the top
we turned right and moved along the elevated walkway. To our right was an iron
safety rail painted bilious green. It was all that prevented a fall to the smooth
concrete floor below. To our left were the cells. Each was six feet wide and
maybe ten deep. Two stacked bunks were on one wall, a small toilet-sink combo
in the back corner opposite the beds. The openings were covered with heavy,
iron bars that were thick with old paint.
Every cell
held at least one infected, some of them occupied by two. We had to hug the
safety rail to avoid the grasp of the males who were shoving their arms through
the bars, trying to reach us. Many of the ones with a lone infected also held
a rotting corpse that the infected had been feeding on.
The smell
was horrible and brought back memories of an operation years ago when I’d been
part of a unit that was sent in to stop a genocidal dictator in a shithole
country in an even shittier part of the world. Our first day on the ground we
came across a mass grave that was still open and this was the closest to that
throat constricting, bile inducing stench I’d encountered since.
Reaching the
cell where the arm had been waving, I aimed my rifle in so the flashlight shone
on the occupant. He was a small man, not much more then five foot eight or
nine and slight of build. In his late 30s or early 40s he had a pasty white
complexion and dirty hair down to his shoulders. He stood there staring back
at me, blinking in the light.
I moved the
rifle around, checking the rest of the cell, pausing when I saw a body tucked
under the bottom bunk. The man turned his head to see what I was looking at.
“He was
infected,” he said. “The guards were gonna let us out. Let us take our chances
rather than die locked up like animals, but they turned before that happened.”
“How long
ago?” I asked, moving the light back to his face.
“Four days,”
he said. “I’ve been drinking the water out of the toilet and pissing and
shitting in the corner. Thank God you’re here. Are you the Army? Please get
me out of here.”
“Why isn’t
he infected?” Crawford asked me as if the man wasn’t standing there.
“How long
have you been locked up?” Crawford asked the man when I didn’t respond.
“Just before
the attacks, however long that’s been. Come on. Get me the fuck out of here.
Please!”
“Can’t have
been vaccinated,” I said to Crawford. “What do you want to do with him?”
“What’s your
name?” Crawford asked him.
“Walker.
Johnnie Ray Walker. My friends call me JR,” he said.
“And why are
you in here, Mr. Walker?” Crawford asked. “And before you answer, you’d damn
well better tell me the truth. I’m going to go check the files and if you lie
to me I will leave you in there to rot. Do you understand?”
“Yes sir, I
understand. I got caught with a bunch of guns that didn’t belong to me.” He
didn’t hesitate or try to explain.
“I’ll be
back,” Crawford said and motioned me to follow him.
We walked
back down the balcony, staying well away from the cell bars and clanged down
the stairs into the hallway.
“What are
you going to do with him?” I asked.
“Don’t know
yet,” the Colonel said. “First things first. Let’s get you on the road then
the Captain and I will see what we can find out about Mr. Walker in the files
while we’re waiting for Scott to arrive.”
“You realize
he just might be immune,” I said. “If he is they’ll want him in Seattle.”
“Already
thought about that. If he is, he just became the most important man on the
planet. But I think it’s more likely he just hasn’t turned yet.”
17
The night
passed slowly. Rachel and Bill had heard the wolves several times, but as each
of the howls floated through the air it sounded a good distance away. They
were unable to sleep, shivering as the wind continued to strengthen and
we turned right and moved along the elevated walkway. To our right was an iron
safety rail painted bilious green. It was all that prevented a fall to the smooth
concrete floor below. To our left were the cells. Each was six feet wide and
maybe ten deep. Two stacked bunks were on one wall, a small toilet-sink combo
in the back corner opposite the beds. The openings were covered with heavy,
iron bars that were thick with old paint.
Every cell
held at least one infected, some of them occupied by two. We had to hug the
safety rail to avoid the grasp of the males who were shoving their arms through
the bars, trying to reach us. Many of the ones with a lone infected also held
a rotting corpse that the infected had been feeding on.
The smell
was horrible and brought back memories of an operation years ago when I’d been
part of a unit that was sent in to stop a genocidal dictator in a shithole
country in an even shittier part of the world. Our first day on the ground we
came across a mass grave that was still open and this was the closest to that
throat constricting, bile inducing stench I’d encountered since.
Reaching the
cell where the arm had been waving, I aimed my rifle in so the flashlight shone
on the occupant. He was a small man, not much more then five foot eight or
nine and slight of build. In his late 30s or early 40s he had a pasty white
complexion and dirty hair down to his shoulders. He stood there staring back
at me, blinking in the light.
I moved the
rifle around, checking the rest of the cell, pausing when I saw a body tucked
under the bottom bunk. The man turned his head to see what I was looking at.
“He was
infected,” he said. “The guards were gonna let us out. Let us take our chances
rather than die locked up like animals, but they turned before that happened.”
“How long
ago?” I asked, moving the light back to his face.
“Four days,”
he said. “I’ve been drinking the water out of the toilet and pissing and
shitting in the corner. Thank God you’re here. Are you the Army? Please get
me out of here.”
“Why isn’t
he infected?” Crawford asked me as if the man wasn’t standing there.
“How long
have you been locked up?” Crawford asked the man when I didn’t respond.
“Just before
the attacks, however long that’s been. Come on. Get me the fuck out of here.
Please!”
“Can’t have
been vaccinated,” I said to Crawford. “What do you want to do with him?”
“What’s your
name?” Crawford asked him.
“Walker.
Johnnie Ray Walker. My friends call me JR,” he said.
“And why are
you in here, Mr. Walker?” Crawford asked. “And before you answer, you’d damn
well better tell me the truth. I’m going to go check the files and if you lie
to me I will leave you in there to rot. Do you understand?”
“Yes sir, I
understand. I got caught with a bunch of guns that didn’t belong to me.” He
didn’t hesitate or try to explain.
“I’ll be
back,” Crawford said and motioned me to follow him.
We walked
back down the balcony, staying well away from the cell bars and clanged down
the stairs into the hallway.
“What are
you going to do with him?” I asked.
“Don’t know
yet,” the Colonel said. “First things first. Let’s get you on the road then
the Captain and I will see what we can find out about Mr. Walker in the files
while we’re waiting for Scott to arrive.”
“You realize
he just might be immune,” I said. “If he is they’ll want him in Seattle.”
“Already
thought about that. If he is, he just became the most important man on the
planet. But I think it’s more likely he just hasn’t turned yet.”
17
The night
passed slowly. Rachel and Bill had heard the wolves several times, but as each
of the howls floated through the air it sounded a good distance away. They
were unable to sleep, shivering as the wind continued to strengthen and
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