Plague War (Book 3): Retaliation

by Hodge, Alister

  Sure, he never truly believed it would be the undead who decided to rise up and end the world, but he always knew, deep down, that civilization was fragile.

  It cost him two wives, but they just did not understand. His obsession was not dangerous; it was life-saving. That they couldn’t see it was neither here nor there. Those relationships were things of the past, a past that was not only long since gone but belonged to a different world entirely. Henry wished the women no ill-will. He loved them both very much, to that day he still loved them. He strongly doubted either of them would have survived, especially Cheryl. The levels of naivety she managed to achieve never failed to astound Henry. Her good heart and simple, trusting view of the world, planted her firmly in the first-wave group of the dead.

  Henry took a long sip of water. They had strict rations, but his shift was almost over, and he had plenty of water left in his canteen. Only mildly cool, it refreshed his spirit and brought his mind back to the present. Lingering on memories was a surefire way to get them killed.

  He stared at his watch again. It was getting late; the others should have been back by now. Henry slid back into position and picked up his rifle, settling back down with his focus set on the tree line. He would give them as much time as they needed.

  Taron and Hector left earlier that morning on a scouting mission through the woods. While the group invested their time and energy in creating their safe haven in the time before the world ended, they could never have factored in the power the undead could yield, or the overwhelming strength a moving group generated.

  As a result, they agreed to run a daily check on their perimeter. The precautions they had taken were good but not designed to withstand the impact of a large group. Their daily sweeps ensured anything that got close enough was taken care of before it could form a congregation.

  Even though it was still early days, the patterns had become clear. The dead showed no inclination to work together, but yet congregations of them formed without any rhyme or reason.

  Henry spotted a group of fifty the week before while he was on the edge of town. They were just standing there in the street, gathered around a crossing like lost tourists. He remembered it because the power was still on, and the traffic light above their heads was stuck on red. Just blinking. He wondered if that had been what attracted them, but none showed any interest in it, so he quickly dismissed the notion.

  The group had not lasted long, after a bunch of survivors tried to make a break for freedom. The scent of a fresh meal reignited their individual desires, and well, the kids never stood a chance. The stumbling, shuffling creatures were just like the monsters in the movies of old. They always caught up with you.

  “That’s the problem with the dead,” Henry had told his son, James, who had joined him for the scouting trip. “They might be slow, but they don’t stop. They just keep moving. Like one of those tsunamis, they just push and destroy.”

  Once again, he shook the image away. He needed to focus. They weren’t playing games anymore.

  With his sight set down the scope of his rifle, Henry waited. They would be back soon, then he could get back to his wife, his son. Despite the fact they were both hyper aware and well prepared for the new world, he did not like being separated from them. True strength was found in numbers, and between them, they each brought something to the table that kept them a fully functioning group.

  Henry sensed the movement before he pinpointed its location. Only a slight rustle, but it was clear. Henry watched the spot, his eyes keen, his finger ready to squeeze the trigger the instant one of them came into view.

  Killing the dead was a strange thing to experience. Those not too badly torn apart had not yet had the chance to rot. They still looked human, and while it was easy to distinguish between them, pulling the trigger still took an effort, a conscious moment of thought. Henry knew that needed to change.

  When the dead rose, killing became a much simpler act. To hesitate, even for a moment, could be the difference between their living or dying.

  The bushes rustled again, parting as the deer entered the cleared space around their shelter. The young doe was small, but she would provide enough meat to see them through for a while, not forgetting the rest of the body.

  Nothing goes to waste in the apocalypse. They had that phrase posted on the wall of the shelter. A basic rule, besides rationing, was taking every safe opportunity to bolster your supplies.

  Henry watched the animal. She stood perfectly still, studying the land, no doubt thankful to have found a patch not filled with the hungry jaws of the swarming dead. Henry knew he could take her out. A single pull of the trigger, a slight movement, given the sensitivity of the weapon, and it would be over. He also knew that it was not his prerogative right now. He had to watch for the others.

  He adjusted his focus once more, directing his eyes back toward the area where he expected Hector and Taron to appear, but not before the arrow pierced the doe’s upper thigh. The animal gave a shriek as it sank to the floor. The arrow had torn through the muscle, leaving the leg useless.

  A second arrow followed; a hurried and loose shot, it gouged open the creature’s flank before nestling into the trunk of a tree. The shot only served to heighten the pitch of the beast’s screams.

  “Goddammit,” Henry cursed under his breath. Turning his rifle, he fired a quick shot, the weapon issuing a quiet whooshing sound as it launched the projectile. The doe’s head exploded with a puff of red mist, silencing the agonized screams.

  Henry was only distracted for a moment, but in that time their two shelter mates returned, bursting into the clearing at a run.

  The first zombie came behind them, stumbling through the trees, a coil of razor wire wrapped around its leg. The wire was embedded in the former human’s limb, and with each lumbering step it took, more and more skin was gouged away.

  If the thing felt pain, it gave no outward sign of it. The creature just kept moving. Until the rifle round blew its rotting head apart. Puncturing it between the eyes, the round tore a grapefruit-sized hole in the creature’s skull.

