Decimated: A Post-Apocalyptic Thriller (Taken World Book 3)

by Flint Maxwell

  “No, maybe not,” Gunner said. He grinned. It was the grin of a man who knew he had you beat no matter the argument. “But I guarantee this’ll work.” He opened the front of his jacket, revealing the inside, dipped a pale hand into the pocket there, and pulled out a grenade.

  Logan gaped at the small explosive.

  “When were you gonna tell us you had that?” Brad asked.

  Gunner shrugged. “I play it pretty close to the chest. Literally.” He laughed.

  Neither Logan or Brad found this outright funny.

  He suddenly felt like he needed to run, but his legs wouldn’t move. It occurred to him that, while out in the field on missions, Gunner was insane. The regal persona he took on while introducing new recruits to the Falls was only a façade; his real personality showed through when destruction was imminent. He didn’t know if this was a good thing or a bad thing—or a terrible thing.

  “Let’s give ‘em a helluva distraction,” Gunner said. He pulled the pin, then cocking the grenade over his right ear, he launched it toward the gas tank.

  The explosion was grand. Flames licked at Logan’s face, warming his skin. He smelled the burning fuel. He didn’t hear much of anything after the initial explosion. His ears seemed to be leaking some kind of fluid—blood, probably. The light from the fire was brighter than the sun. Even though Logan turned his head away, the brightness engulfed him and the world, like the flames engulfed the tank.

  His hearing came back in a rush, like comets had crashed into his ears. He heard people screaming, people cursing. Someone even let off a gunshot that paled in comparison to the sound of the explosion.

  He didn’t know what was going on for the moment. Delirium took hold of his brain.

  “Go on ‘three’!” Gunner shouted.

  A heavy cloud of black smoke plumed from the burning gasoline. The canvas tent just outside of the historic church had blown over from the force of the explosion, and the canvas burst into flame.

  “Find them!” someone shouted. “Find them!”

  But the Circle was in chaos. The smoke was thick, the flames were spreading. A man ran out of the patch of grass and onto the pavement surrounding the road. He was burning, looked like a comic book character—The Human Torch or Ghost Rider. Before he reached the parking lot of the bank, though, he dropped to his knees and rolled halfheartedly a few times, until the fire zapped away all his energy and will to fight.

  “Three!” Gunner yelled now. “Go!”

  They left the cover of the bank. Two men lay by the tank, smoldering. Dead.

  Logan slowed and aimed in their direction.

  A tree caught flame, the fire rippling up the trunk and spreading to one of the dangling bodies. The rope snapped with a twang and the body crumpled in the grass, smoking. The fire danced from tree to tree; the leaves that hadn’t fell clung onto the branches, burning a darker autumn orange. Soon that fire would reach the church, possibly the oldest building still standing in Redwick, and then their chances of getting the supplies out before they were ruined would be next to none.

  Gunner rattled off rifle fire to the left. A man cried out as the slugs riddled his chest. He fell backward, and his gun went off, as his trigger finger reflexively squeezed.

  Logan didn’t stop running. He was almost to the church, fifteen or so feet from the steps that led up to its great double doors. The smell of burning meat was acrid in the air. He didn’t realize it at the time, but each breath he took felt like he was sucking in the very fire that ravaged the Circle.

  “Logan!” Brad shouted. “Watch out!”

  He barely heard, barely had time to register Brad’s cry before Brad barreled into him from the side. The two men, tangled up, went careening to the side of the steps. A spray of bullets blasted the church’s front.

  In one smooth motion, Brad rolled off of Logan, drew his sidearm, and pulled the trigger. The man who had been shooting at them, a heavier man with a ponytail, had a new hole in his head. He fell backward, his eyes rolling, dark shadows dancing menacingly on his face.

  “Thanks,” Logan grunted, getting up. Brad offered a hand, and Logan took it. “I owe you one.”

  Brad winked. “No, we’re even now.”

  Gunner shouted, “Get the shit! Go! Secure it!” then continued blasting more bandits. They were like moths drawn to the flames, coming from everywhere.

