We broke from cover and ran toward the front of the group.
Cynthia was a skinny teenager, five and a half feet tall. Everyone was screaming her name. Two older people were pointing where she last was seen. The five of us; me, Cheyenne, Julie, Janessa, and King ran by them, our guns ready to fire.
There was a wet spot on the edge of the trees.
We trained our guns on the dry forest opposite of the restrooms. Several leaves were still falling, crackling as they struck their persistent clinging fellow leaves on the way down.
Cheyenne knelt in a shooters crouch, King stopped beside her. Janessa slowed and joined Julie and me as we approached the wet spot.
Janessa dipped her hand into the spot.
“Sea water?” I asked, my Colt aimed into the trees.
When she raised her hand, the liquid trailed a line up with her hand like a trail of snot.
“Ew. No. And it’s sticky.”
“Everybody! Back to the cars!” Cheyenne yelled behind us.
Lori remained with her shotgun as everyone else ran back to the cars parked further down the lot.
“Lori. Go back,” Julie ordered.
Lori shook her head. “Rebecca was my responsibility.”
Cheyenne motioned Lori over by her, “Then get behind me, off to the side. Get ready to run. And when we say run, you run. You understand me?”
Lori nodded.
Janessa flicked away the goo, wiping her hands down Demetri’s shirt she still wore, and raised her Glock.
I glanced at Julie.
Julie glanced at me.
We waited.
“You’re the crazy one,” I whispered, indicating she go first.
She frowned, “That doesn’t mean I’m stupid.”
“Cynthia!” Janessa shouted into the trees which made both of us jump.
I sighed, leading the way.
“I got your back. I’m back here. Right here.” Julie whispered, not moving.
“Julie!” Cheyenne frowned.
“I’m going,” Julie grunted. “Bossy women. Bossy women my whole life.” She mumbled as she kept pace with me but behind me by two feet on my left. “Man, I do love bossy women.”
We stepped into the trees. I motioned at broken twigs and dried bush branches. I found Cynthia’s pistol six feet into the bush and held it up to show Julie.
“She didn’t have time to shoot?” Julie asked.
I shrugged, and we kept going forward. Branches snapped behind us, I glanced over my shoulder and the others were now waiting on the edge of the parking lot’s concrete, watching our progress, guns raised.
Continuing following the path, we heard a loud snap ahead of us and froze.
Then we heard an obvious, and loud, burp just before a shoe flew back toward us.
The remains of a bleeding, ragged-boned ankle stuck out of the small sized shoe.
“Go. Go. Go.” Julie warned, moving backward, keeping her voice low.
I slipped over a root backing up and fell against a tree.
Two feet over my head, a pink, dripping glob slapped against the tree and stuck to the bark. The pink elongated glob-thing stretched back into concealment a few more yards in front of us, we stared at it as moisture dripped down along its length all the way back.
“RUN!” Julie yelled, firing her rifle, and pulled me to my feet.
Cheyenne gave covering fire as we ran back toward them. I blindly fired my Colt .45 twice just as the glob ripped the bark from the tree and returned to whatever sent it out.
There was another loud belch, and something started coming after us; we chose not to look back. King barked encouragement for us to hurry up.
Whatever it was, it made Janessa scream and fire her Glock as she backed up. Cheyenne fired as she backed up as well, calmly determined. Lori raised her shotgun to fire, but Cheyenne stopped her knowing the blast would hit us.
I shot behind us without looking. Julie leaped over bushes and tore her yoga pants in the process as she cocked her rifle and gave covering fire. She aimed before she fired and made a comment that was worthy of Cheyenne’s expletives then ran faster, yelling for me to get my ass in gear.
We cleared the brush just as Janessa turned and ran. Lori aimed her shotgun behind us and fired, the shotgun nearly flying out of her hands, but she held on, took a better stance, cocked, and fired again, this time holding on even as her glasses jumped on her nose.
Julie turned back, wrapped an arm around Lori’s waist, lifted her by one arm . . . the woman was strong . . . and ran back toward the rest of the waiting group.
BANG klik-klack
“Time to go!” I yelled at Cheyenne.
