The F*cked Series (Book 2): Proper

by Gleason, R. K.

From the corner of his tearing vision, Dave sees a large, ceramic lamp moving through the air. It’s attached to a pair of hands belonging to his father-in-law. Mike Foster hits Betty in the head, swinging the lamp downward like he’s chopping wood. The base of the lamp explodes into shards and drives Betty forward, allowing a larger sample of Dave’s denim. He howls as Betty doubles her efforts, gnashing her gums from side to side on Dave’s shin as she climbs. Mike rushes for another lamp Dave sort of hopes he can’t find as the front door opens. Joe, Pam, and a Bongo-carrying Dakota burst into the foyer, momentarily frozen in place by the scene playing out in front of them. Pam is the first to break shock’s icy hold, immediately reacting to her husband’s imminent doom.

  “Where’s the fucking gun?” she yells, scanning the living room for the gun she never wanted in her home and had never learned to fire.

  “It’s behind you,” her mother shouts from the kitchen. Hearing her voice, Dakota escapes to the other side of the kitchen with Mike and Lynn, still carrying Bongo. The dog is barking frantically adding to the confusion. He’s trying to squirm from Dakota’s arms and it’s all he can do to keep the mixed-breed spaniel from joining the melee.

  Pam spins inside the doorway, searching for Dave’s twelve-gauge, pistol-grip pump. She snatches it from the corner where it’s leaning and thrusts it at Joe.

  “I’ve got a gun,” Joe tells his mother, showing Pam his nine-millimeter pistol.

  “Then fucking use it!” Pam yells, using the shotgun like a pointer, gesturing in Betty’s direction.

  Dave’s life flashes before his eyes seeing Pam leveling the barrel at him with her finger wrapped around the trigger. He’s certain he clicked the safety to on before leaning it near the front door, but his asshole puckers just the same. He forces his attention back to the Betty-creature who’s reached a point where he can’t get his leg out from under her to kick himself free. The only thing he can manage now is to force his legs apart instead. But this will drop Betty to the floor and place her nut crushing face-hole directly above Dave’s favorite parts of his anatomy.

  “Not a fucking chance,” he grunts, clamping his knees together and deciding to try rolling her over and off.

  Maybe it’s a coincidence. Maybe it’s some reptilian-predator instinct. Maybe the rotting bitch can read his mind but whatever the reason, she reacts before he can reposition for better leverage. Betty moves like she practiced this before because she’s fast. Like a professional wrestler, fucking fast. She lunges forward and springs up to gain the superior position, at the same time spreading her own legs to come down straddling him above his hips. Her hands slash up, going for Dave’s face. He’s able to catch one by the wrist with his right hand and locks on. The other hand has grabbed the middle of her forearm, giving Betty more leverage to twist it free. Her fingers claw at him and he pulls her limbs back to keep them away from his face, realizing a second too late this was an extremely stupid thing to do.

  With her hands behind her, there’s nothing to support Betty’s pressing weight and she slams down with her chest against his, her mouth chomping the air an inch or two from Dave’s face. He can see the small shards of broken teeth protruding from her gums, resembling jagged baby teeth. Instantly, he reconsiders her ability to break the skin with these things. The only reason she hadn’t so far is only because she hadn’t gotten to any skin yet. But now his exposed face is so close to hers, he can smell the decay coming from her snapping mouth. He arches his back against the floor and tries pulling his chin in since that and his nose are her most obvious choices. He feels the muscles in his arms begin to burn as he tries to pull hers forward to have something to push against and hold her away. But the cunning bitch twists her arm, reversing the tenuous hold he had on her right forearm and gaining a controlling grip on his left wrist.

  Dave starts to turn his head to see what the fuck is taking everyone so long when he sees Joe step into view above them and level his pistol at the back of Betty’s head. Dave knows it’s a nine-millimeter, but right now, the end of the barrel looks the size of a train tunnel with a locomotive about to smash through Betty’s brainpan into his.

  “Fuck, don’t shoot!” Dave yells as Betty’s next bite at his face is so close he feels the tip of her nose touch is cheek.

  “What?” Joe says with a bewildered expression, his aim dropping to the middle of Betty’s back.

