Plague of the Dead (35 page)

    “Fucknuts!” he swore, a thick scowl creasing his features. “What the hell does he think he’s going to get done besides kill a couple more of us?”

    “I don’t know, but Sherman’s got a solid head on his shoulders,” Denton said, shrugging slightly from across the lobby.

    “Oh, alright. Tell you what-you be the first guy to stick his head out those doors when they say it’s all clear,” said Shephard, one of the other survivors of the crash.

    “What other real choices does he have, eh?” commented Denton. “Low on ammunition, low on personnel. He’s got to improvise. It’s not a bad plan, really.”

    Sherman had managed to get in touch with them on the radio, and had explained what they were going to attempt. They’d set the time for the next evening, when the dimming light might help the runner evade the infected, or maybe give him the edge in preventing more from picking him up as he ran. Brewster’s reaction had been immediate and quite negative. He’d denounced the idea as idiotic.

    “And did he even ask us if we’d come up with any ideas? Hell no,” Brewster said, scoffing.

    “He’s a
General
,” Denton told him. “His type aren’t used to asking opinions.”

    “I don’t see any other way to get out,” Mitsui said. His English was excellent. As a foreign contractor, he’d picked up several languages through his career. “Even if we try Brewster’s idea to get to the sporting goods store, we’re still going to be trapped in this theater.”

    “Yeah, man, but we’d be trapped with ammunition-better than sitting around defenseless. It’d give us a little more power when we figure out how to bust out of here. Hell, think of how different Sherman’s plan would be if he had a couple thousand rounds backing him up.”

    “You can’t eat bullets,” reasoned Mitsui.

    “Jesus, I’m surrounded by civilians,” moaned Brewster.

    “But I’m right, no?” Mitsui said, raising his eyebrows at the private.

    “No, you’re not. I mean,
yes
, but
no
. Look, let’s just say for a second we were trapped in a supermarket, right? Plenty of food-but nothing to defend ourselves with. What happens if the infected manage to bash that door down? Or some other survivors show up and decide they want what you’ve got? Huh?”

    Mitsui shrugged almost imperceptibly.

    “Man, I’ll tell you what’ll happen-you’ll be evening chow for the infected or a corpse to the raiders.”

    “Alright, alright-seems to me what we’ve got is two ideas that actually complement each other. Why haven’t any of you thought to get the two to work together?”

    “What, like send the runner Sherman’s got through the sporting goods store while the infected are trailing behind him?” Brewster asked.

    “No,” Ron said, rolling his eyes slightly. “Like get back on that radio and give the store’s address to the General. They might be able to sneak in and get what they can before they send in their runner. That’d be safer than trying to get one of us past the infected out there, and give Sherman a fighting chance if there’s anything left to be had there.”

    Brewster seemed to consider this a moment, and his expression revealed he thought there was merit there. Shephard looked over at Denton, nodding his head in approval, and Katie smiled from her perch on the edge of the stairs that led to the projection booth.

    “Damn,” Brewster said after a while. “And I was all psyched up to run, too.”

    “Oh, you’ll be running,” Denton said. “Just hopefully without that many infected after you.”

    “So it’s decided, then?” Brewster asked, holding out the radio. He let his eyes pan over the occupants of the theater.

    Seeing no disapproving stares, he clicked the handset.

    “Ghost Bravo to Ghost Lead, come in, Ghost Lead, over.”

    Brewster relaxed his finger and waited. After a few seconds of static, he repeated the request.

    “Ghost Bravo to Ghost Lead, come in, please-over.”

    The radio crackled and Sherman’s voice came through.

    “Ghost Lead here. What’s the sitrep, Bravo, over?”

    “We’ve got an addendum to that P.O.A., sir. Recommend you scout a sporting goods store one street north of our pos. Possibly ammunition and weapons there, over.”

    The radio went silent again for a few moments. Brewster could imagine Sherman discussing the suggestion with Thomas and a couple of the other soldiers before making a decision. Finally, his response came through.

    “Thanks for the intel, Bravo, but it’s a negative. We don’t have the manpower or gear to attempt a superfluous recon, over.”

