Respire

by Cody Prough

  Chapter Five

  The Peterson house, reeking of mildew and a unique sort of desperation, stands as a simple two-story house: blue siding chipped away, most windows long since destroyed and boarded up, a roof in need of replacing. The creaky tin metal shed, bought at a surplus store stood uneasily in the back, just a bit away from the National Guard barricades. It was here that the Sick Ward made itself at home.

  Slowly creeping down the steps, Sarah and Steve had separated. Sarah headed down into the basement with both bags, filled fresh with supplies; Her and Steve’s pockets loaded up with what wouldn’t fit. Steve, using the functioning rifle found at the scene, had taken to the top of the Peterson house to cover and watch for anyone or anything following.

  “Who is it?” The racking of the shotgun was audible enough, though it would have been more frightening if the voice behind the shotgun wasn’t Mrs. Diaz and the shotgun had any ammo to speak of. Her voice strained and wheezing. “Lower the weapon, killer.” Sarah smiled as she turned the corner in to their encampment. Her arms were sore, she tossed the bags down by the stairs and walked over to her cot. The excitement from the day already making her crave the next few pages of ‘Salem’s Lot. Mrs. Diaz, followed behind with her usual concerned face, having been worried about Sarah and her wellbeing lately. “What’s wrong?” Sarah had to ponder the reply momentarily, the rest of the residents in the Sick Ward choosing to stay in bed, observing the commotion with tired interest. Nobody would use anything without it being logged and requested, anyways. The items were handed out at Doc’s discretion, mostly.

  “I’m fine, Mrs. Diaz. Just tired, the slow journey back here takes a lot out of a girl.” Sarah’s hand ran to her back, a dull throbbing pain had started. “Where’s Doc?” Mrs. Diaz, deciding it was better to sit down now, took a spot next to Sarah, dutifully acting as a shoulder for Sarah to lean on. “Did you get any medicine?” Mrs. Diaz’ underlying motive could hardly be blamed; they hadn’t had any luck with decent medication in months. “We managed to come across a few bottles.” Sarah sighed. Her head was starting in on her, too. If the throbbing didn’t stop, she’d be unable to read any pages tonight and that simply wouldn’t do. “Is Doc around?” Sarah repeated. “Oh! Yes, he just went upstairs. Didn’t you see him coming back in?” “Guess not, Mrs. Diaz.”

  As if his ears started to burn, Doc came down the stairs, in his casual clothing, as many of the inhabitants of the Sick Ward, hung loosely on his frame. Sarah, removed her head from Mrs. Diaz’s shoulder, making her way over to Doc, he looked better rested than everyone else, which is something Sarah never understood.

  An aging man in his fifties, Richard “Doc” Bristow, formerly a general practitioner, only living in Mahomet. He was leaving for work when the shit hit the fan, being forced to stay in Mahomet during the initial containment, he was subsequently recruited by the National Guard to take care of the people inside the containment zone. However, once they left, he was stuck taking care of everyone alone, that is until he met Steve and unofficially founded the Sick Ward.

  “Hey, Doc.” Sarah gave him an upward nod, Doc had simply not seen her, his attention instantly drawn to the two large bags of supplies. Consisting primarily of bottled medication, some looted food, and a small addition to their armory, which at this point consisted of just a couple of handguns and a shotgun (and now one rifle). Doc looked up at her,

  “Sarah, hello.” and began to dig into the first bag, the one that had been Sarah’s. “We seem to have done well today, haven’t we?” He continued to make notes as Sarah watched the pile of supplies stack up. “That’s what we need to talk about.” Doc hesitated briefly, shifting his eyes around the room. Everyone had lost interest in the scene, the sick had fallen asleep, the somewhat healthier ones moved away from, going back to their cots.

