The Inroad Chronicles (Book 1): Legion Seed

by Erickson, Brian

  ✹✹✹

  Down in the bunker Ann could see occasional glimpses outside as the branches shook and swayed while Ron worked to clear everything. Finally, the view completely came back, and she saw Ron just before he disappeared around the corner dragging a bunch of tree limbs behind him. She could see that a tree had crashed into the doorway but no people. She quietly mouthed an obscenity and noisily pushed pent up air out of her nose. Ron came walking around the corner and waved. She could not see his expression, but could tell from his body language that he wore a smile for the camera. Suppressing a tiny smile, she flicked the power several times until he gave a thumbs-up and then left it on. She continued staring at the screen with wide eyes.

  Expecting to see Ron head back inside and disappear under the camera she frowned when he stayed out and started clearing more branches. “What are you doin’?” She grated her teeth together when the screen met her question only with silence. “I can see! Come back inside you idiot.” She slapped the side of the monitor and the image flickered for a second then returned to normal. She saw Ron kneel down and cut some more wood off the trunk. Ann sat there shaking her head. “Finish up you dumb ass. Don’t stay out there.”

  She continued looking as Ron made cuts in the tree until her eyes felt a bit heavy. She started to look away but glanced back one more time, and shot forward with a start as she saw a man appear on the road in front of the house. Several things immediately struck Ann as quite odd. Some of them she could dismiss on the off chance he was in a state of shock or had an injury, but one of them lingered nonetheless and gnawed at her relentlessly. What looked like a man walking down the road never once paid any attention to the noisy chainsaw cutting away in a quiet neighborhood. As if that little detail did not have her senses raging on full alert she also could not get past the oddness of the man’s gait. He walked with torpidity and a limp while always facing forward with his flank toward Ron. “What’s wrong with him?” Ann spoke aloud to the screen again.

  The man continued down the road as if in a daze until his path lined up directly behind Ron’s back. Then he turned but not head first, like anyone else, instead with his whole body; as if he had a terrible neck crick that seized up his entire back.

  Ann could not make out anything very clearly on the monitor, but it seemed as if he had the palest face she had ever seen, and looked completely disheveled, although the distance could have deceived her eyes. She could see that Ron had no idea anyone else had entered the area. With the chainsaw revving away he continued cutting and casually tossing severed pieces of wood aside.

  “Ron,” she drew it out sarcastically. “Hello…wake up…there’s somebody comin’. They’re in your yard.” However, Ron kept working with his back turned. Finally, as the strange looking man got closer, Ann started to notice that something definitely looked wrong about him. Even though the camera filmed a black and white image, she could make out that he had an injury people normally could not walk around with. He wore a light-colored jumper and something had ripped half of it off around the midsection. Some sort of object, like a small pipe, stuck out of his abdomen below the ribs. She squinted at the monitor and shook her head. “What is that?” Ann’s face pinched up even more, and she forced down a swallow in disgust as more of the man came into clearer view. “Ron! Turn around. Turn around!” She yelled pointlessly at the monitor again. “Ron! Damn it!” She began breathing heavily, almost stirred into a panic as the image of the man’s disfigured face became clearer. “What’s wrong with him? Is he sick or somethin’? Turn around. Come on.” She began flicking the camera on and off rapidly as she stared at the screen.

  Each time the monitor flipped back on the strange man had taken a few steps closer to Ron with hollow eyes fixed on him. Cassius stood up as her voice grew more desperate, and began to growl. “Turn around!”

  ✹✹✹

  Ron had decided to cut some more of the tree away from the house in case it shifted and damaged the house more than it already had. He remembered that he told Ann he would just cut a little bit and come back inside, but everything seemed okay. It got him out of the bunker, and gave him a good workout that allowed him to forget the cold. He decided to get more work done while he had the chance.

  He had not entirely formulated an approach to cutting the tree correctly in order to minimize the damage to his house, but felt he should proceed anyway. He just made it up as he went along. He still had not moved very far from the house’s entrance when the branches started to get considerably thicker. He had to really lay into them with the short chainsaw to get a good cut. Between the noise and his concentration, his surroundings melded into a blur.

