Surviving the Dead 03: Warrior Within (26 page)

And they had learned to be quiet. Damned quiet.

The dog staring at me from across a narrow expanse of field had the chest and head of a mastiff, but the long legs of a Great Dane. It probably weighed every bit of two-hundred pounds, and I was reasonably certain it could fit my entire head in its mouth if it really tried.

We watched each other for a minute or two, neither of us willing to make the first move. His head was high in the air, and his tail—a long one, not the short, clipped variety—waved slowly at half-mast. The big creature made no sign of aggression, but he didn’t seem interested in backing down either. There was a steadiness in his posture that spoke of eagerness, almost like a puppy poised to run after a stick the instant before it’s thrown. Looking closely, I could see that his hide was crisscrossed with scars around the neck and snout, and hard, striated muscle rippled along his flanks. This dog had seen his share of fights, and he was definitely not starving.

That meant two things: He wasn’t afraid of a good scrap, and he wasn’t alone. Dogs hunt in packs or they go hungry. This monstrosity didn’t look like he’d missed too many meals.

“Well, we can’t just stand here all day.”

The dog lowered its head when I spoke. Although I’m no expert on doggie facial expressions, I could swear he was glaring belligerently. Testing the waters, I took a single step forward, and switched the Ruger to my left hand, leaving my right free to draw the pistol on my chest. For a beast like this, a .22 wasn’t going to do much more than piss him off. The nine-mil was the better option.

“Listen, partner, I don’t know what your game is, but I don’t have time for it.” I slipped the CZ into my hand, flicked the safety to the off position, and fell into a one-handed shooting stance. “Either make a move or be on your way.”

The massive head came down even further, and this time the black-furred lips curled away from white, glistening fangs. A growl that sounded like an idling diesel engine rumbled from his chest, and he let out a low chuffing sound. I heard scrambling noises behind him, and three more dogs came around from behind the shed.

“Fuck me.”

Two of them were unidentifiable mutts, albeit large ones. The last one had the distinctive dark coat, broad chest, and bullet-shaped head of a Rottweiler. They fanned out around the large mastiff and began trying to encircle me.

“Oh, hell no.”

Figuring that he must be the pack leader, I raised the pistol and put a round into the dirt directly in front of the big mastiff’s feet. The report startled them, and they all backed off a few steps, ears back and tails down. I stepped forward into the breach, puffing myself up and raising my voice.

“I don’t want to kill you, but I will if you make me.”

We all stopped and stood still for a few seconds, each side waiting for the other to make a move. Sensing hesitation on their part, I shouted like a gunshot, “GET OUTTA HERE!”

Whether I broke their nerve, or if they were just smart enough to realize how much danger all the noise had put them in, I don’t know. But they turned and took off for the trees at the edge of the yard, and that was good enough for me. I waited until they were well out of sight and the sound of their running had faded into the distance before relaxing. I holstered the CZ, lashed the Ruger to my pack, and switched to the M-4. Between wild dogs, and the big critter that had stalked me earlier in the day, I wasn’t trusting my life to a little .22 any longer.

Soldiers like firepower for a reason.

*****

As I got nearer to my destination, I began to see signs of the large predator following me again.

The fields I had crossed earlier in the morning gave way to a dense, crowded forest that blocked out what little warmth the sun had to offer. Summer’s green had long ago dried up, turned brown, and fallen to the forest floor, which meant that the beast following me had little in the way of cover. Occasionally, I saw movement in the stillness, and heard the crunch of something heavy as it walked over crisp, crackling leaves. My heart beat faster, and I quickened my pace.

Finally, as the sun was sinking low and the horizon simmered down to an angry magenta, I spotted the small cluster of buildings that would be my stopping point for the night. Halting in the middle of the road, I cast a glance behind me and listened carefully. The trees were still, with nary a breeze to sway their skeletal arms, and the birds chirped away unabated.

