Ghost Run (10 page)

I came through the fence behind the store, seeing the delivery trucks that had been backed into the loading bays for over a year now, never to be loaded or unloaded again. They were covered in green mildew and grime; one of them sat unevenly with a flat front tire.

The undead from the fence were getting close and beginning to moan. They'd draw more if I didn't take care of them. At a hundred yards, I took my shots. I didn't normally try to take them out at this distance, which is why my first shot hit the lead corpse in the
chest, knocking it farther back in the advancing pack. I remembered to compensate for the slower subsonic round and aimed six inches above their heads.

Bang, and half a second later I'd hear the wet impact of the heavy round penetrating a skull. A pattern: the suppressed round, skull impact, and then the sound of a body hitting the pavement. In post-apocalyptic drum solo fashion, this rhythm was repeated until no more corpses advanced. The GARMR stood nearby observing, analyzing the situation in real time.

With nothing else between the semitrucks and me, I ran to the tank of the nearest one and thumped it with my rifle to listen to the sound. I removed the fuel cap and used my gun light to look down into the tank.

Half.

I moved on to the next semi.

Quarter.

I didn't have a hose or any tools beyond the multitool in my cargo pocket. I jumped up onto the running boards, causing my weapon to smack up against the exhaust pipe, and had a look inside. The main cab was neat and empty, but it was dark back in the sleeper part of the cab. Who knew what my noisiness would bring. I pulled the handle; it was unlocked. A folder with a fuel card and a set of keys sat in the passenger seat across the cab. The name signed on the fuel logs was
Chuck
. The truck smelled clean on the inside, with a hint of pine from the freshener attached to the vents. I slowly closed the driver's-side door behind me and switched on my gun light. A short-barreled rifle was handy in tight spots like semitrucks and crashed helicopters.

Crawling into the back, rifle first, I saw nothing out of the ordinary. The small bed was neatly made and a case of diet soda sat on the floorboard along with a roll of TP and some gun magazines. I ran my hands under the bed and felt something plastic. Pulling it into the light, I could see it was a green case marked
Ruger
on the top. I flipped open the two plastic clasps and lifted the lid, revealing a Ruger Mark III .22 pistol with two empty magazines. I scoured the back of the truck for any signs of ammo, but there were none. Useless; the gun might as well be a hammer. I placed it back in its case and tucked it under the bed where I'd found it,
right next to the fast-food french fry that had somehow escaped the driver's neat tendencies.

I returned to the front of the cab, swiping the keys as I sat down. I'd only seen someone drive one of these a few times; they were a bit more complicated than your run-of-the-mill soccer dad standard transmission.

I attempted to start the truck but nothing happened. After fumbling for a few minutes, trying to figure out how to get the hood up, I pulled the battery and walked over to the south side of the building.

There were corpses standing two hundred yards away near the other corner of the building.

“Checkers, stay,” I instructed.

Its legs retracted as I ran over, carrying the heavy battery against my hip. I worked quickly, unplugging the solar panels from the GARMR and using zip ties to secure the leads to the semi's battery. I adjusted the panels southerly and placed dead leaves and pieces of a pallet over the GARMR to conceal it while I moved on to the second stage of my vehicle plan.

Checking the toolbox on the rig, I found a thick yellow nylon tow strap. I wrapped it around my body several times like a mountain climber. I took what I needed from my pack and tossed it into the cab before I found my way onto the trailer. Not being a trucker, I had no idea how to disconnect the trailer from the cab. Wherever I'd be taking this rig, I'd be doing it with the trailer behind me, whether it be full of ammo, blue jeans, rotted produce, or empty. As I walked the length of the rectangle roof, the weight of my body caused the metal to buckle in places. This noise resonated down the trailer and into the store beyond. The semi was fully backed up into the loading bay doors; there would be no way inside without moving the truck and no way to move the truck without a charged battery.

I slowly climbed the slick drainage pipe leading to the roof and strained to negotiate the slight overhang before rolling onto the hot tar cover. I was getting old too fast. I lay there for a moment, catching my breath, before getting up to secure a way inside.

