The Gristle & Bone Series (Book 1): The Flayed & The Dying

by Roach, Aaron

  When they arrived at the armory, the small army of sailors waited outside the room while the operators went inside and armed themselves with the few weapons remaining on the racks. Sharpe chose an M12 carbine, shrugged body-armor over his torso, and loaded himself down with ammunition until he felt the familiar weight on his person like a safety blanket.

  Now, finally, he was combat ready.

  -48-

  The truck chugged up the steep mountain face like a death-bound mountain goat who knew full well this was its last climb. It moved slowly, drawing scars on the loose soil as the tires kicked up dirt and grass. Gabe kept his eyes on where the incline ended above, where he knew the terrain would edge off and become flatter ground.

  They just had to get there.

  Movement in the mirror brought Gabe’s attention through the rear windshield. At first, he thought the movement was from boulders caught in a small landslide, loosened by the truck’s passage; but the boulders were moving upwards in giant leaps and bounds – skeletals, charging like gorillas up the slope after them. A few dozen yards behind the monsters, the line of trees swayed before spewing out a mob of corpses. They came out in a stumbling run, stiff and gangly, like babies new to their feet. These followed the skeletals storming the mountain, and Gabe’s heart sank when he recognized some of them as the former residents of Darby, his friends and neighbors. He saw Ms. Grant from the town bank who helped him cash his check last week, and there was Deputy Trennert who could have given him a speeding ticket that one time but opted not to because it had been “too nice a day for driving slowly.” Now they were covered in cuts and scrapes and blood spatter, their mouths hanging open with dumbfounded excitement as they chased their prey up the mountain. He kept his foot heavy on the accelerator and urged the truck to move faster.

  The vehicle stalled fifty feet from the upper lip of the slope, its spinning tires kicking up grass and soil but moving the vehicle no farther. It had gone as far up the hill as it could go, but the angle was much too steep and the rig was much too damaged to complete the journey. Gabe eased his foot off the accelerator with an anguished sigh, killed the ignition, and looked again through his rear windshield. The three skeletals were halfway up the slope now and closing fast, with the dead townspeople, gape-mouthed, bringing up the rear. He could hear their moans carried up by the mountain air.

  He looked at his family and braved a smile, “We’re almost there. We are close enough to run the rest of the way, but we’ve got to move quickly, okay?”

  They exited the truck and Gabe turned to speak to his wife and daughter. “You two are going to lead the way,” he said, trying to keep his tone light for Riley. “Jacob and I will be right behind you.” As he spoke, he reached into the back of the cab and retrieved his rifle from the rear window gun rack. He checked that it was loaded before kneeling down to get eyelevel with his daughter. “Don’t stop, okay? Even if it gets loud, don’t stop climbing and don’t look back. Jacob and I will be right behind you, I promise.”

  Riley’s eyes met his, filled with worry, but she nodded silently. The pup wriggled in the crook of her elbow and Gabe looked up at his wife, “Take her, Molly. We’ll be right behind you.”

  Molly nodded her quick consent, grabbed Riley’s unoccupied hand, and she and her daughter started their scramble upwards.

  Gabe now turned his attention to his son and was taken aback by the boy’s resolute calmness. Jacob stood patient and unmoving, watching as the skeletals and dead folk continued to close the distance. Gabe felt pride rise in his throat like bile. He hated himself for bringing his family up there, for leaving the safety of the cabin when the broadcasts had urged everyone to take shelter in their homes. The guilt sat in his gut like an ulcer, but despite it all, Jacob seemed neither scared nor resentful. Rather, he looked determined to fight and survive.

  It gave the father heart.

  Gabe walked over to the front of the truck and propped his elbow on the hood to support the length of the rifle. Resting his shoulder against the butt of the weapon, he spoke to his son who had come to stand next to him.

  “If I tell you to run, I need you to run, okay?” Gabe stated.

  “I’m not going to run if you don’t,” Jacob argued back, bringing his shotgun up to bear.

  Gabe ignored the backtalk and continued. “Hold your fire until they are close. When you’re out, don’t bother reloading, just go. Go, and find your mom and sister. Okay?”

