by M. D. Massey
As I put the jacket on I heard the jingle of a keyring and wondered if I could be so lucky. I ran to the front gate and checked the padlock; sure enough I now had a matching key, and there were more than two dozen deaders milling around by this point. What do you know, every once in a while a blind squirrel can find a nut after all.
I unlocked the chain, but left it loosely keeping the gate closed to give me time to get inside the building. I jogged over to the front entrance and cracked the door open, and then I ran to the side entrance and ducked inside, dropping into a squat next to the door with my Glock at the ready. I let my breathing slow and listened for any sign that someone had noticed my shenanigans. Nothing yet, but I knew based on my earlier surveillance that the interior guards patrolled roughly every ten minutes, so one was sure to come by soon. I ducked into an office with the door cracked, and waited stock-still for all hell to break loose.
Within minutes I could hear the chains break loose of the front gate, followed by the moaning of two dozen deadheads coming at us like the crowd at AT&T Stadium rushing to take a halftime piss. It wouldn’t be long until they found the front door, which meant I needed to get that kid loose and get out of here pronto. I figured the guards must’ve heard the deaders too, so I took the hallway toward the back on the odd chance it’d let me come out in the work bays closer to the rear of the building.
As predicted, I exited the hallway via a cheap hollow-core door that opened into the rear portion of the work bays. There were still several work trucks parked inside, a testament to the fact that technology was useless in the post-War world. Without fuel, they were as good as scrap. I noticed that the horses were tied up back here as well, but it appeared that borrowing Ren’s coat was masking my scent enough to prevent spooking them. I took cover under one of the trucks and crawled forward to survey the situation.
My boy Fido was some forty feet in front of me, chained to the steel columns that supported the roof of the building. There were about ten cots spread in a circle around a fifty-gallon drum that was being used as a fire pit, and there were at least five bodies on the cots. Beyond that, I could see light coming in through the partially open front entrance, and shadows playing back and forth beyond that. Once the SHTF occurred, I’d need to be quick if I was to get my target out without getting eaten or shot.
Within seconds the guards came bursting out of the other door to the offices, making a beeline for the front door. Too late though; when the first guard was less than a few meters away, a line of deaders came bursting through the front entrance.
“Shit—we got Zs in here! Everybody up!”
Then, freaking hellified chaos erupted, with guards shooting deaders, deaders eating punters, and plenty of people running around in a confused state, trying to avoid becoming zombie meat. Time to move. I rolled out from under the truck and ran straight to the kid, who was barely able to hold himself up. Not a good sign. If he couldn’t move fast once I freed him, we were both going to be screwed.
I ran up on him and glanced around to make sure no one was paying attention. The seven or eight remaining punters were fairly occupied with trying to avoid becoming a Lunchable at the moment. Thank God for small favors. I started fumbling with the kid’s chains, and noticed that the shackles on his wrists were cuffs, and the collar had a padlock. Great.
“I saw you earlier, and heard you take out the guards outside.” The kid was looking up at me from one bloodied eye. The other was swollen shut, and one side of his face looked like someone had taken a meat tenderizer to it. He had blood running down his face, and he looked like he wouldn’t make it thirty feet, much less five miles in the dark.
“Kid, can you make it out of here?”
He grinned, and I saw a few missing teeth that I was sure had been recently knocked out. “Just give me the keys and go. I’ll catch up in a minute.”
“Look, I can carry you—”
He cut me off. “You won’t make it if you don’t leave now.” He nodded toward the front of the work bay, and I could see it didn’t look good for the punters. They were being overrun, and we’d be next. “Give me the keys, and get somewhere safe—I’ll be right behind you.”
I nodded, as I didn’t have a whole lot of choice. I put the keys in his hands, and he immediately began working at the lock on his neck.
