“Maybe we should make you some sort of leg sling so that you don’t have to keep holding it up on your own,” Doyle suggested, remembering his earlier thought.
It was Canary who rejected the idea. “I want to be able to try hobbling on my own if something happens, and I don’t want some weird sling thing getting in the way.”
Half of their remaining supplies were eaten, the other half held back for breakfast. After that, it was get home or find a food source. Rose volunteered to take first watch, while James would cover the middle of the night, and Doyle would take the end. Canary insisted she could keep watch with a bum leg. They were just sitting inside the shed and listening to whatever was outside after all, but no one sided with her. She needed rest.
Doyle wiggled around on his bedding until he found the most comfortable position, his arm throbbing where the nail had bitten into it. Surrounded by the smell of earth, old oil, and what he took to be stagnant water from a pool in a nearby yard, he fell asleep.
***
By the time the others awoke and were ready to eat, Doyle was practically starving, but he had forced himself to wait. By eating at the same time, they were all likely to get hungry at the same time, making it easier to decide if and when they had to stop for food on the way. They were close though; it shouldn’t take them too much longer to reach the bridge, and then the Black Box.
After checking Canary’s wound again, they headed out, this time with James carrying the extra pack.
As they moved through the streets, they came across the occasional zombie. It was always solo, however, and slow so that Rose could easily trot up to it, bash its head in with her hammer, and then swiftly return to the little group.
“By the time we get back, you’re going to be so used to having me on your side that you’ll walk lopsided when I’m gone,” Canary teased Doyle, her voice in the usual low whisper.
“I’m worried about that side of me getting cold, it’s already used to being warmer than the right.”
“Well, I’ll still need a crutch to help me get around for a while even after the doctors see me, so maybe if you’re nice I’ll let you be the crutch.”
Doyle chuckled.
They slipped through the same gap in the fence they had when first arriving at the suburb and headed for the railway bridge. It was harder going through the trees with Canary’s injury, but it didn’t slow them down too much. Once they reached the tracks where it was open, they moved at a decent pace again.
“I gotta say, after this, I don’t think I’ll need to go outside the fences again for a long time,” Doyle commented as they walked. Canary agreed with him, but the other two gave non-committal responses. Doyle knew that Rose enjoyed the excitement, the danger, but he couldn’t be so sure about James.
At the bridge, Rose checked for danger and gave the all clear. As they headed across, Doyle wondered what had become of the zombies who had been crossing the other bridge. They had likely found the Black Box and been killed, their packs then looted for stuff.
There were no zombies the entire time they followed the tracks. It seemed to Doyle that the closer they got to the Black Box, the more relieved he felt. He was looking forward to being back inside, back where there was running water and a comfortable bed. Although his plan to get books had gone disastrously awry, it had also been a successful mission. He held onto that thought as they drew closer and closer to home.
A bullet cracked into the pavement at their feet, causing all four of them to dive for the nearest cover behind the edge of a building. They were close enough for it to have come from the Black Box. Doyle was about to yell out, to identify themselves, when James clapped his hand over Doyle’s mouth and shook his head.
What’s going on? Canary signed, sitting on the ground against the wall, where Doyle had put her down.
James didn’t answer. He took out his binoculars and peered around the corner with them, looking for only a second before pulling back into cover.
It’s no one we know, he signed to the little group.
Someone’s outside our fences and shooting at us? Doyle signed back, trying to wrap his head around the idea.
James shook his head. They’re on the inside of the fence.
Doyle replayed James’ motions through his head, making sure he had the translation right, as signing wasn’t always exact. Someone they didn’t know on the inside of the fences?
Maybe someone new joined us while we were gone, Rose suggested, but her eyes were filled with panic.
James shook his head again. We wouldn’t have someone that new guarding the fences.
So what are you saying? Canary signed quickly, swatting James’ leg to make sure he was looking right at her.
I don’t think we have control of the Black Box anymore.
20
Misha’s Panicking
Misha was glad to see the horses come over the wall, to see that they were safe and unharmed. He wanted to go check on Danny, to ask how he was, but the doctors were currently tending to him and Misha knew it was best he keep out of the way.
Someone walked past Misha, saying his name, but Misha didn’t catch the whole thing; the man hadn’t spoken loudly enough to be heard over the goings-on.
“What?” Misha asked for clarification, but it was too late; the man had kept walking and now couldn’t hear Misha.
Assuming it must not have been important, Misha turned back to watch the wall. When the first two carts were lifted over, he knew that all the horses were inside, and redirected his attention to the people. They were climbing over the wall faster now than when Misha had last checked.
An alarm bell went off in Misha’s head a split second before the hands wrapped around his neck. His own hands shot up in response trying to pry loose the fingers that were suddenly cutting off his air and blood supply. His body reacted on automatic, thrashing every which way, but his unknown assailant was stronger, able to keep his hold.
Machete! Grab your machete! Misha’s mind finally started screaming.
Before he could follow through, something roared up behind them. With a scream, the man who had grabbed Misha fell to one side, dragging the pale Russian down with him. As soon as the hands slackened, Misha rolled away and scrambled back up onto his feet. He was surprised by what he saw.
