The key slid into the lock quietly enough, but when he turned it, the deadbolt made a loud clunk as it retracted.
He listened again. Satisfied there was no immediate danger, he eased the door open and pointed the shotgun in the doorway.
The midnight sun only shined five feet into the entryway, leaving the rest of the lobby in shadows. Dan leaned in and flicked the light switches. Arched doorways to his left and right displayed empty viewing areas, and a closed door across the lobby led to the embalming room.
Muffled banging came from behind the door. Dan inched to the door. Something slammed into it, and he jumped back. Heart pounding, he waited.
The banging stopped, but someone on the other side breathed heavily. Dan thought to announce himself as a police officer, but his mouth had gone dry, and he couldn't work up enough spit.
This is so not what I need tonight.
The breathing sounded close. The damn guy had to be inches from Dan, with just the door between them. A low, guttural growl vibrated through the door.
What the hell? Sounds like a damn animal.
Dan backed away. Protocol required him to call for backup. He glanced at his watch. An hour until shift end. Backup would probably take most of that time. Vacation.
"Screw it," he said. "My shotgun will take down any human or animal."
He crept to the door. Keeping his shotgun pointed forward, he pulled the door open, and a chemical smell smacked him in the face. He sneezed. Light glinted off the empty steel embalming table in the middle of the large room, but most of the room remained in darkness. Dan swept the shotgun barrel from left to right. Nothing moved. What the hell?
Keeping his feet planted outside of the room he reached in and fumbled along the wall for the light switch. His hand grazed something cold and smooth, and he jerked it back. A shiver ran the length of his spine. He took a deep breath. Stop spooking yourself.
He pulled out a flashlight, switched it on, and trained the beam on the wall to his right. The light switch sat right where he expected, and a metal case stood just beneath it. A cold, smooth metal case.
He scoffed at his skittishness and flicked on the light. The room looked like a tornado had hit it, with papers strewn about, tables toppled, and instruments scattered over the floor.
A naked man stood in the corner, his back to Dan. This is no homeless guy. This asshole's high on something.
Dan pointed the gun at the man's back. "Police. Turn around slowly."
The man's head tilted to one side, then he shuffled back a step. A long, slow growl came from deep in his chest.
What the hell have I gotten into? He keyed his mic. "Base, this is Brunell. Request immediate back—"
The naked man turned and sprung at Dan in one fluid motion. Dan threw up his hands and managed to push the attacker to the side. The naked man crashed into the metal case, shattering its glass front, and bounced to the floor.
The radio squawked. "Officer Brunell. Repeat."
Dan aimed the shotgun at the man. "Another move like that and I'll blow a hole through you."
The man pulled himself to his feet and faced him. Dan gasped. The drugged-out man before him was One-Eyed Jack, his patch missing and his empty eye socket seeming to gape at him. And his one eye. It's yellow? What the hell's with that?
Jack straightened and bared his teeth at Dan. Rough stitches formed a "Y" over his chest and stomach. This can't be real. Bile rose in the back of his throat.
"Officer Brunell. What's your status?"
Dan keyed his mic but didn't know what to say. He muttered, "Help."
Jack tilted his head back and let loose with a shriek that made Dan cringe. Dan aimed at Jack's chest. Jack crouched as if he were about to spring again, and Dan pulled the trigger. The pellets hit Jack's chest dead center, knocking him onto his back.
Dan's training kicked in. He pressed the mic button. "Base, this is Brunell. Need immediate backup. Suspect down."
"Roger. What's suspect's condition?"
Oh, hell. What do I say to that? He's dead, but he attacked me anyway?
Jack pulled himself up and into a crouch, then leapt at Dan, knocking him back through the doorway and on his ass. Jack landed on him and drove him to the floor. The shotgun skittered across the entryway, and Dan held Jack back by grabbing his skinny upper arms and locking his elbows.
Jack snarled and pressed on Dan, snapping his jaws at his face. Dan rolled to the side and threw Jack into the wall. He scrambled to his feet as Jack sprung at him again. For a skinny little shit, One-Eye had a lot of energy.
