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

Holly, with her fine blonde hair and huge green eyes. She didn’t just pick me up—she made me right. I’d fallen away from Life, from God, from everything that mattered, and she’d brought me back. I may have owed others my life but I owed Holly
my soul.
When I confessed this to her in a moment of extreme weakness, her response was so Holly.

“No charge,” she said.

And Griffin, the trembling teenager we’d rescued from her violent, pedophile stepfather—that piece of work Travis Golightly. She had lost her younger brother, Kyle, to the insanity of the Red Militia. Frightened and withdrawn when we’d met, she’d grown into a tough soldier who knew how to use a weapon. When it came to draggers, she was no nonsense. Griffin was badass, and we cherished her.

These four—and the dog—were my family.

The other soldiers in our unit remained scattered among the trees, watching and waiting. These were men and women who, like Warnick and Springer, were used to fighting human combatants bent on blowing themselves up at military checkpoints seven thousand miles away, taking with them as many innocents as they could. Now these American warriors fought demons made of rotting flesh, with grey, mealy skin and doll-like eyes that looked but didn’t see, who wanted only to devour the warm meat of living humans. Though survival among these hungry undead hardened us, we were nevertheless afraid.

And it was always better to stay afraid.

We’d come here to rendezvous with Evie Champagne, the intrepid news reporter, and Jeff, her longtime cameraman. Together, we hoped to find answers to the mystery of the contagion that ravaged Tres Marias, the town where I lived. Though other places had initially seen evidence of the plague, it originated here. Evie had hinted that Robbin-Sear—a secretive company hidden somewhere deep in the forest—might be the key.

And so, several vehicles had set out in the cold early morning to find the truth. We’d already decided to park two miles out and hike in. We didn’t know whether the facility was heavily guarded, and we didn’t want to announce our arrival. If all went as planned, Evie and Jeff would be waiting for us. But somewhere along the way we’d taken a wrong turn and ended up in a desolate place, with a 360-degree view of dead and dying trees looming like grey ghosts in mourning.

We were well over a mile from our vehicles when we heard the unmistakable sound. Not marching. Not walking. Not shuffling.

Dragging.

We couldn’t see them through the fog, but they were getting closer. We had to get to the safety of higher ground. So we ran.

We saw them clearly now in the sketchy patches of sunlight that broke through the trees—hundreds of them. Lurching and ravenous, like blood-soaked marionettes on guy wires from Hell. Where had they come from? A few towards the front took charge, leading the others—a phenomenon I’d witnessed only once before when my dead extramarital girlfriend ordered my dead manager to kill me.

Blood pounded in my ears and hot streaks of red lightning danced across my eyes. I took Holly’s trembling hand. As we retreated into the darkness of an October morning, I knew this might be it. Figures. We’d come all this way since July when the thing started—through what I had really believed was the worst of it. You always think that, right? The worst is over. But it never is. Always another corner to turn, another hell to survive. By rights we should have been dead a long time ago. Maybe now we would be. What if in trying to get to the truth of what happened in our town, we died out here alone?

That nagging crow, joined by others, cawed loudly, confirming my assessment.
Death ain’t pretty
, it said.
We’ll begin with the eyes.

Griffin looked tense and scared, one hand on her weapon. Why not? She was still a kid—a tall, lanky fifteen-year-old who might lose her own life at the hands of the undead. What teenager thinks about that? But it was the world we were in now. An upside-down world where things that shouldn’t, walked.

Holly brushed the light brown hair from Griffin’s dirt-smudged face and forced a smile. “We’ll be okay,” she said. Her voice was a whisper. Griffin nodded and gripped her weapon tighter.

“Warnick,” I said. “Where to?”

He turned towards Springer, his eyes like agate marbles, and signaled north. We moved silently over the pine needles and fallen branches. The others had already gone ahead and were no longer visible. We were twenty in all. Couldn’t spare any more. The rest were at the Arkon Building, protecting civilians. Dammit, but we could have used them now.

When does it get better?
I asked myself.
When you’re dead
, came the answer.

We waited motionless as the horde moved closer, relentlessly traveling east, as if late for the train. None were freshly dead. Many looked to me like they were part of a Japanese tour group. Even in death they stuck together. They were all ages too—some missing limbs. Others with ears, noses and eyelids chewed off. The worst part was seeing the children, slack and grey-eyed, their small arms flopping uselessly, their tiny and undernourished grunts signaling a crippling desire to feed.

They were almost past us when Griffin yelped.

“Sorry, sorry.”

“What was it?”

“Something on the ground. I—it was crawling on my foot. I don’t know.”

“Probably a gopher snake,” I said.

The dog moved towards the spot to investigate, but I held her back. We didn’t need more surprises. Then we heard a sound echoing through the forest—a bone-chilling prelude to a mauling that told us we were finished. It was a death shriek.

They had found us.

We ran for it as the draggers descended on us like a swarm of locusts. Griffin, Holly and I sprinted ahead with Greta while Warnick and Springer laid suppressive fire and took out the front line as best they could. But more came. And more. A plague of fast-moving draggers with only hunger driving them. We could’ve stayed and fought, but there were too many. And the sound of gunfire would only attract more.

Out of breath, my lungs searing, I saw a fire road up ahead. We ran towards it. But the draggers ran too, as if sprung from a racetrack starting gate. Those leading the horde darted to either side of the road, splitting the followers between them. I realized—almost too late—what they were up to. Warnick saw it too and called for Springer and the other soldiers to take cover up ahead in the trees. Relentlessly, the creatures followed, closing in from either side, and I knew I was right.

