Rise (Book 3): Dead Inside

by Gareth Wood

  "Lots of daylight left."

  The return trip to the highway passed smoothly, with only a few hair raising moments on the cliff side. Shakey brought the truck down to the main road without trouble, and without seeing any of the dead. They turned east and drove along the silent pavement, startling birds and the occasional squirrel.

  "Turn here," Robyn told Shakey when they reached the access road. He slowed and turned. This one was paved, with fading paint between two lanes, but he didn't know how long that would last. It ran straight up to a gate, old and rusted, that was closed across the entrance a hundred meters back from the highway. Amanda got out to approach the gate. Shakey watched her push it open, hearing a quiet creaking of rusty hinges through the open passenger door. He drove the truck past the gate and stopped again.

  "That's not right," Robyn said, and started to climb out.

  "What's wrong?"

  "It shouldn't be that quiet." She pulled her handgun out and chambered a round. "Rust should have seized the gate years ago, but Amanda moved it easily. Let's take a look."

  Shakey shrugged, parked the truck, and got out. Feynman whined at him from her travel cage, and he reached a finger into the bars and scratched her nose.

  "Not just yet, girl," he told his dog.

  When he went to look at the gate he saw that Robyn was correct. She had to point out to him that there were oil stains on the thick metal post. His vision wasn't what it once was, but once she showed him where they were he could see them easily.

  He looked around, a feeling of being watched growing between his shoulders. There was nothing.

  "You think this is our boy?"

  "Maybe," Amanda said. She was looking around as well, keeping a few feet between herself and Shakey and Robyn.

  "So someone oiled the gate hinges just enough to keep them from seizing up? And incidentally to keep the noise down so that the dead won't hear it and come looking for lunch?"

  Amanda shrugged. "Sounds about right."

  "Let's go," Robyn said, climbing back into the cab.

  The pavement ended a stone's throw after the gate. The gravel was soon rumbling under the tires as they drove forward, following a long and winding path. There were high trees on all sides, but rather than climb the mountain this road stayed in the valley, just above a small river. Then it turned sharply and began to climb, the surface littered with fallen branches and years’ worth of leaves.

  "This road is in good shape," Shakey said, almost as if to himself.

  They came out of the trees moments later, along a part of the road that had a view to the south, on Amanda's side. Looking down, Shakey saw that they had indeed climbed above the highway. A small cluster of houses was visible near the highway a few kilometers away.

  "Nice view," said Robyn, stretching up to see over the hood. She settled back when the trees resumed moments later, and the road turned north and started to climb again. Another long and straight stretch, climbing slightly, rose before them.

  "Stop a second," Amanda said, and Shakey slowed to a halt. He shifted into neutral and waited while Amanda stepped out and backtracked a little way, gun in hand. He watched as she bent to inspect something at the side of the road. She rose and waved at them to come. Shakey checked his handgun before stepping out of the vehicle, and paused to look around when he did. It was quiet, and the air was fresh. Birds sung nearby. Reassured that there were probably none of the undead nearby, he joined the two women. Both had drawn weapons, and looked around every few seconds.

  "What is it?"

  "Tire tracks," Amanda said, pointing with her gun barrel. In the soft earth of the road, where gravel had washed away, was a still-wet tire track. "It's been raining on and off for a few days. This hasn't had time to dry or wear away. Someone's been up here in the last couple of days."

  All three turned to look ahead up the road as it ascended away from them into the gloomy trees. Shakey felt a chill sweep over him when he realised they might be nearer to the goal that he had thought possible.

  "I think it's our boy," Amanda said, grinning.

  "You think he's actually up here?"

  "Doubt it," she said. "But you never know. Let's not assume anything."

  "Let's talk about this for a moment," Robyn said. "What do we do if we find a truck up here?"

  Shakey thought that was a good question. He'd had the notion of investigating, seeing if there was any evidence that would tell them who the suspected killer might be. "If there is any evidence of a crime, then returning it to the Sheriff should be our first priority," he said.

  "And if the killer is there? If we run into him out here?"

