Chronicles of the Infected Trilogy Box Set [Books 1-3]

by Wood, Rick

“Gus…” she sobbed for the last time.

  Over her shoulder, Desert backed away.

  Whizzo was in the corner. He was rummaging through his bag. Like he was trying to find something.

  Before them, rows of soldiers. An army, ready to take them down. Overkill in its most blatant form.

  Sadie took to her feet.

  She reached her hand out to Desert.

  Desert looked back.

  “Friend…” Sadie said.

  Desert nodded.

  “Friend,” Desert confirmed.

  Sadie turned. Game face on. If she could kill this many of the undead, she could kill this many of the alive.

  She knew she wasn’t normally supposed to kill people. Gus had said. But this was different.

  Gus had said to help them.

  And they were in danger.

  She scowled.

  Hayes laughed. “Look at her, she’s like a rat! Or a fucking cat or something. It’s pathetic.”

  Sadie growled.

  Desert backed away.

  “Right, enough of this. Kill ‘em.”

  The army raised their guns.

  Sadie lifted her arms out and screamed. She ran toward the gathering troops. The first spray of bullets hit the ground behind her, unable to trace her speed as she flounced to the left, to the right, and up, jumping over them.

  She landed on one of their shoulders. Tried to rip their head off.

  But…

  Their heads were tougher. They weren’t like the infected. They wouldn’t rip off so easily. How was she supposed to do this?

  She looked to Desert.

  Desert was backing away, finding cover behind a large pile of wood, entrails of the school following a likely ransacking for supplies in the initial stages of the infection.

  But, just before she found cover, she threw her knife into the air, at perfect height for Sadie to catch and use to slide into the soldier’s throat.

  That was better. That went through the soldier much easier.

  Desert and Whizzo stayed hidden behind the small barricade. Sadie could see them. More of the soldiers were edging toward them, firing, destroying their shelter, taking away any hope of refuge.

  Sadie was not having it.

  In a speedy attack, she leapt to the group of soldiers closest to Desert and Whizzo’s barrier, taking them to the ground. Their falling caused a few more stumbles of other soldiers, and Sadie used the shelter of the pit of stumbling bodies and momentary lapses in focus to kill a quick sequence of them. Before any other living creature could conceive of the movements, Sadie had swiped her knife through three chests, a leg, two necks, the underside of a chin, and an eyeball; which stuck to the knife, causing her to have to wipe it off on her trousers.

  Icky.

  She ran toward the next load of oncoming assailants, diving into them, moving her knife hand quicker than they could react.

  So quick, she didn’t even hear the gun fire before it got to her.

  Her shoulder. Immense pain. Then a sudden feeling like she was drowning.

  She fell onto her back.

  She heard someone scream her name, probably Desert, possibly not.

  She howled. It was agony.

  The soldiers parted. Allowed the shooter to walk through.

  General Boris Hayes, his jacket off, his gun out. Doing what he did best. Striding like Moses, arrogantly marching through the parted sea of soldiers.

  Sadie dragged herself back to her feet, went for him, but stumbled, her balance gone, the pain taking over any movement she attempted.

  Hayes aimed the gun at her face.

  She swiped for it, but missed, falling, collapsing in an earthquake upon solid tiles.

  That was when Whizzo stood and withdrew something from his bag.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Gus crawled backwards along the floor, staying beneath the concealment of tables. He knew it wouldn’t protect him for long, but every action was an immediate thought; once he’d been afforded the next few seconds of protection, he’d produce the next.

  Donny threw the tables out of the way like they were nothing. Sent them surging into smashed windows to his right, faded displays to his left.

  He kicked the chairs, sending them spinning across the room, punching the far walls with a heavy dent.

  “Donny…” Gus began, then decided to stop.

  He hadn’t been able to rationalise with Donny so far.

  Could his friend be so far gone?

  Gus knew he had to find some way to stop Donny without killing him.

