Refugees - 03

by D. J. Molles

  They all nodded.

  He continued: “Hold tight right here, and Wilson, make sure we’re maintaining a solid 360 defense. You guys are out in the open here, so keep your eyes peeled and no fuckin’ around.”

  “I got it, Captain,” Wilson said.

  Lee eyed him. Of course you do.

  Lee trusted him to get the job done, but that didn’t mean he was without misgivings.

  He kept his thoughts to himself and looked over Wilson’s shoulder at LaRouche, who had just finished securing his pack onto his shoulders. “You ready?”

  “Ready.”

  Lee took the radio from its pouch on his chest and switched it on. He waited for it to light up, then keyed it and spoke quickly, “Radio check, radio check.” He could hear the squelch and his own voice echoing back at him from inside the Humvee and from the radio on LaRouche’s shoulder.

  “Alright. Let’s go.”

  The two men set out into the breathless morning, silent as a bank of fog as they moved down the road in the cadaver-gray light of dawn. Lee took point, LaRouche staying about ten yards behind him, constantly checking behind them and walking backwards to watch their flanks and make sure nothing was sneaking up on them.

  They walked hunched at the shoulders, tension ratcheted through their core and legs, their progress slow and deliberate. Ceaselessly, their eyes scanned from left to right and back, checking every shadow and stopping at the slightest stir from the cornfield on their right, or the woods on their left. Sometimes they would stay knelt there in the middle of the road, silent and still for minutes on end, and they would never hear another sound, or see what had made the first.

  They would rise slowly and continue on, hoping that those furtive noises were not the creeping of something deadly, stalking them just out of view.

  They reached the first street of the residential area and stopped there. It was an even grid of two-lane blacktop, unmarked by painted lines, but littered with old trash and the strange flotsam of a town that had panicked and fled and then been overrun. Every town, every apartment complex, every housing development that they had been through, held some strange thing that could not be easily explained. Things that made no sense, unless you had been there to witness how it had happened.

  Here on the outskirts of Sanford, in whatever community made up this grid of split level and ranch houses, the first strange sight was the body of a woman, all the features long since decayed and blackened, lying against the base of a tree. She wore a blue terry cloth robe, stained brown with the putrid fluids of her decomposition. In her right hand she clutched a newspaper, and in her left she held the handle to a broken coffee mug. Her cause of death was a mystery, as the rot and the animals had disguised it amongst the mar of flesh they’d left behind.

  They didn’t linger, as they never did, attempting to piece together these odd puzzle pieces left behind by the violent collapse of a society.

  Graffiti seemed more prevalent here than in the other places they’d been. Various political or religious sentiments had been scrawled across doors and signs and the blank white canvasses of house siding. All of them had a different scapegoat, a different person or deity to blame for the catastrophe. One simply said FUCK THE WORLD in red, spray painted letters nearly six feet high.

  Red for anger.

  Red for blood.

  Red seemed to be the dominant color choice for graffiti everywhere.

  The houses looked ransacked, which was not unusual. An intact window was hard to find. Lee thought that even the survivors broke them out of spite when they found them, some deep-seeded resentment towards the civilization that had spawned and betrayed them. Maybe those glass windows were just another reminder of the things they felt they would never have again.

  More mysteries to be pondered at a later time.

  Loose curtains billowed out of the open windows, like a dead thing’s insides oozing out.

  Death was the predominant medium in Lee’s mind. Everything was painted in shades of it, and everything existed in some stage of it. He wanted to think in terms of rebirth, but knew that the rebirth had not yet begun, because the decay had not yet finished.

  They made their way through these abandoned streets, and occasionally caught sight of the beginnings of the urban area; businesses erected to support a populace that was no longer there. But they had not yet outlived their use.

  They reached a street called McIver and made a right, heading west into the city.

  Lee pointed straight ahead of them and spoke quietly. “We’ll take up a position on one of those buildings and see what there is to see.”