“Good luck, kid,” I said over my shoulder as I sprinted back to the rear office entrance with my Glock at the ready. I ducked behind the trucks and darted into the hallway, only to be bowled over by a deader and one of the guards, who were currently tangled in a somewhat romantic-looking embrace. I was pretty sure the deadhead was enjoying it more than the guard, but it was hard to tell from underneath the poor bastard. I heaved them off of me and made eye contact with the guard as I rolled up to my feet.
He had a forearm under the deadhead’s chin, while the Z had a death grip on his shirt with both hands. The guard was fumbling for a knife at his belt with his other hand, and he looked at me with fear in his eyes. “Ren, help me, you cowardly shit!”
I pulled off the hat and tossed it at him. “Sorry—Ren’s not here, I’m just the sub. But, the benefits suck and the job security is for shit, so tell your boss he can take this job and shove it.” At that, I took off down the hall with him cursing me from behind. About halfway down the hall, I heard his rant turn into a gurgled cry, and then all I heard was the wet sounds of teeth rending flesh. Better him than me.
Once I hit the side entrance, I stopped and nudged the door open with my toe. I took a quick peek around the corner and saw that most of the activity was at the front of the building. So I made a beeline for the dumpster where I’d left my friends, Gus, Charlie, and Ren. Along the way, I grabbed an old tarp in my free hand, and vaulted up on the dumpster with it. I took off Ren’s coat and folded it up inside the tarp, then threw them over the razor wire above the dumpster. I also paused to remove the suppressor from my Glock, tucking it away and holstering my weapon before climbing over the fence. No sense risking shooting myself during my clean getaway.
I managed to make it over the razor wire without shredding my clothes and skin to pieces, and decided to head back to my observation point to watch out for the kid and see if he made it out okay. I snuck over to the building and climbed up using a wooden pallet and the old roof-access ladder, and crawled up to the roofline to see what was what. I sat there for about five minutes listening to gunshots and the cries of the punters, waiting to see some sign of him as the sounds of fighting slowly died off to nothing.
Then, I saw something that chilled me to the bone. A dark shape burst through a window at the rear of the building, and as it rolled to its feet I could see it was carrying another figure with it. I assumed it was the leader of the punter crew, that Hambone character Ren had referred to earlier. The figure held Hambone up by the throat with one hand, and I could hear the punter begging for his life as he gasped for air.
With a growl and a swipe of a muscular clawed arm the dark figure opened the punter up from one side of his gut to the other, and I could see his entrails plop out in a stringy mass to hit the grass underneath him. Then the thing dropped him there, half alive still, moaning and begging for the kid to finish him off. Even though I couldn’t recognize a single feature that I could match between the nightmare below and the kid I rescued, I knew it had to be him. The wolf-thing took one look at the quivering mass of bleeding flesh and entrails he’d created, and then looked up at me, briefly making eye contact with a single greenish-gold eye. Then, he actually waved at me before bounding off into the trees to disappear into the darkness.
Well, that was weird and creepy, I thought to myself. I waited a few minutes to see if it would come back, but it was gone, and to be honest I hoped for good. With nothing better to do, I ducked back down into concealment in an overhang where the roofs of two connected buildings met. Within minutes the night was pierced by screams, and I could hear the deaders feasting on Hambone’s guts while he whimpered and
wailed. Moments later, however, the only sound was that of zombies eating their fill of human flesh, and the cicadas droning in the trees. I sat quietly on my perch and waited for dawn, wondering if I’d just gained an ally or freed an enemy; to be truthful, I wasn’t entirely certain I didn’t do a bit of both.
SIX
FRIENDS
MORNING CAME WITH ME STILL HIDING in the lee of the building’s roof next door to where I’d rescued the ‘thrope the night before. That he was a lycanthrope, I now had little doubt. The creature I’d seen just a few hours prior was like nothing I’d ever laid eyes on previously, but it matched every description of a werewolf that I’d ever heard. Besides that, it knew I was watching it kill that punter, and made a point to let me know. It could have just as easily attacked me, but it didn’t. I could only surmise that it was the kid I’d helped out in the warehouse.
