by J. B. Havens
Grunting with the effort, they hauled us up and into the back, tossing us down onto the floor of the vehicle hard enough that my head smacked against the metal and added to my steadily increasing headache. The truck started up with a roar and we began to move. The metal of the truck bed was unyielding under my back and the vibrations from the engine rattled my teeth. Kelle screamed against her gag, thrashing side to side in an effort to escape. One of the soldiers kicked her a couple of times until blood ran from her nose and soaked the fabric of the gag. I watched in fascination as her broken nose straightened out and healed. It must have hurt like a bastard.
She blew blood out of her nose, spraying me on the face. Her shoulders shook with laughter as I glared at her and attempted to wipe my face off on my shoulder. I guessed that she’d recovered from the screaming in rage portion of our trip. We were close enough together that as the truck went over bumps in the road, we rolled and jostled each other. When we did, she’d raise her knees up to dig into my stomach or dig her elbows into my side. Annoyed with her games, I craned my neck and head-butted her, re-breaking her nose with a satisfying crunch. Now it was my turn to laugh as her nose snapped and crackled back into place all over again. She was soaked in blood, it ran down her chin and chest, and her eyes were streaming tears. Shaking her head, flinging blood all over me and the legs of the men around us, she met my eyes. Her red irises boring into mine, filled with equal parts rage and sorrow.
They say the eyes are the window to the soul, if that’s true all I could see in Kelle’s were death and violence. Thinking it made me wonder what my own eyes said about me.
Chapter Seventeen
Lieutenant Brian Parker settled into the passenger seat of the truck. He kept the window down, and his eyes roamed the area around them. Zombies were coming out of the trees, attracted by the noise of the truck—or those two freaks in the back. Maybe both. He didn’t know for sure and it didn’t really matter in any case. He wanted nothing more than to put a bullet in the skull of each of those girls and dump their bodies off a cliff. They gave him the creeps and anything that was able to weird out a veteran like him was better off dead. He was a soldier though, or at least he used to be. He followed orders even when he didn’t agree with them, and right now following those orders kept him alive. He might have the skills to survive fairly well on his own, but that didn’t mean he wanted to. He’d keep his showers, hot meals, and soft bed, thank you very fucking much.
The radio in his lap crackled to life. “ETA on the packages. Over.” There was so little radio traffic there was no need to hail the person you were talking to.
“Inbound to airstrip,” Parker replied. “ETA two hours. Over.”
“Roger. Doc is getting antsy. Hurry the fuck up. Over.”
“Understood. We’re hurrying it up. Out.”
“You heard the man, step on it,” he ordered his driver. The truck jumped forward as its speed increased. A few of the zombies coming towards them stepped into the road in front of them, the giant steel front end made short work of their soft bodies. Blood splashed up onto the windshield and the big tires bumped over the bodies, crushing them into a soft hamburger. “Nice one, Marshall.”
“Thank you, sir. It’s like mowing grass, you buzz right along and hit a rock here and there; best thing to do is just keep on going.” He laughed in an irritating hee-haw manner, sounding like a braying jackass.
The lieutenant nodded in response, not wanting to get drawn into a conversation. He tried not to get too close to any of the men, they had a tendency to die frequently. Case in point, the poor bastard back in the woods. The kid had died of a bite wound and was bound to come back as one of them, it wasn’t even a choice. The only thing to be done was to give him a merciful death and have one less zombie to kill later.
They reached the airstrip without any further incidents. Their speed had left the zombies behind miles ago. Jumping down out of the truck, he signaled to the pilot to start the plane. It was a small passenger jet, the same kind you’d see in just about every airport in the world. They were sitting around, ready to be stolen by anyone with the knowledge to fly them.
“Let’s go, boys. Get the cargo loaded and let’s get the fuck outta here before those mother fucking zombies show back up.” Irritable and tired, he wanted this shit over with so he could take a nap. The doc had warned him these two were more than just Alphas, they were something else. Stronger and faster than anything they’d seen before. He was lucky the Tasers had worked so well, otherwise he was pretty sure that he’d be the main course in their dinner. The one with the red hair was extra crazy, you could see the madness in her eyes. She was one of those lunatics that just wanted to see the world burn and then dance in the ashes.
