Survival Instinct (Book 5): Social Instinct Read online

  “Come on, Moe, you can do it,” Evans quietly encouraged the disgruntled horse. “Pull me out.”

  “You’re going to throw me a rope, right?” Gerald asked, struggling in vain to free his legs.

  “Keep your voice down,” Evans hissed at him. “This mud isn’t natural.”

  Gerald paled and froze in place.

  Evans had traversed plenty of terrain, including marshes, bogs, and swamps. He knew where water would gather, where mud like this would form, and it wasn’t here, especially considering how abruptly they had come upon it. Someone had made this mud, and placed a weak carpet of moss overtop as camouflage.

  “Come on, Moe,” Evans continued to whisper, patting the big horse. “Get yourself out.” Based on the tree roots ahead, the muck was in a narrow band, and they wouldn’t have to go far before reaching more solid ground.

  Moe pulled one leg free and took a step, his leg sinking back into the mire. Then he took another. But his progress soon halted as the horse snorted and tossed its mane.

  “Uh, Evans? They’re back,” Gerald whimpered.

  Evans looked around and confirmed that Gerald was telling the unfortunate truth. The silent ones were appearing from behind trees, gathering around the mud hole. One came forward, stopping at the edge of the mire in front of Evans. She pulled back the fabric from around her face, revealing an impassive gaze behind dirty camouflage markings. She held out her hand to Evans, but he didn’t know what to do. She wasn’t offering to help him; she was still too far away for that.

  “Toss me the horse’s reins or you shall never get out,” she spoke in a breathy whisper.

  Evans twisted to take in all those who had surrounded them. They truly were trapped this time. If the silent ones decided that he and Gerald weren’t going anywhere, then they weren’t. With a sigh, he threw Moe’s reins to the woman. She didn’t encourage the horse, or click her tongue, she simply leaned back as though to pull the horse out. Moe snorted in protest, but took another slow step.

  “Go on,” Evans patted his side again.

  Moe strained against the suction of the mud, but at last freed himself. The woman handed his reins over to another silent one, who proceeded to walk Moe off through the trees, supplies and all.

  “I take it you’re stealing our stuff,” Evans commented. “Pretty good trap you set up here.”

  The woman’s face twitched with what seemed like her version of a smile.

  “So are you going to leave us to try escaping on our own, or what?”

  “Weapons,” she whispered, pointing to the sword across Evans’ back, and then to the shotgun at his hip.

  The shotgun had to be pulled up out of the mud, but he tossed it over. “It’s empty,” Evans told the woman. “Gerald, give them your weapon,” he instructed as he removed his sword, sheath and all.

  “I can’t,” Gerald sulked. “My knife is in my boot.”

  The woman stayed still for a moment as two more silent ones whisked away Evans’ things. She then made a gesture, and within seconds, two ropes had plopped down on top of the mud beside both Evans and Gerald. Evans grabbed hold of the one nearest him, but Gerald hesitated.

  “We don’t have a choice,” Evans told him.

  Gerald huffed and snatched up the rope. With a couple of silent ones hauling on each, Evans and Gerald were soon free of the sucking mud. Instantly, one of them fell upon Gerald’s boot, finding his trench knife and relieving him of it.

  “For future reference, that’s a stupid place to keep it. Not easy to get to in a hurry,” Evans told him.

  “I think we have bigger problems than where I keep my knife right now,” Gerald replied, lying on his back with his hands held partly up, splayed in a posture of harmlessness. All around the two of them, the silent ones stood with blades pointed inward.

  Evans looked about until he found the one who had spoken. Her face was still the only one uncovered. “Anything else we can do for you?”

  Her face twitched again, that possible smile. Then, in one swift motion, she had placed a rag over Evans’ face. He responded quickly, which unfortunately meant that he also inhaled deeply. He scrambled up onto his feet and away from the rag, but it was already too late. The world spun around him, as the foul taste of some sort of ether danced across his tongue. With a thump, he dropped back down to his knees. As arms reached around him, jamming another rag across his mouth, Evans saw that Gerald was already passed out on the ground, another silent one administering to him. But then everything became watery, and went black. Evans didn’t feel the ground when he hit it.

