by Cody Prough
“Bug, damn it.”
A moment after his radio crackled down a response came over from Garret, one of his recon men.
“Sir, we dropped Bug off a few minutes ago. Just a couple miles out. He should be close to Dorian now.”
Thomas sighed, rubbing his temples. Dorian was supposed to be back by now, too, where the fuck was this guy from the Sick Ward? He had an important meeting soon with a new group soon, and they had valuable resources for his people. But he wanted to wrap up this business first. He couldn’t abide the Sick Ward sticking their nose up to his rule any longer. His relationship with the mysterious Organization and the so-called “New American Government” to his east was strained at best, but he needed them just as much as (he assumed) they needed him and his men. Since the founding of his militia, they have had limited interactions with people, but when it came to the Organization a bounty of weapons and ammunition came with their friendship, as well as a wealth of vehicles. All Tommy had to do was send some men east to help train them on the proper use of the weaponry and basic military tactics.
But the New American Government seemed like a bunch of psycho-fanatics. Their flag bore the Eye of Providence encircled by the lurker’s arms…and his men had made some mentions: apparently, they believe the lurkers to be a horseman of the apocalypse, and we’re in the end times. Forming some perverted religion based this belief, they had been led by a charismatic man Tommy hoped to never meet, personally. But for whatever reason, Tommy couldn’t guess, the Organization found it crucial that they all get along. At least for now.
Dorian refused to trust them. Tommy didn’t either, but Dorian had his reasoning. Having grown up in the South, Dorian knew just how much a person’s strong religious upbringing could mean to them, and any religion that worshipped at the altar of the beasts that now dominated at least all North America seemed suicidal at best.
“How long ago exactly?” Tommy barked back.
A small pause on the other end as Trevor, Garret’s driver, replied in a firm but low voice.
“Fifteen minutes ago, sir.”
Tommy moved his tongue around his mouth, pushing his loose tooth around. Fuck it, I’ll head up to the roof. “Have him report back to me via radio as soon as possible.”
Tommy kicked his chair away from the desk. Maybe one of the snipers or gunners on the roof had a cigarette.
As Tommy ascended the stairs to the roof, his radio crackled slightly. By some unfortunate chance both Dorian, and now Bug, huddled down in the back of the SUV, were watching as a slim girl in bigger clothes and an older man were in the kitchen of the rundown blue house talking, the older man throwing his hands up.
“Think that’s the guy?” Dorian asked, his words slurring ever so slightly.
“No, he looks old. Like, way too old.” Bug’s voice was shaking, as much from the possibility of an assassination as it was from Dorian being drunk and alone with Bug. His aim seemed steady, but he could tell he had obviously been drinking for a while by the time he got here.
“Bullshit. Radio Tommy. See what he wants. I’m tired of freezin’ my ass off bein’ hunkered down in here.”
“Tommy, are you there?” Bug’s breath steamed out of his mouth. Unlike Dorian’s, mine can’t be lit on fire. Bug had to stifle a giggle, knowing how Dorian’s temper could be. Sure, he wouldn’t hurt him around Tommy, but they weren’t around Tommy, were they?
Bug paused, attempted to reach Tommy again, then handed the walkie-talkie over to Dorian at his drunken urging.
“Tommy, it’s Dorian. Your number two. Do you copy?” Dorian sniffed, his red nose surely frozen, and nearly rubbing snot onto the radio.
“Hey, Dorian. I don’t think—” Bug was cut off by Dorian’s backhand.
“Remember the pecking order, Bug.” Dorian had barely hit Bug, but he could see some blood starting to run down his nose.
“Tommy, do you copy?” Dorian held the radio momentarily. Bug was in stunned silence.
“Storm’s pickin’ up, Bug, probably cuttin’ us off.” Dorian threw the radio halfheartedly at Bug. “We either shit or get off the pot, what do ya’ say?” Dorian hadn’t even looked over; he was aiming his rifle.
“W…whatever you say, Dorian.” Bug’s reply came out shakier than he would have liked, almost a whimper. He could see Dorian’s grin starting up.
“I’m gonna’ see if I can’t reach Tommy again, all right? Start headin’ back…” Bug, again, was cut off. At least this time it was from Dorian grabbing his shirt, startlingly quick considering his level of drunkenness.
