Riposte (The Redivivus Trilogy Book 2)

by Kirk Withrow

  Everything seemed to click into place at once in his mind, and Connor accepted that whatever drove the monstrosity forward was nothing that he, or anyone else for that matter, had ever seen before. In that instant, he understood that whatever he thought he knew about the world and what was going on, was no longer valid. A guiding tenet of his combat training surfaced in his mind: Move! If you move, you live. Connor had always felt that inaction and hesitation were, at the very least, partly responsible for most fatalities in combat situations. Unwilling to accept such a fate, he plotted his escape from the hell he had awoken in.

  Once again, Connor stomped forward, slamming his heel against the thing’s shoulder. He felt its collarbone collapse under the force, as he wedged its head and good arm behind the truck’s steering wheel. Craning his neck, he saw his pistol lying in the passenger side foot well. He scooped it up and checked the magazine. With the struggling monster still pinned, he brought his free leg around to kick the cracked windshield. Despite his best effort, he could not generate the force necessary to shatter the glass.

  Unwilling to release the writhing creature in order to shift into better position, he raised the pistol and chambered a round. Eyes clamped shut and face averted; he squeezed the trigger twice in quick succession. The sound of the exploding windshield was lost amidst the deafening report of the handgun within the confined space. A million more tiny shards of glass showered the truck’s interior, peppering his face, and nicking his skin in several places.

  Not wasting a second, Connor peered out of the opening as the sun’s bright rays filtered in through the smoke billowing out from under the truck’s crumpled hood. Shadowy figures moved ominously behind the cloudy veil, and he hoped he was as obscured to them as they to him. Not likely. That double tap probably alerted half the county to my location. Despite seeing movement all around the cab, Connor was still unable to get a clear sense of exactly what in the hell was out there. Even so, as he glanced at the squirming thing at his feet, he had a good idea about their intentions.

  Realizing he was being surrounded, Connor knew his window of opportunity was closing. Move and live! With adrenaline curbing his pain by huge degrees, he pulled his leg back and released the monster in the window. Before it could extricate itself from behind the steering wheel, he stomped down hard on its neck. There was a sharp crack upon impact and the thing went limp instantly, its ear coming to rest on its shoulder as its head lolled grotesquely to the side. Connor immediately pulled himself out onto the truck’s crumpled hood, which clanged loudly in protest as the metal dented under his weight. Rising to his feet, he glanced around and took in the chaotic scene. What he saw nearly made his knees buckle.

  All around, what he assumed were the infected shambled toward his crashed vehicle. There were old and young, male and female. Some moved with the pained slowness of a near-crippled arthritic while others moved at a fast walking pace, albeit with an unsteady gait. Damn! I guess the news reports weren’t blowing this thing out of proportion after all.

  While he could not remember all the details of the accident, he knew he had not seen all of these people…these things. Visions of the horrid woman flashed through his mind again, and there was no question that something had been terribly wrong with her. The more he thought about it, he decided the others had likely been drawn to the noise of the accident. Just how long was I out?

  As if in confirmation of his hypothesis, approximately twenty pairs of eyes shifted their gaze toward the sound of the bending metal of the hood—toward him. An unsettling moan erupted from the crowd as several of the things noticed him atop the truck. The chilling sound, filled with appetence, made Connor freeze until the closest thing took the first lurching step in his direction.

  Like a running back picking a path through the defensive line, he set his sights on a clearing just beyond the thickest part of the small horde where a building stood in the distance. Using his elevated position to his advantage, he waited several more seconds until the first few were nearly upon him before he leapt over their outstretched arms. Landing in a narrow gap within the group, he rolled forward to absorb the shock of the impact. Before coming up to his feet, he hooked the leg of the closest one, kicking out and sweeping it to the ground. The intense pain that coursed through his body made him grimace, but he knew there was nothing for it. The rest of the infected were already closing in, blotting out the small office building in which he hoped to take refuge.

  As Connor advanced toward the building, the decimated form of a teenage boy lumbered into his path—two arms and one hand desperately reaching for him. The bones of its left forearm protruded from the jagged wound where his hand had once been; the bright, white surface starkly contrasting the dark, blood-encrusted skin and blackened tissue. Connor ducked under its outstretched arms and drove all of his weight into the thing’s chest. The infected boy went sprawling into three others immediately behind him, knocking them to the ground like bowling pins. As he leapt over the tangle of bodies, Connor saw the building less than twenty yards ahead. His legs screamed from the exertion but he willed himself to press on, knowing his life depended on it.

  Connor scanned his surroundings as he raced forward. Two infected monsters stood directly in his path, with several more to each side. If I can deal with those two fast enough, I can be long gone before the others even become a factor. Considering how best to do so, Connor surmised that if the things had been attracted to his location by the noise of the crash, then the damage had already been done. No sense in staying quiet now!

  Without breaking stride, he drew his pistol and fired three rounds at point blank range, scoring two headshots in the process. The two infected in his path wilted to the ground like marionettes with their strings cut. He hurdled over the inanimate corpses without a second glance. Agonizing tinges of pain shot through his leg as the door to the two-story office building came into view directly ahead. Fight the pain! Push through it! Come on, you can do it! Move or die! With a final burst of adrenaline, he pumped his legs even harder, making it to the front door of the building well ahead of his pursuers.

