“God, this last one,” I said. “Let me finish the mission. You owe me that.”
The dead thing looked at me curiously, as if it couldn’t believe that this young Polack from a town nobody’d ever heard of was praying. It might have even chuckled. No, just my imagination. Slowly, I turned the axe in my hands, the handle slick, covered in black blood like my hands and clothes. The dragger waited—the undead have all the patience in the world. I expected it to rush me and I gripped the axe, waiting for it to make a move. Instead, it ran away.
“Thank you,” I said.
From far off, a death shriek echoed as I made my way back to the Escalade. Once again, I was completely alone, my tired footsteps slapping against the cold asphalt. A few drops of rain hit me as I tossed the axe aside, lifted Holly out of the backseat and walked steadily towards the church. Alone. Nothing moved—not even the gory remains of the draggers I’d dispatched. I was more than tired. Tired to my soul. Nothing in life could ever have prepared me for this. But I had to go on.
I made my way up the steps of the church and, when I got to the doors, I heard it. Singing. It was faint, but this time I knew it wasn’t my imagination. Someone was singing. My wife in my arms, I opened one of the doors and went inside.
The church was empty, except for one person—a girl. I couldn’t see her very well—she stood in front of the dimly lit altar. There, alone in the church, she sang “Softly and Tenderly Jesus is Calling.” Her voice was the sweetest thing I’d ever heard. I wanted to stay there, listening to her forever.
Carrying my wife up the aisle, I gazed at the statues of the saints, the stained glass windows illuminated from the outside by bright artificial lights, and at the Stations of the Cross which, in spite of my condition, depicted more suffering than I could ever know. And directly in front of me behind the altar hung Jesus on the cross. God had let me come this far. I knew in my heart Holly would be safe now.
As the girl continued to sing, I carried my wife to the altar, knelt and laid her gently on the marble floor. She was all I had, but I knew it was time to let her go. Getting up, I went to a holy water font and dipped my fingers in, fouling the water with dragger blood. I returned to the altar and made the Sign of the Cross on my wife’s forehead. It was the best I could do without a priest. Her soul would find its way.
I knelt there for a long time, looking at Holly. Remembering the sound of her voice. The anger left me like a crow with his fill of carrion. A deep pain I knew would never heal wracked me. And I wept. “You once told me you couldn’t wait for me to become the man you would make me,” I said. “I still need to show you, and I’m not ready. Oh, God, Holly! I’m not ready!”
Someone touched my shoulder. When I turned, the girl stood next to me. She was dirty, her small, waif-like body wearing shorts and a bloody T-shirt with the words L’il Princess written across it. She couldn’t have been more than ten, with blonde hair and hurt green eyes. There was something so familiar about her. Then I remembered. This was the girl I’d killed on a road in Mt. Shasta so many months ago after she’d turned. I didn’t understand how she could possibly be here. It didn’t matter.
She wiped away my tears and smiled. I grasped her hand, got to my feet and looked at my wife’s body lying in front of the altar. It was done. Weary and in pain, I turned to the girl. There was a peacefulness about her—I can’t explain. I felt myself drifting away. I heard my own voice ask her a question. “What’s your name?”
“Holly. It’s Holly. Don’t be afraid. ‘Therefore, since God in his mercy has given us this new way, we never give up.’”
Confused and aching, I pulled my hand away and left the church. Stood outside on the steps. Once again, I was alone. I didn’t care what happened to me now. I’d taken care of Holly—I’d honored her memory. I breathed the scent of rain.
Movement in the darkness made me look off to the side. I watched intently as something came out of the shadows. It was the lone dragger—the one who’d run away. It had come back for me.
Slowly, I walked down the steps to meet it. I no longer had my axe. No gun and no knife. Weak from blood loss. I was defenseless, and that was cool. What happens to the soul when you turn? Does it leave the body? Or is it trapped inside, a silent witness to the atrocities you inflict on others, till someone dispatches you? I knew I would find out soon enough. And it didn’t matter. There would be no one left here for me to harm.
