THREE
LEON REACHED THE OUTSKIRTS OF TOWN
with twenty minutes to spare, but decided that a hot
dinner was going to have to wait. From his previous
visits to the station, he knew that there were a couple
of vending machines he could hit up for something to
tide him over. The thought of stale candy and peanuts
didn't sit well on his growling stomach, but it was his
own damned fault for not taking New York traffic into
account.
The drive into the city proper did a lot to soothe his
still rattled nerves; he passed the few small farms that
lay east of town, the fairgrounds and storage sheds,
and finally the truck stop that marked the separation
of rural Raccoon from urban. Something about knowing
that he was going to be patrolling those back roads
before long, keeping them safe, gave him a surprising
sense of well-being and not a little pride. The early
autumn air from the open window was pleasantly
brisk, and the rising moon bathed everything he saw
in a silvery glow. He wasn't going to be late after all;
within the hour, he'd officially become one of Raccoon's
finest.
As Leon turned the Jeep down Bybee, heading for
one of the main north-south streets that would take
him to the RPD building, he got his first hint that
something was very wrong. In the first few blocks, he
was mildly surprised; by the fifth, he found himself
slipping toward a state of shock. It wasn't just strange,
it was ... well, it was impossible.
Bybee was the first real city street, coming from the
east, where buildings outnumbered empty lots. There
were several espresso bars and cheap diners, as well as
a bargain movie theater that never seemed to run
anything but horror movies and sexy comedies - and
was therefore the most popular hangout for the youth
of Raccoon. There were even a few generically hip
taverns that served microbrew and hot rum drinks for
the winter college-student ski crowd. At quarter to
nine on a Saturday night, Bybee should have been
teeming with life.
But of the mostly single or two-story brick shops
and restaurants that lined the street, Leon saw that
almost all were dark and in the few that still
boasted some light, it didn't look like there was
anyone inside. There were plenty of cars parked along
the narrow street, and yet not one person that he
could see; Bybee, the hangout for cruising teens and
college students, was totally deserted.
Where the hell is everybody?
His mind grasped for answers as he crept down the
silent street, searching desperately for a reason - and
for some way to alleviate the sweaty anxiety that had
once again settled over him. Maybe there was some
kind of an event going on, a church function, like a
spaghetti feed. Or perhaps Raccoon had decided to
take up Oktoberfest and tonight was the big kickoff.
Yeah, but everybody at the same time? It'd have to
be one hell of a party.
It was then that Leon realized he also hadn't seen a
single car on the road since he'd had the scare with the
dog ten miles out of town. Not one. And with that
thoroughly unsettling realization came the next - less
dramatic, but distinctly more immediate.
Something smelled bad. In fact, something smelled
like shit.
Jeez, dead skunk. And apparently it threw up on
itself before dying.
He'd already slowed the Jeep to a crawl and had
planned to take a left on Powell, just a block ahead,
but that horrible smell and the total absence of life
were giving him a serious case of the creeps. Maybe he
should stop and check things out, look around for
some sign of life.
"Oh, hey!"
Leon grinned, relief flooding through his confusion.
There were a couple of people standing at the corner,
practically right in front of him; the streetlight was
out on their side, but he could see them in silhouette
clear enough - a couple, a woman in a skirt and a big
man wearing work boots. As he got closer he could see
by the way they moved, heading south on Powell, that
they had to be monumentally drunk. Both of them
staggered into the shadows cast by an office supply
store and out of sight; but he was going in that
direction anyway - no harm in stopping to ask what
was going on, was there?
Must've come out of O'Kelly's. A pint or two too
many, but as long as they're not driving anywhere, fine
by me. Am I going to feel stupid when they tell me that
tonight's the big free concert or the all-you-can-eat
town barbecue. . .
Almost giddy with relief, Leon turned the corner
and squinted into the heavy shadows, looking for the
pair. He didn't see them, but there was an alley tucked
between the supply store and a jewelry shop. Maybe
his two drunk friends had ducked in for a bathroom
break or something even less legal. . .
