Defensive Instinct (Survival Instinct Book 4) (26 page)

When the morning came, Misha found himself sitting on a stool in the opening at the front of his container. People glanced at him as they got up and headed for breakfast or the toilets; they weren’t used to seeing him there, not at this time of day. Misha paid them no attention; they would learn soon enough what was going on as they were handed their half-rationed breakfasts. With an expected siege, food was being conserved more than ever as Boyle and Karsten prepared for everything, including being cut off from the Black Box. Misha waited for his assignment, glad that Karsten had picked up a fresh load of food just the other day.

The dogs had picked up on his stress and were confused about the break in routine. They wandered in circles in front of the container, clearly wondering why they hadn’t gone on a run that morning. Even Rifle was up, standing on stiff legs beside Misha, his ears up and listening for danger. Misha didn’t think he had slept much either. After going back to bed, his
bratishka
had made a lot more noise than usual, grunting and sighing and shifting positions on the mattress. Rifle always knew when something was up.

“Hey, Misha!”

Misha turned and spotted Brunt walking toward him. He raised his hand in a half wave to acknowledge him, and Brunt jogged the rest of the way over.

“You know about what happened?”

“Yeah. You here to give me an assignment?”

“Actually, I’m not. Cameron asked me to let you know we’re going to the Black Box with Dakota.”

Misha frowned. It wasn’t like them to leave at a time like this.

“Apparently, they have an injured animal over there and want Cameron to consult. It’s why Freya came over here, to get her.” Brunt wasn’t lying, but he seemed to be relaying information he didn’t quite believe.

“Why are you and Dakota going, then?”

Brunt shrugged. “Cameron asked us to come. Dakota wants to see her friends, so that’s fine. I wanted to stay, but she was really insistent.”

That would explain why Brunt thought he had been lied to. Cameron wouldn’t insist he come, not with an impending attack, unless she had a good reason. Her reason was apparently something she didn’t want to reveal until they were away from anyone to whom Brunt could spill the beans. Misha briefly wondered if she was pregnant and going to the Black Box to confirm it. It was the best outcome he could come up with off the top of his head and decided to believe that was the reason, even if she was a bit old for a baby now.

“All right, I guess I’ll see you guys when you get back then.” At least he wouldn’t have to worry about their safety during the impending attack.

“Yup.”

Neither of them mentioned the fact that Misha could very well be killed before they got back depending on what happened. After a moment of standing there without being able to think of anything else to say, Brunt left. Misha checked the barrel of his rifle again, even though he had thoroughly cleaned it the moment there was enough light. Unable to wait any longer, Misha got up and headed to the community building, hoping they had an assignment for him this time. When he had gone to get his breakfast earlier, Boyle and Karsten were still hammering out the details, including where to put various people. All nine of Misha’s dogs came with him.

The centre was crowded, and no one complained when the dogs came inside. All the tables and chairs had been pushed back and piled up around the walls, while extra cots and mattresses were found and laid out in the space. The centre was becoming a makeshift infirmary, preparing for the worst. Upon the largest, continuous blackboard surface, a diagram of the container yard had been drawn in several shades of chalk and carefully labelled. On a nearby whiteboard, the labels corresponded to people’s names: those who would be in charge of each area. Misha was glad to see he wasn’t one of them. He could take orders, but not give them.

Weaving through the crowd of people who awaited their assignments, a few holding their food without eating it, Misha spotted Larson. He knew him pretty well. The boy used to have a Golden Retriever that had passed away from old age a couple of years ago, as had many dogs from before the Day. The way he had treated his dog had caused Misha to like him, but he also got to know him through Bryce and Becky, the boy’s cousins turned siblings. Misha had once saved Becky from drowning shortly before boarding the Diana, and had then checked on them fairly regularly when they had adopted old Shoes, the Basset Hound, from him.

“Misha, I’m so sorry about Danny,” Larson spoke the moment he saw Misha was close enough to hear him.

“Don’t worry about it. I know you would have done more if you could, even if your brother wasn’t among the captured. Do you have an assignment yet?”

Larson shook his head, and so they waited together. The dogs threaded through the crowd, looking for scraps and head scratches, but they never went too far, always circling back to Misha. Rifle and Bullet never left his side, the old dog sitting and leaning against Misha’s leg. A few times, someone came over to ask Larson what he knew about the people who were coming, and he answered as best he could despite being obviously uncomfortable.

