Elixr Plague (Episode 6): Refugees

by Richardson, Marcus

  "Oh, I'm fine," Alan muttered, taking in Cade’s quizzical expression. "Just a little morose at the moment." He poured another cup of coffee and handed the steaming mug to Cade. "You’ve been outside for what, two hours now? You must be freezing."

  Cade nodded and accepted the coffee mug with hands that felt like ice when they brushed Alan's.

  "I sent someone up to take over for you—are they going to be okay up there by themselves?"

  Cade blew across the top of his mug, looked at Alan and nodded. He took a sip and made a face.

  "Sorry. I'm afraid the coffee’s a bit…stale."

  Cade nodded, took another sip, then shrugged one shoulder.

  Alan snorted. "That's true, it’s still better than the army’s version, isn’t it?"

  Mary appeared in the doorway, wringing her hands on a towel. "I don't think I'll ever understand how you two can have such a conversation with only one of you talking," she said, stepping into the kitchen and getting herself a mug from the sink.

  Alan smiled, but knew it didn't reach his eyes. "Well, when you’ve been around someone as long as Cade and I have, sometimes words just get in the way."

  Cade offered a weak smile, and nodded, then pointedly examined his coffee.

  Alan cleared his throat. "Mary, how's...how’s Nate doing?"

  Mary sighed before taking a sip of her coffee. If the bitterness bothered her, she gave no outward impression. "I'd like to say he'll be fine, given time…but I don't know, pastor, I just don't know. That man is broken. And no one can blame him. What happened was just…"

  Alan nodded in sympathy. "It's awful. But that word doesn't even come close to doing it justice, does it?"

  "No," Mary said.v “It doesn't, doesn't it?" She exhaled. "Physically, I think it's fine. He doesn't appear to be sick, but he's got lots of bruises and cuts. They must have had a rough time of it just getting here. Now he's got a broken nose, and possibly a broken hand. He really went after those two boys, didn't he?"

  Alan hid a smile behind his coffee mug. Only Mary could get away with calling two grown men "boys." To her, in her late 70s, he supposed anyone younger than her was considered a child. "I hear they took the worst of it."

  Mary nodded. "You heard right. They couldn't bring themselves to fight back. They tried to stop poor Nate, but for the most part, they just took a beating." She shook her head. "Never in all my days have I ever seen so much fighting and bloodshed in a church before."

  "May God have mercy on all of us," Alan intoned.

  "But I'm happy to say that little girl is doing much better. She's eating and drinking now, and when I left her just a moment ago, she was playing with one of the other children." A rare smile graced Margaret's face, and despite the severity of her dress and usual countenance, she looked beatific.

  It's a shame she doesn't smile more. Alan cleared his throat again. "That's good! I'm glad to hear it. Probably the first good news we've had—"

  "Pastor!" someone shouted down the hall leading toward the main church. "Pastor Walsh! Hurry!" the voice added, louder.

  Cade shot a glance at Alan, then jumped to his feet and thundered down the hall.

  Alan and Mary look at each other, then both rose and made their way toward the main church.

  "I'm here, down the hall in the kitchen," Alan called out.

  A figure emerged in the shadows of the end of the corridor, spotted him, then ran forward. "Pastor—" he said breathlessly. "We’ve got trouble!"

  Alan reached out a hand and put it on the man's arm. "Daniel, catch your breath, son. What is it?"

  The young man gulped air and swallowed at the same time, then leaned forward, caught his breath, and stood up. His face was covered in a sheen of sweat, and his eyes were wide and wild. "We're out there building the wall like you asked," he said, nodding toward the window at the end of the hallway.

  "Good, good…is there a problem with the—"

  "No, no, the wall’s coming along just great," Daniel said. "But…the guy up in the lighthouse, I forget his name—"

  "Douglas," Mary added.

  "Right. He spotted a bunch of people moving through the woods, heading this way." Daniel's eyes went from Mary to Alan. “He says they’re walking funny."

  Alan leaned forward on his cane. "What do you mean, walking funny?"

