P. A. Atherton
ISBN-13:978-1542345200 ISBN-10:1542345200
Chapter One
Confession
“Yes, my son?” Father MacKenzie repeated. The confessional booth was hot and stifling, and the purple satin cushion he leaned against was drenched in sweat. Disgusting. He waited a few impatient moments for a response.
“Listen, if you don't have anything to confess, then perhaps you should -” A low groan sounded on the other side of the meshed divider. “Bless me Father, for I have sinned.”
“And what is your sin?”
Another groan, followed by silence.
“Hello?” “I'm sorry, Father, I don't think I have long left, and I need a clean conscience before I die. It's been three weeks since my last confession. Since then, I've...”
The portly priest fanned himself with his copy of the Bible, and sighed. Occasionally, hearing confessions were interesting, other times, it was tedious. He hated hearing people's boring little problems, pissing and moaning about nothing.
And since the air conditioning went out, it was unbearable to spend any time in that cramped little box. The large, old church, with its high, vaulted ceilings, was nearly impossible to cool anyway. He should have stayed in Rome. At least there, the heat never got so high and humid as it did in this dismal little town.
“Listen, my child, I'm sure other people would like to give confession, so if you can't get things in order, come back later, and I'll -”
Great, another drunkard.
A rapid wheezing sounded through the wire mesh, and he peeked through into the darkened booth. The man had collapsed, and was leaning against the doorway, breathing in quick, sharp bursts.
Father MacKenzie started to rise when the booth shook violently. He shot his hands out against the walls to brace himself. The shaking continued, and arms ripped through the thin wire mesh, curled hands grasping at him wildly.
He tried to slap the arms away, but the gesture was futile. The strong hands grabbed his vestments, and pulled him in.
“Help! Help, I'm being attacked!” He shouted loudly, thankful that a few lingering patrons had remained in the church. Surely one of them would assist.
The mesh ripped wider as the man shoved his head through, gnashing his teeth wildly at the stunned priest. But just as the man's head pushed through it was yanked backwards, and the priest was let go.
He swung open the confessional door, and watched as two large men tried to pin down the limbs of his attacker. One of the men screamed, as a large chunk of flesh was bitten loose from his
meaty arm. He punched the assailant in the face, over and over, until the body quit moving. The two men and the priest stood silently for a moment, looking at the deranged man in shock. His face was bloodied by the beating. He appeared to be in his early thirties, and looked, for the most part, like a normal person. Nothing to signify the bizarre display of violence that had ensued.
Father MacKenzie broke the silence. “Thank you both, I don't understand what -” He was cut short by a sudden slam against the front doors. The three turned to look, an
expression of fear creeping over their faces as the doors burst open and bodies poured through. The priest turned to run, heading for the church cellar, and the pair of men quickly followed, along with an old nun who had been attending the candles.
When they were all through, Father MacKenzie braced the heavy oak door with a table. The door shuddered, and the other men helped stack the room's furniture against the door, while the frightened old nun watched from the far wall.
Once they ran out of objects to barricade with, they all joined the nun on the far wall, and watched silently as the door shook again and again. The injured man grabbed a spare robe off a hook and tore strips out of it, fashioning a makeshift bandage for his arm. The blood continued to gush from the wound, though, and he dropped unconscious to the ground, face pale.
The other man looked at him and turned to the priest. “We've got to do something for him. Is there a phone down here?”
Father MacKenzie laughed and waved his arms about. “Look around you,” he said, gesturing to the old stone and mortar walls, “Does it look like you'd find a phone down here? The only one in the entire church is in my office upstairs.”
The nun remained silent and crossed herself. She walked over to the collapsed man and took a peek under the bandages. “I had some training in first aid, many years ago, but I'm not sure there's anything I can do for this man. There's been too much blood loss, and if we can't get him to a hospital soon, he will die.”
“Well, he's dead then. We're not risking our lives by opening those doors.” The priest pointed to the pounding doors.
They all stood silently, listening to the constant thudding of fists against the doors, and the shrieking from the other side. Finally, Father MacKenzie walked over to the furniture blockade and opened a tipped over cabinet. The sound of clinking glass echoed for a moment, and he pulled out a large bottle of wine.
“Time for a drink.” He popped open the bottle and put his lips to it. Tilting his head back, he took a few quick gulps, and lowered his head. “That hits the spot, quite nicely. Would you like a drink, Sister?”
She shook her head and fingered her rosary, muttering a rapid string of prayers under her breath. The large man turned away from the bleeding body in the corner.
“I could sure go for a drink, Father.” emptied, Father MacKenzie walked back over to the overturned cabinet and grabbed another bottle.
The priest passed the bottle, and the two finished the sacramental wine over the following few minutes, passing it back and forth. When it was
“Blood of Christ, bottoms up.” He grimaced, taking several large gulps. The following hours were spent idly, the two men slowly drinking themselves to sleep, while the thin old nun contorted her wrinkled face in prayer, never ceasing in her vigil over the fallen body in the corner. It wasn't long before the lights failed, and they all sat in total darkness, with only the unending pounding on the door to accompany them.
