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When it was over, Shortstop peeled off and headed to the open gate to stand guard.
At Dez’s direction the entire convoy of buses circled the huge building. Dez and Sam pressed their faces against the windows so they could examine the building. Along one section of wall were slots for employee cars. First in the line was a mint-condition 1967 fire-engine red Pontiac Le Mans convertible. Trout knew that car all too well. It belonged to Charlie Matthias.
The other cars and pickup trucks were unknown to him.
“Looks intact,” she said after they finished appraising the building. Then she reached out and tapped the bus driver on the shoulder. “Think you can back this into one of those bays?”
“Drove a tractor my whole life,” said the man. “I can park this in a phone booth.”
He was as good as his word, turning in a good angle, spinning the wheel before shifting, watching the mirrors, and sliding down the slope to a gentle stop against the heavy rubber fender covering the base of the load bay. Dez went back to make sure the door would open, and found there was a half-inch of clearance. She closed the door, though, and made sure it was locked, then hurried back to rejoin Trout. The other buses began imitating the process of backing into the bays. Most were able to manage it, but after a couple of them failed to do it, the driver of Dez’s bus went trotting out to help them.
Dez exited the bus and waited on the deserted loading bay until Sam, Boxer, and Gypsy joined her. Trout lingered in the open doorway, feeling enormously useless.
Dez had six extra magazines for her Glock, and thanks to the APC they’d looted, she had a second nine millimeter tucked into the back of her belt. Sam had switched from his sniper rifle to a more practical M4, and he had magazines tucked into every pouch and pocket. Six grenades were clipped to his harness.
“What’s the call, boss?” asked Gypsy.
Sam nodded to the service door at the far end of the bay. “We knock and let Dez negotiate with her friend, Charlie Matthias, if he’s still alive. She believes he’ll allow us to stock up, given the situation.”
“And if he doesn’t?” asked Gypsy.
Dez shrugged. “I like the guy,” she said, “but I’m not married to him. One way or another we’re rolling out of here with food and water. Not really interested in taking fuck you for an answer.”
Boxer held out his fist and took the bump.
“Gypsy,” said Sam, “watch our backs.”
They moved away from the buses, running lightly, weapons up and out. Trout noticed how smoothly Dez fit in with the Boy Scouts. Like she belonged more to their world than to any other. In a moment of irrational jealousy he wondered what would happen if Sam Imura and Dez had to work together for any length of time. Trout did not like his chances in a competition with that man. Not in combat and not in romance. Sam was everything Dez liked. He was strong, confident, capable, and decent.
“Fuck,” Trout murmured. Then he added, “Billy Trout you are a total damn fool.”
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED TWENTY-TWO
TOWN OF STEBBINS
STEBBINS COUNTY, PENNSYLVANIA
Jake DeGroot drove through hell.
That was the only way he could describe what he was seeing.
The whole town of Stebbins was in ruins. There was death everywhere, but not enough of it was lying down. People—as torn and vacant as the three girls that had attacked Burl and the others—wandered through the streets. Many of them turned toward the sound of the front-end loader. Some even ran at it and tried to attack it.
At first Jake tried to avoid them, but the machine wasn’t fast or nimble enough to zigzag through the crowd.
He understood more about what they were now. On the slow ride here he’d put on headphones and turned the radio all the way up and listened to someone from the government say crazy things about a plague.
A plague.
A
disease that made people murder each other.
It sounded plausible, though Jake knew it was much worse than that.
Even so, he didn’t want to hurt anyone. Not unless he had to. Not unless there was no other choice.
He ran out of choices on the way to the Stebbins Little School. By the time Big Bird was rolling down the road that lead to the front gate, the way was clogged by victims of the plague.
