The Service Centre (Zombie Transference Book 1)

by Tom Germann

  During their walk to this point, they had seen and heard nothing. It was hot, yes, but to hear nothing whatsoever on the edge of a subdivision was just wrong.

  They had stopped several times and viewed the backyards that let out onto the field they were passing. None of them seemed to have a fence, other than a short one sticking out about six feet from the edge of the houses. Several awnings were rolled out and there was some backyard furniture that looked like it had been knocked over, but nothing else. All the doors appeared to be closed, even though only the one house had a screen door closed at the walkout.

  That all would have been mostly normal. The torn and shredded laundry hanging on lines was not, though.

  It was hard to tell, but it looked like the little clothing that was hanging had been there for a long time. There were dozens of holes left in the drying lines. A lot of laundry must have come off the line and they could see some clothes bundled up to the side where it looked like the wind had blown them.

  It looked like everyone had left fast, a few days or weeks ago.

  Tocker whispered, “I have to piss, Sergeant.”

  The sergeant rolled his eyes. “Okay, so piss on that tree.” He pointed at a small tree nearby. “And keep your eyes open. I don’t want anyone sneaking up on us.”

  Private Tocker finished and they moved back to the tree line.

  Caisson gave Tocker a thumbs up with a questioning look. Tocker nodded and gave a thumbs up back.

  The sergeant looked around and headed for the closest part of the house at a dead run. The pry bar was soaked in sweat from the sergeant’s hands. This time, he didn’t slow down but ran as fast as he could, and only slowing at the last moment when he loudly bumped into the house.

  Tocker tripped over his feet and hit the ground hard, but then rolled up against the building. He got up with a wince and gave a thumbs up. Both stood there quietly, listening for any change. Nothing

  After a minute, Caisson led them around the side of the house. .

  Up close, the houses looked different. Their construction was a mix of brick and wood siding with smaller windows on the side that were too high to see through.

  The chimneys they saw looked old, like everything else here, and the mortar between the bricks was crumbling away.

  There were plastic pink flamingoes standing on one foot toward the front yard. Lying on its side was an old push-style lawnmower and an uncoiled hose that wasn’t connected to anything.

  The grass itself was too long and patches were burnt from too much sun and not enough water.

  Out front, a sedan that looked like it had driven out of an old movie just sat there with its ragtop down and a door hanging open. The trunk was also open, and some damaged luggage was sitting on the ground, starting to fall apart at the seams.

  All this could be seen from the space between houses. More houses were on the opposite side of the street and they could see, through the small gaps between the houses, that there were more behind them. They carefully came to the front of the house and took a knee.

  There was no breeze and no noise, just the oppressive summer sun beating down on their heads and the sweat that evaporated as soon as they sweated it out.

  It was just damn creepy.

  Caisson stopped, but didn’t stick his head around the corner. He just looked back and forth for as far as he could see from the gap. Right in front of them was a short hedge between the two houses. If they were going any further, they would have to step over it and carry on.

  But the sergeant wanted to wait and make sure that the area really was clear.

  Private Tocker took a deep breath, but didn’t say anything when the sergeant put first his hand up and then a finger.

  Caisson pointed at his eyes and then backwards, hoping that Tocker understood that he wanted him to cover their rear and not be entranced by what they saw.

  This was worse than being on patrol in Afghanistan. Here, he was unarmed.

  . The two bungalows across the street looked alike, with a big bay window and another large one in what would be the kitchen, and that would be the layout. These places looked just like his grandmother’s house back when he was a little boy. There would be shag carpet throughout and ugly wallpaper with flowers and a slight damp smell.

  Post-war bungalows wouldn’t have air conditioning unless they were in a high end neighbourhood, and this was not that high end. Nice and clean, yes, but not a neighbourhood with money. The houses were too close together.

  The sergeant stopped and took several deep breaths to try to calm his racing heart.

  He looked down for a second and froze.

  There was something on the other side of the short hedge. He leaned against the building, hoping to blend in while he pushed himself to his feet to fully see over the hedge. He started cursing under his breath.

  It was a dog. It was also very dead. It was maybe some sort of German shepherd mix, maybe with a golden retriever. He couldn’t tell because it had been dead for a while. He couldn’t even smell it, which meant it would have been dead for who knew how long. It was even partially mummified, which wouldn’t take long in this heat. He looked closer.

  Something had chewed the dog up and torn it apart. He could see that the rear legs were missing and it had been ripped open.

  The sergeant stopped and carefully looked over his shoulder, gripping the pry bar in his sweaty hand. Private Tocker was looking back, covering their six. He took a knee again and started looking forward again, but looking more carefully for other signs of disturbance.

  It was found quickly enough when he saw heavier items strewn on the ground between the house on the right and the car with the open door and trunk. Whoever had been fleeing had been stopped.

  On the paved road, he could see some large stains,. but he couldn’t tell if it was blood or something else unless he got closer.. Not after this long.

