by Wise, A. R.
SURVIVE
Day Three
By: A.R. Wise
Cover by A.R. Wise
Photo sourced from istockphoto.com
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SURVIVE
Day Three – 12:00 am
Day Three – 12:23 am
Day Three – 12:41 am
Day Three – 6:11 am
Day Three – 8:12 am
Day Three – 8:28 am
Day Three – 10:23 am
Day Three – 2:58 pm
Day Three – 4:14 pm
Day Three – 6:29 pm
Day Three – 7:14 pm
Day Three – 9:31 pm
Day Three – 11:36 pm
Author’s Note
Day Three – 12:00 am
The driver tried to get out, but the car’s door was pinned by a portion of the wall that’d fallen against it. He bellowed, “Let us help,” and then mockingly laughed.
“Go,” shouted Porter as he ushered Red and June down the hall to the bedroom.
Infected came in through the kitchen. Porter could hear them screaming and banging their weapons against the counters.
The bedroom of the filthy ranch home was in worse shape than the living room. Garbage and dirty clothes were piled against the far wall, nearly covering the window. June led the way, pulling clothes and trash aside as she struggled to stand on the heap.
“Hurry,” said Red.
“I’m trying.” June lost her footing as the mound of clothes and garbage shifted. A car’s headlights shined in through the window. The attackers had circled the house.
As the room got suddenly bright, Porter spotted something near June’s feet. There was a man’s face peering up through a hole in the mess. He looked pained while trying to remain silent.
“June, look out,” said Porter. “There’s someone under you.”
“Under me?” Her confusion turned to shock when she saw the dirty face staring up at her.
All they could see was his chubby cheeks, pursed lips, and beady eyes. He had thick, salt-and-pepper eyebrows that’d been allowed to grow wildly, sprouting in every direction and barely failing to touch in the middle. His cheeks were red with the permanent blush of broken capillaries, his lips swollen and purple. He might’ve looked dead if not for the way his eyes darted back and forth.
“Who the fuck?” asked June as she fell off the mound and onto the bed where Red broke her fall.
The fat little man yelled, “Get outta of my house.” His burst of anger caused the trash piled on him to shudder and slip away, revealing a rotund stomach. He kicked his stubby legs, causing more trash to fly around, and then he rolled out of his hiding spot while continuing to yell at them, “All of you get outta my house.”
The severity of their predicament kept the discovery of the little man from being funny, at least for now. Porter tried to close the bedroom door, but the garbage on the floor prevented him. He pushed it as far as he could, and then backed away, his pistol drawn.
“We have to get out of here,” said June while motioning towards the window. The little, fat man stood in her way.
“Get out,” said the home’s owner as he moved to allow June a path to the window.
“We can’t go out that way,” said Red. “They’re waiting for us.”
“We’ll have to make a stand here,” said Porter. “They don’t have guns.”
“Are you sure?” asked Red.
“No.”
An axe crashed through the window, sending shards of glass exploding into the room. The head of the axe buried deep into the sill, and the wielder struggled to pull it free. Red pointed his shotgun through the window, and fired without bothering to aim. The axe’s owner released the weapon, and fell to the ground.
The noise from the shotgun blast was amplified in the small room, causing Porter’s ears to ring. He cringed in pain, but kept his aim steady as he covered the door. June cursed over and over, and the home’s owner retreated to an overstuffed closet where he stood helpless and afraid.
The female attacker was screaming something, but Porter couldn’t understand her. She sounded crazed – furious beyond reason, but the doorway stayed clear. No one was trying to get in, at least not yet.
Headlights illuminated the hall, and a long shadow fell across the hall as someone walked towards the bedroom. Porter steadied his aim, prepared to shoot at anyone who dared peek inside.
More shadows gathered, dimming the light. Someone dared to glance in at them, and Porter took a failed shot. The bullet struck uselessly into a picture on the wall outside the room, shattering the glass and causing the family photo to fall.
The female laughed, and the shadows jostled. Porter could hear her better now that the ringing in his ears quieted.
“Can’t kill us all. Rush them. Go!”
“Get ready,” said Porter to his brother.
The infected charged, pouring through the doorway in a chaotic scramble of faces and limbs. They climbed over each other and the trash underfoot, knives gleaming as headlights reflected off sharp edges. Porter tried to aim, but there was no point. Every bullet found its mark in flesh, ripping through faces and bodies, hands and arms. An attacker fell back, his death instant, and hampered the next in line. Soon there were three dead, piled atop one another, gushing hot blood into the garbage littered floor.
Another fool tried to enter, climbing his way over his friends, and Porter aimed at his head, but the gun clicked empty as he pulled the trigger.
“I’ve got it,” said Red, his voice little more than a dull whisper behind the ringing in Porter’s ears. Red aimed the shotgun, and ended the infected’s assault. The attacker was thrown back, off the stack of his friends, and slammed into the wall across from the bedroom door. Blood smeared behind him as he slumped to the floor.
Porter glanced around the room to make sure everyone was okay. June had pried the axe out of the sill, and was holding it, ready to attack anyone who dared come in through the window. The home’s owner was still cowering in the corner, his eyes as wide as they could get, and his mouth hanging open.
