Pretty sure we'd found Matt's parents.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Friday, 8:45 a.m.
I glanced behind us. The back door had pushed the fridge another foot, and several infected arms were reaching through the opening. It wouldn't hold much longer.
As if reading my thoughts, Brian sauntered into the kitchen and kicked the fridge with the full weight of his body. It slammed back against the door frame, dismembering a few of the arms and hands that had been poking through.
Matt rushed around the recliners, looked at the occupants of both chairs, and grabbed the person on his right under the shoulders, pulling him to a standing position. Matt released his hold and the man stood on his own, then reached out and wrapped his arms around Matt in a strong embrace.
"What the fuck happened to mom, Dad?" Matt asked.
Just as he finished the question, the front door flew off its final hinge and crashed onto the living room floor. An infected stood in the doorway, deciding which one of us to gorge upon first. It didn't matter, as Rob placed a bullet between its eyes, its body falling limp to the ground.
"We need to fucking move," Brian shouted, returning from the kitchen.
Another infected had taken the place of the first in the doorway and Rob fired again. We had moments until the rest of the creatures in the street flooded through the front door. The deluge of infected at the back door ensured we wouldn't be escaping the way we entered.
"Up to the attic," Matt's Dad said, finally turning to face his son's companions.
Brian, Rob and I gasped simultaneously, just as we had back when we saw Matt's black eyes for the first time, following his wrestling match with an infected. His father shared the same blackness, the same void. He wore a short‐sleeve polo shirt and I noticed his arm bore no indication of the bite Matt's sister had mentioned days earlier. Either the wound had healed remarkably quickly, or the infection had occurred by some other means.
More infected struggled through the front doorway, with Rob dropping one after another. Before I realized he had even moved, Matt's father was halfway up a staircase located just next to the entrance from the dining room to the living room. Matt was right behind him and I followed Matt.
Rob had shot so many infected at the front door that he'd created a virtual blockade. The creatures struggled to push through a pile of their brethren that nearly reached the ceiling. He took the opportunity to join me on the stairs.
Brian fell in right behind Rob. As I reached the top of the staircase, I glanced behind me and saw Brian looking over the rail toward the kitchen.
"Fuck, they're through," he said, before turning back and bounding up the steps two at a time.
In the second floor hallway, Matt's dad had opened the hatch to the attic and was lowering the attached three‐piece, wooden ladder.
Brian stood at the top of the steps, firing repeatedly into the crowd of infected that had now reached the living room and the staircase. I slid in next to him and began mowing down infected. But there were so many. A steady stream of creatures was pouring in from the kitchen door, and the infected at the front of the house had removed the pile of bodies blocking the doorway leading to Price Street. They were flooding into the home from both sides.
To my right, Matt's dad had made it into the attic and Matt was scaling the ladder behind him. Rob stood in the hallway, ready to fire or climb, whichever came first.
The infected were now halfway up the stairs, climbing over the dead bodies of those that had come before.
"Gimme two more mags," Brian said, briefly turning toward Rob.
Rob threw the bag to the ground, pulled out two more clips and tossed them onto the carpet near Brian's feet. I bent down to grab them, stuffing one in my waist band and handing the other to Brian. He didn't bother taking his finger off the trigger, using his shoulder to balance the weapon as he continued to fire. Two seconds later he asked me to cover him while he reloaded.
In my peripheral vision I saw Rob toss the duffel bag into the attic above, then mount the ladder. A moment later, he lowered his head through the opening and called for Brian and me to follow.
"You first, I got this shit," Brian said without taking his eyes off the infected, the nearest dead bodies now feet away.
Four strides later I was at the base of the ladder and the infected had reached the top of the stairs. Brian backpedaled slowly, continuing to fire round after round. Each fallen creature was replaced by another, now spilling into the hallway.
