Plagued_The Angel Rise Zombie Retribution Experiment

by Better Hero Army

  “Come on,” Hank shouted, waving, beckoning them to jump for it as he jogged downriver to keep pace. He hoped Penelope could hear him and his encouragement would help.

  It didn’t. She remained curled like dead weight. She didn’t even look up. She just held her hands over her ears and tucked her head between her knees. Tom swooped in over her and threw his arms around her. He hauled her into the air, kicking legs, flailing arms, and all, wobbled back and forth as Penelope’s kicks threw him off balance, and then pitched over the side of the boat.

  “Well, shit,” Hank said, moving down the berm and closer to the water’s edge. “That’s one way to do it.”

  The boat engine growled as the craft surged away from them. Sayad wasn’t going to be any help from here. He had his own problems to worry about, anyway. That drone was going to be back, or another one was going to come whirring up the channel soon enough.

  Hank made it halfway down the rocks before he realized the current was taking Tom and Penelope out of the range of his throw a lot faster than he expected. It was now or never. He swung the hunk of wood with an arm’s length of rope a couple times and hurled it into the air ahead of Tom and Penelope. He winced, watching the arc of his throw curve dangerously toward them. He was sure it was going to hit one of them. It wasn’t like he practiced it or knew how to throw a life rope. He just got lucky. Damned lucky not to hit them, too. The wood splashed down a few feet past Tom’s head and the rope slapped the water just as his hand groped for it.

  “Hot damn,” Hank exclaimed and quickly wrapped his end of the rope around his own wrist to make sure he didn’t lose them. It went taught a second later, nearly yanking him off his feet. He threw out a boot and stomped it on the boulder below him, then leaned back to get leverage.

  Goddamn, they were heavy.

  Tom lay on his back in the water, one hand holding the rope, the other clutching Penelope’s life vest at the back of her neck. Hank could see Tom coiling his arm around the rope to get it caught up around his elbow. Smart move. The kid had good instincts. Penelope didn’t. She flailed wildly, splashing water every which way, threatening to break Tom’s hold of her.

  With both of Tom’s arms out of commission, Hank took up the work of bringing them to shore. He reached hand-over-hand as fast as he could to get grips, then used his back like he was rowing a boat, pulling them closer before lunging for another length of rope.

  Two or three times was fine, but by the fifth pull, the rope was soaking wet and cold as ice. The hard current didn’t make it any easier, either. It felt like a tug-of-war with a rhinoceros.

  “Hold on,” Hank shouted. Grunted was more like it. Tom was about ten feet out still, and had managed to get Penelope to stop thrashing so much. Maybe she was just tired. She kept trying to spin off her back to face the water, though. Each time she did, Tom had to give a hard jerk on the rope to get enough leverage to spin her back. It nearly ripped the rope out of Hank’s hands the first time, burning his right palm. Having wrapped the rope around his other palm to keep it from playing out saved his left hand.

  “Mother fuck,” Hank cried out as he clamped down on the rope with all his might. He didn’t want to take the time to see how bad it was. Shredded skin for sure. Hopefully his callouses absorbed most of the damage. The cold coming off the rope thankfully soothed the burn right away.

  “Hold on,” Hank called and put his back into the task once more, hauling hand-over-hand, timing his movements to when it looked like Tom had Penelope under control. Stroke! He vividly recalled watching crew teams in October at the Head Of The Charles Regatta in Boston. Just as cold as this. Stroke! He hauled Tom and Penelope closer. Stroke! Damn he wished he had a crew team here to help him. Still, he managed to bring Tom close enough to shore that they were in the rocks.

  Now came the tricky part. Hank wrapped the rope around his right arm—thank God he had a thick jacket—and started crab walking down the rocks with his left arm and both legs, all the while keeping tension on the rope to help guide Tom into a sweet spot, letting the current do some of the work to straighten them out. The rope caught up on a large rock, but Hank made a quick throw into the air as he gave slack, causing the rope to whip and hop over the jutting rock. Tom and Penelope floated into a small cove of rocks after that and Hank pulled again, bringing them closer to shore.

