The Rising Dead, Page 5

  The biggest part of him died back there in the desert. Gunner knew that all along. The person he was now--walking, talking, sitting, sleeping--was just the leftover shell. He was just waiting for the right time to die, looking for a way to give his final moments some meaning.

  After he was discharged, they tried to get him to talk to a shrink at the V.A. but Gunner couldn't bring himself to do it. No matter how many times they told him ‘it didn't make him less of a man,’ Gunner refused. Time after time he told them to shove it.

  Once you let weakness creep in, once you let your guard down, you're a goner. That much I know for sure.

  He'd paid a heavy price to learn that lesson. He'd seen it first hand in Iraq, watching friends and warriors die because they’d stopped to give children candy or began to feel compassion for the people they were trying to liberate. Besides, he'd always been raised to be self-sufficient. He wasn't one of those guys who whined about his problems to his coworkers. He didn't appreciate it when they tried to get overly personal with him either. Self-pity was a worthless and dangerous emotion. There was no way Gunner was going to cry about his problems to some stranger, much less let them write down everything he was thinking. He might as well put a bullet in his head now.

  He took one last look at the monitors in front of him, making sure the grounds were safe. Zymetech Biolabs was comprised of a sprawling network of bland white research buildings on one side and a three story glass office building on the other. In the middle were a series of parks crisscrossed with bridges and 'fun zones' for executives to blow off steam. What the genius architect who came up with the concept hadn't planned on was having UNLV students constantly stirring up trouble because of his blueprint. The jackass thought it would lower stress and create a healthy work environment. So far all it had done was increase Gunner's daily stress, chasing these jerk off kids around. He could see two of them working their way onto the grass at that very moment. Idiots. No one in the real world cared about Shakespeare or Women's Studies. As far as Gunner was concerned, college existed as a way for parents to get someone else to babysit their ill-mannered and overly coddled children until they were old enough to fend for themselves.

  The rotating banner ad on his open laptop screen caught his attention for a second. He'd always been a fan of the site Inside Conspiracies, the same way he'd always loved chat boards, back from when the internet was just one big thread--the BBS--but lately he'd found himself reading them obsessively. Something was off and he could feel it, the way an animal could sense a coming earthquake or an old injury could predict a change in the weather. The site flashed as the page automatically reloaded itself. The new headline ominously read “Is the End of the World Imminent?” Maybe, he thought. Now was as good a time as any. Every day things just seemed to get a little bit worse.

  Just then there was movement on the monitors. He sat up quickly, dropping his reading material onto the floor and unintentionally wheeling his chair over the thin, treasured newsprint in the process, tearing some of it loose. A group of students with headbands were running between buildings with brightly colored toy guns. They could be seen swerving in and out of a small cluster of baffled scientists.

  “Goddamn,” he muttered, grabbing for his walkie. “Torres, this is Base Leader. I've got unauthorized activity out on the grounds. Do you copy?”

  There was no response. One of the kids on the main monitor bumped into a girl carrying some paperwork, knocking her over. He didn't even bother to try to help her up, much less gather the scattered contents. Instead, he turned and ran as another kid with a gas mask chased after him. War games. That's what they called it. Live action role playing. What did these kids know about war? He gritted his teeth in anger.

  Gunner didn't get it. It was one thing to act this way as a young kid, to play fireman or cop or soldier, and another to do it as a legal-aged adult. If they wanted to experience what it felt like to be a soldier they should just enlist, as far as he was concerned. Part of him wished it was mandatory for young adults to give two years of service to their country. It was what the vast majority of these wastoids really needed--to be whipped into shape and shown what it meant to be a man. Running around goofing off with a fake gun and pretending to kill each other was about the least useful thing he could imagine. Let them see real war, up close and personal, blood and guts. Then they might show some respect. In combat, there were no time outs or do-overs. You only got one chance to do it right and any mistake would result in the death of you or your friends, or both.

  “Punks,” Gunner shouted at the screen. “What's going on?”

