Breach
Westlake couldn’t sleep. He’d never been able to, before a job. So instead, he contented himself with making a list and checking it twice, with the help of Kahwihta after the meeting. The young woman didn’t seem to need rest either. Westlake didn’t mind. There were things they needed, and a second pair of hands was always useful.
“So, you were planning to take on an army by yourself, huh?” Kahwihta asked. They were in a room on the second floor of the lodge. Westlake thought it resembled the stock room of a sporting goods store.
“Something like that.” He picked up a sleeping bag. “Some of this stuff still has price tags on it.”
“We hit every type of store in the area as soon as we had the fences up,” Kahwihta said, as she opened a box containing MREs. Attila snuffled at them, causing the foil to crinkle loudly. “Even managed to clean out the local National Guard armory, not that there was much there by then.”
“People went for the guns first,” Westlake said. “Much good it did them.”
“Never cared for them myself,” Kahwihta said. She patted her cattle-prod, laying atop a nearby box. “More comfortable with this.”
Westlake glanced down at his sidearm. Ramirez had finally given him his Glock back, and even an extra magazine she’d salvaged from somewhere. It wasn’t much, but it was something. And he had his knife, of course. “There are plenty of guns at the Villa. I’m more worried about getting there. What we need are essentials – backpacks, food, water, iodine tablets, sleeping bags, tents. That sort of thing.”
“All of that’s in here, somewhere.” Kahwihta gestured around the room.
“So, we start getting it together. More we do tonight, less we have to do tomorrow. We’ll put together a go-bag for everyone.”
Kahwihta looked at him. “You sound like you’ve done this before.”
“Any robbery worth the name involves logistics,” he said. “That was always my end of it. We needed guns, I got the guns. We needed masks, or accelerant or explosives – I got it, or I talked to people who could get it for me.” He hefted a camouflaged MOLLE-style backpack and set it aside. “See if you can find a few more of those.”
“So what’s this place like – really, I mean?” she asked, as she began to rummage through another box. “Hutch made it sound like a resort spa for mafia bosses.”
“Sort of. And I don’t know, not really. I only know what I’ve heard.”
“So, what have you heard?”
He retrieved a case of bottled water and slit it open with his knife. He set aside eight bottles as he spoke. “Lots of things. I’ve heard it’s the unofficial nerve center of the Bonaro operations on the East Coast – a criminal Pentagon, if you will.”
“That doesn’t sound good.”
Westlake smiled. “I’ve also heard some stories about server farms and automated emails – cryptocurrency silk road bullshit.”
“Boring,” Kahwihta murmured, setting aside a pile of MREs.
Westlake snorted. “OK. How about a tiger? How’s that grab you?”
“A tiger?”
Westlake nodded. “Guard tiger.”
“No way.”
“Hand to God,” Westlake said, holding up his hand. “Though I don’t put much stock in that one myself. Though I did know a guy who had one of those.”
Kahwihta looked at him. “What, really?”
“He kept it in his penthouse. I ran into it when I was relieving him of some valuable paperwork. Damn thing nearly eviscerated me.”
“I see,” Kahwihta said, clearly bemused. “You have led an interesting life.”
“I suppose I have at that.” Westlake paused. “We all have, at this point.”
“True.” Kahwihta found another backpack and set it beside the first. “Do you really think this Bonaro guy is up there?”
“Maybe.”
“And if he is?”
Westlake paused. “I don’t know,” he said. It might even have been the truth. “Though if they are up there, I’m beginning to get curious as to why they haven’t made their presence known. Sal isn’t the sort to hide his light under a bushel, if you get me.”
“Maybe one or more of them was infected,” Kahwihta said, idly. “Infection rates vary depending on the severity of the injury. All it would take is one bite and boom. Exponential spread, unless they acted quickly.”
Westlake stared at her. She cleared her throat. “I’ve been paying attention. Bites are bad news, and the infection is almost always fatal. Some people can shake it off, but others can’t. Like poor Morris.”
Westlake frowned. “Morris?”
Kahwihta nodded. “The original owner of that van you came to the lodge in. He got bit on a supply run about three weeks after the dead rose. Two days later, he was down with an infection. On day three, he died.” She paused. “A few hours later, he got back up.” She reached down and stroked Attila. “If Attila here hadn’t warned us, things might have gone very bad, very quickly.”
Westlake eyed the animal. The dog thumped his tail placidly. “I see why you keep him around.”
“I try to look on the bright side of things.” She scratched Attila’s head. “For instance, I’ve always wanted a dog. Now I’ve got one.”
“Optimist, huh?”
“I guess so. What about you?”
Westlake didn’t meet her gaze. “Realist.”
Kahwihta stared at him for several moments. Long enough to make him uneasy. He met her gaze. “What?” he asked, sounding defensive.
“Just thinking that a realist wouldn’t have come up here. A realist sure as heck wouldn’t be planning to do something like this.” She held up a backpack for emphasis. She tossed it to him, and he caught it.
“No?” he said, setting the backpack down carefully. “So what am I, then?”
“Tricky.”
Westlake frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means you’re up to something.” Kahwihta laughed at the expression on his face. “Don’t worry. I won’t tell.”
“Nothing to tell,” Westlake protested.
Kahwihta snorted. “Right. Lucky for you, I know tricksters teach lessons, even when they don’t mean to. Especially when they don’t mean to.” She looked at him. “They show us how to live, and how not to live.”
“Is that what you think I am? A trickster?”
Kahwihta shrugged and then peered at him. “What do you believe in?”
Westlake bared his teeth. It wasn’t quite a smile. “In myself.”
Her reply was interrupted by the door being thrown open. Labrand leaned in, looking even more disheveled than usual, his eyes wide. “We got trouble!”