  "I…I think they’re zombies. From town," he added quickly. "They're getting closer. I don't know why they're coming here—"

  “Well, I wouldn't be surprised if they were attracted by all that noise those fools made putting down poor Tina Bickels. Sounded like World War III outside." Mary said with a judgmental sniff. She placed her hands on her hips. "I'll go make sure they get as much of the wall finished as possible, and get everyone back inside."

  "Good," Alan said, with a nod of thanks to Mary. "Daniel," he said, turning back to the younger man. "Please round up anyone with firearms experience and have them meet me in the turret room.” When the youth stared at him with a blank look on his face, Alan continued. “Where the stairs leading to the lighthouse are?”

  "You got it!" Daniel said. He turned and sprinted down the hallway, yelling for volunteers as he entered the church.

  By the time Alan made it to the turret room, Cade was already pounding down the stairs. Alan did not like the look on his face.

  "Is it bad?" He asked.

  Cade held his eyes for a long moment, then slowly nodded. He swallowed, his Adam's apple moving under a scruffy, half-grown beard.

  Alan leaned back against the wall and exhaled. "God, we’re going to need any help you can give us on this one."

  5

  Ghost Town

  Mukwonago, Wisconsin

  "Doesn't look good for the home team," Seneca muttered.

  Ward squinted. "Well, I don't think that's Plum, at least. Not ugly enough. So he’s got that going for him.”

  "Do we go around him? Your friend’s house is right up there, isn't it?" asked Kendra, pointing at the windshield. "We can take that side street back there, and loop around the hill can't we?"

  "Yeah,” Ward muttered, “but what if there's twenty of his buddies over there on that side? I say we run this fucker over and get to Plum’s house, posthaste."

  Seneca shifted into gear and the big engine grumbled. "This damn thing’s so loud, I don't want to drive around the neighborhood. If there are more of them, they’ll be attracted to us like a magnet. We’re going to go check on Plum first, then we'll see about getting some new wheels." He let off the brake and push down the gas, driving the massive ambulance closer to the zombie. As they passed Plum’s neighbor’s driveway, the zombie suddenly looked up, his rheumy, milky eyes leaking blood. A ragged mouth opened, and he took one staggering step forward, leaving the asphalt dark where he stood. Leaving a dark stain on the asphalt where he stood.

  As Seneca into Plum’s downward sloping driveway, the zombie scrabbled at the hood, clawing to no avail with broken nails and bloody fingers. It threw back its head and howled, an animalistic roar that echoed across the houses.

  "God dammit," Ward said. Before the ambulance had even stopped, he kicked open his door and jumped out, drawing his knife.

  "Hey, what are you doing?" Seneca called, throwing the vehicle in park. He opened his as well, dragging his rifle with him.

  "Wait!” Sam called.

  By the time Seneca got his rifle up and moved around the front of the vehicle, the zombie lay twitching on the ground, Ward’s knife sticking out at the base of its skull. Ward retrieved the knife with a sick squelch and wiped it on the zombie’s shirt. "Figured you wanted to stay quiet," Ward said with a smirk. He glanced over Seneca’s shoulder and jerked his chin at the garage. "That don't look good."

  Seneca turned, his rifle lowered, and looked at the white garage doors. One white aluminum double bay, one single, separated by a column of brick. Blood stained the white panelling, and they’d been heavily dented. At first, Seneca thought a vehicle had rammed it, then he realized if a car or truck
had smashed into it, the door would've been mangled, not just dented—certainly not with the amount of blood smeared on it.

  Ward sheath his knife, pulled his rifle out of the front seat, and trotted to the corner of the garage facing the rear yard. He peeked around the corner, then snapped back against the garage. He pointed at his eyes, raised three fingers, and then pointed to the backyard.

  Seneca arched an eyebrow and brought his rifle to his shoulder, questioning whether Ward saw people or zombies. Ward raised one arm horizontal with a limp wrist and grasping fingers, rolled his head back on his shoulders and mimicked swaying in place.

  Zombies.

  Seneca leaned in the open driver’s door. "You guys shut these doors and lock ‘em. There’s zekes in the backyard. Me and Ward’ll clear the house. We’ll come back and get you when it's safe."