  “Sideways!” Dave nearly shrieks, as the beast riding him takes another lunging snap, her lips brushing the skin just below his left eye.

  “Huh?” Joe replies, twisting his wrist to study the different positions of his gun.

  “Sideways, through the temple!” Pam shouts, pointing to Betty’s head.

  “I was gonna,” Joe replies, changing his stance to place the end of his barrel a few inches from the side of Betty’s skull as she lunges again. “Hold her still!” he tells Dave.

  “Fucking! Shoot! Her!” Dave shouts.

  “I’m trying!” he replies as Betty snaps again and Joe adjusts his aim.

  “Do it!” Dave screams. He feels the lactic acid in his arms burning their way to a fatal cramping. He knows they’re going to give out soon. Betty’s fetid maw gnashes again with one of the tooth-shards dragging across Dave’s jawline without breaking the skin and knows this will be the last time that happens. With the next chomp, the monster riding on top of him is going to taste blood.

  “Jesus Christ, Joe!” Pam yells.

  “Fine!” he shouts.

  Dave’s senses are instantly overwhelmed by the brilliant flare of muzzle flash that forces his eyes to close, and a clap of compressed thunder that hits him like a wet wave, making his ears ring and blocking out all other sound. Bongo’s barking is immediately silenced by the single round, not that anyone inside the house could hear him now. Dave feels Betty’s body jerk to the side and then go still, falling against his chest. The dead weight of her lifeless form is pulled off him, but he can still feel the sticky heat caused from close proximity of the nine-millimeter when Joe took his shot. Or so he thought.

  When Joe pulled the trigger, expelling the high-velocity projectile at Betty’s head, the bullet first made contact with the softer bones of the temple. Its trajectory was altered a few degrees higher as the bullet entered the overheating cavity and mushroomed, shredding through the decaying brain matter. The bullet exited the opposite side of her skull and buried itself in the doorframe. Most of Betty’s pureed thoughts were instantly mixed with bone fragments and sprayed across the bottom of the double doors. However, whatever didn’t end up on the doors and wall, was expelled from every possible orifice in Betty’s face. Her eyes exploded, their gelatinous fluid mixing with the brain matter and jetting from the empty sockets. It coated Dave’s hair and forehead in a quart of thick goo with the consistency of hot and rancid blueberry yogurt.

  Betty’s nose, with the cartilage embedded in it, was blasted from her face and bounced off Dave’s cheek like a golf ball. It landed in the puddle of the viscous sludge encircling his head and stuck in place on contact, causing a single, quivering ripple across its surface. Betty’s shredded memories and mucous membranes followed behind it, encasing Dave’s eyes and nose with a sticky, yellowish-gray slop that formed thick bubbles with each exhale through his nostrils. What was not ejected from Betty’s eye sockets and freshly exposed sinus cavity was projected from her open mouth like she’d projectile vomited her liquified brains. It covered Dave’s tightly pressed lips, chin, and neck in a wet blanket of black, steaming gore, giving his entire head the appearance of the world’s most disgusting, layered rocket-pop.

  “Holy shit!” is the first thing Dave hears Joe say over the ringing in his ears. It sounds like he’s speaking from inside a tunnel submerged under water.

  “That’s fucking gross!” he hears Pam say as the tunnel begins to rise to the surface. “Don’t move, baby. Let me get a towel.”

  Dave can feel her continue to kneel next to him, so someone must have tossed her the towel. He immediat
ely recognizes the feeling of terrycloth on his face. This is followed by an overly aggressively, squeegee-like swipe, wiping from his hairline to his chin in one go. He winces slightly when Pam roughly passes over the growing welt on his cheek, the result of Betty’s fleshy nose-missile. Opening his sticky eyelids, he sees the viscera in thick smears on the towel, ruining it forever. He knows there’s probably more of Betty still smeared on his face and definitely soaking into his hair and the shoulders of his t-shirt. As Pam comes at his face for another pass, Dave pushes her hands away and rolls onto his knees in the entryway. There he proceeds to retch whatever might still be lingering in his stomach and upper intestines onto the ruined, granite-tiled floor.

