Assumed Dead, page 28
“We do,” Shan said. “Bren’s ordered all soldiers in the area to it. But you don’t.”
“You’ll have to knock me out to stop me,” Peter growled. He flailed around on the ground, looking for his dropped pistol.
“Don’t tempt me. Baz, he’ll follow us anyway, even if we toss him back in his house. We don’t even have time for that.” Their walkies chattered madly with reports from the units heading for the clinic.
Barrett sighed like a gale in Peter’s ear and let go. Peter scrambled to his feet, retrieving his gun on the way up.
“Don’t come crying to us when you get killed,” Barrett said. “Okay, come on, but stick close to us, and we’ll try to keep that from happening.”
They ran up the hill toward the clinic as gunshots filled the night.
* * * *
“Don’t go full auto,” Craig called to Matt from cover behind metal storage lockers that lined the corridor. “You’ll run out of ammo in seconds. Pick your targets.”
As if to demonstrate, he peeked around his set of lockers and fired. A black-clad figure at the end of the corridor, poking too much of himself out of cover at the corner, cried out and spun away out of sight. Craig was a way better shot than Matt. More practice. So far Matt was pretty sure he hadn’t hit any of the attackers who’d raced in after the helicopters dropped them off outside. Craig had shot two, who lay unmoving on the floor near the other end of the corridor.
But between them, he and Craig were keeping the bad guys from advancing down the corridor to the basement entrance. There was another set of stairs at the other end of the building, in the kitchen, though the doors to it were locked. If they broke through them… But the people in the basement were armed and could hold off a small number of people attempting to come down either staircase. There could only be a small number—helicopters couldn’t carry many people.
Matt and Craig had to hold this corridor long enough for reinforcements to arrive. They must be the last defenders. The guards on the door must be dead. He shivered with horror, sick to think the people he’d exchanged friendly greetings with as he arrived for work were lying so close by, shot to death.
“Hold it together,” Craig said, seeing Matt’s distress. How many times had Craig been in combat? He was a lab tech here at the clinic, but he’d survived zombies and hostile humans for three years. He was a soldier too. Movement caught Matt’s eye, and he loosed off a couple of shots down the corridor to discourage it. Quiet again. He checked the clip in his rifle while Craig covered the corridor. Eleven shots left.
“At least they don’t have night vision,” Craig said. “Or we’d be fucked.”
Matt hated to imagine it. An enemy equipped with that would cut the lights, stroll up in the dark, and execute Matt and Craig. Thank God Peter isn’t here, he thought for the millionth time that night. Thank God.
* * * *
Peter, Barrett, and Shan crouched in bushes near the entrance to the clinic. One of the helicopters had landed. The other hovered above the building. A few dark figures were guarding the chopper and the door into the clinic. With the racket of the helicopters, Barrett didn’t have to whisper when he spoke. In fact he had to raise his voice. “Let’s clear that entranceway, Shan.”
“It would be smarter to wait for the reinforcements,” Shan said. Then she grinned. “But when did we ever do the smart thing?”
All the time, Peter suspected, which was why they were still alive.
“You stay here, Doc,” Barrett said.
“What? No!”
“Stay here. You only have a pistol, and they have rifles. Cover us while we move in. Stay hidden and pick the bastards off. How about we try to capture that chopper?” He turned to Shan on the question.
“Screw the chopper,” Shan said. “We can go find a chopper anytime. People are in short supply, not helicopters. Let’s go!”
She rose and headed off, Barrett following, through the cover of the bushes to get closer to the broad terrace at the front of the clinic. A short flight of steps, with ramps curving at either side, led up to the doors of the clinic, which were wide-open. The helicopter stood on that terrace, two men beside it, a couple more on the steps, and two at the clinic door. All carrying rifles.
Left alone, Peter waited, pistol cocked and ready, for Barrett’s signal to lay down covering fire. How had it come to this? He’d been ready to shoot zombies. He’d taken R.J.’s training seriously until he wasn’t hesitating even if those damn sacks full of sand had the faces of small children.
