Rise (Book 3): Dead Inside

by Gareth Wood

  "Oh no, it's not breakfast time yet, my girl," he said. "Let's go back to bed."

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Mission Safe Zone, September 7, 2013

  Sheriff Jim Reilly stalked out of the repurposed City Hall building where the Town Council met, shaking his head angrily.

  Idiots, he thought, stubborn bureaucratic idiots.

  The meeting had not gone well. Mayor Chen and the four Councilors had listened for only a minute to his explanation before dismissing his idea that a serial killer was operating inside the Safe Zone. Where was the proof? Where were the bodies? What evidence did he have? He had explained that there were no bodies, and the evidence was all circumstantial. Mayor Chen had then explained that of course the Council couldn't issue a public warning due to baseless suspicions. It was more likely, the Mayor had said, that these people had fallen victim to the attacks of lone zombies, or chosen to leave the Safe Zone for their own reasons.

  Reilly had argued, of course. He had told them all his suspicions, explained that the evidence didn't support any of the women leaving the Safe Zone. They didn't believe him. Or they did and chose to turn a blind eye. Reilly wasn't sure which of those possibilities he was sickened by more.

  City Hall had been the old Mission Community Services building, re-tasked since the Wall went up. The original City Hall was out in the wasteland now, abandoned and deteriorating more with each passing year. This building had been perfect as the new center of government, centrally located and large. Waiting outside was one of his deputies, Mannjinder Hothi, with a handful of papers.

  "What is it, Mann?"

  "The after-action report you wanted from the incident yesterday," Hothi said, holding up the pages. There was only a hint of a Bombay accent in his voice, the remnant of growing up with immigrant parents in the melting pot of Vancouver culture.

  Reilly took the papers and read them as Hothi walked with him back to the Sheriff's Office. It was fairly standard, as these things went. One fatality, a salvager, but no other injuries worth mentioning, and sixty-three of the undead destroyed. Reilly whistled when he read that number. That was a lot. The response team had reacted quickly enough to rescue a second salvager and recover medical supplies.

  "Looks like they just had some bad luck."

  "It would seem that way," Hothi said. "But read the other report."

  The medical report from Dr. McKinnon was an unusual surprise. Reilly read it with interest. When he was partway through he stopped walking and focused all his attention on the report. When he finished he read it through a second time. He then looked up at his deputy.

  "You read this?"

  "Yes, sir," Hothi confirmed.

  "What do you think?"

  "I hope it's not true," the deputy said.

  "Me too."

  The two men walked the remaining few blocks to the Sheriff's office, located in the old RCMP offices on 1st Avenue. Like City Hall, the original RCMP building was now outside the Wall. This smaller office was central and at street level, thus easy to find. It wasn't very big, so most of the work was done in Reilly's office upstairs. This office was only the public face of the law enforcement in the Safe Zone.

  Reilly was deep in thought as they walked inside. The implications of a fast death/reanimation cycle from a bite were frightening. If unconfined, an outbreak could sweep through the Safe Zone in only a few hours. News of a faster reanimation time would panic people, and that would lead to demands for better security. Security was already too tight and draconian, in Reilly's opinion. The Mayor and Council tended to overreact in the interest of 'public safety', which was how you ended up with things like the checkpoints all across town, or the Services Office nosing into everything.

  There were four offices of the Town Council aside from the Mayor. Essential Supplies ran the warehouse, had some oversight over the salvage operations, and made sure everything got delivered as quickly and fairly as possible. Services made sure the power stayed on, utilities worked, vehicles stayed functional, and roads were repaired. Medical ran the hospital. Guards ran the security of the Wall, maintained the safe houses outside it, kept the Wall in repair, and were responsible for dealing with outbreaks within and outside the Wall. Independent of the Council was the Sheriff's office, charged with maintaining law and order within the Safe Zone. The Armory fell under the jurisdiction of the Sheriff. Only the Mayor, Reilly, the Chief Armorer and one deputy had keys. Two other keys sat in the safe behind Reilly's desk. The Armory was where the town kept the really big guns, any new firearms that were salvaged, and the military vehicles they had for emergencies.

