The Dead Series (Book 2): Dead Is All You Get Page 17

  “Radio doesn’t work—we’re too far from the command center.”

  Securing the doors, we made our way back through the corridor. Remembering what Isaac had said, I returned to the lab, gathered as many external hard drives as I could carry and rejoined the others in the corridor. Up ahead I saw a sign that read INFIRMARY. Outside stood several large refrigerators. Inside, we found a series of small examination rooms with tables.

  We carried Isaac over to one of the tables and laid him down. I ran over to the refrigerators and flung open the doors. On the shelves were bags filled with blood and plasma. I searched the blood, found what I was looking for and returned to the table.

  “We’ll need this, in case we don’t make it to the hospital,” I said.

  Warnick laid down his weapon and searched the drawers of the cabinets, where he found needles, syringes and rubber tourniquets. We placed everything into the first aid backpack and put the blood and plasma into a plastic cooler. Warnick threw the hard drives into another bag.

  “Dave, are you sure that’s the right blood type?”

  “He’s the same as me—O positive.”

  “Dude, how do you know that?” Springer said.

  “Trust me.”

  When I was a kid, a car hit me when I was riding my bike. I had all kinds of internal injuries and I was spitting up blood. They got to me in time and stopped the bleeding. I stayed in the hospital for a couple of days. Isaac donated blood—O positive.

  Warnick lifted Isaac’s eyelid and checked for a pulse. “Pulse is weak.”

  “We can’t stay here,” Pederman said.

  “We need to get to somewhere safe.”

  “How do you suggest we do that?” Springer said. “With all those cops outside?”

  “What about through the rear?” I said.

  “No good. The fence goes all the way around. And there’s no rear gate.”

  I wracked my brain. This was a medical facility—not an armory. Yet the last time we’d been here, Creasy had managed to get a weapon from somewhere. They must have other weapons in case of an attack.

  “Come on,” I said to Springer and two other guys.

  We did a quick search of the building. Towards the rear we found a room marked SUPPLIES. The door was locked.

  “What do you think?”

  “I don’t,” Springer said, kicking the door open.

  Inside was an impressive cache of weapons—AR-15s and an assortment of handguns, shotguns and rifles. And three MilKor M32 MGL grenade launchers. I grabbed a crowbar and opened one of the wooden ammunition boxes, where I found a steel case. Inside the case lay twenty black nylon bandoliers, each holding six 40mm grenades.

  “This should do it,” I said.

  We carried the weapons and ammo into the infirmary, where Pederman, his arm bandaged, sat resting as Warnick monitored Isaac.

  “How’s he holding up?” I said, looking at Isaac.

  “He needs a hospital.”

  “Looks like you’ve been busy,” Pederman said. “How do you propose we get out of here?”

  “The front door,” I said.

  Warnick, Pederman, Springer and I waited near the front entrance with Isaac, who was fighting to stay conscious. The plan was for us to get to our Humvee and drive to the hospital. The rest of the men were stationed on the roof, three of them carrying the grenade launchers.

  As Pederman brought his radio to his face, I said a silent prayer that it would work. “What do you see up there?” he said.

  A voice came back over the radio. “The cops have the front door covered. They’re waiting for us to make a break.”

  “Get ready. And remember, don’t waste those grenades. One per vehicle. Do you copy?”

  “Copy that.”

  Pederman rubbed perspiration off his forehead and grimaced from the pain in his arm. “Fire!”

  Outside, explosions broke the tense silence. Men screamed and gunfire erupted. Warnick flung the doors open so we could get out. Six police cruisers, each with a shattered windshield, burned hot from the inside. More grenades destroyed the other vehicles and sent the cops in all directions. AR-15 gunfire scattered the policemen, who retreated outside the gate, where draggers waited. The cops focused on the draggers, and that was our opening.

  “You guys ready?” Pederman said.

  “Do I have time for a nap?” Springer said.

  We went out, firing as we ran. When our guys on the roof saw us, they redirected their fire. The Humvees were in sight. Soldiers surrounded Isaac and me as I helped him towards one of the vehicles. One of our guys fell directly in front of me, shot in the head. Someone on the roof fired and killed the shooter.