Westlake looked at Kahwihta in alarm, and then they both hurried out of the room after Labrand. They found Ramirez, Dunnigan, Saoirse, Frieda, and Ptolemy out on the balcony that overlooked the front of the lodge. There was smoke coming from somewhere, and Westlake could hear the groan of a generator in its death throes. “The fence is down,” Dunnigan said, pointing towards the smoke. “Someone put a bullet in it.”
“Not someone,” Ramirez said, grimly. “Sayers.”
Westlake looked at her. “What the hell happened?”
“That’s what I’m trying to figure out.” She glanced at Ptolemy. Westlake followed her gaze. The other man stood silently near the door, his shirt stained with blood.
“Who…?” Westlake began.
“Hahm,” Ramirez said. “Sayers shot her. She’s still breathing. Barely.”
“Hahm ain’t the problem – that is!” Saoirse said. She pointed towards the front of the camp, where fences of chain-link and concrete barricades held the dead at bay. Spotlights played across their ranks, and Westlake saw a brute slowly plowing through its smaller compatriots. It was dressed in rags of tight purple spandex and the remnants of a yellow bodysuit. It was bigger than the one he’d seen in town and covered in enough blubber to soak up small arms fire. He could barely make out its features, hidden as they were beneath loose folds of swollen flesh – not that he particularly wanted to know what it looked like.
“That,” he said, somewhat in awe, “is a very big zombie.”
It hit the fence like a wrecking ball, uprooting the posts and tearing through the chain-link like it was tissue paper. Westlake watched in dull horror as the walkers poured through the gap with eager, hungry groans.
Olivia and the others on fence duty met them head on. The young woman slid beneath a zombie’s awkward grasp and punched her trident through its skull and throat. As the walker fell, she twisted her trident and wrenched its head off. She flicked her wrists, sending the decapitated cranium into the skull of another walker, staggering it long enough for one of her companions to finish it off. The brute staggered towards them, dragging a chunk of broken fencing in its wake.
Rather than risk getting near the hulking zombie, Olivia turned and whistled, signaling for the others to fall back. They weren’t the only ones. Everyone who could get away was hurrying towards the lodge – and the zombies were following. They caught those who were too slow, or just inobservant.
Westlake saw a man stumble and turn, only to be tackled into a pile of crates by a runner. Nearby, a woman was backed against a car by several walkers, the length of rebar she held doing little to keep them at bay. There was no one near enough to help her, and as he watched, the dead fell on her with ravenous savagery. He could hear children crying, and someone screaming, a high, wild wail that spiraled up into inaudibility.
He knew what would happen. They’d be trapped, no way out, surrounded by zombies on all sides. “We have to get out of here,” he said, hoarsely. His hand fell to his pistol. It was useless, though. There were more zombies than he had bullets.
“I’m not going anywhere,” Ramirez said.
Dunnigan caught hold of Ramirez’ jacket and spun her around to face him. “He’s right. You need to go, now!”
“What about the camp?”
“Ain’t going to be no camp come the morning,” Saoirse said. “Too many of them coming in now from all sides. Sayers also busted open the gates on the docks.” She stared daggers at Ptolemy. “Your girlfriend screwed us but good, Calvin.”
Ptolemy shook his head. He looked like he’d been poleaxed. “I don’t… She… I don’t understand…” he murmured, half to himself. Westlake saw a look in the other man’s eyes he didn’t like, a sort of wounded confusion. He was no good to anyone right now.
Ramirez stepped between Ptolemy and Saoirse. “It doesn’t matter. We’ll deal with her later. For now, we need to get everyone inside.”
“You need to go,” Dunnigan said again. “Take what you can carry and get out of here. Find this Villa of yours. We’re going to need it.”
“What are you going to do?”
Dunnigan grimaced. “The only thing we can do. Get as many out as we can, head for North Elba and hope the bastards don’t follow. We can always come back later to get what we need. If there is a later.”
There was a crash from somewhere below – a window. Shouts and shots. The zombies were at the door. Westlake’s hands clenched into fists. He didn’t like the thought of being trapped in here. Dunnigan grabbed one of his hatchets and brandished it. “Time’s a-wasting, folks,” he said, heading for the door.
“Wait for me, Dunny,” Saoirse called, wheeling herself after him. Frieda made to follow, but paused. She looked at Ramirez. Something passed between them; Westlake wasn’t sure what. It was only when they kissed that it was confirmed.
It was a gentle thing, soft and passionate. Frieda caught Ramirez’ face in her hands. “Be careful, Estela. I want you back in one piece.”
Ramirez clutched the other woman’s wrists and pulled Frieda’s hands to her heart. “That goes double for you. And keep an eye on things for me. I’ll be back.”
Frieda nodded and stepped back. Their fingers lingered, touching, but only for an instant. Then Frieda was gone, and Ramirez’ mask was back in place. She looked at Westlake. “You have something to say?”
“Not me.”
“Good.” She looked at Kahwihta, Labrand, and Ptolemy. “We need to get together whatever gear we can scrounge, and quick.”
“Already done,” Westlake said. Ramirez glanced at him, and he thought there was something like gratitude in her eyes.
“Then let’s grab what we can carry and go.” She paused and snapped her fingers in front of Ptolemy’s eyes. He hadn’t moved in all the time they’d been talking. “Calvin, focus up. I need you. We need you.”
Ptolemy snapped to attention. “I apologize,” he said, haltingly. “I am good.”
“Good. Take point. We’re going to grab our gear and head for the docks.”
Westlake stared at her. “What? Saoirse just said–”
“It’s the only way out of here. Unless you want to try and wade through that mess out front. Which I most certainly do not.”
“So we’re going to swim instead?”
“Of course not.” Ramirez drew her pistol. “We’re going to sail.”