We hurry through the orchard and mercifully don’t come across any more infected. Climbing over the fence on the other side, we creep along the backside of the barn until we find a window. Since he’s leading, Rhys is the one who looks inside and curses softly.
“Just animals. No humans.”
Damn, okay. So we’re still no closer to finding where the captives are.
We continue along the barn and pause at the other end. Peering around the corner, Rhys murmurs, “two groups of guards and one in the watchtower, none looking this way. On the count of three, we keep to the trees as much as we can and move onto the next building.” He points to the warehouse looking building across the open space.
“Got it,” I breathe.
Rhys silently counts to three before we throw ourselves toward the safety of the trees. We race across over the open space while praying that none of the five guards glance our way. It seems luck is on our side because we reach the warehouse without incident.
Only to be confronted by the indescribable stench of human excrement.
I swallow a gag and cover my mouth and nose with the crook of my elbow. “Jesus fuck,” I groan, my voice muffled by my jacket. “What the fuck are they keeping in there?”
Rhys gives me a grim look. “I have a feeling it’s the people we’re looking for.”
I grimace. God, I can only imagine how filthy and dehumanising it must be to live in a place that stinks this bad. I won’t be surprised if we find most of them weak and sick if these are their living conditions.
The warehouse appears to be twice the size of the barn, so it takes us a moment to find a way in. Unfortunately, there are no windows, so we have no idea what we’re walking in to. Stopping to stand in front of the rusted metal door, Rhys curses when he sees a shiny padlock hanging from it.
“I’m out of practise so this might take a second,” he murmurs as he swings his bag off his shoulders and crouches down in front of the padlock. As he rifles in his bag for his tool kit, I slide out my torch and shine it on the lock. He nods his thanks before getting to work on picking the padlock.
Each second that ticks by has my blood pressure rising and my heart pounding. We could be discovered at any moment and with nowhere to run or hide, we’re sitting ducks just waiting to be gunned down.
As if some silent entity is hearing my worst fears, a guard makes his way around the side of the warehouse. His hands are already on his fly, his shotgun slung over his shoulder by a worn leather strap. He stutters to a stop when he sees us, eyes wide and mouth open.
I don’t think, I just react.
I lunge toward him and slam my fist into his throat before he can make a noise. He gasps and chokes as his hands snap up to wrap around hisconvulsing throat. I stalk around him, kick his knees out from under him, and grab his head. Then, with as much strength as I can muster, I wrench his head to the side and snap his neck with a sickening crack.
I drop his body, not bothering to hide it, grab the shotgun and step back to Rhys. “We have about five minutes before his buddy comes looking for him.”
“Almost got it,” is his reply as he continues working on the lock.
I silently count down the seconds as I watch our surroundings, my body tense and ready to spring into action if needed. I estimate we have about two minutes left before the lock finally clicks and the padlock falls to the ground.
Thank fuck.
Rhys gets to his feet and unclips his rifle from his waist. I move to the other side of the door and draw my pistol.
“Ready?” he breathes, his hand poised on the door bolt.
I nod.
He counts down with his fingers before sliding the bolt and turning down the door handle. It takes effort to open, but when he does, we’re immediately inundated with a stench so thick that my eyes water and I’m unable to stop a gag.
Inside, the warehouse is almost pitch black. The only light comes from faint moonlight streaming through the holes in the metal ceiling and the broken glass windows that line the wall high above us. Glass and debris crunch beneath our boots as Rhys and I step into the warehouse.
Only to have a shotgun shoved into our faces and an eerily familiar pair of emerald green eyes peering at us.
“Don’t move a damn muscle,” a male voice growls, his face obscured by the shadows.
“Don’t shoot,” Rhys says calmly. “We’re here to break you guys out of here, if you can help us.”
Feet shuffle, and people whisper in the darkness.
“Who the fuck are you?” the man demands, his aim with the shotgun not wavering.
