Respire

by Cody Prough

  Prologue

  On January 5th, 2021, 06:00 hours a National Guard unit was sent out to secure the town of Mahomet, Illinois. During the securing of the town several miles of barbed wire, fencing, and sentry guards were positioned throughout and around the town. Between the deployment of the first barricade at 06:12 – 07:00. The contained area (dubbed “The Zone”) was held and secured until April 5th that same year. When the barricades fell the National Guard was ordered into full retreat, leaving the towns they were protecting defenseless against the threat.

  Chapter One

  It was a cold winter; the wind chimes rang in the background. Crouched down in their makeshift shelter, the upstairs remains of your average every day suburban home, and hiding against a tipped over black leather sectional and a busted-out window, allowing for the snow slowly drift in, two people sat in eager anticipation: Sarah Gibbs, and her companion and mentor, Steve Mintz.

  Steve, a simple five-foot ten former photographer with somewhat handsome features, wearing combat boots, blue ripped jeans, a gray shirt and black coat. Just a little older than Sarah, in his early thirties, but his facial hair and head that were originally jet black now had a salt and pepper coloration, which combined with the added wrinkles made him look ten years older than he was at the best of times.

  Sarah shifted; she could hear something. It was the revving of an engine rolling down the road, pickup trucks from the sound of it. “Tommy’s goons.” Steve volunteered to his companion. Sarah adjusted her black leather jacket. Underneath it she wore two ratty t-shirts, faded and ripped blue jeans that all hung loosely from her frame, and of course her favorite accessory. Although she would have hardly considered it one before all of this happened, and she wouldn’t’ve known how to use it, either.

  Hanging from her side gracefully in its original hip holster, just as it had been worn by the former Illinois State Police Officer and public servant George T. Hall, long dead, his body left a pile of half-eaten muck. But the gun, a Glock 23, had been with Sarah since then.

  She took her weapon out of the holster, checking the magazine with a small, buried sense of urgency and panic rising to the surface. She had the one magazine, and Sarah was fortunate enough to have a full magazine at least. Maybe the noise wouldn’t drag any creatures here. Sarah was pondering these thoughts, and the unlikely chance of it, as her companion Steve examined his own weapon. A classic nine-millimeter Beretta. “Don’t think we’ll be much good against more than a handful of ‘em bastards.” Steve’s voice was barely audible, but Sarah was still nervous it may have been too loud.

  Sure enough, a few moments later came the first of three Ford pickup trucks. The trucks, covered in part by their factory colors, rust and makeshift armor, rolled down the street slowly. The men in bed of the trucks armed with a variety of hunting rifles and shotguns. The occasional odd weapon among them, such as axes, cattle prods, machetes, and handguns.

  The trucks continued down the street, the men in the back studying their surroundings in a militant fashion. The fingers of nearly every man or woman wrapped delicately around the trigger guard. Sarah knew that in those trucks not only did they have more than enough firepower to arm their entire camp, at least the ones healthy and able enough to wield a gun, but they probably had some first aid equipment with them. Maybe even some rations, if she was getting greedy.

  “Don’t even think about it, Sarah.” Steven’s voice this time was barely audible above the wind chimes in the distance.

  “We just need to get one of those trucks.” Sarah wasn’t looking at Steve as she talked, she was keeping her eyes focused on the enemies and the lifesaving supplies rolling away. With ease they can roll down the street, taking their pick of items, surviving just the same as Sarah and Steve. The only differences being they were huddled down in a ruined house, and their rations; a bag containing some near empty vitamin bottles, a couple of half-empty ammunition boxes of varying degrees, and cans of tasty dog food. The last of what was left to scavenge on this side of town, apparently. Hopefully “Chef” Kim can fix something up with it, maybe tell people it’s SPAM. They’d believe it, because they knew steak wasn’t going to be on the menu any time soon, if ever again.

  Off in the distance, she could hear it. Even over the rumble of the convoy. That shriek, that damn shriek. It was an odd noise, not quite like any animal she’d heard before, but a very high pitched, predatory sound of hunger. And it was running full force towards the trucks.