"Shit!"
Leon slammed on the brake as a half-dozen dark
shapes fluttered up from the street, caught in the
Jeep's headlights like giant whirling leaves. Startled, it
took him a second to realize he was seeing birds; they
didn't cry out, although he was close enough to hear
the brushing of dry wings as they took to the air.
Crows, enjoying a late night feast of roadkill, what
looked like. . .
Oh, my God.
There was a human body in the middle of the road,
twenty feet in front of the Jeep. Face down, but it
looked like a woman and judging from the liquid
red stains that covered most of the once-white blouse,
it wasn't some beer-happy college student who'd
decided to take a nap in the wrong place.
Hit-and-run. Some bastard hit her and then drove
away, Jesus what a mess. . .
Leon killed the engine and was half out the door
before his racing thoughts caught him up. He hesitated,
one foot on the asphalt, the stench of death
heavy in the cool still air. His mind had latched on to
an idea that he didn't want to consider, but knew he
had better; this wasn't some training exercise, this was
his life.
What if it's not a hit-and-run? What if there's no one
around because some psycho gunman decided on a
little target practice? Everyone could be inside, laying
low - maybe the RPD's on the way, and maybe those
drunks weren 't drunk, they could've been shot and were
trying to get help. . .
He leaned back into the Jeep and fumbled under
the passenger seat for his graduation gift, a Desert
Eagle .50AE Magnum with a custom ten-inch barrel,
Israeli export. His father and uncle - both cops - had
gone in together on it. Not standard issue for the
RPD, in fact much more powerful; as Leon grabbed a
clip from the glovebox and slapped it in, feeling the
solid weight of the weapon in his slightly unsteady
hands, he decided it was the best present he'd ever
received. He stuffed two more clips into a belt pouch
on general principle; each only held six rounds.
Pointing the loaded Magnum at the ground, he
stepped out of the Jeep and took a quick look at his
surroundings. He wasn't all that familiar with Raccoon
at night, but he knew that it shouldn't be as dark
as it was. Several of the streetlights farther along
Powell were either shot out or simply not on, and the
shadows past the blood-soaked body were thick; if not
for the Jeep's headlights, he wouldn't have even been
able to see that.
He edged forward, feeling horribly exposed as he
left the relative cover of the Jeep, but aware that she
could still be alive; it didn't seem likely, but he had to
at least check.
A few steps closer, and he could see that it was
definitely a young woman. Lank red hair obscured the
face, but the clothes were right, denim pedal-pushers
and flats. The wounds were mostly hidden by the
bloody shirt, but there seemed to be dozens - ragged
holes in the wet cloth exposed torn, glistening flesh
and the crimson of muscle beneath.
Swallowing heavily, Leon quickly switched the gun
to his left hand and crouched down next to her. The
cool, clammy skin yielded easily beneath his fingertips
as he touched her throat, pressing his first two
fingers against the carotid. A few seconds passed,
seconds that made him feel horribly young and afraid
as he tried to remember the procedure for CPR and
prayed, at the same time, that he would feel a pulse.
Five compressions, two short breaths, keep my elbows
locked and come on please don't be dead. . .
He couldn't find it, and didn't want to wait one
more second. He tucked the Magnum into his belt
and grabbed her shoulders to turn her over, to check
for breathing, but as he started to lift, he saw something
that made him lay her down again, his heart a
twisting knot in his chest.
The victim's shirt had pulled out of her pants
enough for him to see that her spine and part of her
ribcage were exposed, the still-fleshy knobs of vertebrae
shining and red, the narrow, curving ribs disappearing
into masses of shredded tissue. It was like
she'd been knocked down and . . . chewed on. Information
that Leon had disregarded as unimportant
suddenly registered, and even as the few facts he had
clicked into place, he felt the first inky tendrils of real
fear slither into his mind.
