The Next World - RESISTANCE - Book 2 (A Post-Apocalyptic Thriller)

by Jeff Olah

  Another voice came through the radio, it was Lucas. “That’s the man who shot you.”

  Kevin must have still had the mic keyed. There was a rustling and then what sounded like a door opening. “LUCAS NO!”

  Owen turned away from the radio and looked to his left. Lucas had climbed out and was walking toward the rear of the 4Runner. As he began to raise his right arm, Owen could see that the teen was holding the nine millimeter he’d given him the day before.

  He instinctively reached for the door. “NOOOOO!” As his feet hit the ground, Lucas fired four shots, the sound deafening in the small space between the two vehicles. “GET BACK!”

  For a moment, he lost sight of Lucas, but now heard the passenger door of the Bronco opening. “TRAVIS DON’T!”

  In the distance, a series of seven shots came in quick succession. The first four slammed into the rear of the 4Runner and the fifth caught Lucas on the left side of the neck, tossing him to the ground beside the rear driver’s side tire.

  The final two rounds skipped off the left corner of the Bronco and blew out the back window of the red Suburban.

  Behind him, Kevin had opened his door and was attempting to swing his legs out. Owen waved him back and then started toward Lucas. There were a few seconds where the highway went dead silent, the air thick, his pulse the only sound pounding in his ears.

  “LUCAS!”

  Owen stayed low, moved to the back of the 4Runner, and dropped to one knee. Gripping the Glock in his left hand, he placed his right on the paved roadway and glanced quickly between the front and rear tires. Fortunately, Lucas was hidden from the man in the Mustang, but was now crawling on his hands and knees.

  There wasn’t a path back to Lucas that didn’t put him dead center on the highway. There also was no more talking, no negotiating. The man that had come after his family twice in the last twenty-four hours wasn’t going to stop, but now neither was Owen. This needed to end today.

  “TRAVIS.”

  Travis kept his voice low. “I don’t have a shot; I’ll need to come back around.”

  “Just get to Lucas, no one else gets hurt today.”

  Owen stood and raised his left arm. He sighted the man standing partially hidden behind the door of the Mustang. He fired two shots, spaced so closely they almost appeared to be one. They hit the grill of the black sports car and mangled the lip of the hood.

  As he stepped out away from the SUV and fired another two shots, he could hear the screams of his wife and his daughter, their pleas for him to return, to stop what he was doing and come back.

  But it was too late for that.

  Although it was just shy of one hundred feet, the man behind the door of the Mustang appeared to smile as he flinched at the third and fourth shots fired by Owen. There was a desperation in his eyes, a look that was equal parts lunacy and pure evil as the projectiles came within inches of his head.

  And as Owen continued forward, the man Kevin had called Jerome Declan stepped out away from the door and squeezed off six more rounds. Three of the shots were short, they embedded into the road, sending fragmented pieces of concrete skyward. The next two narrowly missed Owen’s left arm, screamed between the 4runner and the Bronco, and again exploded into the back of the red Suburban.

  As the final round nicked his right shoulder and a lightning bolt of white hot pain shot through his arm and into his hand, Owen narrowed his focus. The world around him drifted away. The light breeze coming in off the ocean, the distant moans of the approaching crowd, and the screams and shouts of his family and friends. They all seemed to fade into some sort of vacuum-sealed nothingness, compartmentalized away in a filing system he no longer had access to, hidden away so he could do what they needed him to do.

  Owen took another step forward and then another, his pace increasing as he again raised the Glock.

  But the man wearing the maniacal grin and clutching the black pistol now had a different look, something Owen didn’t recognize. He stared down at his hand, back at Owen, and took a step to the right. He tossed the weapon into the car and slipped back behind the driver’s door.

  The man’s gun had either jammed—which was unlikely—or it was empty. Either way, it appeared he was attempting to retreat or go for another weapon. There was a second where Owen began to consider his options, but then found himself hunched forward, left arm extended, and sprinting toward the Mustang and Jerome Declan.

