Counteraction

by M. D. Massey

  Counteraction: Werewolf Apocalypse

  THEM Post-Apocalyptic Series Book Three

  M.D. Massey

  Modern Digital Publishing, Austin, TX

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  Copyright © 2016 by M.D. Massey.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the address below.

  Modern Digital Publishing

  P.O. Box 682

  Dripping Springs, Texas 78620

  THEM Book Two: Counteraction/ M.D. Massey. — 1st ed.

  Contents

  1. PAVEMENT

  2. GROUND

  3. TABLE

  4. STREAM

  5. STRANGER

  6. WALLS

  7. GOLD

  8. DOOMED

  9. CONTEST

  10. REVELERS

  11. MAN

  12. YOUTH

  13. HANGING

  14. SHED

  15. VOUCHSAFE

  16. VULTURES

  17. DEVOUR

  18. SOILED

  19. CLEAN

  20. UPROAR

  21. MIGHTY

  22. SUBSTANCE

  23. FLY

  24. PALE

  25. BREAD

  26. SHIELD

  27. SPEAR

  28. PERCEIVE

  29. BACK

  30. DOGS

  31. MISTAKE

  32. DISMAY

  33. WOMEN

  34. FEAR

  35. TROY

  36. DIE

  37. WASTED

  38. WIFE

  Epilogue

  Newsletter

  About the Author

  Dedicated to the sheepdogs, who keep the wolves at bay.

  Then Ulysses tore off his rags, and sprang on to the broad pavement with his bow and his quiver full of arrows. He shed the arrows on to the ground at his feet and said, "The mighty contest is at an end. I will now see whether Apollo will vouchsafe it to me to hit another mark which no man has yet hit." On this he aimed a deadly arrow at Antinous, who was about to take up a two-handled gold cup to drink his wine and already had it in his hands. He had no thought of death—who amongst all the revelers would think that one man, however brave, would stand alone among so many and kill him? The arrow struck Antinous in the throat, and the point went clean through his neck, so that he fell over and the cup dropped from his hand, while a thick stream of blood gushed from his nostrils. He kicked the table from him and upset the things on it, so that the bread and roasted meats were all soiled as they fell over on to the ground. The suitors were in an uproar when they saw that a man had been hit; they sprang in dismay one and all of them from their seats and looked everywhere towards the walls, but there was neither shield nor spear, and they rebuked Ulysses very angrily. "Stranger," said they, "you shall pay for shooting people in this way: you shall see no other contest; you are a doomed man; he whom you have slain was the foremost youth in Ithaca, and the vultures shall devour you for having killed him." Thus they spoke, for they thought that he had killed Antinous by mistake, and did not perceive that death was hanging over the head of every one of them. But Ulysses glared at them and said: "Dogs, did you think that I should not come back from Troy? You have wasted my substance, have forced my women servants to lie with you, and have wooed my wife while I was still living. You have feared neither God nor man, and now you shall die." They turned pale with fear as he spoke, and every man looked round about to see whither he might fly for safety…

  ~from Homer’s Odyssey, Book XXII, translated by Samuel Butler

  1

  PAVEMENT

  I snapped off a round from my suppressed .45, sprinting like hell for the front yard of yet another McMansion. The deader I shot dropped, even though it looked like I’d barely creased his skull. Sometimes the little ones would go down like that. He had been a front-runner. I figured if I took him out, it’d get us out of visual contact with them—at least for the moment. Maybe the rest of the group wouldn’t be so quick to pick up our trail.

  We’d been running for hours because that pissant of a punter Pancho Vanilla had led us right into a trap, on our way to rescue my girl Kara and a bunch of settlers from the werewolf pack that roamed the IH-35 corridor. The plan was to get them back and take them to the Facility, a sort of underground secret lair for mad scientists that the CIA and the Army had created before the bombs dropped and the dead started walking. Only one of those mad scientists still remained, and she was on our side, so the Facility was an empty house just waiting for some new occupants. All we had to do was rescue a few dozen people from a pack of werewolves and find a way to get them halfway across the state of Texas, safe and sound. Piece of cake.

  But now we had this huge deader herd on our tail, thanks to that sorry slaving son of a bitch Jimmy. I’d nicknamed him Pancho Vanilla because of his complexion and the sombrero he’d been wearing when I first met him. He wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed, but he was mean and crafty, and damn it if I hadn’t let him lead us into those shamblers. Currently, we were trying to ditch a couple hundred of them in the wide streets and fenced backyards of an upscale neighborhood in southwest Austin. It wasn’t going so well, and frankly I was bone-ass tired and ready for a nap.

  Be that as it may, my young charges weren’t faring much better. We’d been running and gunning since Pancho led us into a deader herd that’d probably been in a holding pattern since the last time he and his crew came through here. Once that herd had gotten wind of us, there was no shaking them. Food had been scarce over the last few days since we’d hit Austin city limits, since the very deaders who were now chasing us had once been part of the local citizenry. They’d likely stripped the shelves of every corner gas station and supermarket bare before they kicked the bucket and turned.