“I’m coming!”
BANG klik-klack
Cheyenne turned and ran, keeping pace with me.
A car roared up to us. Lexi, sitting behind the wheel of the four-doored Camry Mia and she had been standing on, jumped out and flung open the doors. The sisters dived into the back seats, King leapt in with them, Julie took over the wheel as Janessa screamed for us to hurry, it was right behind us, and shoved King partway over to get in.
Julie had already put the car in reverse and was slowly retreating, waiting for us.
Something slapped behind us on the pavement. It sounded too close, so I stopped and turned to shoot whatever it was, to give us a few extra seconds.
What in the ever-living hell?
It was a Changed. Not a Tank per se. Not as large or fierce looking as them. Something we hadn’t seen. Not a Fish man. It was half the size of the Camry. Purplish green. Spotted. Bloated. Toad-like. Much like the Crab man we met on the road this morning, the person it had been was now stretched, enlarged, once-human eyes separated across its vast skull and body in a macabre version of a reptilian. The gold of its irises reflected in the sun. It ran and jumped on large misshapen legs not made to carry such a vast mutated weight. Blood streamed from its mouth. Red blood. Human blood. It exposed small sharp teeth when it belched, showing shreds of cloth and pink meat. Bullet holes scattered across its body leaked the thing’s putrid blood.
I fired at its body and eyes before a horn blew behind me, I felt an arm around my chest, and Cheyenne’s angelic voice damning it, or maybe me, in the name of God, and dragged me backwards toward the car.
I kept firing as she pulled me in behind her. The passenger door clipped my shins when Julie hit the gas before I could pull my legs in and shut the door.
“Here! Here!” Cheyenne yelled, handing me Lori’s shotgun, and I leaned out the window.
BOOM
BOOM
BOOM
BOOM
BOOM
BOOM
Click.
We were still in reverse as the Toad man stumbled and fell face first, it’s pink tongue lolling out, still struggling to stand as Julie spun us around and pulled up beside the Jeep and Julie’s truck.
We jumped out as I reloaded, Cheyenne fired a few more times at the monster as we ran to our cars.
Lori retrieved her shotgun as she crawled into the kids’ van with Sheila. Adults crawled in with Lexi and Mia and joined the line.
Julie in her truck and us in the Jeep waited at the rear until the rest of the wagon train was back on the road, occasionally firing a round into the still struggling mutant.
“Crab man? Fish man? Now Toad man?” Cheyenne said. “What’s with all the new mutants? Did the water change them?”
Janessa scratched King’s head, “I was going to ask the same thing.”
Julie asked the same question on the radio after Demetri passed along to the caravan what happened to the rest of two young survivors.
Everyone was crying over the loss of Rebecca and Cynthia as our numbers continued to dwindle. Lori was inconsolable; Sheila tried her best to comfort her. Morale, lifted by the promise of a dip in the ocean, was beginning to falter.
“Randy? No more stops,” I ordered. “Take us straight to Bruxton.” Others cut in and mentioned the signs written on the water t
ower for the lighthouse indicating to go toward it. “Yes, I understand it’s a great indication, a great hope, but I know Bruxton. I grew up here, we need food, water, supplies, and gas. I know where all that is. We will get to the lighthouse but for now, just trust me and head to Bruxton. We’ve been at this for a week, we’re almost there.”
Reluctantly, everyone agreed, then the conversation returned to the new creatures.
“I’ve been thinking about that. All these mutants changed to match the surrounding environment. Maybe that’s what they adapted to. Vacationers or locals on the beach turned into Fish men, Crab fisher into Crab man. Maybe this new one was just near a swampy area and became a Toad.” I shrugged but no one on the radio could see that. “Maybe the mutations have an environmental factor. Back where some of you were from, it was a laid-back small town where everyone did the same thing, so you got mostly Roamers. We already assume the Porcupines were potheads. Back at Camp Craig, the military base, there was so many Tanks. Tanks are aggressive, a lot of military people have to be aggressive. Skittlers are just kids. Runners are athletes. Maybe that’s the pattern. At least for many of them. Volcanoes? Spitters? Shriekers? Leapers? Who knows why they became that? Anyone got a better idea?” I released the transmit button on the radio.