  Now that the current wasn’t being a bitch, Hank stumbled over the rocks, making a beeline straight for Tom and Penelope. He gave the rope a few tugs as he went to get them closer, and he could tell Tom had good purchase because he was pulling Penelope toward the shore now. He had his feet under him. That was good.

  Hank reached the edge of the water and slipped, his left leg splashing into the water to his knee. At first it didn’t hit him through his boot and pant leg, but as Hank reached a hand out to help Tom, the chill worked its way up his calf and he just about shouted in alarm.

  “No,” Tom said, waving Hank away. “Get her on shore,” he added, tugging Penelope one more time.

  “Come on,” Hank shouted, holding a hand out to Penelope. She rose up and reached a hand toward him, but the blanket of water pouring off of her back dragged her back in. Hank plunged his left leg all the way in as he grabbed her life vest. “Fuck,” he said, pulling her to the rocks. The water was colder than ice, and she felt like a four-hundred-pound block of it as he tried to lift her over the nearest jutting boulder to get out. She managed to get her feet under her as she stumbled over the rock and to the safety of shore.

  “Come on, kid,” Hank shouted, holding a hand out for him. Tom managed to haul his soaked body up out of the water enough for Hank to pull him to safety. Hank stepped out of the water, glad to be rid of its icy chill. “Come on,” he groaned, lifting Tom again. The kid weighed a ton, either that or Hank’s arms were shot from hauling them to shore. And there was ringing in his ears from all the exertion and the bone-chilling water—no, not a ringing, the distinctive whir of an approaching drone.

  The speedboat was gone, even its frothy wake faded. Upriver, around the bend, the smooth, sleek four-engine body of a drone skimmed above the tree line.

  “We’ve got to move.”

  Hank lifted Tom with one hand as he shook his other hand free of the rope. He was all tangled up in it and had to let Tom go to tug on Penelope to help her climb the treacherous slope of stony outcroppings. Once he freed himself of the rope, he had an easier time leaping around and over boulders. “Come on, kid,” he’d say. “Up, Kitty. Put your foot there,” he’d point out. “Let’s go. Faster.” He looked up the river and saw the thing gliding into view at the bend.

  “That’s it,” Hank said as he pushed Tom up over the last boulder. “Head for the trees.” He dipped low, threw an arm around Penelope’s waist, and hauled her to her feet. She didn’t fight his touch, so he knew she was exhausted.

  “Don’t bite me.”

  Hank hoisted her on his hip as he lunged onto the last big rock flanking the channel access road. Tom half-crawled as he scampered for the trees ahead of them, stumbling forward more than running. Hank dipped low, threw one of Penelope’s arms over his shoulder, and hauled ass, dragging her stumbling legs along with him.

  The incessant whir grew louder, but he refused to look back as he waded through the underbrush on the other side of the narrow road. Tom collapsed into the shadows behind the nearest tree. Hank veered to a different tree, ducking to keep a low profile. Penelope made it harder, tripping on her own legs and nearly tangling them in his. He countered by throwing his hip out to lift her in the air, made a big leap forward, and unceremoniously dropped her alongside a fat tree trunk.

  Hank ducked under her arm, pulling her down with him just as the whirring reached its crescendo. “Don’t move,” Hank warned.

  Penelope lay on his chest, pinning him to the ground, her frigid body dripping ice-cold water over him from head to toe. If the drones were armed with heat sensors, her low body temperature wouldn’t be an issue. Hank, on the other hand, had been e
xerting himself and he could feel the heat rising from his forehead.

  The drone hovered.

  Through the tall grass, Hank monitored the thing’s progress. It slowed, turning its eye toward the shoreline…he thought. Hank didn’t really know which way its eye was looking. It had a stubby round, upside down dome beneath it, all dark from this distance, but one side of it stuck out, and that was facing the shore. It retreated along its course as it descended and swerved closer to shore where it lingered.

  It hovered effortlessly, the sound of its whirring blades giving him the same chill as the icy water dripping off Penelope. Her head turned. Through her mop of soaked hair, she glared at the thing, watching it like a feral cat as it hovered in place. She let out a throaty growl, her voice raspy with fatigue.

