The Dead Series (Book 2): Dead Is All You Get (11 page)

Her raised eyebrow told me to stand down. Holly and Griffin walked over to meet her.

“This is my wife, Holly, and this is Griffin,” I said.

“How are you, Griffin?” What, now she was charming? “I understand you’ve been in combat.”

“Yes,” Griffin said, averting her eyes. She seemed embarrassed by the attention.

“I’m not here to run your life, so you don’t need to worry. But I
will
expect you to check in with me before each meal. You can usually find me in the administration building. And I’ll come by once at twenty hundred hours. That’s curfew, young lady, and you need to be home. Understand?”

“Yes, ma’am.” I’d never heard Griffin call anyone ma’am or sir. I was beginning to like Erzen.

“Looks like we’re all good.” Erzen smiled broadly. She struck me as a genuinely caring person—but with a tough exterior. “See you at lunch.”

After the woman left, Griffin looked at us imploringly. “Can’t I come with you guys?”

“Afraid not,” I said. “You’ll be safe here.”

“But what if something happens to you?”

“All the more reason for you to stay here.”

I hadn’t meant to sound harsh. I thought we’d be able to move past this, but then I saw the tears welling in Griffin’s eyes. Holly saw them too and touched her hand.

“Honey, what’s wrong?” she said.

“Why did they have to kill Evie?”

Holly and I looked at each other. I knew then and there that anything I said would sound awkward, so I left it to Holly. She walked Griffin to the sofa and sat down next to her. Now, the girl’s tears flowed freely, reminding me that I really hadn’t dealt with Evie’s death. A pain shot through my heart as I thought about the fearless reporter.

“I won’t lie to you,” Holly said. “These are really dangerous times. But Dave and I are trained soldiers. Evie didn’t even carry a weapon.”

“But I can handle myself.”

“I know you can. But things are different now. We have to follow the rules. I’m sorry.” Holly hugged Griffin like a daughter. “It breaks my heart when I think about losing you. I guess you feel the same about us. But we’ll be fine. You have to trust us, Griffin. Do you think you can do that?”

Griffin wiped away her tears with her sleeve and tried to smile. “Yes.”

“I promise you, this is for the best,” Holly said, glancing at me.

“At least Erzen is nice,” I said.

Griffin looked completely dejected. “I guess so.”

We both hugged her and went outside to meet Warnick and the others.

“Do you think she’ll be okay?” Holly said, wiping away her own tears.

“I think we can trust Erzen.”

There were six of us in the Humvee. Warnick drove, with Springer riding shotgun. It was like old times, except for the new guys, who sat on either side of Holly and me. Sleep was rare lately, and I must have drifted off. I saw Evie walking away from me in a mist. She was following someone—I couldn’t make out the figure but it was definitely a man. He turned. I couldn’t be sure, but I thought it was Walt Freeman. I startled.

When I opened my eyes, dense trees filled the Humvee’s windows—we’d entered the forest.

“Did we hit something?” I said.

Warnick turned towards me. “Pot hole.”

Holly leaned against me, her head on my shoulder. Rubbing her eyes she sat up and looked around. “Where are we?”

It was early afternoon. We didn’t appear to be in the same area where we’d been rescued. A heavy mist clung to the forest floor, making it difficult to make out details among the trees.

“Not too much farther,” Warnick said, consulting a map.

Springer fiddled with his phone. Why did he even bother?

“I think we might be close,” Warnick said.

If I’d had to guess, I’d have said we were somewhere to the east. The trees were less dense here.

“Is this a fire road?” I said.

“No. It’s a private road. See the fencing?”

Someone had erected miles of fence hewn from logs. There were no markers, but they’d mounted lights on the trees. Who would be out here driving at night?

Holly straightened up and stretched. “Are we there yet?”

“Whoa,” Springer said.

Up ahead stood a series of low, unmarked buildings surrounded by a fence similar to the one Ram Chakravarthy had erected around his compound, which the Red Militia had later destroyed. The gate was on wheels. Warnick stopped in front of it and we got out.

We stood at the gate, afraid to touch it. It was probably electrified. A sign read
PROSPECT CORRECTIONAL FACILITY
.

“Look,” Holly said, pointing.

A dead raccoon, its fur singed, lay next to the fence.

“How do we get in?”

A woman’s scream broke the silence. Immediately, we returned to our vehicle to get our AR-15s. Warnick didn’t need to say anything. Someone was in trouble. We’d do a sweep of the area. If we encountered a horde, we’d double back to our vehicle and get to safety. We knew the drill.

Each of us grabbed an AR-15. Holly and I stayed with Warnick and Springer while the other two branched off. We cut a path through the trees, which thinned into a clearing. Two figures—humans—raced across it towards us. A man and a woman, each dressed in blue jeans and dark shirts. The man held a long catchpole.

“Hurry!” the woman said. “They’re coming!”

Both wore glasses and carried backpacks. The man ran ahead and, pulling a remote control from his pocket, opened the gate. As we ran inside, Warnick jumped into the Humvee and drove through. The man closed the gate and we waited.

