Survivors (29 page)

“All right, buddy,” said Brewster. “Another mission accomplished. Back to base?”

“Back to base,” agreed Trevor.

He pulled open the clinic doors and they began the slow retreat to the Fac, sticking once more to the center of the streets.

“This is the kind of mission I like,” rambled Brewster. “No real surprises. Just a milk run.”

“Kind of have the feeling we’re being watched, though,” Trevor said, glancing around.

“Hell, I’ve had that feeling ever since we got here. Probably a carrier staring at us from some alleyway right now. But, um . . . check it out.”

Brewster reached down to a cargo pocket on the side of his pants and retrieved a collapsible baton.

“See? Maybe I am learning something from you. Let ’em watch.”

As it turned out, the pair of survivors were indeed being watched.

Crouched in a stand of bushes, Private Mark Stiles held a pair of binoculars to his face. All he could make out were the backs of the retreating figures, laden with bulging backpacks.

“Who is that?” whispered Hal.

“I can’t tell. Might be friendlies. Might not.”

Stiles grimaced. His eyes went back and forth between the wounded man behind them and the swiftly retreating figures in the distance.

“Come on,” prodded Hal. “Make the call.”

Stiles growled in frustration and racked a round into his Winchester. “Okay. I’m going to call out. You be ready to shoot if they turn on us, though.”

“Yeah, yeah. I’m ready,” said Hal.

Stiles stood, revealing himself, and raised his weapon above his head.

“Hey!” he called out, as loud as he dared. “Hey! Over here!”

The response from the retreating pair of survivors was immediate. One of them dropped flat on the pavement. The other ducked behind a stoop. Both had their weapons aimed in his general direction.

“Hold your fire! We’re not infected, and we don’t want any trouble!” Stiles went on.

There was a long moment of silence.

The man who had hit the dirt slowly pulled himself to his feet, a look of disbelief on his face. Even across the considerable distance, Stiles could hear the man’s incredulous reply. “Stiles?”

Stiles recognized the voice. “Brewster! Ewan Brewster! Holy hell, is it good to see you!”

Each man let out a whoop of joy and ran toward the other, ending up in a bear hug, both speaking at once.

“I thought you were dead back in Hyattsburg!” said Brewster.

“I never thought your ass would make it this far!” said Stiles.

“But—whoa,” said Brewster, suddenly breaking free from Stiles’s embrace and taking a long step backward. “You were bitten, man. No offense, but keep back from me.”

“Relax,” laughed Stiles. “I’ve been bitten twice. Didn’t take; Hal here says I’m immune.”

“Immune?” asked Brewster’s companion. Stiles saw that the man had shaggy hair and four-day beard stubble. He wore loose-fitting, comfortable clothes, and had an ASP on one hip and a Beretta in his hand. “But no one’s immune. Morningstar’s got a hundred-percent mortality rate.”

“Well . . . ninety-nine,” Stiles said.

“It’s true,” coughed Hal. “We found him in Hyattsburg. Hadn’t turned. Figured your doc would want to take a look at him.”

“Damn straight, she will!” said Brewster. “She’s been bitching and whining about never making any progress—kept saying ‘If only I had someone with antibodies.’ I’m guessing that’s you, right?”

“I suppose so. You have a base, then?”

“Yeah,” said Brewster. “All right, come on! We’ll give you a hand! Let’s get back to the Fac! Anna will know what to do.”

“Anna?” asked Stiles. “What happened to Rebecca? Is she . . .?”

“Oh, no, she’s fine. Except for being a royal pain, she’s fine.”

Stiles breathed a sigh of relief that didn’t go unnoticed by the others in the group.

“Let’s get a move on,” prodded Trevor. “The faster we make it back to the Fac, the faster the Doc can get started.”

The sun had reached its zenith. Barely any clouds were in the sky, bathing the outskirts of Omaha with bright sunlight, both a blessing and a curse. The bright sun kept the survivors hot, sticky, and uncomfortable . . . but safe from the infected, who were cloistered indoors, and away from the group.

General Francis Sherman surveyed the strip mall with narrowed eyes. The darkened storefronts gave him pause. They made for beautiful hideout spots for infected during the blazing summer sun. Still, they needed food and supplies, and risks would have to be taken.

Sherman turned to the tall, wide-shouldered black man next to him. Mbutu Ngasy, as if feeling Sherman’s scrutiny, inclined his head in Sherman’s direction, a quizzical expression on his face.

“Frank?” asked Mbutu. He seemed more and more comfortable using the General’s first name over the previous months. “What is wrong?”

“I have a vibe. Place feels off. What are you getting?”

Mbutu nodded. “It’s too quiet.” Mbutu Ngasy had an uncanny ability to spot an ambush before it was sprung. Rebecca Hall, when she had first met Ngasy, called it his “sixth sense.” Sherman had little use for paranormal buzzwords. Ngasy said he merely paid more attention to what was going on than others.

The general sighed. Even with the previous run, they only had enough food for another few days, tops, and then they would be down to Vienna sausages and crackers. Again.

“Okay, gentlemen. Do we try it?” Sherman asked.

“Just give the order, sir,” growled Thomas, unstrapping his Beretta from its holster.