I pulled myself into the attic and spun around toward the hatch. Brian stood just feet from the ladder, but the infected were at his legs. Brian continued to fire, sweeping his rifle from left to right, high to low, but was overcome by first one, then another creature, each tearing flesh from his thighs. Then another grabbed at his belt, as Brian dropped his rifle and pulled a handgun from a holster around his ribcage. He looked up, caught my eyes, put the barrel to his head and pulled the trigger.
Brian's body slumped to the floor as the infected overtook him. He disappeared amidst a cloud of blood and a pile of zombified man‐eaters.
Matt shoved me out of the way, yanked on the furthest rung he could reach, swung the bottom third of the ladder away from the floor below and into the attic, and slammed the hatch closed. His father appeared with a tangle of rope, securing one end to the ladder and the other to a beam that ran across the roof.
We sat silent, listening to the infected tear through the second floor, searching for us, for what they hoped remained of us, for anything to feast upon that may still be left.
An hour later the crashing and pounding and inhuman shrieks from below had ceased. Not one of us had said a word, other than Matt's father, who had quietly introduced himself as Glenn.
Brian and Dale were gone. Who‐knows‐what was going on with the girls back at our farmhouse. Matt's father was just as infected as he was. And we were stuck in a fucking attic, surrounded by a thousand blood‐thirsty, rabid, former humans. Fuck me.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Friday, 10:30 a.m.
I was sweating profusely. The attic was a hot box and getting worse as the temperature continued to climb. There was one small window on the far side of the room, but no one dared walk on the plywood floor for fear of alerting any infected who might be lingering below.
We spoke in hushed voices. Matt's father, Glenn, explained that the infection had spread quickly from Philadelphia to West Chester, leaving no time for most of the city's residents to evacuate. By Sunday evening, two days after the explosions, the streets were crawling with infected. Glenn and his wife, Matt's mother, hid in the basement when the infected stormed the house, but when they busted through the basement door, Matt's mother begged for Glenn to end her life. He waited until the infected were upon them, then put a bullet through her brain. As she fell to the ground, lifeless, Glenn noticed that the infected ignored him and returned up the stairs to the first floor. He followed, standing in the kitchen as a dozen infected tore through his home, searching room by room, all the while not giving him a second glance.
Glenn realized then, despite the black eyes as prior evidence, that he truly was infected and free to walk among the others. Only he didn't have anywhere to go and he was scared to travel, afraid he might be gunned down the moment someone noticed his eyes. So he brought his wife upstairs, gently placed her body in her favorite chair, and watched. He watched as the infected went from house to house, almost methodically searching for survivors. He watched as the number of survivors dwindled, and the infected began meandering through the streets, slowly and without purpose. He watched and waited for a military response that never happened. Then on Thursday, a day ago, he decided he'd just sit and wait to die.
"I'm so sorry, Dad," Matt said, a single tear running down each cheek.
"Nothing you could do, Matt," Glenn said, reaching out and patting his son's knee. "This was God's will, we just have to face it best we can."
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Friday, 12 p.m.
We had managed to make our way to the window, which was now open and provided a little relief against the heat and general stuffiness of the attic. Matt had cautiously peered outside and informed us that the infected had returned to their aloof positions in the street, though they still appeared to number in the hundreds, if not thousands.
We discussed a means of escape. I was more confident in the plan we created to get out of here than I had been in the one that brought us. Still, we had lost two men on the way in and, with Matt and Glenn already infected, Rob and I were the only items on the menu if we ran into more of those creatures.
On top of that, the only view we had outside was from the small window facing Glenn's neighbor's house. We could see a sliver of the street out front, enough to know the infected were no longer in a rage. And we could see a sliver of the yards out back, which didn't hold any infected in the tiny line of sight, but could easily be holding hundreds out of view. Far from reassuring.
We checked our guns and ammo, each taking extra clips from Rob's duffel bag. Rob pulled out three grenades and handed them to Matt. We re‐capped our roles, then Glenn untied the rope from the ladder and pushed the hatch down, revealing a dozen infected corpses, a blood‐splattered hallway, and Brian's outstretched arm, still clutching his gun.
