Blood Type Infected (Book 1): No Future For Man

by Marchon, Matthew

  Oh you’ve got to be shitting me. My wrist is shaking. It’s too swollen. Too weak. I can’t hold her off. It’s giving out on me. I’m telling it to push harder and hold on tighter but it’s ignoring my brainwaves. I can’t even feel it anymore. My wrist finally gives in and buckles under the pressure.

  CHAPTER 28

  Her mangled face rushes towards me. There’s nothing I can do. Her old lady bosom presses against my chest, suffocating me. Pinning me down.

  I move my head just in time. Her face slams into the asphalt so hard I can hear her skull crack the rest of the way. My bat softened it when I brought it down across her head but this finishes the job. Somehow it doesn’t. She’s not stopping. She’s still trying to bite me. I have the bat wedged between my good hand and the pavement, pressed against her shattered nose. She won’t stop.

  Her entire face is splitting in half. The crack is getting bigger. Her eyes are spreading further apart. Through blood-soaked strands of her graying hair I can see brain matter scraping against the jagged edges of her broken skull. Nothing but flesh and shredded cartilage are holding her failing face together. Gray liquid from her cranial cavity oozes from her forehead, mixing in with the waterfall of gushing blood covering her mangled face.

  It’s too much. I can’t look anymore. The grotesque– fuck, it’s too late. I try to hold it in but chunks spew from my mouth. Vomit dribbles down the side of my cheek. I try to spit the rest of it up so I don’t choke like a newborn on his back, but I can barely breathe as it is. I don’t have the strength to spit. It’s all catching in my throat and sloshing around in my mouth. The bile burns my esophagus, overflowing from my lips as I try desperately to move my face away from hers.

  Felecia’s guarding Marty, I can see her fighting the tall one in a suit. Marty’s yelling but I can’t hear him over this fat bitch’s snarls as she wiggles and writhes, trying to break through my bat. Thrashing every which way. Elongating the split traveling the entire length of her skull. Felecia can’t come to my rescue. She probably doesn’t even know I’m in trouble. Our weapons are useless.

  With a strong cough, vomit erupts from my mouth like a geyser. Bits of my fancy breakfast plate splatter her splitting skull. Croissant morsels mix in with a stream of gray matter cascading down her neck. What doesn’t drip onto my chest disappears into her cleavage. The bones in her face are shifting. Dislodging. I can’t even see her eye anymore, it’s disappeared behind her orbital bone.

  Some of the puke slips back down my throat, filling me with the urge to barf even more but at least I can breathe now. I can still feel chunks of blueberry pancake stuck between my teeth and gums. My nose is dripping, I’m pretty sure some of it came out through my nostrils. They sting like hell.

  Tyrone’s got one of them pinned to the ground. His back is to me. He doesn’t know what’s going on. He doesn’t know I’m gonna die. We’re all gonna die. Our pitifully primitive weapons may as well be squirt guns in a gang war. We were foolish for thinking we had a chance. Ms. Higgins was right. We’re going to get us all killed.

  Unless, Neil. Mohawk. Maybe they’ve found weapons inside. What kind of gas station on rural Route 15 doesn’t have a gun under the register? At the very least, a mop they can break over their knee to stab these assholes with. Gasoline and matches. No never mind, gas station, don’t do that. There must be something in there. Rope for crying out loud. Something. Anything. Please. I can’t hold her off much longer. Sooner or later my other wrist is going to give out on me as well.

  I arch my head back just enough to see the building, hoping they’ll be running towards me with machetes sharp enough to decapitate human heads. But there’s no help coming. The upside down building is only a hundred feet away. How can they not see we’re in trouble out here? They should have run out with their first load of supplies by now. Unless, what if there’s more inside?

  I try to peer through the windows but it’s nearly impossible with this fucker throwing herself at me repeatedly. It’s too hard to focus. Everything’s a blur of blood and death closing in around me.

  Son of a bitch, there’s more inside. Two of them are at the door. One starts making his way over but the other, stops him. What the fuck? What am I seeing? He’s got his hand on the other one’s chest, stopping him from bursting through the door to attack me in my weakened state.

