The Dead Series (Book 1): Tell Me When I'm Dead

by Steven Ramirez

  “Where?” Holly said.

  “Back to the forest. It’s the only safe place.”

  “What about the helicopters?” Ram said. “What if they are hunting people out there?”

  “Still better than being here,” Landry said.

  It took several minutes to get back to the motor home. On the way we passed an LMTV that looked untouched.

  “How about switching vehicles?” I said. “More protection.”

  “Good idea,” Landry said.

  Warnick signaled for everyone to get behind him. “Dave, you and Ram go check it out.”

  Ram and I opened the driver’s-side door. Nothing. He jogged around to the rear and opened the door. Empty.

  “No weapons,” he said.

  “At least we can take the vehicle.”

  I went back to the driver’s side and checked around. The keys were above the visor. I tried starting it, but it wouldn’t catch. Then I saw that the fuel tank was on empty.

  Disappointed, Ram and I returned to the motor home. We piled in as Warnick started the engine. Somewhere in the distance, we heard a rumbling noise. It sounded like trucks.

  “Black Dragon,” Holly said.

  The first vehicle, a Humvee, turned the corner ahead of us, and the bright headlights shone in our eyes.

  “Should we wait here for them?” I said.

  Warnick didn’t turn off the engine. We watched as six vehicles, Humvees and LMTVs, came into view, heading directly for us. Then I saw it—a small Confederate flag fluttering out of the lead vehicle’s driver’s window.

  Warnick hit the gas and tried to turn the motor home around.

  “What’s wrong?” Holly said.

  Warnick didn’t answer. Other abandoned vehicles were in the way, and he had to make several moves, plowing into them front and rear. He got us going in the opposite direction and floored it. Gunshots followed us as we tried to get away.

  “Get down!” Warnick said.

  “Why are they shooting?” Holly said, covering Griffin’s body with her own.

  We must’ve been doing sixty as Warnick tried to lose the pursuers.

  “I don’t understand,” Ram said as one of the side mirrors exploded.

  “Those aren’t our guys,” Warnick said.

  We raced to the next block and turned the corner sharply, nearly tipping the motor home over. My axe slid off the small table and struck Landry on the head.

  “You okay?” I said, straining to look back.

  “Yeah, I guess.” The handle had hit him.

  I knew it was a matter of time before those bastards caught up to us. Warnick did his best to get us out of there. He made a sharp turn into another street and hit a dead end. I would’ve told him not to make that turn, but I was on the floor and couldn’t see. He threw the vehicle in reverse, then stopped and looked to his right. I saw it too—an alley door that led into an office building.

  “Holly, take Griffin and get into that building,” I said, and opened the door for them.

  “Dave, I’m not leaving you.”

  “No time to argue. Get going.”

  She must’ve seen the conviction in my eyes, because she pulled Griffin up and they headed out, taking Greta with them. They each grabbed a weapon and a backpack full of ammo. The door to the building was locked. I watched in awe as Holly shot the handle and kicked the door open. Then she and Griffin entered, along with the dog, and closed the door behind them.

  Warnick floored it in reverse towards the street, getting as far away from the building’s side door as possible. As Warnick reached the entrance to the alley, the vehicles chasing us blocked our escape.

  They had us.

  In the remaining side mirror, I saw a group of what looked like Black Dragon soldiers approaching the rear of the vehicle.

  “We’d better surrender,” Warnick said.

  Ram, Landry and I got out and raised our hands. We were confronted by soldiers partially in uniform and pointing AR-15s at us. Some wore bandannas around their heads. Others had what looked like fresh cuts down each of their cheeks, the blood dark and crusty. For a moment they stared at us. Then one of them waved us into the street with his rifle.

  The leader stepped forward, a woman who looked to be in her mid-twenties. Short and chunky, with smooth, dark skin and brown hair that was pulled back into a ponytail.

  “I’m Estrada,” she said. Then to Landry, whose head was still bleeding, “You okay, old-timer?”

  “I’m fine,” Landry said, irritated.

