by David Spell
“Here, put your clothes on and then we need to go. I’m going to search these guys and take whatever they have that we can use.”
Chuck got to his feet, removed a glove and probed around his lower back. There was no pain, but his hand came back wet. His flashlight revealed that it wasn’t blood, he saw gratefully. His sternum really hurt but he would check it and his back later.
The girl was having trouble getting her shirt on so Chuck reached over and helped get her arm in the sleeve. “What’s your name?” he asked, gently, trying to gauge how bad she was hurt.
“Elizabeth Benton,” she answered. “Are they all…dead?”
“Good question. Let me check.” A moment later, he said, “Yep, they’re all dead. Now, let’s get out of here.”
He reloaded his rifle and searched the four bodies. Mustache Man had been a cop. I never would’ve expected that, Chuck thought. Mike Carter had worked for the Franklin County Sheriff’s Department according to the badge and ID he was carrying. Not much protecting and serving out of him, McCain thought, shaking his head and slipping Carter’s ID card into his pocket. Chuck stood and started to gather their weapons into a pile.
The AK-47 that Carter had used was damaged by Chuck’s round but he found an AR-15, a Mossberg .12 gauge shotgun, a .40 caliber Glock Model 22 pistol, and a Taurus 9mm pistol, stacking them next to the front door. Another AK, two more ARs, three scoped hunting rifles, and six other handguns were in one of the bedrooms. McCain also located extra magazines and a few boxes of ammunition to go along with the firearms. In another bedroom was the real jackpot: ten boxes of canned food, freeze dried meals, bottled water, several cases of beer, a few bottles of wine and two unopened bottles of whiskey. These guys had quite the stash here, McCain thought.
“Where are you taking me?” Elizabeth asked, as he came back into the living room carrying some of the supplies.
“Like I said, I found a house where I was going to wait this storm out. You’ll be safe with me. I think that punch to the head gave you a concussion.”
Chuck looked out the front windows but didn’t see any movement. Maybe there are no Zs in the area, he hoped. He still needed to check his chest. It was really starting to throb with pain, but he was breathing OK and didn’t think the round had penetrated his body armor. He’d get to it later.
The car keys were in Stringy Hair’s pocket on a heart key chain with the name “Elizabeth” printed across it.
“Is that your car they were driving, Elizabeth?”
She nodded and looked at him, her eyes still not focusing. “Yeah, they killed my friends, grabbed me, and took my car.” The reality of what she had just said brought the emotion to the surface and she started crying.
Elizabeth Benton has had quite a day, McCain thought.
Chuck made nine trips to the Jeep Cherokee carrying the weapons and supplies that he had discovered inside the house. There was even a large black hoodie and another t-shirt that would fit him. McCain saw that there were already several guns and more cardboard boxes of canned goods in the back of the Cherokee. Score, he thought. He would do a more thorough inventory later.
After a last look through the kidnappers’ house, it was time to go. Elizabeth’s shirt had been ripped open and the buttons torn off of it, so she held it closed against her body. McCain found a gray down jacket in one of the bedrooms that was too big for her but would do for now. Her fingers fumbled with the zipper and Chuck knelt in front of her zipping the jacket up to her chin. As he helped her up off of the couch, she swayed as a wave of dizziness and nausea swept over her. Elizabeth turned to the side and vomited. Thankfully, it missed Chuck but coated Larry’s and Bobby’s bodies.
“I’m sorry,” she said, contritely.
“No problem. Come on, I’ll help you out to the car.”
Elizabeth was unsteady on her feet and Chuck helped her to the front door. He supported her with his right arm and held his rifle in his left hand. The area still looked clear as they stepped outside. Just as they got to the Cherokee, however, the sound of growling came from nearby.
It was almost completely dark and Chuck activated the rifle’s mounted flashlight and lit up the scene. As the group of ten infected shuffled towards them, McCain felt fear but his training kicked in, calming him. They were still at least twenty-five yards away, moving across the front yard, all of them growling and snarling in unison. He hurried around to the passenger side, helping Elizabeth into the vehicle.
