“Misha! Misha!” Crichton was shouting beside him.
Misha hadn’t realized that he was screaming, and swinging at air for there was nothing but stilled corpses at his feet. When Crichton tried to grab him, the man narrowly avoided having the blade buried in him. But he had proper military training and was able to step within Misha’s guard, grab his wrist, and twist so that the machete was forced free of his grip. Spinning Misha around, Crichton pinned him to his chest with his arms, and then quickly used one hand to rip the mask off Misha’s face.
“Breathe. Breathe,” Crichton urged in Misha’s ear.
The inhalation was more like the ragged gasp of a dying man.
“Slowly. Slowly.”
Misha obeyed, taking in slow, deep breaths. The air smelled foul, but it was much cooler than what he had been breathing.
“We’re falling back. Come on,” Crichton released Misha and picked up his fallen blade for him. With a hand on his back, he guided Misha away from the containers.
As he walked, Misha pulled off one of his gloves so that he could wipe the sweat off his face.
“What happened back there?” Crichton demanded once they were a safe distance back, closer to where the carts had been left with a light guard.
“I don’t know,” Misha admitted, shaking his head. He couldn’t think. He searched around for a place to sit, but everywhere the ground was coated in zombie slime.
“You lost it back there,” Crichton insisted.
“I think it was the mask,” Misha told him. “It got too hot. I couldn’t breathe right. I don’t think the air valve was working correctly.”
Crichton looked at the mask he still held in one hand. “Are you sure that’s all?”
Misha nodded. All he wanted right then was a glass of water and a place to sit. “Is it all right if I go back to the carts? I’ll send one of the guards there to replace me.”
It was impossible to tell what Crichton was thinking beneath his bandanna and mirrored sunglasses, but Misha got the distinct impression that he was being stared at. Studied. Evaluated.
“All right, go get some water. And maybe think about using something different next time,” Crichton said as he handed back Misha’s mask and then his machete.
Misha nodded as he turned away to head back to the carts. Crichton would remain at the fall back position until Misha’s replacement met up with him.
It was obvious to Misha when he neared the carts, because he could hear the horses snorting with displeasure. They didn’t like being forced to stand around on the zombie slime trail, and were irritated. Once they were in view, a single bark alerted the people standing around as guards that he was coming. Misha was pleased to see his dogs, all of them standing on the flatbed cart, watching him approach with tails wagging. If they hadn’t been tied to the cart as a precaution with bits of rope, all of them would have run over to greet him.
It didn’t take long to find a guard willing to replace him. It seemed some of them were eager to crack a few skulls, or at least do something more active than what they had been. Misha had worked sentry duty on the wall before, and knew how tedious it could become. Also how paranoid one could get, especially out here when you knew there were zombies nearby.
Climbing onto the cart in order to retrieve the water from his pack, Misha was thoroughly sniffed by the dog pack. They knew better than to lick him; while they wouldn’t be infected by the blood on him, one could assume it wasn’t a pleasant taste. After taking a long swallow of water, Misha stripped out of his soiled shirt and hung it over the cart’s side with his gloves. Since they were carrying equipment that would allow them to desalinate water, and they were following the bay, Misha wasn’t afraid to splash some over his head, and also wipe down his neck and forearms and anywhere else he thought the zombie bits might have reached his skin. Because of the way his dogs watched with interest, he put some water in a couple of pots and let them have a drink. He then fished a clean shirt out of his bag. His pants he didn’t bother to change, for the hems would pick up bits of the slime trail anyway, and he didn’t mind as much if they dried into a crust. Besides, he hadn’t even brought an extra pair of pants.
Satisfied with his cursory cleaning, Misha sat on the cart’s driving bench. He had a nice vantage point from there to watch the surrounding area, and could pull back on the horses’ reins should they decide to start walking on their own. Most of the guards had opted to sit somewhere on the carts, with only Angela actually walking a tight perimeter around the little cluster of carts, horses, and gear.
Sitting with Rifle on one side and Bullet on the other, Misha tried to sort out what had happened to him. His first thought was to wonder if he had hit his head recently. He thought of Nicky, who had managed to get them through the Black Box’s entrance despite the various mental and memory problems she had after receiving multiple blows to the head. Thinking through the past few days, Misha couldn’t remember getting any injuries besides muscle strain, especially not head injuries. He next contemplated the mask, but he had worn it before without issue. He tested the valve that let air in and out, usually covered by a filter, and it seemed to be working fine. Could it have been the heat? He didn’t want to believe it was just stress that had made him see what he had. Perhaps it was a combination of elements. Whatever it was, Misha decided to stop thinking about it and forget that it ever happened. If he could.
After more than an hour had passed, Misha began to worry. Surely it shouldn’t have taken this long. Were there really that many zombies in the small container yard? He could still hear the occasional whistle or shout, but most of the sound was hidden by distance and a building they had decided to keep between the horses and the fighting. Was everyone still okay? Had there been mass casualties and those few sounds he could make out were from the survivors who didn’t yet know that they were the last?