Red spoke, but Porter couldn’t make out the entirety of what he said. The multiple gunshots in the confined space had nearly deafened him.
“…the girl?” asked Red.
Porter screamed his response, “What?”
“Where’s the girl?” asked Red, slow and loud.
Porter looked at the stack of the dead, but didn’t dare search through them to see if one of them was the female who’d been commanding the others. As he stared at the dead, he saw one of them twitching. The body in the middle was moving. Its arms wavering and its hands grasping at the floor in search of its dropped knife.
Porter put away his pistol, and reached for June’s axe. She handed it over, and then looked away, unwilling to watch the murder.
Porter only hesitated while ensuring his footing. Once secure in his stance, he screamed out in anger and swung the axe with enough strength and purpose to split petrified wood. The infected’s head burst like a ripe melon, splattering Porter with blood.
He let go of the axe’s handle and backed away, suddenly fearful. The dead man’s hot blood had struck Porter’s face, and he anxiously wiped it away. He hadn’t considered the gory effect his murder would have. His victim’s blood dripped from Porter’s beard. It w
et his lips, cheeks, forehead, hands… Everywhere. Even in his mouth.
Day Three – 12:23 am
Porter grabbed the blanket off the bed and shook garbage off it before pressing the stiff cloth to his face. It stank of dirt and grime, like a piece of clothing discovered at the bottom of a dirty clothes bin, forgotten for years. He didn’t care. All that mattered was that he cleaned off the infectious material from his face. He spit, and wiped his lips dry on the blanket.
The headlights coming in through the window shone on him like a spotlight in the dim room, and the others stared, their expressions hidden in the darkness. He panted, and then spit again before saying, “I got it all over me. I got blood all over me. Fuck. It got in my mouth.”
No one responded.
“Oh fuck, Red. I think I got infected. It got in my mouth!”
“It’s okay,” said his brother, his tone less than reassuring. “You’re fine. It’s okay. Don’t worry about it.” Red fumbled with shotgun shells, the gun bent over his forearm, its barrel open.
Porter’s heart raced, and his stomach churned. He felt ill, like he was about to vomit. “Oh God, Red. Red…” He looked up at his brother, tears in his eyes. “I can feel it.”
“Don’t say that,” said Red. “Stop it. You’re not…”
“Give me the shotgun,” said June, reaching for Red’s weapon.
He refused, and moved away from her as he finished loading the weapon.
She screamed at him while keeping her eyes on Porter. “Give me the gun!”
She was right to be scared. Porter knew Red wouldn’t have the strength to kill his own brother.
“It doesn’t happen that fast,” said Red with pathetic desperation as he kept the shotgun out of June’s hands. “You’re not infected. It doesn’t happen like that!”
“You don’t know how it happens,” said June. “Give me the gun, Red.”
A tear fell from Porter’s left eye, cool on his skin as a breeze came in through the window. He wiped it away, smearing the tear through another man’s blood on his cheek.
The woman, their tormenter, laughed from the hall. She asked gleefully, “Did one of them help you?”
Porter turned his attention away from himself, and to the woman hiding in the hall. He let his anger overcome his fear, quelling any reticence. Porter reached for a knife that one of their attackers had dropped.
“Red!” June shouted in fear as she saw Porter going for the knife.
“It’s okay,” said Porter. “I’m not crazy yet. Not that sort of crazy.” The blade trembled in his hand. He looked to Red, and wanted to say a million things, but only had time for one, “I’ll save you. Trust me.”
With that, Porter climbed the stack of dead bodies to get to the hallway. Red screamed after him, pleading with his brother to stop.
“Look at you, big guy,” said the woman in the hall. Her face was split by the handiwork of either an infected or the insane. He recognized her from the Renault. Her wound oozed pus. Infection had reddened the skin, causing streaks of purple to radiate out to her cheeks and across her forehead. Her pupils were a sphere of black swimming in red, all humanity lost. Tears wet her cheeks, the same as Porter. She tossed a blade between hands like a greaser from a fifties-era movie. “Did we get ya?”
Porter knew they had, but he refused to give her the pleasure of an answer. Tears filled his eyes, as if spurned by anger and rage instead of sorrow or pain. His throat tightened, and his thoughts became muddled.
“Porter,” shouted Red as he tried to come to his brother’s rescue.
“Stop, Red! Stop!” June tried to hold him back.
Porter looked back into the room, and saw his brother coming to help. “No, stay back,” he said.
The woman used the distraction to her advantage, and lunged at Porter. He tried to dodge, but the hallway was too thin, and his footing too uncertain. He shoved at her approach, wildly stabbing while attempting to deflect the blade. Her knife sliced across the palm of his left hand. Porter struck her with his right, forcing her backward before he retreated a step and inspected his bleeding palm.
“No!” Red screamed after witnessing the assault.