  He patted Tocker on the shoulder and pointed back the way they had come.

  They made their way back with Caisson still leading. When he came to the back of the house, he checked both ways, but still there were no sounds or movement.

  He turned to Tocker and again gestured for him to keep his eyes on their six and everywhere else. When he gave the thumbs up, Tocker nodded furiously. He faced front again and moved out.

  Anyone watching from a distance could have told the stress level was high.

  Everything was wrong. The sergeant’s mind had shut down and he was back overseas, . but this was a true nightmare. He was unarmed, walking along in North America.

  Moving along the back of the next house, they stayed up against the brick and wood siding. There was a small child’s green wading pool with pictures of Scooby Doo on it. There was also a picnic table covered in a faded, filthy tablecloth that was clipped down. He came up to the rear sliding door.

  The glass doorway was five feet wide with no curtains. Anyone inside would see them when they moved across. It was a miracle that they hadn’t been seen when they ran up on the house next door.

  He held up his hand so Tocker knew that he was deliberately pausing. Chance it or not? Private Tocker cleared his throat and whispered so quietly it was like a soft breeze on the back of his neck, “Sergeant, no one’s home. We should hurry.”

  Cassion nodded and carefully moved forward. As he passed the glass, he looked inside. Hardwood floor, a kitchen just off to the side, the living room looked old. The couch and reclining chairs looked like they were covered in clear plastic, and there was a large square television in the corner with monster rabbit ears and big legs sticking down. There were hunting pictures on the wall like from a magazine or something. What appeared wrong in the scene was a tray lying on the floor. There was a large tumbler that had fallen off and the lid was across the hardwood. There were plastic glasses all over as well, and it looked like one had been stepped on and smash
ed into a million pieces.

  As he finished passing the door, the last thing Cassion saw was the front door hanging open and a baseball bat lying splintered in the short hallway. It also looked like there were dark stains in the hallway. The light was bad, though, so it could have just been shadows.

  When they came to the end of this house, it was the same thing beyond. The subdivision row just stretched out into the distance.

  The space between this house and the next was clear and both soldiers quickly crossed. At the sliding door, there was no indication of any trouble. The next one, the same again. The sergeant started to relax as they kept seeing images of normal life.

  The obvious conclusion was that there had been some sort of incident and everyone had left quickly, though mostly calmly. It wasn’t the end of the world or anything like that.

  The next house shattered that image. As they moved around the back of the house, Caisson saw glass all over the small patio. The sliding door had been smashed out from the inside. There was blood everywhere,. dried and mostly flaked away by now, but enough had been spilled to stain the patio.

  Someone had died here.

  There was no police tape. No one had come along and nailed a board up over the open door. The ever present couch inside was missing its cushions, and the recliner was on its side and smashed up. There was stuff all over the floor, and the hardwood had blood stains by the door and sprayed drops all over.

  Whatever had happened here had been fierce.

  The pry bar didn’t feel that heavy in his hand anymore and the sergeant made sure he had a solid grip on it.

  He stepped away from the house, walking around the glass to not disturb it or make any noise. Tocker followed him.

  Tocker’s face was white and he was holding the hammer with both hands, but he looked steady. Tocker’s eyes kept moving back and forth, and he checked the rooftops as well. He didn’t look like he had relaxed at all since they came into the subdivision.

  When they came to the edge of the house, the sign for the gas station was clearly visible. If they went over one more house, they would be almost directly opposite of it and could move in and check it out.

  They kept moving forward and when they came to the back of the next house, they lucked out. Most of the homes had those hedges, but this one didn’t. They came around the side of the house and moved forward.

  Sergeant Caisson paused as he came to the front. There was no dead dog here. There were some kids’ bikes on the lawn across the street a few houses over, and that was it.

  There was also a car up on the curb, smashed into a signpost that was bent over at a ninety-degree angle.

  The damaged area was obvious at a distance of over twenty-five feet. This had happened a while ago, like everything else that been found so far. The glass windshield and windows were smashed. It was also just shy of the gas station.

  From where Caisson stood, he could see that the gas station was a small building and two pumps. There were no bays to work on vehicles or anything else. There were a few small stacked pyramids of cans and bags under clear plastic sheets to the side.

  It was a cheerful little building, red and green with a strange company logo over the door. It was the same logo as on the large signpost just out front. The price was $4.50 for a gallon. There was only one price listed and from where they were standing, the pumps didn’t look very high-tech. In fact, they looked like they only carried one type of gas.

  Caisson evaluated the approaches to the gas station. Large windows looked out toward it from all over. If they ran to the smashed up car, they could then move to the gas station. If anyone saw them and came out, they could take off and be back to the tree line in seconds. But they would have to head away from the service centre.

  He turned to Tocker and tapped him on the shoulder then leaned forward and whispered in his ear, “If we are spotted, run for the tree line. Do NOT head for the service centre. Take them out further into the woods and then circle back after maybe a klick or two. Clear?”

