The Zombie Plagues (Book 3)

by Sweet, Dell

  He reached for the rifle that had slid off the seat onto the floorboard, as his heart beat quickly in his chest. The passenger side window of the Ford slowly lowered as he watched.

  The black glass gave way to a dark gray interior, and the young dark-haired kid that sat behind the wheel of the truck slowly turned towards him. Joel could see his yellow and crooked teeth, from where he sat in the truck, as he grinned. Two other faces moved beside him. His heartbeat sped along crazily, and he fought to control the panic he felt rising inside him. He clicked off the safety on the rifle as he slowly eased it up onto the seat beside him. The dark-haired kid continued to grin, a cigarette plastered into one corner of his mouth, jittering up and down. Talking to the others, probably, Joel though. The kid raised his rifle and pointed it out the window at Joel.

  “Hey! Get outta that fuckin' truck, man. Come on, man get outta there right now!”

  Joel heard the words over the rain, over his own closed windows, but there was no way he intended to get out of the truck. The kid motioned with his head and the two others with him climbed out the passenger side of the truck: Laying their rifles across the hood; aiming carefully at him, Joel saw, which was completely ridiculous. It was a shot of maybe twenty, twenty five feet. You could do that with your eyes closed. Unless...

  Joel swung the rifle up fast and popped off a shot aimed at the kid at the outermost edge of the hood. A split second later he was sighting on the second kid. No one had shot back, the driver was still grinning foolishly, but he didn't think that would last long. They had no idea what they were doing. Playing roles in a movie they had seen once. Something like that, Joel told himself.

  The dark-haired kid in the truck finally raised his rifle and aimed at him. It was almost funny, Joel thought, looking at the rifle jerk and jump on its way up, but the next instant, when the windshield on the passenger side cracked loudly, he was stunned to see a small hole punched through it when he looked. A nest of cracks ran away from it, and small crystals of glass glittered on the dashboard.

  He quickly ducked, levered the door open, and dropped to the pavement. He raised the rifle to his shoulder, aimed, and fired. As he did he heard another shot, and felt a stinging sensation in his left leg. The right side of the kid’s face dissolved as Joel's shot found its mark. He saw the spray of skin and blood hit the black passenger side window behind him, as the bullet shattered it almost simultaneously. The young man continued to grin with what was left of his face, he shot once more.

  Joel saw the flame lick from the end of his rifle, as he dropped towards the ground. The shot missed, and he heard the ford's engine whine as the tires began to bite into the pavement, producing a high pitched scream. Joel dove back up from the ground, and shot once more at the truck, that was now sliding around and heading for him.

  He dove back into the truck just as the pickup hit the still open door, and tore it from its hinges. It flipped up over the already braking pickup, and clattered to the pavement. Joel keyed the ignition, and jammed the truck into drive. The tires spun and began to smoke as he mashed the gas pedal to the floor and tore off down the road. The truck slewed around behind him, and began once again to give chase.

  Although the truck shuddered in protest, Joel did not let up on the gas pedal: Instead he kept it jammed to the floor. The truck edged up and past eighty before he eased off.

  At just under ninety, the truck rattled loudly, and the large tires hummed as it sped down the road with the gray pickup seemingly welded to its rear bumper. Joel used the stock of the rifle to smash out the rear glass of the truck, and fired twice into the windshield of the Ford. The windshield blew inward, and the Ford locked its brakes and spun sideways on the road.

  The tires caught, and the pickup truck flipped into the air. When it landed it rolled several times before bursting into flames, where it came to rest in the middle of the road.

  Joel mashed the brakes on the truck, and slid to a shuddering stop in the road, craning over his shoulder, staring out at the burning wreck behind him. As he watched the gas tank caught, and the truck lifted from the road with a loud, Whump! It clattered back down seconds later, scattering parts of itself across the rain slicked roadway as it did. Joel stepped cautiously from the pickup, and continued to watch as the truck burned.

  He was still watching a split second later, in horror, as the kid spilled from the wrecked car.

  The right side of his face was a raw mass of meat, and curls of flame and smoke leapt from his clothing as he tumbled out of the inferno and hit the pavement. The flames on his clothing seemed to flare up as if in anger, and then, within a space of seconds, die out altogether and disappear. Smoke curled from the kid. Joel stared momentarily transfixed. And then bent over and vomited on the road. He stayed, hunched over for a second, before he turned, crawled back into the truck, and quickly started it.

  Before he pulled away, he glanced into the rear view, back at the truck. As he watched the flames leapt and flared into the rain filled skies. Joel shifted into first and drove quickly away.

  He pushed the truck hard until he arrived in Watertown; constantly checking the mirrors, expecting the truck to reappear at any moment. It didn't, and when he almost lost control of the truck sliding around a stalled car in the road, he finally slowed down, afraid that he would wreck the truck, and end up dead, or dying on the side of the road, finishing the job the kid had started.

  He turned right at a four corners, passing a small gas station that sat there, and headed into the city, still glancing nervously behind him. Just as he topped a small hill he glanced back once more. There was no one in sight, so he pulled off into the parking lot of a small store and turned off the motor.

