by Z. A. Recht
“All right,” he said. “We’ll go in one by one, starting with the one on the far left, there, with the red mailbox. Work our way down, and meet up with the other group.”
Mbutu and Trev nodded.
“Remember,” cautioned Denton, “these infected can be tricky. Watch your corners. Check the floors for crawlers. Don’t open any locked doors without backup.”
“We know the drill, Denton,” said Trev, unstrapping his pistol. He preferred to use his snap-out baton to mete out justice on the infected he encountered, but indoors, the pistol was the better choice.
The trio approached the first door.
“Okay, gents, here we go,” said Denton. He leaned back and gave a mighty kick aimed at the door frame. It shuddered, but held. Chagrined, he turned to his comrades. “Little help?”
With all three working together, the door burst free from its hinges in short order, revealing a narrow, white-painted hall with thin carpeting.
Denton dropped his voice to a whisper. “Mbutu, cover the stairs. Trev, come with me. Let’s clear the first floor.”
Trev nodded and followed a few steps behind Denton. Behind them, Mbutu Ngasy settled in at the foot of the stairs, his weapon aimed at the landing above.
Denton and Trev stalked through the first floor of the town house, weapons at the ready. They walked silently, heel to toe, glancing around corners and eyeing the floor for disabled shamblers. They saw none. The place appeared pristine. No blood marred the tile or carpet, no streaks of gore marked the walls.
“Place seems clean,” whispered Denton.
“Don’t drop your guard,” returned Trevor. “These things have a way of catching you with your pants down.”
“Amen, brother.”
A quick search of the ground floor revealed little. The pantries in the kitchen held scant goods. The biggest find was a can of creamed corn, which Denton reluctantly stuffed in his knapsack.
The pair returned to the entry hall, where Mbutu Ngasy was still on watch, rifle pointed upstairs. He hadn’t moved.
“Any activity?” Denton asked.
“No,” said Mbutu, narrowing his eyes at the stairwell. “But I keep hearing something up there.”
Weapons snapped up.
“What was it?” asked Denton.
“I do not know,” admitted Mbutu. “A creaking noise. Not footsteps.”
“All right,” said Denton. “Let’s check it out. Slowly, now. Careful, people. Careful.”
The trio began the ascent. The town houses were fairly new, and the stairs were silent underfoot. At the top of the stairs, a hall ran in both directions. This close, all three survivors could hear the noise Mbutu had mentioned. It repeated itself at intervals, a steady creak.
“What is that?” muttered Trev.
“Shh!” admonished Denton. “Could be a carrier.”
The three zeroed in on the noise. It seemed to be coming from one of the bedrooms.
Denton pointed at Mbutu, then gestured across the doorway. Mbutu nodded, changed positions, and took aim at the door. Trevor took up a spot directly in front of the portal, while Denton, kneeling, reached out a hand to grasp the doorknob.
The creaking noise had grown louder. They were right on top of it.
“Open it!” said Trev, leveling the barrel of his pistol at the doorway.
Denton twisted the knob and shoved the door inward.
Revealed was an average suburban bedroom. It wouldn’t have appeared out of place in a home fashion catalog, complete with pure white down comforters and lacey curtains overhanging the windows.
The only difference in the otherwise picturesque room was the body that hung from the ceiling fan in the middle of it, swaying slightly from side to side, the thick rope tied around the victim’s neck creaking with each movement. A toppled chair lay on the floor beneath the corpse.
Mbutu averted his eyes.
The flesh on the body was brown, desiccated. It had been hanging for weeks, maybe months. The eyes were sunken pits, and the lips had pulled back into a macabre grimace, exposing teeth. Despite the decay, it was obvious that the body had once been a woman.
“We should cut her down,” intoned Denton, pulling a folding knife from his belt and moving toward the body.
“Wait,” said Mbutu, his eyes narrowing. He held out a hand to steady Denton. “She is not right.”
“What do you—”
A moment later, the woman’s arms shot out, grasping for Denton. He stumbled backward, caught by Trevor before he could fall. A low growl escaped the woman’s lips.
