Planet of the Dead (Book 3): Escape From The Planet of The Dead

by Flowers, Thomas S.

  Bernie didn’t look up. She gazed away at some other place than this room. Her eyes twitched as she recalled the event. “Like I said, they jumped us while we were looting for supplies. About five of them. Real bottom of the barrel kind of guys. Seedy bar flies. Probably all got records of some kind. Andre tried reasoning with them, he even told them about that safe place out east, but they didn’t want to hear nothing. At gun point they brought us to this church. They dragged Andre and Carl to another room. I heard them whispering to each other. I called out to them, last thing Andre said to me was, ‘Don’t be afraid.’ Next thing I know, we’re being taken out into the sanctuary. They forced me to watch. One of them sat beside me, to guard me, I reckon. But truthfully, I was too scared to do anything anyway. He sat there snickering and drinking beers while that devil Ty blabbed on and on about how God had abandoned us. That He was to blame for everything. They had Carl and Andre up there on the small stage where I guess the real preacher used to preach. Andre was being forced down on the table where they keep the grape juice and bread—Eucharist, I think it’s called. Ty—he took a knife and he...”

  Polk waited while Bernie cried.

  “Sorry,” Bernie said, wiping her nose with bound hands. “Didn’t think I had any tears left to shed.”

  “And they did the same to Carl?” Polk asked.

  “Yes. After Andre...it just didn’t feel like none of it was real. Maybe Carl was thinking the same. He just stared and was led peacefully to the sacrificial table...like a lamb.” Bernie exhaled. She looked tired. Worn. Broken.

  “Why haven’t they killed you?” Polk inquired. She it was a harsh thing, perhaps too direct. But the question needed to be asked.

  Bernie looked at her and shrugged, half smiling. “Saving me for last. Maybe they want to have a little fun with me, first. Or maybe I’m just lucky.”

  Polk was about to say something else when the door slammed open. She turned as much as she could from the floor and stared at the silhouette of a man with long hair and a cruel smile.

  “Alright, ladies,” he said, “service is about to start.”

  With that, three others came into the room, forcing them to their feet.

  A big fella hoisted Polk across his shoulders. His hands not sparing any opportunity, groping her thigh and buttock. “Oh, we’re gonna have some fun with you,” he chuckled in a southern twang.

  “But first, Father Ty needs a word with you two,” said the one who first came in. He stood by the door; arms crossed.

  “Father? Of what? —father of shithouse inbreeds like you!” Bernie shouted.

  The man strode across the room and slapped her. “Shut your fucking mouth, you old bitch!”

  Bernie whimpered for only a moment and then she stood her ground, glaring the man down.

  After a few long seconds, he laughed and walked away. “Bring them,” he barked.

  ***

  It had been a long time since Polk had last been inside a church sanctuary. Surprisingly, it was much how she remembered. Thin carpet. Wooden pews with thin cushions. Holy Bibles and song books tucked in cradles on the back of the pew in front. Stained glass windows depicting hues of purple and blue and crimson. A large cross hung on the wall behind the pulpit. A thick podium stood to the side on the stage. Behind it, a man no older than forty glared at her. His eyes were wide and maniacal and obviously pleased. His appearance wasn’t what she expected, though. Only his eyes told the truth. His exterior was seemingly composed and well dressed. Hair neatly combed. He adorned a priestly robe that was stained in blood.

  Collins, Jelks and Doctor Ahuja were kneeling on the stage. Their hands bound behind their backs. Heads lowered as if they were not fully conscious.

  Glancing behind her, Polk spotted one of them standing a few feet in the isle. Gun in a hip holster. Beer in one hand, snapping a can of chew in the other. The rest of Ty’s men were on the stage, guarding her friends.

  Beside her, Bernie sat motionless. Frozen, by memory or fear or both, Polk wasn’t certain. Whatever rage she had back in the room seemed to have dissolved at the sight of the pulpit.

  “Thank you,” Ty called from the podium.

  Polk looked at the mock preacher. “For what?”

  He gestured to her friends with a wide, sweeping wave. “For giving me this opportunity to curse our Heavenly Father, of course. This is all because of Him, or didn’t you know?”