  Pam instinctively starts wiping the slime from the back of Dave’s head to stop it from running down onto his face. He can feel the brain-goo being wiped down his neck and soaking into the back of his shirt. He absently tries to slap her away as his digestive tract tries to retrieve anything trapped in his lower intestine and bowel up past his lips. Ropy cords of thick saliva and stomach juice dangle from his lips and hang to the floor. They make delicate, raised swirls in the muck where Dave’s head was resting seconds ago, before being absorbed by his own contribution of puke and the entire contents of Betty’s cranium.

  “I think I’m going to be sick,” Joe says, walking away from the couple.

  Reaching around his flailing arm, Pam wipes away the strings from Dave’s lips with the cleanest corner of the towel. She hands him another for him to use on his own and then backs away to give Dave some room. As if on cue, they hear the undeniable sound of their oldest son’s car. Zack, Brigette, and their two sons pull into Mike and Lynn’s driveway behind Betty’s mail truck. About fifteen seconds after the car stops, one of the car doors open.

  “Just keep it running and I’ll be back in a minute,” Zack tells someone outside, presumably Brigette, right before a car door slams shut.

  Dave continues wiping away more of the congealing mess from his face and hair when there’s a loud knock on the door.

  “Come on in, sweetie,” Lynn shouts a split second later.

  Zack comes through the front doors, quickly turning to close it behind him. He spares another moment to peek out the side window at the surrounding neighborhood.

  “They’re all over the place out there,” he says, holding aside the sheer curtain with a fingertip. “Where’s Ben’s car?” Zack asks as he turns from the narrow window and slips in the puddle of awfulness. He nearly goes down on his ass but braces himself at the last second in the corner between the door and the wall, avoiding being dipped in the same shit beginning to scab over his father’s head and shoulders.

  Bongo finally escapes Dakota’s arms and trots over to the pool of thickening detritus. The dog gives the mess a low growl before lifting a leg and contributing his own hot stream to the mix.

  “Your dog just peed on the floor,” Mike tells Joe.

  “It’s cool, Mike,” Dave says, rising to his knees and wiping around his mouth for possibly the eleventh time. “I think I did too.”

  “What the fuck happened?” Zack asks as Pam helps him to his feet.

  “Your dad’s been making new friends,” she tells him.

  “Way to go, Dad,” Zack says with a grimace.

  “Actually, Joe did that while your dad and mail-lady Betty were wrestling around on the floor,” Pam says.

  “In that case,” he replies, clapping Joe on the shoulder. “Nice shooting, little brother!”

  “Fuck all of you,” Dave mutters as he gets to his feet. “I’m going to need a quick shower before we leave. Have you got any clothes I can wear?” he asks Mike.

  “I’m sure I can find you something,” Lynn answers for him. Mike looks at him and shrugs. Guy-code for, what she said.

  “Thanks, Mom,” Dave says. “A sweatshirt and pants will be fine.”

  “What about socks and undies?” Lynn asks.

  “Socks would be cool?” he answers, phrasing the words like a question as he looks at Mike. “I’ll pass on the underwear,” he adds as Mike nods his approval.

  “Dad! I don’t think we have time for you to take a shower,” Zack blurts. “And where the hell is Ben?”

  “First,” Dave begins. “Fuck you, son. I gotta get this shit washed off me. Second, he’s not here yet so again, fuck you, son, I’ve got time for a shower and I’m not wearing this shit any longer than I have to. And finally, did I mention this shit has got to come off and you’ve extended the time I have to continue wearing it? So, you might as well bring Brigette and the boys inside and fuck off while I take a shower since we have to wait for Ben, anyway!”

  A car rolls down the street in front of the house. Dave only catches a glimpse of the car, but he already knows with this kind of impeccable timing, it has to be one of their children. Zack pulls the curtain aside so Pam and Joe can get a better look as Ben pulls in the driveway and parks on the other end of the mail truck.

  “Don’t even say it,” Dave tells Zack as Pam and the two boys turn away from the window. Each of them is wearing that, what-do-you-say-now expression on their faces. “Fuck my life,” he mutters, reaching up to pinch at the growing pressure between his eyes and feeling his fingertips stick to the bridge of his nose.

