“Sack up, dude,” Steele said behind him. He scratched under his jacket with the hand holding Peter’s chain.
Steele kept his M4 at his side. His other hand rested on his carbine. His tomahawk lightly tapped his thigh as they walked. The presence of his sidearm weighed on his hip.
Peter mumbled through his gag. His curly hair bounced in the dark as he tried to look for infected threats ahead.
“You know the way.” Steele shoved him. “Quiet.” I don’t know who is more nervous, me or him. Steele’s eyes scanned the terrain. It looked familiar, but the woods and the beach at night all pretty much looked the same. They had ditched their pickup over a mile back so as to not give away their presence.
Steele’s heart sped up as he noticed a darkness forming across the road ahead of them like a gate. It was a thick dark line. Steele knew it for what it was. The roadblock. The hair on his neck stood up as they neared the felled tree with every step. Someone else is here.
Steele tightened his hold on the chain, forcing Peter to stop. They stood motionless in the night. The sound of waves battered away at his confidence. They awaited the sound of the dead. Eerily, they had seen none between the two camps. This pastor guy must be good at what he does. Peter shuffled his feet, scraping the pavement.
“Quiet,” Steele shushed, looking over his shoulder.
A beam of sunlight hit them. Steele quickly recognized it as a deer shining spotlight. Thirty-two hundred lumens carved through the night, bringing Steele and Peter into the spotlight as if they were two actors on stage.
In the darkness, he hadn’t noticed them. The men had only been darker shades of night. He couldn’t tell if they twitched or moved or were nervous, only that they stood silent and waiting.
“Drop your gun,” commanded a voice from the trees. Steele set his gun down on the ground, not letting his fingers move an inch on Peter’s chain.
Individual lights sprang up in the trees. Hundreds of flashlights flicked on like torches. People were on the beach, in the forest, they lined the top of the log. They rested guns across their chests or held them lazily toward the ground. He was no threat, and they knew it. The lights enveloped them, closing in within ten yards as they surrounded them. Steele pulled Peter’s chain tighter into his gut, feeling his knuckles close to popping on the metal. They all stood watching Steele and Peter for sixty tense seconds.
A man walked through the circle of lights. His tall form was clad in all black, the only visible part his gray hair. His men parted before him like a flock of sheep for their shepherd. He walked into the ring and stopped. He clasped his hands behind his back and looked at Steele. His eyes finally fell upon Peter and a smile curved on his thin lips.
“Peter, my son, you are alive,” he said. Peter mumbled loudly through his gag, pulling on the chain Steele had him bound with.
“Not so fast,” Steele said to Peter.
“I’m going to be honest, Mr. Steele. I thought you would have put him to death by now in retaliation for the cleansing of Mr. Pagan. I’m somewhat impressed if not confused by this. Vengeance is a normal human response following anger and resentment. But you have held off. I’m curious as to why?” His eyebrows rose in anticipation of an answer.
“I’m tired of having needless blood on my hands,” Steele said, his eyes ripping the pastor. The pastor nodded with a slight grin.
“I know you see my actions against the nonbelievers as unnecessary bloodshed, but I can assure you that this is God’s will.”
“I’m not here to debate God’s will.” Steele shifted his feet.
“I’m not sure you get to make the rules, Mr. Steele,” the pastor said.
“I came to make a deal,” Steele said. His voice was flat. He made sure to keep his eyes on the pastor.
“Ah, yes. A bargain. You may commence,” the pastor said with a wave of his hand.
Steele licked his lips. “You allow us to live within your Kingdom of God and we will pay your tax. You can have Peter as a show of our good faith.”
The pastor walked forward to them, foot by slender foot, his boots clicking on the pavement.
“Yes, the letter. It’s a good idea, no? Two peoples living in harmony.”
Steele almost choked as he said the words. “It seems reasonable.”
“Reason. It does seem reasonable. But how do I ensure that your people keep their word that they will pay me what is mine on a regular basis for our protection? I would like to avoid anything like what happened to Peter’s ill-fated peace-party.”
“What did you have in mind?” Steele said cautiously. This man was as wily as the devil himself.
