Rotter World (2 page)

“Damn.” Jordan averted his gaze from the wound and winced. “I’m infected.”

“Come on. Doc can fix you up.”

“It’s no use and you know it,” Jordan grunted through clenched teeth.

“At least he can give you some morphine for the pain.”

“I’ll turn before you get me back.” Jordan spit out the toothpick and placed the barrel of the Magnum against the base of his jaw. “I just hope it was worth it.”

Before Robson could stop him, Jordan pulled the trigger. His youthful features distorted grotesquely as the bullet ripped through his skull, fracturing the bones in a dozen places and splattering his brains across the wall.

From above him, Robson heard Caylee scream. She abandoned her gun mount and started crawling up the rear of the dump bed, tears streaming down her face. Robson knew if she made it to Jordan, he would never get her back onto the truck. He refused to lose two people on this rescue. Picking up the Magnum, he aimed it at Caylee. “Get back to your position.”

“I want to be with Jordan.”

“He’s dead. Get back to your position.”

“No!”

In a single move, Sultanic jumped onto the side of the Mack and vaulted over the rim of the rear dump. He scooped up Caylee in his right arm and dragged her to the front of the truck, holding her in place. She pounded her fists against his face, screaming to be released until her yelling became a pitiful sobbing. Sultanic hugged Caylee tight, as much to comfort her as to restrain her.

“Hurry up!” yelled Dravko.

Robson sprang up and raced back to the bus. Dravko offered his hand, but Robson shoved it aside as he climbed in. Dravko closed and secured the door, and then yelled up to Whitehouse. “Let’s get out of here!”

Whitehouse shifted into gear and pulled away from the building, pushing aside the rotters gathered around his cow catcher. Daytona and Clark fell in behind him. O’Bannon and Rashid climbed back into the Outback and brought up the rear.

Once the vehicles were clear of the immediate threat, Dravko sat down in the seat across from Robson. “There was nothing you could do for him.”

“Easy for you to say. It wasn’t one of yours that we lost.”

Dravko glared furiously at Robson for a moment before storming up toward the front of the bus. Robson knew Dravko was only trying to be consoling, but at this moment he did not really care.

As the rescue party pulled away, Robson took one last look at Jordan. Several rotters had already descended on the corpse in anticipation of a warm meal.

Chapter Two

The warehouse disappeared behind the hillock as the convoy raced out of the parking lot. The four vehicles rushed along the single road leading off the island and entered downtown Portsmouth near the on-ramp to the Piscataqua River Bridge, an old drawbridge dating back to the early twentieth century. Rather than cross the bridge back into Maine, which would have brought them dangerously close to the shipyard, the convoy turned left and entered the city center. Thankfully, rotter activity had long since drifted away from the downtown area. The convoy made its way south without incident to the rotary that connected the region’s main roads, swung north onto Route One, and crossed back into Maine via the 1950s-era bridge.

As the convoy raced down Route One, Robson noticed that zombie presence remained heavy around Kittery’s outlet malls, the result of the raiding party’s frequent visits during the early months of the apocalypse to the various stores to gather supplies. The rotters continued to hang around, apparently hoping that the food would return. It had been quite a while since they had last fed, so they were unusually slow and in an advanced state of decay. A few close to the road wandered out onto the asphalt, attracted by the sound of the approaching engines. Most of these were quickly dispatched by the plow blades.

A few miles beyond the outlet malls, the convoy turned onto Harley Road and navigated the circuitous country road that led to camp.

No one spoke on the ride home. The survivors from the warehouse still suffered from the shock of their ordeal. Each member of the rescue party dealt privately with their grief over losing a friend. Nor did it help that tensions remained strained between humans and vampires over the exchange of words between their respective commanders.

Eventually, the gray-haired man stood and made his way to the back of the bus and took a seat opposite Robson.

“I’m sorry about your friend. We didn’t mean to get anyone killed.”

“It’s not your fault.” Robson tried to sound convincing. Deep down he blamed everyone, especially himself, for Jordan’s death. “We all take the same risks every time we leave camp.”

“Still, he’d be alive if you hadn’t come for us.” The gray-haired man extended his hand and forced a smile. “By the way, I’m Dr. Robert Compton.”

“Mike Robson.” He gave the hand a weak pump, too physically and emotionally drained to offer a proper handshake.

“Thank you all for saving us,” Compton said loudly enough for everyone on the bus to hear. “We wouldn’t have been able to hold out much longer.”

“What were you doing in that warehouse?” asked Robson.

Compton lowered his voice. “We were ordered there.”

“By whom?”

