The Outbreak

by Atherton, P. A.

  “What are you doing?” Steve yelled.

  “Making sure they're dead. We don't need anyone following us.” They drove past the wreckage slowly and Vincent sighed with relief. The truck was totaled, and the bodies were twisted and broken. They were safe, for now. He pulled in reverse and turned around, heading for the highway.

  “Where to now?”

  Vincent turned to Steve. “Wherever the road takes us.”

  Chapter Forty One

  Left Behind

  Dante sat by the window, never wavering from his belief that revenge would come. It took many hours, but the chance finally arrived. The old man walked down the street and he swelled with rage. There was the bastard that stole Noah from him and he would make him regret his decision.

  Lining up the sights of his rifle with the old man's head, he prepared to squeeze the trigger. No, not painful enough. Dante wanted the old man to know he was dying. No mercy. He lowered the sights and fired a shot into his chest, missing the heart and piercing the lung. He'd die quickly, but he'd definitely know he was dying.

  A scream in the distance startled him and he turned to see two young men run towards the fallen old man, guns readied. Dante aimed at the taller one, with long brown hair and fired. The shot missed and he fired again. Another miss. It was hard to hit a moving target and Dante was out of practice.

  The young men stopped over the body of the old man and looked over him. Dante lined up another shot and fired. The shorter of the two went down, clutching his belly, and the men turned to fire at Dante through the window.

  Dante ducked back under cover and waited for the hail of bullets to cease.

  John groaned in pain as the bullet smacked wetly into his stomach.

  “I've been shot...” Paul raised his head in anger and the two brothers started firing at their attacker. The bullets failed to find their mark and the man in the window dropped out of sight. They continued firing until their guns clicked empty. In a panicked rush, Paul ejected his clip and inserted a new one, just as the man popped back into view.

  John stood in a daze, clutching his gut and staring at his bloodied hands in growing horrid fascination.

  “I've been shot, Paul.”

  Paul grunted. “Stay with me, John! I can't lose you, too!” He turned and continued his barrage of fire, but the man was too good for him and again vanished from sight.

  “I can't walk. Let me lie down here and rest.” John plopped back onto the floor.

  “John, don't do this to me!”

  A howl sounded in the distance and a dozen running bodies appeared on the horizon.

  “Shit, let's go!” Paul turned to run.

  “I can't walk. Please, help me, Paul.” John gestured with his bloody hands and moaned. Paul hesitated. “Shit.” He stooped over and grabbed his brother by the arms and pulled him to his feet. Bending over, he dropped him over his shoulder and stood, grunting with exertion. Paul started walking slowly, unable to handle the weight of his brother. Another gunshot narrowly missed him, kicking up the pavement by his feet. He pressed himself to move faster, but speed wouldn't come easily.

  Paul turned and saw the crowd approaching faster, and he struggled to pick up the pace. Tears started streaming down his face and the terror grew within him as the mob closed in faster and faster.

  “I can't do this, John.” Another shot rang out and Paul felt a sharp pain as the bullet bit into his thigh. He dropped to his knees and John rolled off of him onto the ground. He tried to lift him again, but couldn't stand under the weight.

  “I can't carry you, John.”

  John looked into his brother's eyes and cried out. “Don't leave me here!” Paul could barely see through the tears. The only thing he could make out was the look of fear on John's face and the mob that was now less than a block away. Panicking, he knelt down and kissed his brother's cheek. He whispered in his ear. “I'm so sorry, John. I'm so sorry.”

  Panicking, he turned to run, leaving John behind as the swarm of infected closed in.

  “Paul, don't leave me here!” Paul wiped away the tears from his eyes as he stumbled away, clutching his wounded thigh, which burst with a fresh wave of pain with every passing step. The cries of his brother made him cry harder and he tried to shake them loose, running as fast as his legs would let him.

  “Paul!” He shook his head furiously, flinging the tears away, and kept running. The fear of death was in him and he felt sure that he was going to die any moment.

  “Paul, please -” John's voice was cut short, and Paul heard a gurgling scream as the infected collapsed over top of his brother. The scream was cut short and he knew his brother was dead. He kept running anyway, trying to put distance between him and his pursuers, trying to put distance between him and the guilt of the terrible act of cowardice he had just

  committed. Something hit his knees from behind and he went down onto the pavement hard.

  Rolling over, he saw one of the infected grabbing his ankles and pulling itself up his body, teeth bared and dripping with saliva, like a rabid dog. He put the pistol against its forehead and squeezed the trigger. The body fell limp and Paul hurried to his feet, as another infected closed in on him just a few feet away. He fired three shots into it and it fell backwards, blood pooling from it's chest.

  He turned to run, taking great limping strides, and after a few blocks of constant running, just when he felt he could take no more, he turned to look behind him and saw the streets were empty. At that moment a great,

  unbearable grief rose up and seized him and he hunched over, sobbing uncontrollably. That last look of fear in John's face was all he could see and he felt his gut churn. With a mighty retch, he vomited hard, splattering the pavement with the contents of his stomach.

