Survivors

by Z. A. Recht

  “Sherman!” Brewster bellowed as he came into the Fac. “Or Thomas! Fuck . . . Denton!”

  He ran farther into the Fac, yelling for Sherman and Thomas. Passing the break room, he almost collided with Denton.

  “What’s up, man? Infected?”

  Brewster grabbed Denton’s shoulders. “No. Living!”

  “What?”

  Breathlessly, Brewster related to Denton the radio contact that came with the flares.

  “. . . so I came in here to find Sherman. If there are more survivors out there, answering the call, they might have wounded. Or, you know, the sun’s going down. They’ll probably end up with carriers on their asses.”

  Denton nodded. “Well, bad news. Sherman and Thomas are both down in BL4 with the Doc, looking into her breakthrough. Who knows how long they’ll be down, and Anna and Becky are the only two who really know all the ins and outs of getting in there.”

  Brewster eyed him. “So, it’s up to you, then.”

  “What?” Denton exploded. “What the hell are you—”

  “Come on, Denton. Sherman put you in charge of the next big scavenging run tomorrow. As far as I’m concerned, that makes you third in command. So make the call.”

  “Make what call?” Jack the Welder asked.

  “Survivors,” Brewster said. “Hal raised some on the radio, and—”

  “Survivors?” Jack nearly yelled, bringing Juni and Mitsui running. Allen came not long after, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

  “All right, all right,” Denton said, holding his head. He blew out a big breath. “Fuck it. Suit up, everyone. Except Juni.”

  “Oh, chinga tu madre,” she yelled, and flounced off to her customary spot on the couch in the entry foyer.

  When the rest of Anna’s guests had attached themselves to nozzles of their own, she directed them to a small, clear plastic cage on one of the countertops. Within scurried about a banged-up rat, lapping at its water dispenser and pushing wood shavings into a corner, busily building a den.

  “This is it?” asked Sherman, leaning forward to stare at the rat through the thick plastic of his suit’s faceplate. “A rat?”

  “Frank,” said Anna, “I infected this rat with the Morningstar strain yesterday. With that much time elapsed, the thing should have gone wild by now. But look at it. It’s fine. Not a single symptom. It’s not even running a fever.”

  Frank peered in closer. “How’s this different than the other one?”

  “That rat was infected a day ago, by bites,” insisted Anna. “And it’s not showing any signs of the virus. Not one sign. Its blood samples are clear, like the other one. I had to make sure I tried both methods of transmission. The only problem that remains, as far as I can tell . . .”

  Stiles grunted. “Healing the bites. Right?” He whistled appreciatively.

  “You did it, Anna,” whispered Rebecca. “You did it!”

  “I had a little help,” Anna said, casting glances at Rebecca and Stiles. “But yes—this is the good news I had to share with you all. Stiles’s blood kept our furry little friend here alive. We’re close. We’re very close. We just have to tweak it a little bit, and make sure it’ll work on humans as well as my rats.”

  “How long?” asked Sherman.

  Anna shrugged, the shoulders of her suit ballooning up with the motion. “With some more of Stiles’s blood, and Rebecca’s help, I could have us a working test sample in a couple of days, if everything goes right.”

  Thomas grunted. “That’s a big if.”

  Anna grinned at the sergeant major. “We’ve been lucky recently, Thomas. Just pray it holds a while longer.

  “Do you need anything that’s not already on Denton’s list for tomorrow?”

  Anna twisted her lips behind her faceplate. “Probably plenty. The normal way to grow a vaccine is to mix a virus with another virus and let them grow together in a hybrid, which takes weeks. However”—she shot another smile at Stiles—“we don’t need to do that. The next thing is to measure the spread of the virus with reagents, which I’ve already started. The WHO expects this part to take three months if they’re going to give it their blessing.”

  “The WHO is dead,” Thomas said, his gruff voice only slightly muffled by the face shield. “Can we skip that step?”

