Rise (Book 3): Dead Inside

by Gareth Wood

  "Where did you come from?"

  She didn't reply, just walked closer and moaned slightly, showing broken teeth and a swollen black tongue. He was repelled by her appearance. He would never let his pets get so disheveled. He raised the gun and aimed as she bumped into the tailgate, reaching for him with her savaged arms. The bullet passed through her skull with a splashing sound, and she fell backward out of view. He returned to his work.

  As Alexander expected, he felt nothing. The destruction of this creature had no emotional impact on him. Its death was merely necessary so that it couldn't endanger him. In the grand scheme of things a single undead was no more than a hiccup, less worthy of his notice than even the lowliest of the people of Mission.

  He also suspected that the few sheep with the will to kill, the salvagers and the Guards, were less like him than they might appear. He never imagined that they too might feel nothing at all as they exterminated those undead that crossed their paths. Pathetic creatures like the undead were beneath the notice of such advanced minds as his, he believed. The salvagers and Guards killed the undead because they were afraid of them. It was emotion that made them weak, he had come to realise. He himself was a superior human, unaffected by emotion. He alone in Mission was capable of seeing the world as it truly was, a place where only the fit survived.

  And of course, Alexander thought, I am the fittest of all to live in this world.

  It was early afternoon before he finished transferring all his supplies. No other dead things intruded, so he finished and ate a quick lunch. His appetite had worked up over the last hour, and he wolfed down the food without really tasting it. He knew his absence from the warehouse would have been noted, but that would be easy to explain. Not that the sheep would require much to fool them. He could claim sickness, tell them he was home all day. There was no reason they should not believe him. No reason at all.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Mission Safe Zone, September 11, 2013

  It was almost dark by the time the Gun Runners dropped Robyn and Amanda off at the gate to the Safe Zone. They drove back through the ruins of Abbotsford, past the tangled overgrown fields and yards, the rusting vehicles and collapsed roofs of houses suffering from long neglect. The cultivated fields, with armed sentries and workers, passed quickly, and then they were on the bridge.

  "Thank you," Robyn said as she climbed out. She hugged Jeremy quickly, then took her rifle out from behind the seat.

  "Anytime, really," Jeremy said to Robyn, as he and his fellow salvager helped to haul the bicycles and trailers out of the bed of the truck. The Guards on the Wall watched curiously as the two women said goodbye and walked their bikes to the gate. Jeremy honked once as he turned around, then sped off south across the bridge, returning to his people.

  With no salvage to process, the women were passed through the medical checks quickly and released into the community, free to go where they wanted. Amanda's house was closest, but Robyn had the maps at hers. They climbed onto the bikes and rode to Robyn's house.

  Inside, they lit two lanterns and several candles. Robyn took a topographic map off one wall, one that was printed in 2003, and showed the region to the east of Mission in some detail. They spread the map over a table and leaned in to look at it. The route of Highway 7 was clearly shown, as well as smaller roads and the twisting lines of altitude. Mountains were clearly visible, as well as some bodies of water and streams.

  "Where do we start?" Amanda asked Robyn.

  "Well, this whole region is heavily forested. There are a lot of forestry roads, but we can narrow it down. Yvonne said it was ten to fifteen kilometers out from Mission, and there's a handy scale here." She pointed at a scale on the bottom of the map, then went to her kitchen and came back with a ruler. She quickly measured the distance on the ruler, then transferred that distance to the map along the highway. Two thumb tacks marked the ends of the possible range, a red one at about ten kilometers, and a yellow one at about fifteen.

  "Somewhere in there, then," Amanda said. Both of them looked at the area closely, then Amanda snorted in disgust. "There's a dozen logging roads in there, at least!"

  "No one said this would be easy," Robyn reminded her.

  "Hmm," was all Amanda said.

  "Having second thoughts?"

  "Hardly," Amanda told her. "Just wishing it was more than just the two of us. We have a lot of ground to cover, and the Sheriff's office won't be any good that far from Mission."