But the men on the terrace were not sacks full of sand.
The signal came over his walkie, and Peter raised his pistol, supported his wrist with his other hand as R.J. had taught him. The pistol trembled even so. Not because of the weight of the thing. Not the physical weight. Okay. Fuck. Just do it.
He did it, loosed off a shot. It actually came close to one of the men by the chopper. For a second Peter thought he’d hit him as he dropped like a stone. But a second later he was scrambling to bring his rifle to bear, looking around for the shooter. The others hit the deck too. Peter fired again. Two more shots hit the helicopter.
Time to move—as Cal Richardson had taught him. He headed off in the direction Barrett and Shan had gone, closer to the clinic. Automatic fire struck the trees and bushes not far from where he’d been. They’d have seen his muzzle flashes. If he’d stayed… Forget that. Focus. Get to Matt. He needed to see Matt before he lost his goddamn mind.
More automatic fire burst out—from Barrett and Shan as they emerged on the run from the undergrowth near the steps, screaming battle cries, or just generally screaming, Peter couldn’t tell. Did that help get up the nerve to run at a group that outnumbered and outgunned you three to one?
No, two to one. Barrett and Shan had Peter too, their secret weapon, their sniper—who’d so far only managed to hit the broad side of a helicopter. That wasn’t deliberate, he told himself. He almost believed it. A burst of fire from Shan took down the attackers on the steps, while Barrett charged the men guarding the chopper. She turned toward the two guarding the entrance, dropping into cover behind a decorative stone urn, even as they ducked inside, into the darkness.
Peter gasped as a man came around the side of the building, only yards from where Peter was concealed. He didn’t spot Peter, but he ran to hide himself behind a balustrade and raised a pistol, pointing it at Shan.
No, no, no. Peter wanted to yell, to warn her, to bring the man’s attention to him. But the whirling blades of both the chopper on the ground and the one hovering drowned everything except the sound of the gunshots.
He had to shoot the man—in the back. Safest way, Cal Richardson would surely have said. He raised his pistol, targeted on the attacker Shan still hadn’t spotted. He…hesitated…
The helicopter on the ground exploded into a ball of flame. Everyone in the vicinity went down as the great whump of a shock wave knocked them off their feet.
Peter struggled up, mind spinning like a pinwheel, not a coherent thought in his head. What the fuck had just happened? He had a chance to see people start to struggle back to their feet, Shan and Barrett among them, thank God, when the second helicopter exploded. Peter hit the deck out of instinct, not from the shock wave. He had his head covered by his hands, so he didn’t see it, but he heard the crashing as the wreckage went down the steep hillside, smashing through the trees of the clinic’s grounds.
He looked up when the noise stopped, eyes dazzled from the burning chopper, ears ringing, deafened by the explosion. Black smoke rolled across the terrace and caught him in it, making him cough, making his eyes tear up. He covered them with his forearm, ran blindly to get out of the smoke, toward the steps.
He was out of the smoke. He could breathe…and opened his eyes to see the man who’d earlier been about to fire on Shan right in front of him. The attacker’s eyes widened as Peter emerged from the smoke. He raised his pistol. Peter fired before he was even consciously aware of raising the gun. Blood, black in the moonlight, spurted from the man’s chest, and he went over backward, fell over the low parapet of one of the ramps, and sprawled on the surface of the ramp, unmoving.
Peter stared, then looked around, expecting to see Shan or Barrett pointing their guns at the man, but no, that had all been Peter’s own work. He thought he might be sick, and his knees were shaking. But he controlled himself. He had to keep it together. He had to find Matt. He stood over the man he’d killed. A white guy, face darkened with camo paint. He wore all black but had a patch on the arm of his shirt. The same cross in a circle that Smithy had been ashamed to let Peter see inked onto his skin. Klansman. Smithy couldn’t take that tattoo off even when he no longer believed in what it stood for. This man had chosen to put the symbol on tonight, to wear it into battle. Cal Richardson’s warnings had not been exaggerated. Vaccine City looked like a haven, but it was a town at war, Peter finally understood. Their work here was only just starting.
