Survivors (12 page)

So far, Sherman consoled himself, the roughest opposition they had run up against had been the odd curious shambler or sprinter.

And it eased his heart to know that, if things got hot on their scavenging run, they would all have a safe place to fall back to. The thing that weighed on him heavily was the two men locked in that side office. Sooner or later, someone would come for them, and they wouldn’t be polite about it. These scavenging runs had more than just one purpose . . . Sherman wanted to keep his men on-point and sharp for when that day did come.

Well,
Sherman thought,
no point in procrastinating.

“All right, ladies, we know the drill. Move fast, move quiet. If you engage contacts, fall back to the Fac, and we’ll cover your retreat.” Sherman double-checked the radio clipped to his front shirt pocket. Satisfied it was running on a full charge, he nodded and gestured toward the barren, trash-swept streets of Omaha. “Let’s get to it.”

“The Radio Shack is five klicks, north by northeast,” Thomas said, indicating direction with his jaw. “We can skirt the outlying section of Omaha proper and return on the same arc. Mitsui will be happy when we get back.”

Sherman grunted. “Hell,
I’ll
be happy when we get back.”

He looked to Mbutu Ngasy, whom he half-jokingly considered his human dowsing rod. The man had a knack for diagnosing a situation and gauging the safety of it. The former air traffic controller had kept them out of more than one potential tomb, and they listened to him when he felt a tingle in his Mbutu-sense. The large man favored Sherman with a wide smile.

“Once more into the breach, is that right, General?”

Sherman raised his eyebrows. “Not you, too. I’m not in the Army anymore, remember? I hold no rank.”

Thomas cleared his throat. “We’d best be moving along, sir. We don’t have that far to go, but inside the dark of the buildings, the infected will be active.”

Sherman hefted his pack. “Quite right, Thomas. Let’s go.”

Brewster and Trev crouched in a large parking lot, eyeing the quiet front of a store and debating whether to go in.

“I say, it’ll be better than whatever they’re going to whip up at the Fac,” Trevor said calmly, but Brewster was clearly wearing on him.

“We’ll never hear the fuckin’ end of it, man. I promise you. If even one of them barks at me, I won’t be held responsible—”

Trev held up his hands. “One package. We’ll be real quiet about it when we get it in, and no one will know for sure which team it was.”

Brewster looked the storefront. “Fine. But I don’t want to go in the front. This isn’t even really on our route. You planned this shit, didn’t you?”

Snorting a laugh, Trev rolled his eyes and pointed at the side of the large building, indicating they should follow that wall to find a loading dock or utility entrance. They moved that way, eyes roving for shadows within shadows that would indicate an infected, watching for shards of glass on the asphalt that might give away their position if stepped on, or empty cans that would do the same.

The roll-up door at the back of the building was padlocked shut. Brewster checked the side strap of his bag and swore softly.

“Pinch bar,” he said. “I forgot the fucking—”

“Right here,” Trev said, cutting him off. “You left it sitting next to the entryway when you picked up your body armor.”

Taking the bar, he grimaced. “Gonna need a checklist. Damn it, I’m too young to be senile.”

Sliding the bar between the wall and the hasp of the lock, he pulled down with steady pressure. Trev waited for the first telltale sound that the screws were giving. At the first creak, he tapped Ewan, and they went dead still, listening with everything they had. Pursing his lips, Trev nodded and Brewster continued working on the lock. More steady pressure, and with a sudden wrench the hasp slipped free of its moorings.

Pumping his fist in the air, Brewster put the lock on the ground and rolled up the door. He and Trev slipped inside and rolled the door shut.

“Big store to clear,” Trev said.

“Better get started, then,” Brewster said, and tossed the lock clattering on the concrete backroom floor. Immediately, the noise drew a groan from somewhere among the shelves.

Trev shook his head, snapping out the ASP. “Lucky there’s only one.”

Brewster gestured with a “go ahead,” and Trev stepped forward, what little amusement there was from Ewan’s antics fading away. Taking over was the cold satisfaction he knew that soon, very soon, there would be one less demon in the world. He stalked forward, checking side aisles for the dead person that was in there.

The sound of a step was all the warning Trevor got, and he ducked under the outstretched arms of the male shambler as it reached for him from the right side. He took a shuffle step forward and spun that way, the ASP whistling through the air in a quick arc and slamming into the side of the dead thing’s neck.

Though it felt no pain, the force of the impact threw the shambler off balance and it staggered away. It wore a store uniform and apron, stained with gore from its own death wound, some bit of entrails slipping out of a hole in its middle. Single-minded, the dead man turned toward Trev again, jaws widening and black bile slipping out over its chin. It swiped filthy arms at Trev and he danced easily out of its reach.

The thing stepped forward and Trev stepped back, matching its pace.

“Come on,” Brewster said. “Quit playing and let’s get on with it.”

Trev stood up straight and swung the baton, catching the dead man in the temple with a crunch. It collapsed, falling to his booted feet, one filthy and emaciated claw scrambling for purchase on the scuffed leather there.

“Buzzkill,” Trev said, stomping on the dead man’s neck.

Thomas and Sherman swept the inside of the Radio Shack for the things on Mitsui’s wish list, while Mbutu Ngasy stood sentinel at the door.

