Scarlet Dream Read online

  Quite what had possessed Domi to attempt meditation using the carpet, Lakesh could not begin to imagine. She was without question, a fascinating combination of contradictions.

  “Oh, my dear,” Lakesh soothed, resting his hand gently on the milky flesh of her collarbone. “Some of us, I fear, are not destined to reach higher planes of consciousness…”

  Domi’s brow furrowed and she bared her teeth savagely. Was Lakesh patronizing her?

  “Myself included,” Lakesh added as he saw the simmering anger begin to show on his lover’s features. “Don’t think I haven’t tried, in my idle moments here with this remarkable rug.”

  Domi smiled then, staring into the eyes of the taller man. “Stupid trick rug,” she said with a chuckle.

  As Domi laughed, Lakesh seemed to sway, and he stumbled two steps backward until the back of his leg met with the bed. With a thump, he fell to a sitting position on the edge of the mattress, still swaying in place.

  Domi’s smile broadened. “Is that your idea of subtlety?” she chided.

  But Lakesh seemed to look past her, his hand reaching up to press against his forehead.

  “Lakesh?” Domi asked, an edge of concern coloring her voice. “Are you okay, lover mine?”

  After a moment a tentative smile crossed Lakesh’s features and his eyes met with Domi’s once more. “Just tired,” he assured her. “It’s nothing.”

  Domi continued studying Lakesh warily. “You sure?” she asked.

  “I should contact Donald,” Lakesh announced, dismissing Domi’s question. “Tell him to take charge of the ops center in my absence.”

  Domi stepped forward, crouching in front of Lakesh and staring at him with those fiercely penetrating eyes of her. “Are you okay?” she asked again, her words coming more firmly this time.

  “Just not feeling as young as I used to,” Lakesh told her. Technically, it was the truth, but even he recognized the lie in the casual way he had phrased it. What was it that he was so scared of? Did he think his friends would reject him if they knew he was becoming an old man once again? Or was it something more fundamental than that? Did he fear that this was not age catching up with him so much as Death stalking him? Was that what Mohandas Lakesh Singh truly feared?

  Chapter 8

  More of the living dead had emerged from the surrounding undergrowth as Brewster Philboyd related what he had learned of the Red Weed Initiative to Brigid Baptiste. The three Cerberus rebels now found themselves very much outnumbered, with fifteen of the undead humans lumbering toward them in their slow, relentless way as they stood beside the stalled truck.

  Kane blasted another stream of hot lead from his Sin Eater, snarling as the undead creature in his sights staggered under the force of the blows before shrugging them off and renewing his slow, relentless advance.

  “Our shots aren’t having enough effect,” Kane said.

  “Yeah, I noticed,” Brigid agreed as she blew a chunk of brain matter from the skull of the woman standing just three feet in front of her, avoiding the undead woman’s grasping hands.

  “Any ideas?” Kane snapped as he struck out with his left fist, knocking the deathless creature that reached for Brigid across her sagging jaw. The monstrous, rotting thing staggered backward before toppling over, her legs shuddering as it hit the dirt.

  “I had a dream like this once,” Grant admitted, unleashing a cacophony of bullets at the lumbering corpses from his own Sin Eater. “Covered in sweat and surrounded by faceless, unstoppable things.”

  “Yeah?” Kane urged, taking a step back and finding himself almost walking into Brigid where she stood beside Grant. “What did you do?”

  “I woke up,” Grant replied acidly.

  “Well, I don’t think that’s going to work, partner,” Kane told him as he ducked beneath a swinging branch that one of the fleshless creatures in front of him was using like a club. “Any other bright ideas?”

  The jagged end of the branch cut the air just over Kane’s head, the breeze created by its passage ruffling his dark hair. As the branch continued its arc overhead, Kane jabbed out with his left fist, driving his punch upward and into the zombie’s slack jaw. The punch connected with a loud clack of mashing teeth, and Kane watched as three of the creature’s teeth burst from his mouth, rotten brown squares hurtling through the air.

