The Dead Series (Book 2): Dead Is All You Get (25 page)

Got it!

As I raised it, Royce flung himself forward. I didn’t have time to think. I shot him in the face. Wailing, he fell back as I got to my feet. I crawled over to where Isaac lay coughing and helped him up.

“Don’t think I’ll make it,” Isaac said.

“What do you know? You’re a doctor.”

I found the exit and helped Isaac out of the room. Pederman, Warnick and Springer, and around twenty other Black Dragon soldiers met me in the corridor, where two more dead cops lay dead in expanding pools of blood. Toxic smoke billowed out from every doorway. Everyone was coughing.

“Thought we lost you,” Pederman said. “You okay?”

“Never better.”

“We need to get out of here. My guess is they’re waiting for us to come crawling out.”

“We have to surrender,” Warnick said.

We removed our shirts and tied them around our mouths the best we could. My eyes burned as we made our way to the front entrance. Pederman, Warnick and Springer shielded Isaac and me as the other soldiers went out first, their hands up.

“Hold your fire!” one of them said as he went out.

A torrent of automatic gunfire cut them down like matchsticks. Body armor protected his torso, but Pederman took a bullet in the arm and fell back. We dragged the others inside. Gunfire rained down on us as we scrambled away from the exit. Police cruisers filled the area inside the gate, and armed cops crouched behind the open car doors.

“I thought you said there weren’t any other cops,” I said.

Pederman sucked in air. “Hold your fire!” The gunfire continued.

“Why are they shooting?” Springer said.

“Don’t know,” Warnick said, “but this isn’t going to work.”

“Need to bring … the research,” Isaac said and passed out.

“He’s not going to make it,” Springer said.

“Shut up,” I said. “He’ll make it.” Then to Pederman, “Can’t we radio for a helicopter?”

“Radio doesn’t work—we’re too far from the command center.”

Securing the doors, we made our way back through the corridor. Remembering what Isaac had said, I returned to the lab, gathered as many external hard drives as I could carry and rejoined the others in the corridor. Up ahead I saw a sign that read
INFIRMARY
. Outside stood several large refrigerators. Inside, we found a series of small examination rooms with tables.

We carried Isaac over to one of the tables and laid him down. I ran over to the refrigerators and flung open the doors. On the shelves were bags filled with blood and plasma. I searched the blood, found what I was looking for and returned to the table.

“We’ll need this, in case we don’t make it to the hospital,” I said.

Warnick laid down his weapon and searched the drawers of the cabinets, where he found needles, syringes and rubber tourniquets. We placed everything into the first aid backpack and put the blood and plasma into a plastic cooler. Warnick threw the hard drives into another bag.

“Dave, are you sure that’s the right blood type?”

“He’s the same as me—O positive.”

“Dude, how do you know that?” Springer said.

“Trust me.”

When I was a kid, a car hit me when I was riding my bike. I had all kinds of internal injuries and I was spitting up blood. They got to me in time and stopped the bleeding. I stayed in the hospital for a couple of days. Isaac donated blood—O positive.

Warnick lifted Isaac’s eyelid and checked for a pulse. “Pulse is weak.”

“We can’t stay here,” Pederman said.

“We need to get to somewhere safe.”

“How do you suggest we do that?” Springer said. “With all those cops outside?”

“What about through the rear?” I said.

“No good. The fence goes all the way around. And there’s no rear gate.”

I wracked my brain. This was a medical facility—not an armory. Yet the last time we’d been here, Creasy had managed to get a weapon from somewhere. They must have other weapons in case of an attack.

“Come on,” I said to Springer and two other guys.

We did a quick search of the building. Towards the rear we found a room marked SUPPLIES. The door was locked.

“What do you think?”

“I don’t,” Springer said, kicking the door open.

Inside was an impressive cache of weapons—AR-15s and an assortment of handguns, shotguns and rifles. And three MilKor M32 MGL grenade launchers. I grabbed a crowbar and opened one of the wooden ammunition boxes, where I found a steel case. Inside the case lay twenty black nylon bandoliers, each holding six 40mm grenades.

“This should do it,” I said.

We carried the weapons and ammo into the infirmary, where Pederman, his arm bandaged, sat resting as Warnick monitored Isaac.

“How’s he holding up?” I said, looking at Isaac.

“He needs a hospital.”

“Looks like you’ve been busy,” Pederman said. “How do you propose we get out of here?”

“The front door,” I said.

Warnick, Pederman, Springer and I waited near the front entrance with Isaac, who was fighting to stay conscious. The plan was for us to get to our Humvee and drive to the hospital. The rest of the men were stationed on the roof, three of them carrying the grenade launchers.

As Pederman brought his radio to his face, I said a silent prayer that it would work. “What do you see up there?” he said.

A voice came back over the radio. “The cops have the front door covered. They’re waiting for us to make a break.”

“Get ready. And remember, don’t waste those grenades. One per vehicle. Do you copy?”

“Copy that.”

Pederman rubbed perspiration off his forehead and grimaced from the pain in his arm. “Fire!”

Outside, explosions broke the tense silence. Men screamed and gunfire erupted. Warnick flung the doors open so we could get out. Six police cruisers, each with a shattered windshield, burned hot from the inside. More grenades destroyed the other vehicles and sent the cops in all directions. AR-15 gunfire scattered the policemen, who retreated outside the gate, where draggers waited. The cops focused on the draggers, and that was our opening.

“You guys ready?” Pederman said.

