The Living Dead 2 Part 27

"Knotts was up from Florida," she said.

Jacobs gave her a distracted look, then turned back to the cabinet.

"They got bugs in Florida like you wouldn't believe. I bet he carries it in with his personal effects. A thing like that, it just gets to be a habit."

"Check him then, check his things if you think he's got it." Another bottle hit the floor. The cap flew off and a cascade of white pills rattled across the linoleum, washed up against the motionless form of Knotts, got stuck in the congealing blood.

"And you think we could keep them off us? With mosquito repellent, sir?"

"It doesn't repel, it interferes. It corrupts receptors."

The logic was mysterious. Grace was not much in the way of parsing scientific theories, but he seemed to be missing a vital link, some key component. A person is not a mosquito A person is not a mosquito, she thought of saying, but in the end, she knelt over Knotts's body and began to pick through his satchel. The bottle of bug spray was very small.

"Give it to me," Jacobs said, peeling his shirt over his head.

"Is this enough?"

"It'll have to be, won't it? It doesn't last more than an hour, hour and a half, anyway. We just need to get beyond them." He was already smearing the stuff down his arms. "Take off your vest."

"I'm sorry, sir?"

"Take it off. And your shirt. We need it thick, all over. Put it in your hair."

"What if it doesn't work?"

"Does it matter, then? We're dead anyway. Everyone's dead eventually."

And that was logic she couldn't argue with.

They reached the Rosewood complex shortly after midnight. The moon was pale and heavy in the sky, fat as a dogtick. Their progress went undetected, although Grace had no position as to whether it was due at all to the DEET.

They crossed the perimeter of the complex. The west entrance already stood open, a dark gaping maw. Jacobs lit his xenon lamp, holding it to the doorway. Somewhere beyond the halo of light, a shape was moving.

Grace loosened her gun in its holster. "Something's there."

"Good," Jacobs said. "We just need one. I want one alone in the lab for fifteen minutes."

Grace nodded and didn't answer. There was never just one.

From far away, a shrill giggle rose. It echoed back and forth in the corridor, trickling down the walls. Another came from somewhere in the northern sector.

At the reception station, they paused to examine the attendant signs of disuse. The control panel was coated in dust.

Jacobs indicated a bank of monitors. "See if you can bring the lights up while I find the medical bay. I need to get some supplies together."

Grace nodded again. Her skin was p.r.i.c.kling with adrenaline, but this was not the time to go jumpy. There would be warning. There always was.

When she accessed the backup system, the lights came up sluggishly on the generator, hazy and dim, like being underwater.

She stood in the reception area and waited. The time that pa.s.sed was deep and faceless and full of sound.

When an unwieldy figure came toward her down the hall, she raised her pistol, but it was only Jacobs. He wore a biohazard suit, fitted with a portable respirator and a curved Plexiglas face-mask. With one gloved hand, he gestured her to follow.

He led her through a maze of corridors to the medical wing and ushered her into a gla.s.s-fronted observation room. Grace maneuvered between counter tops and stasis chambers to peer through the long window into an adjacent exam room.

The girl was in bad shape, skin discolored, covered in welts and scratches. She was smiling the smile, gleeful, manic. Grace watched her make a circuit of the room. Eight or nine years old. Must have belonged to one of the technicians, maybe a project manager. The girl had been someone's daughter.

Jacobs turned from a cooler at the far end of the room. Cupped in his hands was a white rat.

"Is it dead?" Grace asked.

Jacobs shook his head. He had to spit out the mouthpiece before speaking. "They've got hundreds in there, in stasis. I'd say we've got five, maybe ten minutes before it revives. I need to see what she does."

Grace touched the rat's side. Its fur felt cold and matted.

Jacobs secured the face-mask again, then motioned her away from the exam room door and entered, carrying the rat.

The girl reacted with no particular venom to Jacob's presence.

When he offered his gloved hand, she took it without looking up. He lifted her and set her on the edge of a gurney. He left the rat resting beside her.

Back in the observation room, he took off the headpiece and set it on the counter.

"Now watch," he said, leaning towards the gla.s.s.

The girl sat where he'd left her, swinging her feet, smiling the deranged smile. Beside her, the rat lay peaceful and motionless.

"Right now, its body's still retaining carbon dioxide, but as it comes up, the emissions will be transiently high. It's going to be a little CO2 bomb in a minute." bomb in a minute."

The rat twitched violently.

When the girl moved, it was with unexpected ferocity, s.n.a.t.c.hing up the rat and sinking her teeth into its side. Blood ran copiously, soaking into the front of her dress.

