The Dead Series (Book 2): Dead Is All You Get

by Steven Ramirez

  In the chaos, Fabian punched the other cop guarding him in the throat and took his weapon. As the cop fell to the ground wheezing, I ran towards the mayor. Warnick and Springer followed. O’Brien kept trying to retrieve his weapon, but the mayor wouldn’t release it. Instead he fired point blank at me, hitting me in the upper arm, momentarily stunning me. Then he turned and ran down a dark passage. Springer came for the cop with the rifle, but he shot Springer in the head. The kid collapsed midstride, dead. Warnick retrieved a handgun and shot the cop twice in the temple. Dropping the rifle, the cop fell where he stood. The policeman Fabian had disarmed got up and fled across the bridge. Fabian raised his weapon and sent three bullets into the man’s upper body. Grunting, he went over the side.

  O’Brien stood struggling and whimpering, Greta’s teeth sunk into his forearm. He was alone. Retrieving my weapon I walked up to him, my arm bleeding, our eyes locked. All I could see in his was terror. I touched Greta’s head. She released him and backed away. “Braves Mädchen,” I said.

  I raised the gun and pointed it at O’Brien’s face. But I didn’t kill him. Not yet. Instead I shot him in the kneecap. Screaming and cursing, he stumbled but remained standing. Then he grinned at me. Daring me. So I shot out his other knee. This time he fell. With my good hand I grabbed his collar and forced him onto his shattered knees. Tears streaming from his eyes, he alternately cursed and babbled.

  “Pray,” I said. He kept his eyes on me, gibbering like a lunatic. “Pray for my wife.” He shook his head uncomprehendingly. “You don’t know how, do you? Want me to teach you?” He closed his eyes, his lips trying to form the words. “That’s not a prayer worthy of Holly,” I said. I let go of his collar and he collapsed onto his back, moaning, blood gushing from his knees. I felt nothing—not even hate—as I pointed the gun at his face. As I squeezed the trigger, he never stopped staring at me, that same sneer on his lips. I emptied the clip.

  There was nothing left of O’Brien’s face when I finished—only a ragged hole with disintegrated bone, burnt flesh and blood. Fabian stood next to me, looking at what I had done. Disgusted, he spit into the meaty hole. “And there’s your lunch,” he said.

  My chest heaving, I went to Holly and cradled her head in my arms, gently pulling her bloodied soft blonde hair away from her face, gazing into the unseeing green eyes that I loved. Bright red blood from my wound fell on her. I was still in the nightmare, unable to wake up.

  I could hear Warnick’s voice somewhere in the distance. “We need to find the mayor,” he said.

  I looked up, my eyes blind with tears, and saw my friend with Griffin and Fabian. Greta came forward and sniffed Holly’s hand, whining softly. Warnick reached out to help me to my feet. I wanted to stay there with my wife for eternity. There was no other place I needed to be.

  “Come on,” he said.

  And like a dream, I felt myself moving as if on a cloud. As we followed the mayor through the passageway I turned one last time to look at Holly. I kept thinking—praying—that she would call out to me. Dave, wait! That she wasn’t really dead, only injured. But there was nothing. No voice. Only the sounds of our footsteps and Greta’s soft panting as we continued on.

  Faint lights illuminated the passageway. After fifty yards or so we saw something on the ground—a body. The mayor. He’d been shot in the head. His hand still gripped O’Brien’s gun. Though I was elated that he was dead, I was sorry I hadn’t been the one to do it. A rage welled up in me and I began kicking him. Why had God denied me the pleasure of killing this demon? As I assaulted his body again and again, I knew there was nothing left inside me but the rage. When I saw the looks on Griffin and Fabian’s faces, I stopped.

  “Did he kill himself?” Fabian said.

  Warnick knelt, examining the gunshot wound. “No. He was shot in the back of the head.”

  A pool of yellow light illuminated the path up ahead. Someone stepped into it. I couldn’t see him clearly. “Is that you, Dave?” a voice said. I recognized it as Walt Freeman’s.

  “What do you want?”

  “What I want is to go back in time and fix this.”

  I thought of Holly lying in the dirt. “So do I. Did you kill the mayor?”

