by C. J. Sears
Silence. Finch lowered his gun. As he did, his eyes settled on an object jutting out from the tall grass. He leaned in to examine it. Not an object, he corrected himself, a foot, still connected to its owner. And there were more of them.
They laid there in a formation that reminded him of a flock of birds. There were twenty of them, sprawled on their bellies, backs arched into the air. The parasite was exposed, writhing in a peculiar dance that Finch thought must have been ritualistic behavior. He heard the clacking of their limbs coming together, like they were clapping. Between the infected, he saw the source of the smell. It was Mason, ripped to shreds, his peeled flesh like flakes of bloody pink flower petals in the grass.
Finch swallowed the bile in his throat. He steadied his finger against the shotgun’s trigger. He could take out at least four of them if he aimed well enough, but that wouldn’t put a big enough dent in their numbers. Throwing caution to the wind, he walked between them, stepping gingerly over Mason’s corpse. To his surprise, none of the infected moved to attack him. They were oblivious to his presence.
The Forestry Station awaited him. The walls hadn’t been repainted in a decade and the building itself was no larger than a double-wide trailer. Part of the roof bent at the edge, dribbling soppy leaves and pine needles from the gutter.
It seemed to take an eternity to reach the door. He was conscious of every step, every fraction of noise as his shoe hit the ground and lifted up again. Finch allowed himself another deep breath as his hand clasped the doorknob. He turned to face the infected again−still unmoving, except for the clattering of their legs.
Suppressing a shudder, he turned the knob. The door swung all too easily. Someone had kicked it open. The lock was broken. An infected or maybe Rhinehold must have done it. Finch decided it didn’t matter. All that mattered was seeing this through and making sure the tragedy of Lone Oak never happened again.
THE EVILS OF THIS WORLD
Donahue vomited onto the mismatched black-and-white tiles of the floor. She wished she could erase her memory of what had happened. The image of her brother’s corpse ravaged by the parasite men stuck like an industrial-grade adhesive in her mind. Rhinehold had left the door open, knelt beside her and forced her to watch as the infected tore Mason apart. Part of her wished he’d died in the hospital if only to spare her the agony of listening to his screams.
Her arm was shackled to the bedpost. She’d jiggled the chain and wriggled her hand, but it was too tight to slip through. Without keys or some kind of bolt cutters she couldn’t imagine being able to loosen the handcuffs enough to break free. Rhinehold had warned her she was here to stay, to witness “the Purge” as he’d called it. In his sick way, she guessed that was his rationalization for letting her live.
She’d listened to his rambling for longer than she could stand. It was ridiculous, couldn’t have been true, but she believed almost every word he said. Rhinehold told her about his family, what had happened to them because of her own father’s judgment. He told her how what he’d learned about the Bradfords and their occult origins. He told her how he’d re-purposed their god and their own methods. Donahue felt as if she’d been a priest in a confessional booth, lending her ear to the unholy deeds of a man so convinced of his own authority and virtue that he held no shame about the hell he’d unleashed.
However he attempted to justify it, she knew he was insane. Her father was no saint, but she’d loved him, and she refused to acknowledge the idea that he had ties to a cult family. Beyond Lone Oak being a small town community where some folks knew each other’s third cousin as well as they knew their own flesh and blood, there was nothing in her mind that supported Rhinehold’s theory. Other than being called “Super-Special Deputy Willow” as a little girl, she had no recollection of any privilege or wealth that would align with what he’d said to her. It was garbage, finger-pointing nonsense, through and through.
Yet all the other details lined up so well. She considered the possibility she might not have known her own father like she thought. Between that irksome notion and Rhinehold’s bizarre crooning before he left, she hadn’t had time to process her brother’s death. Now it was all she could think about, lying on her side and trying not to look at the warm, gooey, yellow-green puke on the floor.
