Defensive Instinct (Survival Instinct Book 4)

by Kristal Stittle

  “Hurry up,” Willard encouraged her as she grabbed the sides of the ladder. As soon as her cane was high enough, he plucked it from her fingers, letting her get a better grip to climb the last few rungs. Gunfire rattled from much closer by as people fired upon the water-logged dead. As she pulled herself up onto the container’s top, she rolled to watch them coming. The aim of those firing was terrible, mostly planting useless body shots the times they didn’t miss. Together, she and Willard pulled the ladder back up.

  “How many shots do you have for that thing?” Nessie asked through gulps of air. All her joints ached in a way she had forgotten they could.

  “Only the six currently loaded,” Willard admitted. He hadn’t fired a shot yet, waiting until the things were closer so that he wouldn’t miss and waste a bullet.

  Nessie swallowed a hard lump, trying to catch her breath before she needed to use her blade again. Finally, a headshot landed, and then a second close behind it. One after another the zombies fell, the shots no longer missing. Nessie looked along the containers and saw Misha and his dogs standing among a group of youths, most of whom didn’t look old enough to be there. The young were loading and handing him their single-shot rifles so that Misha could fire one bullet after another. His aim was a lot better, missing as infrequently as the others hit their target. When one of the teens called that he was out of bullets, an elder took his place. The zombies were coming out of the water so slowly that Misha was doing most of the shooting. Only a couple of people at the far end needed to take care of the ones down there. By the time Nessie was feeling better, albeit still a little woozy, the water walkers and swimmers had stopped coming. If there were more in there, they hadn’t found their way to the rocky shore, most likely sinking into the gorge. Hopefully, the current would prevent any other potential swimmers from making it to Animal Island.

  Actually using her cane for its intended purpose, Nessie made her way to the other side of the container row. She scanned the backs of the congestion of people, trying to determine if they had been pushed closer, moved farther away, or were in the same place. She wasn’t able to tell, so she assumed they hadn’t moved. Looking along the ground between her container row and the next, she saw no corpses, moving or otherwise. Toward the far end, a container had been placed to bridge the gap, although there was still room for zombies to get by on either side.

  The sun beat down unrelentingly. Nessie’s run had dislodged the headscarf she had donned before the battle, so she took the time to readjust it. Not everyone was properly attired to be spending this much time in the sun; a lot were going to end up with some pretty bad sunburns. Nessie could already see patches of angry red forming in the exposed sections of skin of those nearest to her. She wondered if her own light coverings were enough, or if some part of her was burning as well.

  Gunfire from the community centre had been relatively infrequent, so when it picked up in tempo, Nessie turned her attention toward the structure. What she saw dashed any hopes she had begun to hold onto. A sudden swarm of the dead must have come staggering around the containers between it and the wall, for they were surrounding the building rather quickly. Those on the containers nearest the community centre were firing at the corpses, but this particular group of dead seemed only interested in the people on the roof. Their recently formed allies were raining bullets down upon the rotting heads below, but it took surprisingly little time for them to become an island in a sea of dead flesh. Beyond them, the defenders on the toilets huddled fearfully at the back, nearly falling into the river. As Nessie watched, the emergency hatch to a repurposed storage container was pulled open and a ladder shoved through the hole. Those who had remained prisoners hastily scrabbled out, spurred on by the hands slamming into the walls of the container, afraid one might get the outer latch to open. Once up the ladder, the people continued to clamber upward, making for the higher safety of the roof.

  A furry brush against her leg drew Nessie’s gaze downward. One of the dogs had come over and was watching the community centre alongside her. When she looked up again, she saw that Misha, sweaty and panting beneath his hood, was perched on the container’s edge only a couple of feet away.

  “Can you shoot that distance?” Willard asked him.

  “Easily, it’s no farther than the rocks.”

  Willard held his revolver out to the man, his hand trembling.

  Misha glanced at the gun but didn’t take it. “You might need that. I’m going to move to the closer containers.”

  And just like that, Misha was gone again, crossing a ladder bridge to the next row. Two of his dogs were smart enough to run around to the container bridge in order to follow him, while the others whined and danced at the ladder’s edge. One dog hadn’t made to follow at all. The German Shepherd with the grey muzzle gently lowered himself to the metal with a loud groan, and then began panting heavily.

  “You too, huh?” Nessie remarked to the dog. “Age sucks.”

  The nearby youths all left their posts to gather around Nessie and watch the community centre. She would have attempted to order them back, but unless zombies came out of the bay again, it didn’t matter where they stood. Besides, the elderly all remained in place, watching both the water and the alley between the container rows. They would bellow if something showed up, and the young teens definitely had enough energy to swiftly spring back into place.

  Nessie returned her gaze to the community centre. She had begun to notice a lessening of gunfire from all around the yard. Were there fewer zombies to kill? Were they in less danger so people took more time to aim? Or were they running out of ammo? She watched as the last of the prisoners hauled himself up onto the roof, the gentle metal slopes now crowded with breathing bodies, some forced to sit gently on the solar panels to make enough room. As two people hauled up the ladder that connected the roof to the holding containers, a third man picked up the rifle one of them had put down. Nessie didn’t know why her attention had been drawn specifically to him, but it had been. While she watched, he checked that there was ammo in the magazine, and a bullet in the chamber. He then levelled the gun toward Nessie and the kids.