“Stay in the car,” he said, closing the door.
The zombies were inside fifteen yards now, all of them appearing to have been infected for a while. The decomposition of their bodies gave them a ghastly appearance while the stench was almost overpowering. There were five men, three women, and two children in the group. He raised his rifle and started shooting, exploding a head with each shot. The last one, a young girl, dropped right at his feet on the driveway. Thankfully, these Zs didn’t move very fast, he thought. After scanning the area to make sure it was clear to move out, he reloaded, stepped around the bodies, got into the SUV, and drove up to the house that he had commandeered.
In a perfect world, he would get out, go into the house, open the garage, and drive the Cherokee inside. With Zs in the area, however, he wasn’t going to attempt that. He activated four-wheel drive, turned up the driveway, and maneuvered around the house through the snow and ice-covered yard, until he came to a stop on the patio next to the back door. At least here, the car was hidden from the street. As he got out of the Cherokee, McCain felt the snow coming down again, the large flakes falling heavily. Hopefully, the snow would cover their tire tracks, he thought, as he assisted Elizabeth Benton into the house.
Abandoned house, South of Carnesville, Northeast of Atlanta, Tuesday, 1810 hours
Chuck had to let go of Elizabeth so he could close the door once they were inside. She immediately felt the room spinning but the big man caught her, wrapping his strong arm around her, before she could fall.
“What’s wrong with me?” Elizabeth gasped.
“Your brain got rattled when that scumbag punched you and now you’ve got a concussion,” he said, helping her upstairs and into the master bedroom. “The vomiting, dizziness, the slurred speech, those are all symptoms. I’m going to give you some Tylenol and some ice to put on your face. The main thing you need to do now is get some rest.”
“Are you a doctor?” she asked, slurring her words but trying to smile.
“No, but I used to be a fighter and I saw a lot of guys and girls get their brains rattled. You’ll be fine in a couple of days.”
Elizabeth sat down on the bed and Chuck could see that she was shivering. She suddenly remembered something, putting her hand on McCain’s arm.
“A couple of days? No, I need to get back to the school now and tell them what happened.”
Chuck handed her the Alabama sweatshirt that hadn’t fit him. “Why don’t you put this on? It’s gonna be a cold night. I’ll be back in a couple of minutes with some ice.”
Using his flashlight, he found a plastic ziplock bag in a kitchen cabinet and then walked over to the back window, peering out into the dark night. He didn’t see or hear anything as he quietly eased the rear door open, suppressed pistol in hand. Snow continued to fall, leaving a thick white blanket over everything that he could see. Satisfied that it was safe, McCain knelt, scraping some snow and ice into the plastic bag, then withdrew back into the house. He locked the door and pushed the dining room table up against it. A leather couch was shoved long ways against the front door. McCain opened his backpack, digging around until he found the container of pills and a bottle of water which he took upstairs with the ice pack.
Chuck stopped outside the bedroom door. “Hey, it’s me,” he called, softly. “I’ve got some ice for your face and some Tylenol.”
Elizabeth was a small shape in the king size bed. Chuck turned his flashlight on and saw that she had gotten the sweatshirt on over the top of her flannel shirt. She was stil
l shivering, though, the temperatures inside the house being only slightly warmer than outside.
McCain had no idea what the girl had been through and tried to speak calmly and quietly to her. “I’m going to shine my light on your face. I want to see how bad the swelling is.”
His light illuminated a very pretty, young face. Maybe late twenties, he thought. Her eyes were green and her light brown hair was a tangled mess from her ordeal. The left side of her face was already bruising. Her left eye was partially closed from the swelling and her bottom lip was busted and bloody. She reached up and felt of her injuries.
“It really hurts. How bad is it?”
“There’s a lot of swelling around your eye. That’s why we need the ice. You’re gonna have a nice black eye but it doesn’t look like any permanent damage. And I don’t think that cut on your lip needs any stitches.”
