The Dead Series (Book 2): Dead Is All You Get

by Steven Ramirez

  “Dave, we’re through discussing this.”

  “Can I bring up something else, then?” I said. “It’s about Steve Zimmer.”

  “Who?”

  “The person we rescued in the forest.”

  “Right.”

  “What’s going to happen to him?”

  “Once he’s released from the hospital, he’ll be escorted to one of the checkpoints along with the other civilians. We’ve arranged for transportation to San Francisco.”

  “But his wife and baby are here in the command center,” Holly said. “Can’t he stay?”

  “I don’t think so. And don’t forget, I’m no longer in charge.”

  “Well, can they leave and go with him?” I said.

  “No.”

  “They’ve already been tested—they don’t carry the virus.”

  “Dave, I appreciate what you’re trying to do for that family, but our orders are to keep everyone who was quarantined in and everyone else out.”

  I looked at Holly. “Well, we tried.”

  As the four of us walked down the steps of the administration building, I held Holly’s hand.

  “I can’t believe you caved like that,” she said. “Not like you.”

  “I didn’t. I’m going to see Isaac.”

  “What for?”

  “To get Steve Zimmer a doctor’s note.”

  “Mind if we come with?” Warnick said.

  “You guys don’t need to get involved in another one of my stupid ideas.”

  “There are worse things.”

  “Like what?” Holly said.

  “Like being crushed to death by Walt Freeman’s giant gut,” Springer said.

  Holly laughed. “It would make an awesome steamroller.”

  I would have laughed too, but I was working out what to say to Isaac that would make him lie about a patient.

  Isaac shook his head at the four of us sitting in his office. “You want me to falsify a medical record?”

  “No, but can you bend the truth a little?” I said.

  “Nina’s baby needs her father,” Holly said.

  “Isaac, the only way for him to avoid being removed is for you to say—”

  “I know, Dave. You want me to say he’s sick.”

  “Can’t you give him a disease?” Holly said.

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know. Something that will make it so that he can stay at the command center with Nina and the baby—but that’s not contagious.”

  Isaac sat back in his chair and closed his eyes for a moment. I knew he’d been working long hours, both at the hospital and the isolation facility, and didn’t need another problem to solve. He reread the notes in Steve Zimmer’s chart.

  “We gave him a transfusion right after he was admitted. Looks like he ate breakfast. And he’s responding well to antibiotics. Had a nightmare. One of the nurses reported screaming. Hmm …”

  “What?” I said.

  “Elevated white blood count. Probably due to an infection. Huh …” He flipped through the rest of the chart and returned to the first page. Finally, he met our eyes and smiled.

  “Well?” Holly said.

  “Elevated white blood count can mean all kinds of things. An autoimmune disorder or even leukemia. Keeping him under observation is at the doctor’s discretion.”

  “And it sounds like you wouldn’t be lying,” Warnick said. “I’m good with that.”

  “So am I,” Isaac said. “He’s due to be released this afternoon. I’ll see to it he’s moved to the command center. And I will continue to monitor his progress.” He winked at Holly.

  Springer high-fived Isaac. “Awesome!”

  “Warnick,” Isaac said, “I need to ask you something. We still need to connect my researchers with the people at Robbin-Sear. I realize your reporting structure has changed, but we can’t wait.”

  “Understood. I’ll figure something out.”

  “Any change to the patients in the isolation facility?” I said.

  “We’ve lost most of them. And it’s getting more dangerous to keep the few remaining ones there.”

  “Any more like Ariel?”

  “No.”

  We told Isaac about the soldiers in the forest. An experienced medical examiner who had seen every kind of death there is, he nevertheless blanched when we described what they had done to Steve Zimmer’s friend.

  “I want to confront the people responsible,” he said.

  “You’ve got my vote,” I said.

  Holly, Griffin and I waited with Nina Zimmer near the command center entrance for the ambulance to arrive. Greta sat at attention, her ears forward. The vehicle stopped briefly at the guard station and pulled into the compound. Nina tensed. She held Evan close and faced her forward so she could see her father for the first time in months.

