Defensive Instinct (Survival Instinct Book 4) (31 page)

Misha was glad to see the horses come over the wall, to see that they were safe and unharmed. He wanted to go check on Danny, to ask how he was, but the doctors were currently tending to him and Misha knew it was best he keep out of the way.

Someone walked past Misha, saying his name, but Misha didn’t catch the whole thing; the man hadn’t spoken loudly enough to be heard over the goings-on.

“What?” Misha asked for clarification, but it was too late; the man had kept walking and now couldn’t hear Misha.

Assuming it must not have been important, Misha turned back to watch the wall. When the first two carts were lifted over, he knew that all the horses were inside, and redirected his attention to the people. They were climbing over the wall faster now than when Misha had last checked.

An alarm bell went off in Misha’s head a split second before the hands wrapped around his neck. His own hands shot up in response trying to pry loose the fingers that were suddenly cutting off his air and blood supply. His body reacted on automatic, thrashing every which way, but his unknown assailant was stronger, able to keep his hold.

Machete! Grab your machete!
Misha’s mind finally started screaming.

Before he could follow through, something roared up behind them. With a scream, the man who had grabbed Misha fell to one side, dragging the pale Russian down with him. As soon as the hands slackened, Misha rolled away and scrambled back up onto his feet. He was surprised by what he saw.

The man who had attacked him was one of the people they were allowing over the wall, the one whose face was frequently twisted with anger and annoyance. Rifle was on top of him, his grey muzzle latched onto the man’s shoulder.

“Rifle, stop!”

Rifle released his jaws and limped over to Misha with blood on his teeth. Misha dropped to his knees, consumed with worry that his brother had been hurt, wrapping his arms around the old dog and checking him over. Rifle hadn’t done anything that physically intensive in a long time.

The first person to reach the confrontation was the other man from over the wall, the one who was apparently their leader and looked like he had Viking blood running through his veins. Just as Misha’s assailant sat up, the blond man delivered a cracking punch to the side of his face. The blond’s face was oddly expressionless as he did it.

“You fucking idiot,” the blond leader hissed at Misha’s assailant while Harry grabbed him, pulling him upright. “We need to get along with these people.” Although emotion was present as he spoke, there was a still a strange sort of detachment, like it wasn’t quite the right emotion.

As the opposing leader got dragged away, Misha noticed his other dogs coming over, all of them snarling in his attacker’s direction. They would have done the same as Rifle had the old dog not reacted first. Misha scratched their heads calming them as they turned, whined, and sniffed worriedly at him and Rifle.

“What the fuck happened?” Karsten shouted as he arrived on the scene. “Who was guarding this
arschloch
?”

A ring had formed around Misha and his attacker, who was being held painfully against the ground by White. Misha wanted to leave, wanted to take Rifle to a vet. The German Shepherd was leaning into his embrace, allowing Misha to hold him upright.

“I asked Misha to watch him while I went to take a piss,” someone from the ring spoke.

Misha’s head shot up, his eyes quickly locating the culprit. It had been the man from earlier, someone whose name started with a J or a G that Misha had never learned.

“What?” Misha barked, his voice harsher than usual. He was so worried about Rifle he didn’t even notice the swelling pain building around his throat. “I didn’t fucking hear you! And I said as much!” Were he not holding Rifle, he would have gotten up and assaulted the man. All around him, his dogs bristled in response to his outburst.

Karsten stepped forward, his hands held out to either side in a separation gesture. “We still need to get the rest of these people over the wall. Someone drag this piece of shit to a doctor and a holding container. Better yet, find him a place where he can be alone; we’ll deal with him later. And you,” Karsten pointed at J or G, “we’re going to talk later about this. You too, Misha, but tend to your dog for now.”

White hauled the assailant up onto his feet, then frog-marched his bleeding prisoner away, a woman following with a gun ready. The ring dispersed, leaving Misha with Rifle and his dogs.

“Come on,
bratishka,
let’s get you checked out.” Misha stood, carefully lifting Rifle. The dog was still heavy, but he was lighter than when he was younger.

Misha carried the Shepherd between the containers; Bullet stayed right alongside, the other dogs circling like worried satellites. Misha wasn’t even entirely sure where he was going. Normally, he trusted Cameron with these sorts of things, but she wasn’t here: she had gone to the Black Box for some unknown reason. He knew one of the other vets was on Animal Island, but the bridge was disconnected. Were other vets on the island as well? Were they all there, leaving him alone and half-panicked?