  The zombie lurched backward, issuing a low hiss from his emaciated throat between the new gaps in his smile. Then he was swinging for Kane again, the hefty branch cleaving the air with incredible power. Kane took the blow full to his upper right arm, and he felt the reverberation through his shoulder blade like the tolling of a bell. Stumbling sideways, Kane centered himself and spun, lashing out with his foot to deliver a mighty roundhouse kick to the moving corpse’s chest, front and center.

  With a howl of whatever it was that passed for pain in these terrible creatures, the walking corpse fell backward, letting go of the heavy branch he had been using as a club. Kane drove himself forward, peppering the zombie with a burst of fire from his Sin Eater pistol before turning to face his next attacker.

  A few paces from Kane, Grant stepped forward as two more of the lumbering creatures emerged from the thick undergrowth. With a blur of movement, Grant thrust his right hand—the one still holding the Sin Eater—into the closer creature’s gut and pulled the trigger of the blaster. The undead thing shuddered, leaping from the ground as Grant’s solid punch drove him into the air, his guts spraying out as the stream of bullets split him apart. Hunks of rotting human flesh spattered against trees and ferns as the zombie sailed through the air, but there was no time for Grant to congratulate himself. The second undead thing was already upon him, a clawlike hand scraping down the weave where his shadow suit protected his chest. Grant beat it away with a sharp jab of his elbow, before bringing the Sin Eater to bear once more.

  Nearby, Brigid staggered her bursts of fire as the lumbering army lurched toward her teammates, threatening to cut off their final avenue of escape.

  “We need to find some cover, somewhere we can hole up,” she shouted over the sounds of gunfire. For a second she thought she saw a tall figure move through the distant foliage—Ezili Coeur Noir on the prowl. Then, one of the zombies was upon her, too, either a child or a dwarf, it was hard to be sure, such was the shocking state of the creature’s atrophy.

  The creature stood four and a half feet in height, with long arms and stubby legs like a gorilla. His face was charcoal-black, scrunched up, the skin stretched taut over his skull like the old leather of a baseball catcher’s mitt. His clothes were nothing more than grimy, soil-stained rags. As the eyeless sockets met Brigid’s gaze, the undead monstrosity opened a dark mouth and unleashed a hideous ululation, like some terrible, discordant crow’s song. Then he was leaping at Brigid, fleshless fingers entwining in her long hair as his head rushing toward her face.

  In an instant the zombie head-butted Brigid full in the forehead, and she saw bright spots flash before her vision as she staggered backward.

  The terrible corpse-thing was still clinging to her as she danced in place, and Brigid shoved him away with both hands, using the hard edge of the TP-9 handgun like a lever. With a savage scream, Brigid pushed the zombie off of her, and he rolled away into the dirt, a clump of Brigid’s bright red hair still in his hands like some perverse trophy.

  As Brigid swayed in place, trying to recover from the harsh blow to her head, the dwarflike corpse righted himself and began to lumber toward her on his abbreviated legs.

  Driven by combat instinct alone, Brigid swept out with the pointed toe of her right boot, kicking the charging zombie in his black-skinned, scrunched-up face. Her foot connected with fearsome accuracy, and the undead creature seemed to fall over himself as he took the hard impact. Brigid watched in disgust as his head was wrenched from his neck, hanging there from a torn ligament as the monstrous thing tumbled to the ground. Lying on his back, the zombie kicked his legs against the ground, arms slapping at the floor as he struggle
d to right himself. His head rolled to one side, the neck not just broken but actually torn apart.

  “And stay down,” Brigid commanded, turning her attention to the next wave of the undead creatures massing toward the Cerberus warriors in increasing numbers.

  With a hideous, choked growl, another of the zombies reached out from Kane’s side, grabbing for him with brittle, dirt-brown nails as he blasted bullets at several of other attackers. Kane cried out as those ragged nails rent against the flesh of his cheek, and he found himself struck with a wave of sudden nausea, staggering sideways on the dirt path as if drunk.

  Brigid spun, drilling bullets into the undead creature’s face as he reached for Kane once again with those sickening, flesh-free hands. The bullets ripped at his ruined face, the skin there blackened with age, and he held up skeletal hands as if to swipe the bullets away. As he did so, Brigid drove a powerful knee into the undead thing’s groin, using the force of her blow to knock him backward even while he registered no pain. The corpse fell back, unleashing another gurgling grunt as if choking on his own saliva.

