had chosen the safest spot—though not for that reason. The forty-foot tower he lived in gave him a 360-degree view of the area, and, combined with his .30-06 rifle, made him the group’s first and finest line of defense. Brewster never felt anxious when Krueger was awake and in his tower—he was confident that any threat that approached would be dealt with before he even knew they were in peril.
Brewster and Trev walked calmly past these rooms. They’d become quite comfortable in their lives here, and usually kept their minds occupied with thoughts of scavenging food and supplies, and the hope of developing a vaccine.
Trev and Brewster came to the four-way intersection and moved straight on through, heading for the wide stairwell that led to the true reason behind the building’s existence: a biosafety level four laboratory.
Only two were officially recognized in the United States. One was at Fort Detrick, in Maryland: the U.S. Army Medical Research Institute of Infectious Diseases, or USAMRIID for short. The second was in Atlanta, run by the Centers for Disease Control.
This other lab was off the books and privately funded, the survivors camped above humanity’s last, best hope of developing a vaccine.
Before they reached the stairwell, however, they passed a locked office door on their left. From inside, Brewster could hear the sound of rhythmic pounding. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
Inside the room were two soldiers, prisoners of Sherman’s survivors. They’d surrendered when Sherman’s group had caught them unaware, and were now relegated to the small, featureless room that was serving as their prison cell. The only entertainment they were allowed was a ragged copy of National Geographic and a moldy tennis ball. They almost didn’t even get that much, but Sherman, who had an em-pathetic streak in him, couldn’t bear the thought of leaving the enemy soldiers alone with nothing at all to do. Even convicted felons were allowed some form of entertainment.
Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
Brewster paused, turned to the door, and slammed his palm against it. “Hey! Knock it off! We didn’t give you that damn tennis ball so you could annoy the shit out of us with it!”
A moment passed in silence before a surly voice answered back. “Yeah? Why don’t you come in here and get it?”
“Don’t tempt me,” Brewster said, and turned away, catching up with Trev.
“Why do we even keep those two in there?” Trevor asked.
“Collateral, I guess. Hostages, maybe. What do you want us to do with ’em? It’s not like we have a lot of options.”
“We have plenty of options,” Trev said, pulling open the stairwell door and holding it as Brewster stepped through. “In case you’ve forgotten, those bastards tried to kill us. They had us dead to rights when we first got here. And they killed Matt! They shot him right in front of Juni!”
“Hell, we’ve all done our share of killing—”
“In self-defense,” Trev said, voice rising slightly. “They’re murderers. And now they’re costing us food, water, shelter—I say we just take them out back and shoot them.”
Brewster raised his eyebrows. For a “crazy man,” Trev was normally very rational. He’d never heard him advocate execution before. “That’s a little drastic, the whole eye-for-an-eye thing. I’m sure Sherman knows what he’s doing. If he thought they were a threat, or if he thought we couldn’t handle them, we would have gotten rid of them by now. They did dig the slit trench. And they’re still in the process.”
“Maybe,” Trev said, but he didn’t sound convinced. His boots rang out on the stairs as the pair descended. The slit trench was something that none of the survivors wanted to work on . . . while the Fac had light and water they brought in, the restrooms didn’t work so well, so Denton and Thomas had rescued a couple of porta-potties from a construction site and brought them in. The prisoners had dug the
Brewster and Trev walked calmly past these rooms. They’d become quite comfortable in their lives here, and usually kept their minds occupied with thoughts of scavenging food and supplies, and the hope of developing a vaccine.
Trev and Brewster came to the four-way intersection and moved straight on through, heading for the wide stairwell that led to the true reason behind the building’s existence: a biosafety level four laboratory.
Only two were officially recognized in the United States. One was at Fort Detrick, in Maryland: the U.S. Army Medical Research Institute of Infectious Diseases, or USAMRIID for short. The second was in Atlanta, run by the Centers for Disease Control.
This other lab was off the books and privately funded, the survivors camped above humanity’s last, best hope of developing a vaccine.
Before they reached the stairwell, however, they passed a locked office door on their left. From inside, Brewster could hear the sound of rhythmic pounding. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
Inside the room were two soldiers, prisoners of Sherman’s survivors. They’d surrendered when Sherman’s group had caught them unaware, and were now relegated to the small, featureless room that was serving as their prison cell. The only entertainment they were allowed was a ragged copy of National Geographic and a moldy tennis ball. They almost didn’t even get that much, but Sherman, who had an em-pathetic streak in him, couldn’t bear the thought of leaving the enemy soldiers alone with nothing at all to do. Even convicted felons were allowed some form of entertainment.
Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
Brewster paused, turned to the door, and slammed his palm against it. “Hey! Knock it off! We didn’t give you that damn tennis ball so you could annoy the shit out of us with it!”
A moment passed in silence before a surly voice answered back. “Yeah? Why don’t you come in here and get it?”
“Don’t tempt me,” Brewster said, and turned away, catching up with Trev.
“Why do we even keep those two in there?” Trevor asked.
“Collateral, I guess. Hostages, maybe. What do you want us to do with ’em? It’s not like we have a lot of options.”
“We have plenty of options,” Trev said, pulling open the stairwell door and holding it as Brewster stepped through. “In case you’ve forgotten, those bastards tried to kill us. They had us dead to rights when we first got here. And they killed Matt! They shot him right in front of Juni!”
“Hell, we’ve all done our share of killing—”
“In self-defense,” Trev said, voice rising slightly. “They’re murderers. And now they’re costing us food, water, shelter—I say we just take them out back and shoot them.”
Brewster raised his eyebrows. For a “crazy man,” Trev was normally very rational. He’d never heard him advocate execution before. “That’s a little drastic, the whole eye-for-an-eye thing. I’m sure Sherman knows what he’s doing. If he thought they were a threat, or if he thought we couldn’t handle them, we would have gotten rid of them by now. They did dig the slit trench. And they’re still in the process.”
“Maybe,” Trev said, but he didn’t sound convinced. His boots rang out on the stairs as the pair descended. The slit trench was something that none of the survivors wanted to work on . . . while the Fac had light and water they brought in, the restrooms didn’t work so well, so Denton and Thomas had rescued a couple of porta-potties from a construction site and brought them in. The prisoners had dug the
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