FIFTY-FIVE

With Rojas ensconced and camouflaged on a mountainside overlooking town with orders to wait for us to give him clearance to proceed, Tyrel and I put on our winter-pattern ghillie suits and entered Woodland Park from the east. We left our gear behind except for weapons, ammo, radios, vests, a pair of bolt cutters, crowbar, and a couple of empty duffel bags.

Houses lined the streets west and south of us, while a school building lay to the north. It would provide the best vantage point to observe the immediate area, so we headed in that direction. I stayed low behind Tyrel, the two of us literally crawling on our bellies across the snow. We set an agonizingly slow pace, a necessity when trying to avoid detection. Tendrils of my camouflage dangled in my vision, allowing me only a narrow sliver of obscured sight. The cold seeped upward through my clothes, seeming to radiate into my very bones. My scarf kept my breath from fogging in the air, but a crust of ice had formed over my mouth.

The sun had moved far to the west by the time we reached the open space between the end of the neighborhood to our right and the school ahead. A wind picked up from the north, sending streamers of white powder scuttling across the flat valley floor. Despite the wind chill, I was glad for it; the extra concealment would work in our favor. Anyone looking in our direction would have a hard time making out our shapes.

I risked lifting my face to gauge how far ahead Tyrel was. At first, I could not see him at all, then the wind shifted and I picked out a barely discernable lump about twenty meters ahead. Good, I thought. That meant I was keeping pace.

We crossed the clearing and met on the eastern side of the school, sheltered from the wind by a high wall. The snow was so deep the only part of the building accessible was from the second floor up. I rose to my feet and went to stand beside Tyrel as he peeked around the corner farthest from us. I was tempted to ask him what he saw, but I knew better. Best to remain silent and wait. Finally, he turned toward me and motioned me close.

“I don’t see any service ladders,” he said. “But we can go in through one of these windows and use the stairs.”

“Won’t that be loud?”

He dug into a pocket of his vest and produced a roll of cloth tape. “Caleb, you know me better than that.”

I followed him around the back of the building and waited while he applied the tape to the smallest window he could find. It was enough to cover it, but just barely. When he finished, I handed him the crowbar.

He used the hooked end to tap the window left to right, top to bottom. Gently at first, then with more force as he gauged the strength of the glass. The tape muffled the noise, but did not eliminate it. I glanced around, worried as much about attracting walkers as about alerting other living people to our presence. I was not sure which one was the bigger threat.

At last, the window collapsed. Tyrel caught it with the crowbar and dragged the glass aside. I watched his back, rifle at the low ready as he crawled through. When he was clear, I followed.

I stood up in a dusty classroom, desks lined up in straight rows, the scents of cold and dust heavy in the air. Pale light filtered in through the windows, illuminating yellow squares on the white tile floor. Floating dust motes swirled through the geometric beams, disturbed by our entrance. Tyrel pointed behind me and said, “Pull that glass back in here.”

He handed me the crowbar and I did as he asked, hooking the cloth and drawing it through the opening. When I had it inside, I dropped it behind the length of cinder-block wall between windows. The tinkling and scraping of shards on concrete was shockingly loud in the frigid silence.

“Let’s see what we can see,” Tyrel said. He went to the door and peered out the window. I stacked up on the wall behind him, rifle at the ready. Almost a full minute passed before Tyrel held up a hand, counted down three, two, one, and then opened the door.

In the hallway outside, he broke left and I followed with my back to him, weapon up. There was very little light. The walls, floor, and ceiling all looked a uniform gray, the monotony broken by doorways and dark blue lockers. We moved to the end of the hall to a door marked: STAIRWELL. Ty tried the door and found it locked.

“Shit. Hand me the crowbar.”

“Come on, Ty,” I said, breaking a smile. “Remember what you taught me about not using a battle axe for a job that requires a tack hammer?”

He looked at me quizzically, then nodded when I removed my picks from my vest. “Right.”

I went to work on the door and said, “Where are your picks? You’re the one who taught me how to do this, after all.”

“Lost them somewhere along the way. Haven’t found new ones.”

“Now I know what to get you for Christmas.”

“Just get the door open.”

A few seconds later, the lock clicked and I turned the handle. “Done.”

“Nice work.”

I opened door and came face to face with a gray-skinned teenage boy with pale white eyes. I had half a second to register surprise before its hands shot out and gripped my arms, mouth open in a savage snarl, a guttural hiss pouring out of its throat. I scrambled backward, cursing in terror, pushing against its chest with my rifle.

The strength of the thing was enormous. Its hands dug painfully into my arms like steel talons. The ghoul lunged and I reared back, a set of snapping teeth missing my nose by less than an inch.

“Ty, help!”

An arm snaked around the dead boy’s throat and pulled it fiercely, drawing its head back, but the hands held on relentlessly. Remembering my training, I let go of my rifle, grabbed one of the boy’s wrists, and levered my arms against the weak point of his grip: the thumb. It took far more effort than would have been necessary with a living person, but the hand broke loose. Not wanting it to get another grip, I pivoted on one foot, used my shoulder as a fulcrum, and broke the arm at the elbow. If it hurt the creature at all, it gave no indication. The other hand continued to hold the fabric of my jacket, ripping and straining to pull me closer to the gnashing mouth.

“Ty, let it go.”

Without hesitation, he took his arm from around the ghoul’s neck. It immediately surged forward, teeth bared. I gripped the hand still holding me, held out one foot, and twisted. The infected boy tripped over my leg and hit the floor, still holding on. I followed it down and put a knee on its chest.

Now I had the mechanical advantage. The ghoul’s grip was strong, but not stronger than my entire body. With my free hand, I drew my knife, lined the tip up with the ghoul’s eye, and plunged the blade sharply down. When I felt it hit the back of the skull, I gave the handle a twist. The ghoul shuddered, let out a groaning gurgle, and went still.

“Son of a bitch.”

My breathing was ragged and fast, echoing in the still air. The ghoul’s hand loosened and tumbled from my arm. I stood up and backed away, checking myself for injuries. Tyrel’s hands landed on my shoulders to steady me. “Easy now,” he said.

A thought hit me and I spun to look back at the stairwell. The door stood open, the interior lit by a window higher up on another floor. I saw no other infected. Stepping closer, I looked up, then down, ears straining. Nothing.

“How in the hell did that thing get in there?”

Tyrel stepped up behind me. “Must have got bit, then crawled in here and locked the door. Turned later on.”

The explanation made sense. I put my back to the wall and slid down to the floor. “That was too close, Ty.”

“Take a minute. Get yourself together. We still have work to do.”

I nodded, heaving a deep breath. Ty stood patiently, eyes watching the dead walker. It lay on its back, my knife protruding from its face, the arm I broke lying at an awkward angle beside it. There was no sound in the hallway.