The Infected [Books 1-6]

by P. S. Power

  The Infected:

  Books 1-6

  P. S. Power

  Orange Cat Publishing

  Quick Find Book Guide:

  Proxy

  Gabriel

  Cast Iron

  Proxy: Reunions

  Cellophane

  Goblin

  Proxy

  P.S. Power

  Orange Cat Publishing

  Chapter one

  The bar smelled like stale beer and blood by the time Brian got there. Before he could do more than get a vague sense of place – some images of brown wood and red tile floor, flashes of blue and green neon from the walls that didn't make sense to his mind yet – the men attacked.

  The last two times this happened had been different.

  Then the people, both men, had reacted in shock to a chubby Chinese guy suddenly existing where their victim had just been. They showed this clearly, and sensibly, by moving away from him in fear. In the second case, the guy had actually run away all together. These two didn't seem afraid at all, unfortunately. They just hit – hard – before Brian even really knew he'd gotten there. At least one of them had to have hyper-reflexes to make that happen, that or something so close that it wouldn't make a difference.

  Something slammed into the side of his head making him see stars, but not making the world go dim yet. However that worked. If you'd asked Brian even a few minutes before, he would have said they were the same thing. That was wrong though.

  Apparently.

  The one in front of him, obviously Infected, moved to hit him again, doing it so fast that the impact didn't even register until the man had backed away and stood, waiting. Testing the waters maybe? Seeing what powers this new guy would be bringing to the fight? The answer he got was a wobbling run toward the door at speeds that were so slow the men didn't react, not at first, too busy looking for the set up, for this to be a trick, or, just possibly, a joke.

  A fat Chinese guy runs out of a bar...

  The other man, dressed in jeans, button-up shirt, and a cowboy hat of all things, jumped into his way, laughing. “Are you lost or something? What did you do with the pretty red-head? We were just going to have a little fun with her... I guess you'll have to take her place.” The talker pulled a handgun, something small compared to the giant images in the computer games Brian played.

  This one was real though, which made a huge difference as to how big is seemed, adding size to it in his mind, making it gigantic. Shiny black and scratched on the back end, a sticky tar-like substance coating it, all clearly visible as the metal came toward his head.

  Brian fought then, swinging as hard as he could, desperately, missing more often than not, and spinning slightly in place since the momentum didn't have anywhere else to go. If he'd had time he could have figured out how hard each blow had to be, just based on the amount of reaction, he knew. Because of course, his mind had time for that, just not to help get him out of the way. Blows peppered his face.

  The quick man moved into and out of range so easily that punching hardly seemed worth the effort against him, so Brian attacked the gunman instead. Normally, if it had just been about Brian, he probably would have just begged the men not to hurt him, given them his wallet, and hoped they didn't kill him for fun. Like officer friendly had taught the kids in elementary school, when in doubt, beg and grovel. He could do that, if it would have worked.

  Right now he didn't have that option, did he? Giving up would mean that the woman, the red-head they'd talked about most likely, would end up dead. If that wasn't the case, Brian wouldn't be in the bar at all. His power didn't work that way. At least it hadn't seemed to so far.

  If it made him show up, someone was about to die.

  He grabbed at the gun, a move of pure desperation, getting hit with it a few times, pain blossoming at each point of impact, nearly as bad as any that he could remember ever feeling. Slipping on the floor suddenly, Brian fell to his back and hit hard enough to force the air out of him with a “woof.” His hand, slick from whatever was on the floor, came up red when he looked at it. For a moment he wondered if it could be his. He'd certainly been hit hard enough to be bleeding by now.

  Then the others came into focus.

  All dead or dying, shot or cut, it looked like at a glance. Brian's mind worked hard, trying to figure out what to do. He couldn't run away, the smaller man was too quick. Way too fast. The other guy moved in to hit him with the weapon again, so he tried a hay-maker with his right hand, wishing he'd started at least working out or something.

  Maybe some boxing lessons? Anything would be better than the spazing out he was doing right now. It sent a shock down the whole arm when he connected with the side of the man's head, knocking his hat off. The little man laughed at his friend, an eerie chittering sound, then pulled something off the bar and hit Brian over the head with it. Pain, cuts and burning washed over his skin.

  Brian kept swinging, not hitting anything at all, gasping for breath from the exertion, while the smaller man, also dressed like a douche-bag cowboy, jumped in and hit him with various objects, bottles that sent glass flying, and almost absurdly, a bowl of bar peanuts. The salty residue burned wickedly. He was barely able to see by that time, his eyes burning too much from whatever liquid had been in the bottles Brian guessed, just hoping it wasn't from glass shards cutting his corneas. His vision was the one thing that had always worked for him – it would be a shame to be left blind now. As he went down he kicked at the men, again not hitting anything at all.

  The one he'd hit, the larger, slower man that was still probably twice as fast as Brian, moaned, “Damn. Our first real superhero fight and we get the “Incredible Pussy” instead of someone that can actually do anything. Does this guy even come with an ability or is his power just showing up and getting his ass kicked?” A pointy-toed boot hit him in the ribs as he struggled to get up from the floor, slipping in the blood again and hitting the ground with a thunk. Two more kicks and he didn't want to even get up, it hurt so much. Brian stood back up anyway. He had to. No matter what, he had to save her.

