Plague Town (15 page)

“Not all of it,” Simone replied. “Like the movies, some were written by people who know—or knew—that the threat is real. Some are meant to warn and teach, others to veil the truth. The rest are simply entertainment.

“They’re rated from one to ten as far as accuracy and efficacy go. I’d particularly recommend
Zombie Survival Guide
and
Zombie Combat Manual
. The combat techniques in both have been field tested and the historical accounts
in the survival guide will give you an idea of how previous outbreaks were contained.”

If my mind hadn’t already been blown, I think that would have done it.

Yes, Virginia, there really is a zombie apocalypse.

Two armed soldiers escorted Lily and me to a room on the same floor as the cafeteria and gym, thankfully above the med ward and the lab. It was very much like a college dorm room, with two twin beds and—joy of joys—our own bathroom.

“I am
so
glad we don’t have to share a toilet with everyone else,” I said as I collapsed onto one of the beds.

“Me, too.” Lily smiled at me shyly. “I wonder who has to share a room with Kaitlyn.”

I grinned, relieved that I wouldn’t have to hide my inner bitch with my new roomie. And a happy thought occurred to me.

“Bet she and Jamie have to share. Maybe they’ll cancel each other out.” I stretched, feeling aches and knots in muscles and joints I hadn’t known I possessed. “Is it okay with you if I take a shower? I promise I’ll be quick.”

She nodded, and I sprinted for the bathroom. I forced myself out of the hot water in record time and pulled on a pair of sweats and a tank top I’d found in the little dresser between the beds. The bathroom medicine cabinet held basics like soap, deodorant, toothpaste, and toothbrushes, as well as a few luxury items—face cleanser, moisturizing cream, and lip balm. The balm had a slight rose tint to it.

Even the hint of color made me feel more human. I looked like death without lipstick.

That thought reminded me of Zara, and once again I wondered what had happened to her. Had she recovered from Walker’s, only to be torn apart? Or had she caught
whatever was turning people into the walking dead? All I could do was hope for the best.

Crawling between the sheets, I skimmed over the
Zombie Survival Guide
while Lily showered. By the time she came out of the bathroom, clad in green scrubs, I’d learned that plate armor is a bad choice for zombie combat and chain mail—while slightly preferable—would hamper you just as much unless you’d trained in it for years. Go SCA!

Lily jumped onto her bed, burrowing under the covers like a little kid hiding from the bogeyman.

“Do you want to read some more?” she asked.

“Nah.” I put the
ZSG
on the dresser next to a little banker’s lamp. “Lights out?”

“Yes,” she said. “Please.”

I reached out and pulled the switch. The room was immediately cast into pitch black, no ambient light at all. Suddenly I realized how much my eyes took in when there was light. The absence of all of that detail was shocking.

This must be what it’s like to be blind.
It only took a minute or so, however, before I could make out shapes and outlines.

Cool. My very own low-budget night-vision goggles.

We lay there in our respective beds for a few minutes, one of those thick, aware silences meant to be broken. Lily sniffled.

“You okay?” I asked.

For a moment she didn’t answer. She moved slightly, and I heard every crinkle of the sheets.

“Yeah,” she said finally. “I’m just worried about Binkey and Doodle.”

“Er... are they your roommates?”
And if so, who the hell named them Binkey and Doodle?

“No,” she answered. “They’re my cats.”

“Are they outside cats?”

“No, they’re locked in my apartment.”

“Do they have food?”

Another pause, accompanied by a sniffle.

“I have a feeder, but it won’t last too long. They like to eat a lot. I bought a bag of dry food a couple days ago, but I didn’t refill the feeder.”

“Is the bag out where they can get it? Because if they’re anything like my parents’ cats, they’ll have ripped that puppy wide open by now.”

“You think so?” Lily sounded distinctly hopeful.

“I know so,” I said, trying to sound certain.

Another pause.

“They had a bowl of water, but they go through it fast.”

I thought about that one for a moment.

“Can they get into the bathroom?” I asked. “Do you leave the seat up?”

“Um... I don’t, but my roommate boyfriend does. Or did. Casey was crashing there while Mom was out of town, until he found his own place.” Then guiltily, “My mom doesn’t know.”

“Hey, be thankful she was out of town when the shit hit the fan,” I said. “Hopefully he did the guy thing and left the seat up, so they’ll have plenty of food and water for now.”

“You think?”

I could tell Lily wanted to believe what I said.

“I think,” I said. “I also think we should get some sleep, ’cause you know Gabriel’s gonna kick our asses tomorrow.”

“Yeah...”

I heard her yawn, followed by another long pause.

“Thanks, Ashley,” she said. “You make me feel like things are going to be okay.”

She must have fallen asleep right after her last sentence from the way her breathing evened out and lengthened into the gentlest of snores. They still sounded like thunder in my ears, though. Earplugs were in order, at least until I learned how to dial down my enhanced senses.

I lay awake for a few more minutes, feeling an unaccustomed warm glow. I’d calmed Lily down, and that felt as if I’d made a small difference in what had suddenly become a very bleak world.

The researchers and support staff weren’t expected to see combat, but they were required to take part in training with weapons and combat techniques, just in case. Even the medical staff had to participate.

This meant—joy of joys—that Jamie joined us while we learned the basics of handling firearms, edged weapons, and pretty much anything you could use effectively against the walking dead. I did my best to ignore her, and she returned the favor.

