Plague of the Dead (34 page)

    Ron demonstrated by unsheathing the blade in one quick motion and holding it under the dim light in the theater. Brewster saw brown, dried bloodstains coating the steel. Brewster nodded in silent appreciation, and Ron sheathed the machete as they approached the doors that led to the lobby. He reached out a hand and pushed the squeaking door outward. Though there were no windows on the lower floor, the lobby’s ceiling extended far above to the top of the building, and an overlarge picture window centered in the building’s facade was letting in the light of the evening sun. Brewster held his hand up to his brow to shield his eyes.

    “Hey. Welcome back,” came Denton’s voice.

    Squinting, Brewster took a few steps forward until he was out of the sun’s rays. He saw Denton leaning against the far wall, and nodded at him before letting his gaze sweep the lobby.

    The theater was certainly old-the paint on the walls was beginning to chip and crack, and some of the posters were nearly twenty years out of date. It appeared functional-right up until the Morningstar Strain hit, naturally. The concessions stand was stocked full, the walls were solid brick, and the main door was thick, heavy wood, barred with iron bolts. Brewster was beginning to see why Ron had run into this particular building when he’d had to hole up.

    Beyond the secure door, however, came the sound of blows raining down on the wood, accompanied here and there by a guttural growl of frustration as the infected in the street tried in vain to break through.

    Ron explained, “We’ve been under siege here basically since the virus hit the town.”

    “But we’re doing a lot better than most,” added a young woman as she walked from around the back of the concessions stand. She held out a bottle of water to Brewster, who accepted it gratefully, downing half in a few quick gulps to soothe his dry throat.

    “This is Katie Dawson, my girlfriend,” Ron said. “Aside from a few others, we’re pretty much all that’s left of this town.”

    “Pleasure,” Brewster said. “Hey, didn’t you say there were four of us you pulled in? There’s two here.”

    “They’re up on the roof doing a little recon on the street,” Denton answered, pointing up at the ceiling.

    “Who is it?” Brewster asked, wincing a little bit as his head throbbed.

    “Shephard and Mitsui, the contractor.”

    Shephard was an aid worker who had been cooking meals for refugees when the Suez line had fallen. Mitsui was a general contractor from Japan who had been on hire in the Middle East. He’d hitched a ride when the retreating convoys had come through the small town he’d been working in.

    “Goddamn it,” Brewster said, scowling. “And everyone else was lost?”

    Ron nodded.

    Brewster shook his head slowly.

    Denton, as if trying to read his mind, spoke up: “It wasn’t your fault. Those infected came right out in the street, and that was a blind turn.”

    “Yeah, I know,” Brewster said.

    “I mean it-”

    “So do I!” Brewster shouted, then lowered his voice. “Sorry. It’s just-look. I’m starting to think maybe we’re fucked.”

    Denton raised an eyebrow and said, “What, and how many times-
precisely
-have we been in imminent peril just as badly as this in the past month or so? Can’t count it up on two hands, that’s for sure.”

    “Just being aware of the situation,” Brewster replied, gesturing around them at the walls as he spoke. “This place can’t hold out forever. Now, Ron says that Sherman’s out there getting a plan into action to move us out of here, but that’d mean going outside, which brings us to the next problem-we don’t have any guns, man! We’d be going out into that war zone with one big-ass knife and a couple of sporks to fight with.”

    “Sherman and whoever’s with him will have weapons.”

    “Man, didn’t you hear all those rounds popping off at that car lot this morning? I bet they’ve all got half a mag’ apiece, and only half of the people with him will even have a weapon to begin with. Damn it all-we clusterfucked ourselves this morning. And I have a really fucking bad headache.”

    “Jesus, you’re dour when you’ve got a concussion. Just have faith. Sherman’s got a sound head on his shoulders. I’m sure whatever he’s cooking up will be worthwhile,” Denton said.

    Ron and Katie were hanging back, letting the two go over their options and listening in silence.

