Extinction Level Event (Book 1): Extinction Level Event

by Jones, K. J.

  “Duck,” she said.

  She ducked behind the driver’s seat. Mullen slid down onto the floorboard.

  “What are you doing down there?” she whispered.

  “They can’t shoot me through the engine.”

  She left it alone.

  The three guys checked out the Suburban’s doors. One bent over the hood to look through the windshield. Another cupped his hands around his eyes and tried to peer through the tinting of Mullen’s side window. The guy then did the same for the far back window.

  “Hey, I think I see supplies in here,” that one said to the others.

  Phebe cursed under her breath. Mullen’s eyes were so big, he looked like he was auditioning to play an owl in a kid’s play. She put her finger to her lips for him to stay quiet.

  The far back door rattled as one of them tried it. “Locked.”

  “Smash the window,” another voice said.

  “There may be some guns in there,” a third voice said. “Rich people with trucks like this got guns.”

  “Smash it with what?” the first voice asked.

  “With the crowbar, stupid,” said the second voice.

  Phebe’s stomach dropped.

  “Can it get through this?” the first voice asked.

  “Stop being such a pussy and just hit it,” the second voice said.

  Phebe whipped open her door.

  Mullen whisper-shrieked, “What are you doing?”

  She held the gun in perfect standing firing position, like in the police movies. Left hand cupping firing hand. Legs apart, bent at the knees. “Back away,” she ordered in an authoritative, husky voice.

  The three looked startled.

  “Hey, lady, it’s okay,” Second Voice said. The other two raised their hands and backed away from the Suburban. But this one guy looked more reluctant to do either. “We’re not going to hurt you.”

  “Back away from the vehicle now,” she ordered.

  They were three twenty-something-year-olds. Their appearances showed they had been through the ringer since the outbreak.

  “We’re just trying to survive,” said First Voice.

  “Survive somewhere else,” she said.

  Second Voice eyed her gun. “You alone, lady?” He ducked his head to try to see into the Suburban’s back window.

  “Back up.” She stepped forward.

  Two of them backed up, but Second Voice didn’t.

  Inside, Mullen peered over the backseat, watching. He looked forward, longing to see the guys come around the Beast. “C’mon,” he whispered. “Get back here, Sully.”

  Second Voice stepped closer to Phebe.

  “I’ll shoot you,” she said.

  “Really?” He stepped closer. “If you were going to, you would have.” He lunged at the gun.

  She struggled with him to keep hold of it. He was the same height as her.

  Mullen opened his door and ran past the Black Beast. He screamed his head off. “Help!”

  “Shit,” First Voice said. “There are more. He’s running for help. Let’s get outta here.”

  Second Voice hit Phebe in the face with his elbow. Blood splattered from her nose.

  “Son of a bitch,” she groaned. She bit his hand until she drew blood.

  “Fuck,” he groaned. His hand released the gun, but his other hand held on. “You bitch. Help me with this bitch, you assholes.” With his free hand, he punched Phebe in the side of the face, and kept hitting her. She tried to get her knee to his groin, but he swiveled his hips.

  His friends backed away, staring beyond the Suburban. “Get the fuck outta here.” They ran away.

  Peter flew at Second Voice, tackling him to the ground. Phebe felt the jerk on the gun, then the release. With the kid under him, Peter steadily plowed his fists into his face. The kid tried to use his arms to shield himself. He whimpered. Peter stood and kicked the kid in the stomach. “Don’t you ever fucking hit a woman, you basta’d. Never.” With every syllable, he kicked the kid.

  “Stop,” Mazy yelled. “You’ll kill him. Sullivan!”

  “Hey.” Chris pulled him off. “Enough, brother.”

  Peter huffed with fury.

  Chris reached down to the kid and yanked him to his unsteady feet. “You fucking run, motherfucker. Fucking run.”

  Hunched over and holding his stomach, the kid stumbled away, bouncing off cars as he went.

  “Cool down, man,” Chris said to Peter.