  “Come on,” Brigid snapped at Kane as he reached for her proffered hand and pulled himself from the ground, “this is no time to take a nap.”

  As he stood, Kane engaged his Commtact, calling on Cerberus headquarters once more. “Brewster? This is Kane. Can you zero in on my location?”

  Brewster Philboyd’s voice came over the Commtact a moment later. “I have you on screen, Kane.”

  Every member of Cerberus was equipped with a subcutaneously implanted transponder. Each transponder broadcast a telemetric signal that provided the Cerberus nerve center with a constant stream of information about an individual’s health and well-being, including heart rate, blood pressure and brain-wave activity. At a keystroke, these blips could be expanded to give full diagnostics for each member of a field team. With satellite triangulation, the transponders could also be used to track down an individual to within almost a hairsbreadth of their actual physical location.

  At the Cerberus redoubt, an operator like Brewster Philboyd had access to two main satellite systems, which allowed for near-real-time communication, as well as monitoring facilities. Accompanied by a map overlay, infrared and other standard camera analysis, the satellite surveillance could provide much-needed spot reports on an otherwise unknown area for field teams like Kane’s.

  “We’re in a bit of a jam here, Brewster,” Kane explained as another zombie shambled toward him, swinging a thick hunk of piping. “Do we have anything nearby, a building of some sort where we might take refuge?” Kane reached out, grabbing the swinging club, shoving its wielder backward with a grunt.

  “There’s a lot of leaf cover,” Philboyd replied. “Bear with me while I switch views.”

  “Take your time,” Kane muttered sarcastically into the subdermal Commtact as he swooped out a low kick at his attacker’s ankle. “No rush.”

  Beneath Kane’s blow, the undead creature’s leg snapped with an audible crack, but there was no time for celebration. Even as one fell back, another undead monstrosity was looming to take his place.

  A few paces behind Kane, Grant and Brigid were dealing with a whole host of assailants that continued to swagger from the bushes. Grant’s Sin Eater clicked on empty and he automatically sent it back to its hidden wrist holster without a moment’s thought.

  Brigid blasted another burst from the TP-9 as Grant stepped forward and reached for the two nearest undead humans, grabbing them by their rotten skulls. With astonishing speed and brutal efficiency, Grant slammed their two skulls together, striking them so hard that one of the creature’s jawbones fell to the ground with a tearing of tissue-thin skin. The jawless creature fell to his knees in the soil. Grant drove himself forward, kicking the remaining zombie in the gut as if punting a football. The zombie drooped like a ragdoll over his boot before being slammed back into the trunk of a tree. Grant was still moving, and he followed through his punt with a savage kick to the jawless figure’s head, driving the thing’s skull down into the ground.

  “Kane, you got anything?” Grant shouted, not bothering to look behind him as he stamped on the undead creature’s head.

  Across the clearing, Kane was punching another of the undead things in the skull, unleashing a burst of bullets into its face as he pulled back his fist for a second strike. “Any second now,” Kane assured his partner. In front of him, the zombie staggered under Kane’s blow, reeling for a second like a gyroscope running out of energy.

  Then Brewster Philboyd’s familiar voice echoed through Kane’s skull once more, a palpable sense of pride in his tone. “Kane, I’ve found somewhere. It’s about a half mile to the north, close to the main roadway there.”

  “What are we looking at, Brewster?” Kane asked.

  “Some kind of a… Well, it looks like a big old mansion,” Philboyd replied. “Run-down, but it’s still standing.”

  “We’re not planning on holding a dinner party there,” Kane snarled. “Just give me the directions.”

  “Either follow the road you’re on until you hit the main highway, or you could cut through the undergrowth—”

  Kane cut him off. “Going through the undergrowth is out of the question,” he explained as he saw yet another rotting corpse step from the overhanging branches of a tree. “Thanks for the assist—keep us on visual if you can.”

  “Copy that,” Brewster acknowledged.

