Quietly, I guided the fence door open. It let out a small screech, causing me to pause. The humming didn’t stop, though, so I continued. When the gate was wide enough to let Preacher and I walk through, I moved forward, stepping carefully as I approached the trailer.
Right in front of the steps leading to the door, there was a two by three divot in the dead grass. I was sure it was a trap. I scanned the surrounding area and found similar depressions. Pointing out the closest ones to Preacher, I gave each one a wide berth as I snuck up to the door.
Preacher mimicked my footsteps as he followed.
The humming and moaning grew louder as I approached.
I turned and gave Preacher a signal telling him to stay put. He nodded.
The last thing I wanted was Preacher going inside. My father had already proved he would shoot at anyone that came close to him.
Wincing, I grabbed the pistol grip on my rifle. I didn’t know if the door was locked, and I wasn’t going to give away the initiative by testing the knob first.
I took two deep breaths, attempting to alleviate some of the tension in my chest. It didn’t work.
I turned the knob and rammed my shoulder forward, breaking the flimsy, aluminum door off its hinges.
Quickly, I raised my rifle, coughing as I inhaled.
Bile caught in my throat as a penetrating, repulsive smell hit me like a truck. The odor of the dead was bad around the trailer. With five zombies in the front, it was hard to avoid. But the smell in the trailer was ripe and contained, and it wasn’t just the dead.
There were buckets lining the wall with human feces. The sink on the opposite side of the small, all-purpose cabin contained a set of butchered legs cresting over the edge. Clothes, junk, empty cans of food and more were strewn across the room, discarded without plan or purpose.
Three canisters of propane were near the stove. One was currently hooked up and I could see the skillet on top still contained meat.
My father was sitting on the corner of the bed and jumped as I barged in. He snapped his pistol up just as my rifle came to bear on his chest.
Next to him, chained and duct taped to a chair, was my mother, Ruth. Her short frame squirmed as I entered. Even though her mouth was covered, her moan grew louder at the sight of me. Her right eye, the same one that Trinity had pierced when she fought to escape months before, had regrown into a purplish-white bulb.
“Christian!” my father said in shock.
“It’s me, dad,” I said, evenly. “Lower the gun.”
“What…how…” he stammered.
“Dad, I’m here to talk. Lower the gun,” I repeated.
He hesitated, then lowered it to his lap. I returned the gesture, but my hands were nervously gripping my rifle, ready to lift it if I had to.
“I knew you would come,” he said, a smile forming on his face. His eyes widened and he turned to my mother. “See? I told you he was alive!”
He bent over and kissed my mother on her temple. Her reaction was natural, turning toward him, vainly attempting to bite him through the layers of tape on her mouth.
I had to use all my self-control to keep from vomiting. If it was because of the smell, seeing my mother, or simply the ghastly way my father was acting, I didn’t know.
“I think I’ve figured it out,” he said as he stood. “How we can be together. All of us.”
“Dad,” I said warningly, “sit back down.”
His happy expression turned to confusion.
I licked my lips, taking a couple more steps inside the cabin. I couldn’t avoid stepping on the trash, and I kicked an empty can across the room.
“Christian?” Preacher called as he entered the trailer.
“Get out, Preacher!” I hissed, but he ignored me.
My father, seeing someone new and strange enter, jerked his gun back up.
“It’s okay, Dad,” I said, stepping in front of Preacher. “He’s my friend. We’re here to…help you.”
“You can’t trust anyone, Christian,” he said, eyes widening even further. “I warned you—”
“Dad! It’s okay. Trust me. He’s…he’s a minister.”
At that, my father’s eyes narrowed.
“A…minister?”
“Yes,” I confirmed.
His weapon was still raised, but slanted off to the side, nonthreatening. Preacher took that opportunity to step around and stand at my side.
“I…I don’t know what a minister can do,” my father said unsteadily. “They…they got it wrong, Christian. They all did.”
