Survivors

by Z. A. Recht

  “I get you,” whispered Stiles. “No problem. It’s probably better if we kept this to ourselves.”

  “Yeah,” breathed Hal.

  Wes had vanished, laden with weapons, into the building, which Hal and Stiles saw now was marked as the Sheriff’s office by a bronze-and-concrete plaque half-hidden in the tall grass.

  “At least there’s still a little law and order here,” said Stiles, nodding toward the plaque.

  “Yep. A little bit of civilization goes a long way these days,” agreed Hal. “Not that I’ve ever been a fan of it. That’s why I left it in the first place.”

  Wes reappeared, kicking open the swinging doors to the Sheriff’s office, arms empty. “All right, gentlemen, your gear is secured. Don’t worry,” he added, “we put them in the evidence locker. No one but Keaton and I have the keys to get in there. Your things are safe and sound.”

  “Good,” said Stiles, nodding slightly. “If there’s a single ding on my Winchester, there’ll be hell to pay.”

  “I was meaning to ask you about that,” Wes said, taking over the driver’s seat and sending the cart whirring along on its way. “One hell of a piece you got there. Where’d you find it?”

  “Some gun nut’s private storeroom back in Oregon,” Stiles said. “It’s an original. An antique.”

  “I could have guessed as much,” said Wes. “I’m something of a weapons enthusiast myself. You don’t find pieces like that anymore—or if you do, they’re way out of my price range. At least, they used to be when money was an issue.”

  “Yeah. I almost regret having to use it as a crutch, but I don’t really have a choice.”

  Wes banked the cart around a corner. The smoke from the smoldering clinic was growing closer. “Don’t worry. I stuck it in a locker by itself. A piece like that needs some tender loving care.”

  “Thanks,” said Stiles, holding on to the rollbars as the cart made the turn. “That weapon and I have saved each other’s lives a dozen times over.”

  The electric cart turned a second corner, and the burning clinic came into full view.

  It wasn’t completely destroyed. A corner had burned out and collapsed, but the bucket brigades had managed to keep the flames from spreading to the rest of the building. Sheriff Keaton was on the scene, running around, making sure that everything was going smoothly, directing application of water like an experienced fire chief. Wes leapt out of the cart to join him, and Hal followed suit. Stiles remained seated in the cart, nursing his wounded leg.

  “What’s it look like, Sheriff?” Wes asked.

  “The worst’s over, Wes,” replied the Sheriff. “We’re down to ashes and an occasional flare-up. Gonna have to overhaul the insulation in the walls, make sure all the smoldering is out. God damn that idiot who left those cleaning supplies by Herman.”

  “Herman?” asked Hal, managing to bite back a laugh. “The guy who did this is named Herman?”

  “Don’t laugh,” Keaton said, narrowing his eyes. “Herman Lutz is a complete sociopath, and a goddamn smart one, too. Sherman helped us bring him down, but we got him alive and were keeping him here, at the clinic. He was pretty badly hurt, but he was improving. As far as we can tell, he got a hold of some chemicals and built himself a bomb. Blew the goddamned wall right off the back end of the clinic. His bed’s empty. All in all, he managed a great escape. We tracked him a little. Looks like he headed east.”

  “Aren’t you going to go after him?”

  “Why? He’s only one person, and now we’re watching for him. It’d be suicide for him to try and come back here. Good riddance to him—wherever he is, I hope he rots there.”

  The sounds of crackling wood and the smell of scorched tiling were all that filled the air for a long moment. No one spoke. Hal looked off to the east, where Herman Lutz had disappeared, and sighed.

  A voice broke the silence. From the passenger side of the cart, Stiles raised a hand. “Say, uh, hate to interrupt . . . but would now be a good time to ask for that crutch?”