He had to brow beat two of his men into putting the girls over their shoulders. There was no way to drag them up the steps. They boarded the plane and dropped the girls into seats near the back.
Taking his seat, he breathed a sigh of relief. Should be smooth sailing from here to the lab.
****
I leaned forward, trying to find a comfortable position with my arms tied behind my back, which is impossible by the way. Pain shot into my head, a sharp needle spiking directly behind my eye.
Molly?
The voice startled me. I jerked, looking across the aisle at Kelle. She was staring at me, cool as a cucumber. Arching an eyebrow at her, I pinged her back.
What? We talking now? I inquired.
We have to get out of here. They’re taking us back to the lab. You didn’t see the bodies and what they did to them.
She flashed me a mental image of a room full of gurneys, dissected corpses laying on each one.
That’s fine. I will get myself out of this. Have fun being tortured.
Fuck you, Molly. We should work together and go back to killing each other when we escape.
If you think I’m going to trust you for one second then you’re more insane than I thought. You’re totally looney tunes, girl. You need to have the decency to just fucking lay down and die already.
The mental conversation was painful and exhausting, add in crazy expressions that Kelle and I made as we stared at each other, and I was more than done. The guards next to us gave us strange looks as they watched our faces.
Then, she screamed in my head, a wail loud and sharp enough to shatter glass. I shrieked in pain, blood poured from my nose, and I was sure my head would explode at any second. I was thrashing around and I was vaguely aware of my guard jumping to his feet and raising his weapon. My vision faded into black spots as I struggled to remain conscious. The last thing I heard before darkness pulled me under was the chilling cackle of Kelle’s laughter in my head.
****
Kelle watched on with glee as the guard beside Molly freaked out. She was so sure Molly was about to die when that rifle came up to bear. Only the big guy who seemed to be the leader was able to diffuse the situation. He traded seats with the younger, smaller soldier and took the seat beside Molly. They had no idea what had happened. The leader was radioing someone, sure that Molly had suffered some sort of fit or brain injury.
Good for her!
She leaned her head back and closed her eyes, ignoring everyone around her. She had an idea of what was about to happen and she wanted to be ready for it. She was weakened from healing her injuries and would need to feed soon. She always wanted to feed, but right now hunger was a living, breathing need in the pit of her stomach. The warm scent of the guard next to her was driving her crazy. She would do anything to get free and destroy every single person on this plane. She wanted nothing more than to feel the blood coating her face and hands, experience the warm slide of their lives going down her throat, and to taste their screams like a sophisticated French wine. Except for the pilot, she needed him to land this bucket, but reality kept intruding on her daydream.
The tightness of the ropes, the scratchy fabric of the gag on her cheeks, the ache in her shoulders from her arms being pulled behind he
r for so long, all kept her unwillingly planted in the present. She despised waiting, instant gratification was her nature, always had been, but more so now that there were no pesky rules or morals to hold her back.
Chapter Eighteen
Tristen hauled in the final bucket of water and dumped it into the tub in the middle of the kitchen. Several buckets of hot water had already been added, now he was pouring in cold water to even out the temperature. He wasn’t sure if he would ever get used to bathing this way. He missed the ability to twist the faucet handle and have untold gallons pour out, hot as he wanted. Things were different now, and they would remain that way for the foreseeable future, so he was working on getting used it.
Overall, he was just glad that he and Dalia were safe, or as safe as they could get in a world infested with the rotting, walking dead.
Before he shut the kitchen door, he flipped over the small cardboard sign hanging on the back of the door so it read ‘Bath in Use’. The sign ensured that the half dozen people who lived in the farmhouse didn’t walk in on one another. He stripped the rest of the way and stepped into the tub. As he did so, he tried not to look at himself too closely. He’d lost so much weight that his bones showed under his skin too much. But, now that he had regular meals his appetite was extreme, eating six or seven times a day and he could probably have eaten more if they’d let him.
