Daylight, finally.
I haven’t slept more than a few hours. My body is stiff, and my mouth tastes like the Dumpster smells. I eat a quick breakfast—peaches and a Powerbar—before sliding out of my little shelter to seek cover in a grove of trees nearby. I don’t make the mistake of assuming I’m alone.
But I am—for now, anyway.
The town is pale blue and quiet in the early morning light. This time of day always makes me nostalgic, and I think of days past even as I tell myself to pay attention. My heart sinks with each step I take toward the SuperMart.
The place has been ransacked. That much is clear from the broken windows and the debris all over the parking lot. And yet I entertain the possibility that the inside has been left untouched. There are infected all over the front parking lot, and maybe, just maybe, their presence has been enough to keep away raiders and scavengers all these years.
The chances of that are slim.
On a positive note, the infected aren’t formed in groups. I count close to thirty scattered across the small lake of concrete, all standing apart from each other. Even from this distance, I can smell their dank clothes and unwashed, putrid bodies. Their rotting heads droop forward and their necks are a vile shade of red from burning in the sun.
A woman stumbles around in a circle, arms jerking as if she is conducting an orchestra that exists only in her own diseased mind. In the distance, a skinny man dressed all in black wrestles with a toppled shopping cart that must be from the grocery store at the opposite end. Most of the infected are just standing there or shuffling around aimlessly.
The grocery store. I forgot there was one here. Maybe it’ll have—
But any urge to explore it dissolves when I see the gaping black hole where the entrance used to be. It looks like someone backed a garbage truck through it.
I make my way around the strip of buildings. The SuperMart has a set of two loading bay doors in the back. I take it as a good sign that none of them is busted or covered in graffiti. Above them is a ledge that extends a few feet from the windows, which are surprisingly intact. I take out my grappling hook and toss it up. When it finally catches, I test it a few times before shimmying up the rope.
The storm windows are made of impact-resistant glass, difficult to break without making a lot of noise. I use the glasscutter to cut a rectangular opening, and the suction cups to pull out the glass so I can quietly set it aside. Once I’m through, I find myself in an office that has been trashed, a place so quiet I almost expect to hear the beep of a computer.
It looks like hell in here, but there is no sign that raiders or scavengers have been through. I allow myself a few seconds to bask in a pleasant, hopeful feeling.
Out in the dank, unlit hallway, I come to a featureless gray door on which my flashlight reveals two signs, one stating “Employees Only” beneath another that reads “FIRE ESCAPE” with the universal symbol for stairs. First turning off my flashlight to avoid drawing attention, I open the door. Of course, the stairwell beyond is completely dark. I catch a whiff of infected. It’s light, just a fringe smell, which means the stairs are probably empty. I crouch in the darkness, close my eyes, and listen anyway.
Not a thing. I decide it’s safe to turn on my flashlight and make my way down, my senses on full alert, the flashlight’s beam stretching shadows on the wall. When I reach the bottom of the stairs, I turn it off and peek out the door to the shopping area.
The store looks twice as big as I remember, though that’s probably an illusion caused by the shelves, most of which have been toppled. My chest expands with hope when I see that the shelves against the wall still contain various supplies, like toilet paper and toothbrushes.
If raiders had been through here, they wouldn’t have left behind such luxuries. There’s a possibility that only infected—who have no desire for such things, including medicine—are the only people to have come through this store since the town fell.
My hopes dwindle as one of my father’s favorite lessons runs through my mind.
If it seems too good to be true, then it probably is. Play devil’s advocate eighty percent of the time, in a hundred percent of situations.
Okay, Dad. Fine. There’s a distinct possibility that raiders have been through here, and that they took so many supplies they either couldn’t fit everything, or they could afford to leave behind things like toothbrushes.
If that’s true, medicine is one of the first supplies they would have grabbed. I might be shit out of luck.
The front half of the store is well-lit thanks to the broad windows. A dozen or so infected loiter there. From my spot in the darkened back area, I’m well hidden from any that might glance in my direction. Of course, the store’s back half could hold just as many infected as the front, or more, hiding in the shadows. As my eyes adjust to the darkness, I see a few of them among the shelves, but they seem intent on whatever it is they’re doing. Playing with the store’s remaining wares, probably.
The pharmacy is right where I remember it. There are no windows along its back wall because the loading area is behind it. No windows means no light, and I already consider the possibility that the space is filled with infected, and that taking out my flashlight to read the labels might be too dangerous to attempt.
I approach the long counter serving as a border between the pharmacy and the rest of the store. Keeping to the shadows, I lean over the counter and peer inside. I see empty shelves in the low light, but that doesn’t mean the place has been cleaned out. Maybe the bottles were knocked over by infected.
I look down at the floor and see small, pale, uniform shapes. My heart soars.
Medicine.
CHAPTER 5
When I’m sure no infected are looking my way, I carefully slide over the counter. I keep low to the ground, my hands feeling the bottles to make sure they’re not just empties. But the lids are screwed on tight and I can hear pills clicking around inside.
A flashlight would really help right now, but it’s too risky. With no other light back here, the beam would be easy to spot.
Every problem has a solution, however—especially when you bring the right tools.