  The drone began to move again. Hank sucked in his breath because it came at them, but then it made a quick corrective arc and spun around, charging back out toward the channel. Hank let out a sigh as he pushed Penelope off of him. “Must have been looking at the rope,” he said. He should have been smart and thrown the thing into the river.

  Hank sat up, planted his left hand down, and kicked his left leg underneath him to stand. It was a move he had learned in his martial arts days that just stuck because it was the easiest way onto his feet. It wasn’t like he was some kind of karate expert or fighter. Hardly.

  “Come on, Kitty. On your feet.” He held a hand out for her. Her fingers were like icicles. He hauled her to her feet and put an arm around her waist when she began to wobble.

  Tom stumbled alongside them, not doing much better, but at least he was able to walk on his own. Both of their teeth chattered like jack hammers, and Tom was hunched over, clasping his chest.

  “We have to move,” Hank said urgently. “Jeep’s that way.”

  They cut quickly through the underbrush, Hank leading the way as the whir of the drone faded, leaving only the echo of an occasional vehicle out on the highway. Tom wheezed. Penelope groaned.

  “Just a little further,” Hank said. It really wasn’t that far, but in their condition, it felt like a hundred miles. Hank pulled open the driver’s side door and yanked on the latch. The seat folded forward and Hank turned Penelope around to help her collapse into the back. He pushed and prodded her even as Tom opened the passenger door to crawl in next to her. Hank turned the ignition on and swatted at the heater, letting it start warming up as he helped get the two all the way inside. The blankets were in the trunk so he had to make a trip around the vehicle to get them covered, then another around to the passenger side to close the door.

  Hank fell into the driver’s seat and adjusted the heater vents to point straight back.

  “Where to?”

  He looked in the rearview mirror at Tom and Penelope hunched over one another, shivering, soaked, pale-skinned, and looking like death. He wanted to ask if he should drive to the hospital.

  “Hotel,” Tom managed to stutter through his chattering teeth.

  “I’m on it,” Hank said and slapped the vehicle into gear.

  Twenty-Two

  Hank lay on the bed of the hotel with the heat cranked up all the way. His feet still felt numb after an hour, which probably wasn’t a good sign, but they weren’t ice cold anymore, so he knew he wasn’t about to lose toes or anything. The news played on the television with the thing on mute. Occasionally he focused on it to read the closed captioning scroll by if it didn’t look like something he hadn’t seen ten times already.

  …PRIVATE AIRCRAFT’S TAIL

  NUMBER WAS REGISTERED

  AT BATTLE CREEK MICHIGAN…

  This was the third time they talked about Doctor O’Farrell’s plane. The thing that pissed off Hank was that they never said where they took Wendy and the other three who were with her in the plane, but they sure liked to babble on and on about where the plane was registered. Hank didn’t really buy into the notion that the plane they flew came from that far away.

  “How could it have flown that far without anyone seeing it on radar?” Hank mumbled the question softly, talking to the TV because there was no one else to talk to at the moment.

  Tom and Penelope were in the bathroom with the door closed, soaking in a tub full of hot water. They were being quiet, too, just lying in there trying to thaw out. It had been a good half hour since Tom last ran the water, so they must have been feeling better. Hank just wished the dryer down the hall would hurry up with their clothes. He had already stuffed eight bucks worth of quarters into the damned thing and only had a pair of jeans to show for it.

  Hank sipped his open beer and put it back on the end table beside the pistol. He looked at the bandage wrapping his hand, glad that the stupid zombie survival pack had first aid supplies in it, enough to fix him up. It even had some pain pills that took the edge off.

  …WHILE THE MILITARY

  STILL DENIES ANY INVOLVEMENT

  IN THE ATTEMPTED ASSASSIN-

  ATION OF DOCTOR O’FARRELL…

  “Well, that’s because they weren’t involved, dipshits,” Hank countered quietly, picking crumbs of a sweet roll off his belly and popping them in his mouth.

  He had watched the abridged and edited footage of Tony Reese trying to shoot Wendy several times. He still didn’t know who that Moby guy was, but he figured one of his old contacts probably did. Cory might know the guy. Then there was the one who tried to save Wendy. That guy deserved a medal, and yet they were probably going to fry him.