  John was dead. His only brother, his closest friend, dead, and he had done nothing to save him. His body started shaking, wracked with guilt and grief, and he felt like he would cry so hard that his eyes would start bleeding. His face felt hot and flushed and he momentarily forgot the terrible pain in his thigh. All he could think about was John.

  He felt like a coward and a traitor, of the worst sort. He didn't deserve to live, not when John had died. Putting the pistol to his head, he closed his eyes and braced himself. This was it. He pulled the trigger. Click.

  He looked at the gun and started shaking again. It was too much too bear and he couldn't go back to Eileen and the boy and tell them that everyone else was dead except for him. He didn't know what to do.

  Finally he realized that he couldn't leave the others alone. They couldn't protect

  themselves. He would do everything he could to save them. Save them, like he failed to save his brother, or even poor Isaac.

  He slowly started heading back to the apartment. He was in no hurry to return, no hurry to see the look of disgust on Eileen's face when she found out that John died and his cowardly brother lived. He'd never felt such shame before and he hoped he'd never be given the opportunity to feel any worse than he did at that moment.

  The ascent up the ladder was hard on his wounded leg, but he grit his teeth and climbed up as fast as he could, punishing himself with the pain that came with each step. When he reached the top, he headed for the doorway and turned the knob, before stopping.

  What would he tell Eileen? What would he do? The questions burned through his mind and he decided not to tell them that John's death was his fault. There was no reason for them to know. Besides, they were under his care now and he'd defend Eileen and the boy to the death. No more cowardice, no more betrayal. He'd die to save them, like he should have died to save his brother.

  The thought of John brought along another wave of guilt and his puffy red eyes stung with the hot tears that rolled down his swollen cheeks. He stayed there, hand on the doorknob and cried until he couldn't cry anymore. A strange numbness came over him and he felt like he would never feel anything again.

  Turning the knob and heading down the staircase, he walked into the apartment. Eileen
stood up to greet him.

  “Where were you guys? You can't keep disappearing on me like that.” She paused and turned her head, trying to look behind Paul. “Where are John and Isaac?”

  “Dead.” She smiled for a brief second, before her lips twisted into a frown. “Wait, what do you mean? They can't be.”

  “They are. I'm sorry.” Her lips quivered and she keeled over, starting to cry uncontrollably. Noah walked over to her, rubbed his little hand over her back and embraced her, trying his hardest to comfort her.

  Her tears made Paul feel an irrational anger towards her and he tried to shake the feeling loose. She had every right to cry. She was grieving too, and he had no right to be angry with her. It was Paul that deserved the anger, the righteous anger for his cowardice. He knelt down to console her.

  “It'll be alright.” His words felt empty and meaningless.

  “I just can't believe they're dead. How did it happen?”

  Paul hesitated. “They got shot, by another survivor, over at the Geronimo.”

  “What's the Geronimo?”

  “A small bar a short distance away from here.”

  “What were you all doing over there?” Paul decided to only tell her a half truth. “We followed Isaac out there. We don't know what his reason was for leaving.”

  “I just can't believe it.” She muttered between sobs. “Well, it's true. But we're still alive, and we'll have to keep going on surviving the best we can.”

  She nodded weakly and stood up. “You're right. Of course you're right. What do we do know?”

  “We just keep on living, as long we can. I won't let you down like I did them.”

  “It's not your fault. You did all you could.” Her words stung him and he sighed.

  “I could have done more. I could have saved them.”

  “No, then you would be dead too. At least you survived.” Paul felt sure that she would be less than ecstatic if she knew the truth, but he would never let her know just how much he failed his brother. The truth would leave her hating him as he hated himself and he couldn't bear it. So he just nodded and walked over to the window, staring out at the building across the street. It would be a long time before he left the window and an even longer time before he felt anything but hatred for himself, and an even more intense hatred for their mysterious assailant at the bar. He would avenge John and Isaac's death, he swore it. He would avenge their death and he would make the man suffer first, until he couldn't take the pain anymore. Even if it killed him to do so.

  Chapter Forty Two

  Loose Bonds

  Clive struggled to sleep, but he just couldn't do it. His thoughts raced through his sore head, memories of the shame of what had happened to him haunting him constantly. He couldn't take it.

  The only thing that kept him going was the prospect of escaping and killing the bearded man that put him though such a hellish experience. But as the days slowly passed, the possibility of escape seemed more and more remote.

  It was early in the morning, before the sun had risen, and the bearded man was still asleep, wherever it was that he slept in the damnable house. Clive fumbled again against the ropes, but as always found his bondage too tight and the man's skill too great to compete with.

  Giving up, his thoughts again turned to the events of the day before. He'd dealt with a couple rape cases during his short tenure as an officer, but he'd had no idea of the terrible trauma they caused. Now he understood. The irrational guilt, the anger, the helplessness, it was unbearable.

  Footsteps slowly ascended the staircase and the tall, bearded man came into view. He wore the same flannel shirt and jeans he wore the day before and Clive could smell the man's peculiar, distinct scent, the scent that lingered on Clive's own clothing so that he was forced to relive his horrible experience over and over again.