The surface of the roof was monotonous, like the moon, with skylights as convex craters spaced evenly in a grid. The milky white
translucence of the skylight covers didn't allow for a view into the store below. Using my fixed blade, I began to pry the nearest cover. After a few minutes of work, I was able to pop it off and get my first whiff of the rot contained inside the abyss below. With trepidation, I stuck my head and rifle into the hole and flipped on the powerful 500-lumen torch. Hanging my torso over the opening, the sweet smell of food rot met my nostrils along with a hint of human decomposition.

I wouldn't be alone.

The skylight I'd chosen wasn't ideal; it would put me down on the white tile between aisles—basically hot lava, according to the children's game. Upside down, the blood rushed to my head while I looked in all directions for a better option. I counted two skylights over and one up, choosing a drop that would put me down on top of the shelves instead of on vulnerable ground level. I could see dark figures moving in the recesses beyond, but I didn't shine my torch on them for fear of attracting company.

After removing the other skylight, I secured the towing strap to a pipe on the nearby air circulator. After tying a few knots in the yellow strap, I tossed it down into the darkness and watched it unravel and snap two feet from the top of what looked like cases of . . . bottled water.

Incredible.

I couldn't believe that bottled water hadn't been looted this long into the grid failing and the dead walking. I reached into my cargo pocket and pulled out one of the green chemlights. I snapped it and attached it to the strap near the skylight opening. I'd want an easy visual reference I could find with my NOD if need be.

I'd be going down into the well of souls with the bare minimum; otherwise, I wouldn't be able to climb back up the strap to the roof.

It was time.

I dangled my legs down into the dark opening and felt for one of the knots with my boots. Hand under hand, I let gravity do its thing until my feet felt the end of the strap. I'd been looking up into the sunlight the whole time and still did so even after I felt the cases of bottled water under my boots. Up there was safety and security; down here was something different.

The sound of something hitting the floor below pulled my eyes away from the bright opening.

I eased the NOD down over my eye. A two-liter soda bottle was spraying its contents all over a long-dead woman. I ignored it and stayed low, careful to maintain my balance on the cases of water. As I took the high ground, I began to understand why this valuable resource remained. The looters couldn't reach these top shelves and fight off the undead at the same time.

The soda-soaked creature now shadowed me below. I was hesitant to take it out. Suppressed gunfire would only bring more of them. I edged myself to the other side of the shelf, out of the creature's sphere of stimulation, and began looking for the signs spread out over the cavernous building. The place I needed was halfway across the store.

Automotive.

I walked low on top of the creaking water bottles to the end of the shelf. I could still hear the corpse on the opposite side, which was unaware that I'd moved farther away from it. Reaching the end of the shelf, I had no other choice but to break the hot lava game rules and step on the floor. I reluctantly slung my gun across my back and climbed down the shelf. As my boot touched the tile below, I was terrified by the fresh tracks in the dust all around me.

There were too many of them.

I kept to the darkness, avoiding the areas under the skylights, places the undead would see me and somehow realize in their primordial synapses that I wasn't one of them. I stayed low, crouching below the racks of cheap clothing as I scurried toward the tall shelf full of tires about fifty yards ahead.

Rounding a rack full of clearance clothing, I was stopped in my tracks by one of them facing away from me. There was something unnerving about a human form that didn't move, didn't breathe, soulless. It was like being in a wax museum full of sculptures that would kill you on sight if given the opportunity.

I peeked up over the clothing displays, making sure that nothing else would hear my attack. I reached for the switchblade I kept on my belt and pulled it with a soft click of Kydex. I quietly approached the creature and positioned my thumb over the fire button. I pressed and the strong spring fired the razor-sharp blade
out the front of the handle. The creature started to react, but it was too late. I rammed the five-inch
tantō
spike into the creature's temple and put my arms around its torso from behind. Lowering the corpse to the cold floor, I could smell the sickening necrosis.

