The F*cked Series (Book 3): Mean

by Gleason, R. K.

  “Help me. I can’t move,” the driver winced. “I can’t feel or move my legs. You gotta help me!”

  “Zack,” Dave said, ignoring the bleeding man’s pleas but not taking his eyes or aim from him. “Open the other side, grab that gun and then check under the seat for a radio. I want to know if we should be expecting any of their friends in a few minutes.”

  “I’m on it,” Zack replied. Opening the door, he snatched up the pistol, quickly checked it over and tucked it into the waist of his jeans at the small of his back. Then he began feeling around under the seats. Dave pressed the barrel of his shotgun against the man’s temple, wanting the whimpering man to move suddenly. To reach for the gun sticking out from Zack’s beltline. To give him a reason, any reason to blow his face off the same way his friend had done to Dakota.

  “You gotta get me to a doctor!” the man said, sobbing uncontrollably. “I’m bleeding a lot here!”

  “Joe,” Dave said, continuing to ignore the cries for help. “Get back to the ridge and keep an eye on the road below. If you see any cars coming from the valley, let us know. Mike and Brigette,” he continued. “Check the other car.”

  The three did as instructed. Ben moved in to take Brigette’s position behind Dave, aiming his gun at the man’s head.

  “No radio. Just these,” Zack said, shaking a partial box of shells for the revolver before shoving it into the pocket of his jacket.

  “We don’t have any radios! You guys have to get me out of here! Get me to a doctor!” the man shouted trying to throw his bleeding upper half out the open door.

  Dave caught him by the shoulders and roughly shoved him back into his seat. Leaning across, Dave pulled the seatbelt over the guy’s shoulder and lap, before he snapped it into the buckle. Then he gave the heavy strap a tug to make sure it was secure. He stood, lowering his gun and staring at the man.

  “Why?” Dave asked.

  “Lady! Tell him!” the man said to Pam. When Dave hadn’t immediately opened fire, she’d assumed it was safe and was standing behind her husband and son. Before she could reply, their collective attentions were pulled to the front of the car and the first delicate tongues of flame licking from under the smoking hood.

  “We’re gonna need to back off!” Zack warned.

  “In a sec,” Dave replied, returning his attention to the trapped and bleeding driver. “You were saying…”

  “You gotta get me out of here!” the man screamed. He tried reaching for the belt release with his left hand and Dave struck him in the head with the barrel of his gun, hard enough to stun the man into momentary paralysis. Pulling some slack from the seatbelt, he quickly looped it around the man’s forearm and jerked it tight again.

  “Move again and I’ll blow your good hand off,” Dave warned, pressing the business end of the shotgun against the man’s left elbow.

  “That’s his arm, dear,” Pam said behind him.

  “It’s connected to his hand, right?” Dave replied.

  “If you want to be technical,” Pam sighed.

  “You gotta help me,” the man persisted in sobbing screams as the flames grew under the hood.

  “Why?” Dave asked coldly. Smoke began flowing from the air vents in the dash and the flames that had started as tiny fingers from under the hood, grew to arms, searching for fuel to consume.

  “We need to move!” Zack shouted again, taking another step back from the car.

  “Zack’s right,” Ben said from over Dave’s shoulder. “If we’re going to help him, we need to do it now!”

  “Let him burn,” Dave replied as he stood and turned away.

  Ben stared as Dave slipped his hand to the small of Pam’s back, guiding her away from the burning car as the man continued to scream inside. Flames began to grow from the dash, smoking what was left of the windshield as the plastic and insulation caught fire. Ben slipped the barrel of his gun into the door Dave had left open. He placed the end of the barrel to the man’s head and pulled the trigger, sending an explosion of face and skull across the interior, not knowing this was relatively the same fate Dakota had met. Without shutting the door, he turned and followed his parents and the rest of his family gathering at a somewhat safe distance. All except Joe, who was still at the top of the hill, scanning the road behind them for more pursuers or friends of the recently departed.

  “I said let him burn,” Dave said to Ben, making no attempt to contain the venom in his tone.

  Ben looked back at the car being consumed by the fire and replied, “He is.”

  “You know what I meant!” Dave shouted, grabbing his son’s arm and turning him to look Ben in the eyes.

  “Yeah. But you were wrong,” was all Ben said before pulling free from Dave’s grip.

  “We didn’t find a radio in the other car,” Mike said, interrupting the standoff. “But that smoke is going to be seen for miles. Radio or not, it’s only a matter of time before the rest of them come to investigate. We need to leave.”

  “Zack. Can you and Ben get Dakota out of the car?” Dave asked.

  “What do you want us to do with him?” Zack asked.

  There wasn’t much they could do, other than leave his body on the side of the road with the others. Taking his remains with them wasn’t really an option and burying him here would take far too much time. Dave looked back at his son, not wanting to form the words that would state the obvious. Seeing his father’s expression, Zack quickly did the math and his shoulders slumped in resignation.

  “Fuck…” he muttered, following Ben over to the Rogue and gently pulling Dakota’s corpse from the back seat. They positioned him as reverently as they could on the ground, laying his hand across his chest. When they were finished, everyone loaded back into their respective vehicles and drove away from the scene as towers of smoke drifted skyward.

