Last Stand (The Survivalist Book 7) Read online

  Accepting that it was up to her to stop the man running toward them, Samantha shot her rifle once, twice, three times, cycling the bolt as fast as she could. All three bullets caught him in the chest, but they did little to slow his advance. No doubt he would die in a few minutes from internal bleeding, but by then, Tanner and Samantha would be lying on their backs with the mindless creatures munching their innards.

  As Samantha backpedaled, preparing to take her final shot, Tanner had an idea. It was a one-shot deal that would either work, or not. Without warning, he leaped into the air and arched backward as he fell. He hit the floor like a paratrooper with a bum chute, sandwiching the woman between his backpack and the thick ceramic tiles.

  She moaned as her ribcage gave way, but still, she refused to let go.

  Hoping to take advantage of Tanner’s awkward position, the infected man dove forward. He was in mid-air when Tanner lifted his shotgun and fired it one-handed. The blast caught him under the chin, disintegrating his throat and vertebrae. The man’s head folded back and fell away, leaving his decapitated body to land at Tanner’s feet.

  Tanner started to roll over to finish off the human bloodsucker when Samantha stepped forward, put the muzzle of her rifle against the woman’s temple, and fired. She twitched once and then lay still.

  “Are you okay?” Samantha asked, fishing around in her pocket for spare cartridges.

  Tanner slowly sat up and slid his feet away from the growing pool of blood still seeping from the headless corpse. He rubbed his fingers across the bites on his neck. There was blood, but not enough to really worry about.

  “I’m fine,” he growled, getting to his feet.

  He teetered for a moment, and she quickly grabbed his shoulder with both hands.

  “You sure?”

  He took a moment to breathe. In. Out. In. Out. The world stopped moving.

  “I’m good.”

  She slowly let him go, half-expecting him to topple over.

  “Next time, don’t try to stand up so quickly.”

  “You worried about me?”

  She hesitated. “Uh, yeah, that’s it.”

  He eyed her. “You were worried I’d fall on you.”

  “Well, it’s not like I could lift you off. Who knows, I might be pinned forever.”

  “Got it. Next time I’ve been munched by a crazed, flesh-eating mutant, I’ll try to be more considerate.”

  “Great, thanks,” she said, not at all picking up on his sarcasm.

  “Come on,” he grumbled. “Let’s get out of this hellhole.”

  As they stepped through the broken doors to the medical center, Samantha leaned forward and sniffed Tanner’s back.

  “Darlin’, believe me you ain’t no bed of roses yourself.”

  “No, it’s not that.”

  “What then?”

  “I was wondering if you’d changed your cologne, or something.”

  He looked over at her. “My cologne?”

  She covered a grin. “It just seems like the infected women have a thing for you now.”

  “Oh, you’re hilarious,” he growled, continuing outside.

  “Well?” she said. “What do we do now? Without Dr. Jarvis, your entire plan—” She stopped in mid-sentence. “No way.”

  “What?” Tanner spun around to see what she was looking at.

  A man was exiting a building two doors down. He was tall but walking slightly hunched over, as if his back pained him. As soon as he stepped into the sunlight, he pulled a dark gray blanket over his head to act as a hood.

  “Is that…?”

  “It is indeed.”

  Tanner dashed down the stairs, and Samantha quickly followed. They came up from behind Jarvis and managed to get within a few paces before he spun to face them, his swollen hands brought up into tight fists.

  Even with the hood, they could see the bumpy skin covering his face. Jarvis was patient zero, the very first person to have ever been infected with Superpox-99. As such, his body had experienced a reaction unlike any of the subsequent hosts. When the virus passed on, it had mutated, introducing a psychosis that left many of its victims not only far less intelligent but also possessing an intense hatred toward all those uninfected. Not everyone had been affected the same way. Some had managed to retain their reasoning, rejecting the internal voices that pleaded for violence. But most now hid in dark places, worrying only about their most primitive needs: feeding, mating, killing.