  Anna looked at her apparatus. “I think so. Morningstar grows so fast, and Stiles’s blood works on it so well. That’s the big bottleneck, you know, when it comes to mass production of vaccines. But like you said, the WHO is dead.

  “If we had hens and eggs, we could have a big fucking batch of antigen in two weeks,” she continued. “But we don’t. The alternative . . . well, the alternative will only work with whoever’s got the same blood type as Stiles, I think. He’s our multiple-use and walking, talking incubator.”

  “You’re going to put my blood into someone else?” Stiles asked, looking a little pale.

  “Well, it’s you or our other guest, the only other person in the Fac that has Morningstar in his veins. And I don’t think anyone’s going to want a vaccine from that batch. You guys remember Dr. Mayer?”

  “All right, people, listen up,” Denton said. “Trev, Mbutu, and Allen come with me. Brewster, you’ve got Mitsui and Jack.”

  “What about Stone and Hal?” Allen asked.

  “They’ve grafted themselves to that dispatch station. And besides, if Hal gets something clear, he can give us a location. As for us, we should split up, go in parallel lines down the streets to about where the flares came from. Between us, we should find whoever it was and guide them back to the Fac. Any questions? Then, uh, check your radios and good hunting!”

  Brewster, Mitsui, and Jack headed perpendicular to the course Denton’s group had taken. Brewster couldn’t wait for the excursion to bear fruit. For one thing, the threat of death hung over his head every time he left the Fac behind. So, he reasoned, if there were more people at the Fac, the deeper the talent pool for scavenging runs. For another, and he realized that this was more important, he kept imagining trucks bulging with survivors, they way they’d shagged ass out of Hyattsburg—enough to make the difference between the small camp they had now and a real, live settlement.

  He didn’t normally think this way, but the weeks and weeks of unchanging company were starting to really chafe him. And he felt himself growing slightly away from his fellow ex-soldiers, which is why he’d started to feel more and more connected to Trev. And Allen, too. The arrival of just a few new people (even if one of them was badly wounded) had been enough to raise his spirits. Not to mention Stiles and his surprising resistance to Morningstar. Brewster had begun to feel the stirrings of hope, something he’d given up on some time ago.

  The small group was headed for a line of squat brick structures. Brewster guessed they were apartments, and the thought eased the stress building in his mind. Apartments were easy to clear. Infected could only come from a few directions, and being surrounded was, at best, a remote possibility.

  “All right,” said Brewster, shotgun at the ready. “Let’s take this first place. Stay alert! Sons of bitches could be anywhere.”

  Two blocks away, Delaney lowered his binoculars, reached for his radio, and remembered that Sawyer was now sitting only a few feet away, leaning up against a stack of unused wooden crates. “That’s it, sir,” said Delaney. “Their search parties have gone into the surrounding streets. They’re out of sight.”

  Sawyer stood, stretching his back with a sigh.

  “That’s our cue, soldier. Order the go.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Delaney reached up a hand to switch on his transmitter. “Entry teams, go.”

  In the street below, alleyways came alive. Men in urban camouflage appeared from behind Dumpsters and trash cans, hidden from view until their sudden movement revealed them. They held rifles at the ready, advancing slowly on the main entrance to the Fac. They took their time, scanning the rooftops for guards.

  Across the Fac’s courtyard, Krueger sat, staring
out into the distance, watching for shamblers. The intruders, behind him, escaped his notice.

  The men stacked up on either side of the Fac’s main entryway, rifles tucked tightly against their shoulders, barrels aimed at the doorway.

  A voice crackled over the radio. It was Sawyer. “Remember. Hit it with morse. Two Victors. Repeat, two Victors. Out.”

  The lead man leaned forward, extending a fist to the doorway.

  He pounded out the quick code. Dot-dot-dot-dash. Dot-dot-dot-dash.

  A feminine voice echoed from within. “It’s about time you got that right!”

  Heavy knocks sounded as the bars were removed from the door frame. It cracked open. Revealed was Junko Koji, an amused grin on her face.