  Jacob didn’t respond. Instead he kept his eyes on the incoming dead.

  Gabe shook his head, parental concern mixing with pride, before lining his sight down the scope. The form of a skeletal came into view in the magnified circle, its grinning skull bobbing between the crosshairs.

  Gabe exhaled long and low and squeezed the trigger.

  The mountain echoed the clap of gunfire back at him like an insult.

  Miss.

  The incoming skeletals shifted their angle up the slope as if zeroing in on the source of the sound.

  Gabe slipped another round into the chamber, lined his sight, and squeezed the trigger again. A patch of earth flew up about ten feet in front of the foremost skeletal. Another miss.

  Re-load. Fire again.

  This time, the bullet hit its mark. But the thing didn’t go down. Instead, Gabe watched through the scope as its skull snapped backwards, sending fragments of bone flying, before it brought its head forward again with a snarl. It continued its leaping run up the hill and its two friends screeched like a murder of ravens at the assault. They were half a football field away now, with the dead townspeople twice that distance behind them.

  Gabe fired his weapon with more urgency, firing and reloading round after round. Some shots went awry, sending up dirt and bits of earth wherever they struck; some connected, causing the creatures to stumble or lurch with the impacts.

  They regained their momentum quickly.

  Gabe spat. His rifle simply didn’t have the stopping power needed at that range. All they had accomplished by hanging back was waste time and ammunition.

  This whole thing was a terrible idea.

  He looked down at Jacob, tracking the monsters as they closed the distance.

  “Alright Jake, it’s time to go.”

  Jacob hadn’t fired a shot yet. He was waiting for the things to get closer. “I can get ‘em, Dad,” he said. “Just let me try!”

  “Now, Jacob.”

  Jacob looked ready to argue, but seeing the look on his father’s face, decided not to.

  They turned together and began scrambling up the hill when the world suddenly detonated around them. At the noise they threw themselves to the ground, curling into small balls of defense. They registered it as gunfire, which pitter-pattered around their bodies, strafing the earth past and down towards the oncoming skeletals.

  Through it all, Gabe thought he heard Jacob cough an “oomph.”

  When the world quieted into ringing, Gabe sat up stunned and swaying. To his left, he thought he heard Molly screaming and more hollering. People, charging down the hill, whooping and shouting. More gunfire. But Jacob was to his right. Gabe turned and saw the still form of his son, curled like a baby in the grass.

  Why was he so still?

  Molly was there crying, crouched down in front of him.

  Why was she crying?

  Why was Jacob so still?

  -49-

  When the ship’s alarms sounded, Thaniel ducked into an empty room to avoid being trampled by the sailors spurred into action by the noise. A quick look around revealed he was in an exercise facility of some sort; with treadmills, static bikes, and a dumbbell rack pressed against a mirror at the far wall.

  Now, he peered through a gap in the door and watched as men and women ran past, their footsteps echoing down the passageway. He stood there for a long while, watching and waiting for the right moment to continue his escape, but the moment never came. Every time he worked up the courage to step out of the gym, the smattering of gunfire or the w
ail of a dead thing nearby had him scurrying back behind the door. At one point he watched as a soaked, running sailor slip and hit the deck hard. The man groaned painfully before pulling himself up and continuing his urgent jog down the corridor. As the man’s footsteps faded away, Thaniel couldn’t shake the feeling of déjà-vu. However, before he could pinpoint where the feeling had come from, Lieutenant Commander Sharpe walked into view, barking out orders into a handheld radio.

  The sight of Sharpe had angry acid coming to a boil in his stomach. In his mind’s eye, Thaniel recalled the bodies of his friends and the executioner sent to take them out. The operator had led them to believe everything would be all right once he and Harig had heard the tape. Now, his friends were lying dead in a cell somewhere below and he was a fugitive aboard a ship overrun with living corpses.

  Bastard.

  Thaniel’s thoughts turned violent and he scanned the room for a weapon. His eyes settled on the rack of weights. He walked over, picked up a 5lb dumbbell and felt the weight of the thing in his hand. It was heavy enough to do damage, and light enough to swing hard and fast. He returned to the door to see that Sharpe was still out in the passageway, his back turned to him.

