The Infected (Book 5): Battleground

by Zuko, Joseph

  “It is time to save this Church,” he reassured himself as he grabbed Scott’s gun and his Bible before heading out the door.

  As he marched for Brother Paul’s office he couldn’t help but hope he would run into Doctor Bryant. He planned to invite her to ride with him as they headed for the safer location. He needed to think of a good reason for them to be a team.

  Perhaps she will need assistance taking care of the injured. I could be a good nurse. It sounded like an excellent plan, until he realized it meant possibly getting people’s bodily fluids on him. He would have to put his romantic schemes on the backburner for now, the hallway was coming to an end. He took a deep breath as he approached the door.

  Michael stepped through the open entry into Paul’s office. Scott was stationed at his desk. A map of Clark County filled his computer screen. He turned toward the door. “Pastor Caruthers, come on in,” said Scott as he returned to his work.

  Michael widened his chest and kept his chin high as he moved across the floor. “Here is your sidearm. I won’t be needing it, but thank you for the course correction.” Michael held the pistol by its barrel. Scott took the weapon and placed it on the desk.

  Michael waited a full minute for Scott to say something, anything about what transpired between them, but the words never came. He decided to join the man and pretend nothing happened.

  Michael repositioned his hand and held the bible close to his heart. “What are you after, exactly?” asked Caruthers.

  Scott zoomed in on the map. “Brother Paul wants to relocate to Battle Ground. I’m trying to find a suitable facility.”

  Michael stepped across the room, grabbed a chair and dragged it next to Scott. “Okay, something large with natural defenses.” He took a seat and leaned in toward the computer. “I think I have an idea.”

  “Really?”

  “I did a wedding in a perfect place last summer. May I?” Michael reached for the mouse.

  Scott slid it closer to the Pastor.

  “It was on 182nd. Near Heisson.” Michael scrolled north on the map. He passed a big blue dot called, Battle Ground Lake and found 182nd. He slowed down and zoomed in a little more. The screen pixelated, then a building came into view. “That’s it.”

  “Old Church of Christianity?” Scott read the name off the map. He took back his mouse and dropped it to street view. The building was four times the size of their church. The parking lot was massive and could easily hold four hundred vehicles on any given Sunday. The asphalt surrounded the entire building with a sea of gray. White lines traced out the parking spaces and helped give them a scale to verify the building’s size. There was nothing but farmland and forests surrounding the church. Green and tan filled the rest of the map. The building was completely out of place and incredibly modern. Especially with a name like Old Church.

  Scott’s fingers punched at his keyboard. “It’s forty-five minutes away. That is, if we weren’t trying to get there in a caravan.”

  “Or traveling through clogged streets.” Michael chimed in.

  “It will take us a few hours.” Scott wrote on a pad of paper next to him.

  “What is that?” Michael motioned to the writing.

  “Brother Paul wants me to keep a record of everything and turn it into a book.”

  Michael grinned, “You are our Prophet?”

  “I am doing what he asked.” Scott closed the notebook.

  Michael acknowledged Scott’s embarrassment and changed the subject. “Do you think it’s the right place.”

  “It checks all of the boxes.”

  “What do we do now?”

  Scott pushed himself away from his desk, pulled off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “We make the announcement. Get everyone packing and pray there is no mutiny.”

  The two men contemplated. As Michael pondered their next move, another map on a different computer screen on Scott’s desk caught his attention. A length of tape was adhered to the monitor’s bezel that read, GPS trackers. Dead center of the map was a blue dot. It sat next to a place called Hockinson Market.

  “What’s that?” asked Michael as he pointed at the dot.

  Scott placed his glasses back on the bridge of his nose and followed Michael’s index finger to the map.

  Scott released a solemn breath. “You haven’t heard?”

  “I was in my…” Michael cleared his throat. “…office for a while.”

  “Brother Paul sent Dallas, Blaine and a few others to retrieve Eric.”

  “Why are they all the way up in Hockinson? That’s halfway to that northern church. What was Eric doing that far out?”

  Scott’s chin dropped to his chest. His eyes glassy. “The people holding Eric, they… well, they killed Dallas, Charlie, Theo and Eric.”

