by Kirk Withrow
Momentarily plagued by indecision, Reams knew that if he shouted a warning to John the other revs would be on top of them immediately. On the other hand, the wretched thing only inches away from John’s lowered head left little doubt as to what would happen if he did nothing. The scene unfolding at the swing set seemed to move in slow motion as he decided on his next course of action.
The young rev’s slender, reaching fingers began to curl, closing their grip on John’s shirt, as he knelt oblivious to the anguish he was about to endure. Reams saw the feral snarl adorning the thing’s malign face as it moved into the moonlight, pulling itself closer to the warm flesh on the back of John’s neck.
The furious blur of activity that transpired over the next three seconds saw the abominable scene shift into double-time, as if controlled by a bipolar projectionist. John was not the only one who was unaware of what was about to happen, as the swing the young rev had unknowingly walked into ensnared it like the tendrils of a vine. As the rev reached the maximum extent allowed by the swing, the taut chains pulled the thing’s legs back, and it found itself falling away from the prey that had literally been in its grasp. The sudden commotion caused John to raise his head in time to see a huge boot crash down on the neck of what looked like the most lifelike doll John had ever seen. Its left hand was slightly raised off the ground in a tight fist that quickly went limp as the horrible realization washed over John like a tsunami.
Reams large hand shot out to cover John’s mouth as it fell open, more from shock and disbelief than any real intention to speak. The big man’s stifling effort was unnecessary as John was physically incapable of making a sound as he knelt aghast beside the thing that had been less than a second away from ending his life.
Wasting no time, Reams shot John a look that said, ‘snap out of it and get your head in the game,’ as he directed John’s attention toward the small group of revs standing nearby. The two men moved stealthily with renewed purpose, neither of them possessing enough gumption at that moment to endure another encounter with the infected. John hastily placed the ladder on the wall as Reams covered their position. The sun was just starting to peek up from beyond the horizon as the two men climbed up and over the wall to what they hoped would be relative safety outside the walls of Hermitage Estates.
Chapter 23
October 17, 2015
Physically exhausted and emotionally drained, neither John nor Reams noticed the disfigured man following them as they began the trek back to Al’s compound. Though the two men moved silently, they sounded like a herd of elephants in comparison to the man lurking among the trees behind them. If either John or Reams had any inkling they were being followed, they would have seen no one had they turned to check; such was his ability to remain invisible amongst the shadows.
Realizing nothing could be said to make sense of what they just experienced, and vehemently wanting the occurrence at the swing set to fade far out of memory, John and Reams walked automatically without exchanging a single word. Despite their overwhelming prostration, they made good time for the majority of the eight-mile trek. Even as they passed through the more populous areas along their route, they encountered very few revs. Though neither man voiced their concerns aloud, both found it odd that there were hardly any infected on the streets that had contained dozens just the day before. Where could all of the revs have gone?
The deformed, damaged man pursuing the duo thought little of this, at times nearly close enough to touch them, yet still completely undetected. As they closed to within two miles of Al’s house, John and Reams began to get some idea about exactly where the revs had gone.
* * *
Furious and more than a little frightened, Trenton Wentworth III sulked back into Al’s house as the two men passed out of view. While he certainly did not relish the idea of being back out there among those atrocities, the thought of being left alone again did not sit well either. The nerve of those macho assholes talking to me as if I were a schoolboy! Just who the hell do they think they are!
Fuming, he stalked around the room, unsure of what to do with himself as his anger continued to boil up inside him—the pressure roiling within him threatening to explode at any moment. Nobody talks to Trenton Wentworth like that! Not the doctor, not his errand boy! Nobody!
The fury raging behind Trenton’s eyes was impressive given his rather diminutive size. It was exactly this fury and tenacity that allowed him to overcome all the bullying and all the bullshit he endured throughout his life to this point, and he was not about to stifle it now. Being stuck in this redneck, survivalist hideout is the pinnacle of this whole damn nightmare! ‘Do something else useful!’ Do those assholes think I’m going to put on a French maid uniform and clean house for them?
Still unable to see through the curtain of red that hung over his eyes as he paced, he realized he needed to calm down at least enough to think clearly. What he needed was a drink. As if some evil magic genie was listening to his irate inner monologue, the shimmering reflection of sunlight filtering through the bottle of precious brown liquid nestled invitingly on a shelf across the room caught his eye. His conscience would not have stood a worse chance if the Devil himself had just hog-tied and gagged his guardian angel. With a fiendish smile that would have made Old Scratch himself tuck tail, Trenton crossed the room with the deliberate steps of a man on a mission.
The sweet liquor scalded his throat as he gulped it down, a pain that Trenton had come to embrace over the years of self-medicating. The image of himself mumbling incoherently before urinating in his pants and vomiting all over the floor in front of Tracy Winters, the high school beauty he had dreamt of lustfully since the sixth grade, flashed through his mind as it always did when he drank. The look of complete disgust and utter pity on her face had served as both a millstone around his neck and a fire under his ass for most of his life. “Heavy imbibition beats heart-crushing embarrassment every time,” he said to no one as he took another long drink of whiskey.
