“I see 'em.”
“Well, let's review. As far as we know, to be a zombie, you have to die. Right?”
Alex nodded, still feeding bullets into the magazine. “Sure seems that way.”
“Okay. So, how did this all start? With just one zombie?”
“Good question. It happened awful fast for that.”
“The thing is, look there.” She leaned in against Alex and pointed with the hand holding the cigarette. “Look at Margaret Presswood. She's the one in the pink robe.” The reanimated corpse of Margaret Presswood stumbled down Old Mine Road, her pink bathrobe undone, one foot bare, the other still in a pink, terry-cloth slipper.
“I see her.”
“How do you think she died?”
Alex stared for a moment. “Huh,” he said. “Good question. Don't seem like she's got a mark on her.”
“Exactly. So, why is she dead? And yeah, it's entirely possible that the excitement was too much for old Margaret and she vapor locked, but I've noticed a lot of them like that. There's nothing wrong with them except that they're dead. Undead, rather. And all the ones that don't seem to have any injuries, they've all got something in common. They were all residents of the Prosperity Retirement Village.”
“Huh.” Alex set one full magazine down and started filling another. “That's quite a coincidence, ain't it? Got any theories?”
“I really don't. All I know is, it seems like there's something in town killing people, other than zombie bites and throat cutting.”
“Well . . .” Alex adjusted his hat. “I guess we gotta put the old folks' home on our list.”
Rachael looked at him sideways. “So, we're actually going back out?”
“Well, I am. But then I always was a bit too curious for my own good. Y'all can come along if you want.”
“Haven't got anything better to do.” Rachael finished her cigarette and ground the butt out on the cement step. “Besides, I never did make a lot of great decisions. Why start now?”
***
Harbaugh opened a door with a frosted glass window that read james harbaugh, county sheriff. He stepped inside and returned a moment later with a thick manila folder. As the rest of the survivors gathered around, Harbaugh spread the contents of the folder onto a desk—a stack of Polaroid photographs, a few sketches, a few sheets of standard forms filled out in clipped, precise handwriting.
“Here's everything we have so far about Buddy,” Harbaugh said. He picked up one of the Polaroids. “These aren't normal circumstances, so I guess you can all take a look if you want.”
Rachael picked up one of the photographs and grimaced.
“Deputy Henderson made his rounds through the state park grounds about two-thirty this morning,” Harbaugh said. “He noticed a liquor bottle outside the old McCormick Hotel and investigated. He found the door unlocked. The deputy entered the building and then discovered Buddy.”
“So, this is a hotel?” asked Alex, picking up one of the photos.
“Used to be,” Harbaugh responded. “Now, it's a registered historical landmark. Most recently, it was the visitor's center for Old Prosperity. There are a handful of historic buildings along Old Main Street. They all belong to the state park. But it's been empty since the park closed down. We drive through there on our rounds to chase out any teenagers or what have you.”
Alex nodded. “Tell us about the crime scene.”
Harbaugh picked up a Polaroid and handed it to Alex. “That pretty much says it all.” The photo showed Buddy, face down in a pool of blood in the middle of a series of lines and symbols drawn on the wooden floor. A faded, red baseball cap lay on the ground near his head. “It looks like he was kneeling, and somebody cut his throat from behind. No signs of a struggle.” He pointed to the photo. “Notice the circle there, where there's no blood? That indicates that there was a bowl or a dish, something that caught the blood there. It was taken from the scene after Buddy died. Somebody told Buddy to kneel down and he did. Poor bastard. He never was the sharpest tool in the shed, even when we were in high school. Then one night in Reno, he got kicked in the head in a bar fight. He never was the same.”
Alex flipped through the photographs, close-ups of the symbols, the lines, details of Buddy's body. “You figure out what these symbols are? Ain't no language I've ever seen.”
“We were stumped, too,” said the sheriff. “It looks about halfway between Chinese and Russian, but it isn't either one. I was looking forward to handing it over to the state investigators.”
“What about his hand?” said Alex, looking at the close-up. “Looks like . . . is he missin' a finger?”
