We Are The Plague: Dext of the Dead, Book 1

by Steve Kuhn

  I waved the all clear, and as our meager group emerged from their hiding spots, Tyler laughed his ass off and tossed a beer from the pickup over to Cholo. “That’s all of them? Looks like he’s a good bullshitter after all, eh,” he said to the group.

  They actually seem all right. After we did a round of introductions and took a few slugs off some warm beers, Tyler rounded up his boys and told us to follow them to the Haven. Looks like we’re on the way to a community, of sorts. I knew this was a good idea!

  Entry 30

  Kylee’s been giving me shit the whole drive about how I handled the situation with Tyler. “You have any idea how close I was to dumping him? Any? What if I squeezed off first? Huh?” She was shouting. “I cannot believe you would put us in that position! You could be dead! Or worse, we all could be dead!”

  She’s right, though. That was too close. I don’t even know if I believed it would work, but here we are. It’ll be better when we get to the Haven place they were talking about.

  From the chat with Tyler, it sounds like it’s a pretty cool spot. It’s set up in an old country club. Apparently, there’s a spiked, iron fence around the whole perimeter that they’ve reinforced with plywood and doors and shit—guards on post twenty-four-seven. Also, there’s a huge campsite on the grounds for the people passing through as well as more permanent shelter for the regulars in the main building, which has all sorts of rooms and a huge kitchen. Best part is, they’ve got power! Yeah, generators and fuel. Probably our fuel, hehe… but whatever. I’m stoked. I just dodged a major bullet, and it worked out.

  Cutty couldn’t have handed back his gun any faster. He’s been in the back of the jeep with Wyatt, going, “Yup… Mhmm… Right,” while she chewed me out. Wyatt still isn’t saying too much.

  And then there’s Junior—not exactly the guy you want arguing your case for you. He’s been trying to back me up, saying stuff like, “Welp, he did manage to get us a beer outta the deal. Ain’t hadda beer in over a month.” Yeah, a real gem that one was. Oh, and I loved, “I like that Tyler guy. He’s got a real good haircut. Reminds me of ma uncle Farley.” That one really helped my case—so much so that I wanted to shoot myself in the face.

  Thanks, Junior. The defense rests.

  Entry 31

  I used to believe in God. I used to think that if you did right by people, good things will happen. It’s all bullshit. If good things are going to happen, it’s going to be because we make them happen on our own.

  Another twelve miles and we would have been to the Haven. Unfortunately, all that glitters is not gold. Knowing what I know now, I wouldn’t risk stepping foot in that place, but it looks like we’re going to have to.

  It started like a trickle… a biter here, a sleeper there. We were making frequent stops to off them as the caravan plugged along the route. During one of the stops, Tyler told us flat out that the reason these roads and the Haven are safe is because of runs like this one. Teams of men take to the small network of roadways that connect to the Haven to scavenge, pick up survivors, and clear the geeks out. That’s how they roll. He neglected to mention one very important piece of the puzzle, though, and that was how they kept their own necks safe on the road when the shit hit the fan.

  The trickle became a flood as we happened upon a nasty herd. Must have been seventy-five to a hundred stinks converging on our gunfire, and we just weren’t keeping up. Cholo was dispatching two and three at a time until his weapon jammed. He ran back to the pickup and pulled out a baseball bat studded with nails. I lost track of him when I climbed on top of the jeep.

  The crossfire was getting ridiculous and the men were even mistakingly injuring each other by shooting wildly. I saw two of Tyler’s men drop with bullet wounds. They were set upon by a small contingent of geeks and were being devoured alive.

  Those screams, man… I’ve never heard men scream like that. The one guy was calling for his mom. I shit you not.

  Kylee and Junior were picking off ones and twos, and I was missing terribly with the handguns. Wyatt was back to back with Cutty, and they were under serious pressure. The biggest problem was that Cutty wasn’t any good without his blades. He was clumsily flailing at stinks with a hunk of pipe he grabbed out of one of the Haven cars.

  Wyatt was shouting, “We gotta get the fuck outta here… last mag! I’m on my last mag!”

  Junior and Kylee displaced and ran for the box truck. They scrambled up to the top and began firing from their elevated position.