  Doc nodded, the expression on Sarah’s face was the first tell of a story Doc would hate to hear. So, they went upstairs, into the old kitchen. Sarah kept watch while she retold the story, mostly so she wouldn’t have to look at Doc’s worried expression when she mentioned the increased number of lurkers, and where they got the supplies. Doc listened quietly, taking in every detail so that he would be caught up. During the story Steve had finally made his way down from the upstairs, stopping in the kitchen to listen but not interrupt. These three—Sarah in her black leather jacket and worn clothes, Steve in similar dark clothing with his new favorite weapon, the rifle, and Doc, sporting casual clothing in a great deal better shape than his companions—made up the unofficial ruling body and only completely healthy members of the Sick Ward and they needed a new plan.

  Steve was leaning against the counter, his rifle laying across the top. The sidearm still sticking in his holster. “We need t’run.” Steve’s expression not giving way to the urgency. “It’s just logical. Tommy’s boys are gettin’ close, those fuckin’ creatures’re gaining numbers, new ones, or they’re movin’ through.” Casually shrugging, glancing between his two companions. “Doesn’t matter much which one. We’re running out of supplies.” Sarah nodded in agreement; Doc was the last holdout.

  “We certainly can’t move our people on foot, much less in the winter.” Doc ran his fingers over his clothing, attempting to give them a somewhat cleaner look. “We would need to retrieve a large passenger van, perhaps a bus if one is still running. Though the National Guard took all our working vehicles years ago, the only ones left seemed to have been procured by Mister Warlock.” Off in the distance they could hear isolated small caliber shots as they stood in the kitchen of old Peterson house for several moments, considering their options.

  “If there was a bus.” Sarah paused; her eyes fixated on a chip in the kitchen’s paint. “We would have seen it by now, right? Tommy wouldn’t leave it locked up.” Steve tried to meet Sarah’s gaze, but he could see by the expression on her face that the wheels were turning. “Could be.” Steve agreed. “Or, if there is a working bus, he might be using them for somethin’ else. Remember, just ‘cuz we’re stuck in this town doesn’t mean he hasn’t been travelin’ out. It’s hardly like we have eyes on ‘em.”

  “I’m afraid we would need to see his operation and their comings and goings before we could properly assess the situation. May I suggest a recon mission?”

  Steve shrugged, grabbing the rifle off the counter. “No time like the present.” Sarah shot a look over to Doc, then over to Steve. “Steve, that’s crazy. It’s going to be dark before long. God knows how many of those lurkers will be out there.” Steve had taken a moment to consider this, his eyes drifting over to Doc. “Give us a minute?” Doc nodded, sensing the environment in the room shifting and wanting nothing to do with it. He slowly made his way down towards the basement, opening the first door leading down into the stairs, delicately shutting it behind him. The old hinges creaked filling the now tense air. “You don’t need to go out there right now.” Sarah’s voice had taken on a hidden note of concern. She was not fond of hearing it, much less with Steve hearing it. “Sarah, I need t’get movin’.” Steve started moving away from the counter, Sarah moving aside as she watched. “Fine. But we’re talking when you get back.” Steve held the rifle out in an odd salute fashion, slinging it over his shoulder.

  Steve slowly proceeded walking out of the house, Sarah watching him leave. A sense of dread she detested feeling had begun to form in her body.

  Chapter Six

  Patrick McKinley

  Some odd time since first sighting.

  I’ve had to flee the small town of Homer; my position had been compromised. I am beginning my pilgrimage to Mahomet. I spotted a truck; it sported a sticker for a school in Mahomet. And since the monsters had been unleashed there haven’t been too many working vehicles, my plan is to arrive there in a few days. I will be taking alternative routes, stopping frequently for breaks.

  Direct sunlight is still the best place to travel, taking the roads nearer cornfields and giving myself a better line of sight. Luckily, it’s flat for miles around, my lin
e of visibility will be good. However, getting out of the towns is the hardest part with the National Guard barricades still positioned around in some areas. I’ll have to take a main road to get through, risking exposure.

  I plan to rise with the sun, making way for some houses. My protein bar supply should hold for another day. Ammo is going to be running low soon as well. I fear hunger will start to set in. I will continue to log information about the creatures in this journal for studying and defensive measures.

