Rise (Book 3): Dead Inside

by Gareth Wood

  "We're sure you did all you could for him. Thank you for coming," he said.

  Robyn turned away, looking at the crowd that had gathered. She saw where she needed to be, and began to make her way there. Amanda offered her condolences to the family while Robyn pushed ahead.

  Robyn walked through the crowd to where Dr. McKinnon waited at the bridge’s edge, beside the railing. He had brought the ashes from the crematorium, and attended many of the memorials out of respect for the dangerous job the salvagers performed. The box of ashes was large, needing two people to lift it over the edge.

  The memorial was brief. The priest, Reverend Taylor, said a few words, then Elliot delivered a short eulogy before asking if anyone else had anything to say. Robyn summoned her strength and stepped forward.

  "We are here to remember Nicholas Bulman," Robyn said in a loud and clear voice. A few last tears stung her eyes, but she blinked them away. Everyone hushed as she began. She became the center of attention as people strained to hear her words.

  "Nick was my partner only briefly. He died on his first time out, not due to carelessness or lack of training, because he was well trained and careful, but just because of plain bad luck." She paused here to look at specific people in the crowd. Some returned her gaze frankly, while others avoided looking at her. "I didn't know him well. He was young and eager and had a lot to learn, but I think if given the chance he would have become an excellent salvager."

  Droplets of water began to fall from the sky, a sudden rainshower that sparkled in the otherwise sunny daylight. Several dark clouds had gathered overhead, each laden with water. She took a deep breath, looked at the ground before raising her face to the crowd again.

  "Nick was bitten only a few blocks from the Wall," she said, her voice trembling only a little, "and he died minutes later. Here's where it gets strange, so pay attention. He was bitten on the arm, once. It wasn't an immediately fatal wound, as Doc McKinnon here can verify. Still, after he was bitten Nick faded very fast, dying in only a few minutes. He reanimated almost immediately."

  A low murmur of disbelief grew among the crowd, but faded when the doctor stepped forward to speak.

  "It's true," the doctor said, his accent carrying clearly across the bridge, his face also wet from the rain. "Medical evidence collected at the autopsy, his core temperature and such, verify what Robyn is telling you. He had only the one bite, and that should not have killed him as fast as it did."

  "So," Robyn continued, "it looks like things might have changed. Pass the word to the other salvagers, and keep alert."

  Robyn spotted Amanda watching her out of the crowd, and she decided she was grateful that the other woman was there. She stepped back to the box, and together with Dr. McKinnon, lifted the earthly remains of Nicholas Bulman over the railing. They tipped the box, and clumped ashes poured out toward the Fraser River not so far below. Robyn watched the ashes land in the curling water, briefly staining the current grey until the river pulled them out of sight.

  Robyn had no more tears for Nick. She was done with mourning now, feeling numb, drained and tired. She had mourned so often that it was a familiar process, and she was ready to move on. She wondered if she'd have any more tears for anyone, ever again.

  She felt dead inside. Barren and dry.

  A strong hand fell on her shoulder. Robyn looked up to see Doc McKinnon looking at her, his face etched with concern.

  "If you need anything, someone to talk to, I'm always available," he said quietly. He squeezed her shoulder once more, and walked away before she could respond with more than a nod. Then Amanda was at her side, and the masses of the salvagers came forward to ask her about the circumstances of her partner's death. Robyn sighed, resigning herself to a long question and answer period.

  * * *

  As the last of the civilians left to return to the safety of the Wall, Sheriff Reilly approached the stragglers. Most of the crowd was making its way back along the bridge to the Safe Zone, and only a few of the salvagers remained, eyeing Reilly with curiosity. They knew that he wanted to speak to them, but not why. None of the salvagers had umbrellas, instead wearing a variety of hats, and long leather coats that looked like dusters. All four of them pointedly ignored the rain.

  "What can we do for you, Sheriff?" asked John Marks, a tall Haida with closely cut black hair and a very round head.