“All right, everyone, settle down!” Boyle’s voice called out over the heads of the crowd as he stood up on a table. “I’m assuming everyone here is aware of what’s happening?”

No one said they didn’t while a majority nodded solemnly.

“Good. Now, as you know, we didn’t have time to reconnect the bridge to Animal Island after the storm. This means no one can go there for safety. This centre is the safest place, and I hope anyone too young or too old to fight on the walls will stay inside. As for the rest of you, form two orderly lines at either door, where you will be given an assignment.”

The crowd shuffled as they obeyed. Larson and Misha stood in the same line together, the one that headed to the door where Boyle was.

“Do you see Freya anywhere?” Misha asked, scanning the crowd for her face.

“I didn’t even know she was here,” Larson admitted. “Why?”

“It’s nothing, never mind.”

The line shuffled along as the assignments were doled out. Parents who were given orders that didn’t allow them to stay with their kids, stepped to one side just outside the door, giving their children last minute instructions and hugs. The older kids all had knives and slingshots, and were prepared to defend their younger siblings if it was called for. Misha suspected that with the size of the invading force, they’d be okay, but neither Larson nor Shaidi had gotten a good look at their supplies, and couldn’t say whether or not they had any heavy artillery. One well-aimed RPG could easily blast a hole through their wall and kill dozens.

“Misha, will your dogs take orders from other people?” Boyle asked when he reached the front of the line.

“Not really,” Misha shrugged. “Not all of them even listen to me that well.”

“But they’ll be following you out there?”

“Most likely. They know something’s going on, so they’ll stick close.”

“I’m putting you on the wall.”

Misha felt his muscles tighten, although the dangerous assignment wasn’t unexpected. He was a really good shot after all.

“Would you mind leaving a dog or two in the centre? They might help keep the kids calm and can sniff over anyone who comes in injured, just in case.”

“Yeah, I’ll pick a few to stay.” Misha understood the part about the kids, but a sniff check? They were people attacked by people, not zombies, so why would they need the dogs to sniff for possible infection? Did it have something to do with Freya being there?

There was no time for questions though, as Boyle gave him his specific location and Larson stepped up to receive his assignment next. As Misha located some nearby rope to tie up the dogs who were staying until the doors could be closed, he heard Larson complain. It was obvious that he hadn’t slept despite his exhausting journey here. Boyle wanted him to find a place to lie down, to keep him in reserve for the nightshift if things lasted that long. Misha knew Larson stood no chance of winning the argument, that he would be left out of the battle’s beginning.

Misha picked three of his dogs to stay at the centre. He chose the Retriever/Lab mix, Trigger, because she was pregnant, Barrel, the stumpy Doberman because the kids liked him, and Stock, the ugly Pit Bull-possibly-Bull Dog-possibly-Pug mixture. Stock was not a pretty dog, whatever he was, but he also looked fierce, which might bring some comfort to those inside the centre. Barrel looked up at Misha with dejected eyes as he was tied up to one of the centre’s support posts.

“Don’t you look at me like that,” Misha told him. “I’d love to stay in here with you.”

With the three dogs secure, he checked the diagram to see who would be in charge of his area. It was White, who usually worked as a lookout when outside the wall. Misha was a bit surprised that Boyle hadn’t chosen one of the other team leaders, but then maybe they were needed to help out elsewhere. Anyone who’d be going up on the wall didn’t need much instruction.

Jogging to the wall, Misha mentally prepared himself. It had been awhile since he had to shoot at living human beings, and he still dreamt about the other time. Often he dreamt about when the Diana was under siege, when he had to fire at invaders. The dream usually ended with sharks.

White was standing at the base of the main section of wall, out in the open where those assigned could easily find him.

“Misha, you’re just up there, two left of center,” he pointed while double checking a notebook he carried. “You’ll be working with Carson.”

Misha nodded and headed for the ladder. He was glad to be on the main section of wall and not assigned to the far end near the rocky shore, where they hadn’t yet finished doubling the height, leaving anyone over there without as much protection. Carson, a wall guard who Misha saw regularly but didn’t talk too much, was waiting for him. The upper container doors had already been moved to seal off the wall save a small gap.

