by Cody Prough
“Dominic, we just got reports back from HQ. We need to head back, now.” It was a softer voice, higher in pitch, probably the female. “I only got one room left, how bad is it?” The woman’s footsteps came closer as well, Steve wondered if they’d both end up checking the back room. “Tennessee say’s it’s code red. Somethin’ about Dorian bein’ killed.” There was a moment’s pause before Dominic’s reply came. “Wasn’t he just scopin’ out the Sick Ward? How’d that happen?” Steve’s blood turned cold, his eyes widening with panic.
How long were they sittin’ on us?
Steve’s grip on the pistol tightened. The next sentence did little to ease his mind or loosen the grip. “Yeah, apparently we’re takin’ the bus out. Tennessee just gave the orders, came from Tommy direct. We’re armin’ up and headin’ over there ASAP.”
Steve’s mouth became dry, he momentarily forgot about the threat on the other side of the door. He had to hurry and get back to the Peterson house, what could be done, though? How much time did he have? They couldn’t move everyone. “Lemme finish checkin’ this room.” The doorknob was grabbed, but it stopped there. A booming voice came from the living room. “Damn it, Dominic, Ashley, let’s go!” Dominic mumbled under his breath, letting go of the doorknob. It wouldn’t be until they were out of the trailer and the door was shut that Steve would allow himself a sigh of relief. A long, slow exhale, his gun dropping down to his side. “I gotta get back,” He whispered to himself, forcing himself off the ground. His muscles ached constantly, but he had to hurry. God knows how quickly they’d be able to get their forces together before he got back.
Chapter Sixteen
“But Brady was the G.O.A.T.” An empty juice bottle was tossed across the basement, Patrick watched it sail across while Lamar made his arguments. “Look at all of the rings he has…” Lamar paused. “Look at all of the rings he had. He was without a doubt the best to ever play it.” Patrick took the hunting bow and an arrow they found in a sporting goods store, Lamar insisted on taking it, and lining up a shot on the empty bottle. “I disagree, look at all of the cheating scandals.” Patrick let the drawstring go, the arrow missed the bottle, hitting the wall and bouncing off effortlessly, he handed the bow to Lamar. “Besides, you can’t say he’s the best just because of the rings. You’re comparin’ him to all QBs of all time, everyone had different competition, rules, and players...” Lamar took the bow, readying an arrow as he looked at Patrick. “You wrong and you know it, Patrick. Now toss a damn target.” Patrick grabbed an aluminum soda can, he and Lamar had come across a small store on their way through Urbana last night, along with a bounty of supplies. They were taking a break for target practice. Patrick threw the can; it sailed a few feet in the air before Lamar’s arrow took it down gracefully. Patrick’s face twisted into jealousy and irritation. “You’re cheatin’, I just don’t know how yet.”
Patrick’s ankle had started feeling better, it took them a day of resting and Lamar looting on his own (after much insistence that he wasn’t going to leave with Patrick’s AK-47) and he had come back with some minor pain medication as well. After he could put weight on his ankle, they took off again towards Champaign-Urbana, heading west.
“And just like all the other teams in the league, you’re just jealous.” Lamar set the bow down, eyeing the graveyard of empty cans before them, his targets riddled with arrows. “So, to my count that’s my eight to your…three?” Patrick shrugged. “It was two…” Lamar slapped Patrick on the back playfully, squeezing his shoulder. “Y’know, for an old man Patrick you not too bad.” Patrick glared at Lamar, slowly moving his hand off his shoulder. “Old? I’m twenty-three. That’s a four-year difference, asshole.” Patrick’s reply came out a bit more seriously than he intended, and it showed, Lamar was caught off guard. “Besides, I can legally drink.” Patrick grinned, his teeth dirty and yellow. “So, Patrick, you sure they got cars in Mahomet?” Patrick nodded, rubbing his ankle a bit. “I’d have to assume, seein’ as how that sniper got into a truck with a Mahomet school bumper sticker on it, it’s the best bet I have.” Patrick opened a can of beans, pouring half into a cup for Lamar. They both ate in silence for a moment, the cold beans best when eaten in small increments. “Think we can get it without violence?” Lamar’s question came out in a low voice, he stopped eating. “Lamar… I’m sorry to break it to you, kid. But violence is commonplace.” Patrick finished his beans, setting them down by his leg, looking over to Lamar. “But yes, if we can sneak in and take it that’d be ideal. God knows what’s goin’ on there, man. Could be a whole town of people getting along. And if not, you can just kill everyone with that damn bow of yours.” Lamar sat there silently, moving the beans around in his cup.
