Hellifax (26 page)

They went into her room––another office waiting area with a leather sofa draped in grey blankets, which resembled more of a neat nest than a reception area. She walked to the desk, slapping her elbow and knee pads as she went, ensuring they were in place. From a corner she picked up a small protective vest, white and heavily padded.

“Don’t like putting this thing on,” she said as she pulled it on. “Squishes my boobs.”

Scott didn’t comment and looked out the only window in the place. A view of Halifax Harbour lay beyond, shaded by the clouds.

“You knew about Tenner,” he finally said.

“Yeah. Well, I suspected.”

“You didn’t say anything earlier, when we first met.” Scott turned to face her.

Amy didn’t back down. “Didn’t know for certain, is all. Didn’t want to get your hopes up. Sorry if I did anything wrong.”

Scott reflected on it. Had she done anything wrong? No, he supposed. She really hadn’t. She was only making sure that
he
was sure.

“I thought there was something weird about him,” Amy stated. “Pretty much from the first day we met. I’m good at getting vibes from people, and he had a bad one. Not like you.”

“I have a good vibe?”

“Something like that. You never… well… you look me in the eyes when you talk. He wouldn’t. He’d… look at other things.”

“Like what?”

“My girly parts.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. Oh. And he’d do it in a slimy way, too. I made it a point not to be alone with him. Even talked about it with Vick. He knew. But, well, that was all. I meant to confront him if he really got weird about it.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“We started scouting for things, and he was either gone when I was back or vice versa.”

Scott nodded and looked back to the harbor. If she noticed his sudden uncomfortable silence, she didn’t show it. Amy resumed fitting the vest over her snowsuit and, once secured, produced what looked to be a riot helmet with a clear visor.

“You won’t be able to wear your mask over that,” Scott observed.

“Tired of the mask anyway,” she said and pulled the dark hood over her head. The helmet went on next.

“Heavy padding,” Scott said, indicating the vest. “Where you get that?”

“Tae Kwon Do gear. Vick used to run a school.”

Scott felt his face go slack in surprise, and Amy saw it.

“Who do you think has made it this far? If people don’t have any special training or skills, they’re pretty lucky. That’s the way we see it, anyway.”

“I don’t have any special training.”

“Except hockey.”

Scott smiled sheepishly, remembering. “Minor hockey.”

“Oh.” Amy kept a straight face. “Even better. Well, you’re one of the lucky ones.” She grabbed her tonfas. “Which is to say, very lucky. We had a conversation on that very subject one night. We figure anyone who’s left alive and survived up to this point isn’t your average person. Some might be survivalists, some might have some training, or even ex-military.”

“Buckle that?”

Amy didn’t answer right away. “No, he’s a cop.”

“A cop?”

“Yeah, ex-RCMP.”

“Shit.”

“He was based in Newfoundland, but got transferred to Nova Scotia. Attended university down in the Valley, I think he said. Anyway, let’s get going.”

Scott followed her to another room where cardboard boxes were stacked almost chest high. MEAL, READY-TO-EAT were stamped on the sides, as well as the different kinds inside. Roast chicken, beef, spaghetti and meat balls, even meat loaf, and those were just the ones he spotted in a glance. Plastic four liter jugs of water were stored on shelving units nearby.

“Wow,” he said.

“Something, eh?” Amy said, opening her backpack and placing a jug of water inside. “We found about two months’ worth of food here. And water. Moving it all was the biggest obstacle. MREs last for years.”

Scott opened a box of roast beef and eyed several metallic, re-sealable baggy units.

“Get some water, too,” Amy told him as he started transferring the bags to his backpack.

The sound of boots made Scott turn around. Vick and Buckle stood just outside the doorway, waiting their turn at the food and water stores. Both wore black body armor over their snow suits, with high sturdy collars to protect their necks. Padding was strapped to their elbows and knees, and both wore the same type of battle helmet Amy wore, complete with matching black masks. Scott figured the armor to be Kevlar or whatever material soldiers wore in the field. The armor protected their limbs to a degree, Scott saw, but the thick snow suits would probably also save them from a bite long enough to put down the attacker.

“You guys all shop at the same place?” Scott asked.

“Looks that way, doesn’t it?” Vick answered. “Plenty to go around if you want an extra suit. Formally make you part of the group.”

Scott inspected their protection, then looked at his own Nomex coat and pants. “No, thanks. This is fine.”

