Intruders (Book 2): The Awakening

by Tracy Sharp

  “That’s the same writing that was at my father’s house,” Rye said.

  “Doesn’t look like the National Guard’s work. Think those people were already dead when they set them on fire?”

  “For our sake, I hope so.”

  Rye eased the van around the semi. It was tense for a moment as the wheels teetered at the edge of a four-foot drop-off. Once the van cleared the wreckage, Rye picked up speed. About a mile down the road was another pile of bodies. Spray-painted on a sign that said Welcome to Virginia were the words Clear and 2 Survivors.

  “That’s a good sign,” Daphne said. “Maybe whoever is doing this isn’t that bad after all.”

  ***

  He watched from a deer stand about fifty feet from the road. There was no way they could see him. Even in winter, the stand was shielded by so many trees. It was impossible to spot unless you were looking for it. The binoculars followed the yellow van until it was out of sight. He picked up a radio.

  “Live ones about fifteen minutes from you. I couldn’t tell if there are any survivors.”

  ***

  “The airport is up here on the left,” Rye said, before making a sharp turn that pressed Daphne against the passenger door again. “Sorry, almost missed the turn.”

  “My confidence level in you flying a plane is at an all-time low.”

  A fence with spiral barbwire entwined at the top came into view. Just below the gray sky was a tower. The gate leading to the airport was closed, but not locked. Rye slowed the van to a crawl and inched toward the gate. He pushed it open with soft taps on the gas pedal. Keeping the damage to Sammy minimal was a priority even though he was about to say good-bye. Once inside, he drove to a row of empty hangars.

  “How is this even possible? Not one plane.”

  “There,” Daphne said, pointing to a blue helicopter plastered with bright yellow letters spelling out WKTL TRAFFIC. “Can you fly that?”

  “Probably.”

  “Okay, I was wrong. Now, my confidence is at an all-time…”

  An Army green Humvee raced in front of the van. Rye slammed on the brakes. Another Humvee pulled in behind Rye, blocking any escape.

  “Thank God,” Daphne said. “Help.”

  A man, standing at least six foot eight, with long hair pulled back into a ponytail and a beard to his chest, stepped out of the vehicle in front of the van. He wore a black tank top and camouflage pants. In his hand was a machete. He held a death grip on the weapon, which accentuated the veins racing up his forearm.

  “Don’t think they’re military,” Rye said.

  “Get out of the van,” the man said, waving the blade.

  At the same time, Rye and Daphne glanced to make sure the doors were locked, like that would protect them. The back door of the van swung open and two men jumped in.

  “Holy shit, Braun. They are loaded with supplies.”

  Rye turned and faced the men. One pointed a small handgun at him.

  “Don’t try to be a hero.”

  Daphne placed her hand on Rye’s knee and whispered for him to stay calm. The men in the back started tossing drinks and chips to someone standing outside the van.

  “You better do what Braun says. He’s pretty good with that machete. Jason Voorhees good.” The man tucked the gun into the waistband of his jeans.

  Braun walked to the passenger side and stared through the window at Daphne. He cocked his head as though he was sizing her up. She saw it as a lion on the other side of the door trying to figure out a way to eat her. Rye reached under the seat for anything that they could use as a weapon.

  “Come on out, hon. We’re not going to hurt you,” Braun said, tapping the tip of the machete against the glass.

  Something poked the palm of Rye’s hand from underneath the seat. A screwdriver.

  “Don’t make me count to ten. The more I have to count, the more your friend will suffer.”

  The men in the back of the van ignored Rye and Daphne and kept tossing things out of the door. Rye tapped Daphne’s foot with the tip of his steel-toed boot. When he got her attention, he handed her the screwdriver below the seat. A bang on the glass startled her. She almost dropped it.

  “One,” Braun said. He hit the glass again. “Two.”

  Before he could count to three, Rye leaped from the seat and snatched the gun from the man’s waist. He fired one shot into the man’s chest as he turned around and another shot into the other man’s face. A third man started to get into the van. A bullet halted him in mid-air.