  As soon as Jarvis recognized them, he relaxed.

  “What are you two doing here?”

  “We were looking for you,” explained Samantha.

  His dark eyes narrowed. “Why?”

  She looked up at Tanner. “Maybe it would be better if you explained.”

  “We’re going back down into the tunnels under the city.”

  Jarvis shook his head. “Don’t do that. There are thousands of infected living down there. Violent horrible beings.”

  “Which is why we need your help.”

  It took him only a moment to grasp what Tanner was proposing.

  “You want to transfuse my blood in the hope they won’t attack you.”

  “That’s right. And we’re counting on your cooperation.” Tanner was ready to be as persuasive as necessary. Jarvis had intentionally injected himself with the virus and was therefore responsible for everything that had come after. He would donate blood, one way or another. The only point in question was how it was going to be drawn.

  “Of course,” he said much quicker than expected.

  “You don’t mind our taking your blood?” asked Samantha.

  “Mind? On the contrary, I’m absolutely thrilled about it.”

  She furrowed her brow.

  “My dear, don’t you see? If you two prove my theory, it could have ramifications for the entire world.”

  “Ah,” she said, “because if it works, you’d donate your blood to others.”

  “Better than that. Scientists could use my blood to synthesize a permanent treatment, a cure, perhaps not for the disease itself, but at least for the hostility it introduces.”

  “Are you saying we’d be doing you a favor?”

  “More than a favor. You’d be acting as my first human trial.” He turned back to Tanner. “But you must promise to return and report your results.”

  “Have some fresh fish frying, and we’ll make it a point to stop in. Assuming we live long enough to do so, that is.”

  Jarvis lips curled up. It was as close to a smile as his swollen face could muster.

  “I also need for you to understand that there are no guarantees. I don’t know how long the effects of my blood might last or whether it will completely quell their hatred. Truth is, I don’t know that it will work at all. And if I’m wrong…” He left the rest unsaid.

  “We understand the risks, don’t we, Sam?”

  She shrugged. “Same as always. The zombies will try to kill us.”

  Jarvis stiffened. “Dear, they’re not—”

  Tanner raised a hand. “Believe me, Doc, it’s not worth the trouble.”

  “Fine,” he said, giving Samantha a stern look. “Let’s get on with it then. We’ll need supplies for the transfusion.”

  Tanner turned and looked back at the medical center.

  “Sorry, but nothing in there is poking into my arm.”

  “Oh heavens, no,” he said. “That place is an absolute dungeon, which is why I came here.” He gestured to the building he had just exited. There was no sign out front, but it looked like a collection of small offices.

  “What’s in there?” asked Samantha.

  “A cosmetic surgery center. They’ll have everything we need, not to mention a sterile environment in which to conduct the transfusion.”

  “We’re going to do this now?” She didn’t try to hide the worry in her voice.

  “Can’t see any reason to wait,” said Tanner. “Can you?”

  She thought for a moment. “I don’t suppose that it so
unds icky is a good enough reason.”

  Tanner said nothing.

  She sighed. “All right, Doctor Jarvis, lead the way.”

  Tanner and Samantha watched as Dr. Jarvis spent the next fifteen minutes carefully searching the cosmetic surgery center for supplies. One by one, he neatly laid out needles, syringes, blood bags, alcohol, tubing, gauze, and saline solution.

  When he was finished, he turned to them.

  “I believe I have what we need.”

  “Why can’t we just put a tube between your arm and ours?” asked Samantha.

  “Because, my dear, direct transfusions of that sort are incredibly difficult to do.” He went about wiping each end of the tubing with a gauze soaked in alcohol. “It would require a strong flow of blood, which means the donor, that’s me, would need an artery opened—a dangerous procedure given our circumstances. Furthermore, to prevent the artery from collapsing, a supporting tube would likely need to be inserted. Again, not an easy feat. And finally, as blood started to flow, it might coagulate in the tubing, making the flow uneven and impossible to estimate. In the end, there’d be no way to know how much blood was actually transferred.”