The noise of a helicopter made him gasp and look up, fearing a new attack. But it was their helicopter, hovering low over the clinic. One door was open, allowing a man carrying a rocket launcher to lean out. It was R.J. Peter waved, and R.J. waved back as the chopper moved on, looking for somewhere to land that wasn’t occupied by burning helicopter wreckage.
A new burst of gunfire made him turn to see Barrett and Shan running up the steps into the clinic. Peter left behind the corpse he’d made and ran after them.
* * * *
A sudden explosion roared outside, followed by a hideous smashing. The building shook. Glass smashed, and smoke filled the other end of the corridor. There was a lot of yelling.
“What the fuck was that?” Matt yelled.
“I think someone just took one of the choppers out,” Craig said. He grinned wolfishly. “Bren does love her RPGs.”
“All ri—” Matt began, before another explosion almost as loud as the first sounded. This time the crashing was more distant and went on longer, like…well, like the wreckage of a helicopter rolling down a hill.
“And there goes the second one,” Craig said as the men at the end of the corridor surged around the corner and charged, screaming and firing. They had smoke at their backs, and their ride home was gone. They charged like men with nothing to lose. Matt and Craig fired desperately, almost blindly, barely daring a single eye each around the lockers. Matt’s rifle clicked empty in seconds, and he reached for his pistol. At least they can tell Peter I went out fighting.
Then a roar of machine-gun fire came, not from Craig but from the other end of the corridor, and the last of the charging men fell and sprawled like so many toy soldiers scattered by a child’s hand.
“Who did…” Matt began, then coughed on all the smoke in the air. Two figures emerged through the smoke, both tall, one male, one female. Barrett, his leather coat flapping behind him, and Shan came striding up the corridor, weapons brought to bear.
“Identify yourselves,” Barrett roared.
“Friendlies,” Craig called back. “Craig Jones. Matt Warner.” He stepped into view, hands away from his rifle, which hung on its strap around his neck. Matt followed his example.
“Where’s everyone else?” Barrett asked.
“In the basement,” Craig said. “I’m going to check on them. One of you check the other basement door in the kitchen.” Shan ran to do that as Craig unlocked the door to the basement steps and vanished through it. Barrett nodded at Matt.
“Good to see you okay, kid. Hey, Doc. Come on through. It’s safe.”
Doc. In a second another man emerged from the smoke, tall and slim, in a dark hoodie. Peter pulled the hood from his head, and Matt choked and ran into his arms.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Peter slipped out of the ward doors onto the terrace, where Matt was checking on a couple of people with minor injuries who were resting outside. He passed Matt a bottle of water when he came to greet Peter. Matt looked grim. Bloody, dirty, gray-faced, and exhausted. He took the water with a hoarse word of thanks and drank the whole bottle quickly.
“Have you eaten anything today?” Peter asked. Matt shook his head. “Dammit, you’re no good to anyone if you pass out. Sit out here for a few minutes. Things are quiet right now. I’ll fetch you something from the break room.” The first quiet moment for hours. They hadn’t stopped working since the attack ended, treating wounded people as they were brought into the clinic. Matt had been assigned to triage along with Louise, and the pair of them had made Peter proud with their excellent work.
“Thanks,” Matt said, voice faint and hoarse. Peter wanted to embrace him again, as tightly as he had last night, when he’d met him in the corridor—stepping over bodies to reach him—and seen his tearstained and terrified face. Matt had fought and could have died, but he was safe. He was a hero. But even heroes had to eat. Peter went back inside and sought out the staff break room.
Harrison was in there, sitting at the table, head in his hands. Peter resisted the urge to go to him, embrace him too. At the sound of the door, Harrison looked up, gave Peter a weak smile.
“Hi, Peter.”
“Hi. You okay?”
“Tired.” He heaved a big sigh. “Just like the old days, huh?”
“Not in a good way,” Peter said.
“No. Not in a good way.”
