get a look. Bruno
looked at the backs of four or five figures heading out of Piazza Tasso, north
onto Viale Enrico Caruso, between the tall trees lining the wide boulevard. He
bided his time, and just as they rounded a bend in the road, maybe three blocks
away, he pushed the metal door open, making his way onto the street. He shut
the door behind him as quietly as he could.

Bruno shouldered his backpack and cinched it tight. A
balancing act. Not too close, not too far. Almost on tiptoes, He stepped
quickly, following the group north. He hid between cars and trees as he moved,
the sinking sun casting long shadows over the silent buildings.

Bruno had made his choice. He would not just leave DeLuca to
his fate. Not without a fight.

Chapter 20

September 19

Bruno lowered his binoculars, turned around in the cramped
back seat, and rubbed his back. At least he was able to stretch out a little in
the back seat overnight. Still, cat-napping in the two-door car had left him
fatigued and sore, and he chafed at being confined in the back seat of the
hatchback all night. But any stiffness was well worth it: the car sheltered him
from any mosquitoes that might be lingering in the late summer, and its tinted
windows gave him good cover from prying eyes. Still, Bruno had been on edge all
night. His little cat-and-mouse game had nearly ended in disaster when he
kicked that empty soda can as he followed them back through the winding, narrow
street out of Sorrento into the hills to the south. After that, the group
holding DeLuca took great care to be silent on the way back, and Bruno had
nearly lost them more than once. But he persisted, and had found their lair.

He turned around, looked out the back window, and raised his
binoculars again. The morning light splashed across high flagstone walls,
flanking both sides of the barely two-lane street. About one hundred meters
away, the street curved up and around to the left, wandering out of Bruno’s
sight and rising deeper into the wooded hills outside Sorrento. A four-level
apartment building, studded with balconies, stood at the top of the curve on the
left side, commanding the street stretching beneath it. The other residential
buildings on this street ran along the top of the flagstone wall. Having been
in the outskirts of Sorrento many years ago, Bruno vaguely recalled that behind
some of these buildings, hectares of orchards, vineyards, and olive groves lay
unseen from street level.

No wonder they live here, mused Bruno. Defensible, with
resources. A good spot. Bruno’s thoughts turned to the grim task of what to do
next. All of his options were bad. He didn’t know how many there were up there,
and all he had in hand was his pistol. Even if he went back to the cache and
found enough weapons to start his own guerrilla war, what could he do? Shoot an
RPG into the building? Kill everyone inside? If that was his best option, he
might as well go back to Capri. Maybe if Bruno did nothing, DeLuca might
actually stand a better chance at survival. Bruno exhaled, loud even in his own
ears. For all Bruno knew, this whole damned rescue might be futile. By now, they
could have changed their mind, and DeLuca’s body could be rotting away in the
grass under some olive tree.

Bruno gazed up the street. He couldn’t just storm the
building, impregnable as a castle. No, he would choose another path, one of
which DeLuca would approve—one that required a bit of faith.

The crackle of his radio jolted him. Bruno had left it on
just in case DeLuca managed to get a message out. But it was not DeLuca’s voice
that emerged from his jacket pocket.

“Show yourself or your friend is dead!”

So much for any element of surprise. Bruno exited the car
and looked up the street. The sun illuminated the tops of the buildings, but
the street still lay in partial shade. The morning air hovered over Bruno,
still and quiet, but sweat made his t-shirt stick to his back as the
temperature rose and his nerves tensed. He walked on the left side of the
street, hugging the stone wall. Though willing to take a risk, Bruno preferred
not to give them an easy target. He knew this rescue could end with a muzzle flash
and a bullet through his skull. The voice came on the radio once more.

“You’ve got five minutes to answer or show yourself.”

Bruno turned down the radio’s volume to almost nothing
before proceeding. His boots made no sound as he approached their building. He
stopped not far from the door in the long flagstone wall. Judging the distance
to be about right, he shouted out loud, up towards the building.

Instead of responding on the radio, Bruno shouted, “Hey!
You, in the building! I want to talk!”

His voice echoed across the stones and faded into silence.
The wind picked up, shooting down the street, loud in Bruno’s ears for a
moment, before it too died away. He forced himself to yell again. But his
shouts echoed in impotent noise, met only by the wind. Bruno’s unease grew. He
felt the urge to hide.

