The Zone (32 page)

My targets were two stone wall sections displayed on either end of the basement racks, and a book (three if I could manage it) in a locked room containing rare works. Priority between the three was impossible for Ted to establish, so I had decided to go for the books first.

It took three minutes to cover the hundred twenty foot hallway, but most importantly I covered it without incident: every undetected step was a minor victory.

Stage Two was to reach and descend the stairs at the juncture of this hallway and the lobby. There was a dead infected on the flight leading upwards, deceased for a couple days, shot in the head by someone on or near the landing above; the wall was pock-marked with four misses. Otherwise, the lobby and stairs were clear. Moving quickly but quietly I eased downstairs into the basement proper. Stage Three was the door to the book storage room. A glance at the fire evacuation diagram posted on the wall oriented me, and I skulked into a hallway that circled the large central stacks area; rooms, storage, and offices lined both sides.

The walls were dingy crème and the carpet was traffic-worn beige marked mid-way down the hall by an old spill of something liquid that had stained a dark shadow into the worn nap. The lights were off but the Exit signs and the light spilling in from the brightly-lit stacks were enough to navigate by-I activated the laser sight but left the flashlight off, careful to keep the red aiming dot on the floor.

Moving with neither haste nor excessive delay I avoided each door-mounted window as I passed, alert to signs of infected. So far, the area was clear, although I passed an office partially-lit by a fallen desk lamp that showed the sign
s of a violent struggle; since there was no body I figured the victim had become infected. It established that there had been infected on this level at some point, and odds were good at least some were still present.

The storage room had a punch key lock; I tapped the sliver buttons with the security pass code and turned the knob, hearing the lock clock. According to the data I had from the security office there was no lock on the inside, which meant that it was unlikely there were any infected inside but I entered fast, back to the wall on the right side of the door.

When the closer silently shut the door and the lock clicked in place I stood and listened intently; the room was about fifteen by twenty, but filled with rows of bookcases. Four heartbeats and I relaxed: no heavy, rasping breathing. It was too small a room to hide that, and there was only one entrance.

I used a half-dozen bumper stickers to cover the vertical slit widow in the door, hiding me from prying eyes; tapping the button of a tiny LED light that rode on a loop hooked over my left ear, I pulled the index cards out of my vest and held them in the fist-sized circle of bluish light. The one thing I didn’t have was the placement of the books within the room, or even if they were present, although these works were supposed to be kept within the library. Thankfully the Dewey Decimal System was in place, and Ted had included the book codes with the descriptions.

The primary book was where it was supposed to be; I stowed it in my dump pouch and moved on. Secondary One wasn’t on the right shelf, or readily visible above or below so I blew it off and headed to Secondary Two, which was about six books out of order but in its general place. I pouched it and headed for the door, Stage Four complete.

Cutting off the LED, I stepped into the hallway and nearly ran into an infected-I smelled her before I saw her outline in the faint red Exit light: coagulated blood, body funk, and the sweet-ish tang of decaying Human flesh, just a faint aftertaste of the latter, really.

She was so close I fired from the hip, the muzzle jammed cruelly into the softness of her belly, the 870 making a burping noise. Turning fast I dropped the shotgun onto its sling, keenly aware that while the load of rock salt was doing its job on her, the wad was still in the 870’s barrel.

There was only one other infected, a male from the silhouette although that was a purely descriptive distinction; he was turning fast but I cleared the cut-down and flamed a load of rock salt into his face before he really got his feet set to charge.

Slotting a fresh round into the cut-down, I holstered it, listening hard, holding my breath. Nothing. The wad was in the muzzle of the 870, the wings outside the muzzle like a daisy in the morning. I plucked it free, caught the ejected hull for the drop pouch, reloaded, and listened again. The first shot had been virtually soundless, and the second not very loud-neither infected had gotten the warning cry out. I counted to twenty, but still no sound of an alarm.

Still undetected: good. I moved on down the hallway, more than a bit concerned about what just happened-those two had been
moving
. It was possible that they were returning from being drawn out by the fires, which was bad news, but it was also possible that they were patrolling, which was far worse.

Reaching the far corner I checked the long hallway: clear. Stage Five: choose final path. I decided to circle around, hit the furthest wall-section first, then the second, moving in the direction of my exit. Since I had been unobserved coming in, going out the same way made sense. Or so I hoped.

Avoid windows, step silently, avoid litter on the floor: a couple books, a coffee cup, a woman’s purse. Most doors were closed, nearly all were unlit; I passed one office lit by a single bank of overhead lights, the walls displaying anti-abuse and anti-firearms posters; I wondered if the corpse of a well-dressed woman crumpled in the corner regretted her choice about firearms, there at the end.

At the corner I bobbed out in a tactical fast scan. On the left an entrance to a stairwell with lights; a bit further down on the right were open double doors to the stacks. Between them was the mauled corpse of a black male in a janitor’s uniform, and the crumpled form of a student-infected, skull caved in from a solid hit with a monkey wrench. Both had been dead a couple days.

Look, listen, smell, although the latter was of limited use with the nearby corpses fouling the air. I thought I heard something from the stairwell and eased forward a step at a time. Halfway there I identified it: the deep, raspy breaths of an infected at rest. Two more steps and I was sure there was more than one. At the edge of the door frame I guessed six.

Wait, steady my breathing, listen. They were at the bottom of the stairs, not five feet away. Press a fingertip into the base of the last shell in the magazine; it slid in a half inch and stopped: good, full tube. Ease it back, finger on trigger, breathe.

I stepped around the corner, fired into the scabrous scalp of a older male infected dressed like a homeless wino, popped two students, and nailed a guy in grimy slacks and the remnants of a polo shirt. They had been sitting, legs flat, at the base of the stairs; head shots, no outcries.

