Keller loved her no-nonsense attitude, and he found himself thinking about what kind of life she had before. Mills’ cheeks reddened, but he didn’t say anything.
Ben said, “Maybe we can help each other. It’s a different world now.”
“It sure is, Ben, never mind me,” Mills answered, stepping forward. “I’m Adam Mills. Call me Adam.”
The others introduced themselves as Ben handed the car keys to Trish.
“Pleased to meet you all,” Ben replied.
The station wagon’s doors were unlocked. Ben slid into the front passenger seat, while Amy sat in the back between Keller and Mills. It was a little cramped in the backseat with everyone’s equipment, but none of them were willing to part with anything for comfort’s sake, even though the cargo space in the rear only had a few boxes in it.
“Hope it isn’t too tight a fit back there,” Ben said.
Amy smiled at him. “We’re fine. Thanks for the ride.”
Keller ignored the rest of the conversation, and looked to see what the others were doing. There were three other cars in addition to Ben’s Volvo, a black Nissan Altima, a bright orange Chevy Nova, and a faded red Ford Ranger.
Keller watched Doreen climb into the driver’s seat of the Altima with a long-haired blonde girl wearing skin tight jeans, a black t-shirt, and black low-heeled boots. The blonde had a holstered pistol on each hip. She paused only long enough to sling a backpack and two plastic grocery bags into the car’s backseat.
The black kid, Lester, was driving the Ranger. A heavy-set, possibly Hispanic, girl was in the passenger seat, and two boys that might be her brothers were in the truck’s bed, along with a stack of boxes.
Two more boys, one black and one white, were riding in the Nova. Both were muscular and fit, and the driver might be twenty-one or so. The two boys wore jeans and muscle shirts that read Woodlawn Hitting Club.
It was quite a menagerie of people, but then any group could be, Keller thought.
Trish started the engine, and they were on their way.
Amy’s hand found Keller’s, and she leaned her head on his shoulder. “I’m glad Trish is driving,” she said.
Keller wasn’t sure he agreed, but he smiled and squeezed her hand.
84. Jacobs
He was under the Chevy Malibu, and feeling delirious. He still couldn’t open his right eye, and the bites were itching like hell. He kept drifting in and out, reliving memories of the last month, sitting in the briefing. The officer in front of them, in the appropriated classroom, had been a tall, slender, hawk-faced colonel. He couldn’t remember the man’s name.
“This has to be contained! Have no doubts, gentlemen,” he said, and Jacobs had been amused by that one. “Have no doubt that if we fail, the human race fails. All we have is an immunization shot that hasn’t been thoroughly tested, and that we have no hope of getting to everyone in time.”
He paused, and looked around the room.
Jacobs was sitting with the other senior NCOs in his unit and three other units. This officer had their complete attention. Minutes before, they’d seen the videos about what had happened to South America.
“You will have to be ruthless! There’s no room for pity or mercy. This virus will kill us all. Does everyone here understand me?”
“Yes, sir!”
Jacobs thought that most of them answered.
“Directly after this meeting, you all will take the immunization shot, and a few others for good measure. Then you will see to it that each of your squads gets it. Make no mistake this thing is a game ender. We pledged to protect the Constitution from all enemies, foreign and domestic. Here’s another one for you…”
Jacobs woke, covered in sweat, and moaning. He was still lying on his back underneath a car and in pain, not so much from the eye, but from the bullet wound in his right leg, and from the cuts and abrasions all over his body. However, he wasn’t incapacitated. Quite the reverse. The dream-memory of the colonel’s diatribe went on from there, and much of it stuck with him, almost as if imprinted on his brain. The colonel’s voice haunted Jacobs whether he was dreaming or awake. Jacobs had tried to impart how important their task was to his own men, but some of them didn’t have the stomach for it. They’d had no problem shooting the undead, but shooting civilians had fucked with their heads. Their morale plummeted.
He wondered whether any of them were still alive.
