Rotter World Read Online Free

able to save us.”
    “It’s our pleasure. We can always use a few extra hands around here.” Paul gestured toward the fort. “Come on up to my office. We have a lot to talk about.”
    Robson watched Paul and Compton disappear into the tunnel before following. As the two men headed for the nineteenth-century blockhouse in the center of the compound that served as the command post, Robson veered left toward the south wall where rows of steel containers served as living quarters.
    Mad Dog approached from the opposite direction. A bandage spotted with soaked-through blood covered his right forearm. The man presented a macabre image, towering over everyone at camp at six-foot-three with a bald head, dark blonde goatee, and emotionless brown eyes that had witnessed things no human should have. Robson had no clue what Mad Dog had endured for he never spoke about what had happened to him before arriving here four months ago.
    Mad Dog slowed as he drew closer. “How’d it go out there?”
    “We rescued all six survivors, but lost Jordan to rotters.”
    “Fuck that, man. Jordan was a good kid.”
    “Tell me about it. I can still see—”
    “Son of a fuckin’ bitch!”
    The outburst took Robson aback, but not nearly as much as when Mad Dog reached for his Glock 23 and withdrew it from its holster. For a moment, Robson thought the anger was directed at him, then he noticed that Mad Dog aimed past him and toward the stairs of the blockhouse where Paul and Compton were about to enter the building. Acting on instinct, Robson reached out with his left hand, grabbed Mad Dog by the wrist, and pushed his arm down and to the left, spoiling the shot. With his right hand, he grabbed the Glock by the barrel and twisted it, yanking the weapon from Mad Dog’s grip. Robson stepped back several feet, ejected the magazine, and slipped it into his pocket. He cocked back the slide, ejecting the chambered .40 caliber round into the dirt.
    Mad Dog massaged his bruised wrist. “What the fuck was that about?”
    “You tell me.” Robson handed back the empty Glock. “You were going to kill Paul.”
    “Fuck that, man.” Mad Dog took the weapon and slid it back into his holster. “I was aiming for Compton.”
    “You know Compton?”
    “Fuck yeah.” Mad Dog looked at Robson the way an aggravated father looked at a ten-year-old who could not grasp the obvious. “Compton is the fucker who created the Zombie Virus.”

Chapter Three

    Robson entered the door to the eight-by-twenty-foot steel container that served as his quarters and trudged over to the cot. He stripped out of his boots, jacket, and military gear, leaving them in a pile in the center of the floor. Taking the pack of Camels off his nightstand, he flipped open the lid. Damn, only four left. He hated the idea of using them up, but he sure as hell needed one now. Pulling out one between his lips, he closed the pack and tossed it back on the nightstand, grabbed the nearby box of matches, and lit up. Robson opened the window above his cot to let the smoke filter out and flopped down to rest, staring up at the stark steel ceiling.
    Usually after a raid, the adrenaline rush shut off once they got back to camp, and he would be fast asleep within thirty minutes. Not today, though. What Mad Dog had said to him about Compton being responsible for the Zombie Virus weighed too heavily. Robson wanted to ask more, but Mad Dog had stormed off, angrier than he had ever been in the past. Robson did not want to press him about it so he came back to his container to sleep, but that turned out to be futile. The minute his head touched the pillow, the repressed memories flooded his consciousness like the waters of Katrina.
    Despite everything that had happened, Robson still found it difficult to believe that only eight months ago society had teetered on the brink of extinction without even knowing it. At the time, he had been a sheriff’s deputy in Kennebunkport, with an excellent service record