“Come on,” Troy said to Wendy, tugging her by the elbow to get her moving as fast as she could in the snow.
“Damn it, what’s going on?”
“We may have unwanted company dropping in,” Troy said grimly.
Thirty-Three
Troy jogged the whole way back to the Conservation Center with Wendy on his heels, coughing most of the way. A series of hooded, dim lights projecting a faint glimmer outlined the whole front of the building, illuminating the snow in an eerie dark blue that felt more oppressive than the glum of the evening sky. Wendy could hardly breathe, coughing incessantly as they reached the wide-open space leading to the main door.
Troy stopped and looked up, holding his breath. Wendy tried to be quiet, but couldn’t control her coughing.
“Quiet,” he hissed.
She held her breath and tried to listen for the sound of the high-altitude aircraft, but the pounding of her heart throbbed in her ears and she had to let out her breath, stifling another fit of coughs. “Is it still up there?”
“I can’t tell. Go on ahead. Get inside so I can listen.”
“But—”
“Go!”
Wendy stumbled through the uneven snow to the main door of the conservatory, taking deep breaths as she coughed into her elbow. Stupid cold. She couldn’t breathe through her stuffed-up nose at all, and her throat itched and tickled more the harder she tried to reign it in.
She stopped at the big door and looked back at Troy, reluctant to go inside by herself. She stifled yet another cough, trying to keep her mouth shut to baffle the noise, but it only caused a wave of stronger coughs to assail her. She put a hand on the door and yanked it open, stepping inside, thinking she would just wait there for Troy.
The hallway was dark. The door slid shut behind her and she stifled another cough. Now the only light came in through the small pane of glass on the door behind her, an eerie, icy blue from the LED lamps outside. She tried to hold her breath and listen, just in case she wasn’t alone, and noticed that the hallway wasn’t completely dark. Light seeped in under a door to the right—opposite the auditorium and stage she had been taken to earlier.
She took a few cautious steps closer to it and put a hand on the door knob, stifling another cough. She began to turn the knob and thought to knock, but the door unlatched, letting in more light. The hallway, with its stacked boxes at the end, seemed to come alive. She wanted to run back outside to Troy, but as the door creaked open and more light spilled over the darkness, her fears retreated. Junk. Just more piles of junk.
“Hello?” She pushed the door open enough to step inside. She coughed again. “Hello?”
Her heart still pounded from running, and now it redoubled from a sense of fear. Her cheeks felt flush, too. The door led to a well-lit office with two groups of cubicles splitting the room and taking up the majority of the open space. File cabinets lined the walls between where thick rugs were nailed above each window, preventing any light from getting out. Two of the halogen tubes in the ceiling light sockets flickered. The three doors along the far wall were all shut and led to private offices with their blinds all turned down.
Wendy coughed again. “Hello,” she called, a little louder this time.
The door to the middle office opened abruptly and Momma’s big man-servant, or guard, or whatever his relation to Momma was—Wendy didn’t care—appeared. The only thing Wendy cared about was that the big man standing there glared at her with disdain.
“T told me to come in,” Wendy said, and coughed once more. “There’s a plane. In the sky.” She shook her head. Where else where would it be, idiot? She coughed before she could amend her statement, though.
Momma’s voice came through the open door from inside the office. “Who’s there, Scott?”
“The doctor,” the burly man-servant Scott replied. “Miss Doctor,” he corrected. “Says T sent her.”
“What for?” Momma sounded irritable.
“There’s an aircraft,” Wendy called. “High altitude. T thinks there might be trouble.”
“T thinks?” The door swung open further. It thumped into something metal, which slid down the length of the door with a scratching sound. “Damn it!” A tripod rattled to the ground at Momma’s feet, tangling in her heavy cotton dress. She stepped over it, dragging it out with her before she kicked her feet to free herself.
The big man bent down in front of her to collect the tripod. Momma glowered and pushed Scott out of the way. “Leave it,” she insisted.
Wendy noticed a small camera attached to the end of the tripod, leaning sideways, but pointing at her.
“Where’s T?” Momma snapped.
Wendy stiffened.
“Why isn’t he in here telling me himself?”
