Rise (Book 3): Dead Inside

by Gareth Wood

  It was peaceful outside, but cool. As her eyes adjusted she noticed that she could just make out her breath in the air. A few figures moved along the street, some carrying flashlights. Carrie pulled her own small light out of her pocket. The people moved in small groups and spoke clearly whenever they came close to each other. Identifying yourself quickly to others was a good way to stay alive.

  Carrie spent the next several minutes just standing there, watching her breath and listening to the people. One small group approached her, and she flicked on the flashlight so that they would see her.

  "Excuse us, Deputy," a man said, "but could you help us?"

  Instantly she was all business. "What's the problem?"

  There were three of them, an old man and two women. The old guy looked like a hippie, with a long beard and a fringed denim jacket. A large black dog walked at his side, almost unnoticed in the night. The man and dog were Shakey and Feynman, she realised. Everyone in Mission knew who they were. In the light of the flashlights both she and the group held, she could see that one of the women, a redhead of about 35, was burned, with old scars on her face. The scars missed her eyes and ears, but her cheek was a bit malformed. She looked a bit familiar, and Carrie thought she might be a salvager. It was something about how she carried herself.

  The other person was someone Carrie had seen around a lot, definitely a salvager, a dark-haired woman named Robyn. They weren't friends, only knowing each other through other people. It was Robyn that spoke, and her words surprised Carrie.

  "We need to speak to the Sheriff. We might have information about Jillian Sinclair."

  "Like what?"

  "Like where she might be. We found a lead."

  "Can you tell me what the lead is?" Carrie asked.

  "The Gun Runners. One of them saw a white truck, parked up a forestry road outside the Wall."

  "So? Lots of abandoned trucks out there."

  "We know, believe me. But on the next trip out it wasn't there."

  "Who saw it?"

  "One of the Gun Runners, a lady named Yvonne," Robyn said.

  "None of you saw the truck?"

  "Uh, no. But—"

  "Then it's just hearsay. I can pass it on to the Sheriff, but he'll want to talk to Yvonne before he looks into it seriously."

  Shakey stepped forward. "Maybe we should talk to the Sheriff ourselves. Is he in?"

  "No, he isn't, but I can tell you where he is. At the hospital. He's overseeing the cremation of all the ES workers who died this morning."

  "What are you talking about?" the red-haired woman asked. "What happened?"

  "Someone killed a deputy last night," Carrie said bitterly. "Deputy Hothi was killed out by the warehouse sometime last night. He came back, found his way to the warehouse while the night shift was working."

  "Oh no!" said Robyn.

  "How many dead?" Shakey asked.

  "Nine. There was one survivor, but one of his own people shot him in the confusion." Carrie tilted her head a little, looking from face to face. "You really hadn't heard about this?"

  "I was working inside my shop all day," Shakey replied, "and the ladies here only came back in from a run this evening."

  Carrie nodded. That made sense. The incident was the talk of the town, since rumours had spread all day. But if the two salvagers had been outside the Wall, they wouldn't have heard anything.

  "Why don't you three come with me to the Sheriff's office right now? I'll take down your statement, this lead, and pass it on to the Sheriff."

  The four of them walked to the office, Feynman padding along. Carrie escorted them back to her desk and pulled chairs over for them to sit on. She found a blank Incident Report in the pile on her desk and started filling it in, then turned to the trio.

  "Okay," she said, "who wants to start?"

  CHAPTER THIRTY TWO

  Outside the Wall, September 12

  Sheriff Jim Reilly stood in the crowd on the bridge deck as rain poured down from a leaden sky. The funeral service for Mannjinder Hothi was well attended; every deputy available had come in full uniform, as well as dozens of civilians, his many friends, his brother and sister-in-law, his on again, off again girlfriend Sabrina, nearly two dozen salvagers, and all of the surviving Essential Supplies workers except for the wounded man and Alexander Corrone, who was still missing. The Mayor had also come, along with two of the Councilors, plus small entourages.

