Running with the Horde (Book 2): Delusions of Monsters

by Joseph K. Richard

  “Hello?”

  “George, hey! It’s your dad.”

  “Yes, I know who it is.”

  “Listen, I know it’s been awhile but I really need to see you. Is there any way you could make it down to my place tonight for dinner?”

  “I don’t know, dad. I kind of have a lot going on today.”

  “Please,” Bill said.

  “Maybe another time.”

  “George, listen to me….”

  …

  “Did you have any trouble getting into the city?” Bill asked as he flipped the steaks on the grill. The smell and the sizzle of the meat seemed so out of place with all the crazy shit he’d been dealing with the last few weeks.

  “Um, yeah, you could say that. Construction was a nightmare. Took me an hour just to get over the bridge. Are they remodeling the whole damn city?”

  Bill laughed, “Still not really following current events too closely, huh, son?”

  “What do you mean?” George asked. Bill watched him lean over the balcony to take in the street below. His whiskey-manhattan held casually in his hand.

  “You’re going to have to grow up one of these days, George.” He said. “The construction is for all the security upgrades the government passed last year. A couple of months from now Downtown, Minneapolis is supposed to be one of the most secure places in the world.”

  “Supposed to be?”

  “We’ll just have to see what happens,” Bill said. “Have you heard about the new flu?”

  “People at work are a little freaked out about it but I’m not worried. Aside from my job I don’t really get out much these days. I meant to get a flu shot but I never got around to it. I guess I’ll probably get one next week, they’ve been giving them out free at work,” George said.

  The steaks were ready so they moved into the kitchen and prepared to eat. George poured them glasses of red wine while Bill set the table. He moved to the stereo and popped in a cassette and hit play. A moment of static belched out of the speakers and then Merle Haggard was entertaining them with a country ballad.

  “Maybe I’ll grow up when you start using that iPod I gave you five years ago,” George said, cutting into a piece of perfectly grilled rare steak.

  “I like my tapes. They remind me of the good old days,” Bill said and George grunted. Over the course of dinner they talked about those old days, George’s mom and regrets. “I know I’ve told you this before but if I could go back and change things I would,” Bill said. He knew he was treading on forbidden ground but he wanted more than anything to make peace with his son.

  “You were a monster most of the time. When you were home at all.” George said. His tone was bitter.

  The tape deck clicked off and the room was uncomfortably silent while Bill considered the best way to respond to this old conversation. “I was. I know that now. Some of the things I saw in my line of work, well, I just wanted to prepare you for anything.”

  “All you prepared me for was therapy,” George said. “And what was that line of work again? I didn’t realize the import export business was all that dangerous.”

  “C’mon, you know I couldn’t talk about it. I still can’t. It was to protect you and your mom.”

  “Too bad there was no one to protect us from you.”

  “I know, George, and again I am sorry,” Bill said. Truth be told he was starting to get a little angry. He had been rough on George to toughen him up but it hadn’t been that bad. “Look let’s change the subject. Tell me about your life. Are you still seeing that nurse? What’s her name? Elizabeth, right?”

  George chuckled, “No, she broke it off. She said I was too boring.”

  “Well she doesn’t know what she’s missing. You’ll find someone else.”

  “No she was right. I am boring. I have a simple life. A simple routine. I bore myself sometimes to be honest.”

  “You can always changes things up, son,” Bill said, hating the lie as it was coming out of his mouth. Even if the shot worked there were likely only bad things in store for George. Living life on the run, hunted by strangers. Nothing would ever be the same when the Simon Virus took hold.

  “Listen, dad, if there was some magic pill out there I could take to suddenly become an exciting individual with an amazing life I would take it. Truth is, I am what I am. This is all I’m ever gonna be.”

  “Is that a song?” Bill asked but George didn’t answer.