I take out the Leatherman multi-tool and click on the tiny blue bulb on one of its prongs. The light isn’t strong enough to guide someone through a dark room, but it’s perfect for reading the labels.
I’ve taken care of the lighting situation, but that was the easy part. Now I have to deal with the noise. The sporadic moaning and growling of the infected on the main floor might mask the clicking of the pills. But I can’t risk finding out the hard way.
A loud thump from the shopping area startles me. The noise is followed by a series of angry snarls. I raise my head to peer over the counter, just in time to see two infected wrestling in the central aisle. They must have tripped over each other. After a few seconds of kicking and pushing, one gets up, a black shape against the glare from the windows, and makes its way toward the front as if nothing happened. The other rolls over a few times but doesn’t get up.
With a relieved breath, I go back to work.
There’s only one way to keep silent, and it requires moving around on all fours without touching the bottles I don’t need. I keep the multi-tool between my clenched teeth and make my way over the mess, careful to place my hands and boots on bare sections of the floor. It’s incredibly difficult to do, and I move with the slowness of a turtle—a fitting image since my pack weighs oppressively against my spine.
I’ve studied my father’s survivalist manuals and medical journals enough to know what kinds of medication apply to my current situation. The virus isn’t the only infection people like us need to worry about. The other silent killer is bacterial.
Which is why I’m incredibly lucky to find a full bottle of Nafcillin followed by, mere minutes later, a bottle of Vancomycin. Both are industrial size, each containing five hundred pills. But there’s enough space in each bottle to make carrying them around as noisy as shaking a p
air of maracas.
I find a spot between two shelves, slide off my pack, and get to work opening the bottles and stuffing them with toilet paper. (I forgot to mention I packed that as well—should be no surprise there.) Once they’re both full, I screw on the caps. Then I test the noise level by tapping them against my thigh.
Barely a click of sound. I stuff them into the bottom of my pack, so they won’t fall out or get in the way, then slide my pack forward to clear a bit of room for my legs, which I stretch to avoid cramps.
A good idea would be to search the place for more valuable medicine. But just as I start to push myself off the ground, a metallic click makes me freeze.
It can’t be what I think it is—can it?
I reposition myself into a crouch, close my eyes, and listen. The ensuing shuffling sound that rises to my left is slow and clumsy, as if the intruder is uncertain about entering all the way. A sour, fleshy smell thickens the air—not quite the smell of rot, but close.
Early-stage infected. Somehow it managed to open the pharmacy’s side door. It was stupid of me not to check it first.
Now the only question is: how many are there?
Sudden silence tells me the thing has stopped walking. I’m thankful for the shelf blocking me from view, though it won’t help if the smell of my sweat gives me away. I listen more closely and hear a sniffing sound.
The most important thing—besides avoiding contamination—is keeping my pack with me at all times. Without it, I’m a dead man, and so is my father.
It’s bad luck, I guess. The pack lies with its bulging bottom extending past the shelf. If I try to move it, the infected will see the motion.
There is nothing of interest to them inside my bag. I could leave it here and come back, and there’s a good chance they’ll leave it alone since it doesn’t smell like food and is very tough to open, especially with hands connected to a virus-eaten brain like theirs.
Again, I hear the shuffling sound of movement, along with vocal sounds. There are two of them, each making a distinct noise—a male emitting a low moan, and a woman letting out a thin whine that sounds like air leaking from a balloon.
Unless I consider jumping over the counter a viable means of escape—which it isn’t because I can’t see what’s on the other side—there is really only one option, and that’s the door. The problem is the two infected standing in the way. Could I use the knife to take them out quietly? It’s possible, but the risk is too great. If I attract a swarm, I’ll never get out.
A desperate idea comes to me.
I reach down to one of the pouches hanging off my belt. The moans and footsteps grow louder as the infected approach my position, only seconds away from appearing in front of me. I slide a few fingers into the pouch, wrap them around the Zippo, and slip it out.
I flip the lid back, snap my thumb against the flint wheel, and watch the spark fatten into a shivering flame half an inch tall. I flick it into the far corner. By the time it lands, there is nothing hiding me from the infected. The male could have turned and easily caught me sitting there.
Instead, the flame catches their attention. They lunge at it. The medicine bottles are a lucky trap, and the infected lose their footing and collapse in a tangle.
I grab my pack and sprint past the door. As effective as my plan ended up being, it caused enough racket to draw every infected person in the drugstore—and even a bunch from outside—toward the pharmacy. Dark shapes fill the front windows.
Running in a low crouch, I make my way to the stairwell. I take the steps two at a time and emerge unscathed in the same dank hallway as before. My flashlight cuts a tunnel through the darkness.
I’m safe for now. But something is wrong. It smells different in here—rank body odor combined with a dry, papery smell unlike anything an old office would emit.
Pulse pounding in my ears, I hold the Glock and the flashlight side by side in both hands as I creep forward. The room with the windows should be right around the corner. I can use the grappling hook to climb back down. Shouldn’t take more than three minutes to be on my way.
But that smell.
What could it be? The papery and spicy nature of it reminds me of a dried wasp’s nest, only several times more pungent, and mixed with something like armpit odor.
