The Wretched Series | Book 4 | Wretched Aftermath

by Michaels, E. G.

  “Wait, please, no more,” Ezekiel whimpered through bloodied lips. “Just tell me what you want.”

  “I want one hundred new humans every week.”

  “One hundred? That’s impossible.”

  “If you fail,” Haas continued, “if you do anything to disappoint me, I will kill you and find somebody else to replace you. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Yes. But I don’t know where I’m going to get one hundred volunteers for you.”

  “Volunteers.” Haas chuckled. “That’s a cute way to put it. I hate cute.”

  “I-I didn’t know. I’m sorry.”

  “If you do not have one hundred healthy humans, then I take the rest from your little flock.”

  “Wait, you can’t be serious.”

  “You cost me soldiers. Especially chasing after this human, Foster.”

  “No, no, no. That was Giles’ idea,” Ezekiel answered. “I had no idea who Foster was. Please be reasonable.”

  “You’re blaming this on a dead man?” Haas roared. “How dare you.”

  “I’m telling you the truth,” Ezekiel shrieked. “Please don’t hurt me anymore.”

  “The time for reason is over,” Haas said. “Find Foster and bring him to me. Bring me one hundred new volunteers each week. I will not tolerate excuses or failure.”

  “Okay. I-I will.”

  Haas began to head toward the door.

  “Haas, wait,” Ezekiel blurted out. “How do I contact you?”

  The Reaper froze in mid-step and slowly turned around to face Ezekiel once more.

  “You don’t,” Haas said. “Worms don’t get to make requests. They only get to follow orders.”

  “O-Okay. No requests.”

  Haas let out a low growl before speaking. “One more thing. Worms don’t get to call me Haas.”

  “W-what do I call you, then?”

  “Master.” There was a flash of red cloth, and then Haas was gone.

  Chapter Eight

  With a practiced motion, Foster spun toward the noise, pulling a penlight from his jacket with one hand. He shifted instinctively into a shooting position with the light held on top of his weapon. Foster actively scanned that part of the room, searching for any viable threat, but there was none.

  Foster scanned the room once more, his eyes falling on a torchiere lamp lying on its side. In Gregory’s rush to close the door, he must have knocked the lamp over. His eyes followed the lamp’s cord until he saw its connection into a square electrical timer.

  “Did I do that?” Gregory asked softly.

  “You need to be more careful,” Foster scolded. “No noise here on out. We take our time, go through each room, and make sure this house is completely empty.”

  “Right. Sorry,” Gregory said. “It won’t happen again.”

  “Let’s clear the ground floor, then check the upstairs for any supplies we might be able to use.”

  “I doubt they left any food behind,” Gregory said.

  “I’m more concerned about medicine and medical supplies. Once we leave town, those might be harder to find out there than food.”

  “True. I suppose we could always go fishing if we needed to.”

  “Exactly. Plenty of shellfish and fish in the bay,” Foster said. “Stay close to me.”

  The two men cautiously proceeded through the ground floor. “Living room clear,” Foster said softly. A moment later, “Kitchen clear. Let’s backtrack.”

  “Should I open some blinds?” Gregory asked. “It might make it easier to see in here.”

  “No,” Foster answered. “We don’t want to tip off anyone outside that we’re in here.”

  Gregory nodded silently in agreement. “Sorry,” Gregory blurted. “I don’t know why I didn’t think of that.”

  “It’s been a tough couple of days. Everyone is over-tired. Including probably you.”

  “I guess.”

  The two men worked their way to a staircase.

  “Watch that door,” Foster instructed to Gregory at the base of the staircase. “I'm going to go clear this top floor. Don’t worry, I’ll only be a few minutes.”

  “Got you.”

  “Anybody comes through there that’s human, give a shout.”

  “And if they’re a Reaper?”

  “Shoot them between the eyes.”

  “Right,” Gregory said nervously. “Makes sense.”