  Oh my god, it’s Neil. They turned Neil. He’s the one trying to come after me. There is no way in hell I’m dying at the hands of that spoiled son of a bastard prick. No fucking way. I gotta get to my feet before he breaks free. I am not getting taken out by Neil Buckley, zombie or not.

  Or not. Mohawk’s the one holding him back. They’re watching me. Oh you’ve got to be fucking shitting me! They’re in the doorway watching. They’re not dead. They didn’t turn. They’re alive and well, watching us die out here. They’re watching us die.

  Anger and adrenaline take over. I reach for her hair, to hell with my swollen wrist. I scream in pain while wrapping it around my hand and pull. It smooshes her face against the bat. I yank on it, jamming her against the bloodstained wood, spreading the crack even more, ripping muscle from bone. Her face is falling apart in front of my eyes.

  I swing the detached fragment of her skull at the exposed portion of her brain, stabbing at it like I’m holding a dagger, not a clump of bone and heavy hair dampened with blood. Strings of brain tissue burst into the air with every desperate motion. It looks like someone lit a firecracker in a package of raw hamburger.

  Her body begins shutting down. Her arm twitches, followed by her leg on the same side. Convulsing uncontrollably. I dig into her open scalp repeatedly but it doesn’t stop her. Stubborn flaps of flesh smack off her face, flinging things no one wants to see in every direction.

  Something gives. I’m not sure if I finally overpowered her or if I hit the right nerve but I manage to knock her off me. She faceplants it a few inches from my ear, giving me the split second I need to slide out from under her. With a quick roll onto my stomach, I spring to my knees and bring the bat down across the back of her head. It’s like using a rotten watermelon as a piñata. I pull back and swing again, filling the air with a loud slurping sound. I bring the bat down a few more times because she won’t stop moving.

  There’s nothing left but a stump. Her mangled neck ends in a puddle. The body of the decapitated corpse twitches and spasms but doesn’t get back up. She’s finally dead or whatever you want to call it.

  I survey my surroundings while spitting out the remaining chunks of vomit that lodged themselves in my throat and behind my teeth. Felecia’s standing over the zombie in a suit, bringing the club down on his head every time he shows movement.

  Neil and Mohawk are nowhere to be seen. I know what I saw. I get it, I was upside down, fighting for my life, but I swear on everything I love I saw them standing there, watching. Waiting. Hoping.

  Didn’t I? I swear I did.

  “I’m coming Tyrone. Hold on!”

  “Noah, I can’t hold him down much longer! Hurry!”

  I run over in what I assumed would be a straight line but feels more like a drunk game of hopscotch. I’m beyond drained. We can’t keep going like this. It’s like my adrenaline never has a second of downtime. If we’re not fighting these undead asshats we’re fighting each other. On alert at all times. Always waiting for the worst to come because it always does.

  “I’m gonna stab its face with the bat. Move your head on three.”

  “Three,” he shouts, completely skipping one and two.

  I bring the tip of the bat down like I’m flattening a dirt driveway with a stamper. Tyrone continues to hold him, squeezing his eyes shut so tight he’s going to pop a blood vessel. I don’t want to see it any more than he does but I can’t look away in fear I might accidentally miss and kill one of my only friends.

  “I saw three more coming,” he stutters when I finally stop bashing this thing’s brains in. “They were heading behind the gas station.”

  I turn t
o leave but Tyrone grabs my arm more forcefully than needed. His eyes meet mine and he shakes his head.

  “They’re in there right now, Neil and his buddy.”

  “They stood there, watching,” he whispers harshly. “I saw them. They wanted us to die. We can’t let them get back on that bus Noah, we can’t.”

  “I know, I saw them too. Have they been back to the bus yet with their first load?”

  “I don’t know. I curb stomped that one, like you said. It’s still moving but it doesn’t have much of a head. Then this one tried coming after you while you were fighting off the chunky chick. I didn’t see them go by though.”