  He sat for a moment, with the rain streaming in the opening where the door had once been, listening. He half expected to hear the truck's engine roaring towards him. He didn't, the air was silent, save the thrumming of the rain on the steel roof of the truck, as it fell and splashed its way to the ground.

  He slowly became aware of the pain in his left leg, as his heart slowed down and resumed a somewhat normal beat again. He stepped out of the truck to the ground, testing the leg. Dark blood covered a large area of the outside pant leg, just below his hip, and the blue denim fabric was shredded and burned. It now matched the lower leg.

  The skin was spit open for a few inches, he saw, but the bullet had only grazed the upper thigh. He breathed a sigh of relief, turned and walked towards the store. He took his rifle with him, and, glancing back at the road, listened carefully before he entered the store. Nothing.

  Inside he slipped off the jeans and clenched his teeth tightly together as he sprayed the wound first with a disinfectant, then poured a full bottle of peroxide over it. He wrapped the leg with clean white gauze, and taped the flap tightly. It stung a great deal, but he was afraid of infection, and it wasn't likely he would be seeing a doctor soon, he thought. The other wound had opened and was bleeding freely once more so he changed that too.

  He looked out the front glass doors when he had finished, still listening, then stepped outside. He had seen a small shopping center when he pulled in, to the left of the store, and set off towards it now, to replace the bloodied and torn jeans.

  He picked up two complete sets of clothes, leaving the others where he had removed them in the aisle of the store. The blood had nearly sealed the boot on his left leg to his foot, he discovered, so he pried them both off, washed his feet as well as he could with bottled water to make sure there were no wounds under all the blood, and then pulled on fresh socks and a new pair of boots.

  He walked back over to the store, and then back to the rear coolers. He was surprised to find them still cold, and was even more surprised to hear a small fan kick on as he pulled a cold beer from within. He hesitated, then pulled out one more.

  He walked back towards the front counter, went behind it, and sat down on the stool that was there, staring out the wide glass windows at the parking lot as he sipped from the can. The rai
n dripped and drizzled, letting up somewhat.

  "Well, I made it this far," he said aloud. He shook his head, lowered his face into his hands and began to weep.

  SIX

  Watertown NY: Joel

  A few days of rest had made a huge difference in how he felt and his leg had responded as he had hoped it would. It was still stiff, something was wrong in the knee, maybe, but he could walk and the more he walked the better he felt. He sat in a chair on his front porch now, drinking hot coffee, and watching the snow melt and drip from the trees: Once again it was warming.

  He had found a truck in the parking lot, managed to get it started and driven to his own house on Linden Street. His house had seen better days, but it was still standing. The house itself still leaning, but it was no worse than it had been that first morning when he had awakened to... whatever this was, he thought. He had had a hard time getting around the public square. Sometime in the days that had passed the entire downtown section had sunk and then flooded. Probably as Glenn had said, the cave system under the city had collapsed. Either all or partial, it hadn't made much difference to the downtown area, it had crumbled and the water now owned it.

  He had taken Massey street to get around the downtown area, and then cut cross streets to get to Linden. He had seen no one. Not even signs of anyone. Nothing. Bodies, smoke, nothing. Winter had returned and the entire town was covered with snow. He had driven to the top of State street hill and looked out over the city. Dead. No footprints in the snow. Nothing and that seemed all wrong. There should be people. What had happened to all the ones who had stayed behind? Had they left too? Something else?

  There were no clear answers. He had driven back to Linden street, stopping at a few stores on the way, searching out food and medicines and dug in. There was the old wood stove that he had used to heat the basement. A little work and he had got it going. There was a cord of wood that had been stacked outside the back steps that led down into the basement forever. He couldn't remember how many years. He had rarely used the wood stove after the new heating system he had put in. It heated the basement; there was no need for the wood stove. He had promised himself that someday he would yank it out. There were two guys, had been two guys, he reminded himself, at work who had offered to buy it. He was glad he had never gotten around to it.

  The wood stove had heated the house up fine. He had spent a few hours looking over the house after that.

  It was rough. The foundation was cracked and had dropped about eight inches on one side. The house was leaning, but still solid. Maybe a few years of leaning would take its toll. Maybe the next earthquake, if there was one, but for now it was stable, and that was all he cared about.

  He had taken another dose of antibiotics, along with three aspirin, and had fallen asleep in his own bed and slept for... He didn't know how long, but time didn't really matter a great deal anymore. He had slept a long time. He didn't know how long a period and he didn't care. He only cared that he had awakened with the headache gone, the swelling in his leg lessened, and the redness mostly gone when he redressed the two wounds. He had taken another dose of the antibiotics, skipped the aspirin, and restocked the wood stove before he ate a breakfast of canned meat and toast made on the top of the glowing wood stove.

  He had been sitting here trying to figure out what to do. Something, maybe while he had slept, had worked its way into his brain and it would not leave. What if, his thoughts had asked, What if Haley was not dead? What if she had survived? Wouldn't they have wanted to keep the women alive?