  Twenty feet, and then ten, and then as the Declan looked back, Owen launched himself. Every ounce of his two-hundred pounds used as a battering ram against the outside of the door.

  Like he’d run into a block wall, the collision sent a spasm down his right side, the pain dull, but coming everywhere all at once. He dropped the Glock, momentarily losing his vision, and the feeling along his left side. His ears hummed and he tasted blood, must have bit into his tongue during the impact.

  Behind the door, Declan had been clawing his way toward the back seat and was struck just above the knees. He was pulled back and thrown out onto the pavement, just a few feet from where Owen now lay flat on his back.

  Their screams and shouts were still muffled, but as he rolled to his left and attempted to get to his knees, the world slowly started to come into focus. Owen looked back toward the Mustang, shook his head, and blinked. He was able to make out the vehicle and the man lying on his side, but no details. It was like he was looking through the wrong prescription, heavy coke-bottles layered over his perfect twenty-twenty.

  The man, muted at the edges, got to his feet first. He took two quick steps and as Owen began to push away from the ground, he kicked him in the shoulder, sending both men back to the pavement.

  Owen’s head skipped off the ground, another jolt of agony, this time behind his eyes. However, when he opened them to the sound of barking and galloping paws, his vision had started to clear. Things were still a bit hazy, deeper shadows, not much detail, but it was something.

  With his knees back under him, Owen pushed to stand. The voices from behind were clearer now as well. There was Natalie shouting his name over and over, Kevin calling Zeus, and what sounded like Harper wailing something awful.

  And as the man ten feet away also got to his feet, the animal Owen wasn’t sure he liked now stood beside his left leg. The massive German Shepherd inched toward Declan, his hind legs planted, his teeth bared, and his growl deafening over the voices from behind.

  Owen looked down at Zeus and then turned to Declan, noticing something he hadn’t until just now. His Glock 17 lay on the pavement less than two feet from the man who’d tried to murder his family.

  Zeus again inched forward and continued to growl as he locked on Declan’s face. He looked like he was waiting to be released, just needed to hear the command.

  “Your dog,” Declan began to grin. He raised an eyebrow and motioned toward the Glock. “I’m going to kill him, and then I’m going to make you watch as I kill …”

  Owen was through listening. It didn’t matter what Declan said next, or what he did. Owen was willing to take a bullet, or two, or even three. As long as there was air in his lungs, and blood running through his veins, he wasn’t going to stop. And the man who shot his friend was about to find out why coming back was a bad idea.

  Exploding from his right leg, Owen focused only on forward movement. He easily covered the ten feet, rocketing through Declan’s midsection as Zeus placed himself between the men and the weapon.

  As they hit the ground, he pulled himself back and knelt over Declan. “You should have stayed away.” Owen hit him with a balled fist, just below the right eye, caving in Declan’s cheek and ripping a three-inch gash in the skin.

  Declan kicked his legs and attempted to shield himself, although Owen landed another brutal left and then a series of thunderous blows. The final strike breaking Declan’s nose, and nearly relieving him of consciousness. “Go ahead.” He coughed blood and tried to bring his hand up under Owen’s left elbow. “You think this is going to end her
e? You think you and your family are just going to walk away?”

  Owen gave him a quick shot to the side of the head, pushed off him, and stood. He then motioned for Zeus to come and picked up the Glock “Get up.”

  “Shoot me.”

  Owen lined the end of the barrel with Declan’s left leg and pulled the trigger. Declan jumped from the pavement, howling something incoherent, his inner thigh oozing blood as he clutched it between his hands. “I’ll kill you.”

  Although not necessarily what he had intended, the fact that he’d only superficially wounded Declan was a good thing. Through his blinding rage, he hadn’t thought about having to drag the nearly two-hundred pound man across the highway.

  Owen stepped in close, Zeus still on his hip, teeth exposed. “Let’s go.” He grabbed Declan by the shirt and placed the scorching barrel against the back of his head. “You stop, even to take a breath, and that’s going to be the last thing you do.”