  Michael leaned into his chair. He clutched his Bible tight to his sternum. “What about Blaine?”

  “They let him bleed out slowly and they kidnapped Shawna Rollins. It’s unclear if she’s dead or alive. We have a GPS tracker on every vehicle.” He nodded at the dot. “That’s the bus Dallas and Blaine left in this morning.”

  Michael gritted his teeth. “Savages.”

  Scott thumbed a tear away before it tumbled down his cheek. “You said it, Pastor. Once we leave this building, the diseased cannibal monsters won’t be our only problem.”

  Michael repeated the names of the fallen church members. He felt even more pathetic about his suicide attempt.

  They would have given anything to still be here and I was about to throw it all away. Michael let the shame wash over him.

  The pain is good. He told himself. It will keep me sharp. He squeezed the binding of his Bible like it was a stress ball. The pages within told story after story of loss and suffering. Each one a lesson. Each one designed to teach a moral.

  Many years from now, when people read Scott’s book, what lessons will they learn about our suffering? Michael wasn’t sure what teachings could be gleaned from this moment in time, but he was positive, sitting around, wallowing in misery, wasn’t going to help either. They had to act before more lives were lost.

  Michael leaned forward and placed his hand on Scott’s shoulder. “There’s no reason to poke the wound.”

  “Right.” Scott pushed another tear from his cheek.

  Michael gave him another tap before removing his hand, “Can you make it so I’ll be heard through both the PA system and all of the radios?”

  “Yeah, give me a second.” Scott angled himself toward a bank of electronic gadgets. Michael took the time to ready his speech.

  Brother Paul waited impatiently for Doctor Bryant’s response. He repeated himself. “If he turns, who will take care of it? You?”

  Lindsey’s features were carved out of stone.

  “Who will watch him, every second of every day, in case he turns? We don’t have the manpower.” He inched closer as his face turned bright red. “We cannot take a chance. If the disease enters this building, we could lose everything.” He couldn’t stop himself from taking it out on the Doctor. “You have to be smart about this.” He took another step and was less than a foot from Lindsey. “We must have a zero-bite policy. There is too much at risk.”

  Unrattled, she answered. “What would you have me do? Shove him from the building. Scream infected and let them gun him down?”

  Miranda’s voice was rough from her wailing. “She saved my husband’s life. Our children still have their father and that’s all that matters.”

  Brother Paul opened his mouth to respond when the speakers above him came online.

  Michael spoke softly, “Brothers and sisters. We are no longer safe within the confines of this building and it is time for us to move along...”

  Patrick awoke.

  Eyeballs, obsidian black.

  He lurched forward, his teeth clamped down and ripped a chunk of meat from Miranda’s shoulder.

  Michael continued, unaware of the chaos. “…church elders have selected a destination…”

&n
bsp; Miranda howled, blood gushed from her wound as she fell to the floor. Patrick jumped from his chair and darted for Doctor Bryant.

  “It will be in our best interest to leave as soon as possible.”

  Brother Paul intercepted the monster, with no time to pull his pistol. The tube linking Patrick to his bag of A positive pulled taut. The metal IV stand chased after him until it hit Miranda’s body and toppled to the floor.

  “We need everyone to pack right away.”

  Patrick’s one and a half arms flailed wildly as he forced Brother Paul to the floor. Teeth snapped inches from Brother Paul’s neck. Greg and Tony bolted across the room to assist their leader.

  “We understand this is a terrifying request.”

  Paul crashed to the tile, his skull cracked against the hard surface as he fought to keep Patrick at bay. A flurry of bright stars blinded his vision.

  Doctor Bryant rushed to Miranda’s side and put pressure on her jagged wound. Blood oozed between her fingers.

  “We understand, no one wants to leave our beloved church.”

  Greg and Tony grabbed Patrick by the shoulders and lifted him off Paul. Patrick’s bandage tore from his arm. Dark colored blood poured from the open veins and painted the floor. Patrick twisted his neck and chomped Tony’s index finger. A raw stub remained where the digit snapped off. Patrick chewed it like a flame broiled hot dog.

  “But it’s clear we can no longer stay. The opposition’s numbers are too great for us to properly ensure your safety.”

