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

by Flint Maxwell

  “I could shoot this little faggot right now and I would be doing him a favor!” Millard shouted. “Just like I did to the big bad Gunner over there.” He chuckled. “That, though…that was a little personal, I’ll admit. I didn’t ever get along with the Gunner-man or the people from the Falls.”

  All Logan needed was a bigger window for the shot. All he had to do was prolong the situation, and maybe that window would open up. Maybe.

  Behind them came the roar of an engine gunning up the road that led to the Circle. Logan dare not look behind him. If he did, there was no guarantee that he would ever see anything again.

  The car stopped a moment later, the engine shut off, and the door opened and closed. Judging from the distance of the sounds, Hector—if it was Hector, which Logan hoped to God it was—paused just short of where the snake lay coiled and dead.

  Millard’s eyes flicked past Logan’s shoulders. “Join the party, you spic! The more the merrier!” he shouted.

  Hector didn’t take notice of the racist slur, but Logan hadn’t expected anything less, coming from a guy like Joe Millard.

  “What’s going on?” Hector said. “Where’s Gun—”

  He must’ve seen where Gunner was. It wouldn’t have been hard, without all of the pews inside. Hector mumbled unintelligible words in Spanish. His voice hitched, and Logan, still not taking his eyes off of Millard, thought the man was crying.

  “Get away from him!” Millard barked. “Stand over by Logan! You will listen to what I have to say, all of you. Then you will die and you’ll be glad to be dead. Because I hold the secrets of the universe. I saw them with my own eyes. Do you understand? Do you understand!?” Yelling, Millard yanked on Brad’s throat so hard that Brad hacked up a glob of bloody spit.

  Hector walked over to stand next to Logan.

  Out of his peripheral vision, Logan saw the deep red of the bandage wrapped around Hector’s shoulder. Logan had already lost Gunner. He couldn’t be blamed, but he would shoulder the blame nonetheless.

  A leader is supposed to be on the lookout for threats; a leader never assumes all threats are eradicated—lessons from Devin Johnson, lessons Logan had failed to acknowledge.

  Millard blathered on. “I saw our Creators, the Elders of the universe, the Gods we pray to, the ones who never listen. But they are listening. They’ve come to our planet to take back what is rightfully theirs—ours. I am one now. My transformation will come soon. As will all of yours. Do you understand the significance of that, Little Logan? Do you understand how important I have become?”

  “Not important enough to live,” Logan said. His finger rested on the trigger. Each minor movement from Millard registered in his brain as he tried to judge how much space was between them, and what his chances of success were.

  Millard went on, ignoring him, ignoring the fact that he had a pistol pointed at half of his face. Brad’s eyes fluttered. His flesh was now dangerously close to black. Soon, Logan thought, he would probably be brain-dead.

  “I’ve looked into their minds. I have seen the things that they have seen. The blasted landscape of their home world, the jagged, black mountains like teeth, pointed to the purple sky filled with stars and distant planets your tiny minds could never comprehend. I have seen it. I have seen the temple at which their leader, the Great One and his Followers, congregates. Inside His mind are nightmares you couldn’t imagine, dark and twisted things, death and rebirth and death and rebirth.”

  Millard’s eyes were wide. His lips trembled as he spoke. “These things that we all will become. Who do you think destroyed them? Who do you think set off the bombs? They did. He did. To make room for a race of better creatures, creatures that will rule this planet the way it was meant to be ruled!”

  “Sounds great,” Logan said. “Can’t wait. Really. Now let Brad go, and you and I can settle this.”

  Laughing, Millard shook his head. “I’m sorry, Little Logan, but that’s not gonna happen. I’m in control here. I have the upper hand. I am an agent of the Great One. He is my Lord. I will not fail him. I will—”

  Suddenly, Brad moved. Already on his knees, he sprang upward in a blur, and the force of the top of his head crashed into Millard’s chin. The bully’s rotted teeth bit into his tongue hard enough for the tip to fall from his mouth like a piece of chewed gum.