As Misha tried to convince himself that he was just being paranoid, he could see that the other guards were also growing restless with concern. Why was this taking so long?
Beside him, Rifle whined, then shifted so that he could put his head on Misha’s lap. He was picking up on the nervous tension. All the dogs were. Bullet sat very alert, and Misha could hear the others snuffling behind him. They were wondering if there was danger somewhere that they were failing to pick up on. They trusted the humans to know what they were doing, even when they didn’t.
Misha had just been in the middle of telling himself that he would give them five more minutes when a handful of people returned. A minute after them came a few more, and then a few more, each of them trickling back in batches depending on how long they had decided to search the small container yard for straggler zombies. It was no surprise to Misha that Crichton was with the last group.
“How are you feeling?” Crichton asked Misha, who felt it should have been the other way around.
“I’m fine,” Misha insisted. “Once I had some water, I felt much better.”
“Good.”
Everyone hung around for a bit, exhausted. Several people took some time to sit on the carts before locating their packs and having to start walking again. Misha spent the short break untying his dogs, letting all of them off the cart for a bit in case they needed to relieve themselves. Once it seemed time to go, Powder, Guard, and Slide stayed off as before. Misha’s small team made sure the packs belonging to people going elsewhere were off their cart, and then they left first. Harry had removed a jacket he had worn to keep the blood off himself, but Crichton and Ki-Nam remained soiled, neither of them having yet bothered to change their shirts.
Crossing the bridge was an unpleasant affair. The zombies had been funnelled across it, following the intelligent Dean who somehow passed onto them that they should avoid the water. The slime they had left behind was thicker, which also made it more slippery. Misha had to be careful walking across, moving slowly. He had seen this bridge before and knew that there were more cars abandoned upon it before the zombies came. A few must have been pu
shed over the sides, which was telling of just how large a mass the horde had been. The remaining vehicles had all been flattened, except for one tanker truck, too tall for the zombies to clamber over easily. Ki-Nam studied the ladder at the back of the truck, debating climbing it to take a quick scout ahead from an elevated position, but the ladder was gooey, and using it could prove to be dangerous. A slip and a fall into the gunk could easily prove fatal. One open wound, or one splash into the mouth, would result in an active infection.
When they finally reached the far side of the bridge, they found more zombies. It seemed not all of them had been smart enough to avoid the water, and had become trapped in the mud on either side. They appeared to be thoroughly stuck, either up to their knees or their waists. Misha spotted one zombie that had managed to tear its own legs off trying to get free, but didn’t make it far before its arms were trapped up to the shoulders. A rope of intestines still connected the two halves.
“Keep walking,” Crichton ordered. “They shouldn’t become a threat to the container yard anytime soon, and we can take them out on our way back.”
Misha had no idea how Crichton planned to take them out. The mud would trap them just as readily. There was no way to get near them, and no way to take them out from a distance, not without using all of Harry’s arrows.
Across the river, they turned east, which took them away from the slime trail. The zombies had come from the north-west on this side, and Misha felt sorry for anyone heading in that direction. Once again on dry pavement, he shook out his feet. His three dogs did the same. Even the horses swung their legs a little more, kicking off the gunk. No one wanted the stuff drying on them. The other dogs were let off the back of the cart to walk around, but they stuck close, rarely more then twenty feet from Misha or the cart.
“We need to start looking for a place to spend the night,” Ki-Nam said, gesturing to the sky that had begun to change its tint with the lowering sun. He was the most experienced with travelling, and so they trusted his judgement.
Crichton didn’t seem too happy about it, but he didn’t complain. They were supposed to be much farther along than this, but the zombies had eaten a good chunk out of their day. If they had been ferried across the river instead of walking, they could’ve reached this spot in an hour, maybe less.
“There,” Harry pointed to a building with a slash of red paint sprayed across the front of it. Before building up their flotilla of canoes and kayaks, people had to walk between the container yard and the Black Box, and so had marked buildings proven to be safe. But just because the building had been safe back then, didn’t mean it still was. Misha brought his dogs over to check it out.
The building had once been a bar with an outdoor patio. As part of its semi-industrial style, the place had installed a garage door as its entrance to the patio, which would allow Ki-Nam to walk the horses and the cart inside once it was proven safe. The tables and chairs had been moved away long ago, since their cart wasn’t the first.
Misha walked around the place, checking out the kitchen and the bathrooms, but neither he nor his dogs found anything of interest. Ki-Nam and Harry unhitched the horses and walked with them outside for a bit, letting them eat before confining them indoors for the night. Crichton set their packs down on the bar and poked around, double-checking that all the cupboards were indeed bare. The booze had likely been stolen long before anyone from their group came across the place. Alcohol had been one of the first things to go, leaving only the nasty stuff they occasionally distilled themselves when someone wanted a drink.
There wasn’t much housekeeping to perform before they were ready to bed down for the night. Harry, Ki-Nam, Angela, and Crichton all set up behind the bar, but Misha chose to sleep on top of the cart. His dogs could all join him there without bothering the others. Misha listened to the breathing of his pack until he fell asleep.
