Respire

by Cody Prough

  Patrick told the story of Louis’ betrayal to Father Max, eagerly watching the clock as he went. “Shit,” Father Max went back into the barbershop, grabbing a bible he left on the counter. “I guess I’ll gather the supplies then. You’ll have to oversee the armory. I don’t believe the shotgun will do us any good, perhaps you can find something automatic. From what I hear Brett is offering an AK-47 for some supplies and weaponry, maybe securing that would be best.”

  “How the fuck did he keep an AK-47 out of Kenny’s armory? I thought he seized all the guns.” Patrick’s expression was one of confusion. “Patrick, language. Now, if there are vices to be had, men will make a profit off them. I assume you know what a black market is, correct?” Patrick let out a laugh. Father Max grinned, slapping Patrick on the shoulder. “Now, see what you can do to get the gun. Perhaps suggest it’s a rental, offer him the shotgun as a means of temporary exchange.” Father Max had ventured out of the shop, Patrick decided to grab a hat off the barbershop-turned-chapel’s hat rack and headed off towards Brett’s house.

  After a few minutes of small talk, Shut the fuck up, Brett, he got around to the topic at hand: getting the AK-47, some ammo and a magazine (taking the stock off for easily concealment) All for the low, low price of the Colt and shotgun, Brett had bagged it and agreed to set it outside of the barricade, in the old park and under the picnic table. He was getting ready to do his foot patrol in that direction anyways; it was no hassle. “I heard you is headin’ out with Louis. Better get going, looks pretty dark out already.” Brett commented passively. “Man, you guys sure do love to talk. Hey, got any weed, Brett?”

  Shortly after buying an eighth off Brett with promises of a supply run, he treaded towards the barrier, trying to catch up with Jake. Giving him two decent sized nugs and telling him to go ahead and take a break, he’d be back to cover his shift for him as thanks in a few minutes, he took off towards the armory, opening the locked door with his key and headed inside, finding it suspiciously unguarded.

  “Let’s see…” Patrick glanced at the plastic cases, running his hand over them gracefully. “What kind of handgun do I want today.” Patrick was speaking out loud to himself, opening one case and grabbing a .38 Special, tucking it quickly into a holster. “Gonna’ mark that out on the sheet?” Ken was leaning against the door, an unlit cigar in his mouth and a playful look on his face. “Oh, shit.” Patrick, startled, whirled around and placed his hand on his gun. “Hey…Kenny, what’s up? I was just about to head out with L—” Ken held up his hand. “We both know you already came back, my boy Jake told me. Caught ‘em smokin’ some weed away from his post, an’ y’know what he told me? You came back, gave ‘em weed, and Louis ain’t back. Now…” Patrick pulled his gun on Kenny, the .38 aimed directly at his torso, he didn’t react, bouncing the cigar up and down in his mouth. “Right, look ‘ere Patrick. I’ll let you go. But not the Father.” Patrick kept his gun aimed at Ken “I’m takin’ Father Max with me, Kenny.”

  Kenny sighed, shaking his head. “No, you’re not. The people of this town need the Father, so do I. And I ain’t explainin’ my reasons to you.” Patrick waved the gun to the side. “Move. Over there. Touch a gun and I kill you. I swear to God.” Ken Hughes, forever the asshole, laughed. “You’re a Godless heathen, Patrick. We both know that.” Kenny moved to the side, taking the unlit cigar out of his mouth and pointing it at Patrick. Inching towards the wall, Patrick slowly moved out of the armory. “Y’know, Patrick. You only make it out of town if I let you. Go left, takin’ the open barrier an’ you’ll be home free. Head right, my men’ll drop you in a line of fire. We don’t need no violence upsettin’ the town folk now. There’d be all sorts of questions, people would just get confused. Probably best you go out on a supply run an’ never come back.” Ken kept his eyes on Patrick, the gun bouncing up and down nervously. “I’m tellin’ you, if you go left, you’ll be fine. Probably won’t make it much longer than a few days. But it’s a start, ain’t it? We’ll send for your body soon after.” Patrick was out of the door. Looking at his options, apparently Ken was right: three men with a variety of weapons were standing outside of the shop. Acting casual, they all looked at Patrick as he emerged from the doorway.