“DC-to-DC converter,” Sherman said, reading from the piece of paper, “variable settings, two each.”

“Check,” Thomas responded, looking in a pack on the counter of the store. It looked to him as if a giant robot had thrown up in the canvas vessel, but Mitsui was adamant that everything there would be needed.

“Signal generator.”

“Check.”

“Fluke multimeter.”

“Check.”

“Card read/write device.”

“Check. General,” Thomas said, interrupting the reading. “Sir, we’re not going to make the rest of the run in the allotted time if we go through the list again.”

Sherman raised an eyebrow at the man. “You never forgo a second check.”

Muscles bunched and relaxed in the grizzled sergeant major’s jaw. “Sir, instead of fucking around with whatever it is Mitsui is doing to the security systems of the Fac, we should be working on shoring up the defenses.”

Not meeting Thomas’s gaze, Sherman looked down at the list. “We’re next to impervious from the infected there.”

“I don’t mean the infected, sir. Don’t tell me you haven’t thought that there will be more of those government men coming.”

Sherman heaved a sigh. “It’s a damn shame, isn’t it? I thought that our problems with our fellow man might have been over with the raiders outside Abraham.”

“Yes, sir. It is a shame. But it is what it is, sir.”

Sherman cast a glance at the former sergeant major in the gloom. “You have an idea, or you wouldn’t have piped up.”

Thomas allowed himself a rare grin. “That I do, sir. Mason.”

He let that name sink in for a minute. The former government agent was an untapped resource. Gutshot, it would be quite a while until the man was back on his feet, but there was nothing wrong with his mind. Any other time, Thomas would be surprised that General Sherman would overlook such a valuable commodity that Mason carried around in his head, but these days being what they were, with the General worried about keeping his handful of survivors fed and clothed, not to mention the critical research going on beneath their feet, Thomas was unfazed.

He has taken so much on his shoulders. Perhaps too much.

“And I think it would be better if we talked about it on the move.”

A quick nod showed Sherman’s assent. “Right again. Let’s hit the next place on the list. Walk with me, talk with me.”

Thomas shouldered the pack and turned toward the door. “It’s my understanding, sir, that Mason was on a team with the agents that we expelled from the Fac when we arrived.”

“Yes. From my own conversations with him, they were sent by a rogue faction of the government, convinced that Anna was carrying a cure around with her. It’s nonsense.”

“We know that, sir. But if that’s what they think, they’ll be back, and if a member of Mason’s team is in charge of the assault . . .”

“Then Mason will know the tactics he’s likely to deploy. Good thinking, Thomas. Remind me to put you in for an award. Pick one.”

Thomas nodded. “As soon as we get back, sir.”

They left the Radio Shack only when Mbutu had given them the all-clear and headed farther north. The last place on their list was an old-time army/navy surplus store Denton had found a listing for in an aging phone book. Thomas was looking forward to it, as the survivors were using a hodgepodge of gear and the surplus store represented a chance to fix all that. He hated disorganization.

Thomas held all this in mind as they hoofed it to the store. Although he and the general had retired from service when they went AWOL, if the government ever got around to it, he’d be branded a deserter. But he also knew that the discipline that came with being part of a unit was a major component of the glue that was holding their band together. They wouldn’t force anything on the men, but Thomas would provide the opportunity for them to get back to what was familiar before Morningstar.

With three blocks to go, Mbutu went still, a frown creasing his normally impassive face.

Thomas noticed this and immediately fell silent, bringing his arms to bear. Sherman did the same.

Mbutu turned to face a storefront that had been painted over in black, windows and all, from top to bottom. The only nonblack portion was a splash of red that was the name of the store, Kathedral.

“In there?” Thomas asked, gesturing with his shotgun. “Shouldn’t be a big deal. The windows are painted black, so it’s not like they can see—”

He was cut off by a meaty thud. The scavenging team went silent again, and the sound repeated itself, this time more insistently.

It was joined by others.

“Bug out,” Sherman said.

The trio set off at a quick jog, sticking to the center of the wide and empty shopping center parking lot. A sharp
crack
urged them to greater speed, running carefully and placing their feet deliberately, doing their best to avoid the concrete blocks set in the middle of rows. Thomas, his gray head always swiveling from left to right and searching for threats, saw a single and lonely delivery truck sitting near the end of the shopping center building.

With an overwhelming crash, the storefront window came out of its frame and shattered on the asphalt. Unable to help himself, Mbutu stopped running to look back at what was coming out after them. From the look on his face, he wasn’t quite sure what to make of them.

Five former teens, now blind and drooling monsters, all stepped or fell out of the broken window, looking as if they were a part of the same unorthodox army: black shirts over black, baggy pants, festooned with silver chains and armbands. Heavy piercings fell from rotted flesh, the weight tearing through after a long period of inactivity.

“What are those?” he asked.

Thomas turned to look and almost laughed. “Punks. Just punks. In the days before Morningstar, I may or may not have prayed to Providence for an opportunity to show these emo losers what real pain was.”

“They know now,” Sherman said. “Come on, they’re in no shape to track us down.”

He and Mbutu turned and continued their jog. Thomas stood in the parking lot for a minute longer, looking back at the quintet of shamblers.

“I don’t even have the words,” he said, shaking his head and turning to catch up with his team.