No one had a better idea.
“Well, Chief,” Julie cut in, “That’s just as good as any reason. It still doesn’t tell us why people are changing.” Julie laughed. “Don’t you just hate it when you watch a movie and some random survivor suddenly has all the answers to why the world is ending? This one random dude, or dudette, just happens to be the one person who survives and knows what’s going on and can save the day. Juuust before they get killed in the worst way imaginable. Anyway! Bad scriptwriting, man, just bad!” She laughed again.
We knew she was trying to lift our spirits, and it worked as the radio began filling with people’s opinions over some of the best and worst movies each had seen with bad movie tropes.
I set the radio down and cranked up the A/C.
“Everybody drink your water and eat a little. We still have a way to go before we get to Bruxton.”
“Ugh! I’m all ashy from the sea water,” Janessa said, turning around and rummaging through our supplies for lotion.
Cheyenne pulled her hair back with a hair scrunchy, “Yep, I’m dried out now. But I feel pretty clean. I need conditioner.” She laughed.
Rubbing my arm, trying not to scratch the scabs forming around my cuts, and smelling sea salt, I again felt close to home. Thirty to thirty-five minutes. I pulled the Jeep out and passed along the wagon train, people shouting and waving at us and Julie behind me as we passed them like it was summer break and we were going to a beach party as we moved to take our positions up front again. Just thirty or so long minutes and we’d be safe.
Our journey was almost over . . . I hope.
Chapter 12
The small cloud we’d seen south of us on Roanoke Island turned out to be Rodanthe.
It was burned to the ground, from north to south.
The long stretch of highway caught the winds and blew west toward us. Trees were ash and coal, burned within the week with the remains of Rodanthe between us and the sea. A few houses remained smoldering. Businesses were gutted. There was also the smell of BBQ filling the air. We’d learned in the past week that “BBQ” smell was the smell of roasted humans. Alongside that, was a pungent aroma we knew was the smell of burned Changed.
Crispy, contorted remains were visible with binoculars. I tried to not imagine how many friends I had that worked along the Rodanthe strip who would have been going to work the morning of the Change. How many might have died in the fire, or how many may have changed. My cousin, Tiffany, a tall leggy blonde, two years older than me, served bar at one of the nicest restaurants on the beach. She typically swam laps in the morning in the ocean before heading into work at noon. I feared she might be a Fish man now.
“We’ve got something up here, Taylor,” Randy announced, “Not a threat, but you might want to see. Come on up.”
Once we came around the plow’s left, two firetrucks, a school bus, a blue tour bus, and five cars came into view.
The vehicles were shoved off the road. The firetrucks were scorched as were two of the cars. The tour bus rested on its crushed roof, flipped somehow, and the empty school bus was stuck in the ditch on the right side of the road.
Charred human remains were scattered along the road. Dead, some in mid-transformation in the throes of the beginning of the Change a week ago, covered in purplish and pink spots, were crushed in the tour bus, trapped, with flies and rats happily dining on their remains.
Suddenly, a female Changed Porcupine skipped-ran from the opposite side of one of the firetrucks. She was horribly burned on her right side. Her mohawk quills cooked down to stumps. Her right arm twisted and broken. She hopped a few more steps then collapsed, panting, and gave a horrific wail.
I stopped the Jeep. The caravan stopping behind us.
“Taylor. You can’t help her.” Cheyenne said gently.
After grabbing two bottles of water, I climbed out and raised them up to the mutant. She was more than five firetruck lengths from us, but she squealed in fear, cowering on the ground, barely even able to stand.
I removed the bottle tops and dripped a little to the ground as I blew against the bottle in her direction.
The female continued squealing and I continued blowing against the opening toward the wounded creature, the wind fighting against my attempts.
Randy rolled the plow slowly forward, leading the wagon train around us.
Janessa joined me with a bag of jerky and a soft orange, partially peeled. She ripped open the jerky and blew against the opening toward the Porcupine.