  Enraged, he let out a grunt of frustration upon discovering the door was locked. He stepped back and fired a single shot into the lower panel of the glass door. A swift low front kick buckled the fractured glass pane inward. Connor quickly scurried through the opening and began sliding everything he could find in front of the hole in the door. He knew the makeshift barricade would not hold forever, but all he needed was a little extra time.

  Slipping deeper into the office building, he saw no evidence of anyone currently inside the structure. Despite the stygian hallways, Connor did not think it would be wise to draw further attention to his presence by turning on the lights. He felt confident he would be able to hear anyone, or anything, moving within the building’s otherwise deathly quiet catacombs. Creeping cautiously through the inky blackness, he gripped his pistol with one hand and extended the other in front of him like an insect’s antenna seeking any obstruction in his path. Before his eyes were fully adjusted to the darkness, a sharp pain tore through his shin and a loud crash sounded directly in front of him. Connor felt as though the world canted to the side as he tumbled forward. Without any visual cues with which to orient him, he had no clue what was happening, and thus no chance to brace against the impending impact.

  Connor’s left shoulder slammed hard against the cold concrete floor as his legs toppled over something large and heavy. Brightly colored bursts of light flashed behind his eyes as his neck snapped sharply to the side. Despite the renewed pain surging through his entire body, he quickly pulled himself up to a seated position, thankful he had not smashed his head against the unforgiving floor.

  Gasping for air, Connor fought to control the howls of pain and frustration surging through his body. His mind seethed nearly as much as his body, being unable to grasp everything that had happened in such a short time. Things in his world had been status quo until the news started talking about small pocke
ts of a new infection less than a week ago. When the media indicated things were rapidly spiraling out of control in many parts of the country, he finally decided to investigate the situation himself. Nothing could have prepared him for what he encountered.

  Realizing what this turn of events truly meant, he closed his eyes and let his head come to rest against the wall. How could he have possibly known that all of his careful planning and patient waiting would be a complete waste—stolen right out from under him by the end of humanity? No matter the angle with which he viewed the current situation, he always reached the same conclusion. Too much had changed; humanity had already lost too much for him to cause even a ripple in the bucket. In that instant, rather than wallow in the inequity that had found him once again, Connor Roan accepted that everything he had worked toward for the last several years was gone. In that same horrible instant, a new plan, one more in line with the current turn of events, hatched deep inside the deplorable depths of his corrupt mind. If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em.

  Fueled by his renewed sense of purpose, Connor Roan climbed back to his feet. While he knew there was still a great deal he did not know about the plague wreaking havoc across the land, he felt he already had a fair working knowledge of the phenomenon. In many ways, this understanding alleviated a substantial amount of the fear he experienced immediately after the crash. Knowledge is power, and power is control. Had the hallway been illuminated and anyone been around to witness the transformation, he or she would have seen a definite confidence in Connor’s demeanor that had not been present moments ago. Each resounding footfall now carried an insouciant badassery that reverberated off the walls of the vacant hallway, daring anyone or anything to question its verity.

  Upon reaching the end of the long hallway, Connor froze when he heard the muffled screams of someone in mortal danger somewhere outside the office. Judging from the hysterical quality of the shrill cries, he assumed it was a female. Cautiously, he gazed out the building’s rear windows but saw nothing of concern. Once again, the screams began, this time with increased intensity. Now attuned to the sound, he ascertained that it was coming from behind the building to the right of his location. Peering through the window as far as possible in that direction, he could just make out the edge of a writhing mass packed tightly against something he could not see.

  Heedful not to attract any undue attention, Connor opened the back door without a sound. Slipping out of the building, he felt the cool late-morning air against his skin. The refreshing breeze was a welcomed change from the stale air inside the stuffy office until the ominous undercurrent reached his senses. Carried by the wind like remora on the back of a shark, the blighted chorus of unearthly moans and wails sang a grim song of pain and suffering that defied imagination. The plaintive cries for help wove in and out of the din of the infected, seemingly fused despite trying desperately to remain distinct. Two completely contrasting sounds, so inseparable they are heard as one.

  In Connor’s twisted mind, there was no hope for the trapped woman. Although she had yet to accept it, he already saw her as part of infected mass at her feet, and he saw no reason for it to be any other way. Even if he thought he could have helped her, Connor Roan would not have done so.

  As he stared at the macabre scene, he realized there were actually two people standing atop the dumpster—the woman he had heard as well as an older man. At least thirty infected were pressing against the metal receptacle, nearly obscuring it from view entirely. It looked as though the two were crowd surfing atop the monsters’ reaching hands. Connor watched as several of the infected almost made it on top of the dumpster, forced up the backs of those in front of them by the mass of infected pushing them from behind. It’s just a matter of time. Soon it will be just one sound.

