Domino Falls (14 page)

“In the event of gunfire, be ready to clear out in five minutes. Within five minutes, enough freaks will respond to repeated gunshots to send a swarm signal.”

“You mean . . . they talk to each other?” Bobbie said.

“Kid, I wouldn't call it talking,” Cliff said. “But whether they use smoke signals, Morse code, or body odor—you have five minutes to grab your bags and get back to the truck, or you're hitchhiking home.”

Five minutes wasn't much time if they were inside a building. Cliff had given them the same talk during orientation, but it was more vivid when so many shabbily dressed freaks strolled the streets, stopping their mindless shuffling when the truck passed, staring after them with longing, sniffing at the air. Men, women, children. They looked ridiculous and sad in the costumes from their old lives—bloodstained ties askew, bright baseball caps, wrinkled dresses and skirts.

Piranha was stoic behind his sunglasses, nothing bothering him. Terry wondered how many of the freaks Piranha could see, and if seeing was worse than not seeing.

“Runner!” Riley said, alarmed.

The woman was wearing a Berkeley sweatshirt and pajama pants, so fresh that most of her face was still human. She rounded the corner like a cheetah in full pursuit, barefoot, her hair flying behind her. For the first few strides, she was nearly close enough to reach out and touch Terry as she clawed toward the bed of the moving truck.

She was pretty, in her early twenties. Square-jawed, smooth skin, an athletic body. Except for the red eyes and gnashing teeth, she would have been a hottie.

And she must have been on the track team, because she could
run
. After his first moment of surprise, Terry joined the laughter of the other scavs as they watched her struggle to keep up with them. When the truck picked up speed, she ran harder. Her face was bright red from exertion, spittle flying, cords on her neck protruding.

“Faster, baby!” one of the scavs called to her. “You want it, come get it!”

The other scavs taunted with kissing noises and obscene gestures. Terry's nervous laughter left him queasy. When the girl fell behind, the driver slowed slightly, making it a game to see how close she could get.

Cliff surveyed them like wayward schoolchildren, his eyes landing on Piranha. “You,” he said. “Pick up your rifle. Take her out.”

Piranha sat straight up, surprised. “But you said . . .”

“Diversion,” Cliff said. “We're not where we're going yet. Take her out.”

Terry's laughter died. The runner was closer now that the truck was taking its time, but she was fifteen yards back. Could Piranha make her?

Dutifully, Piranha lifted his gun, bracing the stock, taking aim. Or seemed to be.

“Middle of the road,” Terry said quietly. “Dead center.”

“Who are you, his mama?” Cliff said. “We don't have spotters. Let him shoot.”

Piranha hesitated. The truck slowed more, and the runner was gaining. Terry readied his own gun, nervous. If she reached the truck's bed . . .

“What the hell are you waiting for?” Cliff said. “Take her out!”

Bam.
Piranha fired, but the runner kept coming. The shot had gone wild. Perspiration gleamed across Piranha's forehead. Ten yards. Eight. Six good strides, and the runner would be on them.

Bam.

Piranha's second shot chipped her shoulder, making her stumble, but she ran on, reaching out as if to leap—

Bam.
By the third shot, she was close enough even for Piranha to see. The runner crumpled to the street, shot in the crown of her head. He'd almost missed her again, but it was good enough to take her down. She was still twitching as they drove.

“You tryin' to shoot her or kiss her?” Cliff said, angry. “My four-year-old coulda hit her faster'n that!”

The other scavs joined in the ribbing. “Annie Oakley here sure ain't coverin' me,” one said.

Terry's heart raced. Would they stop the truck and throw them out?

Piranha shook his head, still hidden behind his shades. “Man, I'm sorry,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “She just . . . she . . . she looked like . . .”

Piranha was pouring it on, pretending he'd been overcome instead of blind.

“
That
is what I'm talking about!” Cliff said. “You newbies are too soft! I don't care if it looks like Angelina Jolie.
If you hesitate,
you or someone on your team dies!
” He was practically nose to nose with Piranha, yelling in his face. If Cliff told Piranha to take off his shades, he would know.

