The Dead Series (Book 2): Dead Is All You Get (16 page)

The parking lot was clean, the boards we’d put up over the windows to repair the damage from looters still in place. We parked and went to the front door, which was locked. I peered through a crack in the boards—the lights were off and the place looked deserted.

A crash echoed from inside—metal hitting concrete. I struggled to see through the window. Something moved in the shadows—an animal or maybe a person crawling. I couldn’t tell for sure.

“So do we go in or …” I said. “It could be a raccoon.”

Warnick moved in closer. “Or a survivor.”

Springer pointed his index finger at the building like a gun and pretended to fire. “Or a dragger.”

Holly started walking. “One way to find out, gentlemen.”

“Aren’t we going to take a vote?” I said, hurrying after her.

Drawing our weapons, we walked briskly to the rear of the one-story building, searching for another way in. The back faced a weed patch with trash scattered here and there. As we walked the length of the whitewashed wall, we passed a blood spray stain a few feet wide.

The only door was up a short flight of stairs next to the loading dock. It was locked, too.

“Springer, can you pick that lock?” Warnick said.

“In my dreams.”

“I don’t want to shoot it off. Let’s try the roof.”

A metal ladder bolted to the wall led to a gravel roof. One by one we climbed up. Missing patches of gravel exposed ripped, dried-up tarpaper. Leaves and other debris were strewn everywhere. But the view was good—I spotted a few pockets of draggers off in the distance, wandering the streets. We’d have to get to them later.

Springer found a galvanized hatch in the middle of the roof. The hasp was missing a lock. Warnick pulled the hatch open and peered inside.

“Anything?” I said.

“It’s pretty dark.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small flashlight, clicking it on and pointing it down the hatch as we crouched around him.

“How far down is it, do you think?” I said. “My leg’s still not a hundred percent.”

Springer stood. “I can get down there. I’ll open the front door and let you guys in.”

“You sure?” I said.

He gave me one of his wiseass Springer smiles and climbed into the hole.

“Careful,” Holly said.

We waited to make sure Springer made it in without a problem. Peering down, he got his bearings and let himself drop. A thump echoed up.

“What happened?” Warnick said.

“Fell on my ass.”

“Rookie.”

A beam of light appeared in the darkness—Springer’s flashlight. “I think the back door will be easier,” he said.

We climbed down off the roof and waited on the small landing. A scuffling noise came from inside, followed by a thud against the door, and my heart pounded. We raised our weapons. A moment later the door flew open and Springer stood grinning at us.

“What happened?” Warnick said.

“I tripped.”

It took us a few minutes, but we found the lights. Warnick flipped them on and a wave of terror washed over me.

A horde stood directly in front of us, their weak eyes blinking against the lights, their slavering mouths working and their fingers thrumming imaginary organs.

Warnick moved into lead position and shot two through the head. That was our cue. We spread out and took careful aim, taking out the advancing draggers one by one. We were down to the last two when one of them hurled himself at Springer.

“Whoa!” Springer said as Warnick shot it through the eye. Shuddering, it dropped where Springer stood.

“I hate surprises,” Warnick said.

I laughed nervously. “Remind me never to throw you a surprise birthday party.”

We took a moment to catch our breath, then checked out the room. Boxes of paper supplies, cleaning supplies and dry goods were stacked in neat rows. Along one wall stood a huge freezer unit.

“Better check it,” Warnick said to Springer.

The kid trotted over and pulled the large metal handle. The door swung open and a burst of ice-cold air and mist hit us.

“Oh, no,” Holly said as the mist cleared.

Huge sides of beef and pork hung from rows of hooks. In one section stood shelves of ice cream and frozen dinners. Against the side wall was a young man in a sitting position, dressed in a grey North Face jacket and gloves. His hair, eyebrows and eyelashes were dusted with frost. His skin was blue.

Warnick made a cursory examination. “Weird. He’s not stiff.” He felt his neck for a pulse. “He must’ve hidden in here during the outbreak and couldn’t get out.”

“If he isn’t frozen, then maybe this just happened,” Holly said.

“It’s possible. Let’s get him out of here.”

Warnick and I dragged the body out of the freezer and laid it on its back.

“We’ll get someone from the hospital to pick him up,” he said. “Let’s check the rest of the store.”

“Wait, are you sure he wasn’t bitten?” I said.

Warnick seemed impatient. He laid down his weapon and crouched in front of the body. Unzipped the jacket and checked for blood. Finally, he removed each of the gloves. “Dammit,” he said.

We moved closer and observed the torn skin and teeth marks on the left hand. The dead thing’s eyes flew open and it sat bolt upright. Warnick scooted away and grabbed his weapon. The dragger blinked with grey, unseeing eyes. It let out a mewling cry that shook me to my bones. Before we could say anything, a bullet tore through its head. I turned and saw Holly slowly lowering her weapon.

“I don’t think I like surprises either,” Holly said.

A shuffling noise got our attention.

“We’re not alone,” Holly said, her voice a whisper.

Slowly, we made our way up and down the aisles, no longer visible to one another. I slipped past the produce section, gagging on the smell of rotting fruit and vegetables. Slivers of parking lot showed through gaps in the boarded-up windows.

“Over here!” Holly said from another part of the store.

