The F*cked Series (Book 1): Uppercase

by Gleason, R. K.

  “Good,” says the Sergeant. “Divert all future civilians the teams come across to there. It won’t hold them all for long, but forty thousand gives us a little breathing room, for now. Then start with the ones you already have and sort them out. Weed out the ones who’re obviously infected,” he continues, not trying to keep the, you fucking idiot tone out of his voice. “This means anyone with bad color, bite marks or even scratches. But also, anyone showing signs of illness or fever. This thing is a distant relative of rabies and temperatures will spike for anyone infected. Oh! And keep your eyes open for anyone who looks out of place.”

  “Out of place, how?” the Captain asks as he and Brooks turn to look at Sergeant Nichols.

  “Out of place, like a lion in a group of gazelles. Anyone who looks more predator then detainee. Keep an eye on those fuckers and we can weed them out if we’re forced to. Send everyone who looks clean to the stadium and institute the same process there. No one gets in who doesn’t look clean. Everyone else gets red-flagged.”

  “And what do we do with them?” Walker asks.

  “Consider them all cuddly monkeys,” Major Brooks says. “But before you do any of that, make sure my troops are loaded and ready to go. We roll out of here in five. Then contact the Colonel and tell him I’m preparing to initiate Operation Washout. I’ll inform him of my final decision after I’ve had a chance to survey the surrounding areas and determine what the breach ratio is.”

  “Breach ratio?” the Captain questions. “I already said we have most of the major roads covered.”

  “Most doesn’t mean all the main roads. And it sure as hell doesn’t come close to covering all the smaller ones. We took a flyover of the area before landing, and all your blockades are doing is forcing the escaping infected to the side streets. You can’t just shut down some of them. It’s all or nothing, Captain. You should have bottled them up on the freeways while you had the chance and just rolled in to gather them up. But you decided to half-ass it, so here we are, and that’s why you’re no longer in charge. Now, before carrying out your other orders, have someone get the Sergeant and I a cup of hot coffee,” she adds, making sure with her final order, Walker has no question about who’s in charge and where he sits on the ladder.

  “Would either of you like cream and sugar with that, Major Brooks?” the Captain asks, biting back his contempt and anger.

  “Fresh and black with be fine,” she replies.

  “Wow!” Nichols says after Walker storms away. “I was kind of a dick to him, but you cut the son of a bitch in half. We’ll be lucky if he doesn’t spit in our coffees.”

  “I hate lifers like him,” Brooks says, glaring at the Captain’s back. “He’s in it for the career opportunities, like the U.S. Army is the world’s biggest Walmart. He probably spends more time commanding the PX than he does the rest of his troops.”

  “I ran the PX back at Bolivar for three years,” Nichols tells her.

  “And I’m sure you did a damn fine job of it,” she replies, turning to face him with a practiced, but fake smile. “Get our gear into one of the MTVs. I’ll meet you there after I check on the troops. You’ll ride up front with me. I want you there when I finally get a look and see how fucked up this Hilliard place is.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Dave keeps them going north on 71 for over an hour, weaving through traffic when he can, trying to make better time to Canton. When they reach the Highway 30 exit that heads northeast to Canton, Pam and Joe clutch the oh-shit handles over their heads as they hit the thirty-mile and hour, sweeping right turn at fifty. The tires screech in protest as Dakota is forced into his door. He tries to keep Bongo from being crushed between them as the excited dog bounces from his lap to Joe’s. Realizing he might be going a little fast, Dave lifts his foot from the gas but avoids using the brake. Everyone relaxes as they straighten out, and Bongo gives a yip from the back. Dave’s gaze flashes to the rearview mirror as the hot breath hits his neck and he freezes, certain the dog has turned like he’d predicted and is about to rip out his throat. A wet tongue runs up his neck as Bongo licks his appreciation for the best car ride ever, and a chance to play king of the backseat with his owners. The dog looks back at him in the mirror and Dave would almost swear he’s smiling. His dripping tongue hangs from his mouth as he pants rapidly. His eyes are clear and bright as Bongo’s tail smacks Joe and Dakota with delight.