I loved the edged weapons training. Both Kai and I pretty much kicked butt at it. I’d studied theatrical combat and fencing beginning in high school, and he and I discovered that we’d had the same instructor, a thirty-something wannabe swashbuckler with an age inappropriate soul patch and carefully cultivated mustache. Kind of pretentious, but a good teacher.

If I ever saw him again, I’d thank him.

Honestly, you would not believe the things you can do with wooden kabob skewers if you know where to shove them. And if all you’ve got is a book? Shove it in the attacker’s mouth and reduce the risk of being chomped.

Basically anything can help you survive if you use your brains and don’t panic. That’s what a lot of the training was about—keeping your cool when facing off
against a horde of carnivorous corpses. To panic is to die, whether you bolt or you freeze.

To give in to sentimental attachment will kill you, too. If your loved one has been turned, they will not recognize you. They will try to have you for dinner.

We learned these things and more through a combination of training techniques. After the edged weapons, my favorite sessions were with the firearms.

Gabriel took us to the range, which turned out to be a closed off hallway with a bunch of sandbags stacked against the far wall. That’s where I discovered that I love shooting things. And somebody actually makes zombie targets for shooting ranges—I’m pretty sure they weren’t government issue, either. Before you knew it, I blew the shit out of Zombie Steve.

The first half hour was pure fun because Gabriel operated on the assumption that nobody had ever handled a gun before, so we got to start ‘plinking’ with little 22 caliber pistols and rifles.

“Even a small bullet, placed in the right part of a zombie’s head, will do the necessary brain surgery to put them down,” Gabriel explained.

The 22s had no kick at all, kind of like a pellet gun or even one of those old rat-rubber pistols my friends and I used to play with. Lots of hours spent shooting each other in parks and playgrounds, and even
more
hours picking up the little yellow ‘bullets.’

Then we moved up to military grade stuff, which is when Gabriel went all anal and practically fingerprinted each of us before letting us play with the weapons.

The Colt M-4 was okay. I mean, everyone’s seen them on TV, anytime there’s police action or a swat team. Jack Bauer used one on
24
. Still not much of a kick, and pretty easy to shoot.

Next we played with military pistols, Beretta 9 mms and some other stuff. A Glock, blocky and ugly looking, but fun.

There was a .45 pistol Gabriel called a 1911. A bad boy that looked as if it came straight out of a gangster film. As far as I was concerned, it could stay there; it was a pain in the ass to shoot.

Finally the shotguns were wheeled out, and they made the 1911 feel like a .22 in comparison. Winchesters and Remingtons, all 12 gauge that kicked like a pissed-off mule. Then I spotted a little cut-off double-barrel number that totally looked like something from
The Road Warrior.
Immediately I wanted to try it, but Tony beat me to the punch and snatched it out from under me.

“Creep,” I muttered.

“You snooze, you lose,” he said with a smirk.

He aimed and gave the target both barrels. The shotgun bucked back and smacked his chin hard enough to knock him on his ass.

“Way to go, Mad Max,” I said, helping him to his feet. “Bet you wish you’d snoozed a little more.”

“No way,” Tony replied. He rubbed his jaw while staring at the double-barrel monster with a look of love. “This thing rocks!”

Gabriel also gave us a few shots with an autofire shotgun, and weirdly, it had damn near no kick at all, which was really cool.

So cool, in fact, that they were only given to the trained military personnel—which
didn’t
include the wild cards.

“You all,” Gabriel informed us, “will be using the M-4s.”

Tony clutched his double-barreled baby to his chest. I wouldn’t be surprised if he tried to smuggle it out under his shirt.

Jane huddled behind the desk in her manager’s office, doing her best not to make any noise that could draw
their
attention.

They’d descended on the store without warning, at least a dozen of them. They were people she recognized, but... wrong. Bloody wounds, chunks of flesh missing, black fluid running
out of noses, eyes and mouths. She’d watched
The Walking Dead.
She knew what they were, didn’t waste time telling herself that it was impossible.

So while the rest of her co-workers and the few customers were busy screaming in disbelief as they were pulled down and torn to pieces, Jane had run into the office, locked the door, and shoved a filing cabinet in front of it. She added another cabinet behind the first. If they did manage to break open the door, she hoped they wouldn’t be able to push it open far enough to squeeze inside.

Then she hid, just in case one of them should peer in through the small office window and try to break the glass. If they didn’t see her, maybe they’d go away.

After they finished eating.

Everything was happening quickly, on a super-accelerated schedule, as we had to process concepts and emotions we could never have imagined. To paraphrase
Predator
—one of my favorite testosterone-drenched flicks—we didn’t have time to bleed.

Gabriel believed in repetition, the old ‘practice makes perfect’ routine for each and every thing he taught us. Luckily part of the wild card legacy is great stamina.

Mack kept up with the rest of us, despite his age. I spotted a pleased grin on his face one day, after he executed a drop-and-roll maneuver as smoothly as a twenty-year-old. From that point on, I started ignoring his muttering about aching joints and creaky knees.

Gabriel, on the other hand...

It struck me in the middle of a training session. He still looked gorgeous, but he also just looked, well, off. His skin was sallow and his eyes had developed deep hollows under them. I thought about asking him if he was okay, but couldn’t quite summon up the courage.