by C. J. Sears
There was a whoosh of air as another object sailed through the air at him, grazing the top of his shoulder and tearing the fabric of his jacket. Finch looked down; it was a machete. He grabbed it and then tossed it back at the crowd with as much strength as he could muster. It landed in between the legs of the man who must have thrown it. He cursed as the horde continued to close in, the sheriff picking up his slack with her own cover fire as he resumed running.
A faint scream sent a chill down his back. Between the gunfire and the impending wave of monstrosities, Finch hadn’t realized how quiet it had otherwise been. But now, as a second, then a third, then a disharmony of screams erupted all around him, he became aware that the present situation wasn’t isolated to the cemetery.
There was the click of an empty chamber. Finch looked to Donahue. Her ammo had run out. “Shit,” she said, holstering her weapon, still jogging toward the gate. “I’m out. I knew I should’ve got the shotgun out of the trunk before Rick took off.”
Sprinting beside her, he shook his head. “There was no time. I’ve got about nine bullets left. By the time I run out, we should be long gone from this hellhole.”
“Sounds like wishful thinking to me,” she said.
The rusted iron bars of the front gate were in sight, but their legs were tired and the path was downhill. If they took a spill, there was no way that the horde wouldn’t be on them in seconds. The thought of their fists and blades and the parasite and who knows what else descending upon him as he cowered behind a gravestone came unwelcome into his mind. The wounds would be deep, his blood pouring out of every part of his body, as they beat him merciless into a pulp like they had Harley’s mother.
There was a crash of metal and Mason honked the horn of the car, shaking him from his brief stupor. The car was there, and the gate gone−he must have plowed straight through it. Mason waved them over, panic evident in his face. “We ain’t got all day. Get in!”
Donahue got to the car first, thrusting open the door and diving into the backseat. Finch followed, the horde hot on his heels. He imagined he could feel their breath on the back of his neck. It would be rotten, vomit-inducing like the stench in the basement of the Bradford mansion the night before. He had to move.
Leaping into the car, he didn’t bother to close the door. Mason floored it, sent pieces of gravel and the crushed metal gate flying. They sped into the street and away from the cemetery, leaving the horde and the memory of Jane Harley behind.
* * *
Even after the screams of the damned died out, Finch couldn’t sleep. Holed up in an abandoned two-story home on the edge of town, night had descended fast upon them, blanketing the house in darkness. Without electricity, the three of them had scoured the house for leftovers. A couple of candles and a kerosene lamp turned up in one of the cupboards, providing them with what little light they could muster.
For his part, Finch was glad they hadn’t been able to find something with more juice. Attracting the attention of those things outside wasn’t something he desired. Yet now, lying on the makeshift pillow he’d made with his torn jacket, with their presence outside these walls, he felt as if the shadows surrounded him.
The sheriff and Mason sat a few feet away, huddled around the kerosene lamp and their radios. They’d scrounged up more appropriate clothing for Donahue in the upper bedroom of the house. The jeans were ratty, and the mottled blue turtleneck a size too large, but at least she was back to something less exposed to the elements. Or knives.
There had been no word from the station, nor any sense or acknowledgement that anything was wrong. The dead silence was more than enough evidence for Finch that things had gone past screwed to seriously FUBAR. The devastation they had seen on their exodus from the cemetery only cemented that fact.
It had been as if hellfire had consumed the town of Lone Oak in a great swathe of flame and death. Burning cars, bodies that amounted to little more than mush, roaming packs of parasite-infected townsfolk, blood-streaked streets and smashed windows; if Finch hadn’t seen the cause of the chaos with his own eyes, he wouldn’t have believed it. Hell, he still wasn’t sure he should.
With a grunt, he sat up. Stretching his legs, he staggered over to the brother and sister pair. The two of them had procured a map of the town and its outskirts from the car and toiled away with planning their next move. He decided to join them. If he kept busy, perhaps his mind would be taken off of the circumstances at hand. Sleep wouldn’t be part of his schedule for some time; that much was clear.
