Plague of the Dead

by Z. A. Recht

  “Hell, man, let’s just get him to move to the front seat. He can even recline it a bit. Better than laying on the trunk,” said the other, this one with a touch of New York in his voice.

  “Like I said, I ain’t doin’ it. You wake him up.”

  “I’m not waking him up. What if I piss him off? I could get picked for some shitty detail because I interrupted a good dream,” said the other soldier.

  Rebecca pushed her way through the two arguing men, walking straight for Sherman.

  “I’ll do it,” she said, then turned her head and grinned at the two men. “Pussies.”

  If the soldiers were angry, they didn’t show it. More likely they were relieved someone else was crazy enough to wake a sleeping General. Rebecca climbed onto the trunk, squatting down on her knees, and reached a hand out to Sherman’s shoulder. The moment she touched him, his eyes snapped open and his hand grabbed her wrist.

  “Whazzit?” he slurred, still confused and half-asleep—though his reflexes had obviously improved after the short nap.

  “The men want to get into the trunk, Frank,” Rebecca said, throwing a thumb over her shoulder at the two nervous-looking Privates.

  “Oh. Oh, I see. No problem,” Sherman said, sitting up with a slight groan and sliding off the trunk. “I’ll sleep in the front seat.”

  “See? I told you that would be a good place,” said the soldier with the New York accent.

  “Shove it,” said his companion.

  Sherman settled into the car and was asleep again the moment his head hit the seat. He had definitely pushed himself to the limit since they’d made landfall. Even with all the bumping and swaying from the soldiers shoving in boxes of food and gear, he didn’t crack an eyelid or so much as stir. Rebecca looked in at him with an expression on her face that was a mix of pity and admiration. She felt a tap on her shoulder, and turned to face a girl about her own age, maybe a year older. She didn’t know her, and guessed she must have been one of the folks in the theater.

  “I’m Katie,” said the girl, extending a hand. “You’re, like, the only other woman here that’s my age. Figure I should make some contacts. Network. That sort of thing.”

  “Rebecca. You can call me Becky, if you want. Medic with the Red Cross. What do you do?”

  “I worked at a restaurant in town. Waitress. Until this shitstorm happened, of course—then me and Ron ran to the theater,” Katie replied. “Red Cross, eh? Must have been exciting.”

  “You could say that,” Rebecca said, expressionless, reliving the hell of Cairo on fire, the dead children she’d seen, the blood on the walls in the corridors of the Ramage—shooting Decker in the face, watching his brains . . .

  She cut herself off in mid-thought.

  Katie sensed she’d said something wrong, and changed the subject adeptly.

  “You’ve got a good leader, I see,” she said. “Almost everyone in infected areas just breaks and runs. No organization. Half the military bases on the West Coast had to deal with hundreds of deserters—least, that’s what we heard on the radio. But you guys—you work like a real team. And you’re still alive. I’m glad we’ve run into you all.”

  Rebecca smiled as a reply, but said nothing.

  Katie kept going, “Where’d you get those clothes? Did the Red Cross issue them? I’d love to change out of this stuff.” She picked at her dirty long-sleeved shirt with a pair of fingers, quite gingerly, treating the fabric like it was crawling with spiders. Rebecca knew how she felt. None of the survivors had had a shower since they left the Ramage, and there was no shower room in a theater, either—Katie and Ron had probably gone without a decent bath since they holed up there—possibly weeks.

  Rebecca grinned again. She said, “I can help you in that department. The Cross lets you wear whatever you want, but we just got an entire load of winter gear from that sporting goods store you guys tipped us off about. Let’s go get you some new duds.”

  Katie had just vanished into the woods to change into her new woodland camouflage clothes when the rumble of engines alerted the group. They weren’t coming from the back road—they were coming from the town. They must have hit trouble and had to take a more direct route.

  “Soldiers! Get ready to bug out, pronto!” shouted a corporal, the ranking soldier at the moment. Rather, he was the ranking awake soldier.