  Cutty was winded and falling apart, and Wyatt was starting to cry battle tears. A nasty-looking stink was inches away from Cutty, so he grabbed it under the chin as it snapped at him. Luckily for Cutty, one of Tyler’s men approached from Wyatt’s left and blew its fuckin’ head off at point-blank range like a boss. Without breaking stride, he motioned for Cutty and Wyatt to fall back to the jeep.

  And then it happened. Tyler called out, “Enough, enough! Toss ‘em! Toss ‘em now, Goddammit!”

  Time seemed to slow to a crawl. One of Tyler’s men bashed his way to the box truck and, as he whipped open the door, I was stunned.

  Huddled inside the truck were five people: two women and three men, bound hand and foot, gagged with cloth. Tyler’s man climbed up into the truck and kicked two of the men out on to the road, into the waiting hands of the dead. As the geeks began to feed on them, the horde gravitated toward what was left of the two downed gunmen and the newly sacrificed hostages.

  The Haven members were now shooting fish in a barrel. Feeding deadheads dropped, and their numbers began to slowly dwindle.

  Cholo reappeared and shouted at all of us, “You know the drill, boys! Put down as many as you can, and bug out! We’ll come back with more men and finish them!”

  Regardless of the fact that the dead were now somewhat occupied, our jeep was cut off from the group by about thirty hungry-ass deadheads. Tyler’s man, along with Cutty and Wyatt, reached the jeep and hopped in. I ducked in the back.

  The Haven group took off with Junior and Kylee still on top of the box truck, leaving us behind. Tyler’s man threw it in reverse to cut across the grass median and told us, “I got this. We’ll hole up in an outpost until morning, and then we’ll rejoin them to clean that shit up back there.”

  We rode in silence, checking our ammo supply and calming ourselves. Inside of twenty minutes, we were on the second floor of this empty warehouse and safely locked in.

  Tyler’s man spoke first, saying, “Bro, we haven’t seen a horde that size in a hot minute. I’m Dennis, by the way… but my friends call me Shorty. We’ll be safe here for the night. We used to use this spot as a pistol range before we got the Haven tightened up. That’s what all those tires are for downstairs. These concrete walls are thick as hell, anyway.”

  I replied first, “I’m Dext… Wyatt… and that’s Cutty. Mind telling us exactly what the fuck happened back there?”

  Shorty shrugged it off with a laugh. “We’ll get ‘em, bro. It’s cool. Hell, at least those two from your group won’t have to sleep in a warehouse tonight. We caught the shitty end of that stick. Clean up crew normally heads out at dawn, so we’ll give them about an hour and then shoot on back to the Haven, lickety-split. Problem solved.”

  Obviously, he was missing my point, so I clarified. “You guys killed those people back there to save your own skin. That doesn’t bother you?”

  Shorty’s smile faded immediately as he realized this was something we hadn’t seen before. He sobered himself and informed us, “I know what it looks like, bro. It used to bother me, too, but fuck it, man. We’re alive! That’s all that matters. Survival of the fittest. If you can’t fight and you can’t fuck, you can get eaten—simple as that.”

  Wyatt finally broke his silence and snapped, “So that’s it, huh? That’s all you got? You rape women and kill men that can’t fight as well as the rest of you? I should put one between your fuckin’ eyes right now for that shit.” Wyatt popped to his feet and took aim right at Sh
orty’s face. “How’s that for survival of the fittest, asshole.”

  Shorty didn’t even flinch. He looked Wyatt straight in the eyes and put his hands up in mock surrender. “Whoa-whoa-whooooa… We got us a badass here, fellas,” he chuckled sarcastically.

  Cutty reached up and pulled down Wyatt’s weapon. He spoke calmly and quietly. “Easy, young blood. No need ta be shootin’ up tha place. Le’s hear what Shorty has ta say. Sho’ cain’t be all dat is to da story, right, Mista Shawty?” Cutty shot me a sideways glance as if to say, “Play along.” I winked my understanding.

  Wyatt slumped back, defeated, and Cutty patted him reassuringly on the shoulder. I spoke up to Shorty, saying, “Look, the kid’s been through a lot. He’s lost his entire family in the past week and a half. You’ll have to forgive him for being… high-strung.”

  Shorty waved it off and said, “It’s cool, bro. We’ll get him back to the Haven and get his dick wet for him. Should smooth him right out.”

