Betrayal

by Michael S. Gardner

  Chandler’s memory took him back to a time when he was happy, when the world was a far more stable environment than it was now. He saw his ex-wife before they were married, when she still had a heart-stopping smile with those thin, yet soft lips. Her soulful blue eyes, steely like a midwinter day, warmed Chandler as Rafael pounced on him and bit at his cheeks.

  The pain dissolved as Chandler was taken to another life, the will to fight as useless now as ever.

  ***

  Mark roamed the halls of the hospital, taking in not only the sight of the “tamed” dead, but trying to wrap his head around what the doctor had just told him. He looked at his arms, noting the once blue veins were now thin and black. No longer did blood flow through him as it had before. He truly was dead; no heart rate, no pulse, no need to breathe or feed. Mark was now in what McQuade had called a “state of simple existence.”

  He was still Mark Goodman, only now he was improved. The dead would no longer see him as another piece of meat on a buffet. Though Mark had been infected, the hunger possessed by the snarling monsters held captive within the hospital didn’t exist within him. All from the formula the doctor injected not only in Mark, but the remaining marines and a few other “survivors” who called this madhouse home.

  “I have beaten the infection,” he remembered McQuade saying.

  By creating a new race of monsters, Mark thought as he eyed a dead woman staring at him through a thick pane of glass. She didn’t growl, didn’t swipe at him. Instead it appeared as if she were studying him. Instinctively knowing something was off. Though her pale eyes lacked true definition, he could see the confusion in them. He took a step forward, she took two back.

  Instead of feeling relieved that he no longer had anything to fear from the infected, Mark felt sadness wash over him. As he leaned in to study one of Frank’s observation rooms, he saw four more infected, two of them children which couldn’t have been older than five or six, cower at the sight of him. He imagined that, to some, this would be a feeling of power. Finally, after two years, mankind had no reason to fear the dead, and he still felt scared and powerless. Now, instead of wondering when his time to die would come, Mark Goodman realized he was a slave. Not to the dead. Not to the doctor.

  “To existence,” he muttered.

  Mark shook his head. Mankind doesn’t apply to you anymore, does it?

  Maybe that was what bothered him the most. His humanity had been taken from him just as everything else had these last few years. He hadn’t asked for any of it—especial being part of some sick fucking experiment by a deranged old man who wanted to start anew, to create a race of beings that “Would not be bound by needs or wants.”

  Gritting his teeth, Mark slammed a hand against the glass.

  “Dammit.”

  Out in the middle of the city, Mark knew the fate of his fellow survivors—a term he now used loosely. They would be caught and captured, brought back here, and turned into something alive yet not.

  He looked up to see his reflection. His skin was that of a corpse: pasty.

  And he knew it would only be a matter of time before this new faction of beings was going to topple the Colony. He wondered how many would fight, and how many would die in an attempt to stave off the coming assault. Carol, Rafael, Jonathan’s daughter… So many were likely to perish.

  Maybe they’re the lucky ones, he thought while still staring at his reflection.

  Though Doctor McQuade had promised that this new life wouldn’t be as vacant as it had once been, Mark still found it difficult to believe that there was anything to look forward to.

  He recalled something he’d been taught in school; something about organisms that, when in the face of extinction, evolved and reproduced in order to survive in a world of predators. Was this what was to become of the human race? To become a shadow of its former self?

  “Evolution,” Mark mumbled and shook his head.

  He still couldn’t shake the image of the infant girl Frank McQuade’s assistant had set in his arms. The smile on the doctor’s face was… was reminiscent of what Mark recalled as true happiness. She was the first of her kind; that which was alive yet not. That little girl would be the link between the dead and the living.

  Mark’s lips twitched into a smile as the sight of that girl wrapping her tiny fingers around McQuade’s thumb came to mind and her sweet, innocent laughter filled his ears.

