The Last Bastion [Book 5]

by K. W. Callahan

  Now he watched as his cohorts gunned down unarmed men, women, even defenseless children. People ran screaming around the same paths professional baseball players were once paid millions of dollars just to play a game. They were screaming, falling, dying, being consumed by biters.

  It was all too much.

  The second wave of biters, the ones released from the third base side of the stadium, had gotten inside the field and had trapped a sizeable portion of the people who had been sheltering there. Watching the scene unfold, Dave was reminded of movies he’d seen of the gladiator days in the Roman Coliseum – not so much the gladiator part, maybe more like the Christians being fed to the lions. Now it was Carchar outbreak survivors being fed to the biters.

  It was a gruesome scene to watch, and Dave decided he’d had enough. Rather than stay to finish the fight, he turned and walked back up the steps toward one of the stadium’s exits. But at the top of the steps, he was stopped by a group of three men.

  “Where you think you’re going?” Groush, who was one of the three, growled at him. “We aren’t done here, yet. Still people alive and kicking…or at least running out there,” he smirked.

  Dave looked warily from Groush to the armed men on either side of his leader.

  “Come on,” he turned Dave around with a hand on his shoulder, “let’s watch the rest of the show. It’ll be fun, like taking in a ballgame. You deserve a break. You’ve been working hard lately.”

  With the hand still rested on Dave’s shoulder, Groush walked him back down the steps to the front row of seats overlooking the action taking place out on the field.

  “Take a load off,” Groush gestured to the row of seats before them.

  A man from the camp on the ball field’s interior came running up to the leftfield wall carrying a little boy in his arms. A woman was running alongside him. A group of four biters was closing in on them fast from behind. “Please!” the man cried, pulling his wife up along side him and pushing her toward the wall. “Help my wife up! Please!”

  Groush stood and moved over to where the man had set down his young boy and grabbed hold of his wife, putting one of her feet into his linked fingers and hefting her up against the outfield wall. The woman was struggling to grasp the top of the wall and pull herself upward, but she was having trouble getting a grip. The man was pushing on his wife’s backside, hoping to give the woman the necessary support. All the while, the dad kept glancing anxiously between his wife’s backside, his little boy standing beside him, and over his shoulder at the approaching biters.

  Groush stood and walked over to where the woman had managed to get her head and arms over the top of the outfield wall but whose progress he stalled from there.

  “Give me a hand here!” Groush turned to look back at Dave.

  Dave was surprised at this unexpected turn of kindness from Groush. He wondered if maybe the Grinch was finally growing a heart after all.

  Dave moved over to where Groush stood beside the rail to assist in lifting the woman. By the time he got there, Groush was already leaning over and had the woman by an arm. Dave leaned over too, also taking the woman by an arm. Once he had a good grip, he began to pull, but the woman seemed excessively heavy for her size.

  Groush looked over at Dave, surprised. “What the hell you doin’?” he frowned. “Push, don’t pull. Damn…what do you think we’re doin’ here? We aren’t the goddamn rescue squad. We’re supposed to be killing these assholes.”

  And with that, Groush let go of the woman’s arm and moved his hand to her head to give him better leverage in pushing her off the wall. As she lost her grip, she slid back down fast, hitting the ground hard and plopping onto her butt.

  The husband looked up at Groush and Dave in astonished disbelief.

  “At least take my boy,” the man grabbed the youngster in his arms and hefted him up toward Groush.

  Groush exhaled heavily, his shoulders sagging.

  “Please!” the man pleaded. “Please take him!”

  Groush looked at Dave and then reached over the wall to take hold of the boy.

  “Oh, thank you!” the man said graciously as Groush lifted the boy toward the top of the wall.

  Suddenly the boy was falling back to earth. He landed on the ground beside his mother with a sharp cry.

  “Oops!” Groush put his hands up. “Looks like I lost my grip,” he turned toward Dave with a foul grin. “What was I thinking? Here, let’s try again.”