  It troubled him because how could he know it? He had been badly injured, he had looked around, but right now, in the clear light of a day removed by several days of rest he couldn't be sure what he had done. What he had looked at. How well he had searched. Whether she was there, gone, dead, alive. There was no way to know, except... Well, except to go back and find out, his mind supplied.

  He sat there sipping at the hot coffee looking for reasons to ignore the thought that had just seemed to drop in on him, but he could not. He had to go back. He had to be sure. And it wasn't just about Haley, maybe she was gone, maybe she wasn't, but what about the others? Could he really have been the only survivor? Had it been their plan to kill them all or were they looking to take the men out so they could get to the women? That seemed more logical. And yes, there were bones, he remembered, blackened and burned by the fire. And body parts. He could see them vaguely in his mind, but he saw no faces. He saw nothing that convinced him they were all dead, in fact the longer he thought it out the clearer it became that they had to be alive. At least some of them. He had most likely survived because he had appeared dead. He must have appeared dead. Hell, he had been halfway to dead.

  He sighed, leaned forward, and the legs of the chair came back down to the floorboards of the porch. There was nothing for it and no reason to put it off. There was nothing here. This town was dead. Dead as dog shit, as they used to say. He had to leave anyway and he had no intention of heading east so west it would be. And Rochester was west anyway.

  It could get him killed.

  “It could get you killed,” he said aloud. And it could, he agreed, but that made no difference either. He stood, drained the cup and set it down empty on the rail. A half hour later he was winding through the stalled traffic of Arsenal street; heading out route 3 for Rochester.

  Rochester NY: Joel

  Joel sat quietly in the dark, his weapons gathered around him. He had gathered them from their own arsenals and they hadn't even missed them. They, the people running this section of Rochester, might think they had their shit together, but they were nothing but amateurs. He had looked the weapons over several times. Thought out his plans more than a dozen times. There was nothing left, but to do it.

  He had seen enough to know what was going on in Rochester. The entire city had been divided into territories by different gangs. He had watched the city for the last two days and nights. Walking boldly where he wished in the daylight, sticking to the hard shadows through the night. He couldn't ask for a better picture.

  The power was on still. He didn't know how that was possible or why it was possible, but in the scheme of things it made his work easier. People with lights weren't so concerned with people sneaking in. The lights gave a false sense of security at night. He had worked his way in and seen everything he needed to see, and then made his way back out in the gray light of morning that first day. Since then he had slipped easily back and forth across their lines as if they didn't even exist.

  He had started with the wreck. It sat where he had left it, on the outskirts of the city, near the downtown entrance from East Avenue. He had spent the best part of two hours going over it and there were more than a few things he had missed.

  The first, and major thing, was that the Jeep he, Haley, and the others had been traveling in had not been directly hit. The one behind them had also not been directly hit... Scott, Jan, and Lilly had been in that Jeep.

  Both Jeeps had been destroyed just the same. There was a large area of asphalt gouged out, and the tar had melted around both vehicles. The fire had been serious and had probably killed anyone who had not escaped the Jeeps, but some of them had escaped the Jeeps. More than just him.

  There were bones, blackened, and wet now from the near constant rain. The body parts he remembered seeing were gone. Even so there were not enough bones to account for everyone. It didn't mean that Haley was one of those that had made it out, it only meant someone had. So he had set out to find out who might have survived and where they were.

  The second night had paid dividends. He had followed a returning group on foot with prisoners and slipped right back into their protected area along with them. From there he had simply followed those they had bought in as they were pulled and shoved along the streets to a two story house off Culver Avenue.

  The house was guarded, but again, it was guarded to make sure no one escaped, not to keep people from slipping in. And even that was slip shod. It was lat
e the next day before he had seen her, and he had wept freely as they had dragged her from the buildings front door along with Scott, Amber and a few others he didn't recognize. Either the others were somewhere else or they had died or already been killed.

  He had shuddered to think of what they might have been through over the last several days as he had made his escape and then finally decided to come back. It was too much to take in, and so he shut it down and followed them as they were dragged through the fresh snow, barefoot he saw, to another building and turned over to armed men there.

  His mind had screamed, Do something! Do something right now! But his common sense had fought it down. That would be suicide. It would benefit no one. It would surely get him killed and probably them too if they realized that he had come here to free them.

  They had not been long at the building; those that had bought them had stood around talking. Low tones, subdued, it seems they were none too happy about their own circumstances. It had been on the way back, after they had brought them back out and were headed back to their prison, that Joel had overheard their conversation.

  Scott was alive because he had told them he had skills with carpentry. They needed skilled workers. So far he had refused to work for them. They had beaten him several times. Most likely they would kill him soon if he didn't give in. He was probably holding out, enduring the beatings, hoping for some way out for the women, for himself too.

  Haley and Amber were a different story. They had been brought over to be looked over by a rival gang who might purchase them as part of some trade. From the sounds of the conversation they had liked what they had seen. The deal would go down tomorrow if they decided to go with it: If he intended to get them out alive it would have to be tonight.

  It had not taken long to gather what he needed. He had found weapons of every kind. Rifles, pistols, knives, hand grenades even. He had gathered them and bought them to the small wooded area in back of the house next door where he had been hiding watching the prison. There was nothing left to do.