Стефани Перри: Zero Hour

Besides a massive, open wound on his right shoulder, his face was gray with shock, his gaze bleary and unfocused. Every exposed part of his body was covered with contusions and abrasions.

“Are you all right?” she asked, ripping her med-kit open, grabbing a thick gauze patch. She tore the package apart, applied it to his shoulder, realizing with a sinking sensation that it might not do much good; from the massive amount of blood drenching his shirt, his subclavian had likely been severed. She was astounded that he was still alive, let alone that he'd had the strength to jump through a window. “What

happened?”

Edward rolled his head towards her, blinking slowly. His voice was taut with pain. “Worse than ... We can't...“

She held the bandage firmly, but it was already soaked through. He needed a hospital, ASAP, or he wasn't going to make it.

Edward's voice was getting weaker. “You must be careful, Rebecca,” he slurred. “... forest is full of zombies ... and monsters ...“

She started to tell him not to talk any more, to conserve his energy—when more glass exploded, slivers of it raining over them, the window just to their left shattering. One, two giant dark shapes leaped through the broken pane, one disappearing around a jag in the corridor, the other turning in their direction. Zombies and monsters.

A dog, it was a big dog, but like no dog she'd ever seen before. It might have been a Doberman, once—but as it bared dripping teeth at her, flaps of skin and muscle hanging from its haunches, she realized that it, too, had been infected by whatever disease had struck the train's passengers. It didn't just look dead, it looked destroyed, its eyes filmed with red, its body like some mad patchwork quilt of wet fur and bloody tissue.

Edward wouldn't be able to protect himself. Rebecca slowly rose and took a step back from the dying mechanic, gun in hand, though she couldn't remember drawing it. She could hear the second dog panting farther along the corridor, out of sight.

She aimed for the animal's left eye, really understanding the true horror of the disease, whatever it was, for the first time. Her conflict with the near-dead passengers had been terrible, but so shocking she'd hardly had time to consider what it all meant. Now, looking at the stiff-legged, monstrous beast in front of her, its growl rising into a hellish whine of hunger, she remembered her childhood pet, a shaggy black lab mix named Donner, remembered how much she'd loved him—and understood that this had probably been someone's pet, once, too. Just as those people she'd shot had once been human, had laughed and cried and come from families that would miss them, that would be destroyed by their loss. Disease, chemical spill, or attack, whatever had caused all this, it was an abomination.

The understanding flashed through her mind in an instant, and was gone. The dog tensed its shredded flanks, preparing to leap at her, and Rebecca squeezed the trigger, the nine-millimeter rocking in her hands, the blast of sound deafening in the small space. The dog collapsed.

Rebecca pivoted, aiming at the bit of corridor she could see, waiting for the second to appear. She didn't have to wait long.

With a snarl, the animal leaped around the corner, its jaws wide. Rebecca fired, the shot hitting its chest, staggering the dog back with a high whine of pain—but it was still on its feet. It shook itself as though shaking off water, growling, readying to come at her again even as dark, ichorous blood poured from its wound.

Should have killed it, that should have knocked it flat!

Just like the people in the passenger car, it seemed that only a head shot would take it down. She raised her aim and fired again, this time hitting the center of its bullet-shaped skull. The dog fell, spasmed once, and went still.

There could be more of them. She lowered the gun slightly, turning toward the broken windows and trying to see through the darkness and rain, straining to hear anything besides the storm. After a few beats she gave up, kneeling next to Edward again, reaching into her pack for a fresh bandage—

—and stopped, staring at her teammate. The steady pump of blood from his shoulder wound was no more. She quickly felt for a pulse below his left ear, felt nothing at all. Edward gazed at the floor with half open eyes, dead.

“I'm sorry,” she whispered, sitting back on her heels. It seemed inconceivable that he was gone, that he'd died in the short time she'd been shooting at the dog-things, and a wash of guilt swept over her. If she'd been faster, if she'd packed his wound better...

. . . But you didn't, and the longer you sit here feeling bad about it, the more likely it is that you '11 end up joining him. Get moving.

Rebecca felt new guilt at the insensitive thought, but a glance at the open windows got her on her feet. She'd have to assess her culpability later, when it was safe to do so.

Her radio beeped. She grabbed it, backing away from the windows, from poor Edward.

Reception was bad, but she could tell it was Enrico. She held the speaker to her ear, hugely relieved to hear the captain's strong voice in between bursts of static. “. . . you copy? . . . more information on . . . Coen...”

Rebecca reluctantly stepped closer to the windows, hoping to hear better, but the static barely

lifted.

“. . . institutionalized . . . killed at least twenty-three people ... careful...”

What? Rebecca pressed the transmit button. “Enrico, this is Rebecca! Do you read me? Over.”

A wave of static.

“Captain! S.T.A.R.S. Bravo, do you copy?”

Long seconds of more static. She'd lost the signal. Rebecca put the radio back on her belt. She had to get to the 'copter, tell the others about Edward, about Billy and the train and the terrible danger they were all facing. She changed clips for the nine-millimeter, taking a moment to reload the half spent one. With a final sorrowful look at her fallen teammate, she stepped over a dog body, doing her best to avoid slipping in the pool of blood surrounding it, and started back toward the passenger car.

Although she knew she should be eager to run across the missing convict, to arrest him, she hoped she wouldn't see Billy again. Edward's death, the dogs... She felt unsteady, incapable of taking charge. And twenty-three people? She shuddered, amazed that he hadn't killed her when he'd had the chance.

In the passenger car, she saw the result of the two shots she'd heard earlier. The disease victim she'd thought had moved, but hadn't been sure about... It seemed he'd been alive, after all. He must have tried to attack Billy, the way the others had gone after her. She paused at the door back to the car she'd originally come through, looking over the decayed bodies of the people she'd killed. If Edward was right, if the woods were full of these things, she was going to have to move fast—

—and maybe Billy didn't kill those marines.

Rebecca blinked. It hadn't occurred to her earlier, but the jeep may have been attacked, allowing

Billy to escape—forcing him to run, in fact. It seemed likely. The two dead men had been mauled, not just shot; the dogs could have done it.

She shook her head. It didn't matter. He was a killer, either way, and if she wasn't up to the job of apprehending him, she'd better go get someone who could. As serious as the unknown sickness was, they couldn't just let Coen run.

She left the passenger car behind, hurrying through the empty car to the side door, hoping that the others were all back at the helicopter, safe. She reached for the handle, lifted it. She wasn't sure how to break the news about Edward, that was going to be rough—

Rebecca frowned, pushing at the sliding door, which was refusing to slide. She tried the handle again, then again . .. and then kicked the door, cursing silently. It was stuck—or Billy had locked it, maybe to keep her from following him.