  The radio in his hand gave off a loud squawk as it came to life, snippets of a breathless voice coming through static.

  “We've got a situation here... looks like a half naked man... on PCP got onto the grounds. We are intercepting near south... I'm almost on top of him.”

  He heard the rustling of clothes as the security officer said something to the perp. A low growl echoed out of the walkie followed by a loud scream that sent icy chills through Gunner then eerie silence again. Someone had gotten Torres! But who? And why?

  Gunner turned to the monitors. He couldn't even see the kids anymore, but given the kind of sissies most of them were, he was fairly certain they weren't the real cause of the commotion. It had to be something else, something urgent. Could they have been a distraction used by terrorists to divert his attention? This wasn't happening, not on his watch! He clutched at his radio, his pulse quickening.

  “Torres! Where are you? Ramirez, you read me? What's happening out there?”

  Gunner could feel his adrenaline level rising and he reminded himself to control his breathing and not to panic. Staying calm and in control was the most important thing to remember in a crisis.

  Cool and calculated, he told himself.

  A thin voice came through his radio as he exhaled a long deep breath. It belonged to his other deputy, a wiry Mexican kid with ropy muscles and jailhouse tattoos named Jorge Ramirez. How he'd managed a full tour of duty was beyond Gunner. Guy looked like the Taco Bell dog, not a soldier. He liked to goof off too much for Gunner's taste and was always pushing the limits, always testing him. Now, when the chips were down, Gunner was eager to see what he was made of. Ramirez sounded scared and shaky.

  “He's dead Gunner. Dios mio.”

  Gunner could almost see the fear in Ramirez's soft coffee eyes through the radio. He pictured him superstitiously making the sign of the cross over himself, as if that would do any good. Gunner had seen many men die praying to a God that never heard or responded to their pitiful prayers. He scanned the monitors again but still there was no sign of trouble. Where could they be?

  “I can't see you on the cameras, Ramirez. Where are you? I'm coming!”

  “He just tore out his throat, Gunner,” he replied. “He's coming back. Holy shit! No! Get the fuck back!”

  A loud growl ripped through the radio like a wild beast, then sharp feedback covered up the sound of a man screaming and shots being fired. Then the radio went silent again. A calm descended over Gunner, just like it used to before he went into battle. It was finally here. This was what he had been waiting for and he knew his moment had arrived.

  “Sons of bitches,” he muttered, shaking his head as a tiny, ironic smile creased his lips. “I knew it. I knew the day would come.”

  Gunner reached down to his gun belt and pulled up his baby, an HK USP .45. He marveled at it, turning it over in his hands as he fed a fresh clip into it. It truly was beautiful. In Iraq he'd relied on his Sig P226, a heavy, sturdy gun that occasionally jammed on him, especially with all the dirt and sand and dust. HK didn't have the .45 model back then and the Army had relied on the Sig for years. Once he got home he wasted no time ordering himself a brand spanking new one. It worked like a dream. It was perfect. He'd been bringing it to work now for nearly a year, waiting for a day like today. He knew he'd need it eventually and he wanted to be ready.

  Gunner chambered a round
, trying to fight back the smile that wanted to burst out onto his face like a flower reaching up toward the light of the sun. His moment had finally come, and he was ready for it.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  They’d been driving for what felt like hours when Donovan pulled into the quiet suburban neighborhood of Summerlin where Poppy lived, far from the madness of Paradise road, far from Thunderdome, and far from the Strip. She propped herself up to see the line of identical looking homes as he pulled onto her street. It didn't look familiar but she knew this was her street from the sign. She had been in and out of consciousness the entire trip, heavy waves of sleep pulling her under into horrific nightmares that made her wake up screaming and thrashing. After the first hour of this, Donovan stopped asking if she was okay. Her sweat had soaked through her clothing and she was pretty sure she had a fever.

