I was stiff. My arms hung at my sides. I wasn’t emotionally equipped to respond, but through the gravel in my voice, I said, “Thank you, Murphy. I…I…”
Murphy let go. “Man, you don’t need to say anything. It’s not like you’re trying to get laid, here, but maybe one day when you get that stick out of your ass, you can act like a normal person. Until then.”
Mandi came over and hugged me, too. “Please come back, Zed.” She stepped away and covered her face in her hands.
Murphy said, “You should have enough ammo and water.”
I nodded. “With any luck, we’ll be back by noon.”
“Luck? What the fuck is that?”
Chapter 27
The sky was clear, and we had the light of the waxing moon over smokeless desolation. The wind had turned. It came out of the southeast, carrying humidity from the Gulf of Mexico with it.
With water, ammunition, and weapons, I was carrying at least twenty pounds. To balance the load between us, I put the bulk of the water and some food in Russell’s bag.
I cinched Russell’s backpack tight on his shoulders. I checked that his shoes were tied. “Are you ready for this Russell?”
Russell looked at me with his blank face and empty eyes.
“Good, me too.”
I turned and started a jog down the street. I set a slow, sustainable rhythm for my booted feet. As they clomped on the asphalt, I heard Russell’s steps fall in sync with mine. He was right behind me.
As the blocks passed, I spent the sweaty run in meditation. It helped to clear my mind of anger and worries. All that existed in the world was the breath in my lungs, the pounding in my chest, and the asphalt slapping the bottoms of my boots. But I missed the usual pain.
My knees didn’t feel the pounding of jogging with the extra weight. My lungs didn’t burn with exertion. My muscles didn’t complain about the burden.
I put two fingers on my neck to check my pulse. Without the feedback loop of pain to keep me from overexerting myself, even jogging could turn fatal.
Twenty or thirty minutes in to the run, I slowed to a walk to give Russell and myself a chance to drink and rest. Five minutes was all I afforded us before I leaned back into a southwesterly jog.
Above us, enormous black plumes of smoke flowed out of the east. The Houston refinery smoke was back.
Miles passed. Sweat poured. Water bottles were emptied and returned to Russell’s pack.
I’d hoped to have found a car in which to race to the campus by that time. But the fire’s ubiquitous destruction saw to it that no functioning car was anywhere to be had.
When we got to MLK Boulevard, we came across the first of several flocks of westbound infected that we’d encounter on our run down to the campus. There were thousands in that first group, jogging up MLK with their pale sweaty skin glowing in the moonlight. They jogged in three serpentine, intersecting lines with marching band precision. Very creepy.
Russell and I waited on a side street and rested while the group passed. We needed to follow MLK down to campus but I had no desire to disturb the group, though the thought of jumping onto the end of a line did cross my mind. We were all infected. It may have worked.
It wasn’t until we encountered the third such group that I started to wonder if they were fleeing the Houston fires just as the infected in East Austin had fled our fires a few days before.
By six o’clock, the sky was painted a dull gray in the east and we crossed the MLK Bridge over IH-35. We were at the southeast corner of the university campus. Brackenridge Hospital was maybe a quarter mile south along the highway.
My clothes were drenched with sweat. Russell was soaked. I felt fatigue in every ounce of my flesh. I wondered why the virus couldn’t have damaged the part of my brain that made me feel that.
Russell and I downed more water and I pointed down toward the hospital campus. “It’s my favorite used car lot, Russell. I’m thinking I’d look good driving a tan Humvee. What do you think?”
Russell, of course, had nothing to say. He looked across the hospital complex with a pained expression on his face.
When I followed his gaze back, I noticed that there were a lot more infected around the hospital’s main building than there were when Murphy and I had stolen our last Humvee. I also noticed that the hundreds of bodies of the dead infected had been picked clean of flesh.
With the carrion gone, it wouldn’t be long before the infected started to turn on the weak among them, or any infected they came across.
“C’mon, Russell.”
We ran south on the highway’s access road, past the basketball arena.
It wasn’t long before we were among the bones and vehicles where Murphy and I acquired our last Humvee.
The difference on this trip was that I wasn’t picky about which one I got. I wanted the first armored Humvee I could steal. With a vehicle under me, I’d be at the dorm in minutes with a means to get Amber free of that place.
I grew anxious as I thought about what I might find in the dorm but I steeled my heart for whatever I might have to do.
The first Humvee we came to had dry pools of blood on the floors. There were stains on the seats and bloody, shredded clothing scattered inside. It smelled of maggots and rot. It was disgusting, but bearable.
From the passenger side of the vehicle, I held the door open and told Russell to get in and sit down. He complied, but once I shut the door he became very agitated and started to howl as he fumbled with the door to try to get back out again.
I hurried around to the driver’s side of the vehicle. A hundred infected eyes were on me by the time I landed in the driver’s seat.
They came running at us as I closed the door.
“Jeez! Every fucking time! Are you kidding me?”