  An EMT jumped out of the driver’s side and opened the rear doors. Steve Zimmer, looking weak and dazed, lay on the gurney, dressed in a pale blue hospital gown. Another EMT inside helped him sit up. They assisted him as he slowly climbed down from the ambulance, wincing from the pain.

  I wanted to interrogate Steve—to learn what was happening outside our town. Had they forgotten about us? But he was in no shape for that. I didn’t know what would happen to the family, but at that moment I was happy for them—happy that in all this death, they had found each other again.

  “I’m so sorry,” Steve said as he held his wife and kissed his daughter.

  “Don’t ever leave me again,” Nina said. Though she was crying, there was anger in her voice.

  “I won’t—promise.”

  We walked over to Nina’s trailer and helped Steve get settled. He was in a lot of pain from the gunshot wound, but he appeared happy. He sat on the small sofa and Nina placed Evan in his arms.

  “Hey, Peanut,” he said, tears running down his cheeks. “I missed you so much.” Then to Holly and me, “Thank you.”

  “We’ll come back later with some clothes,” I said. “Oh, almost forgot.” I handed Nina a plastic bag of medications. “Just follow the instructions. There are pills to help him sleep. You can take him to any of the MMUs to get his bandages changed and pick up more fluids.”

  Griffin and Greta were waiting outside. Nina followed us out.

  “Thank you. I never thought I’d see him again,” she said, her eyes red with tears.

  “He’s a good guy, Nina,” I said. “You and Evan are everything to him.”

  “I won’t forget you guys for as long as I live.” She held Holly all of a sudden like a long-lost sister.

  There weren’t many good days like this. You learned to cherish them.

  Holly, Griffin and I ate in the trailer. The TV droned in the background, tuned to a hockey game between the Sharks and the Kings. I wasn’t sure if it was live or prerecorded. Though I still loved the game, I was distracted. In the final few seconds of the third period, the Sharks scored, winning the game by a single point. The fans went through the roof.

  “Slapshot and he scores!” the Sharks-friendly announcer said. “And there’s your lunch!”

  Holly laid down her fork and took my hand.

  “It’s hard, you know?”

  Though she hadn’t specifically referred to any one thing, I knew exactly what she was talking about. Images of the battle we’d engaged in—the worst ever—flashed through my mind, along with the menacing groans of the draggers and the cries of the men we’d shot down. We weren’t soldiers—not really. Though we’d fought to survive these last few months, something was different. It was in Holly’s expression.

  “I want to go to church,” she said, “and I want you to come with me.”

  “You mean now?”

  “No, morning Mass. Will you come?”

  “Sure. It’s been a long time, but …”

  “I need this, Dave. We both do.”

  “You’re not going to make me go to Confession, are you?”

  Holly smiled. “Next time.”

&n
bsp; Griffin watched us the whole time, saying nothing. I saw a look of longing on her face—something I hadn’t seen before. “Can I come?” she said.

  Holly stroked her arm with her other hand. “Oh, honey, of course you can. Are you Catholic?”

  “No. I’m not anything. I’ve never even been inside a church.”

  “You’ll like it, I promise. It’s comforting.”

  “That’s what I was thinking,” I said.

  But that was a lie. What I was really thinking about was dread. The kind that overtakes you when you remember your past sins.

  And I had plenty.

  ON SUNDAY we attended the only Mass of the day. The mayor had arranged for school buses to transport Catholics staying at the command center to St. Monica’s a few blocks away. Black Dragon soldiers escorted the faithful and waited outside next to their vehicles. I drove Holly and Griffin over separately in a Humvee.

  Outside the granite structure, more soldiers stood guard. I recognized many of them and acknowledged them as we walked up the steps. Though Holly had gotten me into the habit of praying, I was uncomfortable being here. It wasn’t that I wanted to avoid God, but I felt dirty—especially after the violence at the checkpoint the night before. How do you ask forgiveness for killing the person who is trying to kill you? And what about the undead? Is killing them really killing at all? Questions with no answers. Despite my feelings I put on a smile for Griffin, who seemed drawn to the sacred celebration.