As Grace watched through the gla.s.s, the girl's eyes turned up to meet her gaze. She was holding the animal to her mouth with both hands and then she let it fall. Blood was dripping from her chin and the rat lay motionless and red on the cement floor.

Jacobs had pillaged a battery-powered tablet from somewhere and was making rapid marks with the stylus, murmuring to himself.

There was a low, industrial whirring as the fans came on. Grace flinched as the ventilation system roared to life. Jacobs only stood with his head bent, tapping at the little screen.

On the other side of the gla.s.s, the girl began to pace frantically, sc.r.a.ping at the walls with her fingers.

"What's she doing?"

Jacobs glanced up. Above them, ducts ran along the ceiling, their shining planes punctuated by vents.

"She's just got a whiff of us," he said. "The air's circulating again."

In the other room, the girl was scrabbling at the floor vents and then at the edges of a broad grate in the wall. It occurred to Grace that if the DEET worked like Jacobs said it did, then the girl wasn't responding to it. That she must be smelling something else. Or maybe the DEET didn't work after all, but was only a placebo. She did not know whether Jacobs had intended the fallacy to comfort her or himself.

"Are they really mindless?" she said, with her palms against the gla.s.s.

Jacobs looked at her strangely. "You mean, did they experience brain injury? If we could mitigate the reaction to incidental levels of CO2, we'd be certain. But no, I don't think they're stupid."

The lights failed then, and the room lapsed into blackness except for the flicker of the tablet. Without ceremony, Jacobs lit the xenon lamp and continued his notations. Grace reached for her sidearm.

Out in the corridor, footsteps echoed. Multiple people-eight, nine maybe-and coming closer, but they were unattended by the manic sounds of laughter. Grace moved so that her back was to the wall.

Jacobs still scribbled on his tablet, letters slanting down in a frantic scrawl before the CPU converted them to type. He was talking to himself under his breath, alive suddenly, animated. His intensity had become frantic, bordering on possession, and it frightened her.

The door swung open and the strangers came in slowly, with wary looks and raised guns.

"Who are you?" said a tall, craggy man at the head of the group. He stepped into the light. "What are you doing here?"

He wore no uniform. Someone had sewn stripes onto the sleeves of his jacket, but the st.i.tches were sloppy, inexpert. A scar ran across the bridge of his nose and then jagged abruptly down one cheek. Behind him, a contingent of men held firearms. Mostly hunting rifles and shotguns.

Grace moved forward, standing at attention. "Private Maureen Grace and Sergeant Rabe Jacobs, 68W."

The man nodded. "Trask," he said.

He gave no rank and did not need to. His manner conveyed the brutal authority of a general, although the unit behind him was motley. Probably local militia. He was looking past her to the bare desk and the gla.s.sed-in examination room. "And what are you doing here, Private Maureen Grace?"

She glanced at Jacobs, who sat limply, watching the newcomers with the air of someone drugged. "We're investigating a possible course of action. The sergeant's developing a theory and has acquired a research subject."

"This research subject here?" Trask said, raising his pistol to the gla.s.s. "This raggedy little b.i.t.c.h right here?"

At the desk, Jacobs set the tablet down. "What are you doing? She's not a threat, you moron. She's just a little girl."

The look Trask gave him was long, calculating. "And she'd have your throat out in two seconds."

"I had her calm calm. I had her sedate, even when I was in the room. We have all the preliminary evidence necessary to pursue this. Are you listening? We could alleviate their aggression. We could fix fix them!" them!"

"And lead them around like pets? Keep them until they've had enough one night, and kill us in our beds?"

Jacobs scrambled up from the desk. "It is our duty duty to cure them." to cure them."

"There is no cure," Trask said, coming down hard on each word. "No cure but to rout them, and pick them off one at a time until it's over. There's no way to play nice and then go home."

Around him, the other men nodded, their gestures tied to his...o...b..t like moons or planets. Grace watched them. Trask embodied all the qualities vital in a leader. His voice was low and commanding. His face was honest. It promised suffering to anyone who got in his way.

Above them, the ductwork clattered. In the eerie glow of Jacobs's lantern, the men started, raising their weapons to the ceiling.

Grace crossed to the observation window and pressed her face to the gla.s.s. "She's gone, sir."

When the ventilation duct dropped down into the observation room, the sound was very loud. The whole apparatus seemed to peel away from the ceiling-a long, shining arc that hung for an instant at its apex, then crashed to the floor with a deafening clang.

