by M. D. Massey
I take off towards him, limp and all.
He trains the gun expertly at me and fires, catching me in my upper stomach as I spear him. We both break through the glass and fall to the concrete below.
The impact steals the air from my lungs, and my head slams against the ground with such force that everything goes black for a moment. Thick blood runs down my legs and sides. I don’t even bother trying to put pressure on the gaping hole. I’m nearly finished with what I started, anyway.
Slade gets to his feet first, groaning and grasping his right arm. Cuts cover his cheeks and forehead. “You know, Mike, you’re cutting into my departure time here.”
He grabs me by the shirt, pulling me from the ground, and throws me against the lab equipment. I have no clue where we are now. Moving my hands to push my beaten body back up, I rub across a screwdriver on the floor.
“What’s your wife’s name again? Oh right, Becky. I bet she tastes just as good as she looks, doesn’t she, Mike?”
I give no response as I struggle to get to my hands and knees.
“No matter, when I get out of here I think I’ll pay her a visit. See how she’s coping with your tragic and accidental death. Maybe she’ll be longing for some comfort. At least you can die knowing I will do her right.”
Slade turns his back to me and walks towards the gun. Digging deep within and ignoring the pain, I get to my feet and race toward him. I grab him by the throat, and jam the screwdriver into the mid part of his back where he can’t reach it.
“I hope it doesn’t hurt too badly,” I whisper in his ear.
He yells out like a wounded animal, elbowing me in the gut and knocking me hard to the ground. Reaching behind him, Slade tries to grab the screwdriver embedded in his back, spinning about in a fit of panic and agony.
I can hear the dead all around, a loud banging sound on the walls and doors. At this point I’m ready to just die and stay that way, but not until I see Slade go first.
He stares at me, the smirk long gone, and rage filling his red face. His teeth bared and a lone vein protruding from the middle of his forehead, he barrels towards me.
With my last ounce of strength, I manage to pull my legs up and ram them hard into Slade’s chest as he leans in for me. I drive him backwards and knock him off his feet. Then, as if everything is paused and started back up in slow motion, I watch with an eager and satisfied gaze as Slade lands on his back. The screwdriver digs in even more, his body releasing a single exhale.
Not so funny now, is it?
Seeing that he’s motionless, I relax and let go. Eyes closed and in my final moments in hell, I lay motionless on that hard concrete floor, thinking of nothing but Becky. A tear springs from my eyes, trailing down my face as the mix of emotions overwhelms me. My breathing shallow, I wait for the end.
27
Something grips my left hand and pulls, jerking my body. I figure it’s the dead coming to ravage me, so I don’t fight or resist. Take this rancid meat, you bastards, and I hope you choke on it!
“Christ Mike, wake your ass up! We don’t have time for a nap.”
Am I dreaming or in some state of euphoria? That sounds like Natasha, but she’s long gone. Something flat and hard bashes me across my face, knocking my head to the side. “Get up!”
My eyes explode open. I’m disoriented and unsure how long I’ve been laying here. Natasha kneels over me, looking panicked as she glances over her shoulder.
“It’s about damn time. I was planning on slapping you a little more for good measure,” Natasha says with a chuckle. “I see you got that son of a bitch.”
“What are you doing here?” I groggily ask.
“Never mind that. We’ve got no time left and need to get out of here. So get off the floor and let’s get moving!”
Natasha grabs both my arms, wrenching me to my feet. My legs are like Jell-O, but I manage to brace them as best I can. My body aches all over, stomach tumbling and feeling as though it’s on fire. The crashing noise intensifies. I think whatever’s out there is getting close to breaking through. Natasha puts my arm over her shoulders and spins me around.
“There’s a freight elevator over here that’s used to transport supplies and such to the surface. It’s a non-stop trip as long as it has power.”
We pass Slade’s body. I’d like nothing more than to give him a good kick to the ribs, but figure that might come across as crass. Natasha drags me, dead weight, through what I think is some kind of lab or testing place. We reach the elevator and Natasha palms the lone button on the wall. It lights up and the hum of the cables rolling brings a moment of joy.
“I can’t believe he almost got the best of you. Man, and here I thought you were some bad ass walking dead punisher.”
“Yeah, I’m slipping a bit. I think I need a vacation after all this.”
The elevator dings and the worn, scratched, forest green doors part. The carriage stops midway in the opening. “Well, it’s better than nothing.”
Natasha faces the lab as she helps me into the carriage. I struggle to pull myself up, the strain on my injured midsection defeating my efforts. She hoists me up as best she can, half of my body still dangling off the edge. I scrape and pull, dragging my worthless ass in.
Natasha starts to climb in as I lie on the floor. A single gunshot rings out. Her eyes widen, her grip slips, and she falls to the ground. I crawl over and look out, finding her flat on her back. She’s still alive, but unable to move very well. I track down the shot to Slade, whose shaking arms train the gun he’s barely able to hold up.
I should’ve stabbed him again, just to be sure.
“Looks like it’s a trip for one,” Natasha says, coughing up blood that seeps out from her pale lips. “You need to get going.”