  “Get him off me,” Dave says. Not wanting to take his hands from the wheel, he wipes the slobber from his neck by tipping his head to the right and using his shoulder.

  They drive another forty-five minutes before the inside of the Rogue is flooded again with the sound of a ringing phone and Dave glances at the display on the dash. His stomach tightens as he sees who’s calling him and punches the button on the steering wheel to accept the call.

  “Brigette? Where’s Zack? Are you guys okay?” he asks.

  “He’s right here next to me in the car and we’re all fine,” Brigette answers.

  “Sorry, Dad,” Zack shouts from a few feet away.

  “Yeah, I’ve accidentally had my phone on silent this whole time and Zack’s is dead. We’ve got it on the charger while we’re driving,” he explains.

  “You’re driving? So, you’ve got Ben?” Dave asks hopefully.

  “Not exactly.”

  “What the fuck does that mean?” Pam asks.

  “While we were doing everything you guys told us to do, and getting Jaxon and Braxton ready, Zack was trying to get ahold of him and we didn’t notice when his phone died. Once we realized his was dead we plugged it in and Ben sent back a text. He said he was going to check on Mike and Lynn and he’d meet us there.”

  “Shit!” Dave barks. “How long ago was that?”

  “Less than five minutes ago. We’re on our way and should be there in about thirty minutes,” Brigette answers. “Where are you guys?”

  “We’re headed there too,” Dave replies. “Apollo has them trapped in the basement. But we’re only about fifteen minutes out, so we’ll get there before you and hopefully Ben. We’ll try to sort out the shit with Apollo,” he continues, glancing at the shotgun. “But we might wait for you all to get there first. Make sure your gun is loaded when you get there.”

  “Already done and in my lap,” Brigette assures him. She’d spent some time in the military before meeting Zack and she seems to be slipping back into the conditioned mindset.

  “Mike says there might be more than one dog in the house,” Dave warns.

  “Can he confirm?” Brigette asks.

  “No. His phone’s dead. It’s only by luck we got ahold of them at all. Look, if something happens and you guys get there before us, wait for me to get there before you try going in,” Dave says.

  “Will do, Dave. And sorry about the phones,” she says.

  “Just keep them on and turned up from here on out. We’ll see you when you get there,” he replies.

  “Roger that. Be safe,” Brigette says before ending the call.

  “Fucking kids…” Dave mutters, glancing in his mirror at their own panting time bomb in the back seat, as he presses harder on the accelerator and weaves through traffic.

  Seventeen minutes later, they’re off the freeway and pulling on to Mike and Lynn’s street. Their house sits on a large corner lot in the upscale neighborhood. Most of the homes in their subdivision are oversized brick or stone Tudors with large, well-groomed yards. Theirs has one of the few driveways that pass in front of the house. One end opens to the street that passes the southern end of the lot. The other enters from the west side and splits with one direction leading to the large parking area in front of their two-car garage and the other completing the connection to the southern entrance. This allows vehicles to drive past the front of the house to deliver the paper, daily mail, or whatever. The main and upper floors of their two-story, brick home has two dining areas, a kitchen Dave always envied, three huge bedrooms, a number of bathrooms and a formal living room. The basement lev
el has a den, with two leather recliners positioned in front of a large television where the Fosters spend their evenings watching recordings of golf matches and their favorite shows. There’s also a workshop down there where Mike tinkers around with home projects, and a series of separate, unfinished storerooms, which Dave and Pam have always referred to as the catacombs. It’s in there, where the couple is trapped behind a hollow, interior door, by at least one dog.

  Dave drives slowly along the street the house faces, planning to enter the west end of the driveway and park in front of the front doors. But, there’s a mail truck parked there with its flashers on, as if the mailman had stopped to drop off a package just moments before they arrived. The rolling, white box with the USPS logo on the side, blocks a complete view of the front door but allows enough over the top, for them to see it’s standing open. Dave stops the car in the street and watches for any signs of movement from within the house. He can’t be certain, but it looks like the van isn’t running.

  “Maybe Apollo took off when the mailman showed up and he’s already let them out of the basement?” Joe asks, staring out his window.

