Renegade From the Planet of the Apes

II

Grant dropped to his knees on the dusty floor of the parking garage. He lay Tuck's limp body on the ground beside him. Blood soaked the makeshift bandage on his abdomen, and it seemed that all his blood was concentrated there, as his face was stark white. Blood stained Grant's clothes, so he pulled his shirt off and threw it aside. He dug in his bag for a clean one, then put it on and left to claim his gun and Tuck's bag from the bushes by the Interstate. Before he left the building, he turned to look at his dying friend.
"Stay right where you are, pal. I'll be back."

...

As Grant was making the trek back, he realized just how tired he was. He'd walked for so long that day and experienced so much trauma. All he wanted now was to slide to the ground and fall asleep. But he couldn't do that now.  He promised he would never leave his friend, and if he gave up now he didn't think he'd have the strength to continue. To motivate himself, he thought of all of those amazing war hero stories from the 20th century. He smiled as he remembered the one about his own great grandfather. He remembered when he first learned to shoot a gun beside the old man, who hunched in his wheelchair and gave him pointers, though Grant had learned not to trust those, since he was once instructed to point the barrel at himself according to the veteran's near blindness. As he remembered all of his family members, close and distant, he suddenly realized he was standing beside Tuck's body in the garage.

"Wow. That worked better than I'd hoped," he remarked. He knelt down beside his friend and felt his weak pulse.
He needs help bad.

Suddenly, an eerie cry echoed off of the skyscrapers around them. Grant grabbed his gun by force of natural habit and bolted over to the opening of the garage. The cry resonated again. Grant realized that it was a woman's.
Is it a cry for help?

The sound reverberated again, weaker with each time. Grant didn't know for sure, but it sounded like someone needed help. He turned to look at Tuck again. Determining he was fine for now, he scooped up his backpack and raced down the street, in the direction he assumed the cry was coming from.

...

The first thing to hit Tuck when he regained consciousness was the wave of nausea. He bolted upright, leaned on his side, and threw up.

"Ugh. And I thought those protein bars were bad going down." Once he got a bearing on things, he leaned back again, pain splitting his stomach. He took several deep breaths to calm his nerves, then closed his eyes.
"Grant, how you doing? Seen anyone else?" Tuck asked, eyes still shut. No response.
"Hey, Grant?" Still nothing. Tuck opened his eyes and sat up again. It was then he realized Grant wasn't with him. He began to panic.
"Grant! Grant!" he yelled, listening to his own voice reverberating in the garage. Tuck told himself to calm down, but he just couldn't. Not when his best friend might be in danger. Then he remembered. He got up, excruciating pain wracking his body, and walked over to his backpack, noticing Grant's was gone. He dug in his own and pulled out a yellow Nat Geo walkie talkie. Tuck pressed the receiver. Nothing on the other end. He pushed the transceiver.
"Grant, come in. Grant, come in, come in Grant. Grant, are you there, do you copy?" He listened for a few seconds, but nothing came through.
Grant, where in the name of San Juan Hill are you?

...

Grant rushed down the dusty street, panting hard in the intensifying summer humidity. Every once in a while he'd hear the cry again, and he knew he was getting closer. He stopped at a corner to catch his breath and listen. He thought he heard his walkie at one point, but he couldn't tell. As he pulled his bag off his back to check, he heard the cry again, this time very near. It was followed by a crash. He turned and looked inside the window of the department store next to him. From inside, he saw a pile of carts and debris, and something appeared to be trying to move. He checked the door, but it was locked. He hoisted his backpack back up onto his shoulder, frantically looking around for something to break the window display. Finally he saw a large piece of loose. concrete. Grant pulled it out of the sidewalk and tossed with all his might. The window was sturdy, but it gave way, buckling and shattering in on itself. The form under the pile of debris fell dead still, as if the person was afraid of the new arrival. Grant paused before stepping into the room, over fallen mannequins and broken glass. He raised his hands peacefully into the air, a gesture like that of surrender. 

"My bad! I'm not gonna hurt you. It's okay, I'm here to help." Slowly he approached the pile, step by step, trying his hardest not to startle the trapped form. He saw that it was the small body, the woman.
"Ma'am, I'm gonna get you outta here," he said. Suddenly, she began screaming in the same ghostly tone as before. Grant jumped in fright, then grabbed one of the shopping carts and flung it off of her. He continued removing the debris, piece by piece, the woman screaming the whole while. Grant grabbed one last large tile slab and hurled it into a corner, shattering it against a clothes rack. He grabbed the woman's arm to help her up, then nearly fainted as he looked down. The woman pulled away and stood up, no longer wailing, but locking eyes with Grant, inspecting him. Now he could see who she was. Rather, what she was.
"God in Heaven..." he said, transfixed. "It's a damn dirty ape."