Pack Animals [An Undead Post-Apocalypse Thriller]

by Cain, Kenneth W.

  “Clear the hostiles? Decontamination area? Sector three?” Paul’s gaze thinned on the leader. “Son, we don’t have a clue what the hell you’re talking about.”

  The other survivors had gathered behind Paul, most of them whispering. Glenda heard a half dozen reasons why they shouldn’t go.

  “Right, sorry.” Number five explained. “The decontamination area is what you would refer to as Woodlawn Mall. There, you will be evaluated, and, if found to be infected, we have the ability to prevent the disease from progressing by using antibodies.” The man looked back to their leader, receiving the nod to continue. “Sector three is what you know as Pittsburgh. That is a safe place.”

  Number two chimed in. “We have secured most of the northeast with the shoreline housing our command central. Sector one, the area that houses our president, is and has always been Washington D.C.”

  Glenda heard a few gasps. Likely, they were surprised to learn any form of government still existed. She couldn’t stop scanning the grounds searching for Orson. He had to be somewhere close, maybe hiding somewhere and listening in, perhaps too afraid to come forward. That’s how she would be. She didn’t trust a single one of these men. They would go with them; of that she was certain. They wouldn’t have a choice. But even if these men were cleaning things up, she thought there was much more than what they had shared. At least one of the soldiers wore a uniform beneath his suit that she could see. The colors reminded her of the uniform the Democratic National Party had worn. She always referred to them as Demoncrats. That was more fitting, given what atrocities they had brought to the table. She had a name for the other party, too, but felt a specific spite for the Democrats given her and other teachers had supported them for so long. Then again, the teacher’s union was somewhat the reason for that loyalty.

  “Now,” number two said, “if you will all make your way out, we can assess the situation.”

  His suit did move this time, the sound of pistons and mechanical devices working beneath the armor plating. He ushered the large group to a clearing in front of the school.

  “Orson?” Glenda called out.

  She would not call his name again, but wanted to give the boy an opportunity to come before they left. It worried her to leave him on his own. The boy was clever, but even smart people died at the hands of a pack. And Orson was only a child, incapable of much more than hiding.

  “Don’t worry ma’am,” number three said. “We’ll do a perimeter scan for your boy.”

  She heard him relay the order through a microphone, slight static accompanying his instructions. Meanwhile, she said a silent prayer, then whispered, “He isn’t mine. He doesn’t belong to me.”

  CHAPTER 40

  Orson studied the men wearing the suits. It was difficult to see their faces, but, as a whole, they reminded him of a few video games he played years ago, before the power went out for good. From that rudimentary knowledge, he thought he even knew how the suits worked, though if urged to explain it he could never use the technical terms.

  He overheard the locations they spoke of, not all of them familiar to him. He also heard the word for the leader of their nation, the president. He remembered his mom saying how evil the president had been who was in office during Orson’s youth. According to her, during those last few years of the war, their country had been without a president. All Orson really understood about the war at all was that the entire country had been divided, broken.

  Should he trust this new president? What if he chose to go along with these video game robot suit men to some mall for processing? And, processing? What did that even mean?

  I hope Mom gets back soon.

  He couldn’t just go and leave her to come back to this emptiness?

  Thinking of her, he smiled. Given the circumstances, they had so many good times together. He loved her, and knew she would always be there for him.

  That’s it, I’m staying.

  He needed to be here when his mother got back, to explain everything. And if she didn’t come back, then he would go find her.

  Heavy footsteps shook the earth around him. He looked for a place to hide. There were a few deserted cars, some remains of worn sheds, and an old electric service box with one side gnarled away by decades of rust. Orson ran to the green box, inspected the contents, and found enough room to hide.

  He crawled inside and pulled his legs in close so they were out of sight. If he were much bigger, he might not have fit. Realizing he was breathing so heavy, he settled himself, calming his breathing like his mother taught him. He waited there, listening for signs of when it would be safe to leave.

