Plague of the Dead

by Z. A. Recht

  Stiles stretched out on the ground, laying flat on his stomach, and low-crawled around the stoop to the edge of the busted window, moving slowly but deliberately. He stopped just short of the broken glass and flipped himself over onto his back. Ever so slowly, he raised the polished edge of the bayonet over the lip of the window, turning it gently between his fingers. The moonlight was just bright enough to illuminate the inside of the laundromat.

  It looked like someone had tried to make a stand here. The machines had all been unplugged and dragged to the center of the floor, forming a kind of makeshift fort. It hadn’t held. Even in the darkness, Stiles could see dried bloodstains running down the white-painted sides of the washers and dryers. It might have made an interesting forensic study if his attention hadn’t been grabbed by the sight of a pair of feet barely two meters from where the bayonet was poking up.

  There was definitely a carrier here—luckily, it was only one. Stiles could see by the way the head was moving around, (almost curiously, as if surveying its surroundings,) that the carrier was a sprinter, not a shambler.

  That would work to his advantage.

  He’d seen enough of the carriers to know how they worked. Their basic tactics, their physiology—a soldier always made mental notes as to what their opponents’ capabilities were. It helped keep them alive. In this case, Stiles knew one thing: a sprinter was still a living thing. Thus, a sprinter could be killed.

  Shamblers were dead. He’d known that much for a fact when he’d seen a carrier with a nice grouping of bullet holes in its chest open its eyes and pull itself to its feet. The only way to kill them was to put a round through their brains, or take their head off somehow. A sprinter, on the other hand . . . well, one needed only kill them like any other living foe. It took a while before they would reanimate.

  The carrier in the store used to be the owner. He still wore a bloody plastic nametag that read “DON,” along with the laundromat’s slogan in neatly printed cursive underneath. If any shred of consciousness remained in him, he showed no sign besides aimlessly walking the rows where his store had been.

  If Don had been facing the street, he might have seen Mark Stiles rise up from beneath the broken-out window and step silently onto the linoleum inside. If Don hadn’t been slightly entranced by the silently rotating fan in the air vent above him, he might have seen Stiles’ reflection in the glass shards on the floor as the soldier snuck up behind him, bayonet held out and ready. He noticed none of these things. The first clue he had that he was not alone came when Stiles’ hand reached around and held back his forehead while the other slid the razor-sharp blade across his throat.

  Don gurgled, trying to yell out in fury and attack, but other than the sound of bloody bubbles, nothing came forth. He tried to spin and sink his teeth into his assailant, but Stiles held him firm as his blood drained out onto the floor. Don slowly went limp. His eyes closed and his body slumped in Stiles’ grip.

  Stiles quietly laid the carrier down on the floor, wiping clean his bayonet on the man’s shirt and sheathing it, careful to not touch any of the infected blood. He let loose a shuddering breath. He’d barely been breathing as he snuck up on the carrier, desperate to make as little noise as possible.

  Odd, Stiles thought to himself as he looked down at the body. He didn’t feel any remorse—any regret. The objective part of his mind told him he’d just killed a living, breathing human being. The subjective part told him that this man was aligned with the enemy. Either way, he felt as if the body at his feet was feral, animal—not even human. He wasn’t sure if the lack of emotion was a good thing or a bad thing.

  With the threat dealt with, Stiles retreated to the street, stepping through the broken glass carefully. The next building down was his objective—the sporting goods store.

  He repeated his drill when he reached the building. It had a recessed doorway and four large-paned windows to display product in. Stiles could see in the windows that the store had already been ransacked. Display cases were tipped over and a trio of bullet holes had sent webs of cracks running through the glass here and there. The door itself hung open, squeaking slightly as a nighttime breeze pushed it hither and to.

  Unlike the open laundromat, the sporting goods store was nearly pitch black on the inside. High shelves and no side windows kept most of the store in shadows. Stiles had no flashlight, but he reached into the cargo pocket of his BDU’s and withdrew a pair of chemlights. He snapped them and shook them with one hand to get them glowing brightly, then he quickly palmed them to keep himself from standing out like a lighthouse in the fog.

