The Infected (Book 5): Battleground

by Zuko, Joseph

  Chapter 19

  Lisa stomped the gas and the Hummer leapt forward as she yelled, “Close them!”

  Mason and Brady withdrew into the rig and rolled their windows shut. The reinforced steel grille rammed into the lead runners. A stream of black fluid spurted from their sick bodies before they were sucked under the vehicle. Pints of rancid blood splattered the windshield. Lisa flipped on the wipers. Black arches streaked across the glass. The stack of tangled dead bodies caused the front axle to bounce into the air.

  Alayna lost her balance, released the trigger on the Browning and slipped through the turret’s opening. The infected jumped onto the vehicle.

  Lisa panicked and screamed at her teammate. “Keep firing!”

  Alayna reset her feet. She heard the thumps of scrambling limbs against the Hummer’s body. There wasn’t enough time to reach the gun and clear the invaders. Alayna grabbed the handle to the turret’s lid. She spied a set of snapping teeth above the opening. Right before the infected fell into the Hummer she closed the hatch and twisted the lock.

  Alayna gasped, “The turret is compromised.”

  “What do we do?” asked Brady as he readied his rifle for a potential breach.

  The vehicle slowed as it crept over the pile of flesh. Lisa drove her foot to the floor. The V8 screamed as it crawled through the wall of dead. Seventy bodies were packed in tight around the front of the vehicle forming a solid wall. If she had a running start she might have made it. The street was slick with rain and body fluids. The knobby tires couldn’t find purchase. The RPM’s climbed, but the speedometer dropped. The rig inched along. Finally, coming to a full stop.

  “Come on, get us out of here.” Mason yelled and tugged Lisa’s sleeve.

  Fists and elbows crashed against the windows. Exposed bones and teeth clawed at the sides of the Hummer.

  “Goddamn it, I’m trying!” Lisa cursed. Her quad flexed as she pressed as hard as possible against the pedal.

  Her fear came true.

  They were trapped.

  Completely surrounded.

  How long will these windows hold?

  Michael and Lindsey watched as the Hummer disappeared under the swarm of flailing bodies.

  The bus driver, Taggart, turned to the two church leaders, “What should we do?”

  Lindsey pushed Michael’s shoulder. “Get to that window.” She pointed at the seat across the aisle.

  He jumped to his feet and worked his way past two ten-year-old boys that occupied the neighboring seat. “Excuse me, gentlemen.” The boys raised their legs and scooted out of the Pastor’s way.

  Lindsey stood, lowered the window and poked her rifle outside. “Michael, clear the ones on top of the vehicle. Taggart, give them a push.”

  Taggart eased the rig forward. Two dozen infected stood between them and the back of the Hummer.

  Lindsey pulled the butt of her gun into her shoulder as she leaned out the window. She raised the scope to her eye. All the nasty details of the infected became repulsively clear. She sighted a spaz with sliced cheeks that exaggerated its grin. It looked like a laughing hyena. She put a round through its ear. The thing tumbled and fell off the back end of the Hummer. By the time it hit the ground Lindsey put an end to three more punks.

  Michael squeezed a few rounds and punched holes into the torsos of the thrashing beasts, but without a scope, headshots were pure luck. As they zoomed toward the horde, more of the street around them was populated with faster moving infected bodies. These folks were the super athletes of the dead army. Only suffering from a few minor bites, which allowed them to float across the pavement with ease.

  A speed demon, sporting a t-shirt she earned from a Spartan Race, sprinted toward Michael, jumped and clung to the frame of his open window. Its jagged fingernails scraped through Michael’s dress shirt and sliced a gash in his forearm.

  The fear or pain, maybe both, caused Michael to lose himself. He screamed, “You fucking bitch!” as he retreated.

  A deep and jagged bite, where her neck met the shoulder, was the only blemish on her nearly perfect skin. With ease, she pulled herself through the threshold. Its arms were impressive, lean and thick with muscle.

  Michael clutched his bleeding limb as he reversed into the aisle. Before he knew it, the infected woman squeezed its shoulders through the tight-fitting window.

