by Gareth Wood
"Where the fuck are you?" Reilly was certain all the women were dead. His inner anguish came from not knowing their fates with any certainty, and being unable to provide answers to the families they had left behind.
The last picture was of Jillian Sinclair. She was seen holding a framed diploma, her Nursing degree, in front of a house. It could have been anywhere. Looking at the photos together it was plain to see the physical similarities of the women. All were Caucasian, between twenty-five and thirty-five years old. All had long dark hair, some black, some more brown. Haircuts were different, as well as complexion, but the facial similarity was striking.
There was a knock at the meeting room door, and Deputy Hothi came in. His expression told Reilly everything he needed to know.
"Nothing?"
"Sorry, boss. Most people were home, their trucks parked. The few that were out that late can account for their whereabouts."
Reilly pinched the bridge of his nose and turned back to stare at the corkboard again. Deputy Hothi waited politely for a minute before helping himself to a cup of lukewarm tea.
"What do you see, Mann?" Reilly waved at the board with its pictures and index cards.
Hothi looked at the totality of the board, all of the pictures, names and dates, friends and relatives, possible links, possible suspects, and possible motives. He had contemplated it many times.
"I think we're looking for a sexual predator. He works at the hospital, or has access to it. He can move around freely, and knows how to avoid the checkpoints at night. He probably has a vehicle."
"What about the subject himself?" Reilly sat down in his chair, placing the cup on the table.
"Probably a Caucasian, most likely in his thirties or early forties. Someone in his past is linked to this, a parent or sibling most likely. A psychological test will most likely show that he's a psychopath or a sociopath." Hothi sat down as well, sipping his tea. This was well-trodden and familiar ground they were covering.
"What do you think his triggers are?"
Hothi shrugged. "Something about the hair. It's the greatest common factor other than gender. I'd bet either his mother or a female relative had long, black hair." He paused for a moment. "There are a number of women in the Safe Zone with that kind of hair, chief."
One of the problems, Reilly knew, was that they had very little to go on. None of the women were connected except marginally through their work. The link between Dorothy and Karen had proved fruitless. He needed to look at it in a different way.
"If he works at the hospital," Reilly pondered, "why were the first two someone from ES, and a salvager?"
Both men stared at the board again, trying hard to find a pattern, to see an answer they had not seen before.
"It all connects to salvage," Hothi said, trying to sort it out in his head. "Karen and Simone both worked for ES directly. The others all dealt with ES in one way or another."
"Not Jillian," Reilly said. "She was a nurse."
Hothi leaned across the table and grabbed a file folder, opened it. Reilly watched him scan through pages until he found the interview with Jillian's boss at the hospital. He turned and handed it to Reilly.
"It's right there. Jillian had been given responsibility for coordinating delivery of supplies from ES with City Hall. Orders that came in at night. She had contact with the delivery drivers." Reilly took the offered page and read it over. The Deputy was onto something, he felt. Was it possible that someone in Essential Supplies or City Hall was responsible?
"Okay, so that expands our area from the hospital to a couple new areas." He wrote the words 'Essential Supplies' on a paper card and tacked it to the board. He then took another and wrote 'City Hall' on it, and placed it beside the first card. When he turned around he saw Hothi staring at the board with new intensity.
"What is it, Mannjinder?"
"Just a feeling I had. I spoke to the dayshift crew boss over at the warehouse today. Alexander Corrone." He looked at Reilly. "I get the feeling there's something off about that guy."
That made Reilly pay closer attention. An experienced deputy like Hothi would trust his instincts enough to judge whether or not it was important. He'd mentioned it, so obviously he thought it was.
"Like what?"
Hothi thought for a moment. "We were talking about the truck, and I told him about the missing person, and he said something about hoping we found 'whoever it is'. There was something about his expression that seemed off." The Sheriff watched the Deputy settle into a memory, recalling the interview in his mind and waited patiently for Hothi to go on.