  The biters ripped into the father before he could make another attempt, dragging him down to the ground and slashing at him with their knife-like teeth. But the mother had recovered enough to make another attempt. She was crying, and screaming at the sight of her husband’s demise, but she still had enough presence of mind to gather her boy and heft him upward toward Groush in one last ditch effort to save her son.

  “Please!” she cried. “Please…show some mercy!” she begged Groush with pleading, tear-filled eyes. “Just take him! PLEASE!”

  “Show some mercy, huh?” Groush sneered. “Here, here’s some goddamn mercy.”

  Groush pulled one of his 9-millimeter pistols, aimed it at the boy, and squeezed the trigger. The little boy’s head exploded in a puff of red.

  The act was so brutal, the shot so close to him, that for a moment, Dave was stunned. His ears were ringing. Some of the boy’s blood had splashed onto his face. The first thing he heard as he recovered was the sound of the woman’s screaming. She was still clinging to the boy’s body as the biters who had taken down her husband turned their attention to her.

  “There’s your goddamn mercy!” Groush yelled, still leaning over the side of the wall to get a good view of the woman being torn to shreds by the vicious biters. “Now you’re son won’t experience the sort of horrible death you are!” he laughed, enjoying the moment immensely.

  All thoughts of consequences left Dave’s brain. He felt only the fury of pure rage. Visions of Locks – the closest thing to a friend Dave had – dying, the boy’s head exploding, the woman being torn apart below him, all flashed through his mind in an instant.

  He didn’t even think about what he did next. He just did it.

  Dave turned to where Groush was still leaning over the wall beside him, grabbed the huge man around the knees, and lifted.

  “Wha…” Groush uttered, his hands scrabbling at the side of the wall as Dave lifted his legs up into the air.

  Groush’s two armed guards made a move toward Dave, but it was too late. Groush was upended and over the wall before they could do anything to stop him.

  Groush came down hard on top of one of the biters below, which cushioned his fall. But this would be the last comfort he’d ever know. He was shouting curse-word-laden cries for help, but they came too late. The group of biters, which had grown to nearly a dozen due to the family feast available down on the field, tore into Groush. One snagged his left arm, sinking its teeth into the top of his hand, ripping off a huge hunk of flesh. Another one tore a chunk from his cheek. And yet another latched onto his neck, sinking its razor-sharp teeth in the soft flesh as deeply as it could and then yanking its head back, tearing off a several-inch-wide hunk of skin and severing Groush’s jugular. Blood spewed, and a loud gurgling ended the man’s cries.

  But to Dave, those horrified screams were a pleasant eulogy to a man who had not one redeeming quality and had put innumerable people through their own fits of agony.

  Dave turned to find Groush’s two guards with weapons aimed at him.

  He stared at the men, took a deep breath, said, “Well, do what you gotta do,” braced himself, and waited.

  The two guards looked at one another, uncertain as to how to proceed now that their leader was gone. One of them pushed past Dave to peer over the ledge and down to the ball field below.

  After a few seconds, he turned back around to face the other guard.

  “He dead?” the other guard asked.

  “Uh huh,” his comrade nodded.

  The other g
uard nodded back, “Good. I hated that fucker.” He looked at Dave. “Nice work,” he said, and then turned and walked back up the steps toward the seating area exit.

  The other guard silently brushed past Dave.

  Dave exhaled, a wave of amazed relief washing over him. But the relief didn’t last long. He was almost instantly hit with another wave of worry, a different sort of worry. Looking at the chaos raging around him, he realized that none of these people were his friends. None of them cared about him any more than they cared about the people they were killing out on the baseball field. And now, leaderless, they had no reason to observe any sort of decorum whatsoever. Dave had just turned what was formerly a band of mildly regulated mercenaries into an uncontrolled, leaderless mob. Worse yet, he had just killed his meal ticket. Without Groush there to plan their next move, what would that next move be? Would there even be a move? Would anyone take over for the fallen head of their loosely bound organization or would things just erupt into even greater chaos?