  "Where do we stand on the Jill Sinclair disappearance?"

  "We have six deputies out looking for her right now. There's a development. We spoke to her husband, Ron. His end of things checks out," Hothi said. "He's frantic to find her."

  "I would be too," the Sheriff said.

  "We also went over her path home. There's no sign of an attack anywhere. The hospital checkpoint records her going through, but there isn't another checkpoint until the east side."

  The two men climbed the stairs to Reilly's office, passing a few other deputies and staff.

  "So what's the development?" Reilly asked.

  "We also talked to the people living along her route. Most of them were asleep by midnight."

  "Most of them?" Reilly nodded to his secretary, a middle aged woman named Diane. He led the way into his private office where a window let in natural light.

  "Mr. Travis King, who lives right along the route Mrs. Sinclair took home, says he was awake until twelve-thirty, and remembers a vehicle driving past at about ten after twelve."

  Reilly sat down and waved Hothi to the chair on the other side of his desk. "Did he see what direction it went? Or what make or colour it was?"

  "No, he didn't."

  Reilly leaned back in his chair, thinking. Trucks were the only vehicles other than ambulances and bicycles that were used in the Safe Zone. Chances were it was one belonging to one of the Council offices, since there were only about ten privately run trucks in Mission.

  "Let's talk to all the owners of private trucks first," Reilly said to his deputy. "After that we can try to account for all the Council vehicles."

  "I'll get on it," Hothi said.

  "Checkpoints," Reilly said. "A vehicle would likely have passed through one."

  "I've already sent someone to check those too." Hothi stepped out of the office, leaving Reilly alone.

  The Sheriff sighed. For the ten thousandth time he wished the RCMP crime database system was up and running, but it had vanished along with the computer networks in the middle of May, 2004. The current system of handwritten notes and the three-computer network in the office was time-consuming, but at least the laws of the Safe Zone were simple enough to enforce. Most crimes were punishable by community service or removal of privileges. More serious crimes were decided on by the Council, the Mayor, and the Sheriff. The most severe punishment was to be expelled from the community, left outside the Wall without weapons or supplies.

  But we've never had to deal with murder, he thought. What the punishment for that might eventually be, if the suspected killer was caught, Reilly had no idea. The Council had never faced anything like it, or had to deal with any crime so severe that it might involve directly killing the perpetrator. The community would likely demand a murderer be killed, but there would also be people who demanded that Mission not ever have a death penalty. Plenty of people thought that any human life was too valuable for a government – any government – to throw away. Reilly thought he knew better. He had seen plenty of people in his career that had needed killing, or failing that, a life sentence in a maximum security prison. Child molesters and rapists were at the top of his short list of criminals that he would happily shoot or expel, provided that proof was available. That was important too; proof was essential. He had seen too many instances of vigilante justice that had gone wrong, or prison sentences handed down that were later
thrown out due to lack of evidence or wrongful convictions. Reilly had insisted upon taking this job that the burden of proof of a crime had to be maintained. There would be no summary convictions by the Council based on hearsay. There would be no mob justice or lynchings. It was a condition of his accepting the job, and the Council had stuck by it so far.

  Diane walked in and placed a handful of new sheets of paper in his inbox. Reilly shook his head and reached for them, wondering what new surprises the day would bring to him.

  He read the reports, his mind drifting back to the early days in Mission, right after the Wall went up and before he was Sheriff. In the chaos of that time, before they had understood what was happening, there were all sorts of rumours and questions. Suicides had been a bad problem for almost a year, as the unstable or those unable to deal with the new reality chose alternate ways out. A few of those deaths had resulted in more deaths when the suicide reanimated.

  Worse than that were the roving gangs who had flourished and then vanished. Some elements of society had taken to the lawlessness with enthusiasm, raiding settlements that were trying to hold on, or robbing smaller groups of survivors. A few had tried to fight their way into Mission, but the Wall and the determination of the people here had held them off. Attrition had taken care of most of those groups, since they seldom had a place to call home, and life on the road was so dangerous.