The teenage dragger moved closer, cautious from its last encounter with me. It seemed to realize that I was unarmed, and it moved faster. Soon it would be on me. Without emotion, I watched its approach. It was as if this was happening to someone else. I felt nothing. Grinning hideously, it let out a death shriek and came for me. I closed my eyes, ready to accept my fate.
A gunshot echoed in the street. When I opened my eyes, I saw the dragger slithering to the ground at my feet, its head half-blown away. Three figures approached—human figures. A dog ran towards me, whining and yiping with joy. Greta bounded at me and covered me in dog slobber as I struggled to keep my balance.
“Greta, how did you—”
Warnick, Griffin and Fabian came out of the shadows. Griffin ran to me and fell into my arms, covering me in her tears. “You’re alive!” she said.
I thought about it. About how I’d been dead after everything that had happened. I’d lost everything, including my will to live. But seeing Griffin now, I felt differently. I breathed deeply, taking in the early morning air. “I am alive,” I said.
It began to rain, cold and steady but refreshing, washing away the poison that had killed most living things in my town. Cleansing Tres Marias of all of the bad. Warnick and Fabian hugged me. “There’s a girl in there,” I said. “We have to help her.”
Warnick and Fabian hurried inside while Griffin and I sat on the steps, me stroking Greta’s ears. Griffin clinging to my good arm. A few moments later the men came out.
“Where’s the girl?” I said.
Warnick shook his head. “There was no one in there. No one except Holly.”
My wife was dead. My baby was dead. But I was alive. I didn’t know why or how. Maybe we’re not supposed to know. We just go on. “Let’s get out of here,” I said.
Warnick was holding his bible. He took my hands and placed the book in them. Closed my fingers tightly around it. I felt nothing—no healing power, nothing. But I held on anyway. “Come on,” he said. “It’s been a long night.”
WHEN I WAS LITTLE and afraid, my mother always sang to me. A really old song that was written before I was born—“Catch the Wind.” Though the song was about loss and things that could never be, the words always comforted me. Maybe it was the sweetness of my mother’s voice or the way she gazed at me when she sang it. When I turned thirteen, she gave me an iPod. I don’t know how she figured it out, but somehow she managed to purchase and download the original Donovan recording of the song I loved so much. I hadn’t heard it in a long time—skull-cracking hockey players don’t need comforting. But there were many afternoons when I would stay in my room, listening to that stupid song. And I remembered what it felt like to be so very hurt and so very afraid.
And that’s how I felt now, without Holly.
During that last dangerous day, Warnick had managed to get Griffin, Fabian and Greta safely to our waiting helicopter. Griffin had begged him to wait for me, but Warnick knew better. He could see that I was grief-stricken and suicidal, and that I wanted more than anything to die. What he hadn’t figured on was my desire to get Holly away from that place.
And so they’d made it safely to the National Guard armory and waited for me, even after Warnick and Fabian were certain I was dead. But Griffin had insisted. She’d told Warnick she had a strong feeling—her little woman—a sense that I was alive and needed help. But where would they even begin to look? Griffin had called it. She’d known in her bones that I would return to Tres Marias. And, despite the risk, they’d taken off in a Humvee to look for me.
It was still rai
ning. After that cold, harsh day when I’d been rescued, Warnick, Griffin and Fabian had taken turns watching over me at the hospital, where I must have slept for twenty-four hours. When I woke, as if from the dead, they saw to it that I washed, dressed and ate. They told me Operation Guncotton hadn’t completely succeeded, and so a special unit of the National Guard had gone to Tres Marias to clear it of any remaining draggers. The operation would take weeks but, using the drones and Guardsmen on ATVs, they were confident the town would be secured. There was even talk of some of the civilians we rescued returning to the town to start again. The idea seemed insane, and it only became real when Warnick happened to mention the banks and insurance companies who were already sniffing around, anxious to assess the damage.
