Survivors by Z. A. Recht

and, if need be, fire at any attackers.
    So far, Sherman consoled himself, the roughest opposition they had run up against had been the odd curious shambler or sprinter.
    And it eased his heart to know that, if things got hot on their scavenging run, they would all have a safe place to fall back to. The thing that weighed on him heavily was the two men locked in that side office. Sooner or later, someone would come for them, and they wouldn’t be polite about it. These scavenging runs had more than just one purpose . . . Sherman wanted to keep his men on-point and sharp for when that day did come.
    Well, Sherman thought, no point in procrastinating.
    “All right, ladies, we know the drill. Move fast, move quiet. If you engage contacts, fall back to the Fac, and we’ll cover your retreat.” Sherman double-checked the radio clipped to his front shirt pocket. Satisfied it was running on a full charge, he nodded and gestured toward the barren, trash-swept streets of Omaha. “Let’s get to it.”
    “The Radio Shack is five klicks, north by northeast,” Thomas said, indicating direction with his jaw. “We can skirt the outlying section of Omaha proper and return on the same arc. Mitsui will be happy when we get back.”
    Sherman grunted. “Hell, I’ll be happy when we get back.”
    He looked to Mbutu Ngasy, whom he half-jokingly considered his human dowsing rod. The man had a knack for diagnosing a situation and gauging the safety of it. The former air traffic controller had kept them out of more than one potential tomb, and they listened to him when he felt a tingle in his Mbutu-sense. The large man favored Sherman with a wide smile.
    “Once more into the breach, is that right, General?”
    Sherman raised his eyebrows. “Not you, too. I’m not in the Army anymore, remember? I hold no rank.”
    Thomas cleared his throat. “We’d best be moving along, sir. We don’t have that far to go, but inside the dark of the buildings, the infected will be active.”
    Sherman hefted his pack. “Quite right, Thomas. Let’s go.”
     

     
    Brewster and Trev crouched in a large parking lot, eyeing the quiet front of a store and debating whether to go in.
    “I say, it’ll be better than whatever they’re going to whip up at the Fac,” Trevor said calmly, but Brewster was clearly wearing on him.
    “We’ll never hear the fuckin’ end of it, man. I promise you. If even one of them barks at me, I won’t be held responsible—”
    Trev held up his hands. “One package. We’ll be real quiet about it when we get it in, and no one will know for sure which team it was.”
    Brewster looked the storefront. “Fine. But I don’t want to go in the front. This isn’t even really on our route. You planned this shit, didn’t you?”
    Snorting a laugh, Trev rolled his eyes and pointed at the side of the large building, indicating they should follow that wall to find a loading dock or utility entrance. They moved that way, eyes roving for shadows within shadows that would indicate an infected, watching for shards of glass on the asphalt that might give away their position if stepped on, or empty cans that would do the same.
    The roll-up door at the back of the building was padlocked shut. Brewster checked the side strap of his bag and swore softly.
    “Pinch bar,” he said. “I forgot the fucking—”
    “Right here,” Trev said, cutting him off. “You left it sitting next to the entryway when you picked up your body armor.”
    Taking the bar, he grimaced. “Gonna need a checklist. Damn it, I’m too young to be senile.”
    Sliding the bar between the wall and the hasp of the lock, he pulled down with steady pressure. Trev waited for the first telltale sound that the screws were giving. At the first creak, he tapped Ewan, and they went dead still, listening with everything they had. Pursing his lips, Trev nodded and Brewster continued working on the lock. More steady pressure, and with a sudden wrench the hasp slipped free of