    “Come on. Tell me what I’ve said isn’t true,” Brewster said, shoving his hands in his jean pockets and waiting. Denton sighed and shrugged. “See? I knew I was making a valid point. Besides, look, even if we make it out of here, how long are we going to last with nothing more than pointy sticks to defend ourselves with?”

    “I’d be more worried about having enough food to last, but you know, to each their own,” Denton said. “I guess you do make a decent point, though.”

    “Hold it, hold it,” Ron interrupted, face impassive, stepping forward with his hands held up as a gesture of truce. “Brewster, we can kill those things with blades. It’ll be tough, buy there’s a chance we can-”

    “-And if you get the blood on you? On your face? In a cut? What then? You going to turn that blade on yourself before you go apeshit?” Brewster retorted, arching an eyebrow at Ron. “No thanks, man, I’ll stand back a good ten feet-at least-when I’m killing infected. That or be wearing a MOPP suit.”

    “MOPP?” Katie asked, quirking her mouth. “I think you’re losing us.”

    Denton and Brewster looked at each other and sighed. Both were used to military jargon and explaining it all got old quickly.

    “Like a space suit,” Denton said dryly.

    His explanation was blunt and to the point. He gave it no further thought, and turned his efforts back to thinking of a way to guarantee their escape.

    Brewster leaned against the concessions stand and rubbed his chin. He then said, “Maybe we could… I dunno… throw rocks off the roof into the alley. Maybe that’d distract them, make ‘em go check out the noise and leave the front clear, or mostly clear.”

    “Won’t work. We tried something like that earlier with a tape recorded voice. Somehow they know it’s not a real living person. It gets their attention-for about five seconds. They just sort of looked in that direction, then went back to banging on the door. I guess they still hear like uninfected-you know, you hear a rock hit concrete, and you know it’s a rock hitting concrete and not a person. Guess they’ve got enough brain left to figure out stuff like that.”

    “Hell, animals can do that,” Brewster said scornfully.

    “But it does show
thought
, whether it’s conscious or not,” Denton countered. “Well, that might not help us, but it’s info we might be able to use.”

    “
How?”
Ron, incredulous, asked from beside the popcorn popper.

    “I don’t know,” said Denton. “But remember that inventor you Americans had… don’t remember his name. Anyway, he tried to make something work about a thousand times. None of the prototypes worked. So people called him a failure, right? All he said was ‘
I didn’t fail, I found hundreds of ways not to go about this
.’ Maybe in the future it’ll come in handy to know that.”

    “That was Benjamin Franklin, dumbass,” Brewster said. He looked over at Ron and Katie while jerking a finger over his shoulder at Denton. “Sorry. He’s Canadian. Should’ve told you before you let him in.”

    Ron managed a grim smile.

    “Good to see you’ve got part of a sense of humor left,” Ron said. “That’s all too rare these days.”

    “Humor? I wasn’t being funny. I really mean I’m sorry you let this Canuck in here. Hear that, Denton?” Brewster said menacingly, but after a silent moment, flashed a wide grin and chuckled. “Naw, fooling, natch. We’ll need you around to take pictures.”

    “Out of film,” Denton said, shrugging his shoulders. “Used the last in the islands.”

    Brewster’s face seemed to fall a moment, as if he were truly disappointed.

1910 hrs_

    Sherman and Thomas had tallied and counted every resource available to them and their truckload of personnel. The only thing that wasn’t in short supply, it seemed, was apprehension. Ammunition, weapons, even food and water-all were running dangerously low.

    “Well, this is about as fun as an FTX in the July rain,” Thomas drawled, shaking his head slowly.

    There were nine of them total that had made it out of the city in the truck. Two-thirds of the survivors were still left in the town down the road, and Sherman’s plan to rescue them was looking less and less feasible as they went over their supplies.

    “Got four full magazines, if you want to consolidate what ammunition is left,” Thomas said.