  “Hopefully one of them will…” LaRouche stopped midsentence.

  Lee turned and looked at him. The sergeant’s eyes were scanning the houses around them. They stood about a block from an intersection with stoplights hanging dark from the power lines. They were only a few blocks now from the bigger buildings. The air was very still, no birds to sing in the cold, no insects to make a sound.

  “What?” Lee asked.

  “Something just moved.”

  Lee raised his rifle to a low ready and scanned.

  His eyes stopped on a wooden porch at the front of one of the houses. The ornamental lattice-work had been stripped away and the tall, brown stalks of grass were matted down in front of the opening. A dead dog, recently killed and partially eaten, lay near the front steps of the house.

  Lee thought back to his own house, his front deck, and the crushed grass there near his steps that should have been his first clue.

  “We should keep moving,” Lee whispered.

  They walked forward, both focused now on the dark underbelly of the porch.

  They’d gone about ten paces when some pale and sinewy thing squirmed partially out of the shadows.

  “Fuck…” LaRouche whispered and sighted down his rifle.

  “Don’t shoot!” Lee hissed. “Just keep moving.”

  The tremor returned to his arms, and his pulse began to pound through his body. Shooting now would only wake every infected within a half mile of them, and there was always the chance this one would ignore them. It was rare, but it had happened before.

  The thing under the deck lay on its side, its head resting on its outstretched arm. As they passed by, it regarded them with a dim intelligence that said it was sizing them up.

  “Don’t shoot unless you have to,” Lee said quietly, trying to control the shake in his voice.

  “Pick up the pace, Captain.”

  “Running is only going to make it want to come after us.”

  LaRouche swore under his breath.

  The thing raised its head and hitched itself up onto its elbows, still watching them. It made a weird guttural sound and another tangle of limbs appeared from underneath the deck.

  “There’s two of them now,” LaRouche said.

  “Just keep walking,” Lee tried to sound calm and reassuring, but it wasn’t convincing to himself and he doubted it was to LaRouche.

  The first infected lurched up to its feet in a sudden movement.

  “Cap…”

  It started towards them, but slowly, as though testing their reaction. Testing whether they would run. Or testing if they were wounded, if they were weak, if they were easy prey. Perhaps running was a better idea...

  It barked.

  The second one stood up and swung its arms loosely.

  A third infected crawled out of the space.

  “Lee!”

  The first one began to jog towards them.

  Lee broke. “Go! Run!”

  CHAPTER 11: TROUBLE BREWING

  Adrenaline like an electric shock went through him and Lee forced his legs to go faster, faster—they were not going fast enough!

  A stone clattered across the pavement at his feet and he turned to see one of the infected, now in the road less than twenty feet behind them, holding another fist-sized stone in its hand. It reared back and hurled the stone at them, catching LaRouche in the leg and cau
sing him to stumble.

  Lee reached out quickly to grab LaRouche’s arm and steady him, the lead infected had gained on them, and was now only a few yards behind them. The others were spreading out on the lawns, cutting off their escape, while more of them kept scrambling out from underneath the house.

  Lee shoved LaRouche towards a randomly selected driveway. “Into that house!”

  They weren’t going to outrun this pack. They were fast, and Lee and LaRouche were weighed down with gear. Their only hope was to bottleneck them at the front door and hope the house muffled their gunshots.

  LaRouche made for the front door and Lee bolted after him, turning just in time to see the pale hand reaching out for him, its gnarled fingers contorted into claws. Lee twisted and struck out with his rifle, slamming the infected across the side of the face and causing it to stumble sideways. It was still up, but it cantered to the right and gave Lee an opening to make for the front steps of the house.

  Ahead of him, LaRouche hit the door without slowing down. It shattered inwards with a spray of wood and plaster and LaRouche went sprawling into the foyer, landing on his hands and knees.

  “Get up!” Lee shouted. “Get up!”