  Now Mission was one of several communities that held territory in the Fraser Valley. Three smaller groups, none larger than a hundred people, held onto farms between Abbotsford and Agassiz, where they raised livestock and grew all manner of vegetables and fruit. All had walled in areas around the central farm buildings where they could retreat to, but the undead were rare out there most times. All three groups traded with Mission, since they were too small to have anything like the Essential Supplies haul. Food came in, and weapons and ammo went out, along with fuel, medicine, and clothing.

  In the other direction were the urban sprawls of the major cities, abandoned and infested with more undead than Reilly cared to even imagine. The Fraser River was the best and safest route to the communities that had survived on the Gulf Islands of the Georgia Strait, west of the mainland coast. Seven small communities had survived on the smaller islands, and one on the greater landmass of Vancouver Island. The largest community in the Gulf Islands was a small town on Saltspring Island. Eight hundred survivors there grew crops and fished and smoked a hell of a lot of weed.

  Farther south there was a large settlement in the haunted ruins of Seattle, several small communities on the coast of Washington State, and one big community of three thousand people in the old Whidbey Island Naval Air Station. Rare flights between there and Abbotsford International Airport, where Mission retained a small presence to keep the runways repaired, were possible. The lack of aviation fuel meant that the flights were only made in extreme emergencies.

  All of these groups kept in contact, usually by letters that the boat captains carried. While helping each other out was possible, practical matters made it more difficult. Still, some trade occurred, and people moved from community to community sometimes. Just this week several people had come in from Seattle. Newcomers were admitted if they had useful skills, were willing to help support the community, and weren't infected. Sponsors would take care of them, help them to fit in, and find them jobs. Sponsors also had the last say on whether newcomers could stay. If they were dangerous, or unwilling to work, or stole from the community, Mission could, and would, throw them back out on their ass.

  Realising that he was losing focus, Reilly got up and poured a cup of tea, one of his last tea bags. He'd have to remember to go to the market and trade for some more later. The local herbal stuff wasn't bad, but he still preferred the real thing, rare as it was. He sat down at his desk and started reading the reports over, concentrating this time. He was still at it hours later when Diane came to bring him lunch.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Mission Safe Zone, September 7, 2013

  Robyn woke with a start, tangled in a blanket in an unfamiliar room. Something orange and furry had leaped off her chest when she started, and sat looking at her from the floor nearby. Her head felt like a rugby team had used it as a ball for a championship game.

  She swung her legs down and sat up on the sofa, her head immediately spinning, a pounding headache piercing behind her eyes. She sat, her face in her hands, breathing shallowly until the pounding diminished to a less violent throbbing. In time the pain faded enough for her to look around.

  Full daylight shone in the windows. She was sitting on a sofa in the living room of a neat but obviously lived in house. The walls were painted a shade somewhere between navy and sky blue. The baseboards were all painted white. A pair of small tables and a single wooden chair were all the rest of the furniture.

  On the walls were movie posters, framed and under glass, all from old monster movies. Dracula and Bride of Frankenstein were on the wall above the sofa. Another wall held The Creature From The Black Lagoon. King Kong and Attack of the Fifty Foot Woman framed a window on another wall.

  I'm sensing a theme here, she thought.

  Beside the front door was a weapon case, a wooden cabinet without doors. Hanging on pegs inside it were a Winchester Defender shotgun, an old .303 bolt action rifle, two semi-automatic handguns, and a C7A1 assault rifle with a sniper scope. On a shelf lower down were boxes of ammunition.

  There was also a leather tube filled with arrows, and a fabric covered shape next to the quiver was likely a bow of some kind. An electric guitar, shiny black and all angles, stood on a metal and rubber stand beside an amplifier, on the opposite side of the room from the weapons.