“If we head down this alley, cross Myers Street, and then cut over to Palmer we should be able to avoid most of them and get to the station,” Donahue said, tracing a path over the map with her finger.
“Do we want to go back to the station? We’ve seen what’s out there, and if we can’t even get a hold of anyone via radio or phone, then I don’t think there’s any chance that it’ll be safe there,” said Mason.
For once, Finch had to agree with him. “I doubt there’s anybody left at the station. Most of your officers were still out in the field, securing evidence from the mansion. Anyone remaining didn’t stand a chance against those things.” He poured over the map, starting from their present location and fanning out. “See this mountain road, here?” He pointed to a winding road that led up and around the edge of the lake before crossing over to the next state off-page. “We could easily make it out that way and get a hold of the National Guard when we get to the next town over.”
“Why not just call your buddies in Washington? Our phones might be out, but I bet you’ve got a direct line to them.”
Finch shook his head. “My superiors have made it abundantly clear that they don’t want to hear from me about this case. They seem to believe it has been sufficiently wrapped up. And aside from that, I need a cell signal the same as anyone and no call I make is getting through either.”
“Yeah, great leadership on their part. Excellent decision-making.” He could taste the sarcasm in Mason’s words. Finch didn’t disagree, but neither he nor Donahue understood the extent to which his agency would act if he was able to get through. Being under siege by malevolent, parasitic men would be the least of their worries if that happened. His agency preferred finality, and the scorched earth ultimatum passed on Lone Oak would be swift.
“So we’re on our own,” said Finch, “and this is our best bet.” He pointed to the mountain road again.
“That road has been closed for weeks,” said the sheriff. “There was a mudslide and we haven’t had the time to get a cleanup crew out to move the debris.” She marked the path off with a red X. “So there’s only one road out of here, and that’s the one you used to get here in the first place.” She circled the crossroads on the other side of the map, past the edge of town. “Unless you want to drive through the bulk of them, we’re out of luck.”
“So we stay here, wait for help? Someone’s bound to come calling when an entire town just stops existing. Even sooner if anyone else is still alive out there and made it out.” Mason clung to his hope to stay out of the fight like a baby clutching its rattle. Finch didn’t blame him for his reluctance, but if he was ever going to get any sleep again, they had to do something.
“We can’t just sit here forever, but we’d be idiots to rush out there while it’s dark. Those things, those people, are bad enough in the daylight; if we can’t see them coming, we’ll have no chance.”
Having grown sick of the conversation, Mason sighed, walked over to the corner and counted ammo, calling numbers aloud as he went. Besides the shotgun in the trunk, there’d been a few magazines for their nine-millimeter handguns−and nothing for his Desert Eagle−as well as a flash-bang grenade and a pair of gas masks.
Those last few items had piqued Finch’s interest. It was unusual for your average cop to be equipped with riot gear. He wagered that at some point the LOPD must have had a SWAT division. He wished they had left a shield or something behind, but he was grateful for what they had all the same.<
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Donahue resigned herself to keeping watch, so Finch found himself alone with the map and his thoughts. Try as he might, he couldn’t process any alternate paths out of the town or to the station. In the morning, they’d have to go the sheriff’s way and hope that some poor soul was still alive at the station along with an intact armory. Perhaps the radio at the station could get a better signal, or they could head to the roof, light a flare or something, spell out “HELP” or−
“Llewyn, you might want to take a look at this,” Donahue whispered.
She was leaning against the wall, one hand prying apart dusty blinds, peeking through the window. Finch got to his feet, then tread over to her with soft steps. If an infected’s hearing was superhuman as well, he didn’t intend to find out. Come to think of it, he wished there’d been more to read in Black’s journal about the parasites. With so little information about them, he felt outclassed and outmaneuvered.
At first, Finch thought Donahue must have been imagining whatever it was she saw as he studied the darkness. Maybe the stress was getting to her again; maybe it was getting to all of them. When he took the job, he hadn’t expected the tone of the case to shift so dramatically into what-is-going-on territory. At this point, he’d prefer a religious cult group.
