The first one I encountered surprised me. We had split up to cover more ground. Before I could get a round off, the thing swiped at the shotgun, knocking it out of my hand. As I backed away, I grabbed the handle of my axe and swung it up and over my head, slicing into the dragger’s neck. It kept coming at me—its head half-off—looking at me like a curious dog, hundreds of maggots swarming out of the dry, fleshy wound.
Though draggers are dangerous, they always follow the same playbook. It goes like this. First, they grab. They’re strong, and once they have you, it’s hard to get away. Then, they try to sink their teeth into you—face, neck or arms. When they get that first taste, that’s when they go to work. It’s like a frenzy. Next thing, you’re a party platter, as more of them join in the fun.
So I did the logical thing. I whacked off both its hands. It flailed at me with the stumps, struggling to pin me. I danced around it, trying to return to where my gun lay, to put an end to this lame Kabuki routine.
Quigs appeared from the forest, laughing. “I didn’t know you could dance, Pulaski,” he said.
“Uh, help?”
Spitting, he raised his AR-15, took aim and shot the dangling head through the eye. The body teetered for a moment, then dropped where it stood.
I was breathing hard when he came over to check the body. I wanted to hit him for laughing at me.
“He surprised me,” I said.
Quigs didn’t say anything as Warnick and Landry joined us in the clearing.
“Everything okay?” Warnick said.
Quigs looked past him, squinting into the distance. “Where’s Yang?”
We heard a scream. We followed it and discovered Yang on the ground, a dragger—a middle-aged woman—on top of him, tearing away at his arm. Warnick marched up to the dead thing, grabbed it by its greasy hair and fired two rounds into its skull. As it shuddered violently, he kicked off the carcass and examined Yang.
“Thanks, man,” Yang said.
Saying nothing, Warnick stood. Yang looked scared as we circled him. He knew we were all thinking the same thing. Landry raised his rifle and pointed it at Yang’s head, but Warnick pushed the barrel away. Grabbing my axe, he kicked Yang’s arm away from his body, stood on his hand and with one swing hacked off the limb above the elbow, just missing the chest.
Yang screamed till his voice was raw, and blood squirted everywhere. Warnick tore the rope off the axe to make a tourniquet. After a few minutes, he got Yang to his feet. The soldier was already going into shock, and it was hard for him to stay standing.
“You’re not taking him back?” I said, looking at the severed arm.
“He’s infected,” Landry said.
“He was bleeding pretty bad,” Warnick said, “which may have stopped the virus from traveling.”
“That’s bullshit,” Landry said.
“This happened to a couple of our men. We found that if we can remove the appendage in time, there’s a chance the victim won’t turn.”
“I don’t know …” Landry said. “It’s too risky.”
“Has that ever worked?” I said. Warnick ignored me. “Warnick, has it ever worked?”
“Once.”
“We have to try,” Quigs said. “Come on, buddy.” He draped Yang’s good arm over his shoulder.
“I promise you I won’t put anyone in danger,” Warnick said. “Let’s get him back to the compound.”
We didn’t run across any more draggers. On the way back, I tried texting Holly on my cell phone. The service was sketchy, but this time it worked. By the time we arrived, she and the others were waiting.
We decided to lock Yang in the service building that housed the generator. He was weak, and Warnick had to contact Chavez for first aid, including blood for a transfusion.
After giving Yang water and painkillers and trying to make him as comfortable as possible, we stepped outside to wait for Chavez.
“Once he’s had the transfusion, we’ll leave him locked in there,” Warnick said. “Then we wait.”
“I don’t know,” Landry said.
“What if it was one of us?” Holly said. “I’d do it for you, Irwin.”
“I appreciate that, Holly, but staying alive means making hard choices. If that was me in there, I’d expect you to do the right thing.”
The one problem with our plan was there was no way for us to know for sure how long it would take. We’d all seen people turn. Could it vary by individual? Ram, genius that he was, had thought to install video cameras inside the building. We could monitor Yang without going in.