I was a mess, so Warnick saw to it that Holly’s body was delivered to a morgue in Redding. As I slept, he enlisted Isaac’s help in overseeing the burial arrangements. Because they’d murdered her, an autopsy was required. Isaac performed it himself, and took care to preserve the body as much as it was possible to. He did well. Lying in the coffin, she looked beautiful. I asked that she be buried in her wedding dress and wearing her gold First Communion crucifix. Like me, Holly didn’t have any other family. And I didn’t want her buried in Tres Marias. Too many nightmares associated with that place. Besides, the town didn’t have a Catholic cemetery.
Because my wife had died while employed with Black Dragon, the company paid for everything. The funeral Mass was held at St. Joseph Roman Catholic Church, and was attended mostly by people from Black Dragon. Isaac, the Zimmers and a few other civilians whom Holly had helped also attended. At the graveside, a priest said the final prayers. Warnick brought a CD player and blasted “Just Like Heaven” by the Cure. I don’t know how he found out—he wouldn’t tell me—but it was Holly’s all-time favorite song. After the burial, a few of us met at Starbucks. I didn’t want to, but Griffin insisted. She seemed to be taking on the responsibility of preserving the family.
Starbucks was crowded. The last time I’d been there, it had been to meet Missy and convince her to leave me alone—a lifetime ago. The coffee line stretched across the store, and most of the tables were filled. Waiting to order, I felt like a ghost among the living.
We ended up sitting outside, sipping our coffees. Greta lay at my feet protectively. None of us was in uniform. Griffin looked young, fresh and confident in her new blue jeans and yellow Under Armour tank top. Fabian, dressed more like a cowboy than a soldier, seemed to me like a man coming into his own. And Warnick, in jeans and a black t-shirt. The only word to describe my friend—the one who’d gotten me through the horror—was brother.
“We have to report to the regional office for a debrief,” Warnick said. “We’ll be given temporary housing in the city, and eventually we’ll have our new assignments.”
“Awesome, I’ve never been to San Francisco!” Griffin said. “Where do you think they’ll send us?”
“Could be anywhere. I heard there might be a gig in Atlanta.”
“Another outbreak?” Fabian said, half-smiling.
Warnick took a long swallow. “Let’s hope not.”
“And what about Walt Freeman?” I said.
“There will definitely be an investigation. But this team won’t have anything to do with it, although we might be called in to give depositions.”
“When do we leave for San Francisco?”
“Tomorrow.”
I thought about Griffin and Fabian. She was stroking Greta’s ear, Fabian holding her other hand. A warm feeling came over me, and I smiled. “You two look good together.”
Griffin blushed and withdrew her hand. “I …”
“You’re fine,” I said. Then to Fabian, “Holly always liked you, dude.”
“And you?” Warnick said.
“He might be growing on me.” Everyone laughed but me.
It was a beautiful day. The air was cold, the sky clear. Cars cruised by on the street and parents pushed babies in strollers. People milled around us, going about their business as if everything was normal. And it was—for them. I wanted so much to feel that. To be caught up in the everyday, not haunted by the horror that I had witnessed for so long. How did a person even do that? Climb their way out of Hell and return to a life in which no one was trying to kill you. I didn’t think I could—knew I never would.
“We should get going,” I said. “Not much to pack, but I’d like to rest so we can get an early start.”
“Sounds good,” Warnick said.
As we got up, Griffin touched my hand. “Dave, it’s going to be okay.”
At that moment she sounded so much like Holly. I wanted to close my eyes and see my wife standing there, unhurt and beautiful, but I knew that would tear me apart. So I kept them open and tried to smile. “I know,” I said.
I was never any good at endings. Laying Warnick’s bible gently on the nightstand where he would find it, I headed out before dawn and made my way silently out of the hotel. After we’d returned from Starbucks the previous afternoon, I’d gone out again, presumably to buy clothes for the trip. Griffin and Fabian had wanted to come with me, but I’d told them I needed time alone. I’d taken the black Escalade and, upon returning, parked it away from the hotel. Now in the darkness, I walked silently towards it, got in and started it. The sound of the powerful engine revving wouldn’t be heard by anyone at the hotel.
My only weapon was my axe, which lay on the floor on the passenger side. I would need a lot more. Guns and ammo. I thought about Griffin—the young girl I cared for so much—and I knew she’d be okay. She had Warnick and Fabian. Together they would protect her with their lives.