  No, not it. Sarah thought. Them.

  The lurkers, with their almost human form, their arms shaped in praying mantis-styled bends coming down in bladed and sharpened boned limbs. Their eyes sunken and skin almost matching the snow around them, with their heads split open down the middle into a grotesque row of sharp teeth. Standing over eight feet tall at full maturity, sometimes stained in various areas with the crimson liquid from their last meal.

  They ran into the street after the trucks, possibly dozens of them, though Sarah only caught a glimpse of this unholy event. They had been hiding in holes in the ground, in the wooded areas near them, all over. They hadn’t even spotted them; it was as if they sprang from the ground on cue.

  “Get down!” Sarah was shouting, not worried about Tommy’s men hearing her, though their problems were soon to be much worse. The shrieking was what they heard first, but even before Sarah and Steve managed to get behind cover the lurkers were upon the convoy.

  Sarah was covering her ears, burying her face in the musty blanket in this old house, Steve lay on top of her, his face buried in the blanket. They were out there ripping apart Tommy’s men. It wasn’t a matter of question; the noise was enough.

  Sure, they had been enemies in this bizarre case of small-town warfare, but they were still human. And those things out there, ripping them limb from limb with their long arms, chewing off their heads, or taking survivors back to God knows where? Those things were raised from the very soul of the earth as if the Devil himself had been tired of this ache on the flesh of the planet, summoning an army of apocalyptic proportions. Sarah lay there, listening as they were all torn apart, not wanting to look, as the sounds of squished meat, screams, and the stopping of the gunfire signaled the conclusion of carnage. Finally all that hung in the air was the fresh smell of death, and the toxic defensive gas released by the creatures drifting off and diluting in the air, becoming harmless outside of a few feet. The creatures fled after the convoy was taken out, back to who knows where, nobody wanted to know for sure.

  Chapter Two

  I can see it behind me…it’s running so quickly… if I don’t hurry then…

  Crack!

  He sat up, taking deep breaths. Soaking in sweat, heart racing, but safe.

  Another. Damn. Nightmare.

  Patrick threw his legs from his cot. Cracking his neck as he slipped his torn socks with the left big toe sticking out, into his old work boots. In the corner, his second most cherished item, a standard issue AK-47 Rifle, and a red bandanna tied to the back of it complete with a sling. He was still fully dressed: camouflage jacket, black undershirt, faded black jeans, and his old black work boots freshly tied to his aching feet.

  Aside from this attire, his usual military surplus gas mask, his most prized possession, sat on the nightstand next to him, covering up the small .25 caliber handgun fully loaded and ready to go. His latest find, a nine-millimeter Luger was tucked neatly in his camo jacket. He groaned, waking up was never easy anymore. He missed his twin-size bed. A thought he never knew would occur to him.

  Checking his weapons and tossing a handful of generic pain reliever in his mouth

  Are they expired? What day is it supposed to be?

  followed by a few gulps of an absurdly flat week opened and long expired soda, and what remained from a box
of cereal, he stuffed a couple of protein bars into his jacket. He knew this town was well spent for him, and his makeshift underground base would only support him for so long. He saw people moving from house to house sometimes. Most likely checking for loot that he had already acquired well before they set foot there. Or worst of all, the monsters at night. Their sharp, bladed limbs digging into the sides of houses as they climb. The beasts never checked the basement. The looters and his former friends from the east were another issue. But that’s the damn problem, he must keep moving. The supplies are running out, the creatures are more frequent, and these other survivors couldn’t be trusted. He learned his lesson back in his last few towns. People were no longer trustworthy, if they ever were.

  Running his hand through his greasy black hair and down his face, just a small stubble, even after months of not shaving. His frame much too small for the equipment he’s wearing, but it somehow fit his frame in a sense. A large scar running the length of his right leg; the remains of a skirmish not easily forgotten.

  I’ll never grow a damn beard. Even when the world ends I’m looking like a damn baby after birth.