Chavez returned with blood and medicine. I learned that he had trained as an EMT. He cauterized the arm, gave Yang blood and set up a drip containing antibiotics and morphine.
“Let’s put him in my vehicle,” Chavez said as he finished up. “I’ll drive him down to the hospital.”
“I like that idea,” Landry said.
“With all due respect, that’s a bad idea,” Warnick said. “If he’s infected, we don’t know how long before he turns. He might end up attacking you while you’re driving.”
Chavez considered this as he inspected the interior of the building. “Is this place secure?”
“Yes,” Warnick said. “And we can monitor him with those video cameras.”
“Please,” Quigs said.
“Okay, but I want you all out of here. Someone give me the keys. I’ll finish up in here and lock the door.”
During his shift Quigs kept his eyes on the monitor showing his friend. Some of us went down to the basement to have a look. Others watched from the monitors in the kitchen.
Yang looked stable, and I thought he might pull through as Warnick had described. We agreed to convene in the morning and decide what to do next.
That night towards the end of my shift, I noticed that the drip stand lay on the ground. I wished there were a microphone so I could hear what was going on in the generator building.
I called my backup, Warnick. Chavez came with him, and the three of us watched for a time as Yang staggered back and forth in an odd way that we all recognized.
“Shit,” Warnick said, kicking a chair and pulling at his hair.
Yang stopped in front of one of the cameras and stared into it. We saw the unmistakable dead eyes and knew that this wasn’t Yang anymore.
“Should I get Quigs?” I said.
“No, let him sleep,” Chavez said. “I’ll take care of it.”
“At least you tried,” I said to Warnick, patting his shoulder.
“Just so you know,” Warnick said, “I’d give you the same chance.”
We watched as Chavez pulled out his handgun and made sure the clip was full. Then he left to put Yang down.
“Make sure you take one of the dogs with you,” I said. He glared at me. “You know, in case.”
As we focused on one monitor, Chavez and a German shepherd entered the room with Yang. Only a moment ago Yang had been swaying rhythmically in front of the camera. Now he was alert and became very interested in getting close to a warm human being. But he never got the chance.
Chavez fired three times at Yang’s face, tearing off his nose, then the top of his head. Yang fell onto his back, and the dog trotted forward to sniff the body while Chavez said something. A prayer? Then Chavez dragged the body out of view. We didn’t see him for another half hour. Warnick waited with me near the monitors.
“I’m going to see what’s happening,” Warnick said.
Ben came down to start his shift. “What’s going on?”
I said, “Yang turned.” Then to Warnick, “Wait, I’m coming with you.” We both hurried up the stairs. “Ben, keep an eye on that generator building.”
When we got outside, we found Chavez placing a black nylon bag into the back of the Humvee and closing the door.
“Everything okay?” Warnick said.
“Yeah, why?”
“Is Yang’s body still in there?” I said.
Chavez pointed to the fire pit outside the fenc
e. There was a blaze going. “Let’s get inside.”
As we went in, I glanced back at the Humvee. I thought Chavez was acting strangely, but I dismissed the feeling. What did I expect? He’d killed one of his own men. Warnick had told me that Chavez served in Afghanistan and had gotten shot up pretty bad. How could harrowing experiences like those not affect a person?
“Ruined my uniform,” he said to no one. “You can’t get the blood out.”
All the next day Quigs was sullen and refused to eat, so Chavez relieved him of duty. Holly tried comforting him, but all he wanted was to sit around playing Call of Duty. If Yang’s death affected Warnick, he didn’t show it. No one spoke of it again.
The next day we heard a disturbance outside. Aaron was on duty in the basement and sounded the alarm. Upstairs, we heard the dogs barking.
From the kitchen monitors, I saw a teenage girl and boy running towards our fence. They tried climbing it but were electrocuted and thrown back. As we ran out the front door with our weapons, we saw the girl and boy begging to be let in. Behind them was an angry group of armed men. One of them—the largest of the group—fired at the teenagers but missed. We didn’t return the fire for fear of hitting the kids.