  "First off, thanks for coming. It's appreciated." Reilly shook each of their hands.

  "Nick was one of our own," Marks said, "of course we came. Really, we should be thanking you for being here as well."

  "Listen, I want to make a deal with you, your groups. I need information, but it's going to come from some potentially dangerous places," Reilly told them. "I need you to take your groups to different police stations in the area, and bring me any case files you find."

  "Case files? What's this about?"

  Reilly shrugged. "It's about a lot of things. The missing women in Mission, for starters."

  "You think they're all related?" Marks asked, water running off his nose in a steady stream.

  "Pretty sure. I need those case files to prove it."

  "What's in it for us?" another of them asked, a man closer to Reilly's own height, named Reeves. "There's quite a bit of risk in going to police stations. Lots more of the dead fucks hanging around those places." His fellow salvagers all nodded in agreement.

  Reilly turned to face Reeves, but addressed all four men. "Any salvage you recover from the stations is yours to do with as you wish. None of it has to go through Essential Supplies."

  They all started talking at once, until Reilly waved them down. Marks spoke up.

  "Even the weapons?" Normally all firearms and ammunition went through Essential Supplies and were recorded by the Sheriff's Office so that a vague attempt at gun control could be attempted and enforced. The Council had decided years ago to have the salvagers bring everything they recovered to ES, by simply stating that if salvagers wanted to use town services, like the hospital or Armory, they had to turn over everything they brought in for fair and equal distribution. It was all shared out again to all citizens of the Safe Zone (and Reilly made especially sure that the Council got exactly the same as everyone else), and the Sheriff had spent some time privately laughing with Shakey when they had realised the Mission Safe Zone was essentially a communist society.

  Of course it was always possible to barter skills or materials for other things, so if you knew how to make something useful you could be better off. And no one was naive enough to think that the salvagers turned over everything they recovered.

  "Even the weapons," Reilly said, "and the ammunition, whatever food or alcohol you find, fuel, vehicles, porn, whatever you salvage is yours. Provided," he held up a finger, "you bring me case files. No case files, no exemptions."

  "What does the Council and the Mayor say about this?"

  "They'll go along with it when I tell them about it," the Sheriff said.

  They argued and tried to negotiate, but Reilly would not move from his position. No matter what the salvagers tried, whatever loophole they attempted to find, he refused. Eventually they gave in and accepted his terms as presented.

  "Alright," Marks agreed, speaking for all of them. "What do these files look like?"

  The Sheriff was ready for this question, and showed them a variety of forms and styles of reports. There really wasn't a standard between the various departments throughout the Lower Mainland region.

  "Thank you, all of you. I know I don't need to tell you to be careful, but I really don't want anyone killed for this." He shook their hands again, then left them. He felt their eyes on his back as he walked toward the gate.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Essential Supplies Warehouse, September 8, 2013

  Sheriff's Deputy Mannjinder Hothi stood outside the warehouse in the blazing late morning sun. He loved the heat, the bright sunlight and the greenery all around. He loved the ocean and the mountains, the tree-lined ridges and fores
ted valleys. British Colombia was a breathtakingly beautiful place, and he considered himself lucky to have lived here for over fifteen years.

  As a policeman in North Vancouver for several years before the dead rose, Mannjinder had seen many less-than-pleasant things. However, his faith in the general decency of humanity had remained unshaken. Even now, years after the dead had returned to a poor facsimile of life, he still felt that human beings were good at heart. On his time off he liked to sit on the park bench near the garden plots and watch the people walking by or tending to the vegetables and berry bushes. He knew almost everyone in Mission by sight, knew the names and jobs of a significant percentage of them. And of course he knew all the troublemakers, the drunks, and abusive spouses. Fortunately there were very few thieves, probably because the penalty for theft was so severe in a community like the Safe Zone.