“Up here!”

The male voice came from the building. It sounded like he
was maybe two stories up from the ground floor. Bruno kept his left hand on the
wall as he leaned towards the center of the street and responded.

“You’ve got my friend! I want him back!”

The man laughed. “Oh do you? Why should we give him back?”
Bruno saw movement midway up the building and curtains on a balcony fluttered
as a man stepped outside.

Bruno squinted, the sun now higher in the sky.

“Why should we give him back?” the man repeated.

Bruno took stock of him. Bruno guessed he was maybe twenty
years old. Curly hair floated around his head like a mane, and scruffy black
stubble ran down his face onto his neck. With a thin green nylon jacket hanging
open over a soiled white t-shirt, he looked to Bruno like a throwback to the
old
paninaro
look from the ‘90s. Bruno might have been amused but for
the long rifle gripped in his left hand. Even from this distance, Bruno could
see the wooden butt stock and black barrel. Older rife, bolt action probably.
Even if it could hold more than one bullet, unless the kid was well trained, he
would realistically get only one shot to kill Bruno.

“Because he’s my friend. And he didn’t do anything to you!”
responded Bruno.

The kid shifted around on the balcony, getting a better grip
on the rifle. “So, friend, tell me something. Why shouldn’t I just shoot you
right from here? Why not?”

Bruno knew from hostage negotiation training long ago that
the longer they spoke, the better, and that the chance for violence diminished
with every phrase exchanged. Yet for the thousandth time, Bruno wished for his
body armor and a carbine. Then, maybe he wouldn’t have to trade words with this
little shit. Bruno breathed deeply before speaking, calming his anger. What
Bruno was about to say might decide the fate of them all, and he couldn’t
afford to cock it up.

“Because you need me.”

The kid laughed, as Bruno expected. But he didn’t respond to
Bruno’s statement with an expected question.

“What’s your name?”

The question took him aback and for a moment, fear gripped
Bruno. He looked around, checking the street behind him. Was the little prick
playing for time? Were there others around that Bruno couldn’t see? Then the
kid spoke again, his voice raised louder.

“Are you deaf? I said, what’s your name!”

“Bruno. My name is Bruno!”

The kid on the balcony nodded. “My name is Stefano. I’m
listening.”

“Show me my friend and we’ll talk.”

Stefano glanced back over his shoulder. From inside the
flat, out shuffled DeLuca, hair tousled and face pale.

Bruno called up to him. “Hello, old man! You okay?”

DeLuca nodded at Bruno. “In quarantine with these . . .
young men. I’m all right! For now.” DeLuca glanced sidelong at his captor.

Stefano shooed DeLuca back indoors and spoke once more.

“I’ve showed you he’s alive and well. Now, tell me why we
need you?”

“Your rifle. Bolt action, isn’t it? Don’t you want something
better? Something better than they had in the 1800s? And how much ammo do you
have? You can’t have much.”

“What’s your point?”

“Weapons. I can get you modern weapons. And ammo.” In one
breath, Bruno told him about the weapon cache, the door, and even its general location.

Even from this distance, Bruno saw Stefano’s eyes narrowing.
“So, what do I need you for? Why shouldn’t I just shoot you now and be done
with you, take the weapons myself?”

Bruno laughed. “Feel free. Door’s probably
half-a-meter-thick steel. Something tells me you lot would never get through.”

Bruno tapped his temple. “No, that combination is right
here. So, listen up, picciottu: don’t even think about hurting the old man. And
if you take a shot at me, you’d better not miss, or I’ll come for
you
.
. .” Bruno paused but Stefano said nothing, so Bruno spoke again. “Well, what
do you say?

Stefano shifted. “And if I don’t believe a fucking word
you’ve said? What then?”

Bruno shrugged. “Guess you can find out the hard way.”

Stefano started to speak, but a voice from above cut him
off.

“Enough!”

A figure stepped out onto the balcony one floor above
Stefano.

Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail, mostly grey with a
few black strands. A man’s oversized button-down shirt hung from her shoulders.
She gazed down on him in silence. Before everything fell apart, Bruno might
have thought she was in her late sixties. But now, without trips to the salon
and spa, Bruno wondered whether she was in her fifties, or maybe even younger.
Before the world fell to pieces, Bruno would have said she was a dried-up hag.
Now, he’d say she was an angel.