Father MacKenzie sat in the dark, drinking more and more, until he was drunker than he had been in years. The drink calmed him, and he was almost able to ignore the terrifying pounding on the doors. His breathing was slow and shallow, and it echoed loudly in the stone cellar.
He wasn't ready to die, so he murmured a silent prayer, hoping for a sign of salvation. A sign soon came, when a scream upstairs rang out, and the pounding ceased, followed by another shrill
scream that was quickly cut short. It seemed safer, for the moment at least, and he considered going back upstairs, when a low moaning sounded in the dark. He held his breath, and the moaning grew louder. The old nun shrieked, and he listened in fear as he heard her being violently beaten, her body thudding against the hard ground as she groaned in pain.
Silence came quickly, and Father MacKenzie sat paralysed in the unforgiving darkness. The shuffling of feet soon echoed off the walls and he heard another scream, as the other man struggled with his unseen assailant.
They grappled for what seemed like forever and soon a gurgling sound could be heard, and silence again filled the room. He carefully tiptoed away from the source of the noise, feeling his way along the wall into the far corner.
Holding his breath, he waited. An aimless shuffling could be heard, as the mysterious attacker ambled about the room searching for him. He didn't move, and listened in fear every time the footsteps approached, but they always seemed to turn back
at the last second. Every time they did, he ran through a silent prayer in his head and thanked God, before asking him for a way out.
The man again shuffled closer, and Father MacKenzie's hands closed around an empty wine bottle laying on the floor. He slowly stood up, rai
sing the bottle high over his head. When the man closed in further, he could feel his hot breath on his face, and with a mighty swing he brought the bottle crashing down on its skull. The bottle shattered and a satisfying thud hit his ears as the body fell to the ground.
Not taking any chances, and still holding the sharp broken end of the bottle in his sweaty hands, he leaped on top of the fallen body and began stabbing it repeatedly with the pointed glass. Every thrust was accompanied with a spastic twitch of the body, but he kept going, stabbing over and over again, feeling the hot blood splatter against his face and arms.
It was a long time before he was sure that the man was dead. Rising to his feet, he dropped the end of the bottle to the ground with a clink. He felt a renewed vigour flow through him and he smiled.
Killing the man was a liberating experience, and he found that he had thoroughly enjoyed it. He had a sneaking suspicion that he'd be getting another chance to kill again, and he sincerely hoped he would.
Thou shalt not kill. The commandment ran through his head, but it seemed empty and hollow. He slowly stumbled in the darkness to the door, and began lifting the heavy furniture away. The bright light temporarily blinded him as the door cracked open, and he cautiously crept out, peeking his head around the corner.
Many of the pews were overturned, and a dead body lay near the altar. Nobody living was in sight though. He walked confidently to the large, ornately carved doors at the entrance, and closed them tightly. His office beckoned him, and he walked towards the back, plopping down heavily in his well-cushioned chair. His vestments were covered in blood and he had dark crimson stains covering both of his hands. Too tired and too drunk to get up, he decided he could wash up later. Something about the blood satisfied him. Like war paint, he thought. Like war paint, for he had just done battle with a great evil, and came
out victorious. God wanted him to live, and the blood splattered across his body was proof of it.
. Chapter Two
Riot
Clive sighed. The voice on the radio said there was another accident, this one on Lexington and 3rd. That made it the twelfth accident since his shift started four hours ago.
What the hell is going on? The city had gone mad, and the hospital was overflowing with people. They had already set up a blockade around the hospital, and rioting seemed imminent. Clive had only joined the force a few months ago, and had yet to encounter anything serious. When he had fished out the riot gear the other day, it was covered in a thick layer dust.
In fact, had the town ever seen a riot? The idea would have been laughable, a few days ago, before everything went to shit. It was such a quiet, peaceful little town, but according to reports on the television, the problem was everywhere.
Something to do with a disease, that's all he knew. The infected people would get incredibly sick, after an extremely short incubation period. Then, they turned hopelessly violent, attacking everyone within sight, doing whatever damage they could.
Strangely, though, they seemed to have some intelligence left. For instance, they never attacked each other, only the uninfected. It was almost as if the virus, or whatever it was, knew what it was doing, and tried to spread itself as quickly as possible.
Five officers on the tiny police force were already hospitalized, and everyone else on staff had to pull double shifts to keep the city from erupting into a frenzy.
Clive sighed again, and got ready to issue a reply to the accident call, when dispatch put in a new order. It seemed that the rioting had started, and everyone was needed outside the hospital. He flicked on his siren, and turned towards the blockade.
When the hospital got within sight, his heart plummeted. It was a disaster. A dozen officers were standing behind the blockade, in full riot gear, firing at random into the surging crowd. Rubber bullets, Clive figured, but they could easily kill.
Blood will spill today. The smoke and tear gas was thick in the air ahead, so he stopped half a block away, and popped open his trunk. His riot gear sat there, recently cleaned, and he put it on in a rush. The gas mask fit awkwardly, and he found it hard to breath in. Quickly pulling on the rest of the thick, padded outfit, he grabbed his clear plastic riot shield in one hand, and held his gun in the other.
