Riposte (The Redivivus Trilogy Book 2)

by Kirk Withrow

  The woeful screams proved to be enough to usurp the Mad Scientist’s fear of being shot by John, as he jumped to his feet to make a break for it. Little did he know, all of John’s attention was focused in his direction in an effort to block out the very same sounds that had distressed him. The moment John saw him get to his feet, he snapped out of it and moved to intercept. Thinking only of escape, the Mad Scientist did not see John until he stepped into his path with his Tavor leveled at his head. The fleeing chemist immediately dropped to his knees, groveling like a baby as snot bubbled from his nose. “Please, don’t hurt me! I’ll do anything! Whatever you want, just don’t hurt me! Please! I’m not like the others!”

  John stepped forward, shoving the man back onto his haunches. “Calm down, and shut the hell up! Nobody’s going to hurt you as long as you cooperate.”

  Tears poured from the man’s red-rimmed eyes, cutting swaths through the yellow film coating his face. John was unsure if the tears were the result of fear or irritation from the noxious chemicals he was experimenting with. “Who the hell are you people, and what are you doing here?” John asked.

  “I’m…I’m Chef. They call me Chef,” the man whimpered. “They brought me here. They’re all sick, you know—junkies, all of them. The leader, Scout, used to buy dope from me on occasion before all this shit started. Not often, because he’s mostly a smackhead. The rest of them are all slammers as well—hooked on oxy, H, or any other narc they can get their hands on.” Chef rambled on and on, sharing every detail as though he were petitioning for a plea bargain. “Anyway, Scout came to me when his usual dealers came up missing or infected. He was desperate, said his girl and some of her friends were already clucking. I’d seen what the virus did to people and knew I needed to get out of Dodge as soon as possible, you know. There were already a ton of cases in Atlanta. Scout said he and his friends would get me out of the city as long as I would do some cooking for them. I’d never made any krokodil, but I knew it wasn’t much different than crystal, so I agreed.”

  Incredulous, John stopped the man with a wave of his hand. “All this shit is about drugs? The whole damn world is going to hell, and you people are out here shooting bathtub heroin?”

  A perverse smile creased Chef’s face, revealing two jagged rows of snaggled teeth presumably acquired through years of tweaking his own product. “What better way to ride out the apocalypse, brother?” Chef said.

  Still confused by the mangled appearance of the people he and Ethan had seen, as well as the fact that the revs seemed to ignore the Pied Piper completely, John asked, “Why is everyone here rotting, with skin sloughing off, and chunks of tissue missing entirely?”

  With a sigh, Chef said, “Krok’s some nasty shit, man. The chemistry is crazy. It’s way dirtier than crystal, with all sorts of toxic byproducts and impurities generated during the cook. Making the shit ain’t hard. It’s getting the dirt out that’s the real trick.” John thought the insane man sounded as though he were discussing the intricacies of some complex laboratory reaction with a fellow university professor rather than describing the challenges of cooking homebrewed heroin on a golf course during the apocalypse.

  “We saw one of the guys from here stand like a statue as the infected swarmed all around him without so much as a second look. How’s that possible?” John asked.

  “Huh? Sounds like whatever is causing these walking abominations is afraid of the krokodil’s bite. I guess that just about makes me the king of the world right about now, don’t it?” Chef said with a sincere look of awe and self-satisfaction in his bloodshot eyes.

  Angered by the man’s words, John said, “You’re not God or a savior or a king of anything! You’re a dope dealer which makes you no better than the sick people you fancy yourself treating with whatever the hell you’re cooking up over there!” Despite his rage at the former meth cook’s delusional ideations, he still wanted to know what made the Pied Piper essentially invisible to the infected. Is it something unique to him or the result of something Chef cooked up inadvertently? While such protection would seem priceless these days, it would hardly be worth the cost to end up looking no different than the very monsters you are trying to protect yourself from. Maybe Lin can sort out the biochemistry if I tell her about the phenomenon. Assuming she made it to Atlanta…

  The doubt circling continuously just beneath the surface of his mind reared its head once again, as it had done since he received Lin’s broken call a lifetime ago. To John, it seemed impossible that less than two months had passed since then. Ethan called from behind him, pulling him away from his sullen thoughts:

  “John, you okay?” Ethan asked, limping breathlessly. His clothes were covered in blood.