***
Friday, 1 p.m.
Glenn descended the ladder first, stepping carefully on the corpses below, from one body to the next, trying to maintain his balance as he moved to make room for the rest of us. Matt went next, also watching his step when he reached the bottom. Rob tossed the duffel bag to Matt then followed him down. On the last rung, Rob swung his leg around the ladder and flung himself further down the hallway, away from the pile of infected bodies. I went last, mimicked Rob's technique, and landed on the carpet by his side.
Rob and I watched as Glenn and Matt worked their way to the stop of the stairs, then disappeared below. When they were out of sight, we ducked into the nearest doorway, a guest bedroom at the back of the house. There was one window overlooking the backyard. We dropped to our knees and crawled beside it. We waited.
Armed with three grenades and the knowledge that he wouldn't draw the ire of the infected, Matt's job was to launch and detonate the grenades, hopefully drawing the interest of every creature within earshot.
Five minutes had passed, which felt like an eternity huddled beside our escape route.
Finally, the first grenade exploded.
I knelt at the window and looked over the yard. Several infected were sprinting across the lawn and through the alley behind. I quickly unlocked the window and squatted.
Boom! The second grenade went off.
I looked again. A few stragglers traipsed through the alley, but nothing we couldn't handle. Standing beside the window, I raised the glass portion and pulled out the screen.
Bam! The third grenade. It was go time.
I hoisted myself into the window, my belly resting momentarily on the sill, lowered my hands to the shingles below, and wiggled my lower half onto the porch roof. I jumped to my feet and helped hurry Rob through the window and onto the roof.
I heard the engine crank from the car port at the far corner of the yard. Moments later, Glenn's Expedition pulled into the alley and stopped.
I looked down off the edge of the roof. It was a decent drop to the ground below, but we didn't have much choice. I leaped, hit the ground hard, and fell into a roll. I quickly recovered, scanned my immediate surroundings, then scurried to collect the magazines that had fallen from my waistband.
Before I even stood, I heard a loud snap, like a branch breaking, behind me. I turned and saw Rob writhing in pain, clutching his knee, screaming like a banshee.
I hurried over. The sight was grotesque. His right shin had split, the broken bone protruding from the skin, blood and marrow gushing from the wound. Matt came tearing around the corner from the front of the house and stopped in his tracks when he saw Rob and I.
"Holy fuck," Matt said. "Come on."
Matt ran over and helped me lift Rob, each of us putting a shoulder under one of his. Rob tried to use his left leg to help ease the weight, but he was of little assistance.
As we carried Rob toward the truck, Glenn hopped out of the driver's side, raised his rifle, and fired a flurry of shots down the alley. To my right I saw three infected fall to the ground. Glenn ran around to the passenger side and swung open the back door.
Matt and I flung Rob into the back seat with little regard for his leg. We didn't have time to worry about it. We needed to leave, immediately. Rob's screams alone had probably attracted the attention of half the infected Matt had lured away.
Matt jumped into the shotgun seat as Glenn and I ran around the other side, Glenn taking the driver's seat while I climbed in back next to Rob.
Just as we closed the doors, an infected slammed into the rear. Glenn threw the Expedition in drive and peeled away.
There were more infected ahead of us. Not as many as there would have been without the grenade diversion, but enough that Glenn couldn't avoid them all. He swerved left, then right, then left again, all over the tiny alley. Regardless of his attempts to maneuver around them, infected continued to crash and roll off the hood of the oversized SUV. The vehicle couldn't take a pounding like this for much longer. The barrage of impacts had to be doing some sort of damage.
Glenn came to an intersection where the alley ended and he'd be forced to turn left or right onto Bradford. He slowed as two infected crashed into the rear of the Expedition, then swung a right. The truck bounced over the mangled torsos and severed limbs littering the street, remnants from the grenade Rob had tossed earlier. Each thud brought a painful scream from Rob.