Grabbing the soap and a washcloth he began to wash the dirt from the past few days off of his body. He’d been learning how to hunt, how to shoot, and how to survive in the forest. He mended fences and dug holes day in and out, hard physical labor that Marge said would toughen him up unlike anything else. The blisters on his palms were already healing into calluses. They didn’t have any gloves that fit him because his hands were too small. He stared at the calluses now, tracing the ridges and half-healed bubbles gently with his fingertip. Marge said he’d grow to fit into the larger clothing items on the farm, just like his mom used to. He missed her so much. At night when he slept, on the few occasions he wasn’t too tired to dream, he dreamt of her. The thought brought his recurring dream to the forefront of his mind almost instantly.
He was in their apartment, standing with his butt against the kitchen counter. Bright sunlight shone in through the lacey curtains, casting intricate shadows on the white linoleum floor. The back door opened and his mom came inside, bringing the scent of flowers and sunshine with her. He ran to her and she hugged him, holding him tight against her chest. She always smelled so good, the strawberry scent of her shampoo and the laundry detergent on her clothes was familiar and comforting. She calmed him, soothed him, and told him it was all just a bad dream.
“Zombies aren’t real, baby. Daddy will be home soon. Everything is going to be okay. I’m here now. We’ll pack a lunch and go to the park today. How does that sound?”
He lifted his head to look at her, desperate with hope that it was true, only to see blood begin to pour from her eyes and nose. She opened her mouth to speak and black ooze ran out, staining her teeth and covering her chin in the ink colored liquid. She smiled sweetly as it covered her face, framing her mouth in a red-black mask. Her nose collapsed in on itself and she only grinned bigger until her skin began to tear like tissue paper. Her smile widened impossibly far as her flesh tore, her teeth showing through where her cheeks had been.
Her flesh continued to rot and slough off her bones and fall away all down her body. The muscles on her arms where she still held him peeled like overripe fruit and fell to the floor with a sickening plop. He shook in fear and a scream bubbled up inside him desperate for release. Terror and disgust filled him, while bile rose up his throat, the taste burning on the back of his tongue. Tears streaked down his face and hot piss ran down his leg. Her skin and tissue puddled around his feet in a soggy mess of skin, hair, and meat that covered his shoes until he was hugging a skeleton. He screamed and cried out, trying to get away, but her arm bones held him tight, trapping him against her. She pet his hair, her finger bones snagging the strands and pulling sharply. His hands were stuck between her ribs. He was trapped! Crying and sobbing, he jerked on his hands so hard her ribs came apart. The bones fell away from her, tinkling hollowly as they hit the floor and piled at his gore soaked feet.
That’s always when he woke up, covered in cold sweat and shaking, feeling the slickness of her bones against his skin.
He slid down in the tub, dunking his head under the water, washing away the soap and the memory. Pounding on the door shook him from his thoughts and he buried the feel of the dream into the back of his mind. It was always there, however, never too far away.
“Yeah?” he called, his voice cracking.
“Hurry up, I want to get a bath too,” Marge replied.
“I’m almost done.” With the illusion of privacy shattered, he stood and began to dry off and get dressed.
He opened the door to a waiting Marge, she stood there with towels and a change of clothes clutched to her robed chest.
“Is there any hot left?” she asked, pushing past him into the kitchen.
“No, there’s more you can heat though. The water in the tub should still be warm.” Not waiting for a reply, he carried his dirty bundle of clothes up to the room he shared with Dalia. She was fast asleep, her freshly washed hair in braids that lay curled against her neck as she slept. Reaching out, he flipped them back off her sweaty skin.
