by Mark Tufo
The rest of the crew are already here; Badger, Cal, and Dom, plus the regular five council members who demand to be privy to everything, including Cookie. Her beady dark eyes stare at us with disapproval, and I feel myself shrink a little bit more. Damn, I swear that woman could shrivel a grape to a raisin with that look.
Cookie had been one of the original occupants of the Grand and the first to greet us on our arrival years ago. We were a scared group of survivors lured to the old hotel by a radio transmission and the promise of safety. I remember most of us wanting nothing to do with the hotel. Jaded by our inability to find a safe haven, and attacked too many times by other groups wanting our hard-earned supplies, we had all believed it sounded like a trap. But Cooper, the optimist that he was, had talked us into it. He said we had to learn to trust again. So he’d packed up his group of survivors, myself included, and had headed for the Grand. If I had known she would be the one waiting for us, I probably wouldn't have come.
She had taken one look at my tear-stained face and had snarled at me with her thick accent, "Stop crying! Be brutal, be tough. War means fighting and fighting means killing. You must learn this, girl; else you will not live to see another year."
I mean, who says that kind of shit to a twelve-year-old? But as much as her advice had terrified me at the time, it had worked. Best advice ever. But I would never tell her that. She would probably just whack me on the head with her wooden spoon and tell me to stop talking shit.
The woman's tough side is just as impressive as her ability to take whatever supplies we have on hand and turn them into palatable meals. No one can hold a candle to Cookie in the kitchen. Sometimes I truly believe that’s the only reason they let her stay here, because it sure as hell has nothing to do with her sunny disposition. Doesn’t surprise me in the least she’s now head of the council.
I avert my eyes from Cookie, checking out the rest of the bodies in the room. Kingsley, head of the gate guards and a couple of his people, plus the two responsible for manning the shortwave radios. What are their names again? Lois and Roy I believe. What are they doing here? They’re never usually at any of our meetings. What’s going on? I don't have to wait long to find out.
"Sorry to call you all back on active duty, but we have an issue. As some of you may or may not know, Lois and Roy received a distress call earlier today from St. Joseph's."
Murmuring interrupts Cooper as some of us express our concern. Distress calls—never a good sign of anything. Cooper holds up his hands to silence us. He waits until the ruckus stops.
"Lois, can you tell us all what you heard?"
The pale woman stands up, and her eyes dart nervously about the room. He hands flutter at her sides like she's not sure what to do with them. She finally pushes them into the pockets of her denims and hunches her shoulders before speaking.
"Yes, well like Cooper said, earlier this morning we received a call from someone claiming to be from the St. Joseph's group. He was...well he wasn't making much sense. He was screaming for help. Screaming they were being attacked. I asked who he was. I've never spoken to him before. I mean, I always deal with Karen or Dwayne...," she trails off, and Cooper encourages her on with a wave of his hand. She takes a deep breath. "He was in shock I think...maybe...just yelling for help over and over. Then I heard some sort of crash and then screaming and...," she closes her eyes, like she was still hearing it in her head. Shaking her head, she continues, "After the screaming stopped there was nothing. Just silence. I haven't been able to raise anyone since. No response from St. Joseph's at all."
Cooper nods at her, and she sits back down, the relief evident on her face. She was starting to look a little green around the gills.
"Are you positive the call was from St. Joseph's?" Cookie's clipped accent fills the room. "It is not the first time they have tried to trick us, no?"
Typical Cookie and her trust-no-one attitude.
"We’re positive this is no trick," Cooper responds. "But to be on the safe side, we asked Kelly's group to go check it out. They were only a couple of hours away from St. Joseph's. We relayed to them our need to know what happened. We asked them to investigate if the call was legit and to find out if St. Joseph’s was compromised in any way. And if they did find a threat, determine if it would affect the Grand at all. That message was sent out over six hours ago. Other than our initial response from them confirming the order, we haven’t heard back from Kelly or anyone else since."