  “If you know the enemy and know yourself, you need not fear the result of a hundred battles.” – Ghandi - Sun Tzu (I believe)

  Chapter Seven

  Dorian puffed on his cigarette. It was stale, the bus he and his men had been waiting to use was still in the garage. The plated armor being put on, the defensive spikes set up, supplies sorted. If there were a better ran organization Dorian wouldn’t have believed it. His faith in Thomas was unwavering. He would die for that man, and Tommy knew it.

  Dorian took another drag; the stress had been getting to him—his hair was thinning, his appetite was shrinking. He had been drinking more, even going so far as to do it alone and hide it from his people. His own private bottle of mixed vodkas hidden among his personal reserves of water. There were nights. Not all nights, but some, that he had held his sidearm in his hand, aiming the barrel at his temple, and wondering if this world was worth trying to save. But ‘course it was, why wouldn’t it be? It was still his God damn planet, and he did not let those fuckin’ terrorists take over his world, nor will he let these fuckin’ beasts. Probably the creation of some biological warfare brought on by some extremist group, or the Russians. And God damn it he has enough willpower and red-blooded American spirit to purge these fuckin’ beings from his country.

  The Sick Ward, that was another thing all together. He didn’t understand why, but Tommy was obsessed with bringing them down. They took what? A few cans of dog food and some stale shit? They didn’t want it anyways, they were makin’ runs out of town frequently enough not to worry about it. Dorian wasn’t meant to understand it, he supposed. But he didn’t care, because Tommy had given him purpose. A reason to keep goin’. And through Tommy all things were possible. So that’s why, because of Tommy, he was camped out in an old derelict and busted down SUV, a sniper rifle, heavy blanket, binoculars, one side arm, and a small stash of supplies. Along with Dorians bottle of mixed vodkas, hiding among the water bottles. It had been a while, now, since anyone had left. It’s been maybe two or three days since he had his little conversation with Bug and found the location of the Sick Ward. That’s why he was here, and not back at the headquarters with his men and putting the bus together.

  But there was nothing. Just an empty house. They didn’t have regular scouting, no real defenses to speak of. They had just sat there, defenseless, twiddling their thumbs probably. They had to be sleeping most of the time, their food supplies surely couldn’t feed everyone, there wasn’t any way they could be. But, if Bug was right, they were all staying in here, and Tommy wanted him to sit on them, so that’s what Dorian’s doing. At least he had some hand rolled smokes Tommy gave ‘em.

  He took a granola bar, scarfing it down before taking a few quick swigs from his favorite gallon of “water”. Fuck this cold. Dorian thought. the burning sensation rushing down his throat as he waited for the liquid to hit his stomach. He planned on sleeping, soon. The night would be here, and he would lay there, under the blanket, the creatures would stir around him, but he would be left alone. He could hear them now, already digging their way over the town, in search of any noise that may lead to their next meal. But the vodka helped, at least to make him still. They wouldn’t detect him, and nobody would be crawling out of the sublevel infirmary he was forced to watch over. Whatever Tommy had planned, Dorian wanted it to move along already. He knew that their rigged bus was almost ready, waiting for Dorian to climb aboard, he’d probably take Romero and Alverez with, Tennessee and Crater were kind of fuck ups and not too bright, in his opinion.

  But here he sat, watching over the smallest possible threat. So, he took another drink, recalling the time him and Kaylee the cheerleader had crawled under the bleachers and had a swell time before they were busted by Mr. Kennedy, ruining the fun. But he wasn’t letting Mr. Kennedy catch them, this time. So, he kept going on with the thought for several long minutes.

  Chapter Eight

  Patrick’s feet slowly moved across the gravel country road; his body was aching. He had moved on towards Ogden, staying there for a few nights, taking refuge in what he remembers as the Pink Pig bar. Fortunately, and however unlikely, the town had been mostly untouched by looters. His supply bag now sported several bags of cereal, a few canned goods, and even some AA batteries. He had moved around the town a bit, finding nobody alive, a few cats aimlessly wandered the streets, picking at trash. He saw a squirrel but didn’t want to risk making any noise killing it, especially for such little meat.