Glenn took the first left, half a block later, and we were back on Price Street. Only this time, it wasn't overrun with infected. I turned and looked through the rear window. The infected had lost interest in the grenades and were sprinting toward us through the street. They were over a block away when we made the turn and, as Glenn pressed down on the gas, the gap grew larger. As soon as Glenn made the left onto Miner Street, the angle blocked my view of our pursuers. I checked ahead of us, then out of both side windows. There wasn't a single infected creature in sight.
I collapsed in my seat and exhaled for perhaps the first time since I'd jumped from the porch roof. The relief didn't last long, as Rob's horrific injury and corresponding cries of pain snapped me back to reality. A moment later I had taken off my shirt and was tying it tightly around Rob's leg, just above his knee.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Friday, 1:30 p.m.
I continued checking behind us, half expecting another horde to emerge from a hidden neighborhood. Thankfully, Miner Street was clear the whole way back to the farmhouse, just as it had been when we were on foot earlier this morning.
Rob's cries became moans as the sharp pains turned to an aching throb and the initial shock wore off. The blood had stopped gushing, but I was more concerned with the open fracture than with blood loss. I wasn't a doctor, but I was pretty sure without appropriate medical treatment this type of injury could be fatal, likely through infection. There was no way we could properly realign the bone and suture the wound. We just didn't have the supplies or knowledge. Even if we did, without sedation Rob would be in a shit ton of pain.
My attention focused on Rob, I barely noticed as we turned into the farmhouse's long driveway, until I heard Matt mutter "Fuck me." I looked at Matt, then toward the house. The front door hung open, and two of the four windows on the first floor were shattered, along with another window on the second floor. There was no sign of any movement in or around the house. Not the girls. And not the infected.
Glenn, realizing something was terribly wrong, punched the gas and the Expedition raced the final hundred yards of the driveway, skidding to a stop behind the cargo van. Matt jumped out of the car and sprinted into the house through the front door. Glenn stepped out and followed Matt inside
while I waited with Rob. Seeing as how they'd be ignored by any infected that might be inside, it wasn't worth the risk of going in myself. Plus, I couldn't leave Rob alone, and at least here I could keep an eye out for any infected that may have followed us.
About five minutes later, Glenn emerged from the house. I reached over Rob and rolled down the passenger side window.
"Head on in there, I'll stay with Rob," Glenn said. "We found Sarah. She's alright, sitting in the living room now. No sign of Melissa, though." Glenn shook his head, his expression wearing the sadness he felt for Matt's missing wife.
I ran inside, through the front door, down the center hallway, then turned left before the kitchen, entering the living room. Sarah was seated on a couch, her face in her hands, her back shuddering through the sobs. She looked up when she heard me, her tear‐stained cheeks and puffy eyes displaying a glimmer of hope and comfort. I gave her a half‐hearted smile, aware that we had much to be grateful for, and much to mourn.
I walked over and sat on the couch next to her, wrapping one arm around her shoulders and the other around her waist.
"I don't know where she is," Sarah said, burying her face in my chest as the crying returned.
"It's OK," I said. "It's not your fault."
"Yes it is," Sarah said, pushing herself away, looking up into my eyes. "I ran, I hid. I didn't do anything. I heard her screaming. I heard her run up the stairs and those things followed her. I should have done something, but I didn't do anything."
Sarah began to cry again, this time using her hands rather than my chest to hide her shame from the world. I wanted to do something, say something, to let her know that she did the right thing, that if she had tried to distract the infected, we'd have two missing women, not just one. But it wouldn't help. She needed to grieve and work this out on her own.
Matt walked into the room.
"I can't find her anywhere," he said. "There's blood upstairs, in the room with the broken window, but that's it."
American Infection (Book 2) Page 7