Chavez shook his head and returned to the kitchen. “I’ve lost sixteen men already to those nailheads.”
“‘Nailheads’?” Landry said.
“It’s what we call those sons of bitches.”
“And the undead?” I couldn’t help asking.
Chavez looked at each of us and grinned. “Draggers,” he said.
We sat again. Landry set his drink aside, folded his hands on the table and leaned forward. “So what if we were to join forces?”
“I’m listening,” the supervisor said.
“You leave a few men up here with us, and we help you with intel on everything that’s going on around the area.”
“Or we could force you to evacuate and take over the location,” Chavez said matter-of-factly.
“Or I could blow your head off right here and leave your body for the draggers,” I said, gripping my weapon.
“Dave, please,” Holly said. “Can’t you see Mr. Chavez is a reasonable person?” This kind of talk made me sick. “He wants what we want—for him and his men to come out of this alive.”
I stood down, swallowing the bile creeping up my throat. Chavez thought about the offer for a few minutes, then after draining his Red Bull, he shook everyone’s hand and headed for the front door, with the rest of us right behind.
“So do we have a deal?” Landry said as Chavez opened the door.
He turned and smiled at Holly with a big, toothy grin, which made her blush. I wanted to use my axe on him. “Yeah, let’s give it a try.”
We watched from the yard as all the soldiers left. That evening, one Humvee returned carrying four soldiers. Like I figured, Chavez was among them. Fun times ahead.
In a show of good faith, the soldiers brought us food, water and ammunition. They agreed to sleep in the basement, near the command center. Ram found extra cots for them.
I wasn’t sure I trusted these guys. What was to stop them from gaining our confidence, taking us hostage and turning over the facility to Black Dragon? Landry thought the same thing but came to the conclusion that, if that was their plan, they could have taken over anyway and killed us in the process.
Holly had a different view. She knew how valuable our base was to these men. Keeping us happy and safe was a small price to pay. Why not go along with the arrangement? Everybody wins.
I had to admit there was an advantage to having the extra men. It meant fewer guard-duty shifts.
* * *
“So you think this was a good idea?” I said to Holly as she brushed her teeth.
“I guess. With all this unrest, what choice do we have?”
“‘Unrest’? That’s an interesting way of putting it.”
“You know what I mean,” she said, grinning as toothpaste ran down her chin.
She wore a lacy butter-yellow camisole, which I remembered from the old days. As she flossed in front of the bathroom mirror, I saw the outline of her breasts. It made me ache—I had to look away.
During our time together in this place Holly didn’t outright avoid me or treat me rudely. But she wasn’t—how do women like to put it? She wasn’t emotionally available to me. On one level, I regretted my choice to stay with the group. It was becoming too painful. On another level, I pretty much knew what my chances were alone on the outside.
“I wonder if Enrique is married,” she said as she rubbed lotion on her hands and elbows.
“Who’s Enrique?” I said, a knot forming in my stomach.
“Chavez.”
“How should I know?” I said, rage boiling inside me. “Why don’t you ask him?”
“Maybe I will,” she said without looking at me.
I decided to take a walk past the kennel. At first the dogs barked and snarled. When they saw me, they whined and waited to be petted.
“You guys are pushovers,” I said.
It was cool outside. I went back to the front of the house and looked up at the night sky. Here, alone in this place, things seemed so normal. There were still a moon and stars and a soft breeze coming from the north. An owl hooted somewhere in the darkness. Two nighthawks swooped into view, chirping. Then I heard a death shriek, and I knew that things were not normal—might never be normal again. Soon coyotes joined in, caterwauling together like some demonic chorus.
I tried not to think about our chances for survival. I knew things were bad, but I wasn’t as pessimistic as Ben. I thought of Jim and of Missy and of countless others who’d been infected, died and come back to kill. I knew that outside the electric fence Death lay in wait for us all. And it was in the form of draggers or nailheads or other survivors like us, fighting to hold on to something rapidly slipping away—a normal way of life.
