Refuge From The Dead (Book 1): Lockdown (11 page)

After serving seven years of a twenty-five year sentence, he’d surprised himself. He had the chance to leave prison for the first time in nearly a decade, but after watching the undead take one city after another, he’d be crazy to leave. Hell, he wouldn’t make it very far, anyway. He was pushing sixty years old and the only thing he had to look forward to was a trip to Black Mountain. He knew when he left Steven’s Ridge Correctional Center that there was only one place to go. When you fuck up in prison, you go to Black Mountain. That was the deal. Sooner or later, he would have to make himself known, but now wasn’t the time.

Witwer edged over to the small window on the intake door. He doubted there was anyone watching the damn cameras anymore. Minimal risk. As he looked out onto the boulevard, he did see someone finally. That asshole captain was going over to Delta building with his gun on his hip, that couldn’t be a good sign.

Witwer slunk away from the window that overlooked the boulevard.
Stay put, Charlie. Now ain’t the time.

CHAPTER 17

Darkness was not being kind to Michael and Ryan. After plowing through a group of infected, they continued towards Mitchell Stadium…minus one headlight. With no time to stop and fix the issue, they had to rely on the single light source.

Mitchell Stadium was the only football stadium for the City of Bluefield, both the Virginia and West Virginia sides. During football season, the first game of the year was the fabled Graham G-Men versus the Bluefield (WV) Beavers. Graham High School was the high school for the Virginia side of Bluefield. Every year, Mitchell Stadium packed fans from both sides of the city, cheering on their respective school. Aside from hosting high school football, the stadium also held yearly concerts that brought in thousands of adoring fans from all types of music genres. When the stadium was full, it could accommodate over 12,000 people for games and over 20,000 for concerts.

The stadium had been close to a Red Cross office purely by accident. Earlier in the week, they had begun to prepare for the disaster that was the Mortui Virus. Although they couldn’t have anticipated the monumental collapse that followed, steps were taken to ensure that there would be some sort of help available to those who needed it. There was little in the way of law enforcement, and the military was too slow in acting to do anything of use. They had bigger fish to fry. The stadium was immediately overrun, leading to its current state.

Ryan parked the van below the stadium. There was plenty of room for people inside the stadium, but the parking lot for it was below and required a hundred-yard hike, depending on where you parked. Ryan managed to get the van within earshot of the football field, and that was part of the problem. Directly below the stadium was Bluefield West Virginia Rescue Squad, where Ryan parked. It was a good spot but as they got out of the van, it became evident that it was going to be a bit more difficult than he’d anticipated.

A small road led from the rescue squad building up to field level at the stadium. It wasn’t much wider than the van and had several bollards in the pavement near the entrance to keep larger vehicles from getting onto the field. That small road was littered with trash…and undead.

Michael slowly pushed the van door closed, making sure the door latched, but remaining as quiet as possible. Moving while crouched, he slipped away from the door and around to the front of the van. Ryan, Trent, and Flannigan followed, each pushing their door closed. The four men met at the front of the van. The only sound heard was the slow ticking of the still-hot engine.

Michael knelt down, laying the 870 across his lap. “Fine fucking mess this is, huh?” he whispered.

“Yeah, no shit. I don’t guess the element of surprise is on our side, is it?” Ryan asked.

“I don’t know. Seems like a crapshoot either way,” Michael replied.

“Our best chance now is to try and find the high ground, see if we can get a look on what’s going on,” Trent said.

“Yeah, good idea,” Michael said absently. His focus was elsewhere. Inevitably, the field would be full of undead and he would have to figure out some way of finding Lindsey through the mass of humanity, eventually giving up and saying ‘fuck it, she’s dead’ and move on.
Christ, what the hell am I thinking? An hour ago, you were trying to get the idea out of your head, now it’s firmly planted in there. What the fuck? Get your shit together, Michael Caine.