The gun was made to shoot rubber bullets, and was generally considered one of the best nonlethal weapons on the market, although the bullets hit with enough force to kill, if you didn't aim carefully.
Armed and ready, he ran towards the blockade, and immediately opened fire at the charging people. They ran at him with bared teeth, like
dogs. He shivered, and prayed the blockade would hold. On both sides of him, his fellow officers continued their firing into the thick smoke, and several dozen bodies lay scattered on the ground, trampled by the mob.
A tall man, with long, apelike arms, came straight towards him, and leaped over the barricade at him. It hit him with a heavy thud, and he fell back to the ground, trying hard to get the heavy body off of him. The officer next to him clubbed the man with the butt of his gun, and Clive scrambled to his feet.
“Thanks, I owe you one.” “You don't owe me shit, just keep -” Another body cleared the barricade, and cut his words short with a hard hit to the head. The officer collapsed, and Clive aimed a shot at the back of the attacker's neck. The shot either killed it, or knocked it out, but he didn't care either way. He dropped his gear, and heaved his fallen comrade over his shoulder.
“Cover me!” He shouted to nobody in particular. The officer to his left nodded as they fired into the swarming mass.
Clive carried the man to his police cruiser, which sat parked thirty yards away. He gently set him in the passenger seat, and closed the door. When he looked back to the blockade, he froze.
Fuck. The entire squad was overrun, and the infected started flooding towards him. He flung open the driver side door, and hopped in. With a deft motion, he flung the car in reverse, and sped away from the pursuing bodies.
When he had about fifty feet between them, he shifted into drive, and spun around, heading due south. The police station was only a mile away, and he prayed that it was intact.
The officer in the passenger seat moaned, and pulled off his gas mask. He rubbed his forehead, where a red mark was already turning into a bruise.
Looking to the side, he mumbled. “Stenton?” “My fucking head is throbbing, but I'm otherwise alright. What happened?”
Clive kept his eyes on the road, but spoke up. “Yeah. You alright, Davis?” Clive swerved around a car that had wrapped itself around a street light. “You got hit, and went down. I carried you to the car, and when I looked up, the blockade had fallen. We're the only two left.”
“Shit. I mean... shit. Shit shit shit. How the hell could things have gotten so bad, so quick?”
“I don't know, man, I just don't know.” The pair drove on quietly, the eerily silent radio creating a strange sense of foreboding. The storefronts around them were all smashed open, and the street was littered with broken glass and fluttering paper.
They turned the last corner to the police station, and Clive slammed on the brakes. They both stared forward, jaws hanging slack.
The station was swarming with scuffling bodies, and the building was burning furiously, thick tendrils of black smoke spiralling upwards. And with the screeching of the brakes, the entire crowd of people all stopped in their tracks, and slowly turned to face them. Like the start of a battle, hundreds of voices let loose a horrifying scream, and they charged the lone police cruiser as one.
“Fuck! Move!” Davis screamed, and Clive slammed the car into reverse, driving backwards at top speed.
The mob continued their charge, and Clive turned his head backwards, struggling to drive around the various crashed cars and various debris at high speed. He swerved back and forth, narrowly missing a pickup truck that was flipped on its side, while Davis let loose an unending flow of obscenities.
Once he had gotten some distance between them, he pulled out of rever
se, and made a rapid U-turn. A quick glance in his rear view mirror showed the crowd still coming, running at full speed, staring at them with hateful eyes.
Clive looked back at the road just in time to see a semi truck barreling towards them. He swore, and banked a hard left. The car hopped the curb, and smashed into the front of a hardware store. Clive's eyes shot open. He coughed hard, a splatter of blood shooting out of his mouth onto the steering wheel. With a sudden realization, he looked around, panicked. Davis was slumped over in the seat next to him, the twisted leg of a ladder piercing his chest, ripping all the way through both his body and the seat.
He fumbled with his seatbelt, and pulled on the door handle. It was jammed shut, butting against the brick wall the car was embedded in. He looked behind him, and a few blocks away the crowd was still approaching.
Clive dragged himself through the broken window, and stood up on shaky legs. He started running, limping painfully with every step. His ankle was definitely sprained. Thanking God, he hoped that was all that was wrong with him.
The crowd started closing in, and he pushed himself harder, pumping his legs as fast as they would go.
Oh, god. The sound of hundreds of approaching feet pounding against the pavement was all he could hear, and the occasional scream of anger. The downtown storefronts blurred past, and he kept running, trying to put some distance between him and his pursuers.
It finally dawned on him that he couldn't run forever. He had to do something. An idea flashed through his head, and he turned down the next alley, moving instinctively. A fire escape ladder hung just out of reach up ahead, and he leaped for it. He pulled himself up a few rungs, just as the mob caught up with him.
He tucked his feet upwards, out of reach of the arms, the thick mass of arms that stretched up at him, grasping wildly. Straining his muscles harder than he ever had before, he continued his vertical ascent, and when he reached the top, he dropped over the side. He struggled to pull the ladder up, but one of the infected was on it, climbing towards him with frightening speed.
The Outbreak Page 1