The Plague Runner

by Burgy, P. J.

  p.j. burgy

  © 2020 P.J. Burgy (p.j. burgy)

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher (P.J. Burgy) except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Printed in the United States of America

  ISBN: 9798688843842

  Imprint: Independently published

  Dedicated to all the family and friends who supported me while I was writing, editing, re-editing, designing covers, waiting on publishers, and generally being obsessive over this book.

  For those who helped proof this beast, and who gave me feedback both constructive and positive.

  I've let slip another demon out into the world.

  With love

  PJ

  Chapter One

  Kara shielded her eyes as she passed through a small patch of sunlight. It was a clear summer day, no clouds in the sky, and the breeze was pleasant and cool. Between the scattered trees, the air was damp and smelled of earth, the grass soft under her worn sneakers. She could feel the shape of every rock and twisted root, her pace steady as she sprinted through the stretch of forest running along the main road. Just a few yards to her right, outside of the tree cover, abandoned automobiles had been left to rust in ditches along the road's shoulder. They were just husks now, tires flat and windows broken, bit by bit torn apart by scrappers, no longer viable as cover.

  The cloth backpack she wore was heavy, though she was used to carrying much more for longer. She had barely broken a sweat and paused at the tree break for a moment to have a look and listen.

  Where she stood, she could see ahead of her a great green field dipping into a low valley, a stream cutting through the center like a seam between two patches of fabric. Another grove of trees waited for her on the other side, past the gentle crest of the next hill.

  She took a few steps closer to the end of the trees, where the field began, and listened again, pushing a few strands of her hair behind her ear to get them out of her eyes. Cicadas were trilling somewhere close, the leaves rustling in the branches above and behind her. The sun was high, the world was bright.

  She took off in a hard run through the field, down along the slope into the valley, jumped over the stream and bolted up the hill. Speed was essential; any time spent out in the open was dangerous. Reaching the trees, she slipped into the greenery. She didn’t need to pause to catch her breath.

  Further up, she traveled behind a line of row-homes to avoid the road. It wasn’t as protected as the groves of trees had been, but those wooded patches were becoming scarcer the closer she got to the next fort town. She knew that she would end up in the backyards of the surrounding neighborhoods and had saved her energy for this part of the journey. It would be a few miles more until she could drop back down to a jog, and the sun was moving across the sky, moving west. The shadows would be getting long soon.

  She spared a glance at the houses as she ran past them, looking at the broken windows, the missing glass patio doors, searching as quick as her eyes would allow for any sign of movement, any sign of life. She was sure of foot, always looking ahead to check the path, ears trained, senses sharp.

  This area had been mapped by runners long ago, hidden marks fading on tree trunks and stones guiding the way. She had designed each run to be unique, plotted out in her head before she even took her first step. The run was subject to change, of course, as variation ensured survival. Perhaps she would take the rough terrain that took her through the quarry, or she would take a left where before she'd made a right. It all depended on what awaited her in the in-between

  The runner typically donned shades of brown and green, or camouflage if it were available in a lightweight, breathable material. Even in the dead heat of summer, when the air was thick and suffocating, the runner wore long pants and sleeves. Kara had fashioned herself a camouflage turtleneck, and her matching shorts were splattered with deep greens, chocolate accents, and a light beige. The thin, tight leggings she wore were brown, her sneakers a beaten burnt umber, and her high socks green.

  She kept her thick, dark brown hair up in a short ponytail, her hair wild and difficult to control. Streaks of green grease decorated her brown cheeks, smeared under her eyes. The sheathed machete hanging from her belt slapped against her leg as she moved.

  She’d come this way before a while back and had decided, if time allowed, to make a stop along the way. A section of the road up ahead was littered with old, crumbling stores. Most of the shops were tall, thin row houses with faded, rotten signs out front. The roofs were collapsed, the glass windows smashed in, and the shingles had been scoured off by the elements. In all the mess, she had seen one store in particular that she wanted to visit.

  The name of the place had been ‘Ed’s Video’, and she carefully entered through the open doorway. There was enough sunlight pointed her way, and the storefront was all but caved in. While she had a vague suspicion that her venture into the store might turn out to be fruitless, there was also the hope that something, anything, would be left intact.

  She crouched and rifled through the battered, water damaged DVD cases on the floor first, then turned to the shelves. When it had all went to hell, the last thing that anyone had worried about was looting the stores for movies and music. No, they’d gone for food, water, and fuel. And guns.