Cooper stops talking and stares at us all as the words sink in. Radio silence. A big no-no for hunters. Our very survival depends on our radios at times. We're always supposed to be in contact with home base. No radio contact for over six hours means something is definitely wrong. That's why we’re here.
"When do we leave?" I ask as Cooper struggles to his feet, leaning heavily on the silver-tipped cane he kept by his side at all times now. It still hurts a little to see the strong, healthy man I once knew now reduced to hobbling his way around on a cane. But at least he’s alive.
The injury had resulted from a run in with a leech three years ago on a hunting trip. He’d left camp for a brief minute to take a leak of all damn things. Cooper had been standing in the dark, only half awake, when the leech had taken him by surprise. He’d heard it lunge at him and swerved at the last minute before the leech could rip out his throat. Off balance he had fallen, and the creature had attacked. Cooper tried to roll out of the way, but the thing’s teeth had gotten a huge chunk of his calf. Seriously injured, he’d managed to hold off the snapping razors with his bare hands and call out for help. Sam had been the one to take out the leech. A blade straight through the heart.
That seemed to be the only thing that killed the bastards quick enough. Experimenting on cadavers had shown us that the alien parasite had two main arteries or growths that attached to the host body's heart and brain. Shooting the host elsewhere or cutting the throat, the creature still manage to live for a time after, even if its host died. But trauma to the heart always killed it immediately. We aren't sure why, since no one at the Grand is an expert in alien physiology. But it appears that whatever life force these aliens possess, it seems to be centralized in the host heart. So we no longer waste time elsewhere. We learned quickly and in any fight, go for the heart.
Though Sam had saved Cooper from becoming fodder, the injury had almost done him in. Infection had set in almost immediately, and the closest we had to a doctor at the Grand was a pediatric nurse. She was determined to save him. It had been touch and go with Cooper for days, but the one thing in his favor was that he was a stubborn bastard. He hadn't given up. He pulled through, though he would never walk without the cane again. The leech had taken Cooper out of the field, but it hadn't taken him, and I was extremely grateful for that.
He limps around to the front of the desk and sits on it with a heavy thud, crossing his hands over the top of the cane.
"You will be leaving right away. You six will lead Kingsley and his men to St. Joseph's. No one knows the city like you hunters. Your job is to get them there quickly and in one piece. Once there, they will assess the situation and eliminate whatever threat you may find. Whatever it is, we cannot have it make its way back to the Grand. Understood?"
A chorus of "Yes Sir!" accompanies his words.
"Report back immediately. Whatever happened at St. Joseph's this morning ...well, we need to know where we stand." He sighs and tugs at the little chin beard that’s turned from brown to gray over the years since I've known him. "No radio contact with Kelly has me worried. It doesn't look good folks. Though I pray to God I'm wrong about the whole situation, and that the worst this means is a couple of busted radios."
I find myself hoping the same, but the knot in my belly says otherwise. Besides, God’s been pretty amiss with answering prayers lately.
"Get what you need, meet back here in twenty. Cookie already has your packs prepared. You move out soon as everyone is ready."
"No disrespect, Sir, but don't you think it would be a better i
dea to wait until morning?" This from Kingsley, and I can see some of my crew roll their eyes in disgust. Guards.
"We know this city like the back of our hand, Kingsley. Traveling at night gives us better cover from the ravagers, not to mention the fact that leeches seem to move slower at night. Sometimes a slower moving leech is the difference between life and death out there." I try not to make it sound condescending, but I don't think I succeed. I can tell by the way Kingsley's eyes move over me in anger, but Cooper thankfully backs me up.
"Bixby is right. Plus, we don’t have a moment to lose on this, so move, all of you. Time is of the essence."
No one else questions the man as he stands once more, leaning on the cane. I wait until the others leave the room, ignoring Luke's questioning look at my dallying and Dom's usual sneer as he passes by. I even ignore Cookie’s “we will talk” glare. Shit! Did she find out about the MRE packs I’d given to the kids? No time to worry about that now. I need to talk to Cooper alone.
