A Heartbeat from Destruction (The Heartbeat Saga Book 1)
Page 6
She raised a finger to berate him. “Paul, what the fu…”
Paul’s fingers closed around a sturdy branch and he swung it with all his considerable power. The soldier’s face made a sickening squish as the branch hit home, exploding into a hundred pieces. The blow was enough to kill the solider instantly but his momentum carried his body into Danielle’s. The impact knocked the air from her lungs. Paul scanned frantically for the largest remaining fragment of the branch. Danielle lurched up, like a swimmer cresting the water, gasping for breath.
The solider lay twitching in the weeds. When Paul found a large splinter, he stabbed as hard as he could into the man’s ear. Leaves and mud clung to Paul’s jeans as he crawled, pulling the struggling Danielle by one arm, away from the corpse. Paul left her sucking for air in the weeds beside him as he leaned his back against a big tree. He looked down to find he had pissed himself but didn’t care. He had never known that level of terror. Not ever.
As he rested, Paul scanned for other danger with wide eyes. The smell of burning was very strong now. A glance towards the weaving path the Cadillac plowed through the forest revealed the lick of flame and dark smoke twisting and swirling in the distance. Sprinting ahead of the fire, and right towards them, were dozens, maybe hundreds, of bloody, screaming people. Crazy people Danielle had called them. A paralyzing fear seized Paul. He tried to warn Danielle of the coming danger but only managed garbled gibberish.
Paul scrambled on hands and knees into the broken remains of the S.U.V. He tried the center console. A makeup bag and a box of tampons hit him in the head. Next, he tried the glove box. Useless papers, a long forgotten user manual and other debris showered him. He clawed through the junk like a man possessed hoping for something, anything, useful. Finally, he found a rusty old pocket knife, out of place in the luxury S.U.V. but much appreciated. Paul scooped up the knife and ran to Danielle, dragging her to her feet. Where the highway should have been was now a wall of flames, roaring in all its glory. The infected were driven before it like a flock of sheep.
Paul started to run. “Come on!” Paul urged but Danielle struggled against his grasp and fell to her knees. A blood curdling scream tore through the forest and Paul saw one of them on fire, waving their arms in futile desperation as the hungry flames devoured muscle and flesh.
“Get away…” Danielle clasped her face in her hands and began to sob.
“Danielle,” Paul began.
“Get away, get away, GET AWAY!” Danielle screamed. Paul fell backwards, startled at her sudden outburst. The group was close enough now that Paul could hear their frantic breath. Danielle was screaming incoherently.
I don’t want to die here.
He got to his feet and struggled to put his inconsolable companion on his back but Danielle beat and tore at him. Paul, weakened from the crash, couldn’t hold her while she thrashed and the pair fell backwards. The horde grew closer every minute.
Paul did what he had to do. He abandoned Danielle to her fate.
One of them skid to a stop so close that he smelled their wretched breath in the air. Paul peered around the tree trunk and saw a middle age bald man in a torn suit staring with a strange desperate look at Danielle. Blood ran freely from his nose dripping on the ground. Bloody tears ran down his cheeks. The flames were so close now Paul could feel the heat. Danielle looked up.
The business man gasped as if surprised by an early Christmas present. He and Danielle gazed at each other. Paul looked down at the rusty pocket knife. He knew he should attack the man and save Danielle’s life but he stayed hidden.
Several more people, all bleeding, all breathing heavily with the same watery noise, stopped their sprint through the forest to stare, with wide red eyes and surprise at Danielle. The infected businessman kept an animal like focus on her. After a long moment, his wide eyes narrowed.
Still staring at each other, the bald man reached for Danielle and slowly squeezed both sides of her head, hard. She screamed. The other infected watched with the same surprised look. Danielle’s scream was finally silenced by the businessman biting into her open mouth. He jerked away savagely. Her jaw, now completely detached from her skull, hung from the side of the businessman’s mouth. Paul watched on, silent as the grave, while Danielle flailed desperate arms at her attacker. The man grasped both of her wrists and pulled hard, dislocating her shoulders. The whole group of them were savagely beating her when Paul finally turned away.