“Jesus,” whispered Denton. “She hung herself before she turned. But it got her anyway. Son of a bitch.”
Trevor stepped forward, his ASP snapping out in one smooth motion. “I’ll take care of it.”
Denton averted his eyes. Mbutu looked on. Trevor wound up and swung the baton at the hanging woman’s skull. It sunk in with a sickening crack, and the body fell limp, unmoving, swaying gently from the rope wrapped tightly around its neck.
“Rest in peace,” said Mbutu.
“Demons don’t rest in peace,” said Trev, wiping his baton on the white bedsheets, leaving behind streaks of reddish brown. “They burn.”
Mbutu remained silent. The three men stood a moment in the room where the woman hung, their heads bowed. It was yet another reminder of the hell that surrounded them. None wanted to dwell upon it.
A longer moment passed before Denton snapped out of it, turning to face his comrades. “Well, that’s it for this place. Let’s move on to the next town house. Maybe we’ll find something better there.”
“We can only hope,” whispered Mbutu.
1 July 2007
1009 hrs_
The sun rose once again into a cloudless sky, portending another beautiful day. Krueger came strolling along, weapon in tow, on his way to climb the grain lift to watch over the scavengers on their way in and out. He saw Hal wander outside to inspect the radio antenna he’d spent the night working on.
He stood, motionless, for several minutes, hands planted on his hips. His only movement came from his eyes, scanning the structure up and down through narrowed slits.
Krueger noted Hal’s automaton-like behavior and deviated his course, walking over to stand next to the older man. He watched him intensely a moment, then followed Hal’s gaze; he was scrutinizing the steel tower.
When he could stand it no longer, the sharpshooter spoke. “Anything I can help you with, sir?” Krueger asked with raised eyebrows.
Hal didn’t answer for a moment, then dropped his arms and turned to face the soldier.
“She’s doable,” was Hal Dorne’s conclusion upon inspecting the rusting radio tower. “Just needs a little more TLC.”
“You’re gonna end up with a bunch of one-way conversations, even if you do get it working,” said Krueger, slinging his rifle over his shoulder.
Hal shrugged. “It’ll keep me busy.”
“You could always volunteer to help reinforce the perimeter,” suggested Krueger. “We all take turns filling sandbags and digging a trench outside the—”
Hal laughed him off. “I put in more than twenty years so I could avoid having to shovel dirt into sandbags. No, I think I’ll tinker with this baby a while longer, see what else I can get her to do. I’ve got some tools. Been broadcasting all night, really. It’s just, there’s no way to know how far out we’re getting.”
Krueger grinned. “Good luck. You need any help, you know where I’ll be.”
“Right above me. Don’t drop anything on me, kid. I may be retired, but I don’t have health insurance.”
Grinning, Krueger began the long ascent to the top of the grain elevator, where a small rounded platform allowed him to sit comfortably with a perfect view of the surrounding area. Krueger was a born sharpshooter. He claimed to have never picked up a firearm before joining the military, but found his calling on the range. He took excellent care of the scoped .30-06 he’d acquired in Hyattsburg, and maintained
the boast that he only kept track of his misses. He only had to remember the number four. He knew the survivors always felt an added degree of comfort when he climbed the tower.
Allen was the second guard on duty, taking his place on the roof of the Fac. Night watches both took the roof, but in the daylight, they split up, with the better rifleman on higher ground.
Downstairs, in the biosafety level four laboratory, Dr. Anna Demilio carefully pushed the tip of a delicate hypodermic into a vial of dark blue liquid. She’d been successful in preparing Stiles’s blood sample, and was ready to try out the prototype vaccine. The hiss of air in her suit distracted her, but she pushed the annoyance to the back of her mind.
In front of her was a clear plastic cage, and scurrying about within were half a dozen white lab rats.
When Anna had first begun in medicine, she’d felt terrible about injecting the innocent rodents with deadly diseases and experimental cures. Now she was just numb to it. They had their part to play. Reaching into the cage, she plucked free one of the squealing rodents and jabbed the hypodermic into the creature. It squealed again, and then fell silent as Anna retracted the needle. She placed the rodent back in the cage, then turned.