  That couldn’t be right, surely he was just pressing the gun to his shoulder and would aim down at the zombies in a second. Only he didn’t. The man rested his cheek up close to the rifle, peering down the sights.

  “No! Get back!” Nessie screamed, turning and shoving whatever kid she could lay her hands on, knocking over several of them.

  There was no way to tell which crack came from the man’s rifle, but Nessie felt the bullet punch into her hip. A hot slug of metal burned into her, the pain twisting her body so that when she fell, she landed on her back. Adrenaline kept her focused long enough to watch as the man’s own people turned on him, trying to grab him and wrestle the gun away. In the struggle, he fell off the roof, and not on a side where there were containers.

  As a pain-filled darkness closed in over Nessie, she hoped he survived the fall long enough to feel himself get torn apart by the dead. As the young ones gathered around her, fearfully shouting at each other, not knowing what to do with their extremely limited medical knowledge, she thought of Dragon. Would he miss me?

  32

  Doyle’s Not In Charge

  With Canary still hugged up to his side, Doyle continued to follow James in an arc around the Black Box fences. They rested a few times while James scurried off to get a look at the place, but each time he came back with bad news. Unfamiliar men and women were patrolling the fences, and a little while ago, black smoke began to rise from a body burn site. James couldn’t get close enough to see who was dead, but he confirmed that there weren’t many.

  “Where are we goin’?” Rose finally asked in a whisper that Doyle thought sounded harsher than she meant.

  “We need to check something,” James told them, continuing to lead them in a direction that Doyle had never been.

  “Check what?” Rose was agitated. A couple of times a zombie appeared, and alth
ough James was closer, she insisted on being the one to crush its skull with her hammer.

  “If our people are inside or out.”

  “How will you be able to tell that?” Doyle asked this time.

  “You’ll see, we’re almost there.”

  James was right; it hadn’t been much longer. They reached the woods where clearly a bunch of people had been through recently, the foliage trampled flat.

  “They evacuated,” James spoke through a sigh of relief.

  “Why come this way?” Canary wondered. Her breathing had become harder as the day went on despite the frequent rest stops. Her leg pained her; she was supposed to be with doctors by now.

  “Because the submarine is docked this way,” James told them.

  Doyle, Canary, and Rose literally paused for a moment, letting James get an extra two steps ahead.

  “What do you mean, the submarine?” Rose spoke louder than she should, a bit of anger now mixing with the irritation.

  “We never scuttled the German U-boat. Not many know, only the crew and enough trusted others to send someone to check on it every couple of days and after storms. You probably didn’t see any of it, but there were a lot of arguments surrounding the sub. Should it stay at the Black Box, or go with the others to the container yard? Should they search for torpedoes and missiles to rearm it? Should it always be crewed and ready to go? Crichton got worried that someone was going to steal it; that’s how bad it got. So, he made a plan with Bronislav to make everyone think it sank. They went on a mission up the coast, as they had before, only this time they went when a storm was expected; the weather guys actually got it right. And when the crew came back on foot, no one suspected their story was a lie.”

  “That’s insane,” Rose huffed.

  “You wouldn’t think so if you heard how vehemently some people wanted to turn the thing into a weapons platform. Those houses we were exploring? They would probably be ash by now if they had gotten their way. And let’s not forget about the nuclear core. Could you imagine if someone snapped and then got into the sub? Think of how much damage they could do, even just by creating a leak in the casing.”

  Rose responded with silence. Doyle didn’t know what she was thinking, but he was remembering the bomb on the Diana. No one had been able to prove beyond a doubt that the woman named Hanna had set it off, but even if she had, no one knew why. James was talking about someone like her when he talked about someone snapping. If it really was Hanna, and she had really been working alone as it seemed, that meant a single person had brought about the Diana’s eventual destruction. Crichton would certainly not risk a similar incident happening at the Black Box, which was why the power generator in the basement was always on lock down; only those who needed to get in there to monitor it were allowed through the heavy, metal door.

  Deep in thought, Doyle didn’t notice the hole until he stumbled into it, Canary drawing in a sharp hiss as she was pulled along.

  “Sorry,” Doyle whispered, and then repeated himself several times until Canary told him to stop.

  “Looks like they dug up the cache. There’s probably going to be more of these holes along the way, so watch your step.” James continued to lead them deeper into the forest.

  Doyle was tired and his shoulders hurt from helping Canary along. He could only imagine how she felt, hobbling through the woods. They were both sweating, but her skin had taken on a sickly look and texture that he didn’t like.

  “How far is the sub?” Doyle asked.

  “Still a ways off, why?” James glanced over his shoulder, his eyes falling on Canary and then he knew why.

  Doyle answered anyway. “We should probably take another rest then.”

  “No.” Canary shook her head, her yellow hair falling lankly about her face. “This trail isn’t all that old; I don’t think it’s been very long since they came through here. If we hurry, we’ll catch them.”