Jack went for Dan's neck, but Dan grabbed his arms again. Jack strained forward, his mouth opening and closing, teeth clacking, and yellow eye glistening.
Dan's sweaty hands slipped. One-Eye got closer and closer. Dan let go with one hand and tried to flip Jack away, but Jack grabbed the arm that held him and sank his teeth into the bicep.
Dan screamed as flesh and muscle were torn from his arm and swallowed by the dead bartender. He struggled to get away but became weaker every second as his blood puddled on the floor and Jack ravaged his arm.
Within a minute, the pain dulled and he could no longer move. He lay there, listening to One-Eye snacking on his arm. His last thoughts were of his family and the vacation they'd never have.
2
Jen opened her eyes.
What happened? Where am I?
She took a deep breath. A rush of nausea flooded her stomach, but she lay still and it eased. She found herself staring at an unlit light fixture on a ceiling.
Dull yellow light shined from her left, and she turned toward it. A small desk and chair with a lamp sat against the wall.
She eased herself into a sitting position, her stomach roiling, and surveyed the room. The dim light didn't reach the corners, but she made out two doors and a small refrigerator next to the desk.
What the hell? No windows?
She searched her memory, thinking she had been at one hell of a party the night before. Maybe she'd passed out and was still there.
But then the memories flooded in. The village. The pit. The zombies, the blood, the gore.
Her dad.
Where is he?
Groggy, she swung her feet to the floor and caught herself as she almost kept going. Too unsteady to get up, she just sat there.
What's the last thing I remember?
The helicopter. The guardsmen helped Dad to it and strapped me in.
Beyond that, she drew a blank.
She took another deep breath and rose, steadying herself with her hand on the wall. One of the doors was near the foot of her bed, so she shuffled to it, figuring if she fell she could land on the bed.
She grasped the knob and eased the door open, then fumbled for a light switch. Bright white luminescent light blinded her, and she stepped backward before clutching the doorway. Her eyes adjusted and before her was a bathroom. Not a homey, fluffy-rug type of bathroom, but an institutional one. One with sparkling chrome fixtures, tile floors, and the stinging aroma of disinfectant.
She stumbled to the toilet, stepping as fast as she could. Damn floor's made of ice.
She dropped her pants and sat. No underwear. The pants and shirt had the same washed-out blue color.
That's it. I'm in a hospital. But where?
She finished, pulled up her pants and tied the string in front. After washing her hands, she splashed some water on her face.
Better.
She wandered into the bedroom and over to the other door, where she flicked the light switch on the wall. An LED overhead light shined, chasing away the shadows and bringing out the drab white-greenish colors of the walls and ceiling.
"Time to see where I am." She grasped the doorknob and twisted, but it didn't budge. Jiggling it didn't help. She examined the knob, but there was no locking mechanism visible. The damn thing's locked from the outside.
She knocked on the door. "Hey. Anyone there? Can you hear me?"
No answer. She pressed
her ear to the door, but heard nothing. What the hell?
She banged her fists against the door. "Hey! Open up! I'm awake."
Nothing. Was she in a military hospital? Quarantine?
She kicked the door, stubbing her toe. "Shit!"
Hopping to the bed, she squeezed her eyes tight and repeated, "Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit."
She plopped onto the bed and held her foot, rocking back and forth. Five minutes later, the pain had dropped to a dull ache and she examined the room in the full light. A mounted TV hung in an upper corner, its screen black. Besides the bed, desk, chair, and small refrigerator, the room was devoid of any other furniture. No dresser or closet. Where were her clothes?
She limped to the desk and opened the refrigerator. Bottles of water and cans of soda lined the door and filled the racks. She shrugged, pulled out a can of soda, and popped it open. After gulping down half the can, she let out a deep belch and noticed a remote control on the desk. She picked it up and sat on the bed, taking another swig of soda. Pointing the remote at the TV, she pressed the power button and the TV popped on, displaying a national news channel.