  The people of the town were moving around obliviously with their duties, children were playing not far off. The guards kept an eye on Patrick while he slowly lowered the revolver. In the background, Father Max was being moved towards one of the homes by two men, probably awaiting his punishment for perceived treason. “Go on, Patrick. Last warnin’.” Kenny was glaring at Patrick from the armory doorway, Patrick backed away towards the gate, placing the revolver in his holster. Jake had his head held low in shame as Patrick moved away through the gate, he kept his hand on the gun, only making one more stop outside of the barricades once he was sure he was out of sight; to grab the AK before Brett heard the news.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Dorian’s bullet hit Doc’s shoulder, propelling him against the wall, he fell with a loud cry. Sarah ducked down, her breath steaming in uneven intervals. “Oh God, Sarah…” Doc’s hand was pressed to his wound, the bullet passed through him, but the blood was pouring out quickly. Doc bit down on his lips. “Doc, Oh God… Is it bad?” Doc had wiggled down to the ground, shrieking noises and gasps were coming out in bursts. “Is it fucking bad? I’m shot!” Doc’s voice was shaking. “We need to get to the basement! You have to clean and bandage...” Doc stopped, wincing in pain. Sarah was crawling towards the basement door, Doc was kicking his way over, hand still on his wound, his legs moved around with no progress to show for it. “I…I need help.” A second shot ripped out, clearing a hole in the drywall just above Doc’s position.

  Sarah looked over, Doc was still a few feet away, grabbing his wounded shoulder and failing to move. “Sarah, it hurts… so badly.” Doc had begun to weep, Sarah started crawling her way back towards Doc.

  “Shit…” Dorian glanced down the scope, seeing a door open. A crackle came over his radio. “What the fuck was that?” Bug’s voice, startled, came over the radio. Dorian snatched his up, shouting the first excuse to cover his ass that came to mind. “They spotted me, get ahold of Tommy. Tell ‘em they’re shootin’.” Dorian saw the basement door open through a busted window on the front of the house, seeing Sarah’s head bobbing over towards (what he assumed) was Doc’s position. The first two rounds he fired next missed widely, taking out a couple of the boarded windows at the front of the house. Dorian’s vision was blurring, his radio was going off, but he couldn’t hear it over the ringing in his ear. “…Storm’s bad.”

  “W…com…”

  Dorian shook his head, grabbing for his radio. “Tommy, fuckin’ Sick Ward’s firin’. Send in the men.” Dorian rolled over in the SUV, rubbing his temples. His head was throbbing, he felt sick suddenly. What the fuck was going on out there? He hit one, hadn’t he? Yeah, the old man. He was moving around a lot, Dorian thought he was gettin’ antsy. He slipped, hadn’t he? Then…the man flew back; the girl was down. He had to cover his ass, fired a couple more shots to sell it. Bug wasn’t too close, was he? Fuck, where was his walkie. Was that what it was in his hand? God, he needed some water.

  “Dorian, sending them back to get you. Stay put, lay down suppressive if necessary.” Tommy’s voice was finally coming in over the storm. Dorian’s hands clawed around the backseat of the SUV; he had somehow found himself on the floorboard. What the fuck was going on out there, again? Dorian had to risk it; he needed his rifle, as well. He was about to high tail it out of here. Where was his jug? Some shrieking could be heard off in the distance. Oh, it’s getting louder.

  Fuck. Fuck. Shit. Fuck.

  Dorian forced his way up to the back of the SUV, feeling disorientated and groggy, grabbing his rifle. Where was it? It was so fucking dark, but the snow slowed, the moon was peeking out from behind clouds. “Where are you?” A shape in the background, shit! Dorian fired towards the Sick Ward, missing Beansie by a country mile. Another shape moved.
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  Fire.

