Survivors

by Z. A. Recht

  A virologist was no substitute for a trauma surgeon, Thomas thought. Anna had given Mason strict orders to take things slowly. She was unwilling to put her patchwork repairs through any stress tests.

  Mason and the Kenyan were talking security, with Mbutu describing how the Mombasa airport had run things, and Mason pointing out where they could have made improvements.

  Krueger and Denton wandered in a few minutes after Brewster, helped themselves to the last of the coffee, and leaned back in their chairs, looking drowsy. Thomas couldn’t blame them. They had been up all night, and they would have to stay up a while longer, at least until the foraging party returned. It was safest to have every rifle on the battlements in case things went south. In a city the size of Omaha, trouble was always just around the corner. All it would take to spark an engagement would be a single mistake—opening a strange door too hastily, or even speaking out at the wrong time in the wrong place could bring dozens of infected down on the survivors.

  Brewster sat with Junko to his right and Trevor Westscott to his left. The pair were engrossed in an animated discussion about the etymology of names. Juni was a prodigy with languages. She spoke several fluently, and enjoyed learning new words and new phrases. She actively collected colloquialisms in each of the languages she spoke, worked hard to master accents, and made a hobby out of understanding names. It had taken Brewster three weeks to figure out she wasn’t American. No one would let him forget it, either. She had been using a student visa when Morningstar struck, stranding her in the United States.

  “What about Mason?” asked Brewster, pointing over at the NSA agent. “Where’s his name come from?”

  “Jeez Louise, Brewster,” sighed Juni, using one of the colloquialisms of which she was so fond. “That’s the least interesting one in the room. Mason comes from mason—you know, a stonemason. An ancestor of his was one, probably. Just like Smith, or Baker. Those are common names for you guys, right? No big mystery.”

  “So what was their last name before they were a smith or a baker?”

  “Well, a lot of the time Europeans just used their first name plus where you were from, if it wasn’t your profession—but only if you were somewhere else,” Juni said.

  Trev and Brewster glanced at one another in confusion.

  “You’re following me, right?” Juni asked. Both men shook their heads. Juni looked exasperated. “Okay. Take Leonardo da Vinci. What’s his last name?”

  Trev and Brewster answered as one: “da Vinci.”

  “No! He had no last name. He was a bastard,” Juni exclaimed, looking positively scandalized. “How can you two not know this stuff?”

  “Well, uh, I volunteered for the infantry. I don’t know what Trev’s excuse is,” Brewster said with a grin.

  “Go on,” prompted Trev, ignoring the soldier.

  “He was a bastard, so he couldn’t take his father’s name. So he was called ‘da Vinci,’ which means, ‘from Vinci.’ So his name is actually ‘Leonardo, from Vinci,’” Juni finished. She sat back in her chair and crossed her arms, an impish grin on her face.

  “I wonder what mine means,” mused Brewster.

  “I don’t even know why I try,” said Juni, throwing her arms up in the air. “I just explained it.”

  “Someone in your family was a brewer, Ewan,” said Trev.

  “Oh,” Brewster murmured. After a moment, he grinned. “Well, that figures, doesn’t it?”

  The staccato click of boot heels coming together made everyone look up. Thomas, still standing near the window, had snapped crisply to attention, eyes front.

  “Thomas,” said Francis Sherman, “for the last time, please stop doing that. We’re not in the Army anymore. You can drop the formalities.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Thomas. He fell into parade rest.

  “That includes calling me ‘sir,’” Sherman added.

  Thomas glanced at the ex-general. “Respectfully, sir, ‘sir’ is not an honorific exclusive to the armed forces. If I am a civilian, then I may choose to address you in any way I please. I may also choose to stand up straight when you walk into a room.”

  Sherman sighed and rubbed at his temples.

  “He’s got you there, Frank,” said Denton, grinning.

  “I was hoping for an easy day,” said Sherman. “Looks like I’m not going to get it. Well, at least it’s bright and sunny out. Weather doesn’t get much prettier.”

  “So we’re a go on the scavenging run?” asked Thomas.

