by Dirk Patton
The shed was long enough to take an 18 wheeler with plenty of room to spare. The inside was nothing more than smooth walls and floor leading to a huge, roll-up door that accessed the main building. We walked up to the door, finding nothing other than a smooth exterior. To the right of the door a small electrical box was mounted to the surface of the building’s wall, metal conduit running straight up and disappearing into the ceiling. I lifted the opaque plastic cover, happy to see two large buttons, the lower one red, the upper green. Thanking whoever had decided that a keypad on the outside of the shed was adequate security, I checked to make sure both Martinez and Scott were ready, then pushed the green button.
A moment later, rotating orange lights set on either side of the door, high above the floor, started turning and a strident alarm began buzzing. I looked around for the alarm siren, spotted it hanging from the ceiling and shot it into silence. We had already made too much noise. The last thing we needed was a damn ‘door in motion’ alarm to alert all the infected inside the building to our presence.
The door moved slowly, Scott got on his knees and bent to look under it with his rifle aimed at the widening gap. I watched him closely, thumb on the red button, ready to send the door back down if he saw more infected than we could handle. I didn’t have a plan B if that happened, and breathed a sigh of relief when he just kneeled there, raising his body up as the door continued to open.
With six feet of clearance I hit the green button again, stopping its motion and holding it in place. We didn’t need more clearance than that to easily pass through, and if we were being pursued by infected when we returned to the MRAP, I didn’t want the door all the way up. The damn thing moved slowly, and the farther open it was, the longer it would take to close.
On the other side of the door was a large open area. The same smooth concrete floor reflected the overhead lights. Far off to the side were several electric forklifts, neatly lined up and plugged into their charger. Next to the forklifts were a dozen hand carts, but other than that the space was empty. We stepped under the door, spread out in a line, rifles up and ready. Scott and I were on each flank and turned to scan our sides, but there weren’t any infected and there was no place for them to hide.
In the far wall of the room was another large rolling door, and to its right were four steel doors with narrow windows set into them. The windows were reinforced with wire mesh, and were no more than four inches wide. On the wall next to the right hand door was a large plaque. From a distance it looked like a map of the facility. When I approached it I was glad to see it was. Our current location was marked with a red dot and a “you are here” note, just like a directory in a shopping mall. Unfortunately the map only showed the level we were on, none of the sub-basements, but it did show the path to a bank of elevators and stairs.
The sub-basement access was labeled as “Purple”, and I glanced down at the floor. Different colored lines were painted on the floor, several going through each of the four doors. The purple line disappeared under the second door from the left and I pointed at the line, making sure my small team saw it. Moving to the door, I looked through the narrow window into a well-lit hallway. Smooth floor with a three inch wide purple line running directly down the center of the shiny tile, eventually turning a corner to the right and going out of sight. The walls were smooth with no doors or other features. Nothing moved.
“OK,” I said in a low voice, turning back to Martinez and Scott. “We’re going to follow that purple line and take the stairs down to the fifth sub-level. I’m on point. Scott, you’ve got the rear. One meter spacing. Ready?”
“Why the stairs?” Martinez asked.
“This place has power, which has to be from a generator. I don’t really want to be stuck in an elevator, below ground, if the damn thing runs out of fuel.”
She nodded, and a moment later I carefully pushed on the crash bar mounted on the door. There was a soft, metallic click as the lock released, the door swinging open as I stepped into the opening. The hall in front ran farther than I could see, but the right turn dictated by the purple line was about 50 yards away. A yellow, blue and green line continued straight down the hall. I hadn’t noticed where they led, and didn’t really care at the moment.
Stepping fully into the hallway I braced the edge of the door against my back to hold it open, rifle up and aimed down the corridor as Martinez and Scott slipped through. I signed for them to watch our front, and when they both had their rifles up, turned my attention to the door. When I’d pushed on the crash bar I had heard and felt the lock on the door release. I didn’t want to let the door close and get locked out of the cargo loading area.
The hallway side of the door only had an elongated, U shaped handle for pulling the door open. Next to the door was another of the small, electronic keypads that would unlock the door if you had the right key card. I didn’t, but I did have some duct tape. Tearing off a strip, I wadded it into a sticky ball and shoved it into the steel recess on the door frame to prevent the lock from snapping into place when the door closed. Satisfied with my effort, I kept a hand on the door, letting it silently come to rest inside its frame. The lock didn’t snap back into place, and when I tested the door it pulled open easily.
Attention back on the hall, I signed that we were moving and stepped off with my rifle up tight to my shoulder. We moved fast but quiet, quickly reaching the turn. I stopped us with a hand signal, lowered my rifle and pressed my shoulder to the wall. Taking a few moments to listen, I couldn’t hear anything other than the sigh of air flowing out of air conditioning vents in the ceiling and the quiet breathing of the two people behind me. Not hearing any danger, I carefully poked my head around the corner, scanned the new corridor with my eyes, then pulled back.
