We climbed down off the roof and waited on the small landing. A scuffling noise came from inside, followed by a thud against the door, and my heart pounded. We raised our weapons. A moment later the door flew open and Springer stood grinning at us.
“What happened?” Warnick said.
“I tripped.”
It took us a few minutes, but we found the lights. Warnick flipped them on and a wave of terror washed over me.
A horde stood directly in front of us, their weak eyes blinking against the lights, their slavering mouths working and their fingers thrumming imaginary organs.
Warnick moved into lead position and shot two through the head. That was our cue. We spread out and took careful aim, taking out the advancing draggers one by one. We were down to the last two when one of them hurled himself at Springer.
“Whoa!” Springer said as Warnick shot it through the eye. Shuddering, it dropped where Springer stood.
“I hate surprises,” Warnick said.
I laughed nervously. “Remind me never to throw you a surprise birthday party.”
We took a moment to catch our breath, then checked out the room. Boxes of paper supplies, cleaning supplies and dry goods were stacked in neat rows. Along one wall stood a huge freezer unit.
“Better check it,” Warnick said to Springer.
The kid trotted over and pulled the large metal handle. The door swung open and a burst of ice-cold air and mist hit us.
“Oh, no,” Holly said as the mist cleared.
Huge sides of beef and pork hung from rows of hooks. In one section stood shelves of ice cream and frozen dinners. Against the side wall was a young man in a sitting position, dressed in a grey North Face jacket and gloves. His hair, eyebrows and eyelashes were dusted with frost. His skin was blue.
Warnick made a cursory examination. “Weird. He’s not stiff.” He felt his neck for a pulse. “He must’ve hidden in here during the outbreak and couldn’t get out.”
“If he isn’t frozen, then maybe this just happened,” Holly said.
“It’s possible. Let’s get him out of here.”
Warnick and I dragged the body out of the freezer and laid it on its back.
“We’ll get someone from the hospital to pick him up,” he said. “Let’s check the rest of the store.”
“Wait, are you sure he wasn’t bitten?” I said.
Warnick seemed impatient. He laid down his weapon and crouched in front of the body. Unzipped the jacket and checked for blood. Finally, he removed each of the gloves. “Dammit,” he said.
We moved closer and observed the torn skin and teeth marks on the left hand. The dead thing’s eyes flew open and it sat bolt upright. Warnick scooted away and grabbed his weapon. The dragger blinked with grey, unseeing eyes. It let out a mewling cry that shook me to my bones. Before we could say anything, a bullet tore through its head. I turned and saw Holly slowly lowering her weapon.
“I don’t think I like surprises either,” Holly said.
A shuffling noise got our attention.
“We’re not alone,” Holly said, her voice a whisper.
Slowly, we made our way up and down the aisles, no longer visible to one another. I slipped past the produce section, gagging on the smell of rotting fruit and vegetables. Slivers of parking lot showed through gaps in the boarded-up windows.
“Over here!” Holly said from another part of the store.
We ran towards the meat section, where we found a dragger on its knees eating the last of the expired meat out of a display case. Holly stood a few feet away, her weapon pointed, trembling. I stood next to her while Warnick and Springer joined us.
The dragger turned, its mouth dripping with gore, and stared at each of us, its eyes alive with an iridescent purple glow. It was a young Latina, dressed as a checker. I recognized it from the last time, when it rang us up. Dropping the meat, it slowly got to its feet, straightened up with excruciating effort and faced us. I waited for the death shriek, but it never came.
Warnick took aim at its head as it raised its trembling bloody hands in protest.
“Espera,” it said.
WE LOWERED OUR WEAPONS, spellbound by the creature standing in front of us. We expected it to attack, like every other dragger we’d encountered. But it just stood there, wavering and weak, its eyes begging us to wait.
“I don’t understand,” Holly said. “Is it … dead?”
“Infected,” I said. “We need to help it.”