Wendy coughed before she answered. “He’s right outside.” She pointed to the door behind her, but as she did a distant snap went off, the kind of sound that could only be the echo of a louder and more precise sound when close enough to be dangerous. It was followed a second later by a snap, snap.
Oh shit.
That was gunfire. Wendy knew the sound of a rifle being fired. She grew up around country, where people owned and used firearms for everything from fun to protecting their herds against wolves and coyotes and foxes.
“Scott,” Momma said in a measured tone, hobbling toward Wendy. “Go see what’s the matter.”
Scott moved quickly, stopping at a desk next to Wendy where he slid open a drawer. He pulled out a pistol and checked it. Wendy stepped into the room more, not wanting to be near the door if there was any gunfire. She also remembered how the zombies at the Midamerica terminal poured through the doorways, toppling over each other to get at everyone inside.
“And get Brady on the lights and alarms,” Momma said as she picked up the receiver of a phone on another desk.
“T sent Keith to—” Wendy cut herself off with a coughing fit.
“What?” Momma snapped, glowering at her.
“T sent Keith to get someone on the lights.”
“Can’t trust Keith,” Momma grumbled. “Hey,” she said into the receiver. “What’s up? That gunfire?”
The big man Scott pulled the door open, his pistol at the ready, then dodged into the dark hallway beyond. No zombies. That was a relief.
Another snap rattled in the distance as the door slid shut behind him. No gunshots in the hallway. That was more of a relief.
“Say again?” Momma held a hand to her other ear. “Hey!” She shook the phone and put it back to her ear. “You there?” She looked at the phone station on the desk before slamming down the receiver. “Shit, dammit. Stupid goddamned phone system, no good….”
A moan rose from the office.
“Larissa?” Wendy called. “Is that Larissa?” She knew the answer, though. She pointed at the office as she approached it.
“Whoa, hold on,” Momma said, sliding open a different desk drawer and pulling out a pistol. “You just get on over there in that corner.”
The moaning got louder.
“Larissa’s scared. Let me—”
“Shut it,” Momma snapped. She held the gun up, pointing it lazily in Wendy’s direction.
Wendy’s eyes narrowed. Momma was acting just like Doctor Kennedy back at Midamerica. Bitch. She meant both of them, Momma and her memory of Kennedy.
“The corner. Now,” Momma growled.
Wendy backed up, holding her hands in the air. She didn’t have someone to rescue her this time. No one to dive into Momma and throw her off the roof. No bulletproof vest, either.
“They’re here that fast. How’d they know, huh?” Momma threw the statement at Wendy like an accusation. She crouched near the door, looking back and forth between Wendy and the fallen camera. She turned her head sideways as she talked at the camera. “We ain’t been broadcasting but two, three minutes. How you know so fast, Mr. Senator?”
Wendy held her breath, not quite sure what Momma even meant. Was the camera live? How did the
y have a feed to anything this far in the—the crane! Another snap, snap of distant gunfire echoed in the room. Momma marched to the curtained windows, her limp hardly slowing her pace. She kept the pistol levelled in Wendy’s direction, though. Wendy stood perfectly still, hoping to eventually be ignored. Maybe she could inch closer to the door, then make her escape when Momma wasn’t looking. But where would she go after that?
Momma seemed to agonize over not knowing what lay beyond the covered windows by the way she tapped at the curtains with the back of her hand. She kept a hard stare fixed on Wendy the rest of the time, like she was reading her mind. Long seconds ticked by under that scrutiny. Momma began to pace, hobbling over one rigid leg, mumbling, looking at the phone when she reached it, the door or Wendy the rest of the time, and all the while Larissa moaned from the office beyond.
“If you just let me—”
“Shut it,” Momma snapped, turning to face Wendy with a hot glare in her eyes.
A deeper sounding boom went off somewhere nearby, the sound of a shotgun or maybe a small explosion.
“Damn it all,” Momma growled as though she had come to a conclusion in her head. She hobbled straight at Wendy.
Wendy felt her heart race and the color drain from her face. Her fingers went numb as she balled her hands into fists. It felt meager. She hadn’t been in a fist-fight since she was a kid, a fight she lost. And Momma had a gun.
