Survivors (11 page)

Adelina chuckled and shook her head. “Just be safe.”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Harris, and shifted into drive.

Rico and Hillyard sat, watching Wendell and the deckhands play a round of Spades at another table. Allen was drunk, teetering on the back two legs of a bar stool and doing a surprisingly good job of it. Stiles sat behind him on the floor, his legs out in front of him, watching the balancing act. The crew sat in a pretty wide circle of townsfolk . . . not exactly hostile, and not exactly unwelcoming, but the news of Stiles’s condition had definitely changed the tone of the pub when the group returned. Ron and Katie were making the rounds, saying their good-byes.

“I think I can take four,” said Jones, looking intently, if a little drunkenly, at his hand of thirteen cards.

“Five more,” said Wendell, his eyes closed and looking up at the ceiling. He’d played more hands of Spades than any other sailor on the
Ramage,
definitely more than all of the deckhands put together.

“All right!” shouted Allen from his stool. “Nine for Wendell and Jooones!”

“Three,” whispered Stiles from the floor.

“Three,” said Smith, who had made the same bid for the last ten games. His partner Brown groaned and Jones laughed.

“Goddammit,” Brown said. “Do you even know how to play this game? Every fucking time, three tricks, you sandbagging motherfucker. After this hand”—he slammed his cards on the table, facedown—“we are swapping partners.”

“Your bid?” asked Wendell.

Brown pursed his lips and sank into his chair. “Nil.”

Allen let loose with a gigantic burp. “Three for Brith. Smown. Fuck . . . those two.”

The door to the pub eased open and Harris walked in, followed by Hal and the Sheriff.

“Oh, thank God,” Brown said, throwing his cards into the air. “Tell me I don’t have to finish this round.”

“You don’t. Mount up, men,” Harris said over Brown’s cheer. “We’re headed out. And we’ve got a ride.”

Omaha, NE
27 June 2007
0915 hrs_

Ewan Brewster was getting very tired of scavenging duty. He knew it was necessary. Without a regular supply of food and medicines, the Fac wouldn’t have lasted as long as it had. Still, he reasoned, why did
he
have to do it? He’d much rather let Juni have his spot, and take up residence behind the nice, thick front doors of the Fac, safe and sound. He was sure she’d jump at the chance.

Ewan doubted Trevor felt the same way. As a matter of fact, he had a sneaking suspicion that Trev might even be happier at the prospect of heading out solo, without anything or anyone restraining him.

Their expedition the day before had yielded a pack full of expired medical supplies, but, as Trevor had predicted, Dr. Demilio had thrown the majority of them out. Brewster groaned and made a scene, but he knew it wouldn’t do him any good. The next scavenging run was set. To remove some of the sting, Sherman had decreed that it would be a full run, and not just Trev and Ewan.

Before their first run, months earlier, Trevor and Brewster had spent an hour going over a map of western Omaha until they spotted a free clinic, more than a mile from the Fac. It would be the farthest they had ever ventured from the safety of their compound, and Brewster had been nervous at the prospect. Still, the clinic would likely have everything they needed. It had been worth a shot. The risk had paid off, loading them up with enough basic supplies to keep Anna happy for several weeks. As time went on and they picked the shelves clean, Ewan knew they’d either have to leave Omaha entirely to find a new clinic or hospital worth searching, or head deeper into Omaha itself, which was, at best, a chancy proposition. At worst, it was suicide.

The city teemed with infected. Doc Demilio had told him the pre-Morningstar population of Omaha proper was almost a half-million souls. He had no idea how many of them had made it out, and no inclination to find out.

Junko Koji lazily watched from one of the lobby’s comfortable chairs as Brewster and Trev prepared to go out. She sat next to Denton, arms folded across her slight chest, with the barest hint of a smile on her face.

Brewster noticed the look.

“What is it now, Juni?” Brewster asked, snapping a pistol belt around his waist. “Don’t look so fuckin’ smug. Just because you’re the forever door guard now doesn’t mean this won’t be you at some point.”

“That’s not it. I just like watching you squirm,” she replied, her smile widening.

“You’re a contrary little minx if ever I saw one,” said Brewster. “Still don’t know what to make of you.”

Trev slapped him hard on the shoulder. “Leave her be. She’s all right.”

“Hey, I have talents,” Juni said, spreading her arms wide. “Want to know how to say ‘fuck you’ in Russian? How about in French? Japanese? German? Oh, I know. How about Farsi?”

“What in the fuck is a Farsi?” Brewster asked, strapping Kevlar body armor across his chest and checking to make sure the fit was right. It wasn’t as useful against infected as it was against armed opponents, but it would still stop a bite or keep the soldier from being raked by a shambler’s fingernails.

“See?” Juni grinned. “You can’t even see me, I’m so far up.” She twirled a lock of hair around her finger. “It’s not my fault Sherman wants the brains to stay here, while you two go out and be the brawn.”

“Now you’re just being mean,” Brewster said, but favored her with a smile anyway. Juni was growing on him. He liked her light sense of humor. He pulled a K-pot from the stack of gear set near the doorway, but decided against wearing it, tossing it back into the container. Instead, he fished a faded black baseball cap, sweat-stained and well worn, from one of the cargo pockets in his trousers and fitted it snugly over his head.