  “Unfortunately, he had to be dealt with.”

  “I can see how ‘deputy mayor’ doesn’t have the same ring to it.”

  “I’m not a deputy mayor.”

  “I didn’t think so. Government, right?”

  “Right. And I think you can appreciate how important this project is.”

  “I don’t care.”

  Walt went quiet for a time. I turned to Warnick and whispered. “Get Griffin and Fabian out of here.”

  “We can all go.”

  “No. I’m staying. Go.”

  “Dave, don’t be stupid,” Warnick said. “We can—”

  “Dammit, get out of here!”

  The three of them retreated with Greta while I stood my ground. I stared at Walt’s round frame in silhouette as he stood there staring back at me. “They won’t make it out,” he said.

  “We’ll see.”

  “I’m sorry about your wife. Truly. If only we’d gotten here sooner, we might have saved her.”

  “Woulda, coulda, shoulda.”

  “You’re a smart guy, Dave. I could use you on my team.”

  My injured arm was numb. With my other hand I raised my weapon and fired towards Walt, intentionally missing. He flinched, but continued facing me. I could see that he was holding a weapon. “Don’t make me kill you,” he said.

  “I’m already dead.”

  Gunshots erupted behind me. I heard Griffin scream. Snapping out of my despair, I turned and ran. When I got to the open area near the bridge, I was alone.

  “Warnick! Griffin! Fabian!”

  From far off, I heard Greta barking. I started for the bridge. When I saw Holly again, I knelt and gently closed her eyes. Then I kissed her cold lips. “I love you,” I said.

  I ran onto the bridge and looked down. The researchers continued to pack things up. There was no sign of Warnick or the others. Returning, I picked up Holly and laid her gently over my shoulder. This place would be shut down like a tomb, and I didn’t want to leave her here to rot. I hurried across the bridge, out the doors and up the stairs. I continued running and climbed through the photomural and into the vast lobby of the research building. Warnick and the others were nowhere in sight. I prayed they’d made it out somehow. Running to the exit, I waited, watching the activity as researchers loaded equipment into a truck. There were several other vehicles parked outside. If I could get to one, I might be able to escape the compound.

  Far off, Walt Freeman stood talking to a group of agents in grey suits. Could I make it to a vehicle without them seeing me? A death shriek pierced the air. One of the draggers being loaded onto the semi had gotten free, thrashing and reaching out wildly from its chains as its handlers beat it back. I saw my chance and darted towards a black Escalade, still carrying Holly. Crouching, I squinted through the driver’s side window—the key hung from the ignition. As quietly as I could, I opened the rear passenger door, carefully laid my wife inside on the backseat, got behind the wheel and started up the vehicle. As I hit the gas in reverse and turned, the agents Walt was talking to spun around. Someone shouted and they came. They ran towards the open gate and planted themselves firmly in front of me, pointing their weapons at my windshield.

  There was no way I was leaving Holly there with those devils. I had no other purpose—no mission—but to get her out of there. My heart was broken and I couldn’t unbreak it. But I could do one good thing before they killed me. Taking a searing breath, I floored it as the agents fired at me. The bullets glanced off the bulletproof glass as the vehicle picked up speed. The agents stood fast and continued to fire. I bore down on them, my eyes glazed and unseeing except for the red tide of my anger and hatred. Screaming, two of the agents leapt out of the way as I got to the gate. I hit one, his body flipping onto my hood with a lo
ud thud and rolling off to the side. The other I crushed under my wheels like a meat-filled piñata.

  Then I was gone.

  I knew this road—it led to the freeway. If I could make it—away from the helicopters and other enemy vehicles—I could continue south to my home. Our home. Back to Tres Marias. I checked the rear-view mirror. So far, no one was following me. Traffic was light as I drove up the onramp and entered the freeway. I stayed in the middle lanes and drove the speed limit. When I was safely away from Mt. Shasta, I turned to look at my wife. The blood from her head wound was congealing. She seemed smaller, like a fairy I could put in my pocket. I wanted to so much. A drowsiness came over me. I felt like drifting away somewhere. But I still had work to do.

