Doug walked over to the call box and pushed the button. It was supposed to be used to call the office if there was an emergency, or if someone needed a bathroom pass. He pressed it repeatedly, but no one answered. He was the jokester of the group, one of his pranks went a little too far and he wound up down in the basement with the rest of the miscreants.
Jessie rattled the door again, jerking on the knob, trying to get it to force open. “This is a load of bull,” he said. “Isn’t there laws against locking people in? What if there really is a fire or something?”
“The Woodland Academy of Higher Learning for the Woefully Inadequate does not have to abide by such pedestrian rules, old chap,” Doug intoned in his best British snobbery voice.
Jessie grinned, despite himself. “Well, I guess if there is a reason for us to bust out, we just throw a chair through the window.” But he was concerned, and getting more so. They heard another scream, somewhere far away.
Sheila had her phone out and had been trying to call the front office, but wasn’t getting anything, just an all circuits busy recording. Everyone else brought theirs out and tried various numbers, all with the same results.
“Try text,” Gary said. “It may get through, the data packet for messages is tiny.”
Jessie’s first text was to his mom and was tongue in cheek. “Something going on. Trapped in the dungeon. Office isn’t answering the buzzer. May have to make a jail break!”
The guys finished a few texts apiece and then watched Sheila as she typed away on her phone, her fingers moving at incredible speed.
“You writing a book?” Doug asked.
She looked up and saw them all staring at her and was getting ready to answer with something snarky when they heard a group of people running by the door with ragged breaths, and a guttural howling thing fly by the window after them.
They stared at each other, all humor gone, and edged back over to the door, trying to see anything through the opaque glass. There was more running, more howling things, and the sounds of doors slamming and breaking windows, then screams of terror and pain at the end of the corridor.
Jessie looked down at the doorknob, now very glad it was locked.
“Was that…” Gary started, but couldn’t find the words and trailed off. Not a fire drill. Not a joke of some kind, the screams were real. They were the ‘terrified and filled with pain’ kind of screams that couldn’t be faked. “School shooter?” he finally asked a little lamely.
No one had an answer. Things had just gotten real. Joke time was over. They had just heard people die, they were sure of it. Whatever was going on out there was really happening. As teenagers raised on a steady diet of horror movies, video games, and comic books, they probably accepted the unexplainable faster and more readily than the grownups.
“Werewolves?” Gary asked in a half whisper, not really believing it could be.
“It’s daytime. No moon,” Jessie whispered without thinking. They could still hear the sounds of the dying.
“Vampires?” Sheila asked.
“Not unless they’re the sparkly kind,” Doug said in a hushed tone.
“God, I wish I had those legs!” Gary whispered vehemently, slamming his fists down on his useless ones in frustration.
They all knew what he was talking about. They’d heard him mention them often enough. Where he went to do his rehabilitation therapy, there were a set of mechanical legs that he could strap on and operate with hand controls. He couldn’t actually run in them, but he was able to move around a lot better than he could in the chair.
The only problem was the cost. Insurance didn’t cover them and his parents didn’t have an extra hundred grand laying around. They all glanced at his chair. At his limited mobility. What had been an incredible inconvenience before, might now be a death sentence.
A shadowy figure lurched by the door and Sheila gave a short little involuntary gasp. It stopped, as if listening. Everyone froze in place, eyes wide, Jessie making a shushing motion at her. She covered her mouth with both hands, her eyes huge and full of terror.
A hand slapped against the window, leaving a trail of dark liquid in its wake and she jumped, squeaked out a stifled cry. It heard and the door rattled violently as it threw itself against it, hands trying to reach through the opaque glass. It started howling and keening, and soon it was joined by more.
They could see the outlines of a half dozen bodies through the frosted glass, all of them clawing at it. It was only a matter of time before one of them swung a fist hard enough to break through, and then it would be all over. They backed away, Jessie and Gary both looking for something to use as a weapon, then they heard a chilling high-pitched scream out in the hall.