  “Then someone would have come out, or something,” Dave says.

  “What are you waiting for?” Pam asks, anxious to check on her parents.

  “I’m just looking for… I don’t know. Something.”

  “Like what?” she asks.

  “Like where the hell is everybody? Usually there’s at least a few kids playing in one of the yards or a random jogger, or even another car… But look at this place. It’s not quite four o’clock in the afternoon on a Saturday and the neighborhood looks deserted.”

  “Someone’s in the house across the street,” Dakota says.

  “How do you know?” Joe asks.

  “I saw someone pull the curtain back a few inches when we pulled up, but no one’s shown their faces. I don’t know if they’re still watching us or not, but I know what I saw.”

  Dave follows where Dakota is looking but doesn’t see anyone either. He looks at the next house down on that side of the street and sees the curtains inside its large front windows are sagging in tatters. He sits for a full minute, shifting his attention from watching the front of Mike and Lynn’s house to scanning the homes across the street. “Screw it…”

  Lifting his foot from the brake, he turns right and rolls down the driveway. He turns right again, pointing them at the front of the mail truck parked in front of the house, its yellow hazard lights blinking at them. Like the front door to the house, he sees the sliding driver’s door on the right side of the small box-truck is standing open. Dave shifts into reverse and takes a few seconds to quietly back around the end of the house, parking in front of the closed garage doors and pointing the Rogue back the way they came in.

  “Just in case,” he tells Pam.

  They sit for several seconds, listening to the cooling engine tick before Pam asks, “What now?”

  “I guess I go in,” Dave answers, grabbing the twelve-gauge from next to his seat.

  “I want to go too,” she says.

  “I don’t think so,” he replies. “Let me go in and look around. If Apollo’s gotten to your parents, I want to cover them up before you come in. If he hasn’t chewed through the door yet, and he’s still in there, I’m going to have to kill him. The fewer people in there when the shooting starts, the better.”

  “What if he has gotten to them and they’re like the guy in the park or the one from the onramp?” Pam asks.

  “Yeah…” he replies, his grip tightening on the barrel.

  “Let me go with you,” Joe says.

  “I was planning on it,” he tells him as he pops open the glove box and pulls out the pistol from inside.

  Dave checks the safety again before handing it over the seat to Joe. Out of reflex, Joe pops the magazine out and checks it before sliding it back into the grip. Then he pulls the slide back to be certain there’s already a round in the chamber.

  “I have the shotgun, so I’m going in first and you’re staying right behind me,” Dave tells him. “I’ll take care of anything that comes at us from the front. You only have two jobs. The first is to make sure nothing sneaks up behind us, understood?”

  “Understood,” Joe nods. “What the other one?”

  “Don’t fucking shoot me,” he answers. “You two wait here for us. We’ll be back in a few minutes, but just in case, I want you to climb into the driver’s seat when I get out,” he tells Pam.

  “What about me?” Dakota asks.

  “Keep Bongo under control and do whatever Pam tells you to do,” Dave says. “Are you ready, Joe?”

  “No,” he answers, pushing his safety to off and opening his door.

  “I love you, baby,” Pam tells Dave as he exits the Rogue and she ungracefully climbs over the center console.

  “I love you, too. See you in a few minutes,” he says, giving her a kiss on the lips before pushing his door closed without slamming it shut.

  “Is your safety off?” Joe asks in a whisper.

  “It is now,” Dave answers. “We’re not going to rush through this. We check the mail truck first and then the house. Once we’re inside, we close the front door so nothing can come in behind us. Then we clear the living and dining rooms before we head to the kitchen. After that, we’ll move upstairs and check the bedrooms and office. We make sure to look under tables, desks, and beds, any place a dog can hide, and we do one room at a time. Every room we clear, we leave the door open. The catacombs are last.”

  “If Apollo’s still in there, won’t he have heard us moving around by then?”

  “I hope so. I don’t want to get down to the basement and have to shoot at him while he’s standing in front of the door Mike and Lynn might still be hiding behind.”

  “Good point,” Joe says.

  “I thought so,” Dave replies in a whisper. “You check the truck.”

