something that blocked pain receptors ...
The forest murders. Rebecca felt her eyes widen even more, putting the pieces together. If there had been some kind of chemical spill or sickness, it might have affected any number of people up here in the woods, making them attack others. There'd been recent reports of wild, feral dogs, too—was it
possible that the sickness was trans-species? Some of the victims had been partially eaten, bites made by human and animal jaws on at least two of the bodies.
She heard a soft movement, and stopped breathing. Back by the door she'd come through, a seated corpse seemed to slump lower in its seat. She watched it for what seemed an eternity, but it didn't move again, the only sound that of the rain outside. Corpse, or victim of some tragic circumstance? She didn't want to find out.
Rebecca backed away, stepping over the man with white eyes, now very much dead, deciding she'd try the door at the front of the car. She had to get off the train, tell the others what she'd found. Her head spun with what needed to happen next—the community would have to be alerted, a quarantine set up, right away. The federal government should get involved, too, the CDC or USAMRID or maybe the EPA, an agency with the power to close everything down, figure out what had happened. It would be a huge undertaking, but she could really contribute, really make a—
The corpse at the back of the car shifted again, its head settling against its chest, and all thoughts of saving Raccoon fled from her shocked mind. Rebecca turned and ran to the connecting door, sick with fear. All she wanted was out.
It didn't take too long to find a weapon, and as luck would have it, Billy was intimately familiar with the standard-issue MP handgun he found in a duffel bag stuffed under a seat. It was the same kind that his escort had carried. There was a spare clip and a half box of 9x19mm parabellum rounds, too, as well as a flip-top lighter, another handy device to have around; one never knew when fire might be necessary.
He loaded up, stuffing the clip into his belt and the extra rounds into his front pockets, wishing he had his fatigues on instead of civvies. Blue jeans weren't the best for carrying shit around. He started to look for a jacket, then decided against it; even with the rain it was a warm night, and slogging around in wet denim would be bad enough. The small pockets would have to do.
He stood at the door that led back into the woods, weapon in hand, telling himself that he needed to get gone—and yet not leaving. He hadn't heard anything from the S.T.A.R.S. kid since those seven shots. Only a few minutes had passed; if the kid was in trouble, it wasn't too late for him to step in and—
Are you crazy? his brain shouted at him. Go! Run, you idiot!
Right, of course. He had to leave. But he couldn't get the ring of those shots out of his head, and he'd spent too long as one of the good guys to turn his back on one of them, if they needed help.
Besides, if the kid was dead, that would mean an extra weapon.
“Yeah, that's it,” he mumbled, perfectly aware that he was searching for a more criminal-minded reason to justify his decision. There was no help for it; he had to go look.
With an internal groan, Billy turned away from the door, from freedom, moving instead to the front of the car. He stepped through the first door, hesitating a beat in the connecting joint before grasping the handle to the second, into the next car. The only sound was the rain outside, working its way into a real storm. As quietly as he could, he slid the second door open and stepped through.
The unmistakable smell hit him first. His jaw tightened as he surveyed the car, counting heads.
Three in the aisle. Two up ahead on the right, and one directly to his left, slumped down in a seat. All of them dead.
Billy frowned, realizing that any one of the corpses around him could have passed for the dork who'd stepped in front of the jeep, causing the crash. He'd only caught a glimpse of the guy, but remembered thinking that he'd looked sick. Maybe one of these people—but no, they'd been dead for days.
So what was the kid shooting at?
Billy moved closer to the nearest corpse, squatting next to it, taking in the wounds with a trained eye as he breathed shallowly through his mouth. The guy had been dead for awhile; part of his right cheek was missing, making him appear to grin widely up at Billy, and the edges of the torn tissue were rotting, black with decay. And yet there were one, two bullet holes in his brow, and a pool of very fresh blood surrounded his head and upper body like a red shadow. Billy touched the pool with the side of his hand, his frown deepening. It was warm. The next closest body, a train attendant, looked pretty much the same, only one of the wounds was in his throat. He was no Einstein, but he wasn't entirely incapable of logic, either. The fresh blood could only mean that these people just looked dead. And the fact that they were now full of holes suggested that they'd tried to attack the lone S.T.A.R.S. member.
Which means I'd better be damned careful, he thought, rising to his feet. He looked back at the body in the seat now behind him, his gaze narrowing. Had the man moved, or was it a trick of the light? Either way, he'd just as soon be somewhere else.
He hurried up the aisle, stepping over corpses, trying to watch all of them at once and cursing his need to find the S.T.A.R.S. kid. If only he didn't have a goddamned conscience, he'd be long gone by now.
He slipped through the two doors, weapon ready as he entered the next car. It wasn't a passenger car, wasn't as nicely decorated; from the entrance, he could only see a short corridor that turned up ahead, and two closed doors to his right, a few windows opposite. He considered checking the rooms, aware that it would be the smartest move—turning your back to an unsecured area was a bad call—but he was starting to think that his conscience could go screw. He didn't want to secure the entire train, he just wanted to see that the kid was okay and then get the hell out. And ifsaid kid doesn't show up in the next couple of minutes, I'm deboarding anyhow. This sucks.
“Sucks” wasn't the word, it didn't begin to describe the low terror he felt in his gut—but he'd seen fear cripple the strongest men, and knew better than to dwell on thoughts of monsters and darkness. Better to laugh it off as a bad dream and get on with things.
He edged down the corridor, moving silently, sliding along the wall as the hall jagged right and then continued on, past an open door with a spill of cardboard boxes blocking the entrance. Storage room, probably. There were no bodies, at least, but a smell of rot hung in the air. The few unbroken windows he passed reflected a pale shadow of himself, only blackness and rain outside. He noted with dismay that some of the glass from the shattered panes was inside the car, scattered across the dark wood floor . . . Which suggested that someone had been trying to get in, not out. Creepy.
It looked like the corridor jagged left again up ahead, just past another closed door labeled conductor's office. He had to be near the front by now—
—and he saw a second pale shadow up ahead, reflected in a window, directly past the turn. He stopped, held very still, watched as the figure crouched down, his or her back to the corridor, oblivious to any threat from behind. If it was the S.T.A.R.S., he or she needed more training.
Billy took the last few steps and raised his weapon, moving in behind the crouched figure. He knew he should avoid a confrontation—the kid was obviously fine and dandy, and he had other places to be—but he also wanted to know what was happening, and this might be his only chance for information.
The S.T.A.R.S. member turned, saw Billy, and slowly, slowly stood up, facing him.
“Kid“ isn't far off the mark, he thought, staring down into the wide, innocent eyes of a teenager, a girl. God, were they hiring out of high schools these days? She was small, at least a half foot shorter than he, and pretty— reddish-brown hair, slim, muscular build, even, delicate features. If she weighed more than a hundred pounds, he would have been surprised.
She'd been crouching in front of a dead man, his savaged body slouched in the corner next to the car's exit, and if she was surprised to see him, she hid it well.
“Billy,” she said, her young voice clear and melodic, her words making him grit his teeth. “Lieutenant Coen.”
Shit. Someone had found the jeep, after all.
He kept the gun raised, aimed directly at her right eye, playing it cool. “So. You seem to know me. Been fantasizing about me, have you?”
“You were the prisoner being transferred for execution,” she said, her voice taking on a hard edge. “You were with those soldiers outside.”
She thinks I did it, that I killed them, he thought. It was written all over her pixie face. He realized then that
