The Dead Series (Book 1): Tell Me When I'm Dead (31 page)

Sometime during the night the sounds of screaming awakened us. Gunfire blazed outside. Soldiers bounded past the locked doors. Then a concussion as an explosive device detonated.

“We’re under attack,” Warnick said, and signaled for us to move towards the double doors. A bullet shattered one of the windows. “We need to make a break.”

We scanned the room. No weapons or implements of any kind.

“Grab one of those tables,” Landry said. “We can use it as a battering ram.”

We shoved the useless computers off a table and positioned ourselves around it, then carried it towards the door.

“Ready?” Warnick said. We prepared to swing it on Warnick’s command. “One … two …
three
.” The doors cracked but didn’t open. “Again. One … two …
three
.”

This time the doors gave and flew open. The offices were dark. We didn’t see anyone. We made our way to the front entrance and pressed ourselves against the walls on either side.

Outside, soldiers shot into the darkness. We couldn’t see what they were aiming at. Men called out commands. Incoming fire shattered the glass of the front entrance, letting in the pungent smell of gun smoke.

“Those aren’t draggers they’re shooting at,” Landry said.

“They’re Red Militia,” Warnick said. “We can’t go out this way—we’ll be shot.”

We fell back and hid next to a row of cubicles.

“Let’s split up,” Warnick said. “It’ll be quicker. Whoever finds a way out can alert the others.”

I jogged past a small kitchen, looking for a back exit. A sign glowed in the distance. As I moved towards it, someone stepped out of the shadows.

“Warnick?” I said.

Everything went black.

When I awoke, I was in a different room. The fluorescent lights glowed harshly, revealing a dingy, windowless storage area. The room was warm and the air stale. Stacks of white record-storage boxes surrounded me. I sat up and succumbed to a blinding headache. I touched the side of my head and felt stickiness.

“Dave’s awake,” someone said.

Weak and dizzy, I looked at Warnick, Landry and Ram. They helped me into a wobbly desk chair.

“What happened?” I said.

“One of Chavez’s men,” Warnick said. “Must’ve hit you with his rifle butt.”

“Obviously, we didn’t make it out either,” Landry said.

A low groan pierced the dank air. I tried to focus. My gaze landed on a stranger wearing camo, lying against the wall. He looked to be around nineteen or twenty and was in pretty bad shape. His head was bloody, one eye swollen shut.

“Nailhead,” Warnick said. “They threw him in here a little while ago.”

I tried standing but was still too woozy. So I stayed put as Warnick crossed the room and crouched in front of the injured man.

“I already told the others what I know,” he said.

“What’s your name?” Warnick said.

“His name is Steve Pinkerton,” Landry said. “Used to be in my science class in high school.”

“Mr. Landry?”

“What the hell, Stevie? Why are you associating with Ormand Ferry?”

“He gave me a place to stay after my dad died. He’s not what you people think.”

“What
do
we think?” Warnick said.

“That, that he’s some kind of evil genius. He’s trying to save this town.”

“By killing our security forces?” Warnick said.

“We shot back because you attacked us.”

“This is hopeless,” Landry said.

The three of them walked back to me.

“Chavez must’ve worked him over pretty good,” Warnick said. “Whatever they have planned for us, it’ll be worse for him.”

“Do you think he told them where Ormand Ferry is?” I said.

“No idea.”

Sometime during the night Steve Pinkerton died. When we awoke, we found him cold and stiff, a trickle of dried blood on his chin. He never moved again, further proof that you didn’t turn if you weren’t infected.

“Poor, dumb bastard,” Landry said. “Never could get a break. His mother left when he was four, I think. Father was a crackhead. No friends to speak of.”

“Except Ormand Ferry,” I said. “Apparently he was a very good friend.”

After the soldiers carted
away Steve Pinkerton’s body, sleep became impossible. Warnick convinced them to give us a first-aid kit for my head. Landry bandaged me up, and I swallowed four ibuprofen for the blinding pain. My vision was blurry, and I couldn’t stand without help.

“Mr. Chavez sends his apologies,” one of the soldiers said.

“That’s generous,” Landry said, “considering Dave almost lost an eye.”

“You should’ve stayed in the room.”

Our captors gave us blankets but no pillows. We found a box of garbage bags and filled those with crumpled paper. As the rest of us lay on the floor, Warnick stood by the door, asking the guard what was going on outside. The soldier told him that the nailheads had been dealt with and that all was secure.

“Do you think they’ll shoot us?” I said.

“They would’ve done it already,” Warnick said.