  Deputy Hothi had spent yesterday and all this morning talking to the operators of almost all the Council vehicles, asking about their whereabouts and if they had been driving late on the night of the 4th. This was his last stop, the last vehicle to ask about on the list of Council vehicles. The truck in question was parked nearby, and Deputy Hothi had glanced at it on his way by. The others on the list had been able to account for their locations late on the 4th, either at home with people who vouched for them, or if they were out late, they had checked in at the checkpoints or were able to prove they had been nowhere near where Mrs. Sinclair had gone missing. Allegedly, he reminded himself. They still didn't know for certain.

  Deputy Hothi was certain they were dealing with a sexual predator. The physical similarities of the women pointed that way, and his instincts screamed at him that he was right. It was disturbing that no bodies had ever been found. That implied that the perpetrator was disposing of them somehow, and Hothi could imagine a number of terrible ways to hide or destroy a human corpse these days. It gratified him that Sheriff Reilly was as convinced as he was that this was the case, and Hothi respected the Sheriff a great deal.

  The warehouse was busy when he entered. Forklifts and pallet jacks drove past, hauling skids of food, medicine, and tools. The loading bays were busy as well; one of the salvage companies had come in with a haul, and were still pulling boxes of goods off one of their trucks, piling everything on wooden pallets to be taken away and counted. Farm produce came here as well before being distributed at several locations around town.

  The office was directly ahead, and Hothi waited until the forklift went by again before darting across to it. His mind automatically catalogued which of the warehouse workers were armed, and the contents of the gun rack just inside the office door. An ineffectual fan blew stale air around inside the room, barely cooling it. A single working fluorescent fixture in the ceiling provided light, leaving the edges of the room in perpetual gloom.

  "What can I do for you, Deputy?"

  Alexander Corrone was seated at his desk at the back of the room, a stack of papers in front of him, pen in one hand. He wore dark clothing, and Hothi hadn't noticed him until he spoke. It was interesting that he would sit back there, not quite hidden but fully able to see the entire office when someone came in.

  "Mr. Corrone," he said, "I'm Deputy Mannjinder Hothi. We've met before, at City Hall a few months ago."

  Hothi noted the man smiling slightly. Mr. Corrone got up and extended his hand, and Hothi came forward to shake it.

  "I remember," Corrone said. "Won't you have a seat, and tell me what I can do for you?"

  The sounds of the working warehouse crept in as they spoke, snatches of conversation from the loading dock, the hum and clatter of cargo being hauled around.

  "I'm alright standing, sir. I need to ask you about your truck outside, the Essential Supplies vehicle assigned by the Council."

  Corrone smiled again. "What did you want to know?"

  "Sir, to begin with, who is authorised to drive it?" Hothi pulled his notepad out of a pocket to take notes.

  "Only myself and two delivery drivers. Robert Hanson and Gary Kien." The man sat and watched calmly as Deputy Hothi wrote the names in his book. "What's this about?"

  "There's a missing person case we're investigating, and someone heard a vehicle go by at around the time of the disappearance. We're checking every vehicle to see if there's any possibility of a connection."

  "I see." Corrone's expression grew concerned. "I hope you find whoever it is."

  "I do too, sir. Now, where was the vehicle on the night of the 4th?" As Hothi watched, Corrone's expression returned to neutral, all trace of the concern he'd shown gone. Hothi felt goosebumps appear on his arms.

  "I take it home with me every night, so it was parked outside my house."

  "And were you at home on the night of the 4th as well?" Hothi's hand was poised to write down the reply.

  "I was. We'd had a busy day here, and I was fairly tired. Like today, a big haul came in."

  "Did you go anywhere that evening? Maybe take the truck out to pick something up?"

  "No," Corrone replied, "like I said, I was home all night."

  "Is there anyone who can confirm that for me?" the Deputy asked.

  "No. I live alone." A frown was settling over Corrone's face, like he'd bitten something he didn't like the taste of.

  "Do you mind if I take a look at the truck? I also need to speak to Mr. Hanson and Mr. Kien."