“I don’t give orders anymore, Thomas,” sighed Sherman. “I’m asking your honest opinion.”

Ahead of them, the strip mall beckoned, darkened storefronts and all.

“Well, sir, if you want my opinion, I say go. This place is as good or bad as any other. And we don’t have much choice. We can die by the infected or we can starve to death. Personally, quick infection seems the lesser of the two evils.”

Mbutu slowly nodded. “I would prefer not to, but what Thomas says is correct. We need supplies. We will die without them. We must try.”

“Then let’s get to it,” Sherman said. He unbuckled his holster and unslung one of the MP-5 submachine guns confiscated upon their appropriation of the Fac, checked the chamber, and flipped the selector to semiautomatic. “All right, let’s do this smooth and by the numbers—we’ll start with the far left storefront. It has a nice open field, and we should be able to see anything coming from a long way off. Thomas, you’re point. I’m your back. Mbutu, stand right here in the doorway and give us a heads-up if we have any company.”

“Sir,” was Thomas’s grumbled reply.

Mbutu nodded silently and unholstered the Beretta at his side, scanning the parking lot for contacts.

Turning from him, Sherman and Thomas pushed open the doors to the first store.

At first, a groan of disappointment nearly passed Sherman’s lips. The nearest displays were of little more than pale mannequins wearing moth-eaten dresses and ratty straw hats. Nothing but a clothing store.

Thomas and Sherman, silent as the grave, flashed hand signals to one another.

Thomas/flank left/advance to cover/hold,
came Sherman’s rapid-fire hand signals.
Sherman/flank right/advance to cover/hold,
came the second set of instructions. Thomas nodded.

The pair split up immediately, making their separate ways slowly down darkened aisles, checking the floors and corners for smears of dried blood or—worse—a still-crawling undead carrier lurking around the metal shelving units.

After several silent minutes, where the loudest noise in the shop was that of the soft click of boot heels on the linoleum, Sherman relaxed.

The store was empty, and had not one single piece of useful gear to show for it.

Defeated, they moved on to the second store.

Mbutu was waiting for them outside.

“No one in sight, Frank,” reported Ngasy.

“No one in the store,” returned Thomas. “Nothing useful, either.”

“Well, let’s not dawdle. Daylight won’t last forever, and we won’t want to be stuck out here when night falls. Let’s try the next one,” Sherman said, gesturing at the nearest door.

The sign above it read “The Dollar Stretcher.” Sherman figured it was a good omen. Most of these kinds of stores had a mishmash of goods—everything from cheap furniture to cleaning supplies to food aisles.

“This one looks more promising,” agreed Thomas. “Same deal, sir?”

Sherman nodded. “Mbutu, watch the road. Don’t let us get trapped inside.”

“I won’t.”

Once more, Thomas and Sherman shouldered their way into the darkened store.

Almost immediately the food aisle stuck out. It looked to Sherman as if most of the end racks had been picked clean by panicked refugees in the early hours of the pandemic. They’d taken whatever was at hand—potato chips, pastries, loaves of bread.

Sherman grinned as he scuffed his way along the food aisle. Most of the canned goods were fine. Some were scattered along the floor, and Sherman slid them aside as he made his way along, scooping the remaining cans from the shelves into his empty knapsack. He could hear Thomas in the next aisle over, stuffing his own bag with essentials.

Then a third sound—a low scraping—drew Sherman’s attention. His head snapped to the right, searching for the source of the noise.

It wasn’t hard to locate. A stocky shambler, pulling himself around the edge of the shelf at Sherman’s feet, appeared. Thick, dark blood crusted its face, cloaking the features it had worn in life. Its plastic name tag, hanging loose from a ripped button-up shirt, was the source of the scraping noise. It dragged along the tiled floor as the shambler crawled forward.

Sherman backpedaled, but the shambler, moving more quickly than Sherman had given it credit for, shot out an arm and grabbed for the General’s ankle. Sherman stumbled, and the shambler brought him crashing to the ground.

“Thomas!” was all Sherman could muster.

The command sergeant major appeared a moment later behind the grounded undead and planted his boot firmly on the ex-man’s neck. A quick stomp and snap later, and the corpse fell still.

Sherman shuddered and shook his boot free from the cold grip of the infected.

“I owe you one,” breathed Sherman.

Thomas shrugged. “I owe you more, sir.”

Mbutu Ngasy had poked his head into the store. “Is everything all right?”

“We’re fine! We’re fine!” barked Sherman. He pointed over Mbutu’s shoulder. “Keep your eyes on the street! Thomas, how’s your bag?”

“Nearly full, sir. Can’t say it’s great eats, but it’ll keep us going.”

“That’s good enough for me, Thomas. Let’s just hope the other foraging parties had similar luck.”

Thomas looked undecided for a moment. “Should we try one or two more of these stores while we’re here?”

Sherman considered the idea a moment, then shook his head. “No, we have enough now to last us the rest of the week, maybe longer. And that was a close call,” Sherman said, eyeing the corpse on the aisle floor. “Let’s not push our luck.”

“Back to the Fac, sir?”

Sherman nodded. “On the double. And take the western route—let’s skirt town as much as possible. We’ll mark this place on the map when we get there.”

The trio set off in the direction of home.