    “That’s enough to cover the point man if we decide to go forward,” Sherman replied. “But it’s a lot less than I’d like to have in case things go south on us.”

    “And that’s more than likely, given our track record,” said one of the soldiers.

    “Out of curiosity, sir, you’ve only given us a few hints about this idea of yours. If we knew more, maybe we could help out,” Thomas said. “Care to share?”

    “Well, it’s not much of a plan, per se.”

    “So what? It’s not much of a world we’re living in these days, either,” said Thomas.

    Sherman sighed. “Very well. Something you said gave me the idea-you mentioned
bait
.” He knelt and began scratching pictures in the dirt to illustrate, and went on, “Every time we’ve encountered the infected they’ve behaved in an almost predictable pattern. They’re usually dormant until someone comes too close-then they attack. They’re totally single-minded about getting to their victims, as we saw at Suez. They’ll tear themselves to pieces if it means moving an extra meter closer to their target.”

    “And?”

    “And we can use that against them,” Sherman said. “We send in a runner. Someone quick. They move into position near the theater, where Brewster and the others are trapped. When the infected see him, I’m sure they’ll give chase. The runner retreats, draws the infected away, and meets up with an armed escort somewhere outside town. We’ll leave the truck with the escort to give them the edge of speed. They kill or lose the infected, and the people trapped in the theater meet up with the rest of us while the front door is clear.”

    For a moment, no one said anything. They studied the little dirt drawing Sherman had sketched out, rubbing their chins thoughtfully.

    “Well, it’s… risky,” said one of the soldiers.

    “Risky? That’s damn near suicidal,” said another.

    “Watch it,” Thomas admonished.

    “No, it’s alright,” Sherman said, holding out a hand to stop Thomas. “All opinions are welcome.”

    “I don’t think it’s that bad of a plan at all,” said a third soldier. “I mean, it’s not a great idea. But it might work. And it’s not like we have a ton of options available to us at this point, right? But it seems to me there’s one really sticky issue, sir.”

    “What’s that?”

    “Who’s going to be the runner?”

    Again a pall fell over the group, and sideways glances were cast back and forth.

    “Yes, that is a problem, sir,” said Thomas. “Supposing we draw straws?”

    “No,” Sherman said. “We need the fastest runner we’ve got. Those infected-the ones still alive, I mean-will be moving like the wind. I’m not sending a slowpoke in there because he drew the short straw.”

    “Don’t suppose anyone here wants to volunteer?” Thomas asked, raising his eyebrows and letting his gaze move over the circle of survivors.

    No one met his eyes.

    Sherman sighed. “Alright, people, listen up. This isn’t the old Army. We’re down to the line here. I won’t lie to any of you. All of us are assets in each other’s survival. We need to work together whenever we can. Don’t hide your talents from the group. Putting your neck on the line now might not seem that appealing, but down the road someone will certainly do the same for you. So I ask you all:
anyone here a runner
?”

    The soldiers sighed and scratched their chins. Sherman looked at them expectantly, but when no one answered he shook his head in disappointment.

    “Guess we’ll have to do the straws after all-” he started to say.

    “-Wait,” said one of the soldiers. “I’m a runner. Old hobby. Not a sprinter, more of a distance guy-but I’ll give it a shot, sir.”

    “Outstanding,” Sherman said, while Thomas nodded in appreciation behind him. “What’s your name?”

    “Stiles, sir. Mark Stiles.”

    “Okay, Stiles, that’s what I like to hear. Then we’re all in agreement? We’ll give this plan a shot?”

    The soldiers, looking relieved that someone had stepped up to the task of being the runner, nodded and murmured their consent.

    “Good. Thomas, distribute the remaining ammunition. I’m going to try to get the theater on the radio and tell them what we’re cooking up. Let’s set a time and hope for the best.”

    Brewster slapped a stack of paper cups off the top of the concessions stand with one hand, sending them skittering across the floor.