“Do I have time for a nap?” Springer said.

We went out, firing as we ran. When our guys on the roof saw us, they redirected their fire. The Humvees were in sight. Soldiers surrounded Isaac and me as I helped him towards one of the vehicles. One of our guys fell directly in front of me, shot in the head. Someone on the roof fired and killed the shooter.

I made it inside the vehicle and waited for Warnick, Springer and Pederman to join me. Once we were all inside, I leaned Isaac gently against the backseat. Warnick started the engine and gunned it, racing out of the compound. The plan called for the rest of the guys to eliminate all cops, get to their vehicles and return to the command center. I hoped they would make it.

The road was horrible and bumpy. It was late afternoon, and the sky was darkening. Pederman rode in the front with Warnick. Springer sat in the backseat with Isaac and me. About a mile from the research facility, two black Escalades shot out of the shadows and pursued us.

“Who are these guys?” Warnick said, watching his rear view mirror.

“We need to get off this road,” Pederman said. “Dave, what do we have in the back?”

Getting closer, our pursuers began firing at us. Bullets screamed, glancing off the bulletproof rear window as I crawled into the rear of the Humvee. “More guns,” I said. “Wait—we have grenades!”

“Figure something out,” Pederman said. “And fast.”

“Springer,” I said. “Keep Isaac stable.”

“You got it.”

I grabbed one of the grenades and, clutching it, pulled the pin. I thought of Holly as I flung the door open and tossed the grenade. It bounced on the road and off to the side as the Escalades shot past it. The explosion made both vehicles veer slightly but did no real damage.

“Shit!”

There were two men in each vehicle—one driving and the other firing. I ducked back inside as bullets flew at me. My heart racing, I grabbed another grenade, pulled the pin, leaned out and threw it. Both Escalades accelerated, the lead vehicle trying to ram us. I could see the driver—a nondescript man in a grey suit and sunglasses. The grenade exploded well behind the second vehicle.

“How long is the delay?” I said.

“Five seconds!” Springer said.

I grabbed another grenade, armed it and released the spoon, but I didn’t throw it. One thousand … two thousand … three thousand. I tossed it. It bounced once and exploded directly under the lead vehicle, lifting it up in the air and sending it into the path of the trailing vehicle, which it crushed. A ball of flame shot up from the mangled frames of both cars as we raced away, but I saw one of the men pulling himself out of the wreckage.

“Whoo-hoo!” I felt amazing as I closed the rear door.

“Nice work,” Pederman said.

“Going off-road,” Warnick said. “In case any more of those government stooges show up.”

He turned off at a fire road and burst through the locked gate. We continued north into the forest. I gazed out the window studying the landscape. Something about our surroundings seemed familiar. Then it clicked.

“Hey, I know this road,” I said. “Keep heading north towards Mt. Shasta.”

“Where are we going?” Warnick said.

“Someplace safe.”

Warnick obeyed and we cruised slowly under the darkening canopy of trees for forty-five minutes or so.

“Uh, Dave …” Pederman said finally.

“Yeah, yeah. See that road? Turn right. And go slow.” We followed the road to a large clearing, its edges outlined by a circle of rocks. In the center stood a large concrete birdbath—the goddess Diana, a dead stag at her feet. “Stop here.”

I jumped out the rear and trotted up to the driver’s side.

“What is this place?” Pederman said.

As if by forest magic, a structure began to materialize from out of the shadows.

“Look,” I said, pointing.

“Aw, man,” Springer said. “It’s a house!”

A bullet whizzed past. Before we could move, a voice I recognized called out. “Drop your weapons! Lie face down on the ground!”

We followed orders and waited. A moment passed and as I lifted my head, a thin wizened man with a long white pony tail, wearing khaki cargo pants, a Hawaiian shirt and flip-flops, stepped out of the shadows pointing an AR-15 at us. He squinted at me.

“Dave Pulaski?” he said.

Guthrie Manson stood motionless.
His rheumy eyes betrayed nothing. His wife, Caramel, thin and lithe with flowing white hair, expertly started a blood transfusion for Isaac, who lay still on a bed in a guest bedroom. The last time I’d seen these two, I’d been with my friends. We’d been searching for Holly and had come here for weapons.

The old man and his wife had “dropped out” years before, living alone in the forest with their two adult sons, Frank and Jerry. It wasn’t till later I realized they were named after Frank Zappa and Jerry Garcia. This curious family grew marijuana and collected guns. Big guns. They were the poster children for aging, commune-tested hippies. Still deeply in love, Guthrie and Caramel never hesitated to share what they had with strangers, only asking in return to be left alone. Seeing these two again made me long for all the dead and gone.

I watched as Caramel tended to Isaac. She appeared to have everything—even an IV pole to hang the bag of blood. After starting the transfusion, she checked Isaac’s eyes and pulse. “He’s pretty bad. Good news is, the bullet missed his liver.”

“How long will the transfusion take?” I said.

“About four hours. In the meantime, let’s get you boys some food.”

She led us into the kitchen, where we sat at the large, familiar unfinished pine table, shaken by the day’s events. Everything was colliding. The plague, the cops and now strange men in grey suits.

“You’re all welcome to stay,” Guthrie said.

“Really kind of you,” Pederman said. “I wasn’t looking forward to driving through the forest at night.”

“You’re right about that. Besides, we got plenty of room.”

“Where are your sons?” I said.

Guthrie looked at Caramel and lowered his eyes. “Afraid we lost them.”

“I am so sorry. How did it happen?”