The Infected Dead (Book 7): Scream For Now

by Howard, Bob

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Mud Island, SC

  Fort Sumter

  Blank Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  SCREAM FOR NOW

  Bob Howard

  Copyright © 2019 Bob Howard

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN-13: 978-1-945754-01-2

  Cover art by Lorena Martin of Premade Ebook Covers

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locations is entirely coincidental.

  For Dawn, the woman who believed in me

  when I said I wanted to write a book.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Writing books can put you in touch with people around the world. I remember an evening when I was contacted by a reader in England, and while I was chatting with her on social media, I was contacted by another reader in Australia. That has been one of the real pleasures of being read. I’ve heard from readers all over the United States, and I have to admit, I value all of them, but I feel like I’ve made friends with the people who have stayed in touch. Kevin Hammermeister and Tim Harrelson, you two are right there at the top of the list, but I hope the rest of you know how I feel about you. I can’t list everybody here, but each and every one of you is appreciated. Phyl Lamattina, I was just looking at your post about your leg. When you said it has been a rough year, you weren’t kidding. I’m going to predict that 2020 will be an incredible year for you, so hang in there.

  I’ve made a new friend this year. His name is Shin Saikyo, and he lives in Tokyo. Shin has earned my resect quickly because he’s a master of the English language. Anyone who has learned a second language will tell you that American English has some difficult rules, probably because we have such a diverse history. Shin has been helpful by catching some of my rule violations that all writers try to avoid. I welcome Shin to my circle of friends and hope he chooses to continue to be my friend and to read my work.

  To all of my readers, I want to tell you it has been an incredible experience to write for you, and I give you credit for my successes. When I was contacted by Tantor Media this summer and asked if I would consider a contract to produce the series on audiobooks, my first thought was that it couldn’t have happened without your support. Thank you so much.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Wet Season

  Before the Decline

  The South American wet season was dragging on for much longer than usual. At least that’s what Salem Townsend was thinking when he pushed his flat-bottomed boat away from shore. It was just one more reason he was considering going back to the States and giving up on his plans to earn his doctoral degree by presenting new research that would prove the crab-eating fox was really extinct. He would show that the species of Cerdocyon thous that ranged over most of Brazil, Venezuela, and Colombia was an entirely different species. After two years of rain and bugs, he was ready to start over with a thesis that didn’t place such relentless demands on his body. Not to mention his love life.

  Marcia Townsend, his wife of four years, had been understanding when he explained where he would be going and for how long, but the letters from home had become less frequent, and he had been reading a distant Marcia in between the lines. The distance wasn’t strictly geographical. The letters were so impersonal she might as well have been writing about the weather. As a matter of fact, she had on a number of occasions. He felt like he could tell her a thing or two about the weather.

  The boat slid smoothly across the water, and the rain made a steady pattering sound on his slick poncho and the aluminum boat. Despite his thoughts about quitting, he got back into the moment and was watching the slippery banks that resembled a picture of the moon. Tiny craters were everywhere, and Salem knew that the crab population was exploding with all this rain. Even as he watched, the pockmarks in the mud popped bubbles at the openings as crabs came to the surface. There would be something else watching those bubbles from the dense forest, and when enough crabs came into the open, he could expect to see their grey and brown bodies dart from the trees and snap up the tasty crustaceans before they could retreat into the mud.

  When Salem had told Marcia where he was going, he had painted the experience as a once in a lifetime opportunity. It would be like a vacation in southern Venezuela, and he would come back healthy and tanned, ready to publish his findings and guarantee them a better life.

  “Some vacation,” he mumbled.

  He was about a minute from rowing ashore and calling it quits when he saw the motion in the bushes. Something was getting ready to make its move, and Salem got his camera ready. There was more motion on the left and right sides of the place where he aimed his lens.

  The crab-eating fox had been an opportunistic feeder, and so was this new species. They would eat the meat from small animals or carrion, but during the rainy season they hunted the plentiful crabs. If they paid any attention to him at all, he would be surprised. As they hunted he expected them to keep a wary eye on him at the most.

  The rain came down a bit harder and made it difficult to focus on the shadows that moved in the trees. He knew the pictures weren’t going to be very clear. Shooting pictures in this much rain was worse than shooting in heavy fog, and he hadn’t been able to afford the special camera that would have been right at home in this much water. He would have to move closer to shore. There was no current pulling him away from his spot, so at least he didn’t have to pull in an anchor. A couple of slow and easy strokes with his paddle made him coast a little closer to the bank.

  “That should do it,” he said under his breath. Any closer, and he would scare the crabs and the foxes away.

