Catching Red (3 page)

She looked out the nearest window and discarded the notion of going out a different way. The area was overgrown with weeds and vines, and too many undead had escaped the building to roam the grounds. With the load on her back, hacking her way through the foliage would be the equivalent of wading through quicksand. The plant life would hinder her movements, nick her skin, and make her easy prey.

The most logical course of action had a marginally higher likelihood of success. The room containing her exit route was a straight shot from here. If she ran at full speed, it wouldn’t take long to reach the window. The clatter would bring undead rushing from all directions, but they would all have to funnel into the hallway.

She took a deep breath knowing it might be her last. With both knives in hand, she sprinted through the doorframes and continued forward as fast as she could.

The clanging of pills hitting plastic echoed through the building. Sharp pain lanced through her side. She caught the ferrous scent of blood. One of her wounds had reopened.

As if drawn by a beacon, undead streamed out of every room lining her path. Arms arcing in unison, she stabbed her blades into one eye socket after the other. Corpses fell around her. But for each threat she eliminated, three more took its place. No matter how hard she fought, no matter how many she killed, the creatures soon surrounded her. All she could see were gaping mouths and clawing hands.

There were too many. Grasping fingers closed over her legs, arms, and torso. Yellow teeth tore past her clothing and buried into her flesh. Her back hit the floor. She screamed.

Loud cracks of sound filled the hallway. A pungent smell soon followed. It was impossible, but the scent wafting through the air was a more potent lure than the blood seeping from her body. The undead heads filling her vision turned in unison.

As if pulled by a magical tether, all but those closest to her lumbered away. Before she could process what had happened, a dark shadow appeared. The tall, broad-chested man hacked through the creatures like an angel of death. Wielding a modified woodcutter’s ax, he removed heads with the apparent ease of cutting grass. Lethal and silent, her savior made his way through the swarm. He moved so fast her blurring eyes struggled to capture his progress.

She heard sounds of parting flesh and breaking bones—thuds as bodies and heads fell to the ground. The ax’s crescent blade appeared as silver arcs against the black and gray tableau. The only other source of color was the man’s golden hair. For a moment, she was certain he was a delusion spawned from blood loss and terror.

A large hand closed over the scruff of her neck and yanked. Jerked to her feet, she gazed into eyes of brightest blue. Knowing she wasn’t fighting alone gave her failing body a second wind. Turning so their backs met, her knives and his ax slashed out in tandem. Before long, the undead around them became a mound of body parts on the dusty white floor.

* * * *

Marcus Woodsman bolted the door to his bunker. A modified shipping container carved into the side of a small hill, the safe house was an excellent base for his sojourns outside Washington, D.C.

The Undead Reanimation Virus epidemic began in China sixty years ago. Though URV later spread worldwide, geography managed to contain the outbreak to Eurasia and Africa for close to a decade. This delay gave U.S. residents ample time to prepare for an impending apocalypse. The manufacture and sale of self-sustaining hideouts was once a booming industry. They did most people little good once the plague reached American shores.

Marcus stomped through the minute space to turn on LED lanterns by the stove and in the bathroom. Wall to wall, the steel pod was smaller than his apartment’s living room. Once the interior was illuminated, he returned his attention to the petite redhead he had deposited on the polished concrete floor.

She was in worse shape than he’d thought. Her shoulder-length hair was clumped into jagged edges by dried blood. A rust-colored stain marked the bite wound on her pale neck. Light yellow crusts caked over her long russet lashes and covered the inner corners of her eyes. Her forehead and cheeks were coated in sweat.

She clutched her heavy backpack against her chest. Her nail beds were purple. Her hands shook. “What is this place?”

He grabbed the bag, yanked it out of her grasp, and tossed it under the bed. Her feeble resistance made it obvious her brave front was a facade. “You’re awfully curious for someone who just tried to scamper away. How far did you think you could go before you turned undead?”

Why he cared enough about a complete stranger to bring her here, he didn’t know. Protocol dictated he leave her to rot. She had been surrounded by more than two dozen brain-eaters and had already been bitten. Wasting concentrated blood pellets and charging into the fray was one of the dumbest things he had ever done. But it wasn’t a decision he regretted. In his line of work, getting to play white knight was a rarity.

