Patient Z (15 page)

“But we all have it in us. Some of us are just better at holding it in check.”

“Because we’re gay?”

“I doubt that,” Mitch said. “No, we’ve made a choice, you and I. That we’re still civilized men, despite what’s happened.”

“You don’t know enough about me to know that. I’m no saint. I’ve killed to survive out there, and not only zombies.”

“But you didn’t go around enslaving the weak and the helpless. You’ve agreed to be one of our defenders. You came with us today. You’re still a civilized man, Cal.”

Cal bent over and dropped a small kiss on Mitch’s lips. Would Mitch change his mind one day when he knew more about Cal? Right now it felt good to have his respect.

“It’s something we have to pass on, though,” Mitch said, clearly on a roll with the subject, his eyes burning and intense.

“Pass on?”

“To the boys here. Make sure they know they don’t have to be savages, like Ethan and the others.”

“You really think you can train it out of them?” Cal found it unlikely.

“It can be done. It has to be done. What’s the alternative? Savagery?”

“The world is savage again, Mitch.”

“It doesn’t have to be. Not forever. The zombies will be gone eventually, and we’ll find a new home ashore.”

“Right.” Cal rubbed his thumb gently across Mitch’s cheek. “Any plans for when?”

“When it’s safe.”

“That could be a while.”

“Then it’s a while. But one day it will happen. We’ll take the world back. And make it better than before.”

Wow
. Cal had believed Mitch was just a cop trying to protect his little group until someone stronger came along and took them away. He hadn’t realized he had himself a man whose ambition was to build a new world.

Chapter Fifteen

They took a larger group when they went ashore two weeks later—Mitch and Cal and ten of the soldiers, including crack-shot Tanya. Bren remained behind on the rig, in charge of its defense.

They went in two boats—the
Cora
and one about the same length, but with no cabin, just a big empty deck space, for the supplies they’d be hauling back. This would be a major shopping spree, bringing back enough food, medical supplies, and ammunition to maybe see them right through to spring.

Shortly after dawn the boats tied up at a small jetty, and the group disembarked, straight into combat mode, rifles out, on guard for zombies or humans.

“How do we get into the city?” Cal asked. “Shouldn’t we have just gone directly to LA?”

“The docks around LA are way too dangerous,” Mitch said. “A gang of…well, not nice folks like us were controlling the area last time we were near it. Worse than zombies. We’re going in overland.” He stopped in front of a large shed near the jetty and to Cal’s surprise took out a key to unlock the padlock on the door.

“What’s in here?” Cal asked. “Your secret weapon?”

“One of them.” Mitch opened the door with a flourish, then grimaced as a couple of the girls shoved past him.

“Mitch!” Tanya protested. “Gotta be more careful than that.”

“Ah, yes, sorry. Need to check it first.”

Cal grinned at him. “Drama meets real life.” But he was impressed by what he saw in the shed. A truck, clearly military—a deuce and a half, he’d heard it called. And beside that an SUV. As his eyes adjusted to the dark inside, Cal saw that the truck had US Army markings. Its sides had been given what looked like improvised armor plating, with shutters over slits for firing out of. Its bed was high off the ground. The perfect vehicle for travel through a zombie-infested wasteland.

These were valuable vehicles, and Cal realized how seriously the group took them when they began to unlock heavy chains from around the axles. The chains attached to iron rings sunk into the floor. Both vehicles also had locks on their steering wheels. Mitch and his people weren’t risking the smallest chance of losing them to anyone.

“Let’s grab some gas and fill up,” Mitch said.

“I’ve got it,” Tanya said. “Cal, help me out.”

He followed her into a smaller shed beside the large one. It was full of cans of gasoline stacked around the walls and in the middle of the floor.

“Shit, a spark in here and they’d see the explosion back on the rig,” Cal said. “It should have no-smoking signs for about a five-mile radius.”

“I know,” Tanya said. “Makes me nervous even being in here. Let’s get done quick.”

They filled the gas tanks of the truck and the SUV, put some spare containers into the truck, and locked up the gasoline dump again.