  Reilly had known that Hothi was popular and well-liked, but this turnout was staggering. Dozens of umbrellas dotted the crowd, many of them locally made leather or canvas models. Reilly himself stood in his old RCMP dress uniform. In his heart he still considered himself a member of the Mounted Police.

  The deputies all stood at attention behind him, watching as the ashes were poured into the river. All the eulogies and speeches had been made, a brief prayer was held, and a moment of silence was observed. Throughout it all, Reilly grew more and more angry, a cold fury that opened inside him like a wellspring. Earlier in the morning Deputy McAunaul had come to him with two pieces of paper. They were both official lists of the vehicles assigned to the Council Offices. One of them listed sixteen trucks divided between the offices, with one assigned to Essential Supplies. It was the list she said she had spilled a glass of water on while working late. Beside each vehicle were small, precise handwritten notes of her observations. The only one missing was from ES, still unaccounted for. The other list was older, from back when the offices were still being set up. It showed seventeen trucks, two of which were assigned to Essential Supplies. Reilly couldn't remember ever having seen a second truck with ES markings on it.

  That alone, however, wasn't evidence of murder. It was more than enough for Reilly to be deeply suspicious, however. Added to the fact that Corrone had vanished, and that the one ES truck that Reilly knew of was also missing, made the day shift boss a strong suspect. What had Mann said? 'I get the feeling there's something off about that guy.' Deputy McAunaul had also told him about her visit from Shakey and the two salvagers. The report was interesting, and made him want to go out looking at logging roads. The trouble was there were hundreds of kilometers of them all over the mountains east of the Safe Zone, and his office just didn't have the manpower to go looking at all of them.

  Right after the funeral he planned to put two courses of action into effect. First he was sending someone to ask the Gun Runners to come back in early. He needed to speak to Yvonne urgently. Next, he planned to take three deputies and search Alexander Corrone's house. The thing about living after the fall of society and the collapse of its laws was that all he needed was strong suspicion to search a residence. The Council had agreed on that early on. No more search warrants, just probable cause or strong suspicion. Reilly had tried very hard not to abuse the powers granted him by the Council, and so far he felt he'd done a good job. If Corrone was home then Reilly would arrest him and search the place. If he wasn't home, Reilly would search anyway.

  All of the Safe Zone deputies and Guards were on the lookout for both Corrone and the ES truck. With any luck the man would show himself and be caught, if he hadn't already fled somewhere else. The possibility that Corrone had fled worried Reilly. He really wanted to ask the man some serious questions about the missing women, Hothi's death, and why there were two trucks listed for Essential Supplies when only one had been seen in the Safe Zone.

  The funeral ended. The Mayor and two Councilors left with their people, but they would be back later for the funerals of the warehouse workers. Reilly would send one or two deputies to attend as a sign of respect, but most of his people would be very busy later in the day. He turned to his staff and waved over Deputy McAunaul.

  "Carrie, get two more deputies and head back to the station. I'll meet you there. Get suited up for a raid."

  "Right, boss," she said, and left to carry out his orders.

  "Alright, people," Reilly addressed the remaining deputies, "it's time to get back to work. You know what to look for. Just rem
ember, if anyone sees Alexander Corrone, get backup before attempting to apprehend him. He's to be considered armed and dangerous. Don't go anywhere without your partner. That's all for now."

  The deputies dispersed. Reilly turned his face up, letting the rain wash over him. He gradually became aware that someone was standing nearby, waiting. It was Mann's brother, Surinder Hothi, and his wife Gurpreet.

  "Thank you for your kind words about my brother, Sheriff," Surinder said. He held out a hand, and Reilly shook it.

  "It was a tragedy, what happened. He was a good friend, and I give you my word we're doing all we can to find his killer."

  The Sheriff had been one of three people to speak this morning, telling the crowd of Hothi's career in the RCMP, his dedication to the people of the Safe Zone, and how good a friend he was.

  "So, it's true that my brother was murdered?"