He wondered why he was still alive and aware. How many times had he been bitten? One was too many. Apparently that immunization shot had worked for him. He wondered how bad his wounds were, and this thought drove him to climb out from under the car. Right now, if he was careful, he could turn his head to either side. Of course, looking straight up all he could see was the mud-caked undercarriage of the car above him. To his right was a curb with weeds growing in the cracks, and to the left several feet were visible. He counted four sets of feet. Not moving. Were they waiting for him to come out? Odds were they didn’t know he was there. He never would have woken up if they did.
His one-eyed vision was making him crazy. He needed some water or something to loosen up the dried, caked blood. The skin pulled every time he frowned, and he was frowning often at the moment.
There wasn’t room to scoot out from underneath the car on the other side. He had to come out on the side with the people.
It was funny how quiet they were. Like they were shut off and waiting to come back to life with that murderous intensity of theirs.
His pistol was still clenched in his hand; he should have at least ten shots left. More than enough for him to shoot four people, even with one useless eye. He didn’t want to move, but it was hot under the car and he knew he was dehydrated. He had no idea how long he’d been there before waking.
He put his left hand up, grasped a pipe under the car, and pulled. His body slid fractionally, and he could feel little pebbles beneath his head. He stopped and listened. Watched the feet. The closest was wearing badly scuffed boots. One of the boots moved. He pulled himself closer. Saw a line of ants swarming over something not far from the booted feet. Road kill of some kind.
One more pull should do it, he thought, and did so. His head and left arm were now visible to whoever owned the boots. He quickly switched the pistol from his right hand to the left, while looking up. The man-thing wearing the boots looked like road kill and probably was. It wore tattered, scorched coveralls and a motorcycle helmet. The exposed face was burned badly, and had only one eye, no nose or lips. It hadn’t heard him.
Jacobs forced himself to breathe and steady his shaking hand. He aimed, and squeezed. The shot struck the man in the throat. The thing swayed, then turned and looked at him. One eye to one eye, Jacobs thought, and fired again. The thing’s head jerked as the one eye exploded gore. Jacobs was scrabbling out from under the car even as the zombie fell. He got to one knee, the good one, and lined up the pistol’s sights on the next closest zombie.
His aim was better this time, and the pale, obese, middle-aged man wearing only jockey shorts dropped with one head shot, falling slowly to his knees, then to his face, in slow motion.
Two to go, he thought, as the Malibu’s sideview mirror exploded behind him, followed by the sound of a rifle shot. Jacobs rolled sideways to his right and crouched back between the Malibu and a car in front of it. The other two zombies were coming after him, oblivious to the sniper that was still trying to kill him. Now, he wished he could grab the carbine. Judging by the sound, he figured the sniper was somewhere behind him, maybe fifty yards away.
There was a lot of open ground around him and nowhere to hide except right where he was. He considered his options. He wasn’t moving when the sniper missed with the last shot, and that was a plus. He might not be able to hit him if he was sprinting. Of course, he wasn’t going to be doing any of that with a leg that could barely hold him up. If he could get inside one of the cars, he might be able to put it in neutral and then use it for rolling cover. Too many ifs on that one. Maybe he
could use one of the dead bodies as a mobile sandbag? Too much change involved once again.
He was going to have to wait for night.
With that decision made, he let the remaining two zombies get within about five feet of him, then he shot them both through the head and let himself relax. His next problem was retrieving his carbine, but with the zombies dead, he could reach it now. It was only a foot or so under the car, and he grabbed it without trouble.
The sun beat down on him, and his thoughts wandered from being thirsty to hungry and finally to wondering what items of interest the corpses around him might possess.
The sun was making him sleepy, although his thirst was raging. The idea of sleep was becoming all-powerful, and he closed his eyes.
Just for a moment.
He heard a bird whistling nearby. Gunfire rattled far away. He blinked. Something huge exploded, and smoke and flame rose toward the sky. He watched until his eyes began to close once again. Car engines raced.
Jacobs passed out.