  “We are,” confirmed Sherman. The group in the room checked the weapons strapped to their waists. Sherman wound his way between the tables to the map board, and snapped the top from a blue felt-tip marker. “I don’t want to head too deep into town if we can avoid it. I’ve been looking at one of our street maps, and if we cut west here,” Sherman explained, illustrating the route by dotting a line down a oneway street, “then we can stay on the edge of town and come out here, directly across from a little strip mall and a set of town houses. We’ll try for the mall first.”

  “What sort of businesses were there?” asked Trev.

  “We haven’t actually been there yet, so we haven’t had eyes on it. I only know it’s there because of an ad in my map for a pizzeria.”

  “So we could get out there and find nothing useful at all,” guessed Brewster. “Aside from rotted fuckin’ pepperoni.”

  “Maybe, but we’d still have the homes to fall back on,” said Sherman. “And like I said, going this way keeps us on the edge of town.”

  “Always a bonus, sir,” said Krueger, yawning.

  Thomas noticed the soldier’s drowsy-eyed expression. “Don’t fall asleep on us,” he warned. “If anything goes bad, you’re our backup.”

  “I’m good for another twelve hours,” said Krueger, sitting up straighter. “Just give me my rifle and a rooftop.”

  “You’ve got both,” said Sherman, with a nod. “Denton, you were up all night, too, so you’re off the hook. And Juni, I want you to stay and—”

  “Oh, that’s bullshit,” she interrupted, crossing her arms.

  “Hear me out,” started Sherman, but Juni wasn’t having it.

  “I know, I know, you have a really good reason all thought out for me. But the truth is, you just haven’t gotten to see me fight those things yet and you don’t think I can handle myself,” said Juni, her face flushing. “You saw Trev fight, so you’re okay with him going along. Hell, he wades into those things with that baton like a farmer cuts into a wheat field with a scythe. And that’s irresponsible as hell!”

  Trev shot Juni a hurt look for a moment, then heaved a shrug. She was correct, after all.

  “You’re right,” said Sherman.

  Juni, about to launch into another point, stalled out at Sherman’s admission. “What?”

  “You’re right,” Sherman repeated. He spoke calmly and plainly. “I haven’t seen you fight. So why would I bring you along?”

  “I, well—” stuttered Juni. She collected herself. “You’d bring me along so I could prove myself.”

  “It may surprise you to know that I do not take your pride into account when I come up with these little outings of ours,” said Sherman. “I am not throwing an unknown into the equation just so you can feel approved of. At the same time, no one is disparaging your abilities, except in your imagination. The truth is, if I really thought you couldn’t handle yourself, I wouldn’t give you the keys to the building’s front door.” Sherman dangled a key ring from his index finger. Juni eyed it silently. “Now, as I was going to say before you made my day even more difficult, I want you to lock up behind us, keep an eye out, and open them for us when we return. I know I usually give these to Denton or Brewster, but as it happens, today one of them is half-asleep and the other is going out. So you’re our gatekeeper.”

  Thomas watched the mix of emotions on the girl’s face. It was clear to him Juni was only half-placated. Usually Sherman sent her to the roof. The previous run, she was door guard. This was her, k
eeping a promotion, even a minor one. She sullenly accepted the key ring. With a glance at Thomas, she muttered, “At least it’s a job I can do wearing my slippers.”

  Thomas remained silent.

  “Thank you,” said Sherman. “Brewster, you and Trev are on Anna’s detail. Head back to the clinic. Did she tell you what she needed?”

  Trevor spoke up before the soldier. “We’ve got it all here, Frank,” he said, tapping the side of his head. “Pickings are getting slim, though. A lot of the chemicals she wants are expired, like the last couple of runs. And a lot of the more useful medications were looted a long time ago. She’s starting to get unreasonable with us.”

  “I’ll have a chat with her when we get back. Remember, she’s running herself ragged down there in the labs. She just needs a break. She’s bound to get a little grouchy until she gets one, or makes some progress she can feel proud of,” Sherman said. “Everyone else, grab what you need: weapons, ammo, first aid, and empties for the haul. We’re leaving in a few. And Brewster?”

  Ewan stood up straight at his name. “Yo.”

