The whole scene opens up.
No more trees. Now it’s green fields surrounded by a short wrought iron fence with brick posts in between. Then a parking lot for commercial deliveries. Another field. Two baseball diamonds. A running track that encircles a soccer field. Way father back, there’s apartment buildings and complexes and goddamn this place is huge.
We amble up to the massive gatehouse. It’s got four lanes. There are cars parked sideways in front. Blocking the lanes. An attempt to barricade it.
Considering the infected can range in size from a cat to a city, I find it unlikely at best that it’s been totally effective.
But there are a lot of decaying bodies in front. Shamblers, looks like. A handful of stilt-walkers. None of the newer variants. But someone sure as hell made a stand.
Turing pushes one of the cars aside to make room. His face very >:
I push a couple more with Alpha’s awesomeness. Say to DeVille, “Here’s a thought. What if there are a shitload of soldiers hidden here somewhere who want to go all bang bang on us for trespassing?”
DeVille takes a deep breath. “I’m a marine. I still keep my pass and my papers in my breast pocket.” She pats the left side of her chest. “I got as much right to be here as anyone stationed does.”
I shoot her a look from inside Alpha’s cockpit. “That can’t possibly be true.”
DeVille smiles. Shrugs. She turns away from me. Brings her Hellion up to her shoulder. Moves in a steady, measured pace deeper into the naval base. Along Military Highway. Where the Thames laps at the shoreline nearby.
There’s a lotta stout buildings to our left. Industrial shit. Beyond that, docks that lead to submarines which ain’t here. Still, a solid place to look for gear. If there’s any at all.
But the total lack of submarines makes me think the soldiers here did the smart thing: bug out. Also makes me think they took anything useful with em. Like, say, all the shit Flygirl’s gonna need to fix up Plissken and Alpha.
I follow her over rusty train tracks that must’ve been used to move supplies. Turing covers the rear: . DeVille knocks on the first warehouse’s door. I guess making some noise to see if there’s a reaction from possible infected inside.
Ain’t no noise.
DeVille heads in.
Turing runs in after her.
That’s the smartest thing, strategically.
I can’t even go in the damn building. Too tall with Alpha. And tearing the place to shreds to make an Alpha-sized hole don’t sound smart.
So I wait outside. Wait for Turing and DeVille to scavenge what they can. Wait and admire the red sky over my head. Keep an eye on the dark clouds over the water. In case this calm is all a precursor to a superstorm.
Alarms sound in Alpha’s cockpit.
Jade says, “Movement. How the fuck did they get passed my sensors?”
A silver object lands near my lap. Looks like a lipstick tube. Thrown in through Alpha’s broken right side. It blinks.
Jade says something I only hear as: “Somnther mrgwrfurgle.”
Everything goes dark.
Fuckin hell.
2. Oh. These Assholes.
I, uh...
I got nothin.
I don’t know where I am or what’s going on, but it’s dark.
For a second, I think: Well. Maybe I’m dead. I’ve definitely beaten the odds on that front. But then I realize the very act of thinking means I’m not dead.
This is unfortunate all around.
There’s something wrapped around my head. Rough fabric. Won’t budge.
My arms are outstretched. Hands bound to...bed posts, I guess, since I’m lying on my back. There’s cushioning under my shoulders. I appear to be in my underwear again. Black tank top and boxer briefs. I wonder where my piss and shit are going since Alpha ain’t here, then assume they’ve got catheters attached to my cock and ass.
This’s a real dignified existence.
Gonna assume my feet are bound too, even though I can’t feel anything down there. Ain’t like I’m gonna be running away.
Sure would be nice if your spine was working, huh?
Oh, good. The voice.
Now it’s just you and me, bud!
Hooray!
Man, walking used to be fun, huh?
Eat shit, butterdick!
So yeah. This sucks.
I listen for noises. Some hint about just where the hell I am. Maybe engines, if I was on a boat. Or a lotta wind, if I was in a tall building. Or water. Something. Anything.