On closer inspection, he saw the source of her angst. With no visible stars and a lack of moonlight, it had been difficult to make out utilizing only the handful of street lamps. But when he squinted, he could identify the faintest flickering of a light coming from a house down the road. Then it disappeared before alternating on and off in a noticeable pattern. Someone was sending an SOS…and they were drawing attention to themselves.
Twenty wide and twenty deep, a horde that dwarfed the one from the funeral converged on the house, carrying lit torches and makeshift weapons. Finch found the sight reminiscent of the mob from Frankenstein, clamoring to kill the creature that wasn’t like them, that threatened their town with the devilry that was the great other.
Donahue didn’t give it a second thought as she scooped up her gun and started toward the door. Finch felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. What was she thinking? She was going to get herself killed.
“Willow!” He hoped they hadn’t heard that.
She stopped in her tracks, one hand reaching for the doorknob. “We can’t just let them die out there, Llewyn. You said it yourself: I’m still the sheriff of this town. And it’s my duty to protect its people, no matter who or what I’m up against.”
Mason opened his mouth to say something, then thought better of it. He looked to Finch for aid. “You’d just be throwing your life away. Those people are as good as dead already. We can’t help them.” She needed to stop. If she would sit down, she’d understand that this was for the greater good. Those things out there didn’t take prisoners, wouldn’t be content with hacking off a hand. What had Black said? Preservation at all costs.
She scowled. “Really? Are you telling me that you’re just going to stay in here, hide like some coward while innocent people are murdered and controlled by some parasite?” She turned back, opened the door. Finch winced, expected a blade to come slicing through her head. When nothing happened, he saw she still stood there. Glancing out the window, he saw that the horde was closing in on that house. “You and I both know you couldn’t live with yourself,” she said, taking a step through the threshold. “There’s no time to argue.”
With a deep breath, she vanished into the dark of night.
UNDER SIEGE
Cursing, Finch yanked his last clip of magnum ammo out of Mason’s hand and drew his gun. He darted after Donahue, fighting against every instinct of self-preservation he had. He heard her before he saw her, the booming repetition of gunfire echoing in the black of night. She stood on the opposite end of the street from the horde, trying to draw them away from the house they were keen on tearing down. Bullets pounded into their flesh; Finch thought a few of them must have struck the parasite in their backs as the men went down in a heap.
As half the crowd turned to face Donahue, Finch fired his Desert Eagle, nailing at least two of the infected square in the neck, severing their spinal cord. More of them rounded on him, slow but resilient, single-minded, like at the cemetery. He backed away, hoping to lead them far from Donahue and whoever was trapped in the house.
He heard the crunch of grass behind him and swiveled about, jamming his gun into Mason’s face in the process. “Get back!” he yelled, causing Finch to look down at the shotgun in his hands. Not needing to be told twice, he sidestepped the deputy, recoiling as a blast of shotgun pellets sliced through the air where he’d been standing. The rounds pelted the abdomen of one woman and sent her reeling back into the crowd. But the infected didn’t stop. Didn’t blink. They marched on.
“There’s too many of them,” Mason said, firing into the crowd yet again.
“Yeah, thanks for the update,” Finch heard Sheriff Donahue quip as she circled back toward the house. “You two can hold ‘em off while I get whoever’s in there out.”
Finch extended his arm, but she was too agile for him to grab. Her steps turned into a jog as she angled away from the impending horde. One of the infected raised his weapon to strike, but Donahue’s bullets took him in the forearm, causing the man to drop what he’d been holding. By the time his axe hit the ground, she’d already barreled through the front door.
Mason picked up the slack, moved closer to the crowd. Dangerously close in Finch’s opinion, but he had the shotgun so it was his best bet for doing damage. Flanking them from the left, Finch aimed at one of the infected men carrying a torch. With the right approach and luck, the crowd would be set alight. It wouldn’t kill the parasites outright, but he doubted they could endure fire without feeling some level of pain.