  “Call for backup,” Braun said before smashing the window and grabbing Daphne by the hair. He jerked, pulling her halfway through the window. “I told you I wasn’t going to hurt you. You’ve made a liar out of me.”

  Daphne screamed and with all the force she could muster, she jammed the screwdriver into Braun’s forearm. He let go of her hair. She fell back in the seat and used her feet to kick away from the door.

  “You okay?” Rye asked after securing the back door.

  “For now.”

  Two more Humvees and a pickup truck, with at least ten guys in the back, headed toward the van. Braun gathered himself. He unlocked the door and nearly ripped it from the hinges.

  Daphne dove for the back of the van. Braun grabbed her ankle, ripping off the running shoe she’d borrowed from Rye’s stepmother’s closet. As soon as air hit her foot, Daphne’s toes tingled. In a blur, the sensation surrounded her body.

  “Braun, look,” the driver of Braun’s Humvee said.

  Three little girls kicking a soccer ball neared the Humvee.

  “Kill ’em,” Braun said as the other trucks pulled up.

  “They’re survivors.”

  “I don’t give a shit. Kill them.”

  One of the little girls kicked the ball toward Braun. It hit his legs and ricocheted under the Humvee. “I’m sorry, sir.”

  Another girl walked toward the truck to get the ball. An electrical storm ravaged Daphne. Her fingertips burned. A tickle in her throat made her gag. Her eyes ached. Her temples throbbed. Pain punched the back of her neck.

  “They aren’t kids,” she whispered to Rye. She barely got the words out before dry-heaving.

  Braun grabbed the girl by the arm and she bent down to retrieve the ball. He lifted her clear off the ground.

  “Sir, you’re hurting me.”

  “Calm down, Braun,” one of the men said, hopping out of the pickup truck. “They are survivors. We protect all survivors.”

  Braun tossed the girl to the asphalt.

  The other little girls stood between Braun and the little girl on the ground.

  “Oh, you’re going to protect her?” He sneered, and then shoved one of the girls.

  The girl on the ground sprung to her feet. Her head tilted back. She let out a guttural moan and her jaw unhinged. Hints of green surfaced just under her flesh.

  “What the fuck?” Braun stumbled back against the van.

  A shot rang out and one of the girls was hit in the shoulder. When the bullet hit her, flesh dispersed from her body like a dandelion blowing in the wind. She was no longer human. In a blink, she was in the back of the truck, shredding the men.

  Within seconds, the other girls transformed into lizards, like a scene in a horror movie.

  Two Humvees sped away. One of the girls grabbed the driver of another Humvee and tore him to pieces.

  “Jesus,” Rye said

  “We have to go,” Daphne said. “They’ll do that to us too.” She opened the back door of the van. “We’re clear.”

  Rye stared through the windshield as the three lizards surrounded Braun. He swung the machete, but they were too fast. They dodged each swipe with ease.

  Daphne grabbed Rye’s shoulder. “Come on.” She pulled him out of the van as Braun’s screams filled the air.

  “Have I told you lately how glad I am that you can feel those things?”

  “You can thank me by getting us the hell out of here.”

  “Looks like a Be
ll 407,” Rye said, circling the helicopter. “If it’s fueled up, it still won’t get us to New York. But it will get us closer.” He opened the door to the cockpit. “Your chariot awaits.”

  The tingling in Daphne grew stronger. “They’re done with that guy. They’ll come for us now.” She strapped herself in. “I sure hope you can fly this thing.”

  Rye winked. “Don’t worry.”

  In the distance, three green dots became larger. The lizards focused in on the helicopter.

  “Here they come.”

  “And here we go,” Rye said.

  One lizard leaped, but the copter was out of its reach. They circled below like hungry gators at feeding time.

  Part II

  New York

  Chapter 6

  The crawlers were calculated. After killing most of the survivalist team I’d joined, they dug holes, dotting the entire area around our compound. Traps serving only one purpose — to make sure any stray survivors couldn’t escape. All the digging made the ground unsteady. How the compound didn’t sink was a mystery. With each step, the earth shifted beneath my feet. The shipping containers, turned living quarters, were leaning, obviously being swallowed up by the hollowness below. The ground was a ticking time bomb with no warning of when it would implode.