  Then an inexplicable sixth sense made him look up, and he saw the camera’s indicator light flickering rapidly on and off. He made a gesture at it with his arms as if to say: what the hell? At that moment the light around him changed ever so slightly to a darker shade of gray. He turned and saw the strange man lumbering toward him. Ron stood up, backed away from the tree, and made an immediate assessment that told him several things looked out of place about the person, apart from his injuries. However, Ron’s first human instinct to be polite took over. He turned the chainsaw off and flashed a little smile even though he still wore the gas mask. “Oh sorry, you scared me.” He looked closer at the man and, as he did so, the edges of his eyes turned down and formed his face into a mask of concern. “Are you all right? That looks bad.” He pointed to the man’s injured side, where a jagged piece of metal hung out of his abdomen. It had dry blood caked around it and red smudges from his fingers where he had tried to take it out, but could not dislodge it. Ron looked at his yellow jumper and his eyes widened. “Hey, were you flyin’ that helicopter? What the hell happened?”

  The strange man’s eyes rolled into the back of his head as he kept lurching forward, and his mouth worked as if he could faintly remember how to speak; but only a hissing, death rattle came out. Blood trickled from his lips and rolled down his neck, as saliva would from a hungry dog upon seeing food. He had a large gash, from temple to chin, stretching diagonally across his face, and a host of scratches that made him look like he had ripped a feral cat off his head. His skin looked extremely pale, dry, and cracked, ready to flake off.

  Ron took a step back. “Whoa…whoa take it easy. Okay, stop walking toward me. What the hell is wrong with you?” Ron started backing away. He looked over near the broken door at his gun leaning against the wall, but he had no time to dwell on it because the strange man had him backpedaling across the lawn. “Stop, dammit! Stop!” Ron yelled at the top of his lungs, but received only the same response, a blood curdling hiss and a guttural groan.

  The man’s eyes rolled back down and focused to points and locked on him completely.

  Ron yanked the chainsaw’s cord and spurred it back to life. He held it up and revved it a couple times for effect. “Back the fuck away! Back up or I’ll cut your fuckin’ head off, I swear!” Ron’s efforts to scare the man had no effect, and the tension made him feel like a blood vessel would explode in his head.

  With its arms out, bloody mouth wide open, the creature continued until it could almost touch Ron’s face. Instinctively Ron raised the chainsaw, and the teeth grazed its abdomen, lifted slightly, and came back down near the armpit. Ron followed through and gave no quarter as the chainsaw dug into the inside of the creature's right arm, nearly severing it close to the shoulder, and sprayed a fine mist of blood on the gas mask’s visor. Ron backed away quickly, holding the chainsaw out in front, paying little attention to the blood on his mask.

  The creature stumbled back a few steps and continued walking forward, seemingly unaware of the injury to its arm.

  Ron’s jaw dropped open as he stopped and stared. “What the hell? What the hell is wrong with you?” Suddenly the chainsaw sputtered and turned off. “Damn it!” He frantically cranked it a couple more times while backing away. “Out of gas, shit!” He pounded the housing with his fist, only making it rattle, then steppe
d toward the creature and smashed its face in with the butt of the chainsaw and sent it crashing to the ground flat on its back. Ron threw the chainsaw off to the side and ran back toward the door. He jumped over the tree’s remains and came to a sliding stop on the sawdust and scooped up his gun, all in one fluid motion. He turned around, dropped to one knee, and put the beast in his sights. To his amazement the creature calmly tried to stand up but faltered on its dangling arm.

  Ron didn’t have a frame of reference, but he knew it looked completely different than somebody in a state of shock would in the same position. This thing did not look like it was lost in space. Its body writhed back and forth trying to get on its feet but collapsed every time weight shifted to its useless right arm. Finally, it managed to push up on its good arm and turned toward Ron wearing a stoic expression that could only compare to anger.