  High pitched shrieks ripped from the children. The first few rows of the bus panicked, exited their seats and sprinted to the opposite end of the rig.

  More of its torso made it through the window, it clawed at the air in front of Michael’s face. This beast was bound and determined to shred him into tiny bits.

  I can’t open fire.

  A ricochet might hit one of the children.

  He shifted his grip on the rifle, reared back and jammed the butt of his gun into the sick woman’s face. Its nose exploded like a squished ripe strawberry. With lightning speed, it swiped at him with its claw. The blow landed across his bicep. Four, two-inch-long, slices appeared on his skin as if she was the notorious Freddy Krueger.

  Searing pain radiated throughout his entire arm. Anguish, unlike anything he had experienced before.

  Pure rage burned at his core.

  Something primal took control. Michael wanted to cause this thing unimaginable pain. His first impulse was to use a dull and rusty blade to slowly disembowel the woman.

  Logic prevailed.

  They don’t feel pain.

  What would be the point?

  No time to indulge. He had to get the monster off the bus, fast.

  Michael let out a guttural yell, raised his gun and struck her with all his strength. He pinned her skull to the curve of the ceiling. Cranial bones cracked. Michael sneered, satisfied by the sounds made as the plates aggressively shifted around its brain.

  The blow was enough to finish the job. Its body went limp, tumbled out the window, and crashed to the street.

  The high of killing one with brute force sent endorphins through his body, but it wasn’t enough to mask the pain. The cuts on his arms stung like crazy.

  How dirty were her fingernails? Michael panicked.

  No time to fret about his wounds. His attention was yanked in a different direction.

  Taggart yelled, “Whoo’ah,” as he pushed the bus toward fifteen miles an hour. The cowcatcher mounted to the front crashed into its first victim. At this slow speed it mostly shoved them to the side. A few were sucked beneath the rig. Their bones snapped under the weight of the school bus. It sounded like a big bag of popcorn in the microwave.

  Taggart closed the gap. The bus was four feet from the Hummer’s back bumper. Eight shuffling bodies were trapped between the two vehicles. Taggart didn’t dare slow down. In fact, the second before impact he punched it.

  The bus lurched forward and squashed them into paste. The pressure caused the eight heads to explode in a geyser of gray matter. The bodies acted like buoys and cushioned the blow, which sprung the Hummer forward.

  Lindsey plucked a cluster of infected off the roof.

  Michael pushed his pain aside. The desire to cover his arms with sanitizer grew to a crescendo, but he remained focused and dispatched the monsters. He got lucky and popped a few headshots. The area around the turret was cleared.

  The tandem vehicles cruised through the horde. They gained speed as they reached a thinned out patch within the mob.

  Taggart raised the radio, thumbed the receiver and said, “Y’all’s top deck is cleared. Resume firing.”

  The Hummer pulled away as they reached the outer crest of the horde. The hatch opened and Alayna took her position. She opened fire on the sporadic pockets of remaining infected that clogged the street. A moment after that, two guns poked from the sides of the military vehicle, they joined their teammate and slung lead at the advancing army of teeth chattering ghouls.

  Scott clutched Owen to his chest. He did everything he could to comfort the young man, but there was no saving him. The teen’s face wa
s soaked with tears and snot as he screamed for his mother.

  Scott stammered, “It’s okay, you’ll be fine, I promise.” His panic attack was in full swing. Rendering him in no condition to handle the situation.

  Why am I lying to this boy?

  Shut your mouth.

  You can’t help him.

  Quit bullshitting!

  Scott had to face facts. No matter how terrible and tragic.

  This young man is going to turn, very soon.

  To get a better view of the gash, Scott tore the pants to the teen’s knee. The black lines from the bite wound had already spread to his thigh.

  Any minute, he’ll be one of them.

  Owen begged, “Please, get my Mama!”

  His parents were somewhere in the caravan, but there was no way to find them before he turned. Even if Scott radioed and told the poor people what happened to their son, he couldn’t stop. Not until they were safe from this horde.