Misha then remembered what he had been doing just before being attacked: watching the horses. If there was a vet still in the container yard, he or she would be with the horses, checking them over. Misha redirected his course to head to the makeshift stables, located near to where the wall met the river.

By the time he got there, Rifle was making annoyed grunting sounds and wiggling somewhat, wanting to be put down; Misha was dripping with sweat. Thankfully, he was right about the veterinarians looking over the horses and settling them. There were two working with the large animals.

“Help,” he called weakly to them, not only out of breath but suffering from a sore throat.

An oddly proportioned man named Nedry, whom Misha had seen working with Cameron many times, turned. Seeing that Misha was carrying a dog, he rushed over.

“Bring him here; there’s a blanket you can lay him on. What happened?” Nedry briskly asked, guiding Misha to a small pile of horse blankets.

Misha gently lay Rifle, who grunted, down on the pile.

“He jumped on someone, and I think he hurt himself,” Misha relayed rapidly in a scratchy voice. “He was favouring his right front leg a lot.”

Nedry looked pointedly at the bruises blooming around Misha’s neck, and then the droplets of blood around Rifle’s grey muzzle, instantly figuring out why the old dog had been jumping on someone. The vet stroked Rifle’s head, whispering soothing words to him, then began his examination.

“Bullet, stay back,” Misha commanded when the younger dog tried to nose in on what was happening. All the dogs were curious, forcing Misha to give them sit-and-stay commands a few feet away. He then hovered over Nedry like a nervous mother.

“Well, he doesn’t appear to have broken any bones or dislocated anything,” Nerdy pronounced, “and I can’t locate any bruising, or anything that would suggest internal damage.”

Misha sighed with relief.

“Cameron mentioned once that he has some arthritis?”

Misha nodded.

“Without any scans or anything, I would guess Rifle either just aggravated his arthritis, or, more likely, pulled a muscle. Either way, he needs rest for that.”

Misha closed his eyes and took a deep breath, so grateful that it wasn’t anything worse. He didn’t know what he would do if Rifle was badly injured while protecting him.

“Would you like to leave him here, or can you carry him some more?”

“I can carry him back to my container. He’ll be more comfortable there.”

“Sure, but maybe take a bit of a break first; you look like you could use it. Has anyone looked at your neck yet?”

“Not yet.”

Nedry nodded, understanding that Misha was more worried about Rifle.

“Do you have a toothbrush for Rifle? It would be good for his teeth to clean off that blood.”

“I will.” Misha had toothbrushes for all the dogs. He didn’t have any toothpaste for them, but even just using water made a difference. The dogs were always getting into things, killing mice and rats, and gobbling up whatever food anyone dropped. If Misha didn’t brush their teeth, their breath became as bad as a zombie’s, and when several of them began stinking up the container, it quickly became unbearable. He wished he could do something similar about their farting.

Taking Nedry’s advice, Misha took a break before carrying Rifle back to his container. Sitting on the ground and gently probing his neck, he watched as the two veterinarians finished preparing the horses and their stalls. Their containers were already full of padding, wrapped around all walls and the ceiling to reduce noise, but it looked to Misha like more had been added. The floors had a lot more hay laid down than usual. The vets had placed blinders on the horse’s faces, in all likelihood because there were more of them than usual in the containers, some of them strangers. All of them were tethered to loops bolted to the metal walls, and Misha watched Nedry give one of the horses an injection, likely a sedative of some kind. Misha wondered how many humans would accept a sedative if offered one.

The dogs began to get fidgety. They paced with heads low and ears high, constantly twisting their heads around to look toward the wall. Misha knew exactly what it meant.

“The zombies are almost here,” he warned the vets, getting back on his feet.

The two of them nodded as Misha picked Rifle up again. The dog flattened his ears, not appreciating being manhandled, but he kept silent. He knew what was coming.

Misha hurried to his container as fast as he could, the other dogs threatening to trip him they were pressed so closely around his legs. All throughout the container yard, he saw closed doors. Most people were choosing to ride this out in their own homes, sealed off and hoping not to have any contact with what was coming. Misha would have bet that those who had headphones and functioning music players with charged batteries were currently selecting their play lists.