For the benefit of the tape recording her research, she spoke out loud. “Injection of prototype vaccine at eleven hundred hours.”
Behind her, resting on a countertop, were vials similar to those containing the dark blue fluid. The only difference was that this batch was dyed a brilliant red. These were samples of the Morningstar strain, cultured in the very lab in which she stood.
Anna peeled back the plastic wrapping from a second hypodermic and inserted it into one of the tubes. She drew back on the plunger, filling it with a small amount of the deadly living liquid.
She turned back to the rat cage. The rodent she had injected previously had taken to its exercise wheel. No matter. She was after a different rat, one that had yet to be injected with anything. Her hand shot out, but her target was too quick, scurrying out of the way. Anna managed to corner the rodent and picked it up, jabbing it with the needle and pressing the plunger.
Anna glanced at the clock as she replaced the rodent in its cage, and spoke again. “Injection of Morningstar strain at eleven-oh-three hours. Maximum exposure. Estimate one hour until symptoms manifest.”
It actually took far less than an hour for the rodent to turn on its fellows. The first to be attacked happened to be nearest, lapping at a water dispenser. The infected rat and its victim rolled over and over, until finally the infected rodent broke free, leaving behind a gasping, bloodied rat in its wake. Anna frowned. The wounded creature would fall victim to the same viral curse shortly.
Again and again the infected rat attacked its former comrades in captivity. One by one, they fell. Finally, only the inoculated rat remained.
Anna leaned forward in her seat. It was the moment of truth. The inoculated rat would certainly be bitten, but would it turn? That was the question.
The pair faced off in a corner of the cage. The infected rat didn’t hesitate. It charged straight at the inoculated rodent. Another flurry of fighting ensued, and with much the same aftermath: the bitten, bleeding inoculated rat lay wounded and winded, while the infected rodent staggered off in search of fresh prey.
Quickly, Anna reached into the cage and plucked out the inoculated rat, placing it in a separate observation cage. She would have to wait and see if it began to exhibit symptoms of Morningstar. If it didn’t . . . well, only time would give her that answer.
Anna picked up the cage containing the infected rats, walked over to a drawer in the wall marked INCINERATOR, and dumped it in, letting the heavy steel door swing shut behind her. Then she returned to her seat in front of the inoculated rat, folded her gloved hands across her lap, and waited.
Behind the Fac, across from each other in the grassy yard, sat Mark Stiles and Rebecca Hall. Rebecca had her hands clasped around her knees, drawn up tight against her chest, and Stiles lounged on his side, picking at blades of grass.
“Okay,” he said, picking his words. “What’s the best place you’ve ever been?”
“The best place?” repeated Rebecca, a thoughtful look crossing her face. “Honestly? Home. There are things about home I never really noticed until after I left. The way it smells. The routines. The sticky back door. My mother kept a little garden in the backyard. Every summer she’d make strawberry jam. I’d help her can it. We’re far enough away from everyone else that in the winter, when it snows, you can forget you’re even on earth. Everything’s perfectly still. Perfectly quiet. Yeah. Home’s the best place I’ve ever been.”
Stiles nodded. “Sounds really nice.”
“It’s probably burned down by now,” said Rebecca, her eyes downcast. “I don’t even know if my mother’s still alive.”
“Hey!” said Stiles. “That’s not how we play the game! Only happy memories, right?”
Rebecca took a moment to answer. “Right. Sorry.”
Stiles looked at the young woman a moment longer. When she didn’t reply, he spoke out: “It’s your turn to ask.”
“Right,” Rebecca said. She sat silent for a while, then looked up. “What was your best moment?”
“What do you mean?” asked Stiles. “You mean, in my whole life?”
Becky nodded.
“That’s easy,” grinned Stiles. “Running that diversion in Hyattsburg. I mean, I was sure I was dead, but what a death! Saving lives by giving my own . . . I don’t know if that kind of opportunity will ever come around again. Most of us don’t even get it once. And half the ones who do just stand there and let it pass them by. It sounds twisted, right? But we’re surrounded by senseless death, everywhere. My death was going to mean something. So, yeah. That was my best moment.”