  Amanda answered, "We kill the fucker! It's simple. There's three of us, one of him."

  "Shouldn't we bring him in? Take him alive and bring him back to the Safe Zone for a trial?"

  "Fuck, no!" Amanda stared at Robyn in surprise. "Are you serious? Tell me you aren't serious, Robyn, sweetie. If the son of a bitch who killed those women is out here and we run into him, you can guarantee he'll try to kill us to protect himself."

  "He might," Robyn admitted, "but what if we can get the drop on him, what then? Do we just go on and execute him? Kill him in cold blood? If he's trying to kill me, sure, I'll defend myself. But I don't know that I could just kill someone."

  Amanda started to reply, then stopped. Shakey watched her shut her mouth with a click and obviously thought about what she was going to say next. Amanda, for all her fire, was realising things about Robyn that she hadn't known. And Robyn was largely new to both of them. Shakey had met Amanda years before, and gotten to know her fairly well. Robyn, despite living in the Safe Zone almost as long as Shakey, hadn't been someone he had known until very recently.

  "Don't misunderstand," Robyn said, "I've killed before. Put down friends who were bit before they could turn, or afterwards. I guess what I'm trying to say is if we meet anyone out here, we'd better be sure of who they are before we go in with guns blazing."

  "I can respect that," Amanda said. "I get it, but I want you to think about this. Anyone who comes up here looking for a truck that they've hidden this far off the road, probably has a damn good reason for hiding it. With the 'alleged' serial killer, the death of that deputy, and those people at ES getting killed, this guy has a lot of blood on his hands."

  "Can we at least agree that if he surrenders we'll take him in alive?"

  Amanda looked at Shakey. He shrugged. "Sure," she said, "if he surrenders."

  CHAPTER THIRTY SIX

  Outside the Wall, September 12, 2013

  The Essential Supplies truck rumbled to a grinding halt at the side of the highway, within sight of the turnoff to where Alexander had hidden the second vehicle. Inside the cab, he flexed his stiff left arm, wincing at the pain from the bullet wound. The arm had stiffened during the drive, making it increasingly hard to control the truck. Or possibly that was because the truck was badly damaged and ready to die. It had lurched to the right a number of times, the movement accompanied by grinding noises and a distinct smell of burning plastic. Now the engine had simply died, coasting to a halt on the shoulder, and Alexander suspected no amount of coaxing was going to get it started again.

  He’d have to walk from here, and was mildly irritated at the inconvenience. At least it wasn't too far.

  The rain had stopped, thankfully, but it looked like it could start again at any time. Climbing from the cab he tugged his coat on over his good arm, and wrapped it around his bad shoulder, wincing at the pain. He awkwardly zipped it partway up, then reached back in for his revolver and bag of supplies. Hauling the pack over his head and securing it was torture, but he needed a free hand for his gun.

  It was mid-afternoon now, and it would take at least an hour from here to walk to the other truck. The shoulder wound had stopped bleeding, and now throbbed with every step he took. He was fairly certain the bullet had missed the bones, passing cleanly through the shoulder meat without severing any arteries or major veins. The scrapes on
his face stung like burns, though, and his split lip had swelled up, tender to the touch and making him look ridiculous in the rear view mirror. The graze on his ear felt like a bee had stung him.

  Apparently no one had followed him. He had checked behind every few minutes, but there had been no sign of any pursuit. Perhaps no Guards or citizens of the Safe Zone had access to a vehicle. They'd be on his trail eventually, he was sure. It was the easiest way for him to have fled, and the barricade he'd driven through had been staffed by people who would have known who he was. If the Sheriff hadn't died of his injuries, perhaps he'd be in charge of the posse that rode out to lynch Alexander. The thought almost made him laugh bitterly. It had occurred to Alexander that the Sheriff had probably been wearing a bullet-proof vest under his jacket. The .38 calibre bullets hadn't pierced it, but had probably broken ribs or given Sheriff Reilly severe bruising. He wished he'd had his Glock .45 ACP then, rather than the smaller calibre revolver, but he had left it in the ES truck that was parked up the mountain road.