“Come on, Miss Doctor,” Momma said, pointing the pistol at Wendy as she reached a hand out and grabbed Wendy’s jacket. She yanked Wendy toward the door, then gave her a hard shove that nearly knocked her down, jarring free any notions of resistance. Momma was a lot stronger than she looked. “We’re going outside.”
Thirty-Four
The cold air hit Wendy the moment Momma pulled the door open. Wendy coughed, unable to keep it at bay. Inside, the air had been bearable. Out in the snow, however, she only wanted to sink further into her jacket to escape the bone-chilling freeze. Her lungs constricted and her throat tickled. She coughed again, this time into her elbow, and eventually looked around, hoping Troy was nearby.
A series of lamp posts ran the length of the trails that led to and from the Conservation Center. Up until now, none of them had been lit up. Now, every single one shone brightly. Wendy blinked at the light above her, too. A series of flood lights mounted to the building cast an intense glow that made the white of the snow appear like bleached linens. The colorful stains in the snow at her feet reflected the painting style of the amphitheater inside.
“Scott!” Momma shouted.
In answer, gunfire echoed to the east. Several weapons were going off, some pistols, some rifles, and even a shotgun. Boom! Snap, snap, snap. Ka-pa, ka-pa. Momma squinted as she looked down the trail leading toward the gunfire.
Wendy took a step away from Momma. If Troy came…if anyone came, she wanted an opportunity to get away.
“Oh, no you don’t,” Momma growled and spun around, reaching her paint-stained hand out at Wendy’s head. Wendy held her arms up to protect her face, but Momma smacked them out of the way and grabbed her hair at top of her head, clutching as much as her thick, meaty hands would hold. She tugged Wendy, pulling her and forcing her to lean forward. Wendy instinctively grabbed at Momma’s hand and was immediately hit on the wrist by the butt of Momma’s pistol. Momma turned her hand and torqued Wendy’s head sideways, forcing her to her knees.
Wendy whimpered, feeling the burn of her hair being pulled from its roots. The gunfire in the distance continued its parlay; a snap, snap, snap here, a ka-pa there.
“Please,” Wendy pleaded.
“Shut up,” Momma growled.
“Momma, please just let me—”
Momma tightened her grip on Wendy’s hair.
“Oooww,” Wendy cried. Let me go!
Wendy thought she saw stars in her eyes, but realized a split second later that someone was shooting flares into the night sky. Their smoky red and purple trails carved jagged arcs one-by-one before coming to an abrupt stop with a burst of red light. One after another they began their slow descent, meandering toward the earth while sputtering and dripping bits of lava.
“They think they’ve got us beat easy,” Momma said sharply.
Wendy grimaced at the pain as Momma shook her head. It made Wendy cough, and the spasm only made the roots of her hair burn more in Momma’s grip.
“They’re here for you. And little sister in there,” she added, pointing her pistol at the door to the Conservation Center. “Make you feel special?”
Wendy didn’t answer. She tried to breathe slowly, to control her coughing.
“Momma,” a man called. Momma looked up, easing her grip on Wendy. The man came running up the lit path, pulling the pin on a canister and tossing it to the ground. It sputtered and hissed and began to belch out purple smoke. “Momma, we’re under attack.”
Momma glowered toward the approaching man.
“They’re coming from all sides, Momma,” the man went on. He pulled another canister from a satchel he had slung over his shoulder and yanked the pin from it before tossing it to the ground in the clearing in front of the Conservation Center. A green smoke began to rise.
“Where’s T?”
“Ain’t seen him,” the man said.
“Who’s at the gate?”
“Keith and Vance have it.”
“Well, get the damned smoke out, then,” Momma told him, waving her pistol to the east.
“Right,” he said, nodding. The green smoke washed past him, swimming across the path heading east. Two laser-thin red lines carved through it.
“James!” Momma cried.
Thwump, thwump. The sound of a rifle suppressor filled the courtyard. The man lurched forward as though hit with a bat from behind, teetering for a second, then collapsed.
Momma raised her pistol and fired into the smoke, aiming for the beams of light. Blam, blam, blam, blam, blam, blam. Wendy screamed, holding her hands to her ears. The laser lights winked out. “Goddamned-mother-fucker-sons-of—” blam, blam, blam.