  Chapter Three

  “Trucks two, three, and four. Pull over behind us on the shoulder,” Major Brooks says into the mic connecting the communications between each driver. The trucks roll to a stop atop the ridge that looks down over the killing ground they’d just cleared. This was close enough for Brooks to be able to evaluate the incursion from an elevated location and far enough away to see if anything was attempting an approach.

  “Your thoughts, Sergeant Nichols,” Brooks says.

  “That was just about the most awful thing I’ve ever seen,” Nichols answers, referring to the plowing down of the infected. Although he wasn’t asked, Patel nods his agreement.

  “I have a feeling we’ll see worse before this mission is completed,” Brooks tells him. “But I meant about the infected and what just happened. What are your observations?”

  “We’re in deeper shit than we first thought,” Nichols begins. “Our tests showed the level two infected were running on autopilot. Primal instinct reactions with only one basic drive to feed the infection burning through them. No ability for complex thought processes because their brains had been cooked by the intense fever. We expected only core, reptilian responses to situations and stimulus.”

  “Those reptiles just killed eight soldiers,” Patel interrupts.

  “Quiet, Corporal,” Brooks says without taking her eyes from Nichols.

  “He’s right though. I mean, sort of,” Nichols continues. “They’re getting smarter. What happened back there was a trap. I don’t believe it was specifically laid for us, but still an extremely efficient trap. It was designed so every vehicle that stops has it sprung on them. I’m not saying the planning was perfect, but it’s still pretty fucking complex for basically, a zombie. They laid the bait with the vehicles and school bus. Set up the camouflage by using the encroaching tree line where they could sit waiting for some idiot to stumble into the jaws and set off the spring. They even put small clusters of infected in the grass, adding to the believability of the deception.

  “It’s a nearly perfect trap for one or two civilian vehicles at a time. If they stop at all, they’ll never be able to drive off. Even if the prey recognizes the trap for what it is, the infected can most likely stop them with their numbers. Civilian vehicles aren’t built to sustain that kind of abuse. Even if they tried going slow to lessen the impact, the radiator sits right up front and the fan directly behind it. Those are going to be destroyed after hitting three or four of the infected. Then there’s the simple matter of wheel traction and engine power. Of course, Average Joe Driver could try driving slowly and weaving between them, but that’d be stupid. The only reason we were able to drive away is because we’re in these behemoths,” he says, confirming some
of Brooks’ own conclusions.

  “What about the physical condition of the infected?” she asks, checking behind them through the side mirror to her right.

  “They looked like walking nightmares, torn to shreds,” Patel answers.

  “Not enough,” Nichols says, replying to Patel’s observation but intending the information for the major. “Yes. Some of them look pretty bad. The ones with tremendous amounts of tissue loss. Those wounds are ragged and savage. Something ripped into those people at the time of infection. I suspect dogs did this during level one when they still believed the hybrid virus/parasite couldn’t jump species, which we all know the virusite does. Either way, dogs explain the savage tissue loss. But a lot of the other infected look like they’d been light meals rather than all-you-can-eat buffets. Especially the first ones out of the trees, the runners. They only had a few superficial wounds I could see. I’m not saying they look like they’re the picture of health, but sort of, more normal than the others.”

  “So, what?” Patel asks.

  “I believe the infected are definitely eating their share of people and those are the ones feeding the growing masses. But there’s obviously a growing number of others that are being infected for the simple purpose of spreading the virusite. One little nip and you get one quick little carrier. And if he nips two friends, or seven friends, or seventeen? They all become quick little fuckers like their friend, infecting their own twenty or thirty friends.”

  “Major outbreak,” Brooks says.

  “Worse,” Nichols replies.

  “Worse than a major outbreak?” Patel asks, the stress cracking the edges of his voice.

  “Exponentially worse,” Nichols answers. “Because all of the fast, little, infectious fuckers are doubling in number every few hours. Obviously, some of the victims are being consumed past the point of being a viable host of the virusite. But every single one who isn’t, is turning. And they appear to be smart and getting smarter. Setting traps for the uninfected to increase their numbers. Playing on our weaknesses. Anticipating and compensating for alternative outcomes. None of them is ever going to discover time travel or anything, But I think they’re dialing in on how to hunt us better. And all the time growing in number and intelligence.”