  Or, failing that, he wouldn’t have a choice. He would have to…

  No. He couldn’t kill Donny.

  Only, Donny’s blood had what Eugene Squire needed. It had the blood of what they were trying to create.

  For the greater good, there was no way Gus could let Donny go.

  For his own breaking heart, there was no way Gus could let Donny die.

  Gus ran out from beneath the final table. He fumbled to his feet, using a nearby sink to steady himself. His head was smacked into that sink before he had any idea it was about to happen.

  He ignored the delirium and pushed himself hazily back up, running, just running.

  He saw a back door. There was a back door. A means of escape. A means of not dying.

  But it was so far away. Metres, yes, but in terms of–

  His lamentation was cut short. Donny gripped Gus around the throat with his firm hand and lifted him into the air. Gus grabbed Donny’s wrist, squeezing, pulling, trying to tear it away, but Donny was not interested. He even tried kicking Donny. Fighting back seemed like the only way – for now. But his kicks may as well have been done by a toddler, such were their effect.

  He choked. His breath. Escaping.

  Gus lifted his hands into the air and brought them down on Donny’s elbow with all the weight he had. Donny’s arm capsized long enough for Gus to free himself and run.

  Gus’s respite didn’t last long as Donny leapt to a table, perched on it, then launched himself toward Gus, taking him to the floor.

  Gus made it back to his feet, only for his face to meet the strike of Donny’s fist.

  Another strike came, and Gus blocked it. Before he could relish his success at blocking the punch, he felt the surge of anguish tremor up and down his arm, reacting to the force of the punch.

  He blocked another with his other arm, then another with the original arm.

  They ached. Ached like hell.

  Upon the next block, Donny opened his fist and grabbed the arm that Gus attempted to block with. With the temporary setback delaying Gus’s thought process, Donny swung his other arm into Gus’s face. The impact sent Gus off his feet and into the chalkboard behind him, thousands of particles of dust spraying into the air.

  Gus made it to his feet and used both hands to block another punch. He took Donny’s striking wrist in and tried twisting it. As he did, his face grew closer to Donny’s.

  “What are you doing, man?” Gus asked. “Just stop and listen to me.”

  Donny’s face was not his own. It belonged to fury.

  Donny simply over-muscled the hold Gus had, firing his fist through Gus’s stomach.

  Gus coughed, winded, but did not make the mistake of being still. Avoiding this complacency allowed him to run to the backdoor.

  Rain thudded the window of the backdoor, but it did not make Gus hesitate; if anything, the rain would help to complicate things for the opponent. And, although Gus knew that the speed at which Donny seemed able to fight and process his next move would not be faltered by the pounding bullet-drops of weather, Gus had to take whatever delusional optimism he had and hold onto it.

  Otherwise, the fight was completely lost.

  Gus reached the backdoor, stretched his hand out for the handle. He didn’t make it. The heavy impact of Donny’s foot sent him through the glass. Gus had no idea it had happened until he was pushing himself to his knees, registering the sting of multiple shards
stuck to his body.

  He pushed himself to his feet once more, brushing the particles away, wincing as the tiny pricks left small spots of blood staining his skin.

  The rain hit him. Hard.

  He fell back to the floor.

  Everything on his body hurt.

  As he looked up and saw Donny approaching once more, he understood what was going to happen.

  He was going to lose.

  Hayes was going to win.

  And Gus was going to die.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  It felt heavier than Whizzo. And if it weren’t for the fact that it had fit in his bag, from looking, you would presume that it was as big as him, too.

  It used to be a regular shotgun. Now it was bigger. Attached to it were various wires leading to various small boxes of lighter fluid, with a larger tank on the reverse of the shotgun.

  Gus had been impressed by the ambition, but not so impressed by its progress.

  Well, it was unfortunate that Gus was not going to be there to see it in action.

  Whizzo just hoped it was going to work this time.