“Unrelated,” said Harbaugh. “That's years old. That happened when Buddy worked at the gypsum quarry. He lost his finger in an accident. He'd have gotten a nice settlement out of it if he hadn't been blind drunk at the time.”
“Hey, Josh, do these symbols look like anythin' you seen in that book?”
Josh looked at the picture. “Yeah. It looks a lot the same.”
“So, what does that mean for us?” said Buck.
“Well, I think we can assume that the two are related,” Alex answered. “Somebody kills Buddy, along with all this . . . stuff, and then, far as we know, Buddy was the first dead guy walkin' around. Seems pretty obvious now that this was done deliberate. So, we gotta go find that book, or we gotta go find whoever has it. Likely whoever that is, is the guy we're looking for.”
“Maybe it was one of us,” said Josh.
Nobody spoke for a moment. They all looked around the room. “Do you have any evidence to back that up, Josh?” Harbaugh said at last.
“I'm just saying . . .”
The sheriff said, “I think we have enough problems without pointing fingers at each other.”
“Well, I suppose he has a point,” said Sinder. “I mean, our mysterious stranger showing up the same day this happens? That's a bit odd, wouldn't you say?”
Alex folded his arms. “I think y'all are forgetting the part where I saved everyone's bacon.”
“Wait, Dan,” said Rachael. “I thought your theory was that God did it.”
Sinder sighed. “Perhaps I was premature in my judgment. Looking at this new evidence,”—he gestured toward the crime scene photographs—“I am forced to revise my opinion, as any scientist would. I don't think God's modus operandi is cutting throats in some obscene ritual. It's undeniable that somebody killed Buddy. So, perhaps it wasn't the work of God. Perhaps it's the work of Satan.”
“Oh, that makes so much more sense,” said Rachael.
Sinder continued. “Or, what about Annie? She seemed strangely knowledgeable about the entire situation. Not to mention that convenient ambush right outside her saloon.”
“Look, this is pointless.” Harbaugh placed both hands flat on the desk. All eyes turned toward him. “Maybe the stranger did it. Maybe Annie did it. Maybe there's some villain skulking around town with a pencil mustache and a top hat. Hell, maybe I did it. But we don't have any evidence to support any of those theories, so they're going to have to remain just that—theories. So, let's put all this shit aside and work together. We need to make a decision. Are we going to stay here and hunker down, or are we going to go out there and try to figure this thing out?”
“I don't know about y'all, but I think our answers are out there, not in here. I'm going back out,” said Alex. He slammed a magazine into his rifle.
“But why?” said Buck. “You heard Annie. Last time it was over in twelve hours.”
“But last time they started out with only fourteen zombies,” said Alex, “and it was over quick because there was a bunch of angry townsfolk with guns. This time around, as far as angry townsfolk with guns, we're it. And there's a few more than fourteen zombies. As far as waiting for somebody else to come fix it, we gotta consider the possibility that there might be no cavalry comin'.”
Tom stood up, holding his AR-15, looking comfortable with the weapon in his hands. “And what makes you all so sur
e that they're going to rescue us, anyway? If the government did this, or if it was some kind of invading army, or if this is some kind of new epidemic, there's a very real possibility that we're nothing but inconvenient loose ends. If we wait patiently until they find us, it might be that the best we can hope for is a bullet behind the ear, or to be quarantined for the rest of our lives, or dissected and studied in some laboratory.”
“You're just a ray of sunshine, Tom,” said Rachael.
“Well, it's the truth, dammit.”
Rachael shrugged, a bleak expression on her face. “I never said it wasn't.”
Nobody said anything for a moment.
Finally, Sinder broke the silence. “I . . . I think I've changed my mind. It was wrong of me to encourage Lila to leave the relative safety of the saloon. She followed my guidance, and look at the end result. I can't help feeling some blame for what happened. Considering that, I must argue that Emily and I, we aren't . . . combatants. We won't be of much use to you. This is a secure building with food and water. I think we'd be better off staying here.”