His sigh carries weight as he finally looks over at me.
"Did you just not hear me, Bix? Why are you still standing here," he says as soon as the door closes on the last back. I dive straight into what’s bothering me.
"Why are you sending the guards along on this gig? We can move much quicker without dragging those area newbs along, you know that."
"I do know that. I also know that Kingsley's men are the best sharp shooters we have, and Kingsley himself has a unique set of skills needed for this job. This will be no ordinary hunting mission. It may be a search and destroy. Hunters alone cannot handle that. So suck up any issues you have with the Guards. You're gonna have to learn to play along with the boys for the next few days."
"S&D's are our specialty. Come on, Coop, we don't need those guys along. We can do this on our own."
"For Christ's sake, Bixby, can you ever not question an order?" He glares down his nose at me, and I'm shocked to see a spark of fear in his eyes. At first I think he's going to say more, but then shutters drop down over the spark and he becomes Captain John Cooper again. "We don't have time to lose. Kingsley will fill you in more on the way. Now move out. End of discussion."
I do as he says because I know that steel tone. I’ve been on the receiving end of it before. His mind is made up and there’s nothing I can say that will change it. So I obey, but I’m not without reservation. There’s something he’s not telling me.
Just as I'm about to open the door, he calls to me softly. "Bixby?" I look back over my shoulder. "Stay safe, kid."
The fear is back in his eyes, and it ties my stomach in knots. Anything that can scare John Cooper is truly something to be afraid of. Even more so than Cookie.
Chapter 33
The night's blanket of blackness breaks only in spots by the moon’s feeble attempt to fight its way through the thick cloud cover. Not a good night to be on the road. I know I told Kingsley that hunters prefer to travel at night, but moonlight is still our most valuable asset. Although we move quickly in shadow, no moonlight at all makes it that much harder to see the things lying in wait for us. And there are always plenty of those.
St. Joseph's is located on the other side of the city, which is a good two days walk. One and a half if we really push it--no rest periods. Though I knew Luke would never let us do that. He believes no sleep makes us sloppy. So over the years, we had set up safe zones that were hidden all over the deserted city. One of those is our destination at the moment. A halfway point of where we need to be.
We move on silent feet in the dark, in and out of shadows like we’re part of the night. The six of us can probably do this with our eyes shut, but we slow it down some for Kingsley and his men. I try not to hold a grudge against their lagging behind. Just because this is our playing field doesn't mean they should be as sure footed. I shouldn't blame them. They’re no hunters, but they protect the Grand and its occupants every day from invasion. They do their part, so I try to keep my patience.
We would be a hell of a lot quicker if driving was an option any more, but it’s not. The invasion had occurred during rush hour traffic. The mist had rapidly obscured the city, bringing to a standstill the already congested streets. People had unwittingly stumbled from their vehicles, curious as to the glittering clouds. Those who hadn't been infected right away had soon become the prey. Bodies had littered the streets with their jugulars torn out and bloating in the summer heat. The stench had been overwhelming; the smell of death rampant in the air for at least two months or more. Like any dead thing, the bodies had eventually decomposed or been eaten away by scavengers. The occasional dried out skeleton littering the streets was the only evidence they had even existed. That and their piles of rusting metal.
We tried at one point over the years, to clear the streets to make it easier to transport our supplies back to the Grand, but it had been a futile effort.
Cleared streets simply scream cargo route to those waiting to ambush us, and the thrumming engine of a moving vehicle brings the leeches in droves, which would be okay if we could move at a decent speed. But having to crawl our way through the streets, the fucking leeches move faster than we do. So we walk.
Walking is a bit of an asset, really. Cutting through abandoned apartment buildings and shopping malls sometimes cut blocks off of our travels. And you never know when you might find a surprise nugget hidden in some undiscovered cache.
