by Tes Hilaire
His stone flies straight and fast as an arrow, smacking dead on into the side of the off-kilter rifle. Man versus nature. The stone wins. The rifle is knocked right off its housing and falls with a sad little crunch onto the ground.
“Well, if it was working, it’s not now,” I say, tucking my tongue into my cheek.
John smiles then picks up another rock and hurls it at the next closest rifle. This one takes two tries, but it’s a goner too. Convict asks John to take out two more, just in case, which he does before we strike out for our last bit of the trek across the hard packed desert floor.
I look down.
“Rock.” Rodriguez explains from the other side of Juanita’s stretcher. “The sand just covers the tops and fills in the holes.”
As if I really care. I was only looking down because my legs are aching so bad. Long night, lots of jumping, and now this enforced trek during the day. Yeah, I’m going to be in need of a meal sooner rather than later.
We finally make it to the fence, and then stand there, hands on hips, looking stupid as we stare at the monstrous gate and the heavy duty mechanics that allow it to be opened and closed.
Bolts that drive into the ground, heavy gears. No open sesame is going to get those babies to slide open. I suppose I might be able to rip the industrial-strength chain-link off. Maybe.
As I contemplate my limb’s weak-as-a-newborn-filly feeling, Rodriguez steps forward, drawing a pair of bolt cutters from the pack he’d put together in the helicopter. “Thought these might come in handy,” he says as he makes the first snip.
Bless the man.
He makes a hole big enough for us to squeeze through. I’m the forth one through, after Brian, Rodriguez and John. We wait for the others, and then Rodriguez motions to the door of the cement building beside us which is hanging open in welcome. “So should we go in and say hello?”
For some reason this suggestion sets me on edge, a prickling sensation riding up my spine. So I’m surprised when Convict nods. “There might be a list or something of what’s in what warehouse. And besides, if we’re going to drive out of here, we’re going to want that gate open all the way.”
Good points. There are a lot of warehouses and a way to get out of here would be nice. Still… I look over at John. He’s scowling, staring at the gaping door.
“It’s going to be dark in there,” John points out. “And not everyone has night scopes.”
Ah, the limited pickings of a rag-tag militia.
Convict turns to Roy. “You grabbed those flashlights like I asked, kid?”
Roy nods, sliding his pack off his shoulder. He takes out four flashlights which Convict distributes. One for himself, one for Herbie, and two for Rodriguez who passes one to Blaine. I frown. Yeah, I don’t need one, and Matt and Brian both have night scopes, but what about John, his rifle doesn’t have one? Does this mean Convict isn’t going to send him in as the front sacrificial offering? And then I remember, this place is empty, cleared out at the beginning of the outbreak (storage facility or not, who’d survive out here in the desert?). All we’re doing is looking for information. That and a set of controls, which, come to think of it, unless they have some sort of mechanical override capability, won’t work with the power out. Brilliant.
“Let’s go,” he gestures to John.
John’s hands tense around his rifle, but he steps up to the door. I shift from one foot to the other as he pauses, then pushes it the rest of the way open. Next second he’s stopped again. His arm shooting out to keep Brian and me from stepping in behind him. “Wait.”
Yeah, I’ve always been so good with orders. I try and push past him into the yawning opening to see what the hold-up is, but get jostled as John tries to push us both back.
“Hey,” I start to object, but then stand there, mouth agape.
“Back up. Back up now!” John hisses.
“Why? What’s going on?” Convict squeezes in behind me, flashing his light over my head into the room, revealing what I already know is there. Dark black stains over the walls and floors, skeletal remains picked clean. I can’t believe I didn’t smell it but I guess my pure exhaustion and the dry desert air both had factors in that. That and the lack of flesh. No flesh to hold the bones together means no decay for the olfactory senses to pick up on.
Convict seems rooted in shock. “But this area was cleared out—”
“Before the virus got this far?” I ask. The answer is obvious: Not. Or maybe it was, but then other people took up residence—and died here.