  Dorian shot again, hitting the side of the house. From his right it moved, darting at him. It effortlessly ripped through the windows and doors of the derelict SUV, giving Dorian a shot of fear as cold wind blew on his face. His rifle managed to fire off one shot at the beast, clipping the beast’s ribs, letting out a strong stream of the toxic gas. The lurker recoiled in pain, swinging around its massive bladed arms violently.

  Before Dorian could get another shot off, the gas had already drifted into hiss drunken nostrils. He struggled, swinging his arms around to try and move the toxic fumes around but he was too late. His eyes started with some mild irritation, quickly replaced by a strong burning sensation. Then they began to swell, his vision becoming even more lost to him. In seconds he could not see at all, groping around shards of glass, cuts opening on his palms. His skin, starting from his nose and moving across his face, then down his body, formed painful yellow blisters. They began to cover his body, spreading out excruciatingly slowly, causing his palms and knees intense pain, the snow only adding temporarily relief between the cuts. He tried to scream during all of this, of course, to cry out for help. Surely his men were close, weren’t they? But only blood came out. His abdominal pain tightening in knots and twisting, forcing up a disgusting mixture of blood, vomit and stomach acid. He began to crawl through it, his hands absorbing the mix into his cuts freshly opened from the glass, vomit seeping into the wounds.

  This all took place in a matter of moments; the beast had fled. Dorian, now laid in a pile of his own bodily fluids of various degrees and colors, decorating the snow like a child’s art project. Dorian died, at the age of 53, drunk and in Mahomet, Illinois. Covered in his own filth and just south of the Sick Ward’s headquarters.

  Bug was just down the road. As the beast fled, he saw Dorian start to crawl on the ground. His face and remains of his body morphed into an unrecognizable pile. “Dorian—” The truck was driving back towards Bug at a quick pace, apparently not recognizing the scene ahead for the slaughter it was. They stopped abruptly next to Bug, neither of the people in the truck spoke. Bug silently climbed in; they drove away quickly, not wanting to anger the injured beast any further.

  “Jesus Christ…” Bug broke the silence after a few minutes. They had been driving around for a bit, simply trying to ensure the lurkers were not following. “He was dead so quickly…” Trevor cleared his throat, looking over at Bug. Garrett had joined them in the cab. “Sure didn’t look quick, though.” Garrett nodded in agreement. “Who’s tellin’ Tommy?” Garrett kept his eyes forward, his fingers tapping the gun kept between his legs. “Just know that I’m not.” Bug sat stoned face, suppressing the urge to laugh violently.

  When Bug’s voice came over the radio it was firm but quiet, the message was hard for Tommy to comprehend.

  “Dorian’s dead.” Tommy was off the roof now, making his way towards the basement when the report came over. “What?” Tommy’s voice was level, he was a trained operative, but the news had been like a sucker punch to him, nonetheless. “One of the beasts, the lurkers…they got ‘em, boss. The gas.” Garrett had apparently decided to take over the conversation.” Tommy had asked where they were, Garret insisted they were rushing back, did all they could, yes Bug was safe, yes that is good. “Lose the fuckin’ monsters, drop Garrett and Bug off, Trevor park the truck and take up position at the old McDonalds. The windows should be boarded up. I’ll be sending backup.” Tommy threw his radio against the wall, shattering it just outside of Mrs. Cheng’s classroom, formerly the art room. “Fuck!” Tommy glared around; the halls were clear. Most likely at this hour everyone who wasn’t essential to guard duty was asleep downstairs.

  The door flew open as Tommy descended down into the basement “Romero and Tennessee, get your squads and get in the war rig. Meet Trevor at the fuckin’ McDonalds station. Now! Crater, Alverez, get on guard duty with your squads!” Half-awake and blurry eyed, the four squad commanders shuffled around, gathering their radios and weapons, attempting to rally their men. It was an unremarkable and unimpressive twenty minutes before they were all even stirred and reached over the channels. Tennessee’s men were an hour’s walk away, at least.