  I noticed Cutty’s fist ball up tightly, but he relaxed before Shorty saw it. I continued, “So how far is the Haven from here anyways?”

  “Close,” he replied. “Straight back the way we came and then a right on Manor Haven Way. The old country club. Shit, bro, we’ll get a hero’s welcome after that fight. You guys handled yourselves real good. It’ll be bitches for everyone when we get back. I wouldn’t worry about that girl of yours, though. She’s a helluva shot. Prolly put her on long cover next time out. She’ll be fine. See, we have a very fair system. Everyone gets a chance to show their worth. If you can’t cut it, you become a worker bee—laundry, cooking, cleaning, and all that. When we do a supply run, we hold a lottery with the names of all the workers. If their number comes up, they might be bait. If the run goes smoothly, they go back into rotation when we get home. Same with the girls… if their number comes up, they go along for… morale. Everyone gets a fair chance.”

  In one swift motion, Cutty reached into my belt, grabbed my pistol, pulled the slide like Kylee showed him, and shot Shorty right in the middle of his forehead. His brains and bits of skull littered the warehouse floor, and his eyes glassily stared at the ceiling.

  Cutty dropped the gun and looked over the corpse while we joined him at his side. Wyatt and I stared at the scene in shock and horror as Cutty growled, “Her name is Rebecca.” Cutty looked to his left at me and then to his right at Wyatt. “Ma niece. Dey opened dat truck, an’ I saw her. Dey got ma niece in da truck, man.”

  I picked up my gun and stashed it back in my belt. We leave in the morning. We’ll tell ‘em Shorty got bit.

  Entry 32

  Seriously? Who can manage to sleep with Wyatt trying to hide his sniffles, terribly I might add, and a Goddamn dead body eight feet away? Oh yeah! Cutty can. And his snoring isn’t helping the matter.

  I’ve been sitting here for a while debating on whether or not I should mention to Kylee what I found in the pocket of her uniform before I changed clothes. This little picture dropped out so, naturally, I picked it up.

  Now here’s the thing… I always figured Kylee’s probably a cute chick once you clean all the shit off her and put her in a dress, though I doubted she’d ever wear one. But in a wedding gown, she’d knock your socks off. A girl like that wouldn’t be seen dead with a clown like me—Actually, with the current situation, she might actually be seen dead with a clown like me. Go figure.

  Anyway, this dude she’s with in the picture is one of those ridiculously handsome types—you know, the ones who have delicate and somewhat feminine features but a strong, square jaw and just enough five o’clock shadow that they should be in a Gillette commercial. There he was in all of his awesome glory wearing his Special Forces uniform at their wedding. I bet he has a small wiener. He has to. No one can be that lucky, so as to be good looking, badass enough to be all Special Forces, have a badass chick like Kylee, and be packin’. I can’t help but wonder why she doesn’t talk about him. Fuck it. I’ve got bigger things on my plate.

  We’re gonna have to do something about Shorty. If they come back to retrieve the body or some shit, he has to look like he was bitten. That’s a problem because I damn sure ain’t taking a bite out of him, and I doubt Cutty or Wyatt are up for some sick shit like that. So there’s that. Also, there’s this Rebecca issue.

  Personally, I’m not really feeling the idea of going to the Haven for anything. Cutty, Kylee, Junior… hell, even Wyatt can all prove their mettle and won’t have to worry about this ‘bait’ issue, but I can’t shoot for shit, and the only thing I am good at is running in the other direction, fast as fuck. I’m a prime candidate for being a Haven bitch-boy, and that shit isn’t sittin’ too well with me. The only thing I can hope for is that they just assume I’m good enough because I’m running with a good crowd.

  Hmm! I just asked Wyatt if he was aware that I knew he was upset. He wiped his face and hit me with, “Um, yeah. So what?”

  I hadn’t really thought about how much the kid’s been through until I actually said the words to Shorty about Wyatt losing his family in the past week and a half. There’s really not much you can say to a person going through that to make them feel better, especially when there’s no end in sight. He’s a tough kid, no doubt.

  I opted for the supportive role and just said, “If you wanna talk about it, I’m down to listen.”