Warnick had raised his weapon. “I don’t know …”
“Warnick,” Holly said, “this isn’t a dog.”
Springer turned to Warnick. “How are we supposed to—”
The thing inched forward, muttering something and swatting at flies. We backed off, raising our weapons again. Then it—she—collapsed on the floor and began to cry.
“She’s still a person,” Holly said.
Warnick turned to Springer. “Go to the Humvee and bring whatever you can find to immobilize her.”
“On it.”
Springer returned moments later, carrying a coil of heavy nylon rope.
“Here you go,” he said to Warnick. “What about her head?”
“Hang on,” I said.
I headed back to the produce section where I’d seen burlap sacks filled with potatoes. I emptied one of them and brought it back. Warnick and Springer were already binding the woman’s hands and feet as she struggled on the floor. I handed Springer the sack and he threw it over her head, which seemed to enrage her. She mewled and tried to twist free. Holly found a roll of duct tape, and we secured the bag loosely at the neck to prevent her from biting anyone.
“We’re going to have to carry her,” Warnick said.
“Let me try,” I said.
“What about your leg?” Holly said.
“I’m fine.”
Warnick and Springer helped me get the woman to her feet. I bent over slightly and they draped the squirming body over my shoulders in a fireman’s lift. I gripped her arms and legs firmly. “Let’s go,” I said.
I trotted through the swinging doors that led to the storage area. Warnick was already waiting at the exit, holding the door open. The woman was small—around Holly’s height—and didn’t weigh a lot. But having to fight her as I made my way towards the Humvee took its toll. By the time I reached our vehicle on the other side of the building, I was exhausted and sweating and in pain.
Springer cleared a space in the rear of the Humvee. He and Warnick helped me lower the woman in. She continued to struggle as we closed the door and headed out.
We radioed ahead and were told to proceed directly to an unmarked warehouse off the main highway at the edge of town. When we arrived, we saw the chain link fence-enclosed building guarded by a number of armed soldiers. A few LMTVs and Humvees were parked nearby, and a guard shack stood behind the closed gate. I recalled that this used to be a bicycle factory that went bust in the early nineties. As far as I knew, it had remained vacant ever since.
As we approached, a soldier in the guard shack hit a button, rolling back the gate so we could drive through. Hospital orderlies were already waiting with a gurney. We unloaded the patient—who they secured with leather straps—and followed everyone inside.
The interior was vast, with rows and rows of what appeared to be Plexiglas cells as far as we could see. Some had patients inside. The cells were just big enough to accommodate a cot and a curtained-off chemical toilet. Electric pumps located at one end of each row vented fresh air into the units.
“Unreal,” Springer said.
We followed as the orderlies wheeled our patient down an end row towards the rear. We passed other cells housing patients in various stages of the disease, although none appeared to be violent. These people seemed afflicted rather than turned.
The orderlies stopped in front of a cell, removed the woman from the gurney and placed her inside. One of them stepped out as the other carefully cut the ropes that bound her feet and hands. As he remo
ved the sack from her head, the first reentered with a cattle prod. The bright lights seemed to hurt the woman’s eyes, and she turned away, making low grunting noises. She lurched forward, and the armed orderly zapped her. Screeching, she pulled away and fell onto the cot. When she stopped moving, the orderlies left the cell and locked it.
Isaac came around the corner, accompanied by a man and woman. All three were dressed in white lab coats. The man was lean and around my height, with black wavy hair, dense eyebrows and pale blue eyes. The woman was tiny—shorter than Holly—with blonde hair and those same pale blue eyes. Each wore an expression of mild intellectual disdain. I’d seen that look before on a guy who worked nights at the 7-Eleven where I used to buy beer.
“Thanks, fellas,” Isaac said to the orderlies as they left. Then to us, “This is Doctor Bud Vollmer and Doctor Nancy Vollmer.”
We exchanged greetings.
“Are you two related?” Holly said. They rolled their eyes in unison.