  Stiles crept up to the open door and tossed the chemlights in, one as far back as he could manage, the other closer to the doorway to give him a marker once he was in. As the first flew through the air, Stiles caught glimpses of taxidermied animal heads arrayed on the walls. They gave him a start, and he silently rebuked himself for being so jumpy.

  Stiles waited a few seconds, but was reasonably sure the store was clear of infected. If there had been any carriers inside, the chemlights would have drawn them out into the open when he’d thrown them. Still, he took no chances, and drew out his pistol once more. He toed the door open with his foot, reaching a hand up to silence the bell that was tied to the frame, and slipped inside.

  Still holding out the pistol, he reached up with his other hand to the radio.

  “Ghost Recon here—I’m in.”

  He cleared the aisles one by one, staying as close to the exit as he could. When he was sure he was alone, he closed the door and snapped the lock shut behind him so he wouldn’t be surprised. He holstered his pistol, unslung his pack, and got down to business.

  The shelves closest to him held camping supplies. The survivors could have used almost everything that was left, but there was no way Stiles could carry even half of it. Instead, he ripped a small flashlight from its plastic case and snapped it on, illuminating the store further.

  “Damn,” he said softly. “Someone’s had a field day here.”

  It was true. The place had been looted half-clean. The only truly untouched shelves held fishing rods, targets, and novelty t-shirts with printed paintings of bucks and trout on them. Stiles caught a glimpse of a rifle rack near the rear of the store, and quickly hopped over a small pile of abandoned woodland camouflage trousers and jogged over.

  “Shit,” he said, feeling disappointment in his gut.

  The guns had been looted clean. There had been a pistol display in the countertop, but someone had smashed the glass and pulled every firearm from within. The racks on the walls that once held bolt-action hunting rifles, shotguns, and home defense weapons were empty.

  Stiles let his flashlight beam play over the shelves near the racks, and he nodded slightly in approval. There was plenty of ammunition left. It looked as if whoever had grabbed the guns swept a few boxes of each ammunition type into a bag and then had bolted. Boxes of nine-millimeter rounds lay spilled on the floor, mixed in with shotgun shells and 30.06 ammo. Stiles could see pristine boxes of .357 and .38 caliber ammunition left untouched directly under the empty rifle racks.

  “Now if only we had something to shoot this stuff with,” he muttered, unzipping his bag and dumping armloads of the nine millimeter rounds into it. Unless he could find more firearms, all they needed was pistol ammo.

  Stiles held the bag open on the floor and used his free hand to sweep loose rounds that had scattered on the boards into the opening. Even without guns, this was more of a haul than he’d expected. He closed up his bag and stood, pulling it over his shoulders and shrugging it on evenly with his flashlight held securely in his teeth. He plucked the light out after snapping the bag’s straps across his chest and let it play over the walls one last time. He strolled along the back of the counter with slow, solid footsteps.

  Near the end of the counter he stopped, sighed, and shook his head.

  “Well, that was a lot better than I thought it’d be,” Stiles murmured. He clicked off the flashlight a
nd stepped out from behind the counter to head for the exit—then suddenly halted. His last footstep had echoed.

  The flashlight clicked back on, illuminating Stiles’ perplexed expression. He slowly lowered the beam until it lit up his dusty boot. He stomped twice more, just to test his memory. Sure enough, the sound of his steps echoed slightly. He stomped his other foot—no echo.

  Stiles dropped back down to his knees, twisting the end of the flashlight to narrow the beam. He brushed away at the sawdust and dirt that coated the floorboards. His fingernail quickly caught on an edge and he leaned over it, blowing out a quick breath and sending dust spiraling into the air. Stiles’ curious expression was quickly replaced by one of eager anticipation.

  “A cellar,” he said, blowing out another breath and clearing the edges of the trap door.

  Stiles clamped his jaw around the end of the flashlight, keeping the beam on the floor, and drew out his bayonet once more. He slid the tip into the crack in the edge of the trap door and pried upwards. The door popped open, and Stiles caught it with his hand, shoving it loose and tossing it aside. He stood, sheathed the bayonet, and aimed the flashlight down the hole. Wooden steps led down to the basement of the building. He leaned his head inside, letting the beam play over the space inside.

