The Infected (Book 5): Battleground

by Zuko, Joseph

  “What did you see?” Shawna rushed to her side.

  “I couldn’t make it out.”

  “Was it infected?”

  “Maybe?”

  A lock clicked on the other side of the door.

  Troy and Sara raced around the corner. Water dripped from every part of their bodies as they joined them under the canopy.

  Troy growled. “What is it?” Movement at the door grabbed his attention. Sara and Troy took positions next to Karen, guns at the ready.

  A bell chimed overhead. A woman in her late fifties stood in the doorway. Her eye shadow was thick, and tears caused her mascara to run. A dark ring of red lipstick circled her thin lips. The poor thing was doing the best she could with what God gave her, but she desperately needed to dial down the Mary Kay. She was skinny as a beanpole from the waist up, but her hips ballooned out, like a bowling pin. A bloody butcher’s knife shook in her boney hand. A nametag was pinned to her blood-stained blouse. It read, Desiree.

  Karen lowered her pistol. “Are you okay?”

  Desiree shook her head. She tried to open the door a little farther, but the legs of the dead body were in its way.

  Karen stepped forward. “Are you injured?”

  She shook her head again.

  Sara pointed at the body. “Did he try and bite you?”

  Desiree nodded.

  Troy’s brow dropped. “Ma’am, are there any more of them, inside?”

  Desiree nodded, again. Her voice was raspy from years of smoking. “I locked it in the office.”

  Karen put her gun away and raised both hands in the air. “We are not here to hurt you. We need some supplies and we will be on our way. If you let us in we can take care of the thing in the office for you.”

  Desiree gave it a thought as she checked out the bus behind them. She spotted the two little girls. The corners of her painted mouth curled. She nodded at Karen. “Where are you all headed?”

  “Battle Ground.”

  Desiree let her knife wielding hand fall to her side. “I sure could use a lift.”

  Chapter 4

  Scott repeated himself as he stepped to the front of Michael’s desk. “What are you doing?”

  Michael kept his gaze low. The razor’s edge pressed harder to his wrist. “Leave me be.”

  “What kind of coward are you?” Scott leaned forward and rested his knuckles on the desktop.

  Pools formed in Caruthers’ eyes. “Go. I don’t want you to see this.”

  Fury burned, Scott set his jaw as he leaned forward and mashed his knuckles harder against the stained oak. Scott wasn’t a tall man and he didn’t possess broad shoulders, but at this moment he was a Viking giant towering above a scared child. In the last year, Scott and Pastor Caruthers had only exchanged common pleasantries. ‘How are you today?’ ‘Nice weather.’ ‘Did you catch the game?’ All of it empty crap humans say to each other. To be polite. There was no time to waste on pointless chit chat anymore.

  Scott cut to the chase and spoke to the Pastor like no one before. “You selfish little turd.”

  “What?” Michael glanced at Scott.

  “You want to be babied? You want me to talk you off the ledge? Well, I won’t. You are supposed to be a man of God. Man, of God, not a sniveling weasel. You disgust me. We pay you for spiritual enlightenment and guidance to gain a closer relationship with The Almighty and the first day things go to hell you want to open your wrist?”

  Pure confusion rushed across Michael’s face. “Is this supposed to help me drop the knife?”

  Scott’s open palm leapt from the desk, flew through the air and tagged Michael across the cheek. “Stop whining.”

  The slap caught Michael by complete surprise. The pools turned to rivers as tears cascaded down his red cheeks.

  Scott straightened his back as he continued. “Have you not heard?”

  Michael barely got the word to form in his sore mouth. “What?”

  “You don’t have to be bit to turn into one of those things.”

  Michael focused on the blade. His vision blurred. “You mean?”

  “That’s right. If your heart stops pumping, you turn.” Scott removed his sidearm and dropped it on the desk. The gun landed with a metallic thud. “But, before you remove yourself from the situation, I want to tell you some facts. When every one of these men, women and children reflect on you later in their lives, it will be with contempt.”

  In one fast move Scott removed the knife from Michael’s hand and replaced it with the gun. “If you’re going to do it, then do it right and destroy the brain.”