  Bill’s gut ached with second thoughts as he looked at his son. He could feel his heart hammering in his chest. Visions of his son’s dead body, brutalized by mindless monsters, flashed through his mind. He would probably be gutted on the porch of his stupid house in New Brightown. He felt his eyes well up with tears. He remembered the cute little bundle of hair and rosy cheeks from when George was a baby. The feeling of his tiny fingers holding Bill’s hand. The warmth of his breath on Bill’s neck while he rocked him to sleep. But then he thought of the alternative, George dying of a horrible virus all alone. Bill wasn’t gonna let that happen. His boy might still die but he would at least have a fighting chance.

  “So you would?” asked Bill.

  “Would what?” replied George.

  “Take that magic pill? I mean if there was one?”

  George shrugged and swallowed the last of his wine, “Yeah, dad, I think I would.”

  “Tell you what, George, let’s have one more drink.”

  “Oh, I don’t know dad, I have to drive home and plus there is work tomorrow. I should probably get going soon.”

  “Just do it for your old man, c’mon. One more manhattan. Please?” Bill begged.

  George finally threw up his hands, “Alright, you win. One more drink.”

  George worked on clearing the table while Bill made their last round. When they were seated again Bill raised his glass in a toast, “To the father I always wanted to be and the son who survived in spite of me,” he said. George replied with a smile and they both drank together.

  Bill shared one more memory as they finished their drinks. It was about the time George had shit his pants during a wedding. It was the one and only time he’d ever been asked to be a ring bearer. George said he had forgotten that one and laughed heartily throughout.

  “Well, my dear father, I want to thank you for a truly delightful evening,” George said as he finished his drink and made an attempt to stand up. “Whew,” he said, “that one must have hit me a little harder than I thought.”

  “I’m sorry, George,” Bill said.

  “The past is the past, dad,” George slurred and managed to get to his feet. “Let’s leave it there.”

  “I’m not sorry about the past, George,” Bill said dashing around the table to catch his son before he fell, “I’m sorry about the future.”

  The hurt look in his son’s eyes as he said goodbye to consciousness was something Bill would never forget. He pulled him over to the sofa and arranged it so at least George looked comfortable. He had come this far he wasn’t going to turn back now.

  He pulled the device from his jacket pocket and pulled off the green cap. The edge was large and sharp looking. Bill was happy George wouldn’t feel it. Andrew had said it didn’t matter where the injection went in so he pulled up George’s shirt, said a silent prayer and jammed it into his belly. When he pulled the device out, he could see that it was empty. With the cap carefully back on Bill shoved the empty vial back into his pocket and dabbed the small trickle of blood on George’s belly with a handkerchief.

  His son was snoring softly as Bill pulled out his phone and dialed a number. “Everything okay?” the voice said.

  “I made a slight change in plans,” Bill said.

  “You gave the shot to George, didn’t you?” Derrick said.

  “I did,” replied Bill. “He is unconscious and already feels hot. I think I need to get him to a hospital. I may have made a terrible mistake.”

  “When did you give it to him?”

  “Just now.”


  “Then it’s probably all in your head.”

  “I still need to take him.”

  “If he wakes up you know he is gonna hate you forever. Not to mention you probably just doomed us all.”

  “I know. We’ll get John and Andrew working on more control doses right away,” Bill said.

  “Okay, hang tight. I will be there in ten.”

  Chapter 28: The Presidential Suite

  The Past

  The air was stale but cool when they pulled the burlap hood off Muddy’s sweaty head. He knew this place, Andrew’s Field, the home of Air Force One when it wasn’t flying him around. He been here enough times to recognize it immediately. Though he couldn’t recall any holding cells from his previous visits. Evidently, the Syndicate had done some remodeling. They truly had their fingers in everything.

  He had his own cell but he wasn’t alone. A larger cell had been constructed adjoining his, like a drunk tank. It was crowded with a quiet group of beleaguered men and women. They were watching him with avid interest. It wasn’t everyday a person got to watch the President of the United States be rudely deposited in a jail cell.