We didn’t wait long. Forty or fifty draggers, dressed as tourists, forest rangers and Black Dragon soldiers appeared in the distance and closed in fast. Holly raised her weapon, but Warnick gently pushed her arm down. The noise would only attract more.

We watched as the draggers grabbed the fence, did a crazy dance from the electricity coursing through their dead bodies, then fell off, stunned. Unable to learn their lesson, they repeated the exercise. Best to leave them alone till they tired of the electric Kabuki dance.

I turned towards the main building. It had no windows. Cameras mounted on the roof took in the surrounding area. I expected dogs, but none came.

The front door opened. A frightened-looking middle-aged man—disheveled, wan and unshaven, wearing a long-sleeve shirt and jeans—stepped into the afternoon light. His hands shook. He stared at us with dilated pupils, and he smelled ripe. His curly black hair was overgrown, and his horn-rimmed glasses practically slid off the end of his nose.

It was Bob Creasy.

“You can’t be here,”
Creasy said as we forced our way inside. He glared at the man and woman. “Why did you let them in?”

“We were almost killed out there,” the man said. Then to us, “I’m Doctor Larry Evans. This is my wife, Doctor Judith Evans. Thank God we didn’t have to engage those things. Judith and I can handle one or two, but …”

After exchanging greetings, Warnick instructed the other two men to stand guard outside. Then to the Evanses, “What were you doing out there, anyway?”

Their eyes darted towards Creasy. “Research.”

Creasy seemed edgy and unfocused—different from the way I remembered him—like he hadn’t slept in weeks. And he’d lost a ton of weight.

“I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to—”

“Do you remember me?” I said.

Creasy squinted and shook his head. “Afraid not.”

“A few months ago—July, actually—you picked me up on the highway. I was injured. You asked if a dog had bitten me. Remember?”

Creasy shot a questioning look at Larry and Judith. “Oh, yes,” he said, picking at the backs of his arms. “I dropped you at the police station.”

“That’s right.”

“We need to ask you some questions,” Warnick said. “Is there somewhere we can talk?”

“Not allowed …”

“Bob, talk to them,” Larry said. “This thing has already gone too far.”

“Shut up, Larry.”

“Do it, Bob,” Judith said. Then to us, “We want to cooperate.”

The two researchers led us into a break room, where we found a few tables and chairs. A coffee machine and a microwave oven sat on the counter next to a refrigerator. Warnick sent Springer off to look around. Creasy stood in the doorway for a second and then made his way to the sink for a glass of water.

“There’s coffee and tea, if you want,” Judith said.

Creasy eyed us. “What is it you want here?”

“We’re investigating a homicide,” Warnick said. “A news reporter named Evie Champagne.”

“She’s dead?” Larry said. He and his wife exchanged a startled glance. Creasy was unfazed.

“You knew her?”

Creasy shot them a look. “Only from the news.”

“Strange,” I said. “Evie told us she met with you, Larry, and that you told her about this facility.”

“She was lying,” Creasy said.

Judith slammed her palm on the table. “No, she wasn’t.”

“Judith, be quiet.”

“No, I won’t.” Then to us, “She and Larry had a near miss on one of the roads leading to the forest.”

Larry nodded. “She asked me a lot of questions—of course, she was a reporter.” He cackled like a mental patient, then became serious. Holly shot me a nervous glance.

“What did you tell her?” Warnick said.

“Not much. The work we’re doing here is classified.”

“Did she ever make it inside?”

“No,” Creasy said. “That would be trespassing—like what you’re doing. Look, I’m sorry a woman was shot, but that doesn’t—”

“Who said anything about her being shot?” Holly said.

A violent look passed over Creasy’s face, like a poison rain cloud, and his features hardened into anger. “I’m not going to be part of this,” he said. “You people have no idea what you’re doing. You need to leave
now
!” He staggered out of the room.

“Is he okay?” Holly said.

Judith lowered her voice. “He’s been under a terrible strain since this started. We all have.”

“What’s his role here?” Warnick said.

“He’s the project lead.”

“And what exactly
is
the project?” I said.

Larry took his wife’s hand. “Look. Judith and I are scientists. The whole reason we joined the company … We’re trying to help people.”

“Tell us what happened in Tres Marias,” Warnick said.

“That’s classified. We could be arrested. And I’m guessing none of you has a security clearance.”

“I warned you,” a voice said.

I turned. Creasy stood in the doorway weaving and pointing a handgun at us. Instinctively, I stepped in front of Holly and pointed my weapon at him.

“Bob, what are you doing?” Judith said.

He blinked at the bright lights and licked his lips. I thought he might have the jimmies and could lose control of his trigger finger any second.

Without hesitation, Warnick raised his weapon and pointed it at Creasy’s head. “Drop your weapon,” he said, his voice steady. “Now.”

“We have to finish the project,” Creasy said, his voice desperate. “We’re so close. Don’t you see? It’s the Holy Grail.”

Springer appeared behind him, his arms raised. His AR-15 came down hard, making a dull thwack as he butt-stroked Creasy at the base of the skull. Groaning, Creasy collapsed, unconscious. Springer casually retrieved the other weapon and came over to join us as Larry and Judith tended to their sick colleague.