DISEASE: A Zombie Novel

by M. F. Wahl

  ***

  The search party bundles up against the rain. Even during the summer a good storm can chill a person to the bone. Thick, wet undergrowth drags at their clothing, soaking them as they slog along, making the trek through the dark forest slow and painful. It’s taken much longer than anyone thought just to get this far and the sky is lightening just now.

  Good thing I brought a dry pair of socks with me, Arnold thinks. As the sky grows steadily brighter, he worries their only lead is lost. There’s no sign of Danny, and no way to know if it was truly him who fired the shot. Even if it was Danny he must be long gone by now.

  Arnold almost walks into Brody as the other man stops cold in his tracks. Just ahead is a mob of The Risen, dumbly circling the same spot. A small breeze shakes the trees and a tone-deaf orchestra of pots and pans serenades them. Thick Marge notices there is also a tambourine hanging with the cookware as well. She holds up her hand for the group to halt and counts ten creatures.

  She silently commands the men around her. With nervous precision they sneak through the forest and surround the enemy. Thick Marge gives the signal to attack and, not waiting to see if they follow her order, she charges the creature closest to her. It turns, hearing her, or smelling her, or however the fuck they notice things, but it doesn’t matter, because it gets a face full of hunting knife.

  She plunges the knife deep into the creature’s eye as it thrusts itself forward on her blade. Its rotten face reeks and it’s missing teeth. The thing’s tongue is a blackened lump of coal in its mouth and if it had breath Thick Marge would have been able to smell it a mile away.

  She twists the hunting knife and the creature jolts. Its snaps its teeth twice more and then slumps toward her, she shoves it away and whips around. Behind her, Rob struggles with two creatures. He dodges an attack.

  Thick Marge leaps onto one of the things and sinks her knife into the back of its head. Her hair, wet from the rain, streams behind her as it flails and spins. She rides it like a bucking bronco and stabs the thing in the back of the head again. It collapses to its knees, growling, trying to reach her, and then it falls over, dead.

  Rob gives Thick Marge a hand up and she looks around. All the creatures are dead and the entire group is alive and well. She nods at them. “Job well done.”

  After a moment of well-deserved, quiet celebration, they follow the long rope that holds the pots and pans. It leads through thick foliage to a patchwork treehouse perched high above the ground.

  The soil under the treehouse is too hard and rocky to find any footprints, but there is blood. There are wet patches of dark maroon dirt marking where the earth has greedily absorbed it, and drying drops speckle protruding rocks. Thick Marge grins. The tree’s wide umbrella protects the evidence from the rain.

  Arnold picks up a stone and hurls it at the side of the treehouse. It hits with a hollow thud and falls back to the ground. He picks it back up and throws it again. Sal opens his door, pops his head out, and looks down at the search party.

  “Go away.”

  Arnold smiles up at him. “We took care of your pest problem for you.”

  “Go away.”

  Habib cocks his gun and points it up at Sal.

  Arnold spreads his hands in a show of trustworthiness. “We just want to talk to you. We can even do it from here, if you tell us everything we need to know.”

  “Eat shit.”

  Sal slams the door of his treehouse, shutting out the world. Arnold grunts unhappily. He shouts up at the man in the treehouse. “Did you hear a gunshot?”

  No answer.

  Rob picks up the stone again, but Arnold shakes his head. “No point. There’s blood. That’s all we need.”

  ***

  The light drizzle slowly turns to a heavy cold rain. Big wet drops cling to Danny’s skin, soaking him, freezing him. His feet feel like lead weights as he drags them through the mud. The boy trots in front of him, water-logged but undiscouraged.

  “Alex.”

  Alex spins around with Casey’s baseball bat raised high, ready for a fight.

  Danny slumps against the trunk of a tree. He’s sweating profusely but shivers against the rain, breathing hard. Pain eats away at him, yet from somewhere deep within he musters a smile for Alex.

  Alex runs to him.

  “I’ve gotta take a break, buddy, just for a few minutes.”

  Worry creeps across the child’s usually deadpan face and he nods. Danny raises his eyebrows in surprise then smiles again, this time genuinely. At least he’s getting through to the boy and that feels good. It lifts his spirits just enough to keep him going.

