The Last Bastion [Book 5]

by K. W. Callahan

  CHAPTER 8

  Groush woke with a start. Had he just heard a floorboard creak? He was always jumpy like this when he slept. It was the time when he felt most vulnerable.

  It didn’t matter. Floorboards creaked all the time in the old building, especially upstairs where his bedroom was located.

  He felt soft skin against his palm. He squeezed and realized he was cupping a butt cheek. He squeezed again, just for the fun of it. There was movement and a slight sigh in the bed beside him. Then he remembered – Stacy. Or was it Sally – or Suzie? He wasn’t sure. But he didn’t care either. She had joined his band of mercenary’s about a week before they’d taken Riverport. He’d never taken the time to learn her name. She was a fine looking piece of ass, though, at least in their current environment. Groush wasn’t sure if she would have caught his eye before the outbreak, but she sure as hell did now, now that pickings on the female front were slim.

  He’d have to find out her name later. Then again, what did he really care? She knew who he was, and she knew how to find her way back to his bedroom. That’s all that really mattered. Names weren’t important, at least not in this type of situation. Stacy would work just fine whether that was her name or not.

  He spent a few seconds thinking back to their romp earlier that night. It was good. Not a top ten, but good. He’d give it a six, maybe even a seven. What she was lacking in looks, she’d made up for in skill. Her tits were a little small for what Groush was accustomed to, but she had a great ass and plenty of curves. Groush liked curves.

  Their first round took place outside the bed. He had lifted her up and pinned her against the bedroom wall, her arms, legs, thighs locked around him as though she was climbing a thick tree trunk. Their next bout was in the bed, her riding him like he was a mechanical bull. Her yelps and shrieks were a little overplayed, but Groush didn’t care. He’d rather his women be a little too noisy than too quiet. Let ‘em scream, yip, yelp, moan, grunt, cry. Hell, he didn’t give a shit. Not as though they were going to draw complaints from the neighbors.

  Groush heard another creak of a floorboard and a slight rattle that tore him from his thoughts. The creaking floorboard didn’t bother him much. The other sound did.

  He opened his eyes. He could tell by the dingy gray light filtering through the single window in the room that it was early, just before dawn. The window provided his only light. He blinked several times, doing his best to clear away the sleep.

  The first thing he noticed as his vision focused was that the door was open. The door shouldn’t be open. Through sheer force of habit, Groush shut that door every night. And he locked it. The fact that it was open meant that something was wrong.

  He heard the rattling noise again, and another floorboard creaked. It was on the opposite side of the room, away from the window, away from the door. Groush concentrated for a minute. He was still in that half-awake state where things in his mind weren’t completely clear. It didn’t help that he’d consumed half a bottle of tequila last night.

  He put the pieces together with a jolt, turning his head slightly from where he lay in bed, Stacy – or whatever her name was – just to his left. As soon as he moved, the rattling intensified, becoming more of a chatter, and Groush knew instantly that he was in trouble.

  The biter reacted at almost the exact instant that Groush did, lunging onto the bed with a sort of snarling growl. Groush’s bedmate let out a shriek at the unexpected guest who had just flung itself onto their mattress. But Groush didn’t hesitate. He grabbed the woman beside him by an arm, pulling her roughly up on top of him, using her as a human shield to block the raging biter. It sank its hungry teeth into her soft skin, ripping and tearing at her neck. Groush felt himself sprayed with warm blood as he sheltered beneath her dying body.

  With his bedmate’s cries quickly fading to garbled gasps, Groush realized that time was of the essence. It wouldn’t be long before the biter turned its attention back to Groush, probably with the intention of infecting him rather than feeding on him. The dead woman atop him would provide a much juicier meal, with far softer, suppler flesh on which to dine.

  Groush reached for his weapon, a 9-millimeter handgun he always kept on the nightstand beside him. Fumbling a hand around in the darkness, he felt nothing. It wasn’t there. It was always there. Maybe he had dislodged it in his sexual escapades last night. He didn’t know. It didn’t matter. He reached his hand behind him, jamming it under his pillow where he kept his backup piece, a .38 revolver.

