Red Asphalt: Raptor Apocalypse Book 2

by Steve R. Yeager

  He stood panting on the lawn. He looked at his hand, looked at the bar. From the corner of his eye, he saw Jesse holding his chest and breathing unsteadily. He considered striking the dead man's head again, but his anger was already fleeting.

  He eyed Jesse instead. Jesse should have shot first. He should have killed the guy with the rifle when he had the chance. Then this whole mess would not have happened.

  It was his fault.

  But was it really? Cory knew he'd been too hasty. He had made a serious misjudgment. He thought he could have reached the guy in time.

  He was wrong.

  Blowing air through his nose, he wiped his hands on his pants and went to check on Jesse. He propped him up against the remains of a dining room chair. Jesse's head slumped to one side, and he kept raising a hand, as if to swipe at something in front of him.

  One swing, he thought, eyeing the crowbar.

  Just one swing.

  Then he could be on his way again. No questions, no worries.

  He glanced down the street. His childhood home had burnt to blackened sticks and was now smoldering. He could smell the hot ash of the lingering fire. Fortunately, it had not set any of the surrounding structures on fire. He remembered what he had learned inside that house. If anything, those memories had made him even more determined to complete his mission, more committed to the outcome.

  His hands clenched around the crowbar until his knuckles turned white. Taking two giant steps, he swung the bar and pounded the hooked end against a masonry fixture in the yard. The steel rang out like a bell in his hands, and the numbing vibration almost made him drop the bar. But he held onto it and struck the bar against the bricks again, and again, and again, switching arms until both went numb and he'd torn large gray chunks out of the fixture.

  Finally, he dropped the bar in the dirt.

  A passage from a book came to him: A man who must protect others is less strong than a man alone. That had been one of LaPaz's teachings, a lesson that had proven useful in the past. But now? He knew little of what lay to the south. He could very well be walking into a minefield. He might need the damn cowboy, the old hermit, the—

  He returned to Jesse and stood over him, considering what to do next. Jesse was going to die if he did nothing. The smell told him that. He stared down for almost a full minute while letting his breathing return to normal.

  It was not going to be easy. It might even kill him, but he had to try, if only to find out what had happened to his sword, or, maybe having a bullet in his head now was making him give a shit, maybe it had finally given him a conscious.

  He chuckled at the unpleasant thought.

  He began by stripping Jesse's flannel shirt to get to the bandages underneath. The cotton dressing wrapping the injured shoulder did not come off easily. He had to work at it slowly, peeling it away layer by layer. The frayed gauze left behind long fibers in the milky-whiteness of the wound. A zigzag pattern had been stitched with black polyester thread, and those stitches were now pulled taut and surrounded by areas of puffy red. Near the bottom of the wound was a pus-filled blister, and the area surrounding it was beet red, almost glowing.

  Cory blew air out through his pinched lips. There was one thing he could try, something he'd never attempted to do before, but it should work. At least it had in the movies.

  “Wait here,” he said and went to gather pieces of wood from the yards in the area to start a fire. Once he had a good fire burning, he set Jesse down next to it, and left to check the remaining homes for the other items he needed. He returned with a kitchen knife, a piece of flat steel, a couple of containers filled with water, and strips of cloth cut from thick curtains. Using the crowbar, he exposed the hot coals and thrust the knife and piece of flat steel into the hottest part of the fire. They would take a few minutes to get to the right temperature. He glanced up at the sun. It was early afternoon, maybe one or two o'clock.

  He was going to be cutting things close.

  While he waited for the knife and steel to heat, he supported Jesse's neck and started forcing him to drink from the canteen.

  “Good,” Cory said, “drink.”

  Jesse drank, sputtering and mumbling something about a football game. He was making little sense. He swallowed in-between talking about the Cowboys, how much they sucked last year, and how they had zero chance of winning if they did not draft some guy. It all seemed to make complete sense to him, but Cory had no idea what Jesse was talking about.