  Ron’s eyes became as wide as silver dollars. “Holy shit.” He squeezed the trigger and pumped a short, three round burst into its chest. The creature’s legs involuntarily buckled, and it dropped to its knees. Snarling it continued forward unevenly similar to a three-legged dog. Ron switched his Tavor to automatic mode, stood up, and sprayed its back with a barrage of bullets. They ripped through the torso, taking pieces of everything with them, but on it came, flat on the ground, with a trail of blood soaking the grass behind it. Breathing heavily, Ron kept firing until the chamber gave a hollow click. He quickly reloaded and kept pouring in the rounds. Then one stray bullet struck the forehead, and the back of its head exploded. Stillness finally washed over it and settled in permanently.

  Breathing rapid, short breaths, Ron bent over and rested a hand on one knee, still staring at the bloody body. He consciously slowed his breathing to deep breaths and closed his eyes. Just then the sharp crack of a stick off to his right caused him to whip his head around, and his breathing quickened again.

  Another one, similar looking in many ways, approached from the adjacent yard. Its eyes conveyed the same half-dead, half-animated look as the first one. Lumbering toward him it showed no recognition of the world around it except for him. It completely fixated on Ron.

  Gathering his resolve Ron raised his gun and aimed. He pumped a quick burst into it chest that dropped it to one knee. As it started standing up again Ron aimed for the forehead instead. His hands trembled and veins stuck out on his forearms. He pulled the trigger hard, and the bullet sailed over the creature’s head. Ron clamped his eyes shut. Relax damn it! Concentrate! “Come on!” He slowed his breathing, even though he could feel heart beats raging in his chest, and throbbing in his throat. “Aim…steady.” He let out a long exhale and slowly squeezed the trigger. This time he hit his target square in the forehead, and a red mist flew from the back of its head. It dropped immediately and smacked the ground with a meaty thud.

  Ron stared down the gun’s barrel for a couple seconds longer then let his shoulders sag and dropped to a crouch. Just at that moment he heard a groan off in the distance and saw another one a few houses away. Only this time he noticed others stepping out from behind houses and pouring onto the street. Some of them inched forward on the ground, while others walked with the leaning gait that seemed to define them. Then down at the end of the block, he saw several more moving in from the adjacent street congregating into a pack.

  Ron quickly aimed at the closest one and squeezed off a short burst. One of the bullets struck a female’s leg, but it kept on moving, nearly unhindered. He quickly scanned the area and noticed that they had started to surround him. With his head swinging around wildly, he backpedaled toward the house, ran in, and shut the door.

  He grunted as he thrust his shoulder into it, but the tree had bent the hinges and knocked it out of alignment with the frame. “Oh, fuck!” He ran to the couch and pushed it into the door and wedged a chair under the handle then quickly tossed the rest of the loose furniture in the living room on top of the couch and behind the chair. A couple minutes later he had amassed a pile in front of it with everything he could quickly lift, or drag, to the door. He appraised it and pursed his lips. “Good thing they’re slow.” He backed away with the gun raised to his shoulder as hands started beating on the door and the pile shifted slightly. At the edge of the room Ron turned and ran downstairs into the bunker.

  ✹✹✹

  Staring at the monitor Ann realized that she had been on the edge of the seat for several minutes and scooted to straighten out her legs. She could not make out all the action, but she saw the first man attack Ron, and then sustain an incredible amount of damage before finally dying. After that she could only see Ron firing some shots off into the distance.

  She felt like an eternity passed before he finally came barreling through the door. Sweating profusely and shaking noticeably. She watched with her mouth hanging wide open as he slammed the door shut and cranked the lock into place with a whining clank.

  “What the hell happened?!” Ann tried to catch herself, but she had already yelled.

  “Did you…d…did you see those things?”

  “Yes! What the hell was wrong with that guy?”

  “They’re fuckin’ maniacs! I put an entire clip and a half into that first bastard, but he just kept on comin’ with one arm! What the hell?!”

  “Wait, calm down. Just tell me what happened…slow down.”