  Lord have mercy.

  The church was packed—a surprising number of families filled the cherry wood pews. Light streamed through the beautiful, undamaged stained-glass windows. During the outbreak it had seemed like everyone was dead. But here was proof of the living—mothers and fathers, boys and girls and the elderly. As I stepped into the pew I noticed a number of Black Dragon soldiers, Fabian among them. He faced the altar as he made the Sign of the Cross.

  Christ have mercy.

  I recognized the elderly priest—Fr. Ullman—as the one who had comforted Holly and me at the start of the outbreak, that day when I found my wife safe after we’d been separated. I was grateful he’d survived. I wondered how he continued to keep the church safe—a place of refuge. In here there was no blood, no sign of violence. But there was sadness. People wept softly all around me. Was that what being saved sounded like? I turned to see how Griffin was taking it. Her eyes glistened with tears. Mine stayed dry.

  Lord have mercy.

  Before Mass, Holly asked the priest if she could make her confession. What would she tell him? I wondered. Father, I killed. When it came time for Communion, she stood to go up with all the others and pulled us along. I didn’t want to walk up there—I felt as if I didn’t belong. Griffin didn’t know what was happening, but she seemed caught up in the ritual. How was it that a person raised without any religion could be so drawn to this while someone like me, raised in the faith, was nearly immune to it?

  “No,” I said.

  “I want you to get a blessing.” From Holly’s expression I knew she meant business. So I went.

  As Griffin stepped out of the pew, Holly gently crossed the girl’s arms over her chest and waited for me to cross mine. We joined the long procession to the altar. There were so many. People who had seen—and possibly done—unspeakable things. But at the end, there was forgiveness. Or so I assumed. What was there for me?

  A group of elderly men and women sang, “Softly and Tenderly Jesus is Calling” without accompaniment. As I approached the marble altar and gazed at the huge Italian crucifix hanging on the wall behind it, I thought about how the weeks and months of fighting had deadened me, almost like the virus. I hardly knew myself. My temper—legendary to begin with—had gotten worse, especially when we weren’t in combat. I felt constantly wary and slept little. I kept my weapon in sight at all times. I had a heightened fear of losing everyone I loved in a flash of violence. Unexpectedly, at any time of the day or night, I experienced what could best be described as panic attacks. Sometimes, I became deeply depressed. It was as if Death were grooming me. But for what?

  I didn’t know whether soldiers serving around the world suffered from these things, but I did know I was happiest with a gun in my hand. Was that a sin? And it wasn’t even about killing people. It was about keeping my family safe. If I had to choose between a gun and a crucifix, I would take the gun every time.

  Holly bowed reverently, then put her hands out to receive the Host. A part of me wanted that too—a distant part I hadn’t known was still alive. Imitating the others, Griffin bowed slightly and stood in front of Fr. Ullman.

  “May the power of Jesus Christ keep you safe always,” he said and made the Sign of the Cross on her forehead. That simple gesture seemed to give her comfort.

  When it was my turn I lowered my head and, only half-listening, waited for my blessing.

  “May the Holy Spirit descend upon you and help you to find what you seek,” he said.

  I raised my head and stared at him—I felt as if he’d slapped me awake. Disoriented, I returned to my pew. Holly stood there, eyes closed, praying silently. Griffin stood beside her, head lowered, stealing glances at those around her.

  After the priest gave the final blessing, we left the church. There wasn’t any music. Music would have been wrong, I thought. The best music was silence.

  “So what did you think?” Holly said to Griffin.

  “I liked it. I really did.”

  “It kind of grows on you.”

  “Feel better?” I said to Holly.

  “Yeah, I do. Thanks for coming.”

  Fabian trotted down the steps after us, said a quick hello and kept going.

  “What was that about?” Holly said.