“I don't see why you couldn't,” said Harbaugh. “I still think staying together would be the smartest thing, but nobody is twisting your arm.”
“But I don't want to stay here,” said Emily. “I want to come with the rest of you.”
“Now, Emily,” Sinder put a hand on her shoulder. “Do you really think that's wise? Do we need to risk our lives on a fool's errand, like these . . .”
“These what?” said Rachael. “Heathens? Idiots?”
Sinder removed his glasses and cleaned the lenses with his shirt. “Well, I can't deny that your plan is rather idiotic. We have food, we have water, we have defenses and a secure building. We have everything we need to survive right here. And you want to leave that to go chase down a magic library book? Pardon me if I'm skeptical.”
“I feel the same as Dan about this hocus pocus book we're talking about.” Tom stepped forward. “But I still agree with the sheriff. Doing something is better than burying our heads in the sand and waiting for salvation. It's better to keep moving. Move, shoot, live.”
“I vote we keep moving,” said Buck. “Just seems wrong, somehow, to hunker down here and hope that somebody comes to save us.”
“The sheriff is right,” said Emily. “We can't just hide here and wait for help to show up. We have to do something. There have to be other survivors out there. We have to help them if we can. And we'll all stand a better chance if we can find more people and stick together.”
Sinder threw up his hands. “Fine. I'll just follow along while you all run out into the street to be eaten by the living dead.”
Harbaugh picked up a pair of binoculars from the front counter. He peered out the front windows of the sheriff's station, past the swaying heads of the zombies outside, and across the intersection.
The library was a square building built in a classical revival style, hinting at the town's grand ambitions. Marble stairs led up to the front door, which was flanked by two columns supporting a triangular portico. The words ashford public library were carved into the stone above the door. There were tall windows on either side of the doorway.
“Okay,” said Harbaugh, “here's my plan.” He jingled his keyring. “I've got a key here for the library. Since stealth doesn't seem to be an option, we'll do it the other way. Cowboy vampire hunter, I want you to take the key and go first. When we open this door, you sprint for the library. Tom, you go with him. We're all going to cover you while you cross the street and unlock the door of the library. Then, once you get the library open, you two provide covering fire for the rest of us as we cross the intersection. Then we shut the door, and we're golden.”
“Not a very complicated plan,” said Sinder.
“Most good plans aren't.” Harbaugh peered through the binoculars again. Something flashed through the windows of the old library. He frowned. “Hey, wait a minute,” he said. “I see movement. There's someone inside the library already.”
Josh and Emily peeked out through the side window. “You're right. I just saw a face in the window,” said Josh. “Somebody is in there.”
“Well, that simplifies things,” said Alex. “I mean, if they feel like letting us in.”
Zombies began to drift away from the sheriff's building and toward the library. They shuffled across the street, up the stone stairs of the old library, and crowded in front of the double wooden doors.
Alex sighed. “Or maybe he's gonna need some help. Looks like he attracted some attention.”
A zombie lurched up the steps and smashed its head into the window next to the doors. It beat its head bloody, again and again, until the window shattered. The zombie slithered inside, obliviously shredding itself on the broken glass.
A crowd of zombies piled up against the double doors of the library.
“Hell, we gotta help that fella,” said Alex.
The library doors burst open. The horde poured inside.
“It's too late for him,” said Sinder. “Why should we risk so much to save him, when he's probably already dead? In fact, I say we rethink our plan to go to the library at all. It's overrun.”
Alex raised the binoculars to his eyes and watched the crush of zombies pouring through the double doors of the library.
“Gol-damn,” said Alex. “Alright, here goes nothin'.” Before anyone could say a word, he was out the door.
“Shit,” said Harbaugh. He followed after.
“For fuck's sake. So much for the plan,” Buck muttered. After a moment's hesitation, he, too, followed, running down the street toward the zombies.
The remaining survivors looked at each other for a moment. “Well, what are we waiting for?” said Emily. She grabbed a pistol in one hand and the first aid kit in the other and ran out the door.