  …REPORTS THAT AN IAEA

  TEAM HAS DETECTED TRACE AMOUNTS

  OF URANIUM RELEASED INTO THE

  ATMOSPHERE YESTERDAY IN MICHIGAN

  AS WELL, THE KIND FOUND IN WEAPONS…

  “Blah, blah, blah,” Hank mumbled. “Perfect cover-up. Claim the area is radioactive so no one can go have a look.”

  Hank sat up, irritated with the news and television in general. There were forty channels on the thing and not one worth a damn. He reached for the clicker and shut it off. If the clothes were done, he’d try to get some shut-eye. Only problem was, the place felt eerily quiet, and since he hadn’t checked on Tom and Penelope in a while, he stood and walked over to the door.

  He tapped gently.

  “Hey,” he said quietly as he turned the knob. He let the door ease partway open. Hot, humid air poured out at him. It was like a sauna in there.

  The room was laid out so that the door opened toward the tub, so Hank could only see Tom and Penelope using the mirror’s reflection, but that was fogged over. He peeked his head in and saw Tom lying in the tub, his shoulders draped over the edge, his head against the wall. Penelope lay on top of him, her head resting on his shoulder, the back of her head against Tom’s chin. She was facing Hank. The curtain was mostly closed, and they had draped a towel over Penelope like a blanket because her chest wasn’t completely submerged. Hank easily made out the curve of her breasts, though, and had to marvel at how elegant and long her bare arms seemed…and how pale her skin was compared to Tom’s.

  “You two okay?”

  Tom nodded slowly.

  “I got your clothes in the dryer now. I’ll go get them in a few minutes.”

  Tom nodded again. “Thanks,” he said softly.

  Now it was Hank’s turn to nod.

  “Need anything? Food? A beer?”

  “Not yet. I’m just enjoying laying here.”

  “Yeah,” Hank said, but didn’t mean anything by it. He gawked at Penelope’s nipples, how they made small lumps in the damp towel draped over her, the way her chest rose and fell slowly with the cadence of her shallow breathing even though her skin was ash white and looked of death.

  “You know, she never lets me see her sleep,” Tom said. “I don’t think she trusts me.”

  “You?” Hank asked, almost scoffing. “You’re about the only person I’ve ever seen her trust at all, even Peske. I mean, look at her.” Hank gestured toward her. “No, you two have something special. It’s like she knows you, you know? And….” Hank shrugged, a littl
e uncomfortable with the notion of saying what he felt. “And, anyway, she’s a good judge of character.”

  Tom grinned. “Thanks.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  “She must have been exhausted, though. Look at her.”

  “Yeah, I’m looking. Probably could get arrested for looking this closely.”

  Tom smirked.

  “Anyway, she ain’t asleep,” Hank added, pointing. Penelope opened an eye and glowered at Hank without moving any other muscle in her body.

  “What?” Tom asked, leaning to see her face, a little of his frustration showing.

  “I’ve seen her sleep.” Hank grinned and winked at her, which only made her brows furrow. “I’ll go get you some more towels from the front desk.”

  Twenty-Three

  Tom and Penelope sat on the bed, under the covers, watching television. Hank filled a glass of milk for Penelope. She didn’t drink beer. She didn’t like the taste, and for once Hank didn’t need Tom to interpret her sign language. When he offered her one, she pinched her nose and pretended to gag. She like the sweet rolls, though. She was on her third already, eating like a ravenous mutt.

  Tom stared at the television, listening intently to the reporter.

  “…this afternoon,” the reporter was saying, “when Colonel Nathanial Briggs held a news conference and once again denied the Army’s involvement. Spokespeople for the Navy and Marines have also disavowed any involvement. Pentagon press secretary Bradley Mitchell wouldn’t publicly comment, but in an off-camera interview stated that covert operations teams of this nature were in use by civilian contractors, foreign governments, and the intelligence community at large…”

  Tom let out a sigh as he turned down the volume. “What was the name of that guy you ran into again?”

  “Frankie,” Hank replied sourly.