  Chapter Three

  “No sir, Colonel. I wouldn’t identify them as a horde, but there was definitely a lot of them,” Major Carolyn Brooks said to the camera in her laptop. It was the standard, military issued, portable computer for field use. Portable meaning it weighed nearly ten pounds. Most of the weight came from the military-grade, shock-resistant casing and screen protector. Some outfits had debated exchanging its weight for something more practical in a battle zone, such as more ammo. But Brooks was a major and didn’t have to concern herself with the burden of lugging the thing around or setting up the secured satellite link she was using. The corporal assigned to those duties waited outside Brooks’ temporary office at their makeshift HQ, having connected her with Colonel Charles Beaurite back at Army Base Bolivar.

  Brooks was certain if the mission was a success, she’d receive the credit where her credit was due, and in her mind, that was all of it. She was pinning her future military career on this operation. If this one got marked in the win-column, she was sure to receive a promotion and a command of her own. But if the mission was a failure… Brooks didn’t want to think about that possibility. If she failed her mission, that would mean the virusite had not been contained and the entire country would be in danger, possibly the world. Brooks knew the clock was ticking but when she did allow her thoughts to travel briefly down that road, she didn’t like the possibilities. She was confident she’d land on her feet. After all, she was a resourceful survivor and would do whatever it took to come out on top of this. She’d saved files, kept records and even a few video recordings of some of the more covert operations she’d been on. She had the dirt on more than one assassination or corporate-funded quelling of an insurgency that might affect some CEO’s bottom line. She had names, dates, chains of command, the works and she had them safely locked away. She’d even gone to the point of making several copies of her records and placing them in secured locations under false identities. She could protect herself if she had to and if that meant burning a few bridges and shelling some villagers to cover her ass, so be it. What she didn’t have, was the time to waste answering Colonel Beaurite’s questions but recognizing she had no c
hoice.

  Despite what Brooks believed, the colonel was the one truly in charge and, more importantly, responsible for the success of this operation as far as the joint chiefs and the President were concerned. He knew if the mission was a success, the President would more than likely step in and claim all the glory and potential votes. If not the President, the joint chiefs were sure to take the credit. But if it failed, his name would be the one splashed across the media and all the official documents, and most likely Brooks’ as well. If there was enough time left for his superiors or the rest of humanity to point an accusatory finger of blame. He assumed Brooks had been keeping a separate set of records about her more sensitive missions. This practice was forbidden by military law and a common practice for anyone above the rank of captain.

  “Estimated numbers, Major?” Beaurite asked, keeping to military protocol by addressing her by rank, for the record. Even though it was a secure connection with the latest encryption software and would be extremely difficult to hack, they both knew it was being recorded for posterity. Transcripts of their conversation would be shared with the joint chiefs and every decision and instruction would be scrutinized with intensity, looking for holes to sink in markers for blame to be laid at a future date. Best to not add anything like military conduct to the list that was nearly impossible to escape.

  “I estimate under one hundred Stage Threes, sir,” Brooks replied. It took her no effort to maintain military decorum in her communications. Brooks felt life would be easier if everyone else did. Military personnel and civilians alike.

  Brooks and the colonel knew the symptoms for each stage of the virusite infection in humans. The first was fever and nausea combined with increased blood pressure and heart rate. Usually accompanied by profuse sweating and severe muscle pain. At the onset, first stage symptoms could be mistakenly confused with a bad case of the flu, if one had overlooked a bite mark or another entry point for the virusite.

  Stage Two of the infection was an acute spike in all Stage One symptoms, followed by a sudden lack of involuntary muscle movement affecting the respiratory system. The heart and lungs just stopped working and there was a temporary loss of brain function. Death, by all outward appearances but it was more of a final incubation period. The first two stages progressed with surprising speed and efficiency, with stage two lasting as little as minutes. In some cases, a subject could progress from initial exposure to full-blown Stage Three in less than an hour. Other subjects had taken a day or more, lingering in the initial stage before transitioning to two. Based on the amount of damage the host body received during the initial contact with one of the infected, a number of subjects would never progress to Stage Three. Putting it plainly, if the host was consumed to a point it became unsustainable, achieving stage three was impossible and the virusite eventually died within the host during Stage Two.

  Stage Three was, for lack of a better term, reanimation and came quickly after the second stage of the infection. Respiratory and pulmonary systems remained non-functional, but the virusite took complete control of the host body and added an insatiable desire to consume uninfected human flesh. The guys in the lab said this was for two reasons. The first being, stage three didn’t restart other normal, involuntary bodily functions such as breathing, circulatory, and digestive systems. However, the brain needs to remain active, even if at a rudimentary level, to keep the virusite sustained. Meaning the host body needs to be fueled in some way for continued animation. The host’s stomach and digestive system stop producing high amounts of stomach acids to break down food supplies and becomes more of a composting vessel for organic material. Peristalsis terminates and some consumed material simply packs in until it’s pushed out the other end. But while inside the host, the rotting protein produces methane and other gasses, significantly increasing the body temp and forcing the heated oxygen to rise to the brain, similar to a steam engine. Their researchers also believe the virusite drives the host to consume human flesh as the organism’s way of spreading the infection. Much like many parasites will do, the virusite controls the host completely at this point with the end goal being propagation. In any case, once the subject reaches the third stage, the virusite hits its stride, so to speak. Research predicts an infected subject can linger for weeks, possibly even months in this state, before reaching Stage Four. The primary factors contributing to the duration of Stage Three were the method of the initial infection, genetic makeup and numerous environmental factors.