The new hall was clear. Nothing but more shiny tile, smooth walls and a purple line running 20 yards to a bank of elevators. Stepping around the corner I moved to the elevators and paused by a steel door that was marked as stairs. It was secured with another keypad and there was no way for us to open it. Well, we could have broken out the C-4 and blown the door open, but there was little that could have convinced me it would be a good idea to make that much noise. The facility was absolutely quiet. Too quiet. The little part of me that could still get scared watching a really good horror movie was jumping up and down, telling me nothing good ever happens in big, seemingly empty buildings.
Resigning myself to trusting that the generator wouldn’t pick the very moment we were on an elevator to run out of fuel, I reached out and pressed a button. There was only one button since there was only one way to go. The button lit up and half a second later a large red arrow pointing down began glowing next to the elevator doors. When the arrow lit up there were also two loud ‘dings’ as the metal doors slid open. In the absolute quiet of the hallway, the dings sounded eerily like a dinner bell. From somewhere deeper in the building screams began echoing down the halls.
29
Lee Roach pulled to the side of the road, looking at the sign ahead. Oklahoma City – 23 miles. He was on the shoulder of Interstate 40. It had been surprisingly easy to find his way off the levee in Arkansas, follow the grid of small agriculture roads to the freeway and head west. He had seen the occasional infected, but only in very small groups and too far from the pavement to present him with any problems. That had been good, because he’d only been armed with a small pocket knife.
“What are we doing?” The girl in the passenger seat asked, waking up and looking around. Roach ignored the question.
In Little Rock he had briefly considered going to the Air Force Base and bluffing his way onto the next flight west, but had dismissed the idea for fear that the Army had already contacted the Air Force with a warning about him. Instead, he had skirted the city, driving past heavily armed work gangs that were burning the bodies of slain infected. The stench was unbelievable, and Roach could still taste it in the back of his throat.
West of Little Rock, he had needed gas for the truck h
e had stolen. Sticking to the back roads, he had come across a small service station at the junction of two minor state highways. Stopping across the road he had surveyed the small business. He was still dressed in boxer shorts, a white T shirt with a tactical vest over it and his uniform shoes. Wherever he stopped, he would draw attention and be remembered. Was anyone looking for him? Was life in Arkansas still close enough to normal that the police would be checking businesses like this one, his description in hand? He didn’t think so, and he had to have fuel to keep moving, so taking his foot off the brake he pulled up to the pump.
Hopping out of the cab, he had grabbed the nozzle, turned the pump on and shoved it into the truck’s filler neck before anyone could come walking out. He had no way to pay for the gas, and was prepared to do whatever he needed to get away with a full tank. Nearly ten gallons had been pumped before he got curious about why no one had come out to greet him. Proprietors of old technology pumps like these didn’t normally sit inside while someone filled up. There was no way to pay at the pump, or even to monitor or control it from the office, so they would come out to make sure someone didn’t drive away with a free tank of gas.
At fifteen gallons, curiosity turned to concern, and Roach tried to see through the plate glass windows. The light was just right to make the windows act like a giant mirror, and all he could see was his own reflection. Was there someone in there on the phone with the police right now? Why else wouldn’t they have come out? What if they were waiting for him to drive away so they could get the license plate to give to the cops? The thought of being hunted and run to ground chilled him, and Roach decided the person inside had to die before he drove away. Opening the door to the truck he rummaged around behind the seat, finding a tire iron, doubling his arsenal. Tire iron in his left hand, tucked along the inside of his arm so it was hidden and folding knife open in his right, he walked toward the side of the building like he was going to the restroom.
Circling around the back, Roach came across a small structure that had been added on to the back of the double service bay. Stepping quietly, he went to a window on the back of the addition and looked in, jerking away when he saw an infected male. The male couldn’t see him because he was blind, and Roach had moved quietly enough that the infected hadn’t been alerted to his presence. Deciding he’d found the reason for no one coming out looking for payment, he headed back for the truck. Passing the side windows for the office area, he glanced in and saw a couple of racks of chips and jerky, his stomach immediately rumbling loudly at the sight.
Not remembering the last time he’d eaten, Roach changed directions and walked up to the glass door. Pocketing the knife and sticking the tire iron through a loop on his vest, he cupped his hands around his eyes and pressed his face to the glass. Nothing moved, and to his left a door that probably led to the addition where he’d seen the infected was closed. Stomach growling again, he quietly pushed the door open, ready to flee if he heard or saw anything.
When all remained still, he pushed the rest of the way in, letting the door close softly behind him. The two racks he’d seen from outside were stuffed full of cheap, off-brand snacks, but they looked like a five star meal at the moment. He started to step forward to grab some of the food, pausing when he spotted three more racks lying on the floor, stripped clean. If someone had taken it and left, why hadn’t they taken all of it? Had the guy in back been living off the junk food before he turned? Movement from the dark interior caused him to catch his breath and whirl to face the threat, snatching the tire iron and lifting it over his head.
A girl, a teenager, stood in the dark corner, aiming a large pistol at him. She was dirty and skinny with shoe polish black hair. A hot pink stripe ran down the center of her head, nearly neon at the tips, fading into the black before it reached her scalp. She was dressed in skin tight jeans and a crop top that exposed her mid-section from just below her breasts to the waist of her low slung pants. Tattoos covered nearly all of her visible skin, and what wasn’t tattooed was pierced. Only her face had escaped the needle and the piercer, and even in his surprise, Roach noted how pretty she was. Or could be, if she was cleaned up a little.