But I can’t hear shit.
Which’s, hey, this is just great.
The chances of DeVille setting off some kinda device to knock me out and then tying me up in the dark are precisely zero percent. Ditto Turing and Alpha. Though I can imagine Jade doing it, just to piss me off.
So that leaves...
I hear a door creak open. Someone in heavy boots walks toward me. Footsteps like cracks of thunder in the silence. Their loose clothing swooshes back and forth. Till they’re right next to the bed.
A husky male voice fills my ear. It’s the voice of a dude who gargles gravel in the morning and chases it with gasoline. Nobody I recognize. The voice says: “I’m glad that you’re finally awake.”
I cock an eyebrow at the voice, even though my head’s still wrapped up. Say, “Thrill of a goddamn lifetime for me, man.” I crane my neck to the side. See if I can look up through a hole or something. Not happening. I say, “You wanna tell me who you are, or is this gonna be twenty questions?”
The voice is quiet for a moment. But I can hear the fucker breathing. And now, I can smell salt-tinged air. An ocean spray.
...Yeah...where the fuck am I right now?
The voice says, “I’ll give you two clues—”
I groan. “The twenty questions shit.”
“You killed my son. You killed my sister. And then you killed my brother.”
“I’ve killed a lot of motherfuckers over the last few weeks. That ain’t gonna move this conversation forward.”
There’s some pressure on my head. The fabric comes loose. One strip at a time. Shapes and shadows appear. The last piece of gauze comes away from my eyes.
There’s a slender, white face leering at me. Dude in his late-thirties. Early forties. Brown eyes. Blonde hair. Grey jumpsuit. Alarmingly perfect teeth, but I wouldn’t notice the guy in a crowd.
Except for the red triangle on his forehead. One with a tail leading from the bottom. The sign of the Great Ray Cult. A bunch of psychos who tried to rape me. Tried to steal my blood. Cuz they think I’m the Chosen One who can bring em closer to their gods.
Their gods being all the wackadoo monsters the parasite’s evolved into.
Yippee.
These assholes again.
I grimace.
The cult dick smiles. Says, “My name is Charlie Norris.”
I laugh. Can’t help it. “Wait. Your name’s fuckin Chuck Norris?” I cackle.
This turns out to be not my smartest career move.
And I have an extensive history of bad career moves.
Norris slaps the hell outta me. Says, “My son’s name was Jacob. He tracked you all the way to the Empire State Building.” Slap. “My sister’s name was Brianna. She wanted to carry your child.”
Blood beads on my bottom lip. “Your son opened fire on me. Tried to put a bullet through my face.” I suck the blood into my mouth. Swallow. “Your sister had a knife to my throat. Didn’t seem very consensual at the time.”
He slaps me again. “My brother’s name was Ernest.” The cultist nutbag grabs my right hand. Where it’s tied to a rusted metal bed post with twine. Where my pinky and ring fingers are mostly grown back. He examines em. Eyeballs me. “So it’s true. Ernest did at least manage to wound you.”<
br />
“Maybe. Maybe it was someone else. Coulda been any one of those jackasses that attacked me at the bridge. But you’re forgetting they’re all deader’n shit now.”
Norris shakes his head. Flashes a pair of gardening sheers. Cuts my goddamn fingers back off again with two quick snips.
The crunch of the bones reverberates down my arm. Red takes over my vision. I’d scream except I don’t wanna give the cocksucker any satisfaction.
Blood splashes from the meaty pulp of my severed digits. Norris collects it. Smirks at me. Says, “You’re wrong. I’ll never forget what you did to my family.” He slathers medigel on the ragged stumps that used to be fingers. Wraps fresh gauze around my fresh wounds. “We’ll see how impressive your regeneration is. Then we’ll see how much I can cut off you—see what will and won’t grow back.”
This motherfucker.
Just wait until my spine grows back.
Oooh, and tell your mom and dad what he did! That bad, bad man.
Cuz they’ll up and kill his ass.
Norris pats my cheek. “Can I get you anything?”
