Chapter 7

Chasing Shadows

John

John startled awake with a flail. Darkness greeted him. He inhaled deeply searching for the ominous smell of the infected. He relaxed slightly when he sensed nothing. What had woken him? A dream? John had been plagued by nightmares since his discharge from Afghanistan. The dreams had changed from the sounds of explosions from drones and RPG's and the cloaking heat of the arid desert to London's abandoned streets littered with the dead and the stifling smell of death and decay and the hoarse moans and guttural grunts of the infected. Just as John started to drift back under, a soft whine followed by the sound of scratching at the door broke the silence. What the bloody hell? John pulled his browning from under his pillow and moved quietly to the door. The whining increased in volume followed by panting and soft scratching. John scented the air as he grasped the door handle. The smell of dog greeted him. How had a dog gotten here?

John turned the handle and opened the door. A large bloodhound stood before him. The dog was a mess covered in dirt and its hide and muzzle were stained with blood; some of it old and some fresh. It held up its swollen right paw. It limped over to him and caught the sleeve of his jumper in its mouth and giving it a tug. "Bollocks," John muttered pulling his arm away looking at the stain left behind a mixture of dirt, blood, and slobber.

The hound turned and slowly began walking away as John stared after it. It paused and turned back to look at him as another pitiful whine broke the silence. John could sense that the animal wanted him to follow. The question was why. The dog was injured and thin. While the small abandoned flat that John was currently squatting in was far from perfect, there was no electricity or running water, John had managed to scavenge some food and it was well insulated and the windows were boarded offering at least some degree of protection from the infected. John bit his debating. It would be dangerous, but his curiosity was peaked and he could not help but admire the dog's determination. "All right, I'm coming." John murmured under his breath. "I hope I don't regret this." John moved to the bathroom pulled on the soiled jacket. He felt his gorge rise at the smell, but swallowed compulsively until the nausea passed. The jacket was caked the remains of dead infected entrails. While it may seem mad to wear it. It was a vector for infection, but John was immune, it could not infect him. It had a very specific purpose. It made him smell dead giving the infected one less sense to track him with. John tucked his browning under his Jacket into the small of his back and warily followed the hound.

They moved quickly through the dark alleys and deserted corners of the once great city. They moved quietly and John was impressed with the dog's instincts. It stayed in shadow and didn't make a sound as it tracked. Perhaps it was trained? Who would train it? John wondered. The Met? John dismissed the thought. Law enforcement had for the most part fled after the quarantines and evacuations while John was still comatose. John had his answer as the dog slipped into another alley and came an abrupt halt. John caught a glimpse of a man on the ground. John didn't even need to examine him to know that he was dying. Too late, it was much to late. John thought bitterly.

John aimed his browning at the man's sweat soaked brow, his damp obsidian curls were plastered to his forehead and stood out in stark contrast to his pallid complexion. Infected, yet not fully feral. The man's teeth chattered as he shivered relentlessly as the fever ravaged his body. He didn't have long. The man's glassy eyes met John's desperately. They were beautiful, an almost otherworldly color consisting of a mixture of pale blue, green and a hint of grey. "Please, help me." The man pleaded in a voice so weak it was barely audible. His chapped lips were so dry they were close to bleeding. He was dangerously dehydrated. Too late, John repeated to himself, there was nothing John could do for this man besides end his suffering before he turned feral. John cocked the gun and took a steadying breath still reluctant to pull the trigger. John had grown used to killing infected, but this was different. There was still humanity in those eyes and it felt wrong.

John inhaled deeply through his nose and paused. The smell, where was the smell? The infected had a scent signature that John could instantly recognize. It was difficult to describe, but unmistakable. John stepped closer and inhaled again still unable to catch the scent. His hopes rose. Immune. The man must be immune. If his body could fight the virus, he would live. John's hopes sank once again as he took in the state of the man's body. The wound on his hand marked the initial point of entry of the virus, but that was the least of John's concern. The right ankle was bent oddly and swollen obviously broken, it was unlikely that the man could bare weight on it let alone walk unassisted. His right elbow was swollen as well. The injuries were consistent with a fall from a considerable height. John's eyes drifted to the gate and back to the man on the ground. Had he been running from the infected? How long had he been here lying helpless?

John looked beyond the obvious, and became even more worried. The stranger was underweight and his complexion was deathly pale. His rapid labored breathing was another ominous sign of distress. John could see the carotid artery bounding against his skin in a rapid irregular beat, the man was likely going into shock. Without treatment, death would be imminent. Frankly, it was a miracle that the man had survived in this state at all. He was defenseless against the infected who were eager to devour anything living. John's eyes moved once again to the bloodhound that had led him here. Its muzzle was stained with blood and there were scratches on its hide, defensive wounds. It had been guarding its master. The decomposing body of the infected lay before them as evidence. The throat had been ripped opened and the neck was bent at an odd angle, clearly broken. John felt his chest tighten with emotion for the hound, such a noble animal, loyal to the end.