Michael came to a stark realization – he was nothing without Lindsey. He couldn’t plan, take action, or keep up with the day-to-day doldrums of living without her. He’d always prided himself on his mental toughness, able to come to terms with abysmal situations very quickly. He wasn’t one for making rash decisions. A younger version of Michael Caine had his heart broken and his pride quashed on more than one occasion. He was a hothead in his younger years, but the pride of a young man had given way to the wise older man.

“Look, I know you have your doubts, but we will find her, Michael,” Ryan said, reassuring him.

Michael smiled weakly. “Thanks, Helton. So, what do we reckon?”

Trent moved forward. “These creatures are attracted by sound and all we have are guns. Not exactly quiet. If we plan on getting in the stadium, we are going to have to use a little bit of stealth.”

“So are you saying to leave the guns?” Flannigan asked.

“No, not at all. There’s no sense in being unarmed. However, we need to get to the press box. It’ll be the best place to get a lay of the land, so to speak,” Trent answered.

“Good enough for me,” Michael said.

“Same here,” added Ryan.

Michael nodded and silently moved out from in front of the van. Almost immediately, what little light that the street lights afforded went out. Michael paused for a moment, waiting for the power to come back on. It did not. He swore under his breath and continued forward. Helton, Trent, and Flannigan followed. The four men moved silently across the parking lot of the rescue squad and onto the small service road leading up to the stadium. Another hundred yards ahead, and they would be field level with the football field. Then the real fun would begin. After the lights went out, so did the noise. It was amazing how much a person could get used to hearing every day, especially once those subtle nuances of sound were gone. The hum of power lines, the whoosh of a passing car, the random siren; all were absent. The only audible sounds were the undead.

Michael didn’t quite know what to make of them. Some of them growled like animals, others screamed an almost human-like screech. The combination of sounds echoed much like a tropical jungle; some could be discerned, but combined together they made an eerie discord. Fear was a natural reaction.

Michael shook it off. Determination alone wasn’t going to get him over his fears; he needed to face them head on. Fear of failure, fear of loss, fear of not being there for his loved ones. Legitimate fears, but not crippling ones. Crippling fears were phobias, like heights and enclosed spaces. His fears were ones that manifested themselves, ones that crawled into the darkest corners of the mind and hid, only to resurface at the most inopportune times. On second thought, maybe they were phobias. Maybe there was some legitimacy to irrational fears. It sure as hell seemed rational to the person it was affecting.

“I can’t see shit from here,” Ryan said, moving alongside Michael. In his daydreaming, he still moved, evidently. He couldn’t see anything, either. However, he could hear plenty.

Michael stopped just as they reached the edge of the small path. Ryan inadvertently ran into him, not expecting Michael to stop suddenly.

“What? What is it?” Ryan asked, taking a knee.

Michael pointed to a medium-sized group of infected huddled around a small building. Whatever had drawn their attention was still there, as they were adamantly pursuing it. Ryan followed his finger, squinting in the darkness, trying to see something. He saw what Michael was looking at.

“Looks like thirty or forty of ‘em. I think we got enough ammo to take ‘em, but we better pray there aren’t any more,” Ryan whispered.

“Agreed. C’mon, let’s get up to the press box and get a better look, just in case,” Michael said, stepping up the first set of bleachers. His footfalls were a little louder than he would like, but it couldn’t be helped. They needed to move quickly and the damn bleachers were made of aluminum. Add three more men tromping up the stairs and it sounded like they were all running with twelve-foot stepladders.

Michael got to the top of the bleachers and glanced out over the field. From this height, he couldn’t make out much. With the moon roughly half-full at waxing gibbous, there wasn’t much light. Any more than what nature was giving them would give them away, and they were currently as unnoticed as a hole in a shadow. They had two extra flashlights, but that would have to wait for now.

Michael led the way across the top of the bleachers to the press box. With any luck, there would be a pair of binoculars or two to help them look down on the field.
So far, so good,
Michael thought as he reached the press box door. The handle mercifully turned, opening the door. Michael swept into the room quickly, the 870 leading the way. After assuring himself the room was clear, he waved Ryan, Trent, and Flannigan inside. Flannigan gently closed the door behind him.