  Stiles felt his jaw drop open slightly, then whistled quietly to himself. He pulled the radio Sherman had given him free of his epaulette and clicked it on.

  “Ghost Recon to Ghost Lead—I’m going to need a bigger backpack.”

  Stiles didn’t bother waiting for a response. He wasn’t going to get one, anyway—Sherman had told him that they would maintain radio silence and assume he didn’t want any noise other than his own while on the scouting run. He shifted his feet around the opening of the cellar door and stepped down the first few wooden stairs. The angle gave him a much better view of what he’d thought he’d seen from the entrance—and the sight was no less welcome.

  A slow smile spread across the soldier’s face. He’d found the owner’s private storeroom. Stiles heard cloth scraping his boot as he reached the bottom of the staircase, and glanced down at the floor. It seemed someone had been here since the beginning of the outbreak. A couple cardboard boxes lay on their sides, half-empty, with the remainder of the contents scattered along the floor. Along one wall of the surprisingly clean and dry basement were obviously handmade shelves filled to the point of bursting with still-full cardboard boxes. He couldn’t make out the labels on all of them, but it was clear at least one shelf held several cases of tinned foods. The nearest was spiced deer jerky—Stiles needed to know no more. There was enough food here to feed the remaining survivors for the next week or two.

  The shelf above that was stacked with heavy outdoor clothing—waterproof jackets, parkas, jumpsuits, all bagged in thick plastic. If the soldiers hadn’t already been wearing the extra layers Captain Franklin had given them, he would have been quick to add them to his list. It was neither the clothing nor the food supplies that got Stiles’ immediate attention, however. It was the pair of angular freestanding gun racks in the center of the smooth concrete floor—racks that were not empty.

  Stiles was too grateful to whatever deity was bestowing the find upon him to mourn the spaces on the racks that didn’t have rifles in them. There were still a baker’s dozen left, of many makes and models. From the look of the room, it seemed someone—likely the owner—had already taken what rifles he or she could carry.

  “Now that’s a sight,” Stiles whispered, walking over to the racks and brushing a hand along the polished walnut stocks and plastic hand guards. He spotted at least four shotguns right off the bat—distinctive as they were. Most of the others were hunting rifles. There were a few bolt-action 30.06 rifles as well, scopes already mounted on the rails.

  Stiles reached down and gently retrieved a beautifully-kept Winchester repeating rifle from one of the racks. He cradled it in his hands almost reverently, a soft sigh escaping his lips.

  “Beautiful,” he whispered to himself, turning the weapon over and running a finger along the intricate engravings on the receiver and hand-carved patterns on the stock. Stiles knew his weapons well enough to realize this was not something you left on the display rack in the window. Older Winchesters fetched prices of tens of thousands of dollars in certain circles, and even though many were close to or over a hundred years old, they were still as deadly and practical as they were on the day they were manufactured. This had been more than the owner’s storeroom—it had been his showroom.

  Stiles decided then and there that the others could decide who got what—but the Winchester was his. Call it hazard pay.

  He worked the lever action—the swift clack-clack echoed in the basement room, and Stiles nodded in appreciation. It had definitely been well taken care of. It even had a sling. He leaned the rifle back up against the rack while he took stock of the remaining items in the room.

  Stiles stepped around the gun racks, shining his flashlight along the walls.

  Suddenly, out of the darkness loomed a bloody face, eyes wide open and locked on the soldier.

  Stiles jumped an inch in the air, skidding backwards and slamming into the wooden shelves, knocking boxes loose. He tore his pistol from its holster and aimed it at the assailant, finger on the trigger. After a moment, when he realized the bloody body wasn’t charging him, he relaxed, though the adrenaline pumping through his veins made his hands shake and his breath come in gulps.

  He let the pistol drop to his lap, and he breathed a deep sigh of relief. The body was just a body. It wasn’t getting up any time soon.

  After a few moments, he pulled himself to his feet and walked closer to investigate, kneeling in front of the still form and shining the flashlight at it.