“They’re fraternal twins,” Isaac said.
“The Vollmer twins?” Springer said to me under his breath. “Dude, what are the odds?”
“Bud and Nancy are immunologists. I brought them down from San Francisco to try to make sense of all this. They were on the team that developed the blood test. We’re hoping they can create a vaccine.”
“Any idea when that might be?” I said.
“This isn’t playtime, Junior,” Bud said, observing the patient and making notes in the patient’s chart.
“What did you say—” Holly touched my arm.
“You say this woman spoke?” Isaac said as the patient explored the confines of her cell. The two immunologists watched her with the same fixed gaze.
“One word that we could make out,” Warnick said. “After that, it was a lot of gibberish.”
“Amazing.”
“She doesn’t appear to be exhibiting the same symptoms as the others we’ve seen. And there’s something going on with her eyes.”
“I don’t think she was bitten,” I said.
Nancy turned to me, her arms folded, half-smiling. “Said the pretend doctor.” Holding my temper, I ignored her.
“What do you mean?” Holly said. “How else could she have turned?”
Warnick looked at me, a little irritated. “You don’t think she was deliberately infected?”
“That’s exactly what I think. Warnick, you said it yourself. Her symptoms are different. Remember the draggers we encountered in the forest before we were rescued? That’s what we’ve been seeing since this thing started. This woman is carrying another form of the virus.”
“And how do you know this, Dr. Nick?” Bud said. I actually appreciated The Simpsons reference, but I still wanted to pimp-slap this guy.
Isaac stepped between us. “There’s an easy way to find out. We’ll test her.”
After Isaac had left, Bud turned to me, arrogant as hell. “You people should leave and let the real scientists do our job.”
I closed in on him. “And you should bite me.”
“Oh, you want to do this?” Bud said, throwing down the chart.
Warnick grabbed my arm. “Dave, come on. We don’t have time for this.”
Springer helped pull me away and, looking past me, glared comically at Bud. “You don’t want to mess with this guy, Sheldon.”
After a few minutes, Isaac returned with a needle and syringe, three vials and the cattle prod. On his signal, the Vollmer twins opened the door and, holding the cattle prod, waited for Isaac to enter. We watched as the scientists immobilized the woman, then held her down so Isaac could search for a vein in her arm. It took a few minutes, but he was able to draw enough blood for the tests. When they were finished, the woman lay still on the cot, staring vacantly.
“How long?” I said to Isaac.
“A couple of hours. I suggest you return to your base. I’ll come by later with the results.”
“Thanks, Doc,” Warnick said.
As we made our way towards the exit, a commotion erupted in one of the cells nearby. A patient thrashed violently, exhibiting the classic symptoms of someone who had turned. It was mostly in the eyes—he no longer saw. Then we heard the death shriek. A series of bright blue lights flashed in sequence along the top of the cell. Moments later, an orderly appeared followed by two Black Dragon soldiers. One of the soldiers carried a cattle prod and the other what looked to me like some kind of space gun.
Isaac and the two scientists ran over to join them. We followed.
“Whadda ya say, Doc?” one of the soldiers said.
Isaac took a moment to assess the patient. He conferred with the immunologists and sadly he lowered his head. The soldier with the cattle prod flicked a finger at the orderly, who unlocked and opened the door. The soldier repeatedly zapped the patient into submission, attacking different parts of his torso each time. This appeared to weaken the patient, and he collapsed backwards onto the cot.
The other soldier approached and placed the space gun against the patient’s forehead. He pressed a button. A scorching high-pitched whine ripped open our eardrums, and the patient stopped moving. A stench rose—he’d evacuated his bowels.
“What happened?” Holly said.
“Ultra high-frequency radio waves,” Bud said.
Nancy nodded. “Fries the frontal lobe in seconds. Very effective.”
“We don’t want to be firing projectiles in this place,” Isaac said. “Not with all these other patients.”
Outside, we shook hands with Isaac, avoiding his weird friends.
