Rise (Book 3): Dead Inside

by Gareth Wood

  "Okay, I can do this," she muttered. She had never used a gun in her life.

  She reloaded the pistol with the three bullets, carefully closed the cylinder, and made sure the first bullet was in the chamber next to the barrel. She considered her next step, standing in the kitchen and listening to the rain hitting the roof. Her pack was about two thirds full, but it wasn't a lot of food and medicine. She'd need a pack full of supplies every day to feed everyone, and even that would be slim pickings. No, she would need to bring a couple of people out a few times a week to get things. The amount of searching for even one pack of supplies was too much. She needed to know where there was a large supply of food and secure it.

  There were grocery stores on campus, but they'd have been looted, she knew. Her best bet seemed to be searching the residences still. If she took what she had home she could get some sleep and come back out tomorrow. Maybe Todd or Zoey would be willing to come with her.

  Mind made up, Robyn walked back into the living room. She stopped when she saw someone standing in the doorway. A figure stood on the threshold, half in and half out of the rain. Adrenaline pumping, Robyn lifted the flashlight up with trembling fingers and shone it on the figure. It was one of the undead, a bearded man in his late middle age. He wore sodden jogging pants and a dark shirt. His belly had been scratched and torn, and there was a long tear in his shirt. He stepped toward her, lifting his arms and opening his mouth. Dead eyes stared right at the light, and she saw that two of the fingers on his right hand were missing, severed down to stumps.

  "Shit!" she said, and raised the gun. She took a step into the kitchen, and thumbed the hammer back. The cylinder rotated into place, the bullet lined up with the barrel, and she aimed the gun at the undead creature's face.

  "Please work, please work, please work," she chanted to herself, and pulled the trigger.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Mission Safe Zone, September 9, 2013

  Feynman sat beside Shakey in the cab of his green Ford Ranger, her nose out the passenger window and her mouth open in canine bliss. She sniffed and snorted, barked happily at children playing in their yards under watchful adult eyes, and tracked the motion of squirrels as they ran along tree limbs. Shakey laughed at Feynman's head darting around, her eyes on a cat out prowling in the twilight in the front yard of a house they were passing.

  "You'd never catch her, girl," he said, rubbing her neck with his right hand, steering with his left. "And if you did, what would you do with her?" Feynman merely bounced on her legs and wagged her tail, happy to be out for a rare ride.

  Shakey was on his way to the Essential Supplies warehouse to bid on the salvaged weapons and ammunition that had been brought in over the last week or so. He usually bought one or two new guns from ES before the rest were shipped to the Armory for evaluation, and he had gotten very good at determining which of the weapons brought in were in the best condition.

  Pulling into the warehouse parking lot, Shakey took note of the other vehicles. No sign of the ES delivery truck, but two larger panel vans belonging to one of the salvage crews, Johnson Salvage, were just pulling away as Shakey pulled in. He waved to the drivers, and they waved back. He got out and held the door.

  "Come on, girl," he said. Feynman climbed down and wove around his feet before bounding across the pavement chasing a butterfly. Shakey took his handgun out of the dash holster and put it on his hip. He took the canvas bag holding his trade goods from the back of the truck and walked to the warehouse door. Feynman joined him when he stepped onto the stairs.

  Inside, he paused to watch the activity. It was getting toward dark, and the shift would be ending soon. Workers were sorting the salvage load that had been delivered, marking pallets with labels based on urgency of need. Medical supplies went out immediately, while food and weapons were sent out to the distribution points around town or to the Armory, respectively. Electronics or tools or other luxury items like clothes or expensive alcohol were kept to be sold at vendors’ tables at the market. A forklift drove by. He started to wave at Helen, only to realise it was not her at the controls.

  Walking into the office, Shakey found one of the workers inside, filling out a salvage checklist.

  "Hey, Bob," Shakey said in greeting. He knew most of this shift by name. "Where's the boss? I'm here for the guns."

  "He's out for the day," he was told. "I can take care of you, though."

  Shakey was a little relieved that Alexander Corrone was out. He'd brought Feynman with him, something he usually didn't do if he came to the warehouse. The dog seemed to hate Corrone, and would growl at him if he got too close to her. The shift boss didn't seem to mind, but Shakey still left Feynman in the truck or at home if he had the choice when coming here.

  "Where's Helen today? Sick?"

  Bob, a round and perpetually flushed man with a handlebar mustache and a penchant for denim, frowned and shook his head. His hand rested habitually on the holstered Colt .45 revolver he wore. Bob came to Shakey for his ammunition.

  "No, man, she got laid off. It's bullshit, Shakey."

  "Laid off?" Shakey was astonished. Skilled workers were too valuable to simply get rid of. "What happened?"

  Bob looked around to be sure no one was close enough to overhear, then leaned closer. "It was the boss. He got rid of her about a week ago. He told her she had to work the night shift, on account of Walter breaking his ankle." Bob's colour turned deeper red, a sign that he was very angry about this. The crew looked out for each other, very much like a large extended family.

  "But she has a daughter," Shakey said. "How could she work nights?"