  He cried out, stumbling backward. His gun went off with a crack. It was like someone had dropped an anvil in Logan’s stomach.

  Brad, was all he could think as his eyes shut reflexively, but when he opened them, Brad was collapsed on the floor, his head clear of bullet wounds.

  A sheen of blood coated Millard’s bottom lip, dripping down his chin, riding his neck and soaking the dirty shirt he wore. He looked momentarily dazed.

  This was Logan’s chance. His one shot.

  He took aim again, his arm no longer shaking. As his finger began to squeeze the trigger, images of the past flashed through his mind. The bullying, the constant state of fear he’d lived in that summer and early school year, the attack on the road by Worm and his cronies, Regina dead in the front seat, bleeding everywhere, Brad standing atop her grave and crying, Gunner shot through the head, dead, mere feet away. Thinking of all these things, seeing them as if living them once more, made doing what he had to do that much easier.

  The trigger gave way under the pressure of his finger. A jolt of power rippled up his arm.

  The crack of Logan’s gun was louder than Millard’s had been and carried far in the desolate world.

  Logan did not miss.

  His bullet hit Joe Millard in the forehead, just above his rage-filled right eye. An explosion of blood, bone, and brains sprayed one of the crates with ‘FEMA’ stenciled on it.

  Somehow, Millard remained standing.

  For a terrible second, all of the things he’d said about seeing the Elders’ nightmares, of the Great One, of the blasted world with strange stars and planets hovering above in a purple sky, seemed true, like that experience had granted him immortality.

  That was until his legs gave out and he hit the pulpit, bounced off, and landed on the carpeted floor, blood gushing from the fatal wound in waves.

  Logan watched for a long moment. Millard’s chest no longer rose and fell. One eye was drenched in red, filling, until the liquid life-force spilled over and rolled down his face. His other eye stared unblinkingly up at the upside down cross on the wall.

  Joe Millard was dead, and this ghost of Logan Harper’s past would haunt him no more.

  25

  Home

  Brad came to a minute or so later. A knot had formed on the top of his head, and seemed to be steadily growing larger as the seconds ticked on.

  Logan helped Brad up as the boy rubbed at the knot.

  “Let’s not owe each other favors anymore,” he said. “It seems to get us in deep shit.”

  Logan smiled. “Deal.”

  He helped ease Brad to a sitting position on one of the FEMA crates. The smell of smoke was nauseating, and more and more black clouds drifted in through the open door. Soon, very soon, the church would burn.

  Kneeling by Gunner’s body, Hector held the dead leader’s hand. Logan walked over to them and knelt too.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “He came out of nowhere.”

  Hector shook his head. “It’s not your fault, homes,” he said in a low voice. “Without you, we’d all be dead.” He sighed, wiped his right eye with the back of his left sleeve. “Gunner always said he would die in battle. He always said there wasn’t nothing more admirable than that. He was a good man. A good leader.”

  Logan nodded. He hadn’t known Gunner very well, but he had liked him. His death hurt more than he thought it would.

  “In the old world, leaders sat in air-conditioned offices, ordering around their soldiers like pawns. Not Gunner, mane. No way.”

  Logan squeezed Hector’s left shoulder as he stood up. “Let’s get out of here,” he said. “Let’s go home.”

  Hector cou
ldn’t help much as they loaded the crates into the car he’d found—a Toyota Prius unaffected by the nuclear bombs.

  “Great gas mileage,” was all Brad had said, and Hector insisted he help load Gunner’s body into the backseat.

  So they did. It was not an easy task, not because of Gunner’s weight, but because, no matter how many times Logan loaded a dead friend into a car or a shallow grave, it would never be easy.

  The supplies they’d gotten out of the church were regular, run-of-the-mill supplies. They grabbed all the bottled water, MRE’s, blankets, pillows, soap, body wash, shampoo and conditioner, toothpaste, and toilet paper they could. Not all of it could fit in the Prius, but they made it work.