“The government-in-exile in Omaha. They told us a military contingent had been set up at the Navy yard, and we’d be safe from the revenants until the government could figure a way to get us out.”

“They were partly right,” said Robson. “A couple of thousand people were holed up there. What they didn’t realize is that rotters can walk underwater. The ones from Portsmouth crossed under the sound one night and attacked the Navy yard on its exposed flank. Everyone was wiped out in a matter of hours. We heard it all on the short wave.”

“We didn’t know. Communications have been spotty since the East Coast fell.” Compton sighed and shook his head. “It cost us a lot of people.”

“How many?”

“When we started out, we had close to sixty. We lost seventeen to revenants and gangs along the way. A dozen of my people deserted outside of Manchester. I think they tried to make their way to Canada. The rest died at the Navy yard.”

“What happened?”

“We made it into the Navy yard without seeing any revenants. Only after we had gotten off the buses did….” Compton’s voice trailed off into a croak. He swallowed hard and continued. “The revenants were scattered among the buildings. By the time they emerged, we had wandered away from the buses. They caught us in the open. We lost twenty-one people in the first few minutes. The rest of us fought our way back to the bus and tried to escape. We got as far as downtown Portsmouth when we ran into a mass of revenants blocking the road. We turned to avoid them and became trapped on the island. A few of our party abandoned the bus and set off on foot. I don’t know if they made it. The rest of us wound up in the warehouse surrounded by revenants until you rescued us.”

Robson saw the doctor struggling to process everything that had happened to him. Pulling a lighter from his pocket, the doctor flipped the cover open and shut repeatedly, seemingly oblivious to his actions. He had a shell-shocked aura about him, typical of someone who had experienced unspeakable horrors and tried to come to grips with it. Robson had been there himself. Too many times. Thankfully, Compton did not have the thousand-yard stare, that vacant look people developed when they could no longer take the pressure and mentally shut down. Robson got the impression, however, that one or two more incidents like tonight and Compton could easily go over the edge.

“It’s okay,” said Robson. “You’re safe now.”

“Not yet.” Compton sat back in his seat. He slipped the lighter back into his pocket. The aura of despair changed into one of grim determination. “But soon we will be.”

The convoy made a brief stop just before dawn for Sultanic to dismount the Mack and join the others on the bus where the vampires covered themselves with large wool blankets for protection from the approaching daylight. The sun already had crested the horizon, evaporating the terrible uncertainty of night, when the convoy finally arrived back at camp.

“Camp” was Fort McClary, an early-eighteenth century fort that occupied twenty-five acres along the Maine coast where the Piscataqua River navigated around a series of small islands before emptying into the Atlantic. Originally one of a series of Colonial forts built to defend the harbor, the structure now offered a safe haven from which to sit out the downfall of mankind.

A ten-foot-high granite wall surrounded the compound. The southern exposure, which faced the ocean, overlooked a steep cliff that dropped almost one hundred feet to the water, making it impossible for rotters to approach from that direction. Trees surrounded the fort on the land-bound sides, blocking it from view of Route 103 that ran past the compound a hundred yards to the west and north. The camp used the security gate that blocked off the parking lot from the main road to prevent rotters from getting in, reinforcing the support posts and strengthening the gate with sheet metal. Rows of barbed wire were strung ten yards from the outer edge of the woods, far enough from the fort to prevent any stray rotters from wandering too close, and far enough from the road to prevent human passersby from noticing the defenses and becoming nosy. Every morning and late afternoon, a security detail walked the perimeter to dispose of any of the living dead that had gotten tangled up, using a crossbow to prevent the noise from attracting unwanted visitors.

Not that the camp had seen any these last few months. Located halfway between Portsmouth to the west and the beaches at York to the east, the area was relatively isolated. Fortunately for those living here, the outbreak had reached the coast in March when few tourists populated the area, so rotter activity was minimal. Even though Portsmouth and its suburbs succumbed to the outbreak in a matter of days, the living dead had never ventured away from the city in search of food, being drawn instead to the military enclave holed up at the Navy yard. Thankfully it kept the rotters out of their hair. However, now that the Navy yard had fallen, it became anyone’s guess where they would wander next.

As the convoy approached camp along Route 103, the guards manning the entrance unlocked the security gate and swung it open. The four vehicles turned off the road, entered the compound, and rolled to a stop in the parking area along the north wall. Robson noticed Natalie Bazargan standing on top of the abutment wall, scanning the entrance for rotters or human raiders that might try to swarm the open gate. Her black leather pants and jacket glistened in the sunlight. Their eyes met as the bus drove past. Robson gave her a single wave. Natalie returned the gesture with a friendly salute, and then used her hand to push several brunette strands away from her face and back behind her ear.