It didn’t take long to get to Mt. Shasta. Instead of driving towards the lake, I found one of the fire roads that led into the forest and followed it for several miles. Eventually, I turned onto an obscure road and headed towards a clearing. When I saw the fountain and the statue of Diana, I knew I was where I needed to be.
A warning shot screamed past the vehicle. Gingerly, I opened the car door and slid out. Exposing myself to the wrath of Guthrie, I stood erect with my hands raised. The old man stepped out of the shadows, his bullpup pointed at my head. When he saw me, he took a deep breath. “Next time, call first.”
“If only,” I said.
“You alone?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, come on inside. I’ll have Caramel put on some tea. Hungry?”
I followed the old man inside. He laid down his weapon and headed straight for the kitchen. “Caramel! We have company!” He turned and gave me the greasy eye. “It’s Dave Pulaski!”
The old woman stood in the doorway of the kitchen, holding a dishrag. When she saw me, she hurried over and gave me a hug. “You’re alive!”
“Matter of opinion.”
Caramel took my hand and led me into the kitchen. Guthrie and I took seats as she put on water for tea. “What’s going on?”
“Holly’s dead,” I said. Hearing my own voice say that out loud shook me to my core. I didn’t want to cry in front of these people, so I pretended to admire the condiments on a nearby shelf.
“I’m so sorry, honey,” Caramel said as she set down three cups and saucers.
“I’m on my way to get the people responsible.”
“That’s a dangerous game,” Guthrie said.
“I have to.”
“Yeah. But you need to know that more than likely they’ll kill you. People who can do what they did are way more powerful than the average punk robbing a liquor store.”
“Which is why I came to you. I need weapons.”
Guthrie and Caramel exchanged a concerned look. “Of course, you can have whatever you want,” he said.
“Thanks. I owe you guys so much.”
“Any idea where you’ll find them?”
“I’m going to try LA. After that, I don’t know.”
“Got any money?”
“A little.”
“Most of our cash is tied up in ganja
and guns,” Guthrie said. “But I can let you have some. Stay the night, though. You look like you could use the rest.”
I left the next morning. Guthrie let me take one of his trucks—the one his sons used to drive. There would be much less of a chance of me being spotted heading out of Mt. Shasta. He loaded me up with weapons, ammo and advice—the most valuable of which was Don’t trust anyone.
I’d always had a hard time confiding in people, so I figured it wouldn’t be difficult to keep my guard up. But to live a life without letting anyone in—that was a lonely life. I had one abiding purpose, though, and I clung to it. I would hunt down Walt Freeman and, before I killed him, I would make him explain why they did this to us. And I would make him tell me how many other towns they planned to ruin. How many more lives they planned to sacrifice in the name of money. I would make him tell me.
Then I would make him pay.
Outside the camouflaged house in the early morning of a fall day, I said my last goodbyes and drove away to a future with no name. Soon, everything was behind me. I wanted only to move forward, with no ties and no past. It would be as if I had just come into the world, packing revenge. I decided to go by way of Tres Marias and stayed on the fire road going south. Eventually, I came to a small bridge that spanned over a dry riverbed. It had been a million years ago when I’d crossed that bridge and seen a man being chased by what I would later learn were draggers. I’d tried to save him but couldn’t. And I’d fled as they devoured him.
Now, there was only silence. No birds, no wildlife. Up ahead, I saw something in the road. Probably a raccoon. As I got closer, I recognized Jim’s dog, Perro. I stopped the truck and got out. The decaying form lay in the dirt, finally free of the curse. Only its morbid flesh remained. A few feet away in the shadows, my friend Jim stared at me. It didn’t surprise me that he was there. I’d always felt he was watching me as I struggled to survive the plague. I knew how much he’d loved his dog—probably the only thing in his life he ever did love. In a dream, he’d said it wasn’t fair what happened to Perro. It wasn’t fair what happened to him, either. Or Holly. Or anyone else who’d fallen victim to this terrifying man-made curse.
The Dead Series (Book 2): Dead Is All You Get Page 28