“If it’s a fight you want, you’d better come on out now,” I called into the woods. “I plan on being behind a closed door by nightfall, so if you’re looking for trouble, now’s the time to do something about it.”

The forest had no comment.

I covered the last few miles at a runner’s pace, and arrived just as the last red-streaked clouds darkened into a somber blue. Ahead of me, the sign that welcomed visitors to town shared the roadside with a pair of opposing gas stations, one on either side of the highway. I stopped between them and surveyed the leavings of a long-ago carnage.

As Grayson had described, dead bodies littered the pavement for hundreds of yards in all directions. A man could barely take two steps without tripping over one. They had mostly rotted away, but there was still enough tissue left on their bones to raise an outrageous stink. It hung wet and sticky in the air, a nauseating, unrelenting miasma. I adjusted my scarf over my nose and mouth, and began picking my way toward one of the few businesses that had not been burned down or looted—a furniture store.

All of the corpses around me were the handiwork of the Free Legion, which several months ago had decided to use this town as a fallback point, clearing out the infected population. Ironically, I was to be the beneficiary of their hard work.

The front door to the furniture store was closed, but not locked. Grayson had taken the bell off the door the last time he was here, so there was no ringing jingle to announce my entrance. After a quick pause to check behind me, I closed the door, locked the deadbolt, and then pushed a large chest of drawers in front of it. It wasn’t much of a barrier, but anything breaking through it would have to make a hell of a racket, which would give me at least a few moments’ warning. In dangerous situations, you always take whatever advantages you can get, even the small ones.

I moved quickly through rows of sofas and love seats, turned a corner around a king-size bed, and went through a door leading to the upstairs portion of the building. The stairway had been hacked away—just as Grayson had said it would be—all the way up to the first landing where the stairs switched directions. Legion workers had nailed a couple of crossbeam supports just below the landing, and covered them with a sturdy, rough-hewn two-by-six. It was a crude but effective way to make the upper levels of a building walker-proof.

I tossed my pack and my weapons up, then turned my back to the wall so that the two-by-six was above and in front of me. Reaching up, I did a half pull-up while raising my feet and kicking over my head as I pulled. My torso hit the landing just below the chest, forcing me to shimmy backward to keep from falling over the edge.

As I stood up, an acute, visceral tension drained out of me, and I was able to stand a little straighter. I felt this way every time I had closed the gate behind me at my old cabin, and every time I stepped through the heavily guarded entrance to Hollow Rock.

Like most people, I felt the danger posed by the infected as a constant, unyielding pressure. A fear like a low-banked fire, ready to flare up at any moment. This fear was good for survival, but if felt for too long it could begin to wear away at a person’s sanity. A place like this, a refuge from the legions of undead, was like a back massage for the mind. For just a little while, I could stop worrying about at least one threat.

I climbed the remaining stairs and went through the door to what used to be the store’s administrative office. It was a large room, nearly as big as the showroom downstairs. The largest portion boasted a fine teak desk, a leather chair, expensive carpets, cherry-stained bookshelves, and a few large file cabinets in the corner. Prints of English horsemen on foxhunts and lounging ladies in Victorian-era dress adorned the walls, along with a few pieces of the more modern, mass-produced artwork that would have been available downstairs. All in all, not a bad place to catch a few winks. I had certainly slept in worse places.

Although well-appointed, the office was dusty as hell. I climbed back down into the showroom to strip a set of sheets from one of the larger beds so that I would have a relatively clean place to bed down for the night. The sheets went over a thick Persian carpet, over which I laid out my bedroll. That done, I pushed the leather chair over to one of the large windows and stared out at the street that ran through the middle of town.

After the day’s exertions, sitting down in a comfortable chair was just next door to heaven. Muscles that I had not realized were tense suddenly relaxed, and I was tempted to simply lean back and go to sleep right where I was. Resisting that urge, I fished the map I had recovered earlier in the day from my pack, spun the chair around so that my back was to the window, and clicked on my flashlight.