It sounded like it was coming from the boiler room at the end of the corridor. The things outside abandoned the door they were trying to get through and ran, howling, toward the sounds of sheer panic. The screaming didn’t last long.
9
Gunny
Gunny left the CB shop and walked up to Doc’s to check on the deputy, Ozzy, and Hot Rod. He stepped over to Scratch as he walked in, quietly asking, “Everything okay?”
Scratch nodded to the affirmative, but he was well away from the rest of them, near the door, trying to act nonchalant about being in the doctor’s office with a rifle in his arms. His finger was off the trigger, but right there near it.
Ozzy was pale now and lying flat on the countertop, his leg bandaged and elevated on a pillow. Billy Travaho had both girls hovering over him and he was completely sprawled out on the couch, breathing shallowly. Hot Rod found a shirt somewhere and had put it on, and although he had an apprehensive look about him, he seemed no worse than before.
“I think we should at least tie their feet,” Gunny said to Scratch when he saw they were getting worse. “You saw how fast they moved.”
“Yeah,” he said. “But Cobb told me to stay here. Can you grab some rope?”
“I’m on it,” Gunny said and left, heading toward the mechanic's bays. He noticed Pack Rat and a couple of the drivers in the weight room, but kept going toward the garage. He didn’t have any rope on his truck, but he was sure Tommy had some in the shop somewhere. When he walked in, there was a flurry of activity going on, all of the mechanics, and a few of the drivers were busy barricading the windows at the back of the shop.
Out of the front windows, there was another rig parked lengthwise, effectively blocking them from any flailing zombie attack. The back windows were within the perimeter fencing, but Gunny knew that fence was old. It had probably been there for twenty years.
He jogged over to his truck, found his box of ammo and reloaded the nearly empty magazine in his Glock, then dumped the rest in his jacket pocket. He spotted Cobb’s son, Tommy, helping hold a piece of angle iron over a window while one of his mechanics welded it to the steel wall of the Quonset hut.
He saw that they were doing this for all of the windows, basically making bars close enough together that no human-sized forms could get through. “Hey Tommy,” Gunny yelled over the noise of the welders arcing and the hissing of the cutting torches.
Tommy looked up, made sure the angle iron had enough of a weld on it to hold in place, then headed over to meet Gunny in the middle of the shop.
“Got any rope?” he asked. “Some people have been bitten. It’s probably best to restrain them in case they turn.”
“Yeah,” Tommy said. “Over in the parts room. There’s some on a spool.”
“Got it. And if you need any of that wood off of my trailer, take whatever you want,” Gunny said, indicating his flatbed that was in the second bay, loaded with fine New England lumber. ‘
“Thanks,” Tommy said with a half-smile. “But we’re using steel for now. A little stronger.”
Gunny watched him head over to another flatbed a few bays over, loaded with angle iron and rebar, and grab another long piece to drag over to the man with the cutting torch. Tommy was a Marine, too.
Once a Marine, a
lways a Marine, as they say. But he did his four years and got out. Served honorably, but it just wasn’t his thing. Tommy was Cobb’s only son and he probably joined just to keep up the family tradition and keep Cobb off his back. His heart was in turning wrenches and building things.
He had grown up in the Three Flags with his mother and grandparents whenever Cobb was off on another of his, seemingly endless, deployments. Occasionally they would go live with him when he was stationed in the States for a few years at a time, but it always seemed temporary. The truck stop was home.
Tommy’s kids, Kim-Li and Daniel, had played and worked there ever since they were born. Kimmy helping in the kitchen, Danny washing trucks and following the mechanics around. Daniel was in the Marines now, still in his training rotations. Unlike his dad, he’d eagerly jumped in with both feet and had been selected for Force Recon. Fourth generation Marine, and an officer to boot.
Gunny bet ol’ Cobb couldn’t wait to hang his honor box up on the wall behind the Missing Man table. He was just waiting for him to get some more ribbons or medals so there would be something to display.