  It looked like Declan was expecting to be walked back toward the others, as he reluctantly started in that direction; however Owen pushed him right. “Keep going.”

  He walked him toward the edge of the highway, not a word spoken as the area again fell into a pure silence. When they reached the two-foot guard rail, Owen stopped him and leaned over the side.

  A twenty-foot drop to the roadway below. The fall alone would have probably been enough, although as he’d seen before entering the highway, the streets below were overrun by the dead, a gargantuan horde of at least three hundred, probably more.

  Owen stepped back, turned Declan around to face him, and moved the barrel to his temple. “Good bye.”

  Declan opened his mouth like he was going to respond, the corner of his lip curled in what looked like a snarl. But before he could push forth even a single syllable, Owen lowered the Glock, shot him in the other leg, and pushed him over the edge.

  43

  His first thoughts were of the approaching horde, the hundreds of walking corpses that would overrun his friends and his family in only a matter of minutes. Turning away from the railing, Owen bent at the waist and ran his hand over Zeus’s head. The German Shepherd sniffed at his hand, wagging his tail slowly as he nudged him forward, and then barked twice.

  Owen stood up straight, the voice of Natalie pulling him back to present. She was running toward him, Ava and Noah at her side.

  “OWEN, THEY NEED HELP, PLEASE.”

  Still shaking free of the rage coursing through his every cell, Owen tried to rein in his focus as he read the look of absolute terror on their faces. It was something he’d never seen in his wife, not even over the last few days.

  He hurried to them, now halfway between the Mustang and the Bronco he’d driven onto the highway not thirty minutes before. “Lucas, is he—”

  Natalie reached for his hand, as did Ava. They were pulling him. “No, Lucas is okay. It’s Cookie. Come on, she needs help.”

  Around the rear of the 4Runner, Lucas lay in the spot he’d fallen. Travis was at his side, Kevin next to him. There was a long sleeve t-shirt wrapped around the teen’s neck, although neither of the men were focused on him.

  Two feet away, Harper had her grandmother cradled in her lap. She had a blood-soaked towel pressed into a wound just above Cookie’s right hip. Her face was wet and she avoided looking at the others, crying softly and using her free hand to wipe away the tears.

  “Owen.” Natalie had her hand on his back. “We have to help her, we have to do something.”

  He didn’t know where to start, but knew he didn’t have the time to think it through. “We have to go back. Paul and his family left behind some supplies, we can—”

  “Owen, we have company.”

  He didn’t turn to look, having already made a mental adjustment for the approaching horde. “Yeah, let’s get them inside and then get turned back around. We’ve got maybe another five minutes before that ramp’s too crowded.”

  Natalie gripped his shoulder, appeared to be losing herself. Her hand shook as she looked to the opposite side of the highway, toward Kevin, and then back to him. “No.”

  Owen was already down on one knee, gently sliding in alongside Harper when he looked up. “What?”

  She placed her hand over her mouth and moved away from him. She stepped around the others and broke into a jog, beginning to cry as she ran.

  Owen turned first to his son and his daughter, and then to Kevin, his frustration starting to boil over. “We’ve got to get them back there, get them some help.”

  Kevin wore a look Owen didn’t recognize. It was made of something resembling grief, but he was also fighting back a smile. He wiped his meaty right hand across his face and looked like he might cry. “Yes,” he said, “help is here.”

  Natalie slowed as she came to within twenty yards of the center divider. She turned and motioned for Owen to follow. He couldn’t see past her, although the anxiety behind her eyes had him more than a little concerned.

  He was moving before he knew what he was running toward. As he approached, she ran her nose over her sleeve, moved aside, but was only able to manage one word. “Gentry.”

  The man was slight, maybe five-seven, one-hundred-fifty pounds soaking wet, unassuming, dark hair and nearly the same expression as Natalie. He walked with a limp and when he reached the divider, he nearly toppled to the ground.

