The Rising Dead (6 page)

He'd been surprised to learn that North Las Vegas was practically a wasteland when he'd taken the job offer. He'd figured being so close to Nellis Air Force Base would mean the neighborhood would be kept up. He'd figured wrong. Sunrise Manor was about as close to a South of the Border hellhole as he'd ever seen. It was perfect for what he was looking for. He'd picked his apartment complex very carefully, with several criteria in mind. It was a run down flop house filled with burnouts and rowdy college students who partied day and night. The rent was dirt cheap. If something broke you either fixed it yourself or learned to live with it. The landlord looked like the cousin of one of the guys he'd spent the last few years hunting down and killing. He spoke almost no English and refused to live on site. The kids had nicknamed it the Thunderdome. Cops didn't even bother responding to calls unless there were shots fired and sometimes not even then. Gunner fit right in. Most of the tenants were scared shitless of him and left him well alone.

His unit was directly above an unused storage area with a steel door. Gunner promptly walled it up then rigged it with explosives for good measure. Next he paid a bunch of day laborers to tear out a hole in his bedroom floor and tunnel down to it. He let them keep what they found down there, which mostly amounted to valuable scrap. He sealed up the passage with a set of padlocked steel door. He kept the key around his neck at all times. He slid his bed back over it. No one ever asked him what he was building. No one asked him anything.

He'd managed to stash all sorts of freeze dried and canned food, protein bars, weapons, water, medical supplies, guns and ammo -everything he could ever want or need, right under his ratty ass apartment. So while everyone else was scrambling around looking for gas or water, stuck on the road in traffic, or fighting in parking lots over the last pack of Twinkies on the planet, Gunner would be safe and sound with his backup generator humming. He had enough resources to keep up to ten people alive for the duration of an extended emergency. He'd installed a few cameras as well, so he could see what was happening, who was coming for him. Most of them were on the inside of his apartment but a couple were strategically placed around Thunderdome hallways. It was hard to disguise them and the idiot kids who partied there would likely destroy them in a drunker stupor for sport if they noticed them. He mocked up one as a broken fire alarm and another as a sprinkler set into the ceiling.

He'd had nightmares about being forced down into the command center by nuclear war. It was one of the few things that scared him anymore. Once or twice a week he'd dream about seeing a blast of light and a mushroom cloud off in the distance towards California, heading his way. Over time the nightmares had come to be a relief of sorts, since usually when he closed his eyes all he saw was his last day of combat.

I should have died there in Iraq
, he thought.
My ghost should be wandering in that desert, not this one.

They said his memory would come back in time, but they didn't warn him about the vivid dreams that would come along with it. He'd been woken up by nightmares for years: him chained to a bed while doctors injected things into him, then running in the desert, his buddies being gunned down all around him while leaking rockets blazed past him in the night--covering his skin with a slick oil that left him burning and itching all over, nearly paralyzing him.

The dreams always ended the same way with the air rushing past him as the first wave of rockets hit the ground about a mile beyond--and then exploding, lighting up everything and turning night into day. Every single time, without exception, he woke up drenched in sweat, screaming, clutching the gun he kept under his pillow tightly in his right hand. After the third “new” girlfriend in a row left, he'd stopped dating altogether. It was probably for the best. One less person to look out for also meant one less person to bear the loss of when the shit eventually hit the fan.

The biggest part of him died back there in the desert. Gunner knew that all along. The person he was now--walking, talking, sitting, sleeping--was just the leftover shell. He was just waiting for the right time to die, looking for a way to give his final moments some meaning.

After he was discharged, they tried to get him to talk to a shrink at the V.A. but Gunner couldn't bring himself to do it. No matter how many times they told him ‘it didn't make him less of a man,’ Gunner refused. Time after time he told them to shove it.

Once you let weakness creep in, once you let your guard down, you're a goner. That much I know for sure.

He'd paid a heavy price to learn that lesson. He'd seen it first hand in Iraq, watching friends and warriors die because they’d stopped to give children candy or began to feel compassion for the people they were trying to liberate. Besides, he'd always been raised to be self-sufficient. He wasn't one of those guys who whined about his problems to his coworkers. He didn't appreciate it when they tried to get overly personal with him either. Self-pity was a worthless and dangerous emotion. There was no way Gunner was going to cry about his problems to some stranger, much less let them write down everything he was thinking. He might as well put a bullet in his head now.