Cal expected Mitch to drive the truck. But he took the SUV, and Blanca took the wheel of the truck. Cal joined Mitch, and a couple of girls sat in the back. Tanya, second in command on this mission, went in the truck, and when Cal looked back at it as they drove out, he saw another modification they’d made. They’d added a trapdoor to the roof of the cab, allowing Tanya to stand up with her rifle, ready to pick off anything she didn’t like the look of. She wouldn’t be as accurate as she would with a solid place to stand, but Cal wouldn’t want to be the zombie in her sights. He kept his window open and his rifle to hand as they drove.

“We stay off the highways,” Mitch said. “Too many wrecks and sometimes bandits.”

“Bandits.” Jessica, one of the medics, muttered the word from the backseat, shaking her head. She wasn’t disputing Mitch’s words; she seemed to be expressing her despair at the fact she lived in a world where bandits were something she had to deal with. But she did. They all did. Cal hadn’t really thought of them with that particular word in his travels before he came to the rig. But yeah, “bandits” was the word.

“Be on the alert,” Mitch told him. “The back roads have their dangers too.”

The drive took a few hours, and the sun was climbing toward noon when they reached central LA.

“We heading for the hospital?” Cal asked.

“There’s one call I want to make first,” Mitch said. He picked up the radio to call the truck. “Tanya, you read?”

 “Here, Mitch.”

“I thought we’d drop in on the professor, see what he has to report. Any objections?

 “None. We’re up for that.”

“Okay. Stay close.”

 “Roger that.”

Cal raised an eyebrow. “The professor?”

“You’ll see.”

Twenty minutes later, they were pulling up on the sweeping driveway to a building Cal recognized as a major art museum. He’d been here before—museums were free, and he could often meet some of the type of men he sought out in them.

Not likely this time. They approached the main entrance. Its doors were closed and its windows shuttered. Numerous dead zombies, in various states of decay, were strewn around the grass outside the museum. Someone around here was a good shot.

“Is this the time to look at art?” Cal asked as they parked by the entrance and scaled some wide, shallow steps to the door. It had writing on it, in fading marker pen. PULL and an arrow pointing at a rope. Mitch pulled.

“Now what?” Cal asked.

“Wait a moment. He’s not as spry as he used to be.”

“You’re just enjoying being mysterious, aren’t you?” Cal said. Mitch grinned.

Tanya joined them by the door. “I’ll set a guard detail out here,” she said. “And send a forage party to the gift shop to pick up anything that might be useful.”

“In an art museum gift shop?” Cal didn’t think they were the most practical places to shop for survival gear.

“T-shirts,” Mitch said. “Hoodies, baseball caps. And stuff for the kids, for the schoolroom. Books, pens, pencils, notebooks, toys—”

“Okay, I get the picture. You think of everything.”

“We try.”

Cal jumped back as a panel slid across the door, like the museum had become a speakeasy. The first thing that poked out was a rifle. Cal grabbed Mitch and pulled him to the side.

“Stand farther back and let me see you, please,” a man called from inside. It was a cultured voice, and Cal noted the “please.” He didn’t much like it when Mitch stepped away from him and into the line of fire.

“Professor, it’s Mitch Kennedy.”

“Mitch!” Now the tone was delighted. The rifle withdrew from the hatch, which closed. After a lot of clanking and crashing on the other side, the door opened. A man in his sixties stood in the doorway, dressed in odd layers of clothes but topped with a tweed jacket with leather patches on the elbows.

“Come in, come in,” he said. As the group entered, leaving three outside to guard the vehicles, he smoothed down his long mop of white hair. “Goodness me, hello, ladies. Do excuse my appearance. I wasn’t expecting visitors.” Mitch and Cal went in last, and the man shook Mitch’s hand vigorously. “Always a pleasure, Mr. Kennedy. How are things at your end?”

“We’re surviving. We’re here on a supply run, so thought we’d check up on you.”

“Of course. Always appreciated. Always appreciated. And this is someone new.” He smiled at Cal.

“Calvin Richardson,” Mitch said. “He joined us recently. Cal, this is Professor Gombrich.”

“Calvin, hello. Good to meet you.” Cal shook Gombrich’s hand, determined to give Mitch some earache over this weirdness later. What the hell was this guy doing living in an art museum? “Very interesting face,” Gombrich said, studying Cal, even bringing out a pair of spectacles to do so. “Strong features. And those eyebrows! Hmm, yes, I could see you in a Velasquez, young man. Yes, indeed.”

