The thought of it makes me want to apologize to the runner as I swing the spikes at his neck in hopes of decapitating him. I don’t want to bash brains in and have to watch the mangled faces of humans be torn apart in front of my eyes. It kills me a little each time. I don’t want to murder them, I want to put them outside like spiders even though Mom screams the entire time I’m transporting them through the apartment. I hate wasting life. I don’t want to kill these things any more than I want to kill scary spiders, no matter how creepy they are, I just want them to leave me alone. I don’t want to kill them. But I have to. Because if I don’t, I’ll become what I don’t want to kill.
I’m sensitive, I get it. Always have been. They’ve made fun of me on the camping trips for as long as I can remember. They tease me like it’s a bad thing. Noah couldn’t hurt a fly. Noah’s too scared to shoot an animal. Noah’s a pussy who would rather quit than hurt people’s feelings. As if I chose to leave track. I was never scared of shooting an animal, I was scared of what it’d do to me. That it would change me. That it would somehow make me hard and calloused. I would rather talk to the deer than shoot at it, and I didn’t want to lose that. I was scared. I was scared of being what the guys around me wanted me to become. Them.
If Buckley was out here, he wouldn’t care who he was killing. Sure, you might think it would give him the edge. He doesn’t let emotions bother him. I’m out here trying not to burst into tears while tearing through this poor man’s neck, wondering if he has a family. Are his children still alive, hoping he’ll be coming to rescue them? Is his wife hiding under her desk at work, knowing her husband will never let her down? So she stays there, waiting, because he’ll come. If he has to move heaven and earth, he’ll come to her rescue with their little boy and girl in his arms. Will she be hiding there forever, waiting for him to show? Not willing to accept the fact that he never will. He won’t show up and rescue her because I just sent his head rolling down the street. I’m safe for another second but all I can do is cry for the wife and kids that will never be rescued by their daddy.
Maybe that makes me weak. Maybe the tears streaming down my face make me a pussy. Does the fact that I didn’t kill helpless animals when I had the chance really mean I’m not a man? You can call me a girl, a sissy, a bitch, I’ve heard it all before. But if that’s true, then you’ll have to explain to me why I’m out here on the frontlines doing what I need to do to save those I love and protect those I hate while the same people who accused me of being a sissy aren’t out here fighting beside me. Is it because they’re tied up? Or is it because they were wrong all along and the things they claimed made me less of a man actually made me stronger than they could ever hope to be? If it made me a girl, maybe that’s not such a bad thing, because my girl is out here, stronger than any one human should possibly be, doing what she’s done since this whole thing started, saving us. If the choices of my childhood turned me into a girl, from where I’m standing, that’s not such a bad thing.
I wipe my tears on the back of my hand as the runner’s head rolls away. I look to Felecia again, making sure she’s okay, only to find her watching me. The embarrassment I feel fades instantly when she shakes her head, crying as well. She doesn’t see a heartless creature dead set on eating me alive, she sees the husband and father who will never get to be his family’s hero. And in the reflection of my tears, she doesn’t see the monster who killed him, ripping that hope away, in those tears she sees the man who set him free. She doesn’t see me killing him, she sees me saving him from being something he would rather die than become. Her tears aren’t full of disappointment over what I’ve done, they’re sympathetic for the fact that I had to.
I’m forced to look away when footsteps approach. I spin around and swing at the bare shins of the delivery driver running at me full force. The splintering of bones sends him crashing to the pavement and sliding across the puddles, losing half his skin along the road.
It doesn’t faze him. He scrambles to his feet and comes back more determined than before. His shredded uniform clings to his blood covered, rain soaked body, road rash visible through the scraps of fabric. Small pebbles and grains of sand are imbedded in his face where it skid over the road like a demented slip n slide.
