They kept moving.
Passed half a creeper dragging itself up the stairs. Phil executed it with a three round burst to the head.
They were on the landing now. They stopped, readied themselves, and pushed the door open.
Ten
Maurice waited until the first of them was close enough – it was off to his left, coming out of the door he was standing in front of – and then came around with the bat, using all the force that a ninety degree spin to strike would allow. Connected the thing’s temple with the sweet spot on the bat. Its head popped in a quick burst of blood, the droplets chasing the body to the floor.
He turned right, found one of the creatures less than three feet off. Kicked it in the stomach, then – when it wretched – came down on the spot where the head met the neck. A sickening crack rolled down the hall, but Maurice was already moving.
He came across his body with the slugger and took off one’s jaw, then brought it opposite to the ear, sending the thing spinning to the ground.
Two more were ahead of him now. He checked his peripheral and didn’t see any behind him. But the two ahead were coming fast. Closing the space. One, once a man; the other, a severely overweight elderly woman.
Maurice didn’t run.
He shifted his stance. Moving his right foot back, he planted the left. In one fluid motion he took a step forward with his right and brought the bat across his body, then snapped it back down and took out the female creeper’s left leg. Came back up and down on the male’s neck, just above the shoulder.
The bat now across his body again, he came across level and lined up the logo with the zombie’s head, just behind the eye socket. Blood making an ink blotch on the wall. The massive body rolling forward and coming to rest in a heap.
The creeper to the left wasn’t down completely. It had its right shoulder leaned against the wall, on one knee, spasming and lurching to get back up.
Maurice came up to it, took a deep breath, and then – double handed – beat its head with the bat until the aluminum was connecting with the wall and vibrating through his arms.
Eleven
The sound of automatic gunfire ricocheted off the walls as Chris and Phil methodically cleared the second floor. Phil was a fucking machine with it. Chris had never seen someone so pleased with the idea.
They had ignored the residents of the cells throughout the slaughter, which Chris tallied as about fifteen in all. Not too many. Outside had been worse. The woods had been crazy. Not that he really felt bad for them: he was measuring it in the amount of risk to his life. In the woods he had been surrounded. Here, they were moving from one side to the other, with the lights on, the creepers nearly blind as Chris and Phil swept through the floor, cutting them down.
They let their rifles hang low now, slung on their shoulder as the last creeper fell, riddled with holes.
“Thank God,” a man said from a cell. There were about fifty in total, ten by ten, with two beds and a toilet. Plus rooms to fingerprint, photograph and interrogate. The cells were split into three sections: “squatters” – those only being held until the paperwork went through – which consisted of twenty cells, “occupants” – those being held until they made bail – ten cells, and “lifers” – transfers to Brennick. They had found no prisoners in either the “occupants” or “lifers” sections.
Chris stopped and looked through the bars at the man. “What’s your beef?” he asked.
The man shuddered. “Beef? I don’t know what you mean.”
“You know, your beef. Your charge.”
“Oh,” he said, nodding, his hands shaking like Chris’. “Um, public intoxication.”
“You’re a drunk,” Phil told him.
“I… I…”
“Whatever.” Phil waved him off. “What about you?” he asked a scrawny, pale looking kid in the next cell.
“Possession.”
“Not surprised. Meth, right?”
“How’d you know?”
“You look like a fucking vampire,” Phil said. “Get some sun, man.”
“Hey, fuck you too.”
“Enough,” Chris told Phil.
Phil moved on.
“What about you?”
A tall, handsome man smiled at him. “I sent my wife to the hospital, the whore.”
Phil smiled back, and then shot him five times in the chest.
“What the fuck?” Chris burst.
Phil shrugged. “Just some light housecleaning,” he explained, and moved to the last.
Two hands leapt out at him. Cold, white fingers bunching and extending. Trying to get a hold of him. He took a few steps back and laughed. “Well, look at that,” he said.
Chris could already see. A creeper was in the cell. Its face pressed against the bars, biting at Phil, then at Chris as he approached. Teeth making a chopping noise as the jaw opened and closed.
“One of them got a hold of him,” the junky told them. “Maybe… I don’t know, two hours ago or so, we heard him get back up.”
“Wait,” Chris said, “he died two days ago, just got back up?”
“No. He got bit or scratched or breathed on or whatever-the-fuck two days ago. A few hours ago it was quiet and then we hear him. Like that.”
“So,” Phil said, nodding, “about a two day gestation period.”
Chris’ heart skipped a beat. How long had it been? A day? Shit. He wasn’t even sick yet.
“Yes, you are.”
He ignored the voice.
Twelve
Maurice made the street and scanned it. All of the zombies were pushing themselves into a tighter mass around the sheriff’s station. That was good. But more were coming. He watched them as they passed, seemingly unaware of his presence. He let that sink in: they couldn’t read his body heat. They couldn’t smell him. It was the noise and movement that attracted attention. Then once they saw you, they were locked on.