  “I was starting to think you’d never remember—”

  Her grin faded as she took stock of the men confronting her.

  Juni turned, a scream of warning on her lips.

  A pair of gunshots rang out.

  Blood blossomed on Juni’s chest. Her scream caught in her throat, and she stumbled forward, a look of shock on her face. Junko Koji collapsed on the floor, unmoving. Her eyes, still wide open, slowly unfocused, and she settled into stillness. Blood pooled from beneath her chest, slowly spreading across the carpeted floor.

  “Tango down,” reported the lead soldier. “Moving in.”

  The masked man shot hand signals at his comrades, directing them to either flank of the room, his eyes on the swinging double doors that led deeper into the complex.

  “Keep a move on,” warned the shooter. He stepped over the body of Junko Koji as he spoke. “We want to be in and out before the rest of them get back. Priority one is Dr. Anna Demilio, so watch your targets. Don’t shoot her.”

  “Roger, lead,” came the chorus of replies.

  Below, Agent Gregory Mason heard the shots.

  Despite the pain in his chest, he picked himself up and reached for the drawer in the nightstand next to his hospital bed, withdrawing a Beretta pistol. He checked the chamber and magazine. Satisfied, he tucked it into the waistband of his pants. He considered getting up and checking out the noise, but the pain in his chest, less bearable today than on others, convinced him to stay put. If there was trouble, it would find its way downstairs.

  After all, Mason reasoned, that was where Anna would be found. He looked over at the very still form of Commander Harris and wished the man was awake and similarly armed.

  Outside the Fac, Hal Dorne and Stone also heard the pair of shots ring out. Hal stopped his broadcast from the radio tower and cast a worried glance over his shoulder, wondering where the rounds had come from.

  “Probably one of the search parties,” he reasoned. “Found a stray carrier too close to the Fac, yeah?” His gut, perhaps remembering the lesson of the tamping bars, disagreed. Something felt wrong.

  He continued his efforts on the radio.

  Inside the Fac, the intruders moved quickly, securing room after room, moving efficiently down the halls, checking their corners and watching one another’s backs. Behind them, the entryway doors swung open, and in strode Sawyer, pistol strapped to his waist. He didn’t bother drawing it. He had confidence in his men. He surveyed the scene, cast a quick glimpse at Juni’s unmoving form on the floor, and stepped over her, following in the direction of his men.

  He caught up with them in the main hall beyond the reception room.

  “Any contacts?” he asked.

  “No one since the door guard,” answered the lead infiltrator.

  “‘Guard,’ right,” Sawyer snorted. “They’ll be downstairs, in the labs. Let’s go.”

  The search parties, distant though they were, had also heard the shots.

  “What was that?” asked Jack, staring back in the direction of the Fac.

  “Sounded like gunshots,” said Brewster. “Maybe Stone shot a shambler?”

  “I don’t know,” said Jack. “Got a bad feeling.”

  “Yeah,” admitted Brewster. “Me, too. You know what, scrap the run. If there are people out there, and if they send up another flare, we’ll head back out. But first, let’s get back to the Fac and see what’s brewing.”

  The trio abandoned the building and started off at a dogtrot toward the Fac.

  Three blocks over and one down, Denton’s group had also noticed the shots. He turned to Mbutu Ngasy. “What do you think?”

  The big Kenyan nodded at the radio on Denton’s belt. “I think perhaps you should use your radio and ask.”

  “What? Oh, yeah.” He pulled the radio from his belt. “Maybe—”

  He was interrupted by Brewster’s voice over the radio. “Krueger! Krueger! You there, over?”

  They made it less than half a block before a round ricocheted off the pavement at Brewster’s feet.

  “Sniper!” cried Brewster. He dove for the nearest cover, the rusted-out hulk of a car parked along a curb. Mitsui and Jack followed suit, with Jack coming to rest behind a concrete stoop with Mitsui right behind him.