“All right. Now what, geniuses?” Flannigan asked.

Michael was already looking around the room for something of use. It didn’t take long for him to find a pair of binoculars. With the low light outside, it was going to be difficult to see much of anything, but he had to try. He slid one of the panels covering the window aside and looked down onto the field. On the opposite side of the field at the bottom, he could see the throng of undead that they’d eyed from ground level. Whatever they were after was still inside, alive. Alive, or at least
alive
enough
to keep their attention.

Michael pulled the binoculars away and pointed. “All right, we got some luck, finally. Looks like that group over near the visiting team’s end zone is the only one. I think that’s a bathroom if I’m not mistaken.”

“How do you know?” Ryan asked.

Michael grinned in the darkness. “Lynyrd Skynyrd concert last year. I had to piss several times in that bathroom.”

“What?” Ryan asked.

“I might have been a little drunk,” Michael said.

Ryan shook his head. Michael shrugged and stuffed the binoculars into his cargo pants. Might come in handy later. He picked up the shotgun and headed back out the door. He nearly reached the exit when Trent stopped him.

“Um…how are we going to do this? You said we wouldn’t have enough ammo to pull this off.” Trent said.

“Thirty rounds from the AR should do it. If it doesn’t, then all of us have sidearms with another fifty rounds or so. We will be fine,” Michael said. “Let’s go, my wife might be in that building.”

“Yeah, and it’s not getting any easier to see out there. We need to get the hell out of here,” Ryan said.

Michael swung the door open, again leading with the 870. From their position at the press box, their best course was to get to the end of the bleachers and behind the visiting end zone. They could easily get shots off without worrying about hitting the building from that angle. Michael stepped quickly, getting to the end of the bleachers and pounding down the aluminum stairs. Once again, a chorus of stepladders trotted down the bleachers to field level. Michael squinted as he got down to the field. It was difficult enough to see, for sure. His heart pounded harder as he got closer. Through all the chaos of the last few hours, he’d nearly forgotten how long it had been since he’d seen his beautiful wife.

As they got within fifty yards, the undead began to take notice. Within a few seconds, their attention was taken from the bathroom building and focused solely on Michael and his cohorts. What was once silent was now a cacophony of growls, snarls, and lifeless moans.

Ryan raised the AR-15. After getting out of the van, he’d switched the iron sights over to the night sights, which made the rear aperture slightly larger. Even though it made it a bit easier, it was still a pain in the ass to see through.

“Watch beyond your target! Don’t hit the building! There might be people inside!” Michael yelled.

Ryan stopped and took aim. Squeezing the trigger slowly, it surprised him when it went off. One infected fell. He squeezed again, with the same result. Squeeze, recoil, adjust, and repeat. After the first ten rounds or so, it became much easier. Ryan hadn’t been a Marine for quite some time, but once the routine of shooting took hold, it came back to him quickly.
Every Marine is a rifleman
, his Drill Instructors used to say. It didn’t matter if you were MARSOC or a quartermaster doing laundry, you were a rifleman first.

Ryan ran through the first thirty rounds faster than he expected. As slow as the infected were, they were persistent bastards. Ryan dropped the mag and grabbed for another.

“Reloading!” Ryan said.

Michael, Trent, and Flannigan didn’t wait for him to reload. Each man had been trained to fire in low light situations, so it wasn’t a total crapshoot. The three men quickly turned ammo into smoke and noise, dropping the remainder of the undead around the door. They couldn’t see the result of their handiwork, but they could definitely smell it. The smell of decay and brain matter had a very distinct – albeit horrible – odor. They stepped over the remains of the slaughtered undead, trying to get to the building to investigate. A familiar voice cried out as they got within a few feet.

“Hey! Help us!” came a voice from inside the building.

It was Lindsey.