“What was your name again?” she asked him, taking the four tablets and swallowing them with water from the bottle he handed her.
“Chuck. Chuck McCain. Now, I’m going to put this icepack on your face. Can you hold this on your eye? We need to get that swelling down. Tell me again what your name is.” He remembered but wanted to see if she did.
“Elizabeth Benton. Are you OK?” she asked, concern in her voice, and pointing to his throat. “You’ve got blood on your neck.”
McCain took off his glove and felt the area she had pointed out. The right side was sticky from where his attacker had attempted grab him with the remains of his left hand.
“Yeah, I’m good. It’s the other guy’s blood. I’ll go clean it off in a minute.”
Benton nodded. “I really need to get back to the school, Mr. McCain. They don’t know what happened.” She started to sit up but gasped from the pain in her head. Another wave of dizziness hit her and the young woman fell back onto her pillow, crying.
“I’m sorry, Elizabeth,” Chuck said, sitting down next to her. “We aren’t going anywhere tonight. It’s too dangerous to travel when it’s dark. Plus, it’s snowing again and the roads are going to be impassable for a couple of days. I don’t want to take a chance on getting stranded out in the middle of nowhere. And, you’re hurt.
“Sleep tonight and we’ll talk about it tomorrow and figure out what we need to do. You’re safe with me. I promise. I’ll let you have this room and I’ll keep watch downstairs in the living room. If you need anything, just call me. I’m a light sleeper.”
The girl nodded at the big man as tears seeped out of her eyes, her small frame shivering in the cold house. “Okay, but it’s so cold. Can you help me get under the blanket?”
Chuck tucked her under the covers and went looking for more bed linens. He was going to need to wrap up himself. McCain found additional blankets in the hall closest and a pillow on one of the other beds. He removed his last dry shirt from his pack and brought it and another blanket to Elizabeth.
“Here’s another blanket and one of my t-shirts. It hasn’t been washed in few weeks, but it’s dry and the more layers you have on the better.”
“Thank you for what you did, Mr. McCain. Thanks for everything,” she said, quietly.
The room was still spinning, but she could feel the Tylenol starting to kick in. When he left she managed to get the black shirt on and wrapped the extra blanket around her small frame. The shivering finally stopped as her body started to warm up.
Even in her dazed and confused state, Elizabeth understood the stranger’s words and knew he was right. For some reason, she trusted this man and knew she was going to be OK. Yes, he’d rescued her from those animals who had killed her friends, but it was more than that. She sensed that this was someone who would do what he said and he had promised to protect her.
What had he gotten himself into now? Chuck wondered, as he walked down the stairs. He watched and listened at the front window for several minutes and then repeated the process at the rear of the house. Satisfied that they were safe for the moment, McCain stripped off his body armor and shirts.
He shivered, standing half-naked in the cold house, stepping into the half-bathroom connected to the living room. Chuck needed a mirror so he shut the door and shone the small flashlight onto his chest. There was a two-inch red circle just to the right of his left nipple from the 7.62x39 AK-47 bullet. It was already starting to turn purple. Chuck moved his fingers around the area. It hurt to touch but nothing felt broken.
“Thank God for that armor,” he mumbled.
He shone the light so he could see his face and neck in the mirror. His left eye would be black by tomorrow but the swelling was minimal from where he had been punched. McCain used his fingers to feel around on his face and the side of his head. The area around his eye was tender, just like the old days after a fight. Wearing four ounce mixed martial arts gloves, it was almost impossible to compete and not get marked up. His police co-workers got used to seeing him report for duty with black eyes, stitched up facial cuts, and other assorted injuries. This one was nothing.
There was a large amount of dried blood on his neck and he used some water from a plastic bottle to wash it off. The cold was bad enough but now being cold and wet was just miserable. He walked into the kitchen and found a hand towel with which to dry himself off.
McCain quickly put his clothes back on, including the extra t-shirt that he’d found in the kidnapper’s house. He picked up the black hoodie, noticing the NASCAR logo on the back. It didn’t smell very good but it would keep him warm until his own garments were dry.