Jen brought up the channel listing and looked up the lower number channels. Sure enough, they were local channels she recognized. She was in Anchorage. She smiled. "Just call me Sherlock."
The date and time on the channel listing showed it was just after 7 a.m. the day after she and her dad had fled Point Wallace.
Metal sliding into metal caught her attention. A click came from the door and it opened. A muscular thirty-something man in khaki pants and a polo shirt that accentuated his large biceps stood in the doorway. He reminded her of a younger Mike Tyson. His eyes met hers and something in them told her he wasn't anyone to mess with. He stepped into the room and to the side, and a large woman in a dirty white apron puttered in and placed a tray on the desk. She turned and left, never looking at Jen.
Jen jumped up. "Wait. Where am I? Who are you?"
The muscular man glanced her way, stone-faced, then stepped through the doorway. A short, older man in a suit stepped up beside him and stared at her, his arms crossed. His eyes creeped her out. Sunken into the shadows of his sockets, they stared emotionlessly at her as if they were independent beings. Jen stumbled toward him, but he closed the door before she made it. The click on the locking mechanism caused her heart to drop, but she tried the knob anyway. When it didn't move, she pounded the door with a fist. "Talk to me, dammit! Why am I a prisoner? Where's my dad?"
She pressed her ear to the door. The sound of a squeaky wheel moved farther away and disappeared.
"Shit!" She stomped to the bed and dropped onto it, folding her arms. How could someone treat someone else this way?
The smell of bacon filled the room, and her stomach grumbled. She approached the tray on the desk. It had a cup of coffee, creamer, sugar, a glass of orange juice, napkins, silverware, and a covered plate. She removed the cover and breathed in the aroma. Bacon and scrambled eggs, with toast.
Ravenous, she cleaned the plate off within minutes. At least they weren't going to starve her.
Picking up the remote, she sat back in the chair and brought up a local news channel. The screen showed a close-up of the news anchor. "Reports are still incomplete about the fire that devastated the small northwestern Alaskan village of Point Wallace."
The feed switched to video of helicopters landing on the Point Wallace airstrip. They looked just like the helicopter that had picked up her and her dad. "The governor has called up the Alaska National Guard to assist with the search for missing villagers. So far there are no reported survivors." Another shot displayed the guardsmen deploying from the helicopters. "We'll stay on top of this story and bring you updates as they occur."
Wait. Those guardsmen all carried M-4 carbines. Why would they need those for search and rescue?
She jumped up and paced the room. They weren't telling the public everything. How many of the zombies survived? Bile rose in the back of her throat. Maybe the fire hadn't wiped them out.
Four hours later, she sat on the bed flipping through channels when the lock clicked. She dropped the remote on the bed and stood. Muscle Guy opened the door and stood to one side as the server brought in another tray.
She took a step toward him. "Talk to me. What's going on?"
The man put a hand out and took a defensive stance. With his shaved head and large frame, he looked menacing. She froze. He could break me in half without breaking a sweat.
The server picked up the dirty breakfast tray, left the new tray, and scurried out the door. The guard stepped into the hallway and began closing the door.
Jen's heart sank. Someone had to talk to her. She'd go crazy if she didn't find out something soon. She licked her lips. "Please. Tell whoever's in charge I want to talk. I don't know what I did or why I'm here. I'll cooperate. I just want some answers."
The guard hesitated for a second before the door clicked shut.
Jen spent the next few hours switching TV channels, looking for more on Point Wallace, but it was like the story had never existed. No mention of it on national or local news. Were they covering it up? If so, it had to be by someone high up in the government.
She took a deep breath and exhaled. They could make me disappear and no one would know it. If it was a government coverup, she might never be seen again. They'd just report that she and her dad died in the Point Wallace fire, their remains so severely burned that identification of all body parts would be impossible.
Dinner came at 5:30 p.m. She sat on the bed, her arms folded and her burning gaze directed at the guard. He ignored her. The tray switch was made and she caught a glimpse of the sunken-eyed leprechaun in a suit just before the door clicked shut.