  It was missing too.

  “Fuck!” Groush hissed, realizing that this had to have been a setup. There was no doubt about it now.

  One gun missing was one thing. Both guns missing meant that someone had removed them purposefully while he slept, maybe Stacy herself. The thought made him glad that she was currently being consumed, but he didn’t have time to revel in the satisfaction of her demise. The fact remained – he’d been set up. The thought royally pissed him off and sent a furious surge of energy through him.

  He used this anger to his advantage. Getting his arms under the woman’s limp corpse, he hefted her, bench press style, the biter still munching away, up off him. Then he shoved her body to the side, away from him, pushing the biter back with it.

  As soon as their combined weight was off him, Groush kicked the covers back, freeing his legs, which he brought up over his head in a backwards summersault. The move rolled him back off the bed where he landed on the floor just as three more biters entered the room through the open door. His right hand came to rest on one of his boots. He picked it up and hurled it at the biters, looking for any means of buying himself an extra second or two. The boot hit the middle biter in the face, stunning it momentarily, but the other two biters continued toward him unfazed.

  Behind these biters, even more biters were entering the bedroom, and Groush realized that this was an assassination attempt. Someone had unlocked his bedroom door, most likely Stacy. She had been the tool in this set up. She had most likely taken his weapons away too. But who had planned the actual attack? Who had rounded up these biters and sent them up to kill him. It was probably more than just one person. Maybe his entire leadership council was guilty. It sure as fuck wasn’t just Stacy, Groush was sure of that. She was too damn stupid. She’d probably thought someone was going to sneak in and shoot Groush in his sleep. If she’d had any idea the conspirators were going to use biters as the weapon of choice, she would never have agreed to her participation in the act. But it was too late for her now. Groush figured that it was a combination of lack of balls and a desire to see him put to the worst end possible that had led the conspirators to send biters to do their dirty work.

  But now was not the time for pondering conspiracy theories. He had to act, and act quickly if he had any hope of ever determining and punishing the culprits involved in the plot.

  The first biter to attack was pulling Stacy’s lifeless form off the bed onto the floor to continue its gorging. Groush utilized this to his advantage. Ramming his hands between his bed’s mattress and the box spring, he got hold of the mattress’s side, lifted it, and flung it toward the three approaching biters. It hit them and bounced off, doing little damage physically. But the act had the intended consequences. It surprised the biters, and as the mattress fell against them, it temporarily halted their advance, putting an obstacle between them and Groush. The other biter, the first one to attack, was busy feeding greedily on Stacy and wasn’t paying any attention to Groush.

  It was at this instant, in the dreary morning light, that Groush saw two dark objects lying on the opposite side of his bed’s box spring.

  His guns!

  Bitch Stacy must have stashed them there while he was asleep.

  Groush gritted his teeth in a combination of anger at Stacy’s insolence and determined satisfaction. He dove headfirst onto the box spring, gathering a weapon in each hand. In a flash, he clicked off the 9-millimeter’s safety and fired a round into the Stacy-eating biter. It fell li
feless on top of her. Then he rolled over onto his back and sat up. It took him about five seconds to finish the last seven biters in the room. Then, still buck naked, he charged out the doorway and into the hall to ensure that no other biters were lurking outside.

  With the hallway cleared, Groush ducked back into his bedroom, dressed hurriedly, reloaded his weapons, picking up a few spare magazines in the process, and left.

  * * *

  “I only wish I could have seen the look on his face when those biters came in,” Roland chuckled from where he sat behind Groush’s desk inside the Riverport town hall.

  “I know,” Star laughed. “He probably shit himself.”

  “I feel kind of bad about Stacy, though,” Jess sighed.

  “Gotta break a few eggs and all that,” Mick shrugged.

  “That’s for fuckin’ sure,” Jackson agreed.