He stalked along the building’s wall until he reached the parking lot. Ducked down and tracked between the cars. Keeping out of sight. Got to his truck and put his key in the door. It was tough at that angle, stooped down. Habit was to be standing when he unlocked it. Got it turned and slipped into the driver’s seat. They were going to hear his truck for sure. But he couldn’t do what needed to be done without it.
He had a plan. A plan that would not only get him to the sheriff’s office unharmed – he hoped – but get him into the prison and safety.
But he needed the truck.
He put the key in and turned it. The starter scratched out for a few moments, then he stopped it. Fucking thing, he thought, of all the days. It was just cold. Had to get the blood flowing. He tried again. Nothing but the tired sound of the starter whining.
He pounded the dashboard. Two had already targeted the sound. Turned. Saw him sitting there, throwing a tantrum.
He turned the key again. Pumped the gas pedal.
They were coming now. More on the way. Drawn by the sound of the droning starter. Maurice screamed. Turning the key, pumping the gas.
“God fucking damn you. Start, you piece of…”
The engine roared to life. The sound drawing two more of the creatures. He dropped it in gear and took off. Running a few down as he peeled out of the parking lot. Blood splashing across the hood as he mowed them down. Their bodies crunching under the heavy snow tires.
“First stop,” he said to himself, “the animal shelter.”
Thirteen
“Status,” Sam called over the com unit.
“Phil just shot someone,” Chris told him.
“Roger.”
“No,” Chris said, shaking his head, “a person.”
“Non-creeper?”
“Yes.”
“Phil, what the hell is going on down there?”
“He was an asshole,” Phil said into the microphone.
“So?”
“So, he tripped and fell on a few bullets.”
“How many?”
; Phil shrugged. “Five or six,” he said.
The com was silent a moment. Then Sam said, “Next time use one. Where are you?”
“We’re in the squatters section. We’ve got two survivors in cells, and about fifteen dead creepers. One live one in a cell, as well.”
“Have either of them been bitten?”
Chris studied them. “I don’t think so. I think they would have turned by now.”
“That’s a lot of thinking for you.”
“I won’t make a habit of it.”
The coms were silent again. Then: “Basement?”
“Haven’t gotten there yet.”
“Make the live creeper into a dead one and head to the basement. You can pick up the survivors on your way back up, but I want them strip searched before we let them out of the cells.”
Chris nodded. “Phil will have fun with that,” he said.
“Hey, fuck you, man,” Phil spat at him. Spun and shot the creeper in the head. Then turned and walked up to Chris. “Let’s check the basement,” he said with the slightest giggle.
Fourteen
Sam slapped a fresh magazine in and checked their supplies. They were fucked, and he knew it.
“What in the holy hell did they expect to do with this? Piss them off?”
The armory hadn’t been what they were expecting. It was probably because the previous occupants had cleared out a good amount of the most effective weapons when the plague first hit. But it could just as well have been the sheriff being a fucking moron.
Either way, they were screwed.
Three bolt action rifles. Two shotguns. A box of shells for either. That was it. And no two-twenty-threes – the ammunition they needed for the AKs.
Brooks paced the room like a caged lion; a massive, dark skinned lion the size of a boxcar, watching the creepers press against the glass. His rifle held tight in his massive hands. “I was wrong,” he said. “We can’t stay here.”
Sam looked at the doors, stress cracks starting to spread out and make webs. He gave the door a half hour – tops. He looked at the windows – no bars, no nothing. When they went, they’d go at once, just shatter in and the things would be on them. He had no idea how long they would last.
“I haven’t checked the weather channel lately,” Brooks told him, “but if there’s a break in the storm, we might be able to make a run for it.”
Sam shook his head. “Not with these munitions,” he said. “What do you have left?”
“I got thirty rounds, total.”
Sam turned to the others.
“I’m still fully loaded,” Bryce Stone told him. “Haven’t had to fire a shot. Got ten mags, thirty each, plus the one in my rifle.”
“The same,” another responded.
Sam did some quick math. Clancy was gone, but had gone down firing in the sheriff’s office. Will was gone, but had also fired shots. Both of their rifles should still be in the building.
“Find Clancy and Will’s rifles,” he told Brooks. The man nodded his blocky head and disappeared. That left Chris, who must be damn near empty, and Phil, probably about the same. Plus four guards, none of whom had fired a shot, for whatever reasons.
Well over a thousand rounds. But would that be enough? On full automatic they could burn through that in a few minutes, and then where would they be?
“If we could make the gun store,” Bryce said, “we’d have a chance.”
Sam nodded. “If we have to run,” he said, “that’s where we’ll be running.”
“And then what? Where are we running from there?”
“If I have anything to say about it, home.”
“What about the warden’s shit? And everyone’s family?”
Sam’s stomach doubled when Bryce mentioned it. Fucking Warden, he thought again. One way or the other, they started checking those houses, driving all over hell on the Warden’s orders, Sam was going to have a very bad day.