  Robyn blinked, then smiled as an idea occurred to her. "Why don't we ask Shakey to help?"

  "That is an excellent idea. He'd probably love to help, and he's very well armed."

  "And there's his dog," Robyn said.

  "Feynman, yes. She might be able to help us find the bodies. We should probably get something that smells like Jillian, too."

  "We could go by her house, ask her husband for something of hers," Robyn said.

  Amanda looked at her watch. "Shakey closes up in about half an hour. Let's eat something then go over to see him."

  Slightly more than forty minutes later the two women arrived at Amanda's house, where they parked the bikes. Robyn had a strange feeling of deja-vu, remembering that the last time she had ridden here they had both been quite drunk. They walked across the grass to his shop, and Robyn followed Amanda around the side to the back door. Amanda knocked, a familiar sounding pattern which she repeated twice. Robyn looked at her quizzically.

  "What was that? Sounded like the Terminator theme."

  "Got it in one," Amanda said.

  The door opened, and Shakey stared at them as the light from his kitchen made them blink.

  "Are you drunk?" he demanded.

  "Not even a little," Amanda said.

  "Come on in, then." He held the door open for them, and Robyn followed Amanda inside. The kitchen smelled like cinnamon and apples, a mouth-watering scent that had her drooling in seconds. Shakey closed the door behind them and gestured at his gun rack. Robyn placed her rifle and sidearm on the rack, watched Amanda do the same, then followed Shakey into his home. Feynman was curled up beside the stove and looked up at them sleepily, yawned, and put her head back down.

  "Want some tea?" Shakey asked. "I made a batch of apple-cinnamon."

  "Please," Robyn said. Amanda nodded as well. Robyn helped, bringing cups to the table as they were prepared.

  The front of the house was Shakey's Guns and Ammo, his livelihood in Mission. Pistols and shotguns and rifles were on display all over the room. Homemade wooden stands held a few crossbows. A shelf on one side ran the length of the room, and was full of ammunition of various kinds. His reloading bench was empty now, clean and organised. The room was lit by an electric lamp.

  The rest of the house was just that, Shakey's house. His bedroom and kitchen, bathroom and study.

  "So what can I do for you ladies? And aren't you supposed to be on a salvage run?"

  "Ah, yeah," Robyn said, "we got a little side tracked."

  "My fault," Amanda admitted. "I had a brilliant plan, and she was lured into it."

  "Go on, please," Shakey said.

  "Well, we'd like your help, if you're willing to listen to our idea," Robyn said.

  "I'll do it. Whatever it is. Just tell me what you need."

  Robyn was astonished that he would agree so quickly to help with an unknown plan, without hesitation. It must have shown on her face, because Shakey laughed quietly.

  "I'm pretty sure I know what you want, Robyn. You've found some lead on the killer or on Jillian's whereabouts, and want someone else to help you look into it. Am I right?"

  He laughed again at the incredulous expressions that both Robyn and Amanda wore.

  "But-but we—" Amanda said.

  "How did you—" Robyn started, at the same time.

  "It's not my first time at bat, you know," he said sagely.

  "Fine," Amanda said, "we accept your offer of help. Thank you. If we survive I'll make you dinner for a week."

  "You're
right, we have a lead,” Robyn said. “We talked to the Gun Runners earlier today, Jeremy Mahan's group?" At Shakey's nod Robyn went on. "One of his people was able to tell us something we think might be a good lead." She told him about the white truck parked on a logging road, and how it hadn't been there the next time the Gun Runners went through.

  "The part about it being a white truck made us think it might be a Council vehicle," Robyn concluded.

  "And you have some idea where to look?"

  Amanda unfolded the map they had brought from Robyn's house, laying it on the table.

  "This area here,” Robyn pointed, “has a number of logging and forestry roads. There really isn't any reason for salvagers to be out there."

  "It would be an ideal place to get up to no good," Amanda added.

  "There's a lot of roads there," Shakey observed, "and hundreds of square miles of countryside. Lots of dangerous country and potential for something to go wrong."

