The Dead Series (Book 2): Dead Is All You Get (39 page)

The doors to the building opened again, and men in hazmat suits used cattle prods to herd a parade of draggers in chains—some wearing Black Dragon uniforms—towards the trucks. One by one they loaded the draggers onto the second truck. I guessed they would be taken to another government facility somewhere to be experimented on later. Hannity had said that Operation Guncotton would wipe out every human—undead or otherwise—in Tres Marias. But he’d been wrong—they wanted these test subjects preserved so they could continue with the project.

Quincy waited for the workers to load the last of the draggers. The driver of the semi jumped into the cab. The gate opened again, and slowly he maneuvered the semi out of the compound and onto the road. Quincy pulled out a cell phone and texted something. The other Guardsmen received the text securely on their cell phones via their radios. He turned to Pederman and signaled. Before the gate closed, we rushed it, our weapons raised. Men and women in civvies were still in the yard. Surprised, they ran towards the building, shouting for help. From the sides, agents in grey suits appeared out of the darkness and fired at us with handguns. Quincy and his Guardsmen shot them dead, and we continued inside.

The interior was a large foyer with little furniture. Along the rear wall was a massive photomural of an aerial view of the Pentagon. I spotted surveillance cameras mounted in the ceiling corners and directly overhead. More agents appeared and fired on us. We took cover behind the furniture as bullets whizzed past. When we’d come in, Quincy had been directly behind me. Turning, I found him lying on the floor with a bullet through his face.

The Guardsmen managed to kill the other agents, but they lost three more of their own in the process. There was no sign of the people who had run in from the yard. We moved to the rear of the room. There had to be a door somewhere. Warnick and I felt around the edges of the photomural while others searched for a switch. Pederman found a keypad mounted on the side wall.

“This might be it,” he said. “No time to figure out the code. Should we shoot it?”

Warnick shook his head. “No, that’ll disable it.”

“Look at this,” I said, and pointed along the bottom of the photomural. It was flush with the ground, which seemed odd to me. “What do you think is behind it?” I pressed against the photomural to test its strength. It was solid. “What do we do?”

“Blast a hole through it,” Springer said. He turned to the Guardsmen. “Anybody got any C4?”

One of them—a young woman named Private Zelinski—opened her backpack. She pulled out C4 and fuses, then expertly mounted the explosive in three spots on the photomural and strung each pack together with wire. She unwound the wire as we took cover at the other end of the room. Finally, she used a detonator to blow open the wall. The deafening explosion shook the building. A fire alarm went off and sprinklers rained water down on us. When the smoke cleared, we could see beyond the wall. Metal stairs spiraled downward to another area. We got on our feet and headed in.

The Guardsmen took the stairs first. As they descended, automatic fire opened on them, killing most of them. The rest, wounded but alive, fired back into the blackness. Private Zelinski tossed a grenade. Screams erupted and the detonation shook the floor, then everything went quiet. We hurried down to check out our wounded. Most couldn’t walk, so we carried them up to the top. Zelinksi, however, was only slightly injured—a bullet had grazed her shoulder—so she stayed with us.

One after the next, we continued down the stairs. At the bottom we found the mangled remains of several Guardsmen and half a dozen agents. Behind the agents stood a set of double doors.

“Any last requests?” Springer said.

Pederman pushed one of the doors open and stepped through. A bloody hand grabbed his ankle. Without hesitation, Warnick sent his bayonet through the gurgling agent’s eye. Shaking his foot free, Pederman continued through and we followed. The inside was a vast cave, and I realized that the facility was actually carved into the Lake Shasta Caverns. As a teenager, I’d gone on the tour and didn’t remember anything resembling this area. From the looks of it there was no other way in or out. Our footsteps echoed as we entered. The temperature had dropped considerably and it was damp inside. A distinct odor hung in the air—one that I’d smelled before. After a moment, I placed it. Bat guano.

