The Plague Years (Book 1): Hell is Empty and All the Devils Are Here

by Rounds, Mark

  “If ever there is a need,” said Chris as the door opened, “for a commercial for Liberty Gun Safes, I will give one hell of a testimonial!”

  Chris began passing stuff to Chad who started loading it into the duffle bags. There was an RCBS Partner reloading press, scales, powder measures, a plastic sacks full of dies, cleaning tools, primers, bullets, two cans of powder, gun oil, Hoppe’s Number 9 gun solvent, and a double handful of rags.

  “Geez Chris, why was all this in the safe?” said Chad as he loaded the first duffle.

  “I do patrol,” said Chris. “And I am gone a lot. I was afraid if this place ever burned, there would be an earth shattering kaboom that I’d get blamed for. This safe is guaranteed fire safe for seventy-five minutes at up to twelve hundred degrees so it was simpler just to shove it all in here.”

  Chris handed Chad two 7.62 NATO ammo cans full of various empty shells and two more that weighed a ton and were obviously filled with loaded ammo. Then came the guns. Chris handed him half a dozen pistols in cases. Once they were stowed, Chris started handing our long guns in cases, after four Chad held up his hand.

  “The duffels are full Chris,” said Chad, “and I am not sure I can lift them.”

  “I just have two left,” said Chris as he stripped a Ruger Mini-30 ranch rifle out of its case. He reached into one of the ammo cans and came up with a loaded magazine and put it in the well. “Here, strap this across your back.”

  Next Chris pulled out an M1 of World War Two vintage, complete with sling and cartridge belt. He grabbed a clip from the belt and inserted it. After the action cycled, he flicked the safety on and then slung it across his back.

  Each of them grabbed a bag and while it was possible to carry them, Chad’s eyes were bugging out a bit. Because they had to use two hands on each of the bags, they had slung their shotguns giving them a comical almost video game like appearance with multiple weapons. The things they didn’t show you in the video games was that carrying all that artillery is heavy work and you moved slowly.

  On the way out, Chad, who was in the lead, stepped on the hand of a body that was partially blocking the door. The body looked partially decomposed but both Chad and Chris jumped as the body let out a high pitched scream and grabbed for Chad’s foot with its other hand. He was able to side step the grab but one look down the hall sent chills down his spine. All the seemingly dead bodies they had walked past were alive and were crawling their way. Then doors to the various apartments started opening, and infected who were in better condition began coming at them.

  “Back it up Chris!” shouted Chad. “We aren’t getting out this way!”

  Chad heaved the bag back into the room with strength he didn’t know he had and drew his shotgun from around his back. The first round put down what had once been a young man who had grabbed his ankle.

  Follow-on shots cleared the hall and had people ducking back into their apartments left and right but also emptied his shotgun. Rather than taking time to reload, he flipped the shotgun sling over his head and with the weapon dangling in front of him, grabbed the Mini-30 from his back as he back-peddled into the apartment.

  “Chris, you got any better ideas about getting out?”

  “Yeah, cover the door. We are going out over the balcony!”

  Chris ran back into the room and rooted around in the junk that had once been his life and found what he was looking for, his First Alert escape ladder and a hundred foot coil of parachute chord in a false panel by the entrance to the balcony. He unlocked and opened the slider to the deck. Chris then slipped the hooks for the ladder over the railing on the balcony and then dropped the ladder. Happily, it unrolled just as advertised. In the background, he could hear Chad firing as infected people tried to come around the ruined door of the apartment and get at them.

  Then he grabbed the first of the duffel bags and tied the ends of the parachute cord through the handles and lowered it down to the ground, using the railing to provide friction to slow the bag. When the first bag hit the bottom, Chris made a bight in the chord and tied the next bag to it, lowering it to the ground in the same way.

  “Shit, the rifle is clocked out! I am going to my .45!” shouted Chad as he looped the rifle’s sling around his neck and drew his pistol.

  “Hit the ladder, buddy!” shouted Chris as he drew his shotgun and shouldered past Chad who was attempting to holster his .45. The slide was locked back.