A loud crash from the opposite end of the facility gets my attention, the moans and shrills of what sounds like hundreds of infected pouring into the space. Slade smirks, apparently feeling like he accomplished something as he drops the gun. It’s soon wiped away as a massive, mutated creature wraps its hand around Slade’s head and rips it clean from his torso. A pack of undead quickly converge and start feeding, tearing into his body.
“Sit up and reach for my hand!” I yell to Natasha.
The murder of flesh-eaters barrels towards us, growling and knocking over equipment to get to us. I stretch as far as I can, but don’t think I’ll be able to pull her up before they get here. I try nonetheless.
Natasha lifts her weakened arm, but doesn’t reach for me. She slaps the button on the wall and the doors begin to close. I pull my arm in and watch as she gives me a warm smile, the murder of dead mere inches away from her as the carriage door shuts. Silence.
I lay my head back and exhale. Tremors rattle the shaft as the carriage is pulled up. I can hear explosions that are muffled but intense. I think of everyone I encountered on this nightmarish journey, wishing at least one of them was here.
Another thunderous boom rattles my bones. I dig into my pocket and remove the memory stick the good doctor gave me. If I make it out of this, I’m going to bring these bastards down.
Boom, Boom! More powerful eruptions toss the carriage about. I try to hold onto something and brace myself, but there’s nothing to grip. Metal crunches and contorts as something billows up the shaft, racing towards me. I ready for the impact.
The force of the explosion slams into the carriage and thrusts me upward at warp speed. My body is glued to the floor, the skin on my face feeling as if it’s being stretched apart. All I can do now is wait for the ride to end.
Metal grinds on metal. I’m not sure if this coffin will hold together much longer. As I wonder where the end is, the carriage starts to slow. I’m still coming in hot and it’s going to be a rough stop.
Bangs and clangs clatter inside the carriage as it jostles about violently, suddenly stopping and throwing my body against the walls like an unloved toy. Smoke filters in, filling my lungs, and I hack hard. A beam of light weaves through the op
ening of the doors and captures my right eye.
The carriage is off kilter and the floor feels like it’s on fire. I wearily struggle to my feet and head to the door. I look out past the smoke, trying to see where I am. Seems to be some kind of warehouse with the entrance just ahead. I can see daylight and it’s never looked better.
I push through the opening and stumble over debris from the shaft, sparks spitting all around me and the sound of fire eating away at this place buzzing in my ears. Guess there’s no welcoming committee to do a meet and greet. There’s not a soul in sight, living or dead.
The area has been tossed and is in total disarray. Limping, I head towards the light. It’s quiet, no sounds of people or movement beyond the outside. Perhaps I’m alone now, which considering what I just went through, wouldn’t be a bad thing.
I stop briefly, bracing myself against the rocky wall to catch my breath. I think this is some kind of converted cave or something. Still doesn’t give me any clue as to where I am.
All right, come on Mike, you can rest later. Let’s get moving.
My hand on the wall, I head out into the opening. My right eye instantly wants to close from the intense light, my right hand lifting in the air to shield the sun’s rays. A warm breeze washes over me, the sound of birds flying overhead echoing throughout the cavern. I rub my eyes for a moment and blink, allowing everything to come into focus.
The land is barren, flat, and desolate except for a few dilapidated buildings in the distance. Not surprising, but I was hoping for a Starbucks at least.
No vehicles in sight, I journey out on foot. A few paces of freedom are all I manage before a crackle catches up to me and something strikes me dead in the chest. It knocks me flat on my ass. Guess I thought I was out of the woods.
Lying on the ground, the sun baking my face, I hear footsteps approach to my right. I try to react, but can’t move. Paralyzed. The figure comes into view, but is cast in a shadow from the sun cooking my one good eye. It leans down and grabs my neck.
“I’ve got one bogey, male, whose showing advanced signs of rapid decay and deterioration. Shall I dispense?”
“No, he might be of some use still. Bag and tag him.”
“Yes, sir!”
I try to lift my arms, fight back as the man slips me into a bag, but I’m completely defenseless. The sound of my fate being sealed creeps up from my feet and runs toward my head. The light is severed as the zipper seals me in. I just thought my nightmare was over, but it looks like it’s only beginning.
I’m sorry baby. I tried everything I could to get back to you.
About the Author
Derek Shupert is an emerging Science Fiction Author known for his captivating dystopian storylines and post-apocalyptic-laden plots. With various books and anthologies underway, he is also the author of the Afflicted series and Sentry Squad.
Outside of the fantastical world of sci-fi, Derek serves as the Vice President at Woodforest National Bank. During his free time, he enjoys reading, exercising, and watching apocalyptic movies and TV shows like Mad Max and The Walking Dead. Above all, he is a family man who cherishes nothing more than quality time spent with his loved ones.
To find out more about Derek Shupert and his forthcoming publications, visit his official website at www.derekshupert.com.
For updates about new releases, special promotions, and the latest insider information, visit the author’s website and sign up for the VIP mailing list. Head there now to start reading your FREE books.
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Rising Ash
R.G. Westerman
Copyright © 2017 by Little Monster Press
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All rights reserved.