A dirt path led straight ahead to a wooden bridge—like something out of an Indiana Jones movie. We kept our weapons raised and peered in every direction as we approached the bridge. As we stepped onto it, I looked down. Rows of Plexiglas cells—hundreds of them—crisscrossed the floor, each containing a “patient.” More men in hazmat suits were chaining up the occupants and leading them out of the facility. All around stood tons of computer and other electronic equipment. Portable lights shone brightly, illuminating the interior. The patients lurched and let out horrific death shrieks as workers cattle-prodded them towards the exit.

Pederman started across the bridge first. A single shot screamed down from somewhere up ahead, and he stumbled, hit in the chest. His body armor saved him. We tried to retreat, but bullets whizzed past us on either side, forcing us to stay where we were. A bright light came on up ahead.

The mayor stood in front of us, along with O’Brien and one other cop armed with a high-powered rifle. The mayor looked bad, his suit dirty and torn. I wondered if he knew about his wife and sons.

“I want you to walk forward so I can see you,” he said. His voice was hoarse, like he’d spent the afternoon at a baseball game screaming his head off. We stayed put. The mayor turned to the second cop, who pointed his rifle at Zelinski and fired. The bullet hit her in the forehead and she collapsed on the bridge.

“I’ll say it once more. Walk forward.” Slowly, we continued across the bridge to the other side, where we stood twenty feet from the enemy. “Drop your weapons and raise your hands.”

We looked at Pederman. His jaw flexed, and he nodded. We laid down our weapons and slowly raised our hands. As the other cop covered him, O’Brien came forward, patted us down and took away our weapons, then returned to the platform.

“You can lower your hands,” the mayor said. He ran his fingers through his disheveled hair and shook his head, as if listening to a private joke. “You people have been in my way since this thing started. All you had to do was stay out of my business. Was that so hard?” He was staring at me.

“You broke the law,” Pederman said.

The mayor was incredulous. “Did you think I hired you to enforce the law? You were here to protect the experiment!” He tilted his head towards O’Brien, who raised his handgun and shot Pederman in the head. He fell into me and, looking into my eyes, crumpled on the bridge.

Now, there were only three of us left—Warnick, Springer and me. It was clear we were going to die. I thanked God Holly and the others hadn’t come with us.

“I seem to have a dilemma,” the mayor said. “You people disrupted my plans to the point where I cannot move forward. What to do, what to do …” He looked at O’Brien, then at us. “I know.” He turned back towards the darkness. “Bring them out.”

Two more cops with guns raised dragged three people into the light. “No,” a voice said. It was my own.

Holly, Griffin and Fabian stood before me, the same look of crippling fear on all of their faces. One of the cops held Greta on a leash with his free hand.

The mayor smiled warmly at the prisoners. “A couple of the boys happened to intercept these three on their way to a hotel. Too bad. I’m guessing they were looking forward to a nice hot shower and some room service.” He yanked Holly away from the group and pushed her forward, glaring at me. My blood ran cold.

“Time to make things right,” he said.

Holly stood there
on the platform, paralyzed. Her slender body trembled. She couldn’t even cry. Behind her, Griffin and Fabian stood mutely, his fingers reaching for her hand and gripping it. I wanted to will myself to Holly’s side and made a move to reach her. The cop standing next to O’Brien pointed his rifle at my head. Warnick gripped my shoulder. Balls of red light streaked across my eyes. My heart raced. I wanted to rip out the throats of everyone who meant to harm my family.

“You took away everything from me!” the mayor said. “My wife, my sons … my future!”

“We didn’t kill your family,” Warnick said. “Someone attacked our convoy.”

The mayor let out a pitiful wail that echoed throughout the cavern. O’Brien eyed him uncomfortably. His voice softer, he said, “If you hadn’t come after me, they’d still be alive.”

Warnick wasn’t finished with him. “Why did you leave them behind? You could have saved them.”

“You don’t understand. This was supposed to be my ticket …” Choking up, he forced himself to go on. “It’s bigger than you can imagine. They got me out of there, they …”

“You abandoned your wife and children,” Warnick said, unafraid.

“They promised me,” the mayor said, weeping.