I saw that the boy was injured. His left ear was bleeding, and it looked like he might’ve been attacked by a dragger. The girl was tall, and wearing a lot of eyeliner. Her fingernails were painted black and reminded me of the undead.
“Open the gate!” Holly said.
“Aaron can’t hear you,” I said. She gave me a look, then signaled into a video camera.
The gate opened long enough to let the girl and boy inside. As it closed, we fired warning shots to keep the men from getting in. The girl and boy hid behind us as the men fell back.
Chavez had already left for the day. The rest of us trained our weapons on those bozos.
“Yer makin’ a mistake with that kid,” the leader said. “He’s infected.”
I recognized his voice and realized it was Travis Golightly, the racist owner of the Beehive and first lieutenant to Ormand Ferry. These guys were Red Militia.
“Is that why you’re trying to shoot them?” Holly said.
“They’re brother and sister. Most likely both infected,” he said.
“You should leave,” Holly said. She looked at Warnick and Quigs, who seemed to agree.
“You know what?” Travis said. For some reason he thought better of it. Then he muttered something to the others, and they lowered their weapons. “Your funeral,” he said, and they walked off down the driveway.
We watched them go, then took the girl and boy into the house. Other than the bloody ear, the boy didn’t appear to be suffering in any way. In fact, he acted normal. We took them into the kitchen. Holly cleaned and bandaged the boy’s ear while the girl watched intently. They did, in fact, resemble each other.
“The cut’s pretty clean,” Holly said to the boy. “Please tell me a dragger didn’t do this.”
“I got into a fight is all.”
“It’s why we ran away,” the girl said.
“We can’t take any chances,” Landry said. “The boy can’t stay in the house.”
“Hang on,” Holly said, and got them a couple of sodas from the refrigerator. “What are your names?”
“I’m Griffin Sparrow,” the girl said. “This is my brother Kyle.”
“Nice to meet you,” Holly said, and introduced the rest of us. “How old are you, Kyle?”
“Thirteen.”
“Why did you run away?” Landry said.
“That guy you talked to outside?” Griffin said. “He’s our stepdad.”
“Travis Golightly is your stepfather?” I said.
“So you were running away from him?” Holly said.
“Wait a second,” Ben said. “How did you get all the way out here?”
“We were riding with those men,” Griffin said. “Kyle and I said we had to pee. When we got out, we ran into the forest. We didn’t know there was a house up here.”
“And they chased you?” Landry said.
“It’s lucky the draggers didn’t get you,” Holly said.
“All that talk about being infected,” Griffin said. “He cut Kyle’s ear with a razor to give himself an excuse.”
“An excuse?” I said.
“To kill us,” she said without emotion.
“Dear God,” Ben said.
“He hates us,” Kyle said. “Always has.”
“Where’s your mom?” Holly said.
“Dead,” Griffin said, not looking at anyone. “One of the dead people got her. After she died, I guess Travis thought he could do whatever he wanted.”
“I see,” Holly said. Then to Griffin, “Listen, I want to check you to make sure you’re okay. Come on, there’s a bathroom around the corner.”
They left for a few minutes. When they returned, Holly looked concerned.
“Well?” I said.
“She’s fine. No bites.” Then to the kids, “We need to give you both tetanus shots just in case. Okay?”
Griffin looked at her brother. “Sure, I guess.”
“Can you get the medical kit?” Holly said to Warnick.
Warnick injected them both. Then Holly turned to Kyle, who was watching her look after his sister. “I’m sorry, Kyle, but Irwin is right. You’re prob’ly telling the truth, but we have to be sure.” She turned to me and said, “Let’s take him out to the generator building.”
We decided to let Griffin stay with us in the house. Looking into their eyes, I wanted to believe their story, crazy as it was. But with Kyle we couldn’t take any chances.
We walked Kyle over the generator building and left him inside with food, water and a sleeping bag.