  2: Misha

  3 Days After the Bombing

  There was no way to tell what time it was. All Misha knew was that he was hot and sweaty upon waking up. The hole in the roof of his container, the one once plugged by a plastic bottle filled with water and bleach to act as a light bulb, remained dark. Because of the rats, the hole had to be blocked off. A heavy log was currently up there, protecting his container home and those of his neighbours by lying across the openings. The rats also meant he had to keep his doors closed, preventing both light and airflow from entering. It took Misha several seconds to recall that he had been sleeping in the middle of the day, taking a nap instead of eating lunch rations again. It should be sometime in the afternoon, which explained the heat inside his metal box.

  “Rifle?” Misha whispered, unable to recall if the dog had decided to lie with him or not. He flailed about to either side, but encountered no fur. All of his dogs were probably still out hunting rats, which was admittedly better for them than lying in this sweatbox. It had been three days since they set off the bombs in the Black Box, more since the attack of the mega-sized zombie horde, and still they were dealing with a bunch of infected rats. Boss said they came with the horde, that the little bastards lived on and in the zombies, the packed corpses making a travelling nest of food for the colony. His team had neglected to mention this fact when they had come to warn the shipping container yard of the mega horde’s approach.

  Pulling himself upright, Misha felt around for his boots, which he always left beside the mattress on which he slept. His sweater was a different matter. It should have been hanging nearby, but lately Misha had been letting it fall wherever he took it off before sleeping. Groping in the dark, his fingers finally located the thin fabric, but he didn’t put it on as he had his boots. It was too hot for that. Continuing to conserve his various lights, Misha made his way to the doors of the container by feel, and pushed one of them open. Sunlight momentarily blinded him, and while the air felt good as it washed over his sweaty flesh, the smell didn’t improve.

  Once Misha’s eyes adjusted, he looked about at the work still going on near his home. People were all over the place with buckets of sea water, rags, and mops, doing their best to clean off the slime the mega horde had left behind. The body burns were nearly complete. The ashes and remaining bones were being shovelled into the river that flanked one side of the container yard, but there were still bits and pieces of the dead things clinging to a lot of surfaces. It was unfortunate that they had been hit by a storm before the attack, as opposed to afterward. In fact, they were hoping for rain to bolster their fresh water stores.

  Following the shadows of the containers in order to keep his shirt off and cool down, Misha made his way to the end of the ‘street’ where his container was situated. With all of the Black Box residents now moved in, as well as the travelling party members that had joined them, they had needed to come up with a system to help people navigate quickly. Each row of containers now had a name based on the colour and symbol painted on the end of it. Misha lived on Green Plus, which sounded too much like pus for his liking, but he hadn’t been given a choice in the matter.

  “Misha! Hey, Misha!”

  The voice calling after him was that of Riley, so Misha came to an instant stop. He knew she couldn’t move very fast these days. Her chest was still healing from her surgery. As he turned to face her, he was again momentarily jarre
d by the flatness of her chest, still adjusting to the fact that she had had her breasts removed due to the likelihood of cancer.

  At her side was Rifle, whose tail set to swinging when Misha smiled at him. The old German shepherd had taken to sticking by Riley’s side whenever Misha wasn’t around. Her hindered pace agreed with his own.

  “Do you have any more extra boots or shoes?” Riley asked once they got close. Misha knelt down to rub Rifle’s cheeks and ears.

  “No, I’ve already given them all away.” Misha had a tendency to collect footwear. After spending a good portion of the Day without any, his feet had become battered and scarred, an experience best not repeated. But several people from the Black Box hadn’t been prepared for their forced exodus and so hadn’t been able to get anything on their feet. Misha, knowing exactly what they would have gone through during their walk through the woods to the submarine, had donated his stockpile to their cause.