Staying low, I moved quickly to the next department.

Toys.

As I walked down the aisle I could see a single set of footprints in the dust. I looked back to the other side of the store, to where I'd dropped down. I could clearly see the chemlight dangling from the tow strap through my NOD; the device auto-gate kicked in, dimming the night vision to compensate for the skylight above me. Rain began to pour through the opening, down into the store. I moved to the next shadow between skylights and discovered the decayed remains of a large dog fused to the floor.

At least humans have a shot with our intelligence and our ability to reason. I hate it when I find a dead dog.

Automotive was two shelves away. I began to move to my objective when I heard the squeaking of shopping cart wheels nearby. I crouched low, clutching the aluminum rail of my M4 so tightly that I could feel the sharp edges dig into my hands. The squeak continued on the other side of the shelf. Slow, deliberate, and maddening. There was no other way to Automotive; I had to pass by the next aisle. I waited in anticipation for the squeaking to stop. A few seconds of silence would pass by, getting my hopes up, before the squeaking started up again. I circled the long way to the other side of the aisle and slowly stuck my head around the corner to see the source of the terrifying noise.

The corpse of an old woman dressed in a nightgown stood behind the cart, nudging it forward as she moved. Old blood covered the front of her dress all the way down to her knees; a pair of reading glasses hung around her neck on a lanyard. Most of the right side of her face was torn open. I couldn't be certain, but I suspected that the large bag in her cart was dog food.

The aisle was shrouded in darkness, giving me no reason to think she could see me from this far away on the opposite side. I waited until the corpse looked down and then I bolted to the next aisle, right into the waiting arms of a goddamned stock boy.

We fell to the floor, grappling as we went. I held the creature's
cold, snakelike throat, keeping its snapping jaws at bay. As I strained to reach my knife, I could hear the squeak from the shopping cart approaching . . . now faster.

I bucked the stock boy off; its skull thumped the hard tile floor like a ripe melon, giving me time to pull my knife. I fired the spike just before jamming it into stock boy's eye. I yanked the blade from the eye socket and darted behind the nearby service desk.

I waited in terror, holding my breath, listening to the shopping cart approach.

It stopped for a few eternal seconds and then moved again, louder and nearer.

I crouched, trembling, my back to the L-shaped service desk, as the cart squeaked closer and closer.

I felt a slight vibration as the cart bumped the counter from the other side. First the papers fell to the standing mat next to me, then a pen. I looked up to the lip of the counter but dared not prairie dog my head above it.

The ghastly face appeared suddenly above me, looking down on me from over the counter; it began to screech and flail for my flesh. My carbine was pointed up like a mortar tube when I pulled the trigger, sending the creature's brains flying into the air and down all around me. The shot was thunderous, echoing in the aisles of the massive store. A chorus of undead responded to the intrusive noise. I heard clothing racks being knocked over and merchandise hitting the floor all over the place.

Fuck it. Sprinting, I was in Automotive in no time. I grabbed a nylon towrope, two red gas cans, and a length of hose. Using the rope, I secured the cans and hose together and slung them over my shoulder.

I made for the chemlight, but just as I was about to hit my stride, I noticed a corpse sprawled out in Sporting Goods with a rifle jammed in what used to be its mouth. A year of decomposition nearly flattened the remains, leaving an outline of clothing and skeletal limbs.

With the undead converging, I sprinted over to the corpse and found a brick of .22LR ammunition sitting open nearby. The .22 rifle was held securely in place by bony hands; I didn't have time for it.

With the .22LR ammo now in my cargo pocket and slamming against my thigh, I ran as hard as I could for the chemlight.

The undead spilled out from all sides into my aisle. I let out a burst of gunfire that knocked many of them down and turned the dim lights out on the rest. They couldn't see me as well as I could see them.

I was in the shadows, zigzagging through the darkness between skylights. My M4 bolt locked to the rear as I engaged a dozen corpses. With no time for a mag change, I threw my carbine over my head, letting the sling place it across my back alongside the gas cans as it dropped.