Survivors

by Z. A. Recht

  He wondered how Harris and the others had fared in the storm drain. Though he hated to think it, Stiles realized that, most likely, they had run themselves out of ammunition and been overwhelmed. He shook the thought from his head. No use focusing on it now.

  Stiles spent his guard shift slowly patrolling the tiny glen, using his ears more than his eyes. Nothing disturbed the silence of the night, however. Near the end of his shift, birds in the trees began to wake, and their chirping calls heralded the coming dawn.

  When the time came, he shook Hal awake. The older man awoke with a start and murmured, “Whuzzat?” before coming fully to his senses. He rubbed at his eyes. “Oh, right. My turn. Anything happen while I was out?”

  Stiles shook his head. “Quiet as a grave.”

  Hal frowned at the soldier.

  “Okay,” Stiles conceded with a small grin, “poor choice of words. You want the Winchester while you’re up?”

  “Sure,” said Hal, accepting the antique rifle. He turned it over in his hands. “God, this is a nice piece. Where’d you say you got it, again?”

  “Basement of a sporting goods store in Hyattsburg. Consolation prize for getting my ass bitten on the way out,” Stiles said, gesturing at his leg.

  “Hell of a prize,” said Hal, checking the chamber. The weapon was loaded. “All right. Catch some sack time.”

  “I’m still not sure I can sleep,” said Stiles.

  “Try,” said Hal. “And if you can’t, at least get some rest. You’ll need it. You’ll be no good at all if you’re just wandering around in a daze all day.”

  Stiles took the older man’s advice, taking his place on the ground next to the knapsack. He closed his eyes and tried to clear his mind of the death and violence he’d seen over the course of the night. Perhaps he was more tired than he thought, or maybe he’d finally grown more used to the killing than he’d care to admit, but within minutes, Stiles’s chest rose and fell slowly as he drifted off into sleep.

  Hal shouldered the Winchester and took up his rounds.

  The dark sky began to lighten slowly. First came a graying of the sky to the east, followed by the first rays of sunlight peeking over the horizon. The sun finally broke through, shining brightly. It looked to be a beautiful day, with barely a cloud in the sky.

  When Hal’s two hours were up, he shook Stiles awake, who opened his eyes and groaned.

  “Did I fall asleep?” asked the soldier.

  Hal grinned and nodded. “Slept like a rock. Told you that you needed the rest.”

  “Guess you were right.” Stiles stood and stretched with a sigh, spinning his shoulders back and forth to pop his vertebrae.

  Hal looked disgusted. “I don’t know how you can stand to do that.”

  “Feels great,” said Stiles. “Wakes me up.” He leaned down to touch his toes. “Gotta keep yourself stretched out. Don’t want to pull a muscle at the wrong moment.”

  “Hell,” said Hal, “I’m too old and definitely too retired for calisthenics. Don’t let me stop you, though.”

  Stiles stretched his arms out. “So what’s the plan, Hal?”

  “Well,” said Hal Dorne, unslinging the Winchester and leaning against it, “I figure we head on east into Omaha and try to find this lab we’re after.”

  Stiles frowned. “What about the sailors? There might be survivors.”

  Hal didn’t say anything for a moment.

  “We made it,” Stiles pointed out. “Maybe some others did.”

  “If any escaped, they know where to head. Maybe they’ll find their way to the lab, too,” reasoned the retired mechanic. “Some of them have radios. It’s the best we can hope for.”

  “We could search for them, now that it’s daylight,” Stiles suggested, but Hal was already waving his hands in a “no-way” gesture.

  “Even if they are alive,” Hal said, “they’ll be spread out all over. And remember, our number-one priority is getting you to this laboratory safe, healthy, and in one piece.”

  “Speaking of healthy,” said Stiles, “I’m half-starved.”

  Hal nodded at his leather knapsack. “Couple tins of potted meat in there. It ain’t great chow, but it’ll fill you up.”

  “I’m not complaining,” said Stiles, digging through the pack until he uncovered a couple of cans of the processed meat. He tossed one to Hal, who caught it one-handed.