“Yes, Dad, everyone got it wrong,” I agreed.
“No…no…no…” he said softly. “No, you don’t…don’t get it! He got it wrong!” he said angrily, and pointed his gun at Preacher.
Preacher, who had his rifle strapped over his shoulder, raised his hands.
“Colonel Hunt, right?” Preacher asked calmly.
My father didn’t answer.
“Sir, I’m not here to tell you who is wrong or right. I can only say that, together, we can find out the answers.”
Preacher clasped his hands together as he continued.
“Your son, Christian,” he said with a nod toward me, “and I are here to figure this out with you.”
“Figure it out…” my father repeated softly. Suddenly, his eyes darkened, stabbing out like knives at Preacher. “You couldn’t figure it out! They tried. They said they could. They said we had to survive. They lied. You lied!”
My father wasn’t making any sense, and it seemed like the more Preacher or I talked, the worse he got.
“Dad, he’s right,” I pressed. “We are all trying to figure this out. That’s why we’re here. So…so we can find out…”
“I already have ‘found out’!” he spat. “Gods and demons, the next step is here!” He made a quick gesture to my mother. “She is the next step!”
My father laid his hand on my mother’s shoulder. Again, she swiveled her head toward him.
Preacher tucked in his lip, giving me a concerned glance and then turned back to my father.
“Sir, we—”
“Shut up! Just shut up!” he barked. “I don’t want to hear. You don’t know!”
I couldn’t take it anymore. My father had lost it. I had to force him to return to sanity.
“Dad,” I growled. “Mom is dead, don’t you understand? She’s not coming back!”
“Not true,” he retorted sharply, and then reversed into a grin. “She has come back. More than once! She is what we are supposed to be. We just need to break the curse.”
“Dad…” I said sorrowfully. “Dad…she’s not…coming back. She is gone…”
“You don’t know anything,” he said, scooting closer to her. “She is forever.”
“Christian,” Preacher whispered, “I don’t know…”
My father slowly combed his hands through my mom’s scraggly hair.
Something snapped in me. Whatever the man was standing before me, he wasn’t even a shadow of the man that raised me. The echoing voice of my father had helped me for months while I struggled to survive was a person from the past. This man had melted away, leaving this wretched soul in its wake. And my mother…seeing her like that was tearing my heart into pieces.
“Dad, get away from mom.”
He glowered at me. “She is my wife. I will not. She is mine!”
I raised my rifle.
“Dad, get away from mom!” I demanded.
“You listen to me, not me to you!” he growled. “She is your mother!”
I held my breath. Everything became blurry as tears welled up in my eyes.
I focused.
I aimed.
I fired.
My mother’s head jerked back.
“No!” cried my father.
But I couldn’t see him. The edge of my vision was hazy, almost dreamy. All I saw was my mother’s head slump forward. A black line of ooze trickled down her neck, pooling on her grimy shirt.
“C
hristian!” Preacher’s hollow, distant voice shouted.
I was pushed to the side and hit the wall as a deafening explosion filled the small, cramped space. Something heavy rolled off my leg. I struggled to stand. Preacher was lying on the ground at my feet, clutching his chest.
“Christian,” Preacher wheezed, his wide eyes met mine.
Blood stained his shirt and crept between his fingers.
My vision cleared as tears rolled down my cheeks. I looked up.
My father was pointing his gun where I once stood. Before Preacher had pushed me.
His head turned to me, then Preacher, and finally rested on my mother.
“Ruth…” he moaned, dropping his pistol to the floor. “Oh honey…”
My father turned around and cradled my mother’s head.
“You’ll come back again. I know…” he sobbed, rubbing his face on her hair.
I was shaking, filled with grief and disbelief.
“Christian,” Preacher whispered between tiny, strained breaths.
I knelt down next to him.
“What did you do?” I cried. “Why did you do that?!”
“I’m…sorry,” he croaked. “I…thought…we could…save…”
His eyes froze, blankly locked on the ceiling.