  Eventually, the host body reaches the tipping point and enters Stage Four. Once the heart and lungs stop working, the virusite forces the body temp to elevate to dangerous levels to keep oxygen surfacing to the brain. Once the body reaches ridiculously high, and sustained temperatures, the end is inevitable. The subject’s brain cooks inside its own skull until it finally boils out from any available opening as a result of the building pressure. It was difficult for Brooks to remove the image of a whistling teapot from her mind, but what spewed from the threes turning to fours, wasn’t a comforting cup of Earl Grey. The majority of subject’s overheated and nearly liquified brains were sprayed from their sinus cavities and out their mouths, while some leaked from their eye sockets and ears.

  “And you say the threes acted like they were being given orders,” Beaurite says, restating the details Brooks had just reported.

  “It didn’t appear as if they were being ordered, sir. I don’t have any proof, but it felt like it was coordinated on a lower level. Instinctual, I’d say, if I was forced to put a name on it. And believe me, Colonel, that’s not it either. Not exactly,” Brooks tried to explain.

  “For now, let’s assume their actions were being orchestrated by someone outside your observation and operate accordingly. It may be possible someone is trying to organize the threes,” Beaurite says.

  “I don’t think that’s the case, sir,” Brooks says.

  “It may not appear that way, Major,” the colonel says, taking command of the conversation. “But it’s the only possible answer, so that’s how we’ll proceed. I want you to assign some men to search for any type of radio or satellite communications our jammers are blocking. If someone’s giving orders to the infected, we need to find out who, why, and then how we can capitalize on it. Understood?”

  “Yes sir,” Brooks answered, easily masking the contempt she felt for the old man’s inability to think in any other terms than two-dimensionally and his reliance on the researchers for intel instead of his boots on the ground.

  Their experts stated the infected in stage three would be limited to basic muscle control and rudimentary thought. Things like math, higher reasoning, basic communication, probably even everyday things like operating doorknobs would be beyond their skill sets. Brooks had been a firsthand witness and knew the experts were wrong. She’d seen them set and spring traps with surprising efficacy, at the cost of four of her medics and her cover team. Even when she’d taken a team back to the point of contact and she’d known the infected were hiding in the tree line, the shufflers had employed tactics they weren’t supposed to be capable of. This bad intel had almost cost her life and those of many of her men. While Beaurite seemed reluctant to accept the ghouls were thinking on their own, he appeared to at least be entertaining the idea they were capable of following commands. This was something Brooks decided she would need to keep in mind as she moved forward on this mission. From here on out, the experts didn’t know shit as far as she was concerned, and she wouldn’t depend on them for planning future strategy. She’d always believe in learning an enemy’s strengths, tactics and weaknesses from their actions and forgetting this had nearly cost her the mission before it had even gotten rolling.

  “What are the numbers on detainees,” he asks.

  “Recent numbers show we just broke eight thousand inside our quarantine area, sir,” she replies.

  “How much longer do you expect the soccer stadium to be a viable quarantine site?”

  “If there’s no change in the infection rate
and subsequent need for quarantine,” Brooks says, pausing to complete a quick, mental calculation. “Less than thirty-six hours.”

  “What’s your recommendation for mitigation?” Beaurite asks.

  “Sterilization Plan Bravo,” Brooks replies without hesitation.

  “Execution and incineration,” he says quietly. The expression on his face through the monitor screen suggests he hadn’t intended Brooks to hear his words, but she chose to reply to the comment anyway.

  “As soon and quickly as possible, Colonel. Of the eight thousand plus, seventy-eight percent are confirmed Stage Ones, and we’re keeping them on the field. The ones transitioning to twos are being quickly moved to secure sections of the stadium in the lower basements. That’s also where we’re holding the Stage Threes,” Brooks states as Beaurite scribbled something on a pad of paper and stared at it before looking back into the web camera.

  “You’re talking about over seventeen hundred that have become, or will be Stage Threes,” he replies.

  “Closer to eighteen, sir,” Brooks says.

  “Have there been any signs of fourth-stage infection in any of the detainees?” Colonel Beaurite asks.

  “Hard to tell, sir.”

  “Why’s that, Major?” he asks.

  “Because we’re monitoring the secure sections of the stadium using the existing closed-circuit security cameras, so we can’t see everywhere and I’m not planning to send any of my men in to get an accurate headcount. I also think it may be too early to see any fours at this time. I’m hoping to see clear signs of Stage Four beginning within the next seventy-two to ninety-six hours, sir,” she answers.