Bloodshot - Cherie Priest [54]
I was wearing white, of course. I even had a white hat to cover my dark hair. No sense in taking chances. And while the fence’s perimeter was handy, it probably wasn’t the best thing to follow in the long term. People don’t put buildings on fences. They put fences around buildings, and often they aim cameras at fences. Ergo, I’d have to venture out into the semi-open.
Inside the fence there were still plenty of trees, and inside those trees I could not spy any hint of hardware. If I was being watched, I was being watched discreetly. No matter how hard I sniffed, I couldn’t pick up even the faintest traces of warmth from small lights or the funny ozone and metal stink of electronics.
I kept low and kept to the largest trunks I could find, and trusted them to hide me. And eventually, after an ass-numbing hour of swearing my way through the snow, I found five buildings clustered together, as if for warmth. One was quite large—easily the size of a big barn—and the others were much smaller. In the tiniest of the five, an ill yellow light was burning within, and the one lone window marked a pitiful square of occupancy.
I felt sorry for whoever was home. I’d been in cemeteries that saw more action.
By my best guess, the tiny shack with the square yellow window was a guard’s hut or something. One of the other small buildings looked like a storage shed, perhaps, and the big barn must be where pay dirt was housed. The other two structures were inscrutable. If there were windows, I couldn’t see them, and if there was any sign of life inside, it didn’t leak out into the open where I could detect it.
I could’ve just bopped into the guard’s hut and cold-cocked the occupant, sure; but if I could possibly manage it, I wanted to get in and out without anyone knowing I’d ever been there.
I sidled around to the back of the nearest building first, just trying to get the lay of the land. And anyway, it was less visible from the guard’s hut. While I was there, I may as well be thorough, and may as well tackle the easiest targets first.
On the side opposite the guard’s hut I found a row of windows that were small enough to be merely ornamental—if the military ever did anything for the sake of aesthetics. They latched from within, of course, but a quick zip of my glass cutter gave me enough access to open them. I replaced the cork of glass when I was finished. It wasn’t perfect, but unless you were looking for signs of an entry—I mean seriously looking—you’d never notice I’d done anything.
I took a deep breath. Since this inflated my chest and made it bigger, I let the breath out again and then, with my temporarily leaner physique, wormed my way through the ridiculously narrow slot. I nearly lost a boot on my way inside, and if my pants had been even half a size bigger I would’ve gotten stuck. But all went well and I slipped on through, slicker than whale shit through an ice floe.
I caught myself with my hands, and landed with nothing more noteworthy than a muffled thud.
As I’d originally suspected, I’d deposited myself into a garden toolshed, though it was almost too big to call a shed. If I’d been bold enough to shine a light in first I’d have known that for certain. But if the place was occupied at all—even if it was by a slumbering old coot with a Barney Fife complex—then discretion must remain the better part of valor.
I tiptoed around the riding lawn mower and perused the shelves as a matter of principle, but I found only bug spray, WD-40, paint thinner, and bundles of greasy rags. It could’ve been anybody’s dad’s garage. And if being undead hadn’t taken care of my allergies, I would’ve been sneezing my brains out. A thick coat of dust covered everything, and I’d disturbed it, which disturbed me. But spring was months away and maybe whatever I’d kicked up would settle back down before anything needed mowing or weeding, or that’s what I told myself as I squirmed my way back out into