Some kind of movement outside the gate tripped the floodlights, and the dogs became alert. It was stupid of me to be out there alone. Not because of the draggers. If any nailheads saw me, they might be tempted to shoot out of fear and anger.
What I saw in those bright lights was a family of raccoons. The soldiers had removed the bodies from the gate area and burned them in a freshly dug fire pit. Ignoring the barking dogs, the raccoons scavenged through the pit—the wood still smoldering, the smell dark and sweet—looking for morsels of cooked flesh. I heard them tearing at it. It was the sound of mortality.
Life and Death, I thought. And at this moment Death was winning.
Chapter Fifteen
Still Not Undead
Things stayed tense between Holly and me. She didn’t outright flirt with Chavez, but I saw her temperature go up whenever he was around. From what I could see, he appeared to remain neutral towards her. Maybe I misjudged him.
Each morning Chavez left without breakfast at around six to join the rest of the troops in town. But not before reminding us of the basics for staying safe, which included proper food preparation, handling and maintaining weapons and avoiding STDs. In no time we had these rules memorized and chanted along with him. Sometimes our voices were nasal, other times we used fake accents. One time, someone farted in the middle of the recitation.
The three remaining soldiers—Quigley, who went by the name “Quigs,” Yang and Warnick—organized patrols through the surrounding forest to look for draggers.
Quigs and Yang were around the same age, early twenties. They seemed likable enough, and enjoyed joking with each other and playing Call of Duty. Sometimes their exchanges were uncomfortable, but they got along well. Yang liked to call Quigs “TT” or “T-Squared,” and Quigs referred to Yang as “DWA” or, more often, “DW.” Later I learned that TT was for trailer trash and DWA was for driving while Asian.
Warnick, on the other hand, seemed like a veteran, though he couldn’t have been more than thirty. He never smiled and was a huge fan of Weezer, especially “Island in the Sun.”
One day I found him disassembling his AR-15. “What are you doing?”
“Replacing the stock so I can bump-fire. During a civil disturbance we’re permitted to use only semiautomatic weapons.”
“I’d say we’re way past civil disturbance.”
“I’d say you’re right.”
“So do you have a family or …”
“I don’t like chitchat much.”
“Huh.” I felt like an ass.
At first I thought hunting draggers was insane. Warnick told us we needed to eliminate as many as possible to prevent the spread of disease. After the second day, I decided to join the soldiers on patrol. Mostly it was out of boredom. How many repeat episodes of Say Yes to the Dress and Here Comes Honey Boo Boo could a person watch? Ram wanted to join us, but I insisted he remain behind so he could be in charge of our base. He seemed to see the wisdom in that and reluctantly agreed.
Usually we’d find one or two draggers and dispatch them with a single shot to the head. I was getting pretty good with the shotgun, but I kept my axe as backup, slung over my back with a rope. Landry came dressed in his shark suit. He wasn’t taking any chances. Good thing, because one day we met up with a horde.
Something you need to know about draggers. Just because they’re dead doesn’t mean they can’t move fast. It made no sense. After death, rigor mortis sets in, then disappears. The body bloats with gases afterwards. Not with these things, though. Many became lean, almost athletic.
The first one I encountered surprised me. We had split up to cover more ground. Before I could get a round off, the thing swiped at the shotgun, knocking it out of my hand. As I backed away, I grabbed the handle of my axe and swung it up and over my head, slicing into the dragger’s neck. It kept coming at me—its head half-off—looking at me like a curious dog, hundreds of maggots swarming out of the dry, fleshy wound.
Though draggers are dangerous, they always follow the same playbook. It goes like this. First, they grab. They’re strong, and once they have you, it’s hard to get away. Then, they try to sink their teeth into you—face, neck or arms. When they get that first taste, that’s when they go to work. It’s like a frenzy. Next thing, you’re a party platter, as more of them join in the fun.