  "Hello?" she called, wincing at the pain her own voice caused between her ears. Her throat was dry and her voice sounded like hell. There was no answer except from the cat, who mewed at her and walked away.

  It suddenly dawned on her where she was. This is Amanda's house! Robyn could remember the rum, riding drunkenly down nighttime streets and finally pounding on the door of a house. There had been an old man, somehow familiar. Was there a dog? Where did we leave the bikes?

  Despite the hangover Robyn got up and went looking for a bathroom. She found it and used it, then walked down the hallways a few steps to what she hoped was a bedroom. The door was open and Amanda was lying half-dressed on the bed, snoring quietly. She was clutching a thick blanket but wasn't covered by it.

  "Good morning," Robyn said, and Amanda groaned, then sat up, blinking. She focused on Robyn, groaned again dramatically, and said, "Goddamn my head hurts."

  Amanda got up and walked to the bathroom, holding her head delicately. She had taken off her shirt at some point, and wore a black bra that had seen better days.

  Those are some nasty burns, Robyn observed, seeing the scar tissue that ran from Amanda's face, down her neck, and onto her shoulder. The scars of what appeared to be shrapnel dotted her torso on the same side. Amanda held onto the door and blearily stared in the mirror. She turned to Robyn and uttered, "There's real coffee in the kitchen, above the sink," then shut the door.

  Robyn found the kitchen, poured water into a kettle and set it on the wood stove, which radiated a pleasant heat. She then rummaged the kitchen looking for the coffee, but a filter and a coffee pot eluded her. She sat down at the table and was joined by the orange cat, which curled up looking at her until she held out a hand. The cat sniffed her fingers, then rolled onto its back. She absently petted it until Amanda emerged from the bathroom.

  Amanda sat down opposite Robyn at the table. She had put on another black shirt, this one adorned with some unreadable writing and an image of what Robyn could only think of as a Viking warrior. Amanda put her elbows on the table and rested her face in her hands.

  "I couldn't find a coffee pot," Robyn said. Amanda groaned and got up, opened a cupboard and pulled a coffee pot out from the back. She put a filter and some coffee inside it, then checked the kettle. It was boiling, so she poured and sat
back down.

  "What were we drinking?" Amanda asked.

  "Rum and Coke," Robyn replied, "and then just rum."

  "Alrighty." She opened one eye and looked at Robyn. "Did we sleep together?"

  "Nope. I woke up under your cat, though."

  Amanda turned to the cat. "You little slut, Sauron."

  The cat rolled towards Amanda, paws in the air, and purred.

  "Coffee?"

  "Oh god, yes!"

  The two women were half through the first cup when there came a knock on the door. Before either could get up there was the sound of the lock turning, and Shakey came in carrying a canvas bag.

  "Morning, ladies," he said cheerily. He dropped the bag on the kitchen counter and started unpacking. "I'm Shakey," he said to Robyn.

  "You own the gun and ammunition store? I thought you looked familiar."

  "Yep," he said, "that's me."

  "What…" was all Amanda got out, gesturing vaguely at the bag.

  "Breakfast! I knew you'd be a little hung over, so I brought something to help."

  Shakey placed an empty bottle he had found on the lawn on the table between the two women. It was a small tequila bottle. Robyn stared at it in incomprehension.

  "Where did we get tequila?" Amanda asked, touching the bottle with a fingertip to test that it was real. Robyn didn't know where the bottle had come from. Her memory of last night was a little hazy. She was more impressed when Shakey handed her two of the locally made aspirin pills, not really aspirin but a painkiller derived from willow bark. They tasted terrible, so she washed them down with the last of her coffee.

  Robyn watched as Shakey mixed and cut and stirred various things, and then tossed everything into a cast iron pan on the stove. He casually flipped his long white hair out of the way as he cooked. A strong aroma of onions, sausage and spices filled the room. Between that and the coffee Robyn started to feel a little better. When a large omelet was placed in front of her she dove in, feeling the hot food spread warmth through her belly. Shakey placed another plate in front of Amanda, but she turned green and fled to the washroom.