  The other remaining heads of what had formerly been Groush’s band of mercenaries, sat in chairs circled around the desk behind which Roland – their newly elected leader – now held court.

  “If that’s what it takes to rid ourselves of Groush, then so be it,” Star said. “I’m sick of that asshole. I’ve been sick of him for a while.”

  “About the only good thing he did was get us this town, and now it’s played out. We’re running out of food, and the natives are getting restless,” Jackson nodded.

  “Yeah, if we hadn’t done something soon, it would probably have been our heads on the chopping block,” Mick looked around at the others.

  “It has been a long time coming,” Roland agreed.

  “Anybody got some booze to celebrate the occasion?” Jess asked. “The biters should be chowing down on a Groush sandwich right about now. Makes me all warm and fuzzy just thinking about it,” she snickered. “I mean, I’m not one for killing people just for the sake of killing them, like Groush was. But I have no sympathy for someone like him being put down.”

  “I think Groush used to keep a bottle of tequila in this desk,” Roland scooted his chair back and looked down to pull open one of the lower desk drawers. “Like killing a mad dog,” he added. “Sometimes you just have to do the right thing for the sake of the group. Ah! Here it is,” he reached a hand inside the drawer and pulled out a tequila bottle that was about three-quarters full. “Now, if we just had some shot glasses or…” he straightened in his chair.

  But his words were cut short by an explosion that sent a bullet straight through the center of his face. The bullet exploded out through the back of his head, spraying the wall behind him with blood and spackling it with bits of bone and brain matter.

  The others whirled in their chairs, going for their weapons. But it didn’t matter. They weren’t fast enough for Groush who had the jump on them. He cleaned house, his weapons held one in each hand, out in front of him. Straight armed, he swung them left to right, shooting Jess in her chair first, then Jackson, still sitting in his chair. Mick was halfway up by the time Groush took him down. And Star had managed not only to stand, but to half extract her weapon from her coat by the time Groush put two slugs in her.

  Only one of the conspirators was left alive when Groush got done – Jackson. Groush walked over to where the man lay on the floor after having been knocked from his chair after being struck by Groush’s fire. He writhed in pain, gasping and wheezing with one bullet having punctured his lung, the other having entered and lodged in his rib cage right beside his heart.

  Groush fired a single bullet into the man’s head, ending his misery. Then he went down the line conducting a similar action to each of the other conspirators just to make sure.

  The sun was just making its presence known, and the day appeared to be breaking bright, sunny, and cloudless. Groush felt much like the day’s weather – unburdened. He was free from the restrictions of a leadership council. He had reversed the course of the coup. Better yet, the council had given him the reason to do so. He’d wanted to do this for a long time, but he was worried that if he killed the council, he’d have an all-out revolt on his hands. But with their assassination attempt, and with the evidence to prove their attempt by way of a bedroom full of dead biters, he now had the excuse he needed.

  And best of all, the coup attempt would strengthen his case for having no similar such council in the future. He could argue that such councils would be dangerous to anyone trying to lead the group, that they got in the way, slowed things down, and made the whole process of what they were out to do more inefficient.

  Groush walked over to the desk and picked up the unopened tequila bottle. He unscrewed the cap, put the bottle to his lips, and knocked back a huge slug of the stuff.

  It was time to go. Groush knew that with certainty. There was no more sticking around in this stinkhole. No more leadership council. No more sharing the power. It was time to move, and time to move now.

  CHAPTER 9

  “Ouch!” Michael recoiled in pain as a piece of wood he was loading into the roadhouse kitchen stove bumped against his hand.

  “You okay?” Marta asked as she put back the fireplace lid.

  “Yeah,” Michael nodded. “Fine. Hand’s just a little tender still where I cut it climbing onto that overturned car in the river.”

  Marta nodded, glancing down at Michael’s wrapped hand. He’d bound it in thick white cloth, but a bit of red was noticeable on the outside where some blood had seeped through the bindings.