“How many patients are there?” Holly said.
“We’re over six hundred,” Isaac said. “There seem to be more every day.”
The four of us sat in the conference room, waiting for Pederman to say something.
“Doesn’t make any sense,” he said. “I need to report this.”
“Can you at least wait until the results come in?” Warnick said.
“Why?”
“I think we should have all the facts first.”
“I don’t know …”
Warnick was insistent. “Dr. Fallow is performing tests on the woman. We should at least—”
Erzen stuck her head in. “Sorry to disturb. One of our patrols found another family holed up at the Pine Nut Motel at the edge of town.”
“What kind of shape are they in?”
“They don’t seem too bad. We brought them in a little while ago. They’re being examined.”
“Thanks, Erzen,” Pederman said. “Keep me posted.” Then to Warnick, “Look, I’ll hold off reporting this for now. But I can’t wait much longer, or we’ll be out of compliance.”
“Got it.”
As we got up to leave, Holly said, “Mr. Pederman, I need to ask you something.”
“Sure, Holly.”
“I want Griffin on our team.”
“Impossible. I’m sorry.”
“But she’s battle-tested. Ask Warnick or Springer.”
“Warnick?”
“She’s awesome in combat,” Warnick said. “And she knows how to handle a weapon.”
“Still,” Pederman said. “Federal law prohibits anyone under the age of eighteen from carrying a weapon.”
“Actually, there is no federal law stating a minimum age for ‘long guns,’” Erzen said. “And there are exceptions for hand guns.” Holly and I turned to Erzen hopefully. She seemed confident.
“And you know this how?” Pederman said.
“As you know, I’ve been looking after Griffin. So I took the liberty of doing some research in the library.” Erzen pulled a folded-up piece of paper from her shirt pocket and read from it. “‘Federal law provides exceptions for the temporary transfer and possession of handguns and handgun ammunition for specified activities, including employment, ranching, farming, target practice and hunting.’”
“Well, I’ll be damned.”
“I don’t know about ranching,” Springer said.
“I think we c
ould argue for target practice and hunting draggers,” I said, looking at Warnick, who smiled for what might have been the first time in his life. “And if you hired her on as an intern, there’s your employment requirement.”
“Seriously, we need her on the team,” Holly said.
“You guys are killing me,” Pederman said. “But it makes sense. Look, we’ll take this one step at a time. I’ll start by fast-tracking her employment and signing her up for target practice. If—if—she passes our test, I will issue her a weapon.”
“Works for me,” Holly said.
Outside on the steps, Holly hugged Erzen. “This means a lot to me—thank you.”
“No problem.”
“Why did you do it, Erzen?” I said. “Just curious.”
“Griffin shows a lot of promise. Reminds me of myself at that age. I think a girl needs to protect herself. Don’t you?”
“Can’t argue with that.”
“I can’t wait to tell Griffin,” Holly said.
Fabian found Holly, Griffin and me in the cafeteria eating a late lunch of meat loaf, which looked like it was made mostly from breadcrumbs and ketchup. Griffin had apparently moved past Evie’s death and was bubbling over the news about joining Black Dragon as an intern.
“Fabian, did you hear?” she said.
“I did. Congrats, guera.” Then to Holly and me, “Dr. Fallow is here. They’re all waiting in the conference room.”
He left before I could say anything. As we got up, I turned to Griffin.
“What did he call you?”
“Guera. He always calls me that.”
“What does it mean?” Holly said.
“‘White girl,’ I think. He means it in a good way.”
I may have rolled my eyes. “Rrright …”
“He told me one of his cousins is, like, really light-skinned, and they call her guera.”
“Whatever you say.”
“You’re such a jerk,” she said, laughing.
When we entered the conference room, we found Warnick and Springer sitting with Isaac and Pederman, who were going over the lab results.
“So?” I said.
The Dead Series (Book 2): Dead Is All You Get Page 11
