Hounded | Book 3 | Hounded 3

by Douglas, Ellie

  “Take that, you son of a bitch!” Nakos yelled victoriously.

  “Are… Are you sure you got it?” Lily’s voice shook like a baby’s rattle.

  “I got it. Lily, are you okay?”

  Nakos had to climb over the putrescent carcass, carefully avoiding the pool of thick ebony blood. The stench slapped him in the face. He stood over the rotting mess and looked down at Lily, unable to tell if she was okay or not.

  “I think so. I feel kind of warm and fuzzy.”

  Nakos felt something was off, more than seeing it. When he lifted her up, she was wet down the side of her hip. Feeling the warmth of blood, he at first assumed it was the zombie’s. Without breaking a sweat, he carried her to the entrance of the hotel. After lowering her, he was able to lift her shirt up.

  “Damn it!”

  Nakos let out a long-winded whooping sound when he realized that his bullet had gone through the zombie’s guts and right into Lily, embedding itself in her hip.

  “You’re going to be just fine,” he said while scooping her back up and carrying her to the sickbay.

  “I don’t feel so good,” Lily said before passing out.

  CHAPTER 7

  FLESH AND BLOOD

  “Shall we hit the road?” Oliver asked while making his way out the door. Just outside the station’s foyer, a few yards away, a frenzied mass of zombie dogs had gathered, seemingly just loitering. Timothy, in a panic, kicked over one of the firewood bags and almost tripped. He couldn’t take his fearful eyes off the pack. One of the dogs looked up with its no-eyes and made its slobbery way towards them.

  “There are too many of them! We can’t get to the car!” Calloway shouted.

  Oliver pulled out his Glock 19 and began shooting. He put three down, but the rest kept coming.

  “Get back inside!” he yelled.

  “What about you?” Calloway screeched in desperation.

  “I’m coming, too,” Oliver said as he shot four more. His mind buzzed with a vision of their teeth biting as the wave of drooling snouts and bloody mouths drew closer. He backed himself into the store, pushing Calloway toward the office.

  “Get into the office! Hurry!” he shouted.

  They made it inside just as one of the dogs rammed the door. Listening to it outside the door, Oliver could almost feel its breath upon him and its filthy, ragged maw dripping hungrily for their flesh.

  “What the hell are we going do now?” Calloway said, looking around the room in a wild panic. “Where’s Timothy?”

  “I thought he was the first inside,” Oliver said, stumped.

  “He was, but I don’t know where he went. Damn it!” he shouted even louder.

  “Calloway, stop shouting. You know those mutilated hollowed-out beasts are attracted to the noise.”

  “Oh, you gotta be shitting me!”

  “What now?” snapped Oliver.

  “Look at the window. That dead thing across the busted windowsill, it’s moving!”

  Oliver looked and saw that the body he’d shot earlier was being pulled at viciously. He crept closer, his six-foot-eight frame allowing him to see over the side. Quickly stepping back, he broke into a sweat.

  “What did you see? Give it to me straight!”

  “Those putrid dogs, man, they’re pulling that zombie human away like they know we’re in here and that’s their ticket to get to us.”

  “I left my gun in the car, I think. How many bullets have you got left?” Calloway asked.

  Oliver slid out the magazine, inspected it, and slammed it home with authority. “Twelve left. Son of a bitch! I left the best shit in the car, and this Glock isn’t going to kill them all.”

  “What are we going to do?” Calloway shrieked.

  Calloway looked at Oliver and saw his face change from weary to scary.

  “I’m thinking,” Oliver grunted.

  “Better think faster. That dead thing has just been pulled all the way out. They’re coming, dude, watch out!” Calloway backed up toward the door and braced himself for the end. Oliver spun around, shooting carefully and precisely. The first one that tried to jump through the window got it in the eye, the second one in the forehead. But more kept coming.

  “Can you see how many?” Oliver asked.

  Calloway grabbed the larger table and dragged it over. Standing on it, he could peer out and see at least six more dogs and two human zombies. Oliver stopped shooting and urged Calloway to get off the table. He then turned the large table on its side. It wasn’t large enough to fully cover the window, so he added the small desk, hoping it would buy them some time.