  LaRouche turned and saw Lee topping the front porch stairs, and he rolled quickly out of the way. Lee dove for the front door and spun, landing hard on his left knee, his ankle twisted up underneath him and his right leg splayed out for balance. He brought his rifle up as a shape filled the doorway and fired rapidly. Bullets punched through the door frame, then found flesh, bursting through the creature’s torso in sprays of gristle and blood.

  It wasn’t enough.

  The thing hit Lee full on, knocking him back, its hungry arms wrapping around him, a grim parody of an embrace. Lee fell onto his back just in front of the door and tried to twist his rifle up, but it was squashed between the two bodies. Hot breath brushed the side of his face, yellow teeth clacked inches from his skin.

  Reflexively, he pulled the trigger.

  The muzzle was close to his head and the blast was like being punched in the face. His vision darkened and sparkled at the edges, but it must have had the same effect on his attacker and its death grip on his torso loosened just enough for Lee to contort his body and jerk the thing off balance. He rolled, pinning the scrambling creature underneath him.

  “Get this fucking thing off me!” Lee screamed.

  Still struggling to keep the thing on the ground, Lee could feel the front door of the house batting around at his feet. His back was exposed to the other infected that would be coming through the door, and he couldn’t tell where the fuck LaRouche had gone. Pulling his hips off the ground, he drove his weight down on the thing’s chest and kicked out blindly with his foot, shutting the door behind him and planting his boot there.

  Lee stared down at the infected he had pinned. It was arching its back and writhing about underneath him, its neck stretching up towards Lee, the cords of muscle distending through its skin, the jaws working fast like a wild animal, trying desperately to catch a piece of Lee’s jugular. He registered the sound of gunfire, but it sounded muffled, like he was wearing earplugs. The door at his feet clattered and pressed in at him.

  “LaRouche!”

  A boot came across his vision in a tan blur, and the infected’s head jerked to the right with a muted crunching sound. Blood spewed out across the floor in a brilliant flash, and the thing’s jaw wobbled around, unhinged. The boot came down again and again, and this time the crunch was more distinct and the body underneath him went limp.

  Lee started to rise.

  “Keep that door shut!” LaRouche barked, and began firing through it.

  Lee could feel the impact of the rounds punching through the wood. He rolled slightly, trying to maintain pressure on the door, but something on the other side suddenly hit it hard and his knee buckled. The door slammed open, catching Lee’s foot between the wall and the door. The infected tumbled in, and Lee could see in a flash-frozen moment that LaRouche was still firing at it, tracking it with his rifle as it fell on top of Lee. Instinctively, Lee curled into a ball, knowing, just knowing that LaRouche was going to accidentally shoot him.

  He felt the weight hit him, but he didn’t feel the bullets. He opened his eyes to the wall, inches from his face and the splash of gore on it. He stared for a half second and the question circled in his mind, did that come out of me?

  Fight through it.

  He heaved the body off of him.

  Somewhere in the back of the house, glass shattered.

  “They’re comin’ in the back!” LaRouche’s voice was dim, like he’d gone into another room, but when he hauled himself to his feet, LaRouche was standing right in front of him. The sergeant put a hand to Lee’s shoulder. “You okay? Did I hit you?”

  Lee looked down at himself. “I don’t know.” If he’d been hit, he couldn’t see the hole, and the blood wasn’t coming out. “Post up on the front,” he said, shouldering his rifle and shaking his head to clear it of the humming noise that was settling in. Two infected lay dead in the foyer, another outside on the porch.

  How many more?

  LaRouche put his shoulder to the front wall and scanned out the front door at the yard.

  A large oak tree stood in the front yard.

  No movement.

  Lee faced the opposite direction. The front door opened into a spacious living room. A half-wall divided it from the kitchen. A hallway to the left, leading further into the house. Lee could see dim daylight making its way into the house from around the corner of the hallway, and just beyond, he could see that the kitchen opened into a dining area.