He took one last look at the monitors in front of him, making sure the grounds were safe. Zymetech Biolabs was comprised of a sprawling network of bland white research buildings on one side and a three story glass office building on the other. In the middle were a series of parks crisscrossed with bridges and 'fun zones' for executives to blow off steam. What the genius architect who came up with the concept hadn't planned on was having UNLV students constantly stirring up trouble because of his blueprint. The jackass thought it would lower stress and create a healthy work environment. So far all it had done was
increase
Gunner's daily stress, chasing these jerk off kids around. He could see two of them working their way onto the grass at that very moment. Idiots. No one in the real world cared about Shakespeare or Women's Studies. As far as Gunner was concerned, college existed as a way for parents to get someone else to babysit their ill-mannered and overly coddled children until they were old enough to fend for themselves.

The rotating banner ad on his open laptop screen caught his attention for a second. He'd always been a fan of the site
Inside Conspiracies
, the same way he'd always loved chat boards, back from when the internet was just one big thread--the BBS--but lately he'd found himself reading them
obsessively
. Something was off and he could feel it, the way an animal could sense a coming earthquake or an old injury could predict a change in the weather. The site flashed as the page automatically reloaded itself. The new headline ominously read “Is the End of the World Imminent?”
Maybe,
he thought. Now was as good a time as any. Every day things just seemed to get a little bit worse.

Just then there was movement on the monitors. He sat up quickly, dropping his reading material onto the floor and unintentionally wheeling his chair over the thin, treasured newsprint in the process, tearing some of it loose. A group of students with headbands were running between buildings with brightly colored toy guns. They could be seen swerving in and out of a small cluster of baffled scientists.

“Goddamn,” he muttered, grabbing for his walkie. “Torres, this is Base Leader. I've got unauthorized activity out on the grounds. Do you copy?”

There was no response. One of the kids on the main monitor bumped into a girl carrying some paperwork, knocking her over. He didn't even bother to try to help her up, much less gather the scattered contents. Instead, he turned and ran as another kid with a gas mask chased after him. War games. That's what they called it. Live action role playing. What did these kids know about war? He gritted his teeth in anger.

Gunner didn't get it. It was one thing to act this way as a young kid, to play fireman or cop or soldier, and another to do it as a legal-aged adult. If they wanted to experience what it felt like to be a soldier they should just enlist, as far as he was concerned. Part of him wished it was mandatory for young adults to give two years of service to their country. It was what the vast majority of these
wastoids
really needed--to be whipped into shape and shown what it meant to be a man. Running around goofing off with a fake gun and pretending to kill each other was about the least useful thing he could imagine. Let them see real war, up close and personal, blood and guts. Then they might show some respect. In combat, there were no time outs or do-overs. You only got one chance to do it right and any mistake would result in the death of you or your friends, or both.

“Punks,” Gunner shouted at the screen. “What's going on?”

The radio in his hand gave off a loud squawk as it came to life, snippets of a breathless voice coming through static.

“We've got a situation here... looks like a half naked man... on PCP got onto the grounds. We are intercepting near south... I'm almost on top of him.”

He heard the rustling of clothes as the security officer said something to the perp. A low growl echoed out of the walkie followed by a loud scream that sent icy chills through Gunner then eerie silence again. Someone had gotten Torres! But who? And why?

Gunner turned to the monitors. He couldn't even see the kids anymore, but given the kind of sissies most of them were, he was fairly certain they weren't the real cause of the commotion. It had to be something else, something urgent. Could they have been a distraction used by terrorists to divert his attention? This wasn't happening, not on his watch! He clutched at his radio, his pulse quickening.

“Torres! Where are you? Ramirez, you read me? What's happening out there?”

Gunner could feel his adrenaline level rising and he reminded himself to control his breathing and not to panic. Staying calm and in control was the most important thing to remember in a crisis.

Cool and calculated,
he told himself.