Pumping the action one last time, I froze, listening hard, hearing only the rasp of twitching limbs and metal-plastic rattle of the last hull hitting the wall and then bouncing across the floor. Nothing. I thumbed four fresh shells into the tube, still listening; because of the low shot noise of the rock salt rounds I wasn’t wearing ear plugs. Dragging footsteps moved overhead a half dozen steps, then silence.

OK. The stairwell door was held open by a battered green metal pot housing a faded plastic flower arrangement: I carefully lifted it out of the way and rode the door closed. Pulling a coil of rope from my left thigh pocket, I tied one end securely to the fire exit bar on the door, and then ran it to the loop door handle on the nearest library door, drawing the bright yellow nylon cord tight until the library door extended into the hallway. Looping it through the handle several times and snuggling it up tight, I tied it off and cut it close to the knot, returning the excess to my pocket. That would not stop the infected if they were really determined, but it would certainly slow them down. I plastered the stairwell’s vertical window slit with bumper stickers and ducked under the rope into the stacks.

Crouching in the door way, I listened closely. Nothing. Count to twenty, listen, look, smell. Nothing.

Moving to the nearer display, I unhooked the velvet rope and unlocked the case front with a key drawn out on its steel line, letting it snap back as I swung open the case. Pulling a camera out of a pouch, I set the control knob and took ten careful pictures, did a fast review of the images, and tucked it back into the pouch. Producing a second camera, I repeated the procedure. Redundancy-I wasn’t coming back for a second try. Stage Six complete.

I moved across to the second case on the far side of the reading room, watching, listening, stepping quick but not too fast. Rope down, key out, inserted, turn, locking bar snaps up into disengaged, the case door sags open a quarter inch, and the howling cry thirty feet behind me made me jump so hard I twisted the key off in the lock.

Spinning I saw a young infected male dressed college emo style with a wild frizz of reddish hair rushing me, sounding the alarm; he must have been in the far corner, missed the shots in the stairwell, and either heard me as I moved through the reading room or saw me pass by.

I missed once and hit him three times, overkill, but I was badly startled and wanted to shut him up fast-no telling how many infected were within earshot. Dropping the 870 on its sling, I ripped out the first camera and cycled ten pics, hit the power button, and repeated in a less frenzied fashion with the second camera. A body hit the bound stairwell door around picture eight, and the door was rattling in earnest as I took picture number ten and hit the power button. Ted was going to have to work with what I had at this moment, assuming I could get it out of here.

Thumbing rounds into the 870, I headed for the stairwell I had taken to get here, heart thumping harder than my brisk limp warranted. This was the crisis time-I had to make it to the hallway fast. Not that the hallway was automatically safe, but it only had one outside exit, which was locked, and maybe one or two infected in the offices, probably none.

The clatter of footsteps echoed in the stairwell; having no choice, I climbed fast, tactical light on, twisting the radio knob on as I moved.

I reached the ground floor landing as they hit the mid-way landing between ground floor and the second floor, a half-dozen student infected. They were moving purposefully but not fast, and I saw them first; I nailed the first three before they really knew what was going on and got the next three with five shots.

“Point One! Point One!” I tried for force without excess volume as I darted across the lobby into the hallway; infected were coming from the opposite side and from outside as well. Were Jake and Key close? Were they still alive? I thumbed shells into the magazine with thumbs that felt unnaturally thick.

“On our way.” Jake sounded stressed, but that was his problem. I ripped the red plastic cover from a fire alarm and jerked the white metal level down so hard one side broke loose. A second later the alarms started to scream and brilliant strobes started flashing overhead. The mob trotting across the lobby skidded to a halt and milled, torn between targets. The noise meant my shotgun was completely drowned out-I hit the crowd with eight rounds and then withdrew down the hall, ducking into the first open doorway and killing the tactical light.

Laying the mirror on the floor on its side, I eased it around the doorframe with my toe and watched while I reloaded.Twice infected came into the entrance of the hallway, looked around, and wandered back off, badly distracted by the noise and the strobes. Finally a couple came down the hall, one, two, then a group. I had hoped for more delay, but thus it goes. I popped out and hit them with two shots, loaded a shell, two shots, and repeated, backing up a step with each single reload. As always, each falling body threw the formation into disorder and delay.

The fire alarms meant my shotgun was effectively soundless, and they severely inhibited the infecteds’ ability to raise the hue and cry. I managed to wipe out the initial group and back up, reloading, before another group caught on to what was happening, and the interval between the groups was enough to let me top off the 870.

Back to fire
pump
fire
pump
step
thrust a shell into the tube
, and fire
pump
fire
pump
. My shoulders hit the exterior door as I fired the last shell in the 870. Jerking the cut-down free of its holster, I was badly startled when the alarms died. Damn the high-tech heat sensors.

They still did not have their act immediately together because the strobes stayed on, giving me some distraction, but all good things must come to an end, and the fire-two-load-one strategy led inevitably to an empty chamber. Breathing a brief but sincere prayer, I spun the knob and leapt out the door, slamming it shut and thrusting the key into place after a millisecond’s agonized fumbling.

The locking bolt shooting home and the absence of clawing hands hitting me were two deeply appreciated mercies; I left the key in the lock, unclipping the wire holder from my vest as the knob rattled and hands banged against the narrow strip of glass. Bracing my feet against the bottom step with my back pressed firmly against the door, I thumbed shells into the cut-down, racked the action to load, added the final shell, and holstered it, following suit with the 870. So far, my little opened-top concrete coffin was infected-free; the door had been locked, and to date I had seen no indication that the infected could get around even basic locks except by sheer breakage.