“Yessir,” Piranha said. “It won't happen again, sir.”

“Kindergarten is over,” Cliff said. “Rule number one: do not fire unless necessary. Rule number two: if you fire, dammit, make it count.”

Their truck finally parked at the edge of a warehouse district looming gray
and brown, streets glistening from either water or glass—Piranha couldn't tell which. As it got later in the afternoon, he could see less and less. He needed to take off his shades for more light, but he couldn't show his irritated eyes while the other guys were around.

Thanks to his piss-poor showing as a shooter, nobody wanted him to keep watch or cover other scav crews. No problem; he hadn't missed that girl on purpose, but it had worked out for the best. He and Terry had been sent inside time and again. It was the best job for picking the choice loot—although, technically, the crew shared it, custom was dictated by the old “finders keepers” rule.

So far, in the burned-out shells of an office supply store, a boating showroom, and a hardware store, he'd loaded at least eight bags to cram in the truck. They'd found rubber bands, glue, motor oil, fishing supplies, hammers and nails (highly valued), batteries of all sizes (
very
highly valued), lightbulbs, and building materials—everything except contact lenses.

He and Terry had autonomy, disappearing behind shelves, so Piranha had been able to keep the other guys from noticing that he could barely count his fingers in front of his face. He couldn't
read labels, so he pressed his face close to the shelves to try to see what he could before he shoveled it into his bag. Sometimes he didn't see first, and he ended up lectured for wasting space with junk.

But they were getting through it, and they hadn't found many corpses. So far, no freaks had surprised him, hiding in corners. A casual succession of miracles had kept the two of them alive.

“We're done here—one more to go!” Bobbie called into the hardware store. “You guys come on out!”

Piranha cursed. He didn't have a wristwatch, but the waning light told him it was getting late. This was a day run, so they would drive back out to Threadville before nightfall. His last chance was vanishing with the sun.

“Hear that?” Terry said, suddenly beside him. “Grab your bag. Whatcha got?”

“Hell if I know,” Piranha said.

“We're coming up on the last stop, P,” Terry said, hushed. “I haven't seen anything like what you want. No eye doctor. No pharmacy. We better just say what—”

“No,” Piranha said. “If they figure it out now, we're screwed.”

Piranha had never had a friend like Terry, who was willing to back him so far, against his better judgment. Threadville's scavengers had spent months leaving survivors behind, and a few comments made Piranha wonder if Cliff had put a few persistent “strays” out of their misery.
I'm about to get T killed,
Piranha thought.

They lugged their bags back out to the truck, where Cliff and the watchers hoisted them into the bed and the passenger cabin that was bigger than it looked. Piranha trailed Terry's bright red down jacket, staying close to him, avoiding obstructions, trying
not to trip or give himself away. He felt like they'd been out a week.

“We'll drive down thirty yards and park outside that side door,” Cliff said, pointing, and Piranha tried to follow his shadowy pointing arm. A mammoth beige blur waited down the street. Another warehouse?

“Last half hour,” Cliff said. “You're going back in, Brokeback.”

“Brokeback? What?”

Cliff chuckled. “Everybody gets a nickname around here. And ya'll are
really
tight.”

The other guys laughed, and Piranha's face burned.
I'm only allowed to shoot freaks,
he reminded himself.

Cliff and his most experienced scav, a thick guy nicknamed Meat (Piranha didn't ask), stayed behind to guard the loot with the driver. It was a newbie run: the kid, Bobbie, and the other newbie, Riley, walked with them toward the blur at the end of the block. The truck sped past them.

“Don't get lost!” Cliff called. “Or you'll miss your ride!”

“Jerk,” Riley muttered, practically speaking Piranha's thoughts.

“He's not so bad,” Bobbie said.

“This place was picked over months ago,” Riley said. “He's gotta be kidding.”

The blur was only bigger, no more distinct. He saw large loading doors; they were approaching a huge building from the rear. Definitely not a doctor's office. Piranha tugged Terry's jacket:
What is it?

“Sorry, man,” Terry whispered. “It's just Walmart.”