  Hayes peered bizarrely at the object Whizzo lifted. He was torn between raising an eyebrow, guffawing, and demanding to know what it was.

  But one plus one soon became two, then multiplied into equations of fear.

  “The lighters…” Boris muttered. “The tank you attached… is that…”

  Whizzo smiled. He didn’t need to say what it was. He just needed to pull the trigger.

  “Desert, Sadie, duck,” Whizzo said, Desert looking just as confused as the opposition. She whipped herself to shelter, grabbing Sadie’s arm and taking her with them.

  Hayes went to call for his troops to back away, then stopped. If he did that, they would all run for it. If he didn’t order them to flee, he could escape first and put all their bodies between him and it.

  So that’s what he did. Turned and ran, shoving soldiers out the way.

  Before any other soldier could object or run or voice any concern, Whizzo unleashed. Pressing firmly on the trigger, which had required far more pressure than the gun would have before, he sprayed and sprayed steady streams of flames.

  The soldiers backed up, but for the front line it was too late. Some fell and rolled, unable to batter the fire from their bodies. Some were incinerated immediately and fell in a black, sooty mess. Some even turned and ran, alit, spreading their flames to the other soldiers.

  Desert loaded her ammunition and took Whizzo’s side, along with Sadie.

  “Together,” she told them. “Let’s move.”

  Side by side, they walked forward, placing each firm step one after another.

  Whizzo would go first, pushing a line of fire amongst the fleeing soldiers. He would take out the nearest bodies, then, as he waited for the rest of the petrol to flow from the tank to the gun, Desert would see to any strays, pointing her gun with pinpoint precision and ploughing the pathetic morsels who still hadn’t burnt to a crisp. Following this, Sadie would jump on any that had somehow missed the attacks and end their suffering with more suffering.

  “Keep going,” Desert urged him.

  The soldiers were fleeing out the door. There were few left.

  They stepped over bodies as they persisted, continuing forwards.

  Desert looked down. At the features on the scorched faces around her feet. The uniforms. Scanning their features. Searching for the face of General Boris Hayes.

  “You carry on,” Desert urged Whizzo and Sadie, then carried on searching, eager to see if they’d tagged their commander.

  Whizzo did as he was advised.

  Another elongated spray of fire was all it took to see off the final few attempting to retreat. There were no more stragglers for Sadie to pick off. As the last few bodies fell to the ground, the last few screams sounded from those being twisted to death by heat. He dropped the gun to his side and waited.

  He wasn’t sure what for.

  For them to return, maybe? Cancel their retaliation?

  But no. He could hear the mass of footsteps from those few lucky enough to survive, making it out of the building. They grew faint, and Whizzo became fairly certain that they were alone.

  He turned to Desert, who was walking up and down the tatty corpses decorating the floor of ash. Her eyes scanned each body, and her face look troubled, as if she wasn’t satisfied.

  “What is it?” Whizzo asked.

  Desert put her hand up, asking him to wait as she continued searching.

  Whizzo looked at the empty visage of a nearby body. He did that. He had done that. All of it. Their death was on him.

  He threw up. It was uncontrollable; a mouthful of bloody sick lurched to his mouth and landed over the blackened trouser leg of the nearby body.

  Desert met his side.

  “I know,” she said. “It sucks.”

  “I – I – I…”

  She placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

  “If you hadn’t done it, we’d be dead. These were the bad guys.”

  Sadie put her arms around him. A hug was probably the best that she could offer. He’d take it.

  Still, Desert seemed distracted, peering at the various corpses.

  “I can’t…”

  “Can’t what?” Whizzo asked.

  “Can’t see them. Eugene Squire and General Boris Hayes. Their bodies aren’t here. They escaped.”

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Loyalty was nothing. In the clarity that arrives with imminent death, your need for survival grips you with a fever that will not let its sickness go.

  That was Hayes’s reasoning.