  “We're almost there, baby,” Donovan said, trying to sound supportive. “Almost home. Don't you worry. Soon, you’ll be in bed with a couple of painkillers in you and this will all be over.”

  He really is the greatest boyfriend, she thought to herself.

  The car pulled into a high driveway. Donovan shut off the engine and turned to Poppy.

  “I still think we should get you checked out,” he said, the wrinkles in his furrowed brow belied his calm tone. The thought of sitting in the waiting room for hours seemed like torture to her. No. All she needed was some of his vicodin and a whole lot of sleep.

  “Take me inside,” she croaked, her voice sounding deep and alien.

  Donovan did what she asked, but it was clear he wasn't happy about it. Minutes later she was undressed and in bed. He was propping her head up and handing her pills and a fresh glass of water. The cool of the glass felt almost as amazing as the water going down. It seemed like her insides were on fire. She gulped the water down in between breaths and he brought her more, encouraged by her responsiveness. Soon she was being dragged down again, down into the chaotic riot inside of her. In her fever-ridden dreams she was fighting with shadow people, hundreds of them. As soon as she killed one, another appeared. They seemed to be multiplying faster than she could kill them. They were overtaking her; each passing minute they had more control, and she was less herself and more of them, somehow. Her thoughts were growing fuzzy, as if she were drunk. She was having trouble concentrating. Everything seemed distant and far away.

  Soon, she gave up fighting. The shadow people seemed to be redoubling their efforts despite her surrender. Darkness seeped into her, entirely filling her up with unimaginable pain and in the distance, a tiny ember of glowing white light, like a tunnel. She reached out her hand for it and instantly moved toward it. She looked back as the light pulled at her; she was seeing her decaying body filled with darkness. Blood ran from eyes and nostrils, her skin turned the color of sallow yellow puss. Hints of white foam formed on her mouth. No. That was no longer her. That was someone else, someone she used to know, someone whose name she had already forgotten.

  Poppy used all the effort she had left in her to turn back toward the light. It was growing closer and closer. She could feel it, warm and soft and safe. She would be drenched in it soon and then everything would be okay again. She closed her eyes and rushed toward it with every fiber of her being, ready for whatever came next. The pain vanished as suddenly as it had started and then she was floating, released from the suffering, finally at peace.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Gunner raced out onto the grounds, gun high and visible. He wasn't taking any chances. Alarms were sounding but all the people were gone. A quick glimpse to the right told the whole story. A man with glasses in a designer suit peaked up from behind the glass windows of the office buildings to get a better look. Gunner locked eyes with him and the man dropped back to the ground and closed the blinds.

  Cowards, thought Gunner. They deserve what's coming for them.

  Gunner picked up speed as he headed to where he last saw movement on his monitor. He saw the bodies from a distance laying in a puddle of growing blood. He sprinted over and knelt down next to Ramirez, soiling his uniform in the coagulating mess. The body was already getting cold. Rigor mortis was setting in as it went stiff. His eyes were wide open and devoid of signs of life. The wound in his neck looked like something an animal would make. It was a shredded, pulpy mess of ragged, twisted skin and muscles with the remaining remnants of blood trickling out. He'd hit the main artery, whoever had done this. Nothing could have saved him. The only consolation for Ramirez was that death had come quickly, and that he had been lucky enough not to feel much after the shock sent in. He didn't even have time to draw his weapon.

  “I'm sorry buddy,” Gunner said, reaching over and closing his eyes. “You may not have been much of a security guard but you were once a soldier. That makes us brothers. You deserved better than this. I promise you I will get him.”

  Gunner was starting to drift back off towards that place in his mind where he went when he saw death, the place that kept him alive during the war when the shit went down. A whimper shook him out of his haze. He looked over to see Torres was shaking all over, trembling like a birch tree in a strong gale. It was hard to look at him. Gunner had just assumed he was dead.

  For fuck's sake, he thought, half his damn face has been bitten off! How the fuck is he still alive?

