“What’s it doing?” Kayla whispers.
“I—I think—” Rachel starts, “I think it’s … is it thinking? Considering?”
“Or just following orders,” Joel says.
“God,” Ron says quietly, “I almost feel sorry for it—”
“I do, for sure,” Rachel says.
Behind them, Scott lets loose with a derisive noise. “Yeah, they’re just pitiful, aren’t they? Poor things.”
Mai laughs briefly behind them, but all of Michael’s attention is focused on the body at the tree. It’s shaking its head with seeming frustration, as if trying to fling pulpy mucus from its eyes. It’s rising a little from its cramped, bent-backward pose, extending its limbs just slightly. Something has been communicated, Michael is sure of it. Or is it merely reacting to the thundering sound from the heavens?
“That one over there is doing the same thing,” Kayla says.
She’s gesturing southeast, but Bonnie says, “Where?”
All heads turn.
Michael can’t spot it for a moment, but then there it is, partially obscured by the front end of a Subaru station wagon.
“Good eyes, kid,” Joel says.
“I didn’t even see that one before,” Rick says.
Michael can’t determine the age or sex of this body; it’s too far away. But he thinks it’s a small one. Its head has also clearly pulled away from the bark of its tree, almost as if dazed. Michael darts his glance between the two bodies, and he comes to the realization that the movements these things are making are nearly mirror images of one another.
He voices this to the room, and as he does, the bodies begin moving slowly, almost cautiously, away from the trees.
Several survivors draw in breath sharply.
Joel says, “If those things are gearing up for attack again, we need to be arming up.”
There’s a general sense of frantic movement in the lobby, away from the windows, but then—
“Wait, wait!” Rachel yells.
The bodies have become more mobile, finding their balance on their bent limbs. But the body across the street is moving away from the library, southeast toward the other body. And that body is also beginning to amble south down Peterson.
“Where are they going?” Kayla whispers.
“I don’t know,” Rachel breathes.
The lobby is frozen in a state of nervous uncertainty. Michael is suddenly aware of the knife’s edge on which they’re teetering: At the whim of these bizarre things that used to be human beings—or at the whim of whatever controls them—this glass-walled library could at any moment be facing an assault by things that can melt glass with something inside them … something that the bodies are using quite consciously as weapons. Despite the relative thickness of the glass, Michael is not at all sure that they’re safe in here. If thousands of these things were to coordinate and throw themselves at the windows … well, then that would spell the end for this motley band of survivors. Michael doesn’t care how well stocked they might be with O-negative blood.
“Okay,” Joel says, his voice full of edgy wariness, “we got lucky there, but Jesus, we gotta get moving.”
“Michael’s right, we need to start taking blood from everyone,” Ron says, stepping up. “Start loading those tranq darts with blood and anticoagulant, have them ready.”
“Before we do that, though, we need to test it,” Kevin says. “Right? Like how much do we need to put into each dart canister? Will just a drop work? If it does, then we don’t have to be sucking whole pints out of people and making them all woozy and shit, just as those goddamn things are attacking.”
“All right, I agree with all this,” Scott says, “but our potential test subjects just went south. Literally.”
“He’s right,” Michael says. “What are we gonna test it on?”
After a moment of indecision, “Okay,” Joel says, “regardless, we need to start with something on hand. Let’s use the blood we have first, and then test it if the opportunity comes up. So come on, come on, let’s get moving, we can’t afford to rest yet.”
And now everyone is moving again.
“Everyone strong enough, I want blocking windows,” Joel says. “Get those bookcases moving, but obviously be careful not to crash them through the windows. Pair up and take off.”
With that, nearly all the men in the lobby take off in all the directions of the compass, pairing off with one another. Michael is about to grab Scott and find an opportunity when Kevin stops him.
“Give me a hand with the tranq guns?”
“Sure.”