He stopped thinking about that when he saw a pair of headlights zip by.
Fifteen
Maurice dropped the bulky bundle into the back of the truck, hopped in it and took off. Went over a creeper and didn’t slow down. Two more got on his trail and he gunned it around the corner and lost sight of them.
Snow had begun falling and it melted on his windshield as he drove, tracking down in lazy currents until he accelerated and the wind made them reverse course.
He cut right and blasted along the main street. Three zombies sent in opposite directions like bowling pins as he plowed through a small crowd. He passed the sheriff’s office and resisted the urge to honk and wave. Let them know he was on his way. Getting the attention of every creature within hearing distance wouldn’t do him any good. It might help the boys inside, but he was already working on that.
He made a right and then a left, weaving through town.
Slid a bit in the snow as he came to a stop in front of the hardware store. Jumped out and ran in, the glass doors blasted out and bloody.
He did a full 360 in the store, trying to find his purchases in the gloom. Caught site of the right sign and ran to the isle. Then stormed along it, looking for the right one. Found it. Smiled. Left the isle.
He set the item on the counter and went looking for the next. It was harder. He wasn’t even sure if they had them, but he didn’t want to risk another store. It took him five minutes – checking behind his shoulder every few seconds – to find it, his baseball bat held tightly in his right hand.
He would be trading up soon, he thought.
He took the second item to the front, picked up the first and held it with his elbow. The final item was in a locked cage at the front, he realized. Dropped his purchases back on the counter and went looking for a key. The set was hanging under the counter. He took them, went around, opened the cage, took one out, and got the rest of his stuff. First thing back under his arm, second in his right hand with the bat, third in the left.
Went out into the slowly falling snow. Dropped everything in the back of the truck and climbed in.
“Very soon,” he said, and took off.
Sixteen
“Chow time,” Mercedes told Erin, and slid the tray through the slot. “I hope you enjoy it.”
“Should we play twenty-one questions?” he asked.
“What?”
“There’s no mashed potatoes. I think it’s only fair you let me at least try and guess what you poisoned.”
“It’s the soup,” her friend told him. “I’m Jessie, nice to meet you.” She put a dainty hand through the bars and Erin shook it.
“Nice to meet you, too,” he said.
Tall Bill made a move for the hand but Jessie pulled it back and stuck her tongue out at him.
“Aw, come on. I got… Hold on, stay right there, don’t move…” He held his hands up and pumped them. “Just stay right there… I have something for you.”
The other three watched Bill as he ran the three feet to his bunk and rooted through his stuff. Then, after considerable effort, he reemerged and ran the few feet back to her. Stopped, cocked his head back, and then slowly presented an unopened package of rolling tobacco.
“For the most beautiful thing I have ever seen,” he announced.
Jessie looked at him, then the pouch, then back at him. “I don’t smoke,” she said.
He stood dumb for a second, then said, “That’s okay. No problem. Trade them. Get something nice. You deserve it. You deserve the world.”
She sighed.
Tall Bill continued, “I would give you the world if I could. But it’s through these bars, the closest we can ever get. You know how that hurts my heart? To know I’ll never be able to hold you in my strong arms?”
“Holy shit, cuz,” Jessie said to Mercedes, “he must read all those foofy books the librarian always pushes on us.”
“I could be your hero,” he assured her.
She laughed. “Just sit down and eat, ya moron. Come on, Sadie, we got food to serve.”
Jessie started to walk away, then came back and took the pouch of tobacco. “Thanks, Prince Charming,” she said.
“Where’s the guard?” Erin asked her. “The guy with you before.”
“They pulled him off,” Jessie told him. “Haven’t seen a guard this whole pass. They’re just staying up in their little catwalk, fifty feet up, keeping an eye.”
And then the girls were gone.
“I think that went well,” Bill said. “She’s crazy about me. I can tell. It’s in the eyes.”
Erin popped his neck, thinking.
“What’s up?” Bill asked.
“Nothing,” Erin said, shaking his head, “just what she said. No guards.”
Bill swallowed a massive helping of green beans, and said, “What about it?”
“Very interesting.”
Seventeen
Phil shot the last creeper in the eye from about five feet away. Waited for its head to slap against the linoleum floor, and then took a running start and jumped on it like a kid hits a puddle. Blood and brains shot out in a halo.
“That was fun,” he said.
“You really need to see somebody,” Chris told him. “I think you might have a serious problem.”
“If there’s any justice in this world, the shrinks got eaten first.”
Chris looked around the room, at the papers strewn haphazardly across the tables, floors, some soaked or smeared with blood. Mostly they were “Cause of Death” descriptions, many with “Undetermined” scrawled at the bottom.
He picked one up from the table. He couldn’t make any sense of it though. It was from the CDC. He read it twice before he started to figure what the hell it meant.
“Whatcha doin’?” Phil asked him from across the room.
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