The flames, with the mass of people driven before them, were closing fast. Paul looked around and saw the glimmer of fire on water. He ran, as fast as his legs carried him. He heard them chasing but dared not look back. Suddenly he was wading in chest deep water. The infected screamed and splashed behind him. Paul felt a hand grab his ankle but it let go after he kicked hard.
He swam. Lord Jesus he swam for his life.
Chapter V: Our Hour of Judgment
Luke Slaughter, shotgun in hand, squinted into the setting Texas sun. From the front door of his store, he glanced towards main street Cibolo, no more than a quarter mile down the road. Not a soul stirred beneath the lonely shop signs. A sharp yelp of freight brought his attention back to Bridgett’s dogs.
His heart beat out of his chest as he crouch ran towards the looming U-Haul. His adrenaline was surging and he barely came to a skidding stop before slamming into a gas pump. Luke froze, terrified the bad man had heard him. Steady barking told him the dogs were still the center of attention. The scent of gas, heavier than normal, hung in the air and something else too. Something far out of place in this small town. Something foul and evil. Luke licked his dry lips, yearning for a drink like he never had before.
As he peaked around the silver pump, Luke saw Bridgett’s U-Haul rocking from side to side. A pair of legs kicked back and forth frantically from the shattered passenger window. The bad man was reaching for Bridgett’s Great Dane’s, the bigger of the two, with a black coat with a white belly. It snapped at the man while its smaller grey companion pawed frantically at the unbroken driver side window. Stubborn shards of glass, still jutting from the broken window, sliced and stabbed the bad man’s stomach. A deep ribbon of red flowed down the truck’s door like an overturned can of paint.
How could a man eviscerate himself like that? Must be one of those P.C.P. junkies like on COPS.
Fear and uncertainty gripped Luke like a steel vice. His bowels felt loose and liquid. He listened for the howl of his brother’s police siren but heard only the commotion from the truck. He would have to handle this on his own. Luke thought his boots were cemented to the ground because they felt immoveable. His hands shook like a sapling in a hurricane. A yelp of pain came from the truck and smothered Luke’s fear, ignited his courage. He brought the old shotgun to his shoulder and stepped into the open.
“Hey!” Luke yelled.
For half a second, the man’s legs went still before he scrambled out of the truck. The glass cut deeper into his stomach. His feet hit the gravel along with a gush of blood. He stared at Luke, assuming the position of a linebacker ready to make the big tackle, except this player had bowels barely contained inside a shredded stomach. The smaller grey dog jumped out of the truck and ran away but the bad man never noticed.
The bad man was apparently a military man, being dressed in a black fatigues. He stared at Luke with blood filled, unblinking eyes. The soldier cried crimson tears which flowed down his cheeks to gather with the blood oozing from his nose and ears like a river delta. His hands were smashed and broken. Shards of bleached bone pieced the flesh of his knuckles. Brown and green liquid oozed out of an open intestine to mix with the blood dripping from his shredded stomach.
The soldier stared at him with surprised confusion. He took a step forward.
“You better hold it,” Luke said. “Don’t you move a…” The soldier’s piercing scream cut him off. Not a scream of fright or pain but one unlike Luke had ever heard. A cry of supreme anger, a shout of all-encompassing hatred. The embodiment of rage.
The will to live overtook everything else in his mind. A lifetime’s worth of moral discussion put to the test in the manner of seconds. In the end, it was simple.
I want to live. This guy wants to kill me.
I will live.
Luke pulled the trigger but the shot was hasty and missed its mark, passing by the soldier’s head, and shattering the windshield of the U-Haul. His arms felt sluggish and unresponsive as he racked another shell. The bad man charged forward. Now, just a few paces away, Luke aimed true. The slug plowed through the soldier’s torso taking most of his chest with it. His shoulders buckled and his arms flailed forward in a clapping motion. Momentum carried his corpse to Luke’s feet. The black clothed ragdoll bounced once before his shredded stomach burst open like a bag of snakes.