"It might be nothing, boss," Hothi said a moment later. "It just seemed like there was something wrong. Like his expression didn't match what he was saying, or it was just…"
"Just what?"
"I don't know. But I think that guy is up to something. Might be unrelated to this," Hothi said, gesturing at the board.
The Sheriff took another card, wrote 'Alexander Corrone' on it, and placed it under the 'Essential Supplies' card.
"Trust your instincts and take a look, Mann," Reilly said, looking at the new configuration on the board. "See what you can find out. First thing tomorrow."
Reilly had met Corrone a few times, and once in the line of duty. Corrone had been a witness a few years ago to a Death and Reanimation accident. The shift boss at the warehouse had suffered a heart attack while at work, and died. He'd then reanimated, and Corrone and one of the other workers had put him down. It was the first major incident after Reilly had taken over as Sheriff. Corrone had been promoted after that to fill the leadership void.
"You think I might be onto something?"
"I don't know. But at this point I'll take feelings and intuition as leads, since our lack of hard evidence is pissing me the hell off. So look into it tomorrow. Find out what you can about Corrone."
"Okay, boss."
"And now," Reilly said, "go home and get some sleep. Lots to do tomorrow, so you might as well rest while you can."
"Thanks, Sheriff," Hothi said, and left to head home for the night. Reilly watched him leave, heard the front desk deputies say goodnight, and heard the street door open and close. He then poured a fresh cup of lukewarm tea and turned back to the board, staring hard at the new cards.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Shakey's Guns and Ammo, September 9, 2013
Shakey's hands were as steady as mountains as he very delicately measured and poured black powder granules into clean and empty casings. His ammunition reloading sideline was profitable, but limited in scale. Most ammunition needs in the Safe Zone were met by the Armory. Shakey provided ammunition for a more specialist clientele. The military weapons, like the C7 rifles the Canadian Army had used when the Army still existed, were based on the M-16. They were also largely useless without modern gunpowder. The supplies of smokeless gunpowder had run out just over a year after the dead rose, and the Armory and Shakey had turned to black powder as a replacement. It burned differently than smokeless, and didn't provide enough pressure to make an automatic pistol or rifle work well, if at all. Firearms using black powder had to be cleaned far more often and more thoroughly than smokeless powder weapons had been, so revolvers and lever-action weapons had become popular with the survivors. Bolt-action weapons were common as well.
The tray in front of him held two dozen empty .357 casings, which he was measuring powder charges for and pouring into each one through a silicone funnel. As each was filled he transferred it to another tray. This batch of ammunition was trade goods, to be traded at the Essential Supplies warehouse for weapons or supplies that had come in. On the work table were scales and presses and dyes of various sizes, as well as a bag of cotton swabs and some lubricants, all valuable salvage that he had paid a lot to acquire. The strange barter system that Mission used was a lot of fun for Shakey, as he loved haggling with customers. A good session with a buyer was entertainment as much as profit for the old man.
It was a beautiful morning, and he sat befo
re a big bay window, the curtains all pulled back to let in as much light as possible. Shakey preferred to work on reloading by daylight, with no lanterns or candles nearby. The powder burned furiously once ignited, and he kept no ignition sources nearby. Sitting at the window also let him watch people coming and going on the streets in front of the store while he worked. Feynman snored nearby on the floor, sprawled in a sunbeam, dreaming dog dreams. Her ears twitched a few times, but mostly she lay still.
Shakey hummed a few bars of "Iron Man", wishing once again for a working electric guitar. He'd played quite a bit in his youth, and messed about with an acoustic guitar now and then, but hard rock just didn't sound right without distortion.
There was a sharp knock at the back door, three rapid taps, and the black dog leapt up, emitting a yawning bark that had Shakey laughing. Feynman looked at him indignantly, but ran ahead as he walked to the door, cursing the stiffness in his joints. A shock of reddish hair was visible through the small window in the back door. Ah, he thought, the undead don't knock, and pulled the door open.
