by Ryan, L. T.
Phil pressed back against the bark. It scratched his exposed arms as he eased around the side. He no longer saw the streaking flashes. The eyes, as Ralph had said.
“Going for my gun,” he whispered, dropping to his hands and knees in order to make himself small and less noticeable. His pistol disappeared under a layer of leaves with each shuffle forward. The rustling sounded like an eighteen-wheeler. Every time he stopped, the whoosh of his heart was just as deafening. He wondered if those things heard it, too.
After what felt like a thirty yard crawl, Phil reached his rifle. Sweat dripped from his face. He kept his focus on the shadowy trees in the distance while kneeling. He shoved the pistol back in his pants, then rose to his feet, aiming loosely ahead. The woods were silent. In all his years as an avid outdoorsman, he’d never heard such a void in nature.
Then he saw them.
Two eyes.
Glowing reddish in color.
A couple hundred yards away, blanketed in a veil of shadows. They didn’t move side to side. They didn’t advance or retreat. They stared right at Phil.
He was sure of that. He felt it.
His heart and breath caught in his throat. It felt as though his stomach had twisted then turned. The man had seen a lot in his life. Weapons had been aimed at him. A helicopter crash. He’d witnessed downright horrific scenes of men with machetes, hacking up the captured children of their enemies, while he was restrained with chains and unable to do anything about it. None of that had left him in the state of fear and panic he felt now.
A low-pitched hum swept past the men like a wave. Phil looked around in an attempt to locate the source of the noise. He couldn’t determine where the persistent buzzing originated.
He glanced forward again in search of the eyes. The glow that had seemingly burned through his body had extinguished. Shadows remained, wavering.
“Let’s start heading back,” Ralph said.
Phil took three steps back, then moved to the side, next to Ralph. The whole time, he kept his eyes and his rifle aimed at the shadows.
The hum intensified in both pitch and volume.
The hell? Cicadas? Some other insect?
It was unlike anything he’d heard before. Not in the rain forests and jungles of South America. Not in Africa. Not in the Middle East.
And sure as hell not in Virginia.
The men backtracked twenty yards. The noise intensified. The pitch grew higher. It sounded as though someone was running through the leaves. Toward them. Past them. Always out of sight.
Phil couldn’t determine how much further they would have to go. His surroundings disoriented him. While everything around him sped up, it felt like every step he took moved him mere centimeters.
The fear that gripped his core eased with the clearing in sight. Sunlight penetrated the tree line with an almost blinding effect. Through the haze stood the idling ATV. Phil looked back over his shoulder and was unable to see more than twenty yards back, an effect of the sun and shade.
Derrick broke into an all-out sprint. The young man flew through wispy branches and over land obstacles with ease. Ralph followed at a slower pace. Even Phil picked up his pace, knowing escape was close.
Near the edge of the clearing, Phil noticed that the buzzing had stopped. Or had he gone far enough that he just couldn’t hear it anymore? He halted at the edge of the clearing and glanced back. A dozen eyes stared at him. Red. Green. Yellow. Glowing slits that radiated anger, evil, and pain.
The ATV engine roared as Ralph put it in reverse and starting backing up toward Phil.
“C’mon, Phil,” he called out.
The fear that gripped him held tight. Every nerve and muscle burned and screamed at Phil to make it to the ATV.
He recalled the layout of the land. Farmland. Wide open. Country roads that snaked and stretched on for miles.
They’re gonna come. Gonna follow us out. Be able to see where we go.
Ice coated his body, freezing him in place. He had to do something to stop them.
He hefted his rifle and married his eye to the scope. Making slight adjustments, he located two burning red orbs. The magnification was enough to reveal the outline of a human face. A female with slender features.
Take one out, the rest will be too scared to advance.
It would work for a few moments at least, and would buy enough time for them to make it out of the clearing. The things would spot them, but would not be able to make up the distance.