  Smirking, Polk said, “I know you’re insane. That’s all I need to know.”

  Ty grinned. “The world is insane. If we are in the world, than we are also insane. Are we not of this world? This world that He,” the preacher shook a fist above him, “created. And for what? I’ve been a faithful follower with this church since my birth. I sat where you now sit and listened with reverence to the words spoken from this pulpit. He told us, ‘This is my commandment, that you love one another, as I have loved you.’ I took His word to heart and opened myself to His ways. I walked all of my life in the ways of love. And yet, here we are. The dead rose from the graves—just as He said.” He paused and began again. “Creation is the Great Cosmic Practical Joke, everything that had been said was a farce. Promises of some great reward shouted down to us from the mountain top, whilst He turned his head and laughed with his angels. The dead rose, but there was no divine judgement—only consumption. Heaven did not open its gates; hell did. And out poured this scourge. This pestilence. Turning love into hunger, pure and primal. Without discrimination. That to me, young lady, sounds like a strange kind of love, doesn’t it?”

  Polk said nothing, she knew there was no point in reasoning.

  He waved her off. “I suppose someone like you wouldn’t understand. You don’t strike me as someone of the Way. You wouldn’t know the sting of putting your trust into something, pouring your soul freely, only to have it splashed back into your face, watching as the One you loved laughs at you for believing They loved you at all.”

  Some “amens” from Ty’s men.

  Leaning against the podium, Ty smiled, his lips curling in a twisted expression. “If His commandant was to love as He loves—then love as He loves we shall.”

  He nodded at the men on the stage. The big one who had manhandled Polk jerked Doctor Ahuja to his feet. Grumbling through the tape covering his mouth, the good doctor began waking. He looked around wildly. Spotting Polk in the pew, he frowned in confusion, as if to say, ‘What’s going on?’

  The big man forced him to the table, where in days past, the Last Supper had been staged. Using his large hand, he held Ahuja down.

  Ahuja struggled, shouting in mumbled threats through the tape.

  Collins and Jelks were coming around, both equally shouting through the tape covering their mouths. Struggling with the rope binding their hands behind their backs.

  One of the men stepped forward and aimed a pistol that looked a lot like Polk’s at them. “Sit still and wait your turn,” he sneered.

  Collins glared at the man—his gaze an inferno.

  The man swallowed and took a step back but did not lower his aim.

  Snorting, the man behind her giggled, spitting a wad of chew as he watched the show unfold. The stink of wintergreen stung her nostrils.

  Ty started toward the tabernacle, brandishing a curved ritualistic looking blade.

  Polk tested her restraints. That curious inner strength she had sensed before, she could still feel coursing through her veins.

  The false preacher began singing:

  “When peace like a river, attendeth my way,

  When sorrows like sea billows roll

  Whatever my lot, thou hast taught me to say

  It is well, it is well, with my soul

  It is well

  With my soul

  It is well, it is well with my soul...”

  Ahuja spotted the knife in Ty’s hand. His eyes were wide. Sweat beaded his face. He glanced at Polk, hopeful, wishful, almost begging—he whimpered.

  “Hush, little lamb,” Ty said in sings
ong. He stood on the other side of the big man, facing the pews. He looked up and grinned at his audience.

  The guard behind stepped closer, perhaps to get a better look at what was promised to come.

  Ty lifted the knife high into the air, whispering some sort of prayer. “Lord, if you are still watching your servant... I hope my stink reaches your throne and makes you gag with the horror I have brought upon your people.”

  Ahuja muffled a scream.

  Jelks tried to stand but was forced down.

  She could see Collins struggling with his restraints.

  Now or never.

  Exhaling, Polk pulled her hands apart, forcing the rope to snap. She stood and pivoted in one fluid motion, facing the guard.

  The man blinked, but it was too late.

  Palm open, she punched with her cybernetic arm—and broke his face. Teeth shattered. Bone and cartilage in his nose snapped and penetrated upward. Blood spurted. As the man fell, Polk snatched the pistol from his hip holster and spun toward the pulpit.