  Tommy was stewing in his bedroom, a tall glass of whiskey sat on his desk, he was debating on tactics while glaring at a corkboard, displaying a map of the state, some towns had been circled; others crossed out. He should have just taken care of them earlier, then Dorian would still be here. Now who could he trust? He needed a number two.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Steve heard the first rifle shot go off, even from the other side of this empty town the faint echo carried. His first impulse was to dart back but he knew that was unwise, he’d been holed up and away from the Sick Ward for days now. The follow up shots and noises convinced him to hurry along, though. He didn’t mean to be gone this long. After scouting out Tommy’s men and seeing their set up, he had hunkered down and taken some notes, a full intelligence report on their set up. The real question was how they were going to get inside of the Mahomet school without being detected, but it was time to get back.

  On the path through Mahomet with, the rifle slung on his back and his handgun placed firmly in its holster, he had opted to take the trailer parks; hoping to avoid any of Tommy’s men on the way back. Snow caked the streets, showing no signs of life having been here for quite some time. It was one of the first areas locally to fall, the trailers never stood a chance against the monsters. It forced people to flee into town, though most of the residents were killed having nowhere else to go, their bodies long taken away by the lurkers, or picked clean with the bones left scattered about in yards and trailers; maybe one or two had been gunshot victims among the group.

  He was walking through the yards of the trailers when he spotted a group of three looters, no doubt Tommy’s men if they were this close to town. They were a few streets away and hadn’t spotted him. Steve ducked, a cold sweat breaking out on his face. He watched as they went into a trailer a street away. After a few moments he sprinted towards an old pink trailer, the sides scraped and filled with holes, the cheap plastic damaged by a hailstorm that struck the town months before. As Steve pushed in the back door, closing it behind him quietly, he took a moment to glance around. It was a plain interior, the cheaply made furniture had been bust apart recklessly and scattered on the floor were old bags of food, the former residents weren’t anywhere in site. Cheap linoleum covered the kitchen floor, just off the living room where Steve had entered. Past the living room, in the back of the trailer he could spot three doors branching out from a purple hallway, leading to various rooms.

  He only took a moment to examine his surroundings, heading towards the manufactured home’s kitchen, facing outwards where the squad of looters had been traveling. He could just start to hear them as they were walking out of the trailer and towards his road; not exactly the essence of a “stealth” operation.

  My tracks…

  Steve continued watching the trio, led by one man in a black parka with a striped armband, presumably to signify a rank, Steve guessed. Followed by what appeared to be a female in green, and another male in a red parka. All of them had their hoods up, probably protecting them against the wind and snowstorm, he couldn’t quite make out their features. They continued to move, the woman in green and male in red seemed to be doing the majority of the work, going down the list and ordering them to check certain trailers as they moved closer. Steve watched, not wanting to leave and risk alerting them. They may be dumb brutes, he thought, but they’re heavily armed brutes. Toting two pump action shotguns, the man in black had what appeared to be a .22 rifle.

  The man in black continued to point at numbers on the list, Steve began to feel a tightening of his stomach, it was justified when the man in black pointed at the trailer, he was hiding in. The fight or flight instinct kicked in; he tried to chamber a round into the rifle, the bullet got jammed, he continued to try and force it.

  Oh, come t’fuc
k on.

  He glanced up, watching the looters moving towards his location, he opened the cabinet under the sink, concealing his rifle inside and closing it. Steve started moving to the back of the trailer, still crouched. He pushed open a few doors, heading for the back bedroom. He managed to squeeze into the corner, his barrel aimed at the door, when someone entered the front of the mobile home. One set of footsteps started to walk through the trailer. He could hear cabinets being opened and closed, tracking the noise across the kitchen. He wasn’t even checking every cabinet; by Steve’s count he missed about four.

  The footsteps continued, moving to the hallway and down to the first bedroom, the door was silently closed after it was searched, moving things aside carelessly the intruder continued his search down the hallway towards Steve.

  No wonder why they miss half the shit we get. Assholes barely look.

  Steve took a deep breath, steadying the pistol with his hands. Now there was just the bathroom, which wouldn’t take him long, then he would be in the room and Steve would be out of options. As the footsteps continued, moving to the bathroom, the door to the living room was opened in an urgent manner, making Steve jump, his finger almost pulling the trigger at the door.