  “Want me to take look? Maybe need medicine.”

  “No, thanks,” Michael waved her away casually. “We lost most of our medical supplies in the Justak’s canoe. But I think it’ll be fine.” He flexed the hand and then grimaced, shaking it out in front of him to relieve the pain. “Is that stew ready?” he changed subjects.

  “Almost boiling,” Marta peered down into the pot she’d just replace on the stovetop.

  “We’ll give it another minute and then we can serve it up,” Michael said. “I think everyone is so hungry, they’re not going to care if it’s boiling or not. Probably better if it’s not. Means they’ll be able to eat it faster.”

  “Right,” Marta nodded, peeking inside the pot again and giving the rising steam a sniff. “Mmm, smells good.”

  Louise popped her head inside the kitchen. “Table is almost set,” she flopped a hand against her forehead in a flimsy salute.

  “Very good,” Marta met Louise with a return salute. “I’m thankful for supplies you brought,” she turned back to Michael. “We were so tired of plain fish. I ran out of idea to make fish more interesting long ago.”

  “At least you had food,” Michael said. “I’m sure it’s more than can be said for many people who have survived the outbreak.”

  “Yes…I guess so,” Marta agreed sullenly.

  The Blenders had managed to salvage a significant portion of their supplies. But a sizeable quantity had also been lost or ruined in the capsized fishing boat and the Justak’s lost canoe.

  Several containers of cereal, creamed wheat, crackers, and oatmeal had gotten wet, ruining the contents. Several pounds of white rice and beans had also become inedible, at least for human consumption. The group had kept much of the damaged foodstuffs to use as bait both for fishing as well as for hunting smaller animals. Squirrels, ducks, geese, and similar woodland creatures occasionally lurked around the roadhouse’s exterior.

  Some of the sugar the group carried had gotten wet as well. And several packs of canned goods had gone down with the Justak canoe along with a bag that had floated free from the fishing boat.

  There was still a small canister of propane for the camp stove and Marta had provided a partially filled, full-size propane tank from a rusty grill she’d found sitting along one side of the roadhouse.

  But with the assortment of food that remained, including canned vegetables, canned soup, dried fruits, beans, pasta, rice, several cans of corned beef and ham, some beef jerky, peanut butter, pasta sauce, bullion cubes, granola bars, tuna fish, and more, the group wasn’t in dire straits just yet. And by
supplementing these menu items with fish, they were able to extend their available ingredients significantly.

  Out in the roadhouse’s dining room, several tables had been pushed together so that the entire group could dine together. This particular evening, as it had been for the last few nights, it was fish stew with oatmeal muffins (using the last of the remaining oatmeal).

  “So, not to sound like a broken record since this seems to be a constant topic of conversation everywhere we go, but what exactly is the plan here?” Charla asked after everyone was seated and had been served from the large pot of stew that Marta had brought in from the kitchen.

  There was silence as people began to eat, eyes peering up around the table from those more focused on their food than their future. It was a topic that had been bantered around off and on since the Blenders had arrived at the roadhouse. But nothing had formally been discussed and no course of action had yet been determined.

  “What about your town…Riverport was it?” Wendell asked Marta after he swallowed a steaming bite of stew. “Mmm,” he nodded, pointing his spoon at his bowl, “this is very good.”

  “Thank you,” Marta nodded. “Michael was helpful with ingredients.”

  “Just used what we had,” Michael interjected. “With Ms. Mary’s close supervision of course,” he added.

  “Riverport is unacceptable option,” Marta shook her head. “The bad people take it. We go there, they kill us.”

  “Are there any other towns around here where we could hold out for a while?” Michael asked.

  Marta shrugged. “Small towns. No supplies…not like Riverport. Riverport is castle. Other towns, just houses, small buildings. Roadhouse here,” she gestured around her with her hands, “just as good. No people come here now…just you,” she reconsidered.

  “Have we given up on St. Louis completely?” Ms. Mary asked.