I lick my lips. “Got a smoke?”
* * *
The room I’m in is dank. Musty. All concrete. Much of it cracked. Spider web formations in the building material. A lone, naked bulb burns bright in the ceiling.
There’s no window. No way for me to get a better idea of where I am. Just the smell of salt in the air. Bit stronger than the Connecticut coast.
It’s also sparse. There ain’t a damn thing in here except me and the bed and some rotted old desk.
Nobody’s come through the big steel door since that sonuvabitch Norris bailed with my goddamn fingers.
But he left me a pack of smokes and a book of matches. Lucky Strikes. Unfiltered. Not my brand, but I’ll take em.
Desperate times and all that.
Takes me about two hours to free my left hand from the twine. I drag the threading up and down and up and down on the metal bed post until it frays and I can snap it. And although my wrist looks like an emo kid’s desperate plea for attention, I am free.
Also shows I’ll put myself through a lot for a nicotine fix.
I reach over to my right hand. Untie it. Pull a cigarette from its pack with my teeth. Manage to get a match lit even with my newly finger-missing hand.
Smoke fills my lungs.
Now I just need booze and a pack of cards and I’ll have a real party going.
I hope DeVille’s all right. And Turing. Even Jade.
I miss her. DeVille, I mean.
And you miss your parents. And little Athena.
And you miss Plissken.
And Sean. Ben. Fred...and your Momma Bear. The baby you didn’t get to have.
Look at all the people you haven’t managed to save.
I groan. Grunt. Prop myself up on my elbows. Examine my right hand. Examine the bloody little stumps under the gauze and medigel that are white bone inside meat. Makes me think of chopped broccoli. Only pale.
Day or two goes by, my fingers should be back.
Still trying to figure out how long it’ll take my spinal cord to grow.
* * *
It’s damn hard to tell how much time is passing. Or has passed. Or however you wanna define it. I’ve nodded in and outta sleep a twice—due to boredom, I think—and four cigarettes are gone. So my guess is it’s been ninety minutes. Maybe two hours.
The door to my little dungeon opens. A young black woman walks in. Hair in a pony tail. Brown eyes. Great Ray Cult symbol on her forehead. The grey suit makes her sexless. Woulda been a teenager when the infection tore across the world. She’s got a tray in her hands. Smells like...potato soup.
I watch her. Light a cigarette. Say, “Who’re you?”
She doesn’t answer. Doesn’t even make eye contact.
The lady lays the tray down on the bed. Moves toward my midsection. Checks the catheters attached to my dick and asshole. Crouches. Removes a jug of my piss and shit. There’s more noises like she’s replacing it with a clean one. Then she heads for the door.
She stops. Turns to me. Says, “Eat.”
Then she’s gone.
The doors closes. Locks.
I take my time and smoke the Lucky Strike down till my fingers burn. Flick the remains of the cancer stick into a corner.
I move the tray. Slow. Examine a green-tinged bottle of water on it. The seal ain’t broken. That’s good. Label says Badoit, which I guess is some fancy fuckin French shit I’ve never had since my ass is happy with tap water. But that’s a clue. Gotta be. I’m near somewhere that rich pricks used to inhabit. Or tourists with disposable income.
An island off the coast fits the bill.
I pick up the spoon. Shovel a little potato soup into my mouth. It tastes...like food. Real food. That’s kind of amazing for someone like me. I mean, I remember how food is supposed to taste, but I’ve also spent ten years eating cans of shit heated up on a robot’s ass.
The self-heating MREs get a pass.
But someone made this from scratch.
My taste buds do a little happy dance.
When the bowl is empty, I black out.
* * *
Now, yeah, I shoulda seen that coming.
But the soup was damn good.
So fuck you.
I blink. Shake my head. Can tell I got doped by something. I know the difference between waking up, and hangover, and this.
I prop myself up on my elbows. Light a cigarette.
Good news is, I think I can feel my dick again. Like greeting an old friend you haven’t seen in decades. Means my spine’s getting in good shape.