  “So instead of pumping it directly, you’re going to use the bags to transfer it?”

  “That’s right. The bags have CPD in them, which will prevent the whole blood from coagulating.”

  “Whole blood? Is that like whole milk?”

  He smiled. “I suppose it is. Blood is composed of red and white blood cells, plasma, and platelets. Each can be separated out, but when they’re all kept together, we call it whole blood.”

  “Is it dangerous to use whole blood?”

  Jarvis picked up one of the needles and inspected it.

  “The biggest risk of any blood transfusion is an ABO incompatibility, basically receiving the wrong type of blood. In our case, however, I’m O-negative, which essentially makes me a universal donor.”

  Samantha cocked an eyebrow. “You’re saying that nothing could go wrong?”

  “No, that’s not what I’m saying at all. Either of you could still experience a hemolytic reaction or an infection.”

  “Those don’t sound good.”

  “No, but they’re both very unlikely.”

  “And you think that transferring your blood will give us enough of the virus to keep us safe in the tunnels?”

  “As I said, I don’t know for certain.” When he saw doubt creeping over her face, he quickly added, “But it makes sense. If you have my blood pumping through your body, the infected should react to you in the same way they would to me.”

  “Any guesses as to how long it might last?” asked Tanner.

  “Impossible to say. You’re the first case.”

  “Give me an educated guess.”

  He shrugged. “Maybe twelve hours? Your antibodies will eventually kill off the weakened virus.”

  “And you promise that it won’t make us infected?” said Samantha. “I don’t want to be, you know… like you.”

  “That much I can promise.” Jarvis carefully tied a loose-fitting knot in the plastic tubing below the lip of the bag before climbing onto one of the patient tables. “All right, let’s get this underway.” He handed the bag to Tanner. “I’ll need for you to hold this about ten inches below my arm. That way gravity can help to fill it.”

  Tanner took the plastic blood bag and squatted down, holding it below the level of Jarvis’s arm.

  “Once blood starts to accumulate, gently knead the bag. We want to make sure the anticoagulant gets well mixed.” He turned to Samantha. “Are you able to insert the needle, or will I need to do that myself?”

  “I can do it,” she said, slipping on a pair of thin blue gloves and securing a rubber strap around his upper arm. Within a few seconds his veins began to swell. Circular scars from large blisters lined his forearms, but they had all long since healed. She unrolled the tubing and examined the tip of the needle. It looked sharp and a lot bigger than any she had ever been poked with.

  “Here,” he said, rubbing the alcohol-soaked gauze over the area. “Insert it into the median cubital vein.”

  She gently pressed the needle in, and almost immediately, dark red blood began to flow into the tube.

  “It’s working.”

  Jarvis nodded. “If nothing else, we humans know how to bleed.” With his free hand, he tore off a small strip of tape and used it to hold the needle in place. “Now, we wait.”

  “For how long?”

  “Not long. Maybe ten minutes.”

  They said little more, watching as the steady stream of blood slowly filled the bag. When it was full, Jarvis removed the needle and held it up. The last bit of blood in the tube drained into the bag, and he quickly snugged the knot so that it couldn’t run back out.

  “Next, we repeat the procedure using my other arm.”

  “Are you sure it’s safe for you to give two big bags of blood?” asked Samantha.

  “There’s a little risk of hypovolemic shock, but I’m well hydrated, so I should be fine.”

  Uncertain if it was right to even care about the welfare of a man who had killed so many, including her own father, Samantha said nothing more. They repeated the procedure, and when both bags were full of blood, Jarvis sat back up. He looked a little pale.

  “I’ve done my part,” he said in a tired voice. “The rest is up to you two.”

  “You’re not going to help us put it in?” said Tanner.