  After a few days rest he continued his way towards St. Joe, the AK-47 held loosely in his hand, the gas mask resting snug on his face. His energy was low. He had heard the shrieking sound of the creatures; they had caught another deer last night, a baby. By the time he woke up, though, the deer had been picked clean down to the bones. He heard the noise of that damn deer still, while he walked down the road, the screams still ringing in his ear while it struggled.

  Maybe whatever lurkers were around here are full.

  Patrick let out a chuckle, the gravel continuingly crunching under his feet. The exact type of road I use to take to get back to my dad’s.

  Patrick paused, his gas mask clung to his face, his eyes fixated on a large hole in the ground just near the wooded area. Glancing around the old remains of cornfields, long since abandoned due to lack of farmers or time to cultivate, the field just seemed to be open, but around it there were holes in the ground, as if a small explosion had opened them up from inside the Earth.

  Without realizing it Patrick had broken out into nervous sweat. The holes were subtle in the snow, if you didn’t know to look for them. But they were big enough to fit a man in, or…

  One of those lurkers.

  Patrick’s hand tightened around his rifle. The only road into Saint Joseph (or the quickest) would be continuing Highway 150. His breathing was shallow, but he proceeded down the road, hoping that they weren’t going to be making any unwelcome visits from the ground any time soon.

  Before long he was walking over the overpass, the old railroad underneath him, where bored local kids inevitably went down there with a can of spray paint, some weed, some liquor and had a night of it. Patrick used to be that teenager on some occasions, when he would hang out with his best friend in high school. The memories Patrick cherished most, but now from up top of the overpass all he could think about were how many problems this town could hold for him.

  He stood there for several moments, his eyes scanning the town as much he could. Snow was starting to come down, making his line of visibility poor. The old baseball field by Crestwood, long since ruined, lay covered in snow. Just next to that, Crestwood itself, the upper-middle class part of town where the wealthier lived. Maybe there was a gun collector there that nobody he knew of. He could recall someone in town having a decent collection, but not where they lived. He was debating his search now before it got too dark.

  Patrick glanced at setting the sun, breathing slowly. His fingers tapping away on his rifle. “Fuck it.” The town had been blocked off by the National Guard, one of the smaller holdout towns. It had fallen much earlier than the major Illinois cities. Last he heard there wasn’t any safe place left, he kept track of the days by the seasons as best he could, so this town would have fallen a few years ago. Some cities had held longer after the initial communications were cut, but he knew nobody was coming. The barricades and the dates marked on them were a harsh reminder of the cold fact that society fell long ago.

  Passing through the fences, he carefully avoided the barbed wire, keep
ing an eye on the empty weapon crates that littered his surroundings. Anything of value had been picked clean long ago.

  Maybe I’ll just camp out in Crestwood tonight, I can probably even get to Nick’s old house from here before it’s dark.

  Walking down the overpass towards the Crestwood houses, where every third house looks just the same, there were luckily no tracks left in the fresh snow, which had to be a good sign. The sniper and his driver hadn’t come this way yet, then. Good. The road seemed like it’d be near impossible to navigate a truck around anyways. It gave Patrick more time to plan his next move, like how he could walk all the way to Mahomet without being eaten, or if he was going to make it past Champaign-Urbana without any survivors taking shots at him.

  Taking his careful and calculated steps down the road, and peering out over the town as he descended the overpass, he eyed the warnings spray-painted over houses.

  Keep out

  Lurkers everywhere

  Avoid the holes - Lurkers

  Snipers

  Death to D.C!

  Russians did it

  And a marking that looked familiar, but something about it was… off putting. Arms of the lurkers, crudely drawn and going into a circle around the eye of providence, circling the beams of light and cutting it off. It was all crudely drawn in what appeared to be a marker, but as Patrick passed this, he couldn’t help but pause and stare at it.

  I can’t believe most of this place is still standing. He thought, as he walked down Hannover Way towards the empty house of his childhood friend. I bet the permanent marker stains are still on the walls upstairs, even. They never could cover it up.