  I made it inside the vehicle and waited for Warnick, Springer and Pederman to join me. Once we were all inside, I leaned Isaac gently against the backseat. Warnick started the engine and gunned it, racing out of the compound. The plan called for the rest of the guys to eliminate all cops, get to their vehicles and return to the command center. I hoped they would make it.

  The road was horrible and bumpy. It was late afternoon, and the sky was darkening. Pederman rode in the front with Warnick. Springer sat in the backseat with Isaac and me. About a mile from the research facility, two black Escalades shot out of the shadows and pursued us.

  “Who are these guys?” Warnick said, watching his rear view mirror.

  “We need to get off this road,” Pederman said. “Dave, what do we have in the back?”

  Getting closer, our pursuers began firing at us. Bullets screamed, glancing off the bulletproof rear window as I crawled into the rear of the Humvee. “More guns,” I said. “Wait—we have grenades!”

  “Figure something out,” Pederman said. “And fast.”

  “Springer,” I said. “Keep Isaac stable.”

  “You got it.”

  I grabbed one of the grenades and, clutching it, pulled the pin. I thought of Holly as I flung the door open and tossed the grenade. It bounced on the road and off to the side as the Escalades shot past it. The explosion made both vehicles veer slightly but did no real damage.

  “Shit!”

  There were two men in each vehicle—one driving and the other firing. I ducked back inside as bullets flew at me. My heart racing, I grabbed another grenade, pulled the pin, leaned out and threw it. Both Escalades accelerated, the lead vehicle trying to ram us. I could see the driver—a nondescript man in a grey suit and sunglasses. The grenade exploded well behind the second vehicle.

  “How long is the delay?” I said.

  “Five seconds!” Springer said.

  I grabbed another grenade, armed it and released the spoon, but I didn’t throw it. One thousand … two thousand … three thousand. I tossed it. It bounced once and exploded directly under the lead vehicle, lifting it up in the air and sending it into the path of the trailing vehicle, which it crushed. A ball of flame shot up from the mangled frames of both cars as we raced away, but I saw one of the men pulling himself out of the wreckage.

  “Whoo-hoo!” I felt amazing as I closed the rear door.

  “Nice work,” Pederman said.

  “Going off-road,” Warnick said. “In case any more of those government stooges show up.”

  He turned off at a fire road and burst through the locked gate. We continued north into the forest. I gazed out the window studying the landscape. Something about our surroundings seemed familiar. Then it clicked.

  “Hey, I know this road,” I said. “Keep heading north towards Mt. Shasta.”

  “Where are we going?” Warnick said.

  “Someplace safe.”

  Warnick obeyed and we cruised slowly under the darkening canopy of trees for forty-five minutes or so.

  “Uh, Dave …” Pederman said finally.

  “Yeah, yeah. See that road? Turn right. And go slow.” We followed the road to a large clearing, its edges outlined by a circle of rocks. In the center stood a large concrete birdbath—the goddess Diana, a dead stag at her feet. “Stop here.”r />
  I jumped out the rear and trotted up to the driver’s side.

  “What is this place?” Pederman said.

  As if by forest magic, a structure began to materialize from out of the shadows.

  “Look,” I said, pointing.

  “Aw, man,” Springer said. “It’s a house!”

  A bullet whizzed past. Before we could move, a voice I recognized called out. “Drop your weapons! Lie face down on the ground!”

  We followed orders and waited. A moment passed and as I lifted my head, a thin wizened man with a long white pony tail, wearing khaki cargo pants, a Hawaiian shirt and flip-flops, stepped out of the shadows pointing an AR-15 at us. He squinted at me.

  “Dave Pulaski?” he said.

  GUTHRIE MANSON STOOD MOTIONLESS. His rheumy eyes betrayed nothing. His wife, Caramel, thin and lithe with flowing white hair, expertly started a blood transfusion for Isaac, who lay still on a bed in a guest bedroom. The last time I’d seen these two, I’d been with my friends. We’d been searching for Holly and had come here for weapons.