I don’t want to do this anymore. I don’t want to tear through another face with spikes, ripping through flesh and bone until it’s no longer recognizable as human. I don’t want to cry when I think about this being the last shift he has to work before reaching retirement. That his wife is home packing the last of their belongings into the RV so they can travel the country like they’d always dreamed of. Our dreams have all been ripped away in a violent sea of blood and carnage. And I don’t want any part of it.
I cry out when the spikes of my morningstar obliterate his gaping jaw. Blood clings to his red stained teeth, leftover from the victims that came before me. I stumble out of the way while he crashes to the street. The rain washes my tears away but I know they’re there, it’s becoming hard to see through them. I can’t stop it. I want to but every time I try to hold it in, my lip quivers until another sob bursts its way through.
He just wanted to get home to his wife. That’s all he wanted. He didn’t want to gnaw on some person’s limb any more than he wants to gnaw on mine. He doesn’t want me to swing my ball of spikes at his face again, dismembering his entire mouth. And even with it gone, nothing but bloody stumps of jawbone protruding from his cheeks, he still yearns to feed. His wife, his RV, his desire to see every tourist stop this country has to offer, none of them mean a damn thing anymore. It’s all gone. All that’s left is an inexplicable hunger for humans.
I bring the morningstar down across his neck but something isn’t right. It makes a clanging noise, like metal on metal. A plate in his neck, from a surgery? No, the spikes tear right through in an explosion of blood and flesh, bone fragments and muscle tissue. What in the hell is that noise?
I pull back to swing again but something grabs me. My ankle. Someone’s hand is wrapped around my ankle. One of the ones I thought I killed? What the fuck? A second hand trips me up as I try to step away. The sewer. They’ve pushed the manhole cover aside. They’re coming up through the sewer.
CHAPTER 28
I feel bones crunch beneath my heel as I stomp down, but it doesn’t deter them in the least. They knocked the manhole cover out of place. It looks like there’s three of them trying to squeeze through. I swing with so much aggression I almost fall over but the blows to the face aren’t stopping them. I know these things come from the depths of hell but piling out of the sewer? Give me a fucking break.
The Delivery America driver makes it to his feet. His head slumps forward, a huge chunk of his neck missing. Saliva drains through the gruesome chasm in his throat, mixing with blood, causing a cascade to dribble down his uniform. He rushes me, his head bopping, bone grinding against bone with every step.
I turn and run, leaping over the zombie infested manhole at the last second. I hit the ground on the other side, rolling before I bounce back to my knees just in time to see him collide with the emerging sewer dwellers. His leg disappears into the darkness between the three trying to squeeze through at the same time. It knocks one of them loose and he falls from sight.
I swing the spikes at the delivery driver’s neck yet again but it isn’t enough to sever his head. It just eats away at the cartilage, slowly decapitating the poor man who doesn’t want to be doing this any more than I do. Yet we’re both forced into it like two gladiators fighting for the amusement of others.
I circle to the other side of the sewer and chop at the back of his neck until there’s nothing left to keep his head attached. His limp body rests on the other two still trying to climb out. The tiny entrance is too crowded for everyone to be there at once. I stomp on his back, trying to force the others down but they’re just too persistent. They just push him back up, like they did with the manhole cover.
That’s it. I swing the spiked ball of destruction at t
heir outstretched hands, sending fingers flying into the air. They don’t even mind, they just keep reaching for me with bloody stumps that used to be their wrists. It’s like they don’t even notice that I tore their hands to shreds. They have nothing left to grab me with but it doesn’t stop them from trying.
I don’t dare kick their faces and risk them biting me through my shoes so I continue to kick at the delivery driver’s back while swinging my morningstar at the other two. Eventually one of these hits will knock them loose and they’ll fall back down the ladder, unable to climb their way out with no hands. Unless, shit, there’s two city trucks in the pileup down the street, how many workers went into the sewer? I saw three but there might be more, one of which definitely still has both hands.
One of them drops from sight, bringing the delivery driver’s body down with him. I kick the metal plate towards the entrance of the dank underworld. With both feet I send it slamming into the remaining orange vested corpse’s chest.