  It was at that moment that Dave realized none of it mattered. He was free. With the world as lawless as it was now, the last thing he wanted was someone constantly giving him orders, especially ones that kept endangering him. He’d be endangered enough on his own, but at least he would be calling his own shots.

  Dave walked back up the stadium steps and found his way to the entry gates, now crushed by the vehicles Groush had ordered driven through them. Dead biters lay everywhere. He continued walking until he stopped outside the stadium and stood in the middle of the street. There, he stared around him. The air was acrid with smoke from the settlement’s burning encampment back on the baseball field. Other than the chaos that continued to rage in the stadium behind him, the city was quiet, its streets deserted.

  Dave looked up at the sky. It was a clear, beautiful blue. The warm sun washed over him. A light breeze drifted across his face.

  Dave felt fresh, free, cleansed, and ready to begin anew. He wasn’t sure exactly how or where, and he felt anxiety regarding a future with no set direction, no order, no leadership. But he also felt excitement, anticipation, and a sense that he could be his own leader. It was a strange thought. He’d been following someone else’s rules, orders, and commands for so long, he’d almost forgotten what it felt like to make decisions for himself. But now he was ready. He was tired of listening to someone else. He was ready to listen to himself again.

  Dave turned to the right, took a few steps, and then stopped. He stood for a moment, listening to the spackling of gunfire that continued in the stadium beside him. Then he turned around so that he faced south and began walking again. To where, he didn’t know. To where, he didn’t care, as long as it was anywhere but where he was.

  CHAPTER 18

  As the Blenders stood in the stadium stands, everyone was quiet. They were thinking their own private thoughts, wondering who was responsible for slaughtering the camp that had not long ago made their home inside the ballpark.

  Suddenly, there was movement out on the field.

  “Biters,” Patrick nodded toward the first base dugout.

  Biters could be seen spilling from inside the dugout and out onto the field. It was a macabre reminder of the players who had once exited the space to the crowd’s raucous adulation.

  “Guess that’s our cue to move on,” Michael frowned.

  “Wait,” Patrick pointed to a spot near second base. “Look…there!” he said. “Looks like someone is moving around. I don’t think it’s a biter. See? No, it looks like…”

  He didn’t finish his sentence. Instead, he moved to hop over the rail that kept fans from rushing out onto the field.

  “Patrick! Wait!” Marta held out a hand, but Patrick was already dropping down onto the field.

  The rest of the group stood stunned, watching as a small child – who couldn’t have been much more than toddler age – emerged from a slashed tent and stood staring about, seemingly confused at the situation. Due to the child’s long hair, it was indecipherable as boy or girl.

  It didn’t seem that the biters coming out of the dugout noticed the child – at least at first. But the little one, probably hungry and apparently distraught that no one was there to solve this dilemma, suddenly began to wail loudly.

  “Shhhh!” Ms. Mary couldn’t help herself in admonishing the little one, clenching her fists in tension-filled angst as the rest of the group stood gripped in horror. They watched as Patrick raced across the field toward where the little one stood.

  But the biters were moving almost as fast as Patrick, and they had a head start on him.

  “Hey!” Wendell yelled, waving at the biters. “Hey! Over here!” he tried to distract them.

  Charla moved to bang her hands loudly against one of the seatbacks.

  The others joined her in clapping hands, banging seats, and shouting in an effort to distract the charging biters. But the distractions did no good. The biters were hyper-focused on the supple appetizer presented to them, standing there, wailing away near second base.

  Ms. Mary raised her rifle, aimed, and fired at the biters. Charla joined suit.

  “Careful!” Michael warned. “Don’t hit Patrick…or the child!” he admonished.