  Scott’s intense glare unnerved Michael. The man’s words were haunting. He couldn’t move. Too much to process.

  Scott pivoted and headed for the door. “If you come to your senses, I’ll be in Brother Paul’s office, packing. We are leaving today and we need to go over how we are going to break it to the others.”

  “What?” grunted Michael.

  “He wants you to get everyone organized for the move.” Scott opened the door “He still believes in you.” He stepped into the hallway. “What do you believe in?” Scott slammed the door shut.

  Doctor Bryant worked quietly at her desk. She hadn’t slept in thirty hours and might not get a chance to in the near future. She had no one to complain to. Lindsey glanced around the room.

  Everyone here is in the same boat.

  She packed items for the trip and attempted to appear as if she were merely tidying her desk. Lindsey didn’t want to start a panic. If people saw her packing to leave, they might ask questions and she didn’t want to be put on the spot. It was better to let Pastor Michael or Brother Paul break the news of their impending move. They were far better public speakers and would have the skills to spin it into a positive. Even with their gift of gab, the Doctor knew once the order was given, many of the members were going to... She paused for a moment to think of the perfect description of their response.

  ‘Freak the fuck out’ was the best she could conjure. No one wanted to step outside, let alone hit the open road. Fear of the unknown could cripple the strongest of souls. The urge to, build walls, board the windows, and dig in like an Alabama tick was a reasonable human reaction to their situation.

  If the infection spread as quickly as I have calculated, there will be another swarm of bodies heading this way. It’s only a matter of time. Doctor Bryant was so busy with her thoughts, she did not see the man at her side.

  He coughed out, “Doctor Bryant?”

  The noise grabbed her attention. She spun to face him. “Yes?” The worry he projected was contagious. Lindsey figured she had blown it and gave away the fact that they were about to head out. She attempted to act normal and smiled awkwardly, “Patrick? How can I help you?”

  Patrick had a death grip on his forearm. His skin was pale and covered in sweat like he had run a marathon. His tone deadly serious and panicked. “Can we go somewhere private? I need to show you something.”

  She stepped a little closer and lowered her voice. “What is it?”

  “Please, I don’t want everyone to see.”

  “There are no private places left in the building. Now please show it to me.”

  He moved within a few inches of her, turned his back to the others and tugged his sleeve toward his elbow. The wound was a tiny scratch. Less than a paper cut in size. Black lines crept from the red slit. The wound was raised and swollen.

  “How did you get this?” asked Doctor Bryant as she reached for a pair of fresh gloves.

  “During the fight. One of those thing’s teeth grazed me, but it didn’t bite down into my arm. I thought I was in the clear. Tell me you can fix it Doc.” Patrick pleaded with her.

  Doctor Bryant reached for his arm and examined it. “What level of pain would you say you are experiencing?”

  “It burns, like a bee sting, but worse. Do you have anything to put on it. Or a shot I can take.” His pleading turned to groveling. “You’ve got to do something Doc, I can’t le
ave Miranda and the kids. They need me.”

  She gently touched the edge of the scrape. Pus oozed from the cut. “It’s spreading quickly. We have to move fast.” It had been years since Lindsey last used a scalpel on a patient, but it was her only choice. She said flatly. “We need to remove the infected tissue.” She stepped to her desk and found the surgical kit.

  Patrick cried, “Oh no. Don’t take my arm.”

  “I’ll try not to.” Doctor Bryant scanned the room for the biggest guys she could find. A set of burly men were busy loading a chest of ammo from a storage locker. “Greg, Tony, please come and assist me.” She held Patrick’s shoulder and set him in the chair next to her desk. “Place your arm on the table.”

  Patrick hyperventilated. The words mushed together. “Please, please, please.”

  Greg and Tony moved across the room. “What do you need, Doctor Bryant?” asked Tony as he spotted the cut on Patrick’s arm. It took him a second to realize what it was. Tony blurted out. “He’s been bit!”

  The room went silent.

  Lindsey checked the fifteen others. They were a few seconds away from mass hysteria. She acted quickly to defuse the issue. “I have everything under control, but I need you all to evacuate the room.” No one moved. She growled. “Now!”

  People stumbled over each other for the exits.