  “Good morning, my sweet little friend. How'd you sleep?” He threw his head back and laughed. Clive was determined not to talk to the man and tried to glare at him, but couldn't meet his gaze. The look in his eyes was taunting and reminded him of what had happened. With shame, he looked down and out, staring intently at the floor.

  “Don't worry, I'm not ready for you yet. I'm going to start on the pretty little thing first.” He left the room and walked into the bedroom down the hall. Alice's screams made Clive's blood boil with renewed purpose. He tried again to gain purchase with his

  feet and lifted the bed a few inches off the ground, before falling back down. The bed in the other room started rocking and he could hear her sobs as the man grunted heavily.

  Clive summoned all his strength and lifted the bed again, this time slamming it down hard, timing it to coincide with the rocking of the bed in the other room. He repeatedly lifted the bed and slammed it back down, and he heard a satisfying snap as one of the ropes broke loose. He continued struggling and lifting and eventually the ropes around his torso burst free. He rose to his feet. His wrists were still bound behind his back, but he was free. He crept down the hallway, chancing a brief glance into the other bedroom.

  The man was still on top of Alice, thrusting hard and grunting heavily. His back was to the door and Clive thanked God that he wasn't seen. Silently padding down the staircase, he walked into the kitchen and rifled through the drawers, searching for a knife. The second drawer had several large blades. He drew one with a serrated edge and started cutting the ropes around his wrist.

  It was awkward, but he made steady progress and soon was free. He searched through the knife drawer again and drew the biggest blade out, admiring it in the moonlight that streamed through the window.

  He ascended the stairs as quietly as he could and entered the bed room. The man had just finished and lay there on top of Alice, chest heaving from the exertion. Clive grabbed the man by his hair and started bashing him in the skull with the handle of the knife. The man fell limp.

  Alice rolled the heavy man off of her and looked up at Clive with tear-stained eyes. “Thank you.” She whispered weakly.

  Hank woke up with a splitting headache and looked around. He was in his bedroom, and as he tried to stand he realized he was tied up. The irony wasn't lost on him, but he wasted no time flexing his muscles, straining against the ropes. The ropes were tied too well and too tight, and he couldn't find any allowance for movement. Even his legs were tied together, the rope coiling around his legs, rising up from his ankles to his thighs.

  His two prisoners, now free, walked into the room. The police officer carried a large blade and they both stared at him with hateful eyes.

  “Kill him now.” The woman kicked at him, hitting him in the chest. The blow hurt a little, but Hank wasn't phased.

  “Is that the best you got, you little bitch?” He laughed and spat at her. The officer lunged forward, and Hank felt a piercing pain in his groin. He tried to look down to see how bad it was, but a rope around his forehead kept his head back and all he could do was stare forward.

  “That one was for Alice.” The man stabbed again, this time leaving the knife in his belly. Every breath was painful and he felt the pressure of the blade with every subtle movement of his body.

  “That one was for me.” The man spat on Hank's face and the two turned to leave. They walked down the staircase, leaving him alone.

  Hank struggled to break free, but every little move he made caused him a tremendous amount of pain and he quickly gave up. He started crying, but it hurt even to do that, so he quickly stopped. The terror of being left alone, to die a slow death, was more than he could handle. Now he had nothing to do, but wait for death to come. It was a long, long wait.

  Clive and Alice walked out the front door after he got his pistol back, as well as the bearded man's gun. He passed the other weapon to Alice and quickly explained how to work it. She wouldn't be a good shot, but it would be better than nothing.

  They climbed down the porch steps and looked down the street. It was empty, thankfully, and Clive led the way back to the apartment where the other survivors were.


  “Those two men from before led me back to their apartment and there were other survivors there as well. We should be safe there.”

  She nodded and they took off at a brisk pace. The sunlight was just coming over the horizon, casting them in a dim glow and stretching their shadows on into the distance. The walk was quiet and Clive prayed that they wouldn't encounter anything on the way there. He'd seen enough action over the past few weeks.

  They walked side by side and Clive froze as he heard Alice scream, followed by a loud clang. He turned to face her and she was gone. The manhole lid to his side was flipped over and he called down after her.

  “Are you alright?” “No, I think I've broken something.” She cried out in pain as she tried to stand up and fell back down with a splash. “My ankle is broken, and I think I've sprained my wrist.”

  “Shit. I'm coming down after you.” He climbed down the ladder into the darkened sewer and saw her laying in a pool of filth. “Give me your hand.” He looked up towards the stream of light flowing through the manhole and grimaced. “I don't think I can carry you out. The hole is too narrow.”

  She extended her arm and he pulled her to her feet. She winced and fell back down. “I can't stand up.”

  Clive thought for a moment and sighed. “Wait, I've got it! I'm going to leave you for a minute, and go back for some rope. Then I can pull you up.”

  “Don't leave me alone down here!” Alice started crying.

  “It'll be okay, I'll only be a minute. You remember how to use the gun?” She nodded weakly. He hurried up the ladder and ran back to the house. When he opened the door, he heard the bearded man cry out.