  “Damn,” Riley muttered. Convalescing was not something that Riley was good at, and therefore had been using her time assisting people with their needs as opposed to her own. She had helped create a list of the dead, and tracked down which containers were now empty so that other people could move into them. She tallied supplies, tested people’s blood for infection, and now, it seemed, located needed items.

  “Have you tried Idris?” Misha suggested. “He tends to have a lot, although it’ll be harder to get him to give them up.”

  “Trust me, he’s not going to have a choice in the matter. By the way, has Crichton found you yet?”

  “No, I’ve been asleep.”

  “Well, he’s looking for you.”

  “I gathered. Where can I find him?”

  “Most likely the community centre.”

  “Guess I should go see what he wants.” Misha was betting it wasn’t anything good. It rarely was whenever one of the group’s leaders issued a personal summons.

  “I don’t suppose you know where Idris might be?”

  Misha shrugged. “Sorry.”

  “It’s all right. I’m sure I’ll find him.”

  When Riley and Misha went their separate ways, Rifle followed Misha. As he walked to the community centre, pulling on his shirt along the way, a few of his other dogs spotted him. They all ran over to receive scratches, and petting, and hardy pats on their sides, depending on what they liked best. The majority of them then went running off again. For the dogs, the past few days had been very exciting. They sensed the nervous energy emanating from the people, but they had also been working a lot more. The dogs were used to hunt rats, as well as performing sniff checks to determine if someone was infected and avoiding getting tested. The bigger ones even helped haul around smaller items that needed to be transported. On top of all this, there were the many newcomers whom the dogs had never met. As long as no one showed them hostility, the dogs loved meeting them. The only pooch who didn’t run off back to work was Bullet. Like Rifle, the Australian shepherd stuck to Misha’s side upon reuniting with him. Usually, when they walked at Rifle’s preferred pace, Bullet would dash ahead and then loop back around to Misha’s side, but today he was sticking close.

  “What’s up?” Misha asked the dog, whose eyes were the same ghostly pale blue as his own.

  Bullet glanced up at the sound of his voice, his tail and ears then pricking up higher when he realized that Misha was looking at him.

  “Is there something going on today that has you worried?” Misha wondered.

  Bullet’s tail swished back and forth, not understanding the words beyond the fact that they were directed at him. Maybe he had just missed Misha while he had slept, and that was why the dog was staying so close. That was the least concerning reason that Misha could think of, and therefore the one he most hoped was correct.

  The community centre was a hive of activity. People flowed in and out through the doors, picking up or dropping off supplies, grabbing something to eat, running messages, or asking what job currently needed another set of hands. There was no point in trying to keep the main doors closed with all the traffic moving in and out, so a badger named Root was tied up just outside of them. He was a fierce creature, especially when it came to rats. Even if he were dead asleep, he’d wake up in a second should the scent of a rat reach him. The rest of the community centre was protected by dogs patrolling its other sides, as well as the cats who roamed everywhere.

  Inside, there were still a number of injured jammed together on cots in a corner, with at least one doctor always tending to them. Opposite, sat the ration distribution, where there was constant disappointment at the meagre amount of food doled out. Meals were now always cold, as just about everything that was safely combustible had gone toward incinerating the dead. Misha knew that he wasn’t the only person skipping lunch in order to stretch out the time before they ran out of food entirely. If things didn’t improve soon, lunch was going to be cut off for everyone.

  “Misha, there you are!” Crichton called out over the din. He broke away from the people whose concerns he had been managing and took hold of Misha’s arm, guiding him back outside.

  This couldn’t be good.

  “I have a mission for you.”

  Misha sighed. Yup, it wasn’t good.

  “I’m sending a team over to see what’s left of the Black Box and to test for radiation leaks. I want you and your dogs to join them.”