  Connor knew that if he were stuck on the dumpster with the old man, he would have thrown him to the infected in order to open a window of opportunity for his own escape. He also knew most people were far too weak to act in such a logical and pragmatic manner, so he saw no reason to put his own neck on the line. Why help those that won’t even help themselves?

  Taking a knee, Connor watched with morbid fascination. He was assailed by a sensation far worse than the sound that first drew his attention, forcing him to look away as though that might allow him to escape. The vile stench wafting through the air was so nauseating that it left him at a loss for words. Although impossible to describe accurately, the repugnant odor was something akin to a gamy blend of rotten potatoes, a necrotic leg long overdue for amputation, and the slightest hint of Limburger cheese. Connor puked into his mouth before he was able to exert control over his mutinous stomach; the caustic bile searing the back of his throat. Infuriated, he spat the foul liquid onto the ground in disgust. Recovering from the smell that caught him completely off-guard, he raised his head to reveal eyes brimming with malice and derision. Doggedly, he climbed to his feet having clearly had enough of this new world.

  Aside from the group currently tormenting the two pathetic souls, Connor saw only three other infected on this side of the building. They appeared to have been heading to join the growing horde around the dumpster until he stepped into their path. Each one seemed more handicapped than the next, which Connor presumed was why they lagged so far behind their brethren. The closest one was less than fifteen feet away but moved so slowly he imagined it would still take the thing five minutes to close the distance. Its awkward gait had a robotic quality to it. A brief pause between each strained movement gave the clear impression of a series of distinct actions rather than a smooth, continuous motion. An artificial limb was loosely strapped to the stump just below the thing’s left knee, wobbling precariously with each step. Five feet behind was a hunched figure that had to be at least one hundred years old. Weighing eighty pounds with its pockets full of rocks, the cachectic thing was the epitome of skin and bones. Bringing up the rear was perhaps the most ghastly of them all. The polar opposite of the decrepit old man, the former toddler staggered along like a drunken midget with vertigo. Connor imagined the little monster might well have taken its first step a moment before becoming infected. What a wretched bunch!

  Disgusted, he strode forward, kicking the first monster’s fake limb as if trying for the game-winning field goal. The prosthesis tore free and hurtled through the air, spinning as it went, before the attached shoe hit the elderly man square in the face. The amputee pitched forward, slamming hard into the ground. Connor heard the sharp cracking sound of at least one bone breaking as it smashed into the ground. Thrown off balance by the blow to the head, the centenarian toppled backward like a felled tree, pinning the last of the three in the process. The toddler let out a shrill, mewing sound that Connor found more disturbing than any other he had heard them make previously. Even so, the ridiculous slapstick quality of the situation brought a wicked sneer to his face.

  With a single kick, he had taken all three of the infected in his path out of the equation. So innocuous were the crippled things to begin with, he did not even bother to put them down definitively. Connor walked slowly past the crumpled heap, stepping over the old man’s outstretched arm as if trying to avoid stepping on a crack in the sidewalk. He didn’t even look down at the grasping hand as he passed. Behind him, the shouts of the woman changed once again. She had finally noticed him as he stalked away in the opposite direction.

  “Hey! Over here! Help us! Mister? Please, help us!” she bellowed with renewed fervor. Her increased excitement was contagious, having the unintended effect of escalating the veritable feeding frenzy at her feet.

  Despite her intensified pleas for help, Connor did not break stride or even turn to regard the doomed individuals. Instead, he continued walking as nonchalantly as if out on a leisurely Sunday stroll. Physically, he was was feeling much better. He had his combat knife and sidearm with two spare magazines. He felt confident he could dispatch the beleaguering monsters and save the helpless pair. That, however, is not what he did.

  Connor Ro
an was not a good person.

  9

  October 3, 2015

  Cobb County, GA

  As the truck slowed to a stop, General Montes switched on the LSSV’s windshield wipers, smearing a grotesque, curving swath of carnage across the cracked glass. A thick band of sanguineous gore coursed through the center of the semi-translucent arc where a fingernail was lodged under the wiper blade. Through the smudged windshield, the entire world was painted in a sickly, reddish-brown hue. Triggering the washer fluid, General Montes watched as thin, clear lines cut through the filth like tears from a guardian angel too late to the battle. The wipers whipped across, once again mixing everything into a briny mess as they struggled with the impossible task of erasing the horror they just endured. Dr. San’s quiet sobs proved to be almost too much for the tired General. With a sigh, he pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and index finger as he dropped his head in a futile attempt to shield himself against the defeat he felt welling up in his eyes.

  After a few quiet moments, punctuated only by the rhythmic swish of the windshield wipers, Corporal Rocha spoke up, “General, we should probably keep moving. That horde won’t be too far behind.”

  Although she knew he was right, Lin still felt anger and resentment toward Corporal Rocha for being the one willing to say what they all knew. Although she had only just met Sergeant Garza, she felt they owed him an unpayable debt for saving their lives at the air reserve base. Simply leaving him behind did not seem right despite the fact that he had told them to do so. As a civilian, she could not wrap her mind around the mission-above-all-else mentality she had witnessed time and again among the soldiers; that degree of self-sacrifice was simply too hard to fathom.