    Brewster sighed heavily.

    “See?” he said to the group, wiggling the radio in front of them. “These guys always do a risk-benefit calculation before they try anything new.”

    “Just call him back,” Denton suggested. “Tell him what we’re thinking.”

    Brewster scowled, but lifted the radio up again.

    “Ghost Lead, we strongly recommend you scout the sporting goods store. Ron believes the infected in the area are either dormant or already focused on an objective like the theater. A small group of one to three should be able to remain undetected long enough to see what that place might have to offer. Even if it’s nothing, sir, it’s worth a look. How far can we expect to get with a few rounds of pistol ammunition and barely any food, over?”

    Again, a drawn-out silence as the group outside of town mulled over the proposition. Brewster scratched at three-day beard stubble, and Shephard idly kicked around one of the fallen paper cups with the toe of his boots. Outside the door, the sounds of bare fists pounding on heavy oak was as steady as ever. The infected, in their single-mindedness, were swiftly becoming the only predictable element in an unpredictable world.

    “Ghost Bravo, Ghost Bravo, wilco, over.”

    Brewster’s head swiveled around to the radio, a look of surprise on his face.

    “What?” he asked, incredulous.

    “What?” repeated Ron, unsure of what he had just heard, with genuine curiosity in his voice.

    “He said he’s going to do it,” Denton said, the beginnings of a grin working at the corners of his mouth.

    “About damn time the Army listens to a grunt’s suggestion,” said Brewster. He picked up the radio to send a response. “Ghost Lead, reading you five-by-five. Standing by for updates. Out.”

Hyattsburg streets

0134 hrs_

    Mark Stiles, the soldier who had volunteered to be the foreman in Sherman’s plan, now found himself stalking through the shadows of the small buildings of Hyattsburg. Sweat had beaded on his forehead despite the cold temperatures, and his eyes flicked back and forth, triple-checking every dark corner and debris pile for threats. He held one of the remaining nine-millimeter pistols pointed downwards at the ready, safety off and a round in the chamber.

    When the call had come in from the people stranded at the theater recommending that someone check out a sporting goods store, he’d been the natural choice to investigate. It would be folly to send in all of the remaining troops-that much noise would certainly draw unwanted attention. Instead, Sherman had elected to send one man to scout the place. Since Stiles had already volunteered once, he didn’t see any harm in raising his hand a second time.

    Besides, it’d give him a chip to bargain with the next time someone was needed for a suicide mission-That is, if he survived his current one.

    According to Brewster’s source, the storefront he was looking for was only a street away from the theater itself. Apparently, the survivors in the theater had been planning on sending a runner of their own. That would have been even less advisable-Stiles had no clue as to how they’d expected to get past the dozen and a half infected pounding at the front doors.

    The moon had swung out from behind scattered clouds and was nearly full, bathing the street in diffuse blue light. It was bright enough to cast indistinct shadows-an advantage for Stiles, who never really had much night sight to speak of in the first place. The moonlight gave him just enough to see by and navigate the cluttered streets of Hyattsburg without tripping over refuse and alerting any infected.

    He crouched on one side of a deserted intersection, back against the red brick of a building, and raised his pistol. He slowed his breathing, and slowly scanned the street. It was empty, save for a few gutted automobiles and overturned trash cans.

    “
Fucking ghost town
,” he whispered under his breath, shivering slightly-and not due to the cold air.

    Down the street, about three-quarters of a block away, he spied the outline of a carved wood sign in the shape of a fishing pole. That had to be the sporting goods store. He’d have to cross the intersection and leave himself completely exposed for a few moments if he was going to make it.

    “
No use wasting time
,” he mumbled, and took off from his crouch, sprinting like greased lightning across the street with his boots slapping on the pavement. When he reached the other side, he slammed his back against the nearest wall, sinking into a crouch, pistol out and aimed. He sighted down the barrel, scanning the street once more for activity. The only sounds were that of his heavy breathing and the metallic clicking of the pistol in his shaky hands. He’d made it across without being spotted by anything.