  Chris could hear the weapons around Chad’s neck clang as he went up and over the railing and began working his way down the ladder. Chris had a full tube plus one in the chamber but he went through that faster than he thought possible. As soon as the shotgun was empty, there was a rush at the door.

  “Coming through!” shouted Chris as he ran through the slider and locked it. The first of the infected hit it hard and the window cracked but held. Chris vaulted the railing and grabbed the second rung on the way down. Chad, who had struggled getting down the ladder because of the weapons around his neck, was still three rungs from the bottom. The sudden jerk from Chris’s abrupt departure and Chad’s weight caused the bolts holding the top of the railing in place to part. The wrought iron uprights bent suddenly and then halted for a second as the railing hit the balcony. Then it halted again as railing bent past horizontal. Finally the bolts parted completely.

  Chad had hit the ground when the railing first parted and so was out of the way when Chris and the railing landed in the grass beside him.

  “Get to the truck!” shouted Chris as he disentangle himself from the railing. Chad gathered up the chords and then with a shoulder strap from each hand started dragging them towards the truck in a stumbling run that would lose a race with the average three year old.

  There was a crash from above as the sliding window gave way and there was what looked like a waterfall of infected from off of the balcony. The three story fall injured some of them to the point that they couldn’t continue the chase, but many were able to get up and run or crawl after them. Chris, who had managed to get clear of the railing and retreat a few yards, unslung the M1 and began firing at the pile of infected at the base of the building, aiming at those who seemed most mobile. The high velocity 30.06 would sometimes carry through one of their tormentors and hit someone or something behind them causing much pain and confusion. Almost before he knew it, the characteristic ‘Kpung!’ of the M1 ejecting its eight round clip rang out loud and clear.

  Chris was able to catch the clip in mid-flight, pocket it, and turned to run after Chad. As he got even with Chad, he grabbed one of the duffel bags with one hand and the M1 in the other. As they rounded the corner of the building, they could see Amber crouched at the corner of the vehicle, ready and alert.

  “Get the truck started!” shouted Chad. “They are coming behind us!”

  Amber rushed to the door of the truck and without entering, leaned in and turned the key and was visibly relieved when the big diesel engine kicked over and began to idle smoothly. Her relief turned to alarm as the first of the infected turned the corner. She opened fire and began taking down the charging infected who were behind Chris and Chad. Chris tossed his rifle and then his bag into the back of the truck and then helped Chad do the same.

  “Get in,” said Chris to Amber and as Amber got into the driver’s seat and Chris clambered onto the bed, Chris drew his service piece and proceeded to empty it into the charging crowd.

  Chad tumbled into the bed of the truck and reloaded his .45.

  “Now you get in,” shouted Chad and he began firing at the crowd which had been thinned appreciably but was still coming on strong. Chris grabbed the tailgate and stepped on the trailer hitch. Chad grabbed the collar of his jump suit and heaved helping Chris into the bed.

  “Go!” shouted Chad and Amber, who had been waiting for it, hit the accelerator. The tires of the big Dodge truck spun for a split second and then they were off in a cloud of black diesel smoke. A couple of the infected managed to grab the tailgate and one had actually got a foo
thold on the bumper but the last round fired from Chad’s sidearm imbedded itself in the young man’s chest and the infected tumbled to the ground.

  “Damn that was close,” said Chris and they sped down the road to Chad’s house.

  “Remind me never to go joyriding with you, ever!” said Chad with a faint smile on his face as he sank back against the loaded duffel bags.

  May 30th, Saturday, 9:45 am PDT.

  Clinton Taylor had not slept well the previous evening. After that last day at Bechtel, Clinton had gone home to his condo and waited. He didn’t know what for. He hadn’t been what one would call prudent for most of his adult life. His first marriage happened when they were both too young and his first unaccompanied tour in Korea with the Army in 1976 had been the final straw.

  Their son, Jeremy, who was now almost forty, had been raised primarily by his mother’s family and in truth, Clinton hadn’t been a very attentive father. They spoke briefly on birthdays and when Clinton sent gifts for his grandchildren, but that was all.