He cut a few lengths of rope off of the spool with the Gerber strapped to his leg, then headed back to the Doc’s office. There was quite a commotion going on in the weight room as he passed, all of the drivers were standing near the middle of the room, staring at the thrashing man strapped to the examination table.
Gunny sighed. He knew that biker was going to turn. He hurried on down to Doc’s, the thing on the table wasn’t going anywhere, and maybe someone would take care of it, put it out of its misery. He rushed in and without preamble, just started tying Ozzy's feet in a tight hobble. He would still be able to walk, albeit short steps, but if he tried to run he would fall on his face.
“Toss him one of those,” Scratch said, indicating Hot Rod.
Gunny did and Hot Rod started to hobble his own feet, leaving a little more room to walk than Gunny had given Ozzy. “I want to be able to get away from these guys,” he said in his defense, when he noticed Scratch giving him a hard look. “They look like shit, man. I’m scared, but I ain’t feeling anything. Nothing like them.”
“He has a point,” Gunny said, and Scratch relented. A little.
The girls weren’t paying much attention to them, they were fussing over Billy with cold cloths, trying to get his fever down. Ozzy had a wet towel over his forehead also. The biker girl kept glancing back at Ozzy, and then looked up to Gunny from where she was kneeling by the couch. “Maybe you should tie his hands, too,” she said as she held hers out for a piece of the rope to secure Billy’s legs. “They’re both fading fast. That must be some seriously virulent saliva.”
Hot Rod looked scared, his brown skin was ashen as he sat there in the borrowed shirt, texting on his phone. Maybe his last goodbye to someone back home. He caught Gunny staring at him and kind of half grimaced, half smiled. “I wanted to apologize for running out on you out there in the parking lot, man. I lost it. I was scared to death. When that dude came at you…” he trailed off. “I shoulda stayed to help,” he finished quietly.
Gunny shook his head. Poor guy. Making his peace with the world.
“I probably would have ran, too. Don’t worry about it. You getting the fever yet?”
“No.,” he said. “I didn’t get bit, just scratched. I’m feeling okay, all things considered.”
“He’s not showing any of the signs these two did,” the biker girl said, finishing the knots on Billy’s hands and feet. Stacy stood up from the deputy and walked over to Hot Rod, placing the back of her hand against his forehead. She wasn’t quite a nurse yet, but she had started her last year of school so she was the closest thing they had to a medical professional. Working at Doc’s little clinic allowed her the time she needed to study during the day because business was usually pretty slow. “A little warm, but not bad,” she declared. “I’m starting to think that only the saliva is the carrier for this virus, or bacteria, or whatever it is.”
“You don’t think it’s airborne?” Gunny asked.
“I kind of doubt it. No one seems to have any symptoms other than bite victims. I’m getting a clearer picture now of what we’re dealing with after talking to these guys and seeing the reactions. Have you checked the other biker out lately?” Stacy asked.
“His name is Brian,” the leather clad girl said. She looked at Gunny, waiting for an answer.
“I’m sorry,” he said to her. “He’s, umm…changed. He’s like the ones in the parking lot.”
She nodded. “These two are going to change also,” she said, matter of factly. “Normally I would say we need to secure them somewhere until help arrives, but let’s face it. Help isn’t coming. I heard that policeman’s radio. They were screaming and crying and dying. All of them. I’ve accepted it, and now someone has a job to do. I guess it’s just like in the movies, right? It has to be a headshot?”
Gunny was again caught off guard. He had seen it up close and personal, had fought and killed those things, and this gal, just from hearing a radio transmission, was having an easier time accepting it than he did. “Yeah,” he said after a moment. “That rapper guy shot one at least 12 times and it kept coming. I put a bullet in its head, and it dropped instantly.”
“So the one we put in the freezer, has anyone checked on him?” she asked.
“It’s back alive but frozen solid. I need to take care of him. Just haven’t yet,” Gunny said.
This chick must have ice water running through her veins, he was thinking.
“Sara is an EMT in Reno,” Scratch chimed in, seeing the questioning look on Gunny’s face. “She’s probably used to blood and guts and stuff.”