  Foster carefully took the stairs using his long legs to cover every other step. He stopped at the landing to visually sweep further up the stairs, saw nothing there, and proceeded up cautiously once more. Once he reached the top of the landing, he saw the area in front of him was divided into an L shape. Foster cleared the right wing carefully. The bedrooms had obviously been emptied in a hurry. The larger bedroom appeared to be a master bedroom, with its own bathroom. There was a pile of random items scattered on the bed, with several empty drawers lying on the floor. Foster took a moment to look through the collection. Most of it wasn’t useful to his group’s needs, and he quickly ignored it. But as he moved several pieces of paper out of the way, he spotted Gerber Gear.

  “Nice,” he muttered. He carefully examined the multi-tool. It was in great condition and looked like its previous owner had hardly ever used it.

  Foster pocketed the multi-tool and quickly retraced his steps. He moved back to the left wing, working his way to another bathroom. He made note to come back and investigate both bathrooms more completely. But first, he wanted to make sure the rest of the house was free of any potential threats.

  Foster worked his way downstairs to Gregory. “Anything?” he asked.

  “No, it’s been quiet.”

  “I didn’t see a basement here. Is there one?”

  “I don’t think so,” Gregory said. “Some of the houses built here don’t have them.”

  “Cheap home builders?”

  “More like the builders were worried about possible floods from the ocean or the bay.”

  “Makes sense,” Foster said. “Personally, I don’t think I’d want to own a house that didn’t have a basement.”

  “Why?”

  “Storage. You can put all your junk in the basement. Your washer and dryer, too.”

  “Yeah, okay.”

  “Come on. This place have a garage?”

  “Yeah, follow me,” Gregory said as he grabbed the doorknob in front of them. As the man began to open the door, there was a loud click.

  “Wait!” Foster shouted a split second before he heard a loud explosion and his body was propelled backward. Foster landed in a heap, his head cracking into something hard. A wave of pain rushed over him, and then everything went black.

  The darkness began to fade away, being replaced by an incessant buzzing sound about him. Foster shook his head and tried to focus on his surroundings. As his senses began expanding, he realized the buzzing was actually a ringing sensation in his ears. He looked around and saw there was debris all around him. A small fire was burning about one hundred feet away, casting flickering light throughout the area.

  “Fire. Can’t stay here,” Foster mumbled. He rolled on his side, coughing uncontrollably, and sat up. The back of his head began to immediately throb, and he reached back to touch it. He drew back his hand, and his fingers felt wet. He felt the area once more and found a lump in the center of the pain. Foster looked around him. As he did, his vision began to clear and become focused once more. There was a small blotch of blood on the corner of a wall. It looked like just as likely a place where his head might have hit.

  Foster glanced at his arms and legs. He was covered in drywall dust and other debris. Parts of his body were starting to complain about the unexpected abuse they had received. There had been an explosion of some kind. But where was Gregory?

  “Hey, man,” Foster croaked. “Where you at?”

  He slowly looked around, taking in his surroundings. A narrow light was shining on the floor, and he scooted toward it. He pushed pieces of drywall, uncovering his
penlight. Foster grabbed the light, grateful for the assistance at the moment. He began to slowly pan the light across the light. He spotted his Glock on the floor and quickly retrieved his weapon. He continued to survey his surroundings. It was partway through his second scan that he saw Gregory lying nearby. Foster slowly crept over to the motionless man. He gave Gregory a quick once-over and didn’t notice any visible injuries. Foster grabbed the man’s wrist and felt for a pulse. It was there. A little slow, but steady. Foster let out the breath he didn’t realize he was holding.

  “Gregory, come on. Talk to me, man. Are you okay?”

  “W-what?” the man said groggily. “What happened?”

  “Booby-trap,” Foster said. “They rigged the fucking door to their garage.”

  “What?”

  “Are you okay? Anything broken?”

  “I don’t think so,” Gregory muttered. He began to try and sit up.