  Other than Sharpe, they passageway was empty.

  Thaniel steeled himself and stepped out. He broke into a run, raising the weight high so that he could bring it slamming down onto the back of the operator’s head. Just as he was about to reach his target, however, Sharpe turned, his eyes widening at the incoming assault. Sharpe ducked, changing his level and catching Thaniel’s momentum on his shoulder. Thaniel felt himself lifted high, scraping against the overhead maze of piping and wiring, before being slammed down onto the deck hard. The impact knocked the wind from his lungs, but he still had enough wits to swing the weight heavily down onto the top of Sharpe’s head.

  Sharpe roared and rolled away, instinctively bringing his hands up to where he had been struck. Thaniel used the opportunity to scramble into a sitting position, kicking out until his foot connected with Sharpe’s chin. Sharpe, however, seemed impervious to the pain and simply bellowed in anger as he grabbed Thaniel by the leg and dragged him across the deck by his pants. Thaniel’s head slammed against the bulkhead and his world tunneled with the impact. When the world re-righted itself, he saw running feet before he was yanked up from the ground by the nape of his shirt. Sharpe’s men and a few other sailors were there and Thaniel felt his wrists forced behind his back. He struggled against the arms that held him, but his captors were strong, and he could only watch helplessly as Sharpe staggered to his feet, blood oozing from where Thaniel had kicked him.

  “Mr. Briends,” Sharpe said, spitting red gob. “You’re alive.”

  “No thanks to you, you murderous prick,” Thaniel spat back.

  Sharpe looked Thaniel up and down, and then at the dumbbell at his feet. He picked it up and raised an eyebrow at the weight of the thing. “You could have killed me with this,” he said to Thaniel, who shrugged indifferently. Sharpe smirked and brought his gaze over Thaniel’s shoulder, “Let him go, Ryan.”

  Thaniel felt the hands that pinned his fall away and he stared at Sharpe, confused.

  “I take it your friends are dead?” the operator asked.

  Thaniel glowered.

  Sharpe sighed, “I know you may not be inclined to believe me, Briends, given our short, violent history together. But I assure you; I had nothing to do with your friends’ deaths. That call was out of my hands.”

  Thaniel’s scowl never wavered and Sharpe kept his own expression indifferent. Sharpe hadn’t expected to see the man alive again, though he didn’t necessarily wish him dead, either. Now he found himself in an awkward position – Harig had already decided Briends’s fate, not to mention the fact that he had assaulted him in front of his men. But Sharpe couldn’t help but feel a grudging respect towards the man. Briends had somehow managed to survive this long, and he’d had the balls to bring the fight to Sharpe, man to man. He grimaced and made his decision, reaching down to unholster the 9mm from his hip.

  “You’re going to need this, Mr. Briends,” he said, offering the pistol over.

  Thaniel stared at the weapon, distrust written on his face. Sharpe chuckled and dropped the gun at Thaniel’s feet, “Take it or leave it, Briends. I’ve got more important things than you to deal with right now.” With that, Sharpe rounded on his heel and walked away, his small armed force following close behind. The sailor who had restrained Thaniel, the one Sharpe had called Ryan, hung back for a moment to speak to him.

  “You’re going to need that, mister,” Ryan said, gesturing to the gun on the ground. Thaniel looked at the sailor’s young face and noted the water dripping from his brow.

  Déjà vu.

  “The commander knows his business, sir. If you plan on surviving, I suggest you come along.” Then Ryan turned, following Sharpe and the rest down the hall.

  Left alone with the gun at his feet Thaniel frowned and picked it up. With an exasperated sigh he pushed the safety off, cursed his luck, and followed after the group. When he caught up with Ryan, he asked him what was happening.

  “The ship is overrun with the dead,” Ryan answered. “Sharpe intends to retake it.”

  “And how does he plan on doing that?”

  “He says we’re going to allow the dead to ascend the ladders piecemeal, funnel them down this passageway, and open fire when they come through. Then we let up the next batch, do the same thing. One by one, just like that.” Ryan said, snapping his fingers as he spoke.