“Emily, wait!” cried Josh. He picked up his rifle and backpack and followed her out into the street.
Sinder sighed, rolled his eyes, and walked after the rest of them.
Tom stood for a moment in the doorway. “Goddamned idiots,” he swore under his breath and followed after.
Chapter Nine
Alex sprinted for the library. The zombies turned toward him. He ducked and weaved like a football player, easily outmaneuvering the clumsy dead, firing as he went. One managed to latch its hands onto Alex's wrist before Harbaugh's bullet put it down hard.
Alex reached the front door. More zombies approached from down the street. Buck and Harbaugh dropped them, one after another, with careful, precise shots. Alex bounded over the pile of dead in the doorway. The half-dozen zombies inside were clawing at the door of the unisex bathroom. Alex wound back with the baseball bat and went to work.
The remaining survivors reached the library in a loose skirmish line, firing as they went, leaving trails of dead zombies in their wake.
Tom reached the library last. As he crossed the threshold, Harbaugh yelled, “We need to get those bodies clear so we can close the door!”
Buck and Tom kept up cover fire while the rest dragged corpses out of the way. Just as Buck and Harbaugh swung the double doors shut, a zombie crashed against the door. Buck staggered back. Tom and Alex threw themselves against the door as well. The door closed, and Buck turned the latch. The deadbolt slid solidly into place.
The other window broke, and a zombie crawled halfway through before Buck blasted it in the face with his shotgun. It fell in a haze of brain and blood. Buck racked another shell into the shotgun and stood ready.
“Um, Sheriff?” said Josh, hesitantly. “I got . . . I got some nails.” He held up a cardboard box full of carpenter's nails. “I saw them in the store room of the sheriff's station, and it seemed like they might come in handy. I figured I've already got a hammer . . .”
“Kid,” said Alex, still leaning against the door as the zombies battered against the other side, “you are a gol-damned genius.”
“First time I've heard anybody say that,” said Josh.
Harbaugh
said, “Pull up some of those shelves.”
Josh swept a row of juvenile fiction from the wooden shelf and popped it up off of its brackets. Buck ended another zombie with a shotgun blast. With a few nails in his mouth, Josh pressed the shelf across the broken window. He pounded one nail in, then another. A dozen nails later, the window was securely shut. They moved on to the other windows, upending shelf after shelf to find boards to block off the windows.
Harbaugh leaned against a bookshelf. “See, that wasn't so bad.”
“Oh, sure. Nothing to it.” With shaky hands, Rachael put a cigarette between her lips. She glanced at the no smoking sign on the wall, shrugged, and lit up.
Outside, zombies banged against the doors and slobbered on the windows.
The library smelled of dust and old books. Sunlight filtered through the high windows, past neat rows of books on wooden shelves. A staircase accessed the top floor, and another went down to the basement.
“I don't see any magical books,” said Sinder.
Alex sighed. “You coulda stayed in the sheriff's station if'n you really wanted to.”
***
The building was dark, dimmed further by shadows of the restless dead outside the windows. The dead moaned and scraped their fingernails on the glass. On the left side of the building, opposite the front counter, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves stood in rows, weighed down with books of all shapes and sizes. Just inside the door were the bright decorations of the children's section—painted cartoon caterpillars and butterflies, crepe paper bunting hanging in the shifting haze of dust. A table stood with three dead computers upon it. Down a short hallway, there was another room full of bookshelves. Posters on the wall advertised the joys of reading and warned of the penalties for overdue books.
Harbaugh stumbled for a second, then recovered and leaned against the wall. He trembled slightly.
“Sheriff, are you okay?” Emily asked.
“I'm fine.” Harbaugh sat down in a nearby chair.
“Okay, let's see what we got here,” said Alex. He dragged a few corpses away from the closed door of the unisex bathroom, tried the doorknob, and found it locked. He banged on the door. “Hey, hurry up in there!” he said. “I gotta go!”
Alex Rains, Vampire Hunter (Book 2): Hell Night Page 11