  As we stood in the rain, two of the soldiers went inside and searched the motor home. A third went around the front of the motor home and walked back to the end of the alley.

  While the two soldiers were inside, one of the others guarding us looked at Ram sideways and grinned. “S’up, Sandeep,” he said. “Draggers take over the 7-Eleven?”

  “Shut up, Neidermeyer,” Estrada said, as the two soldiers came out of the motor home carrying weapons and ammo—and my axe. “Anyone else in there?”

  “No,” one of them said.

  “So just you four, huh?” she said to Warnick, who stared straight ahead. “Hey, Warnick? Is that you, man? What are you doing with these COBs?”

  “Helping them stay alive.”

  “Shit, yeah,” she said. “That’s what we’re all doing.” She turned to the others, and they laughed.

  I watched as the last soldier approached the alley door Holly and Griffin had gone through, the blood pounding in my head. Please, God, don’t let him try the handle. Then he reached for it.

  “All right, let’s move out,” Estrada said.

  I almost laughed out loud at the sight of the soldier in the alley running towards us.

  They shepherded us to the Humvees and motioned for us to get inside. We had to split up. Warnick and Landry rode with Estrada, and Ram and I rode together. As we cruised the wet streets in the cool morning, I prayed that Holly and Griffin had gotten away. I had never prayed for anything so fervently in my life.

  I looked out the windows as we drove and saw burned-out, bullet-scarred buildings and hundreds of abandoned cars along the roads. A flatbed truck with wood side rails pulled past us. Our driver looked over, blasted his horn and laughed at the other driver, who did the same. When it passed, I saw that it carried a dozen or more draggers in chains, standing in the rain, their skin and clothes as wet and grey as the sky.

  We drove to an office park I recognized. I remembered that there was an ice-skating rink located behind it. The complex was guarded by at most twenty men dressed in helmets and ponchos, patrolling the grounds silently in the rain. This was all that was left of Black Dragon? We got out, and they led us into one of the buildings. Inside, there were cubicles in the center surrounded by offices around the perimeter.

  They led us to a conference room and ordered us to halt. Then they frisked us and confiscated our cell phones. It didn’t much matter. Most of them had died some time ago, and we didn’t have chargers. They motioned for us to take seats. All but one of them left. The one stood guard with his modified AR-15.

  The walls were covered with framed motivational posters, with slogans like “The sky’s the limit” and “Never settle for second best.” A whiteboard with some kind of technical drawing on it hung on a wall. Written in red dry-erase marker was a note that read SAVE.

  “What’s the plan?” I said to Warnick.

  “We keep our mouths shut,” he said, his eyes on the soldier.

  “I figured I’d run into you numbnuts again,” a familiar voice said. We turned to find Chavez looking fit in his crisp, clean uniform. “Warnick! You’re not dead.” He came forward to shake the soldier’s hand. “Still doing the religion thing?”

  “How are you, Chavez?” Warnick said. He didn’t sound enthusiastic.

  “Doing well,” Chavez said. “You guys look like shit, though.”

  “Rough night.”

  “Where’s Quigs?”

  “Dead.”

  “Sh
it, that’s too bad.”

  Chavez took a seat at the table and signaled to the soldier guarding us. “Go get these men some chow,” he said. The soldier took off. “What about everyone else?”

  “Dead,” Warnick said, as two soldiers returned with MREs and bottled water.

  “Some crazy bastards blew up the compound,” Ram said.

  “Sounds like that son of a bitch Ormand Ferry,” Chavez said. “I told him it wouldn’t work.”

  “You met him?” I said.

  “We had a meeting with him when we first arrived. He tried to get us to go along with his dumbass plan. Can you believe it? Is he dead?” When we didn’t answer, he said, “Well, I hope he is. And that shit-for-brains sidekick of his. What’s his name? Travis? I heard he had a couple kids try to make it up to the compound.”

  “Yeah,” I said, “they did.”

  “Where are they?”

  “Draggers,” I said.

  He looked at me, trying to see something in my eyes, I guessed. I looked right back, not blinking.