  Patrick pulled his handgun as he ran, firing several times. He hit the nearest biter, but there were at least six or seven more right behind it. The next biter in line was halfway between first and second base. The child was still standing near second base, right where the dirt of the infield met with the grassy outfield.

  Patrick fired again, hitting this next biter in the leg and taking it down. It screeched as it fell and thrashed wildly. But then Patrick’s gun jammed. He continued to squeeze the trigger as he ran, but it did no good, and he was closing rapidly on the child, as was the next biter approaching it.

  He heard his Blender cohorts firing their weapons and shouting behind him. And from the corner of his eye, he saw one of the trailing biters fall, apparently hit by a bullet fired from the stands.

  Without the use of his weapon, Patrick’s mind whirled. Thoughts of turning around and running back to the stands flew through his brain. But these thoughts were overwhelmed by the sight of the child still crying not more than 40 or 50 feet from him. The closest biter was a similar distance away, closing from the opposite direction. At least four more biters were behind the first.

  Patrick wondered how he could fend off five biters while at the same time save the child from injury all while he was unarmed. There was no answer and no way to contemplate his options with the brief distance between himself and the child set to be closed in just seconds.

  Instead, he did what came instinctually. Without any other weapons than the knife he still carried from his time spent at the roadhouse, he pulled that, tossing his gun aside. With little room to spare between him and the first biter – a smaller female – he lower his shoulder, angled his head slightly away from the impact zone, and drove himself in a football type tackle into the biter. The hit was hard, and he felt the biter’s body bend inward with the blow as the two of them fell to the ground in a heap. Patrick was on top of the biter, knife in hand to deliver several quick stabbing blows to the neck that rendered the biter incapacitated.

  He was up in a flash once he was sure the biter no longer posed a threat. He spun around, ready to take on the other biters. Only three remained, as Blender gunfire had taken down another. As he did so, he saw Wendell running toward him from the stands, but he was still a good distance away. And now he saw more biters pouring from the dugout, drawn by the activity on the field.

  But the gunfire from the other Blenders had suddenly stopped. As Patrick’s vision returned to the small child, he realized why. The child was gone. In its place stood a biter, the child’s limp, lifeless body in its hands, the biter’s face buried in the little one’s neck.

  “Come on!” Patrick heard someone calling. “Patrick! Come on!”

  It was Wendell. Patrick turned, but now he realized that several of the biters that had
just exited the dugouts were between him and the other Blenders. And more biters were now closing on him from behind.

  He was surrounded.

  * * *

  The Blender family was gathered within the cover of the sizeable park surrounding the St. Louis arch. They were a sullen bunch who sat eating cold beans and rice in the day’s fading light.

  And what a day it had been.

  The group had retreated to their landing spot after encountering the situation at the stadium. There, they had regrouped, reloaded their weapons, and decided to make camp for the evening to decide their next move. They hauled the tents and other supplies from their boats nearby to erect their standard camp as they had done so many times before. This time however, they decided to set up a watch schedule since they no longer had the safety and security of an island environment.

  As darkness settled, they decided to eat a dinner of cold beans and rice leftover from the previous day’s dinner. They debated building a fire to warm their food, but they were afraid that building a campfire might attract biters or the people responsible for the devastation wrought at the stadium. Therefore, it was decided that cold beans and rice would have to suffice.

  As the group sat quietly eating outside their tents, the sun’s pinkish-orange hues reflected off the arch were absolutely spectacular. But the scenery did little to inspire the Blenders.

  No one felt much like talking after the debilitating blow they’d endured at the stadium. Yet conversation was necessary since otherwise tomorrow would dawn without answers regarding what their next move would or should be.

  “I just can’t believe that this didn’t work out,” Charla shook her head. “We came so far…worked so hard…had such high hopes.”

  “It’s a shame,” Christine nodded. “But it could be worse.”

  “Worse!” Wendell scoffed, unable to conceal his disgust for their current predicament. “How could it possibly be worse?!”