  The old man and his wife had “dropped out” years before, living alone in the forest with their two adult sons, Frank and Jerry. It wasn’t till later I realized they were named after Frank Zappa and Jerry Garcia. This curious family grew marijuana and collected guns. Big guns. They were the poster children for aging, commune-tested hippies. Still deeply in love, Guthrie and Caramel never hesitated to share what they had with strangers, only asking in return to be left alone. Seeing these two again made me long for all the dead and gone.

  I watched as Caramel tended to Isaac. She appeared to have everything—even an IV pole to hang the bag of blood. After starting the transfusion, she checked Isaac’s eyes and pulse. “He’s pretty bad. Good news is, the bullet missed his liver.”

  “How long will the transfusion take?” I said.

  “About four hours. In the meantime, let’s get you boys some food.”

  She led us into the kitchen, where we sat at the large, familiar unfinished pine table, shaken by the day’s events. Everything was colliding. The plague, the cops and now strange men in grey suits.

  “You’re all welcome to stay,” Guthrie said.

  “Really kind of you,” Pederman said. “I wasn’t looking forward to driving through the forest at night.”

  “You’re right about that. Besides, we got plenty of room.”

  “Where are your sons?” I said.

  Guthrie looked at Caramel and lowered his eyes. “Afraid we lost them.”

  “I am so sorry. How did it happen?”

  The old man didn’t answer. Instead, he got up and set out placemats for each of us. Then he put out bowls, napkins and flatware. When he was finished, he sat down again and rubbed his eyes.

  “Few months ago. Some of those ungodly creatures wandered over here from Tres Marias. Usually, they’re dumb, you know? But these things seemed to be more cunning. Couple of ’em got the others to follow and surrounded my boys like a pack of coyotes. Bit ’em up pretty good before they could shoot their way out. By the time they made it back here, they were in bad shape.” He cleared his throat and squinted away a tear.

  “Sorry for your loss, Mr. Manson,” Pederman said.

  “Call me Guthrie. And thanks. We keep them out in the garden. Come on, I’ll show you.”

  Though I trusted my friend, I was hesitant to find out what exactly Guthrie meant. He led us out through the door, between two rows of beautifully manicured apple, peach and apricot trees towards a wooden shelter where Caramel kept her gardening things. There, chained to metal posts sunk deep in the ground, were Frank and Jerry. They seemed smaller than I remembered—and thinner. Their faces and arms were a leathery grey color and their clothes torn and bloody. They seemed listless and, as we approached, looked at us with mild interest.

  “Caramel wouldn’t let me put ’em down,” Guthrie said.

  “Do you … feed them?” I said.

  “No. We felt it was better to let them wither away. My wife wants to keep them close as long as she can. Won’t be too much longer.”

  I remembered the draggers I’d seen over the past few months who were farther-gone. Eventually, their craving for human flesh would end and they would lie listless on the ground, waiting for a real death. Something else was bothering me, though. “Guthrie, you said you thought those other draggers came from Tres Marias. How would you even know?”

  “Because Mt. Shasta has been clear for weeks.”

  “Black Dragon didn’t do that,” I said to Pederman.

  “No, our contract is with Tres Marias.”

  Guthrie turned to me with tears in his eyes. “We know it’s crazy, keeping them here. But these were our boys. They were all we had.”

  As Guthrie approached them I instinctively reached for my weapon. At first, Frank and Jerry stared at their father in mute fascination. Then matching sneers crept across their faces and they snapped at him viciously.

  The old man saw me pointing my weapon. “It’s okay,” he said, then turned sadly and started back towards the house. “It’s gonna be okay.”

  Guthrie took a large bowl of beef stew from Caramel and set it on the kitchen table. It smelled incredible.

  “You did not just make this,” Pederman said, smiling.

  “I like to keep a lot of food on hand.” She set out loaves of fresh homemade bread and butter and handed everyone a beer—except me. I received a can of Mountain Dew.

  “You remembered,” I said. “Thanks.”

  “So, Dave,” Guthrie said, pointing at my shirt. “You workin’ for the man?”

  I glanced at Pederman, trying to hide a smile. “I like having unlimited access to awesome weapons.”