  The pair sat in silence as the sun peeked higher above the horizon, eating their cold breakfast and pondering the day ahead of them. They’d have to ford city streets, a haven for the infected. The sunlight would help keep them safe, but one errant noise or wrong turn could cost them everything. Stiles felt an equal amount of trepidation and excitement at the thought.

  He was on the last bite of his bland meal when the shuffling of footsteps outside the clearing brought both men to full attention.

  Hal tossed the Winchester to Stiles and drew his own pistol.

  The pair backed up away from the source of the footsteps, keeping careful aim at the spot where their visitor would appear through the pine branches.

  A bead of sweat worked its way down Stiles’s forehead. Even in the sunlight, a gunshot would bring more infected running.

  Pine branches swayed. Hal drew back the hammer on his pistol and took careful aim, and Stiles’s finger tightened on the trigger.

  A face appeared in the breach. It was no infected. It was Rico.

  “Rico!” said Stiles, elated. He lowered his rifle and ran across the clearing to the sailor. “We thought you were all dead!”

  Rico, pale and shaking, took a moment before answering. When he did, his voice quavered. “I thought we were all dead, too, man. Thought that was it.”

  Hal holstered his weapon. “Are you injured?”

  Rico nodded. “Cut my leg on a rock when I fell.” Hal began to dig through his knapsack for his sparse medical kit as Rico went on. “Those bastards were right behind me. I thought I’d left them all behind, but a sprinter caught on to me and tried to run me down. I thought he had me when I fell, but I got him with this.”

  He held up a bloodstained pistol.

  “Point-blank. Popped his head like a watermelon. Got any water? I’m thirsty. I’m so goddamned thirsty. Felt like I ran all night. Need to cool down.” Rico shook his head to clear it, and wiped sweat from his forehead.

  Hal tossed the medical kit to Stiles and kept digging.

  “Sit down, bud,” said Stiles, gesturing to the soft grass of the clearing. Rico slumped down with a heavy sigh, leaning his back against the trunk of a pine. Stiles wound a bandage around Rico’s leg wound, a straight, narrow gash that had bled profusely but seemed to be healing nicely. “Canteen, Hal,” he said.

  Rico kept talking as Stiles worked.

  “I saw Harris, Stone, and Allen make it to the storm drain. There was a lot of blood. I tried to get to them, but there were too many between me and them. I ran. God, I hated it, but I ran. I don’t think anyone else made it out.”

  “I know how you feel,” Stiles said, casting a glance at Hal, who wasn’t paying any attention to the exchange.

  “Can I get that drink?” asked Rico, taking rasping breaths. “My throat’s on fire. And I’m so goddamned tired. I could sleep for a week.”

  “Hal,” Stiles said. “Canteen?”

  Hal Dorne tossed the plastic canteen to Stiles, who unscrewed the top. “Look at the bright side, Rico,” Stiles said. “At least the three of us made it out. That’s a lot better than none of us. Here, pal. Water. Drink up.”

  Stiles raised the canteen to Rico’s mouth and poured in some of the water. It filled the sailor’s mouth and dribbled down his chin. He didn’t swallow. His eyes had closed. Stiles looked aggrieved, believing the soldier to be dead. He checked the man’s throat and found a steady pulse, and felt himself calm down.

  “He’s in shock, I think,” Stiles said. He flashed back to Hyattsburg, when he’d been treated by a pretty young medic before his suicidal run through downtown. “I wish
Rebecca was here. She’d know what to do. She saved me back in Oregon. I owe her one.”

  Hal, meanwhile, had frozen up. He didn’t seem to hear Stiles’s words. He was focused on Rico, who, though unconscious, still drew in raspy breaths. Sweat poured down his forehead. Hal’s hand slowly went for his pistol.

  Stiles caught the movement. “What are you doing, Hal?”

  “Get away from Rico,” came Hal’s calm reply.

  When Stiles didn’t immediately reply, Hal repeated himself sharply.

  “I said get away! Now!”

  “Why?” asked Stiles. “He’s just unconscious—”

  Stiles looked back at the sailor. Rico’s eyes had snapped back open. They were bloodshot, feral. An involuntary shudder shook the sailor’s body. A moment later, Rico’s bloody eyes fixed Stiles with a rage-filled glare.