"Hello, Amanda," he said. Feynman pushed through and sniffed at her hands, hopeful for food.
"Morning, Shakey," she said in reply, scratching Feynman's head.
She was dressed in jeans and boots, a long sleeved navy shirt, fingerless gloves, a military vest, and burdened with an ammunition belt and guns.
"Heading out already? With Robyn, I trust?" He stood aside to let her in.
"It's okay, Shakey, we'll be fine." She took a paper out of her pocket and handed it to him. "We filed that this morning. It's our planned routes and time estimates. You want anything special?"
Shakey opened the paper and read the plan over. The women were heading east? Yes, there was a particular item he wanted. But first, he had to get something.
"Hang on a second," he told Amanda, and went back into the shop. Feynman stayed with her and sniffed around her feet. Shakey came back in a few moments with a small box in his hands. "Here. This is a hundred rounds for your revolver. Hollow point. Shakey certified."
"Thanks! What do you want in return?"
"A couple bottles of bourbon, or dark rum. The best you can find. Heading east you might find some stores that weren't looted. Maybe."
Amanda laughed. Liquor stores had been big targets in the early days for looters and survivors, right after grocery stores and places like Wal-Mart or Costco.
"Okay, deal," she said, "but no guarantees. If I can't I'll try to find you something nice."
"Anything else I can help you with?"
"Actually," Amanda said, "there is. I was serious the other day when I said we should find the bastard who's behind all the women going missing."
"Amanda-"
"No, Shakey," she interrupted, "I'm not gonna sit by while some sick fucker is killing people!"
"You should let the Sheriff do his job."
"Didn't say I wouldn't. But I've learned there are usually a couple of ways to get a thing done."
"What do you mean?" he asked.
"I mean I can go places the Sheriff can't." She smiled again, but it was a cold smile, full of anger.
"One thing I do know about you, Amanda," Shakey said, shaking his head, "is that you always do things on your own terms. But you watch it, young lady. One day you'll charge headlong into something and get yourself killed."
"I promise to look before I leap, Shakey. I'm not going tits-up anytime soon."
"So, I don't want to know what it is you're up to, right?"
"I still haven't worked out exactly what I'll be up to. I mean, I have an idea, but it could go one of a number of ways."
The old man sat down at his kitchen table. He felt tired, and didn't like where this conversation was going.
"Can you feed Sauron? I left him lots of food and water, but he'll need to be let out tomorrow. I think I'll be away more than three days."
"Yes, I can feed your devil spawn," he said. "Half a cup of ground up forest animals a day, and however much whiskey he can stand, right? And keep him away from the weapons."
Amanda laughed, a warm rumble of noise. "That's exactly right. Thanks, Shakey," she said. She came to him and hugged him, then moved to the door. "I'll see you soon."
"Take care of each other out there," Shakey said. She grinned at him and let herself out. Shakey got up and went back to his work bench. He had a lot to do before he started making his deliveries and went to the Essential Supplies warehouse. I might put that off until tomorrow, he thought.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
In the ruins of Abbotsford, September 9, 2013
Amanda
As our distance from the Wall grew, we began to see them occasionally. There were none in the farming belt, of course. The hunting teams took them out and burned the bodies before they got too close to the crops or animals. It wouldn't do to have a wandering corpse kill a dairy cow or an egg-laying hen.
It's funny how I feel now about the undead. I don't hate them, or even fear them anymore. I do respect what they can do to the unprepared, but I gave up on the hate and fear a long time ago. Mostly now I just pity them. The rush I get from destroying the awful things is something else, something that makes me wonder if my old theory is true.
I had this idea, years ago now, that we were all of us suffering from Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, except that there was nothing post traumatic about it. The stress was ongoing since we lived that life constantly. Still do. So I guess it would be Ongoing Traumatic Stress Disorder. If anything qualifies for the capital "T" in Traumatic, it’s the Zombie fucking Apocalypse. Capital "Z", capital "A".