  Tony clutched his destroyed hand as he stumbled backwards. His heel caught the fallen IV stand and tripped him. He landed on the bag of A positive. It popped like a ketchup packet. More blood added to the mix. The floor was slick and turned into a revolting ice rink.

  “Before I close out this announcement I would like to lead you all in prayer.”

  Brother Paul shook off the cobwebs as the disaster came into focus.

  Miranda convulsed.

  Tony lay on his back, frozen, in a pool of blood.

  Greg tossed Patrick across the room.

  If I don’t get control of this, we will lose everything! Paul found the grip to his sidearm.

  “Lord, we ask for you to watch over us…”

  Patrick raced toward Greg on all fours. (Well three and a half, really.) Greg bolted for the rack of rifles on the far wall.

  Tony rolled to his knees as the color drained from his face.

  “…and bless us on our travels…”

  Lindsey scrambled away from Miranda’s snapping teeth.

  Paul sighted in Patrick’s skull. The monster was quick. Paul’s vision, blurred. He fired. The bullet grazed Patrick’s neck as he caught Greg by the waist, wrestled him to the tile and bit his spare tire.

  “Shelter our flock from the demons that plague these lands…”

  Greg screamed and threw an elbow. The strike forced Patrick’s skull backwards. Skin, fat and muscle came away from Greg’s side. Patrick’s face was bathed in blood. Chunks of flesh fell from his chin.

  “…and see us through to the Promise Land. Amen.”

  Chapter 7

  As fun as raiding the store was, all Sara wanted to do was lay down and take a nap. Her body ached from head to toe. She had gotten only four hours of sleep on Cliff and Tina’s scratchy couch. Since then it had been, go, go, go all morning and into the afternoon. The girl’s tank was on empty. She caught herself blankly gawking at a stand of beef jerky, unable to decide which flavor she wanted/needed the most.

  Teriyaki or pepper? The choice seemed life or death.

  Take them both, you big tired baby. She told herself as she emptied the pegs and loaded the packages of meat into her garbage bag. After picking the rack clean she faced Desiree.

  “You got a coffee ma-” Mid-question Sara shushed herself. The noise outside started low. A rumble. Then it grew. Seconds later it was a roar. Everyone in the store, dropped their bags of stolen goodies, raised their weapons and bolted to the front windows. A set of tires screeched to a halt in the lot. The vehicle parked on the windowless side of the building. They couldn’t spot the approaching stranger or strangers.

  Desiree lifted her knife, cowered behind the counter and groaned, “Should I turn off the open sign?”

  Sara ignored the question as she whispered. “What’s the odds they’re a bunch of assholes?” She slid the SKS from her back and turned off the safety.

  A muffled voice spoke loudly.

  “I’d reckon it’s pretty high,” said Troy as he cocked his shotgun, “Sounds like a few of them.” He glanced at the bus. The windows were empty. “Everyone, stay calm. We don’t want things to escalate. We’ve had enough of that.”

  The sound of busted glass made them jump.

  “Ah, shit!” Cursed Leon, his voice cracked as he asked, “Do we let them in?”

  Shawna backed away from the door and raised her bat, “One of you give me a gun.”

  A deep voice sung Satisfaction as it moved closer to the building. A big, greasy man, slick from the downpour stepped into view. A double-barreled shotgun swung at his side. Dripping strands of long black hair fell before his eyes. He flicked his head back to clear the view. He wasn’t hideous, but he wasn’t handsome either. The type of guy you would find drunk, at a dive bar, on a Tuesday morning.

  Desiree sighed, “Goddamn, it’s Ryder.” She relaxed onto her stool, but kept her knife ready.

  Everyone stepped away from the door.

  “Who?” asked Sara.

  Desiree smirked. “You were right, he’s a local asshole.”

  “Is he dangerous?” asked Shawna.

  “It’s all rumors.” Desiree reached for her next cigarette.

  “What did he do?” Inquired Troy.

  Desiree took a puff. “I don’t know. I wasn’t there. Mostly he’s an asshole.”

  Ryder was abruptly stopped by the locked front door. Confusion flooded his expression. He stumbled backwards and scanned the building.