By the time he reached his own container, Misha could hear the moaning. He gently lay Rifle down on his bed, and quietly commanded the rest of the dogs to their mattresses. They were anxious and looking to Misha.

“Stay. You’ll be safe here, just stay quiet.” It was a pointless command, for he knew they wouldn’t make a sound. Dogs these days knew to keep silent in the presence of the dead. They were also forced to stay, as Misha closed the container doors, hoping the dogs wouldn’t think to push on them because they couldn’t be latched from the outside. Rifle’s bloody teeth would have to wait.

Running back to the wall, Misha thought he’d help out. It turned out to be unnecessary, as everyone had made it over and the ladders were now being drawn up.

“Misha,” a half-whispered voice called out.

Misha turned and spotted Jon waving at him, standing with the two men who had warned them of the coming zombies and helped negotiate a deal between the two groups. There was also a young woman with them, whom Misha didn’t recognize.

“You okay?” Jon asked in a low voice when Misha got near.

“Sore, but fine,” Misha answered in a whisper, tempted to use sign.

“They’re farther than you think,” commented Mark, the guy who swam along the river with Jon. Misha hadn’t seen them arrive, but heard about how they were scooped out when the negotiations began. The cloudy day meant they weren’t completely dry yet.

“There’s so many, you can hear them from farther away than other zombie herds,” clarified the girl. Misha still didn’t like how loudly they were speaking.

It seemed Jon didn’t either, as he continued to whisper after giving them a mildly irritated look. “Misha, this is Suzanne, Tommy, and Mark. Mark and I were best friends in high school.”

Misha couldn’t hide his startled response. For many years, no one had run into someone they knew before the Day, not since they boarded the Diana. It explained why Jon had helped Mark get in and why they listened to him so readily.

“I know, right?” Jon grinned at Misha’s reaction. “We got separated on the Day.” He then turned to Mark. “After this, we’ll visit the Black Box. Abby lives there, and so does Claire.”

“Seriously?”

“Wait, is that the Claire you told me about? The one who lived in your apartment building?” Suzanne wondered. She was whispering now, but it seemed to be out of courtesy rather than the fear Misha and Jon felt.

“That would be her; they did live in the same building,” Jon said, nodding.

“Oh, then we
have
to go see them,” Suzanne insisted. “Did you know he carried around a med kit for years because of her?” she spoke to Jon and Misha.

Mark’s face turned a bright red.

“Same colour as that,” Suzanne teased Mark before planting a kiss on his cheek.

“Where have your leaders gone? Boyle and Karsten?” Tommy asked, looking around the area.

The last of the attackers were being hustled away from the wall and taken to the containers where they would be held for the duration of their stay. All the carts that had been hoisted over were left sitting where they had been placed, able to wait until later to be dealt with. The last of the exterior ladders were being tucked away, and the openings in the upper level were being sealed off. Karsten and Boyle couldn’t be seen anywhere.

“Maybe I can help,” Jon offered.

“I want to be able to get somewhere high,” Tommy turned to him. “Not anywhere near the wall, but somewhere where I can see above it.”

“Why? Won’t that risk the zombies being able to see you?” Jon frowned, disliking the idea as much as Misha did.

Tommy shook his head. “I probably won’t need it, but just as a precaution. I need a spot where I can see beyond the zombie horde without seeing the horde itself.”

“We’ll wait until you need such a spot,” Misha told the redhead.

Tommy shrugged. “Where can we go to sit this out? I’d rather not be outside if I don’t have to be.”

“We’ll go to the community centre,” Jon suggested. “Come on, it’s this way.”

“I’m going back to my container,” Misha told him. “Tell Danny I’ll come by and see him after this is over.”

“Will do.”

As Jon led the foreign trio away, Misha heard him telling Mark that Danny was the same Danny who had been his foster brother. The whole situation was strange to Misha, and he found himself hoping he never ended up in a similar one. He was a very different person than he had been before the Day and wouldn’t know what to say to someone who knew the old him.

Checking the wall one last time, Misha found it virtually abandoned. A few guards were sitting against it, unafraid—or trying to look unafraid—of the approaching sound, but no one was on top. As he returned to his container, he found the alleyways around it even emptier than they had been earlier. People who had had their doors open previously, suddenly decided they didn’t want to hear quite that well and had closed them.