Pain, anger, regret all flooded into me. I glared up at my father. No…not my father. Fish was right. This thing in front of me had killed my father long ago. This thing nearly killed my sister. This thing killed my friend.
I stood, no longer shaking with anguish, but with rage.
My rifle seemed to rise up on its own, ready to deal vengeance on the man I once called father.
Just as I reserved myself to what I had to do, boots stormed up the outside stairs and rushed into the trailer.
“My God…” Fish exhaled with horror. “Preacher…”
Fish’s sudden appearance caught me off guard, and I balked.
I tried to pull the trigger. I sent the command over and over again to my finger, but it wouldn’t move.
“Christian,” Fish said, his tone hard and commanding.
I couldn’t respond, couldn’t react. I just wanted to pull the trigger. I wanted to end my father’s suffering.
“Christian,” Fish said more softly. The care in his voice was unbelievably soothing. “Christian, you don’t have to do this.”
I slowly turned my head and looked at Fish. His eyes were not dark. His face showed no anger. Only pity. Only sorrow.
“It…he has to be—” I faltered.
He nodded. “I know, kid. I know. But…you don’t have to.”
I turned back to my father, still choking over my mother’s corpse. Tensing, I raised my rifle again. And again, I couldn’t pull the trigger.
“It’s okay,” Fish said, his tone strangely comforting. Slowly, he put his hand on the end of my rifle and pushed it toward the floor. “Go on. Boomer is outside.”
I glanced back at the door, and then back to him.
Fish lightly patted my back, but I couldn’t feel it. I couldn’t feel anything except revulsion and sorrow. Revulsion for my father, and sorrow that I couldn’t save him.
I was only dimly aware that Fish had guided me out of the trailer and I was on the last step when I heard the suppressor on his .45 discharge three times.
Outside, Boomer and Sheriff Green waited by the fence. The canine galloped over to me. I knelt down, embracing him with all the strength I had left.
Nate said something into his radio, and the rumble of the Stryker was heard in the distance.
Boomer licked my hand and then moved to my neck.
Footsteps descended the stairs behind me.
“Come on, kid, our ride will be here soon,” Fish said gruffly.
I stood, wiping my face with my forearm.
“We can’t leave them like this...” I said as I pulled myself together.
Fish turned and glared at the trailer.
I straightened my vest and my hand brushed against the grenade I had taken a couple of days earlier. I reached down, pulling it free from its cradle.
Fish opened his hand.
“I’ll do it,” he said.
I shook my head.
“No…” I told him resolutely. “I…will do it.”
Fish frowned and after a moment of hesitation, gave me a curt nod.
“Come on mutt,” he grumbled to Boomer as he tugged on the dog’s harness. The two walked outside the gate and proceeded with Nate down the driveway.
The Stryker pulled up on the main road, just out of view.
I walked up the steps, peering back into the trailer. Preacher’s legs were sprawled behind the door. Across the cabin lay my father, his eyes vacantly staring at me. Three nickel sized holes were tightly placed on his forehead. My mother’s body fell with his, and the two lay still in a permanent embrace.
I reached down and pulled the pin on the grenade, letting the safety lever fall to the ground. With a quick flip of my wrist, I tossed the green, steel ball toward the propane tanks, and quickly walked away from the trailer.
The explosion from the grenade and propane tanks was loud and vicious, though I barely noticed as I walked away. Sheriff Green helped me board the Stryker, and we drove off.
The ride back to our safe house was quiet. Captain Campbell was driving the Stryker while Fish redressed my hand and neck injuries. Other than a few offhanded comments about the severity of the gash on my palm, not much else was said.
Agony, both physical and emotional, hit me when we returned. My mother and the thing that replaced her were dead. Preacher was dead, my father was dead. That man who had replaced my father was no more.