  Someone barked a command and the small crowd of guards parted. Harrie stepped into his cell preceded by a cloud of perfume, a sly grin creasing her heart-shaped lips. “You must have questions,” she purred. “Sadly, I don’t have time to answer them right now. But don’t worry, we’re not done with you yet, Muddy,” she said, patting him on the head. “I have a little problem to clean up in Minnesota. After that, everything will be back on track and the country will need its president again.”

  “Where do they think I am?” he growled. He wanted nothing more than to pinch her pretty head off.

  “Oh, be a good boy, Muddy, I’ve instructed my men not to hurt you but don’t push it, darling. If it makes you feel any better, when I get my hands on your buddy Dick, I am going to kill him.”

  It didn’t make him feel any better unless she planned on offing herself as well. He exhaled a long breath and his body slumped like he’d been deflated. He stumbled numbly to the cement slab that was supposed to serve as a cot and sat down. “What did you do with my wife?”

  Harrie laughed at him through the bars and turned to go, “Don’t worry about Danica. You’ll be reunited when the time is right. Enjoy your time off, Muddy, the American people think you are recovering from an emergency appendectomy. See you soon, baby!”

  As she turned to leave Muddy said, “At least explain the picture, Harrie. Was it photo-shopped or something?”

  “Let’s just say I’m older than I look,” she replied with a sly smile. She left the cell along with most of the guards until there were only three remaining.

  “Mr. President,” said the man in the middle. He was thin and bore the expression of a very serious man. “I’m only going to say this once. I am very sorry for this. All of it. But I don’t have a choice. None of us do. My name is Clemons and I’m in charge here until Ms. Harrie returns. You will only speak to me. You will not speak to my men. You will not attempt to escape or rile up the other prisoners. If you violate any of my rules I will execute them. Those deaths will be on your hands. Is that clear?”

  “It’s clear.”

  “Good. Take those cuffs off him now.”

  The cuffs came off and Muddy massaged his wrists as the soldiers locked him inside. He was lost in thought until he heard someone saying his name. He glanced into the bigger cell where a large young man was watching him through the bars. “You’re alive!” Muddy exclaimed as he hopped to his feet.

  “Sure,” Ezra chuckled. “If you wanna call this living, Mr. President.

  “At least it’s clean,” Muddy said. He closed his eyes and started reviewing his options. He would get them all out, one way or another.

  …

  It’s only a bad dream he told himself. He was asleep in his bed at the White House. Danica was there and she wouldn’t stop screaming. Someone was trying to break down the door. Where was the Secret Service? The damn screaming wouldn’t stop!

  “Danica, shut up,” Muddy yelled. It came out of his mouth in slow motion like he was trying to push the words through a tiny crack. That was how he knew he was dreaming. Time to wake up! He snapped awake mid-scream from his wife. His heart was pounding and relief flooded through him until he realized the screaming hadn’t stopped. Then it hit him. He wasn’t in his bed at the White House; he was in a cell at Andrew’s Field and had been for weeks. The cell was filthy. He was filthy. The air was permeated with the smell of human waste.

  He looked into the larger cell to see eight people pressed against the bars with their backs to him like they were trying to avoid something and had run out of room. Yesterday there had been nine people. The ninth was currently in the middle of the cell screaming at the top of her lungs and doing some kind of whirlybird dance routine with her arms. Her name was Michelle Berryman and she had been a journalist in the White House Press Corps. Moreover, she had been a nice woman whose only crime was being in the wrong place at the wrong time. She had seen something she shouldn’t have as it concerned Syndicate business. Muddy had liked her. Now she had the Sickness and she was Michelle no more.

  “When did she turn?” he asked Ezra through the bars.

  “The screaming just started but she has been doing hand movements for the last four hours. I saw that you were sleeping so I didn’t want to wake you.”

  Muddy appreciated the courtesy. As exhausted as they all were, sleep was still hard to come by in this place. The hunger pains, the filth and confinement added up to some pretty terrible living conditions. The nasty potpourri of smells certainly didn’t help matters.