  Peter took a deep, cleansing breath, and calmed. He shook out his hand and examined his bleeding knuckles. He turned his attention to Phebe. Mazy checked on her bleeding face and handing her tissues.

  “You all right?” he asked. “Let me see.” Phebe’s eye began to swell. “That son of a bitch.” Her lip busted. Nose bleeding.

  Phebe triumphantly raised the gun and smiled a bloody tooth smile. “I kept the gun. Protected the Suburban.”

  “You are a Marine under there, PhD,” said Mazy. “I’m proud of you, sister.”

  “Great,” Peter said wryly. “She’s in touch with her inner Marine.” He took the tissues and dabbed Phebe’s nose. “She shouldn’t have to.”

  Her face tilted up to his.

  Matt rushed back. “What happened? Is she okay?” Seeing Phebe was still standing, and Peter was tending to her, he walked on to the Jimmy to check on Syanna.

  “What happened?” asked Jimbo.

  Phebe took the tissue from Peter. “I’m fine” she said. “It’s okay.”

  “No more leaving the civvies behind,” Peter barked at everyone. “This sitch is too fucking FUBAR for them to be on their own. A guard will be placed on them whenever we leave the vehicles.”

  “Passage cleared,” said Jimbo. “We’re good to go.”

  “Let’s get the fuck outta here.”

  Phebe took her seat in the Suburban.

  Mullen looked at her face. “Hate to see the other guy, Rocky.”

  “Nice screaming,” she snapped back.

  “Hey. I got you help. I didn’t know you were going to go all Sarah Connor on them.”

  Up front, Peter silently smoldered. Chris kept glancing at him.

  3.

  “Shit,” Peter broke the tense silence in the Suburban. He was looking at the dashboard. “We need to be thinking of gas soon. This thing is a gas whore.”

  “Ain’t there a gas station up this way further?” said Chris.

  “I don’t know.”

  “There is,” Mullen said. He wanted to be helpful after his embarrassing screaming.

  “Maybe it ain’t blown up,” said Chris.

  “We can always hope.” Mullen smiled. But it gained no response.

  Peter got on the radio and coordinated with the other vehicles.

  Within minutes, the convoy stopped on the road in front of a gas station. It was intact, but carnage had occurred there. A car sat at a pump with the driver’s side open. A body lay half in and half out of it. Bullet holes dotted the convenience store window. At the other corner exit, a minivan appeared to have tried to leave the gas station. It had been hit so hard that it faced a dumpster. Its side door stood open, so somebody survived the accident. Garbage lay strewn, including closed water bottles littering the parking lot.

  With all the signs of the panic and horror that had taken place there, the gas station sat eerily quiet and empty.

  After a conversation on the radio about cleared and no movement, the convoy rolled in. They broke apart to choose vacant gas pumps.

  “Ah, next problem.” Peter flipped the gas pump lever repeatedly. “It’s dead. There’s no electricity.”

  Chris looked around at the others. They shook their heads, no luck for them either. “Can we bust it open?”

  “It’s been cut off,” said Mullen, from inside the Suburban, talking through the open doors. “There’s a master control that will cut off all the pumps. Somebody must have hit it to prevent the gas pumps from blowing up, since there were obviously shootings here.”

>   “How do you know that?” Peter asked him.

  “I worked at a gas station.”

  “Okay, then. How do we turn the pumps back on?”

  “We can’t. Once the master control button is hit, it takes a key to start it up again. And there’s no electricity. It needs that.”

  “Hmm.” Peter said to Chris, “What’s the chances this key will magically be inside? As good as there’s a genny to operate the pumps, right?”

  Jimbo tried the convenience store glass door. “Locked.”

  “Of course it is,” said Peter. He tapped the top of the pump unit while he thought.

  They waited.

  He looked out to the abandoned cars in the road. “Here’s what we’re going to do. We’re gonna get into this store and grab gas cans and any kind of hoses they got. We’ll syphon from the other cars.”

  Jimbo crouched in front of the door.

  Chris approached, dragging his heels. “What you doing, kid”

  “Picking the lock.”

  Chris raised his foot and bashed the door at the handle. Metal clanking sounds as the lock busted and the door opened.