“Holy crap.” Convict loses the sticky feet of shock quicker than lickity-split, his rifle coming up as he backs toward the door. “Everyone out. Now.”
I blink, a bit confused by the order. Yeah, it’s obvious the zombie virus hit here, but it’s just as obvious it was a while ago. And the few poor souls who were probably here when it hit look to be dead in this room.
John doesn’t seem to agree with me and grabs my arm. He shuffles me out in front of him then grabs the door and slams it closed. All it does is bounce on its hinges. The lock mechanics are as dead as the power.
“Roy! Lock down this door,” Convict orders. He’s obviously not thinking straight.
“There’s no power, Brice.” This comes from Rodriguez. And yeah, I really need to see about getting moved to this man’s team.
“Fuck.” Convict rubs his face, taking a deep breath. “Okay. It’s still day. We have a few hours. We’ll pair up and try to find a warehouse with a vehicle in it.”
“That could take a while,” John says, his voice is low, practically a growl.
Take a while? A few hours? I don’t get it. Other than the fact that everyone wants to get back to base ASAP, I don’t get what the rush is. “A few hours until what?”
No one answers me. Great.
“You know what this means, right?” This comes from John.
Convict rounds on him. “I’m not a fucking idiot.”
“Maybe someone wants to fill me in?” I ask. I get that the virus had hit here. I get that there might even be zombies alive still in some of the buildings that would become active come night. What I don’t get is why everyone is freaking. Even if there are a handful of zombies that managed to survive the blasted heat and slim pickings of the desert food pyramid, they aren’t going to be more than light exercise for our little group. Hell, John could handle them all on his own.
It’s not John, or Convict who answer. It’s Rodriguez. “This isn’t just a storage facility.”
I turn to look at him. “It’s not?”
“You know the underground bunkers where our base is located?”
“Yeah…” I say tentatively, not sure I’m liking where this is going.
“This one is bigger. Like LA to Palmdale kind of bigger.”
“Holy crap.” I stare at the unlocked door in front of us. Desert pickings might be slim, but zombies will turn into cannibals if they are hungry enough, which means there’ll be a lot fewer zombies then when it first spread through here. Still... An underground base like ours, but hundreds of times bigger. And we’re sitting right on top of it.
Brian laughs, drawing my gaze to his ugly face. “Just how hungry are you, fangs?”
18.
Lots, actually. I’m severely dehydrated and could probably suck down the blood of a half-dozen zombies without blinking. But if what they’re suggesting is true, isolating that half-dozen for a leisurely sit down dinner is going to be difficult at best.
Best idea of the hour: Find that vehicle and a couple cans of gas and get the heck out of Dodge.
We pair off. Convict and John. Rodriguez and Blaine. Matt and Brian. Herbie is assigned to stay with Juanita. And I’m stuck with Roy again. Swell.
I book for the row of warehouses that we’ve been assigned to check out and am drop-jawed stunned when Roy scrambles to stay abreast. Well, well. What a 360.
“Do me a favor,” I call over the whistling wind.
“What?” His hands grip tight aro
und his rifle.
“Don’t shoot me this time.”
He grumbles something like a “you could have warned me” and falls into step behind me. Sulking.
Whatever, despite the fact that I’m now sure he’s closer to my perpetual seventeen than anyone else on the team, I have no desire to become chummy-chummy. Unfortunately, I’m betting that if I stay on with Convict, Roy is going to be my partner for the unforeseeable future. I’d think it is a simple snubbing—or a subconscious hope we’ll both bite it so he can get replacements, which, interestingly enough, is what I suspect that first mission’s pairing had been—but I have to admit that, in general, the way Convict pairs people off makes sense. They are either compatible ability pairings like Matt and Brian who, together, are the perfect hunting team, or strength pairings… that is strength and lack there off.
I am Roy’s muscle, compass, and reason all rolled into one. In a way, I’m his trainer too. I suspect John or Brian would be better at the training bit, but with Roy being as jumpy as he is, they just might end up dead.
