by L. T. Ryan
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 faintly, 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?
Unlike Turk, the virus didn’t care. It killed indiscriminately. And it gave life to few.
Life? Eternal damnation, more like it.
He did that kid a favor. No longer would it have to hunt a dwindling supply of human flesh, feeding on rats and squirrels to stay alive.
Outside, the humidity weighed as heavy on Turk as his actions did on his conscience. He approached Baldy. The heavy man’s breathing had become rapid and shallow. The end was close.
“What’s your name?”
The guy’s distant stare refocused on Turk. Through labored breaths he said, “Jessie.”
“I can end this for you now, Jessie. Just say the word and close your eyes.”
Jessie clenched his eyelids hard. Tears streamed from the corners. He wasn’t supposed to die. Not like this.
None of them were.
Turk stepped forward. He held the rifle inches from the man’s head.
“You won’t feel a thing, Jessie.”
But he didn’t pull the trigger. A scream cut through the air, causing Turk to retreat back inside the building.
Jessie reached out with this bloodied hand. “K-k-k-kill me.”
Turk ignored the guy. What made the sound? Had it been Skinny? Or something else?
“The-the-the gunshots,” Jessie said, gulping for air between words. “Attracts them.”
“Don’t shoot,” Skinny had said as Turk left the other building. Now he knew why. Skinny wasn’t afraid of Turk killing him. The man knew it would attract the afflicted.
Remaining inside was asking to die. Moving was Turk’s only option. He stood in the doorway, eyes focused loosely on the metal wall across the street, on alert for movements in his peripheral vision and any sound.
With the exception of Jessie’s ragged breathing, the area remained still.
Turk stepped out. Five feet from where Jessie lay was the pistol. A .22, the firearm didn’t have much stopping power. But up close, it could penetrate a skull, and that was good enough.
He scooped it up, then looked back at Jessie. “Sorry.”
Killing the man was no longer an option. The afflicted seemed to be drawn to weak prey. A dying man served that purpose. Bait, as it were.
Turk sprinted across the narrow road toward the building separating him from the waterfront. He followed the wall left to the east, away from the station’s main road, and continued around the corner along the outer edge. His plan was to loop around this and the other southernmost structure, then get back to where he’d seen the raft.
If nothing else, he had to have that damn life raft when he left the station.
What about Skinny?
It wasn’t a thought Turk expected to have. These men meant nothing to him. They were obstacles in the way of him getting what he came for. Because of their idiocy, he was fighting the afflicted.
Maybe I drew them in. They coulda been following me through town. Shit.
He felt like he owed Skinny. If Turk hadn’t shown up, Skinny and the other two would go on with their meager existence until one of them screwed up and brought death upon the group. It was inevitable. At least Turk couldn’t construe that as his fault.
His footsteps seemed to echo through the installation amid the silence. If it weren’t for glass and other debris on the ground, he’d have removed his shoes to reduce the noise. The afflicted were attracted to it. They had been eight years ago. So why not now?
The main road dead-ended into a fence. Beyond that was the water. Turk stood at the corner of the building, weighing his options. He could leave now, over the fence and into the water. But the raft. That boat would be nice to have.
Turk e
ased his head around the corner of the building, looking back toward the gate. He’d hoped to see a deserted road stretching into the city. That wasn’t the case.
A pack of seven of them stood two hundred yards away. A couple stared up toward the sky. Others looked off toward the city or the side of the road. One seemed to look in his direction, but what it focused on was not evident.
“Shit,” he muttered. To get to the boat, he had to cross the road, then circle around the opposite building. So not only would he cross their path, in the time he took to get around the structure, they could be there waiting for him.
Out of sight, Turk would have no idea if they advanced.
The smell of death, trash and decay dissipated. Something stronger overpowered it. Smoke. At first a trace. But as the seconds passed, it grew strong enough that Turk’s eyes burned. A gray stack rose and plumed in the sky.
Then he heard Skinny call out. “They’re coming, man.”