  “Oh, shit,” Stiles managed.

  Rico was on him in an instant.

  Cursing, Hal let his pistol drop and cast about for a new weapon.

  Stiles grappled with the infected Rico. He grabbed the ex-sailor’s arms, pushing him away, but Rico leaned in close and closed his jaws around Stiles’s right forearm. The soldier gritted his teeth and bit back a scream as blood soaked through his sleeve.

  A solid thwack sounded, and Rico’s bloodshot eyes rolled back in his head. He slumped, unconscious, on Stiles’s chest.

  “Fuck,” cried Stiles. “Get him off! Get him off!”

  Hal kicked out at Rico’s infected body, and Stiles scrabbled backward on all fours, putting distance between him and the sailor. Hal held a length of pine branch in his hand, and stood over the unconscious sprinter. He brought the makeshift club down on Rico’s head once, twice, three times. The fourth blow came with the sickening crack of Rico’s skull splitting open.

  Hal dropped the bloodied, infected club on Rico’s body and slumped next to Stiles in the grass.

  Stiles stared, unblinking, at Rico’s corpse.

  “He was fine,” said Stiles. “He was fine. He wasn’t bitten—what the hell happened to him, Hal?”

  “I don’t know,” admitted the mechanic. “Maybe he got infected blood in that leg wound. Maybe that point-blank pistol shot sprayed him with the virus. We’ll never know, I suppose.”

  Stiles clenched his fists so hard his knuckles turned white. He buried his face in his hands.

  “Rico. Not Rico. No. He was one of the guys who pulled me out of the comic shop in Hyattsburg. He wanted to skipper a sword boat when he got out. Oh, God. Another one gone,” he lamented. “When’s it going to end?”

  “What, the killing, or the infection?” Hal asked, leaning back. Rico’s corpse lay facedown across the glen from the pair of survivors.

  “Both,” said Stiles, voice muffled behind his clenched fists.

  “Well, if we get that vaccine out of you, we can stop the infection,” Hal said.

  “And the rest?”

  Hal didn’t answer at first. He stood, shouldered his knapsack, and retrieved his pistol from the grass. “We’ve been killing each other ever since there were human beings, Stiles. That one isn’t ever going to end.”

  Stiles said nothing, just looked up at Hal.

  “Come on,” said Hal, offering the soldier a hand up. “We have miles to go before we hit Omaha.”

  “Yeah,” muttered Stiles, staring at Rico’s corpse. He accepted Hal’s hand and stood, leaning on his rifle. “Miles to go.”

  Abraham, KS

  30 June 2007

  0020 hrs_

  SIX DOZEN FEET RUSTLED in wet grass and soil, the noise covered by the patter of a falling rain.

  Quietly, like heavily armed ghosts, the teams of four made their way closer and closer to the sleeping town of Abraham. Working quickly at each entry route, the point men clipped through wire-link fences and pulled new gates open wide to let their comrades through. As Fire Team Alpha passed through with Fire Teams Delta and Foxtrot, the point handed off his bolt cutters and shouldered his M-249 Squad Automatic Weapon, looking for his assigned high ground. He could barely make out the tower in the weather, but the maps had been excellent.

  A wave farewell to the fire teams, and the man trotted off to his post. Another easy paycheck, it looked like.

  Sheriff Keaton stood by the window of the darkened station and watched the rain come down. He sipped from an old coffee mug that he absolutely refused to let anyone wash.

  “If you’re the type that washes your mug,” he’d often say, “then you don’t know how to drink coffee.”

  The office was in a state of mild disarray, the way a place will look when it’s well lived in and the person that inhabits it knows where every scrap of paper goes and where it came from. It was softly lit by a single candle, the Sheriff and townspeople having gone to great lengths to make themselves harder targets than before. The several brushes with Lutz and his raiders had awakened them to the fact that even in this world where the dead walked, the greatest threat still came from fellow man.

  In this environment, the unmoving Sheriff looked like a fixture with his mug, an odd bit of statuary that might have been donated by a rustic philanthropist.

  Wes came in from the wet and shook off his poncho. “Cats and dogs, Sheriff.”