  His second marriage had happened when, at forty-eight, he had panicked after retiring from the Army and had started law school. He was worried he would grow old and die alone. A starry eyed twenty-eight year old law student had been taken with his war stories and his incisive wit and the two of them had eloped to Las Vegas the day after they graduated. The marriage didn’t survive the bar exam.

  His time with the district attorney had not led to many opportunities for good relationships and after a while, he quit looking. Now at sixty-three, he was alone in the midst of the end of civilization as he knew it. While he hadn’t put aside a great deal of food, his wine cellar was very well stocked. So, he had spent the intervening week, eating very little and drinking rather more than he should. As the power was out, he would read when the light was good. Today he had begun rereading The Silmarillion by J. R. R. Tolkien and waiting. When the light was bad, he would drink and often pass out before 10:00 pm.

  He hoped his son and grandkids were safe but he hadn’t been able to get word from them for some time. As he listened, he could hear his neighbors dealing with the infection. Several times there were shots fired, but more and more it was about grunts, thumps, and things that go bump in the night. He kept quiet and so far, no one had thought to loot his condo.

  Clinton still kept his 9mm Beretta Model 92S in a shoulder holster and a Beretta Pico in .380 in a holster behind the waist band and belt of his trousers. But he had little ammo and not much inclination to try to save the world, though as a young Army Officer and later as an assistant district attorney, he had certainly tried. Now he was done, not brave enough to take his own life, but still curious about how the world would end.

  His reverie was broken by the splintering of his front door. Several large men burst into his foyer. They were dressed in biker colors and one was familiar from his days as assistant district attorney as a thug for hire. All that he could see clearly appeared to be infected. Clinton drew his 9mm and began firing at the crowd in the entryway, which was down a curved exposed stairway from his study. One went down with a shot to the head but the others seemed to shrug off the hits. When his magazine went dry, the reminder rushed up the stairs.

  The one whom he recognized pulled out a Taser and zapped him before he could reload. He had read about the feeling of being tased but those descriptions paled when compared to the real thing. He dropped both the pistol and the magazine and laid frozen on the floor for what seemed like an eternity but in actuality was less than five seconds. The thugs picked him up pinned him to the wall and held him until he realized that what little resistance he could offer was futile. He was inexpertly frisked and so it happened that they found his shoulder holster, his spare magazine and wallet but did not find his Pico. He also discovered in the process that these thugs were wearing body armor which was the reason why his 9mm lacked authority.

  “Perhaps there is yet hope,” thought Clinton followed quickly by the thought, “why the hell are these guys in body armor?”

  His hopes took a serious downturn when Macklin walked into his living room and looked up at Clinton on the second level.

  “Well, it seems,” said Clinton with as much dignity as he could muster, “that I wasn’t wrong after all about you, Special Agent Macklin. The fact is that you sir, are a self-serving toad who disrespects both the badge and the oath you …. AAARRGGH!”

  Again the white hot fingers of the taser worked its way through his body, locking up his muscles and effectively silencing him.

  “Should I tase him again?” asked the thug after the taser cut off. “I owe him for time in the pen.”

  “Hold off a bit,” said Macklin with a smirk, “as much fun as I am having watching him twitch, there is a point to our visit.”

  Macklin took out a Pharmajet and jabbed Clinton in the arm. There was little pain and Clinton decided that he wouldn’t give Macklin the pleasure of seeing him flinch.

  “I would gloat over this but I have too much to do and too little time to do it in,” said Macklin putting away the injector. “That is insurance.”

  “For what?” asked Clinton.

  “Think of it as a backup plan,” said Macklin smiling. “In a couple of hours, my associates here and I will go have a chat with your friend Strickland. If they give up the young lady who is currently with them, then I will release you to them, if not well, these are violent, nasty men, I suspect they will think of something.”

  “That a rather drastic measure, even for you, to get a date,” quipped Clinton. “I rather think that ... ARRRGGH!”