  When he turns, then what?

  Scott shuddered at the thought of putting his gun to the head of a church member. Especially one so young and with an adolescent audience watching his every move.

  Scott glanced around. A bus full of children were glued to the terror before them.

  Owen blurted, “Please, do something! It hurts so bad! I can’t take it anymore!”

  Seeing the young man like that tore at Scott’s heart. There was no fighting his own tears.

  Scott convulsed as he cried, “I’m so sorry. I let you down.”

  The bus gained speed.

  Bodies crashed with a thud into the cowcatcher. The violent noise grew louder with each passing second.

  Every muscle in Owen’s body flexed at once. The whites of his eyes grew cloudy.

  This is it!

  He’s about to turn!

  A large hunting knife hung from the bus driver’s hip. The handle was made of wood and appeared brand new. An eagle, mid-flight, was carved into the dark wood. Scott guessed it cost a pretty penny.

  Owen’s lips pulled tight. Exposing teeth. Eyes dark gray. Scott had seconds to decide.

  Why do I have to kill this boy?

  Scott was a desk jockey. The computer tech. Eyes and ears of the whole operation. He wasn’t supposed to be a hands in the mud, down and dirty, foot soldier.

  Owen’s fists became claws. Eyes totally black. He was gone. Its jaw stretched, like a warrior testing his weapon, making sure it was battle ready. Scott recognized the signals. He had to react, right now. This new creature was about to take a chunk out of the crying man’s chest.

  His own words rang painfully in his ears.

  ‘He asks of you, only what you can accomplish.’

  He reached for the blade and clumsily yanked it from the leather sheath. The steel was highly polished and reflected like a mirror. He grabbed Infected-Owen by the neck and pinned it to the floor. Scott didn’t recognize his reflection in the knife’s finish.

  I look like a psycho.

  Infected-Owen snapped his teeth. It squirmed and fought to take a bite from Scott’s forearm.

  He wanted to say a prayer, to usher the boy’s spirit to the other side, but his mind was blank. Not a single passage made its way to his tongue.

  He muttered, “God forgive me,” as he slid the knife’s tip into infected-Owen’s temple. He kept the pressure on and forced the knife to the hilt. The light switch kicked off and the body went limp.

  Scott released his grip. He slid off his thick glasses and ran a sleeve across his wet face. Tears streamed. The world spun. His vision went wonky. His heart came to a full stop. This was the climax of his panic attack. His body raced to the edge of unconsciousness. Only once in his life had a panic attack progressed to this point. The day he found out his mother died.

  Snow covered the ground. Lights twinkled on trees. Houses were in full holiday mode. The crisp winter air, refreshing. Occasionally a hint of fireplace smoke danced in the wind. Snowflakes pelted Scott and his mother as they strolled along the sidewalk. She reached for his arm and without hesitation he let her latch onto his elbow.

  Her voice was soft and warm, “You haven’t really told me how school is going? Is college different than high school?”

  Scott grinned and said, “Yes, much different.”

  She tugged at his arm. “And the ladies?”

  “They’re different, too.”

  “Where’s the details? What, do I have to register next semester and join you? Finally see what all the hype is about?”

  He shook his head and fought the urge to laugh.

  She continued, “What? People my age go back to school all the time. Would you be embarrassed to have me in your-” on purpose she mispronounces the word. “-computie class? Asking Professor Poindexter, ‘How do I turn it on?’ and saying things like, ‘I think I broke the intrasnets’ that wouldn’t make you ashamed to be my child, would it?”

  “I might sit on the other side of the room, but I wouldn’t be ashamed.”

  “Plus, I could chat up all the ladies and put in a good word for you. That would be nice, don’t you think?”

  “The perfect wingman, my Mom.”

  She kept the jokes coming, “Oh yeah, we could room together in the dorm. I know it’s boys only, but I think they would give me a pass, because I’m your mother.”

  “Yes, that’s my mom, doing a keg stand. Yes, that’s her in a toga sheet. No, she is too busy going on panty raids to finish her term paper. Does that sound about right?” He nudged her with his elbow.