So I suppose my disturbing-when-I-think-about-it reaction is just a symptom of my OTSD? Fascinating how I can diagnose myself without the help of a psychologist. I must be a genius.
We started to see more of the undead after we left the farming belt and approached the urban developments of Abbotsford itself. It wasn't a huge number, nothing like the crowds you'd see in Burnaby or Vancouver, or Calgary for that matter, but enough to warrant some caution as we traveled. If they spotted us they lurched into motion and followed as far as they were able to keep us in sight, but we kept ahead of them easily. We never saw a crowd of more than three together at a time, and we didn't have to fire a weapon at all.
Years ago the residents of Abbotsford had tried to hold on here, and you could still see the boarded up windows and doors, the barricades across streets, and bones littering the ground here and there, the flesh long gone. The people had abandoned the town before I arrived in Mission, some fleeing east towards Hope, others south, but most had headed for the Safe Zone. I know what happened to the ones who went east, since I passed them, what was left of them, on the road.
"Here's the ramp," Robyn said suddenly, her slightly muffled voice thankfully pulling me from my memories. We had come to the Trans-Canada Highway where it passed through Abbotsford, a cloverleaf of entrance and exit ramps, long-dead traffic lights, and hundreds of abandoned vehicles. We rode up one of the ramps, tires crunching over leaves and the random debris left behind when the world ended. At the top we stopped to look along the highway in both directions. None of the dead were within sight, so we pulled down the bandannas we were using as masks.
Along the highway here were thousands of abandoned vehicles, cars, trucks and minivans all crammed together in what I imagined was the world's longest traffic snarl. They were bumper to bumper across all six lanes, a vast mausoleum of motor vehicles reaching from somewhere in Vancouver itself all the way to the end of the Fraser Valley in the east. It was fucking spectacular. When I had driven out here I had taken the Trans-Canada as far as Chilliwack, and it was there that the roads had become impassable. I'd had to divert to secondary roads and back streets, all overgrown and in need of repairs that would never come. This traffic jam was the better part of fifty kilometers long.
"What a mess," Robyn said sadly, looking east.
"I dunno," I replied. "There's a certain beauty to it."
She g
ave me the look people give me when I say things like that. I'm used to it.
We started along the shoulder heading east, watching for glass and bits of bone or metal, watchful for the grasping hands of the undead that might be trapped inside the wreckage.
"You actually like this, don't you?"
We were riding side by side, Robyn on my right. "What do you mean?"
"All of this. The wreckage. The apocalypse." There was more curiosity in her voice than anything else.
"It's true," I said, "I do prefer the world like this." I shrugged, a strange looking gesture when riding a bicycle along the shoulder of a highway.
"Seriously? You'd rather have this," she nodded toward a burnt-out truck we were passing, "than a nice movie theater playing an overwrought drama, or a big name concert?"
"What can I say? I like the world quieter. I always figured we were headed this way. Not zombies, exactly," I said, "but plague, or a war, or an asteroid strike."
"But not zombies," she said, smiling and shaking her head.
"I knew a guy once, a biologist. My team rescued him and a bunch of others from Banff about a year after this started. He told us that the undead could not exist. Those were his words, could not, and he was absolutely baffled that they were walking around at all. Luckily he adapted before he did anything too stupid."
She frowned, and I think she was remembering something. "I know exactly how he feels. I was at UBC that first year, and there was a virologist with us named Girenko. She tried to isolate the cause from blood and tissue samples, but never got anywhere. It drove her crazy."
"Not literally, I hope," I said.
"Actually, it did. After months of work that yielded no results in any form, she went nuts."
"Oh, shit," I said. I could see where this was going already.
"Yeah. I'm not really sure what happened, since it all went down so quickly. One night she opened the main gate and walked out of the small safe zone we'd built up. I think she made it about half a block before she ran into a small pack. When they heard her screaming, a bunch of people ran to the gate to see what was going on."
