The debate sweeping the nation, as well as the rest of the world, was whether Carchar carriers maintained some semblance of their humanity or if they were something less. And if they weren’t human, at what point did they cease to become human? When did they cease to have a soul? Or was it still there, buried under the animalistic instincts of ravenous meat craving that the Carchar Syndrome forced upon them? And if they were indeed no longer human, or if there was no help for them even if they were, could all the carriers in captivity be euthanized?
These questions and many more opened the door to a litany of new issues. Those trying to defend themselves or enforce the law faced a laundry list of legal, ethical and moral dilemmas. But there were no good answers. Even religious leaders had little to offer on the subject. Were these still God’s creatures? Who could say?
Around the world, people were finding themselves in a situation they’d only contemplated in their worst nightmares or on Hollywood’s silver screens. There was hardly a school, business, church, library, park, place, or person that wasn’t in some way affected by the ever-spreading Carchar Syndrome.
In and around Chicago, the number of Carchar-related attacks had increased exponentially as law enforcement’s ability to apprehend or contain the infected began to falter. Attacks were taking place everywhere. There had even been multiple incidents at the Brookfield Zoo, prompting its closure. But even after the Zoo had closed to the public, several Carchar carriers had infiltrated its grounds and attacked multiple animals, using them as fresh food sources when humans were scarce. Most other large gathering places such as schools, libraries, museums, churches, and sports venues had closed their doors for the time being too. Many area businesses had followed suit.
Public transportation was at a standstill. Vehicles in which people were trapped in an enclosed space with a Carchar carrier in their midst rapidly became the subject of horror stories on the nightly news. Such instances became scenes of terror with people pushing one another toward the rabid attacker or ejecting themselves from moving buses or trains through emergency exits to escape.
At most area grocery stores, pickings were rapidly growing slim. Store shelves containing most staples had been emptied earlier in the week. Now, even the shelves containing things like pet food, trash bags, tools, spices, and similar items were growing bare. And with public transportation down, roadways were clogged with the vehicles of people driving where they wanted or needed to go rather than taking the train or bus systems. This left the supply trucks attempting to refill store shelves behind schedule or having given up reaching Chicago completely.
The news networks were telling people to stay inside when possible, but it didn’t seem to be working. People were panicking. They were ill advisedly going from store to store seeking supplies that ran the gambit from food and water to fuel and generators. And in most instances, they accomplished little more than wasting their time, energy, and gas, while hardening the transportation arteries in and around Chicago. It was also putting people at greater risk of being attack by Carchar carriers and making it more difficult for law enforcement to get where they needed to go as they attempted to hold the city together.
In the midst of all this unrest, and with the attacks at the Zoo bringing the reality of the situation crashing home, Michael decided to take a few additional steps to ensure the safety of his brood.
* * *
“Are you sure this is safe?” Christine Franko looked around the Trove’s basement warily.
Michael had moved and re-arranged furniture to create a long, open stretch that was devoid of obstacles.
“It’s safe,” he nodded, looking toward the basement’s far wall where he’d set up a sizeable indoor bullet trap.
The trap was constructed of wood, several sets of old encyclopedias he’d hauled down from the attic and a couple bags of sand and quick dry cement he’d had out in the garage to stop bullets.
“Just do your best to keep your aim focused on the bullet trap to avoid hitting the wall.”
“What happens if we hit the wall?” Ms. Mary asked.
“You damage it,” Michael frowned. “Plus, it increases the risk of a ricochet or shrapnel produced by a fragmented bullet.”
“That doesn’t sound good,” Christine frowned.
“Sounds coooool,” Andrew grinned.
“Yeah,” his younger brother Jack nodded eagerly.
“It’s definitely not cool, and you’ll realize that in a hurry if you’re hit by a piece,” Michael eyed him. “That’s why we’re standing back here. And that’s also why I constructed this blind from which we can fire behind,” he nodded to the makeshift plywood barrier through which he’d cut and opening to shoot. “It’s not enough to stop a bullet, but it will help protect us from fragments should they come our way.”
He took a breath and eyed the group that, besides the two Franko boys, Christine, and Ms. Mary, included Margaret Simpson, Julia Justak, Suzana Mendoza, and Victoria Hines. The group consisted of the people who weren’t as familiar with firearms as most of the Blender men. Christine had been trained years ago, but she hadn’t shot in a while and had told Michael she felt very rusty.
Josh Justak had joined the group to assist.
“Okay, so who’s up first?” Michael asked.
“Age before beauty,” Ms. Mary stepped up smartly to the blind.
“Perfect,” Michael grinned, pleased with the old gal’s enthusiasm for trying something that hadn’t been on her bucket list of things to do in retirement. “Does everyone remember what we discussed in class?”
“How could we forget?” Andrew Franko moaned. “You only went over it like fourteen times.”