  So, the kids were running on empty. At least they weren’t making me look bad, what with me gimped up and all. Bobby, a twenty-something werewolf I’d saved from a group of slavers a while back, was physically doing fine, but mentally I could tell that the constant running was taking its toll. And Gabby, a young teen who’d latched onto to me after I’d saved her from a herd of deaders, was looking damned tired, although she’d never complain about it. Gabby and I had both had our DNA altered with werewolf genes and some other crazy shit that Gabby’s adopted aunt, Captain Perez, had cooked up in her lab. Dr. Perez had worked at the Facility before the War, and she’d been involved with all manner of experiments done to try to cross supernatural and human DNA. Gabby had received the treatment years ago to help her survive in our post-apocalyptic world. Me? I’d gotten juiced because I’d been bitten by a deader, and probably would’ve turned if they hadn’t given me the Doc’s serum.

  But the serum hadn’t quite taken in me the way it had with Gabby. She’d been treated years before, so her body had been given ample time to adapt and mutate, and she was running with the full treatment: faster reflexes, improved endurance, and an upgraded immune system and healing capacity. I’d only had it in me a few weeks, and since I’d gotten the treatments, the deader venom and my now-boosted immune system had been locked in an epic battle within my body. It was slowly robbing me of whatever energy I might have had while operating in near-starvation conditions.

  On the plus side, at least we had plenty of water. Most folks didn’t have a clue how to tap their wate
r heaters in an emergency, so about every third house had a small supply of portable water to drink. Thank the Lord for small favors.

  We pulled up short in a driveway next to a Mercedes Sedan that’d probably cost more than I’d made in my first four years in the Army. Gabby squatted next to Bobby while I peeked over the hood of the car and through the glass to look for any movement. Not seeing anything at the moment, I ducked back down and glanced over to them.

  Gabby wiped her brow with the back of her hand, angling her silenced .22 away from me as she spoke. “You got any ideas about how we’re going to get out of this, cabron?”

  I glanced over at her. “Watch your mouth, kid.”

  She rolled her eyes, a typical teen. Bobby snickered. Gabby knew I wasn’t serious; there were much more important things to worry about in a paranormal apocalypse than polite language. I shrugged and ducked back down. “If I recall correctly, this neighborhood backs up to the Colorado River. If we cross, we might be able to shake this herd and get some rest. But with the rains, the river is probably high. We need a safe way to get across.”

  Bobby raised his hand.

  “What, Bobby?”

  “Um, Scratch—I don’t know if you’re aware of this, but werewolves sink.”

  This time, it was my turn to roll my eyes. “I thought you liked to surf?”

  He nodded enthusiastically. “Oh, I do, most definitely—but I have to wear two life jackets when I go out. If I lose my board, it’s Davy Jones’ locker for me. Glurg, glurg, glurg…”

  Gabby chuckled, cocking an ear before ducking down further and groaning softly. “I think I hear something. Pinche deaders are coming our way again!”

  I nodded and surveyed the area. This house had a porte-cochère that led to an enclosed driveway. The wrought-iron gate was closed and looked solid. I nodded toward it.

  “Bobby, you boost Gabby over and follow right behind her. Stay down and try to find a way to get inside that house—quietly. I’ll try to lead the herd off and circle back around after I’ve lost them.”

  It was a testament to how tired they were that neither even bothered protesting. “You got it, boss.” Bobby nodded once at me and headed to the gate with Gabby in tow. Once they were over the gate and out of sight, I took off running past the front of the house and into the street. The low moaning sounds that Gabby had heard quickly become a virtual symphony of the dead during the few seconds the kids had spent in the relative safety of the backyard.

  The soundtrack of my life. I sprinted down the road.

  As I rounded a corner past another McMansion, I was forced to pull up short as I observed a dense herd of deaders coming down the street toward me. In another situation, we could have just holed up in any old house and waited for them to pass. But a herd this large could easily break down doors and climb over each other to crash through windows, just by the sheer weight of their numbers. Since the deader venom running through my veins made me halfway invisible to them, I banged on the side of a nearby car to get their attention and then took off down the street, away from where I’d left the kids a few moments before.

  I hadn’t even covered another block when I felt a sharp pain in my right foot, probably from stepping on a rock. One thing they’d never mentioned in the old Westerns is that running in moccasins is only comfortable on natural ground. The human foot was just not designed to pound the pavement, no matter what an entire generation of “born to run” advocates thought. My dogs were barking, and that was no lie. However, I either had to deal with a stone bruise tomorrow or become zombie chow right now. I happily chose the former, ignored the pain, and trucked on.