Bones snap on contact but it isn’t enough to knock him down. I chance it and kick at his face. He loses his balance but doesn’t fall. I kick the heavy plate towards him once again, sending it slamming against his neck. Blood immediately gushes from his mouth as he chomps his teeth off one another, chewing on thin air at the prospect of biting me. With another thrust of my foot, I force the manhole cover through his throat, breaking the skin this time. The blood that oozes from his mouth begins to seep out of his neck, coating the cylindrical plate within seconds. With one final crunch, the cover rests in its proper place. The beheaded utility worker’s jaw bites down a couple more times before going still.
How many are down there? I need to find a way to prevent them from bursting through again. Short of putting a car over the manhole cover, I don’t know what will stop them.
“Noah,” Caylee calls from the bus steps, one leg lifted in front of her like a flamingo, “your sword is ready.”
“Oh my god thank you,” I practically cry while rushing over. “How’s the bus coming?”
“It’s not good. I keep looking up and watching through the window. I’m so sorry I’m not out there with you.”
“It’s okay, just keep sharpening, you’re helping more than you realize.”
“I’ll try to sharpen that thing while I’m at it,” she says, taking the morningstar from my hand. “Your friend’s gonna be okay. The bullet went through so Paul didn’t have to fish it out like he did with Marty. She lost a lot of blood. She’s resting now but she’s kind of out of it. My ankle’s broken, we wrapped it up but there isn’t much else we can do. He’s working on your dad now. I didn’t know that was your dad Noah, I’m so sorry. Oh no, Tyrone. Look.”
I turn around to see him climbing on top of a car, trying to fight off a swarm of them. She runs her hand down my back as I take off running.
“Felecia, I gotta help Tyrone. Watch that manhole cover, they’re down there. I’ll try to hurry back.”
The sword is small enough to swing with one hand but my right wrist isn’t strong enough. I’m not confident with my left so I wield it in both hands like it’s some massive power sword of the gods not fit for a mere mortal. Let’s hope this works.
I pull back and swing at an incoming corpse. The blade slices right through the large man’s neck. His head flips into the air as his body collapses in a heap. Oh my god this thing is amazing.
Most of them are too preoccupied with Tyrone to even notice my presence and by the time they do, it’s too late. I behead a couple of them with two swift swings, one from each direction. I knew this would work, I fucking knew it. Swords sever body parts, guns only make holes. Man do I wish we had these sooner.
Three zombies scurry around the car, figuring I’m the easier target, too stupid to see what happened to their friends. I can’t decapitate three of them at once so I duck down and slice at their kneecaps. The bloodthirsty cadaver closest to me loses his lower leg and collapses mid step, crashing into the other two. They slam against the car. I lop one head off from behind, and then another. Gimpy grabs my foot and I bring the blade down across the back of his neck. No mess, no flesh flying into the air, just a clean cut that separates his head from his body.
The two women on the other side of the car look back and forth between me and Tyrone, like they’re trying to decide who to go for. They choose him. They’d rather attempt to climb a slippery vehicle while he chops at their arms with an axe in one hand, a morningstar in the other. They made the right choice. But is it because he’s closer? Maybe I’m making a bigger deal out of this than it is but I’m pretty sure they thought. They weighed their options and decided. Tyrone was the easier prey. They’re not supposed to think. Logic has evaded them since this all began. I’m the easier target because they don’t need to climb to get to me, I’m less work. Did they see their friends die and decide survival was more important than eating? I’m sure I’m jumping to conclusions here.
I run around the car, hopping over fallen bodies to drop two more with ease. Their smaller necks make it even easier to cut through. One of them has a baby carrier strapped to her front, I wonder where the baby is. Sometimes you don’t need to make up your own stories, sometimes they’re right in front of your eyes. The other woman has one of those child leashes attached to her wrist, the blood stained monkey shaped harness at the end of it is empty. Sometimes the real story is more heartbreaking than the one you tell yourself.