“You’re getting free gas.” She said with a soft, Alabama accent. “Just go on and leave and be glad I didn’t shoot you when you walked in.”
“I need some food.” Roach said, surprising himself that he wasn’t already running for the truck. “It’s been a long time since I ate.”
“Tough shit, asshole. Food’s mine.” The girl waved the pistol slightly, emphasizing that she wasn’t messing around.
“OK, I’m going.” He said, starting to back towards the door. “Thanks for the gas.”
She said nothing, just watched him, pistol never wavering. They both jumped when the infected began pounding on the door behind her. She moved a few steps closer to Roach, turning her body so she could keep the pistol pointed at him, but watch the door.
“Pig fucker!” She hissed at Roach. “He’s been quiet for a couple of days…” If she was going to say more she never got it out. The door burst open with a splintering of wood, the infected staggering into the room with them. He was huge, one of the largest men Roach had ever seen, and he had a bearing on the girl, snarling as he lunged in her direction, arms stretched out to sweep her into a deadly embrace.
Roach expected her to shoot, but she didn’t. Grabbing a small pack off the floor, she turned and ran straight at him. He started to move, but she had a step on him, ramming him with her shoulder as she charged out the door. The infected adjusted direction to follow the noise and Roach caught his balance and dashed out the door behind her. She had already reached the truck, which had finished filling, and yanking the fuel nozzle out she threw it to the ground.
She jumped in, cursing loudly and pounding the steering wheel when she tried to start the engine but there were no keys in the ignition. Roach ran around the back of the truck, skidding to a stop when she stepped out of the cab and shoved the pistol in his face. Behind him, he heard the door slam open as the infected stumbled out of the office.
“Give me the keys.” She said, eyes hard over the pistol sights.
“Fuck you.” Roach said, bouncing the tire iron against his empty palm. “If you had any bullets in that thing you would have shot him, not run.” She stared at him for a long moment, finally lowering the pistol and shoving it into her waistband. She glanced to the side to see how close the infected was.
“Take me with you.” She said, her voice now plaintive. “Please. I’ve been running for weeks.”
Roach looked at the girl, then turned his head when the infected slammed into the far side of the truck, rocking it on its suspension. Soon it would bump its way around the perimeter of the vehicle and he wasn’t confident he could bring it down with just the tire iron. He turned back to the girl and took a moment to look her over.
“Look, I’ll do whatever you want. Blow job. You can fuck me. Anything you like. Just get us out of here!” She begged, head turned to watch the infected fumble his way around the hood of the truck.
The offer intrigued him. She was the right age, but wasn’t his type. He preferred them innocent looking. Miss Teen Beauty Pageant looks. Fresh and clean, not ruined with tattoos and studs everywhere. He thought about hitting her with the tire iron and leaving her, then thought again. If the police were looking for him, they were looking for a man traveling alone. Not a couple. She might be exactly the cover he needed.
“Get in.” He gestured with his head, following her into the cab of the truck and slamming the door. Digging the keys out of a vest pocket, he started the engine and peeled away from the pump just as the infected slapped a meaty hand against the driver’s window.
30
We quickly moved into the elevator when the screams rang out. If I’d been thinking I would have remembered that elevators always make some kind of noise to announce their presence. I’d been distracted, thinking about getting stuck in the elevator, when I should have been think
ing a step ahead of my actions. Now we not only had to worry about the power dying and leaving us stranded in a metal coffin, I had succeeded in alerting the infected to our presence inside the building. Getting old, John.
Scott had pushed the button marked 5, the doors sliding slowly shut. Before they closed completely the sound of running feet in the hallway reached my ears. Shit, the infected had found us fast. I briefly wondered if the smart females had retained enough memory to recognize the sound of the elevator bell, running straight to it. Was that a possibility? Shaking my head I dismissed these thoughts, forcing myself back to the moment. The elevator dinged as we passed the first sub-level. A couple of seconds later it dinged again for two, then three. We all felt it slow as four approached, then it jerked to a stop, double dinged and the doors slid open.
The three of us stood abreast, backs pressed against the rear wall of the car, rifles aimed at the doors as they moved. When they opened we found ourselves facing a woman dressed in a skirt and heels with a white lab coat. She had a short barreled automatic rifle pointed into the elevator. Everyone froze. After a few long moments the elevator dinged again and the doors started to close. Taking a chance I lowered my rifle and stepped forward, reversing the door with my hand. I stood there, holding them open.
“I’m Major John Chase. US Army.” I said, glad to note that neither Scott nor Martinez had lowered their weapon.
After a few more moments she lowered her rifle and straightened up. Letting the rifle hang down in her right hand she reached up and pushed a mane of thick, blonde hair out of her face. She was about 30 with big, blue eyes and smears of dirt on her face.
“I’m Dr. Meredith Monroe. Thank God you’re here!” She said, smiling at us. I waved for Martinez and Scott to lower their rifles. “I’m an assistant project director. Well, I was. What are you doing here? Did you get my message?”