The man who had attacked him was one of the people they were allowing over the wall, the one whose face was frequently twisted with anger and annoyance. Rifle was on top of him, his grey muzzle latched onto the man’s shoulder.
“Rifle, stop!”
Rifle released his jaws and limped over to Misha with blood on his teeth. Misha dropped to his knees, consumed with worry that his brother had been hurt, wrapping his arms around the old dog and checking him over. Rifle hadn’t done anything that physically intensive in a long time.
The first person to reach the confrontation was the other man from over the wall, the one who was apparently their leader and looked like he had Viking blood running through his veins. Just as Misha’s assailant sat up, the blond man delivered a cracking punch to the side of his face. The blond’s face was oddly expressionless as he did it.
“You fucking idiot,” the blond leader hissed at Misha’s assailant while Harry grabbed him, pulling him upright. “We need to get along with these people.” Although emotion was present as he spoke, there was a still a strange sort of detachment, like it wasn’t quite the right emotion.
As the opposing leader got dragged away, Misha noticed his other dogs coming over, all of them snarling in his attacker’s direction. They would have done the same as Rifle had the old dog not reacted first. Misha scratched their heads calming them as they turned, whined, and sniffed worriedly at him and Rifle.
“What the fuck happened?” Karsten shouted as he arrived on the scene. “Who was guarding this arschloch?”
A ring had formed around Misha and his attacker, who was being held painfully against the ground by White. Misha wanted to leave, wanted to take Rifle to a vet. The G
erman Shepherd was leaning into his embrace, allowing Misha to hold him upright.
“I asked Misha to watch him while I went to take a piss,” someone from the ring spoke.
Misha’s head shot up, his eyes quickly locating the culprit. It had been the man from earlier, someone whose name started with a J or a G that Misha had never learned.
“What?” Misha barked, his voice harsher than usual. He was so worried about Rifle he didn’t even notice the swelling pain building around his throat. “I didn’t fucking hear you! And I said as much!” Were he not holding Rifle, he would have gotten up and assaulted the man. All around him, his dogs bristled in response to his outburst.
Karsten stepped forward, his hands held out to either side in a separation gesture. “We still need to get the rest of these people over the wall. Someone drag this piece of shit to a doctor and a holding container. Better yet, find him a place where he can be alone; we’ll deal with him later. And you,” Karsten pointed at J or G, “we’re going to talk later about this. You too, Misha, but tend to your dog for now.”
White hauled the assailant up onto his feet, then frog-marched his bleeding prisoner away, a woman following with a gun ready. The ring dispersed, leaving Misha with Rifle and his dogs.
“Come on, bratishka, let’s get you checked out.” Misha stood, carefully lifting Rifle. The dog was still heavy, but he was lighter than when he was younger.
Misha carried the Shepherd between the containers; Bullet stayed right alongside, the other dogs circling like worried satellites. Misha wasn’t even entirely sure where he was going. Normally, he trusted Cameron with these sorts of things, but she wasn’t here: she had gone to the Black Box for some unknown reason. He knew one of the other vets was on Animal Island, but the bridge was disconnected. Were other vets on the island as well? Were they all there, leaving him alone and half-panicked?
Misha then remembered what he had been doing just before being attacked: watching the horses. If there was a vet still in the container yard, he or she would be with the horses, checking them over. Misha redirected his course to head to the makeshift stables, located near to where the wall met the river.
By the time he got there, Rifle was making annoyed grunting sounds and wiggling somewhat, wanting to be put down; Misha was dripping with sweat. Thankfully, he was right about the veterinarians looking over the horses and settling them. There were two working with the large animals.
“Help,” he called weakly to them, not only out of breath but suffering from a sore throat.
An oddly proportioned man named Nedry, whom Misha had seen working with Cameron many times, turned. Seeing that Misha was carrying a dog, he rushed over.
“Bring him here; there’s a blanket you can lay him on. What happened?” Nedry briskly asked, guiding Misha to a small pile of horse blankets.
Misha gently lay Rifle, who grunted, down on the pile.
“He jumped on someone, and I think he hurt himself,” Misha relayed rapidly in a scratchy voice. “He was favouring his right front leg a lot.”
Nedry looked pointedly at the bruises blooming around Misha’s neck, and then the droplets of blood around Rifle’s grey muzzle, instantly figuring out why the old dog had been jumping on someone. The vet stroked Rifle’s head, whispering soothing words to him, then began his examination.
“Bullet, stay back,” Misha commanded when the younger dog tried to nose in on what was happening. All the dogs were curious, forcing Misha to give them sit-and-stay commands a few feet away. He then hovered over Nedry like a nervous mother.
“Well, he doesn’t appear to have broken any bones or dislocated anything,” Nerdy pronounced, “and I can’t locate any bruising, or anything that would suggest internal damage.”
Misha sighed with relief.
“Cameron mentioned once that he has some arthritis?”
Misha nodded.