The creak of the door opening caused Donahue to open her eyes. Rhinehold, back to torture her some more. Maybe he was going to strangle a kitten in front of her. It would be dressed in her brother’s clothes somehow. Or maybe he’d taken the time to dig up dear old dad so he could spit on his remains. Perhaps he’d resolved to finish her off after all, put an end to the pointless charade. A part of her wanted that to be true.
It wasn’t Rhinehold at all. It was Finch, armed with a shotgun and scanning the room for threats. She couldn’t read the expression on his face, but she guessed he’d found Mason’s body. Donahue didn’t dare to look into the tall grass, to see if it was still there. Squashing the violent images in her head, she waved with her free hand to get his attention.
He nodded to show he’d noticed her, but his eyes never stopped surveying the room. It was as if he was afraid of the tiniest shadow in the farthest corner. After all they had been through, she couldn’t blame him for his paranoia.
Finch took an interest in the switchboard as he approached her as if he were sizing it up. For the life of her, she couldn’t understand why. Rhinehold had taken the satellite phone with him, so if he wanted to get ahold of the outside world he already had the means. Unless there was something that he hadn’t told her or she’d overlooked. The man had ranted for so long that details were bound to have slipped by her.
“Where’s Rhinehold?” he asked, his voice no higher than a whisper.
“I don’t know,” she said, swinging her legs over the edge of the bed, taking care not to step in the putrid glaze she’d left on the floor. She wasn’t surprised that Finch had pieced it together himself; a mind as weirdly perceptive as his was the perfect match for a case like this. “He left a few minutes ago with Wilkins and couple of other people−I don’t know if they’re all infected or just his lackeys−out the back door. Well, after he got done singing.”
He looked puzzled. “Singing?”
“Yeah, sounded so weird. I think it’s how he controls them, the parasites I mean.” She frowned. “Didn’t you hear it? It’s like a high-pitched version of the sounds the parasites and the infected make. Like a lullaby.”
He shook his head. “Didn’t hear a thing.”
She thought that was strange, given how close Finch had to have been to the Forestry Station when it happened. Dropping the subject, she pointed at the handcuffs. “Think you could bust these open with the shotgun?”
Finch ran his hand over the chain. “Looks pretty sturdy, but I think you’re right.” She prayed that nothing outside would hear them as he brought the butt of the gun down on the upper link of the chain, near the top of the bedpost.
“I saw all the cars. How many others are there?”
“At least thirty, I think. I don’t know what he did with them. There were a lot of screams a little while ago, so…”
“Yeah,” he said, continuing to hammer the chain.
Donahue strained the chain while he worked to free her. She filled him in on what she knew as best she could.
“This is taking too long,” he said after the seventh hit failed to dislodge the chain. Shooting it off would be both too noisy and dangerous. The pellets could splinter, injuring her in the process. Donahue thought about Wilkins. He’d have the key, but that would put Finch in unnecessary danger, like sending him into a lion’s den. She had no idea where he was but knew that Rhinehold wouldn’t be far behind. Seeing more of him wasn’t on her agenda.
“There’s probably an axe or something around here,” he said, glancing back at the open door. “I’d have to bust the glass, but−”
“I’ve got an idea,” she said, stopping him in his tracks. “See how much of a gap there is between the bars? I
bet if you wedge the gun you can get enough leverage to pop the one I’m attached to out of its socket.” She thought it was worth a shot at least.
Finch shrugged and said, “What the hell.” He slipped the barrel through the space where her bar met the bedpost. With one hand at each end of the gun, he squeezed the steel around the bar, using the latter as a fulcrum. The metal squeaked. Donahue could see beads of sweat on his forehead as he pulled and pushed the shotgun in opposite directions.
With a metallic squeal, he forced the bar out of place, almost knocked her in the head. She slid the loop over the edge and was free. Donahue dragged her arm toward her chest, tried to work the feeling back into it. The cuff still hung from her wrist, dangling from the chain, but she was no longer confined to the bed.
“Thanks,” she said, sticking out her other hand, trying not to let her brother’s desecrated body creep back into her mind.