Shaking as much from adrenaline as from fear, Luke took a step backwards and fell to the ground. His store’s friendly bell chimed but he didn’t hear it instead hearing only a sharp ringing in his ears muffled by the distant sound of his own breathing. His obsessed eyes locked on the corpse in front of him. Then the vomit came.
The drink called to him, constricting his throat like a treacherous friend’s choking grasp. He reached for his flask, only to find he had left it inside.
“Luke!” Clifford shouted.
It has to be here.
He patted the dusty gravel parking lot as if expecting to find his liquor there.
Where is…
The old man’s strong hands shook him out of the daze. Clifford glanced at the corpse and then back to him with knowing eyes. Luke stared back.
“Come on son,” he said, offering an ashy palm. Luke grasped it. “It’s alright.”
The old man straightened his back, flexed his muscles, and pulled Luke to his feet. He slapped him hard on the back. “You did what had to be done, boy. Ain’t nobody gunna fault ya for that.” Luke glanced at the old man absently and nodded. Muffled sobs broke Luke out of his daze. Both Bridgett and John had joined them outside. Bridgett looked strong and beautiful. She covered John like a mother hen.
John loved everyone and abhorred violence. Once, when it was just he and Luke in the dusty old feed store, he asked why people hurt each other. At the time Luke thought it was a simple question but when he tried to answer, he couldn’t think of a reason good enough. Maybe John’s simpler mind reasoned more logically than anyone gave him credit for but this evening was a lesson for all of them. John stared with open mouthed horror at the ruined corpse.
Luke ran to them, letting his shotgun fall to the dirt, and embraced them both, wrapping an arm around his ex-girlfriend and ruffled his friend’s curly hair. John looked up at him with an absent face. Bridgett leaned against him. Her dark curls fell down his chest. The sweet aroma of her perfume replaced the coppery smell of gunpowder.
How could I have let such a woman leave my life?
Luke seemed as if he was outside his body. His hand took a life of its own and ran through her curls. He kissed her gently on the forehead. The dream stopped when Bridgett stiffened. She pulled away, not meeting his eyes. His throat ran dry.
He took a step towards his store and his whiskey but Bridgett stopped him. “Wait! Where are my dogs Luke? Are they ok?”
And soon they all knew the answer. A half hidden Great Dane lay behind the gas pump, whimpering softly and pumping its legs like it was trying to swim through water. Dark blood squirted from an unseen wound with every jerk, splashing against the side of the pump like a demented Jackson Pollock painting. Bridgett ran for her dog.
“No Bridgett WAIT!” Luke lunged for her but she was out of his reach.
The whimpering morphed into a growl and back to a whimper. The Dane made a great effort to rise.
“I’m sorry baby, I’m sorry!” Bridgett said, covering her trembling mouth, tears flooding her eyes. Luke followed scooping up his old shotgun from the dirt on the run. The growling returned followed by furious barking. The big dog rose, loping around the pump with its head low, snarling menacingly. The Dane’s eyes, full of blood, narrowed on its black face. Bloody saliva strings hung from its jowls, swaying back and forth. Its front left leg was severed entirely, forcing it to move with a strange hopping dance.
“Oh my God!” Bridgett shouted. She reached and the Dane snapped viscously. She escaped the blood stained teeth by millimeters. The Dane whimpered and pulled away, struggling like Dr. Jekyll between its love for Bridgett and the raging sickness that drove it to violence.
The final struggle.
The big dog snapped its teeth and barked violently, charging as fast as it could on its three legs. Bridgett backed away.
“No! Stop it!” She said through tears. “You’re a good dog. Stop!”
Luke pulled the shotgun to his shoulder for the second time that day and shouted for Bridgett to move because she blocked his shot. The Dane charged on. Bridgett brought up her arms to defend against the bite. Luke, desperately searched for a clean shot but it was too late.
A thunderous explosion echoed across the gravel lot. Birds sitting on telephone lines flapped into the breeze. Bridgett, eyes closed, felt a warm liquid splash her. Her Dane was sprawled on the gravel in front of her, twitching in the throes of death. Clifford Worsby, his black WWII veteran hat shading his narrow eyes, held a gigantic .44 magnum revolver in one hand and cane in the other. His normally shaky hand held the smoking gun barrel straight and true. He met Luke’s eyes, shrugged, and spit a wad of phlegm into the dry gravel.