“And with a comment like that, I’ll gladly make it fifteen,” Michael gave him a steely-eyed gaze that shut the smart-alecky teen’s mouth. “This isn’t a game. This is serious business. Most people are scared of guns, and that’s good. But that fear typically comes from ignorance. Once you know how to handle a gun, it becomes like any other tool. Understand it, and use it right, and you have little to fear. Use it improperly or as a toy, and it becomes dangerous just like a hot iron or a stove left on or exposed electrical wiring.” He looked over at Andrew Franko. “But what’s our most valuable tool, Andrew?” he tapped the side of his head.
“Our brains!” Andrew perked up after being silenced a moment earlier.
“Good,” Michael smiled at him.
“And Jack,” he turned to the youngest in the group, “what do you do when you cross the street?”
“Stop, look, and listen,” Jack nodded proudly.
“Right. Very good,” Michael nodded, giving the boy’s mop of hair a tussle. “Well, we follow a similar premise when handling weapons. Before we even touch or pick up a weapon, we stop and think about why we’re doing so. What’s our intention? Is there a purpose? If there is, then we look. Is the weapon loaded? Is the safety on? Is there a round in the chamber that we might have missed? Once we’re ready to fire, we listen and we look. Is there anyone in the line of sight between us and our intended target? Is there anyone in the near vicinity around that target or behind it? We always have to think about where that bullet could travel, whether or not we hit our target. Bullets, traveling unobstructed, and depending on the type of weapon from which they are fired, can travel a mile or more. In such an instance, you might not even see the person or people you might be endangering. So you have to exercise good judgment and extreme caution whenever firing a weapon.” He took another deep breath. “With that being said, Ms. Mary, are you ready?”
“You betcha!” the spunky Ms. Mary said.
Over the next hour, each member of the group spent time firing several different types of weapons. Michael wanted them to know how to load, unload, and safely handle and fire a gun. That way they would feel more comfortable around a tool that in their current environment could end up saving their lives.
At the end of the session, he presented the two people who didn’t own firearms and had no
other adult living with them – Ms. Mary and Christine Franko – with their own weapons on what he termed, “temporary loan”.
Ms. Mary got a little .22 caliber handgun, and Christine Franko received a .38 revolver.
After ensuring that both women felt comfortable with the weapons, he instructed them on safely storing them in their homes. In addition to the .38 that he gave Christine, Michael also presented her with a trigger lock and key for the weapon just in case her boys got any ideas. They were good kids, but boys would be boys, and Michael was well aware of that.
At the end of the class, as everyone was departing, Christine pulled Michael aside as her sons went to inspect the damage done to the bullet stop at the other end of the basement.
“I know you’re trying to do the right thing,” she said. “But I really don’t want this in my house,” she held the hard plastic case that contained the .38 up in front of her. The key to the trigger lock on the gun inside was taped to the outside of the case. “It just makes me uncomfortable, especially with the boys around,” she shook her head.
“I think you should take it. The boys are responsible,” Michael assured her. “They’ve been around guns long enough. You’ve all been taught gun safety, and as long as you keep the gun unloaded, the ammo in a separate location, that gun lock on, and the key safely hidden, your chances of an accident are next to nothing.”
“I know, but still,” she looked away. “It just makes me nervous.”
“Good,” Michael nodded. “If it didn’t make you nervous, I would be concerned. Proper respect for firearms saves lives, but complete fear of them can cost lives.
“Why don’t you just keep it here for me?” Christine pressed the case toward Michael.
“What good would that do you and your boys if you need it? Take if for me if nothing else. It’ll make me feel better about you and the boys being alone.”
“Okay,” Christine finally conceded.
“And remember, you see anything or feel uncomfortable over there, there’s a room here for you and the boys. Don’t ever feel bad about asking. Caroline and I would love to have you. We always wanted more children. And children you can send back home when you get tired of them are the best kind,” he joked with her.
“Thanks,” she gave him a big hug. “I appreciate that. It’s nice to know that you’re here.” She turned to look after her boys who were busy digging out crumpled lead rounds from where they’d impacted the backstop.
“Mom! Mom!” they cried, each hurrying up to her with a handful of spent lead. “Look!” they breathed in excitement, showing off their finds. “We never get to do this at the regular range!”
“Can we have these?” Jack looked up from his handful of spent ammo at Michael.
Michael chuckled, “I don’t know what you’ll do with them, but sure…if it’s all right with your mother that is,” he looked over at Christine who wore a half frown.
“Pleeeease Mom!” Jack whined. “They’re so cool! Look at this one!” he held up a piece of flattened lead. “Flat as a pancake! Think how hard it must have hit the backstop!”
“But look at this one, Mom!” Andrew showed her another bullet that hardly looked touched. “I dug this one out of one of the bags of dry cement. It looks brand new…like it was never even fired!” He held the bullet up to the light between his thumb and forefinger, gazing at it before turning his attention back to his mother. “Please can we keep them, Mom?”
“Oh…all right,” Christine sighed. “But I don’t want to be finding these things scattered all over the house or getting them caught in the vacuum cleaner,” she called after them as they raced back to search for more such trinkets.
She took a deep breath and exhaled heavily, giving Michael an exhausted look.
“You’re doing a great job with them,” Michael smiled at her with an expression that filled her with hope that she was indeed headed in the right direction with the upbringing of her boys.