  “Pretty accurate.” She leaned her head onto his shoulder and took a long, satisfying breath of winter air. “I’m so proud of you. Your father would be too, if he was still here. The first college student in our family. You’re going to do great things.”

  Scott laid the sarcasm on, real thick. “Yep, I’m going to change the world.”

  She giggled at him, “You will. I know it. In your own way you’ll make a difference. Now, let’s get home. I’m freezing, and we have presents to unwrap.”

  They stepped toward the street to cross the intersection.

  The roads were covered in a fresh layer of powder. There had been zero traffic during their walk, so they didn’t bother to check for oncoming vehicles and neither of them heard the SUV.

  Scott woke two weeks later in the hospital. Police told him the story. The driver was a kid, taking his brand-new Nissan Pathfinder out for a joy ride in the snow. He was going too fast, with no traction devices and thought he had the neighborhood to himself.

  Scott got a broken leg, fractured wrist and a concussion for Christmas that year. His Mother wasn’t so lucky. The news devastated him. Doctors were called in when his heart rate climbed past one-seventy on the monitor. He didn’t speak for days. Didn’t eat. Scott was alone in the world and didn’t want to live anymore.

  One day, Scott woke to a knock at the hospital door. A deep and confident voice said, “Hello, my name is Brother Paul. I volunteer at this hospital from time to time. I am a representative from a local church. I would love to sit and talk with you, may I come in?” The man’s features were kind, yet strong. There was something likable and familiar about him.

  Paul waited for Scott to nod, before he entered.

  Paul’s words were chosen carefully. His speech pattern hypnotizing. “I have heard you have had a difficult time recently. Not only the wounds your body has sustained, but an unimaginable loss. Someone was taken from you. I understand exactly how you feel. I have lost a loved one myself.”

  Scott never knew why he said, yes. At that time, he wanted to be alone. To suffer through the pain and let the darkness swallow him whole, but after their discussion, his spirit was lifted. Hope seemed possible. Paul visited him every day at the hospital until Scott was well enough to be released. The following Sunday, he joined Paul and instantly fell in love with the community. They became the family he so desperately needed.

  Scott sucked in short breaths. His tunnel vision had worsened. He clutched his
chest. His heart banged against his ribcage. So close to blacking out. Owen’s blood pooled around his skull. A sense of remorse grew as he fought against the panic attack.

  I shouldn’t have given Michael such a hard time.

  The Pastor had gotten close and personal with this horrible disease. The result almost caused him to end his life.

  This is my first time dealing with the infected and look at me. Shame hit him hard. Everything he preached to the Pastor applied to himself.

  He needed to get a grip and steady his frazzled nerves. People were counting on him.

  Scott repeated a phrase to himself.

  I can do this, I am strong.

  After a dozen times the words rang true. He was back in control. He steadied his shaking hand and extracted the knife from Owen’s skull. He ran the blade across his thigh and cleaned the dark sticky goo from the polished finish. Scott slid his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

  His orbs were on fire. He angled the blade and caught his reflection. Bright red eyes glared back at him. It was a challenge to see one’s self in this state. He placed the weapon back into the driver’s sheath.

  Owen was heavier than Scott would have guessed and carrying a limp body was its own obstacle.

  The muscles surrounding Scott’s spine strained as he positioned the body in the front row. He placed the boy’s arms across his chest and closed the open eyelids. Owen appeared to be simply resting.

  Scott straightened himself. Out the rear windows he spotted the church shrinking in the distance. He kept his focus beyond the piles of dead or the remaining army that mindlessly chased after them. They were already blocks away from their home.

  Emotions swelled.

  It was a simple, rectangular shaped building. By design they left the facade plain. Money spent on beautiful pillars or ornate stained-glass windows was viewed as wasteful. Guns, bullets and medical supplies were their main goals.

  And by God, it was the correct choice.

  Despite the dull appearance, the place was home. More than he could ever put into words, Scott was going to miss the drab, hole in the wall, building he so proudly called his church.