  John was unsure if it was Ethan’s or that of the poor bastard he had attacked. “I should be asking you. You look like hell,” John said with concern.

  Ethan chuckled as he remembered Scout’s words. “Yeah, like the pot I’m told…”

  “What?” John replied in confusion.

  “Never mind. I’m fine. This blood isn’t mine. It’s theirs. All I got out of the deal is a sore ankle. What’s up with him?” Ethan asked as he pointed to the man quailing behind John.

  “The Mad Scientist’s name is Chef. They call him that because he’s a meth cook. Lately he’s been making krokodil to satisfy the cravings of the junkies here,” John replied with a clear note of disgust resonating in his words.

  All around them the aftermath of the bloody shootout was splattered across what had essentially become a high-end crack house. The nearly faceless body of a man Ethan recognized as the Shitter lay sprawled against the leg of Chef’s worktable. Even at a distance, the motionless corpse exuded an overwhelming, redolent sewer smell that caused the bile to rise in Ethan’s gorge. Combined with the noisome fumes still spewing out of Chef’s unsupervised glassware, the stench was nearly too much to handle. All of this to feed a drug habit…

  “Did he give you the information you needed about the Pied Piper?” Ethan asked.

  Before John had a chance to answer, Ethan’s eyes were drawn to the previously still form of the Shitter who now sat bolt upright, sawed-off shotgun in hand. Everything slowed to a crawl as the mangled figure drew a bead on John, whose back was turned to him. Thick, gelatinous droplets of blood sprayed from the Shitter’s mouth as he muttered something undecipherable. His mutilated lips flapped as he tried to speak, a ruined mess where John’s bullet had torn a vicious path of destruction.

  Without hesitation, Ethan burst into action. Lurching forward, his vision narrowed into a tunnel focused on the man’s dirty finger as it applied increasing pressure on the gun’s trigger. Come on, Ethan! You have to make it! At the last second he threw himself forward, diving headlong like a goalkeeper trying to block the game-winning penalty kick.

  A split-second later a deafening blast shattered the world around John, who stood stock-still in confusion about the flurry of events transpiring around him.

  Spinning, John took in two things that he could not immediately rectify in his mind. First, he saw the Shitter—crazed, bloody, and maimed—resting on his haunches with shotgun in hand. His face was ruined beyond recognition, and smoke crept lazily out of the gun’s stubby barrel as though the weapon had recently been fired. Second, and far more concerning, was Ethan’s limp body flopping lifelessly to the ground like a sack of potatoes. As the last few seconds replayed in his mind at high speed, the situation became painfully clear.

  A curtain of red dropped in front of John’s eyes, and he stormed forward with his rifle raised. He fired two quick shots into the Shitter’s brainpan at point blank range, finishing what he had not during their previous encounter. Out of the corner of his eye, John saw Chef make a break for the clubhouse. The out-of-shape man muttered something about John being crazy, though the specifics were lost among his ragged gasps for air.

  Momentarily torn between the burning desire to exact revenge on everyone at the country club and providing aid to his wounded frie
nd, John rushed to Ethan’s side.

  Taking full advantage of the situation, Chef escaped toward the relative safety of the clubhouse. As he neared the building, a crazy-eyed woman wearing nothing but a pair of dingy, panties dotted with little pink hearts burst through the door. Were it not for the underwear, it would have been difficult to identify the figure as female at all. Her emaciated body appeared positively skeletal, and her paper-thin skin did little to hide the bones threatening to poke through her sagging integument. The tattoos adorning her pallid, wilting skin were faded and distorted, like smudged ink on a deflated balloon. Now little more than dysmorphic caricatures of their original forms, it was impossible to make out what each had been at its genesis. She held Dirty Harry’s .44 magnum, which looked enormous in her gaunt hands.