  "It is. I'm very sorry." There had been a time, almost a decade gone now, when he wouldn't have been so free answering that question. But the world had changed, and a lot of things were actually simpler in a world where the dead would not stay dead.

  Reilly could see the tension written on Surinder's face. It was in his hands, his posture. His shoulders were tight and his back too straight.

  He's barely holding on, Reilly thought.

  "Every member of the Sheriff's office is on this case, Mr. Hothi," he assured the other man. He made sure he was looking Surinder in the eye as he said, "We have a very good idea who is responsible, and when we catch him justice will be served." He started to see some of the tension ease.

  "Thank you, Sheriff," Surinder said. His wife took him by the elbow, nodded to the Sheriff politely, and led her husband back toward Mission.

  Reilly walked back to the end of the bridge afterwards, heading for his office, hopeful that in a few days he would have further evidence. Of what, he wasn't really sure, perhaps just another piece of the puzzle.

  It felt good to be doing something, and now he had motion in three directions. And even if it turned out that Corrone had nothing to do with the missing women, which Reilly had to admit was still possible, he still would have bet that it was Corrone that had killed Deputy Hothi.

  Why would he kill him? he wondered for the thousandth time. And again, his thoughts took him to the warehouse. It had been there that Hothi had been investigating. Not at the man's house, but the warehouse. Did Mann find something there?

  Two deputies had searched the warehouse after the slaughter, but Reilly hadn't read the report yet. It was in the large pile of papers on his desk, all of them urgent. The Sheriff, feeling something important was waiting for him in that pile, quickened his pace.

  * * *

  A little over twenty-five kilometers to the west from where Sheriff Reilly hurried off the bridge, and a few kilometers north, John Marks led his people through the ruins of the Maple Ridge RCMP building. Marks crew were mostly Haida and other local Native tribe members, though a few Caucasians and Asians rounded out the ranks.

  Marks led the way because he had the most experience at urban combat. He'd spent time in the military, as part of the ground teams to go into Afghanistan after the September 11th attacks with the Canadian Airborne Regiment. In Afghanistan he'd seen things that still haunted him, but none of it had prepared him for the horror of seeing the dead trying to eat his own family. No longer a soldier, Marks had found this new world simpler to understand. The dead had no politics to try to fathom, and the people left alive were far more willing to cooperate with each other than they ever had been before. It was a tragedy, he believed, that it had taken a disaster of such scope to bring people together.

  Ahead was the main file room, where all the papers were kept. Flashlights shone on the walls and floors, littered with debris and sprayed with old gore. This station, like so many others in the Lower Mainland, had been the focus of intense fighting. Panicked and injured people had flocked to hospitals, fire stations, clinics and police stations by the hundreds or thousands, seeking protection. Often they had brought the contagion with them, or led the undead to the crowds of easy prey. Here, RCMP officers had desperately tried to protect as many as they could before they ran out of ammunition and were overwhelmed. They had not gone down easily. Bodies lay everywhere inside and outside the station, but those outside had long ago skeletonised. The corpses inside were not much more intact, having lain in the dark and filthy halls and rooms for years. The corpses of police were identifiable by their uniforms, scattered among the bodies of men, women and children.

  The stench had proved too much for many of the men and women in Marks’ crew, so he'd left them to secure the outside and look over the RCMP cruisers and transport van that were still in the garage, to see if there was anything salvageable there. His people inside all wore half-masks with particulate filters, which cut most of the reek of decay out. They also made speech nearly incomprehensible, so the team relied on hand gestures to communicate.

  Something moved ahead of him in the darkness, a hesitant shuffling. Marks stopped and held up a hand, and every member of his team behind him became still. Pointing ahead of himself with a hunting crossbow, an ironically named PSE Reaper, Marks gestured again. All the flashlights shone down the hallway, and illuminated the animated corpse of an old woman, just pushing herself up from where she had been sitting against a wall. Marks sighed and aimed, waiting for her to step toward him. His finger squeezed the trigger, and the crossbow bolt flew forward at over three hundred feet per second. The bolt struck the undead high on the forehead with a resounding crack, burying itself deep inside the skull. The corpse dropped without a sound, raising only dust. He quickly reloaded.