  Rebecca sprinted away from the shrubs, where she’d been standing guard to make sure no one disturbed Katie while she changed, and knocked on the Topaz’s window. Sherman didn’t wake. She opened the door and gingerly touched his shoulder. He awoke as fast as before, this time more alert.

  “What’s happening?” he asked.

  “They’re back—but it looks like they’ve got company,” Rebecca said, talking fast. The trucks were about twenty seconds out, and closing at high speed. As they rounded the last bend, Sherman reached out his leg and tapped the brake on the Topaz, and at the same time flicking on the flashers. He didn’t want a truck barreling into any of the survivors. It was a good decision—the lead truck immediately slowed. Mbutu had apparently thought he’d had further to go. He could have accidentally rammed the car or one of the refugees.

  The trucks pulled to a sharp halt, and none of the soldiers got out. Mbutu rolled down his window.

  “Medical! We need medical here!” he shouted. Apparently his otherwise excellent grasp of English didn’t extend to the word ‘medic.’

  Rebecca was ready. She’d already grabbed up her bag of supplies after she woke Sherman. It was bulging since she’d raided the Ramage’s sickbay. She unslung it from her shoulder and dashed over to the truck.

  “Who’s bit? And where?” she curtly asked Mbutu.

  He managed a small smile and replied, “Me. I’m not bitten, though. I’ve been shot—an accident.”

  “Get out of the truck and let me see,” Rebecca said, her voice taking on a hard edge. She wasn’t asking. She was ordering Mbutu now.

  He obeyed, opening the door and swinging his long legs out, but remained seated. His right leg had a number of small entrance wounds, but nothing on the other side.

  “Shotgun wound?” Rebecca guessed. She was getting better with firearms every day—and the wounds they caused on carriers and the living uninfected.

  “Yes,” Mbutu said. He obviously had no intention of telling who fired that shot, but he didn’t have to. Brewster popped up behind Rebecca, a concerned look on his face.

  “I’m sorry, man, I’m so sorry—that shambler was crawling right toward you—I should’ve let someone without buckshot take him out. I’m so sorry, man!” Brewster went on and on, brushing his short hair back and pacing slightly. He leaned in, face next to Rebecca’s. She could feel his breath on her cheek, fast and shallow—a sign he was still running on adrenaline from the sortie, or a sign he was honestly worried about Mbutu’s well being. She figured it was both.

  “Friendly fire, man. What a bitch! I mean, shit, I could’ve accidentally killed you, man! He’s going to be fine, right? I didn’t, like, hit his femoral artery or any shit like that, right?” Brewster asked, betraying once more that he was a bit more educated than he let on most of the time.

  “He’s fine,” Rebecca said. “Back up. Your breath stinks, and you’re in my way. All he needs is a bandage and a small dose of painkiller right now. We’ll try to operate later.”

  “Operate?” Brewster asked, eyes going wide. “You mean, like, surgery? You’re not even a doctor! You’re just a volunteer medic! Oh, goddamn it, I killed Mbutu! This is it, man!”

  “Would you shut the hell up?” Rebecca asked, voice deadly calm. “All I have to do is get the buckshot out. Not a problem. I could literally do that blindfolded. But first we’ve got to get somewhere safer.”

  Thomas had been busy conferring with Sherman while Rebecca had been taking care of Mbutu’s wounds, filling him in on what had happened. They had acquired not only the lost crew of Mbutu’s truck, but a couple more rifles and another pair of hands—the man who had refus
ed to open the door when they’d first arrived in Hyattsburg. He had readily agreed to come along when a group of about fifteen sprinters and just as many shamblers had spotted the soldiers boarding the truck. He knew they’d never leave the warehouse door if he stayed. It was a deathtrap. He’d jumped aboard Mbutu’s truck as it was pulling away, bringing with him a pack full of canned food and two rifles, both measly .22 calibers—but they were guns, and in the right hands they would do the job just as well as a .30-06.

  The group was assembled, and Sherman called for them to gather round the car.