I started up the engine and sped away before any of the infected got close enough to lay a hand on the vehicle. Nevertheless, they were anxious to pursue.
“Russell, did I mention that things were going to get interesting? Oh, and if there are a bunch of infected by the dorm, things are going to get really interesting.”
The infected population appeared to have increased everywhere, as I ran down first one, then another, and another. They flowed into the streets to chase us.
Austin was thick with them. There were six million people in Houston before the virus. How many did the flames drive toward Austin? It seemed like all of them.
I cut hard at the first corner I came to, raced a short city block, and turned again. My goal was not to stay on any street long enough for the infected to see me coming and get out in front of us. Back and forth, right and left, I maneuvered the Humvee circuitously toward our goal.
We crossed MLK through an irrelevant red stop light and sped north on Brazos Street. A quick left onto Jester circle and an almost immediate right put us on Speedway just two blocks from the dorm.
I swerved around cars in the street and made little effort to dodge the infected who got in my way, depending instead on the toughness of the vehicle.
In my excitement, I yelled at Russell, “This isn’t much of a plan, Russell! I hope it works!”
We passed the gym and I bounced the Humvee over the curb without slowing down. Its military grade suspension jostled us but didn’t fail. I took out a hedge as I angled across the grassy quad and headed for the gap between the dorm and the ROTC building.
I straightened the Humvee out as I neared the gap, then dragged the front fender along the limestone wall of the old dorm. I slowed to align the front door of the Humvee with the alcove in which the recessed side door of the dorm waited.
I smashed the brakes and flung the Humvee door open. I wasted no time with subtleties in checking whether the door was locked. I blasted it with my M-4.
The infected were already coming. The gunshots wouldn’t make a lick of difference.
The glass shattered and I raced onto the first floor. Russell climbed over the driver’s seat and followed me through.
I
took a quick glance back to gauge my chances of a successful exit and felt okay about it. The Humvee was wedged hard against the exterior wall of the building, completely blocking the entry. The only way for the infected to follow us into the building would be to crawl under. I had no doubt that some would, but relative to the horde that was gathering around the Humvee, the crawlers were a solvable problem.
I wasted no time with the elevator, but went straight for the stairs. I bounded up three and four at a time, with Russell chasing after.
When I flung the door open on the fifth floor, I was fully prepared to deliver some mayhem to Mark and whomever of his ROTC whack jobs were still there to get in my way.
Instead of a man with a gun, what assaulted me upon exiting the stairwell was the smell of death. From Amber’s texts, I knew that most of those we’d left in the dorm were dead or infected. Two of their bodies lay in the hall ahead of me.
I brought by M-4 up to my shoulder and aimed it up the hall. “Hello!” I shouted.
No answer.
“Hello!”
“Amber!”
Nothing.
“Mark!”
Nothing.
“Marcy!”
I turned to check that Russell was with me. He stood a few paces back, breathing heavy, but blank-faced.
I weighed the choice between running straight for Amber’s room or taking the cautious route and clearing the rooms as I went.
The Ogre and the Harpy.
“Fuck it!” I ran up the hall at full speed.
I slid to a stop at Amber’s door and pounded. “Amber, it’s me, Zed!”
Russell pounded on the door.
I looked up and down the hall. No sign of life.
I pounded again. “Amber! It’s me, Zed!”
Russell pounded.
“Damn!”
I stood back to kick the door open then gave it a second thought and checked the doorknob. It turned.
The Ogre and the Harpy.
The door swung open and I rushed inside.
“No!”
Amber lay on the floor, naked except for a torn shirt. I dropped to my knees beside her motionless body. Russell dropped to his knees beside me.
I put hand on Amber’s heavily bruised face. I put two fingers to her neck to check her pulse.
“No! No! No!”
Russell started to sob. Of his own accord, he pulled her torn shirt together to cover her breasts. Then he wailed like a dying beast.
I fell back onto my butt and felt my soul drain out of me.
Amber’s face was swollen and bloody. Her hands were bruised from defending herself.
Her skin was not white.
She’d never been infected. She was immune.
But she was dead.
I was numb. I was lost. I’d failed to save her.
I had failed.
I—
Breath came into my lungs and left.
Sounds fell on my ears and registered in my brain.
But Amber’s body lying on the floor was the only thing in the universe that mattered at that moment.
Russell’s wails hurt my heart.
Amber had not been killed by the infected. There were no signs of feeding. She’d been murdered.
I cut the deduction short and jumped to the only conclusion that made sense. She’d been beaten, raped, and murdered by Mark.
I barely knew her, but she was a friend.
She could have been more than that.
I cried.
In my head, the Harpy’s bony finger skewered my defenses and her harsh cackle poured in. The Ogre’s heavy fists punished me for my weakness and pushed me to rage.
Rage brought frustrated tears.
Tears brought humiliation.
Humiliation brought more rage.
In the little bits of my gray matter that could form a rational thought, I wondered whether the infection was for the best, whether we humans deserved to continue.