The woman regained her composure and then stepped back like a sultry demon, enjoying the hell she’d wrought. The car in the living room was still running, its engine roaring as its headlights shined against the wall. Smoke filled the room, seeping forth from beneath the car’s wrecked hood. The driver was still inside, trapped by the walls that pressed against the doors. He banged the grip of his blade against the windshield in a failed attempt to break free.
“I helped you,” she said, mocking Porter as he faced off with her.
“Thanks,” he growled. “Let me return the favor.” He charged, and she covered her face in a feeble attempt to protect herself. He grabbed her wrist with his left hand, and pulled her arm aside before stabbing down at her. She tried to dodge, but only managed to move a few inches before the blade sunk deep into her neck. She fell to her knees, overwhelmed by Porter’s strength, and he shoved her down further before ripping the blade free. He brought it down a second time, and then a third, causing her black, infected blood to boil forth, spilling out like water from a hose. Another attack struck an artery, and a stream of blood jetted from her throat as she tried to crawl away.
Red screamed at his brother to come back, his voice tortured by anguish.
Porter let the woman crawl away, confident she would die soon enough. He focused on the driver, intent on ending the attack and saving his brother. Porter searched for something he could use to break the windshield, and settled on a chunk of wood that’d broken free from the wall when the car crashed through. He tore the splintered 4x4 free, breaking it loose from its base, and then struck the side of the car to test its strength. Satisfied, he climbed onto the hood. He had to duck to avoid hitting his head on the ceiling, and stood awkwardly on the hood and windshield, staring down at the last attacker. The driver laughed, and beckoned Porter on, but there was fear in his bravado.
Porter smashed the windshield, breaking it on the first strike. The wood sunk into the concaved glass, and he smashed it back and forth to widen the hole. Porter reached in, and pulled away chunks of glass. The driver stabbed at him, slicing his fingers, but that didn’t deter him. Porter continued his assault, and then reached into the car to grab the man’s arm as he tried to slice at him again. Porter wrestled with him, and started to pull the driver out. They fought, and the man dropped his knife as he pried at Porter’s grip.
“Your turn,” said Porter as he slammed the driver’s head against the broken windshield, driving shards of glass into his face and eyes. He pounded him down again and again, screaming in anger as he continued the relentless assault. Eventually, the driver stopped resisting, and fell limp, his face unrecognizable behind the broken glass, bone, and blood. He slumped into the driver’s seat, a lifeless mass that was vile to look at.
Porter spit on him, and then looked at his ravaged hands. There was no telling how much of the blood belonged to him.
“What’d you do?” asked Red, standing warily in the hall, staring at his brother. “Porter… Jesus Christ, man. Why’d you…” His expression was one of torturous sorrow, seconds from breaking down. His shotgun was aimed reluctantly at his brother.
Porter climbed over the roof of the car, and fled to the front yard, away from Red.
His brother followed, pleading with him to stop.
“Red, go,” said Porter as he limped away. He couldn’t outrun his brother even if his leg wasn’t injured. “Leave me. I’m a goner. Get away from me.”
“Porter, stop!” Red kept his distance as Porter went into the road and slowed to a walk. “Stop and talk to me. Tell me…” Red paused at the end of the driveway. “Tell me what to do.”
Porter’s vision was clouded by tears. The fading green light of the aurora borealis blurred as he stared up at it. Tears cascaded down the sides of his face, quicker every second. His fists we
re clenched, and the muscles in his arms grew tense.
“I can feel it happening,” said Porter. “It’s,” he paused before attempting to explain, “burning through me. In my head. I can… I can feel it, Red.” He wiped away his tears, and looked back at his brother. The road separated them, a chasm they couldn’t cross. Porter stepped back, fearful of what he might do next. He drew his pistol.
“Porter, stop,” said Red as he watched his brother’s gun.
“It’s empty,” said Porter. “Here.” He tossed the gun across the street. It fell in the grass, but Red didn’t go for it. “It’s a 45. You should keep it, and look for more ammo.”
Red took a step into the road towards his brother.
“Stop!” Porter shouted and held his arms out. “Don’t come any closer. I can feel it in me, Red. I’m infected. It’s… Jesus Christ. It’s getting in my head – making me…”
“Maybe there’s a cure,” said his brother, his voice soft and desperate, beleaguered by sorrow. “Maybe we can…”
“No. You’ve got to let me go before,” Porter stared at the blurring image of his brother. “Before you have to kill me. I don’t want you to have to do that.”
“Please don’t go.”
“Red, you need to get away from me – away from here. Take June and go. Get as far from here as you can. I don’t want to be able to find you after I change.” A new thought inspired him. “Either that, or give me the shotgun and let me finish myself off.” He stepped forward into the road, his arm outstretched.
Red backed away, and Porter stopped.
“I’ll…” Red could hardly speak. Agony and sorrow labored his attempt. “I’ll find Mary and the boys. I’ll make sure they’re…”
“No,” said Porter sharply. “I don’t want that. Go somewhere safe. Hide. Stay alive. Please, Red, that’s all I want. Mary and the boys’ll be fine.”
“If it were you – if you were me…” Red struggled to speak. “You’d go save them. I know you would. I’ll do it, Porter – for you. I’ll make sure they’re safe.”