  Patrick grabbed his gas mask, placing it on and holstering his weapons, checking his rifle, putting a bullet at the ready as he slowly left his basement shelter in search of more supplies for the week. Or, if everything went well, a running vehicle. That’d be his ticket out of here. God damn those beasts, watch them try and catch him in his old car. God, he missed that Mustang. It wasn’t a classic or anything, just a regular 2002 model. But damn, what he wouldn’t give for it right now.

  Everything short of my babies, that is. Patrick thought, running his hand over his AK-47. I’m not a whole lot of good out here without a weapon and my fuckin’ mask. He felt the familiar feeling slip over him, of the mask almost transporting him into his own world.

  Patrick never aspired to be a hero, or a millionaire, or artist, nothing grand. He simply wanted to live a relaxed life, maybe be a plumber or electrician. Take up a good trade with a steady income, eat three meals a day, maybe a six pack on weekends… Sure, that was the dream. Who knows how many people had the enjoyment of that life, after all? Patrick had just wanted that, no more, no less. But here he was, hoping for some protein bars, or a stray animal that was able to flee away from the new predator in their territory. A dog was too much. They were caught a long time ago by these things. But cats, squirrels, rats, things of that nature, all seemed too small to be seen by these beasts. Lucky them. Thought Patrick sourly. What he wouldn’t give for a good beer and a football game, maybe a lap da—

  Patrick paused, his grip tightening around his rifle grip. He heard it, hadn’t he? Surely, he wasn’t imaging it. It had been there, the crackle of a radio. Someone was watching him, and he didn’t know where. He had only just made it out of the backdoor, enough time to react. But he knew if he didn’t find out soon that could mean the end of his trip and hope of a longer life past twenty-three. His knuckles, white under his black winter gloves, the trigger finger cut out. He glanced down at the snow, there were no prints besides his. Wherever that radio was coming from, they were either dead, hiding extremely well, or had been there for a while. Maybe even behind him…

  Run.

  Patrick didn’t remember having the thought, but it was there. His feet in the boots pushing him as fast as they could, the weapons clung to his body with an assortment of rigged together holsters and straps, only the prized AK-47 clasped in his hand as he scanned the area, looking for whoever had the radio as he fled the backyard of his own sheltered home. His sanctuary. The place he had used to stay safe had already been compromised and he hadn’t noticed. Was it possible that he was already losing his grip?

  Crack

  The bullet whizzed by, narrowly missing Patrick, throwing up snow just a few feet ahead. Was it just the one sniper? Swinging behind a neighboring home, he pressed against the wall, debating on making a run for it. He wondered this as an even larger problem emerged. A roughly eight-foot problem, with a smooth head, sunken eyes, and a large mouth splitting it neatly down the middle, and its arms so much like that of a praying mantis but made of sharp bone. The shriek was deafening, the beast had fallen on him quickly. A moment later and it would be over for Patrick.

  Instinct luckily kicked in; Patrick whirled around to face down the beast., unleashing a hail of bullets from his AK. Its shots rang out smoothly, ripping larger and larger holes into the center of the beast, tearing the chest of the monstrosity before him into little more than gore covered tissue paper and bile. The gas filled the area immediately; a yellow thick haze, complimenting the red mist of blood. Luckily not lethal to the skin, only when inhaled. Patrick started breathing steadily, his mask protecting him from the foul and fatal effects of the gas. I can’t rest now. Thought Patrick. I have to keep moving, before…

  Another shot rang out, chipping off a piece of the house next to him. At this rate he’ll draw a whole damn swarm. Patrick ducked down, running for the street, the red bandana staying tied to the butt of the rifle as he continued his full-on sprint towards further shelter. Snow kicking up under his feet as he heaved, panted, and started to sweat. Hoping that whoever that sniper had been would be getting torn apart by their new friends they just invited to the party. I guess that’s it for my supplies.

  Patrick stopped, throwing himself against a house a block down. He was panting heavily, his rifle laying lazily down by his side as he took out his handgun.

  Steady breathing. Stay calm. Patrick could feel sweat starting to run down his face. There wasn’t much he could do about it, now. Considering his mask had just saved his life the stinging sensation of the sweat in his eyes would have to be tolerated, if just for the moment.