The guy appeared in the middle of the street, screaming the same thing over and over while holding his arms in the air. Might as well have broadcast himself as fried chicken to a crew of construction workers.
The first afflicted took notice and began its approach. Didn’t take long for the others to follow. Their movements were uncoordinated. They staggered and jerked and dragged themselves forward. These were not the lethal beasts he’d encountered in Nigeria. Then again, not all of them were either.
Turk resisted the urge to open fire. They might not move well now, but once focused on an assailant, things could change.
He had to make a decision. Sprint across the road, head for the water, or backtrack and verify which building was on fire.
Skinny spotted him and started jogging. Turk kept back, out of view until Skinny appeared, at which time Turk checked the road again. The group of afflicted hadn’t made it far. Maybe they didn’t feel the need to hunt. Could it be an investigative party?
“What’d you do?” Turk said.
“I burned it down.”
“What?”
“The fire stops them.”
Turk leaned around the corner again. It was true. With flames leaping into the air, the afflicted were retreating.
“Tell me you dragged a bunch of shit into the street and lit it there,” Turk said.
Skinny shook his head. “Propane. Doused everything I could inside and lit a match.”
“Son of a bitch.”
“You heard the screams. They were whipping up into a frenzy, man. Had no choice.”
Turk pulled the .22 and held it a foot from Skinny’s head. “You burned the raft you fucking idiot!”
“What?”
“There was a goddamn life raft in there.”
The guy stared at his hands as though they had betrayed him. All this time, right under his nose was a way out of the city, and he’d destroyed it.
Turk fought to keep from killing the guy. He was only trying to survive. Skinny wasn’t equipped for this, and he hadn’t known what was buried under all the trash. Maybe there was a use for him. Though Turk had trouble figuring out what that might be.
A scream rose from behind. Turk spun and saw two afflicted standing at the other end of the building. A hundred feet stood between the men and them. Their eyes burned. One stood with its mouth open, releasing a torrent of high-pitched wailing.
“They’re calling the others,” Skinny said.
“Go!” Turk didn’t wait for the other guy to start. He barreled toward the fence, aiming for the gate. It was open a foot, at most, but nothing appeared to hold it to the post. He covered thirty feet in a few seconds. He dipped his shoulder and barreled into the chain link. Pain radiated for a couple seconds. The bottom of the gate grated against asphalt. It stuck after a foot of movement and then gave way.
Turk lost his balance and sprawled to the ground. He tucked his arm and allowed his momentum to carry him through a roll. The rough road tore flesh from his arms. He brushed it off and got to his feet.
A quick glance around the dock revealed nothing of use. Not even a piece of driftwood. Everything not nailed down had been taken. There was one way out. Hopefully Skinny could swim. If not, the guy was screwed. Turk looked back, ready to relay instructions.
At that moment, Skinny collapsed and yelled out in pain. His lower leg was bent awkwardly, as if a second knee had been installed. Fragmented bone penetrated out through the skin. Gruesome, yet fixable a few months ago. A mortal wound now.
Two afflicted, both fast and agile hunters, cleared the fence by climbing. They landed on the ground like large prey cats, ignoring Turk. Why would they pay attention to him when there was an easy kill laying in the road?
Turk aimed his rifle and fired, hitting the first in the chest and knocking it on its ass. The second looked from Skinny to Turk. It sprinted forward, causing Turk to rush his next shot. He managed to get it off, hitting the afflicted in the leg. The afflicted toppled to the side, but didn’t stop. Using its arms, it dragged itself forward, then got back on its feet, continuing a staggered approach. The distance was closing. Unsure whether the afflicted could lunge or jump, Turk lined up his shot and sent a round through its head.
Skinny let out a painful scream.
“Shit!” Turk hadn’t seen the third afflicted. Where had it come from? He rushed a shot and missed. The afflicted hadn’t noticed.
Okay, nice and easy, Turk.
He settled in and aimed for the head.
Click.
“Dammit.” He’d exhausted his ammunition, and he’d dropped his bag in the warehouse. It was ash by now. His only chance — Skinny’s last chance at survival — was the .22. Turk took a few steps forward and fired, hitting the afflicted in the shoulder.