  Both Doyle and James frowned at this.

  “Why don’t James and I go ahead while you two take a break?” Rose suggested.

  Canary shook her head again. “We should stick together; we don’t know what kind of dangers might be in these woods. I’m okay, we need to keep going.”

  Even though no one but Canary seemed to like the idea, they pressed on.

  It was shady and slightly breezy beneath the trees, which was nice compared to the direct sun, but the bugs were bad. Between Canary and his fire axe, Doyle didn’t have a hand with which to defend himself.

  “I’m sorry,” Canary mumbled.

  “For what?” Doyle wondered as he slowly batted another mosquito away with the head of his axe.

  “Mosquitoes have always loved me. You wouldn’t be bothered by them so much if you weren’t helping me along.”

  “Nonsense, we’re in the woods, there are always mosquitoes.” Although Doyle had to admit that there were more than when he had walked alone at the start of their outing. He blamed it on the storm awhile back; the bugs always got worse after the rain. They loved the damp ground.

  “Zombie,” Rose whispered, trotting off ahead of them to take it down.

  “When—” Canary didn’t get to finish whatever she was going to say.

  “Jesus Christ!” Rose gave a startled cry.

  James put on a burst of speed and leapt through the brush. Doyle wanted to run to Rose as well, but he and Canary couldn’t move any faster than they were already. Doyle hefted his axe up into a ready position, while Canary raised the copper pipe that had wounded her so badly.

  It didn’t take long to discover what had startled Rose. There wasn’t just one zombie, but at least a dozen, hidden from their sight by a large rock and a couple of thick tree trunks. Rose and James were busily hacking away at them by the time Doyle and Canary got there. They stood back and watched, ready in case one got past or came from another direction. There was no need to worry, however, as James and Rose massacred the whole lot.

  “Are you bit?” James asked Rose when the final corpse fell.

  “No, they just startled the shit outta me is all.”

  Still, James scanned her extremities and gave her the all clear. That didn’t mean she hadn’t gotten something in her mouth or eyes, and James as well for that matter, but there was no way to be certain if they said nothing. Wiping his blade off on some low bushes as he walked past, James moved them forward.

  ***

  The walk was long, hot, buggy, and, mostly in Canary’s case, painful, but when they noticed the sounds of the sea growing louder, their spirits lifted. Even Canary managed to pick up the pace a little. They had taken only one break since entering the forest. In a clearing, they had found a good log over which the women could empty their bladders; James and Doyle used the bushes on the opposite side. Based on the smell, it was obvious that those who had left the Black Box used the log for the same purpose.

  When the ocean finally came into view, they headed straight for it, stepping off the well-trodden path. Although no one said it, they all knew they had missed the group and likely the boat as well. Rose forged ahead, reaching the shore first to see if the submarine was still in view. They may have decided to wait awhile in case Doyle and his small group returned.

  As Doyle and Canary cleared the trees, they could tell by Rose’s posture that the submarine was gone.

  “It might be that speck way out there, but it’s far enough that I can’t tell.”

  James used his binoculars and agreed with Rose’s assessment. It very likely was the U-boat, but there was no way they could let it know they were there, let alone get to it.

  “Put me down. Put me down.” Canary sank to the pebble beach, sliding off Doyle’s shoulders.

  “You might want to stand back up; there’s some dead over toward those buildings,” James told her, his eyes still hidden behind the binoculars but now he was scanning the shoreline. Doyle could make out the buildings, but not the dead.

  “I need a rest. They’re far away and won’t notice us over here,�
� Canary panted.

  “Might be good to wash that leg o’yours in the salt water,” Rose suggested.

  “I know I could certainly use a soak.” Doyle was used to feeling gross when on the move and dealing with the dead, but he preferred being clean.

  “Why don’t the three of you take a quick bath? I’m going to head toward the dock there, see if a note or something has been left for us.” James stripped out of his pack, keeping only his weapons with him.

  “I should come with you,” Rose volunteered.

  “I think it’s best you stay with Doyle and Canary in case something wanders over here. Besides, you stink,” he said, grinning. He then got up and disappeared back between the trees.

  “Well I’m going in,” Canary said, breaking the brief silence, and started to peel off her shirt.

  Doyle’s face turned red and Rose laughed at him.

  “Look, he’s all embarrassed,” Rose teased. “Settle down, boy, underwear is no different than a bikini.”

  “I find most underwear to be more modest than most bikinis,” Canary added, although she was simply stating it, not teasing Doyle. “Rose, mind helping me get these pants off?”

  “It’s gonna hurt, you sure you don’t wanna leave them on?”

  “No, they need to come off.”

  “All right.”

  Rose gently helped Canary while Doyle stripped down to his boxers. He waded into the shallows first, scanning for underwater threats, his axe in hand. The rocks were slippery, but easily gripped with his toes. After Rose had stripped down, she helped Canary into the water, their weapons sitting as close as possible without getting soaked. Outside of a hostile human with a gun, they had good enough sight lines to reach the items before a danger could reach them. Canary sat on the rocks where the water was just deep enough to slosh over her hips. She drew in a sharp hiss as her wound submerged.