Oh no, I broke the kid.
Patrick placed one hand reassuringly on Lamar’s shoulder until he finally looked up, replying. “Yeah, like a regular Connor Hawke.”
The next morning, when the sun came up, Patrick and Lamar began their journey towards Mahomet, leaving the outskirts of Urbana and heading into Champaign. “I spy with my little eye something…white.” Lamar sighed. “Patrick, if it’s snow again I’m goin’ to be pissed.” Patrick coughed, glancing around. “It’s uh…” Patrick pointed off in the distance. “That house.” Lamar shook his head slowly. “You’re lyin’ to me Patrick, and it hurts.” It was Patrick’s turn to let out a laugh. He hadn’t felt this good in a long time. He felt… happy. “Tell you what, Lamar. First thing we do when we get to the West Coast, hit the beach. God, I miss the beach. All the sun and warm weather, just letting the light bathe over…” Patrick stopped talking, grabbing Lamar by the back of his coat. His weapons all holstered and slung around. Lamar’s shotgun slung over his back; the bow hung loosely in his hands. “We need to get into a house.” Patrick’s voice got desperately quiet; his eyes started daring around the roads. “Now.” Lamar and Patrick darted for the nearby white house, kicking up snow behind them as they fled. Lamar reached it first, pushing open the back door and piling into the laundry room. Patrick ducked down; Lamar followed his lead. They ran over to the front window, Patrick fixing his gas mask on his face. He held the red bandana and a bottle out to Lamar who hesitated. “Take it, only use it if you have to.” A few moments later several of the beasts started scouring the street they were on, examining the area cautiously.
Patrick’s AK-47 was poked out of the screen window, moving around slowly and tracing the path of the closest lurker, his breathing steady and slow. Lamar had his shotgun aimed towards the front of the house, waiting for Patrick to start. The tension filled the air for several moments, with lurkers slowly looking over the street for Lamar and Patrick.
After several minutes they left. Lamar looked at Patrick, a frozen look of anticipation and fear on his face. “There’s going to be more of ‘em, right?” Patrick sighed, looking at Father Max’s journal as he unslung it. “I can only assume so; the numbers seem to be increasing.” Patrick flipped through some pages on his journal, writing more down. “Maybe we wait here for a couple of hours. See if any more pop up. I need some free time, anyways.” Patrick held up the journal to show Lamar what he meant. “You mind takin’ watch?” Patrick went off without waiting for a reply. Lamar waited patiently by the window, checking for any signs of sentient life to creep out onto the streets.
Patrick McKinley
Location: Champaign/Urbana border
The monsters seem to have increased in numbers. I am unable to tell whether this is from some sort of mass breeding process or if they are simply migrating through the area. Several of them seem to be quite young but there are several larger ones to accompany them. I have also picked up a new companion, Lamar Jones. He lost his brother (Kaden Jones) some time back, we are heading towards Mahomet in the hopes of taking a vehicle from a suspected group there and heading out west towards the beaches and sun. So far, the group following me (now titled Brotherhood/New America) is still tracking me, but they won’t catch me. At least not alive, I’d rather have one of those
beasts get me now. Especially with “Father Ken” having such a hard-on for me. My hope is to reach Mahomet by nightfall or early tomorrow and make our way to some shelter by then. The route we are taking (down Bradley Ave.) may not work much longer, we’ll have to resort to taking back yards again and more side streets. I can only hope that no more snipers pop up. We have not come across any humans since the night we met, and Lamar saved me. So, the odds of more snipers seem slim. Perhaps that guy was just a fluke? Either way, those two had a vehicle.
With Great Hope,
Patrick McKinley
They sat in silence for a bit, snacking on some old treats and soda. They quietly chatted sometimes, checked their weapons, and headed back out around noon. They would arrive in Mahomet just before nightfall.