Thwump, thwump, thwump, thwump. Momma spasmed and fell backwards, pulling Wendy by the hair with her. She careened into the building and toppled to the snow. Wendy felt a huge chunk of her hair rip at the roots. She cried out in pain, pummeling Momma’s hand with her fists in an effort to break her grip.
“Clear,” a voice said mechanically from somewhere in the smoke.
Momma gurgled and hissed as she slid down the wall, pulling Wendy backwards over her. Wendy knew the bitch wasn’t dead, but had no idea if she was out of bullets or not. She couldn’t see her by the way they both fell. Right now, she was a human shield for Momma when whoever out there in the smoke decided to move in.
The two red beams of light came on again, separated by several yards, each beam aiming into the wafting smoke in their general direction, swimming through the cloud in zig-zag patterns as they wiggled and bounced erratically.
Wendy grabbed at the hand that still clutched her hair, Momma’s thumb with one hand, the fist full of fingers with the other, and tried to pry herself free.
“Don’t shoot!” Wendy cried out.
The beams stopped moving. One went out altogether.
Wendy felt the pistol dig into her back. “Shuuut,” Momma gurgled.
“Let go,” Wendy hissed, pulling Momma’s fingers with all her strength. The thumb gave up some of her hair and she felt the pinch of it slacken slightly, enough that the pain eased. She sighed, but it caused her to cough again, and as her body convulsed, Momma’s grip tightened.
Momma’s breathing came in labored and raspy wheezes. Each time she exhaled, a bubbly, gurgling sound mingled with it. Blood. Wendy could only imagine what it looked like. A hole in her chest the most likely candidate, or possibly her throat.
She tried prying Momma’s hand out of her hair again, but it was no use.
“Don’t shoot! Please.”
“Shuudu,” Momma gurgled, pushing the pistol into her ba
ck once more.
“I’m a hostage!”
Thwump, thwump.
Momma jerked. Wendy screamed and stiffened. Had she been shot? How long would it take to realize it if she had? She tried to remember what it felt like back in Midamerica when Doctor Kennedy shot her in the chest. She had been wearing a bulletproof vest at the time, but it was enough to knock the wind out of her and put her on the ground. She couldn’t remember how long it took to register the pain, though. Her brain had simply stopped, expecting the worst, perhaps even blocking it out. Just like now.
“Clear,” a solder in all white said as he crouched down and yanked the pistol out of Momma’s hand. He stood and threw the weapon into the snow several feet behind him. He swung his rifle on a strap to his side and crouched down again, quickly prying Momma’s hand from Wendy’s hair. Wendy rolled away from the iron-like vice-grip and put a hand against the top of her head, expecting blood to be trickling from the burning pores where her hair had been torn out. She looked at her glove, but there was nothing. She looked at her chest and legs as well, wondering if she had any holes in her from bullets.
“Doctor O’Farrell?” the solder asked, standing again and sliding his rifle back to the ready. “Are you Doctor Wendy O’Farrell?”
Wendy looked up at him, too stunned to answer.
Thirty-Five
A second soldier appeared out of the haze, the sound of his boots crunching through the snow being the only thing that gave away his approach. He wore the same white and gray speckled combat uniform with a narrow helmet, gloves, a solid-looking backpack, and stalky padding all around. He turned and knelt in the snow beside her and aimed his rifle back toward the two paths.
“Scan her,” the second soldier said, not taking his eyes off the terrain.
The first soldier peeled back the fingertips of his glove, reached into his cargo pocket, and pulled out a black device the size of a television remote. He tapped a button on it and waved it over Wendy’s left arm. “Are you Doctor Wendy O’Farrell?”
Wendy’s mouth hung open. Who were these men? It caused her to look at Momma’s body, the way it learned against the building with dark red blood oozing from an inflamed and swollen hole in her neck right next to her Adam’s apple. Her eyes, still wide open, remained fixed and fiery with anger, almost accusing in the way they stared straight at Wendy. Wendy leaned back to avoid their harshness, but they followed her like a trick painting.
Plagued: The Battle Creek Zombie Rectification Experiment Page 14