Scavengers

by Christopher Fulbright

  Strength washed over him as he felt the rejuvenation of aching bones and eroding muscles on an almost molecular level. He brushed her face with his hand, gently, so as not to scare her too much. Another wave of warmth and energy bathed his frazzled nerves, soothed the chaos in his mind. What was it about this child that gave him strength and rationale where minutes before he only had weakness and confusion?

  “Are—are you okay?” she managed to ask.

  “Yes, yes, little one. I am only so very thankful for … your help.” He hoped his voice sounded comforting, friendly. He let her go. She started to take a step backward, when he reached and grasped her hand once more. As a test.

  The potency of her effect on him was immediate. Energy spiked through him, emboldened him, made him feel well again.

  He heard footsteps passing outside the tent.

  “Are you still going to help me find Grandma?”

  Bal Shem looked at her with his dark brown eyes, his dusky lips curling into a smile. “Why, of course, little one.”

  His thoughts rushed like water over a spillway now. Clarity returned and, with it, his purpose was renewed. He needed to get out of this camp. He’d been here too long and with the military and police presence, even in this time of insanity, someone might spot him again. On the other hand, he was sick. Despite his momentary rejuvenation, he felt it fading already, like the effects of a narcotic as it gave you back to your pain.

  Yes. Despite what he’d just felt, this amazing surge of vigor, he was sure that he was still sick. And even as he realized it, his moment of lucidity was also fading fast. Suddenly, he struggled to formulate the next words he would say.

  Until he touched this child.

  He looked at Selah. Each brush against her flesh renewed his health, sent surging power and strength through his body. Was he so far gone, so sick and delusional that his mind was imagining these physical and mental effects?

  He let her hand drop. She grabbed her hand protectively, eyeing the tent door. “I have to hurry. My dad told me not to come here. He’s afraid I’ll get sick. Can we go look for her now?”

  “Certainly.” Bal Shem stood. His legs felt like old wicker, rickety and unsure, but when he placed his hand on Selah’s shoulder for support, the power shot through him again, and his legs felt renewed.

  He saw the tans and browns of Army fatigues on a man passing in front of his tent. “Stay here – just for a moment. Don’t leave. There are … too many sick people. I’ll be right back.”

  Quickly, Bal Shem darted outside. The Army reservist didn’t see him sneak up from behind; he didn’t see whose hands twisted and snapped his neck.

  The man’s body dropped into the dry dirt with a thud. Bal Shem seized the man’s pistol, and slung the man’s rifle over his shoulder. Straightening his rumpled, dirty white dress shirt, he calmly re-entered the tent.

  Selah stared with wide eyes. “Where’d you get those?” She pointed at the guns.

  “Oh, they give these to people when they’re going wandering around the camp. Can’t have you out there with those sick patients unprotected. Shall we go?” Bal Shem smiled deceptively and held the tent flap open for Selah. She eagerly stepped outside.

  Together they walked along the dirt path between the double rows of tents for the sick. The clinic trailer lay at the end of the path. The forest ran to the edge of the property here, thick with brush and trees. Behind the clinic trailer loomed the remnant of an ancient barn that even in its heyday probably wasn’t impressive. But it was functional. That’s what he respected about these Texans. They got the job done without bells and frills. Bal Shem continued to take in the lay of the land. Selah walked quietly beside him, casting a longing glance back the rows of tents.

  “Hey mister? Sorry, but I think—”

  “Shh,” he said.

  Next to the clinic trailer stood another trailer being used for office space. A police officer stood on creaking metal stairs smoking a cigarette. The big man watched them as they neared the clinic. Bal Shem remained calm. Slowly, he reached down and took Selah’s hand in a familiar, fatherly way. She looked questioningly up at him. He smiled at her.

  The police officer’s eyes narrowed at them. He did a back-and-forth glance between him and the girl. He stomped out his cigarette and came down the stairs.

  “Hey,” said the cop. “You there.”

  Bal Shem slipped an arm under Selah’s arms, across her chest, yanking her from her feet. She screamed.

  “Hold it right there, mister,” the officer ordered, drawing his gun from his holster.