  The dead man collapsed to his knees, arms outstretched as if somehow in his final moments, he beat the disease and was looking to give thanks for freeing him from his burden.

  Inside the familiar territory of the compound, Hector and Taron stopped, looking back behind them. Taron held his crossbow up, and stared into the woods, while Hector pulled a hunting knife from the sheath on his belt, the ten-inch serrated blade glinting in the sun.

  Inside the hide, Henry kept his focus on the trees, knowing that something else was coming.

  The first head bobbed into view and Henry fired. The spray of mist was enough to tell him the zed was gone. Outside, Hector turned and moved away toward the deer where another dead man appeared, crawling through the bushes, his face a mess of blood from where he had been bitten. His left cheek had been removed, causing his eye to dangle from its socket like a ball on a piece of string.

  It clawed at the carcass, tearing a deep gouge in the doe’s flank. It lowered its mouth to the blood that flowed from the wound, lapping at it like a man emerging from the desert. Hector was fast and slid the blade through the zed’s head, using his foot to push the creature away as he withdrew the blade.

  With the immediate danger taken care of, the two men gave the signal, and Henry left the hide. While he wanted to understand what had happened, he had other business to take care of first.

  With his gun slung over his back and his supply pack in one hand, he strode toward their main shelter and rapped on the door. Three heavy knocks and the door opened.

  “Go easy on him. He was just trying to help,” Vanessa Graham said to her husband, placing her hand on his chest.

  “Honey, I’m not mad, but he needs to understand that we are not playing games anymore,” Henry answered, his voice stern but calm.

  “He’s just a kid,” she said for good measure.

  “I know that, but the world has moved on,
and there isn’t a place for kids anymore. If he is going to take a shot at a deer, then he needs to make sure he doesn’t miss, for a start, and to know when it’s safe to take it.” Henry hugged his wife, kissing the top of her head.

  “He’s in his bed,” she said, hugging him back.

  The shelter they had made was predominantly underground, buried within the hilltop. It had taken them years to get it designed and installed, let alone stocked. The shelter was tailor-made for the five of them, with enough room for two more if the two single men were willing to share their beds. While there were no individual rooms, the beds were separated into their own recesses in the wall, with a curtain that could be drawn, giving the illusion of privacy at least.

  James lay on his belly on his bed, a comic open on his pillow. He flicked aimlessly through the pages, certainly not reading, or even recognizing the images crafted onto the page.

  Henry knocked on the wall. “Hey, kiddo,” he said, taking a deep breath.

  “I thought I could take the shot, but … but it moved just before I fired,” James said without turning around.

  “I know you meant well, but you need to realize there’s a time and a place for hunting. That deer was not the priority, and now we wasted a bullet and lost the meat. One of the zeds came through the trees and took it,” Henry explained, keeping his voice as calm and cool as ever.

  A patient man, Henry had enjoyed a career as a psychologist before the world ended. He wrote a column for a national newspaper, not the agony aunt columns, but something far more substantial, both in terms of content and pay. His work regularly appeared in numerous magazines and scientific journals across the globe.

  “I’m sorry, I won’t do it again,” James said, rolling over to face his dad. At eleven years old, James hovered on the edges of puberty and had already started showing signs of the battle that was to come. His moods could change, and his morose back-chat fueled style of interaction with his parents only showed signs of worsening. But, he was a good kid and understood the world around him. As good as anybody could be expected to, at least.

  “No, don’t say that. This world doesn’t allow you to be apologetic, James. You make a decision and you move onward. It might be right, it might be wrong, but we do what we do, and the consequences are ours to bear. If you see a deer, I want you to think about taking the shot, and if it is safe, or if circumstances give you no choice, then I expect you to take it. Hunting, killing to survive is key now. Never forget that, all right?” Henry asked, holding out his hand for a high five.

  James obliged, but when the others began to scream, their usual ritual was cut short before they could bump fists.

  “Grab your bow, but stay back with your mother,” Henry ordered as they ran toward the entrance.

  A group of six zeds had made it through the perimeter and had infiltrated their camp. One already lay dead on the ground by the time Henry arrived at the fight. Its head had been split open by Hector’s machete. The man had a range of bladed weapons he was immensely proud of and knew how to use with deadly effect.

  Taron had engaged another, firing a crossbow shot that buried itself neatly between the post-human’s eyes. A doctor in his previous life, Taron was quick, accurate, and deadly.

  With two down, Henry made short work of the distracted zed he took out, evening the playing field. The post-human wore a suit, the expensive material tattered and torn, stained to a hardened crisp with blood. He was missing an arm, which certainly reduced its advantage in a fight, but Henry did not take any chances, stabbing with a quick striking motion. The blade went in and out of the creature’s head, making a sharp, almost crisp sound.

  Henry was away and after another one before the body hit the floor.