  “That’s too bad,” he said. “Casualties of war, huh?”

  Chavez was quiet while we ate. He seemed to be studying us, and it felt creepy.

  Warnick wiped his mouth. “So what’s all this?” he said. “Doesn’t look by the book.”

  “Those days are over,” Chavez said. “Desperate times, desperate measures. You know what I’m saying.”

  “Meaning?” Landry said.

  “Meaning it’s like I said before, we’ve been left out here on our own to deal with this thing. And deal with it we shall.”

  “Maybe the government will—”

  “The government!” Chavez said, banging his fist on the table. We must’ve looked startled, because he brought it down. “The government is not going to do shit. We’ve been cut off. Quarantined.”

  “Is that what they told you?” Landry said.

  I was getting nervous. Landry didn’t seem to appreciate that Chavez was losing it. He was like a crazy man trying to convince everyone he was making straight the path using the severed heads of his enemies as paving stones. And here Landry was, heckling him from the peanut gallery. I stared at him, willing him to shut his mouth. Chavez tucked in his shirt and went to the door.

  “You’re all under arrest,” he said, “for your own protection.” As he left, he nodded to the guard, who raised his weapon and signaled for us to leave the conference room.

  We were escorted to what looked like a training room with computers on long tables. For a second I thought I might be able to get onto the Internet to find out what was going on. But each of the computer monitors was shattered. When I saw the shell casings on the floor, my heart sank.

  There was no way out other than the double doors we came in through and the narrow windows that led to the parking lot. Soldiers stood outside the doors, and more patrolled outside.

  “Do you think Holly—” I said, but Warnick put a finger to his lips.

  “Sorry about your wife, Dave,” he said in an above-normal voice, looking at me.

  I got it and redirected. “It was my fault,” I said. “I should never have let her go outside.”

  “It’s all our faults,” Landry said. “I hope we don’t make another mistake like that.”

  “I wish I had my axe,” I said.

  “Next guy calls me Sandeep, I’m going to kick his ass,” Ram said in the direction of the locked doors.

  Sometime during the night the sounds of screaming awakened us. Gunfire blazed outside. Soldiers bounded past the locked doors. Then a concussion as an explosive device detonated.

  “We’re under attack,” Warnick said, and signaled for us to move towards the double doors. A bullet shattered one of the windows. “We need to make a break.”

  We scanned the room. No weapons or implements of any kind.

  “Grab one of those tables,” Landry said. “We can use it as a battering ram.”

  We shoved the useless computers off a table and positioned ourselves around it, then carried it towards the door.

  “Ready?” Warnick said. We prepared to swing it on Warnick’s command. “One … two … three.” The doors cracked but didn’t open. “Again. One … two … three.”

  This time the doors gave and flew open. The offices were dark. We didn’t see anyone. We made our way to the front entrance and pressed ourselves against the walls on either side.

  Outside, soldiers shot into the darkness. We couldn’t see what they were aiming at. Men called out commands. Incoming fire shattered the glass of the front entrance, letting in the pungent smell of gun smoke.

  “Those aren’t draggers they’re shooting at,” Landry said.

  “They’re Red Militia,” Warnick said. “We can’t go out this way—we’ll be shot.”

  We fell back and hid next to a row of cubicles.

  “Let’s split up,” Warnick said. “It’ll be quicker. Whoever finds a way out can alert the others.”

  I jogged past a small kitchen, looking for a back exit. A sign glowed in the distance. As I moved towards it, someone stepped out of the shadows.

  “Warnick?” I said.

  Everything went black.

  When I awoke, I was in a different room. The fluorescent lights glowed harshly, revealing a dingy, windowless storage area. The room was warm and the air stale. Stacks of white record-storage boxes surrounded me. I sat up and succumbed to a blinding headache. I touched the side of my head and felt stickiness.

  “Dave’s awake,” someone said.

  Weak and dizzy, I looked at Warnick, Landry and Ram. They helped me into a wobbly desk chair.

  “What happened?” I said.