I felt like hammered shit, and probably looked little better, but I knew I had a long trek ahead of me to get back to Gabby and Captain Perez. So, I stretched out a bit to loosen my muscles up, ate a bit of trail bread and some rabbit jerky, chased that with about a pint of water, and got ready to head out. I was climbing down the side of the building when I heard a soft footsteps coming up behind.
“Don’t shoot.” I jumped down from the wooden pallet in a crouch, my hand on my sidearm and ready to draw. The young man I’d rescued was standing about fifteen feet away, just on my side of the corner of the building, looking like he was ready to bolt. His face looked quite a bit better than he had the night before, with just the faintest signs of bruising along his jaw. He was wearing a pair of scuffed-up Vans without socks, some cargo shorts that had seen better days, a T-shirt that said Truckers do it hauling ass, and a cheap pair of Wayfarers with black frames and neon-orange temples. He had curly brown hair, a decent tan, and was rangy in that dangerous sort of way that women seem to find appealing. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say that he could have been any kid I grew up with.
I decided to defuse the situation. I’d come to rescue this kid, not shoot him. And besides, I had a feeling that he had vital information on the ‘thrope threat. “Nice duds. Did you rob a frat house? As I recall, the last time I saw you, you were sporting a different look.”
He ignored my jibe and walked forward, slowly and cautiously with his hands held in the air like this was a stickup. “The deaders have all settled down inside the building for the day. They hate the sunlight, so we should be clear of them.”
I nodded and squinted back at him. The hell with it, no sense dicking around the bush. “So, you’re a ‘thrope.” Statement, not a question.
He grinned like a two-bit cardsharp caught dealing from the bottom of the deck. “What gave it away? Was it the claws and hair, or the fact that I no longer look like I got hit by a truck?”
I shrugged. “What made you come back?”
He stopped grinning, and looked off to the side. “I dunno. You risked your ass to help me. Not many people would.”
“And you expect to return the favor?”
“If I can—that is, if you’ll let me.”
He seemed as normal as any kid I’d ever met. Hell, he reminded me a bit of myself at his age, cocksure and smart-assed to boot. I didn’t know what the hell to think at this point, because I honestly hadn’t thought ahead this far.
“You hungry, kid?”
He shook his head in the negative. “Naw, I took down a wild pig after I left here last night. Takes a lot of protein to heal that much damage.”
“Something told me you weren’t a vegan.” I paused, then decided to take a gamble. “Well, hell—I’m Sully, but most of my friends call me Scratch.” I extended my hand to him.
He backed away a half step, then appeared to reconsider and took two strides forward and took my hand in a firm grip. “I’m Bobby.” We shook, and I noticed his hand was hot, almost like he had a fever. I decided to withhold comment.
“I have some people to meet, Bobby. You’re welcome to come with me, if you want.” I adjusted the straps on my pack, and took off at a brisk walk.
Bobby caught up with me and matched my pace. “Where you headed?”
I paused, unsure of how much I wanted to share with him. “Before I answer your questions, I need you to answer a few of mine. I think you owe me that much.” He remained quiet, which I took as acquiescence. “First off, why did those punters capture you? Did you piss them off or something?”
Bobby shook his head again. “Naw, they work for the pack that’s been patrolling the Corridor—the ones who are taking people. I belong to a neutral pack that roams the coast, and they’re trying to recruit us to help them bring the safe-zone settlers under heel. And by ‘recruit,’ I mean ‘force into indentured servitude.’” I looked at him with a cocked eyebrow, and he held his hands up in protest. “Hey, not every lycanthrope wants to fight this war you know. I mean, we’re not like the Zs or the vamps. Some of us just want to be left alone, to hunt with our pack and live in peace.”
“You mean hunt humans?”
Bobby looked at me like I was nuts. “No, man, no way! Lots of us got turned by the ones who came right after the War. They were trying to increase their numbers so they could take out the early resistance. Lycanthropy isn’t like becoming one of the undead. Some people go feral as all hell when they get turned, but a good portion of us stay more or less human after we get turned.”