  Torres tried to speak but it was like his teeth were welded shut from all the adrenaline his body was pumping in to keep him alive, like they were fused bone to bone. It was just as well since he was missing the lower part of his lips. A curious white foam dribbled out of the wound, like fizzing soap. Gunner leaned in to get a better look at it. The fluid looked almost, well, alive - like it was filled with millions of microscopic wriggling worms writhing over each other. Torres eyes were filled with fear. His weapon lay jammed by his side, the clip half out and useless.

  “Stay still,” Gunner told him, instinctively pulling back from Torres. “Help is one the way. I'm pretty sure they've called it in by now.”

  No sooner were the words out of his mouth then he heard sirens in the distance heading their way. Gunner stood up. Zymetech was his turf and this had gone down on his watch. Now the cops were coming. They would lock down everything and take over. They would ask him a million questions and want to know why he hadn't done more to prevent it. They would delight in humiliating him. They would gladly take all the credit for securing the grounds, for taking in the perp. Worst of all they would do everything in their power to take in the suspect alive. No! That couldn't happen! He had to find the guy first and he had to dispense justice. Some maniac had come into his house, into his place of business, and had brought chaos and death. Worse still he'd killed his men, his soldiers, his brothers. There was only one way for this to end as far as Gunner was concerned - with another body heading to the morgue.

  “I've got to get him before they get here,” Gunner said to Torres. “I'm sorry to leave you buddy but it's just for a minute. I promise I will come back.”

  Torres began to whimper louder but Gunner stood up and began looking around. With everyone locked up in their offices or in the lab he'd be able to do what needed to be done and make up his own story to the cops when they got here. There'd be no witnesses to contradict him. He'd be the hero and justice would be done.

  “Which direction did he head? Think!” He turned in circles with his gun held in front of him. Blood patterns. He had to have left something. That was the answer.

  Gunner saw a trail of bloody footprints that lead back to the lab. Bloody hand prints were smeared across the door. He ran over and check the blood drenched handle.

  “It's locked,” he said out loud. “He didn't get in here. They locked him out. That's good. That means he probably didn't get into any of the offices either.”

  He turned and glanced that direction. No signs of life. That meant the only place left to search was the parking lot. He could hear the sirens getting closer. He hesitated. This was his last chance to make sure he got the guy. He had to be
sure. If he went the wrong way the monster who had done this to his men would almost certainly get to live. He thought about the mass shootings that had occurred over the last decade in the United States. The killers who cooperated with the police always got to live. Later they'd claim they didn't know what they were doing. They'd claim temporary insanity. They'd say they'd taken bath salts or smoked PCP or some other bullshit and woke up covered in blood with no memory. It made Gunner sick to live in a country where people didn't have the common sense to know which kind of people needed to be weeded out. Sure it was a tough decision, one that should never be made lightly, but for the good of all it had to be done.

  Gunner was running out of time. He turned and began jogging for the parking lot. It was the only thing that made sense. If the killer had been locked out he'd try to escape or look for more unsuspecting victims by heading north. He might even have followed some of the fleeing students back towards their campus.

  Sure, thought Gunner, that made the most sense. The kids couldn't get into the offices or labs. They'd have no choice but to run for it.

  Gunner broke out into a full on run. He heard a loud growling up ahead in the distance. A wide smile blossomed across his face. He loved being right. From the sound of the sirens he didn't have much time, maybe only a few minutes. That's all he'd need. He'd go for head shots to make sure the guy didn't make it. No way he was getting rushed to a hospital after what he'd pulled. He was going straight to hell and his bullet ridden corpse was being taken to a cold slab.

  Gunner made the turn around the last building with his gun leading the way. He was less than twenty feet into the parking lot when he found what he was looking for. A blonde woman, one of the pretty sales reps, was lying quivering on the ground next to the open door of her new gray BMW. Her shaking legs flailed wildly from under her charcoal pencil skirt. A small, naked Asian man with strips of flesh in his mouth was kneeling over her body.