  "And that's why we want your help. Safety in numbers. An extra set of eyes and hands."

  "If you can drag yourself away from your shop for a couple days," Amanda said, grinning.

  Feynman chose this moment to poke her nose into Robyn's arm, making her jump. The dog then went to Shakey, who scratched her ears. The old man sipped at his tea.

  "I think I can get away. A change of scenery would be nice, and Feynman here would love a run in the woods, wouldn't you, girl?"

  "We were thinking of getting some of Jillian's clothes, if Feynman can scent track," Amanda said.

  Shakey shook his head. "Never taught her to do that. Still, she'll be a good early warning if any of the undead come near us."

  "That's alright," Robyn said, holding her hand out to the black animal, "I'm sure she's a very good guard dog."

  Feynman sniffed at Robyn's hand, then thrust her head onto the woman's lap. Robyn scratched between the dog's ears, and Feynman released a sigh of contentment.

  "Opportunist," Shakey said to the dog. Then to the women, "One condition. Tell the Sheriff about this."

  "We planned to, after we'd spoken to you,” Robyn said. “We'll go to see him as soon as we're done here."

  "I'm not sure what they can do to help, though," Amanda groused. "They pretty much only operate inside the Safe Zone."

  "It's a piece of the larger puzzle,” Shakey said. “Maybe it'll fit somewhere that we don't know about."

  "Maybe," Robyn agreed. She continued to rub between Feynman's ears, and the dog closed her eyes in bliss.

  CHAPTER THIRTY ONE

  Mission Safe Zone, September 11, 2013

  Deputy Carrie McAunaul swore colourfully when she spilled a full glass of cold water all over her desk. Desperately she pulled sodden papers out of the pile, then gasped when the flood reached the edge of the desk and poured onto her lap. Her swearing redoubled.

  "Fucking shit-ass motherfucking god-damned spit-licking hell-bastard," she choked out, climbing out of her chair and reaching for a nearby cloth towel. She ignored the cold wetness on her legs, instead pressing the towel down onto the pile of notes, hoping to minimize the damage.

  "Aw, man," she said in quieter tones, now that her temper had flared and faded. She continued blotting at the pages, then setting them apart to hopefully dry off. She was working late and there was nobody else in the office, so she was spared the embarrassment of her coworkers seeing what had happened. There were two other deputies up at the main desk of the Sheriff's office, down the hall and out by the street entrance. They were there in case any citizens of the Safe Zone came in with concerns.

  Carrie grabbed another towel and dropped the first one, trying to mop up the mess. It was too late though; her notes were ruined, as were the yet-to-be-filed reports on her desk, and her half-eaten ham sandwich, her unfinished dinner.

  "Fuck! Fuckity bloody hell fuck!" she said venomously. She liked ham. Now, though, it was all soggy and disgusting. With irritation she swept the sandwich and all of the ruined papers into a trash bin. She wiped down her wet desk, making a clean spot amid the debris. Taking this disaster as a sign that it was time for a break she dropped the towel over her chair and grabbed her coat. Pulling on the leather jacket with 'Mission Sheriff's Office' embroidered on the back and front made her feel calmer, and slipping the strap of her Mossberg shotgun over her shoulder made her feel even better. Her handmade leather bandolier was already around her hips.

  "Where's my hat?" she asked the empty room. She found it hanging on the hat rack. She didn't remember putting it there, and eyed it suspiciously. She stalked from the office along the hallway to the front, anticipating a few more hours of rewriting her report, and considered her day so far.

  It had started quite badly, up right at dawn to go to the Essential Supplies warehouse, where there were bodies on the ground, including Mannjinder's. Then, a long day of running around the town checking the list of almost all sixteen Council vehicles, inherited from the vehicle fleet of a construction company that had existed before 2004, and the dozen or so civilian cars and trucks. Talking to the operators of the various vehicles had taken a long time, but had eliminated many potential suspects right away.