Pittman and Doctor Tripp sewed up my palm as best as they could. They told me I would probably lose some mobility in my thumb. Because Enrique and my sister required our morphine and other pain medications, I declined all that they offered. I much preferred the physical pain to what I was feeling inside.
My neck wounds were superficial, only requiring a couple of stitches and more adhesive bandages.
I didn’t know it, but Doctor Tripp slipped me a shot of Butorphanol, claiming it was antibiotics. The pain medicine hit quickly, causing me to pass out. In hindsight, I’m thankful. I could ignore the pain in my hand, just not in my chest. I slept through the rest of the day and into the early morning hours.
When I woke, it was only 4:00 AM. Everyone, except whoever was pulling guard, was asleep.
Groggy, I stood up, brushing away the blankets that made up my bed. Boomer stirred. He had been sleeping next to me. Lifting his head, he regarded me with suspicion. I reached down and scratched behind his head. He huffed and laid back down, quickly falling back to sleep.
They had placed me in the same room as Trinity. Leia lay next her. I hadn’t woken them and decided to let them sleep. I stepped lightly across the room and exited.
I tried to descend the stairs quietly, but the steps betrayed my presence, creaking eerily.
A faint light came from the kitchen. That was odd, I thought. We were only supposed to use lights in extreme emergencies.
I rounded the entryway and saw Fish sitting at the small, round kitchen table. A bottle of whisky sat next to him. Also on the table was a flashlight covered by a black T-shirt. The dark color did not completely eliminate the light, but it did dim it considerably.
He gave a nod, acknowledging my presence.
Silently, I walked up to the table and took a seat across from him.
His eyes were bloodshot, either from fatigue or, dare I say, crying. I wasn’t sure and wasn’t going to ask.
Fish picked up the bottle, took a swig, and then pushed it across the table toward me.
I slowly reached over and took a pull for myself. Fire warmed my throat. I sat the bottle back down and stared at the floor.
“Can’t sleep?” I asked.
“Nope,” he replied.
Fish appeared to be smooth sailing, rather than drunk. Of that, I was happy. You never kne
w which Fish you would get when he was intoxicated.
Now that I had a quiet moment to reflect, it puzzled me how Fish and the rest knew to come looking for me, let alone where. Someone had to spill the beans to them.
“Did the girls tell you?”
He took another drink of the whiskey and glared at me.
“I didn’t give them a choice,” Fish said gruffly. “They tried to lie.”
“How did you know?”
Fish reached into his pocket and pulled out a piece of paper, holding it up for me to see.
“Preacher taped this to Boomer’s harness. Guess he figured if I was looking for you, the mutt would be the first one I would find.”
He tossed the paper in the middle of the table. Hesitantly, I reached over and picked it up.
Unfolding the paper, I saw a note from Preacher, addressed to Fish. I can remember every word:
Fish,
Don’t be mad at Christian. He has to do what he is doing. I’m not sure if you understand. I do. I know you are not a religious man, but God has spoken to me. He has told me to follow him. To protect Christian from the evil that has infested his father. I will and I will keep him safe. This, I promise. I know, once you read this, you will come after us. I just hope we have the time to finish the Work. What that means, I am not sure. God will show me the way, though. Christian does not know I will follow him. He would try and stop me and I cannot let him.
Just remember, nothing evil comes from love.
Samuel aka Preacher
I folded the paper and placed it on the table.
“He was coming with you, regardless, kid,” Fish said.
“I told him…,” I said quietly. “I told him to turn around. To go back.”
I glanced around the kitchen.
“They blame me, don’t they?” I asked.
“Eh, the jury is still out,” he replied. “But since he claims God sent him, it’s hard to point the finger at just you.”
I chuckled humorlessly. “So, we blame God?”
“What did I tell you before, kid? Shit happens. Placing blame will only burn you up inside.”
I was quiet a moment. I raised my eyes, scanning the dark shadows on his face.
The Hunt Chronicles (Volume 3): Crusade Page 43