  Bal Shem kept Selah in front of him, using her as a shield, shoved past the cop and stomped up the metal stairs, throwing open the door to the clinic. The lights were off inside. The trailer was empty. He slammed the flimsy door, and turned the deadbolt.

  Selah was still screaming. Roughly, he tossed her to the carpeted floor, and then peered cautiously around the window frame, through the glass, outside. The police officer had gathered the few remaining military and other cops around the exterior of the clinic. No one was shooting. And they wouldn’t, because he had the child.

  Selah sat on the floor, crying. She rubbed her knee where it impacted the floor when he dropped her. “Why did you do that? We didn’t find Grandma. You lied! I want my dad!”

  Bal Shem scowled. “Be silent.”

  “I want to go. You can’t keep me here!” Selah jumped up, running for the door.

  Bal Shem growled, white saliva gathering at the corners of his mouth. He wiped the gluey moisture away with his filthy shirtsleeve. His mind felt muddled. Confusion was settling in. He moved his tongue to speak, but suddenly the muscle felt stiff.

  Lunging for the girl, he seized her arm. Immediately, a surge of coherency and strength filled his core, and the fog in his mind cleared.

  One touch of this child…. It settled over him that he could not sacrifice her. He needed her, not just as a bargaining chip, but as a lifeline to the world of coherent thought.

  “Sit down,” he said.

  Selah trembled, but, sensing the danger of her immediate situation, did as she was told. As she whimpered against the fake wood paneled wall next to a desk, Bal Shem peered between the flimsy curtains.

  A flurry of motion outside was followed by rapid gunfire, but the gunshots weren’t directed toward the clinic. Three tents down the path, on the left side, a mob of infected swarmed the handful of officers and military personnel. A frenzy of shouts, incoherent grunts and primal noise rose along with more gunfire. Dust rose in the sudden melee. A mob of infected dragged the officers to the dirt, ripping the fabric of their uniforms away with jagged teeth and broken fingernails.

  Bal Shem ran to a different window for a new angle on the unfolding scene. In the trailer beside the clinic, he saw a crowd of infected dragging a doctor and two other men over the metal stairs. One fat man in overalls bit down on the doctor’s arm. The doctor flailed, but was unsuccessful in shaking the sick man. Blood poured from the fresh wounds. Raw craters of blood opened as the fat man tore away a mouthful of stringy muscle and veined flesh. The young doctor barely had time to scream before his attacker went in for another bite.

  The scent of warm blood drew more infected toward the cluster of confusion outside the office. Bal Shem ran to the other side of the trailer looking out the kitchen window. Along the fence, where orderlies had tied dozens of infected for want of cots and restraints, the “patients” were tearing free of their ropes, seemingly gathering strength. Even more curious, the ones that weren’t able to escape on their own were getting help from other infected individuals.

  As if they’re seeking revenge for what’s been done to them, he thought. Imprisoned, sedated, and now left to die.

  Together, the group of infected left behind broken fragments of rope and shambled toward the growing mass of slaughtered staff members. Several uninfected people, caught in the wrong place at the wrong time, rounded the corner of the trailer and were immediately set upon by t
he wild band of infected. In a matter of minutes, the men and women were reduced to stark, blood-streaked visions of death. The creatures – for surely he could think of no better term now that they had lost all sense of humanity – ripped into soft midsections, chewed open necks and tore muscles with their teeth. In minutes, the new victims were glistening piles of carnage. The infected crouched in the gore, wallowing in it and fighting over bloody pieces of human meat. They hoisted arms with jagged white splintered bones. Meaty thighs were held by knobby femurs. Soft, loopy strands of intestines full of shit were flung about, internal organs gnawed with starved fury.

  Bal Shem sat on a gold-speckled orange chair breathing heavily. The effects of the girl’s power seemed to last longer every time he touched her, but was starting to wear off. He looked to the refrigerator, opened it, and found a soda.

  With a lurching gait, he crossed the trailer and handed the cold can to the girl. His hand met hers and another jolt of renewal blasted through his body. He exhaled, relieved.

