CHAPTER 23

They weren’t moaning anymore. At least there was that.

In the shed, Nate Royal listened to the low, peaceful sizzle of a light rain falling on the metal roof. He had no idea how long he had been in the shed. Several hours at least. He could still see daylight through the cracks in the door, but it was growing darker, and he didn’t want to get stuck in here all night.

He rocked forward onto his knees and put a hand on the shed door, but then the image of Jessica Metcalfe getting torn to bits rose up in his mind, and a shudder went through him.

He sank back against the wall and rubbed his wounded shoulder meditatively.

Surprisingly, it didn’t hurt.

He leaned forward again and peeled his shirtsleeve up and studied the wound in the waning light.

It didn’t look any worse than the time Georgiana Meyers’s dog had tried to chew his hand off when he was six. His shoulder wound was a little white around the edges, like the foam on a glass of beer, and that didn’t look right, but it wasn’t a scary wound. He’d seen worse.

He thought he remembered something about how the zombie bites were supposed to turn black, and how they were supposed to smell like rotting meat.

He sniffed his shoulder.

Nothing.

And he felt fine. More or less. On TV, they said people who got bit acted like they had the flu. They were dizzy and pale and achy and sweated a lot. He didn’t feel any of those things.

“Huh,” he said. “Maybe I got a break.” God knows he was due for one.

And then he thought, Well, fuck it. I got lucky once. Maybe I’ll get lucky again.

He stood up, leaned an ear against the crack at the edge of the door, and listened to the rain pattering down on the grass outside.

Nothing.

He pushed the door open, wincing as it creaked, but he kept on pushing.

The sky was washed out and gray, a watercolor smear over the row of houses. Rain puddles dotted the yard. But he was alone. He listened, and when he didn’t hear anything, he took off running toward his house. He rounded the corner of the alley and heard somebody shooting.

He ducked behind some bushes.

Lucky thing, too.

Three of those zombie things were shambling down the side street to his right, dragging half-eaten legs, trying to grasp with hands that were too mangled to work.

Nate looked over to his left and saw two guys in white plastic suits, like something out of a science-fiction movie, gas masks over their faces. They had military-looking machine guns.

The lead white suit called out, “Police officers. Stop moving. Put your hands over your head.”

The zombies lumbered closer, like they didn’t hear.

“Stop where you’re at or we’ll fire.”

The second white suit had a radio in his hand. He said, “Team Seven-Alpha. Evans and Avenue G, three confirmed. Request permission to fire.”

Whomever he was talking to must have given him the okay, because a moment later a three-round burst of gunfire slammed into the lead zombie and nearly took his head off. The body went tumbling backward.

The other two zombies kept shambling toward the white suits. They didn’t even flinch at the gunfire, just kept right on coming.

Two more bursts took them out.

Nate’s eyes went wide.

He jumped to his feet and ran the other way. His feet slid out from under him on the wet road and he probably looked like a tangle of arms and legs, but he didn’t care. He just wanted to get away from there.

“Hey,” one of the white suits yelled. “Hey, stop. Stop!”

Nate put his head down and ran.

But he didn’t even make it across the street before the demon in his knee raised its ugly head and down he went.

He looked back just as the white suits closed on him.

“What the hell are you doing, man?” the first one said. He sounded winded and angry. “We’re trying to help you. Didn’t you hear the warnings on TV?”

Nate was confused. He looked from one white suit to the other. They knew what he’d done to Jessica Metcalfe. That’s why they were here, fucking cops. Why were they fucking with him like this? Just knock his dick in the dirt and be done with it.

“Where have you been all day?” the other white suit said. “The evacuation is mandatory. Everybody’s gotta go.”

“I—,” Nate said, and had nothing beyond that. He shrugged.

“What’s wrong with your knee?” one of the suits said. He wasn’t pointing his machine gun at Nate, but he still looked ready to use it.

“I hurt it a few years back,” Nate said.