He pulled her into an embrace, startling her. “You’d have done the same,” he said, holding her close. “Probably faster too.”
She laughed. God, it hurt to laugh. “You’re probably right,” she said, hugging him back.
He let go of her. Donahue could see he wanted to say something else, to talk about what had happened to her brother. She shook her head. “Let’s not think about that right now,” she said, more for her own sake than anything. He stared at her, not buying it. “Look, I’m not fine,” she finally said, “but we have to keep moving.”
That answer must have been good enough as Finch turned away from her. He looked at the switchboard again. “I think Rhinehold wants to use the air-raid siren to send a message across Lone Oak,” he said, pointing at the complicated series of electronics. “My guess is that he can only sing, as you put it, to a few them at a time. With this thing, he’ll be able to call them all.”
He hefted the shotgun in his hands, aimed at the switchboard. There was no time to figure out which wires to cut. He was about to fire when Donahue held up her hand and said, “He’s had this thing rigged up for a while now. Why hasn’t he used it yet?” She thought Finch’s conclusion was correct, but it was clear to her there had to be a reason he was waiting to use it−and a reason he’d left her alone, unsupervised.
“Does it matter? We can’t let him do this. And since I don’t know where that psycho is to kill him−” Donahue heard it the same time he did: the cocking of a loaded gun.
Finch spun and fired at the figure standing in the doorway. The man fell like a lump sack to the ground, dropping the pistol as he collapsed. Donahue had time to note it was Wilkins before Finch pumped the shotgun and sent another round into the crowd forming behind the fallen officer. The pistol slid across the floor right into her waiting hand. She shot two rounds into Wilkins’ back, ending his suffering.
CRASH! Wood splintered as the back door was blown off its hinges by an infected wielding his own shotgun. Adrenaline kicked in and Donahue yanked the bed away from the wall as hard as she could and tipped it over. She ducked behind it, using it for cover as she riddled the man with bullets. One round took the man in his jaw, cut it clean down the middle. Another penetrated his neck but missed his spinal cord. She aimed low for the third, shattered his lower shin. The impact carried him to the ground. With the parasite in full sight, the fourth and final round silenced him.
“Two shells left!” Finch yelled as he backed toward her cover. She had no idea how much ammo she had, but knew this Beretta model could hold up to seventeen in a magazine. If this was the same gun Wilkins had used on Plinkett, she had ten bullets left. Not enough to last and the infected were still coming through the front door.
But not the back. Donahue leapt over the upturned bed as Finch reached her position. She sprinted over to the dead infected’s shotgun. It was a sawed off, break action. She split the gun, dumped the shells out into her hand, and threw them. “Here, catch!”
Finch grabbed the shells as they flew his way. Not wanting to take any chances, he blasted the switchboard with his last two rounds and followed her through the back door, reloading his gun as they fled outside. She heard the sizzle as the electric wires in the console fried. Donahue ran down the dirt path, cutting through the tall grass. In the back of her mind a voice said that was foolish, that predators liked to ambush in places like that, but she ignored it. Infected with parasites and running on rage and God knows what else, these people weren’t animals.
Her legs burned as they sprinted downhill. She tripped when they reached the bottom and saw the line of vehicles. Finch grabbed the hem of her shirt to prevent her from falling. She pushed him away as an axe ripped the air between them and battered the ground. With that reminder, she increased her pace twofold.
“I left Albert in the car,” Finch said, gasping between words, “God help us, I hope he ignored what I said and stayed put.”
The footsteps, screeches, grumblings, and the rattling of the handcuffs intermingled, becoming one unified, horrible sound. Donahue didn’t want to guess how many infected had chased them, didn’t dare to look behind and confirm a horde more massive than any they had seen. The raw, concentrated hatred that warmed her back was all she needed to know.
* * *
Everybody was dead. Or rather, Rhinehold had those freaks murder them. He’d given them a choice. Drink the moonshine or die. Out of stupidity or bravery, none of them drank.
