Fermata: The Winter: A Post-Apocalyptic Survival Series (The Fermata Series: Four Post-Apocalyptic Novellas Book 1) by Juliette Harper
Authors: Juliette Harper
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deserted lobby. As they reached the front entrance, the gentle pressure of his hand on her arm made Vick stop automatically.
But whatever the old man intended to say was interrupted by the dinging of the elevator behind them. Vick turned toward the sound, and for a second, her numbed mind couldn’t process what she saw.
Maurice’s dead assistant, Evelyn, staggered out of the elevator. A shredded length of intestine tumbled out of her ripped and stained blouse. The dangling tendril swayed obscenely as she lurched toward them. Her milky eyes glared above her snarling mouth, and she held her hands out like talons, clawing the empty air.
Suddenly Quentin was pressing the weight of the pistol into Vick’s hand. “I’m sorry, but could you please do something about this?” he asked, seemingly nonplussed.
Vick blinked at the gun, and on instinct flicked off the safety. She raised the weapon and shot Evelyn in the chest. The woman slowed, but she didn’t stop.
Vick fired again. This time the bullet blew out the back of the woman’s head, sending a sticky spray of blood across the framed poster announcing the next performance at the Boston Opera House. Wagner’s “Der Götterdämmerung.”
“Thank you,” Quentin said. “Now, we must hurry.”
When they reached the front doors, Quentin whispered, “We are going to my office at the Conservatory. We must move quickly. We are going straight down Huntington. Stay as close to the buildings as possible. I have a key to the door on this side of Jordan Hall. We won’t cross over until we’re all the way there. Do you understand?”
Vick nodded.
“And do not use your gun again unless it’s absolutely necessary,” he said. “We want to attract as little attention as possible.” With that, he slipped through the door, and Vick followed.
They were, by no means, alone on the street, but most of the foot traffic seemed to be surging down Massachusetts Avenue. Later, Vick would remember bumping into a woman whose eyes rolled with terror, but the veneer of civilization hadn’t completely shattered yet. “Pardon me,” fell incongruously from the woman’s tense, white lips before she fled down the street.
When they reached Jordan Hall, Quentin quickly unlocked the side door. Once they were inside, he locked it again, giving it a tug to make certain it was secure. On the way to his office, they encountered a small knot of terrified music students. When they saw Quentin, they all started babbling at once, obviously relieved to see someone in “authority.”
The little man held up his hand for silence. When the babble of voices died, he pointed to one slender Oriental girl. “Tell me,” he said simply.
They were all enrolled in the summer institute. They’d been in their practice rooms, only to come out again to a world gone mad. The dark-haired girl who seemed the unofficial leader of the frightened little group said, “When we saw the panic in the streets and those . . . people . . . I told everyone to stay inside. We locked the front door.”
“Have you checked all the other doors?” Quentin asked, starting to walk again.
“No,” she said, looking embarrassed. “I didn’t think of that.”
“Securing buildings against a mob is hardly in your curriculum, dear,” he said mildly. “Please divide yourself into teams of two. No one goes anywhere alone. Make sure all the doors are locked. Block them if necessary. Find out if we are the only ones in the building, and then report to me in my office.”
Obviously relieved to have an assignment, the students broke off in pairs. Quentin took out his keys again and opened his office door. Before he flipped on the desk light, he moved to the windows and drew the curtains. The room seemed comfortingly warm to Vick, who sank into a leather wingback chair in front of the desk, all the strength instantly gone from her body. Quentin sat down in his desk chair, and they simply looked at one another over the
But whatever the old man intended to say was interrupted by the dinging of the elevator behind them. Vick turned toward the sound, and for a second, her numbed mind couldn’t process what she saw.
Maurice’s dead assistant, Evelyn, staggered out of the elevator. A shredded length of intestine tumbled out of her ripped and stained blouse. The dangling tendril swayed obscenely as she lurched toward them. Her milky eyes glared above her snarling mouth, and she held her hands out like talons, clawing the empty air.
Suddenly Quentin was pressing the weight of the pistol into Vick’s hand. “I’m sorry, but could you please do something about this?” he asked, seemingly nonplussed.
Vick blinked at the gun, and on instinct flicked off the safety. She raised the weapon and shot Evelyn in the chest. The woman slowed, but she didn’t stop.
Vick fired again. This time the bullet blew out the back of the woman’s head, sending a sticky spray of blood across the framed poster announcing the next performance at the Boston Opera House. Wagner’s “Der Götterdämmerung.”
“Thank you,” Quentin said. “Now, we must hurry.”
When they reached the front doors, Quentin whispered, “We are going to my office at the Conservatory. We must move quickly. We are going straight down Huntington. Stay as close to the buildings as possible. I have a key to the door on this side of Jordan Hall. We won’t cross over until we’re all the way there. Do you understand?”
Vick nodded.
“And do not use your gun again unless it’s absolutely necessary,” he said. “We want to attract as little attention as possible.” With that, he slipped through the door, and Vick followed.
They were, by no means, alone on the street, but most of the foot traffic seemed to be surging down Massachusetts Avenue. Later, Vick would remember bumping into a woman whose eyes rolled with terror, but the veneer of civilization hadn’t completely shattered yet. “Pardon me,” fell incongruously from the woman’s tense, white lips before she fled down the street.
When they reached Jordan Hall, Quentin quickly unlocked the side door. Once they were inside, he locked it again, giving it a tug to make certain it was secure. On the way to his office, they encountered a small knot of terrified music students. When they saw Quentin, they all started babbling at once, obviously relieved to see someone in “authority.”
The little man held up his hand for silence. When the babble of voices died, he pointed to one slender Oriental girl. “Tell me,” he said simply.
They were all enrolled in the summer institute. They’d been in their practice rooms, only to come out again to a world gone mad. The dark-haired girl who seemed the unofficial leader of the frightened little group said, “When we saw the panic in the streets and those . . . people . . . I told everyone to stay inside. We locked the front door.”
“Have you checked all the other doors?” Quentin asked, starting to walk again.
“No,” she said, looking embarrassed. “I didn’t think of that.”
“Securing buildings against a mob is hardly in your curriculum, dear,” he said mildly. “Please divide yourself into teams of two. No one goes anywhere alone. Make sure all the doors are locked. Block them if necessary. Find out if we are the only ones in the building, and then report to me in my office.”
Obviously relieved to have an assignment, the students broke off in pairs. Quentin took out his keys again and opened his office door. Before he flipped on the desk light, he moved to the windows and drew the curtains. The room seemed comfortingly warm to Vick, who sank into a leather wingback chair in front of the desk, all the strength instantly gone from her body. Quentin sat down in his desk chair, and they simply looked at one another over the
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