Thinking of this, I glance over my shoulder. Roy’s finger keeps on squeezing down slightly on the trigger whenever he hears a strange noise—or the wind picks up. And he’s not even pointing that gun at anything. In fact, it keeps dipping down toward the ground—that he’s walking on Talk about shooting yourself in the foot. This idiot’s about to.
I mutter a curse and turn to face him. “You’re carrying it wrong.”
“What?”
“Your rifle. You are carrying it wrong.” I enunciate each word carefully, as if he’s dense. His eyes narrow, nose twitching. Doesn’t like that, does he. Not that I care. I put my hands over his, shifting his grip from the magazine to the base of the barrel in front of it. I mean, really? Did he never watch a movie? Or watch the others carry theirs? “Better?”
He shrugs, his mouth turned down at the corners. “Sure, whatever.”
“So, Roy. Tell me about yourself,” I say as we walk toward the first warehouse. I’m glad for John’s shirt. There are no shrubs or rocks to hold together the sand here and the wind is whipping it between the buildings like stinging pellets of mist.
“Why do you want to know?”
“I want to know what sort of experience you have with that thing. Or other weapons for that matter. I want to know what your strengths are so I can be a good partner for you.”
He snorts. “I’m good with computers. And I liked playing war games.”
I figured as much. I also figure his technical abilities on the computer are limited to getting those games up and running. He certainly doesn’t seem to be much of a hacker. “And did you ever do any kind of sports? Or maybe go out hunting with a relative?”
Yeah, I’m hoping for a lot with the last one.
“Nope. No hunting. No sports.” He’s silent for a moment, then, “I was on the debate team. Always won, too.”
Oh yea, something we have in common. Our partner strength: death by debate. Not.
We come up alongside the door to the warehouse. Not the big one that’s locked and bolted with a chain and padlock, but the small side door that has the same ineffective lock mechanism as the building at the front.
I stop about a boot-length outside, flaring my nostrils. Yup. Decaying flesh. A quick scope with my other senses and I know there are three zombies inside the shadow-filled building.
“Okay, Roy. Since we can’t talk the zombies to death, I’m thinking we might want to work on your aim a bit. If I recall correctly, it’s not too good.”
He flushes red at the reminder. He had been all of ten feet from me and hadn’t been able to put a bullet in my head. Not that I’m unhappy about this fact, but knowing my luck, now that he’s not trying to kill me, he’ll somehow manage.
“Now, there are three zombies in this building,” I say and watch the blood drain out of his face. “Not to worry, they’re pretty much dormant right now. As long as we can keep the noise to a minimum, we can be on them and have one dead before the others even wake up.”
“I don’t have a light,” he says in a rush, his voice bobbing into prepubescent registers.
I lower my own to bore-you-to-tears lecture drawl, hoping the converse will combat his rising panic. “Good thing too, you go shining a light directly on them and it will wake them up. That’s why they hide inside during the day. Their eyes can’t stand any sort of light, even behind their eyelids.”
“Really?”
I nod. I know this from pure observation. Yeah, it’s common knowledge that zombies are more active at night, and a smart person might suspect it has to do with their inability to constrict the iris, but it takes life experience to see that even a slight shift in light will upset a sleeping zombie and that a cloudy night or one with a new moon has the highest peaks in activity.
He frowns. “How can I kill them if I can’t see them?”
I sigh. “Roy. It’s day. There are going to be seam cracks, light under that big door. Plus we’ll leave the door open enough to give some ambient light. They seem to be near the back of the building so that shouldn’t bother them. We’ll wait for your eyes to adjust and sneak up on them.”
He looks dubious but he nods.
And the win goes to me. My debate leader would have been so proud.
“Okay then.” I place my hand on the door and push, slowly. Despite my assurances, I’m really not sure if this small bit of light will wake them or not. Depends on what’s between them and the new light source.
Highly tuned to the three heartbeats in the warehouse, I motion Roy inside. We stop a few feet in from the door while we wait for his eyes to adjust, and I wait to make sure those heartbeats don’t pick up in speed or come any closer. Everything seems cool so I urge Roy in another few steps.