  “Maybe this isn’t going to be so bad.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Jensen’s lips tasted like bloody sandpaper, his tongue like a slimy piece of rotten goo. His hands, oh, they weren’t shy. As he moved to kiss her neck, feeling up on her ass, Kimberly feigned satisfaction with a few deep breaths and reached into her jeans pocket and pulled a switchblade that Rafael had given her.

  “Take your pants off,” she whispered in his ear.

  Jensen smiled, dropped his assault rifle on the ground, and unbuckled his belt.

  “I’m gonna make you scream, girl,” Jensen said as he unbuttoned his pants and let them drop to his feet.

  Kimberly slid her thumb up to the button release and waited for the bastard to lean down. When he did, using both hands to untie his boots, Kimberly ran up, depressed the release, and drove the blade into his neck four times.

  Jensen stumbled at first, wrapping his hand around his neck, but soon lost his footing and fell on his ass with a gargled yelp. Kimberly snatched the assault rifle and put two in Jensen’s chest. From the house, someone bellowed a screamed. Four gunshots followed.

  “Alicia,” she yelled. “Come on, sweetie.”

  Kimberly turned around and ran toward the first bus, which was painted completely black and had every window reinforced with steel plating. Three more shots echoed in the distance. A group of people screamed.

  What the hell’s going on, she wondered as she opened the back door. Alicia, with her backpack bouncing, was screaming for big sis.

  Kimberly stretched out her arms. “Over here, girl.”

  ***

  Trevor stuffed in the last of the canned goods his backpack could hold and zipped it up. There were rows of the stuff, not to mention pasta, and a few cases of bottled water up on the front display. If they could get all of it, they might be able to feed everyone at the camp for a few days, maybe a week or two. Shouldering the backpack, Trevor knew that, while this was indeed quite an accomplishment, this small victory wouldn’t be enough. Likely, in a week he’d either be out here or flying to a place uncomfortably far from the Colony. He knew that he’d have to—

  “Hey, man,” Jared said, from behind. “I’ve got enough meds. We could probably treat everyone back home.”

  “That’s good,” said Trevor, turning around and heading toward the door. “That’s good.”

  That place is a home for the damned, he thought, adjusting the position of the backpack’s straps. He knew then that he’d be defecting. He just didn’t know if he should do it now or after returning the supplies. If he mentioned such a mutiny, especially with Jonathan tagging along, it would be likely they’d force him to fly back at gunpoint. No, the mechanic has his daughter.

  Glancing back to the watchman, Trevor contemplated on just putting a bullet in him right now. Jonathan would never know the difference. Trevor could just say that the kid had been felled by a creeping infected, that he had to put him down. Then he could get the mechanic to help load the supplies and put one in the back of his head and leave his corpse in this godforsaken city. After all, who was Trevor Spencer to be a doomed society’s keeper? What had they ever done for him other than taking a hopeful survivor hostage, claiming they needed his chopper in order to scavenge for supplies?

  “Fucking assholes have two buses they could’ve used,” he muttered.

  “What was that,” Jared said, catching up to him.

  “Ah, nothin’,” answered Trevor. “My shoe’s untied.” He knelt down and messed with his shoe laces. “Keep an eye out,” he said, motioning to the door.

  �
�You don’t gotta worry about that, man,” said Jared. “My eyes are open all the time. Could definitely use some more celebs for the score.” He snickered and made for the entry with his sidearm drawn.

  Let’s see if you got eyes on the back of your head, kid. Trevor unholstered his .45 and fired two times. Jared dropped lifelessly to the ground, his gun clanking to the ground in front of him.

  “Guess not.”

  ***

  “S-Sarge,” Jonathan said.

  Gunnery Sergeant Bell took a step forward and ashed his cigar. “Tell me, Redman: Where’s Spence?”

  Ignoring the question, Jonathan took a step forward. “W-We thought you all were dead, Sarge. Trevor told us that you all died on the last raid.”

  Bell laughed. “That what he told you, huh? I guess that’s debatable at this point, wouldn’t ya say?”