  Hank and I barely made it out without falling to a sure death. I didn’t think it would be possible to navigate a vehicle on the unsteady terrain, but one of the trucks was parked just outside of the holes. It was about time we had a bit of good luck. But in this new world, nothing good lasts. We didn’t make it ten miles before the radiator blew.

  We headed toward the Hudson River on foot. Each nervous step was a guessing game. The holes were like landmines. They could be hidden anywhere. Hours seemed like days. Days seemed like weeks. Along the way, we found several places to call home for a few hours, but the horror of wondering what happened to the people before us, and the bloodstains to remind us that we didn’t really want to know, made our stays less than pleasant. Yet, they kept us alive.

  When we finally reached the river, we crawled on to the ice and Hank’s relieved, happy lope let me know that the frozen surface was the only place we were safe from sinking.

  ***

  Hank and I made our way carefully over the ice-covered landscape of the Hudson. We’d been heading toward a dark spot in the distance for miles. Snow drifted, obscuring the shape, and then it would reappear, like a mirage. I had a hunch this was a shanty used for ice fishing. I prayed to an indifferent God that there would be food, water, and maybe a propane heater that Hank and I could use before moving on.

  As we moved closer to the spot, the structure became clearer, and hope bloomed in my chest. It was an ice shack.

  “Just a bit farther, Hank. If nothing else, that’s shelter.” My face was so frozen that forming words was difficult. I moved stiffly, but the discovery of the shack gave me a much-needed push, and I moved a little faster.

  I didn’t see a single deadie around, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t make it across the ice. Also, there could be one or more inside the shack. I had my boot knife and in my backpack nestled an ax from the compound, and UV lights for the nighttime, when the lizards came calling.

  This place seemed like a lost, frozen wasteland. The only thing for miles was the ice shanty. At the very least, it would get us out of the elements while we rested. Hank was strong, and so was I, but I had a feeling that Hank would keep going until he dropped if I asked him to.

  My heart swelled, watching him trot toward the shack. I really didn’t know what I’d do without him. He was all I had left in this godforsaken world.

  ***

  Hank moved toward the ice shanty, sniffing at the ground around the shack. The structure looked like a tiny house and was big enough for maybe five or six people to sit in. It was small but had been made with love as well as for shelter from the harsh weather while ice fishing.

  I’ve never understood why someone would go out into the freezing cold, on a frozen surface, to fish through ice. I get that it’s a sport. I just never got the whole freezing your ass off part of it. I’d have never set foot into one of these shacks if I hadn’t been in the midst of an alien invasion/zombie apocalypse. I liked being warm and comfortable.

  It seemed that those days were long gone. I may never be warm and comfortable again. Hank had been pampered and loved by the couple next door to where I’d lived for three years. This was a rude awakening for him, too.

  Mindful that there could be deadies in the shack, I kept my voice low, but the cold seemed to swallow up most of the sound of my voice. Mist billowed from my mouth. “Hold up, boy.”

  Hank came trotting over to me. He sat with his ears pointed straight up. He was a big, muscular dog: a shepherd mix with maybe some Boxer or Mastiff in him. Maybe some Rottweiler. His muscles bunched as we both studied the shack for movement.

  There was a window on the side of the shanty. I saw no movement behind the glass. We both kept our ears trained for sound, but it was difficult telling the difference between the moaning of the wind and the groan of a deadie.

  It was still daylight, but the sun was slowly sinking lower in the sky. My stomach tightened at the thought.

  We’d been lucky so far. Yesterday we’d found a camper at the edge of the river. It had no gas, but it had kept us out of the wind. Hank snuggled next to me and I piled the sleeping bag on top of us. Pictures on the walls told the story of a happy family. They’d probably used the camper for weekend fishing getaways. A moment of vicarious joy warmed me, and then the cold returned. They’d likely met a very bad end.