“Tyrone, did you see it too?”
“See what?” he asks, climbing down the hood of the car. “You going Conan The Barbarian on these bastards? Because yeah, I saw you He-Man, you fucked them up like it was nothing.”
“Told you swords would work,” I say with a smile. “But no, I mean the look in their eyes, like they were thinking.”
“What?”
“Nothing. I’m sure it’s nothing. Did you find anything?”
“None of them have keys. This was stupid anyway, who leaves their keys in the car? We got a big work van over there that’s not damaged but unless one of us can hotwire the damn thing, it’s not doing us any good. Pickup over there, I figure people could ride in the back but again, no keys. Then over there, big ass delivery truck that could probably fit everyone. I was hoping the driver left it running but of course not. We got nothing Noah. No luck getting the bus started?”
“Not yet. Keep looking I guess. Maybe we’ll get lucky. Me and Felecia have sharpened swords now, it looks like Neil might have one too.” I point towards our one-time rival currently slicing the head off a mailman like he’s carving a Thanksgiving turkey. “We can hold them off a bit longer. Just keep searching until they get the bus running. Maybe check older cars, country looking ones, they’re probably more likely to leave the keys in it.”
“Alright, I’ll keep looking.”
“Hold on, wait,” I say, stopping in my tracks. “Delivery truck? Delivery America?”
“Yeah, parked outside the flower shop.”
“Tyrone, I just killed the driver. I bet he’s got the keys in his pocket.”
“What? Yo, if we can get that thing running, we can fit as many people as we want in there, the back is full of packages but we can toss ’em to make room if we have to. Where’s the driver? I’ll check his pockets.”
“Fuck me,” I grumble, dropping my head into my hands.
“What? Why? You already killed him, we’ll just grab the keys.”
“We can’t. His body’s down there,” I say pointing at the sewer. “And he’s not alone.”
“Wait, you threw them in the sewer?”
“They were coming up from the manhole cover, city workers, they must have been working on the pipes. There were a bunch of them trying to climb out, but I kinda ripped off their hands.”
“So how the hell are we gonna get those keys outta the sewer?”
CHAPTER 29
“Noah,” Felecia screams, getting jostled around on the manhole cover, “I can’t hold them down, there’s too many!”
�
�Tyrone, fire. Grab something we can use as a torch, we’ll burn them, then go down and get the keys when the fire’s out.”
I race over to Felecia as she hops off the manhole cover and begins cutting off hands. They’re not smart enough to come up one at a time, there’s four of them trying to squeeze through all at once. Some of them are wearing different colored vests, some have hard hats, there must be multiple crews down there. The sewer’s swarming with them.
Even with stumps for hands, they manage to knock the manhole cover aside just as I arrive. With two swords, they don’t stand a chance. All four heads are rolling within seconds but they’re not falling into the sewer like they should, their bodies are rising, being forced out of the hole.
The headless corpses overflow from the shaft. Another set are already waiting to surface. They’re standing on each other’s shoulders, climbing over one another to get out. How many of them are there? I peer into the hole to see another batch beneath that, it’s just one giant mass of wasted humanity down there. We can’t fight these and the ones already at street level.
“Now’s probably not the best time to mention this,” I mumble, “but uh, I need to get down there.”
“You what? Down there? Yeah I don’t see that happening. Why the hell would you need to go down into the sewer?”
“One of the bodies down there might have keys to that delivery truck. We could load our stuff in there, fit everyone, and head for Shasta Lake, be there by tonight.”
“How are we supposed to get down there?”
“Like this,” Tyrone yells, shoving a burning board into the cluster of utility workers stuck in the manhole. They’ve kept dry underground so their clothes catch fire quiet easily. “We gotta get that cover back on or the rain’s gonna put it out.”
Blood Type Infected (Book 2): Fallen To The Flame Page 17