  My eyes focused on the road, I thought of Tres Marias. Would it survive in some new form? Would people move into the houses and start families and open businesses? Would anyone remember what had happened? I didn’t know what I would do when I got there. If Operation Guncotton had gone as planned, they would have already released the nerve agent. How long would it linger? Would I die? Hannity had said the poison gas decayed fast. It didn’t even matter now. It was like I’d told Walt.

  I was already dead.

  IT WAS AFTER THREE when I approached the barricade. I didn’t want to drive through out of fear that police and firefighters might be there cleaning up the wreckage from our earlier escape. So I got off at the last possible exit and swung around the off-ramp that curved down below the freeway and ended at one of our checkpoints. No one was there—no people, no vehicles. Nothing. Only the trees.

  I’d rolled up the windows and shut off the outside air, hoping it would be enough to protect me from the poison gas. I traveled slowly down the service road that would eventually take me to a highway that would lead directly into town. Driving through the dense forest, my headlights shone on a deer lying motionless on the shoulder. Then more animals. Squirrels, raccoons, a mountain lion. And thousands of birds. All dead.

  I knew where I needed to go and, as I got closer to the town itself, my heart ached again. Vacant streets. Vehicles parked randomly along both sides of the road. Streetlights lit and traffic signals cycling as if they had a purpose. Not too much farther. I needed so much to do this one last thing. If I succeeded, my death would in a way be a relief. But I’d forgotten something.

  The draggers.

  The nerve agent wouldn’t have killed them. They might still be out there, lurking. Waiting for the last man on earth to stumble past so they could devour him. I needed a weapon. Somehow I’d lost my handgun when I’d escaped from the lab with Holly. It became clear to me what I needed to do. I turned at the next corner and headed for the high school. One last stop before I completed my final mission.

  Dead dogs and cats lay on sidewalks and lawns. Nothing but death on every street corner. It was like a Twilight Zone episode—badly written and without the humor. Up ahead I spotted the familiar gate and pulled in. Trash left behind by the evacuation spun in little whirlwinds across the parking lot. Keeping an eye out for draggers, I cruised towards our trailer. Would Warnick and the others be here? I could almost see them, waiting on the steps. Dude, where have you been? Pederman wants to see us right away. I pulled up in front of the trailer and sat motionless with the engine running. The wind blew the door open and closed. I was afraid, but I needed what was inside. But if I opened the car door and breathed the deadly gas, I would die here.

  Near the football field, something moved in the darkness, sending a burst of adrenalin through my arteries. I waited. After a few seconds I saw it. A dog—a filthy, limping animal that looked like it was born in Hell. It zigzagged slowly across the parking lot, probably looking for food. Warily, I watched till it disappeared around the side of a building. I took a deep breath, held it and flung the door open. After a moment, I let out a bit of air and sniffed—no taint of poison, and I wasn’t dead yet. Allowing myself a deeper breath, I checked on Holly lying in the backseat and went into our trailer.

  Everything was the same as it was when we abandoned it. We’d only taken a few clothes and Holly’s vitamins. There were no guns inside. I searched for a first aid kit. A small backpack lay next to our bed. I opened it and found an elastic bandage. As best I could, I made a tourniquet and tied off my injured arm. Then I walked to the rear of the trailer, opened the narrow closet and reached in. It was still there, bloodstained and worn, patiently waiting for me.

  My axe.

  I gripped it hard, swinging it several times with my good arm, my muscles remembering its heft. Hoisting it over my shoulder, I walked out of the trailer for the last time. I laid the axe down on the passenger seat, climbed into the Escalade and started it. One final stop and I was done.

  As I pulled away, I gazed at my surroundings. We had survived, Holly and me. Moved forward through the horror of what had happened to our town, and we’d found a way to live. This place had only been a way station. I’d known that, and I’d been good with it. We would have found somewhere new. A place where we could raise our child and live as a family. Maybe San Francisco. When we’d lived in the house and Holly had decided she wanted to get pregnant, we’d imagined a baby girl named Jade. Often, I had thought of her growing up and of us getting older. Marveling at her—seeing her thrive—this phantom child. But Holly was dead. And so was our baby.

  The rage welled up in me again, and I realized that it was God I was angry with. He had led me down the path, gotten me closer to my faith through Holly. He had shown me a picture of a life that was so much better than anything I’d ever dreamed of. With a wife who loved me and a child who held all the promise of a happy future.