Finally feeling a bit more centered thanks to a stomach full of 80-proof serenity, Trenton took a seat on the couch for the first time since being enraged by John and Reams earlier in the day. His next decision might not have seemed like a game-changing event even if he had been sober, but in his intoxicated state, it seemed like the absolute best idea. Being technologically challenged and far from mechanically inclined, he struggled to get one of the generators up and running. When the thing roared to life, the sparkle in his eye stood in stark contrast to what was yet to come. Trenton ran an extension cord across the room to the stereo sitting idly on the wooden cabinet by the far wall. Powering on his iPhone, he was elated to see his device was still half charged; he had turned it off to conserve battery life when he realized there was no service. He plugged in the 3.5mm cable and rifled through his music library until he found exactly what he needed.
Speakers blaring and windows shaking, he cranked the volume to the max as Pantera’s ‘Vulgar Display of Power’ filled the air with a sonic barrage of metal-laced guitar riffs and guttural lyrics. Trenton managed to get off a few bars on the air guitar before settling back onto the couch with another glass of whiskey. An oblivious smile of drunken satisfaction was plastered across his smug face; heavy metal always made him feel better.
Unbeknownst to him, Trenton was not the only one enjoying the cacophonous sounds of Pantera, as several nearby revs took notice of the acoustic assault shattering the silence of their world. Turning toward the intriguing noise with a slow, groaning ache like that of a rusted gear, a chain reaction was set into motion as more and more infected took notice of the initial revs. On and on it went as the revs fell in line like a morbific row of dominoes all trudging toward something most had not even heard.
Trenton, now drunk nearly to the point of passing out, lay on the couch incognizant of his fatal mistake as the ever-growing horde of infected continued their slow death march toward Al’s house. As the album’s last track broke into full stride, the hard-driving bass
line and the rhythmic pulse of the drums served as a perfect mask for the ever-increasing number of fists relentlessly banging on the outside of the house. When the five minutes of pure metal bliss finally finished brutalizing Trenton’s tympanic membranes, the reverberation of the raging guitar riffs remaining in his head combined with the alcohol-induced vertigo caused the ominous sounds outside to go unnoticed. Nearly a full five minutes passed after the last song finished before Trenton came to the hazy awareness that the obdurate, pestilential metronome mercilessly beating out its death rhythm on the door was not part of Pantera’s masterpiece. Nearing its zenith, the throng of beating fists reached a crescendo as the battered doorframe finally succumbed to the weight of the revs pressing in. Wood splintering and bodies falling, the horde poured into Al’s living room as Trenton raised his head to regard the new sound that was clearly different than what he had been enjoying. Before he realized he was not dreaming, and this was not the set of a music video of some grisly heavy metal band, the first rev was on him. Its cuspate teeth clamped down hard on his outstretched arm, rending the pale flesh from the bone.
In an odd way, Trenton thought the formerly female rev looked a lot like Tracy, aside from the blood-matted hair and the gaping abdominal wound threatening to eviscerate at any second.
Chapter 24
October 17, 2015
“What the hell is going on?” asked John as the two men moved hurriedly, navigating with heightened caution to avoid the increased density of revs. They appeared to be heading straight for Al’s place, though neither John nor Reams could fathom why that would be. When they left a day earlier the revs were fairly evenly dispersed. The only thing either man could think of was Trenton. What the hell had he done?
Breathing heavily with alarm rising deep inside, they crept toward the house, taking the woods rather than the driveway, where the number of infected was much higher. As the house came into view, they received the sickening confirmation of what they feared; Al’s house was, for some inexplicable reason, serving as a beacon for the infected now swarming like moths to light on a moonless night.
“John, we need to get the hell out of here! We should just cut bait and go, man! Maybe they’ll clear out in a few days, and we can come back for supplies,” said Reams with a distinct tone of fear coloring his words.
Deep down John knew Reams was probably right, but, at the same time, he also knew that was not what he was going to do.
With a sigh of resignation, John spoke with an equal amount of fear infusing his words. “Reams, I can’t do that. I like Trenton about as much as you do, but the fact remains, he is the only other living person we have seen since this shit started. I won’t ask you to come with me, but I have to try to help him.”
Reams stood frozen in indecision fueled by terror and self-preservation on one side, and humanity and loyalty on the other. After a long moment during which John seriously reconsidered his plan, Reams said, “I’m going where you’re going, even if it is to help that shrimpy little ass-maggot.”
Almost unable to suppress a chuckle despite the ominous situation, John replied softly, “That’s the spirit!” Ass-maggot?