So I did the logical thing. I whacked off both its hands. It flailed at me with the stumps, struggling to pin me. I danced around it, trying to return to where my gun lay, to put an end to this lame Kabuki routine.
Quigs appeared from the forest, laughing. “I didn’t know you could dance, Pulaski,” he said.
“Uh, help?”
Spitting, he raised his AR-15, took aim and shot the dangling head through the eye. The body teetered for a moment, then dropped where it stood.
I was breathing hard when he came over to check the body. I wanted to hit him for laughing at me.
“He surprised me,” I said.
Quigs didn’t say anything as Warnick and Landry joined us in the clearing.
“Everything okay?” Warnick said.
Quigs looked past him, squinting into the distance. “Where’s Yang?”
We heard a scream. We followed it and discovered Yang on the ground, a dragger—a middle-aged woman—on top of him, tearing away at his arm. Warnick marched up to the dead thing, grabbed it by its greasy hair and fired two rounds into its skull. As it shuddered violently, he kicked off the carcass and examined Yang.
“Thanks, man,” Yang said.
Saying nothing, Warnick stood. Yang looked scared as we circled him. He knew we were all thinking the same thing. Landry raised his rifle and pointed it at Yang’s head, but Warnick pushed the barrel away. Grabbing my axe, he kicked Yang’s arm away from his body, stood on his hand and with one swing hacked off the limb above the elbow, just missing the chest.
Yang screamed till his voice was raw, and blood squirted everywhere. Warnick tore the rope off the axe to make a tourniquet. After a few minutes, he got Yang to his feet. The soldier was already going into shock, and it was hard for him to stay standing.
“You’re not taking him back?” I said, looking at the severed arm.
“He’s infected,” Landry said.
“He was bleeding pretty bad,” Warnick said, “which may have stopped the virus from traveling.”
“That’s bullshit,” Landry said.
“This happened to a couple of our men. We found that if we can remove the appendage in time, there’s a chance the victim won’t turn.”
“I don’t know …” Landry said. “It’s too risky.”
“Has that ever worked?” I said. Warnick ignored me. “Warnick, has it ever worked?”
“Once.”
“We have to try,” Quigs said. “Come on, buddy.” He draped Yang’s good arm over his shoulder.
“I promise you I won’t put anyone in danger,” Warnick said. “Let’s get him back to the compound.”
* * *
We didn’t run across any more draggers. On the way back, I tried texting Holly on my cell phone. The service was sketchy, but this time it worked. By the time we arrived, she and the others were waiting.
We decided to lock Yang in the service building that housed the generator. He was weak, and Warnick had to contact Chavez for first aid, including blood for a transfusion.
After giving Yang water and painkillers and trying to make him as comfortable as possible, we stepped outside to wait for Chavez.
“Once he’s had the transfusion, we’ll leave him locked in there,” Warnick said. “Then we wait.”
“I don’t know,” Landry said.
“What if it was one of us?” Holly said. “I’d do it for you, Irwin.”
“I appreciate that, Holly, but staying alive means making hard choices. If that was me in there, I’d expect you to do the right thing.”
The one problem with our plan was there was no way for us to know for sure how long it would take. We’d all seen people turn. Could it vary by individual? Ram, genius that he was, had thought to install video cameras inside the building. We could monitor Yang without going in.
Chavez returned with blood and medicine. I learned that he had trained as an EMT. He cauterized the arm, gave Yang blood and set up a drip containing antibiotics and morphine.
“Let’s put him in my vehicle,” Chavez said as he finished up. “I’ll drive him down to the hospital.”
“I like that idea,” Landry said.
“With all due respect, that’s a bad idea,” Warnick said. “If he’s infected, we don’t know how long before he turns. He might end up attacking you while you’re driving.”
Chavez considered this as he inspected the interior of the building. “Is this place secure?”
“Yes,” Warnick said. “And we can monitor him with those video cameras.”
“Please,” Quigs said.
“Okay, but I want you all out of here. Someone give me the keys. I’ll finish up in here and lock the door.”