  That woman.

  Brian punched and kicked feebly, hitting air for the most part, getting a single lucky punch in on the smaller man who just laughed about it and told his friend to go ahead and finish the game so they could move on. His best punch of the night and the guy just... laughed. Brian tensed and tried to think of how to fight these men. Some way to win, anything.

  Nothing came.

  The gun butt, the metal hard but not cold, warmed from either the flesh of the man that held it or the people he'd beaten before, hit the back of his neck over and over again. Brian struggled, trying to get up, to fight. Somehow. In slow motion he tried to punch from all fours, something connected, barely brushing a pant leg, getting more laughter, this time from both the men.

  The world went dark. Like a shutter closing around a scene, leaving only a single spot of clarity right in front of him. He pushed his arm into the slippery ground, then felt something hit it just below the elbow and the floor met his chest again, causing him to make a “woof” noise again. Then something hit the back of his head so hard he saw nothing but a white flash.

  He came to sitting on the sofa in the living room, where he'd been when the whole thing had started. That seemed to be the way of it. He always came back to the point he left from so far.

  Doug, his roommate, buzz-cut black hair sitting on top of an extra fifty pounds – a lot like Brian in weight and build – with his signature dark clothes, sat on the arm of the sofa, starting visibly when Brian looked at him. His friend stared and swallowed, face pale and eyes wide, in his hand a knife from the kitchen, one of their better ones with the wooden handles, clutched so hard that the gripping fin
gers had gone white. Doug didn't wave it or anything, but looked worried, like he might have to fight or something.

  Because of course, as an Infected, Brian could be dangerous.

  He didn't bother reacting to the implied threat. “Fuck! I... think I'm going to throw up...” He ran past the man, his only real friend in the whole world, moving toward to the bathroom urgently. Brian didn't throw up, but wanted to badly. Kneeling on the floor in front of the toilet just in case, waiting for it to come.

  He'd failed that woman.

  Too fat and lazy. Too inept and stupid. He'd had a chance... and he didn't save her. God, who knows what those two had planned for her, what they were doing to her right now... Brian knew, somehow, that when he left, she'd go back to the place he'd last been, putting her on the blood soaked floor with that maniac hitting her.

  Crap.

  He sobbed, trying to be quiet about it, but was pretty sure he failed part of the time, tears creeping down rounded cheeks, leaving tracks in the blood that still poured from the hundreds of tiny cuts the glass had made. His face looked awful in the mirror, like a sculpture of a face made out of hamburger, still dripping with blood. Brian tried to wash it, which didn't help at first, since a lot of blood kept coming to replace the stuff washed away. A single sob hiccupped after Brian washed his face for the third time. Everything hurt and he could barely breathe, his ribs ached so much. They didn't look too bad, but he suspected at least a few had broken under the boots of the man with the gun.

  Jerk.

  Worse than a jerk – a psycho killer at the very least. A real one. His buddy had been one of the Infected, people that had the transform virus. Disorder? Not, Brian thought, remembering his high school health classes, that anyone had actually identified it yet. It could be a virus or a bacteria, even nanos or god knew what, some alien thing that humans hadn't even discovered yet.

  What everyone knew were the effects. You couldn't help but know if you ever turned a television on, it was on the news every night. People Infected showed up with powers. Some of these powers were pretty minor. One guy could make light shine from his skin, another could bend his arms and legs backwards at will, that kind of thing. Others could do... wild things. Lift cars, run faster than you could see, read minds. Real abilities that gave them an edge.

  With speed like that, the little laughing guy had to be Infected. He'd blurred as he moved some times. Wicked fast. Scary fast.

  Powers alone weren't that big a deal. People probably could have accepted that some people, about one in a thousand, could do things like that – eventually – if it wasn't for the second half of the transform virus. It locked on to an emotion, or sometimes a single thought, and heightened it incredibly, not beyond what a regular human could feel maybe or obsess over, not most of the time, but like the dial on that single thing had been turned up on high, all the time. Some were good, but a lot of emotions had negative effects when they got that strong.

  Rage, well that explained itself, everyone knew what that would cause. Fear could cause anything from hiding in your house all day alone to killing anyone that came near you or looked at you funny. Other things manifested too, a person could be locked on to a specific feeling that people didn't even think of as emotions. Paranoia, greed, lust, envy, even guilt, most of those didn't end well when you mixed in some kind of unusual power.

  There were good ones too, Brian forced himself to remember, blotting more blood from his swollen face. People locked in to love, compassion, or kindness for instance. They just didn't create a lot of problems. Not the kind that got them on the news at least. That left about sixty percent of the people that demonstrated any kind of real power which were locked onto some pretty harsh crap. They couldn't help it, Brian knew. They were sick, not evil. Still most people just feared them to the point of hatred instead of seeing it that way.

  He had. Feared them anyway. After tonight he still did. Those fucks almost killed him and they did kill those other people, probably the woman Brian had tried to help too. It didn't take a lot of things like that, a bar full of people being killed, to turn you against everyone that had the disease.