“Good idea,” Buckle said with a deep nasal sound to his voice. “Your gear’s got overall better protection, I think. And it’s fireproof, if you feel the need to light yourself up anytime.”

“Why didn’t we check out the fire stations?” Vick asked Buckle.

“
You
wanted to play soldier,” Buckle reminded him.

“Finished,” Amy announced and made her way to them, getting her backpack on in place. “You’re sounding worse.”

“Me?” Buckle asked.

“Yeah, you.”

“Tenner broke me nose, ’member?” Buckle replied. “Got more blanket in there. The last one got saturated. Got it in both nostrils now.”

“Ew,” Amy stated.

“Yeah, fuckin’ ew.” Buckle scoffed in agreement.

“We’ll have to come back here,” Vick said, changing the subject.

“Yeah,” Amy agreed, her expression hidden behind the black mask. “Sometime.”

Buckle and Scott exchanged places. “Better not’ve hogged all the meat loaf,” the Newfoundlander warned him as he went past.

They finished loading what they could comfortably carry in food and water and left the room. Next they picked up their camouflage, Moe-stained ponchos that reeked, stinking up the room.

“Gonna have to reapply these,” Vick said as he threw his poncho over his head. A ripped T-shirt went on next, covering almost all of his face plate. Amy and Buckle did the same. A moment later, Amy motioned Scott to bend over while she placed a similar shirt over his motorcycle helmet.

“This was Sam’s. Yours now.”

Scott nodded.

“You got ammo for that shotgun of yours?” Vick asked him.

“Yeah, in my pockets.”

“That’s fine, just don’t use it unless you have to. That Glock is better if you have to.”

“Ruger,” Scott corrected him.

“Whatever. We don’t kill Moe unless we have to. Got it?”

“Got it.”

Vick seemed satisfied with that and turned to the others. “I’m ready. You guys?”

“Ready, me son,” Buckle said in his gruff-turned-nasal voice.

“Ready,” Amy echoed.

“Me, too,” Scott threw in.

Vick appraised them all for a moment, his dark eyes the only part visible through the masks he wore, and brought his length of steel pipe to his shoulder. Seconds passed and he still made no move to leave.

“You okay?” Amy asked him.

The man with the steel pipe hesitated. “Just figured… there would be more of us leaving this place, is all,” he finished with a half-shrug.

The silence that came after his words was almost solemn.

“All right, then,” Vick finally said, as if convincing himself that all would be well. “Let’s get it on.”

Having finally reached the top of the stairs, Tenner felt like shit. He was in good shape, but running that last distance, the adrenaline dump, and climbing a mountain of stairs had taken a lot out of him. Pausing at the closed metal door only long enough to ensure that nothing was coming after him, he turned and strode through a short stone passageway, toward an archway of brick, snow, and light. He emerged from the tunnel into a wide, wintry courtyard as large as a football field. Thick brick walls rose up to ramparts and slick-looking concrete platforms. Artillery emplacements ringed the heights, and Tenner had gone up there to see where Purdy’s Wharf was situated and to look out over Halifax Harbour, as well as the city behind the old fortress. Several buildings in the Citadel possessed shaggy white plumes of withered grass, bent over from the weight of snow and ice. Trucks, jeeps, and even four frosty-looking green tanks filled the open space before him, creating a ragged maze of metallic lumps. Bodies lay scattered throughout, some fresher than others—all soldiers and all dead. When Tenner came upon the fort, there were perhaps three dozen turned soldiers that sought to devour him. No Philistines these, as they wore full battle suits and proved to be a challenge even for Tenner. Most of the soldiers wore helmets that were resistant to his Glocks, so he killed them with his ceremonial knives––sinking the blades into brains by way of stabbing up under chins. The flesh was frozen, and gouging it with a length of steel felt strange to Tenner, as if he were stabbing stout slush, but they died all the same. It merely took a little more effort on his part.

Then he got to searching.

The Army had chosen well in positioning a sizeable force on Citadel Hill. The grounds around the fort were cleared and grassy, giving the defenders the best shot at any dead thing attempting to walk up the slopes. Though the grounds where draped in deep snow, crooked arms and torsos were still visible from the rampart heights, where snipers and machine guns had wreaked second-death upon the advancing legions of zombies on a mesmerizing scale. Whatever battles fought were all for naught, unfortunately, for the virus had finally penetrated the fort and wrecked deadly havoc from within. Tenner had no idea what the timeline might have been, from the time the Army barricaded itself in the fort to the time it finally fell, but he suspected it had been at least a year.