Piranha's heart leaped, and he grinned.

Until the smell hit him.

In Terry's experience, a dose of good luck meant the other kind was on its
way. They'd finally found somewhere that
might
have contact lenses, according to Piranha, so Walmart, of course, was where something would go wrong.

The last bay door had been yawning wide open and the store's front windows were smashed, so there were sure to be freaks inside. The store smelled of rotten citrus and human waste. Makeshift camps lay throughout the store; tents and blankets draped across the aisles. The mini camps were mostly empty. In others, lumps under the blankets were no doubt corpses. Unless the bundles moved, Terry didn't bother them. It would be a great place for pirates to hide, but they didn't have time for a sweep. They had to find the pharmacy.

Terry had convinced Riley and Bobbie to take the rear of the store, since Piranha said the pharmacy and other specialty departments were more likely to be at the front. So far, nothing moved except dirty sheets flapping in the store's breeze. Piranha stumbled into a shelf, tumbling a pyramid of empty tins cans to the floor. He cursed, fluently.

“Shhhhh,”
Terry said from behind his handkerchief. “Don't call the freaks over.”

Sure enough, was that movement from a couple of aisles away? Someone scurrying? Maybe a pirate or a refugee? The sound was gone. Nothing stirred.

Riley was right; the store had been picked over like a chicken bone. A few torn pieces of clothing were scattered on the floor, but the clothes racks were empty except for hangers, shelves had been pulled down, refrigerated cases stripped of everything except old food wrappers and rotten perishables. The aisles were so unrecognizable, it was hard to orient himself until he remembered to look up at the signs.

Checkout, one said far across the store.

Vision Center, said one beside it.

Terry grabbed Piranha's arm, pulling him. “You were right!” he said. “There's an eye doctor!”

“If there's anything left,” Piranha said.

Cliff probably wouldn't be happy if they came back with only bags full of eye supplies, but Terry didn't care. He was going to grab everything in sight.

The optometrist's nook had fared better than most parts of the store. The wood paneling was intact, there were still two chairs to indicate where patients had sat, and a few shelves still hung on the walls where the eyeglass displays had been. Only a few cracked pairs of empty frames were left on the ground.

Piranha fumbled around like a madman, flinging drawers and cabinets open, crawling on the floor to fling papers aside. Cursing as he worked. Panicking.

Terry noticed a gray curtain in the rear of the enclave, pulled askew.

“In the back?” Terry said.

Piranha leaped to his feet. “Yeah, let's check it out—”

“Slow down,” Terry said, yanking his arm to stop him. “Don't charge in.”

They crept toward the doorway, one on either side. Terry forgot that Piranha couldn't see, expecting him to move ahead. The storeroom was small and dark, a third the size of the outer office. High cabinets to his left, above a sink, remained closed.

“Hey, P, I think—”

The low moan sounded beside Terry's right ear. He smelled the freak behind him before he turned around. He smelled rotten oranges, the breeze a blessing.

“Watch it!” Piranha screamed.

Terry whirled around and backed far enough into the storeroom to raise his rifle. The freak moaned, took a tortured step toward him. A shambler! If he'd been a runner . . .

“Don't shoot!”
Piranha hissed.

The freak was wearing a doctor's smock with the name Raul on his identification badge. He wore round-frame glasses, but his face was a bed of red moss. Terry's finger throbbed from desire to shoot; he fought every self-protective instinct he had. The shambler was close, and he didn't know if another one was behind him. They might have walked into a nest!

Piranha swung his rifle butt like an ax, clubbing the freak in the back of the head.

The freak turned away from Terry, toward Piranha, startled. Piranha's second blow caught the freak across the temple. This time, Raul fell.

Terry realized he was gasping for breath. A foot closer, and the freak would have had him! He ran through the rest of the storeroom, dizzy with adrenaline, looking for any other signs of life. The room was empty.

“We're in—” Terry said.

Then, gunshots.

Not one shot, or two. The far-off crackling sound was like a string of fireworks. The shots were coming from outside the store, not inside. If Cliff was firing, the truck must be under siege. Six shots. Seven shots. Eight.