  The footsteps came close, shaking the metal box. The rusty metal vibrated against his body, showering him in a reddish-brown dust. The suited man stood right outside, perhaps looking for him. For a moment, he was certain they had located him. From out of the silence, he heard distant sounds that had only reached his ears a few times. A pack approached, and Orson was without the safety of the school.

  CHAPTER 41

  Allen heard the high-pitched squeal burst from the strange man’s throat right before he revealed himself. The stranger stomped his feet upon the ground, screaming something incomprehensible at Gavin. Then Allen made it out.

  “Stop peeing on me, you goddamned ass!”

  Now that he saw him, Allen observed the man. The stranger slapped his knees and hopped around like an injured rabbit. When he finally did stop, he pounded on his chest like a deranged gorilla. The stranger pulled the sides of the jester’s hat he wore until it fit snugly upon his head. With a few fingers, he flicked the tiny bells that dangled from one the ends until they jingled. Their soft ring seemed to relax him.

  The jester grinned. “If you don’t stop peeing on my home, I’ll…I’ll—”

  He didn’t finish, suddenly aware of the crowd gathering around him. His jaw went slack and he froze, staring back at them as though they were crazy.

  Allen had gleaned an understanding about this man who was dressed in red tights, with colorful stars painted across his chest, and the goofy jester’s hat. He wasn’t sure inviting the jester to join their group was a good idea, as people who didn’t have their head screwed on right often led to trouble. Someone like that was unpredictable. But Allen thought it more likely the man would follow them when they left.

  Had he thought anything more of Dale or Clyde when he first met them? No, the brothers had been about the zaniest people he had ever met. Up until now, that was. The jester was the lord and king almighty of all nutjobs.

  As if sensing a need to prove his madness, the jester continued on with his tirade. He scrunched up his face, the yellow and red paint there coming together among the white background. Where those colors once offered definition, they now did nothing more than create a mottled mess on the man’s face, making him look angry. If the guy had any sensibility about him, Allen would have thought that had been the intended effect.

  “Do I go around peeing on your homes?”

  The jester strutted back and forth in front of the group, as if on stage. They were all too captivated by his appearance to respond. Allen was shocked a man like this could survive out here in the middle of nowhere, on his own, inside the war-torn belly of a car; let alone dressing up like a deranged clown.

  “No!” The jester drew out the sound of the vowel and turned in a full semi-circle. “I do not think that the case one tinsey-winsey bit.”

  “I’m…I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—” Gavin started.

  “Of course, you didn’t, my boy.” The jester slapped Gavin on the shoulder, offering him a cheery smile. Then he scrunched his face up again. “As for the rest of you…” His voice trailed off as he studied them, examining each person fully, up and down.

  Allen hoped a simple introduction would suffice. “My name is Allen.”

  “Oh, Allen…boballen...fofallen…and whatever the hell else suffix or prefix you might want to cram against one end or the other of your name. How do you do, brave s
ir knight? Doth thee come to smite the mighty dragon?”

  Sydney and Isaac were watching Allen, perhaps waiting to see how he responded to such an odd question. Allen thought about it.

  Am I here to smite the dragon? Of course, I am.

  “Do you have a name?” Allen asked.

  “Name…game…shame...dame…”

  The jester hopped about as if riding on a pogo stick. Allen wondered if the man actually thought he had such a toy. The stranger tipped his jester’s hat to Allen, removing it and folding it into his chest when he bowed, then replaced it on his head. “No. No name for me. Now, on with my query.” He spoke with bravado. “So, have you, or have you not, come to smite the evil dragon?”

  “Hey man, you have a dragon problem, do you?” Isaac asked.

  The jester regarded Isaac, studying him. “Doesn’t everyone have a dragon of one kind or another sitting around their garden, waiting to rain hell down upon your oh so simple lives? Yes, I have a dragon problem—count it, one—awful, terrifying, stupefying dragon. That’s right, mate, this dragon is one evil bastard.”