  “What if it had an alarm?” asked Jimbo.

  “Ain’t no power.”

  “It could be on battery.”

  “It ain’t, is it?” Chris went in.

  Jimbo shook his head to Peter.

  “What can I say,” remarked Peter. “He’s still a gorilla.”

  Jimbo followed Chris in.

  Chris hollered, “Clear.”

  By the time Peter entered, Chris was loading his arms with beer and bags of pork grinds.

  “Cooler still cool.” Chris looked happy.

  Peter went to the far side of the store where red and black plastic gas cans sat on a shelf. Clear plastic tubing was near the oil. He unwrapped a packet of bungee cords and strung a cord through the handles of the gas tanks, to carry several at once. The short hall to the bathrooms was to his left.

  “Get me some cigarettes,” Chris told Jimbo, who stood at front guarding, with his AR cradle in his arms.

  “You get your own cancer sticks,” responded Jimbo.

  “Useless kids today. Don’t respect their elders.” He dragged his heels forward to the counter.

  Peter investigated what else could be of use from the shelves. His back to the hallway. A door’s hinges squeaked. A Gollum-bark. He turned fast. An infected sprinted at him. Arms out stretched to grab him.

  Peter seized an arm and threw the hostile into the air.

  The infected fell on top of shelves, which collapsed in a cascade. Candy showered down on the floor. The infected stood. Peter opened up on semi-automatic. Shooting it three times in the face and neck.

  Jimbo hurried passed him and down the hall. He kicked open every door to check if there were anymore. Then went into the employee’s only area.

  Peter glared at Chris.

  “Why didn’t you check back there before saying it was clear?”

  Chris shrugged. “It’s Sheetz. I had a false sense of security.”

  Jimbo returned. “No more. It’s clear.”

  Peter grabbed his loot and left, shaking his head. “Hurry up, assholes.”

  Chris said to Jimbo, “Next time, clear the whole place.”

  Jimbo stood shocked as Chris left. “Shit rolls downhill still.” He pushed open the broken door.

  4.

  The convoy moved out on to the street. The gas syphoning began. The ex-military people checked abandoned cars for gas in the tanks. Some vehicles ran empty if the occupants kept waiting for hours and kept the heater going, requiring the engine to run. A few vehicles still had people in them—terrified and half out of their minds. Peter ordered to leave them alone. Civilians needing serious psychological care was not on the agenda today.

  Ben and Julio stood on the tallest vehicles with their rifles. The rest opened vehicle tanks and stuck clear plastic hoses down into the dark. Using their mouths, they suctioned the gas up, spat out the gas and shoved the flowing tubes into the gas tanks. It was disgusting work.

  When infected popped up, Ben took the first shot. His rifle had a sound repressor. Only if there were too many would Julio’s louder rifle be used.

  The two civilians watched from the Suburban.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t help you,” said Mullen. “To fight the guy.”

  Phebe turned to him. A swollen eye and a fat lip. “Shut up.”

  “I’m trying to apologize to you.”

  She looked out the window. “And I am telling you to shut up.”

  “Geez. You’re not easy.”

  She groaned. “I’m gonna give you an eye to match mine if you don’t shut up.”

  “Okay. I’ll shut up. You don’t have to threaten violence.”

  “Two more words, Mullen, and the beating begins.”

  He fell quiet.

  Gas filled Jimbo’s mouth, just as something came out from under the vehicle. Panic struck him. He swallowed gas as he reached for his gun. A powerful shot rang out. A rabid terrier exploded. Jimbo vomited and coughed. Gas spilled out onto the road.

  “You all right?” Julio called down.

  Jimbo sat on his butt, legs stretched out in front of him. He stuck the flowing tube into the gas can. He looked green. A thumbs up to Julio, who had saved him.

  Further away, Peter stood to check on his men. “Why didn’t I get a silencer for that thing?”

  Matt syphoned nearby.

  “Total fuck up on my behalf,” Peter continued.

  Matt spewed the gas out of his mouth. He croaked, “Don’t want to know.”