  From his new position, he could see that there were several furry bodies under the low bushes. As a matter of fact, there were far more than he had ever seen. The crabs were also more abundant, and that could account for the extraordinary number of eyes that were regarding him with interest, but it made him nervous that the eyes were on him instead of the crabs that were darting between the tiny craters.

  Salem gently sat his camera down on the seat of the boat and picked up his paddle for a second time. He didn’t think he had taken his eyes off of the trees, but he must have when he reached for the paddle, because there was a fox standing on the muddy bank when he put the paddle into the water. It was standing as still as a statue, and Salem could have sworn the stare that the fox had fixed on him resembled the stare he had seen on their faces when they had identified their next opportunity to eat.

  “Why are you looking at me? You should be looking at those things running around by your feet.”

  Come to think of it, the crabs weren’t acting like they usually would when their predators showed up. They weren’t running for their holes in the mud. They were emerging above ground in large numbers and migr
ating toward the water. The surface of the tidal stream was usually glassy, and the rain had hidden it from him at first, but now he could see the tiny ripples in the water as the crabs swam toward his boat.

  Salem turned his body left and right on the seat and stared into the water on both sides of the boat. He saw that the ripples were everywhere.

  “Why would the crabs get in the water when the foxes were out in the open?”

  He knew he was talking to himself, but he had been using that as a tool to make himself think through the arguments of his thesis.

  His head snapped up in the direction of the opposite bank. A dozen or more foxes were standing out in the open facing his way, and even from a distance he could see the crabs running across the mud and disappearing into the water. The foxes were ignoring their favorite food.

  His paddle was almost pulled from his hands. He had dipped it into the water when he saw the foxes appearing from their hiding places and had forgotten about it until now. When he raised it, it was heavy with the small crabs. They were clinging tightly using their tiny pincers. Salem had to shake it and even bang it on the side of the boat to make them fall off.

  “So much for stealth.”

  Normally he would have seen the foxes dive for cover when he started banging the wooden paddle against the aluminum boat. It sounded like he was beating a big drum, and it was loud enough to sound really out of place in this wilderness. If anything it did the opposite, and he watched with surprise as the banks became crowded on both sides of the stream. He estimated that he was at least forty or fifty feet from one side and twenty feet from the other. He didn’t particularly like the way the crabs were acting, but the usually shy foxes were being a touch too curious about him. Despite the crabs immediately clinging to his paddle when it went into the water, he stroked several times to get his boat more into the middle of the stream. As he did, his boat moved downstream at an angle from where he had been, and the foxes on both sides jostled with each other for position and moved with him.

  He had to beat the paddle against the boat for a second time, and the fine hairs on the back of his neck crawled when he saw that the banging caused the foxes to become agitated. Some of them made a yelping noise that was like a high pitched bark, and they half-heartedly jumped into the water where it was shallow. They immediately ran back onto the banks, but it was as if they were testing the water to see if they could come after him.

  “That’s absurd,” he said.

  The sound of his voice caused more of them to bark, and they snapped angrily at each other. Salem saw the way they curled back their lips, and for the first time since his arrival in South America, he was afraid. If he wanted to prove this was a new species, he could start with their behavior. The crab-eating fox was a shy creature. They mated and stayed with one partner, and they got along well with other pairs of mates. It was rare to see them attack each other, and there was no alpha in the group. The foxes on the banks of the tidal stream made him think they were all rabid.

  Salem was so intent on the behavior of the foxes that he forgot about the crabs until one of them closed its pincers on the tender piece of flesh between the thumb and index finger of his left hand. It felt like his hand was set on fire, and a scream escaped his lips before he could stop it. The crabs held onto his paddle when he pulled it out of the water, and a large number of them fell into the boat.

  Salem was on his feet without even thinking about it. He alternated between the crab that was causing him pain and the ones that were trying to go up the legs of his pants. Every time he stomped one of his feet there was a loud crunch, but the boat was rocking so much that he had to grab the sides with his hands. When he did, more crabs latched onto his fingers.

  He stood up again and grabbed at the hard little bodies that were covered by his blood. They were slippery, but he indiscriminately tore them free and threw them back in the water. He didn’t even care that he ripped off large chunks of his own flesh at the same time, and he was no longer even aware of the foxes. If he had been, he would have seen that the smell of blood had whipped them into a frenzy. They were swimming to the boat.

  Free of the crabs that had shredded his hands and no longer finding more with his feet, Salem snatched up his paddle and stroked the water as hard as he could. He hit a swimming fox on the head as he made the third stroke, but he didn’t slow down. On both banks more excited foxes were coming out of hiding and jumping into the water, and Salem knew his life was on the line. They ran along the bank and got ahead of him before diving into the water. Salem absentmindedly told himself to remember they were doing that. He had never known a crab-eating fox to think ahead quite that way.

