Plague World (Ashley Parker Novel) (24 page)

“But then Prophet Muhammad, peace be upon him, cast out all the idols and restored the shrine that Father Ibrahim and Ismail, peace be unto them, had rebuilt. This was the very shrine built by the first man, Prophet Sayyidina Adam, peace be upon him, which had been destroyed by the Great Flood in the time of the Prophet Noah ibn Lamik, peace be upon—”

“Shit!”

Aziz’s involuntary cry startled the pilgrims near him. Many of them gasped.

Omar’s eyes blazed as he turned to the youth in shock and anger.

“God have mercy on your parents’ ears!” he said. “What devil provoked such an outburst?”

Aziz held up his cell phone.

“It’s all over!” he replied, his voice shaking. “The zombie outbreak is everywhere! Riyadh, Jeddah… they’re even here in Mecca now. Fuck! We’ve got to get the hell out of here!”

Faces went pale, and the neat prayer lines began to dissolve. Murmuring grew in volume until it became hard to hear.

Omar, however, stiffened in outrage.

“Leave this place? Ridiculous! Where could you be safer?” He pushed through the distressed worshippers to the corner of the Kaaba itself, and raised his voice as loud as he could. “Do you truly think the Preserver, the Subduer, the Source of Peace and Safety would forsake us here?

“Zombies?” he continued. “Ha! The Holy Qur’an tells us they are subject to the will of the Master of the Day of Judgment!”

It was Aziz’s turn to stare in shock.

“What? Are you kidding?”

Omar nodded solemnly. “In the name of Allah, the Beneficent, the Merciful,” he said loudly, “in the 54th Sura, Surat Al-Qamar, the Sura of the Moon, Almighty God the Resurrector tells us the Hour has drawn near and the moon has split. If they see a sign they turn away, saying ‘There is no end to this witchcraft!’ They have denied the truth and followed their whims and desires, but everything has its time. News has come to them which contains a threat: consummate wisdom—but warnings are profitless. Turn away from them then!

“On the Day the Summoner calls them to something unspeakably terrible, they will emerge from their graves with downcast eyes, like swarming locusts, necks outstretched, eyes transfixed, rushing headlong to the Summoner. The disbelievers will say, ‘This is a pitiless day!’”

All of the pilgrims within earshot raised their arms and voices to heaven.

“Allàhu Akbar!” they called, again and again a chorus of triumph that sounded—at least to Aziz—increasingly desperate.

Higher pitched, almost like screams.

Wait
, he thought.
Those
are
screams!

Waves of panic passed through the crowd as an unseen commotion rippled toward the shrine. Suddenly the sea of white-clad pilgrims broke before an onslaught of red-stained ones. Men, women, and children tried to escape, but there was no place to go in the crush of bodies.

“My brothers and sisters! I beg you! Be calm! Don’t—” Omar’s plea was cut off as a man, naked and bloodied, emerged from the Kaaba’s black curtains and seized him from behind. Omar tried to scream as the thing bit him on the cheek, and began gnawing away.

Aziz wheeled from the sight and bolted for an exit. All around him men and women fled in terror, many falling to the ground to be trampled to death, or worse. His eyes wet with fear, Aziz kept running as fast as he could, not even daring to stop and help the fallen. As he ran, he heard the recording on the mosque’s loudspeaker was now repeating in a broken loop.

“La ‘ilaha ‘illa—,”

“La ‘ilaha ‘illa—,”

There is no god…

There is no god.

I swam back to consciousness slowly, head and heart pounding with equal fury. Nothing says ‘special’ like waking up to a headache and a panic attack at the same time. I was also so thirsty I would have killed for a sip of water.

I tried taking in some deep breaths, but the air was warm and stale and I couldn’t get a decent lungful of oxygen. My arm hurt where that bastard Griff had injected me with some sort of knockout drug.

I would so kill his ass when I found him.

I tried sitting up, thinking that might help, but my head immediately smacked into a hard surface. When I reached out, my hands met unyielding metal. I could barely move my legs and arms, and the air became staler with each frantic inhalation I drew.

Ohgodohgodohgod…
That bastard had left me to die in some sort of airless coffin. Visions of Edgar Allen Poe filled my head, along with those horrible drawings of cholera victims who’d been buried alive. I so didn’t want to die that way.