  Clutching the can, Selah said, “I want my dad.”

  Bal Shem said nothing.

  Selah began to cry.

  CHAPTER 33

  Choking back tears, Selah struggled with the can until she got it open. Bal Shem watched her drink the soda, dividing his attention between the happenings outside and the curious development that was this child. She sniffled, wiping her nose on the back of her arm.

  “It’s good, yes?”

  She nodded. “Mommy doesn’t let me drink sodas. Grandma does though. Grape’s my favorite.”

  Bal Shem smiled. “Is your mommy here?”

  “No, she’s at home. My Dad brought me and Grandma here after Grandpa died.” She looked at the floor, a mixture of sorrow and fear on her face. Selah turned the soda can, wet with condensation, in her hands, watching the bubbles form around the mouth of the can.

  “Was he sick?” Bal Shem moved to the other window, and looked out.

  “Yeah.” Selah lay on the carpet. “I don’t feel good.”

  Panic struck Bal Shem. Was she getting sick? He didn’t know what it was about this child that helped him, but he didn’t want to lose her. He knew he was infected, and if there was a cure or vaccine, they didn’t have access to it here, otherwise these people would have treated before things got out of hand. Possibly, it was incurable. He could only guess that the doctors were powerless to treat the sickness on a large scale, evident by their sedating instead of medicating the camp’s patients. Sedating … buying time, probably until they could find a way to treat the scourge.

  So far, this girl’s touch was the only thing that had improved his general state. She hadn’t healed the infection raging within him, it seemed, but she was able to slow the effects of the physical deterioration and provide moments of lucidity. “Are you sick?”

  Selah sniffed. “I don’t think so. I’m just tired.”

  Gunshots filled the air outside. Selah screamed, but she didn’t move from her curled position on the floor. Bal Shem ran to the front window, and parted the curtains.

  Two Jeeps loaded with military personnel drove off the county road and onto the dirt road leading to the camp. When the masses of infected spotted the open Jeeps, they moved in a tight-knit mob. As the soldiers fired, they steered into the thinnest portions of the crowd with the intent to break through, perhaps hoping the zombified people would move away. They did not. The Jeeps’ engines roared as the vehicles bogged down, grinding the infected beneath their wheels. Bones crunched and infected blood sprayed as the pile of bodies slowed their progress. The remaining crowd surrounded the moving vehicles. Swarming the Jeeps, they grabbed whatever they could, trying to pull men out or themselves into the seats.

  A lanky man clad in a mechanic’s jumpsuit sat upright in the dirt road, tire tracks impressed over his clothing. He shook his blood-coated head, confused because he couldn’t get his legs to move. The fiend seized a leg, raised it with his hands, and then let it drop again. Clouds of dust rose around him, as he began dragging his paralyzed lower body through the dirt following the military vehicle.

  More gunfire rent the air, the shots mingled with shouts and screams. Bal Shem saw family members from the non-infected quarter of the camp approaching the military group.

  Bad idea.

  Now the Army personnel were faced with protecting the civilians from the hysterical infected mob, or defending themselves. There weren’t enough of them to adequately protect everyone. As it was, they were quickly losing the battle. A round of automatic gunfire from the first Jeep, mowed down a good number of infected. Zombified flesh eaters danced like marionettes with yanked strings as bullets riddled their bodies, punching blood out their backs in rapid succession. The immediate crowd was culled, but more were headed toward them from the camp. The occupants of the Jeeps were dropping off, too. Several of the newly-arrived military men had been plucked from their seats and torn apart in the dirt by the oncoming mobs.

  Four infected men latched onto a young soldier riding in the back of the first Jeep, yanking him from the vehicle. Savagely, they pulled him apart while he screamed and pleaded. A gruesome crack echoed as his arm was pulled so hard that the shoulder was separated from the body, ligaments ripped, skin shredded, muscle snapped. One of his buddies attempted to shoot the infected, but right when it looked like he might have a couple of the infected camp patients in his sights, a large black woman in a pair of red scrubs made a flying leap from the side of the road, landing on the shooter’s back. She bit down hard on the right side of his neck, ripping away a mouthful of bloody muscles with her foul, black teeth. The man howled, clutching his rifle, blood spurting from the hole like some macabre fountain. Others swarmed him, and two gripped his chin and skull, twisted, and tore off his head. Bal Shem could see the soldier’s shocked expression frozen on the blood streaked face of his decapitated head, eyes wide, staring at the empty skies.