  She aimed and squeezed the trigger.

  At that same moment, Ty brought the knife down, plunging it into Ahuja’s chest.

  Ahuja groaned. His eyes wide with disbelief.

  The rounds impacted Ty, center mass. Crimson splattered the large cross hanging on the wall behind him. He stumbled and fell.

  Gun reports filled the sanctuary.

  Two of the men fired at Polk. But their hands shook, throwing off their aim.

  Moving slowly forward, Polk shot the man with long hair, the one who had slapped Bernie earlier. His head snapped back as he crumpled to the floor and rolled off the stage. He stared up at the ceiling, motionless and unblinking, blood pooling beneath his head.

  Standing now, Collins rushed the other man that had forced Jelks to the floor, shoving into him with his shoulder.

  Stumbling, the man tumbled off the pulpit steps, dropping his pistol; Polk’s pistol. He cussed and started for it.

  Polk aimed and squeezed a round.

  His right eye burst in a mist of clear creamy fluid as he fell chin first to the floor, motionless.

  The big man blinked. Unsure of what to do. He looked down at Ty’s motionless corpse. “Father?” he called. But there was no answer. He looked at Collins as he helped Jelks to his feet. And then at Polk, his expression quickly turning to rage. “YOU!” he bellowed. He took the knife still plunged into Ahuja’s chest and with his other hand pushed the table out of his way. The tabernacle slid and tipped over, Ahuja along with it.

  The big man charged.

  Much faster than his size seemed to allow.

  Like a freight train, he barreled toward Polk. Screaming, “I HATE YOU!”

  Pivoting, using his momentum and the strength of her cybernetic arm, Polk threw the large man through the stained-glass window to her right.

  Purple, blue, and crimson shattered in sharp fragments of broken glass.

  From outside, she heard him scream. Black iron spikes from a fence impaled through his torso. His great legs kicked and squirmed, but he could not free himself. Around him the dead swarmed, drawn in by the sounds of battle. They circled and began devouring. Chewing on his flesh. Puncturing his skin with greedy fingers and pulling away chunks of bloodied meat and tissue and fat. His guts exposed, he begged for mercy.

  Polk watched from the broken window, silent.

  When the big man’s screams turned into a high pitch as the dead ripped open his throat, she turned away and started for the pulpit.

  Free now of their restraints, Jelks and Collins stood over Doctor Ahuja, Polk beside them. They looked at her.

  She looked at them.

  And then she aimed and put a round in Ahuja’s brain.

  For a while they stood there together in the heavy silence of the church, gazing down at Ahuja. They hadn’t known each other for very long. But in the last dozen months or so, they had experienced a lifetime together.

  Polk looked at her cybernetic prosthetic arm—his gift to her. But was there more he knew? About her condition? The spreading metallic veins? The changes in her body? Did he know it would happen beforehand? Would it get worse?

  Now she would never know.

  A moaning from the pulpit forced their attention.

  Ty stood. He gazed at them with unemotional white eyes. His mouth slack jawed. Drool dribbling down on his bloodied priestly robe.

  A gun report suddenly went off behind them and Ty fell once again, his head snapping back, dark red mush splattering the already defiled cross.

  They turned.

  Bernie stood in the middle isle, aiming with both hands gripping the pistol that had clamored to the floor during the firefight. She stood there still aiming, her hands now shaking. Tears streamed down her face. Yet—she was smiling.

  Doctor Ying

  Part II

  Undisclosed Military Underground Compound

  Chongming, China

  “You okay?” Doctor Ying asked, keeping her voice low as she sat at the cafeteria table. The room had several picnic-style tables in typical neat orderly rows—now haphazardly askew and void of the usual noise and traffic of soldiers. There was a kitchen adjacent, now dark. In a few hours, the chef, some private Ying had never bothered learning the name of, would serve what the troops referred to as mess. When the operation first began, mess had consisted of meals of peas, mung beans, soybeans, wheat, rice, bean curd, noodles, ginger, sesame seeds, star anise and chili peppers. Now the private served Republic Army MREs made of compressed instant meals. How many MREs were stored below, she couldn’t say. But she assumed there were enough supplies to last at least a few years.

