Read Survivors for Free Online

shot?”
    Stiles had been attacked in Hyattsburg by a carrier of Morningstar, and had been badly bitten. The wound never seemed to heal up properly, but Stiles never became ill. He was a true rarity: a human being with a natural immunity to the Morningstar strain.
    Stiles began to explain. “Well, actually, I was—”
    Hal shoved Stiles hard on the shoulder. “Yeah . . . he was shot. Friendly fire. Went out to take a piss one night and Rico drilled him by accident.”
    Stiles looked confused for the barest of moments, then took the hint, nodding and laughing. “It was my own fault. I should’ve stayed inside the perimeter.”
    “Ouch.” Wes chuckled and turned the cart into the parking lot of a small, single-story brick building. The landscaping had gone to pot and was overgrown, but the lot itself was still holding up strong, a pool of black in a cradle of green. The deputy pulled the cart to a stop in front of the entrance, and began to pull weapons out of the rear compartment.
    Hal took the opportunity to lean in close to Stiles. He lowered his voice. “Look, I know this is the first time we’ve been around anybody, and for all we know they’ll understand you’re lucky enough to be immune. But until we know for sure, don’t let a damn soul know you’ve been bitten. They’d kill you the second they figured it out, no matter if you haven’t turned. I would. Hell, we almost did kill you. In fact, if we get to this clinic and they want to look at your wound, don’t show it to them. Tell them you’re fine, it’s just sore. Stick to the bullet wound story. I’ll let Rico and the others in on it.”
    “I get you,” whispered Stiles. “No problem. It’s probably better if we kept this to ourselves.”
    “Yeah,” breathed Hal.
    Wes had vanished, laden with weapons, into the building, which Hal and Stiles saw now was marked as the Sheriff’s office by a bronze-and-concrete plaque half-hidden in the tall grass.
    “At least there’s still a little law and order here,” said Stiles, nodding toward the plaque.
    “Yep. A little bit of civilization goes a long way these days,” agreed Hal. “Not that I’ve ever been a fan of it. That’s why I left it in the first place.”
    Wes reappeared, kicking open the swinging doors to the Sheriff’s office, arms empty. “All right, gentlemen, your gear is secured. Don’t worry,” he added, “we put them in the evidence locker. No one but Keaton and I have the keys to get in there. Your things are safe and sound.”
    “Good,” said Stiles, nodding slightly. “If there’s a single ding on my Winchester, there’ll be hell to pay.”
    “I was meaning to ask you about that,” Wes said, taking over the driver’s seat and sending the cart whirring along on its way. “One hell of a piece you got there. Where’d you find it?”
    “Some gun nut’s private storeroom back in Oregon,” Stiles said. “It’s an original. An antique.”
    “I could have guessed as much,” said Wes. “I’m something of a weapons enthusiast myself. You don’t find pieces like that anymore—or if you do, they’re way out of my price range. At least, they used to be when money was an issue.”
    “Yeah. I almost regret having to use it as a crutch, but I don’t really have a choice.”
    Wes banked the cart around a corner. The smoke from the smoldering clinic was growing closer. “Don’t worry. I stuck it in a locker by itself. A piece like that needs some tender loving care.”
    “Thanks,” said Stiles, holding on to the rollbars as the cart made the turn. “That weapon and I have saved each other’s lives a dozen times over.”
    The electric cart turned a second corner, and the burning clinic came into full view.
    It wasn’t completely destroyed. A corner had burned out and collapsed, but the bucket brigades had managed to keep the flames from spreading to the rest of the building. Sheriff Keaton was on the scene, running around, making sure that everything was going