by Mark Tufo
There's no time for much else. The smell hits us then, and I can hear Cal gagging. Just because they aren't rotting corpses doesn't mean they don't stink to high heaven. The combined odors of old blood, decaying meat, unwashed bodies, and excrement hits us like a wall, and I can feel my own stomach churning. It’s a small mercy my adrenaline overcomes the urge to puke.
"Come on, mothafucka’s!" I hear Dom scream as I rush by him, and the shot he fires whizzes by my ear with a high-pitched whine. I duck on instinct.
Stupid sonofabitch. He nearly blew my head off.
He hits the leech barreling our way straight in the heart—a perfect shot. It falls at my feet, but another runs him over in a frenzy to get at me. In one swift motion, my left knife swoops upwards, sinking into the torn flesh of the creatures chin. It impales the snapping worm almost down to the hilt, preventing it from moving at my throat. Without losing stride, my right hand arcs down, driving that blade straight into the heart of the creature. The leech wiggles for a bit in distress before realizing its blood flow has diminished. It dies quickly. I yank my knives out, oblivious to the cacophony of shouts and shots, intent only on my next target.
The next to fall at my hands is a young blonde girl. Probably no older than me. I can't help but feel that familiar stab of guilt as I pierce her through the heart. The same thought enters my head like always. These things had been human once. Are they still human? They aren't undead or mutated creatures; they’ve simply been taken over by a vile parasite. Is the human still inside, trapped in a nightmarish world? Since they can't very well talk, I guess we’ll never know. It does nothing to ease my guilt.
I swerve at movement in my peripheral, raising my arm in defense. The sharp blades of the leech’s yawning mouth clamps down on the metal arm guards I always wear in the field. The attack causes me to stumble back, and I trip over the blonde chick I just took out. The damn creature is still attached to my arm though, and I pull it with me as I go down.
"Get off me, you fucker!" I scream as it falls on top of me. Pulling the knife up quickly between us, I let gravity take over as the knife pierces its chest, and I hope to God it hits the heart. The thing squirms on top of me, and the smell of it this close makes me puke in my mouth. The leech’s grip on my arm relaxes as I watch the human face above me go slack. Its life force drains away. A mixture of black blood and bile, and I'm not quite sure what, drips through the festering open wound that was once the dead thing’s cheek and plops dangerously close to my mouth.
"Ugh," I yell in disgust as I pull a knee up between us and push the thing off of me with the bottom of my boot, dislodging my knife. Rolling from underneath it, I bounce back to my feet. No time for my revulsion right now. A wasted second can be the difference between life and death.
"Bix?" Luke cries out.
I answer back with, “Behind you!"
For such a big man, he dives without effort away from the two creatures about to have him as a Scooby snack. Both leech heads swivel in unison, following his descent. Before they can make a move on him, shots from behind take them both down. Kingsley doesn't wait for any accolades. He and his men disappear into the alley, and I hear more shots as they find the latecomers to the party.
I spin around quickly, blades ready for their next target, but nothing else seems to be standing other than us. Lowering my knives, I let my shoulders relax and even out my breathing. My eyes automatically search for Luke, checking if he’s okay. He leaps to his feet with catlike grace, sending a quick nod at my unspoken question. Mollified, I search for the rest of my crew. Badger and Cal are busy retrieving our backpacks from where we’d dropped them, but Gordon is running my way and grinning like an idiot. His classic double take when he sees me hits me right in the funny bone.
"Err, you’ve got a little something gross on your face there, Bix." He mutters in repugnance, pointing at his own cheek.
I laugh and wipe at my face with my sleeve.
"How many did you take down?" I question, knowing full well that’s the cause of his excitement.
"Six," he answers with a cocky smile, looking down at the ground. "And you had what? Three? Really, Bix? That's pitiful."
Cal and Badger join us. The new guy looks slightly shell-shocked, and I kind of feel sorry for him. Besides his training, this is probably his first real encounter with a horde. Not something he will easily forget.