  As far as he was concerned, most of this army were dead. They weren’t that great, anyway.

  He didn’t need them anymore.

  They weren’t anything like the army he was going to be able to produce now.

  Donny Jevon, the little miracle. His blood contained the synthesis needed, and they would use it, inject it into tens, hundreds, maybe even thousands. He would create the most remarkable army the world had ever seen, and there would be no army that would be able to outdo them.

  Donny had everything. Speed, muscle, awareness, aggression. That Sadie girl was nothing compared to what they’d produced.

  He could see it now in the perfect simplicity of his mind’s image. All of them marching under his command. Other countries falling by the wayside, dropped into the gutter on their way to greatness. It was beautiful. Glorious. Divine.

  “Boris!”

  A distant voice. Like one in the back of his head. Silently screaming.

  What was it?

  “Boris!”

  Was he imagining it? It was getting louder.

  It was kind of posh.

  It was…

  “Boris!”

  Ah, yes. Of course.

  Hayes turned and spotted him straight away. He was the bumbling idiot amongst a horde of charging soldiers. Muscular, kitted-out troops barging forward, then this little dweeb of a man jumping up, getting knocked about, pushing his way through them.

  “Boris!” Eugene yelped again.

  “Quick!” Hayes demanded.

  After being knocked out of the way by a few more soldiers, Eugene eventually reached Hayes’ side.

  “What do we do?” Eugene asked. The prime minister like a timid child looking for orders.

  “Do?” Hayes repeated.

  “Yes, what should we do? We’ve lost!”

  Hayes laughed. Stood still, cackling amongst the constant stream of troops.

  “We ain’t lost, Eugene,” Boris cockily insisted. “We are nowhere near lost.”

  The last of the soldiers left, leaving one remaining vehicle and the pounding rain.

  “But – didn’t you see?” Eugene continued.

  “I saw a guy with a freak invention scare a bunch of pansy soldiers. I didn’t see no one win.”

  “Boris, I – I – I don’t quite understand.”

  Hayes placed a strong
hand on Eugene’s shoulder, making Eugene flinch from the slight crush of Hayes’ grip.

  “Eugene, don’t you see? Donny Jevon was the thing we were trying to create. Did you see him?”

  “Yeah, yeah I did,” Eugene responded, cheering up.

  “Did you see what he could do?”

  “Oh, boy, did I.”

  “Imagine an army of them. Imagine it. We don’t need a bunch of deserters who run at the small sign of trouble – we need an army of him. And we’ll have it. Now that we’ve seen what we can make, we’ll have it.”

  Hayes straightened up. Looked to the far window, where a commotion was being created. Smashes and crashes caught the disrupted sky in its extremity, punching through the heavy thunder and ripping wind.

  “Well,” Eugene said, “shall we go?”

  “Not quite yet.”

  “Why? We have a car!”

  “Yes, but, Eugene – we also need the boy’s blood.”

  Hayes withdrew his handgun.

  “Are you going back in there?” Eugene asked.

  “You can wait in the car. I’ll be out with the boy in ten minutes.”

  His eyes focussed ahead. Vision hellbent on the commotion, he took his definite strides forward, making his way without faltering to where his prize was beating Gus Harvey to death.

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Some think that rain is just an element of weather. That rain is simply particles of water created by clouds to disrupt our daily lives.

  No. This was what rain was created for.

  As Gus backed away, crawling along the soaking surface, leaving the pavement for the soft soil of a flower bed, Donny towering over him, water pelting his face without mercy, Gus wondered if the water thudding against the ground would be the soundtrack to his betrayal.

  Rain was made for betrayal. For hate, for anger, for friends lost and never to be found again. It was a scene like this where rain came into its own. Became more than a passing annoyance or gentle tapping against the window; it became a prominent weapon of the sky, a thunderous battering of its harsh sting adding danger to any regular surface.

  Donny placed his rough paw around Gus’s collar and lifted him into the sky.