“I can’t see.” His voice is panicky, and carries through the warehouse with a piercing echo that makes me cringe. Light, sharp unnatural sounds, the stink of sweaty human fear, any of the above will do to wake a sleeping zombie. And we’ve brought to their chambers all three.
They’re awake. Slightly dazed, but awake and rising.
“Okay, why don’t you step back a couple feet, stand to the left of the door and let that light shine right on in here.”
“Okay.” He quickly does as I say, moving into the comparative shadows by the door.
“Now Roy.” I step in beside him. My ear cocked toward the first zombie that’s dragged himself up and is shuffling across the back of the warehouse. “Here is how this is going to happen. There are three zombies in here and they’re all coming this way.”
“Oh God.”
“You’re going to shoot the first one, and only the first one that comes into view. I don’t want you to worry about anything else. I’m going to take care of the other two. Got it?”
He nods.
“Good. Now, about this gun.” I place my hands around his, helping him lift it so the stock is pressed tight against his shoulder. “Feel about right?”
He nods.
“Sight lined up?”
“At what? I can’t see anything!”
“You will in a few seconds. Hold on.”
As if on cue, the closest zombie moans. It’s no longer shuffling, but skirting like a stealth bomber through the piles of canvassed boxes toward us. Hunger is a real incentive at times.
I see it first, of course, and am totally revolted by what is there. The thing is more than half-way through Death’s Door. Beyond starved, beyond decayed. If this is the condition of the rest of the zombies here, then in another few weeks or so, they’ll all be dead.
I swallow the acid that rises in my throat, laying a steadying hand on Roy’s shoulder. “Okay, Roy, it’s straight ahead.”
“I can’t see it!”
“Just a second more…”
I feel when he sees it, his body going rigid as a two by four then vibrating like a tuning fork. He pops off a shot, that since he’s trembling so bad goes wide. The zombie breaks into a run. Fifteen f
eet. Roy is chanting an endless prayer. I place my left hand back over his left, helping him steady the barrel. “No worries, Roy. Just aim, and squeeze. Lightly.”
He screams, but he does. This bullet hits the zombie, kind of. It smacks into the curve above the creatures collarbone, taking another chunk of flesh off its already emaciated frame and a livid growl from its lips.
“Good. Again,” I say, shifting his barrel slightly up and left. He pops off three more shots. The zombie’s head explodes, the body tumbling forward onto the ground just three feet from us.
There is no time for anything more than a congratulatory slap on the back though, not with its two buddies bearing down on us. I briefly consider letting Roy take out the second one too, but I’m afraid it will take too much time and then I’ll be pressed to grab the third one before it can reach Roy.
With a quick grab and twist of my arm, I have my Glock out and am planting two bullets in the next zombie’s head. It sprawls to the floor. The third zombie, right on its heels, trips over it and goes down with a growling groan.
Perfect.
I start to take a step forward but jump back as the warehouse erupts in screams and gunfire. I watch in dismay as the lone living zombie flops around on the floor, its body jumping in spastic twitches as Roy’s bullets slam through it. And there goes my snack. Crap.
“Roy! Stop!” I yell.
He keeps screaming and shooting until the gun is clicking. No more bullets. No more zombie. Silence descends. I heave out a heavy breath, burying my face in my hands. “What part of don’t do anything after you shoot the first one didn’t you understand?”
Roy’s scratchy breathing is the only answer. I drop my hands, looking mournfully at the dead zombie that now lies in a pool of useless blood on the floor.
“I killed it.” Roy’s voice is hardly more than a whisper, then louder, “I killed it!”
I turn to him, fury and exhaustion and a parched throat driving a scathing remark to the tip of my tongue, but one look at his ecstatic face has it shuttling back down like a hard ball of resignation into my stomach. I give up. Convict wins. I’m sure now he’s paired me with Roy in hopes of killing me. And I can’t resent Roy for it. Not when he looks so damn proud of himself.