He didn’t really care.

All he cared about… were the toys.

He moved through the clutter of tanks and other military vehicles. The tanks he’d inspected first, but for reasons unknown, they would not start for him. The jeeps also would not start, and the mechanical riddles of their engines only made him scratch his head. The weapon systems were likewise a puzzle and, exposed to the elements for as long as they were, he left them alone. Sidearms and all manner of assault rifles lay on the frozen dirt, half-buried in white drifts; some even had detached hands, forearm bones gnawed clean, clutching grips. He left those. Empty casings filled with and partially obscured by snow were sprinkled just about everywhere underfoot—shiny leftovers from a final firefight. Some were his, but most were not. There were even some untouched box magazines left in the open, which Tenner left behind. Whatever was in the courtyard would stay in the courtyard.

Tenner arrived at an archway set into a stone building, where a smaller door was inset into a larger garage frame. He grasped the old-fashioned latch on the wooden door and opened it. He stepped just inside the threshold and smiled.

The room was a storage chamber of sorts. Three crates of carefully sealed and packaged AR-20s, the Canadian Forces assault rifle of choice, lay atop one another. He knew they were the upgraded version of the AR-15 tactical carbine. One crate’s weapons came with attached laser designator sighting systems, as well as fitted grenade launchers. Another crate contained rifles with scopes, without any further bells and whistles. For some reason, Tenner preferred the simpler designs. There were side arms and futuristic submachine guns of a manner beyond his understanding. One crate contained what he believed to be light machine guns from the folded-up bipods underneath their fluted barrels, ugly-looking snakes that could no doubt rip out whole chunks of flesh. Another crate held several small wooden boxes filled with black egg-sized grenades, dimpled for improved grip. Even better, there were crates filled with intact magazines––several thousand rounds if Tenner wasn’t mistaken.

The harbor-front armoury had been wrecked. He hadn’t been lying about that to the others.

But it didn’t matter.

He’d found everything he’d wanted in the fort.

Just in time, too. The week he spent below the hill had almost depleted his stores of ammunition. Forays to the national armory, street searches, and fighting dead things had placed a strain on the supplies he’d brought with him in the SUV. That had been an adventure in itself. But he’d done it.

Even better, he’d done it only days before meeting up with his living, breathing toys, grown from the finest stock. He had intended to lead them on for as long as he could without raising suspicions. Take them out, one by one if possible, on patrols or searches for other survivors in the city. The very thought of looking for survivors had made him scoff secretly when they had suggested it. The city was a scorched battleground populated only by the reanimated dead, but whatever kept up their hopes. Even watching them eat the food untouched by the Army, supplies he considered rightfully
his
, had been quite difficult to do. There were enough MREs about to feed a single person for a year, perhaps even two if he was extremely conservative. Tenner had helped transfer boxes of supplies from Purdy’s Wharf to their van, but he’d mentally vowed none of it would leave the area. Though he was no mechanic, it didn’t take any skill to disconnect a few wires and hoses in the engine, then rig a grenade to the inside of the hood. He had even listened to Amy talk about going back to basics and the need to grow their own food, but the thought of working a farm had made him sick. However, Tenner believed keeping up morale was a good thing and a useful carrot to lead the mule with. So he continued listening to them, inwardly marvelling at his ability to act like a normal person, to actually
blend in
with them. Over time, he’d gotten to know them. Vick was the fatherly type and obviously thought the world of Amy. Buckle was the enforcer and, with his police training, was potentially a bigger threat than Vick, whom Tenner understood had taught martial arts for a living before the demise of civilization. Shaffer was the loudmouth cynic, probably a bully back in the day, the kind of asshole a person would despise having to work with day in and out. Sam and Tickle were merely dogs following their leaders. Tenner had, in fact, considered Sam to be his next plaything, before changing his mind and deciding on Shaffer. He’d thought of lashing the loudmouth to a telephone pole and allowing the dead to feed upon his lower extremities, the same as he’d done to Tickle. He’d also come up with another idea. There were craters out there. Perhaps binding Shaffer with duct tape and burying him in snow up to his neck would be fun. Of course he’d notify
Moe
that dinner was in the fridge and waiting.