confessional, regret and pain dripping on every word. Mike’s head spun with the news, then he quickly understood why the sheriff had told him of the incident.
“Michelle...his daughter, she’s in my room,” his voice hoarse and small.
Through muffled tears, Valerie Mulligan, spoke. “We have the counselor waiting for her in guidance. Can you ask her to step out here with us?”
With a paralyzing numbness, Mike had to force his body to turn and open the door. Each movement seemed distant from him. The body was his, but he felt disconnected from it. Each step inside the room was agony, knowing that in moments a young girl’s life would be shattered.
While the world outside came crashing down, nothing had changed inside the room. The students still were glued to the television. The same reporter was still talking about the unknown disturbance within the hospital, though now his voice was tinged with panic. The camera panned across to the front doors as dozens, maybe hundreds, of people came running out, voices pitched in frantic screams. Students gasped as they watched people trampled in the frenzy. The camera began to falter, and Mike could hear the reporter’s voice, “Keep filming! Keep filming!” The camera once again focused on the reporter, a human mass of movement behind him. His mouth moved, but his words were drowned out by the screams. As he tried to shout over the din, a stumbling figure broke away from the sea of bodies in the foreground. As it drew nearer to the camera, Mike could make out the distinct shape of a red hospital gown haphazardly tied around the man’s body.
Horrified, Mike realized that, like the sheriff’s shirt, the gown had not always been red. He knew he should turn off the television, that these images were only going to get worse. But his body no longer responded.
Within seconds, the figure had closed the distance. The cameraman screamed out a warning, but it was too late. The gowned man leapt at the reporter, his face a mess of hives and gore. They watched in horrified silence as the attacker bit the man’s throat, and he screamed in pain. Blood sprayed onto the glass lens of the camera. Before the screen went black, Mike saw the eyes of the gowned man. They were like a wolf’s eyes…going in for the kill.
Chapter Four
With frightening familiarity, Mike placed the magazines into his custom leg harnesses. The years had proven him to be rather adept with firearms, though prior to the outbreak he had never even held a gun. The two semi-automatic Glock 17Cs strapped to him now were quite different than Sheriff Cartwright’s service revolver. His mind sometimes drifted back to that moment when he first felt the cold steel in his hands, the stiffness of the trigger, the smell of the gun powder that stung his nose after he fired.
The man that stared back at him from the mirror was almost unrecognizable. His face was leaner, harder, than it had once been. The brown hair he once kept neatly trimmed now reached well past his ears. Haircuts just didn’t seem as important in this new world. He kept his face clean-shaven though, having learned quickly that an itching beard was more aggravating than shaving with soap. The clothes he wore, black military-issue shirt and pants, fit him well. While he failed to see the importance of regular haircuts, Mike fully understood the necessity of staying in peak physical form. Where once it was a point of vanity, his athletic build was now maintained for survival.
With a knock, Paul ducked into the cabin. He was outfitted in a similar fashion as Mike Allard. “Ready, chief?” he asked.
“You’re not going,” Mike said flatly, for what felt like the hundredth time in the last two days. It had been a hotly debated point of contention between the two. With Mike heading the search team, he had instructed Paul to remain behind to keep the camp secure. Paul had strongly, and loudly, disagreed.
“Like hell I’m not. Our best security went