  “Me either. That means they’re still in there.”

  “Fuck, man, I can’t believe I’m saying this but do we leave ’em behind or go in there and handle business?”

  A commotion inside draws our attention. The three Tyrone saw must have entered from the rear. Through the windows I can make out Mohawk running for the door. I slide my hand up the bat and sprint across the parking lot.

  He bursts through the door just as I reach him, launching myself like a spear. My shoulder meets his stomach in a midair collision that practically rips him in half before he even knows what hit him.

  His body breaks my fall as we crash to the floor and slide into a soda display, taking the whole thing over with us. He’s gasping for air immediately, curled up in fetal position, trying desperately to breathe. If his ribs aren’t sticking out of his skin, I’ll be surprised. That’s the kind of tackle they replay in slow motion from every angle imaginable.

  “What the fuck was that?” Neil screams from behind the counter in a voice two octaves too high. “Noah, help, I’m trapped back here.”

  Tyrone rushes in while I scramble to my feet amidst the cans of soda spraying everywhere. He makes a beeline for the register with a scowl so terrifying I think I just wet my pants a little, and he’s on my side. Without a word, he bends down and grabs the ankles of the woman in the skimpy outfit trying to reach Neil over the counter. The look of shock on Buckley’s face is exactly how I want to remember him. Tyrone flips the woman over the cash register in one fluid motion, helping her land directly on top of the kid who wants nothing more than to see us dead. He just handed my archrival over to the enemy on a silver platter. Fuck you Neil Buckley, I suppose I’ll see you in hell.

  Two of them come crashing through the dangling plastic strips that lead into the backroom. Without a word or so much as a look exchanged, we both run towards the new arrivals and crash into the aisle hard enough to knock the whole thing over. It falls in a messy heap, trapping the two truckers underneath, pinning them awkwardly against the wall in a way that would have broken a normal human in half.

  I’m not sure what we’re doing but we both did it so there must be a reason. To get supplies? We can’t let an opportunity like this go to waste. I don’t think that’s it. I think we need to make sure they’re both gone. See it with our own two eyes or we’ll spend the rest of our lives wondering if they somehow made it out.

  Another group come bursting in from the backroom. At least five of them but maybe more.

  Two slam against the front door, trying to push their way in when they should be pulling. Fuck fuck fuck. We’re trapped. Mohawk is stumbling to his feet, doubled over, coughing, slipping on soda cans. Neil’s screaming on the other side of the counter but I can’t see him to know for sure if he’s been bit.

  The horn blares outside. One long honk that pierces through the night air like a bomb siren. Warning us. But not preparing us for what’s to come.

  CHAPTER 29

  I glance outside where Marty is disconnecting the hose. I don’t think he got a full tank. Felecia’s clearly rushing him, looking behind the bus every second or two. That can only mean one thing and it’s not good. There’s more coming.

  “We gotta get the fuck outta here,” I yell, despite it being completely unnecessary to point out. Tyrone knows damn well we’ve got to get out of here.

  Neil pops up from behind the register and for a second I’m not sure if it’s human Neil or zombie Neil. Judging by the terrified expression, it’s the human version. If he were dead, fear wouldn’t be plastered on his face, it’d be an unquenchable thirst. An insatiable hunger.

  He jumps onto the counter just as something hits me in the back. It feels like a rock just bounced off my shoulder blade.

  I spin around to see Mohawk hurl another soda can in my direction. I duck just in time. It slams into Neil’s face, catching him right in the eye while he’s hopping down from the counter. The unexpected hit to the face sends him crashing to the floor in an awkward heap. I took one to the back, I don’t want to know what one to the face feels like. I still can’t tell if he’s been infected. There’s blood all over him but it might not be his.

  Mohawk launches another soda can, catching me in the leg, right above the knee. It hurts but it’s nothing I can’t walk off, if only I had time to walk it off. He’s bent over, clutching his stomach and ribs in way too much pain to be too big of a threat.