  “Listen.” Sydney was trying to be the voice of reason. “We have somewhere we need to be, and we’re kind of in a hurry.” Now it was her turn to scrunch up her face, shrugging her shoulders, and gesturing to the others with doubtful eyes. “You are welcome to come with us if you’d like, but we have to—”

  The man sprang into the air, landed, and pirouetted. He spun into a bow, then took Sydney in with wide gleeful eyes. “Oh, that would be delightful, dear princess. Shall your knights accompany us to the castle?”

  She shrugged, looking unsure of what to say. “Yes. They will.”

  “Aye, good. Then we shall make brief our stay in this fairytale land. Off to see the king we are, for a very fat king is he.” He thrust a clenched fist into the air. “And smite you another day we shall, you horrid beast of a dragon.”

  “I don’t know.” The expression on Isaac’s face was of curiosity. “I’m kinda intrigued by this dragon, guys.”

  Craig’s expression spoke of his reservations and doubt such a creature even existed. “Really?”

  “You never know.” Isaac scratched his chin. “Might be something to this we’re all missing. I’m just saying, it might be worth checking out.”

  Sydney stared off in the distance. Allen could see her thoughts were preoccupied by their son. “I don’t know,” Allen said.

  “Then, is it to the dragon we shall go?” The jester jumped about, flinging his arms as he danced. “We shall smite thee beast after all you have done. Mighty dragon you shall fall.”

  Allen knew the man was loony. What kind of person forgot their own name? And what might this dragon really be? He did think it might be worth checking out. If there was trouble nearby, it would be in their best interest to know exactly what that trouble was and how to avoid it.

  “Yes, let us smite the dragon.” Allen said, mockingly.

  Sydney offered Allen a troubled look, as did a couple of the others. He knew what they were thinking, who made him king shit in charge? Allen acknowledged their unease, using his hands to pat the air; in other words, letting them know that he knew this was risky, but that he believed it was worth the risk. At least Sydney would understand why this might be important.

  CHAPTER 42

  What followed in those next few minutes sounded like a hailstorm to Orson. Bullets riddled the landscape, strange robotic sounds came from the soldiers’ suits, the sounds of flesh pummeling metal. All of it made Orson want to leave his hiding spot and run, but he feared being exposed and caught by either party, live or dead. The urge to scream grew, but he held it back, biting his lower lip hard enough to draw blood.

  “Nelson! Flank that horde, goddamn it!” a soldier said.

  Metallic pings came with the sound of hydraulics pumping, then releasing. Seconds later the sounds faded off to the west, away from Orson’s hiding spot.

  “This is number one, three is down! I repeat three is down!”

  Orson recognized this voice as the red leader. Realizing this, he peeked out around the edge of torn metal and spied one of the dark-blue suited men moving to help a fallen comrade. Several creatures clawed at the fallen soldier’s suit, trying to pry their way inside.

  “Hold that line, soldier!” Their leader was drifting away from Orson. “Protect the civilians at all cost.”

  A moment of silence followed that made Orson consider trying to escape. If nothing else, he could get out of the middle of this, and maybe the effort alone would help clear his troubled mind. As if in answer to this notion, dirt-ridden fingers curled around the edge of the torn metal where Orson hid.

  No!

  Orson couldn’t keep himself from shrieking, only but a squeak among all the rest of the noise.

  No one heard. No one.

  He was certain they hadn’t heard his plea for help. They were too far away.

  A face came into view. His intruder’s complexion appeared gray, the large veins on the man’s forehead throbbing, somehow still pumping blood.

  This can’t be happening.

  Something on the creature’s face moved, a large swell, as if someone had beaten the man until he had a lump on his cheek. Then Orson realized what this was when it moved; some bug creeping and crawling beneath the man’s flesh. The bug worked its way to the monster’s eye and squeezed out from behind the eyelid with a sick wet sound, accompanied by a drip of a pale liquid. The beetle dropped to the ground and waddled out of sight, leaving a light trail of pus in the dirt.