  Something reminded Salem of his supply bag. He had never needed it, but now was a good time to use the Glock that had been recommended to him by a man at the store where he had loaded up on provisions. He might not be able to shoot all of them, but he had never seen a fox hang around if it was being shot at.

  Salem sat down in the boat and shoved his hand into the pack. The grip felt like it belonged in his hand, and he pulled the gun out and took aim in one motion. It wasn’t hard to hit one because there were so many, and the explosive crack was followed by the yelp from a fox.

  The results were beyond his wildest hopes as the foxes all reacted as one. They disappeared from the banks just as quickly as they had arrived. Those that were swimming toward his boat reversed direction and swam furiously after their fleeing mates. Just to be sure, Salem fired another round. He missed everything, but the exodus continued. The crabs were still climbing his paddle, but he could deal with them better now that he had the upper hand. He beat the paddles against the boat and made sure none of them had succeeded getting in with him. After he was sure he was in control, he paddled upstream staying in the middle just to be safe.

  His camp was just over a mile from the place where he left his boat. He didn’t plan to return, so he didn’t bother to tie the boat to anything. He kept his Glock in his hand and ran the entire way, but the bleeding on his hands had stopped, and the pain was making him concentrate on where he put his feet. His camp came into view sooner than he expected.

  He had a long way to drive, and the roads were bad, but the old Jeep was in good condition with a full tank of gas. He threw his gear into the cargo area without packing and expected to be jumped by foxes until he pulled the door shut behind him. That was when he finally lowered his eyes and examined the damage to his hands.

  A crab’s pincer was still embedded in his left hand, and he pried it free with a pair of surgical scissors from the first aid kit. The kit was always under his seat, so he had painfully pulled it into his lap. He fumbled with the bandages and the disinfectant until he had secure, if not perfect, bandages over the worst parts of each hand. He would have preferred to let the wounds get some fresh air, but he pulled on a pair of leather gloves to give the bandages more support. He was surprised at how much better the gloves made his hands feel, and for the first time since it had started, he thought he would actually make it home.

  ******

  It took almost four days for Salem to drive to the coast. Political tensions in Venezuela were too high for him to be seen by the Venezuelan military. If he ran into them, he was likely to be detained, and that wasn’t what he needed. His body was in trouble. He had a blinding headache that was sending out bursts of pain through the backs of his eyes. He winced every time he felt a new jolt, and the last thing he wanted was to be stuck away in some under funded third world hospital. At least that was his perception of the local medical care system.

  A detour east took him out of Venezuela into Guyana, and he drove to the city of Timehri. His plan was to board a plane at Cheddi Jagan International Airport. Their security checkpoints were so bad that twenty dollars was all the passport anyone ever needed. Not that he didn’t have a passport, but he wanted to move through customs as quickly as possible. He put his Jeep in long term parking and paid in advance for a week. No one would get suspicio
us about the abandoned vehicle for at least twice that long, and he didn’t plan to return to pay for the extra week. He put together a carry on bag of things he wanted to keep and one suitcase to send through checked luggage.

  In line he hoped no one paid any attention to the sweat stains on his clothing. He had been able to change out of the dungarees and denim shirt with the blood stains, but it was so humid that he was sweating profusely. He sniffed at his shoulder and realized that he smelled worse than he looked. There was no way to hide a week without bathing or showering, and his face was a dirty mess of hair that needed to be washed if not shaved. He avoided eye contact as much as possible getting through the ticket line. When he headed for the boarding area he kept as much distance as he could between himself and the other passengers.

  Salem wiped a sleeve across his forehead, and it came back so wet that he knew it was more than the weather. He put his hand back on his forehead and felt the heat radiating from the skin. The pounding in his head seemed to be right under his hand and he held it there for a moment too long. The pressure of his hand felt almost as if it was holding back the pounding. Like someone would be able to see it if he took his hand away.

  “Señor?”

  Salem jerked his hand down in surprise and found the customs agent was talking to him.

  “Are you sick, Señor?”

  The man was regarding him with a wary expression and had his hand held out for Salem to give him his passport. His mental lapse was going to cost him. Salem shook his head and discreetly surrendered his passport, but not before managing to slide another twenty dollar bill into the little folder. The agent took it and visibly relaxed when he checked the contents. He made a small show of inspecting Salem’s carry on bag and gestured toward the boarding gate. He gave Salem a friendly smile and showed two rows of rotten teeth. Salem gave a weak smile in return and accepted his bag from the man. That forty dollars was most likely more than the man had made in weeks or even months.