  “Group! School circle!” Sherman called. “Time to tell you where we’re headed. It’s east. We’re heading due east. Our destination is Omaha, Nebraska. There’s a research facility there, top-secret. Only brass and base personnel know it exists. Its purpose is to study possible uses of deadly viruses. It is a fortress—and I do mean fortress. We’ll get there, meet up with my old friend—her name is Colonel Anna Demilio. She’s got PhD’s in virology, epidemiology, and general surgery. I have confidence that she’ll be able to do something about this situation. She might not be able to fix it—in fact, I doubt she can. But she might be able to help, and we’d be safe waiting there. She should be on her way there now. Does anyone think they’ve got a better plan or place in mind? Speak up, if you do! I want to hear ideas! We’re a democracy now, not the military!”

  People looked back and forth at each other, but no one spoke a word. A few who were kneeling in the front row shifted from foot to foot, eager to get moving.

  “Alright, then, group. We’ve survived Africa, Suez, we won the fight on the Ramage, and we pulled off a picture-perfect rescue in Hyattsburg, Oregon. We’ll do just fine, I think. Now mount up! Let’s get a move on! To Omaha! Hoo-ah?”

  Everyone, in unison this time, replied loudly and clearly. Some of the civilians shouted “Alright!” or “Yeah!” or “Let’s rock!” among exclamations in other languages from some of the foreign refugees. Even those who didn’t speak English among the survivors felt the excitement, and knew they were in a good position—for now.

  The trucks and car were loaded for bear with people and gear. Mbutu was driving his truck, Thomas was in the old car, and Krueger had taken over the utility truck.

  Brewster sat in the bed of Mbutu’s truck, casting glances at the big man’s bandaged leg and cursing his absentmindedness that had almost killed him several times since the whole shitstorm began.

  Sherman sat across from Thomas in the Topaz, seat leaned back, snoring slightly as he enjoyed the first real night’s sleep he’d had in days. Thomas was similarly exhausted, but his eyes were locked on the road ahead. He was soldier through and through. No rest until the mission was accomplished.

  Rebecca was in the back of the utility truck, checking her medical supplies. She felt proud of herself—the way she’d managed to snag herself the new clothing, the way she’d handled Mbutu’s wound, and the way she’d made fast friends with Katie Dawson, who sat across from her, head lolling on her shoulder as she drifted in and out of sleep.

  They were doing well, for now—heading East, through the forests of Oregon.

  THREE FIGURES CRESTED a hilltop near the edge of Washington, D.C. They wove their way through the debris-strewn street, avoiding the burning husks of abandoned cars and stepping gingerly over prone forms that lay unmoving on the pavement. Near them, a fallen power line spat sparks, sporadically lighting the road, and a few blocks away, a house was burning.

  The air crackled and rumbled as a low-flying jet passed overhead, sending a shockwave through the air. The figures turned, following the jet with their eyes.

  “They finally did it,” commented Mason, mouth turned down in a grimace. “Air strikes. It’s all gone by now.”

  “It couldn’t last forever,” said Julie, hefting her MP-5 to her shoulder with a sigh.

  The jet banked around to its left, slicing low through the air, and released its ordnance. A dull red light lit the faces of the three survivors as the firebomb hit and detonated. Miles away, they imagined they could still feel the heat off the explosion.

  “Like a dream,” said Anna. “Still feels like a dream.”

  “—And we’re still waiting to wake up,” Mason finished for her. “But I’m starting to doubt that’s ever going to happen. It’s a brave new world, Doc. We’ll have to make the best of it. A brave new world.”

  Behind them, another pair of jets streaked in, and dull reverberations in the air signaled the detonation of more firebombs.

  North was no good. Nothing left there. South—no good either. East was the Atlantic. There was only one way to go from the burning, overrun ruins of the capital of the United States.

  The figures turned westward, shouldering their weapons and shifting the heavy packs on their backs, scanning the shadows for carriers.

  For more about the Morningstar virus, pick up

  THUNDER AND ASHES and SURVIVORS

  Available now from Gallery/Permuted Press.

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  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2006 by Z. A. Recht

  Originally published in 2006 by Permuted Press

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Pocket Books Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

  First Pocket Books trade paperback edition January 2010

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  ISBN 978-1-4391-7673-3

  ISBN 978-1-4391-7728-0 (ebook)