“I would like long-term assurance.”
“I’ll see what I can do.” Steele watched the man as he paced.
“I want your camp’s children. All of them.”
Steele gulped hard. Thank God I sent them with Gwen. Steele’s eyes narrowed. “You know I can’t ask that.”
“I can promise their safety, more than you can. Of that I’m certain. They will be fed, clothed, even schooled while under my care. They will be warm when winter hits Michigan, and I assure you, it will be soon and it will be harsh along the lake.”
“How could I ask these people to give up their children?” Steele wondered aloud.
“It’s that or they will all die tomorrow. Think about it logically. I guarantee their safety. It’s all a parent can hope for in the end time. Freedom from worry. They will be part of the Kingdom of God. His living legacy here on earth. We have largely cleared this whole area of infected. I send out teams on a daily basis to spread our reach. You can be a part of this cleansing. A part of God’s solution.”
Would I ask Gwen to give up our child to them for assured safety? How could I ever ask people to give up their children or die? “You know I can’t ask people to do this. We will send food and supplies as we find them, but no children.”
“I’m not asking what you’re willing to do. I’m telling you,” the pastor growled. “Those are our terms.”
“I can’t accept them,” Steele said. He wrenched Peter closer to his body, using him as cover. Steele knew that the pastor would eagerly martyr Peter if it came to a shootout, but it was better than taking rounds to the chest in the open.
“Pride cometh before the fall, Mr. Steele. Then again, that trait seems to run deep in your veins,” the pastor said. A smile crept upon his lips as if he knew a secret. His eyes met Steele’s with cold knowledge sitting inside them. Steele’s hand tickled his side as it itched for a gun to hold. The men in the circle seemed to read his mind. Guns lowered and pointed at him from all around.
“You don’t know anything about my family,” Steele hissed.
The pastor looked down at the ground and shook his head as if he were disappointed in Steele.
“I know you and your mother are a lot alike.” A slimy smile grew on the pastor’s lips. Steele’s stomach twisted in aversion to this man.
“Where is she?” Steele growled. If I bend and roll, I may be able to get a shot off before they waste me and probably each other in the chaos. That bastard is close enough for point shooting.
The pastor’s eyes held almost mirth around them as if he took pure joy from Steele’s torment. “We’ve sent her back to her maker.”
“Fuck you,” Steele snarled.
The pastor sighed. “No need for such harsh language. She could not overcome her pride before she perished in the flames. Even when I offered her a chance to use her God-given gifts to help others.” Steele glared, his nose flaring. “I see her in your eyes.” He can’t fucking know that. How could he?
“You don’t know shit about her.”
The pastor’s forehead wrinkled in concern. “Sure I do, Mr. Steele. I burned her house to the ground with her and her lover inside. Not too far from here.” He pointed. “I’d say about eight miles south down the coast.”
“You lie!” Steele yelled at him. Peter whimpered through his gag as Steele jerked his chain. Her house was bu
rnt down.
“I don’t lie, Mr. Steele. We could have used the top surgeon from St. Anastasia’s North Shores Hospital.”
The blow took the wind out of him. It was too much. The pastor knew too much. The world grew distant. His heart pounded in his ears. His vision blurred a bit with each heartbeat, coming back into focus for a moment then blurring again. His breathing grew labored and shallow in his chest.
The pastor’s eyes weighed Steele’s distress with ugly concern. “Maybe we would do better speaking with somebody else from your community. That tomboy. What’s her name? Tess?”
You already knew. You already knew in your heart she was gone. Fuck.
Steele reached his hand into his pocket. His eyes never left the bastard’s. His fingers locked around a rectangle remote detonator in his ACU pants. Guns cocked. Two hundred eyes stared down sights at him. Peter’s body shook as he sobbed in front of him.
“Nobody moves or we all go boom.” Steele lifted his hand in the air.
The pastor’s eyes grew wide as recognition settled upon him. Men holding their flashlights took worried steps back.