The girl half smiled. “Yep. But we didn’t usually have people reanimating after they’ve expired.”
10
Understanding
Gunny grabbed a couple of blue tarps and a roll of duct tape off of the shelf in the main C-store. He could hear voices raised in the diner, the sounds of arguments. Cobb must have told them what was happening. He headed back to the weight room that was really just a hodgepodge of home-built lifting contrivances.
Cobb wasn’t about to pay for professional gym equipment, and the truckers that worked out didn’t need fancy spa machines, just steel bars in blocks of concrete to lift, old engine blocks hooked on pulleys to lift, heavy cranks cleaned up and used as dumbbells to lift… really just anything heavy to work with. The small group of truckers was still gathered around the thrashing form of the biker, strapped firmly to the exam table.
He was still face down, but his head was turned and he was gnashing at the men who were staying well out of his reach. His eyes were solid black, the pupils fully dilated. His whole body was spasming and straining, trying to sink teeth into anyone or anything.
The vinyl of the table was ripped and some of the stuffing was falling out. They looked at Gunny, standing there with the tarp and tape, and knew what had to be done. He looked at them. Pack Rat, Griz, Squeak, Shakey and a few others. “Any takers?” he asked, holding out the knife to them.
“Be easier to just shoot it,” Pack Rat said. “But I guess I see your point. Do it quiet-like.”
“I’ve never killed a man with a knife,” Griz said. “We used bullets in the sandbox. If it came down to a knife fight, you already screwed up.” He paused, then added, “But if you can’t, I will.”
Gunny saw that no one wanted to do what had to be done so he set the tarps down and walked over to the keening, thrashing, form. Before he could think about it too long and lose his nerve, he grabbed a handful of hair to hold it still and swung the knife down to drive it into the back of its head.
The blade slid off the hard bone and down the side of the creature’s face, leaving a deep furrow and ripping its ear off as a large piece of scalp flapped over, revealing the yellowish bone of the skull.
“Oh, that’s sick,” someone said as the snarling, flailing thing snapped at Gunny’s wrist. He hurriedly slammed the knife down
a second time, and again it careened off of the skull, not driving in like it was supposed to, but grooving down the other side of its head.
Gunny was trying to hold the head still with his hand, gripping a shank of hair, but the way it was jerking around, it was scalping itself. The hair ripped free from the skull and Gunny let go, jumping back with a look of disgust. The flap of hair was over its face and it was biting and chewing on it, pulling more off, more of its bloody, yellow skull being exposed.
One of the drivers ran out of the door, they could hear him retching in the hallway. Gunny stood back, watching in horror as the thing ate itself, ripping its own face off in a frenzy with its incessantly biting teeth. “Fuck this,” he said, pulled out his Glock and fired once, sending brain splatter all over the back wall. There was silence as they all stared, grossed out, but unable to look away.
“You should have rammed it up into the skull at the base of the spine, it’s softer there than…” Pack Rat trailed off as Gunny turned and glared at him, a hard look on his face, nostrils flared and a twitch under his right eye.
The smoking gun was still in his hand, and Griz and Shakey stepped away from the old know-it-all. “But a shot with the pistol, now that was good. Yes, sir, sure was. Here, let me help you with those tarps,” he said, hurriedly reaching for them before Gunny decided to shoot him too.
“Gunny,” Griz intoned. “You are one hard son of a bitch.” Then he grabbed the other tarp to help the old man wrap the corpse.
“Three more…” he thought, heading back to the Doc’s office. Three more, and I’m done. I’m going to get a long, hot shower, get in my truck, and get the hell out of here. He went through the door quickly, still reeling from the botched mercy euthanasia he had tried. Man, that was disgusting.
“The old man was right, though,” he thought. Base of the skull, right at the spine. No bone there. How had he forgotten that? He wanted to tie Ozzy and Billy up TIGHT! Just hobbled, he realized now, they were still dangerous, and there would be no way to take them out with a knife without getting chewed up in the process. Maybe gags, he thought.
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