Survivors by Z. A. Recht Read Free Book Online Page A

was beyond the soldier.
    What kind of man chooses a slender rod of flexible metal over solid firepower?
    Still . . . Brewster had to admit that he admired the way Trev became an engine of destruction when facing down the infected. He sincerely doubted that he would ever be able to become like that. In any case, he’d be glad to be off the streets and back at the facility.
    It was a rather Spartan complex of single-story office buildings flanked by an industrial processing plant. The whole compound was on the far western edge of Omaha, so they were out of auditory range of downtown. A good thing, too, considering that there must have been thousands—hundreds of thousands—of infected lurking in there. To add to their luck, the area was encircled by a chain-link fence, creating a safe zone wherein the survivors could move about freely without having to worry about ambush.
    Mbutu Ngasy, well-known among the survivors for his laconic but uncannily intuitive nature, had dubbed the facility “Sherman’s Freehold.”
    “I should probably ditch the Cipro,” Trevor remarked, looking over his shoulder at his pack.
    Brewster stumbled over a crack in the pavement, cursed, then glanced at his companion. “Why?”
    “It’s marked expired. April of oh-six.”
    Brewster shrugged. “Bring it anyway. You never know what the medicos could use. Maybe it’ll be all right.” He shot a sideways glance at Trev. “Look, I’ve been meaning to ask you some things.”
    The other man blinked. “Fire away.”
    “I hear people talking. I don’t mean any offense, or anything, but is it true what they say? That you think the infected are demons?” Brewster asked, casting another sidelong glance at Trevor.
    “No offense taken. And yes, that’s true. They are demons,” Trev said, laughing, “but it’s all semantics, anyway, isn’t it? Call them infected, call them demons, call them little green plastic army men for all I care. They’re out to get us, and we’re out to get them, and that’s what really matters.”
    “Okay,” said Brewster. “But don’t you think you’d be better off sticking with a firearm like the rest of us? I mean, if you get any of that blood on you, Rebecca and Anna will have you in a restraining jacket down in BL4 before the night’s out.”
    Trev nodded slowly. “That makes sense. I . . . I really can’t explain it properly. All I know is, when I came across my first infected, this baton was, ah, presented to me. It was a gift—like I was supposed to use it. I sort of saw it as a sign. It’s worked out well for me so far. Besides, I carry a backup pistol.” Trev tapped a revolver holstered on his belt.
    “So, you see this as a sort of mission from God, to—”
    “Whoa, whoa,” Trevor interrupted. “I never said anything about God.”
    Brewster raised his eyebrows and reconsidered. “Sorry, man. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
    Trevor sighed and kicked a loose piece of pavement out of his way. Sherman’s Freehold was growing closer. They could see Jack the Welder on the rooftop, waving at them.
    “Truth be told, I’m agnostic. I’ve never been sure of God or the Devil or any of that stuff. But this? This pandemic, this plague ? Demons, man.”
    Brewster grinned. “That’s kind of ironic.”
    Trevor chuckled. “Tell me about it. But now I have a purpose—I suppose I’m still technically the crazy bastard I was last year, but look around. Everything’s dead. Or dying. Almost everybody. Those of us who are left have seen death, seen pain, and seen loss—we’ve seen those bloody-eyed bastards up close. Ask yourself this question, Ewan: Who’s crazy anymore, huh? No one? Or everyone? Me? You? ”
    Brewster was silent as he considered Trevor’s words.
    The pair crossed the bullet-pocked street that led to Sherman’s Freehold. Jack the Welder (who, despite having been with the group since the fall of Suez in January, refused to give his last name) unlocked the main gates for them. They