* * *
During his shift Quigs kept his eyes on the monitor showing his friend. Some of us went down to the basement to have a look. Others watched from the monitors in the kitchen.
Yang looked stable, and I thought he might pull through as Warnick had described. We agreed to convene in the morning and decide what to do next.
That night towards the end of my shift, I noticed that the drip stand lay on the ground. I wished there were a microphone so I could hear what was going on in the generator building.
I called my backup, Warnick. Chavez came with him, and the three of us watched for a time as Yang staggered back and forth in an odd way that we all recognized.
“Shit,” Warnick said, kicking a chair and pulling at his hair.
Yang stopped in front of one of the cameras and stared into it. We saw the unmistakable dead eyes and knew that this wasn’t Yang anymore.
“Should I get Quigs?” I said.
“No, let him sleep,” Chavez said. “I’ll take care of it.”
“At least you tried,” I said to Warnick, patting his shoulder.
“Just so you know,” Warnick said, “I’d give you the same chance.”
We watched as Chavez pulled out his handgun and made sure the clip was full. Then he left to put Yang down.
“Make sure you take one of the dogs with you,” I said. He glared at me. “You know, in case.”
As we focused on one monitor, Chavez and a German shepherd entered the room with Yang. Only a moment ago Yang had been swaying rhythmically in front of the camera. Now he was alert and became very interested in getting close to a warm human being. But he never got the chance.
Chavez fired three times at Yang’s face, tearing off his nose, then the top of his head. Yang fell onto his back, and the dog trotted forward to sniff the body while Chavez said something. A prayer? Then Chavez dragged the body out of view. We didn’t see him for another half hour. Warnick waited with me near the monitors.
“I’m going to see what’s happening,” Warnick said.
Ben came down to start his shift. “What’s going on?”
I said, “Yang turned.” Then to Warnick, “Wait, I’m coming with you.” We both hurried up the stairs. “Ben, keep an eye on that generator building.”
&n
bsp; When we got outside, we found Chavez placing a black nylon bag into the back of the Humvee and closing the door.
“Everything okay?” Warnick said.
“Yeah, why?”
“Is Yang’s body still in there?” I said.
Chavez pointed to the fire pit outside the fence. There was a blaze going. “Let’s get inside.”
As we went in, I glanced back at the Humvee. I thought Chavez was acting strangely, but I dismissed the feeling. What did I expect? He’d killed one of his own men. Warnick had told me that Chavez served in Afghanistan and had gotten shot up pretty bad. How could harrowing experiences like those not affect a person?
“Ruined my uniform,” he said to no one. “You can’t get the blood out.”
* * *
All the next day Quigs was sullen and refused to eat, so Chavez relieved him of duty. Holly tried comforting him, but all he wanted was to sit around playing Call of Duty. If Yang’s death affected Warnick, he didn’t show it. No one spoke of it again.
The next day we heard a disturbance outside. Aaron was on duty in the basement and sounded the alarm. Upstairs, we heard the dogs barking.
From the kitchen monitors, I saw a teenage girl and boy running towards our fence. They tried climbing it but were electrocuted and thrown back. As we ran out the front door with our weapons, we saw the girl and boy begging to be let in. Behind them was an angry group of armed men. One of them—the largest of the group—fired at the teenagers but missed. We didn’t return the fire for fear of hitting the kids.
I saw that the boy was injured. His left ear was bleeding, and it looked like he might’ve been attacked by a dragger. The girl was tall, and wearing a lot of eyeliner. Her fingernails were painted black and reminded me of the undead.
“Open the gate!” Holly said.
“Aaron can’t hear you,” I said. She gave me a look, then signaled into a video camera.
The gate opened long enough to let the girl and boy inside. As it closed, we fired warning shots to keep the men from getting in. The girl and boy hid behind us as the men fell back.
The Shadow Box: Paranormal Suspense and Dark Fantasy Thriller Novels Page 211