Phil drew in a breath, held it, then exhaled slowly. His rapid pulse settled a little. His heart pumped hard, but not so much as to disrupt his shot.
Another breath. Another hold. Another exhale.
The buzzing returned.
He took the slack out of the trigger, and breathed again.
Thump-thump-thump.
His index finger pulled tight. The round tore through the air between Phil and the woman. The shot echoed through the woods, silencing the hum for a moment.
Phil re-sighted through the scope. The woman was gone.
Then the wailing began.
Phil’s muscles contracted and his body recoiled violently in response to the piercing screams. They were unlike anything he had ever heard. Even the night before, the attack on the camp, hadn’t produced sounds like that.
Phil’s instincts told him to both fight and take flight. He backpedaled through the final few feet, lifting his feet high to prevent tripping on a root or log. In the distance, eyes flashed, but none advanced. The screaming continued. They echoed in the same way his discharged round had, knifing through the tranquil silence.
Once clear of the woods, Phil fired twice more, then abandoned his watch of the woods. He turned toward the ATV and raced to it.
Taillights illuminated as Ralph hit the brakes. Derrick sat in the back seat. He aimed an M4 at the woods. Another rested on the seat beside him, the barrel pointing at the clouds. Derrick noticed his father. He nodded, then fired three rounds into the darkness of the woods.
Another round of screams erupted. Had Derrick managed a lucky shot and hit another of those things? Or were their shrieks a reaction to the sound of gunfire? Terror? Anger? A sort of war cry?
Whatever the reason, Phil pressed on. The high-pitched sounds had less of an effect this time. Probably due to his objective of getting the hell out of there.
He glanced to his right, toward the trees. Shadows moved into the light, approaching the clearing.
Derrick fired three more times. He grimaced against the pain in his arm with every squeeze of the trigger. Blood flowed from the wound.
The last line of trees acted as a barrier, it seemed. The afflicted stopped their advance. Another round of screams enveloped the area, this time louder than before.
Derrick switched to the second rifle. Phil followed his son’s aim.
The shadows were gone.
The damned souls were close enough now that he could see them in the flesh.
Or what remained of it.
They were horrid, haggard creatures. Some missing limbs. Some missing an eye, or half their face. Black, dried blood coated their lips. The same blood stained their hands, necks and chests. Most wore no clothing to cover their battered and bruised bodies.
And they were close.
Phil’s knees went weak. His right ankle rolled slightly, sending him tumbling to the ground only four feet away from the ATV.
“Dad!” Derrick shouted.
The dozen or so afflicted turned their attention toward him. He fired twice into the crowd, hitting one afflicted and sending it sprawling backward.
Phil rolled onto his side. He aimed his rifle into the group and fired. The shot nailed a man in the head. The afflicted dropped to his knees then buckled forward.
The ATV flung dirt in the air as Ralph hit it in reverse. He placed the vehicle between Phil and the afflicted.
“Can you get in?” Ralph asked.
Phil crawled forward and dragged himself off the ground and into
the backseat next to his son.
Derrick emptied his weapon into the group. Another one dropped. He took Phil’s rifle and emptied that, too, nailing another two afflicted.
The ATV’s engine drowned out the screams of the remaining. They lurched forward, cruising down the hill at top speed.
The leftover afflicted chased after them, falling further behind with every passing second. Would they give up the chase? Or would their hunt never cease?
Phil glanced at his son. “Nice shooting, Derrick.”
The young man looked at the gaping wound on his upper arm. His grimace morphed into a smile. It was the first compliment Phil had given his son since Derrick was ten years old and had hit a walk-off home run. “Thanks, Pop.”
Phil climbed over the front seat and sat down. He placed his hand on the GPS unit. “They still there?”
Ralph nodded. “Almost a straight shot there. Might as well take advantage of some of these country roads. If things look bad, we’ll just slip into the woods.”
“The other camp is close.”
“Yep.”