Grace watched as a dim figure scrambled out on hands and knees, slashing and clawing at everything in reach. Lank, dirty hair, tattered dress, dark splatters down the front. Then nothing but the smile. The handgun was light, not powerful, but efficient, up out of the holster and in her hand. She put the girl down from eight yards.

Beside the desk, Jacobs lay under the remains of the duct. The aluminum had torn jaggedly, like a mouthful of teeth. Her ears still rung with the sound of metal striking cement and on another plane, laid over the metallic clatter, the shot echoed again and again.

She did not recall crossing the room, but there she was beside him. His cheek had been raked open and he gasped for breath, looking up at her. A dull, shocked look, like he was offended by the treachery of the world. The wound in his side was long. Not a puncture, but a ragged gash, first through the material of the biohazard suit and then through his skin and after that, the subcutaneous fat. The blood was bright, arterial red.

Grace knelt over him and pressed her hands to the wound.

Somewhere in the ducts, a sharp, high-pitched giggle broke loose, echoing down on them like spilled nails.

"Welcome to the zoo," Trask said behind her.

"You know I'm right," Jacobs whispered. "Don't you know I'm right?"

But Grace knew nothing about chemistry or pathology. The mysteries of science were Jacobs's domain, and the brilliance of his vision eluded her.

He was coughing now, b.l.o.o.d.y saliva collecting at the corners of his mouth. On the other side of an examination table, the dead girl grinned and grinned.

Trask moved closer. He was wearing work-boots and the soles squeaked on the linoleum. "Look at his face. He's infected anyway. You know it, I know it. Just end it-for him and for us. We need to be strong if we're going to restore the nation."

All through the compound came the sounds of scrabbling, shuffling laughing. Grace had a strange, unbidden thought. There is no nation; only people There is no nation; only people.

Under her palms, Jacobs coughed again. The skin around his eyes had taken on a bluish hue.

Trask had nothing on his side but grim conviction and force of will. A man who was simply not afraid could persuade the ma.s.ses to follow him anywhere. He might not be a war hero, but he could marshal the survivors.

Above them, the metallic clamor was much louder. Grace lifted her hands.

She raised the gun, held the muzzle to Jacobs's cheek. His eyes were pained and cloudy. She felt for the trigger and did not think, because it was easier not to.

Steve and Fred By Max Brooks

Max Brooks is one of the kings of contemporary zombie fiction. He is the author of World War Z World War Z-which is currently in the process of being adapted into a feature film-and The Zombie Survival Guide The Zombie Survival Guide, both of which were huge international bestsellers. Brooks has also published a graphic novel, The Zombie Survival Guide: Recorded Attacks, The Zombie Survival Guide: Recorded Attacks, and he's had short stories in the anthologies and he's had short stories in the anthologies The New Dead The New Dead and and Dark Delicacies II Dark Delicacies II. Prior to becoming the world's foremost expert on zombies, he worked for two years as a writer for Sat.u.r.day Night Live Sat.u.r.day Night Live.

There comes a point in life when you must look in the mirror and ask yourself certain basic questions: Who am I? Who am I? What am I doing with my life? What am I doing with my life? And most importantly: And most importantly: How will I fare when the zombies come? How will I fare when the zombies come? As you survey the vast landscape of zombie fiction, you must appraise each character and ask: As you survey the vast landscape of zombie fiction, you must appraise each character and ask: Would that be me? Would that be me?

Maybe you'll be the coward who locks himself in the bas.e.m.e.nt and refuses to help fortify the house, and refuses to let any strangers into your domain, all the while ignoring obvious signs that your child will soon be among the undead. No? Then maybe you'll be the strong leader of your enclave of survivors who goes mad with power and turns into a s.a.d.i.s.tic monster more horrifying than any zombie.

Don't think so? Of course, you know exactly exactly who you'll be: The hero, the one who perseveres when all others have succ.u.mbed. You'll have the weapons, the car, the steely determination, the girl. You'll ride into town like a white knight and sort the local zombie problem right out, and ride off into the sunset as the weak gather in the dusk and wave and wonder about your name. That's the way you've always imagined it, right? Well then, our next story should be right up your alley. who you'll be: The hero, the one who perseveres when all others have succ.u.mbed. You'll have the weapons, the car, the steely determination, the girl. You'll ride into town like a white knight and sort the local zombie problem right out, and ride off into the sunset as the weak gather in the dusk and wave and wonder about your name. That's the way you've always imagined it, right? Well then, our next story should be right up your alley.

Think you know exactly who you'll be when the zombies come? Well, so do we. You'll be exactly like the main character in our next tale.