  “Okay, Calloway, I need you to listen carefully. I’m going to open this door and shoot whatever comes at us. I want you to run into the bathroom and stay there. Can you do that for me?”

  “Yes, but what are you going to do?” Calloway began freaking out as he heard the table rattle behind him, knowing they were forcing their way through.

  “I’m going to save our asses.”

  Oliver held up his hand. Without any sound, he counted down from his pinkie finger. When he reached his thumb, he swiftly opened the door. In charged a lazy-looking Irish Setter, going straight for Oliver’s outstretched arm. The thing had no idea what hit it as it was pushed back by the force of the bullet striking it between the eyes. Blood shot upward, spraying Calloway as he jumped over the dog and rushed into the bathroom. He slammed the door and held it shut with his back.

  “Hey, Dad.” A quiet, almost whispered voice came from the other side of the bathroom. Calloway looked up, so grateful to see his son alive that he burst into a stream of tears.

  Oliver shot two more times, and then there was silence for a couple of minutes before Calloway heard a door close. Then came another three shots. Calloway ran to his son and embraced him in a tight hug.

  “God, I’m so happy to see you!” Calloway said.

  Timothy slumped into his father’s hug, absorbing the affection. Then pulling back, he looked terror-stricken into his father’s eyes.

  “It’ll be all right, son, its Oliver. He’s got our backs.”

  “But who has his back, Dad? Who?”

  Rather than say anything, he pulled his son back in, sighed, and held him tightly. Another two shots went off.

  “That leaves one,” Calloway said out loud.

  “One what?”

  “One more bullet.” Calloway cringed anxiously. Unable to see anything, and not wanting to put his kid in danger, he stayed put as Oliver had instructed.

  Suddenly, a burst of arrhythmic beats churned through the air outside. From inside the bathroom, it sounded like fireworks at Disneyland. With each pounding, Timothy jumped. Calloway shook, but smiled gleefully.

  “Dad, what are you smiling about? Are you completely mental?”

  “Oh, son, you don’t get it. That sound means Oliver made it to the car.”

  “Doesn’t mean we’re getting out of here alive.”

  “Yes, it does, son. By the sound of it, he’s gunning down all those reanimated freaks like caterpillars, so let’s go.”

  “No! I’m not going out there until I hear Oliver say so.”

  They waited another ten minutes. Then they were both startled as the bathroom door swung wide open. In stepped Oliver, who walked up to a urinal, causally unzipped, and peed. He was covered in so much blood, brain matter, cartilage, and what looked like fur that he looked like he’d taken a shower with zombie guts.

  Calloway could only do what men do best. He slapped Oliver across the back. Then he jumped up in the air while tapping his feet together, making Oliver and Timothy laugh.

  “You, my friend, are one hell of a hero.” Timothy saluted Oliver as he walked to the sink. Then Timothy charged at him with a hug as tight as he could squeeze, bawling like a toddler and mumbling ‘thank you’ over and over. Calloway practically had to tear Timothy off of Oliver.

  “Let the man wash up, son.”

  Timothy stood aside, admiring and celebrating the feeling
of watching his very own superhero. Oliver felt every nerve ending light up with Timothy’s overzealous gratitude.

  “Let’s get the hell outta here, find that brother of yours, and get our asses back to the General’s house ASAP.”

  “No arguments from me,” Timothy said as he ran out and got straight into the car.

  Calloway picked up his backpack and made his way out the door. In the car, he felt alone despite his son being right behind him and his newfound friend. The waves of depression were popping up more frequently.

  Timothy settled in, choosing a music video and putting on the headphones while sinking back into the leather upholstery.

  Wearing his dark prescription glasses, his hat, and a bandana draped around his neck covered in dark black blood, Oliver seemed more determined than ever as he pulled out. He looked like a cross between a state trooper and a cowboy, thought Calloway. With his rough exterior, his height, his enormous hands, and muscles bulging from nearly everywhere, he oozed badassery. No wonder Timothy wanted to be like him.