  “Let me help,” Foster said. He assisted the dazed man into a sitting position. The two men worked together to slowly scoot Gregory backward until his back was supported against the nearby wall.

  Foster spotted Gregory’s gun lying near the demolished doorway. He moved toward it, scooped it up, and returned. “Stay here,” he said as he offered the weapon to the injured man. “Keep an eye out for any unwanted company. I’m going to check on our possible ride out of here.”

  “Okay.”

  Foster stepped into the garage with his penlight and Glock. He did a quick circle sweep. What looked to be a blue Ford Bronco was buried in rubble. One of the nearby walls was on fire, and he quickly backtracked inside the house. Foster glanced at the doorway. The door was history. It was only a matter of time until the unimpeded fire spread from the garage into the remainder of the house.

  “Is the car there?” Gregory asked.

  “Just the Blue Bronco, but it’s under a pile of debris. Fire is in the garage, too. I’m going to go grab some stuff out of the bathroom. I’ll be back in one minute. I need you ready to move then.”

  “I’m feeling a little...” Gregory slowly slumped over onto the floor.

  “Dammit,” Foster muttered. He grabbed the man and dragged him farther away from the garage. “I’ll be back in one minute. Okay? Hang on, man.”

  Foster turned and bolted toward the stairs, taking them two at a time. He made a beeline for the bathroom in the master bedroom and began checking the cabinets. They were completely cleaned out. Foster retreated to the master bedroom and scanned the room. There was a pair of matching dressers with most of the drawers sitting open or on the floor.

  Foster double-timed it to the other bathroom on the second floor. In it, he found a single half-empty bottle of aspirin. Foster grabbed the bottle, stuffed it in his jacket, and hauled ass back to Gregory’s location. He glanced at the fire and swore under his breath. He’d been gone barely a minute, and the fire had grown even more menacing and dangerous.

  “Gregory, we got to go right now,” Foster said. He grabbed the wounded man around the arm and waist. “On three. One, two, three.”

  Gregory wobbled up onto his feet. There was a visible cut on the side of his forehead. Foster wasn’t sure how he’d missed it when he looked the injured man over before. He made a mental note to take a closer look at it once they got out of the building.

  Foster steered Gregory toward the front door. By the time they reached the entrance, the younger man had stabilized on his feet enough that he was able to walk mostly on his own. Foster opened the front door, stepped out, did a sweep, made sure there wasn’t anybody waiting for them, reached back, and motioned for Gregory to follow. Gregory wobbled through the front door, not bothering to close it behind him. “Come on, let’s go,” Foster said. He grabbed Gregory by the arm with his left hand, steering him away from the house and back toward their vehicle.

  “I can’t believe they set a trap,” Gregory mumbled.

  “Me neither,” Foster said. “Come on. It’s not safe here. We need to get out of here before anybody else comes to investigate.”

  Chapter Nine

  President Vickers waited impatiently in the conference room. She looked at General Weindahl, then at her watch and back to the only other person in the room. “Rasheed, would you consider it a good career move to be late for a meeting with the President of the United States?”

  “I wouldn’t recommend it,” Weindahl replied. “My apologies, Madam President. I don’t have an explanation for this. Doctor Compton was told about this meeting, and she promised to be here on time.”

  Doctor Amelia Compton was considered one of the United States’ leading microbiologists. One of her friends, a professor at UCLA, had been concerned about her safety. She made an urgent phone call to her favorite uncle and told him about the type of viral research her friend regularly worked on. And once General Weindahl calmed his niece down, he put the military elements still in place into action. They caught a lucky break because the military had been able to track down the whereabouts of the missing researcher in a matter of hours.

  It was an even bigger lucky break that she was on her honeymoon in Hawaii when the Reaper invasion began. With the airport shut down, she and her new husband were left stranded in Honolulu.