  Omaha, NE

  26 June 2007

  1120 hrs_

  IT TURNED OUT TO be a beautiful day, with the temperature pleasant, and a soft breeze serving to whisk away what little sweat those enjoying the outdoors might have felt. Missing, however, were the hallmarks of any major city. Not a single engine could be heard for miles. Abandoned vehicles lay about, some parked neatly, others smashed against telephone poles or turned up on their sides in ditches, sitting cockeyed in storefront windows or blocking intersections, silent and still.

  Glass shards littered overgrown lawns, and halfway-boarded-up windows hinted at last stands. Even the birds seemed loath to venture into the city, their chirps distant and muted, almost apprehensive. Only two figures still lived and breathed in the streets of Omaha, but they were as still as the tomblike buildings around them.

  Ewan Brewster and Trevor Westscott might as well have been statues.

  The pair of survivors were kneeling behind a concrete stoop on the outskirts of the city, hugging their weapons close. Brewster’s double-barreled shotgun hung across his lap, and Trev’s snap-out baton was held close to his chest. He tapped it rhythmically against his shoulder in perfect time to the sound of the infected’s breathing.

  Both men wore rugged hiking packs stuffed to the brim with recently scavenged food and several bottles of prescription medications. They were trying to get back to their home base, but trouble had come their way in the form of an older man with bloodshot eyes who had burst out of his apartment building as the two began to walk past. Brewster and Trev had immediately dived for cover, and, owing to luck more than anything else, the man hadn’t seen them.

  That was only half a blessing, however. The man definitely knew they were there. He just didn’t seem to know where. He grunted, flicking his head this way and that, drooled blood and spittle pooling at his feet on the top step of his building. His body twitched spasmodically as he stood there, motions seemingly beyond conscious control. In fact, they seemed to annoy him: every time a shoulder or arm twitched, he would glance at the offending limb with the same predatory flash in his eyes that a young, curious housecat gets when it spots its own tail.

  The man was a living infected, and the first one of that kind that Brewster and Trev had spotted in nearly two weeks. Through his veins coursed the Morningstar strain—by now the virus had erased anything human that remained in his wrecked shell. He now existed only to spread the infection. He was, body and soul, the Enemy.

  Though Brewster and Trev were well armed and able to finish him off if they wished, they remained behind cover. A shot would bring more infected out of hiding to their location—possibly even other sprinters.

  “Sprinters” were what the survivors had taken to calling the living infected. They were still human, physiologically speaking, with all the advantages and disadvantages that entailed. One of those advantages was their namesake. They could run down a clean, uninfected human with little trouble . . . they didn’t know pain, or fatigue, or fear. Escaping a group of them was one of the most harrowing experiences the postpandemic world offered. They also drew breath, and had working vocal cords, which made their howling a much larger threat than a mere gunshot. When an infected managed to spot a survivor, it would let out an unearthly, angry wail, bringing any other infected that were within earshot down on the survivors’ heads.

  It was that howling that was worrying Brewster and Trev more than anything else.

  “Plan?” whispered Trev, pulling a lock of grown-out brown hair away from his eyes and glancing around the corner of the stoop at the infected.

  “I don’t know, man,” Brewster said, an unlit cigarette clamped between his teeth. “How far is the Fac?”

  “We’re about five blocks out,” Trev replied in the same low whisper. “Too far to run if there are any other sprinters around.”

  Brewster thought on this a moment, then reached up a hand to the battered and chipped radio that was clipped to the collar of his sh
irt. He turned the volume down to a nearly imperceptible level and switched it on.

  “Krueger, come in,” Brewster whispered into the radio. “Krueger! Wake the fuck up and answer your radio.”

  Across the way, the infected turned its head in the direction of the hidden survivors and took a quick step forward, studying the stoop they were kneeling behind. Trev spotted the movement, pushed himself tighter against the concrete, and slapped Brewster’s shoulder, his eyes alone speaking volumes. Brewster slowly released his hold on the radio and grasped his rifle. If the infected discovered them, they would be forced to run and gun.

  Suddenly, Brewster’s radio squawked softly. “Brewster, Krueger. Go ahead.”