She dove into the meal. She had to keep her strength up. If someone didn't talk to her soon, she'd have to do something. Her mind raced through possible escape scenarios. She could stand off to the side with the chair when the next meal came. The big server lady would be no problem, so she'd take the guard out first. But what about the little guy? He didn't look like he'd be a problem, but looks can deceive.
The local news came on with a lead story of a disturbance in Wasilla. Forty minutes north of Anchorage, it was one of the fastest growing areas in the state. Jen turned the volume up.
The newscaster stared seriously into the camera. "A riot involving dozens of people is taking place in a strip mall on the northern outskirts of Wasilla tonight. Wasilla police and Alaska State Troopers are responding and are warning citizens to stay away from the still unfolding drama. Our own Quentin Kelly is there. Quentin?"
The screen changed to a man in a shirt and tie, his salt-and-pepper hair perfectly in place. He held a microphone and had one hand to his ear. "Thank you, Sandy. Police aren't saying much, but I've spoken to some witnesses who said a disheveled man entered a local barber shop and attacked the customers. Some of the wounded customers then joined the man and attacked others."
Screaming and yelling drowned out the newsman as panic-stricken people rushed past him. Several law enforcement officers, guns drawn, ran the other way. The newsman glanced over his shoulder, then back at the camera, his face slack. "The riot is getting close. We may have to—"
A screech cut him off and he cringed. Jen's heart skipped a beat and her breathing quickened. No mistaking that sound. How the hell did a zombie get all the way down to Wasilla from the Alaskan bush in a day?
The newsman's eyes grew wide. "Sandy, we're getting out of here."
Gunshots peppered the background sound as more people stampeded past the camera. One old man stumbled, and a middle-aged woman jumped on his back, driving him to the ground. The woman glanced at the camera just as it cut off. Jen only saw her for a few seconds, but it was long enough to see the yellow in her eyes.
3
Jen stayed up all night switching between channels, trying to get the latest on the zombie outbreak in Wasilla. There had been no more live reports, just updates from the newsroom. A
ll communication with the responding troopers and police had been lost, and the local stations repeated warnings to residents to stay indoors. By early morning, the outbreak had spread to the nearby city of Palmer.
The governor declared the entire Matanuska-Susitna Valley a disaster area and ordered a full recall of all Army and Air Force National Guard. They, along with the Anchorage Police Department, set up a barrier on the Glenn Highway at the Knik River Bridge. Reports of unrest in Fairbanks hit the news by 6:00 am the next morning, and the President of the United States declared the State of Alaska a disaster area and ordered Air Force and Army troops on Joint Base Elmendorf Richardson in Anchorage to assist local forces.
And never was there a mention of the dead walking, attacking, eating, and infecting the living. Someone at some level of government had to know what was really going on. Jen suspected the people in charge of the building she sat in knew the situation precisely.
The door unlocked at seven the next morning, and the server loped in with a tray. Rings under her eyes, she picked up the old tray, nearly dropped it, and left. The damn security guy looked like he'd stayed in a five-star hotel, with pressed pants, a clean shave, and no sense of fatigue. Jen stood as he prepared to close the door. "Did you pass my message on? That I'd like to talk to whoever's in charge?"
His gaze met hers and he nodded, then he closed and locked the door.
Jen dug into her breakfast, keeping her attention on the TV. Just as she scooped the last of the scrambled eggs up, the power went out. With no windows, the room was pitch black. Somewhere in the distance, an alarm sounded, and footsteps pounded down the hall.
She sat still, not daring to move. After a few minutes, she detected a weak glow from beneath the door. Probably some sort of emergency lighting in the hallway.
A loud click came from the TV, and the lights came on. She powered the TV and surfed the channels for another news station.
What the hell happened?
She had just tuned into a local news station when the picture went out. The power light on the TV was still green, but the cable box showed red.
The Zombie Uprising Series: Books One Through Five Page 13