“Don’t worry, gents, a few feet won’t make a difference, I made sure of that.” Steele removed a thick coat wrapped around Peter’s shoulders revealing tan blocks of C-4 connected with wires strapped to his chest.
“He’s bluffing,” the pastor hissed like the vile viper he was. He took a step back toward his men.
Steele spun around, making sure everyone could see that Peter’s chest was strapped with explosives. “Don’t even think of shooting me.” Steele held his hand with the detonator in the air. “I let go of this detonator and it’s enough to kill everyone here. Enough nails, marbles, and bolts to shred the very flesh from your bodies.” He turned toward the pastor. “The marbles are courtesy of the children,” he said with a wicked look in his eyes.
The pastor’s face turned into an evil snarl.
Steele addressed the rest of the pastor’s men. “Even if you did somehow crawl out of here, you would die with no medical aid. Not to mention the attention it would bring from the dead. Imagine crawling away from here mangled until the infected caught you.” He gave the pastor an extra cruel look. “It will send you to hell faster, pastor.”
The pastor lifted a hand in the air. “Now, Mr. Steele, no need to be hasty. We came to parley, not for more violence.”
“You came to intimidate, murder, and enslave us. You murdered my mother. She never hurt anyone. And I would rather see every single man here dead than have that befall Little Sable. Even if I have to sacrifice myself.”
“No one has to die,” the pastor said. His hand wavered in the air, visibly shaking.
“Shut up,” Steele spat. “I’m making the rules here. Now, I’m going to leave you Peter, and I’m going to go back to my home. If I think someone is following me, he goes boom.” Steele spun Peter around in a circle so everyone could see. Nervous eyes stared back. “If I don’t feel safe on my way back, he goes boom. If I don’t make it back in exactly twenty minutes, one of my buddies makes it go boom.” He stopped and glanced at his watch. “The countdown has begun.” He bent low and snatched up his carbine off the ground.
Steele swung the carbine around, pointing it at a few of them. “Now, I never want to see you assholes again. My group is gone, so leave us be.”
Peter cried through his gag.
“It’s okay, Peter,” the pastor said, leveling his chin at Steele.
Steele let Peter’s chain drop. It clanked as it hit the ground, making Peter jump. Steele placed his M4 over his forearm, still holding the remote detonator clacker in his hand. He pointed his carbine at the pastor.
“I could kill you now and have every right to do so, but not today. Enough blood’s been spilt.”
Steele walked backward, spinning in circles, taking his turn pointing his gun back at the men surrounding him. They parted wide for him and he backtracked. They watched him with wide eyes. Others had a cold look in them as if they didn’t care if he blasted them fifty feet into the air, obliterating them into tiny pieces of charred flesh.
“I won’t warn you boys again. If you come to Little Sable, you will die.” Then he turned and ran. After one hundred yards, he shoved the detonator in his pocket. He ground his teeth in rage as he ran and pushed his sadness and fear into the pit of his stomach through the pain.
GWEN
Lakeshore Drive, MI
The wall of death advanced in their direction. They were all dead, but they still moved like the living. Slower, but alive in the sense that they moved with a singular purpose. The ones wearing clothes wore them disheveled and torn, most hanging by bare shreds as if they had been shipwrecked on a deserted island or had survived a bear attack. Blood stained their clothes and skin alike, most drying in ink-like stains coating their bodies.
The necks of the newly infected were swollen, lymph nodes four times their normal size protruding from their skin like hideous hidden plums. Red blood covered their bodies, but they were few. The dead that had been decaying for weeks dominated their ranks.
The infected that had been killed in the beginning were gray. Their flesh hung from their faces, drooping beneath their eyes and jawline. Their mouths hung open, revealing chipped, broken, and missing teeth. Puckered bullet holes painted the exposed skin of their bodies. Arms hung by mere tendons. Crippled, bent feet dragged behind them, anchors from being assaulted, run over, and maimed. They didn’t care what horrible fate befell them now. Only the virus remained, pulling their strings in a shoddy uncontrolled manner, one ugly footstep after another. They moaned, an evil call to arms picked up by all like an angry pack of wolves.