  “How the hell… did you guys make it?” Jonathan wanted to say something about the eerily orange tint to the marine’s eyes, but he felt that he already knew the answer. The dead, even according to Bell himself, had apparently begun acting different. Two raids prior, when Shires and McKinnon had perished somewhere in this damned place, the Sarge had said that it seemed like they were becoming smarter, adapting so they could survive. They had become organized hunters. Many of the colonists had suspected such an accusation to be an extension of the truth, a façade to fuel the fear which kept him and the others in power. But now, after Jared’s encounter with dead that hadn’t acted normal—living dead who possessed the same bright hue in their eyes as Jonathan saw in the Sarge’s orbs—he was beginning to believe all the stories.

  The gunnery sergeant, moving quicker than Jonathan’s eyes could process, lunged and grabbed the mechanic.

  Feeling the air escape his lungs and the floor fall from his feet, he choked out: “W-Why are you—”

  “I said,” Bell lifted Jonathan up a few more inches and tightened his grip, “where is the pilot?”

  Jonathan, spittle dribbling down his cheek, said, “The… grocery store up… the… street.”

  “There,” said Bell, releasing the mechanic. “Wasn’t so hard, now was it?”

  Gulping air as if his lungs had never tasted the stuff, Jonathan backed up to the wall. “Sarge, what the—” He exhaled and rubbed his eyes. “—hell happened to you. Why are you looking for Spence, and why are your—”

  “That pilot,” barked Bell, “left me and Payton for dead.”

  “I had a feeling that prick might have done that. Carol did too.” Jonathan straightened up.

  Bell silently puffed his cigar. Jonathan noticed that the air smelled of rot; not overbearing like out in the city, but it was still present. Like it was wafting off the marine. Rubbing his sore neck, a thought occurred to Jonathan.

  “You said Payton made it,” he said. “Where is he?”

  “Scoping out the Colony?”

  “The Colony?” replied Jonathan. “Why?”

  “Say, how’s that daughter of yours?”

  “Sick.”

  “Isn’t that sad?” Bell tossed his cigar and cracked his neck.

  “What?”

  “Don’t worry,” said Bell, “Payton and a few new friends’ll take care of the Colony. You’ll die happy knowing that your daughter will continue on.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” Jonathan took a step back and reached for his sidearm with a shaky hand.

  Bell balled up his left fist and craned his head as he stared at it. “The Colony, Jonathan, abandoned us. Left us for dead.” He took a step toward the mechanic.

  “I-I told you,” Jonathan said, resting his hand on his sidearm, “that Trevor said you’d all been killed.”

  “And you believed him.”

  The glow of Bell’s eyes intensified. Jonathan’s stomach went light, and he took in a few deep breaths. Was the Sarge actually blaming him for the cowardly pilot’s betrayal? How the hell was he supposed to know Spencer’s story had been a farce?

  “L-Look, Sarge, I don’t know what’s wrong—”

  The air in his lungs was forced out with a dreadful sidekick from Bell. Jonathan flew backward, hitting the wall. Every part of his body was immediately in pain. He was pulled up, his back dragging across the wall. When Jonathan was finally able to focus, he saw a bite wound on Bell’s neck.

  “What’s wrong, mechanic, is that you, and everyone else at that goddamn farmhouse, are the reason that me and Payton are what we are. We should be dead, but instead we’re something else. And you, and everyone else, are going to pay for it.” The Sarge released his grip and let Jonathan fall back to the floor. Before Jonathan could even search for his next words, Bell hit him with a swift right hook that loosened some teeth and sent a few more crashing to the floor.

  “You see,” Bell continued, leaning over Jonathan, “everyone needed us. Needed what we could do. You all looked at me and the other marines as if we were your last fucking hope. You said that you couldn’t do it without out us, that the Colony would be doomed if we didn’t go out and scavenge these streets, these apartments, these dark alleys you and the rest were oh so afraid to explore.

  “We were so goddamn important, yet no one came and searched for us.”

  “Sarge,” pleaded Jonathan, “Spence told us you were all—”

  A backhand silenced him.