Chapter Seventeen
Blood was pouring; Doc was getting to be as pale as snow and the rest of the Sick Ward was in a state of panic. Sarah was pressing down as hard as she could to stop the bleeding, Mrs. Diaz was trying to help her gather items to treat him. “We need to disinfect it, where the hell is the alcohol?” Sarah was glancing around Doc’s workstation, Mrs. Diaz was frantically running over with a brown bottle of rubbing alcohol, screwing the cap off. “Think of your happy place, Doc.” Sarah poured the liquid on to Doc’s shoulder as he bit down on the wooden spoon, stifling his scream. Off in the distance they could hear a lurker’s shriek, trying to ignore it while they worked on Doc’s wound.
“What do we do about the noise out front, Sarah?” Mrs. Diaz’s voice was panicked, she was shaking badly. “One problem at a time.” Sarah wiped her brow, sweat dampening the sleeve of her thermal shirt. “Get me some gauze, this shouldn’t be too bad.” Mrs. Diaz ran around, tossing open drawers while she looked. Doc used his good hand to grab Sarah’s arm, the look of pain emitting from his eyes, he looked at Sarah, a look of not only pain, but terror and anxiousness.
He let the spoon drop from his mouth. “They know…we must move.” Doc’s eyes shot open, they were getting wide and fearful, his lips were losing color. “Damn it, where’s the gauze?” Mrs. Diaz rushed over, and they started applying the gauze bandage to Doc’s damaged shoulder after forcing him to let go of Sarah.
After the bleeding stopped and Doc finally managed to get to sleep, Sarah and Mrs. Diaz stayed up, deciding to wait until Steve came back, surely, he heard the shot, and Doc was stable but not able to be moved safely, they could only assume. Staying put for a bit longer was the only reasonable option. So, allowing herself to sleep, Sarah drifted off in her cot with Beansie in her lap, his wet paws leaving imprints on her jeans. Mrs. Diaz, being too scared to do much other than stay up and do some chores, had volunteered for guard duty for a few hours.
Just before dark she was awakened, she could hear a noise outside. A slow rumbling of what could only be an engine. Sarah darted for the stairs, not trying to be quiet. Mrs. Diaz stirred awake, looking around the basement, a slow realization coming to her face. “Oh no…” Mrs. Diaz started to get up, Sarah waved her down as she proceeded up the steps. They creaked under her feet, her pistol gripped firmly in her right hand, her left held ahead of her opened the door. She creaked it open, peeking out. Outside, a bus outfitted with metal sheet armor, slots cut into it with guns sticking out. Sarah saw all of this from the entrance to the basement stairs, peering through one of the formerly boarded up windows Dorian shot out earlier. She peeked through, watching as the bus was unloaded, men and women with weapons poured out. She ran back down the stairs. “Guys, they’re here. We have to…” A crackle came over from outside of the house, a feminine voice with a thick Spanish accent Sarah couldn’t quite place “Sick Ward, listen up.” Came the voice of Romero over the megaphone. “You have exactly a minute and a half to surrender. Or we will set your house on fire. The countdown begins as soon as I stop talking.” The crackle kicked off; Sarah began the countdown in her head. “Mrs. Diaz, wake everyone up.” She went around the room, shaking people awake.
“Doc!” Sarah’s voice sounded strained, walking over and shaking him gently. “Doc, we have to get up. We need a plan.” Doc groaned; his eyes opened slowly. “What’s going on?” Doc blinked, looking around the room. “They’re here.” Doc’s mouth dropped open. “What do they want?” Sarah’s eyes turned away from Doc. “If we don’t get outside; they’re going to burn us alive.” Doc slowly sat up, after getting some help from Sarah and looked around the room. Cots filled with the sick and dying patients he had barely managed to save for this long. The ones that didn't make it had long since been “removed" out back, some could move, but not many. They had originally started out as a group of a couple dozen when he had first been assigned to care for them, and now there were barely a dozen patients left. “How will we get everyone up to the surface? Most of them are having a hard time breathing.”
A shotgun blast shattered another window upstairs, a hail of bullets began tearing up the first and second floors of the house. This went on for a few seconds, forcing the Sick Ward to duck for cover, even in the basement, and cower. Sarah had ducked down against a support beam, keeping her pistol held firmly and aimed at the door, covering her ears as best she could. Doc, having barely gotten off the cot, was laying on the ground in the fetal position. Mrs. Diaz and the rest lay on or around their cots, quivering and shaking. Once the hail of bullets stopped one single shotgun blast was heard, opening the door leading to the basement stairs, Sarah, knowing better, had concealed her handgun in her waistline.