“You keep that little love tap to yourself, got it?” Dorian was glaring at Bug, his gaze seemed even more terrifying than Tommy’s. Perhaps it was partly fear of Tommy that inspired it, but Bug understood his life would not benefit from telling Tommy about Dorian.
“Of course, Dorian…” Bug heard himself saying.
“You’re in charge, right?” Bug was breathing steadily. The blood still running down his face. He felt Dorian’s dirty hand smacking his cheek lightly.
“Good leech. Go radio Tommy. An’ tell him I’m about to solve this Sick Ward problem. We agreed on it, after all.” Dorian went back to his rifle, lining up a shot. Bug looked over, seeing the old man moving around the back of the SUV with his rifle as he climbed out. At least he’d get to miss this bit of violence. He had maybe been a block away when the crack of the rifle erupted in the night.
Dorian had nodded off, momentarily. His finger grazed the trigger just enough, and the rifle went off. The .270 WIN bullet soared through the air, traveling at untraceable speeds towards the Sick Ward’s committee.
Chapter Twelve
Oh, my head…
It’s so dark…
Why am I tied up?
Lamar had slowly woken up; his hands were bound. He had slowly come to recall the last twelve hours. He hid in a house, heard someone else… Then he stuck him up, with an empty shotgun, like an asshole. Now he was tied to a bar in the basement of that very house. His head ached; he was starting to recall what had happened. The guy, for whatever reason, let Lamar stay. After giving him the choice to leave or get shot in the head, Lamar found himself grateful to be tied to the bar. But his new captor (friend?) wasn’t anywhere to be seen.
How strong is this rope?
Giving it a tug, he found the rope to not be too strong.
Wow, he didn’t think I’d figure this out?
Lamar began to work his way through the rope, pulling at it and wiggling around. It was giving way long before he had anticipated. Maybe he figured Lamar would sleep through the night and not wake. He, however, was not here. Despite the monsters, Lamar had been a bit loud with his escape.
“Freedom.” Lamar was panting, sweat filling his brow. “Where’s my gun?”
After locating and repossessing his shotgun, Lamar had “borrowed” a few shells, some protein bars, and another bottle of water.
Sorry, man…
Lamar stifled the guilt, he had to survive after all. He refused to let it be his death. So, after taking a few essential supplies, he went out, quietly. He didn’t bother to scan the rooms on his way out, just making a dash for the door.
I need t’get back to…
Where did he need to get back to?
He saw that several prints followed what he assumed were from Patrick’s boots. The others, however, were of various print and sizes. The snow was still relatively fresh, too. These were new prints.
Forget ‘em, Lamar. He didn’t do anything for you.
“Except let you stay safe, fed you…”
No, he still kept you hostage. Forget ‘em.
Lamar took a deep breath, maybe it was fear. That’s why he didn’t want to deal with it. Why save him? He should just go, and let this survivor, as capable as he seems, fend for himself. Lamar was having these thoughts, and several more about what could lurk in the dark, as he pulled his windbreaker closed, heading against the storm and towards the fading footprints. He, for whatever reason, had deci
ded to follow them leading west towards Patrick, and not for the last time.
Chapter Twelve
Guess I better head out while he’s still asleep. Lamar was snoring in the corner; Patrick had been keeping an eye on him for the past hour or so. Making sure he was down for now. He tucked the nine-millimeter in his waistline, opting to leave the rest of the gear. Just a few houses around here, once I check ‘em out I’ll come back.
He stashed the remainder of his gear around the basement, taking the gas mask, an empty bag, the bandana and began to leave. He hesitated, looking back at his captive.
Lamar, I hope you don’t end up bein’ a piece of shit…
Patrick tapped the barrel of his handgun against his leg absent-mindedly. Kid seems to be decent enough so far. He went up the stairs, carefully closing the basement door and out of the house. Adjusting his gas mask, he proceeded to go house to house searching for items. Across the street in a white two-story house, Patrick had found a few cans of tuna, some soda, and granola bars stashed in a children’s room upstairs. The garage had a hammer, which he tucked into his coat. Taking the time to properly relieve himself, he moved outside again, checking the nearby houses as he worked his way down the road, heading west. The barrel of his handgun guiding his path.
I need to head back, been out too long. Who knows? Maybe Lamar even woke up.
The mask lying next to his lap as he sat down in the upstairs office of the wrecked home, where he paused, having decided to drink a can of root beer he had found. The front door started to creak open ever so slightly.