  "No way, man—I ain’t staying in here,” Sam said. "I can help!"

  "I believe you can," Seneca said quickly, his eyes watching Ward at the corner of the house. "But to be honest, I don't know you yet—we haven't trained together, and I don't need shooting you by accident on my conscience right now, you know what I mean? Look, me and Ward’re professionals…we’ve done this before.”

  “You’ve faced the zombie apocalypse before?” asked Kendra, crossing her arms.

  Seneca made a face. “We won’t take more than five minutes. We’ll have the house cleared and be back here before you know it. Keep these doors locked and keep your weapons ready. But try stay out of sight, I doubt the zekes will bother you."

  Kendra started to object, but Seneca stepped back and shut the door, grateful to see Sam lock it immediately. Seneca slapped the side with his gloved hand, stepped down, then trotted over to Ward. He glanced over his shoulder and saw Kendra pull the passenger door shut.

  He turned back to Ward. “All right, let's go find Plum." Seneca pointed around the corner and placed a hand on his XO’s shoulder to let him know he'd be following immediately behind.

  They moved smoothly around the corner of the house and stepped into the backyard, rifles up and ready. They immediately found a wooden deck stretching nearly half the length of the house. A zombie staggered around on the peeling boards, flecked with white paint. Its milky white eyes locked onto them almost immediately, and it opened its mouth in a silent snarl.

  "On it," Ward whispered, moving straight ahead.

  Seneca shifted his aim down the slight hill toward the tree line, perhaps 15 yards away. Milling around the backyard were not two, but three more zekes. Two women and a child. Seneca pulled up hard and stopped. "Oh, shit…"

  There were certain things that every man has to draw a line at in his life. For some, it's raising a hand against women. If they were trying to eat his face, Seneca figured he didn't have much problem with that. His first round dropped one of the females, blowing most of her head into the grass.

  Nor did he feel much guilt as the second female shrieked with vocal cords that sounded like they’d been ripped to shreds. When she threw her head back, the first round missed, so Seneca was forced to fire a second shot, which caught her in the throat, silencing the scream but not putting her out of the fight. She fell over backwards, leaving the child to come forward, bloodthirsty, bloody eyes, and blood-smeared mouth gaping wide. There was not a single shred of humanity left on the poor kid's face, but there were clumps of fur.

  Spots of bloody grayish fur were clenched in the kids hands and Seneca realized that it had grabbed a squirrel and likely eaten it raw. Now the damn thing’s coming for me.

  Seneca hesitated, watching as the child staggered forward through the grass with murderous intent on its twisted face. As he watched the child grow closer, he saw the form of the female rise up from the ground behind it. That was when another sickening realization sucker punched him. The female had the same facial structure, light delicate bone features as the child. It was probably his mother.

  "Fuck me sideways…" Seneca muttered, feeling his hands begin to sweat inside the combat gloves.

  A gun shot rang out behind him, signaling Ward finishing off the zombie on the deck. That one had been a male.

  Are we wiping out an entire family?

  The kid was almost upon him now, gnashing its teeth and growling. It had dropped the remains of the squirrel and reached out with grasping, chubby, little fingers. The fingers on the right hand had been gnawed down to mere bloody stumps, with a piece of yellowish bone sticking out. Seneca took one step back, leveling the rifle at the child.

  I can't. I can't do it.

  Another rifle shot cracked, and the child toppled to the grass. A quick three-round burst followed, and the remaining woman collapsed on top of the child, the dead mother, falling over her dead son.

  Seneca swallowed, his throat dry as a desert. He looked over his shoulder at Ward and gave a slight nod of thanks. Evidently his XO had no qualms about taking on the dead, no matter what age.

  "Jesus, Ward. It was just a kid,” he said as Ward walked by, heading into the yard.

  "It being the operative word, boss." Ward said, prodding the bodies with the tip of his rifle. "Don't think I enjoyed it," Ward said, a pained expression on his face when he looked up. "But I like having you around a lot more." He clapped Seneca on the shoulder and moved back toward the house. "You ready to clear this bitch? If there's any more these things in the neighborhood, we just rang the dinner bell."