“There are cameras in here so we can see you,” Holly said, sounding maternal. “You don’t need to worry about the draggers or anyone else. This building is secure.”
“How long do I have to stay here?”
She looked at me, then at Kyle. “We’re not sure. But it shouldn’t be more than a day or so.”
“I don’t want to be in here by myself,” Kyle said.
I could tell the kid was scared. “I’m sorry, Kyle. We have to be sure.”
“Whatever.”
We closed and locked the door without looking back.
When I came into our room, Holly was sitting on the bed a million miles away. I put a hand on her shoulder, and for the first time in days, she touched me.
“There’s something those kids aren’t telling us,” she said.
“I have the same feeling. Why would a man try to murder his own stepkids?”
“I found bruises on Griffin when I examined her,” Holly said. “I don’t think she got those recently either.”
“What about the boy?”
“Nothing.”
“You think Travis beats her?”
“I think it’s worse. Those bruises weren’t just on her arms and legs. They were on her inner thighs.”
“You mean that big guy on top of …” I couldn’t even finish the sentence. “That ripe, sick bastard.”
“I’m almost sure of it,” she said. “I think their mother might have been trying to protect her. Maybe Kyle tried to stop it as well.”
“But isn’t he younger?”
“Yeah, she’s fifteen.”
“How are we going to manage with two kids?”
“I’m not turning them over to that monster,” she said, and left me sitting on the bed.
Twenty-four hours had passed and Kyle didn’t exhibit any telltale signs. Several of us stood around the monitors in the basement watching the boy pace back and forth. He looked up at the video cameras, exasperated. He kept repeating something.
“Anyone read lips?” I said.
We agreed to go see the kid.
“Hello?” he said from behind the door. “Still not undead.”
Laughing, we unlocked the door and brought him back inside the house. The cut on his ear had c
losed and the blood dried. What we had noticed with the undead was nothing healed. Whatever damage to their body they sustained stayed with them.
Holly cleaned his wound in the bathroom. “You’re fine,” she said. “Let’s get you something to eat.”
She brought him into the kitchen and told everyone what she thought. Ram looked skeptical as Warnick examined him. Though he didn’t have a lot of experience with the undead, Warnick pretty much knew what to look for. He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a small, worn Bible. He flipped to one of the many dog-eared pages and handed the book to Kyle, pointing to a passage.
“Read that,” he said. The boy squinted at it. “Out loud.”
Kyle became embarrassed and looked at his sister, who nodded. He ran his finger along the small print and began, stumbling at first. I didn’t know what it was at the time, but I’ve since looked it up. It’s from Psalm 79.
O God, the heathen are come into thine inheritance; thy holy temple have they defiled; they have laid Jerusalem on heaps.
The dead bodies of thy servants have they given to be meat unto the fowls of the heaven, the flesh of thy saints unto the beasts of the earth.
Their blood have they shed like water round about Jerusalem; and there was none to bury them.
“He’s fine,” Warnick said and took his book back.
“I don’t get it,” Aaron said. “What did that prove?”
“One of the first things to go is speech,” I said, remembering Jim. “And I don’t think a dragger could ever read.”
“So I’m okay, right?” Kyle said.
“Yes,” Holly said, smiling and giving him a hug. Was she falling for this lanky, unkempt kid?
Kyle turned red from the attention. To make things worse, Holly tousled his hair. Then he gave in. I think somewhere in him he craved a mother’s touch. I noticed Griffin looking away, trying not to show any emotion. I guessed her brother was everything to her.
I wanted to savor this moment. It was a rare bright spot in what had become a hellish struggle for survival. None of us—not even the soldiers—were prepared for this. And in the coming days, things would get worse.
Knife-in-the-gut worse.
IT’S NOT DEATH I’M afraid of. It’s what comes after—being undead and blindly harming the ones closest to me. Acting out of hunger and rage. Let’s face it—losing control. Back there at the compound it’s what we feared and what we knew was coming.
The Dead Series (Book 1): Tell Me When I'm Dead Page 17