  “No more dog food, okay?”

  Outskirts of Omaha

  30 June 2007

  0121 hrs_

  A STAND OF TREES, growing around a natural bowl-shaped decline, flanked an abandoned highway. They grew thick and untended. Young growth bushes filled in the spaces between the trunks, creating a thick, thorny boma. From without, it appeared as nothing more than another grove of trees: dark, quiet, and barely rustling in the nighttime air. Two large olive drab vehicles sat on the side of the road, angled crazily, as if they’d crashed there, in the middle of nowhere.

  Harris surveyed the activity in the camp. Half a dozen men filled the space, one silent and still, one sacked out in a sleeping bag and snoring, while two others paced restlessly, eager to reach their destination, now barely ten miles away. Two more were stationed in the darkness around the grove’s perimeter, standing watch. The camp was as safe as any the group had used on their thousand-mile journey, but it was still in the open. The guards’ weapons were locked and loaded.

  Three of the men had come together at the center of the camp, focused on the prospect of a hot dinner.

  A small campfire burned merrily, carefully surrounded by a mound of stones to stifle the light cast by the flames, and a carbon-blackened folding grill had been laid over the top of the coals. The smell of roasting meat permeated the clearing, and the venison steaks sizzled on the grill, hissing and popping as juices boiled out of the cuts and into the flames, which licked the underside of the meat.

  “Careful, careful!” admonished Rico. “You’ll burn them!”

  “Ah, relax, Rico,” said Wendell, stabbing the steaks with his Ka-Bar and flipping them. The sizzle grew in intensity as the venison’s juices ran free. “I grew up cooking this stuff when Dad took me hunting. You want ’em well done.”

  Rico looked miffed. “Medium-rare for me, Wendell.”

  Wendell flipped the Ka-Bar in his hand and offered it to Rico, hilt first. “Hey, you want the job, it’s all yours.”

  “No, no—hell no!” said Hillyard. “Last time Rico cooked it was like eating rocks.”

  Rico mumbled under his breath.

  “Sorry, didn’t catch that, bro,” Hillyard said, grinning.

  “I said, ‘choke on a cock, Hillyard,’” Rico repeated, flicking the man off for good measure.

  “Hey!” Harris said. The three sailors gathered around the fire looked up into his angular face.

  “Commander,” Wendell said, nodding.

  “Evening, Harris. We’re cooking up some chow. Hillyard bagged a buck when he did his walkaround.”

  “Didn’t hear a shot,” started Harris.

  Hillyard held up a pistol-grip crossbow. “Found it in the truck. Wounded him and tracked him down. Followed the blood trail. Got just enough meat off of him for a few of these steaks. You want one, Commander?”

  Harris tried to look stern. “That’s not why I’m here. You three are being too loud. We can’t see what’s coming, now that it’s night, and the carriers’ll be more active. You’ll have to put that fire out and keep your voices down.”

  “Aw, sir—” started Allen from behind him. “I been looking forward to a steak coming off sentry duty.”

  “Don’t ‘aw, sir’ me,” Harris said. “You screw up, it costs all of us. The fire’s gotta go.”

  Allen sighed and went to return to his post.

  “Sir, two more minutes and these babies will be done. First hot meal we’ll have gotten in days. What do you say, sir? Come on—a little risk in return for a world of morale?” asked Wendell, gesturing at the grill.

  “And full stomachs,” added Rico.

  Harris grumbled under his breath, and finally relented. “All right. But hurry it up. And douse that goddamn fire the second you’re done!” He turned to have a talk with another pair of his charges, but was stopped by a query Hillyard shot at him: “Sir? What about that steak?”

  Commander Harris barely turned. “I’m not proud. Save me one.”

  Rico and Hillyard grinned at one another. The Commander wasn’t a hard-ass. He just tried to act like one.

  He walked off with a ghost of a smile on his face, marching across the clearing, taking stock of their situation. His guards were positioned at either side of the clearing, covering each other with 90-degree fields of fire. They seemed frosty and attentive, having eaten first and been given a chance to nap while the rest of their compatriots set up the makeshift camp. One of them was Allen, the other Stone.