  Upon seeing the bloodied corpse of her lover, Scout, sprawled out on the grass, the wraithlike woman shrieked like a possessed harpy. Her face contorted into a grotesque mask of pain, disbelief, and rage as she wheeled around with the gun flailing wildly in search of the perpetrator of his brutal murder. Coupled with her ghastly appearance, her blood-curdling cries were the fodder of nightmares.

  Whether due to the sight of the seething woman or the mighty revolver in her hands, Chef froze and put his hands up as though he had just been caught during an attempted prison break.

  “WHAT DID YOU DO? YOU KILLED HIM, YOU BASTARD!” the enraged woman screamed.

  Without so much as aiming, she pointed the gun at Chef and squeezed the trigger.

  The deafening blast of the handgun caused John’s head to rise in time to see Chef slump to the ground, a gaping hole surrounded by an expanding circle of red blossoming in the center of his back. Dropping to his side, John watched as the unimaginably frail-looking woman charged Chef’s collapsing body with the gun still raised. The fury in her eyes and in her screams made John shudder. He heard a meaty, thwack when her bare foot connected with Chef’s face, folding him over backward. Her insane eyes locked with John’s as soon as she had both feet back on the ground. She let loose another feral scream as she started toward him but was silenced by three shots to her chest before she had a chance to raise the revolver.

  Seeing no additional threats in the area, John shifted his attention back to Ethan’s motionless body. Face down on the ground; his left arm was bent underneath his torso at an unnatural angle. John placed two fingers on Ethan’s carotid artery but felt no pulse. When he withdrew his hand, it was covered in warm, sticky blood—evidence that Ethan had sustained a significant neck injury.

  Carefully rolling him onto his back, John saw that the damage was far more extensive than only a neck wound. Ethan’s body was riddled with buckshot from the close-range blast. Despite his bulletproof vest, it had punctured his neck and abdomen, as well as the side of his chest. John felt for a femoral pulse but again found nothing. He placed his ear against his chest hoping for some sign that his friend was still in there. Once again—nothing.

  Overcome by rage, John performed CPR as though his ass was on fire. Despite his intense effort, Ethan did not stir again. John’s anger blossomed inside, and he rained down vicious blows on the dead man’s chest. “You can’t die, you asshole! Damn you! You can’t die! You hear me? You can’t be dead!”

  Emotionally and physically drained, John collapsed onto Ethan’s body, sobbing loudly. As he did, he felt as though he was being torn apart from the inside by the intense feelings surging through his body. Although he had lost so much already, death did not get any easier over time. In fact, Ethan’s death felt nearly as bad as that of his own wife. Perhaps it was because Ethan seemed to be above death, and the fact that the Grim Reaper was able to claim him so easily meant that he—and his beautiful daughter, Ava, for that matter—had almost no chance of survival in this cruel and dangerous world. Or maybe he was just sick of seeing good people die; he did not know which.

  John had long ago accepted that everyone died eventually. As a physician, death was just part of the job description. Even though he had seen death more times than he could count, this seemed far worse than anything he previously experienced. With so few good people left in the world, and such a ruthless plague running amok across the land, it seemed unfathomable that uninfected people could still be capable of killing one another. This—the fact that Ethan’s death had been at the hands of a bunch of drug addicts—was the worst part.

  With his head buried in his hands, John did not notice the figures moving slowly through the woods. Their searching eyes scanned the area for the source of the noise that had captured their attention. Upon seeing John collapsed over Ethan’s motionless body, their intense eyes locked on, and they quickened their pace. Moments later, they emerged from the tree line about ten feet from where John knelt, still completely unaware of their presence.

  “John! Oh my God! What happened?” Kate cried as she rushed to his side. Reams remained in a low crouch, dutifully sweeping the barrel of his rifle around the area to ensure there were no additional threats.

  “Ethan! Is he?” Kate asked. The rest of her question died in her throat.

  The only reply John could muster was a weak shake of his head that told Kate the answer she already knew.

  Having seen no further signs of danger, Reams rushed over to join them. “We heard the gunshots and came as fast as we could, John. Jesus, man. I’m sorry. You all right?” Reams asked.