"You did good," I say as I slap him on the shoulder and relieve him of my pack. My next comment is aimed at Gordon.
"You too, kid. But the night’s only young, so don't be cocky. Come on, let’s catch up with Kingsley. Can't let him have all the fun now, can we?"
Cal appears a little taken aback at our nonchalant attitude, but I don’t take offense. He’ll come to the realization soon enough. If you think about it too much, it’ll eat you alive. That’s if they don’t eat you first. So you don’t think about it--you just do it. We leave him staring after us, mouth agape as my fellow ginger and I hurry off giggling like two giddy school girls.
If I had any reservations left about Kingsley and his men joining us in the field, they're now laid to rest. We find them casually sitting on a crumbled stone wall, looking like they’ve nothing better to do than smoke Jonesy's crap ass cigs. Eight or more leech carcasses are piled up in the street.
"About time you showed up," Kingsley says, flicking the lit ember away and jumping down off the wall.
"Well, don't look like you needed our help," Luke drawls as we look over the carnage.
"No, didn't need your help, but do need your opinion on something. Take a look at those leeches ...what do you see?"
The moon has finally won its battle with the clouds. After walking in darkness all night, this glow is almost as bright as early morning.
"I see a bunch of dead fucks, is what I see," Dom says in his best bored voice, and I turn on him with an irritated glare. He best not think I've forgotten his almost shooting me back there.
Kingsley's response is a bit more civilized.
"Look again," he says calmly enough, but I pick up on the strain in his voice. It worries me. So I look closer as do the others. Luke is the first to notice.
"Their clothing. It's not ripped apart and filthy like they’ve been wearing it for the past eight years. It's still in decent condition like..."
"Like they've only recently been infected. Very recently. By the condition of their clothes, probably just days ago I'm guessing."
I stare at Kingsley like I didn't quite hear right.
"But... that's impossible. I mean, the infections all happened that very first day. I haven't seen or heard of anyone who survived the first day being taken over after. I figured—we all figured—if you weren't infected the first day, you were immune somehow."
"That was the general consensus, yes. But something’s changed. There's no way this bunch have been playing host to those parasites for the past eight years. They look too fresh."
Kingsley's words chill me deep in my bones. Is it true? Are the aliens somehow infecting us again? And how? There's been no report of that strange mist since the invasion years ago. Have they learned to pollinate or is it now conveyed through a different medium? The thought of the black drippings that had fallen on me earlier sends a shiver crackling up my spine, and I wipe my cheek roughly with the back of my hand.
A terrifying, echoing yell shatters the night’s silence. I jump in fright, my heart slamming into my ribs. That damn screaming never fails to unnerve me no matter how many times I hear it.
"Ravagers," Luke says, glancing back the way we had come. "And close. They must have heard our little gun fight. They're on the way. Probably hoping to find some carcasses to pick over. We better move out. We're not far off from a safe zone; I'm thinking we should lay low for the night."
Another yell follows the first, and we head out without another word. Our discovery has rattled us for sure because if what Kingsley says is true, then God help us. And He’d better be listening this time.
&n
bsp; Chapter 34
The old, dilapidated leather factory had been the producer of a top-of-the-line sneaker in its heyday. A multi-million dollar business. Now it just looks sad in the predawn light.
Hulking monstrosities of machinery loom in the shadows like ghostly dinosaurs just waiting to be brought back to life by workers that no longer exist. Half the ceiling has long since caved in and now litter the floor with bits of steel, broken tile, and glass that crunch under our feet as we walk. Graffiti covers the remaining walls, featuring dire warnings of doom and death and end of the world predictions along with passages from Revelations. One budding artist, Rocky according to his tag, has even done a very lifelike spray painting of a leech erupting from a person's throat with all the exploding blood and gore that accompanies it. His message underneath simply reads, “We are fucked.”
No shit, Sherlock, I think as I read the message for the umpteenth time. Like always I find myself wondering what happened to Rocky. Had he found a place to survive or had he, in his own words, been fucked? I guess I’ll never know. But if I ever come across a survivor someday with that moniker, I’m sure as hell gonna ask how handy he is with a can of spray paint.