The female Porcupine continued screaming.
Cheyenne called us from the open driver side door, “Guys. Let’s go. She’ll call others if we don’t get a move on.”
The wind shifted and blew toward the wounded creature and her nose twitched and she stopped her racket.
We set our gifts down and backed away, scanning the surrounding area for further threats. By the time we returned to the Jeep, the last of our group were passing. Julie had parked on the other side of the road across from us, rifle hanging loosely in her arm, Demetri watching the other side of the road, standing on his open doorframe.
Julie popped a bubble, absently fumbling with her ear-plug tunnels, smiled, and nodded as I got back in and she shut her door.
Janessa got in, and we buckled up. Cheyenne caressed my shoulder, but she didn’t say a word.
Julie pulled out in front, avoiding the wrecked vehicles and took her place back in line.
We pulled in behind her and followed.
“She’s going after it,” Janessa said, tapping my shoulder over the back seat.
In my side mirror, the struggling mutant had risen to her feet and began an agonizing walk toward our offerings. As we passed the firetrucks, she became obscured by the vehicles and we drove on.
“Every little thing counts,” Janessa said, then she began praying quietly.
We passed Rodanthe’s length of burned wasteland. In the remains, a few Roamers, feline Changed, additional wrecked vehicles and more, were spotted by the Atkin sisters in areas where the fire jumped the road and burned the western side. We drove faster. Zooming past campgrounds and RV parks abandoned due to the power outage, we hoped for better things waiting for us down the road.
We passed long stretches of beaches, more towering sand dunes, and trees, the Atlantic splashing the shore behind those tall dunes on our left and the semi-placid water of Pamlico Sound on our right before driving into the small town of Avon. Randy told us to keep up our speed as he took a straight run through the town. Roamers and various other types of Changed that we were familiar with made feeble attempts to track our passing, but after dispatching the few Runners who tried, and avoiding two grumpy, misshapen Tanks who roared a challenge in the distan
ce while making a half-hearted attempt to chase us, we cut a swath through the town, Randy ramming vehicles from our path.
I was surprised at the number of Changed in Avon. There were few. Had many gone inland with the vacationers, ordered out of the area due to the power outage? Did the majority die, as some did, like Janessa’s mom, during the beginning of the Change? There were many retirees on the Outer Banks. We’d learned over the last week that the elderly rarely survived the change. The stress was too much for their bodies. Or they were too slow to avoid the dangerous, murderous, Changed. Could that many have died? Children, unchanged children, were often slaughtered by the Changed. Easy targets, easy kills. Especially when the hands that pushed the strollers were the same hands that killed.
Bruxton was smaller than Avon. How many of my neighbors, cousins, and friends remained?
We were along the stretch of coast past Avon but still outside Bruxton when Randy slowed to a halt.
“Randy?” I asked over the radio, “What’s up?”
“Come on up. You’ll want to see this.”
Julie passed him on the right, I drove slowly on the left.
Ahead was a Haulover day use area I knew well, having taken a few fishing trips into the sound from some friends growing up. The building that had stood on the right side of the road, on the Pamlico Sound side, had been bulldozed flat. Stretching across the road and into the sea was an even better constructed barricade than previously on the end of the bridge we encountered first. Taller than Randy’s plow with sheet metal roofing set up as a wall formed a consistent barrier along its length with holes cut for rifle ports at two separate levels, one line of holes halfway up the metal. The barrier stretched from the Atlantic side to the Pamilico sound side. The high dunes on the left by the sea had been plowed and dug through so the barrier could stretch to the Atlantic.
A pile of dead Changed were bulldozed into the sound by a parked bulldozer sitting by the demolished building. The dead pile was at least six feet high; when the wind shifted, so did the smell. On the left side of the road was the remains of a Changed Tank that was too big to move. Its body was riddled with holes and parts of it were scattered around in disgusting clumps but shoved off the road. It was humanoid shaped, or as far as humanoid could get. Both sets of Changed were feeding crabs, waterfowl, and the ever-present flying insects.
The Unchanged (Book 3): Safe Harbor Page 9