  Another gesture, forward. The eight-strong team advanced, stopping at each door they passed, killing whatever undead they found. Finally, the end of the hall led to the main file room, a large office where computers and filing cabinets competed for space. At the entrance the team stopped and looked. There were more corpses on the floor, mostly police, and to Marks they looked wrong. They were too intact. They hadn't been reduced to skeletons like so many of the other bodies. He started back out of the room just as the first of them moved, the long dormant zombies aroused by the presence of light and warm flesh. His people backed down the hall while eleven of the undead rose and lumbered forward.

  His people knew what to do. Each of them carried either a hunting crossbow or a silenced handgun. They used the narrow hallway to their advantage, retreating back past debris and obstacles, so that the undead could only come at them one at a time. They stopped where a coffee machine filled half the hallway, narrowing it to half its usual width. Marks killed the first one to come through the gap, then placed his crossbow on the ground and pulled a mallet off his belt. Others in his group were firing now, the twang of crossbows and the soft cough of silenced pistols. Marks watched the undead fall. Each person shot once then switched to a close-combat weapon— a machete, hammer or a large knife. The remaining three zombies were felled by blows to the head, leaving a pile of bodies blocking the choke point. His well-trained crew suffered no casualties.

  Clear this away, Marks gestured silently. Bodies were pulled aside and dropped along the side walls. The team advanced to the file room again, watching for any stragglers.

  The file room was now empty. At each desk was an old computer, long dead and useless. The filing cabinets were of more interest, but Marks stopped short of opening them just yet. Instead, he selected five of his team, wrote "FIND THE ARMORY" on a bit of paper and held it up for them to see. They rushed out to search the rest of the building while Marks and his remaining two people began opening the filing cabinets, the squealing of wheels on long-rusted tracks setting their teeth on edge.

  Pulling out a random folder, he opened it. Inside was a header sheet listing a case number, the number of pages of notes, evidence forms, witness statements, and the names of the investigating officers. Bingo. But then he looked around. There were easily a dozen of these cabinets in the room, and if eac
h was as full as the one he was standing in front of, there could be several hundred kilograms of paper here. Transporting all of these files was going to be a nightmare. His brain started working out solutions, given that his team had limited room for supplies and salvage. If he took all these files, there would be almost no room for any recovered salvage, and the team had used a fair amount of ammunition getting here, not to mention fuel and food.

  What the hell should he do? The Sheriff would hold to his side of the deal, but if Marks and his crew didn’t bring all of this back, he'd happily screw them.

  He closed his eyes and swore, still trying to work out how this could all be done. Then he remembered the police van parked outside, and had an idea.

  CHAPTER THIRTY THREE

  Mission Safe Zone, September 12, 2013

  Sheriff Jim Reilly, followed by Deputy McAunaul and two others, approached Alexander Corrone's house on the eastern edge of the Safe Zone crouched low and with his gun in his hand. His backup was tucked inside a holster under his arm, loaded and ready. He wore a bulletproof vest and his RCMP tactical gear. The deputies wore the same. They all carried handguns, but Deputy McAunaul had brought her Mossberg shotgun along as well. She and Deputy David Fong each carried a door buster, a rigid metal pipe with welded handles, filled with sand. One good swing could knock most doors right out of their frames.

  Corrone's house had been under watch since yesterday, but no one had approached it. The nearest neighbour was three houses to the west and on the other side of the street. The other houses along the lane were all closed up and empty, lawns grown wild with moss and tall grass. The Wall ended about two blocks away. This was the unfinished side, where the Wall simply stopped without closing off the area. A few of the undead wandered in every year, but the Guards maintained a strong outpost and checkpoint right where the Wall ended, and patrolled often enough to catch the few undead that found a way in. Needless to say, this wasn't a popular area of town to live in, especially for those with families.