  At first, the others had resisted having Stone stand over them while they slept, but as the trip wore on and hours of sleep got short, they relented. And after all, wasn’t he the one that had facilitated their escape?

  Harris would have pushed on to Omaha, seeing as it was only a dozen miles away, but he’d deemed it too risky. The sailors, despite the prospect of their long journey’s end, secretly agreed. It was just too dangerous to travel at night. The infected were photosensitive. They’d learned that much through experience on the road. It was suicide to stay in the open at night, and Harris knew it. The stand of trees and natural basin provided as safe a camp as any. He would have preferred a nice, thick brick building with steel doors, but beggars couldn’t be choosers.

  Harris spotted the men he wanted to talk to by themselves, sitting at a small sleeping area near the edge of the camp, abutting a rock face that jutted from the ground. One was getting out of his bedroll, shaking it free of sticks and pebbles. The other sat cross-legged on the out-cropping, oiling the action of his Winchester repeating rifle.

  Hal spotted Harris approaching and stood, groaning and holding his lower back. “Hey, there, Harris. What’s the word?”

  Harris shrugged. “Looks like we’re all getting settled in, Hal. With a little luck, we’ll make it to Omaha tomorrow and catch some word on the radio from Sherman or Demilio or one of the others who went in ahead of us.”

  Hal Dorne nodded. He wore a sun-bleached baseball cap on his head and an oil-stained long-sleeved T-shirt, complete with cargo pants restuffed with hand tools they’d found in a half-burned True Value. “Luck is right. I wish we still had that long-range radio we took from the Ramage. Wouldn’t be a problem raising Sherman with that.”

  “Yeah, well, it’s in pieces back in the Rockies somewhere,” said the man with the rifle. “Even you couldn’t fix it.”

  “Don’t rub it in, Stiles,” said Hal.

  “As it is,” said Harris, ignoring them, “all we have are short-range civvie models. Maybe a mile or two range on those, tops. We’ll have to keep scanning channels and broadcasting as we get deeper in the city, and hope we pass close enough to this hidden lab of Demilio’s for them to pick us up and guide us in.”

  “If not?” asked Hal.

  “We’ll bunker up in a building and keep trying,” stated Harris, folding his arms across his chest.

  Mark Stiles grinned, dry-fired his rifle, and no
dded at the smooth action. “Don’t know about the rest of you, but I’m ready to go in and get this trip over with.”

  “Aren’t we all,” added Hal.

  “Just don’t go and get gung-ho on us, Stiles,” said Harris. “Remember, we need to get you there alive.”

  Stiles nodded, a grimace on his face. “I kind of hate being the only nonexpendable one.”

  “Why?” asked Hal. “I’d think you’d enjoy having us look after your skin.”

  Stiles shrugged. “I guess I just don’t like the idea of other people dying so I can live. I mean, that’s why I joined the Army in the first place: so someone else wouldn’t have to go do it instead.”

  From across the clearing, Wendell’s voice rang out: “Steaks are ready!”

  Harris spun on his heel, fixing the man with a narrow-eyed glare. “I said to keep your goddamn voice down!”

  “But . . . it’s steak.”

  “Well,” Harris said, jerking a thumb in the direction of the small campfire, “want to get something to eat? Fresh venison steaks.”

  Stiles licked his lips. “I haven’t had a steak—even venison—since, well, hell, I can’t even remember the last time—”

  A shout interrupted Stiles mid-sentence. It came from one of the guard posts on the perimeter. The voice was controlled and cool.

  “Contact! Contact! Contact!” reported Stone. Harris turned to see him bring his rifle to bear. “One sprinter, inbound, two o’clock!”

  “Shit,” cursed Harris. The group could easily deal with a single infected, but the sharp reports of rifle fire could very well bring more running. Still, there was no choice. Either they took the carrier down, or lost a life of their own. “Take him down! Single shot! Make it count!”

  A moment later the quiet glen was shattered by the sound of an M-16 round discharging. The crunch of branches and rustle of leaves sounded, and Harris could imagine the sprinter pitching face-forward in the loam.