“I was in touch with them when this shit went down. We should go there first, see how they fared, how many made it. Might be able to scrounge up a few more men and leave him behind.”
The both glanced at Derrick, who sat with his head back and eyes closed. If the community was intact, it would be the best place for him. Somewhere he could heal up. Then work to keep things going.
“You good with that?” Phil asked.
Ralph said nothing. He had family who were slotted for the southern camp. His ex-wife, along with his two children. Unfortunately, the communications system they had planned to use had failed, so the fate of the group was unknown. Sometimes it seemed as though the thought of Ralph’s family making it to the camp and being alive was all that kept him going.
“I’m sure they’re fine,” Phil said.
Ralph nodded. “I’m sure.”
Soon enough he’d find out.
Chapter 7
Turk spun toward the front of the room in search of the source of the screams. Skinny stood in the doorway, facing outside. His head turned as if it were attached to a swivel, whipping left to right and back.
Stepping around heaps of trash and using the empty racks for cover, Turk made his way forward.
“What’s out there?” he asked Skinny.
The guy said nothing. Either he saw nothing, or was too scared to speak.
“What’s going on?” Turk said.
No response.
Turk approached the door from the right side, staying clear of the flood of light that splashed across the concrete floor.
The air went still. Only the ticking and cracking sounds of the building expanding in the humidity were audible. That, and Skinny’s rapid breathing.
“You see anything?” Turk said.
Skinny shook his head. His lips trembled. He might not have seen who or what screamed, but he knew what had happened. Turk did, too. A scream like that meant one thing.
“Okay, look,” Turk said. “You can stay here or you can come with me. If you do, I need you to stay right be-fucking-hind me and keep your mouth shut. Got it?”
The man took a step back without saying anything. He didn’t need to. Actions spoke.
“All right.” Turk reached out for Skinny and pulled him into the dark. “Stay right here. I’m going to go check the other building.”
“Juh-juh-just don’t shoot,” he said. “Please, don’t shoot.”
Turk ignored the man’s babble. If he were going to kill Skinny, he’d have done it long ago. Another ten seconds of silence passed. Turk slipped out of the building, well aware that he’d exposed himself to anyone watching. The streets were laid out north, south, east and west. The buildings offered a way to stay out of view, but that couldn’t be counted on.
He heard a cry for help. Baldy? Mike? Which one was it? What if it was someone else? There could be others on base.
With his rifle aimed ahead, Turk remained close to the wall as he moved toward the main road that ran between the buildings. Every few steps, he turned his head ninety degrees, looking to his right and behind.
No one watched. No one followed.
Upon reaching the corner of the building, he stopped and took a deep breath. Any number of scenarios was possible. He wanted to be prepared before exposing himself to them.
Across the road, Baldy lay on a stretch of bleached concrete, in front of an open door. He was surrounded by an expanding pool of blood. His right hand, which hovered over his stomach, twitched wildly. It appeared as though he’d suffered trauma to his abdomen. His face was shredded on one side. A large gash ran from his mouth to his ear.
Another cry for help seemed to originate from within the building.
Mike.
Something else had to be present, too.
Turk could just shut the door. Wouldn’t be that big a waste, right? Mike was a piece of shit hick that nobody would miss. But what about the next poor soul who came along and decided to enter the warehouse in hopes of finding supplies? What kind of surprise would await that guy?
The image of the underground facility in Nigeria flashed through Turk’s mind. Standing above a hole in the floor, looking down on a sea of afflicted. Firing rounds hopelessly, never thinning their ranks. The damned crowded around a cell block where several members of Delta Force awaited their fate.
Turk had been the one to deliver reprieve to the soldiers in the form of death.
Not those soulless bastards.
It didn’t matter who was inside the building. Could be an asshole like Mike, or a close friend. Turk had to do what he could for the person. No one deserved to be eaten alive.
He hurried down the side of the building and then crossed the blacktop. At the corner of the building, he stopped and scanned the surroundings. Behind him, toward the gate, there was no one visible. Same in the opposite direction, where the road led to the water.