  The earlier events quickly stole Calloway’s thoughts. His brain generated a cloaking strangulation, giving him another tension headache as he kept visualizing the human zombies. Even with his eyes wide open, the images were painting across his mind as clearly as if he was watching a movie. Cataclysmal emotions began suffocating him in fear. Losing Tiffany in that way, for his Princess to become a thing… a dead… thing, crippled him.

  “I should have grabbed some Advil or something. This headache is rendering me powerless,” Calloway said with his voice quavering.

  “Check the glove compartment. I believe there’s some in it,” Oliver said as casually as if they were taking a Sunday drive. The gory sights completely galvanized Oliver. Since he’d seen so many in the military, they didn’t appear to faze him in the slightest.

  Calloway opened the glove compartment and searched through the neatly organized items. Finding some Advil, he took three in the hope it would erase his headache faster.

  “So far so good,” Oliver said, startling Calloway out of his daydreaming state.

  “What’s good?”

  “This here road. It’s been clear for the past several miles, and we’re making good time.”

  Calloway looked up. As far as his eyes could see, there were trees.

  “I’ve no idea where we are.”

  “We’re almost at a little town called Montague.”

  Feeling nostalgic, Oliver put on some country music and checked the rearview mirror to see Timothy’s reaction. Timothy was so engrossed in his own music that he couldn’t hear Oliver’s. Calloway turned to check on Timothy, reaching his arm across and tapping him on the knee. Timothy looked up, gave him a quick smile, and then went back to his music. Oliver seemed to get hyper as he drew closer to Montague. His freakishly tall frame bounced in time to the music as a smile fixed itself across his face. He looked smug, thought Calloway.

  As they approached the Welcome to Montague sign, Oliver’s contented persona quickly changed to one of anguish. Fires burned and innumerable bodies lay charred and half-eaten, and some were still being gnawed on. Survivors passed them on the way out of the small city, their faces painted with gloom, feverishly trying to stay alive and escape the vicious undead dogs. Oliver darted between crashes and weaved through abandoned cars, trucks, vans, and buses as he headed straight into the city center, only to discover the smoky charred remains of most of the buildings.

  “I haven’t seen any more human zombies, so do you think that means anything?” Calloway asked, almost wishing it meant something, but deep down knowing it meant nothing.

  “Suppose it means they haven’t reached the time it takes for them to change,” Oliver replied without batting an eyelid. He spoke with a confidence that Calloway envied.

  They passed a KFC with the windows smashed in, a convenience store ablaze, and an electronics store with most of its appliances littering the road. No-eyed dogs chased people that were too crazed to find safety. With overturned cars, police cruisers, ambulances, and fire engines just abandoned, and evidence of police dogs turning on their masters, the entire city resembled a devastated battlefield.

  Oliver drove out of the city. He accepted what he saw, but he had to find more inner strength to cope with the ever-increasing slaughter. His mind wanted to forget everything he’d seen since the start of the entire world dying and becoming a wasteland that had further deteriorated into a massive human smorgasbord for the reawakened dogs and humans. Oliver kept his cool, accepting what it was and living to survive. The fleeting sorrow that pulled him back a few steps wasn’t enough to render him vulnerable to the current world crisis.

  As Calloway looked back toward Montague, rising smoke filled the air with a blackness so thick it looked like storm clouds. Another city dying, he thought, and then he shrugged his shoulders before turning back around and sitting in silence.

  A couple of hours had gone by with the road being relatively clear, so Oliver pulled over to the shoulder.

  “Why are we stopping?” Calloway asked, his eyes searched the area.

  “Food.”

  “Nice, I could do with a bite to eat.”

  Calloway leaned over the seat and tapped Timothy.

  “We’ve stopped for some food.”

  “Not hungry, Dad.”

  Oliver opened the back door and took his arm gently.

  “Come on, you gotta eat.”

  Timothy reluctantly stepped out, closed the door, and followed the guys to the guardrail. He sat on the metal bar, stood and stretched his lanky frame, and sat down again, only to stand and take himself off to pee. When he returned, he was greeted with a plate of food that Oliver had prepared for him.