  Ron dismissed her with a wave and charged into the store room. “They’re comin’. There’re more of ‘em. They’re fuckin’ everywhere. We have to get out of here, or we’re not leavin’ for a long time, maybe forever. Those…th…things, you have to shoot ‘em in the head. It’s the only way.”

  Ann started crying. “Ron, you’re scaring me. What’s happening? What did you see?”

  “This is war. That first one attacked me. It wanted to bite me or somethin’.” Ron took a deep breath and scanned his inventory. Then he opened his ammunition drawers and started stuffing rounds into magazines. He darted into the bedroom and came out seconds later stuffing his arms through his coat sleeves, and then he threw the AA12 shotgun on his back, stuck his Glock into a holster he put on his side, and took up the M32 grenade launcher as his primary weapon. He walked out of the supply room loading Hell Hounds into the chamber and snapped it shut with a crack. All the while he never stopped mumbling in defiant tones, iron jaw locked, and hands rigid as stone. Before exiting he turned to Ann and stabbed a finger into the air. “Ann, you and Cassius stay here. I’m goin’ to make a path.”

  Ann took a step back with her hands cupped over her mouth as her face flushed through shades of red.

  Ron walked past her slipping his gas mask on and back out the door. He closed it quickly as he exited and left her standing in the middle of the room with wide, teary eyes, both hands obscuring her trembling lips.

  Chapter Twelve

  Hamilton Street had a comfortable mix of young and middle-aged families, along with a sprinkle of lingering elderly couples who had settled in to build families decades earlier. The Langfords fit into the latter category and lived down the street from the Jacksons. They normally walked as one would expect of those who remember when planes had propellers and computers read scores of punch cards to perform long division.

  At the moment, however, Jackson could not believe the same two people stood before him. Normally they always smiled and waved as they shuffled down the sidewalk, or sat on their porch waiting for time to catch up. Now their pallor complemented their eyes, which had turned milky white. Half of Mr. Langford’s face looked like it had been bashed repeatedly with a meat tenderizer, all pus-filled holes and bruises. When he turned his head into the light Jackson saw shimmering flecks on his face where shards of glass had embedded themselves as if a window had exploded by his head. Jackson briefly recalled that he meant to check up on them, but had completely forgotten with all of his own preparations. By comparison to her husband, Jackson noticed that Mrs. Langford looked relatively unscathed, just disheveled, until she stepped fully into view. Then he saw that her right arm dangled at her sid
e like an old rope, broken in half. If her skin could have sloughed off, it appeared as though it would have absconded with the refuse of her shattered limb. He noticed that she had a patch of dried blood on her shin peeking out from under her dress.

  Jackson stood still, his bag of food still in hand as they stepped into the entryway, with the gun hidden behind his back. He smiled under the mask, but he knew his face looked shaky. “Hey y’all, I meant to look in on you, but everything got so crazy. You all right?” Without responding they only walked closer, staring him down, no recognition in their eyes. “Y’all feelin’ okay? Hey, why don’t you just rest for a minute? You don’t look so good.” The urgency in Jackson’s voice rose with each step that brought them closer. Still acting polite, he quickly started to form the opinion that he should throw his manners out the door, because the Langfords did not look very social.

  He had the same sick tension bubbling up in his stomach as the time a stray dog nearly attacked him. First it stared him down, body rigid while stepping closer and totally engaged with its eyes. Then just as it got ready to lunge for him a van from the kennel showed up, and a man got out with a noose and chased the dog off into the woods. It was a close call that he did not wish to repeat.

  He felt pretty confident in assuming that no one would rescue him this time. Whatever happened, he had to face it alone. Barely able to look at his stalker, Jackson slowly brought the gun out from behind his back and pointed it at Mr. Langford’s head. “Stop right there. I’m warnin’ you. Stop now!” The appearance of the gun gave them no pause, and they kept walking forward. “Stop, or I will shoot! Do you understand?” Jackson enunciated every syllable loudly, the same way people do when trying to get a foreigner to understand English.