  "Go right ahead. Bob and Gary are out there," he waved at the warehouse, "taking care of the haul that just arrived. Do you mind if I get back to work while you talk to them?"

  "Feel free. Thank you, Mr. Corrone." Again the man's expression went back to the neutral face he'd worn through most of the interview. Something about that struck Hothi as wrong, but he couldn't pin down what. He walked out of the office with an itch between his shoulder blades. Something about Corrone was putting him on edge.

  His unease abated when he spoke to the two men helping to sort the salvage haul. Both had been home the night of the disappearance, and both had people they could call on to confirm their stories. He left them to go outside to look at the vehicle. The truck parked near the door was in good shape and clean, and as Hothi poked around both inside and out he noticed nothing unusual or suspicious.

  Back to square one, he thought. But the more he thought about it, the more something about Alexander Corrone seemed strange. He had a few more stops to make, more people to talk to before he could return to the office. If he hadn't sorted it out by then, he'd mention it to Sheriff Reilly.

  With that thought, Hothi climbed onto his bicycle and began pedaling out of the loading lot, back toward Mission proper.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Mission Safe Zone, September 8, 2013

  Sheriff Jim Reilly stood before the corkboard in the dimly-lit Sheriff's office meeting room and stared at the pictures and index cards pinned there. There were five photographs in a horizontal line, and below the pictures were white index cards with names, notes and theories written in a fine hand. On the far left was an image of Karen Gilbert, dressed for an office party at some pre-2004 event. Below the picture, held up by thumbtacks, were all the facts of her disappearance. She had vanished on September 14 of 2010, almost three years ago. Her neighbours had seen her come home that night, but she hadn't reported for work the next day as an Essential Supplies clerk in City Hall. She was never seen again.

  The room Reilly stood in was furnished in comfortable office chairs and an expensive oak table. There were fabric-covered blinds over the floor-to-ceiling windows, closed all the way now that it was evening. On the table behind Reilly was a honey-sweetened cup of the locally made herbal tea, rapidly cooling. Beside the cup was a notepad and pen, the paper covered in the Sheriff's chicken scratch writing. A single electric lamp shed both warmth and light.

  The second photo was of Simone Greene. She was young in the picture, smiling and wearing sunglasses and an orange life jacket. Behind her was a kayak and the wide expanse of water just off Vancouver's Second Beach. The picture was from 2002. Sim
one had gone missing on October 1st of 2011. She was a member of a small salvage crew. They had dropped off a haul at the ES warehouse and split up to head home. Simone had vanished somewhere between the warehouse and home, leaving a husband and small child behind. No evidence of her whereabouts had ever turned up.

  "Where are you?" Reilly asked the photo. He could feel the throbbing pulse of a vein in his temple.

  The third picture was of Dorothy Tremaine. She had worked at the hospital as an administrator, and went missing in the middle of her shift on April 17, 2012. In the picture she was seen with a paintbrush in her hand, laughing at something or someone off camera. The wall behind her was half blue and half white, in the middle of being repainted. Like Simone, she left behind a husband and children. Up until this point there had been no connections between the women, but it turned out that Karen and Dorothy knew each other through the Essential Supplies Councilor. That had turned up nothing, a frustrating dead end.

  The fourth picture was of Kathy Durham and her husband Ted. It was from their wedding day in 2004, in early March, just before the dead returned to life. Ted had died on the 20th of that month, less than three weeks after this picture was taken, torn apart by the hungry dead in Maple Ridge while Kathy had escaped in her neighbor’s SUV. Ted had been a Maple Ridge RCMP officer, and Reilly had known him slightly. Kathy had been an acquaintance since she arrived in the Safe Zone, but he hadn't really known her before. In Mission she had shown a talent for organisation, and had gone to work in the hospital supply rooms. She failed to come back from a day off, and was last seen December 9th of 2012.

  Reilly's tea had cooled, but he picked it up and sipped anyway. Doc McKinnon had told him it was good for his blood pressure, but he was damned if he could remember why.