“I hear you’re a better shot than me,” Carson said as they briefly shook hands. “I figure you lie down in the shooter’s position and I’ll back you up. Let me see what kind of rifle you have.”

Misha handed the gun over, letting him inspect it. While he waited, he glanced over the side, down at his dogs. Rifle and Bullet were sitting nearby, looking anxiously up at him, while the remaining four wandered about, wondering what they should do.

“Yeah, we got a fair amount of ammo that’ll work with this. I’ll keep you in supply.” Carson handed Misha back his gun. They had recently begun to make bullets, but there still wasn’t that much ammo. Misha hoped he didn’t have to fire a shot, and that if he did, only one.

Lying down on the warm, irregular metal surface, Misha lined his rifle up with the small opening, staring out at the somewhat distant containers they had yet to search.

The sun crawled across the sky behind some clouds. With every passing minute, Misha became more uncomfortable, but he refused to move beyond a subtle shifting. He knew that when that other group came, things would happen fast. He wasn’t aware of it, but he was even blinking less frequently.

Something moved amongst the containers. A tiny reflection off something metal cast a pale beam of light onto the side surface of an upper container. Had Misha not being staring at the same thing for as long as he had, he would have missed it: an easily dismissed shimmer that he might still have written off if it weren’t for the tiny bit of movement and barely vocalized murmurs of other nearby watchers who had also seen it. The light hadn’t been far into the stacks. The wires that made up Misha’s muscle system tightened, his body hardening in place, wrapped around the rifle. He regulated his breathing and waited, counting in his head, peering through the scope.

The first person to enter Misha’s sights was Danny.

NO!
the scream never made it out of his mind and past his lips. The next rifleman over pulled the trigger, too frightened, too tense to see properly. Misha watched the blood spray, saw Danny go down.

Then everyone was firing, the men amongst the containers diving for cover, shooting back. Several shots pinged off the metal around Misha, forcing him to roll into cover temporarily. The moment it was safe, he rolled back.

Where is Danny? Where is Danny?
he kept thinking, scanning the spaces. There was his blood, but where was he?

“Why aren’t you firing?” Carson was yelling at Misha from behind, not daring to shake him as he seemed to want to, worried about throwing off Misha’s shot.

Misha completely ignored him, watching through his scope as a medical kit flashed through an opening, sitting on something with wheels. Were the supplies for Danny? He had to hope so.

A stranger poked around the corner where the meds had come from, a rifle in his hands. Misha had a perfect shot to take him out, clean through the head. Instead, he pulled to the right, firing at the container next to his face, the spark causing the stranger to quickly withdraw.

Misha couldn’t shoot anyone, not until he knew Danny was all right.

His sieve of a mind couldn’t remember why they were heading in this direction. He shuffled along, the center of a comet made of rot, moving over the land as a diseased amoeba. Behind them, they left a trail of trampled everything; small, weak structures collapsed against their force, frail zombies fallen and unable to get back up beneath the feet of those behind, flesh, organs, and even limbs torn off, dropped to the ground, forgotten. A persistent, never-ending moan always announced their coming, scattering the animals, and a reeking, slippery mire always let one know where they had been.

A tiny puff of smoke, black and wispy had risen briefly in the distance. It’s what Dean was heading for, even if he had no idea. Smoke frequently meant humans, and he was hungry. He was tired of eating the rotting flesh of his companions; he wanted something fresh. With such a large mob around him, it wouldn’t be easy; he’d have to fight through his own kind to make sure he got a bite, but he could do it. He had done it before.

Saggy blue shirt bumped into him, the result of being bumped by another. Dean reacted by stumbling into the zombie on his other side, continuing the kinetic chain until it managed to ripple to the edge of the horde. This happened frequently while they were on the move, with the weakest of them getting knocked over, and never getting back up again. If Dean had a mind that wanted to look down, he would see his feet covered in the filth of those ahead of him. At the back of the comet horde, where the slowest zombies were thinned out, they wouldn’t even be able to see their feet for the debris they were slogging through.

They were like a storm, a new natural disaster. Very few had stood against them, and none had survived. Only those who hid, who stayed quiet had weathered their coming and lived to tell the tale.

Dean walked on, unaware of his southerly course.