What did people ever do that didn’t end in tears?
What!
Two seemingly normal parents had raised the heartless Harpy, whose only joy in life was in ensuring that there was none in mine. Who knew what turned Dan into an iron-fisted Ogre?
Our culture made the cops that beat me. It trained the doctors that tried to dispose of me like a piece of hazardous waste.
But it made Steph who tried to save me from that fate. It made Amber, a sweet girl who was too afraid of her peers to stand against prejudice when Murphy, Jerome, and I were being cast out.
We humans made Mark, and Mark’s worth could only be measured in the blood and bruises on Amber’s skin.
My mind reeled, trying to find meaning for it all, just when meaning had lost its value.
Only one thing mattered anymore.
I had to find Mark.
Mark had to suffer.
Mark had to die.
The End
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AFTER:
THE SHOCK
(Book #1 in the AFTER series)
A post-apocalyptic thriller
By Scott Nicholson
Get the prequel novella AFTER: FIRST LIGHT free for Amazon US or Amazon UK
Copyright ©2012 by Scott Nicholson
Published by Haunted Computer Books
Scott’s newsletter:http://eepurl.com/tOE89
CHAPTER ONE
There were three of them.
She’d stopped naming them a week ago. It had been an amusing distraction for a while—and the Good Lord only knew, she needed distractions—but then they’d all started blending together, the Black-Eyed Susans, the Raisinheads and the Meat Throats.
Now, though, Rachel Wheeler couldn’t resist looking through the grimy drugstore window as she waited, crouched in the litter of baby powder and cellophane.
Stumpy.
The one on the right, sitting on the sidewalk bench surrounded by a mountain of bulging plastic bags, was missing his left arm just below the elbow. The wound was swathed in a filthy towel strapped in place with duct tape, stained dark brown at its blunt end.
Stumpy was waiting for a bus that would never come. Rachel couldn’t tell if he was a Zaphead. He might just be another of the schizophrenic homeless, one of the underclass that hadn’t even noticed that the world had ended. Although gaunt, he didn’t appear particularly motivated to kill, obsessed instead with swatting away the flies that swirled around his stump.
He was fifty feet away, and she could outrun him easy. All she had to do was run as if her life depended on it. It wouldn’t be much of a challenge because her life had depended on it for days.
A hundred yards down the street, The Beard, the guy staggering back and forth, was almost certainly a Zaphead. His expression was hidden by the unkempt hair, but he was hunched and his fists were clenched, rage curling around whatever strange energy burned inside of him.
Okay, Beard, you’ve solved my little dilemma of whether I should head south or head north.
The mountains were her destination, and they lay to the northwest, but she wasn’t willing to risk The Beard.
The word “destination” sounded odd in her thoughts, because of the root “destiny.” Such abstractions were laughable now, but laughter was the only weapon against the fear that sapped the strength from her legs. And she needed her legs.
Oh, yes, Lord, give me stumps for hands, but please don’t mess with my legs.
In this scary new world, in this After, you had to run, dragging your guilt and fear and all
the dark weight of Before.
Even if she’d wanted to head south, where not even hope was an option, Chain Guy had other ideas. He was moving through the smoky haze between a Volvo sedan cattycornered in the intersection and an abandoned police car, its doors flung open like the wings of a spastic, grounded bird as it perched with two wheels on the curb.
Chain Guy was dressed in a torn leather jacket, despite the late-August heat—and in Charlotte, the August heat grabbed your throat and scrubbed you with salt water—and he carried a knapsack. Clearly, he was one of the higher-functioning lunatics. The chain in his right hand trailed out on the asphalt behind him, its faint clink the sole soundtrack to a scene that had once featured rush-hour traffic.
She ducked lower in the drugstore window, clutching her backpack more closely. The pack was bulging, and she’d needed the dried foods she’d collected, but now, the comfort items felt more like indulgences that would slow her down and maybe get her killed.
Really, toilet paper and tampons, Ray-Ray? Why not grab some hemorrhoid cream and Viagra while you’re at it? You can’t beat these prices, so you might as well stock up.
She wondered if she should wait it out, to see whether The Beard and Chain Guy squared off. Maybe while they were busy, she could slip out and head down a perpendicular street. It was likely that one or two Zapheads would be on the prowl, but she didn’t want to stay there until dark. The store’s front door was smashed in, and other scavengers might show up for this unbeatable, once-in-a lifetime, going-out-of-business sale.
The sun was still high, but barely visible through the smoke that curled from the downtown high rises. She suspected a bonfire was raging in the football stadium, too—the wind carried the stench of charred meat.
Chain Guy wrapped loops of his weapon around his forearm until he had a four-foot length. He swung it back and forth, gradually picking up momentum until he was whipping the chain in a circle over his head. He was still about forty yards from The Beard, who still paced back and forth, apparently oblivious to the coming storm.
The Last Days: Six Post-Apocalyptic Thrillers Page 72