  Once Jesse had finished off all the water in the canteen, Cory screwed the cap back on it and set it down in the dirt. He began stuffing strips of torn cotton fabric into Jesse's mouth. They would give him something to bite down on and keep his teeth from shattering during the procedure. Finally, he put the remaining strips into a water-filled aluminum pot and set it next to the fire.

  He held his hands out to examine them. They shook. He willed them to still.

  “You need to lie down on your stomach,” he said. “Can you do that?”

  Getting no response, he pushed Jesse down onto a towel next to the fire. Using his fingers, he probed around the pus-filled blister. It felt hard as if it were solid underneath. The skin had stretched tightly over it, too. He leaned in and examined it more closely, pressing around the surrounding skin in order to determine where best to lance it.

  Jesse groaned, but he had slipped too far into exhaustion and delirium to put up a fight. “Hannah,” he mumbled. “Where are you?”

  “She is fine,” Cory said reassuringly. “She will be back soon.”

  Jesse turned his neck. His eyes were no longer glassy. They were clear and bright. They widened and focused on Cory. “What are you doing?”

  “Nothing.”

  Cory wrapped his hands with thick strips of cloth. He removed the knife from the fire. The blade glowed a dull orange.

  “No, what…are you doing?” Jesse asked.

  “Shhh, hold still.” He rolled Jesse's head so he could not see what he was about to do.

  “Here goes.”

  Taking the knife in his right hand, he straddled Jesse and pinned him against the ground then lowered the knife to the blister. The blade smoked. Curling wisps of gray drifted upward.

  “This will not hurt a bit.”

  He cut. Flesh sizzled.

  Jesse bucked and tried to pull away from the blade. He turned toward Cory. His mouth opened and closed, but the cloth between his teeth kept him from screaming out more than a few muffled grunts.

  White pus, suddenly released, streamed out like thick cream from the infected blister and dribbled across Jesse's exposed skin, dripping onto the towel below him.

  “Now this part might hurt a little.”

  He again lowered the knife to cut the infected flesh with the tip. Jesse moaned through the cloth stuffed in his mouth and fought back as the blade sliced into his skin.

  “Stop fighting,” Cory said.

  He made another cut, and shifted positions, altering his grip on the blade. Jesse bucked again, this time wildly. The blade flew out of Cory's hand and landed a few feet away, out of reach.

  “Hold still!”

  He let go of Jesse and quickly retrieved the knife, shook the dirt off it, and plunged the blade back into the fire.

  He began to reconsider the whole thing. It seemed so crazy now. Maybe the bullet had come loose in his head and was affecting his judgment. Maybe he would be better off driving the blade into Jesse's skull and being done with it all.

  Walk away.

  No harm, no foul.

  As if to answer his current line of thinking, Jesse rolled over, panting. His eyes were wild, goggled, and filled with pain. Killing him now would be so easy. Shove the knife in once. It would all be over quickly.

  He sucked in a breath and again took the knife from the fire and climbed onto Jesse. He held the blade with the sharp tip hovering over Jesse's head, wavering between plunging the point into the weak spot in the back of the skull and finishing the excision of th
e infected tissue.

  His arms shook as he put his palm over his other hand and made ready to drive the point into Jesse's brain.

  Then he saw the cut he had already made in Jesse's back. The area was bleeding profusely in red streams, coming out in steady pulses to the beat of the man's heart. He hesitated, caught between letting the man live and killing him outright. If he killed him now, he would have trouble getting where he wanted to go. Also, he would never learn who had taken his sword, his beloved Muramasa-made blade.

  Was it worth it?

  Could he do it?

  Blood pooled, growing thicker, obscuring the wound. Jesse moaned and tried to roll away but was too feeble to do so.

  It would be so easy.

  Plunge it in, twist.

  He exhaled, inhaled.