We ran towards the meat section, where we found a dragger on its knees eating the last of the expired meat out of a display case. Holly stood a few feet away, her weapon pointed, trembling. I stood next to her while Warnick and Springer joined us.

The dragger turned, its mouth dripping with gore, and stared at each of us, its eyes alive with an iridescent purple glow. It was a young Latina, dressed as a checker. I recognized it from the last time, when it rang us up. Dropping the meat, it slowly got to its feet, straightened up with excruciating effort and faced us. I waited for the death shriek, but it never came.

Warnick took aim at its head as it raised its trembling bloody hands in protest.

“
Espera
,” it said.

We lowered our weapons
, spellbound by the creature standing in front of us. We expected it to attack, like every other dragger we’d encountered. But it just stood there, wavering and weak, its eyes begging us to wait.

“I don’t understand,” Holly said. “Is it … dead?”

“Infected,” I said. “We need to help it.”

Warnick had raised his weapon. “I don’t know …”

“Warnick,” Holly said, “this isn’t a dog.”

Springer turned to Warnick. “How are we supposed to—”

The thing inched forward, muttering something and swatting at flies. We backed off, raising our weapons again. Then it—
she
—collapsed on the floor and began to cry.

“She’s still a person,” Holly said.

Warnick turned to Springer. “Go to the Humvee and bring whatever you can find to immobilize her.”

“On it.”

Springer returned moments later, carrying a coil of heavy nylon rope.

“Here you go,” he said to Warnick. “What about her head?”

“Hang on,” I said.

I headed back to the produce section where I’d seen burlap sacks filled with potatoes. I emptied one of them and brought it back. Warnick and Springer were already binding the woman’s hands and feet as she struggled on the floor. I handed Springer the sack and he threw it over her head, which seemed to enrage her. She mewled and tried to twist free. Holly found a roll of duct tape, and we secured the bag loosely at the neck to prevent her from biting anyone.

“We’re going to have to carry her,” Warnick said.

“Let me try,” I said.

“What about your leg?” Holly said.

“I’m fine.”

Warnick and Springer helped me get the woman to her feet. I bent over slightly and they draped the squirming body over my shoulders in a fireman’s lift. I gripped her arms and legs firmly. “Let’s go,” I said.

I trotted through the swinging doors that led to the storage area. Warnick was already waiting at the exit, holding the door open. The woman was small—around Holly’s height—and didn’t weigh a lot. But having to fight her as I made my way towards the Humvee took its toll. By the time I reached our vehicle on the other side of the building, I was exhausted and sweating and in pain.

Springer cleared a space in the rear of the Humvee. He and Warnick helped me lower the woman in. She continued to struggle as we closed the door and headed out.

We radioed ahead and were told to proceed directly to an unmarked warehouse off the main highway at the edge of town. When we arrived, we saw the chain link fence-enclosed building guarded by a number of armed soldiers. A few LMTVs and Humvees were parked nearby, and a guard shack stood behind the closed gate. I recalled that this used to be a bicycle factory that went bust in the early nineties. As far as I knew, it had remained vacant ever since.

As we approached, a soldier in the guard shack hit a button, rolling back the gate so we could drive through. Hospital orderlies were already waiting with a gurney. We unloaded the patient—who they secured with leather straps—and followed everyone inside.

The interior was vast, with rows and rows of what appeared to be Plexiglas cells as far as we could see. Some had patients inside. The cells were just big enough to accommodate a cot and a curtained-off chemical toilet. Electric pumps located at one end of each row vented fresh air into the units.

“Unreal,” Springer said.

We followed as the orderlies wheeled our patient down an end row towards the rear. We passed other cells housing patients in various stages of the disease, although none appeared to be violent. These people seemed afflicted rather than turned.

The orderlies stopped in front of a cell, removed the woman from the gurney and placed her inside. One of them stepped out as the other carefully cut the ropes that bound her feet and hands. As he removed the sack from her head, the first reentered with a cattle prod. The bright lights seemed to hurt the woman’s eyes, and she turned away, making low grunting noises. She lurched forward, and the armed orderly zapped her. Screeching, she pulled away and fell onto the cot. When she stopped moving, the orderlies left the cell and locked it.

Isaac came around the corner, accompanied by a man and woman. All three were dressed in white lab coats. The man was lean and around my height, with black wavy hair, dense eyebrows and pale blue eyes. The woman was tiny—shorter than Holly—with blonde hair and those same pale blue eyes. Each wore an expression of mild intellectual disdain. I’d seen that look before on a guy who worked nights at the 7-Eleven where I used to buy beer.

“Thanks, fellas,” Isaac said to the orderlies as they left. Then to us, “This is Doctor Bud Vollmer and Doctor Nancy Vollmer.”

We exchanged greetings.

“Are you two related?” Holly said. They rolled their eyes in unison.

“They’re fraternal twins,” Isaac said.

“The Vollmer twins?” Springer said to me under his breath. “Dude, what are the odds?”

“Bud and Nancy are immunologists. I brought them down from San Francisco to try to make sense of all this. They were on the team that developed the blood test. We’re hoping they can create a vaccine.”

“Any idea when that might be?” I said.

“This isn’t playtime, Junior,” Bud said, observing the patient and making notes in the patient’s chart.

“What did you say—” Holly touched my arm.

“You say this woman spoke?” Isaac said as the patient explored the confines of her cell. The two immunologists watched her with the same fixed gaze.