His black, kevlar-lined cargo pants were damp but he didn’t have any others to put on. He should’ve taken a pair of jeans off of one of the dead guys but he hadn’t thought about it and sure wasn’t going back to that house tonight. McCain still had not changed out of his wet socks. He found the dry pair still laying on the coffee table, took his combat boots off, and soon had warm, dry feet again.
After getting as comfortable as he could, the federal police officer shone the light on his black plate-carrier. He touched the hole where the rifle round had hit him, inserting his finger and feeling the indention in the metal plate, thanking God his attacker had been a good shot and hit him center-mass. When he flipped the carrier around, he found where the mystery liquid had come from. The combined four hundred and fifty pounds, he estimated, of himself and the dirty cop he’d been fighting had crushed that wooden table, sending several pieces into his CamelBak, puncturing it.
McCain unsnapped the hydration device and removed it, tossing it to the side. Well, that’s a few less pounds I’ll be carrying, he thought. He still had two liters of water in his pack and plenty of water treatment tablets. He had also taken two twenty-four packs of bottled water from the kidnapper’s house.
With the end of the couch pressed against the front door, Chuck stretched out with his feet facing the exit. He wrapped up in the hoodie and a thick blanket, and laid his rifle beside him on the floor, holding his suppressed Glock across his chest.
Back to my original question, he thought, as he lay there shivering. What have I gotten myself into with this girl? He had to get to Melanie. That was his only mission at the moment. He didn’t mind helping other people when he could, but his primary responsibility was to get to his daughter.
A conversation from months earlier popped into his mind. He and Rebecca Johnson were driving back to the Centers for Disease Control Headquarters in Atlanta. Chuck and his team had just been involved in encountering and shooting the first people on American soil to be infected with the zombie virus. Rebecca was in charge of the Atlanta CDC enforcement office, but McCain had fallen in love with her the first time they had met, when she came to his house to recruit him. Always the professional, however, Chuck had managed to keep his feelings concealed.
As they drove she had asked him, “Do you know what your calling is, Chuck?”
Something about Rebecca had made Chuck answer honestly, even though he thought it sounded a bit cheesy. “I don’t know that I've ever really thought of it as a call
ing,” he had said, “but I suppose that's what it is. A cop, a soldier, a Marine, a fireman. Those jobs really are all callings. No one gets into this line of work for the money or for the perks. So, yeah, I guess I do know what my calling is. It sounds corny, but 'To Protect and Serve' is what I'm called to do.”
McCain had tried to help Greg and Tonya, only to have them turn on him. Now, he was caring for a girl he didn’t know after risking his life to save her from a certain death. He hadn’t been able to save Rebecca, though. The familiar stab of pain dug deeply into his heart.
He sat up on the couch and reached over into his backpack, removing a bottle and a black stocking hat. Who would leave behind an unopened bottle of Evan Williams? he wondered, pulling the hat over his head. Maybe someone who had gotten infected with the zombie virus and only had a taste for flesh now?
Would he ever get over Rebecca’s death and his feelings of guilt for not protecting her? He sipped the bourbon, enjoying the burn as it went down his throat. That fateful day, he and Rebecca had been having such a nice time with Melanie and her boyfriend, Brian, on the University of Georgia campus, where the young couple were both studying to become teachers.
Just a few weeks before that, Chuck had finally gotten the courage to ask Rebecca out for dinner, fully expecting her to turn him down. Instead, she had said, ‘Yes,’ and they had begun dating. Eventually, Chuck had invited her to accompany him to Athens to meet Melanie and Brian on the UGA campus.
After a nice lunch, Mel had surprised him with tickets to the Bulldogs’ home opener football game. The four of them were just about to enter Sanford Stadium when gunshots erupted and Amir al-Razi burst out of the Tate Student Center across the street. Al-Razi was an Iranian intelligence agent who had launched several terrorist attacks around Atlanta using the bio-terror virus.