  She turned her attention to Patrick’s arm. “I need you to hold him still.” Lindsey unzipped the surgical kit. She swabbed a blade with an alcohol wipe.

  Patrick begged for mercy, “Isn’t there another way?”

  “There’s no other option.” Light glinted off the freshly cleaned tool. “It’s this or we let the disease take you.” She glanced at the two men. “Grab a pair of gloves and hold him steady. Tony, give him your belt.”

  Greg and Tony hesitated to touch their friend.

  “Now, gentlemen.” Doctor Bryant held the scalpel and reached for Patrick’s wrist. She twisted his arm and angled the scrape at her. The black lines stretched further from the cut. Doctor Bryant grabbed a length of rubber hose from her kit and wrapped it around his bicep.

  Tony whipped off his belt, folded it and offered the strap to Patrick. He took it and quickly gripped the leather with his teeth. Tony and Greg gloved up, closed in around Patrick and pinned his limb to the table. The man heaved in mouthfuls of air through his gag.

  Greg grunted as he flexed his fingers. “Don’t you have a local you can give him?”

  Like an artic breeze she said, “No time. Don’t let him pull away.” Doctor Bryant leaned forward. She held the tip of the blade a centimeter away from his skin. A spike of adrenaline hit her like a volcanic eruption. She couldn’t believe she was about to cut his flesh, but like she said, there was no time to make another choice.

  Patrick mumbled a scream through the belt, “Oh God!” The scalpel opened his skin. He jumped and tried to rip his arm away from the torture, but Greg and Tony held firm.

  Blood seeped and puddled onto the desk. Between screams he gasped for air. He torqued his arm. The scalpel popped from his skin as Doctor Bryant made the first turn. The skin flopped open on Patrick’s arm as they fought to regain control of the limb.

  “You have to hold him still.” She commanded.

  The three of them forced his arm back to the table.

  He screamed even louder as the blade reentered his arm. The hunk peeled away from his forearm. The meat underneath was black.

  Regret flooded Doctor Bryant. I should have cut farther away from the scrape. She started again and sliced higher on his arm. Patrick stomped his feet. Eyes bulged. He wanted a bullet, not a scalpel. The blade looped around the wound. Halfway there, the meat dipped away from his forearm. Still black.

  Doctor Bryant was losing her mind. She dropped the tool and reached for a lower drawer in her desk. In her haste, she pulled it clear and the contents spilled to the floor. She dug through boxes until she found the right one. She set it on the table and opened the case. The teeth of the bone saw grinned at Patrick.

  “You’ve got to be joking?” groaned Tony.

  Without a word, she lifted the jagged tool from the case and wiped it with a fresh alcohol pad. Blood flowed from the cut in his arm and ran over the corner of the desk. She reset and pressed the saw to Patrick’s bicep. He violently cranked his head back and forth. Telling her no. He was unable to form words, but it was clear he wanted her to stop.

  She stared into his bloodshot eyes and said, “I’m sorry.” She forced the saw forward. The tool made a horribly disgusting sound as it passed through the first layer of his arm.

  A door opened behind Doctor Bryant and a woman’s scream filled the room. It was Miranda, Patrick’s wife.

  “What are you doing?!” yelled Miranda as she sprinted across the room. She arrived in time to watch the saw hack through Patrick’s bone. Blood spurted the doctor and her two makeshift nurses. Patrick passed out. His body went slack in the chair. Tony and Greg continued to hold him to the desk.

  Thank God. Thought Lindsey as she pushed and pulled the tool.

  I can’t believe he didn’t do that sooner. This whole endeavor reminded her of a class she took ten years ago in med-school. The teacher spent a period going through Civil War amputations. It was more of a chance to examine the medical field’s barbaric past and reflect on how far they had come since then.

  Barbaric, was exactly how Doctor Lindsey Bryant appeared as she sliced through the last inch of tissue. She worked at a fevered pace and grunted like an animal, but finally the arm fell to her desk. She pushed it aside with the saw and went to work on bandaging the stump.

  Miranda screamed like a maniac for an explanation. Lindsey’s ears rung as she worked to stop the bleeding. The nurses let go of his body and raced to a sink to wash the gore from their arms and shirts.