  "I should have shot you in the head," he muttered, but there was nothing to do about it now.

  Instead, the Sheriff had shot Alexander, and now he was here in the wasteland, in country ruled by the living dead, without a vehicle and badly hurt. If it took too long to reach the other ES truck, he knew he'd be lucky to survive. Night was not a time to be outside the protection of the Wall, or a safe house. Alexander was under no illusions about his personal safety. The undead would feast on his own superior flesh just as happily as they would any of the sheep in the Safe Zone. Being better suited mentally to survive this harsh reality was no guarantee. He would have to be as cautious as possible. He would have to dismiss the pain of his injuries, ignore it utterly.

  This proved to be harder than he’d hoped. With every movement the shoulder throbbed, and he was gritting his teeth before he'd taken a hundred steps. In another hundred the weight of the pack was digging in so badly that tears ran from his eyes. Alexander stopped and shrugged the pack off. Without it pressing into his shoulders the pain diminished, but he couldn't leave it behind. It held his spare pistol, food and water, medical supplies, and extra ammunition.

  It was an anchor weighing him down, though. He could eat the food and drink the water. He had more bandages and pills in the second truck. The extra gun and ammunition were the only thing he had to keep, and they would fit in his pockets. Minutes later the bag was left behind. He had eaten and drunk, swallowed some painkillers and antibiotics, and stuffed his pockets with three extra clips for his Glock, tucking the revolver into his pants. Without the strap of the pack digging in he was able to make better time, the shoulder throbbing still, but nowhere near as much as before.

  Very soon he walked off the main highway and onto a forestry road, his boots crunching on gravel and branches and leaves. Several hundred meters along the road was another branch to the left, almost invisible where undergrowth had covered the dirt, and he turned up that. Half an hour later, with nothing to hear but the noises of birds and small forest animals, he arrived at the clearing where he had left the Essential Supplies truck. The rotting bodies of two zombies were where he had left them, lying in the hollow next to a boulder, mere meters from the bicycle that Deputy Hothi had been riding.

  Feeling under the passenger wheel well, he retrieved the key he had stuck there with a magnet, and unlocked the cab. A quick check of the cargo showed it was undisturbed. Climbing in, he started the engine and turned on the heaters. The air had cooled a lot in the last half hour, and the rain had started to fall again. Alexander very briefly considered sleeping here for the night and moving on in the morning, but thought better of it. If any pursuit was organised it would be better to keep ahead of them.

  Once he was warm again he opened the glove box and pulled out his maps. They clearly showed the best way to the south, across the unmanned border to the old United States, and then on to Seattle. He'd have to go east from here, following Highway 7 out to Agassiz, and then doubling back along the Trans-Canada to Abbotsford, and turning south there before reaching the airport. It meant he'd have to drive through Chilliwack, but he believed it was possible to do if he didn't stop for anything. Even if there were undead on the road, this truck was big enough to push them aside. Unless it was a horde. Nothing could get through a full horde. But the odds of there being a concentrated full horde on the highway were almost non-existent. No one had been foolish enough to go through Chilliwack in years, so any large groups of the undead should have dispersed by now.

  He sipped from his water bottle again, swallowed some more painkillers, and checked his shoulder bandage in the mirror. The wound was oozing blood again, and ached deeply. Alexander grimaced to look at it. Other peoples’ blood was fine, but he couldn't stomach the sight of his own. It was strange, he knew, but he didn't question it. It was simply how things were.

  He put the truck in drive and started down the hill, knowing that one way or another, he would never see Mission again. His anger grew as he thought about the work he had done, all the careful planning and collection, now wasted. His hope to rise to the seat of Councilor for Essential Supplies was gone, and he had to blame Deputy Hothi and the Sheriff. It was their fault that he'd been discovered, their fault that his trophies had been found. And now he had lost nearly everything. His shoulder pain flared again, and his good hand clenched the steering wheel, twisting it until his knuckles were white.