    Still in a crouch, he hopped around the corner of the building and back into the shadows. Then he relaxed a bit, rising into a half-bent over stance, still low but mobile, and jogged down the sidewalk. Each time he came to an alley or recessed doorway he halted, flattened himself against the wall, and peeked around the edge for a split-second to check for carriers.

    The store before the sporting goods shop was a laundromat, obviously marked with cartoon figures of a washer and dryer and the slogan, ‘
A quarter gets your clothes clean
!’ The front picture window had been knocked out completely and broken glass littered the sidewalk.

    Stiles halted as he approached the building. He cocked his head to one side and held his breath, remaining as still as he could manage. He thought he’d heard something. Five, then ten, then twenty seconds passed, and Stiles still didn’t move or breathe.

    Then it came again-the sound of a footstep crunching on glass. Stiles swiveled around, putting a stoop between him and the broken-out window. He’d had a feeling he wouldn’t make it to the store he was looking for before a carrier got in his way-and it sure as hell wasn’t a healthy human standing in the broken-out window in the middle of the night. Anyone living had better sense than that these days.

    “
Shit, shit, shit
,” Stiles muttered.

    There was no other way to get to the sporting goods store except to cross directly in front of the laundromat’s window, unless he wanted to backtrack and circle the block-and who knew how many more infected might be blocking that route?

    Using his pistol was out. It was a last-resort defensive weapon. He knew it. He had fifteen rounds to cover a blown attempt’s escape. Shooting the carrier would not only waste a precious bullet, but also alert every infected on the street to his presence.

    Mark Stiles wasn’t the type of person to be hasty or reckless when it didn’t suit his needs. The fact that he’d survived to reach home soil after Suez, Sharm el-Sheikh and the battle on the
Ramage
was evidence enough of that. He reached down to his belt and holstered his pistol, snapping it securely to his side.

    Then, the same hand reached around and popped a button, slowly drawing forth a tool most soldiers in
This Man’s Army
rarely used anymore: his
bayonet
. He’d kept it even after he’d run out of ammunition for his M-16. A knife was always a handy tool. Stiles had another use for it tonight besides impaling opponents. He’d spent an entire day months before polishing one side of the bayonet until it shone as clear and bright as a mirror-exactly what Stiles had had in mind. Originally, he’d thought he’d have to use it clearing buildings in the burning desert sun. Being able to look around a corner without exposing yourself could keep you alive if someone was waiting with a machine gun just around the bend.

    Stiles stretched out on the ground, laying flat on his stomach, and low-crawled around the stoop to the edge of the busted window, moving slowly but deliberately. He stopped just short of the broken glass and flipped himself over onto his back. Ever so slowly, he raised the polished edge of the bayonet over the lip of the window, turning it gently between his fingers. The moonlight was just bright enough to illuminate the inside of the laundromat.

    It looked like someone had tried to make a stand here. The machines had all been unplugged and dragged to the center of the floor, forming a kind of makeshift fort. It hadn’t held. Even in the darkness, Stiles could see dried bloodstains running down the white-painted sides of the washers and dryers. It might have made an interesting forensic study if his attention hadn’t been grabbed by the sight of a pair of feet barely two meters from where the bayonet was poking up.

    There was definitely a carrier here-luckily, it was only one. Stiles could see by the way the head was moving around, (almost curiously, as if surveying its surroundings,) that the carrier was a sprinter, not a shambler.

    That would work to his advantage.

    He’d seen enough of the carriers to know how they worked. Their basic tactics, their physiology-a soldier always made mental notes as to what their opponents’ capabilities were. It helped keep them alive. In this case, Stiles knew one thing: a sprinter was still a living thing. Thus, a sprinter could be killed.

    Shamblers were dead. He’d known that much for a fact when he’d seen a carrier with a nice grouping of bullet holes in its chest open its eyes and pull itself to its feet. The only way to kill them was to put a round through their brains, or take their head off somehow. A
sprinter
, on the other hand… well, one needed only kill them like any other living foe. It took a while before they would reanimate.