Survivors (42 page)

Brewster glanced around. Sure enough, a trickle of shamblers had begun to work their way into the streets, half of them making a beeline for the Fac.

“Ah, shit,” he said.

The other half were headed his way.

Mason shook his head clear. Even that movement pained him and he cursed inwardly. He eyed the double doors to his room and that made him curse even more. If he was right about the identity of whoever had fired the shots, he knew that the next step after sweeping the ground floor was to split the teams and clear the upper floors, then the lower floors. And the uninvited guests knew the layout of the Fac, of course . . . so they’d be quick about it. There was probably a team on the way down to BL4 already, and they’d clear the lower floors along the way.

Which meant his room.

Gritting his teeth and holding his chest, Mason eased himself off his bed. He moved slowly, easing his foot lower and lower until it touched linoleum. His toe slipped as he put his weight down and he bit back a scream. Sweat sprang from his forehead and his shirt started to dampen. Slowly he turned his body, inch by inch, until he could put more of his foot on the floor.

Once it was flat, he took a deep breath and used that support to ease his other foot down. That went more quickly, but the effort had already taken a toll on the ex-agent. With a grunt of exerted will, he forced himself upright, balancing himself with his fingers on the corner of the bed.

With a herculean push, he commenced a shuffle-footed stagger to the double doors. He felt more than heard the doorway at the stairwell open, the subtle change in air pressure telling him everything he needed to know. He took two more shambling steps toward the door, the irony of his gait not lost on him.

A sudden light-headedness overtook him, and the room swam for a moment in his gaze. Grinding his teeth together, he forced himself forward another stutter step, determined to reach the door before, before. . .

Sawyer.

It had to be Agent Sawyer. Had to be. They knew about the facility, they knew about Doc Demilio’s plans to get there, and they knew that they’d made it, since Derrick never returned with her. Sawyer would never let it go, and to make sure it went right, he’d come himself.

Another shuffle and Mason made it to the doors. With a sneer, he set the dead bolt, knowing the little thing wouldn’t stop an inspired intruder. A quick glance around the room showed him that the only thing that he might use to bar the door was the Commander’s IV drip stand.

Back on the other side of the room.

He let his head hang and almost laughed. “You’re slipping, old man,” he whispered.

The latch on the door wiggled for a moment. If Mason wasn’t standing right there by the door, he might have missed it. The movement didn’t repeat itself, and he took it to mean that they continued down the hallway to check the rest of the rooms before returning to this one. That gave him less than two minutes to find a better way to lock this door, he thought.

Sweating profusely at the strain, he turned and resolved to make it to the IV stand and back in that time.

The door shuddered under a blow and then flew open, striking him in the back and sending the wounded man to the floor.

With a scream, he turned himself over, yanking the pistol from his belt. Unceremoniously, it was kicked from his hand, and he looked up into the barrel of a SIG P226.

“Hello, Mason,” Sawyer said. “Wow,” he continued from behind his gun. “You look like shit. I’m trying to be real about things here. Facing you like this kind of takes some of the wind out of my sails. I just want you to know that.”

Mason grit his teeth and tried not to scream as he sat up. “Get fucked, Sawyer. You always were an asshole.”

“I was, I was,” Sawyer said with a self-deprecating nod of the head. “On the other hand—” He fired a shot into Mason’s left leg. “I don’t have a limp.”

Biting back the scream that was building in his chest, Mason refused to give in.

“Ooh, tough. Listen, I don’t have time to do you like you did Waters. You remember Desmond Waters? You left him on the side of the road like so much meat. So.” He fired another shot, this one into Mason’s right leg. Then another, hitting him high on the left side of his chest.

“I’ll be back for the rest after we have the Doctor. Rest up, Greg. I promise I won’t kill you until we’re on the way out.” Sawyer’s face split in a wide grin. “Wouldn’t want you to die without knowing your complete failure.”

Coke and Charlie sat in the cab of the dump truck and debated what they should do next.

The pair had followed Sawyer’s column of vehicles all the way from Abraham to Omaha, hanging back far enough that they wouldn’t be noticed. Now that the sun was setting, they knew something was going to happen, and soon, but they didn’t know what.