  Ahead, Sharpe stopped where the fore and aft passageway intersected a much shorter port and starboard one and turned around to face the group assembling behind him. “We have two-man teams set up all along the passageway through here, and here,” he announced, pointing port and starboard. “Those teams will be baiting the dead in a controlled retreat, thinning out the horde until they join us here. When they get here, aim for the head. We don’t have much ammo, so if you must let them get close for a kill shot, do so. But not too close and be quick about it.”

  That was it; no grand speeches or calls of encouragement. Rather, Sharpe said it matter-of-factly, to the point of mundane. The sailors nodded, appreciating his tone. He made it seem like this was just another day at sea, and he seemed confident in their ability to do their jobs well.

  Thaniel simply stared, completely out of his element.

  Sharpe spoke into his radio, “Send them up.”

  It could have been seconds, minutes, or hours. But when they came, the retreating soldiers arrived first, firing in controlled bursts and backstepping. Behind them, coming up quickly, Thaniel heard the caterwauling of the dead. Then they were there, a broken parade of stumbling bodies making its way down the passageway towards Sharpe’s motley crew. The volume of their hunger increased as they caught sight of the kill-ready sailors.

  “Fire!”

  The sounds of gunfire exploded around Thaniel, and sailors whooped as their barrage of bullets slammed into the wall of flesh. Thaniel raised his pistol and joined the fray, lining his sight down the edge of the barrel until the face of an undead sailor came into focus. He squeezed the trigger, but the bullet went awry, striking the corpse’s neighbor instead. The thing didn’t go down. He squeezed the trigger again and again and again. Some of his shots struck true, others missed completely. After enough bodies had fallen, Sharpe called for the firing to cease so he and his team of operators could advance up the hall, executing the remaining individuals in the horde that had now been greatly reduced in numbers. As the final corpse fell, he brought the radio up to his mouth and spoke again, “Send up the next batch.”

  Another wave of corpses came and again Thaniel joined in the killing. They slaughtered with brutal efficiency and Sharpe’s death trap became jammed with piled bodies. Still, they fired on until the air in the confined space filled with the acrid taste of gunpowder and the constant noise of gunfire whittled Thaniel’s hearing down to a dull ringing. The ringing was all he
could hear until he registered a change in pitch, an altering of the sound like a shift in the wind.

  The ringing had become screaming.

  Suddenly, next to him, Petty Officer Ryan collapsed to the deck in spasms, his mouth cracked open in an agonizing death wail.

  “What the –”

  Ryan started clawing at his face, beginning with his eyes which he tore from his skull. Then his hands migrated downwards, tearing away long, grisly strips of flesh and meat along the way. More sailors fell and Thaniel realized that the afflicted men were the ones who had been soaking wet.

  Déjà vu.

  The firing line started to buckle as unaffected sailors ceased their shooting to look on in panic at their violently convulsing shipmates.

  Meanwhile, the dead kept coming.

  “Hold the line!” Sharpe shouted.

  “Fuck! Fuck!” Thaniel scrambled away as another sailor fell to the deck at his feet and began tearing at himself. Then he remembered the crackled voice of Neyra speaking from the recorder: “When it comes, it will come like desert showers that bring new life to bloom in its wake.”

  The rain.

  The skeletals.

  Nearby, Sharpe’s men started calling to each other, “What the hell is happening, boss?”

  “What do we do?”

  “Keep firing!” Sharpe ordered loudly, managing to make himself heard over the noise of the wailing sailors on the deck. He didn’t know what was happening, but the wall of bodies was shuffling closer and closer – they were his priority right now.

  Thaniel ran up to Sharpe and spun him around by the shoulder, shouting over the noise, “We have to get out of here, Sharpe! Neyra’s virus is in the rain, it’s what changes them!”

  Sharpe stared, “How do you know?”

  “I’ve seen the changing! Look at them,” Thaniel screamed, pointing at the writhing figures at their feet. “They were out in the storm! This is how it starts; it was the same in the city!”

  Still, the dead came on.

  Sharpe heard the words and remembered his dream. He looked down at the grisly remains of Petty Officer Ryan flaying himself on the deck. With each piece of meat the young sailor tore from himself, he slowly resembled the things that had attacked Sharpe and his men atop the New England Times building.