  He could hear LaRouche’s breathing, and not much else.

  The house seemed quiet, tense.

  “How many were there?” Lee said quietly, taking small steps towards the hall, pieing off the corner. He could see the dining area now, an ornate wooden table with chairs, tableware and napkins still set out as though prepared to receive guests. Beyond the table was a sliding door onto a patio. The glass had been shattered.

  “I think…” LaRouche started.

  “Ssh!”

  They held their breath.

  Silence.

  Then something in the dining room creaked.

  Despite the cold, Lee could feel the sweat on his face, trickling down into his eyes. He swiped at it, and his fingers came away red, with a small chunk of brain matter from the infected.

  The half-wall extended partially down the hall, with a wide opening directly between the kitchen and dining room. A hand was gripping the top of the half-wall, steadying something that was crouched down on the other side.

  “Contact!” Lee grunted and fired into the wall.

  Plaster and drywall exploded.

  The hand disappeared down and then the beast, a tall and skinny thing that seemed to be all arms and legs, came scrabbling out of the dining room with a shriek. It launched itself through the wide opening at Lee and he fired wildly as he backed up. He felt something hit the back of his legs and he fell backwards over a coffee table. He pulled his finger from the trigger just as his muzzle passed over LaRouche, still standing at the front door. Lee let himself roll, feeling the floor on the top of his head, the strain as his body bore down on his neck, and then he came up on his hands and knees, having performed a complete backflip. He whipped his rifle up.

  “You got it! You got it!” LaRouche waved a hand at him.

  Looking down the barrel of his rifle, Lee could see the gangly form stretched out at the mouth of the hallway, only a foot or so from where he had originally been standing. Blood was shooting out of its nose onto the carpet. Its eyes blinked rapidly, then slowed, then stared half-lidded at the growing pool before it. Lee had caught it right between the eyes.

  Lee pulled himself up to his feet, feeling the shakes coming over him heavily.

  “Should we call them in for extract?” LaRouche said, his voice strained.

  “No,” Lee shook his head. “We can
still do this.”

  “Did we get them all?”

  “Did you notice how many there were?”

  “No,” LaRouche scanned the yard again. “I didn’t count.”

  “Me neither.” Lee moved to the front door. “We can’t just sit here, though.”

  “You think we woke up the hordes?”

  “No way to tell until it’s too late.” Lee stepped out onto the porch to get a better angle at the side of the house and the rest of the yard. Through the surrounding trees, Lee could see the sky turning bright and pink, but the sun hadn’t yet shown over the horizon. If they hadn’t stirred them with the gunfire, any hordes in the area wouldn’t emerge from their dens until the sun was out. “We’re just a couple blocks away from the urban area. I say we make for the buildings now while we still have a chance.”

  LaRouche didn’t seem to like that, but he nodded anyway. “You’re the boss.”

  Lee took a last glance at the three bodies jumbled inside the house, and the one lying at his feet. Something bothered him. Without another word, he took the stairs down into the front yard. He heard the light footsteps of LaRouche taking up the rear again.

  They moved quicker now, unsure whether they’d killed the entire pack. Four was a small pack, but then again, they’d all been crammed in underneath that deck. He couldn’t see many more than four fitting under there. Maybe five. Perhaps if there were others, they’d decided that there were easier meals elsewhere.

  Then it struck him what had been bothering him.

  None of them were females.

  ***

  Jerry rose early that morning.

  Like everyone else in Camp Ryder, he lived in a shanty, and he slept on whatever he found to make his nights more comfortable. Lucky for him, he’d gone through the trouble of locating and hauling a twin size mattress out of a nearby house. The mattress was his pride and joy, the reason he could wake up in the morning and smile at the people of Camp Ryder, rather than scowl at them like Captain Harden and his henchmen. He also felt a measure of pride in the fact that he had carted the mattress off by himself, carried it to and from the pickup truck, all the while scanning for infected.