  Seneca sighed. Hope the hell there's no more kids.

  As it turned out, there wasn't. In a matter of minutes, Seneca and Ward cleared Plum’s house. Several windows and the patio door on the ground level had been broken, and it'd been clear from the blood, gore, scraps of clothing, and half-eaten animals—including a severed arm they never found the owner of—that zombies had managed to breach the house at some point.

  They swept the ground floor, placing a chair to block the basement door, then swept the garage—finding Plum’s self-described ‘battle wagon,’ which was really just a minivan on riser kits with off-road tires, parked in the garage. Seneca opened the door and found the vehicle fully loaded with weapons, ammunition, water, fuel, food supplies, and a good medical kit. Even the keys were even in the ignition.

  Try as they might, they found no sign of Plum anywhere on the upper two floors. The house had been tastefully decorated in a neutral style, with plenty of beige paint on the walls. Three bedrooms upstairs, a bathroom, a master bathroom, living room, parlor, kitchen and dining room downstairs, three-car garage—complete with a small woodworking shop and a supply of tools and wood—but no Plum.

  Seneca and Ward met up at the basement door and nodded. “Got to be down there," Seneca said. He gestured with his chin at the door. Ward stood aside and grabbed the knob, looking at Seneca for the go-ahead.

  Seneca raised his rifle to his shoulder and squatted, ready to shoot the first thing that he saw. He nodded, and Ward flung the door open, stepping aside as Seneca clicked on his rifle light and hit the stairs.

  As he descended into the darkness of the basement, Seneca heard Ward’s boots on the steps immediately behind him. As they reached the bottom, the wall opened up to the left. Seneca turned and took a knee, sweeping his light over the basement. Ward hopped down the last two steps and took a position against the wall to Seneca's right, scanning the other side of the basement. Nothing looked out of place.

  It was a typical, middle-class American basement. Boxes of old clothes and books, tools, spare parts, winter gear—all the various detritus of a person's life that wasn't expected to be seen on the main floors found its way to collect dust and spiderwebs in the basement. One whole wall contained row after row of canned foods and jars of preserved food. Round number ten cans of freeze-dried and dehydrated fruits, vegetables, and meats lined the other shelves.

  Ward whistled. "Plum’s got like, a grocery store in his basement."

  The back corner of the basement held a small safe room—not something Seneca was expecting to find. Plum was a retired operator. If som
e fool was stupid enough to break into the house of an ex-Delta force soldier, the safe room would be something needed by the burglar, not the homeowner.

  Inside, Seneca shined his flashlight and found the master control switch. He slapped the panel and powerful florescent lights lit up the entire basement. Security cameras, ones that Seneca hadn't even noticed, watched the perimeter of the house. One of the screens showed the ambulance parked in the driveway. He saw faces pressed against the windows as Sam, Kendra and Joe looked around.

  The expression on Kendra’s face was one of complete and utter fear. Seneca wondered for a moment if she'd seen them take down the child in the backyard. Then all three of them turned away and looked out the front window. Sam clambered into the driver’s seat and rolled down the driver’s window, reached an arm out, and fired three shots from his pistol.

  “Oh, shit," Ward said, from the other side of the basement. “Shots fired?” He put down a bottle of pickled eggs he'd been inspecting came over to the screens. "The fuck they shooting at?"

  6

  Regroup, Refuel, Reload

  Traviers Family Farm

  Wythe County, Virginia

  Edith put her shoulder to the bookcase. “Okay, on three…push!”

  The moaning and clamor from the zombies outside that were attracted to the sound of breaking glass grew louder. They had to get the bookcase moved into position to block the open window and seal off the room, fast.

  “I got the tarp…keep coming,” Kathy said from the other side of the case, standing on a chair. As Edith and Finley put their muscle into moving the heavy bookcase, Kathy stood behind it and made sure the heavy tarp they’d fixed to the back stayed in place to seal the broken window.

  When things calmed down outside, Edith planned to take some scrap wood from the barn’s workshop and seal up the window proper. For the time being, the tarp would block any light from leaking at night, keep out the wind, and protect the bookcase from any rain or snow.