  Tocker nodded and gave him a thumbs up.

  Sergeant Caisson gestured, indicating what they were going to do, and again Tocker gave the thumbs up.

  The sergeant paused and did a last slow sweep of the area, looking for any movement or indications of life. There was nothing.

  He took a deep breath and took off running for the crashed car, with. Tocker right behind him. They came up to the car and slid behind it. They looked around to see if there was any indication that they had been seen or that anyone was even around.

  Still nothing.

  The sergeant looked in the car windows and saw personal items in the backseat. Up front there was a dark stain on the bench seat and a bloody handprint on the window. There was nothing else in the car, though. It was like the driver had crashed and started bleeding and then just gotten out of the car and left. It didn’t look that bad from where they were. Why would you leave the vehicle instead of driving it to medical care, or even just parking it properly when you left? Unless you were in shock after the accident.

  The other consideration was that something in the car had attacked the driver and forced the crash. The driver then got out and fled.

  It didn’t matter. They had to move on.

  Tocker kept watch while Caisson checked out the gas station from their closer vantage point. Nothing was different.

  The sergeant nodded at Tocker and took off at a run. A second later, Tocker was moving as well. They both came up to the side of the building and paused, breathing heavily.

  Caisson left Tocker to keep an eye out and moved to the door. It opened out and he braced a foot against it, then moved in front of it so he could get a clear view in. There was no one inside and the place looked as abandoned as everything else.

  He stepped back and carefully tried to open the door just a bit. It moved, but there as a faint chiming.

  He looked up. There was a chain from the door to the frame on the inside so the door could not be opened too far. There were two small bells on that chain, probably to let people know when someone opened the door.

  There was no way to muffle it but it was going to be loud in this silence if he wasn’t careful. He slowly opened the door just enough to get his body in and carefully reached up, grabbing both bells and squeezing.

  Then he opened the door the rest of the way and stepped inside. Private Tocker followed him, then closed and locked the door with the simple deadbolt. He disconnected the bells and put them on the floor.

  The inside of the building was even smaller than it looked like from outside. Private Tocker was behind the counter, opening a glass door. He looked over and pulled out chocolate bars, holding them up. Caisson nodded and Tocker dumped a selection out on the counter. There was an open window on the far wall. . The sergeant walked over to it and carefully closed and locked it.

  He walked around the smaller room, verifying it was secure. There was only the window and door. The front third of the building was where people would come in to buy something and there were display stands with windshield wiper blades, small pyramids of cans, a magazine rack, junk food display, cigarette displays that looked like something from his father’s time, and more stuff like that. He moved behind the counter to the rest of the building. There was the counter, which took up most of the space, a weird looking cash register, and boxes of stuff to top up the displays out front. There was a stand with maps and another with packs of smokes. There was also a large cooler that was bright red and had a cheerful retro Coke logo on it. There were two doors at the back.

  He brought the pry bar up and carefully stood by the first door. Tocker stood to the side, clutching his hammer. He yanked the door open, ready to stab forward. There was a small furnace and water heater with a toilet and sink to the side. It was a small room and all brick, with a single exposed lightbulb and a tiny closed, window up high.

&n
bsp; Sergeant Caisson closed the door and moved to the other one. Hand shaking, he took the handle, made sure that Tocker was still ready, and whipped the door open. He was ready to lunge in and stab or smash.

  It was a storage locker. More boxes, mostly closed, and a broom. It was bigger than the other room but with two exposed lightbulbs and two small windows up high, and no other access or places for anyone or anything to hide.

  He closed the door and took a deep breath. He walked over to the counter and put his pry bar down and grabbed the stool, sitting down. He looked at Private Tocker, who had grabbed a box of magazines and was using that as a seat while trying to open a chocolate bar with one hand.

  “Tocker, we can talk but we need to keep it down. We’re going to take a break. Put the hammer down, eat a chocolate bar, have a drink, and then we start collecting stuff from here.”

  Tocker put the hammer down and opened the wrapper, talking between bites. “What stuff are we collecting from here, Sergeant?”

  Caisson carefully opened a chocolate bar. It was a different brand than what he was familiar with, but it had nuts and was probably local. The chocolate was still dark, which was a good sign. He looked at Tocker. “Maps, we have newspapers, and some magazines. They look different from what we have in the centre so I figure we grab ‘em for whatever intel we can figure out. In fact…” He pulled his cell phone out of his chest pocket and put it on the counter. “I’m going to grab some pictures here of the area before we leave.”

  Both men sat there and ate the chocolate bars. Most of the chocolate on display was from unfamiliar brands.

  After he finished, Caisson walked to the cooler and opened the glass lid. “Man, this is so retro. You want something, Tocker? Hey, they have cream soda and root beer!”

  They sat back down, sipping their warm soda and eating another chocolate bar to get their blood sugar levels up, as they rested before heading on again.

  In The Service Centre