They could hear the basement door opening; a dozen boots were coming down the stairs. Attached to them were roughly half a dozen men, mostly carrying shotguns, a single woman with a handgun, and two of them possessed backpacks and bladed weapons.
“’Ey, listen up.” Came a rough voice from the top of the stairs. A woman descended in black combat boots, urban camo pants, a black windbreaker covering a thermal green shirt. Sporting a Mac 10, she stood at the bottom of the stairs. Her long black hair was kept in a ponytail, tossed behind her back. A black baseball cap helping to hold it in place. “Tommy has requested all healthy enough to move come with us.” Mrs. Diaz was shaking profusely, the rest of the residents who could sit up were, but they were still waiting for Sarah and Doc. “That means if you don’t move…” She let out a stream of bullets into the ceiling, raining pieces of splintered and chipped wood over people in their cots. Coughing rose up. “I’m Captain Romero. Let’s go!” People slowly started to shuffle. Sarah kept her eyes on Romero. “That means you two, old man an’ the pretty girl.” Romero’s eyes, green and sharp, almost as if she were looking through Sarah. She felt a chill cover her entire body. “Don’t try anything funny. My men’ll search you before you get on the bus.” Sarah didn’t move, her eyes were fixed on Romero.
Romero still looked at Doc and Sarah while giving orders. “Come on, pretty.” She waved at Sarah with her weapon. “I’ll make it really ugly in a second.” Sarah began to shuffle slowly, her feet felt numb, as if they weren't her own. “Wha…” Sarah’s words were cut off by the backhand of one of the men. She fell to the ground, tears welling up in her eyes.
No, not like this.
She felt the barrel of a gun aimed at her. The weight of it hanging just inches from her head. “Hey, Tommy needs certain people alive.” Sarah’s eyes opened; she could feel the swelling start. Romero was looking at her own man, now. “Want me tellin’ Tommy you’re roughin’ up his new toys?” The man grunted, grabbing Sarah and jerking her up roughly. The pistol fell out of Sarah’s waistline, banging against the ground. A boot stepped on it, connected to that boot was Romero. “Dibs.” She bent down, grabbing the handgun. “Nice little piece. Glock 23?” Romero handed it to a man near her. “I wonder how many bodies it has on it.” She grinned, looking around the room. “Looks like enough healthy people stood up. Les’ go.” Doc was being shuffled up the stairs, looking with sad eyes as Tommy’s men were tearing apart the room, ransacking the shelves for anything of use. Sarah’s wrists were being tied; she was led up the
stairs. None of this mattered, she had no idea where Steve was or if he was alive. She didn’t know what Tommy had planned for them, and she didn’t know what was going to happen to the people still left in the basement. It was a heavy feeling to carry, and she couldn’t do anything about it.
Sitting in the front of the bus, Sarah was seated next to one of the men with a bladed weapon. He had essentially written her off, electing instead to check out Romero when she wasn’t looking, or at least when he thought she wasn’t. The men who remained in the basement were coming up, backpacks full of stolen supplies meant to keep the Sick Ward alive and now would be taken from them. Nobody would live long without them, however, she doubted they’d be living much longer regardless.
I wonder where Beansie went.
Sarah almost laughed; her cat should be fine. Hell, the cat was surviving without her when all of this started. Romero stepped out of the basement last. She was talking with two other men, they had armbands on and were nodding. Sarah couldn’t quite make out what they were talking about “…keep it closed…” Sarah strained to hear, her face hurt like hell. Her eye had begun to swell. Romero had approached the bus, stepping on. She glanced around the bus, taking time to look at everyone on board. The split was roughly two armed men for every Sick Ward prisoner. Sarah and Doc were separated by several seats full of people, Doc seemed to be in shock in the back of the bus. “Listen up, Sick Ward.” Romero looked at each of them slowly, making eye contact. “We are taking you to see Tommy. He has his own reasons. I will not tell you these reasons. You will be quiet. Anyone resisting can be punished on the short ride back. Understood?” There were no grumblings. Romero seemed pleased, the bus doors shut, and the bus took off. Sarah watched as a few of the remaining men took up guard around the house.