  The building next to the church, the town hall, must’ve been their headquarters. It looked nearly as old and historic as the church itself. Its roof caught fire, and a ripping noise filled the air as it fell in. The strangled screams of the people trapped inside floated out like ghosts from the grave.

  But the worst sound of all came after the collapsing of the town hall’s roof; it was louder than the roaring flames, louder than the screams and bursts of gunfire.

  The source of the sound: the biggest living abomination they’d seen since the bombs dropped.

  Now the screams and shots from where they’d left the Jeep made sense. The bandits weren’t shooting at them; they were shooting at the monster.

  Logan saw it and wished he hadn’t.

  It was like a snake, a large snake, easily twenty feet in length. As it inched across the pavement, gliding over cars and rubble, it left a slime trail behind. The color of the mutant was a corpse-gray, almost translucent enough to see the blackish blood pulsing through the veins beneath its hide.

  It was a few yards away from the church now, coming up the walkway bisecting the grass. Firelight reflected off its shiny skin, almost as if it was sweating, and in this light, Logan saw one of the most horrible things he’d ever seen in his life—and living in a world like this, where everything was horrible, topping the horrors one saw was not an easy task.

  He recoiled, but didn’t know how his muscles moved, because he felt frozen. It must’ve been on instinct, that was the only way.

  The translucent grayness offered a peek into what the monster had devoured before making its way toward the Circle and the fire and chaos. Faces protruded out from the monster’s flesh. Jaws locked in eternal screams. Eyes wide. Hands clawing at the snake’s insides, trying to get out. A yawning mouth stretched far out of the creature’s left side.

  Logan could almost hear the person’s scream…almost.

  He grabbed Brad and dragged him out of the way. They tumbled up the stairs, losing their balance. Logan banged his knee hard enough to draw blood on the topmost step; aside from a cold feeling in the bone that was turning hot by the second, he barely noticed the pain. Then he pushed the large wooden doors open, throwing himself onto the church’s floor. Brad landed a few feet away from him.

  “Close it!” Brad yelled. “Close it!”

  Logan got up. He reached for the door handle, but it seemed so far away.

  Outside, the snake creature rose, rearing back so it was nearly as tall as the trees. Above it dangled another burned corpse in the tattered remains of a FEMA jacket. The creature snapped at the body like a fish at bait. In one gulp, the thing swallowed it.

  Logan saw the lump traveling down, mixing with the other screaming faces of the newly dead. The creature barked with triumph and good cheer, an unholy sound straight from Hell.

  Just beyond this—and it wasn’t easy to pry his eyes away from the snake—Gunner was burying bullets into a coming horde of bandits. A few dropped, but then Gunner’s gun was out of ammunition.

  Logan raised his own weapon and pulled the trigger. He fired low into the crowd of bandits. Knees and legs evaporated. Men and women fell to the ground, screaming in agony. Logan just couldn’t bring himself to finish the job. He had slowed them down, and that was enough…for now.

  “Gunner!” he shouted. “Come on!”

  Gunner met his eyes and then took off toward the church. At this same moment, the snake took a liking to the bandits that had dropped in the circular road opposite of the church. Just beyond the bandits was the bank they’d been hidden behind only a few minutes ago. What Logan would give to be ba
ck there and safe. What he’d give to never have come this way at all.

  The snake slapped the grass wetly, then whipped around to face the road and slithered in that direction. In this new movement, it saw something better than the already crippled food awaiting it. It saw Gunner running. What was better than catching a meal yourself? Not a thing.

  Gunner noticed too late. The snake struck out for him.

  But luckily, Logan saw this coming. He took aim and buried a barrage of slugs into the snake’s back. The rounds penetrated the monster’s thick hide—but just barely. It shrieked out in pain and surprise and then whirled around.

  On its face was one large eye that reminded Logan of an over-easy egg, the yolk bulbous and close to popping. Below the eye was a mouth, full of serrated teeth, like a shark’s. Bits of flesh and flaps of clothing hung from them.

  Logan aimed his rifle again—just barely—and pulled the trigger. He braced himself for the major explosion from the muzzle.

  Click!

  “Oh…shit!” Logan yelled, as the snake lunged toward the open doors of the church with a burning anger in its one eye.