  I don’t know who I should be fighting, the five of them that are climbing over their fallen brethren beneath the tipped over aisle, or our friends turned foes. Tyrone grabs a wet mop from the bucket and pushes them back. Neil’s getting to his feet, stumbling around, trying to remain vertical, holding his face with the hand he isn’t using to catch himself on the counter.

  “Noah, I’ll hold them back. Do it!”

  Tyrone’s words are all I need to hear. I rush Mohawk before he has a chance to throw another soda. He turns to shield himself, fully aware the bat is coming for him and there’s not a damn thing he can do to stop it. I connect with his ribs, knowing it’s his weakest point. If they weren’t broken before, they definitely are now.

  The impact kills my wrist and I can’t help but scream in pain. He lets out an even louder animalistic howl that overpowers mine and falls against a chip display just a few feet from the door.

  Can I really do this? Can I kill another human?

  There’s no time to decide. I swing again, catching him under the arm while he covers his head. My injured hand is too weak to cause the damage I was hoping for. There’s no time for this. I need a good headshot to take him out but he knows that. He won’t open the window of opportunity I need.

  “Shit, Noah, I can’t hold them off!”

  Tyrone needs me. What do I do? I can’t let Mohawk live. If he and Neil get back on that bus, there’s no telling what’ll happen. They want me dead. They already tried to make it happen. But this is about more than just me. If they take control, we’re going to Shasta Lake before it’s even an evacuation center.

  They’ll get us all killed.

  Every single one of us.

  This is about more than just me. This is about an entire bus full of people who need me to make the right decision for them. The decision they’re too scared to make. I need to finish what I started. He needs to die.

  But friendship comes first. I turn to help Tyrone. He’s pushing them back one at a time with his dripping wet mop that could never clean the blood off this floor, no matter how much bleach is used.

  Mohawk gets to his feet behind me, knowing he’s safe. Knowing I won’t risk my friend’s life in order to end his.

  Think again you backstabbing piece of shit.

  I spin around and swing with everything I have. Mohawk notices me at the last second and turns right into it. The bat connects with his temple, whipping his head around so fast it might have snapped his neck. He falls forward. Deadweight. There’s no stumbling or trying to hold himself up. He just collapses, faceplanting it onto the floor.

  The momentum from my wild swing spins me completely around and I rush to Tyrone’s side. Not a second too soon. They’re getting dangerously close. I swing again, trying to use my left hand more but I don’t have nearly as much control. The sloppy hit connects with one of their faces, knocking him into the one beside him. We can’t keep this up much longer. />
  “Go, get out of here,” I shout, grabbing the mop from Tyrone. “I’ll cover you. If you slam through the door hard enough it should knock those two over.”

  “I’m not gonna leave without you Noah.”

  “I’ll be right behind you. We can’t risk the door not opening with these fuckers on our tail. We gotta get those two out of the way or we’ll never make it. Run.”

  He takes one last look at Neil trying to regain his composure but it’s too late for him. The second I stop holding these things back, he’ll be right in their path. That soda can to the eye really knocked him for a loop. He’s trying to blink it away but it doesn’t seem to be working. It’s swelling shut already. By now everything’s probably just a blur of color flashing by.

  Tyrone makes a run for it. He slams through the door, knocking over the two cannibal corpses trying to push their way in. I swing sloppily with the bat in my left hand while forcing them back with the mop. My right hand is swelling up, becoming more useless by the second. I must have sprained it. This stupid plan wouldn’t be working if they weren’t trying to maneuver over merchandise and shelves from the aisle we tipped over. Luckily it’s too much for them to figure out.

  “I know what you’re doing,” Neil shouts, groggily. “You leave me here to turn into one of them, my dad will hunt you down. You know he will. And he won’t show you any mercy!”

  “I think we both know your dad is dead. Guns don’t do a damn thing. And I’m sure he found that out the hard way.”

  “No one on that bus will ever forgive you for this.”

  “And they would have forgiven you for watching me die and not coming to help?”

  “Ornburg wouldn’t let me. I tried.”

  “Not hard enough.”