  “You will have to learn to curb your renowned wit,” said Macklin after the charge from the Taser expired. “But no, this isn’t about my relationship status. My employers want the young lady.”

  “I thought you worked for the government,” said Clinton eyeing the thug with his thumb on the activation switch of the Taser.

  “That relationship is at an end,” said Macklin. “Indeed, it was hard to appease two employers.”

  “So if you are telling me this, I gather you don’t expect me to live,” said Clinton.

  “My, you are quick aren’t you,” said Macklin sarcastically. “You see that injection was the ‘Zombie Plague’ as the news people so erroneously called it, and it was injected straight into your blood stream. In a matter of hours you will be fully involved with the disease which is why we must move quickly. Even if our plan should fail and you are rescued by the Stricklands, eventually, you will infect the Stricklands and then I will be able to complete my task after they are all dead.”

  “You bastaaard AAARRGGHH!” screamed Clinton, and then abruptly passed out.

  “YOU IMBECILE!” shouted Macklin as he snatched the wires away from Clinton’s chest and then checked for a pulse. “If you send him into cardiac arrest before we even get a chance to use him, I will personally cut your balls off!”

  Chapter 20

  May 30th, Saturday, 11:19 am PDT.

  Heather was sitting in Dave’s living room while it was her turn to be on watch. Amber had the duty over at the Stricklands. Most of her job was trying to keep Dave from getting up. He had graduated to sitting in his easy chair and he was likely the world’s worst patient. He wasn’t intentionally being demanding, but he would think of something that needed doing and start to get up and do it. If someone wasn’t right there to keep an eye on him, he’d be up and on his feet.

  “Damn it!” said Dave for the third time. He had just tried to get up again and his hip twinged bad enough that he had to sit back down.

  “Dave, you are the most stubborn man I have ever known,” said Heather in frustration. “If you would just sit quietly for a day or two, you could probably get up and move around.”

  “I know Heather, and I am sorry,” said Dave being contrite. “There is just so much to do and I can’t help.”

  “Listen you knucklehead, you have helped plenty,” said Heather with some heat. “If you hadn’t picked up on what Chad was working on and
run with it, we might all be dead. As it is my kids are relatively safe, we have food and power, and we have survived two serious gun fights. Something I never thought I would be in, because you had the foresight to gather ammunition, and firearms and set up sniper positions, and then all that audio stuff. We owe you. I owe you. Please take of yourself, we need you.”

  “When a pretty lady says I should be quiet and shut up, sometimes I even listen,” said Dave with an impish smile as he settled back into his chair. Even here he was helping. He had his Mini-14 across his lap and was able to watch the street from where he was. Even though he was technically off duty, he was keeping watch and so it was that he was the first to sound the alarm.

  “Heather!” shouted Dave as he got up with some difficulty and hobbled over to the door. We got company. Tell the Stricklands!”

  Heather, who was in the kitchen preparing a modest lunch looked out the window and saw an armored SWAT van pull up flanked by several bikers on motorcycles. Ginger, her eight year old daughter was with her helping stepped back and gasped.

  “Ginger,” said Heather quietly. “Run over to the Stricklands and give the alarm like we practiced. Stay low behind the fence and don’t show yourself, now go!”

  “OK mom!” said Ginger, who was off like a rabbit. It had seemed a good idea at the time to use her and Jason as runners, but now she was not so sure. Heather had little time to ruminate as several more men piled out of the back of the van. One of them was older and had trouble getting out of the van. He was grabbed and unceremoniously tossed on the Stricklands’ lawn.

  May 30th, Saturday, 11:20 am PDT.

  “Hey, Strickland!” shouted the apparent leader of the gang. “We have someone you know out here. Come out so we can talk to you!”

  “I can hear you just fine, stay right where you are!” said Chad from the roof top. He had bounded up the ladder to his rooftop sniper’s position after Ginger’s warning. Chad had heard the ladder in the back rattle as Connor had vaulted up to the top of Dave’s house with Chris’s M-1. It was his first shift on the roof, as Dave was now officially off the watch roster.