What the fuck was that?
Patrick sat up, stuffing the gas mask in the bag, his hand finding the pistol grip as he quickly made his way to the front of the home. Pressed against a wall he could see around the corner just enough to view the main entrance. He had been followed. Three men: one brandishing an axe, and rope, seemed to be in charge. The other two, one carrying a pump shotgun, and the other a cattle prod.
“Brother Darren, check the basement. Alive if we can help it.” The man holding the axe barked, apparently being the one in charge. The man with the shotgun took off downstairs. “Brother Alex, you get the upstairs.” Patrick didn’t have time to think, he tiptoed away, almost running into the office. Closing the door delicately behind him, he grabbed his belongings, cursing the door for not having a lock. He heard the footsteps outside of the room before the door opened, and standing there, Patrick had to assume, was the one called Alex. Luckily with just his cattle prod.
“Patrick…” The electricity flicked between the prongs, his eyes going down to the pistol in Patrick’s hand.
“Guys!”
The rest of the alert they needed was supplied by bullets, firing from the gun, and most of them punching through Alex. First in his abdomen, causing him to buckle, then his left knee, twisting him as the right shin was hit, splintering bone off. The final two shots were simple torso shots, throwing him back.
“Darren, he’s upstairs! He got Alex.”
Patrick slammed the door, running for the window. Of course, one of few intact windows. He fired another shot, jumping through it. He was diving off the roof into the snow-covered ground feet first when the first shotgun blast ripped open, firing just above his head.
Fuck…
He slipped, landed slightly off on his ankle, and tumbled down. Pain shot through his left leg, his gun slipping out of his hand and into the snow a few feet away.
Oh fuck, fucking Christ. Never in the whole of the fucking world of fucked have I ever been fucked so fucking bad. Oh my God this is fucked.
Patrick slid across the ground towards the gun, his ankle throbbing.
If I can just get to the gun…
“Darren, Father Hughes said alive, damn it!”
Hey, I know that name. The thought shot through Patrick’s mind as he wrapped his fingers around the gun. Six shots, right? I fired six shots. Or was it seven?
“He killed Alex! Fuck ‘em!”
Patrick rolled over; Darren had just lined up his shot when Patrick fired. A lucky shot, hitting his shoulder and forcing him to drop the shotgun. It began to slide off the roof before the man in war paint was able to stop it with his axe, burying it in the roof as the shotgun began to slide down, catching it.
“My arm!”
Patrick fired, his remaining shots not making any impact on the men chasing him but doing a great deal of damage to the side of the house.
Darren had been standing, grabbing his wound. The man in war paint had grabbed the shotgun now. Taking his time to walk carefully to the side of the slanted roof.
“Patrick McKinley.”
Patrick was wheezing, his gun was empty, his ankle was throbbing, and he could not grab his extra magazine right now if he wanted.
“You have been found guilty of stealing from the New American Government.”
“Fuck, you guys suck with names.” Patrick curtly cut in, laughing and in pain.
“Your punishment is to be dealt out by Father Hughes…”
“Tell KENNY I remember his car stealin’ days.”
The shotgun was racked for emphasis, quieting Patrick’s laughter only mildly as he looked around.
“And you are to be taken back now. Added with these charges are the murder of Brothers Alex and Louis. Brother Darren, please assist me in tying him up.”
“Brother Alan…” Darren seemed calm, but he gestured towards his damaged shoulder.
“I may be unable to perform the task.” Alan seemed to consider this, briefly taking a moment to make his frustration visible.
“Fine, I’ll go down and tie him up. You’ll have to watch over him with the shotgun. But do not kill him. Understand?” Darren grunted, taking the shotgun.
“Lotta kickback from that gun, y’know. Better have some good aim.” Patrick joked as Alan climbed through the office window and back into the house. Fuck my ankle hurts. “’Cuz I’ll start crawlin’ away now, I already know you can’t shoot with two hands.”
“Don’t need much aim with a scattergun from up here.” Darren barked back. His fingers started moving slowly to his spare magazine. “Hey! Toss that gun.”
Fuck.
Patrick tossed the nine-millimeter to the side. “So, between you and me, this whole ‘Brother’ title stuff is nonsense, right? I mean, it’s just weird. Why do you guys need titles like that? So, you can have Papa Ken?” Patrick coughed harshly, was that Lamar hiding across the street? Had he followed them as well? God damn this kid is a decent person.