  Once someone explained what was happening with the rest of the United States, it hadn’t taken much to convince the newlyweds to stay in Hawaii for the foreseeable future. Especially with a healthy promotion to head of a brand-new government program. The good doctor was more than qualified for the position. And it could be argued that she was their best shot at figuring out what made the Reapers tick and eliminating them before they wiped out the remnants of humanity.

  The video conference line began to beep, and Vickers muttered “Finally,” before smashing the answer button in front of her. The display lit up, and a frazzled-looking woman in her early forties appeared on screen.

  “Doctor, you have kept the President of the United States waiting for almost ten minutes,” General Weindahl scolded. “I hope you have an excellent explanation for being late.”

  “Sorry, General and Madam President,” Compton said. “Things are pretty chaotic here right now.”

  “Anything for us to worry about?” Vickers asked.

  “No, not at all. We’re busy throwing stuff together. Just trying to get the labs and everything operational as soon as possible.”

  “Is there any actual work being done there at the facility?” Vickers asked.

  “Well, I just told you we’re getting things together,” Compton said. Her tone of voice suggested she was addressing an easily distracted child and not the leader of the country.

  “I meant in terms of the research,” Vickers replied.

  “Soon.”

  “Doctor, I’m going to need a more in-depth answer here.”

  “Right. Most of our programs are still being set up, and I hope they’ll be ready to start in the coming days,” Compton replied. “The only thing that has already been done are some impromptu autopsies. Somehow they had some Reaper corpses to examine.”

  “Somehow?” Vickers asked.

  “It appears a small private chartered flight landed on the island. The pilot alerted the tower that several of the passengers were infected before making an emergency landing. The controller alerted the local military, and the plane was immediately isolated. The grunts apparently decided to shoot first and ask questions later, because they killed the three potential test subjects on sight.”

  “You’d prefer they would have attempted to capture them alive?” Vickers said incredulously. “Do you have any idea how dangerous those things are?”

  “Everybody keeps telling me that,” Compton replied. “In case you didn’t know, I’ve been out of the loop. I was on my honeymoon. Well, until you all showed up and told me that I needed to get back to work.”

  “Doctor, the Reapers have killed or transformed millions of humans in a matter of days,” Weindahl said with a practiced calm. “It’s probably best if you stick to the
research and not talking about your personal life.”

  “Okay, fine. It appears there are two distinctive types of the Reapers. Some of them have the hardening of the backs to their arms, legs, and along the posterior side of their body.”

  “Like a thicker skin?” Weindahl asked.

  “Not exactly. It’s more like a layer of protective armor plates, like body armor.”

  “Do all the Reapers have these?” Weindahl said. “It may impact what type of weapons our soldiers need to use.”

  “I don’t think so,” Compton said. “I’m working with a limited number of test subjects, so I can’t rule it out completely. But the early research suggests that some of them may have developed this armoring over time. This could make them resistant to melee weapon attacks, or damage from behind.”

  “Any distinctions on who gets it and who doesn’t?” Weindahl asked.

  “Like based on the Reaper’s skin color?”

  “No,” Weindahl said. “I meant in terms of males or females being more likely to further evolve.”

  “As far as we know, there doesn’t seem to be any differences between the Reapers.”

  “None?” Vickers challenged. “Not even by gender.”

  “Like I said, there doesn’t appear to be any differences,” Compton answered. “They all seem to look the same way after they’ve been transformed.”

  “I feel like you’re tap dancing around the question,” Vickers challenged. “So, I’m going to ask you one last time. Have you or your team found anything that can explain why some Reapers evolve more than others?”

  “Not at this time,” Compton admitted. “Our early research is still very incomplete. One of my assistants has theorized that Reapers may be developing these plate armoring over time. Like a gradual evolving or a development cycle. But it’s just a theory.”

  “Let’s hope they’re wrong,” Vickers said. “The last thing we need is our enemy getting harder to kill.”

  “Indeed,” Weindahl said. “Do you have anything else to report at this time, Doctor?”