  “Where the hell is that coming from?” yelled Brewster as a second round pinged off the hood of his cover. He grabbed for his radio. “Krueger! Krueger! You there, over?”

  It took a moment for the sharpshooter to reply.

  “I’m here. What the hell is going on? I think I’m hearing shots!”

  “You are hearing shots, you dumb shit! We’re pinned down in front of the Fac! Someone’s got us locked down, tight! Can you spot him, over?”

  “Where are you taking fire from, over?” came Krueger’s reply.

  “Straight ahead of us! From a building, on the corner!” Brewster ducked as a third round punched through the roof of the car he’d ducked behind. “And hurry, will you?”

  A long moment of silence passed. Another round pinged off the pavement inches from Brewster’s feet. He tucked his legs in closer. “Come on, Krueger, come on! We’re sitting ducks out here.”

  “I see him,” Krueger’s voice crackled over the radio. “He’s in a third-story attic, just across the Fac. One second, over.”

  Another round slammed into Brewster’s cover, making him wince.

  “Well, don’t take all day!” Brewster shouted back.

  A moment later, a rifle crack echoed across the blocks, and then all fell silent.

  “Nailed him,” came Krueger’s reply. A moment later, his voice came through the radio again. “But don’t look now. Seems like the shots have drawn some company, over.”

  Brewster glanced around. Sure enough, a trickle of shamblers had begun to work their way into the streets, half of them making a beeline for the Fac.

  “Ah, shit,” he said.

  The other half were headed his way.

  Mason shook his head clear. Even that movement pained him and he cursed inwardly. He eyed the double doors to his room and that made him curse even more. If he was right about the identity of whoever had fired the shots, he knew that the next step after sweeping the ground floor was to split the teams and clear the upper floors, then the lower floors. And the uninvited guests knew the layout of the Fac, of course . . . so they’d be quick about it. There was probably a team on the way down to BL4 already, and they’d clear the lower floors along the way.

  Which meant his room.

  Gritting his teeth and holding his chest, Mason eased himself off his bed. He moved slowly, easing his foot lower and lower until it touched linoleum. His toe slipped as he put his weight down and he bit back a scream. Sweat sprang from his forehead and his shirt started to dampen. Slowly he turned his body, inch by inch, until he could put more of his foot on the floor.

  Once it was flat, he took a deep breath and used that support to ease his other foot down. That went more quickly, but the effort had already taken a toll on the ex-agent. With a grunt of exerted will, he forced himself upright, balancing himself with his fingers on the corner of the bed.

  With a herculean push, he commenced a shuffle-footed stagger to the double doors. He felt more than heard the doorway at the stairwe
ll open, the subtle change in air pressure telling him everything he needed to know. He took two more shambling steps toward the door, the irony of his gait not lost on him.

  A sudden light-headedness overtook him, and the room swam for a moment in his gaze. Grinding his teeth together, he forced himself forward another stutter step, determined to reach the door before, before. . .

  Sawyer.

  It had to be Agent Sawyer. Had to be. They knew about the facility, they knew about Doc Demilio’s plans to get there, and they knew that they’d made it, since Derrick never returned with her. Sawyer would never let it go, and to make sure it went right, he’d come himself.

  Another shuffle and Mason made it to the doors. With a sneer, he set the dead bolt, knowing the little thing wouldn’t stop an inspired intruder. A quick glance around the room showed him that the only thing that he might use to bar the door was the Commander’s IV drip stand.

  Back on the other side of the room.

  He let his head hang and almost laughed. “You’re slipping, old man,” he whispered.

  The latch on the door wiggled for a moment. If Mason wasn’t standing right there by the door, he might have missed it. The movement didn’t repeat itself, and he took it to mean that they continued down the hallway to check the rest of the rooms before returning to this one. That gave him less than two minutes to find a better way to lock this door, he thought.

  Sweating profusely at the strain, he turned and resolved to make it to the IV stand and back in that time.

  The door shuddered under a blow and then flew open, striking him in the back and sending the wounded man to the floor.