“It’s a good best moment,” said Rebecca. A smile tugged at the corner of her lips. “We might not have made it out, otherwise.”
“And I couldn’t have made the run without you,” added Stiles, placing his hand on Rebecca’s arm.
Rebecca abruptly recoiled, drawing her legs back farther and tightening her grip around her knees. “That was just my job. I already told you, you don’t owe me anything.”
Before Stiles could muster a reply, Rebecca had picked herself up off the ground and dusted off the back of her pants.
“I’m sorry—really—but I should go see what Anna’s doing downstairs.”
Stiles sat in the grass a long minute after Rebecca had departed, staring at the ground.
After a while, the sound of rustling metal drew the soldier’s attention, and he looked up and across the fenced-in section of the Fac’s backyard. Just beyond the fence, partially obscured by the chain links, he spied Hal Dorne, busily picking through a toolbox. Next to the retired mechanic was the rusted-out radio shack. The older man really was making a go of it.
Stiles picked himself up from off the ground with a sigh and walked over to the fence. He hooked his fingers through the links and squinted at Hal.
Hal cast a glance over his shoulder, spotting his visitor. “Hiya, Stiles. Figured on making myself useful. It’s not in bad shape, you know,” he added, glancing once more at the soldier. “Just needed some rewiring, mainly.”
“One good windstorm will knock that sucker over,” Stiles said, eyeing the rusted metal supports.
“Oh, she’ll hold,” said Hal, patting the pockmarked struts. “She’s held this long, hasn’t she?”
“Why don’t you just build us one of those rail guns you’re always talking about?” Stiles asked, heaving a curious shrug. “You’re always on and on about them.”
“Why? Because I already built the damn thing,” muttered Hal, yanking a wire stripper from his toolbox. “Where’s the fun in building something twice? You already know what it takes to make it work. That, mister, is what took all the fun out of being a tank mechanic. Always the same goddamn problems every time. It got boring. Imagine twenty years of fixing the same shit, over and over again! No,
sir. Not for me.”
“All I’m saying is we could use a quiet gun around here. Be great for keeping the perimeter clear. Wouldn’t attract any noise.”
Hal stopped in place. He dropped the wire strippers and the claw hammer he’d added to his hands on the ground next to the toolbox. He stalked over to the fence until he was a scant three feet from Stiles and fixed him with a narrow-eyed stare.
“Tell you what, pal-o-mine, you got three options right now.”
“Yeah?” asked Stiles, a grin on his face. He knew Hal well enough to know that the annoyed attitude was a facade.
“One: you can go find me some car batteries. New ones! Not some half-assed, drained, used POSes. I suppose I could rig up something useful with them—something better than a one-shot magnet gun.”
“Okay.” Stiles shrugged. “And option two?”
“You go out and get this town’s power plant back on line so I can plug into a wall outlet somewhere. You do that, and I’ll feel generous enough to work on a new rail gun for you.”
Stiles shrugged. “Okay, I get your point. There’s not enough powder in the barrel.”
Hal shrugged. “That’s a fine way of putting it, yeah. So I’m rebuilding a dispatch station instead.” With that, the older man turned away and crouched down next to his tool bag.
“Wait a second,” said Stiles, holding up his finger. “What’s the third option?”
Hal half-turned to fix Stiles with a stare. “That’s you, going to get me a length of copper wiring from that industrial shed over there, so I can get this stupid thing really ticking again.”
Stiles looked over his shoulder. He spotted the storage shed in the distance. “What? Really?”
“Yes, really!” shooed Hal. “I’m retired. I don’t have time to bullshit. Come on, come on, this thing isn’t going to upgrade itself!”
Mark Stiles, unsure as to how he’d become pressed into duty as a wire-fetcher, strode off across the fenced-in courtyard, his thoughts more on a withdrawn young medic than the rusting dispatch station or its eccentric benefactor.