  Alex leans Casey’s bat against the tree and kneels in the mud next to Danny. He pokes a finger at the gunshot wound. Danny’s yellow shirt is now mostly brown with rings of blood that mix with rain. It stains everything, dripping down his leg, darkening his pants. He shakes his head. “It’s not that bad, don’t worry. I just need a quick rest, okay?”

  They sit quietly together in the mud. Alex holds his knapsack over his head, shielding himself slightly from the increasing downpour. The forest is quiet, except for the noise of water bouncing off leaves. Danny closes his eyes and time slips away for a while.

  CRASH!

  Danny jolts his feet before he even knows what’s happening. With a grimace he leans over his knees, breathing hard as searing pain rips through his side. A deer flits to the other side of the clearing, kicking its heels and flashing its white tail.

  There is noise from deeper in the forest, it must be what spooked the deer. Danny’s tenses his entire body. He and Alex stare through the dense trees, afraid. “Run, Alex. Find a tree far away and to climb it. Don’t come down until I call you, no matter what.”

  Alex stares at Danny, unresponsive.

  “Go, Goddammit!”

  The boy bolts away, disappearing into the thick forest with his knapsack bouncing on his back. Danny lifts Casey’s bat, his ears buzzing with maddening pain. He’s pretty sure he won’t survive this fight and hopes the boy’s smart enough to go it alone, to get somewhere safe.

  Branches crackle beneath nearing footsteps. Danny puffs air from his mouth, trying to psych himself up. Just because he’s going to die doesn’t mean he should go down without a fight. He plans on taking out as many freaks as he can before his body gives out and they tear him to pieces.

  Habib steps into the clearing. “Danny?” He can’t hide his astonishment.

  Danny, once intimidating can barely stand on his own two feet. He’s as pale as a ghost, covered in blood and muck with thick dark bags hanging under his eyes. He holds up a bat shakily, trying to look threatening.

  Seconds later, the entire search party is there and they surround him. Habib brazenly steps forward, backed up by Jamal. Hand out, he demands the bat.

  “Careful man, he’s dangerous,” Jamal warns.

  Habib looks back. “I think he might be bitten.”

  WHAM!

  Danny’s knees nearly buckle as he cracks the side of Habib’s head with the bat. Habib falls to the ground with an unsettling groan. Gasps of collective disbelief ripple through the search party as Danny tries to stay steady on his feet, raising his weapon for another attack.

  Thick Marge hurls herself at him, dodging as Danny swings again. He crashes to the ground with her, yelping as pain blossoms in his side like a horrid flower. The bat tumbles from his grip.

  Arnold, Dennis, and Brody rush to Habib’s assistance. The injured man lies in the mud, staring up at the sky, blood leaking from his ears and nose.

  Danny stretches through the muck, reaching for Casey’s bat. Thick Marge swings her foot in and kicks it away then jams her knee into his spine, grinding it cruelly into his back. Danny fights for breath, spitting mud as she wrenches his arms behind him.

  Jamal and Rob jump in and take over for Thick Marge, allowing her to step back. She snags her supply pack, opens it and pulls out a zip tie restraint.

  Danny bucks, trying desperately to shake
Jamal and Rob off. They punch and kick him, pushing and pulling, seeming to enjoy the struggle. Wretched pain tears through his side and his vision blurs as one of them grates his face into the rocky forest floor.

  The bat is just inches away and Danny reaches for it again, but Thick Marge pins his wrist under her heel with her heavy boot, grinding his bones into the ground and breaking his watchstrap. He thrashes like a bull in a fight that’s taken one too many swords, braying hoarsely.

  The twisting brawl slips forward and back as Danny crawls through sludge, trying to gain his feet. A kick to the stomach, a punch to the face, fists pummel him, heavy bodies cling to him, drive him into the ground. Wet and muddy skin slides against him, presses in on him, rubbing against him through hot and heavy breathing. The men crush Danny beneath their bodies, trample him beneath their boots. They are jubilant.

  Weapon and target, hunter and prey, master and slave.

