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Major walked docilely ahead of Ames and Collins on the way to the holding cells, trying not to give rise to anyone's suspicions while also figuring out how to get out of this situation.
The cells were full of zombies in various stages of Romerofication. It sickened Major. Further proof that Enzo and his ilk didn't see zombies as people any more than Dolly Durkins and her ilk did. Weeks, maybe even days ago, these had been souls who could have been saved. Now even the cure couldn't help them. Everything they had been was gone, irrevocably.
Ames had kept his pistol trained on the back of Major's head all this way. Now, approaching an empty cell, Collins said, "Frisk him, Ames," and Ames holstered the weapon.
He shoved Major into the bars. "Spread 'em, Commander."
"What happened to your face, Ames?"
"Since you asked, one of those humans you care so much about opened up on me with a freaking flamethrower. So that's when I—" He stopped speaking as he shoved his hand into Major's front pocket. Then he stepped rapidly back, aiming the gun again. "Take off your shirt!"
"Is this really necessary? I'm a modest man."
"Take it off."
Major reached for the front of the sweatshirt, pulling it off over his head, letting Ames see the duct tape around his waist and the bundle hidden in the small of his back. He'd really been hoping to avoid that. Then he turned, letting Ames see the knives duct-taped to his love handles.
"Well, look here. Enzo's going to kill you. And I'm going to enjoy—"
But Ames was never going to enjoy anything again. Before he could even finish the sentence, a gunshot rang out and a spot of blood appeared on the bandages around his face. He fell forward, dropping the gun.
Collins lowered her weapon, and Major breathed a sigh of relief. He had hoped he could count on Collins … but he hadn't been a hundred percent sure. Before Major could thank her, she spoke quickly. Briskly. "You've got ten minutes to be in a weapons crate. Spud and Diaz are guarding the Max Rager. Break out when you feel yourself on the road. Good luck. Go make that cure."
She saluted him, and then she was gone, leaving Major alone with the slowly devolving zombies in their cages.
He moved quickly, unraveling the bandaging from around Ames's face. So that was why Collins had chosen him. Major tugged on his uniform shirt, wrapped the bandages around his own face, and put Ames's hat on over all of it.
No one stopped him; they all assumed he was Ames. Even though he was much taller, but then, there was time for vanity later.
He whistled as he approached the room where the Max Rager was being kept.
"Looks like Ames!" Spud said, grinning at him.
"Ames!" Diaz called out.
Without a word, Major aimed a knife, landing it square in the middle of Spud's forehead. Diaz went for his gun, but not fast enough. He also had a knife through the brain pan before he could manage to get the weapon in position.
Major removed the bandages and dragged both of the bodies back into the storage room, covering them with a blanket so they wouldn't be easily seen. Grabbing a duffel bag, he started filling it with Max Rager, as much as he could fit. Then he lowered himself into a crate, cradling the bag of cans in his lap, and closed the lid above himself.
From here, all he had to do was wait. And hope. And not spin wild scenarios of getting caught and killed and ending any chance of saving Seattle from being blown up and humankind from having zombies unleashed on it en masse.
Footsteps came into the room, and he held his breath, waiting for them to notice the crate was unlatched, to open it to see what was inside. Well-trained soldiers, seeing something out of place, investigated it.
Fortunately for Major, training wasn't something Enzo was concerned with. The soldiers latched the crate without opening the lid, then lifted it, cursing at how heavy it was, and carried it, the sway making Major feel vaguely seasick.
It was a relief to be set down again, and then he held his breath again hoping they wouldn't stack more crates on top of his. Good packing said the heaviest crates go on the bottom.
But, again, they weren't good packers any more than they were good investigators. Nothing was placed on top of the crate, and beneath him, he could feel the truck start to move.
He'd worried he wouldn't be able to hear the highway noise, but it was pretty obvious, much to his relief. Major counted to a hundred, just to be on the safe side, then smashed his way through the crate. It took longer than he had hoped, and made an incredible amount of noise, but at last he was through, standing in the back of the truck with his carefully collected cans of Max Rager.
From there, it was relatively easy to unlatch the back doors of the truck. New Seattle being what it was, the highway was pretty empty, so there was no one to see someone emerging from the back of a Fillmore Graves truck. He resisted the urge to throw some of the other crates out, just to be destructive. No sense calling extra attention to himself.
He tucked and rolled, the Max Rager cradled against his chest, just as he had been taught. When this was over, he thought he might miss being a mercenary for hire.
Landing in a patch of weeds, he got to his feet immediately and hurried off into the woods along the side of the road. Now, to get back into the main city, to sit tight, undiscovered, and wait for Liv and Ravi to get home.