She scooted her butt so her back rested against the metal wall. He took it as evidence she was having trouble remaining upright. “Far enough to make a difference.” Her face was the color of ash. Her teeth clattered. “I’ve walked over this hill at least a dozen times. I never saw the entrance.”

He walked away so he could add wood to the cast-iron stove and kindle a fire. Though he doubted his ability to play nursemaid, staving off hypothermia seemed like a good starting point. “Maybe I’m just more perceptive than you are.”

She snorted. “Or someone told you its exact location.”

He couldn’t help but admire her spunk. She had just narrowly avoided death by zombie and had been on a horse with him for the past hour. Not only was she holding up, she was lucid enough to make some astute observations.

He grabbed a large pot and marched into the bathroom. It was a minuscule area separated from the living space by a white curtain. Using a hand-cranked pump, he filled the clay trough. Once it brimmed with water, he dunked the pot under the liquid’s surface. “Perhaps.”

“You’re from the city, aren’t you?” Disdain saturated her voice.

He returned to deposit the pot on the stovetop. This nomad’s deductive skills were sharper than he expected. Most of the wasteland natives he had encountered were creatures of impulse and survival. Reduced to the most primal incarnation of humanity, they pillaged, warred, and killed. “How do you figure that?”

She cocked her head and hissed out a breath. Darkening blood oozed out of her scabbed neck wound. “No common trader could get their hands on a pistol, let alone those weird-smelling bullets you used to distract the swarm. You might as well give up the pretense.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Your evidence is circumstantial.”

She rolled her eyes. “Look. I don’t care where you’re from. I’m in enough trouble as it is without inviting extra. All I wanted from the hospital is the medicine in my backpack. If you give it to me, I’ll be on my way.”

This woman was a puzzle wrapped in a conundrum. She was too articulate and well-groomed to have grown up in the wastelands. He remembered how well she could fight with the knives he had taken from her. From her colorful diatribes during their journey, it was clear she knew the terrain like the back of her hand. Though she must realize an undead bite was a death sentence, she’d tried to run away twice in the past hour—one attempt resulting in them both falling off his horse.

Whoever she was, she was in a great deal of trouble. While he had never considered himself chivalrous, he couldn’t seem to walk away when faced with a real-life damsel in distress. “It’s a good thing you’re right. Otherwise, you’d be a brain-eater within twenty-four hours.”

Her pine-green eyes widened. For once, it seemed as if he managed to say something she didn’t expect. “So the rumors are true. The city had a cure all along.”

He crouched in front of her. “You’re smart enough to know that’s just a conspiracy theory. We didn’t have a way to treat the infection at the time of the outbreak, but there is one now.”

Her expression was skeptical. “This sounds too good to be true.”

“Do you want the cure or not?” She was going to get the immunoglobulin injections in either event, but he thought it polite to coach the statement as a question.

“Do I look stupid to you? What’s the catch?” Her tone was caustic. “Tell me what you want in exchange—the faster the better. I have somewhere I need to be.”

This probably wasn’t the best moment to inform her the treatment, assuming it succeeded, resulted in temporary paralysis. “Does it matter what I want? You’ll turn otherwise.”

“How long have you people had this?” She squinted and wrinkled her nose. Her tone was wary but lost its resistant edge.

He took the question as an invitation to pull down the zipper of her hoodie. Perhaps because the pain distracted her, she didn’t protest. “The vaccine was discovered about twenty years ago. Our scientists synthesized the immunoglobulin I’m about to give you a decade after that.”

Her jaw dropped. Those emerald eyes grew wide. “Why doesn’t anyone know about…this immunoglobulin thing?”

She hissed out a pained breath as he peeled the blood-drenched garment down her arms. In addition to the bite marks on her neck and forearm, purple and green bruises covered her pale limbs. Judging from the identically sized streaks, they were defensive wounds sustained from a bat or pipe. He felt a surge of fury. Undead didn’t use weapons. Humans did. “Washington, D.C. has been accepting refugees for the past twenty years. You should have come to us.”

She scowled. “I’m not dumb or desperate enough to go anywhere near the city.”