  “One of Chavez’s men,” Warnick said. “Must’ve hit you with his rifle butt.”

  “Obviously, we didn’t make it out either,” Landry said.

  A low groan pierced the dank air. I tried to focus. My gaze landed on a stranger wearing camo, lying against the wall. He looked to be around nineteen or twenty and was in pretty bad shape. His head was bloody, one eye swollen shut.

  “Nailhead,” Warnick said. “They threw him in here a little while ago.”

  I tried standing but was still too woozy. So I stayed put as Warnick crossed the room and crouched in front of the injured man.

  “I already told the others what I know,” he said.

  “What’s your name?” Warnick said.

  “His name is Steve Pinkerton,” Landry said. “Used to be in my science class in high school.”

  “Mr. Landry?”

  “What the hell, Stevie? Why are you associating with Ormand Ferry?”

  “He gave me a place to stay after my dad died. He’s not what you people think.”

  “What do we think?” Warnick said.

  “That, that he’s some kind of evil genius. He’s trying to save this town.”

  “By killing our security forces?” Warnick said.

  “We shot back because you attacked us.”

  “This is hopeless,” Landry said.

  The three of them walked back to me.

  “Chavez must’ve worked him over pretty good,” Warnick said. “Whatever they have planned for us, it’ll be worse for him.”

  “Do you think he told them where Ormand Ferry is?” I said.

  “No idea.”

  Sometime during the night Steve Pinkerton died. When we awoke, we found him cold and stiff, a trickle of dried blood on his chin. He never moved again, further proof that you didn’t turn if you weren’t infected.

  “Poor, dumb bastard,” Landry said. “Never could get a break. His mother left when he was four, I think. Father was a crackhead. No friends to speak of.”

  “Except Ormand Ferry,” I said. “Apparently he was a very good friend.”

  AFTER THE SOLDIERS CARTED away Steve Pinkerton’s body, sleep became impossible. Warnick convinced them to give us a first-aid kit for my head. Landry bandaged me up, and I swallowed four ibuprofen for the blinding pain. My vision was blurry, and I coul
dn’t stand without help.

  “Mr. Chavez sends his apologies,” one of the soldiers said.

  “That’s generous,” Landry said, “considering Dave almost lost an eye.”

  “You should’ve stayed in the room.”

  Our captors gave us blankets but no pillows. We found a box of garbage bags and filled those with crumpled paper. As the rest of us lay on the floor, Warnick stood by the door, asking the guard what was going on outside. The soldier told him that the nailheads had been dealt with and that all was secure.

  “Do you think they’ll shoot us?” I said.

  “They would’ve done it already,” Warnick said.

  “Looks to me like Chavez might have something special planned,” Landry said.

  “And that reminds me, Irwin,” I said. “Why in hell do you keep getting up in that guy’s grill? Can’t you see he’s nuts?”

  “He’s right,” Ram said. “We need to show respect and not make them mad.”

  “What do you say, Warnick?” I said.

  Warnick undid the laces of his boots, yanked them off and lay on the floor with his hands behind his head. “We need to be super-careful.” Good ol’ Warnick, master of the understatement.

  In the early morning, the door was unlocked. They allowed us upstairs to use the bathroom and eat breakfast—if you want to call it that. And I learned something new. There is nothing worse than army coffee. At least I felt better, but my head still throbbed.

  A little while later Estrada walked into the conference room where we were eating. She seemed pleased. “Time to move out.”

  “Where are we going?” Landry said.

  “To a better place.”

  So they had decided to kill us. As we looked at each other gravely, Warnick’s expression told me that, instead of panicking, he was analyzing the situation. Did he know something we didn’t?

  It had stopped raining. Outside, we saw the bullet scars and shattered glass from the recent attack. Fires burned all across the office park, and we knew that meant dead bodies. They put us into Humvees and drove us to the rear of the complex. And there it was—the ice-skating rink.

  It was called Happier Times, a low, drab building painted grey and yellow. Graffiti covered one wall. The words SMELLS LIKE TEEN SPIRIT stood out in drippy red paint.