“Looks to me like Chavez might have something special planned,” Landry said.

“And that reminds me, Irwin,” I said. “Why in hell do you keep getting up in that guy’s grill? Can’t you see he’s nuts?”

“He’s right,” Ram said. “We need to show respect and not make them mad.”

“What do you say, Warnick?” I said.

Warnick undid the laces of his boots, yanked them off and lay on the floor with his hands behind his head. “We need to be super-careful.” Good ol’ Warnick, master of the understatement.

In the early morning, the door was unlocked. They allowed us upstairs to use the bathroom and eat breakfast—if you want to call it that. And I learned something new. There is nothing worse than army coffee. At least I felt better, but my head still throbbed.

A little while later Estrada walked into the conference room where we were eating. She seemed pleased. “Time to move out.”

“Where are we going?” Landry said.

“To a better place.”

So they
had
decided to kill us. As we looked at each other gravely, Warnick’s expression told me that, instead of panicking, he was analyzing the situation. Did he know something we didn’t?

It had stopped raining. Outside, we saw the bullet scars and shattered glass from the recent attack. Fires burned all across the office park, and we knew that meant dead bodies. They put us into Humvees and drove us to the rear of the complex. And there it was—the ice-skating rink.

It was called Happier Times, a low, drab building painted grey and yellow. Graffiti covered one wall. The words
Smells Like Teen Spirit
stood out in drippy red paint.

The sign hung precariously, the blue and pink neon no longer lit up. The front windows were boarded up with plywood. All we needed was a tumbleweed blowing past in the hot desert wind.

“Here?” I said.

Estrada grinned. “You guys look like you could use some exercise.”

“This will not end well,” Warnick said as we got out of the Humvee.

They led us through the front door, past armed guards. Inside, it was dark. Beck’s “Loser” blasted from the speakers as colored laser lights reflected off an antique glitter ball onto the rough ice with faded markings. It almost looked normal except for the plywood-and-barbed-wire doors that blocked all entrances to the rink.

I played hockey here as a kid. Though the building was old, it had always been kept up. As we got closer, I saw what looked like bloodstains on the ice and grimy white walls.

Off to the side, soldiers played video games, shouting and laughing as they killed bad guys and raced skimobiles. We were led to the entrance, where Chavez was already waiting.

“Games now?” Landry said, apparently forgetting our earlier conversation.

“Training,” Chavez said, glaring at Landry, then looking the rest of us over. “It’s a different world. I need to toughen you up for what’s ahead.”

“What
is
ahead?” I said.

“Armageddon.”

They told us to remove our shoes and led us to the counter, where I found an old man whom I recognized as the owner, Eddie Greely. I had thought he was dead. But there he was, handing out skates with gnarled hands, the fingertips yellowed from years of smoking. He was resolute, looking for the right-size skates like this were some middle-school kid’s birthday party.

“Eddie?” I said.

“Oh, hey, Dave.” His blue eyes were dull from cataracts. “You’re an eleven, right?”

“Yeah. What’re you doing here?”

“Staying alive,” he said, and handed me my skates.

As we stood next to the rink, a kid who couldn’t have been more than seventeen or eighteen skated fast, swinging a hockey stick like he was cracking heads. He did a V-stop at one end of the rink, and I knew he was a hockey player.

“So how does this work?” Warnick said.

“Simple,” Chavez said. “A normal period in hockey in twenty minutes, right? I’m guessing you pussies are out of shape. So. Each of you will skate in the rink for ten minutes. If you survive, you can join us.”

“What do you mean,
if
we survive?” I said. “Are you planning to use us for target practice?”

“No,” he said, “nothing like that. But you won’t be alone in there.”

“What kind of bullshit is this?” Landry said.

We stared at Chavez to see what he would do. At first he looked at Landry with cold, lifeless eyes. I was sure he would pull out his gun and shoot him right there. After another moment, he smiled and addressed the rest of us.

“It’s a simple test,” Chavez said. “See that kid? That’s Keller. He passed and is part of our team now.” He shouted to someone in the announcer’s booth and smiled. “Who’s going to be first?”

We looked at one another. Then Warnick said, “I’ll go.”

“You were always a team player,” Chavez said, slapping Warnick’s back. “When’s the last time you skated?”

“When I was eight. I hated it then too. Do I get a weapon?”

“Absolutely, my man. Take your pick from anything in those equipment bags over there.”

Warnick teetered on his skates towards the black nylon bags lying on the floor. I thought he was going to fall on his face. This guy wouldn’t last two minutes in the rink.