  I watched as he climbed into a Humvee with a group of soldiers. “What? He’s busy.”

  “I think he’s scared of you,” Holly said.

  “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Holly rode with me in the front of the Humvee. We’d brought Greta with us and left her in the vehicle with the windows rolled down, confident that no one would have the cojones to try anything.

  “Can we take a detour?” Holly said.

  “Sure, where to?”

  “Turn right here.”

  I did as she asked and, after a couple of miles, I figured out what she was up to.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “What’s up?” Griffin said from the backseat.

  “You’ll see,” I said.

  I drove us down the familiar street and parked across from our old house. I’d never intended to come here again. Technically, we still owned it. Once things got back to normal—if ever—we’d have to begin making payments again or let the property slip into foreclosure.

  I wondered when the bean-counters from the banks and insurance companies would arrive to assess the damages to our town. Many people had died and left behind property—cars and houses. I supposed that at some point everything would be fixed up and auctioned off. I didn’t know much about real estate, but I imagined there was a helluva glut coming.

  “This is where we used to live,” Holly said to Griffin.

  For a time, we sat there, staring at the dilapidated mess. When I had last seen it, the inside had been stained with the blood and entrails of animals that Missy had killed. Now, all of the windows were broken and the stucco walls spray-painted with foul slogans. The front door was missing, the fence in ruins. I could tell our guys hadn’t inspected this street yet because there were no Black Dragon stickers anywhere.

  Holly grabbed the door handle, and I touched her arm.

  “I don’t think we should go in,” I said. “It probably smells like all hell.”

  “I want to see it,” she said. She climbed out and stared at me through the open door. “Coming?”

  I turned to Griffin, who smiled. “You heard the lady.”

  Groaning like an old man in a truss, I got out. Griffin let the dog out and we w
alked up the short driveway to the front door. The smell coming from inside was overpowering—like rotting meat and wet leaves.

  Decaying animal matter was strewn across on the carpet, along with dead leaves and branches. Holly closed her eyes and, taking a breath, went inside. Greta whined once and followed her. I had a strong urge to wait outside but I didn’t want Griffin or my wife being surprised by a dragger.

  “It’s, like, really horrible,” Griffin said.

  I wanted to make a joke about my housekeeping skills but kept it to myself. Greta nosed her way through the debris as we moved through the living room into the kitchen. Our beloved teapot sat on the counter, the spout on the floor in pieces. Why would someone do that? Rotting food covered the floor, along with raccoon droppings. Undaunted, Holly continued her inspection.

  Upstairs wasn’t much better. Though there was no blood, the carpet was filthy and it looked as if all of the rooms had been ransacked. The master bedroom furniture was missing—including our bed. On the floor lay a wooden picture frame. Griffin picked it up and handed it to Holly.

  “Thanks.”

  It was a wedding photo, taken outside St. Monica’s. I turned to see if Holly was crying, but she just held it and stared—like it was something precious but foreign.

  “Aw,” Griffin said. “That’s such a pretty dress.”

  Holly smiled sadly at her and approached our closet. Both floor-length mirrors were smashed, and glass crunched under our feet. I helped her force the door open. All of the clothes were gone—even the shoes. Boxes were scattered everywhere—most of them empty, except for a few CDs. But one box remained on the high top shelf. I recognized it right away and took it down for Holly. Through the clear plastic window we saw her untouched wedding dress.

  Taking the photo and the dress, Holly left the room and headed for the stairs. She didn’t go downstairs, though. Instead, she went into the spare bedroom that she’d planned to turn into a baby’s room—long before she was ever pregnant. It was the only room in the house that appeared untouched. I recalled finding her there one morning, daydreaming, as I headed out to convince Missy to leave me alone. Another time, another me.

  As we stepped outside the house, Griffin pointed. Two slow draggers dressed as Sheriff’s deputies approached us. Greta, ears pointed forward, stood silent and alert. I unholstered my weapon, but instead of taking aim I handed it to Griffin. Surprised, she stared at me.