The gate was already closed and secured by the time everyone dismounted their vehicles. Hodges and his mechanics met the drivers as they climbed out of their cabs, asking them about any repairs that had to be made. Dravko and the other vampires, still covered by the wool blankets, darted off the bus and into the steel container that sat adjacent to the tunnel entrance and provided an emergency dark room where the vampires could sleep until nightfall. The humans trickled into camp through the rebar-reinforced wooden doors mounted on either end of a tunnel cut through the fort’s granite wall. Thompson and the other rescued survivors followed, the camp regulars promising the newcomers they would be set up with hot coffee and living quarters. Robson and Compton exited the bus last.

Paul Martin, the human commander of the camp, stood by the tunnel entrance. Of average height and build, he would have easily blended into the crowd were it not for the thick red beard. No one spoke to him as they passed. Robson harbored mixed feelings about Paul. Part of him liked and respected their commander because he cared about his people. As the principal of York High School back in the days when the niceties of civilization mattered, he had more than enough qualifications to lead the group, and his knowledge of the region had proven invaluable. Not only had he kept them alive this long, but thanks to his ingenuity, the group lived in relative comfort. Without Paul they would all be dead, if not from rotters then from starvation. Yet he took the loneliness of command shit a bit too far, always seeming aloof and out of touch. Robson found that persona unsettling.

Paul took a step forward to greet Robson as he approached. “How did it go?”

“Jordan didn’t make it.”

“Shit.” Paul closed his eyes and said a silent prayer for their fallen comrade. “What happened?”

“A rotter crawled under one of the trucks. No one saw it until after it had taken a chunk out of Jordan’s leg.”

“I’m sorry.”

“He’d been with us almost from the beginning. Closest person I had to a friend here.”

“What happened after…? I mean, did you…?”

Robson shook his head. “Jordan took his own life.”

Paul let a moment pass before asking the next question. “What about the survivors from the warehouse?”

“There were six of them. We got them all out safely.” Robson looked over his shoulder to see the doctor standing behind him. “This is Dr. Compton.”

“You can call me Robert.” Compton stepped up alongside Robson and extended his hand.

Paul clasped it and gave it a firm pump. “I’m Paul Martin, one of the leaders of the group.”

“Are you the one I spoke to on the short wave?”

“The same.”

“I can’t begin to tell you how thankful I am that you were able to save us.”

“It’s our pleasure. We can always use a few extra hands around here.” Paul gestured toward the fort. “Come on up to my office. We have a lot to talk about.”

Robson watched Paul and Compton disappear into the tunnel before following. As the two men headed for the nineteenth-century blockhouse in the center of the compound that served as the command post, Robson veered left toward the south wall where rows of steel containers served as living quarters.

Mad Dog approached from the opposite direction. A bandage spotted with soaked-through blood covered his right forearm. The man presented a macabre image, towering over everyone at camp at six-foot-three with a bald head, dark blonde goatee, and emotionless brown eyes that had witnessed things no human should have. Robson had no clue what Mad Dog had endured for he never spoke about what had happened to him before arriving here four months ago.

Mad Dog slowed as he drew closer. “How’d it go out there?”

“We rescued all six survivors, but lost Jordan to rotters.”

“Fuck that, man. Jordan was a good kid.”

“Tell me about it. I can still see—”

“Son of a fuckin’ bitch!”

The outburst took Robson aback, but not nearly as much as when Mad Dog reached for his Glock 23 and withdrew it from its holster. For a moment, Robson thought the anger was directed at him, then he noticed that Mad Dog aimed past him and toward the stairs of the blockhouse where Paul and Compton were about to enter the building. Acting on instinct, Robson reached out with his left hand, grabbed Mad Dog by the wrist, and pushed his arm down and to the left, spoiling the shot. With his right hand, he grabbed the Glock by the barrel and twisted it, yanking the weapon from Mad Dog’s grip. Robson stepped back several feet, ejected the magazine, and slipped it into his pocket. He cocked back the slide, ejecting the chambered .40 caliber round into the dirt.

Mad Dog massaged his bruised wrist. “What the fuck was that about?”

“You tell me.” Robson handed back the empty Glock. “You were going to kill Paul.”

“Fuck that, man.” Mad Dog took the weapon and slid it back into his holster. “I was aiming for Compton.”

“You know Compton?”

“Fuck yeah.” Mad Dog looked at Robson the way an aggravated father looked at a ten-year-old who could not grasp the obvious. “Compton is the fucker who created the Zombie Virus.”