  Then He’d taken it away.

  He’d crushed for all eternity the only thing that had kept me going these weeks and months. I’d read the Scripture, memorized the prayers. I’d tried to live a good life. But these were useless to me now because Holly was dead. And as much as I wanted to spit in His face, I knew that being here was all that mattered. Despite the wrenching anguish of my human sorrow, I needed to do this one thing for Holly. It might be the last good thing I would ever do.

  St. Monica’s came into view, and with it the horror of my final reality. As I cruised slowly towards the church, I saw them—milling outside like anxious, hungry vultures. Draggers—twenty or thirty of them. Of course, they weren’t dead. It was probably my imagination, but the nerve agent appeared to make them even more alive. Ready for anything. Only these stood in the way of me doing what I needed to do. I was afraid for Holly, not me. And so I continued past the church into the darkness, where I parked on a lonely side street.

  “Not much longer, babe,” I said.

  Reaching across, I grabbed my axe and exited the vehicle, locking it up tight behind me. Outside, the air was cold. I turned my face to the sky—grey clouds rolled in, blotting out the moon. The wind chilled me, but I didn’t shiver. I was numb. When you have something to do, you do it. There is nothing else. You exist only for this one true thing. Walking faster past trash and dead birds, I stepped into a pool of light thrown from a streetlamp. I was around thirty yards away. They turned when they saw me. They were the crafty kind, I could tell—the kind who could organize.

  The leader, a ratty teenager with stringy brown hair and black hole eyes—my roommate from the police station holding cell—grimaced. It tilted its head back and, its throat blowing up like a bullfrog in a Cajun swamp, it let out a death shriek that echoed up and down the block. Immediately, the others responded. And they came for me.

  I stood in the middle of the street, gripping my beloved axe with both hands. I didn’t want to pray to a God who had cut me so deeply, but I did. I did it for Holly. “Please, God,” I said. “Please, in your infinite mercy, make them pay.”

  The leader hung back as the others rushed me. They were organized, these disciples of Hell, like a cackle of hyenas surrounding an injured antelope. Facing Death, I closed my eyes. But only for a second. When the first one came at me, I hacked off its
hands in two swift strokes. It flailed at me, confused as to why it couldn’t grab me. Then I took its head. More grunting, more screeching commands. Two more came at me. I hacked at their necks, throwing them off balance as they swung towards me. Kicking each of them, I sent them into the others, who struggled to grab me. These I stopped by splitting their heads from the top down. Black sludge oozed out from broken craniums as they fell in a pile. I finished the first two I’d started.

  For a moment, I was that kid with his hockey stick. Skating purposefully around the rink, taking on all comers. I was me at my happiest. The boy with no father who was full of plans and dreams. Then I was me, and I moved forward into the oozing mass of hungry predators who thought they still had a shot.

  Tirelessly, I hacked off arms and disarranged faces. I took off legs, leaving the attackers stumped and crawling desperately towards me, ravenous for my flesh. Squirming body parts lay everywhere, and I almost tripped as I came for the final few—the ones who thought they could win. One leapt towards me. I stepped out of the way and, as it hit the ground, brought my bloody axe down on its spine, severing the vital electrical messages from brain to limb. It could do nothing more than twist its upper body and howl at me in rage. Still hungry. Still trying.

  I faced the second to last—a woman dressed as a real estate agent in a ratty gold jacket and no shoes. It tried to overtake me. I let it. And as it reached me, its hungry, grinning mouth so close to my neck, I jammed the axe handle under its jaw, driving it up and through the head, crushing everything in its path. Tumbling backwards, the dragger swung around—toothless—ready for another go. So I took off its head, which rolled towards the feet of the lone remaining dragger. The teenager with the stringy hair and black hole eyes.

  For a time it stood there, studying me. I could see in it a creeping intelligence that I needed to acknowledge. We faced each other. It with the Billabong tee shirt and ripped jeans. Me in my bloodied Black Dragon uniform, breathing hard. Aching from the workout its comrades had given me. Everything moved around me except this thing. Draggers. Parts of draggers—heads especially.