He sighed. Regaining the trust of nomads was an uphill battle. He couldn’t find fault with the population’s skepticism. At the advent of the Undead Reanimation Virus’ outbreak, the Pentagon initiated covert countermeasures aimed at turning the capital into a self-sufficient ark. The city was outfitted with a hydroelectric power plant as well as an abundance of solar panels, fuel, factories, and hydroponic food production sites. As the outbreak swept eastward from Los Angeles, tripwires were triggered and the city’s restructuring went into overdrive. Individuals deemed necessary for the continuation of the species were brought in, while those not considered assets were evicted.

When the first case of URV was reported in Maryland, targeted conventional explosives went off along D.C.’s northwest and northeast borders, creating a cornered canal that stretched to the Potomac River. The moat sealed off the city but for a single well-guarded bridge leading to northern Virginia.

The newly established Federal Military Agency instituted martial law. Fifty years later, it was still in effect. The FMA’s prerogative was to protect the fifty thousand people within its walls at all costs. During the thirty years prior to the vaccine’s discovery, all humans who approached the bridge were gunned down. He wasn’t surprised ongoing efforts to attract refugees were failing miserably even now. “I was fourteen when the FMA dismantled those turrets. But consider this an apology on their behalf. Come back to the city with me. You’re in a lot of trouble. Let me help.”

She bit down on her lower lip. “All you need to do is give me the cure. I’ve got everything else under control.”

He huffed out a breath. “Sure you do. An hour ago, you were almost eaten alive. You’re covered in bruises and bite marks. If I walked away now, you’ll be dead in under twenty-three hours.”

“Good point.” The corners of her lips lifted. Her mouth was too wide for her heart-shaped face, and smudges of blood covered her skin. Still, her smile made his stomach do a cartwheel. “I’ll take whatever you’ve got on offer. But you should probably take care of your horse first.”

Relieved by the tacit truce, he stood and turned. “I took off Gold’s head collar. She’s a wild mare and can take care of herself until I’m done keeping you alive. There’s shelter close by and plenty of water.”

“How did you train her to respond to your whistle?” Neither injury nor impending fatality seemed to have any effect on this woman’s curiosity.

He walked to the stove. Covering his hands with a thick towel, he retrieved the pot of boiling water and emptied it into the half-filled bathroom trough. He tested the temperature and found it lukewarm. It was an improvement on freezing. “I earned Gold’s trust by getting thrown more times than I can count. If you live through this, I’ll give you a few pointers.” After elbowing his face and pushing him off the horse, she’d tried to steal it. He could tell by how she urged it immediately into a canter that she knew how to ride. She didn’t get far because Gold heeded his call and turned around.

He pumped more water into the pot and returned it to the stove. “Once I give you the injections, you’ll be out of commission for at least a week. You might want to clean up first. I’ll carry you.”

She reached her uninjured arm outward. “Why don’t you just help me up?”

Exasperated and impressed, he closed his fingers over her delicate hand. She was so little she could be mistaken for a child, but her resilience was impressive. The virus had been incubating for over an hour. She had lost a great deal of blood. The woman should be too weak to move, let alone stand. He knew trained agents who had been out of commission with fewer injuries than she sustained.

Her knees wobbled, but she managed to hobble across the seven feet separating the container’s entrance from the bathroom with minimal assistance. She peered inside and paused by the curtain. “I think I need instructions.”

It took a moment before he realized how alien everything must seem to someone who hadn’t grown up in the city. The same team of engineers who designed these self-sufficient containers had gone on to craft most of the new living spaces in Washington, D.C. Unlike the preferred aesthetics of the old world, efficiency was the driving concept for all FMA construction projects. Maximizing the utility of all manufactured items and fitting them into small spaces had become an art form.

One major difference existed. While the Potomac River provided more hydroelectric power than the capital needed, this particular hideout was meant to be fully functional without electricity. He pointed first to the large copper hand pump on the far end of the clay trough. Then he gestured to the smaller version above the ceramic sink-toilet combo. “Moving the handle up and down brings water in from the underground storage tank. An irrigation system funnels it from a nearby stream, but it goes through a ceramic and clay filter first to make it safe to drink.”