Bad news is, my legs are gone. I don’t mean hacked or mangled or anything like that. I mean my legs are fuckin gone below the knee.
Two bandaged stumps.
That’s all I got.
The fuck am I supposed to do now? What the fuck am I gonna do?
Panic rumbles through my brain. A horde of angry rats.
I’m gonna kill every cultist I can. Every. Single. One.
I miss my Colts. The M1911 and the revolver.
Norris shows up on time.
Cuz of course he does.
Makes me believe there’s a camera somewhere. Which makes me believe this place ain’t as pigeon-shit rundown as they’d want me to think.
Ain’t you just the cleverest boy on the block.
Norris has a bottle of whiskey in his hands. He smiles at me.
I wanna skullfuck him to death. Gouge out his eyes with my cock. Cum on his brain.
I ain’t really in a position to do anything, though.
Maybe he sees the look in my eyes. Behind the cloud of smoke.
Norris says, “You took things from me. I have taken things from you.”
I wave my damaged right hand at him. “You took four things from me.” I sniff. Smoke. “But I kinda doubt my two fuckin legs and two of my fuckin fingers really equates to a kid and two siblings for you, huh?”
Norris shakes his head. “No, it does not.” He regards the bottle. It’s clear. About three quarters full with amber liquid. Most of the label’s rubbed off, but looks like Wild Turkey. Norris says, “I’m curious about you. We all are.” He pops the bottle’s cork top. Takes a mouthful. “And from what we understand about your pathetic existence, whiskey was a key ingredient.”
He tosses the Wild Turkey onto my bed.
I cock an eye at him. “Breakfast of champions, man.” Grab the booze. Enjoy a big, long gulp. Burns good. Say, “Bub, there’s a lotta drugs integral to me being around. Caffeine comes in just under nicotine. So where’s my fuckin coffee?”
Norris sneers. Walks to the bed. Slaps me. Cuz I guess that’s his thing. He says, “If it wasn’t for your ridiculous—” He stops himself. Li
ke a guy about to curse in front of his grandma but doesn’t wanna. He twirls his fingers around his head. “Your mutation. Mutations. You shouldn’t even be alive.”
I smirk. “No shit.”
Norris slaps me again. “You’ve abused your body so much that it sickens me. You don’t even respect yourself.”
I shrug. “Dude, I don’t respect anybody. Dunno if you noticed, but that ain’t how the world works now. Either you’re human, or you’re a parasite, or you’re you.”
He looks at me for a minute. Considers what I’ve said. Nods. “The other option is that you’re you. Inhuman.” He taps my chest. “Special.” He puts his hands on his hips.
“You wanna put on a dress and fuck me?”
“No, I want to know what makes you you.”
I grimace. “So...you wanna put on a dress and fuck me.”
Norris rubs his face. “You’re—” He throws his hands out. “You’re intolerable.”
“I get that all the time.”
“Enjoy the whiskey. There will be a wheelchair ready for you when you rouse yourself from your self-medication.”
Oh, shit! I’m like a celebrity now, motherfuckers!
3. Where It All Gets Weird
I feel very arghleblarghlewarble when I wake up.
But then there’s the fuck-you-I-ain’t-saying-shit black chick and the wheelchair I was promised.
Still, I ask her the same question as I did before: “Who’re you?”
Not like I’m worried about offending her.
Hard to offend someone with words when they’ve been cleaning out your various forms of excrement.
She glares at me. Nods to some unknown camera.
A big white wrestler-type sonuvabitch with a shaved head walks in the room. Muscles ripple under the grey jumpsuit that looks a touch too small for him. He wraps his giant arms around my broken body. Places me in the wheelchair. Fixes restraints around my torso so that my rib cage doesn’t squish down into my pelvis.
I look up at him. “No kiss?”
Wrestler Guy grunts. Holds the door open.
I crane my neck to see Say-Nothing Gal. “Tough crowd.”
Blood God (The Hroza Connection Book 5) Page 2