  Aside from that stuff, Logan opened a crate full of canned food. He was sorting through it when something caught his eye, something that brought Jane and the pregnant Ruth to the forefront of his mind.

  It was a box of candy. Old candy, but candy nonetheless. There were Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups, Snickers, Butterfingers, Peppermint Patties, M&Ms—but no Three Musketeers. Logan couldn’t believe it.

  He dug through it again. Still no luck, but he came upon a different candy bar, one that would prove to be perfect.

  A Baby Ruth.

  They drove back to the Falls. The ride was easy, the Prius nearly silent as it glided past broken down cars and the scattered remains of bodies and buildings. No one spoke throughout the ride.

  They were too tired to speak, too heartbroken.

  At the gate leading into what used to be the town square, Logan flashed the high beams and waved a hand.

  A guard approached the vehicle with a rifle. He was rugged, yet beneath the fuzzy beard on his face and the scowl in his eyes, he was just a young man, reminiscent of Derek Fritz, another loved one Logan had lost on this journey.

  Hector leaned out of the back window and said, “Let us in, Pete. Let us in, damnit.”

  Pete waved to the gate and lowered his gun. Logan drove on.

  The time was somewhere past three in the morning, the sky pitch-black, the ice cold wind knifing through the city.

  Logan drove up to the parking deck and parked crookedly in a spot next to a Lincoln Town Car and an old Chrysler. Dutifully, the scavengers unloaded the supplies.

  Then they walked Hector toward the Sheraton, Logan cradling Gunner’s limp body.

  People whose internal clocks were messed up came out of their rooms. The guards on the gates followed. They were whispering, asking who lay under the sheet.

  But Hector wouldn’t answer, and if Hector wouldn’t, neither would Logan or Brad.

  Inside Doctor Cuthbert’s exam room, Logan placed the covered Gunner on the table. Cuthbert stared at the body without much shock, though Logan noted how the older man’s skin had slightly paled.

  “He was murdered in cold blood,” Logan said. “I’m sorry.”

  Hector said, “Logan got the son of a bitch that did it.”

  Cuthbert nodded solemnly. He sighed, looked at Hector. “Let’s get you patched up, friend.”

  Brad stayed and Logan left. Logan was in good enough health—just a few scratches, bumps, and bruises—that he didn’t require medical attention, but Brad needed a few minutes with the Doc.

  Logan went into his room. It was dark and smelled like the vanilla soap Jane used. He took off his soiled clothes and put on a shirt and a pair of boxers. He crawled into bed next to Jane, who was snoring away.

  As his weight pressed down on the mattress, Jane stirred.

  Groggily, she said, “You’re back. I missed you.”

  He kissed her. “I missed you, too.”

  They fell asleep in each other’s arms.

  The next day, Logan, Brad, and Hector met with a few of the higher ranking people in the Falls in a boardroom somewhere on the first floor, and they told the story of what happened. Irving, Blake, Doctor Cuthbert, and the bearded guard, Pete, were among the only people Logan recognized.

  “There must be a vote,” Cuthbert said. “Tonight. These people need a leader.”

  “The rumors have already started,” Blake said. “At the breakfast bar, I heard Mary and Diane talking about the body that Logan brought in last night.” He shook his head.

  “Then we’ll vote,” a broad-chested man said. His name was Glen. “Why wait until tonight?” He smiled and looked at Irving. “I nominate Irving.”

  Irving shifted in his chair. “Me?”

  “Aye,” Cuthbert said.

  “Aye,” Blake said, giving a wink to his uncle.

  “Aye,” the bearded guard said. “Who better?”

  “Aye,” Hector added. “He always spoke so highly of you, amigo.”

  Irving’s eyes filled with tears. “I—what about the people?”

  “They’ll love you. They already love you,” Blake said.