Maneuvering over felled logs and through dense thicket, they closed to within a hundred feet of Al’s house. Presently, the place looked like the gate to one of the lower circles of Hell as the wretched line of horrific abominations stacked up along the front of the house, eager to get inside to find out why they were even there. Only a few of the infected managed to snake around to the sides and rear of the house, and it appeared that was more from overflow than anything else. The vast majority still congregated at the front of the house. John noticed there did not seem to be a great sense of urgency amongst them, like that he had seen in the group at the airport. This made John worry that perhaps they were too late to help Trenton. Still, he felt obligated to investigate the situation further.
Arriving at the tree line, John and Reams dropped to a knee as they surveyed the grisly scene before them. At least one hundred revs pressed against the front of the house, with another twenty or so randomly scattered around the structure. They could not tell how many were inside, but the sounds of furniture being scooted and occasional glass breaking made it apparent there were quite a few. John felt a bit sick with regret realizing he had not shown Trenton the underground shelter at the back of the property. While the revs were not particularly loud individually in their unexcited state, when taken as a whole, they sounded a lot like a swarm of insects circling carrion as they waited for their chance to dive in. Another sound could be faintly heard over the din of the horde, and John thought it sounded like the low rumble of a generator coming from inside the house.
Determining that the rear door was likely the safest means to access the house, they readied themselves to advance. They slung their rifles and drew their sidearms to which they attached suppressors. John checked his knife, ensuring it remained secure in its sheath as he noticed Reams take the pipe in his left hand. With the quiet, practiced precision of a S.W.A.T. team about to breach the neighborhood drug dealer’s house, they moved toward the rear door, being careful to stay out of sight of the revs milling around the side of the house. Unnoticed, they eased to within grabbing distance of the three revs staring at the back of the house as they swayed like seaweed on the ocean floor.
They considered dispatching the revs with melee weapons, but were concerned that the third one might have enough time to make noise, thereby alerting the other revs around the house. As the FN was quieter than the Glock, they decided Reams would do the heavy lifting on this one, with John serving as backup if required. With no more effort or emotion than if he was shooting tin ducks at a carnival game, Reams raised the FN and fired a single bullet into the skull of each of the two revs on his left side. Each projectile entered the cranial vault just above the spine before exploding out of the face and striking the back of the house with a sharp ‘thwack’ that sounded like pieces of large hail smacking the vinyl siding. The third rev turned to regard the sound and commotion that had broken its reverie, only to be greeted by the dark blur of the pipe whooshing through the air before coming to an abrupt stop with a dull, wet crunch as the thing was nearly decapitated by the force. Within two seconds, all three revs lay in lifeless heaps as Reams nonchalantly continued to move toward the back door. John did not think the big man even broke stride as he efficiently put down the three targets.
Satisfied that no other revs had noticed their approach, John followed closely behind Reams as they advanced up the stairs before blading off to each side of the doorway. They could not see the rooms at the front of the house due to the layout, but with the increasing ambient light of the pre-dawn sky, they could see that the rooms at the rear of the house looked clear. Using his key, John quietly unlocked and opened the door hoping that the hinges wouldn’t choose this time to offer a loud, creaking protest, begging to be oiled. John exhaled as the door opened without a sound, and the two men slipped inside. Fanning out, Reams moved to the left toward the front of the house as John moved to the right toward the laundry room and the armory. Reams passed through the dining room, noting that the side door leading to the kitchen was clear as he continued toward the front of the house.
The low grumbling, murmur of the infected could be heard in the front room as Reams advanced. Up to this point, Trenton had not contributed to the low, droning sound coming from the group responsible for taking his life. That, however, changed as two drunken eyes snapped open, revealing the horror they had endured for a split second before fading quickly into the emotionless, blank stare of the infected. Struggling against the mass of revs still pressing into him, the thing that had been Trenton Wentworth III tried to make his ruined body stand. After several attempts and a great deal of effort, he managed to climb shakily to his feet. All at once, the soft, disconcerting sound of the revs was brutally overpowered by the insanely loud sounds of metal guitar riffs and blazing drumbeats as one of the things stepped on the remote control
sitting next to the couch.
Startled by the overwhelming cacophony of sound, Reams stumbled backward as the entire group turned toward the stereo located about two feet in front of him on the other side of the doorway. Reams felt a dozen pairs of ravenous, inhuman eyes look past the stereo and lock onto to him as he turned to run to the back door. Colliding hard with a dining room chair, Reams full weight crashed hard to the ground as he lost his balance. He scrambled to his feet quickly as he heard the group fighting to be the first through the small doorway immediately behind him. His attention was so focused on this avenue of attack that he failed to see the small, frail, and severely brutalized rev approaching him through the side door of the room.
Reeking of liquor and dried blood, the rev bellowed an unintelligible sound like a feral animal when it caught sight of Reams through the doorway. Stunned by this new threat and torn between two fronts of attack, Reams paused a moment too long as he stared at the source of the sound. The rev lurched forward, one arm extended weakly as the other dangled lamely at its side. Reams would have guessed the small rev had been an adolescent were it not for the thinning brown hair, now matted with blood, and the tattered remnants of a blue and white two-tone shirt clinging haphazardly to its neck.