“Without any scans or anything, I would guess Rifle either just aggravated his arthritis, or, more likely, pulled a muscle. Either way, he needs rest for that.”
Misha closed his eyes and took a deep breath, so grateful that it wasn’t anything worse. He didn’t know what he would do if Rifle was badly injured while protecting him.
“Would you like to leave him here, or can you carry him some more?”
“I can carry him back to my container. He’ll be more comfortable there.”
“Sure, but maybe take a bit of a break first; you look like you could use it. Has anyone looked at your neck yet?”
“Not yet.”
Nedry nodded, understanding that Misha was more worried about Rifle.
“Do you have a toothbrush for Rifle? It would be good for his teeth to clean off that blood.”
“I will.” Misha had toothbrushes for all the dogs. He didn’t have any toothpaste for them, but even just using water made a difference. The dogs were always getting into things, killing mice and rats, and gobbling up whatever food anyone dropped. If Misha didn’t brush their teeth, their breath became as bad as a zombie’s, and when several of them began stinking up the container, it quickly became unbearable. He wished he could do something similar about their farting.
Taking Nedry’s advice, Misha took a break before carrying Rifle back to his container. Sitting on the ground and gently probing his neck, he watched as the two veterinarians finished preparing the horses and their stalls. Their containers were already full of padding, wrapped around all walls and the ceiling to reduce noise, but it looked to Misha like more had been added. The floors had a lot more hay laid down than usual. The vets had placed blinders on the horse’s faces, in all likelihood because there were more of them than usual in the containers, some of them strangers. All of them were tethered to loops bolted to the metal walls, and Misha watched Nedry give one of the horses an injection, likely a sedative of some kind. Misha wondered how many humans would accept a sedative if offered one.
***
The dogs began to get fidgety. They paced with heads low and ears high, constantly twisting their heads around to look toward the wall. Misha knew exactly what it meant.
“The zombies are almost here,” he warned the vets, getting back on his feet.
The two of them nodded as Misha picked Rifle up again. The dog flattened his ears, not appreciating being manhandled, but he kept silent. He knew what was coming.
Misha hurried to his container as fast as he could, the other dogs threatening to trip him they were pressed so closely around his legs. All throughout the container yard, he saw closed doors. Most people were choosing to ride this out in their own homes, sealed off and hoping not to have any contact with what was coming. Misha would have bet that those who had headphones and functioning music players with charged batteries were currently selecting their play lists.
By the time he reached his own container, Misha could hear the moaning. He gently lay Rifle down on his bed, and quietly commanded the rest of the dogs to their mattresses. They were anxious and looking to Misha.
“Stay. You’ll be safe here, just stay quiet.” It was a pointless command, for he knew they wouldn’t make a sound. Dogs these days knew to keep silent in the presence of the dead. They were also forced to stay, as Misha closed the container doors, hoping the dogs wouldn’t think to push on them because they couldn’t be latched from the outside. Rifle’s bloody teeth would have to wait.
Running back to the wall, Misha thought he’d help out. It turned out to be unnecessary, as everyone had made it over and the ladders were now being drawn up.
“Misha,” a half-whispered voice called out.
Misha turned and spotted Jon waving at him, standing with the two men who had warned them of the coming zombies and helped negotiate a deal between the two groups. There was also a young woman with them, whom Misha didn’t recognize.
“You okay?” Jon asked in a low voice when Misha got near.
“Sore, but fine,” Misha answered in a whisper, tempted to use sign.
“They’re farther than you thi
nk,” commented Mark, the guy who swam along the river with Jon. Misha hadn’t seen them arrive, but heard about how they were scooped out when the negotiations began. The cloudy day meant they weren’t completely dry yet.
“There’s so many, you can hear them from farther away than other zombie herds,” clarified the girl. Misha still didn’t like how loudly they were speaking.
It seemed Jon didn’t either, as he continued to whisper after giving them a mildly irritated look. “Misha, this is Suzanne, Tommy, and Mark. Mark and I were best friends in high school.”
Misha couldn’t hide his startled response. For many years, no one had run into someone they knew before the Day, not since they boarded the Diana. It explained why Jon had helped Mark get in and why they listened to him so readily.
“I know, right?” Jon grinned at Misha’s reaction. “We got separated on the Day.” He then turned to Mark. “After this, we’ll visit the Black Box. Abby lives there, and so does Claire.”
“Seriously?”
“Wait, is that the Claire you told me about? The one who lived in your apartment building?” Suzanne wondered. She was whispering now, but it seemed to be out of courtesy rather than the fear Misha and Jon felt.
“That would be her; they did live in the same building,” Jon said, nodding.
“Oh, then we have to go see them,” Suzanne insisted. “Did you know he carried around a med kit for years because of her?” she spoke to Jon and Misha.
Mark’s face turned a bright red.
“Same colour as that,” Suzanne teased Mark before planting a kiss on his cheek.
“Where have your leaders gone? Boyle and Karsten?” Tommy asked, looking around the area.
Defensive Instinct (Survival Instinct Book 4) Page 29