  The creature opened his mouth, and Orson feared more bugs might pour out. None did, but a mouthful of brown decaying teeth and rancid breath found him, and he nearly lost it right then.

  Orson screamed again, no louder though. The creature screamed back, clawing at the metal casing, trying to pull its way inside, to reach Orson. All Orson could do was go deeper into the box, which wasn’t very far. Luckily the existing hole wasn’t quite big enough for a full-sized man or woman.

  As if realizing this, the creature eased back out and tried to tear the metal away, bringing horrible sounds. It flailed its arms at the box, and a thunder of noise rained down upon Orson. He doubted the box would hold up, but, surprisingly, it did. As if aggravated by the box’s resilience, the pounding stopped and Orson thought for a moment the creature had given up. Then the creature’s face returned to the opening. It extended one of its gnarled hands, clawing for Orson, its fingers grasping, trying to snatch hold of him. Orson leaned back against the metal, pulling himself into a tiny ball. He saw the pain of hunger on the creature’s face, its desperation becoming clear as it stretched inside, coming closer and closer to reaching Orson.

  A riddle of bullets pinged against the metal box. The creature shook as the bullets found its body. Even then, the creature managed to withdraw itself out of the box, the puncture of each bullet only seeming to anger it at first. The spray of bullets ceased and the creature returned, appearing furious. It growled, and, in that instant, Orson wet himself. Another round of bullets came, a few piercing the box, missing a scrunched up Orson by mere inches. One struck the creature’s head, a sudden dark hole appearing in its skull. Black ooze dripped down the creature’s temple. It bared its rotten teeth in a sneer, as if blaming Orson. Then it’s yellow eyes rolled back in its head, and the creature collapsed, half inside the box.

  Through the gaps, Orson spotted three other creatures find their ends. Their corpses piled up just outside Orson’s hiding place, all of them likely there for the same reason as the first.

  Heavy steps came Orson’s way. “Collapse on me six! We got ‘em.”

  Several footsteps shook the ground beneath Orson. Small puffs of dust and rust shook loose from the metal casing, showering Orson to the point he felt like sneezing. He pinched his nose, wrenching it between his fingers in an attempt to rid himself of the sensation.

  Meanwhile, the soldiers gathered around the metal box, finishing off the last of the pack. When th
ey were done they regaled their individual stories of struggle and heroism. They cheered their fallen friend, and left his corpse behind as they departed. It wasn’t until a full hour later that Orson peeked out of the box and saw a field full of dead oozing bodies. Back inside, he remained in his hideaway, a prisoner to fear. There, he hummed to himself in his mind, trying to find a tune to ease his worries.

  What if there are more out there?

  If there was, there would be no soldiers to help him this time.

  Shaken and clinging to the steel wall, Orson drifted into a paranoid sleep.

  CHAPTER 43

  Allen was glad the dragon the jester was talking about was only a mile from where they stumbled across the man. They stood before it in wonder while the jester crumbled to the ground beneath the dragon, a shadow of the crazed man he was only moments earlier.

  “Why? Why did you have to take them?” The jester asked.

  He wailed, tears streaming down his cheeks. Then he curled into a fetal position, bringing his knees up high and sobbing in loud bursts.

  Allen observed the beast, a large number “5” painted on its hindquarters. The large army-issue vehicle looked more like a bus than any sort of weapon he had seen in history books or on the news. He thought it could seat maybe a dozen or more people with ease, including their gear.

  A large cannon had been mounted atop the olive-green bus. It didn’t appear to fire any sort of ammunition, but two large canisters sat housed within the core of the bus, indication the cannon was some sort of flamethrower.

  Someone’s attempts at thwarting the packs.

  In that instant Allen found himself wondering how many different machines the armed forces had created in an effort to stop the spread and failed because they hadn’t yet realized the virus was in the water. He scanned the immediate area and noticed several of the houses had been burned to a char. The people inside those homes likely found the same fate, a thought that sickened him.