I slammed my hands on the surface above me, hyperventilating as I tried to punch my way through. All I achieved were sore hands, a lurching stomach, and my head pounding even worse than it had when I woke up.

Okay. Calm down.

Through sheer force of will, I made myself stop panicking. I lay still for a few moments and focused on breathing. Once I calmed down, I noticed there was a little bit of air coming from my right, so I turned my head in that direction and pulled as much fresh air as possible into my lungs until the spinning in my head and pounding in my brain both stopped.

When it felt as if I could move without my head exploding, I reached out my hands again, but slowly this time, feeling my way around the perimeter of my prison. It wasn’t a box, it wasn’t a coffin… in fact, I seemed to be sharing it with some blankets. My fingers found a latch near my left hip. I tugged at it and was rewarded with a click as a hatch opened upward. Immediately the darkness was slightly less complete as my vision adjusted enough to see shapes, and then some detail.

I very carefully swung my legs out over the edge, ducked my head so I wouldn’t hit the top lip of the hatch, and peered out into a cement-walled room lined with storage bins piled about four feet off the ground, looking a lot like the overhead compartments on airplanes. At least Griff had tucked me into one with blankets instead of, say, cutlery. I’d make sure to thank him for his consideration after I knocked his teeth in.

As the muzziness in my brain started to clear, it occurred to me the last sounds I’d heard had been gunfire and screaming. My friends and teammates needed my help. So I lowered myself to the floor as carefully as I could. Nevertheless, the impact as my feet hit unyielding concrete sent bolts of pain through my head. My stomach gave a lurch, but I managed to keep everything inside.

What the hell had that bastard shot me up with?

And how long had I been out?

I was gonna go all Benihana on his ass with my katana when I—

Then it hit me. A quick pat down confirmed that not only was my katana gone, but I was also missing my M4 and my squirrel gun. Griff had either overlooked or decided to leave me with my tanto and my Ruger. The arming equivalent of a pity fuck.

He’s a dead man.

I leaned over, hands resting on my knees, and took a few deep, steadying breaths, letting the oxygen rush through my body and clear out the cobwebs left by the sedative. After what could have been five or fifteen minutes—I couldn’t really tell—I finally felt like I could make it down the hall without rebounding off the walls.

Pulling out my tanto, I walked unsteadily over the door, turning the knob and shoving. It opened easily, and I found myself in a hallway. There were a few bare bulbs, and when I looked at the floor, I saw multiple footprints in the dust, confirming that it was the same one we had followed earlier. I stood there for a minute, just listening. No gunfire, no explosions, no screams. Just… moans, and the distinct sound of flesh being ripped apart.

Somehow zombies had breached the facility.

I clutched my tanto and reminded myself of how many zombies I’d killed with it, then set forth back down the hall, hoping against hope that Lil would be back, or, at the very least Simone, Nathan and the rest would be holding their own.

The smell of cordite and copper grew stronger as I neared the bathrooms. I paused as I reached the door leading into the main room of the facility. I put my ear to the door and listened, my heart sinking as the moans of zombies grew louder.

This could not be good.

I slowly pushed the door open. The hot copper tang of blood, combined with the stench of necrosis and shit nearly overwhelmed me as I stepped inside the room. My heart, already in my throat, sunk down into my toes.

The room was an abattoir, blood and viscera smeared and scattered on the floor, tabletops, and cots. The only movement came from the dozen or so zombies crouching over bodies or bumping about the room aimlessly, their smorgasbord now cold and unappetizing.

A few were too badly mutilated to do more than crawl or twitch on the ground. I killed those with my tanto before the rest even noticed my presence. Then it was like someone lit a huge neon sign above my head, saying “Live meat! Tasty treat!”

Maybe it was because I was fueled with righteous rage, but despite my headache and nausea, not one of the zoms could touch me. I would have loved having my katana for this, but I made do with the tanto, punching the tip of the blade in and out of eye sockets with an efficiency that bordered on robotic. Fingers clutched at me. My feet kicked spent brass as I dodged them and did my job.