The guards at the door have switched with the twins, Chloe and Zoe, and as Mai and Liam hurry off toward the north side of the library, the two girls collapse onto the haphazardly placed benches, as if they’re about to fall unconscious. Michael notices an elaborate tattoo on Zoe’s lower back as she leans forward—another remnant of another life.
“Don’t you dare fall asleep, ladies,” Kevin says. “I need you to watch for those things—if you see one come close, we need to test this stuff.”
“Yes boss,” Chloe mutters, sitting back up.
“And I need help with the blood,” Bonnie says to Rachel and Kayla. “Let’s get it in order.”
The trio of women, three generations, branch off toward the main checkout desk, where the blood-soaked cardboard box sits, along with the six tranq rifles that Kevin and the girls managed to grab from the wildlife office.
As the small group hurries over, Joel stops Chrissy.
“Hey, can you go through this whole place and gather whatever food you can find? We can defend ourselves till we’re blue in the face, but if we don’t have food and water, it’s all for naught.”
Chrissy’s eyes are so exhausted that they seem cadaverous. “Sure.”
Joel grabs her shoulders. “Keep it together, okay? You’re doing great.”
She just stares at Joel.
Michael remembers what Chrissy said moments ago about the Rapture. It was the first time he saw her clear-eyed and passionate about something. He spares a quick thought about how her worldview is affecting her mindset in the face of this disaster. Because right now, in the wake of that particular discussion fizzling out, her expression has returned to hopelessness. Michael realizes he’s in the midst of an all-too-real sociological and psychological experiment.
“Every door is unlocked in this place, so that shouldn’t be a problem,” Joel says to her. “Bring everything you find right here, okay?”
Throughout the lobby, there’s a feeling of running-on-empty desperation. Chrissy trudges away blearily, and the rest of them drag their feet and swallow dryly, on the verge of dehydration, he’s sure, and starting to feel the effects of prolonged hunger. From all corners of the library come the sounds of large things scraping across carpet and tile, some grunting, and very little conversation. Something is going to have to give—soon.
Joel is actually about to partner with Scott to help with the bookcases when Michael takes hold of his arm.
“You know these folks are running on fumes, Joel. If they’re going to be any good to us at all, they’ll need not only food but also sleep.”
“As soon as we get a minute to catch our breath, we’ll start arranging shifts.”
“And they’ll need … something to hope for.”
Joel looks at him. “I don’t know what that could be. Maybe above my pay grade.”
“Yeah.”
“Isn’t survival enough?”
“It is in my book,” Kevin says, looming next to them. “Come on, dude. Let’s figure this out. These tranq darts could be the answer to everything.”
He leads Michael to the tranq rifles, and together they lay out the components of the arsenal. The slim, lightweight rifles themselves have a straightforward loading mechanism; it’s the darts that take some figuring out. There are several needle types, and two varieties of syringes. One is clearly meant for delivering the payload into the canister, which is a long
projectile that ends with a bright blue, feathery stabilizer; there are two ends to the canister: a liquid chamber for loading and an air chamber to be pressurized. The other syringe is the pressurizing syringe that, once the dart hits the target, will plunge the blood into the flesh.
The darts are uniformly 5cc capacity, and the two men can only guess what kind of pressurization they’ll require in practice—just as they can only guess how much blood each dart will need to have the desired effect.
“I want to test this bad boy immediately,” Kevin says.
“We only have six rifles,” Michael says. “Even if these things work, how much good are they going to do us against—” He lowers his voice. “—against an army of those bodies?”
“You never know,” Kevin shrugs. “They could make all the difference.”
“Fair enough.”
At that moment, Chrissy calls weakly from the room adjacent to the one where Michael and Rachel found Kayla. “There’s a Deep Rock water cooler here, and two extra bottles!”
Joel’s voice comes from somewhere a few rooms away. “Excellent, keep it up!”
