Стефани Перри: Zero Hour

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 she probably didn't know a thing about what was going on, if she hadn't connected the walking-corpse-guys to what had happened to the jeep. And he saw no reason to disillusion her. She was trying to look tough, but he could see that he intimidated her. He could use it to get out of this.

“Uh-huh, I see,” he said. “You're with S.T.A.R.S.... Well, no offense, honey, but your kind doesn't seem to want me around. So I'm afraid our little chat time is over.”

He lowered his gun, then turned and walked away, his gait easy and unhurried—as though he wasn't the slightest bit concerned by her presence. He was counting on her obvious inexperience and fear of him to keep her from acting. It was a calculated risk, but he thought it would pay off.

He tucked his weapon into his belt at the small of his back and was halfway back down the corridor when he heard her jogging to catch up. Shit shit.

“Wait! You're under arrest!” she said firmly.

He turned to face her, and saw that she hadn't even unholstered her weapon. She was doing her damnedest to look fierce, but she couldn't pull it off. If the situation had been less serious, any less bizarre, he would have smiled.

“No thanks, dollface. I've already worn the handcuffs,” he said, holding up his left hand and jangling the hanging cuff. He turned and started away again.

“I could shoot, you know!” she called after him, but now there was an edge of desperation to her voice; he kept walking. She didn't follow, and a few seconds later, he was back through the first connecting door.

He opened the door to the car of dead passengers wearing a shaky grin, relieved. It was better this way, every man for himself, and all that—

—and he saw that the dead man who'd been slumped in his seat at the back was now standing, swaying, his one remaining eye fixed on Billy's position. With a moan of hunger, the creature shambled forward, reaching out with shredded lingers as though to feel his way to where Billy stood.

Rebecca watched as Billy stalked out of the train car, feeling impotent and very young. He didn't even look back, as though she wasn't worth worrying about.

And apparently I'm not, she thought, her shoulders sagging. She hadn't expected him to be so— well, scary. Big, muscular, with dark steely eyes and an intricate tribal tattoo covering his entire right arm, both arms bared by a thin cotton undershirt. He looked tough, and after her terrifying run-in with the walking near-dead, she hadn't been up to the task of taking him into custody.

Not to mention, he got the drop on you. She'd found a lone corpse at the front of the car, one of the train workers, and had seen what looked like a key grasped in one cold hand. Since the only other door out of the car was locked, she'd had to try for it—it was that, or go back through the passenger car. She'd been so involved in trying to retrieve the key without snapping the stiff fingers that she hadn't heard the convict approach, not until it was too late. Now, as she walked back to the front of the car, she saw that the locked door used a card reader, anyway. Great. So far, she was doing just great.

She turned and reached for her radio, ready to admit defeat. If she could get the team in fast enough, they'd handle Billy. More important, she wouldn't be alone with the knowledge that some kind of plague had hit Raccoon. It was funny, that nabbing a convicted killer was suddenly lower on the list of priorities...

Bam! Bam!

Before she'd even touched the transmitter button, she heard two rounds fired in the next car, the direction Billy had gone. She hesitated, not sure what to do—and in that instant, a window exploded behind her.

She spun, shards of glass flying, and saw a human figure falling to the floor.

“Edward!”

The mechanic didn't respond. Rebecca rushed to her teammate's side, quickly assessing his condition.