Half an hour went by as I studied it. The sullen blue haze outside the window darkened into the fullness of night, and as exhaustion sank its claws into me, the lines on the map grew blurry. I refolded it, and was about to stash it, when I caught the last four words on one of the notes Morrow had left. It was the name of the town I was in, followed by “Morrison Family Restaurant.” Beside it was the symbol that Morrow used for a weapons cache. A small W with a circle around it.

“No way,” I muttered. “Too fucking easy.”

My weariness forgotten, I took an LED headlamp out of my backpack, fitted it over my headscarf, grabbed the M-4 and the CZ, and left the furniture store at a fast walk. The lamp lit the way down the grisly street as I went two blocks down, barely restraining the urge to run. At the restaurant, there was a chain and a padlock on the door, but the lock pick Gabe had given me took care of that problem in short order.

Inside, the restaurant was stripped and empty. No chairs, no tables, even the condiments and salt and pepper shakers had been taken. A counter ran along the back of the restaurant, and I spied a swinging double-door that led to the kitchen. I took a few steps inside and did a quick search to check for booby traps. Sure enough, just in front of the entrance to the kitchen, I spotted a tripwire connected to some kind of homemade pipe bomb with a shotgun-shell trigger. I slipped a finger over the triggering mechanism, snipped the wire, and then pried the shotgun shell out of the tube. Inside the pipe was a large amount of what looked like Pyrodex powder, and enough ball bearings to shred a grizzly bear.

“Well, at least they locked the door.”

I took the bomb outside and poured the powder and bearings out onto the grass. Back inside, I eased my way into the kitchen, wary of more traps. The kitchen had also been stripped bare, except for a large stainless steel table in the center of the room. There was another padlock on the door to the refrigerator.

Like before, I checked for traps and found another of the crude bombs wired to the top of the door beneath a ventilation hood where it was difficult to see. I disarmed it, picked the lock, and slowly opened the stainless steel door.

Inside, the shelving was still in place, but rather than holding boxes of frozen french fries and hamburger patties, there were wooden crates with Chinese symbols printed on them. Stepping inside, I shined my light around and saw a number of cardboard boxes stacked near the back. One of them was open, and I saw the brassy reflection of a Mason jar lid. 

The wooden crates were nailed shut, so I left long enough to retrieve my crowbar from the furniture store, and then pried one of them open. Inside the crate, lying in neat, staggered rows, were a dozen AK-47 assault rifles. I took one of them out and looked it over. It looked like every other AK I had ever seen, made of wood and heavy steel, with simple iron sights and a long, banana-shaped magazine. The writing on the receiver was easily recognizable as Chinese characters. Some of the writing on the box, however, was different.

I shined the light on a piece of paper stapled to the front. It looked like some kind of shipping label, and unlike Chinese glyphs, the writing on it was blockish rather than spidery. It definitely was not Japanese—I’d traveled to Japan a couple of times when I was younger, and I would have recognized Kanji, Hiragana, or Katakana—so maybe Korean? Having never been to Korea I couldn’t be sure, but it seemed like a logical assumption.

Not having any use for the weapon, I put it back in the crate and continued searching. There were ten more crates full of rifles, and an equal number filled with twenty-round boxes of ammunition. The writing on the ammunition crates was Cyrillic, meaning they were clearly of Russian origin.

“So, we got Chinese rifles, Korean shipping manifests, and Russian-made ammo.” I reasoned aloud, shining my light on the crates. “Where the hell did you Legion guys get this stuff?”

That was the million-dollar question.

The rest of the cache yielded first-aid supplies, vacuum-sealed bags of some kind of jerked meat, and cardboard boxes full of vegetables canned in Mason jars. I didn’t quite trust the jerky, but the seals on the jars were intact, so I grabbed a couple filled with cubed potatoes and carrots and set them aside. Behind a stack of boxes in the back, I found two small propane grills, and a canister of fuel for each one.