  The second Jeep veered to miss a sinkhole, yanked the wheel to veer away from a group of infected, and then, losing control, careened into an enormous Red Oak tree, throwing the driver into the road. Immediately zombies leapt onto the unconscious man. Stragglers scrambled to take part in the feast.

  Bal Shem laughed. “They won’t send any more men here after these fail to return.” He watched the bloodbath in sheer delight. “Stupid Americans.”

  He looked over at Selah. “You better?”

  She whispered something he couldn’t hear. Bal Shem walked across the room, and crouched beside the girl. She looked exhausted.

  “You need to sleep, little one. Let’s find a place where you will be safe.” Bal Shem scooped Selah’s body into his arms and carried her into a hallway leading to the back of the trailer. She breathed heavily and, as exhausted as she seemed, he wondered if by touching her he was somehow leaching away her strength. A closet took up most of one wall in the back room. He opened the closet door. It was empty except for a stack of olive green Army blankets. “This will be a good place.”

  Bal Shem placed Selah on the floor and used the blankets to make a sleeping pallet in the closet. He put Selah onto the pile, and pulled a blanket over her. “Sleep now.”

  Selah was too drained to answer. Her eyes had already begun to close. Bal Shem was concerned, but right now he needed to make sure the infected didn’t find a way inside the trailer, and he needed to ensure that Selah remained safe in the closet. She didn’t protest when he shut the closet door. He pushed a desk and bookcase against it. That will hold her.

  Bal Shem returned his attention to the massacre. He watched with interest for several minutes.

  It was clear from their patterns that the majority of the infected had no rational abilities left. They were mindless drones acting only in pursuit of flesh. He witnessed several zombies charge blithely in front of the vehicles and firing guns with no regard to safety. At the same time, a minority handful of them seemed to have retained some rational thinking. Those avoided the line of fire, choosing to attack from behind, or
find a safe spot, perhaps plotting an ambush.

  The infection affected each person in a different manner. What was this illness? Whatever it was, it wasn’t his followers who released it into the air. They didn’t have access to any such biological substance. Their mission had simply been to bring down the plane with the General aboard, and that’s what they did. This biological agent must have been aboard the plane because the duplicitous Americans were transporting it somewhere, or released in some other way on the unsuspecting population. He leaned toward the infection being released as a result of the plane’s destruction, only because he couldn’t imagine the Americans releasing such a plague on their own people, but he supposed it was possible. The vapid fools in Washington that passed for the country’s government held no true regard for its people. Bal Shem smiled a crooked grin. In any event, if it was the result of his attack on the General’s plane, then he and his followers had gotten more than they dreamed possible.

  Unfortunately, it also left him stranded. Being stuck in the midst of a biological attack had never been in the plan. And the possibility of his escape in one piece was looking poor. Unless…. Bal Shem watched the maniacal infected fighting over sinewy scraps of meat. A group of infected children sat in a puddle of blood, gnawing discarded bones.

  He sat in a nearby chair, beside the desk, and located paper and a pen. He found he could still write, though his ability to string together words at his stage of infection was rudimentary at best. The penmanship was so pathetic it looked as if a toddler had scribbled the words, but he was glad he still had the ability to read and write. Usually the hands were the first to manifest deterioration of the flesh, muscle and tissue. With the exception of his left thumb, the flesh was decaying, but still intact on his hands and lower arms. The slight improvement with each touch from Selah was not enough to completely halt the infection.

  Bal Shem jotted a quick concept for organizing the camp. Clearly, he could imprison the healthy people in the camp, subjugate the mindless fiends and bring those possessing shreds of thinking abilities under his command. Whoever controlled the food supply controlled the masses.