Lying down in his own small bed, he pulled the covers up to his chin and curled up. He tried to stay awake, but the comfort and warmth of his bed and the exhaustion of today’s labor pulled him under. His eyes refused to stay open, he fought, blinking rapidly, only to have them close again. Soon, he was standing in his mother’s kitchen and listening to the sound of her bones falling to the sunlight-bathed floor.
****
Bright sunlight shining directly onto his face woke him the next morning. It felt strange, not knowing what time it was. Dalia was still asleep and he rose quietly, carrying his boots, leaving her to sleep in. She was young enough that she wasn’t required to get up and do chores as early as he was. Today, he had more fence to put in out in the far pasture. The fences were to keep zombies out as much as possible. They got tangled in the wire and were easy to take care of, but it required constant monitoring and repair. Marge and Betty wanted to get materials to construct something that lasted longer, but for now they were stuck with posts and barbed wire that they’d managed to salvage from nearby farms.
He sat on the bench in the kitchen to put his boots on while shoving a pancake in his mouth. Marge was already out there and she wouldn’t be happy if he was late. Washing his breakfast down with a glass of water, he wiped his mouth on his sleeve and grabbed his work belt with its tools and hatchet. The hatchet wasn’t just to work, he carried it to deal with any undead tangled in the fences. Though usually Marge did it for him, he’d tried not the let on that he was so terrified of them, but she seemed to know somehow.
Shutting the door behind him, he jogged out back and around the corn field to get to the back pasture. The corn gave way to acres of grass and he breathed deep, enjoying the fresh morning air and the open space. He didn’t feel so caged out here. His responsibilities and bad memories didn’t matter so much, just the work in front of him. Following the fence line, he saw Marge’s figure at the far right corner. He was still getting used to orienting himself by north, south, east, and west. A light dew coated the grass and mist swirled around his feet. The sun would quickly burn it off, but not right now, he liked the feel of the slippery grass under his boots.
Arriving at the fence where Marge was working, he waved to her, immediately pulling on oversized gloves and getting his wire cutters out.
“Took you long enough. Enjoy sleeping in, do you?” Marge asked without looking up from the wire she was nailing into place.
“Sorry. I came as soon as I could.” He picked up the other end of wire and began to stretch it to the next post. There was a bloodstain on the grass by his feet. “Have some compan
y?”
“Some,” she grunted.
“Sorry.”
She looked up at that, meeting his eyes briefly before he bent his head over his task, uncomfortable with the scrutiny.
“Nothing to be sorry for, kid. Just the way it is now. Which you know all too well.”
He didn’t want to respond. Talking about those days after his mom came home from work infected from a bite wasn’t something he wanted to do, but he knew she was curious.
“Yeah, I guess.” Holding the wire against the post while she nailed, they continued working in silence along the fence row until they ran out of posts. Marge had driven a truckload of posts up yesterday along with the handheld posthole diggers they’d need. Each of them took one of the tools and set about digging holes every ten yards.
He worked his way ahead of Marge by maybe two hundred yards or so. He’d been out there for hours now and all he saw was what was in front of him. The handles of the digger, the vibration up his arms as he slammed the points into the earth… On and on he went, losing himself in the work.
Stopping for a moment to brush sweat off his face, he stripped his shirt off. Even though the day was cool, he was hot from the hard labor. Leaving his shirt on the ground, he paced out the next hole and began to dig. Marge had given up on digging and was instead setting the posts into the holes he’d prepared. His arms were loose and weak feeling, as if his muscles had liquefied. He heard a noise and thought it was Marge, so he looked back at her. She was screaming and waving her arms over her head as she ran toward him.
The wind shifted slightly, blowing at his back and with it came a sickening smell. Turning sharply, there was a zombie coming up behind him. He’d been so lost in the moment, that he hadn’t heard it. Pulling out his hatchet, he braced himself. He thought of running, but was ashamed of his fear. The zombie was a man in his mid-forties. The creature’s body was half rotted, its skin slipping from the bones in places and the stench of it was sharp, making Tristen’s eye’s water in response. He braced his legs, finding his balance like Marge had taught him and waited, letting the zombie come to him.