  “Eat up, boy. You’re going to need it for when you do your pushups later.” Flashing a large smile that showed off his perfectly straight white teeth, he made Timothy feel even more self-conscious about his own buck teeth.

  Calloway was quiet, picking at his food but not really eating it. His ears were straining to hear sounds from the forest while his eyes concentrated on scanning the area around him.

  Oliver reached back, pulled out his Glock, and waved it in front of Calloway’s face.

  “If anything comes at us, I got you and your boy covered, so no need to worry. Now eat your food.”

  “Truth be told, I can’t stop. It’s like my brain is preempting everything else.”

  “Understandably so. But still, man, eat something or you won’t have the energy to fight back.”

  Oliver clicked his plate with his Glock, making a loud annoying tapping sound. He continued until Calloway started eating.

  Timothy sat with his long legs crossed at his ankles. Resting the plate on his knees, he started eating, and his thoughts hit him like a bullet. Part of him was still blaming his dad for the accident and Matthew’s death. The thought of his sister turning into a zombie was doing more than just saddening him. He was growing angry inside. Numbness swamped him, and he became more withdrawn. He was fighting the urge to run, to take off and never stop running. The way the world was displaying those vivid live images of body parts everywhere meant, in his mind, that the world was literally painted with a coat of human blood.

  A fast-moving BMW came into view. It had three passengers in the back and another in the front next to the driver. It sped past, but then reversed. Oliver was the first one to see a hand out the window pointing an AK-47.

  “Get down, now!” he screamed as a shot rang out. Timothy and Calloway dove over the barrier and ducked into the shrubbery. Oliver drew his Glock, aimed it at the car and shot, but missed. The car had almost stopped when a heavyset man in the front poked his head out the window. A passenger from the back jumped out, but Oliver didn’t see him.

  “We want your car. Hand it over and you live.”

  “Fuck off!” Oliver yelled between more shots. One bullet hit the forearm of the heavyset man, making him yelp out in pain. Withdrawing his arm, the driver spun forward an
d did a one-eighty. His car was now facing Oliver head-on, and Oliver started firing nonstop.

  The BMW’s windshield shattered, spewing glass in all directions. Oliver got the driver in the chest and the passenger in the head. The car slammed into the barrier. The remaining two in the back jumped out and, with headlong strides, went straight for Oliver. He raised his Glock, took out one, and was about to shoot the other when the third man screamed.

  “You fucking shot my brother!” He rushed from behind the car toward Oliver. “I’m gonna rip your balls off!” he promised as he threw the first punch and caught Oliver square in the jaw.

  Oliver’s head only moved an inch. The man hitting him blinked up at him, taking in the mountainous size of his opponent. But rage blinded him and he punched again and again. Oliver stood there, unflinching, untroubled by the punches, almost chortling at the enraged man. The other one started throwing punches, hitting Oliver in the gut. Again, he just stood there like a wall of steel.

  With an unseen movement, Oliver brought his fist up and hit one of the men in the face, right on his nose. The splintering cartilage sounded like the snapping of a chicken bone. It bled excessively and the man’s eyes watered. His busted nose gave the appearance of a child's deflated balloon.

  Oliver’s other hand pushed the second man away from him just enough to extend his leg and kick him in the chest. He went flying backward, flipping over from the force of Oliver’s kick. The man’s stomach and chest ached, his arms and legs were weak, and he was unable to get up. The other guy came back for seconds, but one punch from Oliver sent the man falling on his side. Once down, Oliver kicked him hard, right in the ribs.

  With a loud squeal, the man grabbed at his broken ribs with one hand, the other flinging in the air like a white flag.

  “No more,” he whimpered.

  Oliver pointed his Glock at the two bleeding men.

  “I’m gonna count to three, so ya best run off now before yer brains end up on the asphalt.” He got to the count of two. The men dragged their battered bodies up and darted into the forest.

  Oliver laughed at the men running off like little chickens.