  “Shit!” Brewster was quick to reply. “Krueger! We’re pinned four blocks out on Meadows Parkway. Think you can work some magic?”

  “Give me a minute,” came Krueger’s response.

  “I don’t know if we have a minute,” said Trev, peeking around the stoop once more to check on the infected.

  It had left the steps entirely, and was now standing on the street, much closer than it had been just moments earlier.

  “I think it can hear us,” added Trev, furrowing his brow.

  “That would be our luck,” said Brewster. “Krueger? Come on, man.”

  “Almost in position, over,” came Krueger’s disembodied voice. Brewster and Trev could hear the sound of footsteps ringing on metal rungs and Krueger’s heavy breathing through the radio. He was climbing.

  “Tell me why, again, we don’t have headsets?” Brewster moaned softly. “Next time we hit the streets, I’m raiding a goddamn Radio Shack.”

  The infected took a few more quick, lurching steps toward the survivors’ hiding spot, head tilted to the side like a dog, still rasping with every fast, shallow breath. Its mouth drifted farther open, saliva slipping between rotted teeth faster with each step.

  “All right. In position. Where on Meadows are you, over?” came Krueger’s voice again.

  “The apartment buildings adjacent to the highway, far side from your location,” Brewster said. He felt a trickle of sweat break out on his forehead and meander slowly toward his eye. It would be a matter of seconds before the infected located them. “Hurry up, man. He’s almost on us.”

  For a long moment, silence. Brewster glanced down at his radio and wondered if it had died on him. The quick shuffle of infected footsteps toward Brewster and Trev was the loudest thing they’d heard.

  A whine cut through the air, little more than a high-pitched zip, and the infected sprouted a blossom of blood and tissue, center mass.

  The infected let out a sigh, fell limply to his knees, and pitched over onto the pavement. Blood began to pool around the corpse. A moment after that, the crack of an echoing gunshot reached Brewster’s ears.

  “Nice shooting,” Brewster said into the radio, breathing a shuddering sigh of relief.

  “Gracias,” Krueger replied. “That’s a new record for me, by the way. Range finder said just over half a mile.”

  “Congratu-fuckin-lations,” Brewster laughed. “We’ll see if we can double that within the next couple of months.”

  “If it’s you that Sherman keeps sending out on these scrounging treks, I have no doubt of that,” said Krueger. “You’re always screwing up.”

  “Oh, fuck you,” replied Brewster.

  “Hey, now,” said Krueger. “I’m looking at you through the scope of a high-powered rifle. People in that situation don’t usually tell me ‘fuck you.’”

  Brewster held up a hand with an extended middle finger by way of reply. A wry chuckle escaped from the radio.

  Krueger had taken over a tower in an industrial park next door to the research facility the group had occupied several weeks earlier, and lived there almost exclusively these days. None of the infected could seem to master climbing, so Krueger was well protected at the top of his bare-steel castle, to say nothing of the commanding view of the landscape it gave the sniper. In the last month, Krueger had gone through nearly a thousand hard-won rounds of supersonic ammo. As far as his accuracy went, Krueger only ever made one boast: that he didn’t keep track of his hits, only his misses. (“It’s much simpler that way.”)

  “All right, head on back. I’ll keep an eye on you. My shot might’ve dredged up a couple infected closer to the Fac. Better stay on guard as you pass the tower.”

  Trev and Brewster picked themselves up and dusted off, carefully avoiding the spreading pool of blood from the dead sprinter. It was “hot” blood, teeming with the Morningstar strain. One false move and they could find themselves infected as well.

  Almost as an afterthought, as he walked by, Trev swung down with his snap-out baton and smashed in the side of the dead man’s head, making sure the figure would stay down forever.

  Finding supplies for their group of survivors was getting harder.

  At first it was easy enough—scavenging teams would only have to venture a block or two away to find a half-empty store to loot. After several weeks, though, the nearby larders had run dry, and they were forced to move farther into the infected city.