85. Bronte/Kincaid
Kincaid’s right arm was going numb. He might not be bleeding from the bullet wound in his shoulder anymore, but it was stiffening up on him. Being one-armed, even if he had a knock-out punch, was going to seriously hurt his chances of living through this.
The tall black man was watching him closely, all through the big empty house. Kincaid contained himself, but he knew the house was empty when they walked in the front door. This man and his friends had killed his whole family.
The only thing he could come up with was revenge. He would bide his time and get that revenge. His greatest advantage was that there was nothing left to make him weak or make him worry. Nothing could touch him, now.
Kincaid turned back to face the other man.
“They’re not here,” he said.
“You sure?” Bronte asked.
Kincaid realized that the man probably regretted what happened, but was as powerless to change anything as he was. Dead was dead, even if they came back and tried to eat you after death.
“Maybe they’re hiding somewhere else on the island,” Bronte suggested.
Was this guy concerned for his feelings? That thought brought bitter laughter to Kincaid’s lips that he bit back. No, he and all his people on this island had to die. Blood cried out for blood.
“You and I both know that isn’t true,” Kincaid said. “There’s no doubt now. My son, my wife, and my daughter are gone.”
Bronte lifted the gun and pointed it at him. Kincaid could feel his emotions rocketing out of control. His mask was slipping, and hot tears poured down his face. They were all dead. Nothing had gone right, and even now, the bad guys were getting the antidote. And this guy wasn’t going to make a mistake. He hadn’t pulled the trigger yet, and maybe that was the only mistake he’d make.
“Just settle down,” Bronte said.
Kincaid shifted his feet. He could see the other man analyzing his stance. Two steps forward, and he could launch his haymaker. He thought his left was stronger than his right, but not better.
“You trying to commit suicide?” Bronte asked.
“Is there another option, really?” Kincaid countered.
The other man’s eyes were hard as flint. If there was compassion in there, Kincaid couldn’t see it.
Bronte said, “Your people were bad. I don’t think they fell too far from the tree.”
Kincaid took the first step, raising his fist. He felt a sharp, terrible pain rip through his chest, and he collapsed to his knees trying to take the second step. Tendrils of smoke curled from the barrel of Bronte’s gun while the sound of the shot still rang in his ears. He looked down the barrel, all the strength draining out of his body.
There was a flash, and all that remained of Gilbert Kincaid collapsed to the grass, not far from his own front door, and stayed there.
86. Natalie
Gabe left no doubt that he was still pissed that he’d missed shooting the soldier. He’d cussed a blue streak when the man scrambled back into cover.
“Troy, I need you to go down there and finish him off,” Gabe said. “I’ll cover you.” The soldier stayed in his hiding place. “And you need to hurry, before the sun goes down.”
“No way, man,” Troy said. “Why should I risk my ass for you? Why aren’t you waiting till Sid gets back?”
“You know him, Troy. He tells you to do something, you do it. He’s supposed to be meeting Gretchen and the others at Tanglewood Island, right about now. Not sure why he decided to fuck around with a bunch of kids instead.”
“He ever tell you what the meeting with Gretchen is about?” Troy asked.
Gabe frowned. “Something about immunity. I heard him on the phone before the power went out. What is that? Diplomatic immunity or something?”
Troy looked disgusted. “Diplomatic immunity? What the fuck? Maybe he meant a cure.”
“What do I know?” Gabe replied. “I’m busy trying to kill that soldier, and you’re talking bullshit with me. Now go down there, and shoot his ass.”
Natalie could tell Troy was going to cave in and do as Gabe said. He was nervous, and he didn’t want to do it. She didn’t blame him. She was used to witnessing the power games people played. Some were bluffing and some weren’t, and only a few people were crazy or brave enough to call bluffs. Apparently Troy wasn’t one.
She knew he wasn’t going to be her one either. He wasn’t the man she needed.
“Give me a gun,” she said, holding her hand out to Gabe. “ I’ll do it.”