  “Payton and I, we waited on the roof of a corner store surrounded by those pus fucks for fifteen hours before someone found us.” Bell laid his hands on Jonathan’s shoulders. “And you know what? The sick fuck that found us just so happened to be a man with a cure for the infection.”

  Jonathan’s eyes went wide and he tried taking in a breath. He spat out a glob of blood and said, “Someone found… the cure? We can… We can—”

  “I didn’t say he found the cure; I said he found a cure. Did you notice my eyes? A bright orange they are, yes?” Bell chuckled. “I guess you can call it a side effect of what that bastard injected us with. Oh, did I forget to mention,” he rubbed the neck wound, “that he infected us beforehand?”

  “You’re infected?” Jonathan asked between coughs.

  “Say,” said Bell, “what’s the name of that daughter of yours, anyway? Tina, right?”

  Jonathan nodded and pulled his pistol out. “You’ll never hurt my baby.”

  “Oh, but I will.” Bell grabbed the mechanic’s gun hand and moved it to the right, where his first and only shot struck the wall. “But not before I hurt you.” The Sarge squeezed so hard Jonathan’s hand broke in several places.

  The mechanic screamed as his pistol fell beside his right foot.

  Bell threw him into the opposite wall; Jonathan’s neck snapped from the impact, but he wasn’t dead. Laying in a sprawl, Jonathan watched the Sarge pull out and light another cigar. Blinking rapidly, he thought of Christina, his daughter, and what this sick fuck was going to do with her.

  ***

  Carol Beswith heard the first gunshots coming from the slop line. She’d talked with a few patrolmen about the idea of picking up and leaving if Trevor and the others hadn’t made it back by the next day, and how they were going to pick and choose those most able to survive the trip. She had no idea where they would go, but she couldn’t afford the liability of someone who was either unwilling or unable to hold their own out in the deadlands. But that first echo of gunfire threw a wrench into her plan.

  The three guards drew their firearms and made for the detached garage as a flurry of people swarmed the yard like chickens with their heads cut off. Parents were chasing after their children; older folks were urging their loved ones on by pulling and pushing them away from the slop line.

  Carol felt her heart jump in her throat as Rafael gave chase to Jonathan’s daughter and pounced on her like a rabid beast. One of the colonists ran up and speared him off the poor girl with his shoulder, but only sacrificed himself. Rafael tore into the man’s throat, a rush of crimson spilling as he peeled back a slab of flesh. Christina, the little girl, got up to run just
as one of the guards took aim at Rafael. The bullet that should have ended the head of security’s meal dug its way home in the back of Christina’s head instead. The guard who fired the shot looked to the gun, then to the girl, and then turned the weapon on himself.

  On the other side of the property at the East Outpost, a group of citizens were making their way up the stairs and onto the wall. Two shadowy figures were chasing them down, arms outstretched.

  Carol’s chin sank onto her chest. All that she had worked to preserve, the lives of numerous people that had counted on her and the others, was falling apart as quick as the world did just two years ago. Rafael, who was now nowhere in sight, hadn’t taken much flesh from the man who had briefly saved Christina; he was lumbering to his feet, a new life force flowing within him. As soon as an elderly couple ambled past him, the newest living corpse was in pursuit. From the direction of the detached garage, Carol could clearly make out smoke billowing skyward and the tips of flames as they licked the opposite end of a few homes.

  She wanted to cry, to plop down right where she was and accept that God just didn’t want her or anyone else left alive on this planet. Yet her will to survive drove her forward, creeping in the shadow of the wall.

  ***

  Snatching Jared’s pistol and placing it at the small of his back, Trevor looked down at the corpse. Blood was pooling out beneath him.

  “Sorry, kid,” he said. “You were dead weight.”

  “The same could be said for you, Spence.”

  Trevor’s neck turned so quickly he thought it a miracle it hadn’t snapped. Seeing Gunnery Sergeant Bell standing at the entry of the grocery store with the head of Jonathan Redman in the grip of his left hand tightened Trevor’s gut. He retrieved the pistol and emptied the clip. Bell stood staring as each bullet entered his flesh.