  Keaton looked back at Wes, breaking the illusion, then into the sky. “This?”

  “Well, not yet. But just you watch. It’s coming.” He hung his poncho over the bucket by the door and sniffed the air. “Jesus, man. How old is that coffee?”

  Keaton took a gulp and smiled. “Old enough to stand on its own, I guess. Be learning to walk soon.”

  Both men laughed.

  “That stuff’s gonna kill you—”

  Wes’s words were cut off by the chatter of automatic weapons fire.

  “The hell? Wes, grab a rifle.”

  The Sheriff doused the candle and strapped his gun belt on. Ever since Lutz escaped, he’d gone wearing two Berettas around his waist and kept a rack of shotguns and AK-47s at the back of the office. The better to hoist Herman upon his own petard.

  If you’re back and looking for a fight, Lutz, you’ll by-God get one.

  Wes came back with both assault rifles and flashlights.

  “Put those away, man. The flashlights. You want to get us both killed?”

  “Um. Right,” Wes said, pocketing one of the Mini-Mags and leaving the other on the Sheriff’s desk. “You see anything?”

  Keaton shook his head. “I can’t see anything with the rain. Come on; we’re going to have to go out in it. How did they get past the guards?”

  The Sheriff opened the station door and the spit dried out of his mouth; he saw a group of four men arranged in front, one holding an M-4 rifle with what looked like a long stick coming off the front of it.

  “Oh, shit!”

  He slammed the door and dove away from it, driving Wes back into the station. There was a single rifle shot, and the station door exploded inward, scattering fragments all about the Sheriff and his man.

  “Go, go,” he said, scrambling to his feet. “Out the back. Sound the alarm on the way.”

  Wes went first, the Sheriff tearing after to the rear of the station and hitting a big red mushroom-shaped button on the wall as he flew past it. Another thing they’d installed since the most recent clash with the raiders, it set off a siren mounted to the top of the police station, as well as its twin, mounted atop the chapel, almost on the other side of town.

  As if in response to the rising wail of the sirens, the rain increased its assault, thunder cracking overhead and drowning out the sounds of battle that had erupted across the town. In ones and twos, the townspeople were emerging from their homes, armed and angry, firing shot after shot at the insurgents in black, driving them back the way they’d came. The townsfolk were emboldened by the true numbers of the invaders they faced; the initial gunshots were widespread, giving the impression of a large attacking force, but with the civilian counterattack, the groups of four were found to be very few, indeed.
r />   With rising gusto, the people of Abraham fired at their attackers until, almost as if it had been synchronized, to a man the force turned and beat a hasty retreat. With a cheer, the people gave leisurely chase, more concerned with patching the holes in their fences than with meting out any kind of justice.

  The cheers and jeers continued until the first house exploded.

  “What the hell is all this?” Wes asked as he and the Sheriff ran from the station. “Who were those guys? How did they—”

  “Wes!” Keaton barked, his eyes on the fireball somehow rising up in the now-torrential downpour. “Keep moving. Look up, look for shiny things.”

  Wes’s footsteps halted as he tried to process this order. “Look up?”

  The Sheriff, who was doing just that, tackled Wes and drove him down as rounds chopped the wet grass to the side of them, thudding into the dirt at around eight hundred rounds a minute. Keaton looked up, seeing the muzzle flash as the gun spat bullets through the air.

  “Look up,” he said, pointing. He rolled to a long-parked car and hoped that whatever the gunner was using wouldn’t punch through an engine block. Wes was right behind him, gripping his AK-47 and looking lost.

  “Did you see him?” Keaton asked. Wes nodded quickly, his wits seeming to return. “Okay. When I count to three, I want you to get your ass up here and get his attention with that.” He pointed at the Russian-made firearm. “Don’t get killed, but I need you to throw a lot of rounds at him. All right?”

  Wes nodded again, his eyes closed as he leaned against the car. The Sheriff duck-walked to the other end of the car and hoped that this would work. He knew the AK-47 wasn’t made for long-distance sniping; it was made to put a lot of bullets in a given area and to do it quickly, whether the gun was covered in mud, sand, or tar, or was fresh out of the box.