  I thought about every time I said that to someone or vice versa and how you never really expect that conversation to happen. They normally just say some shit like, “I’m all right,” or, “Thanks.” Not Wyatt, though.

  There I was, faced with him saying, “You got any family left?”

  I told him I wasn’t sure. Everything happened so fast to everyone. I told him I hoped my people were okay and that I tried not to think about it too much.

  Frankly, I had nothing to offer him. People who have loved ones that are missing always say that it’s harder just ‘not knowing’ the truth. I dunno about that. I’d rather have the hope that they may still be all right somewhere than to watch them die in front of me. Wyatt’s done just that.

  He asked me, “Do you think it’d be easier to go out like Kate did? Just turn off the lights?”

  I was about to answer when Cutty chimed in, “You do some shit like dat, young blood, and you betta hope dey ain’t a afta-life.”

  Wyatt asked him, “Why’s that?”

  Cutty told him, “‘Cause ol’ Cutty gon’ get up der and put ma boot in yo ass.”

  We all sorta chuckled.

  It’s funny how we manage to laugh while potentially facing slaughter when the sun rises.

  I told Wyatt simply this, “We’re your family now. I can’t promise you one of us won’t die on you, but I will promise you that we’ll die for you if we ever have to. That’s what family does.”

  I didn’t lie, and that’s why I’m going to the Haven—for Kylee, for Junior, and for Rebecca.

  Entry 33

  After a brief discussion this morning, the decision was made to bring Shorty’s corpse back with us to the Haven. I think it’s a good way to show a measure of good faith to their group upon our arrival. Who knows…? They may have a burial or whatever. It’s obvious that we could give a shit less what they do with him, but still.

  We drew straws as to who was gonna prepare the body to give the appearance of a bite. Wyatt drew the shortest, but quickly threw his piece at Cutty and said, “You shot him. You do it,” so that was a waste of time, heh.

  Cutty went to work in the least disgusting way we could think of. He used the pliers on the Leatherman tool to tear away a decent hunk of flesh from Shorty’s forearm, and I gotta say, it looked gruesome enough to pass.

  Then there was the issue of transport. We sure as hell weren’t gonna put him in the jeep with us, so we did the next best thing. We strung his ass across the hood like a deer. Not the most dignified way to transport a corpse, but fuck him. He was an asshole anyway.

  Ammo is definitely an issue right now. Wy
att is halfway through his last rifle mag, and after that, we only have three pistols. It’ll have to do. The way I see it, any geeks we come across on the way back will have to just keep on walkin’.

  It’s about an hour and a half since daybreak, so the cleanup crew would be about finished if Shorty was accurate with his information.

  So, that’s it. The next time I write we’ll be at the Haven, and hopefully Junior and Kylee are all right. Once we’re there, we’ll see about negotiating for Rebecca’s release to Cutty on the grounds that she’s a family member, and then we’re getting as far away from these nutjobs as possible.

  Entry 34

  We made it! The cleanup crew had even cleared the road from yesterday’s mess and left the bodies in the median, so we rolled right through without any issues. We were challenged by two guards on post at the gates, but they recognized Shorty immediately and had heard about yesterday’s drama through the grapevine. We were waved in and told to wait until Tyler came down to meet us.

  I took a moment to survey the grounds. It was an immense piece of land we were on, but it didn’t look as pristine as initially described. The manor house sat in the center and was surrounded by unkempt grass and weeds. On the far end, almost out of sight, was a plume of black smoke.

  I asked if everything was all right down there, and the one of the guards informed us that’s where all the waste goes. Shit, piss, trash, and the odd body are dragged down there by the working class daily, and the fire is kept burning constantly.

  A few filthy individuals came over and started hauling Shorty’s remains off in that direction. So much for the burial.

  About fifty to a hundred yards from the massive fire pit was a patch of ground about the size of a Little League baseball diamond. There was no grass there, just dirt, and it was surrounded by a six-foot, chain-link fence. It was empty at the moment, and no one bothered to comment.

  The rest of the grounds looked exactly like one might expect. It’s a gigantic refugee camp. Tarps, tents, and the odd vehicle have been strewn about with a sloppy web of pathways trampled between them. There has to be upwards of five hundred people of varying ages here. Some are in obvious family groups, and others are just ones and twos.