  "Exactly!" Bob replied, in danger of tearing the papers in his hands. He noticed and flattened them out. "That's why it's bullshit."

  "Not sure I follow," Shakey said.

  "There's no need for Helen to go take Walter's spot. There's two other people on this shift who could have covered it. Not as fast as Helen, maybe, but enough for the night shift. Nobody but Helen was even asked. But Mr. Corrone let her know if she couldn't, she wouldn't have a job."

  "Did she do something to piss him off?"

  Bob shook his head. He was getting angry again. "No, man. Not that any of us know about. It was just random. The whole crew is pissed, but Mr. Corrone doesn't seem to care. He just carried on like nothing happened."

  Now that was interesting. Shakey leaned on the counter, pondering. Helen was a skilled forklift operator. If she was dismissed she'd have to go back to the Mission Job Board to find work. Until she did, providing for her child would be difficult. Work in Mission was available to anyone who wanted it, based on experience and aptitude. To live in Mission you had to have a job of some kind, some way to contribute. There was no room for freeloaders. The City handed out pay cards based on hours worked, danger of the job, and how essential the job was. The cards could be traded for basic supplies at the market, or saved up for luxury items. It was a system that existed alongside the barter economy, and allowed people with dependents to take care of them. Children too young to work got a basic food allowance every week, but it really wasn't much, and anything over and above the basics, like clothing or textbooks, was found in the market for sale.

  "Maybe I'll go see Helen when I'm done here, see how she's doing."

  "Say hi for me? And the rest of us?"

  "Sure," Shakey said, "no problem. Now, I'm here to see some new guns."

  Bob's face lit up. He enjoyed talking about guns. He led the way to a locked chain-link gate, and once inside, into the secure firearms storage area. Leaning against a wooden bench were half a dozen rifles and shotguns, all civilian weapons with limited magazines. The Armory would fix that once they were sent there. Larger magazines would be converted or built from scratch, silencers made for some of the rifles. On top of the bench were several handguns.

  The shotguns were all 12 gauge, one a double-barreled hunting weapon, the others pump-action. The three rifles were a variety. The first was a .22 target rifle, long barreled a
nd with a 5-round clip. It was in excellent shape, with grease still on the barrel. Next was a Savage 110 with a scope, also in good condition. Finally, an older weapon, a .30-30 lever-action Mossberg.

  "Where did these come from?" Shakey asked.

  Bob shrugged. "A couple of the guys told me they were found in a self-storage unit in Aldergrove. They were sealed in cases and taped shut. No ammo, just the guns and a bunch of dry foods. Most of that was spoiled."

  Shakey bent to examine the weapons more closely, decided which ones he wanted, and got down to negotiations with Bob. In the end he spent most of his trade goods for two handguns, all three rifles, and one of the shotguns. The other shotguns were not in good condition, and Shakey wasn't inclined to take them. It was a larger purchase than he usually made, but the rifles alone would make up for any loss from the others.

  He loaded the weapons into his truck, behind the seats, the rifles now back in the cases they had come in.

  "Come on, girl," he called out to Feynman, who was sniffing around the pavement in the darkness. The sun had set completely while he was inside, and the shift was ending. The dog bounded over to him and jumped into the truck. He climbed in after her and shut the door.

  "Well, my girl, let's go see Helen. I know how you like to play with Sandy," he said. He pulled out of the parking area, his mind pondering Helen's dismissal. He wondered what she had to say about it. A suspicion was forming in his head, nothing concrete yet. He wanted to talk to Helen before he did anything else.

  CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

  Mission Safe Zone, September 10, 2013

  Deputy Hothi arrived at the ES warehouse forty minutes before the night shift ended. He parked his bicycle three blocks away, out of sight in an alleyway, and walked the empty roads to the building in the humid darkness. The sky was overcast, looking like rain tonight or tomorrow, and the temperature was cooler than it had been for the last two weeks.

  He stood in the bushes at the far end of the loading area on a raised planter and watched the night guard make his rounds, checking outside locks and shining flashlights into dark corners of the building. The night shift ended at two o'clock, leaving a four hour window until the day shift started. Plenty of time to have a look around inside with no one from Essential Supplies the wiser. And since he was here investigating a hunch, it was probably best to keep this off the official record.

  Hothi stepped down off the planter after the guard turned a far corner and vanished from sight. He walked to the nearest open loading door and looked inside. No one was in sight at the moment, so he climbed up and pulled himself inside, standing up into shadows to look around. Far to his right the night crew were preparing to leave, plugging in the forklifts to charge, and double checking all the tags on the pallets of supplies ready for distribution in the morning. When everyone was looking elsewhere Hothi simply walked across the open space between the doors and the shelving aisles, stepping into the shadows there. The trick was to move calmly and make no sudden or jerky movements. Those drew the eye, while a slow and calm motion wouldn't.

  He made his way to the back of the building, past pallets of food and clothing, tools and other supplies. It was easy to conceal himself there to wait until the warehouse was locked up and everyone had left. Looking around in the dimness he realised that there was a layer of fine dust over everything. The pallet of BBQ parts he was crouched behind apparently wasn't high in demand. The shipping tag from the manufacturer was dated from March of 2004. No wonder there was so much dust. Many of the goods in the racks nearby were equally dusty. They were the possibly-useful-someday items, things ES had elected to keep instead of throw away: office chairs and printers; a pallet of iron elevator counter-weights; a stack of twenty-five Ford mufflers.