***
The whining of a dog combined with the application of a cold nose to his cheek brought Misha back to consciousness. He sat up immediately, wondering what was wrong. There was the faint light of morning coming through the windows in the bar’s doors, but that was the only change from the night before. Most of the dogs were looking at him, and based on the way his blanket was all twisted about his legs, he thought that maybe he had been having a nightmare. He couldn’t remember one, but evidence suggested otherwise.
“Come on,” he whispered to the dogs. “Let’s go see if anything’s outside.”
The dogs were more than happy to go, immediately forgetting their concern for him. While all of them but Rifle hopped down off the cart, Misha put his pants back on, regretting that he hadn’t packed a second pair. The goop was now dry and not much of a threat, but he still did his best to touch them as little as possible. He then put on his boots, holstered his machete, and lifted Rifle down off the cart.
As Misha neared the door, he saw Crichton’s head poke out from around the side of the bar, his features suggesting that he had just woken up and was still half-asleep. Misha quickly signed to him that he was just going out to walk the dogs. Crichton nodded, and withdrew back out of sight.
Outside, it appeared it was going to be another clear, sunny day. Misha wished he could see just one cloud in the sky, but it seemed that it wasn’t meant to be. He wanted rain, even if it made for miserable travelling.
The street remained the same as it had the night before. Misha walked at Rifle’s pace toward the end of the block, intending to circle the strip of shops and restaurants around the bar. The rest of the pack wandered ahead, or behind, or to the sides, sniffing everything, and peeing on much of it. When one of them took a shit, Misha ignored it; society no longer cared if anyone picked up after their dogs or not. Hell, along here, there was still evidence of the many times horses had passed through. Manure that had become trapped in the gutters by debris, now simply appeared to be dirt. They were likely to start seeing stuff that was relatively fresh as well, because they were following the same route that Evans had taken when he left to deliver the detonator.
As Misha walked along with his dogs, he tried to picture what the street used to look like, back before the Day. He figured with all the shops, restaurants, bars, and salons it had been a fairly busy place. Maybe the bar they had slept in was a hot spot, a place where people gathered after a long day at work. Or the area could have been a dead zone, where stores came and went with the years, each place hoping to do better than the last. It was impossible to say. It was difficult for Misha to imagine the street without the weeds pushing through the cracks, or the buildup of leaves along the gutters and edges of the buildings. The trees would have been nicely pruned, the branches that had fallen off in storms taken away. The downed wires would have been repaired, broken windows replaced, and the cars wouldn’t have been abandoned for so long that they were sinking into the pavement. Misha always wondered about the cars and how they got there. On major roads, there were always quite a few, having been abandoned where they had stopped. Had they run out of gas? Was it engine trouble? Did the owners just give up, or were they attacked and forced to run? This area had had some forewarning, and had attempted to evacuate people to a shelter, so there weren’t too many obvious traffic snarls. Did the cars parked on streets like this one belong to people who ignored the order? Or had they come here after the various quarantines had failed? Perhaps survivors like themselves, ones who had come from far away, had driven here. So many questions that would never have answers, but they gave Misha something with which to occupy his mind.
As he rounded the end of the block, Misha brought his dog pack down the alley that ran behind the bar and its neighbours. The poorly paved strip was littered with old garbage, the smell long since dissipated. Even though his dogs would warn him, Misha kept his distance from the large trash bins that could hide anything from rats to hostile humans.
At his side, Rifle chuffed.
“What’s the matter, old man? You getting tired already?” Misha looked down at his friend, concer
ned for his joints. The German shepherd had been very active during the attacks on the container yard, straining his old muscles, and causing his touch of arthritis to flare up.
But when Misha looked down, Rifle wasn’t looking back at him, which he would have been if he wanted to take a break. The old dog kept lifting his head toward the rooftops. Turning to study his other dogs, Misha thought a few of them had heard or seen something up there as well. If they had smelled something, it wasn’t anything they thought was dangerous.
Not knowing what might be above him, Misha kept walking, keeping a close eye on the roofline. He couldn’t think of many things that could be up there. He hadn’t seen any ladders on the outsides of the buildings, which meant if it were someone living, they had found a route up from the inside, or had climbing gear that allowed them to scale the walls. Other than a bird, Misha didn’t think any animals would be up there. Rats and mice were likely too small for even the dogs to notice at that distance, and besides, his pack knew how to recognize rodents and always responded accordingly.
By the time he reached the end of the alleyway, Misha hadn’t seen or heard anything. His dogs hadn’t either, and became disinterested in the roof long before he did. While it had likely just been a bird or maybe even a squirrel, Misha continued to worry. Rifle wasn’t the type to draw his attention to birds. Of course, Misha had to remind himself that Rifle was partly blind now, and could have easily been overreacting. No matter what excuses he thought of, concern continued to gnaw at Misha’s gut as he made his way back to the bar’s front entrance.
Survival Instinct (Book 5): Social Instinct Page 11