After I’d dispatched the last one, I took a closer look at the victims, and recognized some of the civilians who’d taken refuge here, the poor bastards. Then I came face to face with an undead Gunsy Twin, either David or Jones—I’d never been able to tell them apart. The right side of his jaw was missing so that his teeth now showed through.

He reached for me.

I swallowed and put my blade through his brain.

More began to stir around the room, as the virus took effect. I tried to blur out the features and narrow my vision to the kill point, because I didn’t know what I might do if faced with Simone, Tony, Nathan, or Gentry. Any hesitation would result in my death.

No, I needed to stay alive.

Someone had to pay.

I had no idea how long it took, but suddenly I realized I was the only person who was moving. Only then did I let myself really look at the fallen. I steeled myself for the worst, moving from corpse to corpse with dread in my heart. It wasn’t too long, however, before it became apparent none of the wild cards were among the fallen. Neither were Carl and Red Shirt. In fact, the only members of our team in the room were the Gunsy Twins.

Damn.
They’d saved our asses several times, at the risk of their own.

It finally caught up with them.
They deserved something better than…

And then I noticed something odd. The one lying next to the table had a bullet wound in his forehead, as well as others around his body. His corpse was the only one showing any signs of ballistic trauma. He was also the only person in the room who hadn’t turned.

Looking closer, I spotted something about half an inch long sticking out of his shoulder. I knelt by the corpse and carefully pulled the thing out. It was a mini dart of some sort, lodged between Kevlar plates. It hadn’t penetrated his skin.

I immediately searched the other Gunsy Twin, the one who’d turned—I’m pretty sure it was Davis. He had another of the same type of dart sticking out of his neck, embedded deep in the flesh. A quick examination of a half dozen other bodies turned up nothing.

A scenario began to come together in my head.

Odds were that these darts had been treated with the same kind of stuff Griff had used on me. Davis and Jones had presented the most immediate threat, and they’d been taken out of the picture. But the dart that hit Jones hadn’t struck home, and someone had been forced to use good old-fashioned bullets. He’d been gnawed on after the fact, but he hadn’t turned.

But why weren’t Carl and Red Shirt among the fallen?

Whoever had breached our refuge had taken Simone, Nathan, Gentry, and Tony—probably knowing they were wild cards. Which meant someone had ratted us out. My money was on Griff.

Continuing my head count, I discovered that Aimee, Grace, and Appel weren’t there, either.

Curiouser and curiouser.
Could they have been in on it? But why would Appel bother to save all those civilians, only to let them be slaughtered? It didn’t add up and the whole conundrum made my head hurt worse than it already had.

A moan from the kitchen caught my ear. I strode toward the door as another zombie—formerly an older man in his Sunday best—moved toward me, arms outstretched. I dispatched it quickly and moved through the doorway, spotting an open door on the other side of the room. The other back door—the one that was impossible to find… unless you knew what to look for.

More moans echoed from that corridor, and I crossed to the door. Slamming it shut, I threw the bolt lock on it. The one
someone
had unlatched earlier. If it had stayed locked, everyone who’d taken refuge here would have been safe.

I swore to myself that if it
was
Griff, I’d kill him a piece at a time.

Hell, whoever it was, I’d kill them very slowly without any regrets.

At least that’s what I told myself.

I went back into the main room, trying not to gag on the richly concentrated odors of death. The stench seemed heavier now, probably because I wasn’t focused on killing.

Exhaustion and dehydration hit me like a double fist to the head. Little fireflies swam in my vision and the room started to spin. I sank to the ground, head between my legs as I fought my body’s desire to give in to unconsciousness. I took deep breaths through my mouth, trying to filter out the smells.

Now was not a good time to remember that smell was particulate.

When the spinning subsided enough to let me stand up without falling back down, I went back into the kitchen and found some bottled water. I drank a sixteen-ounce bottle down in two gulps, twisting the cap off a second and sipping it while I considered my options.

Part of me… most of me… desperately wanted to find Lil and make sure she was safe, but the more pragmatic part of my brain knew I needed to prioritize the original mission—to get Gabriel and Dr. Albert back. Most likely my fellow wild cards had been taken to where they were being held, so it looked like I’d be making my way to Cabrillo Point.