  Half an hour later the workers left, shutting down all but the emergency lighting. Only three lights remained on, one at the main entrance and the other two out on the loading floor. It was pitch dark where Hothi crouched, listening to the echoing sound of a closing door. Then he was alone. The guards would ensure everything was closed, and remain outside. They had a few other buildings nearby to patrol, so they stayed out of the warehouse. Five minutes after the workers had closed the door and locked it, Hothi was standing inside the office with a small flashlight in hand. The walls were covered in calendars and posters, some pornographic images and some animals with funny sayings written on them. On the desks were stacks of papers, lists of supplies delivered to the warehouse by salvagers, food shipped to Safe Zone distribution or the market, weapons sold or sent to the Armory, and lists of what was held in the warehouse for emergencies.

  "If I was incriminating evidence, where would I be?" he muttered to himself. He moved to the farthest desk from the door, the one Corrone had been sitting at the other day. It was neat in a way the other desks were not. No random piles of papers here; everything was orderly. Pens were all in their cup on one side, while paperclips were sticking to a magnet on the opposite corner. Hothi began opening drawers and looking inside, then moved on to the filing cabinet. Thirty minutes of searching through papers convinced him an accountant might find something unusual there, but a Deputy Sheriff wouldn't. It appeared there were records of both incoming and outgoing salvage and supplies for the last several years in the files. All of those files were duplicated and a new updated report was sent to City Hall once a month. Checking them for discrepancies would be time consuming, to say the least.

  Hothi took out his pencil and notepad and made quick notes of what he had seen and done so far. He returned to the warehouse itself, deciding to walk the aisles and see if anything out there seemed unusual. Certainly the contents of some of the pallets on the shelves, items that had never been found in the same place before the dead rose, would have raised eyebrows in that previous time, but now they were not so strange. Hothi didn't know what he was looking for, just that it would show itself to him in time. If it was there at all. It was entirely possible that there was nothing here, and the bad feeling he had about Corrone was only that, a bad feeling.

  Don't second guess yourself, he thought. He knew there was something wrong, or he wouldn't be there.

  He walked into the aisles, his flashlight shining left and right, up and down the stacks. His watch told him he had just under three hours until the day shift arrived. That should be time enough to search the whole place. He walked to the far south side from the office and started there, walking along and looking at everything. He quickly vanished into the gloom between the shelves.

  * * *

  More than two hours later a tired Deputy Hothi emerged from the aisles. He brushed himself off with his hands and coughed at the clouds of dust raised as he did so. He had crawled over many pallets, looking at tags and shining his light under tarps. Rats had scurried out of his path in the far corners of the building, and his skin had crawled with revulsion. All he was certain of at this point was that he was going to have to stay here for the full day shift. There was a lot to see, and he had found something in the back that made him curious. But for now he was tired and hungry and needed to use the washroom. Better to do that now rather than when the staff began to show up for work. Hothi ate the food he had brought with him, sitting on Corrone's chair. With half an hour to spare he used the washroom, then walked back into the aisles to find a place to rest while the warehouse came to life. He had just reached the shadows between the shelves when he heard the door open, and ducked into cover before checking his watch. Someone was early.

  Hothi peeked over the pallet of lawn mower motors as the lights started coming on. Standing beside the door, hand on the switches, was Alexander Corrone. He was armed and dressed in dirty clothing, looked like he had slept in them, in fact. Hothi watched the man cross to the office, turn the lights on inside, and return to the front door. Corrone walked the length of the dock, unlocking doors and looking briefly at the tags on each of the prepared pallets, then returned to the office. He came out again wearing clean clothes, his face scrubbed and hair brushed. He
took a small bag, presumably with his old clothes, outside again. While Corrone was outside Hothi moved deeper into the aisles.

  The Deputy found a place to rest, a spot between two pallets of insulation, still wrapped in white plastic sheets. He sat down and closed his eyes. He was extremely tired, but sleep would be foolish. If he was discovered by the staff it would alert Corrone that something was going on. He would just rest a few minutes, then keep moving, avoiding the workers while waiting to see if Corrone did anything unusual.

  What did I just see? He was wearing dirty clothes when he came in, looked disheveled. What was he doing? Was he up all night? Hothi took out his notebook again and made more notes, then closed the book and put it back in his jacket pocket. He nestled down further between the insulation and closed his eyes again.

  CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

  Outside the Wall, September 10, 2013

  Robyn heard music when she woke up. It was so unusual that she automatically reached for her gun, but her brain caught up with her environment and she relaxed. She lay in her sleeping bag on a bed in a safe house just east of Abbotsford. From the light it was just after dawn, and the greyness outside the barred windows suggested that it was raining. Listening, the sound of rain didn't quite drown out the music. She couldn't identify the artist or the song; it was something metal that Amanda liked, but it sounded familiar. She simply couldn't place it.