  Ryder slurred, “What the hell?” and stepped closer to the window, until his nose touched the glass. “Desiree? Is that you?” He spotted the heavily armed group and didn’t flinch. Instead he burped loudly. He spotted Sara, bit at his bottom lip and grunted, “Damn, Red.” He cupped his hand around his face and glanced at the counter. “Desiree?” He spotted her, “There you are. Get the door, woman.” He pointed to the neon sign at the front of the store. “It says you’re open.” He flashed her a crooked grin.

  No one moved.

  Ryder’s hand turned into a fist. He slammed it against the glass, “I need supplies.” He struck the door even harder. “Open the fucker, or I’ll bust the son-of-a-bitch down.”

  Still, no one moved.

  “Fine,” Ryder stepped back and aimed his gun at the front door.

  Desiree leapt from her stool. “Calm down. I’ll get it.” She twisted the lock and let the door swing open.

  He breezed through the entry as if he owned the place and snorted, “That’s better.”

  Desiree relocked the door and hurried back to her counter.

  Ryder aimed the shotgun at them and held it lazily at his hip. The foul stink of his body odor rushed the group. He smelled like a brewery and a septic tank had a gross baby. He checked each person and their hardware. His boots pounded against the linoleum as he marched slowly toward Sara. “You doing some looting?” He ran his big pink tongue around his thick lips. The smell made her want to vomit, but the way he wiggled his tongue sent Sara into a flashback. The graveyard. The young men pawing at her jeans. The sound her zipper made when it was forced open. The way the fabric felt as it slid from her waist. No longer in control. The pain. The fear. It crippled her. Sara froze.

  The others turned to Troy to follow his lead, but nobody moved.

  Ryder smiled as he zeroed in on Sara. “I can tell. It’s in your eyes. You all had a rough go of it. Me on the other hand. I’m flourishing.” He raised his gun and aimed it directly at her. “You gonna shoot me, Red
?”

  She snapped out of her catatonic state and growled, “Call me Red, again.” Sara lowered the barrel of her gun toward his family jewels.

  Leon did his best to sound tough, “We don’t want any trouble, okay?”

  “Why not?” Ryder changed direction and headed for Shawna. “Getting into trouble is funner than hell. Especially when there’s no damn pigs to ruin my good time.” When he got closer to the woman with the bat. He glanced at the blood caked in her hair. “Darling, you look like ya took a bath in a bucket of periods.” He adjusted his junk. “I could still get there.”

  Troy stepped forward, tucked the butt of his shotgun into his shoulder, aimed it directly at Ryder’s skull as he barked. “Why don’t you shut your filthy mouth, and get the hell out of here?”

  Ryder faced the barrel, puffed out his chest and said, “Make me!” Ryder studied Troy for a moment. “You ain’t got the fucking balls to pull the trigger. You never killed a man, I can tell. Your hands got the shakes, pupils are dilated.” He nodded to the bandage wrapped around Troy’s head. “You’ve probably got a concussion.” Ryder circled Troy as he continued. “Hell boy, I bet a strong fart could knock you down.”

  Leon moved closer, aimed his rifle at Ryder and sounded a little too close to Clint Eastwood. “He asked you to leave. I suggest you do it.” Leon’s brow dropped.

  Ryder changed direction and circled Leon. “What are you gonna do, Slim? Cry me to death. All I’d have to do is hit you with a few ‘Your Mama’ jokes and you’d fall apart. Sniffling like a little bitch with piss in your pants.” Ryder lurched forward. Leon recoiled.

  Ryder popped Leon in the shoulder twice with his fist. “That’s two for flinching.” Leon tried to tough it out, but he couldn’t stop himself. He lowered his gun and rubbed his sore shoulder.

  Ryder directed his noise at the two women. “You ladies sure can pick’em.” He brushed past Sara, and took a long, deep, sniff of her hair. She shoved him away with the butt of her gun.

  Ryder played innocent on his way to the front counter. “You sleep soundly with these two pussies protecting you? I wouldn’t.” He stopped in front of Desiree. “You ladies are more than welcome to ride along with me. I’d take real good care of ya. Keep you safe from all the nasties.” He flashed them a nauseating smile. “I’ve got plenty of space in the Bird.”