  My muscles ached. We were both exhausted and hungry, having traveled for most of the day, and neither of us had much energy to take out the living dead at this point if it came to that. But it was a routine we’d grown used to.

  I stepped forward and Hank stayed beside me. His nostrils sniffed the air. Usually he detected the deadies before I did. His eyes were alert, watching the shack.

  Still, the snow and icy air whipped around my head. Even with the hood of my parka up over my mother’s winter hat blocking most of the wind, it was too loud to hear much else. I’d have to rely on Hank.

  I crouched down, pulling my knife from my boot. “Is there anything in there, boy?”

  Hank took a tentative step forward, sniffing, ears twitching. Then a deep growl rumbled in his chest, and he snarled at the house.

  We’d have to kill at least one more.

  Good times.

  ***

  Could it be behind the shack? Slowly, I started around the shanty. “Come on, boy.”

  Hank kept pace with me as I rounded the structure. What I saw sent a shiver through me. A few yards from the shanty, a snowmobile had apparently broken through the ice, and hung with the front end submerged into the water. My eyes swept over the area. It was a fairly large hole. As we drew nearer, my gaze caught on something red. A snow hat had snagged on a jagged edge of the ice. Whoever had been on that Ski-Doo had gone through that hole.

  There had been a short-lived thaw recently, before the cold came roaring back with a vengeance.

  The temperature had risen into the fifties for several days, which made sleeping in abandoned houses more bearable, since the heat no longer seemed to work in this area of the world.

  The brief reprieve from the cold had been a double-edged sword. The warmth made it easier for us, but it also made it easier for the dead. They moved more slowly, and in some cases, not at all, when the temps were really cold.

  Hank and I had passed deadies on the coldest days, frozen still, eyes milky and unmoving. It had made me nervous. Like they might have gotten smart and were playing a game of statues with us, waiting until we weren’t looking to pounce.

  But they hadn’t. Yet.

  So we had to be extra careful in the warmer weather. They were usually slow, but they were also pretty quiet. Just because you didn’t hear them, didn’t mean they weren’t coming up on you.


  Then, just as fast as the temps had risen, they dropped.

  But not soon enough for the ice fishermen. They’d likely come out to the shanty to get away from the dead and the lizards. They hadn’t counted on the warm spell, or the ice melting. Poor bastards. Can’t win for losing in this new, ravaged landscape.

  “Watch for holes, boy.” Hank knew what holes meant. He’d seen people falling through them or being dragged into them by the creepy things I called the lizards, or sometimes crawlers. The insectile creatures that stashed people underground, either for breeding purposes or for food. Hank was an expert at detecting holes.

  Keeping a safe distance away from the half-sunken snowmobile, I walked around it, scanning the surface of the snow-covered ice surrounding it. I gave a humorless chuckle. “We got away from the holes in the ground, Hank, but now we need to watch the holes in the ice.”

  Hank stepped lightly, gingerly checking with each step, and sniffing the ground constantly. He would’ve made an amazing police dog. His sense of smell was unbelievable. I continuously scanned the snowy surface of the ice for dents and inconsistencies, but it was not easy. It was ice. There would be dents and inconsistencies.

  The process took longer than my patience liked. Every cell in my body screamed at me to move, run, or just do something. I pulled in a chilled breath, trying to ease my bunched shoulder muscles and stay calm, but adrenaline was pumping through me, making my heart thump wildly in my chest. The fight-or-flight instinct warred inside me.

  There was something bad near. I felt it in my bones. Hank smelled it, and his bunched muscles told me that he was certain of it.

  Hank stopped, lightly pawing at a spot on the freshly fallen snow. He whimpered, sniffing the area.

  “Hank, come here. Move back, buddy.” If Hank fell through the ice at this point, I honestly felt that I’d go in after him.

  Shimmying backward, he kept his gaze on the area. I patted his head, sweeping the surface, looking for signs of how big the hole was, and how many of them there were. How many snowmobiles had gone under?