I should be exhausted and dragging my feet, but the spring in my step is unmistakable. Even though I’ve been awake for almost eighteen hours now, and I know it would be at least another ten before we stop, I don't feel the least bit tired. Being out in the field always does that to me. I feel invigorated. Renewed. Like this is the only time I truly feel alive. Living on the edge appeals to me, and adrenaline is my drug of choice. Some understand where I'm coming from--most don't. They don’t get why I enjoy being out here so much, and I really can't give them an answer. They chalk it up to craziness. I hear the whispers; people question my mental stability behind my back. It doesn't bother me. I question it all the time. Maybe I am crazy. But I believe to survive in this fucking world now, you have to be at least a little crazy. Hell, a whole lot crazy helps you cope even better. I look over at Gordon, and he grins at me, giving me thumbs up. He’s enjoying this as much as me. I take comfort in the fact that the kid’s probably just as mad as I am.
A slight thump and shuffle from the alley up ahead catches our attention. I bring up sharply as Luke raises a hand in the air. My heartbeat quickens as my eyes--now accustomed to the dark--search for the source of the noise. In normal times, a thump in the night could be accounted to a stray dog or a raccoon foraging for its nightly meal, but these aren't normal times. The majority of animals that inhabit this city now are of the two legged variety.
Luke motions us back, and we melt into the shadows of the building cornering the alley. If it is leeches, they'll stumble out eventually once they get a whiff of us. If it’s something else, then we'll have to be more careful. Noises in an alley that we have no choice but to go through screams nothing but trouble.
Dropping my backpack into the building's shadow, I pull my Bowie knives. They feel comforting in my hands, like old friends. I hold the left one blade up, but the right knife I twirl easily with a practiced flick of the wrist so it's facing blade down. Whether it is crazies or leeches, I have a system for dealing efficiently with both. The knives are my weapon of choice. With their 12-inch broad blades and the clip point at the top, they offer me perfect control for thrusting attacks. A quiet and lethal weapon.
The boys prefer their guns. Ironically enough in a world where food and medical supplies are running frighteningly short; there are plenty of guns to be found. Luke's preference is his .44 AutoMag. He tries all the time to talk me into carrying one, but guns and I just don’t get along. Every time I hold one, my father’s mutilated head is all I can see and I can't shoot it. Talk about fucked up.
My keen ears pick up the unusual movements coming from the alley,
and my body tingles in anticipation. There’s gonna be a fight. I smile into the darkness, flexing my fingers rhythmically on the titanium handles as I crouch into my attack position. Luke holds up three fingers to Kingsley, motioning with them to the hulking remains of a sideways transit bus in the overgrown street, which is partially blocking the alley. Kingsley gets the message. He and his guys sprint around the back of the bus, so they can come out behind of whatever is about to emerge.
We don't have long to wait. The shuffling picks up and wet gurgling sounds float through the air. Leeches alright. I never could figure out what that sound was. I'm not sure if it’s their form of communication or just the sound of the leech tearing from its host's throat. Whatever it is, it's a wet, thick sound and makes me want to gag every time I hear it.
Before the invasion I had been a huge zombie fan. I couldn't get enough of those stupid undead movies and comic books and shit. I lived and breathed it. Leeches kind of remind me of those zombies I used to adore. Torn flesh with strips of face meat hanging off. Exposed bone and teeth around the mouth from giving birth to the leech. No rotting or decomposing bodies, since technically the hosts were still very much alive, just torn and irrevocably damaged flesh. Clothing hanging in tattered shreds, whether it had been the finest of silk or pauper’s cloth.
But that's where the similarities end. In the movies, the zombies move with all the speed of a sloth but these leeches are fast. Very fucking fast. As soon as they get a scent, they morph into Kentucky Derby race horses, and if you’re not prepared you become fodder. Plain and simple. We think nighttime slows them down some; however, the horde emerging from the alley right at this exact moment doesn't appear to have gotten the memo. They have our scent all right, and they’re advancing like sailors on a whorehouse. I can hear Cal's softly muttered "Damn" from behind, and I can't help but throw over my shoulder, "Okay newb--let’s see you earn that nickname of Lucky."