“Bitch please,” Gabe replied. “You should be down in the kitchen making me some supper.”
“Give me a gun, and I’ll take care of it,” Natalie said, making sure she didn’t flinch while looking him in the eye.
Gabe stared at her, and after a moment or two, he smiled, showing her big, yellowed teeth. “Okay, white girl, you convinced me. Take it.”
He reached behind his waist and pulled out a short-barreled revolver. He handed it to her and said, “I’ll be watching from up here. You probably need to be close to have a chance of hitting him with that.”
“I know how to shoot,” she said. She cradled the gun in her palm and looked at it. The word Taurus was engraved on the short stubby barrel. It was compact but heavy, with a ribbed grip, and most of it was black except the cylinder where the bullets were; that was silver. She opened the cylinder and saw five fat bullets. Each bullet had .45 ACP printed on it. She flicked the cylinder closed.
“We’ll see,” Gabe said. “Can’t believe your boyfriend here is going to let you do this alone.”
Natalie pointed the gun at him, saw his eyes go wide and his mouth drop.
Troy said, “No, Natalie!”
She stepped as close to Gabe as she could. He backpedaled, and Natalie pulled the trigger more than five times. The sound of it was terribly loud, each trigger pull sounding like a detonation. She loved how shocked Gabe looked as he died.
It was over too soon. She was still pulling the trigger and the hammer was falling on empty chambers. Gabe lay on his back, spread-eagled, mouth open, eyes open and unblinking. His chest was a mass of red.
“Underestimate me, will you?” Natalie said. “Didn’t see that coming, did you? I know it wasn’t because you trusted me! It was because you thought I was weak!”
Troy’s face was no less shocked when her eyes briefly turned his way.
“I couldn’t wait for you to do it,” she explained. She knelt beside Gabe’s corpse and felt around his pockets for extra bullets and whatever else might be useful.
“I’m just surprised you did that,” Troy said.
Natalie found a box of bullets, opened the cylinder, dumped the brass casings out, and began to reload the gun. After completing that task, she turned to Troy. “Why? You think we’re playing a game? He said that soldier killed a bunch of Sid’s men. To me, the soldier’s a potential friend.”
With a look of amazement, Troy asked, “You thought out all of that?”
Natalie had to make an effort not to show how much that remark offended her. Her temper was up, and if she let it go completely, she’d probably have to shoot him too.
“I not only thought of all that,” she replied, “but I did something about it. Now, if you’re going to help me, get his guns and ammo. I’m going down to check on that soldier.”
She winced inwardly when she uttered those last words, sure that he’d chicken out and back out of the half-assed friendship they had.
“I’ll get his stuff. Be careful,” Troy said.
She wanted to say, Sometimes women have to do what men won’t, or no one will. It was nothing Troy didn’t know anyway. Like most men, he was probably lazy, and she was pretty sure that his expectations in life didn’t mirror hers. Natalie was beginning to understand the dynamics of this new world and to comprehend how to exploit things to her advantage. She knew how cold-blooded that sounded, but all she needed was the right man, or men. Troy could be manipulated, but he had limited usefulness. This soldier might be a different story.
Natalie made her way down the stairs and outside the house.
87. Clive
“Through this door,” the cadaverous Major Porlock said. He held the door open, and Clive knew by the smell of pine sap that they were going back outside.
Unless he was going to draw his gun and challenge the man, Clive knew he had to obey. Candace didn’t hesitate, and neither did Mathers or Ritchie. They walked right through the doorway. He was surprised and appalled that they were so trusting.
Major Powell was already inside. He’d gone in first. This left him alone with Porlock.
“So, Major, why not go ahead and tell me what the plan is?” Clive asked.
“All will be explained,” Porlock said with his eyes squinted, as if the light was too bright.
Clive drew his gun and pointed it at the army officer. “I don’t want to wait, Major.”
Porlock’s expression didn’t change, but he did hold up his right hand, palm out. “Hey, please don’t point that at me.”
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