“You know,” Trev said, “you don’t have to keep trying so hard. No one knows you’re knockin’ boots.”

Brewster, for once at a loss for words, said nothing.

Equipped, the pair lifted the wooden and metal bars that locked the main doors, waited as Denton threw back the dead bolt with a twist of his key, and pulled open the doors. They shaded their eyes from the sunlight that cut into the room.

Their excursions into the streets of Omaha were always done during the day. The sunlight invigorated them, was their best friend on these runs. The old wisdom of using darkness as cover had gone away with the advent of the Morningstar strain. The infected, for reasons unknown, always preferred darkness. They would only come out into the light if they spotted prey. Otherwise, they would find a darkened room or shady alleyway and wait until the light faded. They waited until nightfall before they resumed their plodding patrol of the streets that had once held bustling pedestrians and the rumbling of delivery trucks making their rounds.

That made midday the safest time to scavenge.

Trevor and Brewster exited the Fac, closed the door behind them, and heard the heavy thunk of Juni sliding the bars back into place. The rest of the group would be out in another minute or two. Trev and Brewster had farther to travel, so they’d decided to move out earlier.

“Man, it’s a beautiful day,” remarked Trevor, taking a moment to lean his head back and let the sunlight warm his face. “Not a cloud in the sky.”

“Yeah,” agreed Brewster, scanning slowly with his double-barreled street-sweeper for any signs of life, or unlife. “I just wish we didn’t have to do this. Definitely
nothing
beautiful in most of those buildings.”

“I have to appreciate a nice thing while I still can. Well—want to get to it?”

“Yeah, sure,” Brewster said, shouldering his shotgun. He knew that Mitsui and Jack, stationed on the rooftop above, were keeping an eye on their progress in between rounds of chess. He could afford to relax for the first couple blocks of their journey, but he’d have to fall back on guard when the Fac was no longer in sight.

It’s not a city anymore, Ewan Brewster reminded himself. Now it’s just a goddamn graveyard.

Resting on one knee, he covered the street to the right. Trevor, who usually eschewed firearms, held his revolver and was crouched across from Brewster, scanning left. They moved forward.

They stuck to the middle of the street, which went against every instinct for Brewster. In another time and place, his brain would be shouting at him to hug the buildings, watch the opposite roofs and windows for snipers, and cover his buddies. Experience and training both screamed at him to get the hell out of the center of the road.

Brewster knew that if he listened to that voice now, he stood a good chance of being tackled from the side by an infected lounging in the shadows cast by the structures. This brave new world meant new rules, new tactics. He’d had to unlearn a lot over the past few months.

As always, aside from their own footsteps, everything was dead quiet. Brewster kicked at a bramble that, like thousands of others, had spent the spring growing out of a crack in the pavement.

“Hey, hey, hey,” chastised Trev, keeping his voice low. “The weed wants to live, just like you.”

“Just reminds me that all of this is going to be gone in a few years,” Brewster murmured.

“What?”

“All this,” Brewster said, gesturing around at the buildings that surrounded them. “Stuff growing up through the cracks is just the start. Fast-forward ten years, this place will be a big, overgrown jungle.”

Trev squinted up at the structures. “Well, it’s going to take a while,” he said. “I’d say you still have a few years to do some sightseeing once Anna figures out the vaccine. And, you know, I don’t think there ever was a jungle in Nebraska.”

“You know what I mean.” Brewster stopped and grimaced.

“What
now
?” pressed Trev.

“It’s just that—” started Brewster, but shook his head. “Never mind. Let’s go.”

“Whatever you say.”

For a moment, Brewster saw a flash of emotion on Trev’s face, worry that he was beginning to sulk. He knew he was no fun when he got in one of those moods, and Trev never liked his outing spoiled by griping.

It’s not my fault. Whining’s one of my greatest talents.

The two moved through a distant intersection beneath traffic lights that hadn’t worked in months, turned left, and vanished from sight.

Behind Brewster and Trevor, the front door to the Fac swung silently open once more, and the rest of the scavengers filtered out. General Sherman was first, looking left and right to clear the street before beckoning the others after him. Thomas was the second to appear, like Sherman, scanning the streets suspiciously. Mbutu, the solidly built man who might, in better times, have been mistaken for a linebacker, followed slowly as Sherman surveyed the Fac’s front yard. It had been a parking lot, but with only enough room for a single row of cars to pull up in front of the building, the sidewalk and street just beyond. Opposite was a two-story row of storefronts with apartments in the upper floor and angled, shingled roofs.

They stood within the perimeter of the fence for a few moments. Though it made Sherman feel like a prisoner, the fenced-in backyard gave him a place to jog in the mornings without having to worry about a gruesome death-by-infected. Others among the survivors had their own uses for the yard, which they had extended to include part of the neighboring industrial plant. All of the exterior windows were neatly bolted shut with two-by-four metal slats, thanks to Jack the Welder and Mitsui. They’d left narrow, reinforced slits in each, so the occupants could still see outside and, if need be, fire at any attackers.