  “From what you’ve told me, you don’t yet have a way down into the tunnels.”

  “So?”

  “So, you should wait to do the transfusion until you’re ready to go down. That way you’ll maximize the time you’re protected.”

  Tanner looked at the tubing and needles.

  Seeing the concerned look on his face, Jarvis said, “It’s easy enough. You slide the small blue clip across the tube to block the flow. Then attach the tube to the bag, and open the valve to prime the line. Once blood starts to flow, insert the needle into your arm and let gravity do the rest.”

  Tanner looked over at Samantha. “You get all that?”

  She shrugged. “I guess.”

  Tanner picked up one of the blood bags. It felt warm and squishy.

  He turned to Jarvis.

  “How long will it last out in the air like this?”

  “Six hours, maybe a little longer. I’m assuming that’s long enough for you to gain entry into the tunnels?”

  “It should be.” Tanner looked back over at Samantha. She looked a little pale too. “Everything’s good, right Sam?”

  “Oh sure,” she said, eyeing the blood. “Everything’s just peachy.”

  Chapter 9

  Buckey fell face first onto the coarse metal grating covering the power plant’s walkway. He immediately rolled over and crab-walked backward until his shoulder blades pressed tightly against the bunker wall. His heart pounded, and something warm slowly spread across his groin. At first he thought he had wet himself, but when he reached down, he felt a steady stream of blood pulsing between his fingers. It wasn’t strong enough to be the femoral artery, but it wasn’t a minor flesh wound either.

  He looked up at the open vent directly above his head. It seemed unlikely that whoever had shot at him would be small enough to follow. If they were, they would be in for a little more than a haircut when they poked their head through.

  “Hey!” he called. “You out there?”

  After a moment, a voice echoed through the hole. It was remarkably calm for someone who had just gunned down two men in cold blood.

  “I’m here.”

  “You got me in the leg. Just thought you’d want to know. Credit where credit is due and all that jazz.”

  “Your troubles are only beginning, believe me.”

  Buckey snickered. “I think you’ve got that part wrong, mister.”

  “We’ll see.”

  “Mind if I ask your name? I’ve never been shot before, and I kind of want to kn
ow who did it.”

  “Deputy Marshal Mason Raines.”

  That surprised him. “What’s a marshal doing mixed up in all this?”

  “Right now, I’m doing what I do best, standing in the way of evil men.”

  “Evil’s what you make of it, Marshal. Believe me, on a sunny afternoon, it goes down as smoothly as a cold glass of lemonade.”

  There was no reply.

  “Well, I’d love to chat more, but I’ve got doors to open and people to kill. You understand the drill.”

  Again, there was no answer.

  “All right then. I’ll be seeing you.”

  “Count on it.”

  Without taking his back from the wall, Buckey slid sideways along the metal walkway. When he was safely clear of the open vent, he slowly got to his feet. He had abandoned his rifle in the tunnel once the shooting had started, but he was by no means defenseless. He reached down and placed his hand on the smooth wooden handle of a Sayoc-Winkler RnD Hawk. The tomahawk was his single most prized possession, taken from the body of a fellow soldier who had reportedly once worked with master bladesmith, Daniel Winkler. The head offered a razor-sharp blade on one end and a tapered point on the other. Weighing in at only one and a half pounds, it was as easy to wield as it was to throw. The Hawk was a primitive, no-nonsense weapon, but in Buckey’s hands, it would absolutely sing.

  He turned his attention to the space around him. It was essentially an attic above the bunker’s power plant. That much he knew from the briefing. There wasn’t much to see besides the vent fans, a staircase leading down, and an assortment of electrical conduits that distributed power to the rest of the bunker.

  He moved to the small spiral staircase and peered over the railing.

  Electrical panels and breaker boxes filled the space below. Not having a firearm forced an additional level of caution, but that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. When sneaking around an enemy’s camp, Buckey had always believed it best to move like a cat burglar in search of priceless jewels.