“C’mon, move your head,” he muttered, gun trained on one of the torch-wielders in the middle of the pack. The wall of infected men advanced, zombie-like in their movement. “And-now!”
The volley of rounds hit their target, and the torch fell to the ground at its owner’s feet. But the flame that ignited was miniscule, no spread to speak of. He had to think of something else.
Footsteps grew louder. Their disconcerting faces became clearer as did the flowing black tendrils of the parasite embedded in their spine. As Finch dared watch, the tendrils wrapped around the head of an old woman and tugged at the corners of her mouth, causing her to bleed from her gums. But the blood was black, not red, and viscous like oil.
That was it. “Mason, get the lamp!” The excitement in his voice was the only emotion capable of masking the immeasurable fear enveloping him with every new development he witnessed from this godforsaken parasite.
It took a moment for his words to register with the deputy. “It’s not going to be enough,” he said, letting loose another spray of shotgun pellets.
“No, but it’ll slow them down. Hurry up, I’ll cover you.” Mason nodded, ran back into the abandoned house where the rest of their meager supplies were. Finch glanced back at where the sheriff had gone, expecting to see her escorting civilians out of their self-induced death trap. Several infected stood in the doorway, blocking her escape. He prayed there was a back door to the place.
That bit of distraction was enough for the horde to gain ground. He fell flat on his butt when one of the infected took a swing with his shovel and smashed the knuckles of his left hand, causing him to drop his magnum. He scrambled to pick it back up, shaking his hand from the pain and dodging a descending kitchen knife as he did so. How could he have been so careless?
He nicked the gun with his uninjured hand and stumbled back, not taking his eyes off of the infected. Guttural growls erupted from the throats of the horde, giving voice to their frustration. Finch fired again, emptying his clip into the nearest man. His eye socket burst. That shot would’ve killed a normal person, would’ve punctured the brain, but the man never ceased, abyssal black blood seeping down his face.
A glass object shattered at t
he feet of the horde. The lamp! Mason must have thrown it. But the infected were well past the torch he’d shot out of their hands, so he had nothing to ignite it with. Finch reloaded the gun. There was no guarantee a round from the Desert Eagle would generate enough of a spark, but he’d try.
He inhaled, closed one eye, kept the sight square on the spot where the lamp had fragmented. A simple target, his life depended on it, the oil would do the rest, had to breathe…he exhaled, and fired.
The ground crackled as the bullet met its target and flames spread, devouring the nearest infected. The shrieks of the man and the parasite coalesced into one burrowing earwig of sound. Fire danced, licking up and to either side, binding the crowd in a great cloak of agony that couldn’t be ignored.
Finch relaxed, though his gun remained trained on the horde. The fire wasn’t powerful enough to hold off all of them and the parasites would still live when their hosts crumbled. But he would take what little downtime he could afford. He inclined his head to thank Mason for the assist, but the deputy was nowhere to be seen. Donahue hadn’t returned with the civilians yet either.
Deciding that escape was now the better part of valor, he fled from the burning parasite men back into the abandoned home. With any luck, both Mason and Donahue were already inside and in his fight to survive he hadn’t seen them return. With their position being overrun, they’d have to get back in the car and make a run for the station sooner than he’d anticipated.
In the absence of the lamp, the flickering candlelight guided him through the darkness. The floor creaked as he walked, the echo of his footsteps magnified by the void that surrounded him as well as the creatures outside. Were he a superstitious man, he would’ve half expected one of the infected to ambush him around the corner while wearing Donahue’s skin. But he had enough to worry about without manufacturing that breed of fear.
With the cries of the horde bombarding the air at his back, Finch worked to gather the remaining supplies. He picked up the flash-bang and ammunition for the Beretta. He berated himself for leaving his Browning in the Jeep. There was still no sign of his companions, but he snatched a casing of shotgun shells in case he found them. “Every bit counts,” he grunted to no one in particular.