  “Why? The dogs are doing an important job here helping with the rats.”

  “I haven’t seen or heard of a rat in nearly twenty-four hours, have you?”

  Misha had to admit that he hadn’t, but he also spent a lot of his time sleeping. Cat owners were the best judges of the remaining rat population, since the rodents that weren’t eaten were generally brought to them as gifts.

  “I don’t like being away from Rifle for more than a day,” Misha told Crichton.

  “Bring him along.”

  “I don’t think he can walk that far.”

  “He won’t have to walk. The team I’m sending over is being given a cart so that they can gather any supplies, especially crops, that may have survived.”

  “Why not send the sub over for this?”

  “Because we’re currently using it to distill fresh water, and I’m not about to risk that.”

  Misha knew this; he was just trying to delay the inevitable. He knew that there was no way out of going on this mission beyond outright refusing, and he wasn’t about to do that.

  “When do we leave?” he finally asked.

  “Tomorrow. I’m hoping to have the team moving out around sun up.”

  “Alright, I’ll make sure the dogs are ready to go by then.”

  “Thank you.” Crichton then turned back toward the community centre and waded into the masses, instantly being swamped by people with concerns, questions, and suggestions about what they should be doing.

  Misha knelt down in front of Bullet and Rifle. “What do you think, guys? Do you want to take a trip?”

  Bullet wagged his tail, while Rifle nudged him with his nose.

  “I hope that’s a yes.”

  ***

  Misha got up before sunrise the next morning. He used a flashlight in order to light a large candle, and by its light, he packed a bag. Not much went into it, just his stash of emergency food and water, one of the dogs’ balls, a small knife, some rope, and his gas mask for which he hadn’t had filters in years. He wore his most comfortable clothing, even if it wasn’t all that clean, and adjusted the machete on his hip. The bolt action rifle he tended to sling over one shoulder, he strapped to the side of his bag, despite the lack of bullets for it.

  Eyes shone in the semi-darkness: all nine of his dogs were watching him. Rifle was lying on the bed that Misha shared with him. The others were on the mattresses near the door.

  “Come on, bratishka,” Misha waved at Rifle, who got up and off the bed. Some days, the old dog couldn’t do that on his own, but today he seemed to know something was going on and it made him dig out a
n extra nugget of effort. Misha hated any time he had to acknowledge Rifle’s age. He had taken to calling the German shepherd his brother in his native Russian a long time ago, because that’s what Rifle quickly became to him. They weren’t owner and dog; they were pack mates.

  With Rifle on his feet, the other dogs hastily stood up as well, knowing this meant that they were about to go outside. Misha grabbed one last bundle of items before opening the doors, things he didn’t take out often: collars. For each of his dogs, he had over the years woven tough, paracord collars. They weren’t like traditional collars, in that there was no ring for a leash, but he had done his best to train each of his dogs to understand that while they were wearing them, they should stay close. Even Bullet had one that he wore along with Rifle’s old harness. Not wanting to put them on now, Misha simply carried them for the time being as he opened a door and let all the dogs walk out before him. His other reason for having made the collars was one he hoped would never be needed. While all the dogs had spent some time beyond the community’s walls, they had never really left the actual container yard since Misha had started taking care of them. Out there, they might run into people who might think the dogs were feral. Feral dogs were dangerous, and could easily elicit a hostile response. Misha had taken care to use only paracord of a colour that would stand out against each dog’s fur tone, in hopes that if any strangers came across one, they would see the collar and understand that the dog had an owner. These theoretical strangers still might hurt Misha’s dogs anyway, but there was nothing he could do about assholes or the badly frightened.

  Walking at Rifle’s pace, Misha headed for the wall made of large shipping containers that protected them. His pack members were curious about what was going on, but a few tried to wander off elsewhere anyway. Misha wouldn’t let them, always drawing them back with a sharp call. He had trained all his dogs in a variety of skills, but coming when he called was the one he had reinforced the most.