A thin voice came through his radio as he exhaled a long deep breath. It belonged to his other deputy, a wiry Mexican kid with ropy muscles and jailhouse tattoos named Jorge Ramirez. How he'd managed a full tour of duty was beyond Gunner. Guy looked like the Taco Bell dog, not a soldier. He liked to goof off too much for Gunner's taste and was always pushing the limits, always testing him. Now, when the chips were down, Gunner was eager to see what he was made of. Ramirez sounded scared and shaky.

“He's dead Gunner.
Dios mio
.”

Gunner could almost see the fear in Ramirez's soft coffee eyes through the radio. He pictured him superstitiously making the sign of the cross over himself, as if that would do any good. Gunner had seen many men die praying to a God that never heard or responded to their pitiful prayers. He scanned the monitors again but still there was no sign of trouble. Where could they be?

“I can't see you on the cameras, Ramirez. Where are you? I'm coming!”

“He just tore out his throat, Gunner,” he replied. “He's coming back. Holy shit! No! Get the fuck back!”

A loud growl ripped through the radio like a wild beast, then sharp feedback covered up the sound of a man screaming and shots being fired. Then the radio went silent again. A calm descended over Gunner, just like it used to before he went into battle. It was finally here. This was what he had been waiting for and he knew his moment had arrived.

“Sons of bitches,” he muttered, shaking his head as a tiny, ironic smile creased his lips. “I knew it. I knew the day would come.”

Gunner reached down to his gun belt and pulled up his baby, an HK USP .45. He marveled at it, turning it over in his hands as he fed a fresh clip into it. It truly was beautiful. In Iraq he'd relied on his Sig P226, a heavy, sturdy gun that occasionally jammed on him, especially with all the dirt and sand and dust. HK didn't have the .45 model back then and the Army had relied on the Sig for years. Once he got home he wasted no time ordering himself a brand spanking new one. It worked like a dream. It was perfect. He'd been bringing it to work now for nearly a year, waiting for a day like today. He knew he'd need it eventually and he wanted to be ready.

Gunner chambered a round, trying to fight back the smile that wanted to burst out onto his face like a flower reaching up toward the light of the sun. His moment had finally come, and he was ready for it.

CHAPTER FIVE

They’d been driving for what felt like hours when Donovan pulled into the quiet suburban neighborhood of Summerlin where Poppy lived, far from the madness of Paradise road, far from Thunderdome, and far from the Strip. She propped herself up to see the line of identical looking homes as he pulled onto her street. It didn't look familiar but she knew this was her street from the sign. She had been in and out of consciousness the entire trip, heavy waves of sleep pulling her under into horrific nightmares that made her wake up screaming and thrashing. After the first hour of this, Donovan stopped asking if she was okay. Her sweat had soaked through her clothing and she was pretty sure she had a fever.

“We're almost there, baby,” Donovan said, trying to sound supportive. “Almost home. Don't you worry. Soon, you’ll be in bed with a couple of painkillers in you and this will all be over.”

He really is the greatest boyfriend
, she thought to herself.

The car pulled into a high driveway. Donovan shut off the engine and turned to Poppy.

“I still think we should get you checked out,” he said, the wrinkles in his furrowed brow belied his calm tone. The thought of sitting in the waiting room for hours seemed like torture to her. No. All she needed was some of his vicodin and a whole lot of sleep.

“Take me inside,” she croaked, her voice sounding deep and alien.

Donovan did what she asked, but it was clear he wasn't happy about it. Minutes later she was undressed and in bed. He was propping her head up and handing her pills and a fresh glass of water. The cool of the glass felt almost as amazing as the water going down. It seemed like her insides were on fire. She gulped the water down in between breaths and he brought her more, encouraged by her responsiveness. Soon she was being dragged down again, down into the chaotic riot inside of her. In her fever-ridden dreams she was fighting with shadow people, hundreds of them. As soon as she killed one, another appeared. They seemed to be multiplying faster than she could kill them. They were overtaking her; each passing minute they had more control, and she was less herself and more of
them
, somehow. Her thoughts were growing fuzzy, as if she were drunk. She was having trouble concentrating. Everything seemed distant and far away.