The white suits relaxed a little. The one closest to Nate slung his rifle over his shoulder and held out his hand and said, “Can you stand? You need a hand up?”

“Thanks.”

Nate took the man’s gloved hand, and the plastic crinkled in his grip. The man started to pull him to his feet, then suddenly let go of Nate’s hand and backed away. Both soldiers brought their machine guns up.

“Hey, you’ve been bit,” the first white suit said. “Your shoulder.”

“What are you trying to pull?” the second white suit said. “You didn’t think we’d notice?”

The first white suit took out his radio and keyed it up. “Team Seven-Alpha, send us the wagon to Evans and Avenue G. We got one injured that hasn’t turned yet.”

“Team Seven-Alpha, ten-four,” came a man’s bored voice on the other end. “Is he secured?”

“Ten-four. He’s compliant.”

Nate covered his face with his hands and groaned at his bad luck. He heard a faint clattering of metal, and then, before he knew what was happening, one of the white suits was slapping him into handcuffs.

Nate looked at the cuffs and then up at the suits.

“What are you going to do to me?” he said.

Neither suit answered.

“Can’t you just let me go home? Just let me go home?”

But there was no answer.

A white police van pulled up to the curb.

It had started to rain a few minutes before and Nate was soaked through to the skin. The world had turned gray and depthless. The white suits got in position beside him and with a wave of their rifles directed him to the rear of the van. Nate offered no resistance. He stood up from the curb and walked where they pointed. They opened the rear of the van and Nate was shocked to see that it already had six other people inside. They were all injured to one degree or another, and they all stared back at Nate with hollow, vacant eyes that were at once tremendously sad and deeply terrifying.

“Get in,” one of the white suits said. “Sit there.”

“I don’t wanna,” Nate said.

“Get in or get shot,” the other white suit said.

Nate took a look around. This was the neighborhood where he had grown up, where all the fucked-up decisions that were his life had played out in a pathetic tableau. It was all but deserted now, and in the gray sheets of rain that covered everything with a depthless smear, the black, huddled shapes of the houses seemed oddly inviting, as though all of this was a mistake and it wasn’t too late to start over.

“Hey, buddy. Come on. Hop up.”

The compassion in the white suit’s voice shook Nate out of his thoughts. He stared at the man.

“I’ll never see it again. Will I?”

The white suit shook his head. It was a barely perceptible gesture behind the gas mask.

Nate nodded, then climbed into the van. He sat down next to a man in a mud-stained business suit. Blood was oozing out from under the man’s legs and running in muddy rivulets down the white metal bench upon which he sat.

Nate sat down next to the man.

The man met his gaze, his eyes red-rimmed and haunted looking, and then turned away in silence.

They were on the road for a long while, but eventually the van pulled into a muddy field and stopped.

The door flew open.

Three white suits were standing there, two of them with machine guns. The suits were standing inside a narrow, muddy lane bordered by tall black fences of metal wire. Behind them was a gate made of the same metal wire, and beyond that a large fenced-in area where several hundred people milled listlessly about.

“Get down. Move it.”

“Where are we?” Nate asked.

“Get down here,” the white suit said. “Move it.”

Nate climbed down. The white suits stepped back along one of the fences and leveled their weapons at him.

“Stand there,” the man said, pointing at the opposite fence.

Nate did as he was instructed, then stood by and waited as the others were led down from the back of the van.

The white suit got out a radio and said, “Open the inner gate.”

The fence creaked as it slid open.

Nate watched it slide away, then turned back to the white suits.

“Go on,” the man said.

Nate looked inside. He saw a lot of sad, vacant faces staring back at him.

Something in him rebelled.

He turned suddenly and said, “No. No fucking way.”

He tried to run, but the only place to go was back toward the van.

Under it, he thought.

He dove into the mud and tried to scramble under the rear axle, but he wasn’t fast enough. One of the white suits grabbed him by his ankles and pulled him back out.

Nate turned over, and the last thing he saw before everything went black was the butt of a rifle speeding down toward his face.