We stop in front of the rickety stairs leading up to the office. Luke and Badger pull away the heavy metal shelf placed strategically across the bottom steps, just enough so we can squeeze by. To any outsider it looks like it had simply toppled over, but for us it’s a security measure.
"Gordo, check the seal," Luke orders, and the boy nimbly climbs the ten steps to the metal door.
"Still intact," he calls down. I breathe a sigh of relief. An intact seal means it hasn't been breached by other survivors or ravagers, and that nothing is lying in wait for us on the other side of that door. Plus it means none of our supplies have been looted.
Each of our safety zones are set up with anything and everything we need when out on patrol. That in turn keeps what we carry in our backpacks down to a bare minimum, so we can move faster. This includes sleeping bags. As pumped as I was at the run in with the leeches, the past 24 hours are catching up with me and all I can think about now is sleep.
We take the stairs one at a time, not trusting it to support all of our combined weight. By the time I make it up Luke already has the lamp lit, so I go to work on setting up the paint can heater/stove he taught me to make. Simple enough. It consists of a roll of toilet paper with the cardboard center removed and stuffed into an empty paint can and then saturated with rubbing alcohol. It burns amazingly well, is smoke free, and safe enough for us to use inside to keep us warm in the drafty old building.
Toilet paper and rubbing alcohol. They rank up there on our list of priorities along with any sort of food product when out on patrol. Who would’ve thought that finding a stash of ass wipe could be almost as exciting as winning a lottery back in the old days? Kind of funny if you think about it.
As soon as I have a nice flame burning, I put the metal grill over the top. Badger plunks a tin pot full of water on it and then throws in a couple of chunks of Cookie's dried herb and veggie concoction. It tastes like shit, but the hot soup always fills our grumbling stomachs, so none of us complain too much. Well that and the fact we don't dare complain in case word got back to Cookie. Nobody wants to face that wrath.
We eat in silence sitting around the makeshift heater, our ears alert for any sound of ravagers having followed us, but it remains quiet. My mind keeps hashing over what Kingsley suggested and wondering if it has any connection with what happened at St. Joseph’s. Hell, maybe those leeches are the people from St. Joseph’s. My mind won't let go of this idea, and finally I voice it out loud to the others. Kingsley stares at me over the flickering flames.
"Anything’s possible," he responds quietly to my words.
Gordon stops slurping his soup and looks up.
"You think so, Kingsley? What really happened at St. Joseph's? Do you even know?"
Luke chimes in. "Maybe we all should get some rest first before we dive into that can of worms. It's been a long night, and I'm sure we'll think better after some shuteye."
"No," I say with my customary stubbornness. "Cooper said Kingsley would fill us in en route. Now is a good time. How do you expect us to get any sleep with the idea of newly infected bouncing around in our heads? Coop knew more about St. Joseph's than he was willing to admit, isn't that right, Kingsley?"
I omit mentioning the fear I’d seen in Cooper's eyes. Most of us consider that man a legend. I didn't want to tarnish him with his show of weakness, as much as it had scared me. I'm hoping Kingsley can shed some light on the reason for that fear.
The man in question takes his time sipping his soup, not even looking at us. Almost as if he doesn't know where to start. Finally decision made, he raises his eyes.
"Lois left out some of the story. She called us in--Coop and me--as soon as she heard that distress call. The guy was screaming like she said, but he was screaming about monsters. Not ravagers or leeches. Monsters. And there was something else. There was this sound I've never heard a leech make before. You could hear it above the guys screaming. You could hear it as the poor sonofabitch was being ripped apart. I don't know why we could hear it. Maybe his mic was locked on. Maybe it stayed in his hand right up until he died. The radio went silent after that. We thought it was over. But then...then it came back on for a split second, and I can't be sure but I swear we heard the words 'You next.'"
Gordon puts his tin cup down like he’s suddenly lost his appetite.