“We need those weapons,” she stated with no emotion. “How
did you know about this cache?”

“I was a Carabiniere,” he said, obscuring a lie of omission
in the truth and hoping it would be enough.

“Yes, I know you are,” she answered, responding in the
present tense. “He said you’d come for him.”

Cazzo. Bruno wondered what else DeLuca had given up.

“How do you know the weapons are still there?” she called
down.

Bruno shook his head. “I don’t.”

She took a step back and rubbed her forehead. Then she bent
down and spoke in low tones to Stefano on the balcony below. Bruno couldn’t
hear what they said, but whatever she said agitated Stefano.

She called down. “We’ll let you in! Follow the stairs up to
the entrance to the apartments. Don’t move until I say so. You’ll stay in a
ground-floor apartment in quarantine for three days. From where you are, we’ve
got the upstairs blocked off, so don’t waste your time trying to come up.” Then
the woman smiled. “I’m sure you’re armed. So, don’t leave the apartment. You
try anything we don’t like, and we’ll put a bullet in your friend’s head, then
yours next, understood?”

The woman turned towards the inside of the apartment and
spoke in a low voice. Then she turned back to Bruno.

“Paola. My name is Paola, in case you’re wondering.”

Bruno was about to respond when he heard scraping and
movement from the door in the wall in front of him. He took a step forward, but
Paola shook her head. Bruno waited, uncomfortably exposed in the high morning
sun, until she called down to him to go ahead.

Bruno stepped forward until he reached the door in the
flagstone wall and with a deep breath, he turned the door handle. Paola called
down to him again.

“One of the ground floor apartments is free. The door is
open. There’s food and water for three days. After the quarantine, we’ll come
down to you. Lock the entrance door behind you before you come up.”

Through the stone doorway, Bruno looked up. Flagstone stairs
stretched up to the ground floor of the apartment building. No overgrown
underbrush spilled onto the stairs. The browning grass on each side of the
staircase and poking between the stones were the only obvious signs that this
place was not what it once was. The apartment building rested at the top of the
rise, to Bruno’s right as he looked up the stairs.

Bruno stepped through the doorway, turned around, and threw
the deadbolt lock on the door. He walked up the stairs, glancing to his right
towards the building. Stefano glowered down at him in silence. Paola, too,
watched him.

Cresting the top of the stairs, Bruno could feel sweat
running down his back. The flat, grey stones made a large patio encircling the
ground floor of the apartment building. Glass doors and windows enclosed a
lobby on the ground floor. The sunlight made Bruno squint as he surveyed the
area. Beyond the patio, an enclosure the size of a small park rolled down in
front of him. Olive trees dotted the area, and Bruno noticed a patch of tomato
plants tied to stakes.

Bruno un-holstered his pistol, approached the glass door,
pushed it open with his left hand, and entered the lobby. Down the hall to his
left, he spied an open door. Carefully, he approached and entered the
apartment. Bruno checked each room, pistol in hand. The apartment was of modest
size, with a combined kitchen and living area, a bedroom, bathroom, and a
sliding door to a small patio facing into the green area beyond the building.
The place had been stripped bare, and he could find no trace of the previous
occupant. The only things of value were cans of food and a few bottles of water
sitting on the counter near the kitchen sink. Enough for three or four days.
Bruno holstered his pistol. He took a bottle of water into the bedroom and sat
on the bed. Though he had no idea how many of them there were, at this point he
was all in. Either they were going to kill him or they would be true to their
word. He didn’t see any sense in doing anything but settling in. He hoped the
rest of his gear would be safe in the car. He lay down on his back, pistol on
his chest, and rubbed his forehead.

The certainty of three lost days, waiting, sleeping, wasting
time, lay heavy in his thoughts, but he didn’t see any other way. He spotted a
glossy magazine on the floor and picked it up. On its cover, the face of a
smiling, almost certainly dead, celebrity stared back at Bruno. Her
shining-white teeth seemed to light up the room. Bruno threw the magazine
against the wall and lay back down on the bed.

***

September 23

A loud rapping startled Bruno out of a deep slumber. The
glow of the early morning sun bathed the bedroom in diffused light. He threw on
his pants and boots, grabbed his pistol, and made his way into the living area.

“Hey, Signor Bruno!” a man called from outside the apartment
door. “You still alive?”