  I have to think of this as an opportunity, he thought. Mission clearly wasn't the right place. It was too small, and too few people to properly blend into. Seattle would be better. There were twice as many people, and more teams bringing supplies in. More supplies meant far more opportunity for material benefit. The Seattle Safe Zone would be properly grateful to have him, of that he was certain. And then his work could begin again.

  He turned east onto Highway 7, accelerating away from the Mission Safe Zone and its failures.

  CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN

  Outside the Wall, September 12, 2013

  Amanda

  "Wait, stop the truck!"

  Robyn clutched at the dash and leaned forward, straining her seat belt.

  "Shakey, stop!" she cried again. We were on the way back down, had come to the break in the trees where there was a view of the valley all the way down to the highway. Robyn scrambled in her bag as the truck braked to a halt, pulling out her binoculars. She lifted them to her eyes and looked down the valley.

  "There!" She pointed. "At the intersection!" I took a look down and sure enough, there was a moving white dot down near the intersection of Highway 7 and the forestry road we were currently on. Robyn handed me the binoculars, so I took a look. It was a white truck, for sure, turning east onto the highway. It looked like it was carrying a heavy load of cargo in the bed, all covered in a blue tarp. I couldn't see the driver, but I was fairly sure I knew who it was. It was our local serial killer. My pulse quickened, and I felt a surge of adrenaline, knowing if I had the fucker in my sights I'd shoot him.

  "Shakey?" I offered the binoculars.

  "Nah," he said, "I'll take your word for it. My eyes aren't up to it even with those things."

  "How did we miss him?"

  "There are lots of branches to these roads," Robyn replied to me, "probably not that easy to see."

  Shakey accelerated. We lost sight of the other vehicle when we moved into the forest again, and there was a real sense of urgency as we sped down the trail. It had started raining again, very lightly. The wet leaves and needles of the trees were shiny in the diffuse light. It made me yearn for some Maiden. Maiden was the kind of thing I listened to in cold, wet weather. That is its season. The stuff Shakey was playing on his truck stereo, Dark Side of the Moon, I think, was alright, but it lacked the energy that I wanted right now. My fingers started tapping out the intro to Number of the Beast.

  "It's going to take us some time to get to the highway," Shakey told us, concentrating on his driving. "Would one of you call the Sheriff's office? The
y should know about this."

  I reached for the CB handset, changing the channel to the one the Mission Sheriff's Office used.

  "Mission, this is salvager Amanda Martin, come in. Over."

  The response was immediate. The voice sounded stressed, even over the radio handset.

  "Salvager Martin, this is Deputy Moreno. What do you need? Over."

  "Ask for the Sheriff," Shakey suggested.

  "Is the Sheriff available, Deputy? We have some information on a truck that might be connected to a possible serial killer. Over."

  "I take it you haven't heard the news yet, Martin. Over."

  "What news? Over." I looked at Robyn and Shakey, saw my own confusion mirrored in their faces.

  "Sheriff Reilly was shot twice in the back. He's alive, but two other deputies were murdered. The killer is Alexander Corrone, the day shift boss at Essential Supplies. He's also the killer of at least five Safe Zone women. The sick fucker had them all chained up and re-animated in his basement. Over."

  I felt all the blood drain from my face.

  "Jesus Christ," Shakey muttered. Robyn put her hands to her mouth in mute horror, started shaking her head.

  The radio squawked again. "Be advised, if you see him, Corrone is injured but armed and extremely dangerous. He fled the Safe Zone in a damaged white Essential Supplies truck, whereabouts unknown. Over."

  I stared at the CB in my hand. Two more deputies dead, and all five missing women were zombies. Dammit. I couldn't even imagine the cost in lives that this man had accumulated. Not just his victims, but the families and friends as well. Corrone had to be stopped.

  Are you up to the task, Amanda? Oh, hell yes!

  "Mission, we think we saw him. We saw a white truck eastbound on Highway Seven. We are currently on a forestry road fifteen kilometers east of Mission, but we'll be back to the highway in…" I looked over at Shakey.