  They make their way closer to the open door of the mail truck with the warning lights still flashing and Dave keeps the barrel of the shotgun leveled at the front door of the house. He eases to his left so Joe can come around his right and look inside. The cab is empty and the door to the back where the mail is kept has been slid open. Joe pulls the hammer back on his nine-millimeter and takes the short step up into the cab. He leans around the corner and checks the back. There’re several empty totes used for holding the daily envelopes, packages and junk mail, stacked in the back. A couple are still full and sitting on the racks mounted to the inside walls. Other than that, the truck is empty.

  “It’s empty,” he says, taking the next step inside and standing next to the driver’s seat.

  “What are you doing?” Dave asks. Without taking his eyes from the front door, he backs up a step and presses his back against the side of the engine compartment. Partly to see if the engine is still warm but mostly to have something solid behind him.

  “Turning off the flashers. They’re creeping me out,” Joe replies.

  “The engine’s cold,” Dave says.

  “So…? Oh…”

  “Come on,” Dave says, edging away from the van and moving closer to the door. “Remember,” he whispers. “Do not shoot me.”

  “I know,” Joe whispers back.

  The sky is overcast and at this time of year, in the autumn afternoon, the light to their backs spills in through the open doorway but leaves the rest of the interior in darkness. Dave keeps the shotgun tracking where his eyes go as he steps into the doorway, pausing to let his eyes adjust to the light before entering. Joe follows him through and silently closes the front door behind them. The entry is clear and the dining and sitting areas to their right are deserted. There’s a sparse trail of envelopes and flyers leading behind the large marble-top counter that separates the kitchen from the table and chairs Mike and Lynn usually sit at to eat their meals or sip coffee in the mornings. Dave checks under the table before following the trail of letters around the end of the counter. Joe follows but has his
back to Dave’s, keeping his pistol aimed at the landing of the stairs that lead up to the bedrooms and down to the catacombs. The door to the half-bathroom, just to the other side of the landing is closed. It’s really more of a deep closet with a toilet and sink in it, but it’s more convenient during family gatherings or when the Fosters are entertaining friends, than the other three full bathrooms on the other floors.

  “You better see this,” Dave whispers to Joe, turning away from the horror on the floor.

  Joe feels Dave’s hand on his shoulder, turning him toward the kitchen as Dave steps in front of him to cover the stairs. The first thing Joe sees are a pair of legs, covered in the traditional, blue uniform pants of the U.S. Postal Service, sprawled on the floor. He takes another step and the whole picture comes into view. He’d been trying to prepare himself for what they might find in the house and expected to see the mailman. But it was a mail woman lying on the floor. A pool of dark blood surrounds the upper half of the postal carrier’s body and has already begun to congeal. There are a few bite marks on her arms and dried blood leaves small trails from the punctures. But that’s not the source of the sticky puddle her body is laying in. The right side of the woman’s neck has been ravaged, along with the side of her face. The carnage starts in her shoulder, at the base of the neck, and runs up the right side of her face. Large chunks of flesh have been torn free, leaving short ribbons of bloody meat clinging around the edges. There aren’t any pieces laying in the puddle, like grotesque little islands in a tiny sea of thickening crimson, so they must have been eaten. The skin and muscle from around her jawline has been chewed away, leaving her molars and jaw bone fully exposed. Joe gags when he sees a fly land, and then scamper across her open, milky-dead eye.

  “That’s just about the grossest thing I’ve ever seen,” he whispers, wiping the back of his free hand across his mouth. “Thanks for sharing that.”

  “I try. Follow me,” Dave whispers.

  Stepping around the body, being careful not to step in the coagulating pool, they creep to the door on the other side of the kitchen, leading to the garage. They hold their breaths as Dave silently turns the knob and pulls the door open. He immediately pans the gun across the floor. Going left to right and back to the left again, making sure there’s nothing close to the door. Both cars are parked inside and Dave motions for Joe to look under the one on the left while he does the same with the one on the right. When they’re both satisfied there’s nothing under the vehicles, other than floor, they walk as far around each of them as they can before returning to the center of the garage.