Something wasn’t adding up. “Bobby, how old are you?”
“Oh, you think I’m bullshitting you because I look like I’m just a kid. Lycanthropy slows down your aging processes—a lot. I was fifteen when I got turned, going on five years ago. I may not look it, but if the shit hadn’t hit the fan, I’d probably be attending college in Austin right about now.”
I thought back to before the War, and all my plans. I’d intended to go back to school, finish my degree, and become a physician’s assistant. Bombs and monsters shot that plan all to hell. Screw me.
Bobby continued. “Anyways, I escaped with a bunch of ‘thropes who didn’t like bowing down to our occult overlords, and we hooked up with a pack of neutrals out along the coast.”
“Neutrals?”
“Yeah, ‘thropes that are on neither side. Just want to be left alone, like I said.” Bobby paused for a moment, and then his mind seemed to change track. “You know, there’s still a whole lot of beach down on the coast. Sometimes I go surfing, although the waves aren’t that great. Still, it beats hanging out with the goons in the corridor.”
Holy shit, I just rescued Teen Wolf, I thought as Bobby waxed poetic about his surfing. One thing was for sure though, I didn’t think Bobby was going to gnaw my arm off anytime soon. Again, thank God for small favors.
As it turned out, Bobby was a walking encyclopedia of information on the various occult species, and more specifically what was going down in the Corridor. As we walked back to the vet clinic, he alternated between filling me in on movements and activity among the undead and ‘thropes in the corridor, and regaling me with stories of his surfing adventures down along the coast.
At the moment, he was telling me about his favorite spots to surf. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that I could care less. I’d been tuning in and out for the last few hours; the kid could really talk.
“But sometimes, man, there are pirates. You gotta watch out for them. They mostly come up from Mexico way, looking for slaves to take back who knows where.”
That got my interest. “They ever try to take any of your friends?”
Bobby chuckled. “Just once, but, man, they got a surprise! Since then, they stay away from our stretch of the coast.”
Despite Bobby’s ADD, so far I’d learned a few very important things about the activity along the Corridor. According to Bobby, there was a large pack of about two dozen ‘thropes patrolling up and down the Corridor collecting humans for slave labor. Apparently, they were controlled by a single alpha wolf who went by the name of Van.
�
��So, tell me more about this Van character.”
The kid whistled long and low. “You don’t want to jack with him, trust me. He’s one bad dude. He’s one of the ones that came right after the bombs dropped. A real first-gen alpha, strong and mean as shit.”
I’d seen how easily Bobby had lifted that punter off the ground the night before, and wondered how he compared to Van. “Stronger than you?”
“Pfft. I’m a pup compared to this guy. I’ve seen him kick a car chassis across a road, no lie. When he’s under the moon, you better steer clear of him.”
“What do you mean, ‘under the moon’?”
Bobby chewed his lip, and took a moment before he spoke. “Well, I probably shouldn’t be telling you this, because it’s really something they don’t want humans to know.”
“Who are they?”
“The alphas. And the packs. Pretty much all the wolves, I guess.”
I nodded. “And…”
“You aren’t going to let this go, are you? Alright, but you can’t let anyone know I told you this, or I’ll be in deep shit with my pack, so you gotta keep this under wraps.”
I held up my right hand with two fingers extended. “Scout’s honor.”
Bobby smirked. “You’re no Boy Scout, that’s for sure. Anyway, the thing is, wolves are stronger when the moon is full and we’re weaker when there’s not a full moon.”
“You changed last night, and it wasn’t a full moon.”
“Yeah, but it was still a mid-phase moon, and that’s enough to go through the change.”
“And what if there was no moon out, or just a crescent moon?”
“No change, man, no way, no how. Don’t care how strong your wolf is.”
I chewed my lip and considered what he was telling me. “Are you stronger when you transform?”
“Oh, most definitely. I mean, I’m strong now”—he flexed his arms for emphasis—”but I’m much stronger after I go through the change.”