Gwen ground the gearshift into drive and hammered her foot down on the gas. The old RV lurched as if it had forgotten that she required its full power. It was an old war-horse, spurred into the fray by the sharp spurs of its rider for one last battle.
The RV creaked its way to ten miles per hour before the first bodies ricocheted off the front and sides. The dead glanced off the grille of the metal beast. They spun and twisted as they were shoved to the side. The unlucky ones were dragged under the wheels, causing the RV to lurch and shake. Hands pounded the doors. Nails screeched down the sides.
“Keep going,” Max yelled.
Cries of terror shrieked from the back. Her speed hovered at about twelve miles per hour, and the old RV took the flesh of humans in its heavy determined stride. The RV shuddered, its shocks bouncing as they absorbed the bodies underneath its wheels. The whirlwind of flesh, hands, and bodies came to an end. She felt the steering wheel stiffen and the steering column lock up in her hands. She wrenched on the wheel, fingers gripped tightly around it.
“I can’t steer,” she yelled. She muscled the steering wheel, inching it onto the road, but finally, she couldn’t budge it. She stared at her white knuckled hands, unable to steer the vehicle. “I can’t steer!” The RV could only go straight in her last direction. It stayed true to its current course and motored undeviating into a ditch, launching itself into a coastal forest full of trees with trunks the diameter of teacups. Her chest caught on the steering wheel as they crashed. The air was forced from her lungs. “Uff,” she breathed.
The headlights were shadowed by the dried leaves of fall trees. Branches pushed onto the windshield as if they tried to hold them back. Her eyes fogged and it took multiple blinks before she could see clearly again.
Her hands immediately went to her stomach. She stared down at it, hands feeling across her belly. She coughed. My baby, her mind screamed, but she had no time to think about the potential danger to her unborn child. The RV leaned forward, its front end pressed tight against trees.
“Damn it,” she swore.
The door swung open and Max jumped out of the RV.
“Max,” she screamed. His .22 banged out two shots.
She fumbled with a silver button door handle.
“Hurry, Ms. Gwen,” Max hollered.
She grabbed her M4 fro
m between the seats. She slid off the seat and out of the RV. A dead woman reached for her with skinny arms, using the side of the RV to get closer to Gwen. Gwen squeezed the trigger and the M4 bop-bop-bop-bopped. Her last round struck home. Gwen grimaced, her stomach and chest in pain, impossible to tell which was worse or if one was caused by the other. Hunched over, she rounded the RV.
Freshly crushed corpses lay scattered along the road. The bodies were the worst roadkill disaster she could have ever have imagined. They crawled for them. Their fingernails scraped until they popped off their fingertips, but the clawing of the concrete didn’t stop. It wasn’t the ones mangled on the roadway she cared about; it was the ones that walked and doddered in her direction. Too many of them staggered her way. Max fired his small caliber rifle hurriedly.
“That door will never hold them,” she cried out. She let off three single-round shots, rushing her trigger. Only one corpse fell.
“We’ve got to get them on top,” Gwen yelled. She hustled for the side RV door and ripped it open.
Max’s gun continued to bang in the background.
Terrified eyes looked back at her. Gordon barked shrill notes into the night.
“Everyone get on top of the RV. Hurry,” she said. She ran for the red emergency hatch and pulled hard on the red levers. Popping it backward, she opened it up and the night sky appeared draped above her.
“Dr. Thatcher, I need your help. Ben and May,” she said to an old couple, “we will hoist you up first and hand you the kids. They nodded.
“Of course,” Dr. Thatcher said, setting down Gordon. Gordon did circles on the bench seat, yapping as he went.
Gwen waved at a little blonde girl. “Lacy.” The little girl jumped into her arms. Dr. Thatcher helped her push the children one by one through the hatch. After the fifth child, the pounding came on the door. Only a few hands.
“Hurry, Doctor. That door won’t hold long,” she urged. One after another, they lifted them up. More hands joined the others on the door. Pounding echoed inside the camper. The glass on the camper door broke. Mangled, rotting flesh pushed its way through the broken window.
The Rising (The End Time Saga Book 3) Page 35