Peter looked in the cupboards, found some bread. He went to the fridge and gathered the fixings to make a ham sandwich. As he closed the fridge and straightened up, he found Harrison watching him.
“You want a sandwich?” Peter asked. A hundred memories came back to him at the words. Of those wonderful, utterly normal times in their home together, doing utterly normal things like making each other a sandwich, or a cup of coffee. Oh, he should take Matt some coffee too.
“No, thanks,” Harrison said.
Peter started making Matt’s sandwich, feeling Harrison’s gaze still on him.
“Harrison,” Peter said, not looking at him. “Have you…killed people? Humans, I mean. Not zombies.”
“What the hell kind of question is that?” Harrison said, and Peter turned to see him scowling. Like Peter had overstepped a boundary. Asked something that wasn’t his business. But then he sighed and rubbed his eyes. “Yeah. Of course I have. You saw last night zombies aren’t the only monsters out there. To save myself, to save Craig, and others, I’ve killed people.”
“I killed a man last night in the attack. I never did that before. And…” Peter wanted to talk about the shame of it. The shame of killing. But also the shame of hesitating when he had a bead on the man about to kill Shan. He wanted to talk about all of it, the way he and Harrison had talked about awful shifts in the ER. Got through those bad nights together.
“Peter… It’s not me you should talk to about this. You need someone who’ll hold you. Who’ll do whatever you need to make you feel better. That’s not me anymore. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. You’re right.” Peter thought of going to sit at the table with Harrison, but instead he stayed leaning back against the cupboards and work top. “When the sirens sounded last night, my first thought was for Matt. When the choppers came in and the clinic was attacked, I ran here, and I was only thinking about him. I’m…ashamed of that. I should have thought of my husband first. I should have tried to find you and make sure you were safe. But I didn’t. I had to get to Matt. That was all I cared about.”
Harrison nodded and rubbed his eyes, which were red and sore with tiredness. “All I cared about was getting to Craig. I know where your house is. I knew you weren’t on duty. I could have come racing to your house to make sure my husband was safe. I didn’t.”
“So, I guess we’ve both made our choices.”
Harrison stood and offered Peter his hand. A formal gesture. Deliberately lacking the intimacy they’d once shared. “We stay friends,” he said. “We’ll still be colleagues.” Peter shook the hand. A hand that had once touched him everywhere. But he felt none of the tingle he used to feel at its touch. It was like shaking hands with R.J. or Jay. Respect. Friendship. But nothing else anymore.
“Friends,” he said. “There’s only one thing more to do.”
* * * *
Matt had fallen asleep in the sunshine in the wicker chair he’d sat in. A touch on his shoulder woke him. Peter. He smiled up at him as Peter handed him a sandwich and a cup of coffee.
“Thanks.”
Peter sat on another of the chairs, facing Matt. He placed a bottle of water on the ground. “Drink some more water when you’re done.”
“Okay.”
Peter watched him eat, which was mildly disconcerting, but Matt didn’t let it put him off. He almost inhaled the coffee, so grateful for the caffeine was he, and went at the sandwich like a starving bear.
“I’ve been talking to Harrison,” Peter said. Matt froze, but that wasn’t advisable with his final mouthful of ham sandwich still in progress. He coughed and washed it down with some water.
“And?” Matt glanced back over at the two women on the loungers. Both appeared to be asleep. “Peter…you two…”
“There is no us two. Not anymore. Hold out your hand, please.”
Matt brushed crumbs from it and obeyed. From his pocket Peter withdrew a gold ring on a chain. He dropped it into Matt’s palm. The chain piled up over the ring. Not Peter’s. Peter wore his on a cord.
“This is his?” Matt asked.
Peter nodded. “And he has mine. We gave them back to each other. That’s the nearest we can come to getting an official divorce.”
Matt couldn’t speak for a long time. He unclipped the chain and dropped it to the ground. The gold ring lay in his palm. He didn’t have to look at the inscription inside. It would be identical to Peter’s. Their names and the date. At last he looked up at Peter.
“Do you want to keep this? Or are you…giving it to me?”