  Sobbing again, he sat on the toilet, the plastic seat broken at the back, a crack running through the whole thing, threatening to break under his weight. He didn't care right now. The small room was dirty, a sign that neither he nor Doug really loved doing housework. Damp towels on the floor, one covered with his blood. A light green one thankfully, so one of his. Brian wouldn't have to go out and pay for a brand new towel for Doug at least. He picked it up and pressed it to the wounds again for a minute. When he pulled it away a polka dot pattern of bright red had appeared that hadn't been there before. It didn't soak the towel this time, so he'd probably live.

  That was good, because as sore as he was, Brian couldn't afford to go to the hospital. Medical treatment was for people whose jobs paid more than eight dollars an hour or at least had some kind of insurance. Short of dying that just wasn't a real option for him.

  Voices came from the living room. Doug and his girlfriend, Carla, arguing about something. Brian couldn't make out what exactly, but he heard Carla's shrill voice scream his name more than once. She... could be trouble, Brian knew.

  Would be.

  Her fear of the Infected bordered on pathological. As far as he knew, she didn't have a reason to feel that way, no attacks on her or her family or even close friends had ever been mentioned. That, of course, didn't stop her from hating. She almost seemed to revel in it at times, like those insane people back in the sixties, just before the virus had shown up, who'd actually argued that some people weren't as good as others due to the color of their skin. Like something that stupid could ever be important? Funny how no one worried about black and white, when purple was setting their car on fire with his mind, Brian mused, smiling at the old joke painfully. His upper lip bled.

  The whole thing needed to be explained quickly or Carla might shoot him when he walked out the door. Or maybe stab, because she might not have a gun. It wasn't as if she'd ever liked him anyway so giving her a reason to make trouble would be a bad idea. For a while now the chubby strawberry blonde had subtly been lobbying Doug to kick him out, but he wouldn't do it. They were friends and Brian was good about paying his half of the rent each month, doing that before even buying food for himself.

  Well, Doug wouldn't before. Now he might. Infected people were dangerous. Not all of them, sure, but that was like arguing that only some gang members were psycho killers. Most people would be afraid to live with one anyway, regardless of how often they claimed to be nice and kind. Brian didn't know what he'd do, but figured that leaving would be the best thing for the others. No need to make them any more uncomfortable about all this than he had to. Besides, did he even deserve a home anymore? After he failed that woman like that?

  Brian pushed the bathroom door open just as Carla let the police in, pointing at him without pause, screaming, “There he is, there he is!” She didn't just call it out, it held fear and panic in the tone, almost making Brian look over his shoulder to see what had frightened her.

  The screaming set off the police even as he tried to explain, they shouted over him when he tried to explain that all the blood was his and that he hadn't done anything wrong. It made it a little hard to be heard. It also seemed a little rude, since this was his house and he was obviously the one hurt here, not that anyone in the room had done it.

  “Down on the floor, now!” An officer only a little taller than himself, maybe five-eleven, with a blond mustache who might have been about thirty, stood with his gun already drawn. It wasn't pointed at him, not yet, just the stained blue carpet under their feet. The look on his face said that he wasn't just being an asshole to Brian at the moment, but made a practice of it all the time, which left his face frozen in a perpetual sneer. The man screamed nearly incoherently at him. Brian did his best to comply, explaining as calmly as he could, that he was injured but was doing what they wanted.

  “S
hut up! On the floor now!” For the second time that night guns were trained on him. It made him mad, since he hadn't done anything wrong, except fail, but nothing to arrest him over. Being Infected wasn't illegal, just unpopular.

  Brian slowly started down to his knees, but his ribs, the broken ones on the right, twinged horribly, shooting pain through so hard that his right hand went to upper thigh as he doubled over, not able to stop the movement. The cops all started screaming then, so he couldn't understand any of them. He knew they wanted him to get his hands up, so he tried, obviously in severe pain. The blond cop in front, still pointing his gun, moved forward quickly and kicked him in the ribs, the place where they hurt most already, or close enough that Brian couldn't tell the difference. It was a stomping motion with his left foot that cause Brian to fall, clutching himself as he blacked out from the pain.

  When he came to his eyes burned so much he couldn't open them. Worse than the alcohol and salt earlier. His whole face burned like it had been put on a stove burner. It felt harsher than that, like fire had been put in his eyes, worse even than the time at a family cook-out when an ember from the bonfire had hit his face.

  Pepper spray? While he'd been out? They weren't supposed to do that, were they? Had they pried his eyes open to put it in or something?

  For some reason his body seized, over and over again, pain shaking him. He heard angry voices yelling but couldn't do what they demanded, his arm wouldn't go behind him, because of the ribs. That didn't really matter, because every five seconds the taser forced his hands to convulse forward no matter what he did. This went on until the machine stopped working, two or three minutes later, Brian guessed. The battery had run out. He knew that because the man holding the device called it out to the room.

  Then they hit him with things, blows with sticks and kicks it felt like, he couldn't get his eyes open long enough to see it, which made it worse in a way. There was no way to know what would hurt next.