  On three.

  One…

  Two…

  Patrick heard it, off in the distance. His heart racing with excitement, as if it were an ice cream truck from his childhood.

  It was the sound of a truck engine. Not a healthy truck, mind you. It was sure to break down before long. But a running truck, nonetheless. Someone had managed to get one running. Now if only he could get to it without the driver being in his way.

  Crack

  Crack

  Patrick paused, placing his handgun back in the holster, the rifle returning to its rightful place in his hands. What the hell is he firing at? The truck was getting closer. Are they investigating the gunshots? Or just picking him up?

  Patrick continued to run, avoiding the path of the backyards in favor of the street, finding a house just down the road, the windows already busted out, but it would make excellent cover for someone trying to hide. He made quick work of sliding over the window frame, pushing shards of glass out of his way in a haste. He propped his rifle on the windowsill and aimed down the road, ready to unleash a fresh wave of Hell at anyone he aimed at. He had a perfect view of the street, watching as the small pickup truck, badly damaged both with strikes from the monsters grotesque arms across the body and bed of the truck. But also, the sprinkling of bullet holes had added real character to this barely running pile of scrap. But it’ll have to do. Patrick just had to wait for his chance. If they were going this slow that must mean they’re expecting a quick pick up. So, his time would be scarce. If they were friends with the sniper, then he’d surely already be headed towards him. But what if he isn’t? And this guy just happened to be around and he’s comin’ to check out the noise? I should be able to get close enough to the truck to take it…

  But, as Patrick correctly assumed, the truck slowly rolled to a stop down the block. The sniper, now out of cover, ran towards the vehicle. He tossed the gun into the bed, hopping in as he hits the cab of the truck, presumably instructing the driver to get out of there before more of the creatures showed up. There goes my fuckin ride. Patrick slammed the butt of his rifle into the wall, drywall falling and misting the floor and Patrick’s arm. God damn it!

  The truck began to move away down the road, Patrick happened to notice, just a m
oment before it was too late, a school bumper sticker was on the back of the truck, reading “My child is an honor student Mahomet-Seymour.” They have to be somewhere nearby, then. God damn it. Patrick used the rifle as a crutch, forcing himself up with a groan. And God knows I haven’t seen any other working vehicle since this shit started. Patrick used his rifle to push some trash aside, piled ankle high in this house. Shreds of a former world upturned: gutted furniture stuffing, old newspapers, books, empty bottles, food cans, some electronic circuits from items he couldn’t identify inserted here and there for good measure. Maybe he’d get lucky and find himself some ammo and a cot, but he doubted it. His shelter in this town had been compromised already.

  Maybe I should just go after that truck. Patrick groaned, rubbing his legs. I won’t get far today, though. Those damn things are going to be out all day and night now. Patrick began moving around the house, pushing items out of his way. I guess I’ll have to hole up here, now.

  Chapter Three

  The noise had stopped. Sarah and Steve were still huddled on the ground of the upstairs bedroom they were seeking shelter in. The creatures outside had fled, but they remained still. It was easier to hide up here for a few more moments before venturing out, still. The dead bodies would remain, anyone who wasn’t killed had been dragged off, and most of the guns wouldn’t be in working order. Judging from the sounds of metal being destroyed nothing would be.

  “Sarah.”

  It was Steve, his voice slightly frightened. But he was looking at her with a calm expression. He was the head of security, though he had been far more light-hearted and fun before this, now he constantly felt tired and hard around the edges. The added stress of the job could be seen on his face.

  “We ‘ave to keep moving. We need t’get what we can and get back to the others.”

  Sarah nodded shakily, her expression twisted into a form of terror and anxiousness. She just wanted to be back in her cot, reading her next Stephen King novel and cuddling with Beansie, her one-eyed black cat who had somehow survived just fine on the streets among those beasts, and in the basement among the hungry townsfolk. She certainly had other reasons for getting food, but amongst them was to help keep Beansie off the menu. Not that too many of them would think it, as Beansie was the unofficial mascot for their rag-tag group but Beansie was also just a cat.