  It had been a huge hassle, she felt, except for one thing. The Essential Supplies truck wasn't to be found. Throughout the day, as they moved from place to place, the ES truck continued to elude them. It was like it had disappeared. It wasn't at the warehouse, the hospital, or any of the other drop points for supplies inside the Wall. It hadn't been parked in front of or behind Alexander Corrone's house. Carrie had learned when she returned to the office that the man himself hadn't been seen all day. In fact, the hospital had reported never receiving a load of supplies from ES last night. Corrone was supposed to deliver them. This would have moved him up in her list of possible suspects, if there had been any other people on the list at all. The Sheriff had reminded his deputies again that this was all circumstance, and didn't mean Corrone was guilty, but the Sheriff really wanted to talk to him.

  All the deputies and all the Guard were on the lookout for Corrone. If he was spotted, the instructions were to call for backup and the Sheriff, but not to attempt to apprehend him unless he tried to flee. Carrie considered that Corrone was probably armed and quite dangerous, and had privately decided that if he appeared in front of her she would probably shoot first and ask questions later. No matter what the Sheriff said, it had probably been that fucker who had killed her friend, and she wanted justice.

  Tomorrow were the memorial services for Mannjinder and the ES workers who had been killed. Mann's service was at dawn, and Carrie intended to be there. He had been cremated, and his ashes would be poured into the Fraser River from the bridge. The others would follow. It would take all morning. The 'warehouse slaughter', as people were calling it, was the largest loss of life in a single night that Mission had seen in over two years. Word had gotten around remarkably fast, until it seemed the people of the town knew more than she did about what had transpired.

  All she cared about was that Mannjinder had been her first friend in the Sheriff's office, and that his killer be caught. When she had joined the department seven years before, she had been a civilian with no law enforcement experience. Mannjinder had taken her under his wing and trained her, and she was grateful to him for seeing her potential.

  She stopped at the front counter, where the two deputies, a lanky and bearded man named Parker, and Jane, a red-haired woman from Newfoundland, were playing cards. Parker looked up from his hand as Carrie walked up.

  "Heading home?" he asked.

  "Nah," Carrie said, "just outside for a break. I need some air."

  "What was all that blessed cussing about back there?" Jane asked her. Her eyes never left her cards.

  "I spilled a glass of water on my notes. I'd just about finished my checklist of the vehicles, and I ruined it. I took that as a sign."

  "Heh. Yeah, that'd be a good sign. Need a new copy of the list?" Parker asked, tossing a card onto a pile between himself and Jane. H
e drew another from the deck.

  "Do you have one?"

  "Yeah, I think it's on the shelf behind Deputy O' the Rock here," he said, and Jane flipped him the finger.

  Carrie stepped behind the counter and looked at the shelves. They were very dusty, lined with paper forms and typed lists. She saw what she was looking for, and pulled out a dust-covered sheet of yellowed paper. She blew on it, and a cloud of choking dust swirled up and floated around the room.

  "Christ! You guys never clean?"

  "Only when the Sheriff asks us," Jane said.

  "And that's the last copy of the vehicle list we have."

  Carrie looked at the top of the page. "It's from two thousand and six!" she cried.

  "So? Still the same vehicles," Parker said.

  "Oh. Fine. I'm going outside." Carrie folded the sheet and put it in her pocket, then left out the front door, walking away onto the dark street. Once away from the light of the building she stopped and looked at the sky. Sadly, it was overcast, and felt like more rain. It was so dark! She had never quite gotten used to it, the absolute blackness of a cloudy night, now that the city lights were mostly gone. Mission kept only a few streetlights running to conserve power, and the Council allowed each household one or two small electrical devices, such as a light or a toaster. Some people had several devices, but only used them one at a time. A single streetlight illuminated the road outside the office, but it was fifty meters away and on the other side of the street. The office itself had a light above the door, but it didn't spread illumination very far. Carrie breathed deeply of the fresh air, leaned against the front of a closed up store a few doors down from the office, and tried to relax.