"You next? Like in the Grand is next?" he asks, with bug eyes.
"I can only assume."
"So was it ravagers?" I ask. Then more firmly, "Well, it had to be. No leech has the smarts to speak, let alone operate a radio. But how the hell did ravagers get inside? St. Joseph's defenses were just as good, if not better than our own."
"No, that's the scary part. I don't think it was ravagers at all. You had to have heard this voice—these sounds. They weren't human. I'm certain."
At first I think Kingsley is just shittin' with us. But then I see his face.
"You think it was leeches? But leeches can't fucking talk," Dom says, and for the first time in a long time, his words aren't filled with his usual arrogance.
"No leech we’ve ever met, no. But Cooper and I think this is something entirely new. Some new form, some mutation of these leeches, maybe? We know they assimilate to their host bodies’ senses. They use their sense of smell, sight, and hearing. Why can't they have assimilated their intelligence as well over the years? It would make sense..."
"Nothing about this makes any sense," I interrupt, refusing to believe our shit situation can get any worse. "You said the St. Joseph's dude was screaming about monsters. Ravagers dressed in their attack skins would look like a monster to anyone not used to seeing them. Right?"
I look around at the others, desperately seeking their agreement. But no one agrees.
"So you believe we’re dealing with a totally new evolved strain of this parasite," Luke speaks slowly, as if he doesn’t want any misunderstanding in the slightest.
"I do," Kingsley answers.
"And that this new strain has the ability to think, speak, and to infect new hosts?"
Kingsley nods in response, and my pent up breath escapes in a low groan. Great. Just what we need.
"Fuck me," Gordon whispers, wrapping his arms around himself as if warding off a sudden chill.
I can't help but shiver myself. If what Kingsley believes is true, if there’s a smarter breed of leech, then we don't stand a chance in hell.
"Why didn't Cooper tell us this at the debriefing?" I question harshly, still refusing to believe the implication.
"We were going to. Then we found out the council members wanted to attend, and well, he didn't want to start a panic. As well-meaning as they are, some of them are known for flapping their lips. Until we know for sure, we don't want to create a plague of fear throughout the Grand. That’s why he left it up to me to fill you in."
"So that's your job? To find out if what you suspect is true? This isn't about finding Kelly and the others?" I ask.
"Of course finding our people is still a priority. But we have to admit, the odds of finding them alive aren’t the greatest," Kingsley answers.
"You don't know that.” I fire back. “There could be any number of reasons why they've broken radio contact."
He gives a measured nod. "I agree, and I hope to God you’re right. But our main focus is to find out what the hell attacked those people at St. Joseph's and exterminate any threat it may cause to our people."
"And how do you propose we do that?" Luke asks in his even tone, his calmness only accentuating my surliness.
"That pack there in the corner is our plan," he says, pointing his chin at the heavy canvass backpack he's been carrying since we left the Grand. "It's filled with C-4. If we find whatever attacked St. Joseph's is still there, my orders are to bring down the building immediately. We’re not to hesitate at all. Do you understand?"
"Jesus H. Christ. You've been carrying around a goddamned bag full of explosives? All the while we've been shooting guns and shit?" Dom looks horrified at the mere idea, but Kingsley just gives him a patronizing look.
"Relax. The C-4 is stable. It needs a detonator to do any damage. Bumping it around or shooting at it won't set it off. I used to be a demolitions man before all this went down. Trust me; I know what I'm doing."
Ah. So that's what Cooper meant by a set of unique skills. Still, what Kingsley is implying doesn't sit well with me. I study the faces of my crew to see if this tidbit of info bothers them as much as it bothers me. Their expressions mirror all stages of understanding; the insinuation of Kingsley's words finally dawns on them. Kingsley and his two men however, sit as stone faced as gargoyle statues.
"Blow it up? But you mean after we've searched it for survivors right?" Gordon asks, and his voice is tinged with confusion. "I mean, we have to find Kelly and the others first. My brother, Mike is part of that group."