“I say, we take the truck in and dump the load. Then we get the hell out of Dodge until the smoke settles,” Coke said. He cleaned the bill of his hat again as he spoke. Ever since he went out among the dead to get it back, he’d constantly wiped it clean, as if he could still smell the stench of the infected in the fabric.

“I dunno,” Charlie said. “I mean, Herman’s in there with them, right? We don’t wanna get him, do we?”

Coke folded his arms. “Been thinking about that. You know what our lives have been ever since we signed up with that motherfucker?”

Charlie shook his head.

“Shit, Charlie. Our lives have been shit. If any of us had any fucking brains, we’d have ditched his ass after those Army dudes blew our base.”

Charlie sat behind the wheel, silent. Coke sat and waited.

“Well,” Charlie finally said, “if we’re going to take off, I guess there’s no need to keep a whole buncha dead fucks in the back, right? Why not just dump them here?”

Coke smiled. “Because I don’t like Sawyer, either. Head into town, and let’s get this shit over with.”

At the same time, in the Fac, Patton watched Lutz pace back and forth in the entry area. He could tell that the man was agitated, and Jenkins wasn’t much better. He kept looking at the corpse of the Asian girl draped over the couch and wincing. Lutz noticed this and it was on.

“What the fuck is your deal, man?” Herman asked. “Don’t tell me you feel sorry for this skank.”

Jenkins shook his head. “That’s not it. I . . . man, when we were running girls through our place, it didn’t bother me none. I don’t give a shit, you know that. But this one.” He shook his head some more. “Man, those fuckers that blew up our place, they’re coming back here. They know her! Don’t you think they’re going to be pissed?”

Lutz threw back his head and laughed.

“Pissed? They’re gonna be fucking
dead,
Jenkins. You saw what this crew can do back in Abraham. Those Army boys won’t know what hit ’em. Hey!” Lutz shouted to the soldiers down the hallway. “Either of you know which way the pisser is?”

As he stalked off to find a place to go, Patton sidled up next to Jenkins and nudged him.

“I think you’re right. We need to find a way out of here.”

Denton picked up all the chatter between Krueger and Brewster.

“Holy shit,” he said. “Are we under attack?”

Allen checked his MP-5. “I knew I should have called in sick.”

“Brewster, what’s your situation. Uh, over?”

Ewan Brewster’s strained voice came back over the radio quickly. “What do you think it is? We’re running from some shamblers, and there’s someone out there that was shooting at us. Over!”

“Denton, take cover.” Krueger’s voice came next. “Keep still when you find some. With the sun going down, the carriers are up and about. Over.”

“And the shooters? Over.”

Mbutu, Allen, Trev, and Denton stood staring at the radio for about a minute. It was a very long minute.

“Negative. No more contact, but keep your heads low. Let me know when you’ve found something. Over.”

“Will do. Out.”

Clipping the radio to his belt, Denton turned to his small group. “All right. I think we should hit one of these apartment buildings. Uh, that one, over there,” he said, pointing across the street. “Krueger and I cleared it two weeks ago. Come on.”

As the group jogged across the street, all of their heads were on swivels, looking around the rooftops for signs of a shooter. As they neared the entrance to the building, Mbutu Ngasy slowed to a walk, then held up his hand.

“I believe we should attempt to meet with Brewster. If they are set upon by the infected . . .”

“Demons,” Trev whispered, and Allen looked at him sideways.

“It’s just the three of them, right,” Denton said. “Damn it. It had to be today, when I was in charge.” He sat on the curb and held his head in his hands for a moment, tapping his pistol against his ear. “Fuck it. Let’s go and find them.”

He unclipped his radio and said into it, “Brewster, copy?”

The sound of gunshots came to them from blocks away.
“Argh! What the fuck do you want? Over!”

“What’s your cross street? We’re coming to you. Over.”

“Negative,” Krueger broke in. “Negative. Hostiles approaching on your six, Brewster.”

“The plan was three blocks over, right?” Allen said. “That puts them that way. Let’s just go.”

Denton looked to where Allen pointed in the dying light of the day and saw a shambler stumbling down the street away from them.

“Yeah,” he said. “That’s us. Let’s go.”