  “Some of us were just getting ready to knock her out so we can at least stop that damn screaming,” Ezra said. He, and the brothers, Duane and Torrey, started walking towards Michelle slowly with their arms extended, like three lion tamers trying to corral a large feral cat.

  A sleepy looking Clemons came trudging out of his office toting a pistol with three of his men in tow. “Stand back,” he yelled. Ezra and the others complied as Clemons walked up to the bars, took aim and fired one shot into Michelle’s head. The noise was deafening and reverberated throughout the hanger. Michelle dropped unceremoniously to the ground.

  At least the screaming had stopped.

  Clemons turned his gun on the eight remaining prisoners and commanded them to stay back. One of his men opened the cell door and tossed in a large sheet of plastic while another placed a bucket and a mop on the floor before shutting the cell door again.

  “You know the drill,” he said to Ezra.

  “No gloves this time?” Ezra asked.

  “We’re out of gloves. You’ll just have to be careful,” Clemons replied.

  As Ezra and his fellow prisoners started on their task Muddy approached his own bars, “How much longer are you going to let this go on, Clemons? Are you waiting for all of us to die? She isn’t coming back. Surely you know that by now, it’s been weeks.” Muddy said.

  Clemons didn’t respond right away. He stood patiently waiting until Ezra and his crew were done. The body had been secured in the plastic and the bucket with the mop were again placed by the door. The gun came back up and the prisoners moved as far away as possible while the soldiers retrieved everything and secured the cell door. His men went ahead to dump the body while Clemons lingered near the President’s cell. “It’s not your business to worry about Ms. Harrie. I don’t need you riling up the other prisoners. Do you understand me?” he asked quietly.

  “It certainly is my business, you unfortunate little shithead, or did you forget I am still the goddamn President of the United States?”

  “How do you know I’m not in regular communication with her?” Clemons shot back.

  “Because it’s written all over your face. You’re a fish out of water who has no idea what his next move should be. But listen, Clemons, I can help you. We still have a chance if we start working together.”

  Clemo
ns seemed to struggle for his words but said nothing. A moment later he shook his head and plodded off. Progress perhaps? It was hard to say. Most likely it didn’t matter anyway. One thing was certain, they were running out of time.

  …

  The noise was deafening this time, like a storm with hail the size of fists. The sound thundering through the cavernous hanger was a constant reminder; the undead were hungry tonight. Muddy couldn’t see anything from his cell but between the sound and the looks on the faces of the remaining soldiers he could tell there were more this time than the other times. The explosion from yesterday’s firefight had drawn them in. The giant steel doors shook in their frames from the constant pounding but they were solid and looked like they would hold for the time being.

  “Clemons!” he screamed over the ruckus. The whites of his knuckles prominently on display as he squeezed the iron bars of his cell with all his might. He didn’t notice the strain he was putting on himself. The same way Clemons didn’t notice Muddy was screaming his name. Their warden was about fifty feet away along with the six other soldiers that hadn’t deserted the day before.

  “Clemons!” Muddy screamed again. From the corner of his eye he could see Ezra and the other prisoners were gathered by the bars to their cell. He glanced over at Ezra and nodded at him. The kid nodded back, a concerned expression on his face. Worried but calm. That was Ezra, rock solid in spite of all the craziness.

  Ezra pointed to the area in front of Muddy’s cell. Muddy looked back and was startled to find Clemons right in front of his bars. The skinny young man managed to look both terrified and annoyed. “What do you need?” Clemons yelled.

  “Harrie isn’t coming back. You need to let us out of here before it’s too late.”

  “No can do, Mr. President. If she does come back and you are gone, I am a dead man.”

  “You can hear them! There is nothing left out there. Harrie is gone, dammit! If they get in here we are all dead!”

  Clemons shook his head and stomped off. Muddy figured he was going to go drink himself unconscious in his quarters. Lately the man smelled like a human booze factory. He sighed as he shuffled back to his cement slab and threw himself down with a loud curse. Ezra had followed him on the other side of the bars.