  “I heard that. Say, did you ever find your wife? What was her name …”

  “Holly,” Caramel said and smiled at me as she sat.

  “As a matter of fact,” I said, nodding. “It’s a long story that I’m happy to share with you sometime.”

  “How about now?”

  As we ate, I told them everything that had happened since the last time I’d been there, much of which Pederman didn’t know. Though it made me sad talking about people I cared about who were no longer alive, it felt good, too. I wouldn’t say it was cathartic, but speaking their names again made them alive to me.

  “Helluva story, Dave,” Guthrie said. “Glad you have your wife back.”

  “Turns out she’s a way better shot than ol’ Dave here,” Springer said.

  “Hey, I’m good with an axe.” We laughed, then I got serious. “Guthrie, we need to talk about Evie Champagne.”

  “I figured. Let’s have some coffee. After, I can show you something that might interest you.”

  After we cleared the table, we sat on handcrafted furniture in the bizarre, colorful living room I remembered from my last visit. Springer reached between the hanging plants and toyed with one of the many calaveras hanging from the ceiling. I think it was supposed to be an undertaker. Or a politician. I eased into a chair that, though irregularly shaped, was surprisingly comfortable. Outside was cold, wet and windy. Heavy curtains hung across all the windows so as not to tip off strangers. Or draggers.

  Caramel had made brownies. At first, I was hesitant to try one, but she assured us she’d added nothing “extra.” What concerned me was the way she smiled.

  “I’m going to check on your friend,” she said.

  “Was she a nurse in a former life?” I said.

  Guthrie smiled. “We’ve learned to take care of ourselves over the years.” He became serious. “Those men you said were chasing you. Sounds like the government.”

  “That’s about right,” Pederman said. “Have you seen them before?”

  “Evie tipped us off when she and her cameraman got lost in the forest and stumbled onto our place. Said those guys had been pokin’ around Tres Marias for some time. Not drawing attention to themselves, mind you. Just sort of … lookin’.”

  “It must have somethi
ng to do with Robbin-Sear,” I said. “I wonder why Evie never mentioned them to us.”

  “Because she was scared.”

  Pederman looked at Guthrie. “Did Evie say who she thought they were?”

  “Government operatives.”

  “So who exactly are they?” Warnick said.

  I shook my head. “Department of Defense, CIA. Does it really matter? The point is, someone has a vested interest in keeping this experiment going.”

  “Follow the money,” Guthrie said. Warnick and I turned to Pederman, who smiled knowingly. “Oh, for … Didn’t you ever see All the President’s Men? Watergate? Deep Throat? Ringing any bells?”

  “I remember that movie,” Pederman said. “So are you suggesting this is all about money?”

  “Or power. Or both.”

  “Look, this isn’t a sleepover,” Warnick said, getting to his feet. “And we aren’t a bunch of giggling middle school girls. We seriously need to figure out what’s really going on.”

  “Well, I’m just a simple farmer,” Guthrie said, “and I don’t claim to know the truth. But I might be able to help.”

  Groaning, he got up. We swallowed our coffee and followed him down a long hallway towards the rear of the house to a storage room. Guthrie pulled out a set of keys and unlocked the door, swung it open and turned on the light.

  Inside on the bare floor lay an expensive-looking Sony video camera along with a portable lighting kit and a mass of cables. And boxes of memory cards. I remembered that Evie Champagne had mentioned Guthrie before leaving the command center. Now, I knew why. She’d asked him to store the evidence of her investigation for safekeeping. And she’d wanted me to find it. It was like she was still there, helping us.

  “What is all this?” Pederman said.

  “If we’re lucky,” I said, “it’s the truth about what happened in Tres Marias.”

  Excitedly, we hauled the camera and memory cards to the living room and used a cable to hook the camera up to Guthrie’s big flat-screen TV. Then we went through the cards, arranging them in chronological order according to the labels, and popped the first one in. Most of them contained the mundane—things we’d already seen on the local news. My heart ached as I watched Evie in her bright blazer, short skirt and stilettos reporting on the violence, the fires and the few random acts of kindness.