“Thanks,” she nodded. “And thank you for this,” she held up the gun case.
“You’re welcome,” Michael patted her on the shoulder tenderly. “Keep up the good work, Mom.”
Five minutes later, Christine and the boys were home. Christine set the gun case and box of ammo atop the refrigerator to deal with later. She didn’t want the boys around when she split the gun from the ammo and trigger lock key. Plus, she had to figure out exactly where she wanted to hide these new items. It was a decision she wanted to put some serious thought to before making.
Chapter 14
“Are they still out there?” Michael asked as he hurriedly dialed his phone.
“Yep,” Patrick nodded. “Actually, I think there are a few more now.”
“Where in the hell are they coming from?” Michael asked as he waited for the person he was calling to answer.
“Looks like everywhere,” Caroline said.
“Did you get through to the police?” Michael asked his wife. “Hey…it’s Michael,” he said into the phone as his call was answered.
Caroline, holding her own phone in hand, nodded that she had.
Michael held up a finger for her to wait. “Yeah…how many have you counted?” he asked, peeking around Patrick through their home’s front window, the blinds of which were drawn. “We counted seven so far, but Patrick just said he might have seen more. It’s hard to tell if they’re the same ones just coming back or these are new ones. Either way, make sure all your doors are locked, and stay inside and out of sight,” he nodded into the phone and then listened. “Yeah, we just called them, but it probably wouldn’t hurt for you to call too, just to let them know we’re not over-exaggerating the situation.” He listened again. “Okay, we will. You do the same.” He hung up and dialed another number.
As he dialed, he asked Caroline, “What did the police say?”
“Said they’re receiving similar reports from around Brookfield. They’re doing their best to respond to them in order, but response times were increased due to the number of calls. The dispatcher also told me to call back if they leave since that’s part of the problem. By the time the officers arrive on the scene, these Carchar carriers have moved on to another street or another part of Brookfield. She said it’s like playing a game of Whack-a-mole. These things pop up in one place and by the time the police get there, they’re already gone.”
“Hey, Josh, it’s Michael,” Michael said into his phone. “Yeah, that’s why I’m calling.” He paused. “Uh huh, we already called the police. So did the Hines family.” He nodded. “Uh huh…just stay inside and out of sight. If one of them tries to get inside your home, you know what to do. You do the same…bye,” he hung up.
“Did the cops say how long the response time would be?” he asked Caroline.
“No,” she frowned and shook her head. “I should have asked.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Michael said. “They’ll get here when they get here.”
“Car’s coming!” Patrick said excitedly, turning to his parents from his position at the living room window.
Watching his son at the window, it reminded Michael of a dog he had when he was a child. The dog loved to go for rides in the car. He’d stick his head out the car window with such excitement, tongue lolling, drool slopping, eagerly absorbing the scenery. All the while, the dog remained blissfully unaware of the numerous dangers the outside world could pose as they whizzed along.
Michael and Caroline moved up beside Patrick so that they could see out as well. It was only about half past three in the afternoon. The sun was settling in the western sky on what had been an overcast day.
Michael counted six individuals outside. Four of them were walking through the yards of homes on either side of the street. Two others walked in the middle of the street itself. The people didn’t walk zombie-like with their hands held limply down at their sides. Instead, they walked with a more animal-like gait. They appeared slightly hunched, as if they were more tightly coiled and ready to spring at the slightest sign
of danger – or potential prey. But otherwise, they moved like most regular people would. But they weren’t regular people, they were Carchar carriers. Their open mouths revealed the positive presence of the syndrome with which they were infected. And even in the fading light, the gleaming white razor blades their teeth had become were impossible to miss.
Michael could tell that these were later-stage carriers. The news reports had informed the world that as the syndrome progressed into its later stages, the front teeth – or “fangs” as they were now being referred to – of the host would grow so long that it became difficult for the carrier to close its mouth. It was easier for them to go open-mouthed, which became a telltale sign of those harboring the vicious affliction.
Michael watched as the vehicle – a large SUV – slowed. He figured that the driver was probably deciding what to do, trying to figure out if these were indeed Carchar carriers. The two carriers walking in the street turned at the sound of the approaching SUV and began moving toward it. The carriers in the yards did the same.
Michael and his family continued to watch out the window as the vehicle came to a complete stop about half a block up the street. The other roaming Carchar carriers moved out into the street to join their brethren. It must have been enough for whoever was driving the vehicle to feel threatened. Suddenly the SUV jolted forward, gaining speed rapidly before it plowed into the group of infected who were clustered on the street.
It blasted into them like a bowling ball through set up pins. Carchar carriers went flying, toppling, bouncing, rolling to the left, to the right, up in the air, down under the SUV. The SUV kept on as it rocketed toward the end of the block. There, it hooked a tire-squealing right, rounded the corner, and disappeared from view.
“Wow! That was nuts!” Patrick turned to his father and then his mother, wide eyed.
“Shhh!” his dad hissed and nodded toward the group of infected now trying to regroup – at least the ones who still could.
The Last Bastion (Book 1): The Last Bastion Page 16