The same would’ve happened to him and Evelyn if that chaos at the forestry station hadn’t erupted. He hadn’t thought twice before making their escape.
Michael guessed that federal agent guy was behind the commotion. He seemed like the hero-type. But he wasn’t going to risk heading back into enemy territory. For all he knew, it was those things turning on one another. To hell with that option.
Behind them, beyond the ridge, came the wails of the infected. Michael grabbed Evelyn by the hand and they ran. They needed to get back to the lineup of cars, see if any keys were still in their ignitions. Failing that, he hadn’t been on the track team all those years for nothing.
"How can there be so many? We'll never get away in time," exclaimed Evelyn.
"Yes, we will. I won't let us die," he said.
They sped forward, hoping that none of the parasite men could catch them. The woods went on for miles. Past that, he thought he saw the rear end of a vehicle. It looked military. But he couldn’t be sure. All that running had completely turned him around.
The ugly mass of a parasite peaked over the hill. Michael panicked. He was in the middle of the forest. That car was too far away. No way he’d make it in time.
A shack shuddered in the wind. Not much of a refuge, but he’d take asylum where he could get it. Maybe the horde was distracted long enough for him to think of a better plan.
“Come on!”
He pushed Evelyn inside the glorified shed and shut the door, bracing himself against it. Evelyn’s eyes darted around the building, searching for signs of the infected. Michael was glad she hadn’t let her guard down. He didn’t want to be stuck in a small room with those creatures.
“There are people out there,” she said, pointing through the window at several indiscernible shapes moving in the forest. “They’re wearing some kind of armor, I think.”
Michael perked up, let go of the door. If they were dressed like that, they had to be military. Now he was certain he’d seen a fancy logo on the back of that car. Finch must’ve called them in somehow. They were here to help.
“Find something to signal them with,” he said.
As the infected raged in the field and drew closer, Michael prayed that Evelyn could find something to contact the others with. If she didn’t, they were dead.
They scanned the dusty floor and fractured wood. But there was nothing. Not even a big stick.
“Maybe we could wave a shirt or something…”
Fists banged against the door and the slim walls of the shack. Michael pushed back against it, knowing the ticking clock would finish counting down any second. He’d seen their ha
ndiwork. He knew what the result would be if they couldn’t get help.
There was a narrow slit in the window. The hot dead air snuck in through its cavity. Michael thought it was wide enough for one of those tendrils to fit through or maybe—
“Do you still have your phone?”
Confused, Evelyn said, “Yeah, but we’ve got no signal, remember? They took the cell tower down.”
“But it’ll play music, right?”
She smiled and nodded, relieved that he’d thought of it when she hadn’t. She thumbed through the settings on her phone and selected the heaviest metal band in her library. Those army guys had to hear this.
Evelyn slipped the phone through the crack. The song revved up to full blast as it landed on the earth below.
The infected surrounded them. No way would the walls hold. They had to leave.
“Together then?” she asked.
“Together,” he answered, interlocking his fingers with hers.
They shoved the door open, emerged into the overwhelming darkness of the forest. The arms and cries of the parasite men awaited them. A guitar riffed in the background. There was nowhere to turn, nowhere to hide.
So this was it. The end. Would it be so horrible? He'd often heard death was a journey. The next great adventure, in fact. Well, they were about to find out.
Tires screeched, a set of doors opened and shut, the creatures, Michael, and Evelyn were illuminated by glaring light—he heard the stuttering of automatic fire from a trio of machine pistols—and the next thing he knew, the front line of infected keeled over.
Distorted voices, gruff and cold, replaced the siren song of the parasite men.
“Are these the ones?”
“No, they’re too young.”
“Well, we can’t just leave them there. This is a Code Omega. There’s no time.”
“Fine, take ‘em. Let’s get the hell out of here.”
Four masked figures shoved Michael and Evelyn into the back of a black Humvee. He remembered a series of bumps as the vehicle shifted into gear and they drove away, then a sharp pain at the base of his neck. Not military, not good people.