  Again reversing the knife in his grip, he touched the hot blade to the open wound. The blade sizzled as it cut. He stopped to pull away the dead flesh with his fingers. Bits of skin and yellowed fatty tissue remained attached to the flayed skin as it stretched. He dug farther into it with his fingertips, rolling it up, and cutting the loose skin away with a sawing action.

  After coming free, he took the slab of infected flesh and flung it into the fire, where it sputtered and popped.

  He rolled Jesse onto his side. The muscle beneath the incision bled clean. Jesse had gone limp. Cory held him there and let the pulsing flow of blood wash away the remaining pus. Then he took a strip of cloth from the pot by the fire, cleaned out the wound, and again let it bleed freely.

  After nearly a minute of alternating between wiping and letting the blood flow clean the wound, he pushed Jesse over and exposed the ragged gash, looking for any infected tissues he might have missed. Blood continued to pool. Each time Jesse tried to move, the muscles of his shoulder bunched and swelled, causing the gash to open further.

  “Don't move,” Cory said. He stopped pinning Jesse down long enough to extract the iron bar from the hot coals. He held it up in front of his face. The bar smoked as the cherry red color faded to a dull orange.

  “Now this is going to hurt.”

  He swabbed the wound out one final time with the cloth and then used his knees to pin Jesse's arms against the dirt.

  He lowered the iron bar.

  Hot metal smoked and sputtered. Steam rose in white tendrils. Jesse came awake and the cords on the back of his neck all stood out like steel cables being pulled taut and his muscles all tensed at once, forcing his body rigid. He spat out a bit of cloth still stuck in his mouth and screamed savagely. Wet spittle sprayed the dirt beside him.

  The torturous wail reverberated off every remaining flat surface in the neighborhood, coming back as pulsing echoes of pain. Undaunted, Cory held the bar pressed to the wound while it greedily seared flesh.

  It smelled like roasted pork.

  The sizzling and popping lessened, grew quieter, and, mercifully, the screaming stopped when Jesse finally passed out for good.

  With a steady hand, Cory set the steel bar down in the dirt beside the fire and examined his handy-work. He wiped sweat and blood from his cheeks with the back of his wrist and checked to make sure Jesse was still alive.

  Not bad, he thought, not bad at all.

  -21-

  MEET THE KING

  ANDREA FOLLOWED EVE and Kate as they were escorted through the complex to the private quarters of Sebastian Cyrus, leader of the Solar Nation.

  “You must wait here,” Tommy, the man who had accompanied them, said. He rapped three times on the door.

  A few seconds later, it was opened by David, Cyrus's personal bodyguard. He held the door open and gestured for them all to enter. Andrea noticed Eve flinch at the sight of David, whose face was marred by a massive burn scar that covered the entire right side. That face was familiar to Andrea. She had been the one who had saved his life.

  Tommy tried to walk through the entryway, but David placed the tips of his fingers on the man's chest and directed him back out into the hallway.

  “Thank you for bringing them,” he said officially while shutting the door in the man's face. He then turned and bowed his head, first to Andrea, then to Eve, and finally to Kate, before gesturing for them to follow him into another chamber.

  That chamber held a wooden dining table with six chairs surrounding it. The walls were adorned with framed pictures, all promotional materials from various video games.

  Sebastian Cyrus sat at one end of the table, examining a hand-drawn map. He looked up when they entered.

  Andrea inclined her head in mock respect.

  “Doctor Blakely, how nice of you to stop by,” he said, setting a pen down and resting his arms on the table. He held his gaze on her long enough for her to consider turning and running, but she fought the urge and instead waited there, unmoving. If she showed any signs of weakness, she knew he would pounce. And if she showed him any disrespect, he would crush her like a bug. So, she tried to stay neutral, willing herself to show no emotion, only respectful submission.

  After a long series of seconds, he glanced away. “And look what you have brought me. Gifts. A glorious start to my day.” He lifted a delicate teacup to his lips and sipped then set the cup down and slung one arm over his chair back.

  “Who, may I ask, are you and why have you come here?” he asked, addressing Eve and Kate.