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ISBN-13: 978-0998185026
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, are products of the author's imagination or used on a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to any persons, living or dead, or events is purely coincidental.
1
Tension burns in my arm as I take aim, lowering my gaze into the scope. I have been waiting in this tree for about an hour and finally something edible crosses my sights. Across from me on the far tree branch, the squirrel pauses, twitching its tail as if to taunt me. I take a slow breath, careful to keep my balance.
Seconds pass and the arrow flies from the crossbow hitting the mark, sending the creature tumbling into the underbrush. Small black birds erupt in a flurry from the brambles. I sit up straddling the branch and adjust the bow around to my back before I swing down, my feet finding the rocky ground.
The grass-grown gravel road curves through the field up ahead, dotted with a smattering of wet red leaves. I take a few labored steps towards the shadowed brick shelter up ahead, my legs sore from sitting in the tree for so long. Ivy and vines drape the trees in a chaotic tangle, grown over and filling the air with the scent of rotting wood.
I estimate there to be only a few hours of sunlight left. There is not much to accomplish for the day except to prepare and eat the parcel which I have just won. The meat will go a small way towards filling my stomach, but it is better than nothing. At least, the shelter up ahead would make a good place to settle in for the night. Careful of my steps, I skirt around the edges of the swamp, doing my best to stay undercover.
I have not seen a zombie in several hours. Even in my mind, I feel silly calling them that. The word sounds like something out of a story told long ago, a fairy tale from childhood, but these things, these creatures, living while yet dead and rotting, are all too real. I saw one a few miles back, crouching over the carcass of the yearling deer at the side of the road. That was a real shame. There would have been a lot of good meat on that deer.
I break through the underbrush, grab the arrow containing my night's meal and head towards the shelter. Having a means of hunting in which I could retrieve my ammo made life a great deal simpler in this world. Bullets, with their awkward explosive noise, always drew unwanted attention.
The storm clouds threaten to take over the sky, and fat rain drops splatter against the ground. I pick up my pace, quickly ducking into the wooden door of my shelter. Once inside I can relax my senses, something I still find difficult even after all these years. I do not expect to see any more of them for a while, as they tend to disappear when it rains. I leave the wooden door open, glad that I already have wood for a fire gathered on the dirt floor, at least enough to warm the small space and cook my food.
I nudge one of the branches with the black leather toe of my boot, before crouching to start the fire. Before long, I have the squirrel stripped and roasting on the spit leaning into the flickering yellow flames. I glance around, taking another quick assessment of the surroundings.
The shelter perches at the end of a row of brick houses alongside the back yard area of a much larger house, which possesses white columns and tall glass windows. I settle in at the doorway watching the storm clouds roll by overhead. Better to wait it out than to get caught in the rain closer into the city where shelter would be hard to come by. Here I can remain clear of any intrusions.
The scent of roasted meat fills the small space and my mouth waters in response. I tend to the fire and turn the makeshift spit, glad of the small amount of warmth generating from the source. I still have a small pouch of beef jerky left over from the last supply run, but that is the last of it. The yellow flames illuminate the space enough to cast shadows of the small cot and table lining the walls. Despite the presence of a wooden chair, I remain sitting on the floor, turning to face out and watch the falling rain darkening the patch of green grass outside my small hovel. I cannot see much beyond the hulking house ahead of me, but I know I have a secure vantage point in case anything approaches.
The fire sputters and a flame flares up as grease drops into the coals. Exhaustion creeps up on me, my shoulders and legs aching from the day's activities. I pull off my boots, followed by the damp socks, laying them out to dry and stretching my bare toes towards
the meager warmth of the flame.
I decide the squirrel has cooked long enough and I pull it from the heat. My fingers singe as I attempt to pluck off pieces of the dark meat, but my stomach wins out. I know I need to replenish my supplies, but being this close to the city it will not be difficult to complete a supply raid in the next few days.
Carefully cleaning each bone and examining the carcass to make sure I don’t miss a single morsel, my stomach calms its rumbling protest, satiated at last. I reach over and pull the heavy door closed as the darkness sets in. This will give me some amount of security during the night. Nothing can get in. That much is certain. Regardless, I pull the cot over in front of the door, tossing a handful of dirt over the dying fire. Instead of the cot, I opt to curl up on the dirt floor on the far side of the fire, falling asleep to the constant rain tapping against the wooden rooftop outside.
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I wake to the sound of scratching around the door. The thin tendrils of dawn reach underneath the strip between the door and the damp floor. I immediately reach for my crossbow as I roll onto my feet. The instant adrenaline rush pushes me into full wakefulness, and I realize the sound, the slow scritching of mindless movements, is coming from a zombie outside.
For the moment I am safe, locked inside this shelter, so I take a moment to pull on my boots and locate my knives. The barricade of the cot against the door stayed in place through the night, but the creature beyond the door is blocking my primary means of escape. I move over to the window. It is long since painted shut, but I try it regardless.
Stuck fast.
From this vantage point, I do have a clear view of the front of the mansion, the large staircase leading up to the wide concrete porch framed by the tall white columns. I press as far to the right as I can, trying to gain a clearer view. My small movements are met with an increase in motion from the creature outside.