  Even so, a few blocks later I was starting to tire and decided it was time to shake these assholes. I hooked a left down a side street, only to find I’d entered a cul-de-sac. Even worse, there was a small group of deaders milling around in the street. Shit. I decided just to barrel through so I could jump a fence and get away from the main group while still leading them away from Bobby and Gabby.

  As I ran, I drew my suppressed .45 caliber Glock in my left hand and my tomahawk in my right, and barreled straight into the crowd of Z’s, chopping into skulls and firing into eye sockets to make a path as I zigged and zagged toward the driveways on the other side of the cul-de-sac. Only one managed to grab me, getting a lucky—yet firm—grip on my shirttail and practically dragging me to a stop. I tried to tug out of his grasp, but deaders were strong, much stronger than the average human. Out of options, I quickly spun and chopped off his hand at the wrist with three strikes of my tomahawk.

  Once free, I started moving again, breathing hard as fire consumed my lungs. Shake it off, I thought and kept running, literally shaking the thing’s already stiffening hand off my shirt on the move. I glanced back over my shoulder in time to see the vast herd heading straight past the cul-de-sac. Crap! I holstered my silenced Glock and drew its match, sighting down the barrel and taking the time to attempt a headshot on one of the lead Z’s. No sense in wasting good ammo. My accuracy was off because I was breathing hard, so I hit its shoulder. Still, the report of the round was enough to draw the attention of the herd as a whole, and they started shambling after me in earnest.

  Taking a moment to get my shit together so I wouldn’t fall and shoot myself, I holstered the sidearm and choked up on my tomahawk, then took off on a dead run for the closest driveway. I bolted around the side of that house, dodging an abandoned Big Wheel and vaulting over a discarded trash container to reach the fenced backyard. I slammed the side gate shut behind me and headed for the back fence, hoping that the tail end of that herd wasn’t waiting for me on the other side.

  As I vaulted the fence, I saw that the way was clear ahead. But I wasn’t three steps into the green belt behind the house before I heard the first deaders crashing through the wood fence behind me. It’s going to be a long afternoon, I thought, running off into the brush.

  2

  GROUND

  Roughly 45 minutes later, I’d lost the deader herd and circled back around. With one final look behind to make sure I’d ditched them all, I jumped the same gate where I’d left the wonder twins and headed toward the back of the house. True to form, the kids had found an entry, and there was a handwritten note on the back door that said “Speak, Friend, and Enter.” A smiley face had been doodled at the top, which I suspected as Bobby’s handiwork. I removed the sign, then softly and carefully opened the door and snuck into the house, shutting and latching it behind me with as much stealth as I could manage in my current sorry state.

  As I walked into the house, I whistled softly and got a reply from the next room. That turned out to be the kitchen, where Gabby and Bobby tossed cabinets and drawers with care. They had stacked several cans of food in the middle of the room, along with a few boxes of dry goods and a tin of potted meat. They turned to look at me as I walked in, and I gestured for silence. Both nodded and went back to their search, so I decided to make sure the house was clear above and below.

  I stalked my way through the house with my tomahawk in hand, figuring I wouldn’t tempt fate with the suppressed Glock. So-called “silenced” weapons tended to be a lot louder than most people thought. You could still hear a pretty loud report from them even under the best of conditions. I’d risked it earlier when we were in danger, but saw no sense in chancing it now. All it could take was one curious, moaning deader to cause the herd I’d just lost to circle back—and I didn’t think I could run one more mile in my current state.

  With dreams of sleeping in a real bed dancing through my head, I snuck through the bottom floor of the house looking for signs of life, and determined that people had been living here recently. There were food wrappers scattered here and there, along with indications that someone had recently used the downstairs toilet, perhaps within the week. Bedsheets were rumpled in two of the bedrooms as well; all told, it made me a little jumpy.

  I decided to check upstairs next, listening for movement as I made my way up. What I heard and saw was a
barely audible whine coming from behind one of the doors, along with a shadow that moved back and forth under the door as I watched it from the staircase. I took a peek around the corner at the top of the stairs and saw that the doors to the other rooms were open. I cleared those rooms first. Then I decided to see what was behind door number two...

  As I approached, the whining grew slightly louder and more insistent. With one hand on my Glock, I opened the door a crack and was greeted by a dry black nose attached to a white snout, and the overwhelming stench of dog poop and urine. The nose sniffed at me through the crack a few times, completed its assessment with a gruff woof of approval, then backed away from the door.

  I’d owned American Bulldogs before I deployed to Afghanistan, and figured this for one based on the snout and the attitude. But as I cracked the door further, I realized that this was no standard bully. I knelt down in the doorway and held my hand out, not making eye contact but looking the dog over instead.

  “Hey there, fella,” I cooed softly. “Somebody forget about you up here?”

  He whined and started edging toward me. I stayed still and let him sniff me out, and soon he was nudging my hand. I gave him a small scratch on the head, still unsure of where we stood. He licked my hand, and I patted him softly on his head and neck. Apparently, we were cool. I gave him a once over.