The crows couldn't have done this, would've taken
them hours, and who the hell ever heard of crows
flocking after dark to eat? And that shit-smell, it's not
coming from her, she died recently, and. . .
Cannibal. Murders.
No. No way. For that to happen, for a person to
have been killed and then partially—devoured on a
city street with no one to stop it. . .
. . . and with enough time to pass for scavengers to
come - for that to happen, the killers would have had
to slaughter most if not all of the population. Doesn't
seem likely? Fine. Then what's that smell? And where
is everyone?
Behind Leon, there was a low, soft groan. A shuffling
footstep, and another sound. A wet sound.
It took him barely a second to stand and turn,
hand instinctively snatching for the Magnum. It was
the couple, the drunks, staggering toward him, and
they'd been joined by a third, a beefy-looking guy
with ... with blood all over his shirt and his hands. And
dripping out of his mouth, a rubbery red mouth set
into his pasty, rotting face like an open sore. The
other man, the big man with the work boots and
suspenders, looked much the same and the vee of
the blond woman's pink blouse revealed cleavage that
was spotted with darkness, with what appeared to be
mold.
The trio stumbled toward him, past his Jeep, raising
pale hands as they emitted moaning, hungry wails.
Some dark fluid gurgled out of the beefy man's nose
and ran across his moving lips, and Leon was overwhelmed
by the understanding that the terrible, shitty
smell was decayed flesh, and it was coming from
them. . .
. . . and there was another one, stepping out from a
door stoop across the street, a young woman in a
stained T-shirt, hair tied back from a slack and
mindless face.
A groan from behind him. Leon shot a look over his
shoulder and saw a youth with dark hair and rotting
arms shamble out from the sidewalk darkness of an
awning's shadow.
Leon raised the Magnum and aimed at the closest,
the man with suspenders, while his instincts screamed
at him to run. He was terrified, but his trained logic
continued to insist that there was an explanation for
what he was seeing, that he was not looking at the
walking dead.
Control, procedure, you're a cop. . .
"All right! That's far enough! Don't move!"
His voice was strong, commanding and authoritative,
and he was wearing his uniform, and God, why
wouldn't they stop? The man in suspenders moaned
again, blind to the weapon pointed at his chest and
still flanked by the others, now less than ten feet away.
"Don't move!" Leon said again, and the sound of
his own panic made him back up a step, darting his
gaze left and right, seeing that there were still more of
the wailing, lurching people coming out of the
shadows.
Something grabbed his ankle.
"No!" he shouted, whipped the gun around -
- and saw that the corpse of the hit-and-run victim
was scrabbling at his boot with one blood-crusted
hand, working to drag her crippled body closer. Her
gasping cry of frantic hunger rose to join those of the
others as she tried to bite into his foot, bloody smears
of saliva drooling off her abraded chin, dripping onto
the leather.
Leon fired into her upper back, the sharp, explosive
crack of the massive weapon loosening her grip and
at such close range, probably obliterating her heart.
Spasming, she dropped back to the pavement -
- and he turned and saw that the others were less
than five feet away, and he fired twice more, the
rounds splattering red flowers into the chest of the
closest. The entry wounds spouted scarlet.
The man in suspenders was hardly fazed by the
twin gaping holes in his torso, his stagger faltering for
only a second. He opened his bloody mouth and
gasped out a hissing mewl of hunger, hands raised
again as if to direct him to the source of relief.
Must be on something, firepower like that could drop
an elephant. . .
Backing away, Leon fired again. And again. And
again. And then the empty clattered to the pavement,
another was slammed in, more rounds fired. And still
they kept coming, oblivious to the shots that ripped at
their stinking flesh. It was a bad dream, a bad movie,
it wasn't real and Leon knew that if he didn't start
believing, he was going to die. Eaten alive by these. . .
Go ahead, Kennedy, say it. These zombies.
Blocked from his Jeep, Leon stumbled away, still
firing.
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