  Thick Marge cinches the zip tie as tightly as she can, around Danny’s wrists, binding them. The hard plastic bites his skin as he writhes in the muck, arms behind his back, groaning, choking on pain and mud. There is no escape.

  Rob and Jamal fall away, exhausted, panting and satisfied, proud of themselves. Jamal, who once loosely considered himself friends with Danny, now gleefully shouts in his face. “We got you, you sick fuck!”

  The hunters scoop their trophy up under its arms, dragging it to its feet.

  With his last vestige of strength Danny sinks his teeth into Rob’s bare arm.

  Rob screams and Danny lets a vicious growl rip from his throat. A fist slams into the side of his head and his legs give out. The men tumble to the ground in a frenzy of confusion. Danny bites again.

  Jamal stomps his face and Danny’s nose explodes in a shower of blood, broken.

  Rob yanks his arm away from the madman. Deep teeth marks leak blood. His eyes turn to saucers and his mind suddenly derails.

  “He bit me. He bit me! Oh my God. He’s infected! The virus! He infected me!”

  Thick Marge places a calming hand on Rob’s shoulder. “Calm down. Let’s have a look.”

  “HE’S INFECTED!” Rob screams.

  Jamal steps back from Danny. Infected?

  Rob jerks Jamal’s gun from his friend’s belt. Dirty metal clicks against his teeth as he fills his mouth with the muzzle, weeping like a child.

  “Wait!”

  “Oh my God!”

  BLAM.

  Rob drops to the ground, the gun falling from his hand. His body shudders.

  At first there is only silence as the shot’s echo fades, then a rising squall fills their ears, terribly human and absolutely disturbing. It grows louder with each passing second—a noise that can’t be unheard, Rob’s rasping, inarticulate, faceless sobs. The wail of life. The wail of regret.

  No one moves, it’s an awful scene. Two men down, one with a traumatic skull fracture, and the other, victim of a botched suicide attempt.

  Arnold shakes off the shock. He rushes from Habib to Rob’s side. Thick Marge joins him and takes Rob’s hand. “We’re here for you.”

  “Be careful,” Jamal mummers from the sidelines, wringing his hands. “He’s been bitten. At least he won’t last long, small mercies.”

  “Now, just wait a minute,” Arnold stands and stomps over to Danny.

  Danny tries to sit up. He rolls his eyes and gnashes his teeth through the blood pouring from his broken nose. Jamal finally gathers his senses about him and helps Arnold lift the bound man to his feet, nervously holding him at bay. He flinches as Danny snaps his teeth at him.

  Arnold lifts the prisoner’s shirt and peers underneath at a hastily applied bandage. The dressing, saturated with blood and rain, rips off easily. Arnold considers the wound for a moment and then jabs his index finger into it. Danny screams, falling to his knees. He’s nearly sick.

  Arnold wipes his hand on his pants. “He’s been shot. I don’t see any other wounds.”

  “Are you sure?” asks Jamal.

  “Well, I’m not stripping him to find out.”

  Danny tries to bite Arnold. The Marine belts him across the face, knocking him from his knees to the ground. “Stop that.”

  He stoops down, grabs Danny by the hair and wrenches his captive’s face around to witness the carnage that surrounds them. “Look at what you’ve caused.”

  Brody, Dennis, and Thick Marge care for the two critically injured men. Danny feels ill beyond the pain. He knows both of the wounded, knows everyone here in fact. They may have come to zealously hunt him down, but he doesn’t feel happy as he smiles a big shit-eating grin up at Arnold. “Good,” he says.

  Arnold’s eyes turn to slits. He motions for Jamal to sit Danny up and crouches down to be at eye level with him.

  “Where’s Alex?”

  “Murdering kidnapper,” Jamal spits on the ground.

  “Where’s the kid?” Arnold asks again.

  “What do you think murdering kidnappers do to little boys they’ve kidnapped?” Danny smiles again, wishing this were over.

  Brody, caring for Habib, shakes his head. “We’re too late.”

  “Disgusting deviant,” Dennis hisses at Danny. “I always knew there was something wrong with you. I saw the way you were looking at that kid after we found him.”

  “What?” Danny drops the fake smile, trying to understand.