  “They voted for us to lead this place,” Glen said. “That is more than enough of a vote of confidence to allow us to pick our leader, is it not?”

  Irving was speechless.

  Logan stood up. He walked over to Irving and shook his hand. All Irving could do was look at it, dumbfounded.

  “I’ll be proud to serve you, Irving,” Logan agreed.

  Brad came around the table. “Me too.”

  Then the others shook his hand, one by one.

  When the meeting was over, and the plans for Gunner’s burial and memorial service had been hashed out, they filed out of the boardroom—The Roundtable, Logan heard Glen call it.

  Jane and Grease were waiting for them.

  “Secret meetings,” Grease said, shaking his head. “You’ve come a long way, big guy.” He clapped him on the back. “Missed ya.”

  Jane wrapped her arm around Logan’s waist, stood on her tiptoes, and kissed his cheek. “I missed you, too.” She kissed him a second time. “Just so you know, you’re never leaving this place again.”

  Logan smiled.

  “You, either,” she said to Brad.

  Grease stuck up his ‘I’m innocent’ hands. “Don’t worry about me. I’m retired.”

  They all had a good laugh at that.

  As they were heading down to the first floor, where the common area and card tables were, Jane spotted Ruth and sped up to meet her; Grease spotted an empty seat at a blackjack game and sped up himself, moving faster than he’d moved since he took the bullet in Cleveland. Logan was glad to see that.

  He was also glad to see Ruth eating the candy bar he’d brought back for her, stale or not. They caught eyes and she raised it like a glass of champagne. She’d had a good laugh at the play on words.

  Though this place had only been their home for a handful of days, it was good to be back, good to have a place to call home.

  “Logan?” It was Brad.

  “Yeah?”

  They were walking down the steps, and the boy spoke in a low voice. “Do you think what Worm said was true? You know, about seeing the ruler or whatever, and all that crap about making way for a better race of monsters?”

  Logan shook his head. “No way. Millard was just crazy.” But in his mind, he thought, At least…I hope he was crazy.

  “Yeah, I didn’t think so,” Brad said. “But the world is kinda crazy now, isn’t it? It fits.”

  Logan didn’t answer. He stopped on the landing for a moment, thinking about Brad’s question.

  The room they eventually entered was dotted with faces that Logan would come to know better in the following weeks. He saw Jane sitting by Ruth, both of them laughing and talking and having fun. Grease was cackling at the dealer as the dealer frowned, and there were many other people, who had managed to hold on to some semblance of normality.

  That was good.

  Logan buried all thoughts of Great Ones and Elders and whatever other nonsense the man calling himself Worm had spouted so close to his death.

  Because he was home now, and there was no room for bad thoughts in such a good place.

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  Afterword

  Another one bites the dust…meaning another story in the Taken World universe is written and published. As of this afterword, I’ve already drafted book four and it shall go to the editor soon. It follows Tyler and May’s adventures in D.C., then I’ll get to work on book five, picking back up with the Harpers and Brad and Grease at the Falls. Expect book four out in December and book five out a little ways after.

  For you Jack Zombie fans, I haven’t forgotten about you! I promise. I’m planning on getting to work on the eighth (and last) installment in the series sometime down the road. My plate is full now, but I’m clearing it…slowly but surely.

  Anyway, I hope you liked Decimated. As usual, it was a fun one to write.

  Flint Maxwell

  November 13, 2018

  About the Author

  Flint Maxwell lives in Ohio, where the skies are always gray and the sports teams are consistently disappointing (not so much lately). He loves Star Wars, basketball, Stephen King novels, and almost anything horror. You can probably find him hanging out with one (or all) of his five household pets when he’s not writing, reading, or watching Netflix.

  Get in touch with Flint on Facebook

  Also by Flint Maxwell

  Jack Zombie Series

  Dead Haven (Book 1)

  Dead Hope (Book 2)

  Dead Nation (Book 3)

  Dead Coast (Book 4)

  Dead End (Book 5)