  Doctor Bai glanced up from her cooling mug of Luckin coffee. “What?”

  Sighing, Ying said, “What can I do?”

  “What?” Bai blinked as she gazed at Ying. Pushing away her coffee, it tipped and spilled. She sat there motionless, staring at the dark liquid as it pooled on the table.

  “Let me help you.” Ying reached for a rag that had been left on the table.

  “No. I...I don’t need help. I don’t need help,” Bai whispered. Pouting, lips trembling she turned on the bench seat, facing the other direction.

  Soaking up the spilled coffee with the rag, Ying said, “Come on, you can talk to me.”

  “I’m all right,” Bai nearly shouted. She lowered her tone. “I’m just tired.”

  “You’re not. You’re collapsing from the stress. If you let me—”

  “Collapsing from stress? We’re all collapsing. This whole fucking operation is collapsing...everybody except you,” Bai glanced over her shoulder, staring with narrow eyes, almost as if in accusation. “I know you’re strong, all right? So what? Stronger than me. Stronger than everyone. So what? So, fucking what?” She stood suddenly, jarring the table. Giving Ying one last glare, she stormed through the cafeteria door.

  Ying watched it slam shut with a hollow metallic pang that echoed harshly in the empty mess hall. She looked at the rag in her hand, soiled now in dark liquid and stains of use.

  “Attention—attention!” rang the speaker mounted high on the corner wall.

  “On orders from Major Wei, all personnel—including the research team—are to report at 1700 hours for a mandatory meeting. I repeat, Major Wei wants everyone there, including Doctors Ying, Bai, Lien, and Zhang, for presentation of current results. Again, I repeat, 1700 hours. Mandatory meeting.” The transmission on the PA system ended with static and then heavy silence.

  Ying looked down at the dirty, wet rag in her trembling hand. Standing, she threw it across the room. The rag splattered on the concrete wall and slid to the floor. She glared at the mess for a moment, breathing heavily. And then she closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Exhaling, her shoulders felt more relaxed, slightly. Shouting voices came from just outside the door.

  Rushing across the cafeteria, Ying found Doctor Bai, arms crossed and trembling. Two soldiers from the People’s Republic of China detail assigned to this opera
tion sat in a battery-operated golf cart, snickering.

  “What’s going on?” Ying demanded, placing herself in front of Bai.

  A somewhat portly officer, 2nd Lieutenant Chen cleared his throat. “We gotta bring in two more specimens,” he said, grinning his usual snarking expression.

  “Two more? For who? Doctor Zhang?” Ying asked, though she already knew the answer.

  “I guess. Don’t care, really.” Chen glared at Bai. “Get in.”

  “Get in?” Ying protested; hands raised. “Why do you need Doctor Bai?”

  Chen sneered. “Look, lady. I don’t have anyone else. It’s just us.”

  Ying nodded. “Okay—I get it. Collecting specimens is dangerous, especially with just the two of you. But Doctor Bai has been awake for hours. I’ll go.”

  Without waiting for confirmation, Ying jumped into the back of the cart.

  Chen shrugged and started off, pulling away from the mess hall and driving them farther into the complex of tunnels, annex spaces, storage, mostly unused offices, barracks for both Republic soldiers and civilian scientists, an almost eerily silent communications room and laboratories. After several months underground, she now knew their route through this seemingly endless maze of tunnels by heart. And the route they were heading would lead to a massive pen covering the entrance to a cave. The pen reminded her of something one would find in a slaughterhouse, complete with chute and pole with a noose on the end—what they used to keep the specimens under control. They herded them through the chute from the cave. Why there were any of them in the cave to begin with was a mystery. Perhaps the cave led out to somewhere above ground. Maybe they were drawn in by the activity below.

  “What’s wrong with your friend?” Chen asked over his shoulder.

  Ying gazed at Doctor Bai until she could no longer see the young scientist who stood motionless with her arms crossed over her chest. “Nothing,” she said, though she knew better.

  The two troops resumed snickering amongst each other.