  Out of the three remaining, two were women, a fact they had all learned was important. The females, as in a great many species, were by far the more aggressive. There was a strength and ferocity to them that the male post-humans just could not quite reach. Not that any of them would be complacent with the males, they were just as likely to rip an arm off or tear open a body, it was just that the women had that extra edge when it came down to it.

  Taron had reasoned that biology supported the apparent fact. Women were predisposed to have access to inner strength reserves that men did not own. A pool touched on in life when giving birth or protecting the young.

  It made sense to Henry also, but the discussion on the matter was kept short, for at the end of the day, male or female, all post-humans needed to be put down.

  The first woman––a younger girl, who, judging by the way her figure still held a certain pertness, could not have been long out of her teens before she died––charged at Henry. She stumbled as she swung her arms in his direction, the large chunk of flesh torn from her inner thigh sending her wide on her approach. She swiped at him, her long fingers ending in nails that still had a nicely manicured finish to them. They had been sharpened down to a fine point. Henry had seen it before. In the final days of society, salons were offering the service, turning their clients’ nails into deadly weapons. It didn’t help worth a damn.

  Henry took a step back, allowing the creature to come at him again. He studied her walk and struck just as she put weight on her mangled leg. She as good as fell onto his knife, her eyes going wide in perceived shock. She fell away, black blood oozing from the neat hole in her temple.

  Henry turned and saw Taron and Hector each dispatch their zeds in hand-to-hand combat. One on one, the post-humans were manageable, providing you had room to work and kept your cool. They became truly dangerous in a group.

  “Are you guys all right?” Henry asked, his body tingling with adrenaline. Part of him felt guilty for the rush he felt, but he also understood it was a natural reaction to the skirmish. From time to time, he still needed to remind himself that dead was dead, and zeds were what came next. There was no getting people back from it.

  “All good here,” Taron replied, checking himself quickly.

  “Not a scratch on me,” Hector answered, holding his arms out for all to see.

  “Of course not, I keep telling you, not even the zeds would eat a lawyer. Your meat must taste like feet,” Taron answered, smiling at Hector.

  Hector rolled his eyes. “I can’t help that I’m an expert at this shit. I’ve put in way more time in building up my skills than the rest of you,” he answered.

  To many, Hector was an asshole. To the group living in the shelter, he was still an asshole, but one they had known so long, that his cockiness and arrogance no longer really registered with them. If anything, they turned it around on him.

  “Yeah, the rest of us were busy building this place up and stocking it with supplies. Remember that when rations start running low,” Henry added, smiling at the pair.

  “Whatever,” Hector snarled. Turning, he stomped back toward the shelter.

  “Oh, come on, man. Don’t be like that,” Taron called after him, trying to suppress the laugh building in his throat.

  “Leave him be. It’s probably his time of the month,” Henry said, just loud enough for Hector to hear.

  There had been a time when his attitude had caused friction among the group, but they had found the best way to deal with him was with humor. It would often darken his mood even more, but the overall impact seemed to expedite the entire process and bring him back around sooner.

  “I don’t think so. His lips weren’t bleeding,” Taron answered.

  Both men opened their mouths and drew breath with the intention of laughing, but a frantic scream for help soon had them looking back toward the trees.

  It turned out that danger was an even more effective tool than humor to bring Hector around.

  “It came from the south,” he said, pointing through the trees beyond the deer carcass and the dead zed that lay slumped over it.

  “We need to check it out,” Taron said, sheathing his knife and grabbing his crossbow. The M4 Tactical bow was a work of art. They had all been jealous when Taron r
evealed the weapon during one of their last monthly meetings before things went south. The red dot sight alone made it a very popular toy.

  “Nah, wait it out. They’re dead now, whoever they were,” Hector said, squinting into the trees. He tensed as if he saw something but relaxed a moment later.

  “You can’t be sure of that,” Henry said, looking over at Taron, hoping he would back him up.

  “That wasn’t the scream of a health hiker spotting a fucking bumblebee. That was the sound of imminent death,” the lawyer answered, his no-nonsense attitude shining through. “Why waste our time chasing a dead girl when there are enough of the posties out here to keep us on our toes.”

  “Because they are people. There could be more of them out there. We can save people,” Taron said.

  “You’re not in the OR now, Doc. You can’t save people out here. It’s every man for themselves. Besides, we’ve got it good here. We have supplies and space to live in semi-comfort.” Hector turned to face Taron. The pair argued like an old married couple yet were always the first to pair up when it came time to patrol. Even back when they were still just building up for the possibility of a disaster, they worked best together.

  “You can’t be serious. We are talking about people. Survivors, like us. What right do we have to turn our back simply because we were prepared? I mean, good god, man, we were just playing until all of this came along,” Taron said, dumbfounded at the cold, calculating way with which Hector spoke.

  Another scream rang out. “Help me,” the voice cried, the words distinguishable enough from the pain that surrounded them.

  “We’re going to check it out,” Henry said, deciding for the group.

  They left at a pace close to a jog, with Hector bringing up the rear. He was naturally slower than the others, given his short legs and stocky build. Far from fat, he would be described by most as simply being solid. A benefit of his Puerto Rican-Samoan heritage.