Outbreak: A Survival Thriller (4 page)

The store looks twice as big as I
remember, though that’s probably an illusion caused by the shelves, most of
which have been toppled. My chest expands with hope when I see that the shelves
against the wall still contain various supplies, like toilet paper and
toothbrushes.

If raiders had been through here,
they wouldn’t have left behind such luxuries. There’s a possibility that only
infected—who have no desire for such things, including medicine—are
the only people to have come through this store since the town fell.

My hopes dwindle as one of my
father’s favorite lessons runs through my mind.

If it seems too good to be true, then it probably is. Play devil’s
advocate eighty percent of the time, in a hundred percent of situations.

Okay, Dad. Fine. There’s a
distinct possibility that raiders
have
been through here, and that they took so many supplies they either couldn’t fit
everything, or they could afford to leave behind things like toothbrushes.

If that’s true, medicine is one
of the first supplies they would have grabbed. I might be shit out of luck.

The front half of the store is
well-lit thanks to the broad windows. A dozen or so infected loiter there. From
my spot in the darkened back area, I’m well hidden from any that might glance
in my direction. Of course, the store’s back half could hold just as many
infected as the front, or more, hiding in the shadows. As my eyes adjust to the
darkness, I see a few of them among the shelves, but they seem intent on
whatever it is they’re doing. Playing with the store’s remaining wares,
probably.

The pharmacy is right where I
remember it. There are no windows along its back wall because the loading area
is behind it. No windows means no light, and I already consider the possibility
that the space is filled with infected, and that taking out my flashlight to
read the labels might be too dangerous to attempt.

I approach the long counter serving
as a border between the pharmacy and the rest of the store. Keeping to the
shadows, I lean over the counter and peer inside. I see empty shelves in the
low light, but that doesn’t mean the place has been cleaned out. Maybe the
bottles were knocked over by infected.

I look down at the floor and see
small, pale, uniform shapes. My heart soars.

Medicine.

When I’m sure no infected are
looking my way, I carefully slide over the counter. I keep low to the ground,
my hands feeling the bottles to make sure they’re not just empties.
But the lids are screwed on tight and I can hear pills clicking
around inside.

A flashlight would really help
right now, but it’s too risky. With no other light back here, the beam would be
easy to spot.

Every problem has a solution, however—especially
when you bring the right tools.

I take out the Leatherman
multi-tool and click on the tiny blue bulb on one of its prongs. The light
isn’t strong enough to guide someone through a dark room, but it’s perfect for
reading the labels.

I’ve taken care of the lighting
situation, but that was the easy part. Now I have to deal with the noise. The sporadic
moaning and growling of the infected on the main floor might mask the clicking of
the pills. But I can’t risk finding out the hard way.

A loud thump from the shopping
area startles me. The noise is followed by a series of angry snarls. I raise my
head to peer over the counter, just in time to see two infected wrestling in the
central aisle. They must have tripped over each other. After a few seconds of
kicking and pushing, one gets up, a black shape against the glare from the
windows, and makes its way toward the front as if nothing happened. The other
rolls over a few times but doesn’t get up.

With a relieved breath, I go back
to work.

There’s only one way to keep
silent, and it requires moving around on all fours without touching the bottles
I don’t need. I keep the multi-tool between my clenched teeth and make my way
over the mess, careful to place my hands and boots on bare sections of the
floor. It’s incredibly difficult to do, and I move with the slowness of a
turtle—a fitting image since my pack weighs oppressively against my
spine.

I’ve studied my father’s
survivalist manuals and medical journals enough to know what kinds of
medication apply to my current situation. The virus isn’t the only infection
people like us need to worry about. The other silent killer is bacterial.

Which is why I’m incredibly lucky
to find a full bottle of
Nafcillin
followed by, mere minutes
later, a bottle of
Vancomycin
. Both are industrial
size, each containing five hundred pills.
But there’s enough
space in each bottle to make carrying them around as noisy as shaking a pair of
maracas.

