Survivors by Z. A. Recht Page B

carried around in his head, but these days being what they were, with the General worried about keeping his handful of survivors fed and clothed, not to mention the critical research going on beneath their feet, Thomas was unfazed.
    He has taken so much on his shoulders. Perhaps too much.
    “And I think it would be better if we talked about it on the move.”
    A quick nod showed Sherman’s assent. “Right again. Let’s hit the next place on the list. Walk with me, talk with me.”
    Thomas shouldered the pack and turned toward the door. “It’s my understanding, sir, that Mason was on a team with the agents that we expelled from the Fac when we arrived.”
    “Yes. From my own conversations with him, they were sent by a rogue faction of the government, convinced that Anna was carrying a cure around with her. It’s nonsense.”
    “We know that, sir. But if that’s what they think, they’ll be back, and if a member of Mason’s team is in charge of the assault . . .”
    “Then Mason will know the tactics he’s likely to deploy. Good thinking, Thomas. Remind me to put you in for an award. Pick one.”
    Thomas nodded. “As soon as we get back, sir.”
    They left the Radio Shack only when Mbutu had given them the all-clear and headed farther north. The last place on their list was an old-time army/navy surplus store Denton had found a listing for in an aging phone book. Thomas was looking forward to it, as the survivors were using a hodgepodge of gear and the surplus store represented a chance to fix all that. He hated disorganization.
    Thomas held all this in mind as they hoofed it to the store. Although he and the general had retired from service when they went AWOL, if the government ever got around to it, he’d be branded a deserter. But he also knew that the discipline that came with being part of a unit was a major component of the glue that was holding their band together. They wouldn’t force anything on the men, but Thomas would provide the opportunity for them to get back to what was familiar before Morningstar.
    With three blocks to go, Mbutu went still, a frown creasing his normally impassive face.
    Thomas noticed this and immediately fell silent, bringing his arms to bear. Sherman did the same.
    Mbutu turned to face a storefront that had been painted over in black, windows and all, from top to bottom. The only nonblack portion was a splash of red that was the name of the store, Kathedral.
    “In there?” Thomas asked, gesturing with his shotgun. “Shouldn’t be a big deal. The windows are painted black, so it’s not like they can see—”
    He was cut off by a meaty thud. The scavenging team went silent again, and the sound repeated itself, this time more insistently.
    It was joined by others.
    “Bug out,” Sherman said.
    The trio set off at a quick jog, sticking to the center of the wide and empty shopping center parking lot. A sharp crack urged them to greater speed, running carefully and placing their feet deliberately, doing their best to avoid the concrete blocks set in the middle of rows. Thomas, his gray head always swiveling from left to right and searching for threats, saw a single and lonely delivery truck sitting near the end of the shopping center building.
    With an overwhelming crash, the storefront window came out of its frame and shattered on the asphalt. Unable to help himself, Mbutu stopped running to look back at what was coming out after them. From the look on his face, he wasn’t quite sure what to make of them.
    Five former teens, now blind and drooling monsters, all stepped or fell out of the broken window, looking as if they were a part of the same unorthodox army: black shirts over black, baggy pants, festooned with silver chains and armbands. Heavy piercings fell from rotted flesh, the weight tearing through after a long period of inactivity.
    “What are those?” he asked.
    Thomas turned to look and almost laughed. “Punks. Just punks. In the days before Morningstar, I