Overlapping voices echoed in the cavern, and I struggled to make sense of them. Sweat dripped into my eyes, and the vague forms of Holly, Griffin and Fabian wavered in front of me like ghosts in the harsh orange light, pleading with me to do something. I wiped my eyes, and Holly screamed. When I looked up I found her on her knees in front of the mayor.

“Dave!”

The mayor tore the weapon from O’Brien’s hand and pointed it at Holly’s head. My heart thudded—I couldn’t breathe.

“Dave, I love you! I’ll always love you!”

“Please,” I said. “Please don’t.” I wept, unable to control myself. I was completely helpless—at the mercy of a madman. There was nothing I could do.

“I lost everything,” the mayor said, his voice a monotone. “Let me show you what that feels like.”

It was a dream. The bullet—a .45, I think—left the chamber so slowly. I could see it spinning as it raced home to its target. Every thought in my brain vanished, my mind laser-focused on the deadly projectile. And when it struck my wife in the head, exploding out the other side in a burst of blood, brains and bone, I died for a little while. That picture—that memory of Holly—the impact of the bullet twisting her sideways and down into the dirt—that photograph is burned in my memory forever like a cattle brand. And it’s always accompanied by the sound of screaming—Griffin maybe—and Greta’s desperate, urgent barking.

It was a dream—I knew it was. Not real. A nightmare. But if it was, why couldn’t I wake up?

Because it
was
real. There was no escaping it—not this time. If I’d been holding my weapon I would have used it to join Holly. There wasn’t any point in going on. She was all I lived for. Nothing else mattered. And the baby. So blessed to be conceived but not to be born. I fell to my knees and could only remain there, sobbing.

When I lifted my head again, the mayor still held the weapon, staring at what he’d done, as if surprised that guns kill. My head clearing, I felt Warnick and Springer on either side of me. Each held a hand under one of my arms and helped me to my feet. Griffin wept and Fabian held her. Barking viciously, Greta pulled at the choke chain. The cop holding her pointed his weapon at her head. Fearless, she sank her teeth into his hand, lunged at him and bit his neck. He screamed as blood squirted rhythmically from an artery.

In the chaos, Fabian punched the other cop guarding him in the throat and took his weapon. As the cop fell to the ground wheezing, I ran towards the mayor. Warnick and Springer followed. O’Brien kept trying to retrieve his weapon, but the mayor wouldn’t release it. Instead he fired point blank at me, hitting me in the upper arm, momentarily stunning me. Then he turned and ran down a dark passage. Springer came for the cop with the rifle, but he shot Springer in the head. The kid collapsed midstride, dead. Warnick retrieved a handgun and shot the cop twice in the temple. Dropping the rifle, the cop fell where he stood. The policeman Fabian had disarmed got up and fled across the bridge. Fabian raised his weapon and sent three bullets into the man’s upper body. Grunting, he went over the side.

O’Brien stood struggling and whimpering, Greta’s teeth sunk into his forearm. He was alone. Retrieving my weapon I walked up to him, my arm bleeding, our eyes locked. All I could see in his was terror. I touched Greta’s head. She released him and backed away.
“Braves Mädchen,”
I said.

I raised the gun and pointed it at O’Brien’s face. But I didn’t kill him. Not yet. Instead I shot him in the kneecap. Screaming and cursing, he stumbled but remained standing. Then he grinned at me. Daring me. So I shot out his other knee. This time he fell. With my good hand I grabbed his collar and forced him onto his shattered knees. Tears streaming from his eyes, he alternately cursed and babbled.

“Pray,” I said. He kept his eyes on me, gibbering like a lunatic. “Pray for my wife.” He shook his head uncomprehendingly. “You don’t know how, do you? Want me to teach you?” He closed his eyes, his lips trying to form the words. “That’s not a prayer worthy of Holly,” I said. I let go of his collar and he collapsed onto his back, moaning, blood gushing from his knees. I felt nothing—not even hate—as I pointed the gun at his face. As I squeezed the trigger, he never stopped staring at me, that same sneer on his lips. I emptied the clip.