  Still not taking his eyes off Ethan’s lifeless body, John considered how he could possibly answer Reams’ simple question. His shallow breathing, the thrum of his heartbeat in his ears, and the occasional sob told him that he was okay—in a manner of speaking, but the hollow feeling of plummeting into a bottomless pit of perpetual darkness assured him that okay was a thing of the past. Is it possible to be something as well as its antithesis at the same time?

  The confusion must have been apparent in John’s wistful eyes, because Reams did not wait for an answer. Instead, he leaned down and scooped John up into a huge bear hug. “Come on, man. It’s not your fault. Let’s get him out of here,” Reams said. When John wiped his eyes, took a long steadying breath, and nodded his head weakly, Reams was confident his friend would pull through once again—somehow.

  * * *

  Kate took point and carried the weapons, as John and Reams carried Ethan’s body through the woods, away from the horror and bloodshed of the country club. As they walked, a thundering explosion rocked the air behind them—likely Chef’s final batch going up in smoke.

  They were grateful not to find any revs when they reached the truck, affording them the opportunity to give Ethan a proper burial. At least as proper a burial as was possible in this unforgiving world. While they would have preferred to bury him next to his family, such luxuries simply were not feasible any longer.

  Kate cleaned Ethan’s body as best she could, while John and Reams dug his grave in silence. After wrapping him in a blanket, they carefully lowered him into the earthen tomb. They each tossed in a handful of dirt as they said a few words about the man they had come to love and respect in their own way.

  “I know you said this wasn’t my fault, but it sure feels like it was,” John said as he stood staring into the gaping hole that stared back into him. “You see, Ethan died to save my life. He literally took a bullet for me, because that shotgun blast was meant for me. That’s the kind of person he was—one willing to give his life to save someone else. And the worst part is that I had shot that guy earlier in the fight. Ethan wouldn’t be dead if I had only taken care of him the first time.”

  “That’s bullshit, John, and you know it. You can’t blame yourself for Ethan’s death. You didn’t let that guy go only to have him rejoin the fight. You thought you took him out, and the fact that he survived somehow is out of your hands,” Reams said.

  John did not respond as he stared into the seemingly bottomless pit before him.

  An air of finality settled over the trio as they shoveled the rest of the dirt on top of Ethan’s wrapped body. John ass
embled a rough-hewn cross to mark the grave just as he had a month ago when he buried his wife, Rebecca.

  Perhaps sensing his morose thoughts, Reams walked over and placed a hand on John’s shoulder. “Come on, buddy. Let’s get out of here,” Reams said as he turned toward the truck.

  Slowly, John climbed to his feet, and said, “With death in such abundance these days, how long will it be before everyone with Ethan’s level of integrity is gone? I don’t want to know what the world will be like after that.”

  18

  October 22, 2015

  Marengo County, Alabama

  “There you are! You had me worried sick! How many times have I told you not to go off by yourself? It’s not safe, Annalee,” Lydia said as soon as she saw the girl round the corner.

  “I’m sorry. I had to go to the bathroom really bad, and you were busy. I didn’t want to bother you. Besides, I know how to take care of myself,” Annalee retorted with a subtle hint of defiance coloring her words. “Then I heard a commotion so I crawled through a drainage tunnel to see what was happening. I found this girl in trouble, and I helped her,” she added, casting her hand over her shoulder in Ava’s direction.

  Lydia’s eyes moved past Annalee and settled on the bedraggled girl standing just behind her.

  Shooting Annalee a stern look of disapproval, Lydia stepped past her. She looked Ava over thoroughly before asking with genuine concern, “Are you okay, sweetie? Who are you with? Surely you’re not alone out here.”

  Ava nodded her head silently, only able to recall the woman’s first question. “What’s your name?” Lydia asked.

  Ava stared straight ahead without meeting the woman’s eyes and said nothing.

  Annalee spoke up, “She hasn’t said anything since I found her. There was a sizable group of them chasing her, and they almost caught her. She had to fight a couple to get away. I signaled her from the opening of the drainpipe and luckily she saw me. We crawled back through the pipe, and here we are. I think she might have PSTD or something.” The young girl spoke as though she were explaining how they were forced to detour around a closed sidewalk on the way home from school.