“People die in hospitals,” Dax said.
“People live in them, too.” I felt like I needed to better defend that statement. “Surgeons fix people. Babies are born there. They aren’t just where people go to die.”
“But people die in them.”
“Well, now they come back, so that should make you happy.” I charged on ahead, not entirely sure what to make of the feelings suddenly buzzing around.
We hooked a right and found ourselves in another suburban area. This place, it seemed, had not been touched at all. The cars were parked in driveways instead of out on the streets, and the dead grass in the front lawns still stuck up straight. Windows were unbroken, doors left on their hinges. No messages left behind. If anyone had lived here, they had departed in an orderly fashion, leaving behind no sign that this place had even been abandoned.
We turned left, and there it was.
Costner Public Library lay just a block away, tucked behind numerous barbed wire barricades and looking like it had taken a bit of a beating itself. There had been some action here, though obviously it had long since passed. Spent ammunition, pieces of armor, and other equipment were scattered across the ground. Tony bent over, picked up a shell casing, and held it in his fingers as he looked around.
“This is an Army base?” Dax asked. “This is—damn.”
“Temporary base,” Tony clarified. “They set up a perimeter here and hoped for the best. Obviously it didn’t work out.”
“And that’s where they set up their comm station.” I said. The library had been a pretty striking building when it went up ten years prior—three floors, several units broken apart by genre, and a weekend social hour a former roommate had dragged me to now and then. “I wonder what they did with the books.”
Dax pointed at a lump of something not far from the structure. I had to stare at it for a few seconds before realizing it was a pile of books. “No one’s reading right now, Vibby.”
Some ridiculous part of me hoped they hadn’t been burned. That just seemed wrong, even now.
“Well, the backup radio’s in the library,” I said.
“And you received this information from a soldier who may or may not be dying of the plague.”
I shrugged. “No reason to lie to me.”
“This is your worst idea yet, Vibby.” But Tony took the lead, as I’d secretly hoped he would, and limped toward the library’s left side. The radio room was located in there, in one of the offices once reserved for administration.
I trailed after him, and Dax brought up the rear, still trying to hold back our rather excited dog, who apparently thought everything smelled just wonderful.
It was just so quiet. I kept looking over my shoulder, waiting for something to come lurching at me from the darkness, but there was nothing.
Absolutely nothing.
I really missed my gun.
We found the back door unlocked.
Well, unlocked is a strong term. The entire locking mechanism had either been torn or shot out, and while the door itself still opened and shut all right, there was little to keep anyone from going in or coming out.
Tony looked at me, eyebrows lifted. This is a terrible idea, his eyes said.
He pushed the door open anyway. It revealed the sort of silent, darkened corridor that most video game players would rejoice in seeing. I, on the other hand, had no intention of reenacting scenes from the most recent Resident Evil release, and itched for a flashlight or good old track lighting.
“Someone really wanted to get in here,” Tony muttered.
“Saves us the trouble of picking the lock.”
“That’s a big round. Someone came through here with a machine gun.” Tony stared into the hallway. “Someone…or something.”
“Quit being dramatic,” Dax shot back. “The dead don’t carry machine guns. Angry soldiers do.”
Evie’s nose was working overtime, but she didn’t seem distressed, which we took as an indication the place was safe enough. I, however, lacked proper ocular preparation and turned to the boys.
“Do either of you have a flashlight?”
Tony sighed, produced something from his belt, and clicked it on. I took it from him and surveyed the plain, featureless corridor. Framed prints of happy people emblazoned with encouraging statements like TEAMWORK and YOU CAN DO IT adorned the walls. There was no sign of anything moving—living or dead.
I crept inside, forcing myself to plant one step in front of the next. The guys followed me, thankfully keeping their mumblings to a minimum. The air tasted stale and musty, as if it had been shut up for quite some time. They’d apparently abandoned at least this radio tower quite some time ago.
The office doors set into the corridor walls each bore silver plaques: WARD ROOM. MAP ROOM. RADIO ROOM.