  24

  Standoff

  Before Logan could even move, a gun went off so close to his ear that his hearing went out momentarily. He felt the hot wind from the muzzle of the gun burn the hairs off the side of his face.

  The snake, its mouth almost wholly unhinged, fangs bared, shrieked in pain as a bullet landed dead center in its face.

  The bulbous eye popped.

  An explosion of dark liquid and goo ran from the new hole. The snake crumpled and began writhing in the grass.

  Brad held his smoking pistol. For a moment, he didn’t think he could move, but his trigger finger had a mind of its own and squeezed off two more rounds. Each of them buried themselves into the snake’s flesh, puncturing it. Another hole about the size of a fist opened just below its mouth, and a decrepit, fire-blackened arm fell from it—belonging to the hanging corpse the snake had snacked on.

  Brad kept squeezing the trigger. He buried four more rounds into the creature before it stopped its shrieking and writhing for good.

  Logan looked at him, his mouth agape. He almost couldn’t find the words. Talking was an exercise in stern concentration.

  “Guess I owe you one now,” he said.

  Brad’s face was a mask of stone. He didn’t look very amused; then, suddenly, he broke out in manic laughter. Logan couldn’t help but laugh, too.

  They laughed for a solid fifteen seconds.

  Gunner tiptoed around the monster’s corpse and came up the church steps. He was covered in blood and God knew what else. He also didn’t look very amused.

  In a serious voice, he said, “Let’s get this shit out of here before more show up.” His eyes focused on Logan. “Next time, buddy, you shoot to kill. Those bastards out there—” he pointed to the group of people Logan had cut down with his rifle, aiming for their legs instead of places that were sure to kill them, “they won’t give you a second chance, so don’t give them one.”

  Of course, Logan knew the man was right. He should’ve shot to kill, but…he wasn’t a killer. Not really. Killing would make him as bad as they were, he thought.

  You’ve come a long way from serving popcorn and scraping gum off the bottom of seats at the Monolith, he thought. A long way. And I don’t know if that’s a good thing.

  He had killed in Cleveland and he would most certainly kill Joe Millard, given the chance, but that didn’t mean—

  “You don’t have to like it,” Gunner said. “But you have to do it. That’s the way of the world now, my friend.”

  Logan met his eyes. “I didn’t sign up for this mission to kill people.”

  “I know,” Gunner replied. “But like I said, you have to do it when the time comes.”

  “He’s right,” Brad said.

  Logan nodded. He knew that.

  Gunner clapped him on the back and stepped over the church’s threshold. The pews had been removed. The cross on the far wall just above the pulpit was turned upside down. Stacked where a reverend might give their sermon were boxes with words stenciled on them. ‘FEMA,’ and below that read: ‘MREs’, ‘FIRST AID’, ‘CLOTHING’. Past these boxes was a crate of bottled water.

  “We hit the jackpot,” Gunner said, looking at the supplies. “Safer and easier this way. We could go out and scavenge this stuff, sure, but then we run the risk of running into more of those.” He pointed at the snake, the body already shriveling up, decomposing. “This way, everything is all packaged nice and neat for us already.” He winked. Then he stepped up and began running his hands over the boxes.

  Logan stood in the middle aisle, on the strip of red carpet bisecting a sea of sleeping bags and rough covers—where the bandits slept, he realized. How they hadn’t burned up with God’s wrath by staying in a church was beyond him.

  Something was burning up, though, because the smell of smoke was starting to drift in. The trees and town hall were still ablaze, and soon the church would catch, too.

  Gunner pulled his walkie-talkie from his belt and held down the button. “Hec, you got a ride yet? We’re ready for ya.” Kchhuzzzz.

  Brad followed Gunner up the steps, gripping a box. A blur of a shadow shot out from behind the stacked crates, and a gunshot echoed through the cavernous room, the sound enormous, ear-splitting. Gunner cried out in pain, shock, and horror.

  Logan whipped his head toward the scream.