  No one moved or said a word. David stepped in front of Eve. He grinned. The scar covering the side of his face and the white orb that used to be his eye made him appear monstrous. Usually, it was enough to scare anyone who didn't know him the way Andrea did.

  “No need for that,” Cyrus said. “No need to frighten the poor girl. These are our honored guests. Please, ladies, sit. You look tired. Are you hungry? Perhaps thirsty?”

  Eve and Kate remained silent.

  “I see,” he said. He shoved a chair with his foot so that it scooted across the floor and ended up close to Eve. He turned to David. “Some tea for our guests would be nice.”

  David walked around a half-wall and entered a kitchen area. He set a teapot on an electric stove.

  “Sit, ladies, please. I must insist,” Cyrus said.

  Andrea put a hand on Eve, who was trembling, and directed her to take the seat farthest away from Cyrus. She did the same with Kate and tried to sit in the chair closest to him, wanting to create a buffer between them.

  “No, not you,” he said, holding up a hand to block Andrea. “You, child. You come sit next to me. It's okay. Don't be afraid.”

  Kate glanced at Eve then Andrea before taking the chair next to him. She displayed no emotion on her face, no fear, no loathing, nothing.

  Andrea backed away and remained standing. She wondered what was planned for them. She also wondered if there was anything she could do to help them not end up like so many other women, anything, anything at all. But if she did so, it might conflict with her other plans. These two coming here now had complicated those. She folded her arms across her chest and watched Cyrus closely for any indications of what he might be thinking. She needed to be extremely delicate.

  “Fascinating,” he said, staring at Kate. A bulge moved across his lips as his tongue ran along the inside of his mouth. He turned to Eve. “So, my dear, what brings you here?”

  “Two men with guns,” she responded.

  Andrea cringed. She wanted to put a hand on Eve's shoulder to tell her to watch herself, but did not dare to do so now. Eve obviously did not realize whom she was talking to.

  Cyrus chuckled. “So, she maintains her humor? Wonderful. I must apologize for our rudeness, my dear, but with such a beauty like you, I, along with my men, am shocked that you were found just wandering the countryside alone with this young girl. Did I get that right?” Leaning forward, he splayed a hand on the table and began to admire it. “I must admit I am puzzled by this. I wish to know more, much more. So, for now, you must consider our actions a rescue. For if you remained alone, you'd likely be dead by now. It is a dangerous world, after all, is it not?”


  “We weren't alone,” Eve said. “Your men killed my friends.”

  Watch it, Andrea thought. David returned with the teakettle and cups. He filled them one by one, concentrating on his current task.

  Cyrus waited until David had filled each cup. “If that is the truth of it,” he said, “then I must make apologies for their actions. Sometimes my brothers act far too…impulsively.” He glanced at David. “But, I assure you. If you had only met my men with kindness, your friends would still be alive. It is most regrettable they did not survive. Nevertheless, I lost men, too. My blood brothers. I'm sure you can understand how much that upsets me. Each and every one is indispensable to me.”

  Eve drew back from the table. “Those men you killed saved my life. And—”

  “And what?”

  “And…never mind.”

  “Ah, I'm sorry they are dead. Truly, I am. But, dead is dead, and I can't bring them back. And neither will we recover those brothers that they so ruthlessly murdered. We are all a family here, see. A big family. A close family. We look out for one another. And if there were anything I could do to reverse this unfortunate misunderstanding between us, I would do so in a heartbeat. You must believe me.”

  Eve nodded slowly.

  “So, what is your name, my dear?” His gaze flicked between Eve and Kate. Neither spoke. He finally landed on Andrea.

  “Her name is Eve,” she said, “and the girl is named Kate.”

  Eve shot her an angry, surprised look of betrayal.

  Cyrus's hairless left eyebrow went up. “Eve? Really? Such an appropriate name for the times, I'm afraid. Well, I'm Sebastian, Sebastian Cyrus. But here my brothers call me Cyrus.”