  It was the body of a middle-aged man. He was dressed in hunting camouflage and wore a watch cap. Black face paint had been smeared under his eyes. It was obvious he’d intended to survive, but something had changed his mind.

  In his limp hand was a long-barreled .357, barrel coated in gore from when he had stuck it in his mouth and fired. The back of his head was M.I.A., and black, dried blood coated the otherwise bare wall of the cellar corner behind him. Stiles presumed this to be the owner of the store. For a moment, he wondered why the man had chosen to kill himself. Maybe the situation had just seemed too hopeless to him.

  Stiles reached out a hand and gingerly removed the magnum from the man’s hand, careful to clean the blood from the gunmetal—just in case. He shoved it securely into his pistol belt.

  “Sorry,” Stiles said to the dead man. “We need this more than you do now.”

  He was about to stand when he noticed a barrel protruding from behind the man’s back. For the first time, his eyes registered the black plastic strap running around the man’s shoulder. The dead owner had gone well-armed in life. Stiles leaned the man forward, grimacing at the stiffness of the corpse, and slipped the rifle free. It was a simple but deadly Ruger Mini-14, a compact civilian carbine that Stiles didn’t ever remember hearing a bad word being spoken about. He’d add that to the windfall of other weapons.

  Only one real thing remained to deal with: how to carry all the newly-acquired items back to Sherman and the other survivors.

  Stiles pondered this a moment, and even looked around the basement for a larger backpack. He chuckled inwardly—no backpack was large enough to carry a dozen rifles as well as the ammunition he’d found upstairs. And that wasn’t even taking into account the cans of food on the shelves, which was something else they needed badly. He’d have to make more than one trip.

  “I’ll be damned if I’m sneaking halfway across this town five more times and get myself killed in the process,” he said to himself.

  It would have been best if he’d had five more people with him to haul the stuff back. He decided the best thing to do would be to take what he could and leave the rest for later. They’d have to drive back with the truck to pick up the remainder, especially the boxes of food. Stil
es knew he could carry enough of the weapons and ammunition to attempt such an operation, especially since they now knew exactly where to go and what to do. It would be a lot different from the first time they came into the town—it had to be.

  Stiles took the straps off of the Ruger and one of the .30-06’s and laid them parallel on the ground. He pulled a pair of shotguns from the racks and laid them on the straps, then topped the pile off with the Ruger and a scoped hunting rifle. He tied the bundle up tight, and hefted it onto his shoulders. He looped the ends of the straps through his webgear and tied them off as well. He shifted his weight, testing his makeshift carrying device. It was a bit cumbersome and more than a little awkward, since it made his shoulder width a couple feet wider than it normally was, but it would do.

  He scooped up the Winchester and jogged back up the wooden stairs, poking his head up through the trapdoor and scanning the store in case any unwelcome visitors had made their way in. When he deemed the way safe, he rose up, but was yanked back down as the rifle barrels and stocks caught on either side of the wooden doorway.

  “Damn it,” Stiles cursed under his breath, sinking back down and twisting his shoulders until the weapons slipped through. He made his way back over to the bank of half-empty ammunition cases and chose a few boxes of twelve-gauge shells, some .30-06 rounds, and a few .357 magnum rounds for the revolver. Stiles looked around as if expecting someone to be watching as he shoved three full boxes of .45 rounds for his Winchester into his pack as well. He fully planned on picking up at least another three if and when they returned for the remaining gear. No use in having a beautiful weapon if there wasn’t any ammo for it.

  Before retreating to the store’s exit, he kneeled and took a moment to load up his new rifle. He worked the lever, chambering a round, and nodded in satisfaction.

  They’d be back.

  And they would be ready.

  Outside Hyattsburg

  0631 hrs_

  It was an abnormally cold morning, even for Oregon in late winter. Fog blanketed the countryside, reducing visibility to what seemed to be a matter of yards. But it wasn’t the cold or the oppressive, stifling fog clouds that were wearing on the survivors that had stayed behind with Sherman that were making them uneasy. It was the lack of the presence of long-overdue scout Mark Stiles. The last report they’d received from him had been around 0200, in the middle of the night, and after that—silence.