It glanced up at Turk, snarled and growled, then bit into Skinny’s face. The man screamed and flailed his arms to no avail.
Turk fired again. A clump of skin and hair flipped through the air. A thick stream of dark blood slowly oozed from the wound. It only pissed the afflicted off, though. It took a hard swipe at Skinny’s face, then rose, focused on Turk.
He emptied the magazine in an all-out assault on the afflicted. It dropped to its knees, then fell to the side.
And it didn’t matter. Ten feet from the gate stood the rest of the group. They staggered forward. With no ammunition, Turk could do nothing about them.
And he couldn’t put Skinny to rest.
“I’m sorry,” he muttered. Then he turned and sprinted for a pier. He didn’t stop running until he hit the water.
Eight
Sean’s back had gone numb against the cold, damp surface he lay on. He sat upright, looking around the dark room, trying to remember the events that led to here. Wherever here was. His hand clenched at the surface beneath him. The top layer gave way. A bed sheet. Sweat beaded across his forehead, and dripped down his chest and back. A finger of light knifed through the crack in the drapes. It glinted off his prosthetic leg, near the knee joint.
He remembered they were in an abandoned house, on top of a hill, in southern Virginia. Danville to the west. South Boston to the east. Didn’t matter, it was a stopping point. He needed to move the group south.
When Sean considered it, the odds felt insurmountable. What were the chances they could cover three hundred miles unseen? Whether by survivalists, gangs, or afflicted, someone would take notice.
They’d encountered no one last night. Luck, more than anything. They were traveling late, through the woods and on country back roads in a sparsely populated area of Virginia.
The ATV had something to do with it. Though it made noise, by the time the afflicted took notice, they would have pulled too far ahead. Same with scattered survivors. How many of them had a means of gas-powered transportation at this point? Which reminded Sean that he could not count on the vehicle getting them to Charleston. The group had to be prepared to make part of the journey on foot. That was when they would be at their most vulnerable.
A tepid knock at the door broke his
concentration. Sean secured his prosthetic and stood. The light illuminated half his face. He caught the reflection in the mirror and had to take a second glance. He’d already changed. Would he even recognize himself a month from now?
“Dad?” Emma said from the hallway.
“Yeah?”
Emma cracked the door and slipped into the room.
“What’s up, Em?”
“There’s some trucks driving this way.”
“Why didn’t Addison fire a warning shot, like I said?”
Biting her lip, Emma glanced toward the window. She was only the messenger. Not the one who’d made the mistake. “She said they were far enough away we could wake you first. No point in alerting anyone to our presence if they aren’t coming here. Right?”
She made a valid point. Sean’s paranoia led him to believe that every action was intended to destroy him and his fellow survivors, when that might not be the case. The trucks could pass right by without ever knowing Sean and his group occupied the house.
“You’re covered in sweat,” Emma said.
“Hot in here.”
“It’s not that bad. You were having those dreams again, weren’t you?”
“What dreams?”
She looked away again, eyes downcast, biting her bottom lip. “The dreams you had ever since you got hurt. You used to scare me. You’d be screaming in the middle of the night for minutes at a time. Mom explained to me what was happening.”
“Which was what?”
“Some kind of night terrors. She didn’t say much else, but I knew. I knew that it had something to do with what happened to you.”
Sean grabbed his shirt off the bureau, put it on, then picked up his rifle. “I need to take a look outside.” He stopped at the door, looked back, and added, “Stay behind me, but remain inside the house.”
She followed him down the hallway, her footsteps off a beat from his. In the living room, Barbara lay on the couch in a sweat-soaked red shirt. Her eyes were red and puffy, an obvious sign she’d been crying. It was remarkable how much she looked like Sean’s wife, Kathy, but their personalities were complete opposite. When things were bad, or something went wrong, Kathy was the one who took charge. Barbara retreated, and caused more work for everyone else in the group. Marley remained faithful to his human. His stare locked on Sean. Fix her, the look said.