I no longer need the flashlight and click it off before rounding the corner. The trashed office is to my left, daylight streaming through the open door. It hits me full-on in the face and makes me wince.
A dry-sounding bark almost makes me fire the pistol into the darkness at the other end of the hallway. Instead, I aim straight ahead at where I expect my attacker’s chest to be. When they emerge—two males down on all fours—I adjust my aim, but it’s too late.
They charge me like a pair of chimpanzees, feet banging the carpeted floor.
Skinny, hairless, and covered in dust—more like monsters than anything human.
I’m too freaked out to aim properly and shoot. Instead, I leap out of their way and land inside the office. As they lunge past the door, I catch a glimpse of pale skin stretched over ribs, emaciated arms covered in scratches, and then a pair of ghastly, skeletal faces that whip around to study me through the doorway.
Two sets of milky eyes blink at me. I was wrong about them both being males.
It’s actually a man and a woman, though it’s hard to tell the difference since they both seem to weigh about ninety pounds and have lost all hair including their eyebrows. Both are shirtless and barefoot, though the man wears tattered jean shorts and the woman a pair of torn spandex pants. So many old scars and fresh cuts decorate the exposed parts of their bodies that it’s like they drew maps all over each other with a razor blade, etching new features over the ones that had healed. The fine layer of dust covering them must be from the plaster used in the construction of these offices, meaning they’ve been trapped in here a while.
I extend my boot, hook it behind the door, and kick it shut in their faces. I’m up in a flash and immediately twist the lock in the doorknob to seal it shut. The two infected waste no time. They pound the door with such force that I reconsider just how strong late-stagers can be.
When they start hammering the sheets of Plexiglass in the windows facing the hallway, I know I’m in trouble. The glass holds for about three seconds before falling inward with a bang that sends sheets of paper fluttering. Like a couple of pale frogs, the man and the woman leap through the opening and land inside the office.
There’s no time to climb back outside. I face the emaciated couple. Sure enough, they’re both wearing gold wedding bands.
Married.
These two loved each other once. Maybe they still do.
None of that stops me from aiming the Glock at their chests, and yet I can’t pull the trigger. They don’t look hungry or violent or even angry at being disturbed. They just blink in my direction with red-veined, milky eyes.
I shouldn’t have hesitated. They duck at the same time, movements perfectly in sync. I fire at empty air. The pop is deafening. They spring toward me with surprising agility and tackle me to the ground.
The gun slips out of my hand. I would pick it back up, but all four of my limbs are suddenly occupied in the struggle to fend them off. On my left side, the man struggles to bite into my raised forearm, but the coverall’s fabric keeps me protected. The woman is more vicious and tries to claw at my face. I resist using my right arm and slam my leg into her side with enough force to roll her off.
The man’s teeth snap above my face. A line of drool swings from his cracked lower lip. If a single fleck enters my mouth or one of my eyes, I’m toast.
The woman scrambles to get back up. When she finally does, I manage to locate the pistol lying next to me. I sweep my arm over it and slide it closer to my hip, where I can finally grab it. The woman readies herself to pounce, and I use the opportunity to aim at her chest.
As I’m about to shoot, a strange thing happens.
Her head jerks forward as if she�
�s been punched. When she lifts it again, I see an arrow that wasn’t there before. It entered through the back and impaled her left eye as it emerged through the front, destroying enough of her brain to drop her. Who could have shot that thing so perfectly?
I can’t let the mystery of the arrow distract me, not with my left side pinned beneath the man’s weight. His mouth is leaking spit like a faucet. A gob of it lands next to my head, and I catch the cheesy smell coming from his rotten, yellow tongue.
The Glock. I need to use the Glock.
I push him away at an angle to distance myself from his toxic saliva. There’s just enough space between us now that I can press the Glock’s barrel to his ribcage.
The shot sends a jolt through my entire body, but it’s nothing compared to what it does to the man. He jolts upright with a gasp, paws at the wound, and starts to spin, his mouth gaping open in a silent scream.
I put another bullet in his skull. Then I do the same to the woman, though it’s clear she isn’t getting back up again. Another glimpse of the arrow sticking through her head reminds me I’m not alone in the room.
I swing around, pistol raised, and fall instinctively to one knee in the case the archer has loosed another arrow at me. But this mystery archer is actually a young woman, and though she aims what appears to be an expensive bow at me, I can tell by the guarded, fearful look in her eyes that she doesn’t want to shoot.
I lower the pistol. The room goes quiet except for the sound of our breaths. I’m sure every infected within a hundred yards heard the gunfire and is making a beeline toward the SuperMart. The girl’s eyes lock with mine, and I know she’s thinking the same thing.
And yet, despite the urgency of our situation, all we can do is stare at each other. I don’t know what to think. Armed with a small pack, an arrow quiver, and a utility belt, she wears a coverall almost identical to mine, except hers is Navy Blue whereas mine is black. There’s no doubt she’s a trained survivalist, but the way her nostrils flare with each breath, and the unblinking fear in her eyes tell me she’s having trouble accepting this situation.
Outbreak: A Survival Thriller Page 3