  Dennis points a finger at Danny. “You’re the worst kind of person. Lot told us everything about you, you pig, you child molester.”

  Danny’s muscles begin to cramp, his whole body becoming a solid, immobile mass. What the hell did Lot tell them?

  It takes all his effort just to open his mouth. “What are you talking about?”

  “Not so cocky now, are you?” asks Dennis. “You know exactly what I’m talking about, you sack of shit. You’re a cancer to our community, a disease.”

  “No, I would never. I-I…” Danny stutters, devastated.

  “You’re a beast.”

  For years Danny had worked side by side with every person here, yet not a single one of them can fathom precious, almighty Lot doing anything that isn’t rimmed with gold. No one believes she’s capable of heinous acts, but Danny though, Danny… how ready they are to believe.

  He feels like crying, feels like curling into a ball and giving up.

  If that’s what they want him to be, if that’s what they need, that’s what they’ll get, he thinks. As long as it keeps Lot away from Alex.

  He grinds his teeth and smiles crazily up at the group one more time. Arnold again connects his palm violently with Danny’s cheek. “Cut the shit, just stop the foolishness. Where’s the child? Is he alive?”

  “No.”

  “Why?” Thick Marge asks. “Why kill an innocent child, Danny?”

  “He slowed me down. Do you have any idea how hard it is to control a kid with The Risen dogging you?”

  “Why not just let him go? Why kill him?” Arnold clenches a fist. Danny can the man wants desperately to punch his teeth out, but he controls himself.

  Danny bites back the urge to vomit, the urge to scream at the top of his lungs, the urge to tell everyone everything—not that they’d believe a word of it. “If I couldn’t have my mother’s attention, I sure as hell wasn’t gonna let that kid have it. ” He wants to rip his own tongue out.

  “Where? How?”

  “A while back. Choked him. No noise. Wasn’t hard.”

  “You’ll show me,” Arnold demands.

  “With pleasure.”

  Disgusted, Arnold stands and faces Thick Marge. “I’m not fully convinced,” he says.

  She shakes her head, “We’ve gotta go, Javier. We’re already pressing our luck. That gunshot was like a dinner bell.”

  15

  Judy’s mind might have been swirling if it wasn’t for the incessant itching of the damnable uniform against her skin. Rub, rub, rub. It was crazy making. Her skin felt raw and swollen, but she supposed it was a blessing. If the scratching, pulling, pin
pricking of the fabric wasn’t there, she’d have nothing else to focus on. It kept her grounded.

  She gently played with the blue-spiraled triangle at her throat. It was brand new and beautiful. She felt high. Maybe she was, on the revving cocktail of endorphins. Scratch, scratch, scratch—it was so bad it almost felt good and she was intoxicated on those good feelings, so much so she probably could have pounded a nail through her palm and it would’ve felt amazing.

  She quietly surveys the sleeping boys before her. Two rows of young children, not a single one over the age of thirteen. Angelic faces, eyes closed, dreaming of snippets and snails and puppy dog tails. Their blankets tucked under their chins, not a single soul awake.

  Now, on her first shift at the Saint Nicolas Institute for Troubled Boys, she felt vindicated. She deserved this—had worked so hard to get here, triumphed against all odds. It was all worth it to be close to them. Every sleepless night spent studying, every meal missed because she couldn’t afford groceries after paying for textbooks and tuition. Every person who goaded her about finding a man and settling down, who looked at her cockeyed for wanting to be a “career woman”. No one would care for these boys as she would.

  Judy quietly stepped down the middle of the isle, surveying her sleeping wards. One little face above all the others caught her eye, a thin boy with blond hair. This one had a splash of freckles that highlighted his cheekbones in such a handsome way. He was so peaceful it was hard to imagine he had done anything worthy of landing him a spot in this place.

  Judy made a mental note to read over the child’s file. Hector, Hector Griffin. These boys only ended up here as a last resort. Not a single one was as angelic as he looked.

  Little Hector, what have you done?

  When she interviewed for the position the head administrator had listed off some of the horrible crimes the children had committed. Murder, rape, sodomy… at such a young age. One had even shot, gutted, and skinned the neighbor’s dog because its owner let it shit on his mother’s lawn one too many times.