  With the bandage in place, she moved to a mini-fridge in the corner of the room. “What blood type is your husband?” She opened the little door. The shelves were full to the brim with bags of blood.

  Miranda knelt next to him, tears poured from her eyes, she clutched Patrick’s good arm. “I don’t… I, I, I can’t.”

  “Does he have his wallet?”

  “I think so.”

  “If he’s donated to the Red Cross, he might have their card with his type listed on it. Otherwise I’ll have Scott pull his records. That will take time we don’t have.”

  Miranda rolled Patrick onto his hip and found his wallet. She flipped it open. Pictures of their family fluttered to the floor, along with credit cards they would never pay off and a gift card to Regal Cinemas they would never use. “I got it!” she exclaimed. Miranda scanned the card. “A Positive.”

  Lindsey found the correct bag and closed the fridge. She grabbed an IV stand, hung the bag and hooked up the tubes. She rolled the stand next to Patrick, found a thick vein on the back of his hand and slid the needle to the hilt. A few strips of tape later everything was in place. She was done.

  Doctor Lindsey Bryant stepped away from the scene.

  Did I save his life?

  Or put the poor guy through a world of pain for no other reason than inflating my own ego.

  You can’t save everyone, Lindsey. She told herself.

  The rear door to the church flung open. The four people in the room faced the entryway.

  Brother Paul stood in the door frame. He was soaked to the bone from the downpour, covered in mud and holding a pistol. His appearance closer to an escaped convict than their beloved leader. He noted the event at the doctor’s desk. His head cocked to the side.

  His voice was darker than before as he grumbled, “I heard someone was bit.”

  Chapter 5

  Troy pushed open the front door to the market. The dead body slipped along the slick, blood covered, surface. The room smelled of decomposing flesh and cigarettes. Troy grabbed the body by the legs and yanked him from the store. The carcass flopped off the steps and landed on the asphalt with a spongy thump.

  “Who was h
e?” asked Karen as she entered the store. Her hand instantly went to her nose to protect it from the smell. The others entered behind her as Troy shut and locked the door.

  Desiree shuffled behind the front counter which consisted of a till and a small ice cream parlor. It was followed by a long counter with stools out front for customers. On the wall behind the counter was a sign.

  Pizza by the slice. Under the sign was every kitchen tool needed to whip together some tasty pie.

  Desiree took a seat on a tall stool behind the till, picked up a half-smoked cigarette, a lighter and began her tale.

  “Just a customer. He’d shopped here for years. Beer and wine mostly. Then yesterday he shows up with a bite on his arm. It was already nasty and festered. I was like ‘Son, you have to go to the hospital for a wound like that.’ He said there was no time and needed a first-aid kit to clean it fast.” She struck the lighter, got the cigarette red hot and kept yammering. “And before I could get the damn thing, he went ape shit. Snapping his teeth like a fucked-up beaver.” She blew a lungful of smoke. “Luckily, I was chopping onions, so I had this in my hand.” She lifted the butcher knife. “Ask my second husband if I take shit off anyone. The answer is. ‘Hell no.’ I stuck that fool six times before I got him in the eye.” Desiree spit on the floor. “Nasty way to go.”

  “You spent the night here alone?” asked Sara as she slung her rifle to her back.

  “Well, I ain’t legal to drive, sister. Not after I lost my license to a fucking DUI.” She pointed a crooked finger at Sara. “Never mix tequila with beer, my friend. The drink was created by the Devil.” Desiree spoke with such conviction no one could tell if she was joking.

  To break the silence Sara finally said. “Okay.”

  Desiree continued, “My friend was supposed to pick me up last night, but he never showed. I guess he’s one of those things now.” She gestured to the office. “Or he’s hiding in a closet like a big fat pussy. Either way, I wasn’t about to walk all the way home. Not with those chompers running around out there. I locked all of the doors, took a twelve-hour smoke break and caught up on some educational reading.” She lifted a copy of the National Enquirer. “I thought the Army would be out this morning, cleaning up this mess. They probably caused it, with all their weapons testing and the constant attempts to create the perfect soldier.” She took a long drag.