  “Cops are using ill-begotten ARs. I think the time for uptight law abiding is over, Mathew.”

  Matt gave him the finger while he coughed.

  Filling the SUV’s gas tanks was by far easier. Gravity provided the flow force from can through the tube into the dark hole of the tank.

  It wasn’t enough to fill the monstrous Suburban. But enough to take the urgency edge off.

  The convoy rolled again, heading south.

  5.

  The convoy entered an area of stores and supermarkets running to either side. The abandoned and wrecked vehicles grew dense. The convoy slowed and drove on the sidewalks.

  A store alarm rang out. Chris raised the binoculars.

  “Oh, dang,” he said. “Some idiots smashing the window of an Apple store.”

  Peter laughed. “Do they think this is post-Katrina New Orleans? Some post-Sandy sitch? I don’t recall zombies in those.”

  “Whoop.” Chris continued to watch through the binoculars. “There we go. Man, those zoms can haul ass. Why they so strong? Hmm. Why the males so much worse?”

  “Aren’t males usually,” said Peter.

  “The females ain’t that violent.”

  “Maybe zombies are sexist.”

  “Oh, wait. The young females violent. The ones with nice titties.”

  “Chris, no zombie porn.”

  “Nuh, I’m just saying.” The binoculars moved to the right. “Then there this little boy jumping up and down on a car hood. Some middle-aged woman dancing. What the hell is this?”

  “Testosterone,” said Phebe.

  “Are you insulting us?” asked Peter.

  “No, not you. It is testosterone. The most violent have the most testosterone. I mean, normally. Men and young women between the ages of, I think it’s eighteen to twenty-two. That’s the height of testosterone in females. Still a lot less than what men have. But little boys don’t have it yet. Anyone who has lower testosterone levels seem to be less violent. Violent, yes, but not ramming their heads through car windows level. Or killing people.”

  “Okay,” said Peter. “So answer me this, professor. Why are some women doing disturbing demoness dances?”

  “Their reaction to the increase of testosterone in their systems. Studies shows it’s a turn on for adult females.”

  “Ew. They’re turned on? Turned on zombies? Could live my whole life
without knowing that.”

  “Sorry.”

  “No, it’s good intel.”

  “I have to ask Matt. But I think it’s the endocrine system. The virus somehow infects the endocrine system. It controls hormones. Adrenaline and testosterone. Both rise in the infected.”

  “Here’s the radio.” Peter passed it back as he drove. “Talk to him.”

  She repeated everything to Matt.

  Chris complained that they were moving out of sight and he couldn’t watch the infected attacking the looters anymore.

  “We’re not reversing,” Peter said. “I’m sure there will be more shows for you later, big man. Is it me or are vehicles moved out of the way?”

  They no longer needed the sidewalk.

  “Yeah,” said Chris. “Does look it. The going good, though.”

  “Too good. Why’d somebody do this? It’s a lot of work. It would take a lot of guys to do this.”

  Chris shrugged his big shoulders. “Least it works for us. Small blessings.”

  “Yeah. But God usually has something up His sleeve when I get a blessing.”

  “Do Baptists and Catholics have the same God?”

  “Supposed to be. I think my personal deities may be the Greek gods. They like to fuck with me for their own amusement.”

  “Ain’t they pagan?”

  After a long think, Matt came back. “I think that’s right, Phebe. There has to be a scientific reason why humans are experiencing such a severe level of furious stage. When this is unprecedented in all Lyssaviruses. At least in medical recoded history.”

  “I love it when he talks that way,” said Peter.

  “We raised him right,” said Chris.

  Matt’s voice continued, “Lyssaviruses are encephalitis diseases. They infect the brain. R140 is triggering the part of the brain that gives signals to the endocrine system.”

  Chris said to Peter, “I still don’t get how viruses can be this powerful. Changing up things in even a person.”

  “However this virus mutated, whether nature or man-made,” Matt continued, “it is triggering the hormones that create the greatest amount of aggression. Versus jacking up progesterone, which both sexes have. It’s the nurturing hormone.”