  Trev found the excursions exhilarating, while Brewster despised them. To Brewster, each foraging expedition was another chance he’d get infected and die, and he had no wish to try either of those things before he reached the age of fifty. Trev, on the other hand, saw it as his civic duty to remove each and every one of the infected he came across. That, Sherman said, was why the pair made a good team. Brewster provided a sense of caution, and Trevor the enthusiasm.

  Trev and Brewster began the trek back to their makeshift base, walking a bit apart, overlapping the areas they scanned while they traveled. Brewster’s forehead was furrowed in thought. All the time he’d spent with Trev over the last couple of weeks had him a bit out of sorts. He shook his head . . . that Trev chose an ASP baton, or sometimes two, as his weapon of choice was beyond the soldier.

  What kind of man chooses a slender rod of flexible metal over solid firepower?

  Still . . . Brewster had to admit that he admired the way Trev became an engine of destruction when facing down the infected. He sincerely doubted that he would ever be able to become like that. In any case, he’d be glad to be off the streets and back at the facility.

  It was a rather Spartan complex of single-story office buildings flanked by an industrial processing plant. The whole compound was on the far western edge of Omaha, so they were out of auditory range of downtown. A good thing, too, considering that there must have been thousands—hundreds of thousands—of infected lurking in there. To add to their luck, the area was encircled by a chain-link fence, creating a safe zone wherein the survivors could move about freely without having to worry about ambush.

  Mbutu Ngasy, well-known among the survivors for his laconic but uncannily intuitive nature, had dubbed the facility “Sherman’s Freehold.”

  “I should probably ditch the Cipro,” Trevor remarked, looking over his shoulder at his pack.

  Brewster stumbled over a crack in the pavement, cursed, then glanced at his companion. “Why?”

  “It’s marked expired. April of oh-six.”

  Brewster shrugged. “Bring it anyway. You never know what the medicos could use. Maybe it’ll be all right.” He shot a sideways glance at Trev. “Look, I’ve been meaning to ask you some things.”

  The other man blinked. “Fire away.”

  “I hear people talking. I don’t mean any offense, or anything, but is it true what they say? That you think the infected are demons?” Brewster asked, casting another sidelong glance at Trevor.

  “No offense taken. And yes, that’s true. They are demons,” Trev said, laughing, “but it’s all semantics, anyway, isn’t it? Call them infected, call them demons, call them little green plastic army men for all I care. They’re out to get us, and we’re out to get them, and that’s what really matters.”

  “Okay,” said Brewster. “But don’t you think you’d be better off sticking with a firear
m like the rest of us? I mean, if you get any of that blood on you, Rebecca and Anna will have you in a restraining jacket down in BL4 before the night’s out.”

  Trev nodded slowly. “That makes sense. I . . . I really can’t explain it properly. All I know is, when I came across my first infected, this baton was, ah, presented to me. It was a gift—like I was supposed to use it. I sort of saw it as a sign. It’s worked out well for me so far. Besides, I carry a backup pistol.” Trev tapped a revolver holstered on his belt.

  “So, you see this as a sort of mission from God, to—”

  “Whoa, whoa,” Trevor interrupted. “I never said anything about God.”

  Brewster raised his eyebrows and reconsidered. “Sorry, man. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  Trevor sighed and kicked a loose piece of pavement out of his way. Sherman’s Freehold was growing closer. They could see Jack the Welder on the rooftop, waving at them.

  “Truth be told, I’m agnostic. I’ve never been sure of God or the Devil or any of that stuff. But this? This pandemic, this plague? Demons, man.”

  Brewster grinned. “That’s kind of ironic.”

  Trevor chuckled. “Tell me about it. But now I have a purpose—I suppose I’m still technically the crazy bastard I was last year, but look around. Everything’s dead. Or dying. Almost everybody. Those of us who are left have seen death, seen pain, and seen loss—we’ve seen those bloody-eyed bastards up close. Ask yourself this question, Ewan: Who’s crazy anymore, huh? No one? Or everyone? Me? You?”

  Brewster was silent as he considered Trevor’s words.