Michael takes a sighing moment to sit on a bench next to the checkout counter, and his eyes fall on his daughter, who is working industriously with the blood units, under Bonnie’s tutelage. But what catches his eye is the way Rachel is guiding Kayla’s actions. Rachel reminds Michael so profoundly of Cassie at that moment that he mouths a wow—the same set jaw, the same patience, the same light touch, even under stress.
“Body!” Chloe cries from the doorway. “We got a body!”
Kevin grabs a tranq rifle from the counter—it’s not loaded with anything yet—and he and Michael race through the lobby, maneuvering around large tables covered with books, and peer out the windows.
“There!” Chloe says.
A naked, bloodied body is practically galloping across the library lawn, directly south and past them. It’s gone, out of sight, before the men even have a chance to lock on to its features.
“Look at how it moves!” Rachel says, a weight of appalled resignation in her voice. “How is it even—?”
“They’ve grown accustomed to their new bodies,” Joel breathes.
And then there’s commotion and shouting from the south end of the library as the survivors there watch the same galloping body pass.
“Aw shit, man,” Kevin says. “Where the hell are they going?”
“Let’s assume they’re up to no good,” Rachel says.
“Sounds like a safe assumption,” Kayla says in her small voice.
“And we’ll assume they’re doing it close by.”
“Let’s get a few of these things ready, in case another opportunity comes up,” Kevin says.
“Another one!” Chloe says, pointing.
This body is much farther away, not unlike a dark red insect in the distance, east on Oak, but scurrying between houses—again in a southerly direction.
Bonnie surges forward. “Okay, we have two units of O-neg blood left.” She lets that sink in. “Two units. We had at least thirty units when all this started. We’ve been filling those squirt guns with it, and that’s worked a little bit, but I’m really hoping those tranquilizer guns will work better, because we need to be a lot more effective. More efficient. I’m just afraid we wasted so much.”
“What about drawing blood from our bodies?” Michael asks. “You said you had the equipment.”
“I have the equipment, but I don’t have a sterile environment—no gloves, bandages, and like I said, not even any alcohol.”
“And if anyone gets an infection from a blood draw,” Kevin says, “well, that person is essentially a goner.”
“Theoretically, we could go back to the hospital to treat someone, if it came to that, but …” She shakes her head doubtfully. “… I don’t think we should count on that being a viable option.”
Kayla brightens. “Wait, there’s alcohol in that room I was in! Rubbing alcohol. Would that work?”
Bonnie regards Kayla hopefully. “Yes! How much?”
“Just a small bottle, I think. Maybe a little bit gone. I noticed it because I thought it was water at first.”
“Can you go get it?” Rachel asks.
“Sure!” Kayla trots away helpfully.
Rachel smiles. “I like that kid,” she says, catching Michael’s eye. “Reminds me of me.”
“You were never that cute,” Michael teases.
Rachel punches his shoulder.
Bonnie turns back. “So, it’s not just having the equipment and making sure it’s clean. It’s also—well, if this goes on for a long time, and we’re attacked relentlessly … it’s not like we have gallons of blood at our disposal at any moment—or gallons of Heparin. Drawing blood takes time, treating it takes time. It takes a toll.”
“Which is why testing these darts is imperative,” Kevin finishes.
Bonnie agrees. “And we have only so much storage space, too. We have that little fridge running off the generator, and it’s holding what we’ve got, but I can see running out of space.”
Michael has been watching Kevin hefting one of the two remaining blood units. In his other hand, he’s holding a payload syringe for a tranq rifle. He seems unsure of himself.
“You ready?” Michael asks him.
“What do you guys think? Try a capsule with just 1cc of blood?”
“That’s about, oh, a quarter teaspoon,” Bonnie says, unable to suppress a huge yawn. “Is it enough?”
“Seems a good start anyway,” Kevin shrugs. “Can I just—poke the bag?”
Bonnie walks him through the process of drawing blood from its plastic enclosure, and Rachel volunteers to use her geometry skills to organize the refrigerator and maximize the space they have for the blood.