“Shut the FUCK up!” Darren was pointing the “scattergun” loosely at Patrick. Yeah, keep screamin’ Darren. Let’s see how long this takes. “Is it like a Catholic Priest type of relationship? Or?”
“Brother” Alan had gotten out of the front door, and to the side of the house at this point. The axe in his left hand held loosely, his rope in his right hand. “Brother Darren, you need to be quiet. Lest we awaken our…” But of course, it had woken up after the first gun shot, running into town at booming speeds towards them. “Too late.” Patrick rolled over towards the fence, Darren had raised his gun, but the beast was on Alan before he could react, it looked like a baby from the size of it. The arms shot up, the bladed tips came down on his shoulders rapidly, severing his arms from his torso with a mesh of wet noise and screaming. Darren had just turned to face the hulking beast with the barrel when it gracefully leapt onto the roof. The beast made quick work of him, lunging and biting off his face in one swift motion, using the jagged teeth to dig into his flesh, the force of the bite caving in his skull.
Patrick was pressed against the fence, his handgun, as useless as it would be against this thing, lay off to the side. The beast had paused, glancing around the yard. It couldn’t tell he was here. If I live long enough to understand how they can’t detect some creatures I’ll be happy. Patrick closed his eyes. The beast, apparently giving up on finding Patrick, decided it best to feast on Darren, leaving the very much dead Alan on the ground with sprays of
red mist covering his surroundings. The sound of the meat being devoured was sickening, Patrick could feel himself about to gag.
Lamar, having seen the action, was making his way over quickly but quietly. Apparently, he had a hero complex. What an idiot. He was creeping around the far side of the yard, making his way to Patrick while the beast quelled its gluttony. Patrick had to assume it burned a lot of calories running at the speed it did. They had, after all, out run the local deer population.
“Patrick.” Lamar’s voice was hardly even a whisper, barely heard above the wind. The snowfall was coming in spurts, the monster had moved off the roof and over to Alan, examining his body. Patrick moved the gas mask out of the bag, not speaking, but handing it over to Lamar. Seemingly understanding, he looked at the beast, it had begun cutting open “Brother” Alan’s torso. Starting just under the throat and working down towards his groin. Lamar and Patrick watched as it bobbed up and down, the lurker’s back facing them.
“Watch out for the toxic gas.” Patrick’s voice shaking. Lamar struggled at first, getting the mask on his face and tightening it.
God, please let this kid be a good shot.
Patrick worked his bag around, slowly taking out his red bandanna and a container of dark yellow liquid. “Go take care of it.” Lamar’s eyes glazed over, even behind the mask the fear was visible and thick, building ever so high in Lamar as he stood up grimly. “Hurry.” As soon as Lamar turned around Patrick took the bottle, pouring it on the red bandanna.
This is why I kept the damn gas mask. So, I don’t have to breath into a piss rag. Lamar had paused to turn around, as if to ask Patrick something, that’s when the beast heard him.
The beast paused, jolting up as Patrick shoved the bandanna to his face. “Kid, shoot!” Patrick began stuffing himself into his bandana and coat, covering his face as best he could, just as Lamar turned. A two-second difference would’ve changed the outcome, but luckily Lamar was a quick shot. The blast ripped into the arm as the lurker charged toward him, blowing it off and twisting the beast’s body around, spinning the creature and releasing toxic gas out of the jagged lump of bone and meat like a hose. The second shot blasted the beast in the back of the head. Covering the side of the house in a thick red, green and yellow thick mixture. The head taken off more gas continued pouring out of the body. This all occurred in a matter of seconds. Lamar had fallen back away from the beast, Patrick coughed, gagging as the gas covered the yard and began to disperse, the urine-soaked bandana saving his life for the fourth time since he figured out it was the same method that had worked for soldiers in World War One. Lamar wasn’t panicking quite as much as Patrick would’ve assumed. Once the gas fully cleared and they had worked their way into one of the other nearby houses (not before dragging Alex outside to distract any more monsters) and hoisting Patrick on a chair, with a bar of soap and bottle of water. They had gotten his supplies back, taking the cultist’s scattergun and Lamar’s shotgun. They had split what was left of the food, even opening the canned tuna and seasoning it with spices, putting it on whatever they found, which was a stale but welcome addition.