Zombie Patrol (Walking Plague Trilogy 1)

“We have to think of something to tell Brice,” I said.

Anna picked up my thoughts. She did that a lot these days. “Let’s just say Mom’s having another meltdown.”

I hated using my ex-wife as an excuse, but it was a pretty good idea. Brice wouldn’t question Anna about that. He would stay out of it. Brice opened the front door and stepped outside. Not much time.

“Angel, I don’t want you to worry, but there’s one more thing,” I said to Anna as Brice came toward the truck. Her gray eyes looked up at me. They were filled with tears. I didn’t blame her. “Since Uncle Joe is in the Navy, his bosses might be worried about him, too.”

She nodded, understanding. My daughter was pretty savvy.

I said, “Since Uncle Joe is family, it’s important for you to not say a word about this, especially if someone comes looking for him.”

“But wouldn’t they help him? I mean, don’t they have medicine and stuff...”

“Yes, but you have to trust me on this, Anna. I’ve taught you to always tell the truth. But this is different. If anyone comes to ask you questions, just say...”

“I’ll just say nothing. That’s not lying.”

It was lying, really, but Brice was waiting patiently outside our truck now.

I put my arms around her. “Good enough, baby.”

“Promise you’ll help Uncle Joe. And his friend.”

“I promise, darlin’.”

I had no idea how hard it would be to keep that promise.

Chapter Nine

I paused in the driveway outside my ex-wife’s family home. It was a big house. Beautiful and spacious. It was meant for love and shelter.

Not as a prison for my brother and his friend.

Jesus, had I really locked them both up?

I had. And, more importantly, I had to.

I drummed my fingers on the truck’s steering wheel, thinking. I wasn’t sure who to call, if anyone. My brother was obviously in trouble. AWOL, in fact. He would be court-martialed. I cared about that less than I did his health.

Something had fallen from the sky. Something had contaminated them. But what? And was I contaminated now, too? Was Anna?

“Jesus,” I whispered, breathing through my mouth, recalling the rage I had seen on Mike’s face as he had charged me.

Maybe they’re doing better, I thought.

Maybe, but I doubted it.

I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel some more, fighting to control my own rising fear...fear and anger toward my brother for bringing this sickness into our lives, and anger at him for being such an idiot. Again. For risking my life and that of my daughter.

He wasn’t thinking straight, I reminded myself. He needed help, I was his only safe haven.

I looked at the looming home before me, the familiar architecture shrouded in darkness. Somewhere in there, two men were locked up, waiting.

Maybe they were doing better now.

Maybe. But I doubted it.

I got out of the truck and headed up to the house.

* * *

They were, of course, far from better.

I found both my brother and Mike pawing at their bedroom doors. Scratching like animals. I didn’t know who to deal with first. They were both, obviously, getting progressively worse. For no other reason than he was closer, I chose to take care of Mike first.

My brother’s friend was just coherent enough to know what a gun was, but that was about it. I’d traded back my gun for Anna’s knife, telling her to keep her weapon a secret as well. I hated teaching my daughter to keep secrets.

Desperate times and all that, I thought now.

The closer I got to the door, the more the pawing seemed to increase. Jesus, was he pawing with his hands? I slipped the key in the lock, paused, collected myself...and unlocked Mike’s door.

I was prepared—or thought I was.

The bastard came at me in a fit of rage, but, oddly, was moving now much more slowly. I almost hated to punch him—after all, he seemed like a likable enough guy when I’d first met him—but he left me little choice.

I swung hard, my fist landing squarely on his left temple. The force of my blow staggered him. He didn’t register the pain, but I’d brought him to submission. When I showed him my gun, he wavered. His fingertips, I noticed, were torn and bloody. There was blood around the doorknob.

What the devil was going on?

Hand throbbing, I looked down and saw the cut on my knuckles. My punch had caught him in the mouth, splitting his lip and clipping a tooth. The tooth had opened the wound on my hand. Oddly, it burned like hell, but I didn’t have time to worry about it.

I steered Mike down the stairs and down again to the cellar. Most old houses like these had cellars. Luckily, mine was fairly empty. There were four strong support beams though, and I handcuffed him to one. As he struggled around, I gauged his reaching circumference. I cleared away anything within his grasp. He started grunting. Yes, grunting. Good God. He waved his free hand in my direction, swinging wildly. Like a drunk in a barroom. Except he wasn’t drunk and we weren’t a bar. We were in my home, and something very strange was happening. A red splotch had appeared above his eye where I had hit him. He didn’t seem to notice, nor care. He looked, for all intents and purposes, like a caged animal. Caged in my basement.

Lord help me. “I’m sorry, Mike.”

“Commeeeer,” he growled, combining the words. He could have been drunk or high.

Or possessed.

“Do you want some...water?” I asked, catching my breath and studying him. “Anything?”

For an answer, he lurched for me, seemingly forgetting he was cuffed to the post. His arm twisted painfully, but he didn’t seem to notice.

“You remember Joe?” I asked. It sounded like a stupid question, but it wasn’t. Mike was almost gone. I could see that. Gone where, I didn’t know. Alarm raged through me.

But, amazingly, he did try to focus. “Joe?”

“Yeah. You’re with Joe.”

He stood still. “Sick.” Now he was miserable again.

“I’m going to bring Joe down here.” Perhaps being with his friend would soothe him. Then again, what the hell did I know? I was just a park ranger with a little girl.

I needed help. They needed help.

Mike was sweating now, gasping, licking his lips. I could tell he was trying to get a grip. He seemed to notice the cuffs for the first time, rattling them. “Sick,” he said again, then tried to jerk the cuffs off. He pulled so hard I thought he’d broken his wrist. He didn’t care. What the hell was wrong with them?