Pavlov's Dogs (37 page)

Getting closer to the fire, he put the sword down and reached around to his back. He drew the Bowie knife he’d picked up in the sparring cage and put it into the fire. He turned and put his hands to his face, forming a megaphone.

“Jorge!”

The yell echoed out over the island. But it brought nothing back.

Who else could he call for?

Kelly? Dead.

Julius? Dead.

He thought about Jimmy, but then immediately had an even better idea.

“Marie!” Ken yelled. He’d seen her in the stands, and hadn’t seen her since.

Ken waited until the blade of the Bowie knife was a dull red color, then pulled it from the fire.

“Here goes nothing.”

He pressed the back of the blade to the cut, sealing it off. The searing sound reminded him of the Sigma Dog who had branded him, the one with the 37 tattooed on his forehead. He pulled the knife away, looking at the angry red welt raised there.

Picking the sword up, Ken turned to see a shape hurtling at him. He raised both blades and—it was Marie.

“Is you! Is you!” She was breathless, panting and unable to speak. He lowered the blades and she stepped forward, grabbing his elbow. “This way.”

“Is it Jorge? Is he all right?”

Shaking her head, Marie dragged him to a covered alcove, batting fronds out of the way.

“Marie! Is Jorge okay?!”

She shook her head again. “You come.”

Exasperated, Ken went with her until they came to a wooden door. She knocked and it opened. Jorge’s shining face looked out. “Oh, hey! You found him!”

“Jesus Christ,” Ken said, stepping up and grabbing Jorge. For the first time since the car wreck, since the whole world had started to die, he hugged his friend. “Why didn’t she just tell me you were okay?”

Jorge pounded Ken’s back. “Let me breathe! Dummy. Her English sucks, remember?”

They separated, laughing, and Marie looked mad.

“
Todo esta tranquilo
,” he said to her. Then to Ken, “We’ve been taking turns looking for you. We got a couple of people here; they haven’t been bitten or anything. Just one of the covered walkways collapsed and knocked them out.”

Ken nodded. “All right. Let’s get to the pier. Mac told me how to operate the boat. Let’s get the hell
out
of here.”

Jorge shrugged. “You sure about that? Seems to me an island is a nice enough place to call home. You know, as long as we get rid of the zombies and clean up the place. They got power here. Facilities. Hell, they even got a radio. Maybe we could figure out what things are like down in Mexico.”

“Yeah, okay, but either way, we should try to gather whoever we can and...”

“And what?”

Ken smiled, a lopsided affair. “You know what? I think I’m done calling the shots for now.” He tilted his head at Jorge. “What do
you
want to do?”

Jorge put his hand out, clasping Ken’s shoulder. He looked his friend in the eyes and all the levity went out of his face. His breathing came slower, and his jaw set with determination.

“I want, with all my heart, to drink a beer.”

Ken burst out laughing, leaning over and falling against the wall.

Jorge said, “What?” Then he was laughing, too.

“All right,” Ken said, wiping the tears from his eyes. He put his hand out. “All right,
muchacho
. Let’s go find ourselves some brew. But then we’re going to talk about finding your kids.”

“Okay,” Jorge said, grabbing the offered handshake. “Just one condition.”

“What’s that?” Ken asked.

“
I’m
driving.”

THOM BRANNAN
(est. 1976) has been a submariner, a nuclear operator, an electrician and now works on an offshore drilling platform. He lives in or around Austin, Texas, with his lovely wife, Kitty, a boy, a girl, a cat and a dog. 

D.L. SNELL
is an acclaimed novelist from the Pacific Northwest. Anthologies include Pocket Books’
Blood Lite
series, edited by best-selling author Kevin J. Anderson. Snell’s first novel,
Roses of Blood on Barbwire Vines
, also attained critical acclaim from popular novelists such as
New York Times
bestselling author Jonathan Maberry. Visit his website at
dlsnell.com
.