As Misha ducked into his own container, the dogs all stood up, and then lay back down when he closed the doors behind him. He not only latched his doors shut, but he placed the several wooden beams he had in their brackets. Once that was done, he moved to the back of his container and proceeded to check the ladder that let him reach the emergency hatch. The dogs looked on curiously as he climbed up and popped it open. Misha didn’t care about the growing noise of the zombies: he wanted to make sure he had a way out ready to go.

Sitting on his bed beside Rifle, Misha let the other dogs pile around him. He wished that they were all there, that he had had time to go and retrieve the ones who had been left at the community centre. They would be safe there, with lots of company to keep them calm, but Misha wished he could physically see them, to know for himself that they were okay.

As the minutes ticked by, the monotonous moan got ever louder. As it built up and built up, Misha wondered if they had needed to take so many precautions to keep quiet. He would never suggest otherwise, but at the same time, it seemed that the zombies wouldn’t be able to hear anything over the sounds they were making. It reached a peak point and Misha imagined all the rotting flesh pressed up against the wall and wedged within the container maze. They would break upon it like a tide, forced to the sides where they would either fall into the river, the bay, or manage to loop around upon themselves. It shouldn’t take too long, especially once the splashing of the first few drew the others.

Once they were gone, there was going to be a massive cleanup to do. There were bound to be stragglers to deal with, but also undead debris. With a group that size, there would be bits of skin, hair, bowels, clothing, and who knows what else falling off them, not to mention what would have gotten scraped off as they passed between containers. It would be a gross job, but Misha would rather do that than just sit there like he was. Maybe another big storm would come along and wash all the gunk away.

Several minutes had dragged by and the sound hadn’t abated. Misha hadn’t heard any splashing, but that was understandable, as the zombies were making so much noise he was unlikely to hear it. Still, a dread inched its way up his spine. Based on the rate in which the sound grew, he had a rough estimate of how fast the zombies had been moving. By now, a fair number of them should have dropped off, decreasing the overall noise.

Misha kissed each of his dogs on their heads before standing up. He made a stay gesture with his hands, and then turned away from their watchful eyes. Moving slowly so as not to make any noise, Misha climbed up the ladder to the open emergency hatch, and slithered out on his belly. Even standing on the top of his container, there was no way he could be seen by anything over the wall, but he persisted in lying on his belly just in case. The volume of sound only got louder outside his box.

Crawling along the container, he looked around the area. A few people were poking their noses out of either their doors or hatches, their expressions worried. Misha hadn’t been the only one to expect the zombies to be leaving by now. Wiggling over to the front of his container, he lowered himself over the edge and dropped to his feet. It wouldn’t be easy to get back inside, but he figured he could borrow a ladder from somewhere.

Walking as fast as he could while remaining silent, Misha made his way toward the community centre. He wanted to check in with Boyle, ask him his thoughts on the matter. He’d probably also see a doctor while he was there; the stress was tightening his already-pained throat.

When he reached the centre, he spotted movement off to one side. Over near the toilets, Mark was pacing nervously back and forth. The sight made Misha feel worse than he already did, and he beelined for Jon’s apparently old friend. Mark stopped pacing once he noticed Misha and stood still. He seemed to be hoping that Misha was just going to one of the toilets, but his shoulders slumped as he realized that this was not the case.

“You’re worried.” Misha didn’t ask, he accused in a low whisper.

Mark didn’t respond and Misha began to wonder if he had even heard him, but the man would have seen his lips move, would’ve made some sort of gesture for him to repeat himself.

“What’s wrong? What’s going on?” Misha demanded to know.

Mark glanced around the area. Making sure no one could possibly overhear them? Or looking for a way out of this confrontation? Either way, there was nothing.

“I don’t know,” Mark finally admitted.

“What do you mean, you don’t know?”

“Exactly that. I don’t know what’s going on out there. They should be leaving by now. I’ve never seen the comet horde act this way before.”

Misha thought about how long this man and his group had been following the zombies outside the wall. He realized how dire that meant their situation was.

“Do you need that high spot you mentioned earlier?” Misha asked.

“It could help, yeah.”

“All right. We’re going to tell my leaders first, then I’ll find you that spot.” Misha led him back to the community centre, his eyes drifting toward the wall standing in the distance. On the other side, death seemed to be waiting for them.