I find a spot between two shelves,
slide off my pack, and get to work opening the bottles and stuffing them with
toilet paper. (I forgot to mention I packed that as well—should be no
surprise there.) Once they’re both full, I screw on the caps. Then I test the
noise level by tapping them against my thigh.

Barely a click
of sound.
I stuff them into the bottom of my pack, so they won’t fall
out or get in the way, then slide my pack forward to clear a bit of room for my
legs, which I stretch to avoid cramps.

A good idea would be to search
the place for more valuable medicine. But just as I start to push myself off
the ground, a metallic click makes me freeze.

It can’t be what I think it
is—can it?

I reposition myself into a
crouch, close my eyes, and listen. The ensuing shuffling sound that rises to my
left is slow and clumsy, as if the intruder is uncertain about entering all the
way. A sour, fleshy smell thickens the air—not quite the smell of rot,
but close.

Early-stage infected. Somehow it
managed to open the pharmacy’s side door. It was stupid of me not to check it
first.

Now the only question is: how
many are there?

Sudden silence tells me the thing
has stopped walking. I’m thankful for the shelf blocking me from view, though
it won’t help if the smell of my sweat gives me away. I listen more closely and
hear a sniffing sound.

The most important
thing—besides avoiding contamination—is keeping my pack with me at
all times. Without it, I’m a dead man, and so is my father.

It’s bad luck, I guess. The pack
lies with its bulging bottom extending past the shelf. If I try to move it, the
infected will see the motion.

There is nothing of interest to
them inside my bag. I could leave it here and come back, and there’s a good
chance they’ll leave it alone since it doesn’t smell like food and is very
tough to open, especially with hands connected to a virus-eaten brain like
theirs.

Again, I hear the shuffling sound
of movement, along with vocal sounds. There are two of them, each making a distinct
noise—a male emitting a low moan, and a woman letting out a thin whine
that sounds like air leaking from a balloon.

Unless I consider jumping over
the counter a viable means of escape—which it isn’t because I can’t see
what’s on the other side—there is really only one option, and that’s the
door. The problem is the two infected standing in the way. Could I use the
knife to take them out quietly? It’s possible, but the risk is too great. If I
attract a swarm, I’ll never get out.

A desperate idea comes to me.

I reach down to one of the
pouches hanging off my belt. The moans and footsteps grow louder as the
infected approach my position, only seconds away from appearing in front of me.
I slide a few fingers into the pouch, wrap them around the Zippo, and slip it
out.

I flip the lid back, snap my
thumb against the flint wheel, and watch the spark fatten into a shivering
flame half an inch tall. I flick it into the far corner. By the time it lands, there
is nothing hiding me from the infected. The male could have turned and easily
caught me sitting there.

Instead, the flame catches their
attention. They lunge at it. The medicine bottles are a lucky trap, and the infected
lose their footing and collapse in a tangle.

I grab my pack and sprint past
the door. As effective as my plan ended up being, it caused enough
racket
to draw every infected person in the drugstore—and
even a bunch from outside—toward the pharmacy. Dark shapes fill the front
windows.

Running in a low crouch, I make my
way to the stairwell. I take the steps two at a time and emerge unscathed in
the same dank hallway as before. My flashlight cuts a tunnel through the
darkness.

I’m safe for now. But something
is wrong. It smells different in here—rank body odor combined with a dry,
papery smell unlike anything an old office would emit.

Pulse pounding in my
ears,
I hold the Glock and the flashlight side by side in
both hands as I creep forward. The room with the windows should be right around
the corner. I can use the grappling hook to climb back down. Shouldn’t take
more than three minutes to be on my way.

But that
smell
.

What could it be? The papery and
spicy nature of it reminds me of a dried wasp’s nest, only several times more
pungent, and mixed with something like armpit odor.