  Natalie ran to him and pulled him up, Owen followed. “This is him.” And then to Dr. Dominic Gentry she said, “How’d you find us, how’d you know?”

  Owen came in beside Natalie and helped Gentry over the concrete divider. The small man dragged his right leg behind, sucking in a breath and curling up his face as he dropped it back on the ground.

  “Natalie …”

  She looked back over her shoulder, motioned toward the others, her devastated look carrying as she spoke. “We have friends, a few of them are in bad shape. One was shot through the stomach, we can’t get the bleeding to stop.”

  Gentry nodded. “I’ll do what I can, but we’ve got to go.” His eyes drifted to his wounded right leg. “I’m not sure how much time I have.”

  Owen stepped back, his eyes narrowing. He looked from Gentry, to his wife and then back, his hand ready to go for the Glock in his waistband. “Are you …?”

  “No, not bitten, but they got me pretty good. I don’t know what’s going to happen, only ran into this a few times.”

  “Ran into what?”

  Gentry pulled up his pant leg.

  It looked like four nail marks, but much deeper than Owen had ever seen. He thought he could see fatty tissue and muscle, but couldn’t be sure due to all the blood.

  Owen decided not to pass judgement and instead to keep an eye on the man his wife said could save the world. They didn’t have many options and were out of time five minutes ago. He turned to Natalie, his expression hard and emotionless. “Let’s get them into the cars and get out of here.”

  Gentry reached into his waistband and handed his weapon to Natalie. “If I’m going to help your friends, we need to get somewhere soon.”

  “Yes,” she said, “we know of a place back in the city that—”

  “You won’t make it, it’s too far.”

  Owen slipped under Gentry’s right arm and helped him walk. “Okay, what do you suggest?”

  Travis had helped Lucas into the back as well as Harper and Cookie. The seventy-three-year-old had lost consciousness, but was still breathing. The others climbed in behind, Gentry following Owen and Natalie to the Bronco.

  Slowly sliding down into the passenger seat and buckling himself in, Gentry turned. He greeted Ava and Noah, finally eyeing Natalie. “You ever hear of a place called the Foundry?”

  Natalie’s eyes moved to the rearview mirror. She stared at Owen, and then reached over and grabbed Noah’s hand. She looked like she was contemplating her answer, but then remembered their current situation. “Yeah, I remember the Foundry.”

  “We can get there. It won’t be easy, but Goodwin
and his men have vacated, and it’s got what I need to help your friends.”

  Owen looked back at Natalie through the mirror. “You good with that, is that the call?”

  She nodded. “Yeah, if we can get there. It’s got walls and not much around it, it’s actually perfect.”

  Owen reached for the walkie and keyed the mic. “Travis, you there?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Stay on my bumper, and don’t stop for anything or anyone. We’re going somewhere safe, somewhere we can get help, somewhere we can finally stop running.”

  44

  Day Twenty-Seven...

  Owen sat just outside the front doors, on a bench that faced the yard. The building was a flat single-story rectangle, cool grey block walls without the benefit of windows and only a front and rear entrance. The grounds, although a few weeks overgrown, looked to have been at one time well-maintained. Six foot by six foot concrete patches formed a checkerboard pattern with the lawn that ran the width of the building and then wrapped around both ends. The parking lot near the gates had exactly sixteen spaces, eight on either side of the ramp that led to the frosted glass front doors.

  The massive iron gates at the center of the driveway were framed by an eight-foot block wall, covered top to bottom in a dense creeping fig. The wall then ran along the property line, surrounding the four-thousand square foot structure, providing at least a bit of privacy from the former sanitation plant to the south and the four-level parking structure to the east.

  “Hey Dad!”

  Noah kicked a soccer ball toward the gate and without pausing, broke into a sprint, chasing it down. When he got to the ball, he quickly turned back to see if Owen had been watching.

  “I think it’s official.”

  Noah brought back his leg again to kick, but then stopped and looked up at Owen. “What’s official?”

  “You might just be faster than me. I thought I still had a few years, but now I’m not too sure.”