Mountain Man - 01 (16 page)

“What? You see something?”

“In the driveway. A Dee.”

“Dee?”

“Dee for dead. Dead fucker.”

“Drive on, then. I’ve picked these houses.”

“Roger that,” Scott said.

“We’re going to a new subdivision. That place where I ran over you is picked clean,” Gus told him.

“Yeah, you did run over me, didn’t you?” Scott tugged on his beard.

“In the best possible way, I figure. Anyway, time to get to a new area. I think there’s a fire department around there, too. Might just be able to find some of that stuff you were talking about.”

“Sounds good.”

“If anything,” Gus continued, “we can grab it and save it for another time. I got spares of most things back at the house. Problem is going to be finding places to stash it all.”

“Worry about that when it happens.”

“Yeah.”

They drove along a two-lane strip which Gus knew ran the length of the valley. More deserted vehicles crowded the road and even the sidewalks, forcing them to slow down, but the driving was clear going in some places. Rotting debris lay everywhere, black and soggy. Gus looked out his side window, gazing up at the high elms and watching the sun through their bare, upraised limbs. More battered and deserted houses lined both sides of the street. A school with the charred bodies of two school buses on the parking lot passed his field of vision.

“You ever miss the old days?” Gus asked over the growl of the engine.

“You have to ask?”

Gus took his time before answering. “No. I guess not.”

The road turned into small dips and rises, just steep enough to feel it in the stomach. Just ahead, on the left, stood what Gus knew to be the fire station, behind a series of posts whose signs had been ripped down. The two-story concrete building had a pair of dented red bay doors. A third smaller door for the offices and dormitory was located to the left of them. A pickup had crashed into one corner of the building, wrecking its front. Gus wondered what the hell had been on the driver’s mind to jump the curb on that side and lose control. Despite the crash, the station looked very much intact. Like most other places in the city, the unchecked grass rose up to almost thigh level.

Scott looked at Gus. “Drive right to the door?”

“Yeah, but back ’er up.”

Nodding, Scott did just that. He rolled down his window and stuck his head out. The beast did a ninety degree turn and stopped perhaps a meter away from the office door. The engine died with a flick of Scott’s wrist.

In the stillness, Gus took a breath and stared ahead. Scott glanced over at him and waited.

“Okay,” Gus finally said. “You wait here, and I’ll be back shortly.”

He got up from his seat, holstered his bat across his back, and took the loaded shotgun down from the rack. He stuffed the pockets of his leather jacket full of red shells. Once ready, he went to the rear of the van.

“Be careful, man,” Scott called.

Gus paused at the rear. It had been a very long time since anyone had told him to be careful. It was nice to hear. He opened the rear door, and jumped to the pavement. He closed the door and looked through the windows of the fire station door. Office area. Counters. Lots of debris and dark. Several of the windows on the far side had been curtained. Gus didn’t like that. He brought up his shotgun and held it with one hand while turning the knob.

The door opened, and a zombie filled the crack as smoothly as a target popping up on a firing range, jolting Gus from his head all the way to his ankles. The thing moaned as it pawed at Gus’s visor, and then its chest exploded, and it flew backward. Before he could control himself, Gus stepped into the office, pumped another shell into the shotgun’s chamber, and destroyed the creature’s head. A second monster rose from behind a red counter, still wearing the filthy remains of a white uniform. Gus blew its head off with one shot. Two more undead shuffled from the hallway, lifting their arms and pointing, as if accusing him of living. He took his time with those. Checking the corners to make sure nothing else was in the area, he took aim at the corpses and fired twice, dropping both gimps in their tracks, the ejector of his weapon spitting out the spent red plastic casings.

Scowling, Gus rapidly reloaded, looking about for any further trouble. His breathing was loud in his ears. Once he pushed the fourth shell into his shotgun, he chambered a round and brought it to shoulder level. Realizing he was trembling slightly, he eased back outside and saw Scott sticking his head out of the driver’s window.

“You okay?” Scott asked, perhaps louder than he should have.

Gus raised his hand in reply and went back in.

He had a choice of going left or right. He chose left and gingerly opened the door to the dark apparatus bays where two gleaming red fire trucks waited. Gus slipped carefully into the bay, noting the open lockers at the far end. He moved up and down one truck and then the other, searching for gimps. Stooping and checking underneath the machines, he returned to the lockers and the coats hanging from metal hooks. Gus reached out and touched one of the black Nomex coats, feeling the grainy texture of the material. A yellow horizontal stripe covered the front and back of the coat, with additional yellow rings around the sleeves. He picked up what looked to be ninja masks, marvelled at them for a moment, and dropped them back on a bench. Stepping back, he counted twenty lockers, complete with boots, coats, and pants, as well as multiple gear racks containing rolled-up hoses and other equipment. There was no way he could take all of what he wanted, and he still hadn’t checked out the rest of the station. He declared the bay clear in his mind, looking around and not seeing the fire pole or hole in the ceiling he thought might exist. Times had changed for the station, he figured.

Gus walked back to the office area and proceeded past the counter and desks, ignoring the smell of the corpses on the floor. He went down a hall draped with paper notifications and moved into a common area, complete with large table and chairs. Opposite the table lay a worn brown sofa set, complete with plush chairs. A map of Annapolis hung on the wall, major routes and roads all highlighted and clearly marked. For a moment, he didn’t understand why the trucks were still in the bay along with the equipment, but then he realized why. In the final days, people were turning into gimps so fast, the fighters simply couldn’t respond to all of the calls and gave up.