Bally continued to groan and cry. From here, Turk made out the man’s throaty pleas for help. Even from a distance, he knew that death was the only salvation for the guy.
Another scream tore through the air. He felt it through his hand, which rested on the corrugated steel exterior. There was no time to waste. The afflicted had attacked. Now, perhaps with them distracted by feeding on Mike, he could end their lives.
Turk angled around the corner. He gave a quick whistle to get Baldy’s attention. The big guy’s grimace spread as he shifted his head to look back at Turk. Turk held up one finger and gave the guy a nod. He tried to keep his gaze from lingering on the hole where most of Mike’s abdomen had been. The wound was mortal. No way around that. After taking care of the afflicted, he’d provide a quick passing for Mike.
The smell emanating from the doorway was that of blood, sweat, and human waste. This was where the people had slept when the base was teeming with survivors. Though it now housed a few men, the smell had remained.
Turk entered and quickly slipped into the shadows. A room barren of interior walls spread before him. In one corner, dozens of cots had been piled. A few were still in the middle of the room, close together. For protection, he assumed.
Next to those cots lay Mike, motionless. His wide eyes stared up at the ceiling. Blood surrounded his head and upper body. His right arm was missing. A large chunk had been taken out of his neck. The wound had obviously severed his carotid artery. If Turk had arrived a few minutes earlier, he’d have seen the final quart of blood pumping out in arterial spray. Now, there was nothing. Mike had passed.
But where were the assailants?
Turk scanned the room. On first pass, he saw nothing. He felt them, though. Their penetrating stares ate through him. If he didn’t find them soon, he was next to die.
Something fell to the floor behind Mike. Turk spotted the item. The remains of Mike’s arm, chewed down to the bone from shoulder to mid-forearm. Nothing worthwhile after that.
Two eyes, glowing f
aintly, appeared. Turk strained to make out the body. From the position of the eyes, it had to be hunched or squatting, but the mass he expected to see wasn’t there.
And then he realized why.
A child, maybe ten years old, stepped forward and stopped next to Mike. With its head bowed and shoulders slackened, it seemed to contemplate the dead man on the ground. The child then kneeled and proceeded to study Turk.
Then it fed on Mike’s leg.
Just a kid? Is that all? Could he really cause all this damage?
He almost laughed at the questions being thrown up in his mind. He’d seen firsthand what the afflicted could do and recalled that physical traits had very little bearing after the change.
Turk aimed down the barrel. Center mass. One shot should be enough to neutralize the afflicted child. Then another to destroy the brain.
The kid looked up, his stare directed at Turk. Blood coated his face from mid-cheek to his chin. Streams of crimson flowed down his bare chest. The eyes looked normal now. Innocent. It was not the look of a beast or a monster, but that of a hungry child. The glance lasted no more than a second, but in that brief moment, Turk nearly lost the will to do what had to be done.
He thought about the man dying outside. The man already dead on the floor. How many other survivors had the child slaughtered?
The shot roared and echoed off the metal walls of the square building. The smell of gunpowder momentarily overpowered the stench in the room. The bullet hit dead center in the afflicted’s chest, knocking it backward, arms flailing.
Turk approached from the side, keeping to the shadows and affording him a view outside. The afflicted child looked up at him. It blinked several times. The eyes went from dull to glowing. Despite the wound that had damaged the being’s heart, it reached out for Turk. Through ragged breaths, its lips curled back into a snarl, exposing blood- and dirt-covered teeth.
Turk aimed the rifle at the child’s head. Without a second thought, he pulled the trigger, blowing out the back of his skull.
Tension left the muscles. The small body went limp against the concrete. Looked like a kid sleeping. Could have been Turk’s child. Or any of the children he’d known that were family or friends. And he’d killed him. What dreams had been extinguished? Hell, did they even exist anymore?