  Gunner dropped his weapon, the gun thumping down the carpeted steps. His hands clamped over a wound in his face as blood spurted down his neck. He tried screaming, but all that came out was a wheeze. He collapsed to his knees and fell backward, hands coming away from the wound, blood gushing and pooling around him. His eyes remained open, staring at nothing.

  Gunner was dead.

  It had happened so fast.

  Logan drew his sidearm, a pistol, from the holster on his hip. His rifle was out of ammunition. He would have to load another magazine, and there was no time for that.

  At the same time, Brad spun and aimed at the shadow that emerged.

  But he wasn’t quick enough. The shadow grabbed Brad in a headlock and twisted him down to his knees.

  That shadow was Joe Millard. Worm.

  “What do you know,” Millard said. Dark soot colored his cheeks. His forehead was sweaty. “It’s little Logan Harper. ‘Cept he ain’t so little now, is he? I didn’t get that good of a look at you back on the road. But, wow! You certainly grew up! Must’ve been that good ol’ Stone Park water, huh?”

  Brad struggled, but Millard put a stop to that pretty quickly. He wrenched Brad’s neck, twisting. Brad grunted in pain. Gritted his teeth. The gun he was holding had disappeared amongst the boxes and crates.

  “Don’t you fuckin’ move!” Millard shouted at him.

  Somewhere, near the bleeding corpse of Gunner, the walkie kchhuzzzz-ed, and Hector’s voice came through crystal clear.

  “En route to the church. I see the flames. You’re all loco! Over.” kchhuzzzz-kchhuzzzz.

  It occurred to Logan that Gunner would not reply. He would never reply again, and a sinking feeling of despair took hold of him.

  No. Can’t mourn. Not yet, his mind urged.

  His pistol was raised at Millard. He was not the best shot, and the window of success was too small to take the risk. All Logan could see was half of Millard’s face, the other half hidden by Brad’s head.

  “Leave him out of this,” Logan said. He steeled himself, made his voice more confident than he felt. The gun he held seemed heavy enough to rip his arm out of its socket. “This is between you and me.”

  But Millard ignored him. “Logan Harper. I should’ve killed you that day in the forest. Guess it doesn’t matter.”

  He cackled terribly, and Logan realized for the first time that Joe Millard was crazy. ‘Utterly batshit,’ as Jane would’ve put it.

  The shot wasn’t there. It probably would never be there. Millard
might’ve been crazy, but he wasn’t dumb. Logan would have to do something else—so far, he could think of nothing besides praying, and praying hadn’t worked for him much in the past.

  “Nothing matters anymore.” Millard grinned, showing his nicotine-stained teeth. “I’ve seen into the abyss.” His voice took on a serious tone, shedding any remaining playfulness. The visible half of his smile faltered. “Oh yes, I’ve seen into the abyss. Stared right at it and all the creatures inside. I’ve seen what comes in the afterlife…and it is beautiful.”

  Millard had snapped. But, Logan thought that had come long before the end of the world. ‘Sociopathic’ would’ve been an apt term to describe him. Logan remembered the young Millard’s eyes that day in the park, the way they burned with an unfettered rage, like the first spark that ignites a wildfire. And he was a wildfire now.

  His eyes were different. That rage was still present, but something else was, too. Sheer insanity.

  “I’m going to kill you,” Logan said. “I’m going to shoot you. You’re not getting out of this alive.”

  He was thinking of Regina. Bleeding. Dying. He was thinking about Gunner, who lay just out of the field of his vision. One small movement to the left and he would see the bloody mess, the carpet drinking up Gunner’s life-force.

  “I don’t care about that,” Millard said. “I don’t care at all. Because nothing matters.”

  He pressed his pistol hard into Brad’s temple. The skin gave under the pressure. Brad winced and squirmed again, and Millard wrenched him back with terrible force. His face was turning red-purple. He coughed and hacked like a dog who’d caught his collar on something and was slowly choking to death. In Brad’s eyes was fear, a youthful fear, like a child staring at his open closet in the dead of night, waiting for those long, reptilian fingers to emerge from within.

  Brad had gone through so much—everyone had, but him especially—and now he was being strangled by a mad bully, a ghost of Logan’s past? Logan couldn’t let him die. Couldn’t let him get hurt.