I no longer need the flashlight
and click it off before rounding the corner. The trashed office is to my left,
daylight streaming through the open door. It hits me
full-on
in the face and makes me wince.

A dry-sounding bark almost makes
me fire the pistol into the darkness at the other end of the hallway. Instead,
I aim straight ahead at where I expect my attacker’s chest to be.
When they emerge—two males down on all fours—I adjust
my aim, but it’s too late.

They charge me like a pair of
chimpanzees, feet banging the carpeted floor.

Skinny, hairless, and covered in
dust—more like monsters than anything human.

I’m too freaked out to aim properly
and shoot. Instead, I leap out of their way and land inside the office. As they
lunge past the door, I catch a glimpse of pale skin stretched over ribs,
emaciated arms covered in scratches, and then a pair of ghastly, skeletal faces
that whip around to study me through the doorway.

Two sets of milky eyes blink at
me. I was wrong about them both being males.

It’s actually a man and a woman,
though it’s hard to tell the difference since they both seem to weigh about
ninety pounds and have lost all hair including their eyebrows. Both are
shirtless and barefoot, though the man wears tattered jean shorts and the woman
a pair of torn spandex pants. So many old scars and fresh cuts decorate the
exposed parts of their bodies that it’s like they drew maps all over each other
with a razor blade, etching new features over the ones that had healed. The
fine layer of dust covering them must be from the plaster used in the construction
of these offices, meaning they’ve been trapped in here a while.

I extend my boot, hook it behind
the door, and kick it shut in their faces. I’m up in a flash and immediately
twist the lock in the doorknob to seal it shut. The two infected waste no time.
They pound the door with such force that I reconsider just how strong
late-stagers can be.

When they start hammering the sheets
of
Plexiglass
in the windows facing the hallway, I
know I’m in trouble. The glass holds for about three seconds before falling
inward with a bang that sends sheets of paper fluttering. Like a couple of pale
frogs, the man and the woman leap through the opening and land inside the
office.

There’s no time to climb back
outside. I face the emaciated couple. Sure enough, they’re both wearing gold
wedding bands.

Married.

These two loved each other once.
Maybe they still do.

None of that stops me from aiming
the Glock at their chests, and yet I can’t pull the trigger. They don’t look
hungry or violent or even angry at being disturbed. They just blink in my
direction with red-veined, milky eyes.

I shouldn’t have hesitated. They
duck at the same time, movements perfectly in sync. I fire at empty air. The
pop is deafening. They spring toward me with surprising agility and tackle me
to the ground.

The gun slips out of my hand. I
would pick it back up, but all four of my limbs are suddenly occupied in the
struggle to fend them off. On my left side, the man struggles to bite into my
raised forearm, but the coverall’s fabric keeps me protected. The woman is more
vicious and tries to claw at my face. I resist using my right arm and slam my
leg into her side with enough force to roll her off.

The man’s teeth snap above my
face. A line of drool swings from his cracked lower lip. If a single fleck
enters my mouth or one of my eyes, I’m toast.

The woman scrambles to get back
up. When she finally does, I manage to locate the pistol lying next to me. I
sweep my arm over it and slide it closer to my hip, where I can finally grab
it. The woman readies herself to pounce, and I use the opportunity to aim at
her chest.

As I’m about to shoot, a strange
thing happens.

Her head jerks forward as if
she’s been punched. When she lifts it again, I see an arrow that wasn’t there
before. It entered through the back and impaled her left eye as it emerged
through the front, destroying enough of her brain to drop her. Who could have
shot that thing so perfectly?

I can’t let the mystery of the
arrow distract me, not with my left side pinned beneath the man’s weight. His
mouth is leaking spit like a faucet. A gob of it lands next to my head, and I
catch the cheesy smell coming from his rotten, yellow tongue.

The Glock. I need to use the Glock.

I push him away at an angle to
distance myself from his toxic saliva. There’s just enough space between us now
that I can press the
Glock’s
barrel to his ribcage.