Bridgett let out a cry of grief and started towards her dog’s corpse. Luke held her back. “No,” he said.
Bridgett struggled in his grasp. “What about Sofie?” Luke stared at her in puzzlement. “The smaller Dane with the grey coat. I have two dogs, Luke!”
“She ran off Bridgett.”
Bridgett wailed.
“I’ll help you look for her... Wait!”
Bridgett shrugged out of his grasp and headed for John.
Mr. Worsby fumbled around for another cigar.
Sirens.
The sun dipped low in the sky. The howl of the squad cars grew loud. Luke stood with Clifford, silently watching the distant glowing orb dip below the horizon. Three black and white cruisers roared down Main St., skid around the corner to Luke’s store, and skid to a stop in the dusty gravel lot. A younger man, a very young man indeed to be wearing the stripes of a Sergeant, popped out of the driver side door. He surveyed the scene hidden behind sleek tinted Oakley frames.
“Holy shit, Luke,” the man said, walking briskly and confidently towards the corpse, as someone who is no stranger to death will do. “What in the fuck happened here?”
“It was self-defense little brother,” Luke stammered. “There was something majorly wrong with him. We heard him trying to get to Bridgett’s dogs so… I went outside.” Luke stared into the distance. “I thought he was going to kill me.”
Wade had his hands on hips, blowing and popping a big wad of pink bubble gum. He glanced at the others through his sunglasses. “Bridgett?” He said. “Good to see you.” She glanced at him but said nothing. He looked back to the corpse, “Holy shit,” he repeated.
The other two officers jogged to their Sergeant. Wade adjusted his crotch and smacked his gum. Wade had served two tours with the Marines, leaving for basic not more than three weeks after graduating High School. The military lifestyle, and combat in particular, had suited him well.
Wade bent down to examine the corpse closer. “He was unarmed,” he observed dryly.
Luke waved his hands in front of him to reinforce his point. “He was on drugs or something. He charged me!”
“There’s blood pouring out of every fuckin’ hole on this some-bitch,” Wade said. He pulled a plastic glove from his back pocket and snapped it on like he was about to tell the corpse to turn his head and cough. The solider was stuck in a frightening gri
mace. Wade peeled back an eyelid.
“Fuck me!” He shouted, staggering backwards. Wade had refined profanity into an art form in the Marine Corps. The soldier’s eye was more than bloodshot, it was completely filled with blood. A crimson tear, set loose by Wade’s gloved finger, dripped down the soldier’s cheek and onto the gravel. Wade peeled off his glove, threw it nonchalantly on the corpse’s back, and reached for his shoulder mounted radio.
“Dispatch this is Slaughter. Dead on arrival at Slaughter Feed and Grain, address…” Lee’s words drifted away with the sound of screeching tires. Swerving erratically around the same corner on Main Street was a familiar S.U.V. Two strangers hung off the sides of the speeding suburban, slamming the windows.
A confused John saw the vehicle and muttered, “Momma?” He paced back and forth, rubbing his hands on his apron nervously.
“Oh my God,” Bridgett said.
“Wade, that’s Mrs. Campbell!” Luke shouted.
But Wade was already giving orders. Boots pounded gravel and weapons were drawn. “Ramirez, Smith, get your ARs, NOW!” Wade had trained his men well, bringing his Marine Corps’ effectiveness to the small town police force. They responded immediately. He pointed at Bridgett and John. “Luke, get those two out of site!” The engine roared from down the street.
“Don’t open fire until I say so.”
The three officers stood bravely behind their vehicles as the half ton wrecking ball sped their way. When she hit the gravel parking lot, instead of slamming the breaks, John’s mother hit the accelerator.
They could hear the screams now. “Get ready!”
Time slowed.
Too late Luke realized the gas pump was a poor choice of barricade against a speeding car but she wasn’t headed his direction. He saw the panic in Mrs. Campbell’s eyes and the destructive path her vehicle took. So did his brother.