“Don’t take any blood out of the fridge for too long,” Bonnie reminds her. “It needs to stay cold.”
“Okay.”
Michael takes the opportunity to share a few words with his daughter as they walk the open hallway and into the room that holds the fridge. The space still shows evidence of Kayla’s makeshift occupation.
“You hangin’ in there?”
Rachel, kneeling next to the half-height fridge—which has been transformed into the survivors’ personal blood bank—considers the question but appears to come up blank.
“I don’t know.” Her eyes are red, and there are dark rings around them. She’s clearly drained, but Michael has no answer to offer for that. “Daddy, I miss Tony.”
“I know.”
“I even miss Susanna.”
Michael cocks his head at that.
“I wish everything would go back to how it was.”
He touches her shoulder. “Me too.”
“So many people are dying. I can’t stop it.”
Michael watches the movement of her hands as she carefully organizes the premade tranq darts, the filled syringes, and the anticoagulant, almost effortlessly bringing a sense of order to the collection.
“Who told you you were the one responsible for that?” he says, placing a hand on her shoulder.
She stares into the fridge. “I did! I mean, we’re all responsible for that, aren’t we? We have to save as many people as we can! And I’m not doing my part! I felt like I was, before. I felt like I had the answer! I wanted to have the answer. But it’s not working.”
He lowers his head, thinking.
“You’re right,” he says. “We need to do whatever we can to save lives—and we have. You have. The difference is that you can’t hold yourself responsible for every death that you can’t prevent.”
She sniffles, sighs, closes the fridge door. She shakes her head minutely.
“Rach, I think you may have saved more lives than anyone left on this planet.”
… anyone left on this planet …
As the words leave his mouth, they stun him. His teeth clack shut as he ponders them. Are they really facing the end of the world? What lies ahead? How will they sur
vive, assuming they can withstand the ridiculous fact and ferocity of these formerly human monsters?
He manages to continue: “But saving a life is very different from preventing a death.”
Rachel gives him a look, about to object, but—
“Another one!” Zoe yells.
Just beyond the door, Kevin shifts into high gear. He has the pressurizing plunger in one hand, about to ready the rifle. Rachel hops up and follows Michael out into the lobby.
“How close?” Kevin is saying.
“You got some time with this one, it’s moving slow,” Zoe says.
Kevin swallows audibly, inserting the plunger. He settles in at the front doors, between the twins, who are ready to slide open one of the doors at his word. Michael approaches him, just in time to watch the pressure build in the canister sufficiently to move the small air stopper into position. The tranq dart is now primed for its strike.
Kevin takes up the rifle and carefully inserts the dart.
“I guess that’s it,” he says.
“Looks right to me,” Chloe says from the right side of the door. “Ready for the door?”
“Sure.”
She pulls the door along its track, leaving a foot-wide gap.
The small clutch of survivors moves to the doorway. As they do so, Kayla returns from her scavenging with a three-quarters-full bottle of rubbing alcohol.
“What’s happening?” she says.
“Watch,” Rachel says, grabbing Kayla’s hand.
There’s movement in the expansive yard to the northwest, perhaps thirty yards from them. Something blue. It’s moving in lunging bursts, behind a clutch of shrubs and trees.
“I think it’s injured,” Michael says.
The body scurries into view, one arm dragging. It’s a young man, dressed in a tattered Denver Broncos jersey that only barely covers its torso; boxer shorts are also barely holding on, twisted at the knees. Its mouth is open at an unnatural angle, and the upclenched jaw appears cranked to the left, as if dislocated. The upper face is slathered with sap. Its eyes are gummed over, but the body seems drawn inexorably south. Yes, it’s obviously injured, but its single-minded purpose won’t let it pause in its journey. A broken, involuntary wheeze rhythmically escapes its mouth.
Blood Trilogy (Book 2): Draw Blood Page 21