  “One more thing,” Kane said as he eyed the walking corpse. “Heard you tell Baptiste something about there being a catalyst for this Red Weed stuff. They have a lab operating here mixing up a little potion. It looked like just a handful of test tubes. Reckon that’s our catalyst?”

  Philboyd was silent a moment as he pondered Kane’s observation. “I’ll see if I can pinpoint the last known location of the Red Weed supplies,” he told Kane. “We can talk it through once we know for sure.”

  Then the Commtact reverted to silence.

  Kane lashed out with his fist once again, knocking another undead human figure aside in a spray of dislodged teeth. “Keep on the road,” he instructed his companions, raising his voice to be heard over the gunfire. “We’ve got about a half-mile trek to shelter.”

  “Is it safe?” Grant asked as he tossed aside another walking corpse with a powerful yank of her rotted clothes. He snarled, wrinkling his nose in disgust as the clothing shredded at his touch, leaving threads all over his hands and fingertips.

  “We’ll see,” Kane snapped as he blasted a stream of bullets into the side of the stalled artillery truck where another of the undead forms was lunging toward the trio.

  Then a figure came over the low, dropdown side of the truck and seemed to not so much leap as fall at Brigid, even as she stepped back to avoid him. The corpselike thing struck her shoulder, knocking her backward as he fell to the ground. Without a moment’s hesitation, Brigid blasted a stream of bullets into the monstrosity’s head at point-blank range. After a couple of seconds beneath the lethal impacts, the corpse-thing’s brittle skull began to pop, splitting apart along deep seams that showed through the tortured skin that barely held it together.

  “When all of this is over,” Brigid noted, pulling herself from the undead thing’s embrace, “I am so going to need a bath.”

  Kane smashed his fist into the face of another of the shambling creatures as he hurried to join Brigid at the side of the truck. “Ah, you’re repulsed too easy, Baptiste,” he told his beautiful redheaded companion. “Nothing like a good workout to get the blood pumping.”

  Brigid fixed Kane with an irritated glare. “I’d prefer to get the blood pumping against things that actually have pumping blood,” she complained before turning and trotting a few paces down the dirt road past the truck. More of the undead figures waited there, moving along the mud track in their unsteady, shambling way.

  “Kane,” Brigid called back, “we have more company.”

  Kane turned as he finished drilling another clutch of bullets at a s
truggling undead thing that scuttled ahead of him on broken legs had become turned inward at the knee. “Nothing like being popular,” he muttered before turning his gun on the nearest of the undead forms blocking their path.

  Still on the far side of the truck, Grant faced three more shambling forms, one of them the almost decapitated dwarfish figure that Brigid had dealt with just moments earlier. Grant looked at the freshly reloaded pistol in his hand, shook his head and reached up for the handle of the truck door, yanking it open with a hard pull. Set high off the ground, the door swung open and smashed into the head of the closest of the undead figures, caving in his half-rotten nose and knocking him backward.

  Grant placed his foot on the wheel rim of the truck and swiftly climbed up, pulling himself past the door and up onto the roof of the cab. Behind him, the less agile figures of the undead grasped at the empty air where he had been just seconds before.

  On the other side of the truck, Kane and Brigid stood together, staring down the half-dozen shambling forms lurching along the road toward them, flies and other insects buzzing about their rotting flesh in the heat of the bayou. Even as they pondered their next move, another undead form lumbered out of the undergrowth, growling some inhuman curse from deep in his ruined throat.

  Then, from overhead, Grant’s sturdy form came hurtling through the air as he leaped from the roof of the truck’s cab and dived into the nearest pair of undead. The ex-Mag had returned his Sin Eater to its hiding place beneath his sleeve, resorting to brute strength to overpower these ghastly undead things and clear a path for his colleagues.

  Kane appreciated the logic. There was no doubt that bullets were having the most minimal effect against these awful things, and it seemed that again and again he and his partners had had to resort to physical contact to genuinely turn the tide of battle against each shambling wreck that had once been a human. With the briefest thought, Kane returned his own pistol to its hidden wrist holster and charged at the nearest clutch of walking dead, barrelling into them like an angry bull.