“I was never really one for designer suits,” Cal said.

Gombrich chuckled. “Witty too. Very good. Come along,” the professor said. “I’ll make some tea.” He hurried off through the grand foyer of the gallery. Some of the team headed to the gift shop as Tanya had ordered. The rest of them followed Gombrich through the large galleries. Dust covers hung over the paintings on the walls. The floors were dusty, with some debris, but paths had been swept and trodden along the middle of each one.

“What’s this about, Mitch?” Cal asked. “Who is this guy?”

“He used to work here, and after the apocalypse he refused to leave. He says someone has to be here to guard the pictures.”

“Him?” Cal said, incredulous. Though he recalled the remains outside. Perhaps some hadn’t been zombies. And the professor did carry a rifle. “Do people want to steal art? I mean, why bother? Who would they sell it to?”

“It’s more about keeping it from getting damaged. He believes someone has to preserve our culture for posterity, until civilization comes back.”

“Ah, an optimist.” No wonder Mitch got along with him. They kept following until they reached a gallery that had a balcony. There had once been wooden steps up to it, but they’d long since been chopped down. Now it was reached by a ladder. They followed Gombrich up the ladder to the balcony.

This was his living area. It had a mattress and blankets in one corner and a kitchen setup in the other. Various belongings were kept neatly in boxes. Cal supposed the old guy hadn’t been able to get much furniture up here even before he’d destroyed his stairs.

“I’m quite comfortable here,” Gombrich said, seeing Cal looking around. “Water from a collection tank on the roof. No mains power, of course. But I make do.” He put a pan of water onto a large camping stove. Cal noted electric lanterns and flashlights in one of his boxes. He’d expected candles, but he supposed a man trying to keep the paintings preserved would be wary of naked flames. And there were millions of batteries and lightbulbs out there for the taking. In fact, the box beside the one with the flashlights and lanterns was full of batteries of many sizes. He’d have light indefinitely.

“What about food?” Cal asked.

“I lived on the dried and canned stores from our restaurant for a good long while,” Gombrich said. “I don’t eat a lot, skinny old fellow like me. After that I had to make foraging trips. Nervous times. But Mitch here isn’t my only friend. I’ve had others bring supplies too.”

“Speaking of that,” Mitch said. He took off his backpack and handed over a few packs of drugs they’d taken from the Navy base. “It isn’t much, sorry. We’re a bit short on supplies ourselves.”

“Thank you. Much appreciated. Very much.” Gombrich took them and put them away in a box. He fussed around making tea while the group made themselves as comfortable as they could on large cushions on the floor.

“So, Professor,” Mitch said. “Any news you can give us?”

So that was why they were here. Gombrich must pick stuff up, especially if he had other friends who visited. Cal knew Mitch got frustrated about not knowing what was going on elsewhere in the country and the world. The rig’s group had some contacts they spoke to on shortwave radio, other survivors. But they were just as isolated and knew nothing of what was going on outside their immediate surroundings.

“How numerous are the zombies these days?” Mitch asked.

“Interesting you ask.” Gombrich handed around the tea and sat on a straight-backed wooden chair. “I’ve been setting my lures as normal—”

“Lures?” Cal interrupted. “You actually lure them here?”

“I have a CD player and some large speakers,” Gombrich explained. “Powered by a small gasoline generator I’ve scrounged. I set them up in a window and play CDs. Music doesn’t bring the zombies—I think their brains no longer recognize it. But speech does. I play audio books, CDs of political speeches, sermons. Any kind of spoken-word CDs I could borrow from the library.”

Borrow, Cal noted. He bet the old guy would put them carefully back into their cases to return one day.

“The voices draw zombies in, and I shoot them. I have several excellent vantage points on the upper floors.” He smiled. “Miss Green here has given me some pointers too on previous visits.” Tanya smiled and raised her teacup in a salute.

“Taught him everything he knows. He’s nearly as good as me.”

“So, the numbers of them?” Mitch prompted again.

“Ah yes. I think they are thinning out. Used to be I’d set up the lure, and they’d appear within minutes. But they’re taking longer and longer, and fewer of them are showing up. The ones that do… Well, many of them are moving more slowly than before. Are in worse condition.”

“Could you just be clearing the area?” Mitch asked.