Adjusting the shotgun stock against his shoulder, Gus moved into a sleeping quarters area where two small rooms contained a single cot each. He then found a kitchen and refrigerator. He opened the fridge and winced at the prunish, green-black sludge that was once some manner of vegetable. A milk carton and four cans of cola remained on the upper shelf, but nothing else edible. He left it all and moved out of the kitchen. Readying himself for something wholly unpleasant, he went into the women’s and men’s washrooms, but found them all empty. Another closed door revealed the supply closet, and Gus smiled at an untouched tower of individually wrapped toilet paper.
Anal gold
, he thought.

Shotgun forward, he went up a set of stairs.

Squeak
.

He stopped on the second step, the noise making him cringe as if he’d been goosed. He looked up and saw that the staircase turned to the left. Panel wood covered the walls, making it dark, and numerous historic pictures of the station hung along its length, showing happier times in both Kodak color and ancient-looking black and white.

Nothing appeared on the stairs.

Gus took another step.

Squark
.

Squueee
.

Jesus Christ
, Gus swore mentally. It sounded like mice farting. Nothing moved from above, however, and sensing it was okay, he climbed the steps faster. The wood squealed as he went up, pissing him off enough that he hoped there was something at the top to shoot.

No such luck, however, as he entered a cozy living area stuffed with more historical items. Old bronze fire extinguishers hung from the walls, as did old firemen hats, gloves, and posters. Signs of various colors with street names and a poster of the movie
Backdraft
hung over a beaten sofa. The place had a comfortable clubhouse feel to it, and Gus could imagine the men and women serving in the station retiring up there for a moment to unwind and shoot the shit. Some old paperbacks filled a small two-shelf bookcase, but Gus left them there, seeing the name Jackie Collins on the top cover.

As far as he could tell, the place was clear.

They would have to work fast.

It was too goddamn quiet outside.

The sound of his own impatient breathing was driving Scott nuts. Not only did he expect to see a mob of deadheads rounding the corner, he found himself looking out his open window to check if anything was creeping up on him. Like that fucker Tenner. Scott shook his head and wished he’d paid more attention to what was happening behind him in the house when he had been shot. Never again would he be taken in such a way, he swore, never fucking again. His fingers did an irregular drum roll on the steering wheel, and he checked his window again. It was the shooting, he knew, that had him going. Gus blowing the hell out of the dead inside had shaken up his nerves, and he was struggling with bringing them back down. He reached up and adjusted his motorcycle helmet, a black one with lightning bolts streaking down both sides. He looked both ways on the street, the asphalt shining in the sun, and didn’t see anything approaching. Sunlight came into the van at an angle, making him squint. He took another deep breath and willed himself to calm down, but
what the fuck was taking the man so long?
Did it take fifteen minutes to clear a building? Was he in trouble? He ached to sound the horn on the beast, just for the grounding comfort it would bring him. Where the hell was Gus? Should he go in? No, he told himself, that wasn’t the plan. That
wasn’t
the plan.

Then he saw them.

Stark and morbid in the glare of the day, the dead staggered up the road from the left, shuffling along as if each step might shatter a leg. Their clothes were black, stained, and filthy. He could clearly see their dark flesh, and soon would see their unseeing eyes. One of them wore once-dorky summer shorts and a T-shirt, oblivious to the change in the weather. Another looked to be a barefoot young woman in a mini-skirt, her long gray legs covered with black sores. Children stumbled into the picture, and Scott winced as if shot once more. He hated the children the worst. Hated putting them down. They creeped the hell out of him. He counted eight corpses, perhaps fifty meters away and closing. Scott had his shotgun hung in a rack nearby. He looked out his side window and almost knocked foreheads with Gus as he appeared.

“Jesus Christ!” Scott burst out.

“Sorry, man,” Gus replied, his shotgun lowered. “You got me, too.”

“Oh, Jesus Christ. I think I shit myself. Jesus Christ. I just shit myself. I know I did.”

“Calm down.”

In reply, Scott jabbed a flat hand out of his window in the direction of the gathering dead. Gus flipped up his visor. The putrid smell of rotting flesh crept in, and Scott actually gagged.

“Keep it down!” Gus whispered harshly. “Don’t you puke.”

“I ain’t gonna puke, but Christ, the smell.” Scott placed his helmet-covered forehead against the steering wheel and took deep breaths.

“We can’t stay here now,” Gus said. “Start it up.”

Nodding weakly, Scott turned the key as Gus hurried around the front of the van. The dead shifted toward them, a shambling tide of wrecked flesh. At least forty were in sight, and Scott choked as he rolled up his window.

Gus jumped into the van, throwing his bat and scabbard into one of the open bins before going back and securing the rear door. He returned to his seat and fastened his belt, electing to keep a hold of his shotgun.

The beast growled as a shot of gas went through its system.

“Where the fuck do they come from?” Scott asked.

“I think they just walk and walk and walk,” Gus said, watching as the road filled. “Get us out of here. Go right. We can find another subdivision.”

The undead tide closed in as the van pulled away from the fire station with a lurch. Scott took his foot off the gas, cursing himself for stomping on the metal. Beside him, Gus pointed the shotgun toward the roof, as his free hand came forward and rested against the dash.

“Don’t drive us into the curb!” Gus yelled.

Scott yanked the wheel, sending the van into a fishtail. He got the machine under control and raced away from the crowd of zombies. “How many people lived in Annapolis?”

“More than we have shells. More than we can kill with our bats.”

“What kinda answer is that? Two hundred thousand? Three?”

Gus shook his head. “Only a hundred thousand. Feel better?”

Scott shook his head.

“We’ll come back later, when the area’s died down. Drive straight here. I’ll tell you when to turn.”

“We headin’ back to the house?”

Gus shook his head. “No, too early. A waste of time to go back now. Like I said, we’ll find another place. Turn down here.”