They were herding us.

“Dave,” Warnick said, “get Holly and Griffin out of here!”

We ran for our lives. More came. The commanders barked unintelligible orders to the rest of the draggers. It wasn’t so much speech as animal noises. As we passed Warnick, Springer and the others, they fired at the oncoming horde on either side from behind the trees, going for the knees rather than the head. The draggers fell, creating a barrier for the others, and continued crawling, their faces twisted in hungry hatred. One of the soldiers took out two of the commanders with a grenade. As their rancid bodies blew apart like fireworks made from sausage, the followers scattered.

I spotted a ridge directly ahead. A drone hovered over it. If we could get to the top, we might have a chance.

“Up there!” I said, and we got off the road and headed up the embankment. Halfway up, I stopped and turned as another dragger commander went down in a stream of rapid fire that tore its face off. As it fell, its hands grasping at air, the rest of the leaderless horde fanned out but kept after us.

The soldiers, led by Warnick and Springer, followed us up the steep trail. Angry draggers caught up with the stragglers in our unit and took them down, devouring them in seconds. The ones whose throats were torn out no longer screamed, their voices drowned in gurgling blood that only incited their attackers to field dress them even faster.

We ran as hard as we could, burdened with weapons and heavy backpacks. My lungs ached and sweat streamed into my eyes, nearly blinding me. When I looked up, the drone was gone. I was faster than Holly and had to slow down for fear of losing her.

“Dave!” Holly said. I turned.

Griffin lay halfway up the road on the forest floor. The horde was approaching fast.

“Don’t leave me!” Griffin said.

I hurried back down and grabbed an arm as Holly took the other.

“Never,” Holly said.

A dragger—a middle-aged Japanese woman with painted-on eyebrows—grabbed Griffin’s foot and yanked her towards it, its mouth open incredibly wide, ready to bite. Holly and I slipped on the pine needles and went down on our knees while the dog went after the attacker. As the filthy wretch pulled the screaming Griffin closer, its eyeballs spinning in their sockets, Greta tore at its hands and neck. Warnick and Springer appeared and sent half its head flying towards a tree. The rest of its skull dropped and its body followed. I unslung my axe and hacked off the arm as the still-grasping claw clung to Griffin’s ankle.

“Get it off!” she said, kicking violently.

“Hang on!”

The thing felt cold in my hands. I pried the crablike appendage off and checked Griffin’s ankle. The skin wasn’t broken. Holly and I got her to her feet and started up again.

A few minutes more and we were at the top of the ridge with the others. Then we heard it. Tom Petty’s “American Girl” came blasting out of the sky like high-pitched thunder. I couldn’t believe what I saw below.

Black Dragon soldiers on bright red ATVs streamed towards us like angry wasps. There must have been a hundred of them. The noise from their vehicles was deafening. They shot past us over the ridge towards the horde. Using AR-15s, they mowed down ravening draggers like screaming wildgrass. Others double-teamed and, with heavy iron chains strung taut between them, pulled down whole lines of the creatures while more followed and, using shotguns, blasted their heads to sawdust.

The tops of the trees swayed and dust and pine needles churned around us as black helicopters with the familiar Black Dragon logo circled the area—one of them pounding the song out through its speakers. I didn’t know if the music was meant for the draggers or for the troops.

Not far off below was a clearing. One of the choppers set down there, the blades still beating, and a tall, uniformed African-American man jumped out and jogged towards us. He was around fifty, with short greying hair and a clean-shaven face. His only weapon was a handgun.

“We need to get you out of here,” he said, looking at Warnick and Springer. “Now!”

“Whoo! It’s the damned cavalry,” Holly said.

The man smiled and waved us towards the helicopter.

“What about the rest of my men?” Warnick said.

“Don’t worry, we’ll take care of the others. This dog coming too?”

“Yes,” Griffin said, already leading Greta towards the aircraft.

Once we were aboard, the helicopter roared off and we were away. Below I watched as the ATVs plowed through the horde, taking them out by the dozens. A few of the soldiers weren’t so lucky, though—draggers yanked them off their vehicles and consumed them.

As I caught my breath, Holly tugged at my sleeve. I followed her eyes.

Evie Champagne, the reporter we’d sought out in the forest, stared at me with haunted eyes. The last time we’d seen her was with her cameraman Jeff over a VTC connection in the Arkon building, their wooden faces staring silently on the large TV monitor as we tried to communicate without sound. Now, a grey blanket lay over her shoulders. She looked shell-shocked. I hadn’t been sure I’d ever see her again after that videoconference when they’d had to escape to God knows where.

We’d gotten so used to seeing her on the local news in her smart suits and black stilettos, going to places where she shouldn’t and digging up story after story as the outbreak spread. Now, even with her hair tangled and her clothes in shreds, her powerful presence filled the cabin. But where was Jeff?

She leaned forward and, lowering her voice, spoke into my ear. “Glad we found you,” she said. “I have so much to tell you.”

Approaching the school
, we passed over residential streets where lone draggers wandered like lost souls. We landed on the high school football field. Tan camo-colored Humvees and large military vehicles—LMTVs—bearing the Black Dragon logo moved along the roads surrounding the school. Hundreds of fresh Black Dragon soldiers protected the area, wearing helmets and body armor and carrying AR-15s. A few draggers had made it to the school and pressed up against the chain link. Soldiers patrolling the fence line on ATVs took them out with bayonets. I assumed the bodies would be burned in a pit like all the others we’d seen since summer, but I could no longer smell the foul, greasy smoke that had hung in the air for weeks. In fact, the air smelled clean.