  She was surprised to find so many DVDs unscathed in their plastic cases. One in particular caught her eye based on the cover and she flipped it over in her gloved hands, looking at the front and then reading the back. The cover had been washed out, ruined, the title just faintly legible. The back was far too faded to make out the words. She opened the case, took out the disc and looked it over to check for scratches. Seeing that it was nearly immaculate, she popped it back into place, closed the case, and put it in her backpack. Nothing else catching her attention, Kara left and continued on.

  After the strip of broken shops there would be a stretch of land with a barren road and no place to hide. No trees. No houses. There was the odd little one-floor remains of a brick building here and there, crumbling like ancient ruins by the cracking two lane road. This would be the hardest part of the run.

  It was a mile to Fort Pleasant Tree, but out in the open, out along the road, Kara was the most vulnerable. She could run through the wild grasses out in the fields, but that ground was unpredictable and she was still visible. The only way, the fastest, shortest distance, required her to run like Hell. So, she did.

  She passed a turned over vehicle, noting the red handprint slapped on the roof. It appeared fresh. Scowling, she pushed herself harder.

  After a few minutes of running, she found herself nearing the high walls of Pleasant Tree, the fort coming into view like a mirage on the road ahead of her. It was clear to the left, clear to the right, and she was on the homestretch. She slowed to a jog about a hundred feet from the fort, glancing at the extinguished fire pit to her right. Black, scorched earth was mixed with fragments of bone and seared flesh. The smell was overpowering. She covered her nose as she passed, fighting the urge to stare at the charred remains.

  She approached the front gate, waving her hand in the air at the pair of silhouettes on the top of the twenty-foot wall. They were guards, heavily armed, their helmet visors gleaming in the sunlight.

  She cried out, “Fort hail!”

  “Kara, took you long enough!” one of the guards yelled in response, one hand held out and the other gripping his rifle. The dark material of his riot gear uniform was marred with lighter patches, the seams shoddy and easy to spot even from a distance.

  “Screw off, Jim. Let me in!” Kara yelled up at him.

  “Opening the gate,” he sa
id, and then turned to signal to someone below, his back to her for a moment.

  She bounced from foot to foot, gesturing toward the sky with her gloved hands. “Don’t have all day! Sun’s getting low.”

  His reply came in a dismissive, though amused tone. “Relax, it’ll be another hour before the Wailers come running.”

  The gate lifted, metal grinding on metal, and the inner door parted. She hurried in and heard the same mechanisms shutting the door behind her.

  Before her, the collection of shacks, small houses, and brick buildings spread out within the confines of the high perimeter walls. Those outer walls were thick, ladders leading up to the walkways on top every fifty feet or so. The generators were humming loudly and people were milling about. Pleasant Tree was a large fort, four-hundred feet long and five-hundred feet wide at the center, shaped like an oval. There were over two-hundred people living within the walls. A water source, the natural spring, had been turned into a common well and a great, tall tree grew near the stone circle they had cobbled together.

  She waited in the entrance, her hands at her sides as a dark-haired young man walked up to her with four mixed breed mutts on a leash pulling him along. After they'd given her a thorough sniff, the dogs jumped up excitedly, licking at her hands, and whining for attention.

  “Clean,” the man said.

  “Of course, I am.” She crouched down to one knee to give one of the dogs a hard scratch around its ears. Standing, she brushed herself off, swinging her backpack off of her left arm and opening up the latched flap. “Antibiotics for Dr. Kern, care of Dr. Hassel.”

  “She'll be damn glad to see these.” Jim approached her, rifle holstered and hand out to take the delivery. His helmet was off and at his side, his normally buzzed blonde hair needing a trim. His crooked grin exposed uneven teeth.

  She handed him a clear package, the twenty or so amber pill bottles within each packed with cotton to keep the contents from rattling around.

  Jim waved over a young boy, had a few words, passed off the bag, and watched as the kid ran off toward the center of the fort, clutching the package under his arm.

  “Another runner in training,” Jim mused.

  “Poor kid.”

  He eyed her. “You have to retire eventually.”

  “Says you. How've you been?”

  “Getting by. The usual. Never a dull moment around here.” He paused, and then squinted at her. “I'm about to take a break if you wanna grab a bite.”

  “Hell yeah. I need a goddamn shower, but that can wait. I'm starving.”

  “Hey, Trev'!” he called out, getting the attention of the remaining guard on the wall above. “Taking a few. I'll be back before all Hell breaks loose, man.”

  Kara heard a grunt from the other man, and joined Jim as he started his walk into town, his rifle slung across his shoulder.

  Kara and Jim walked side by side through the center of Pleasant Tree, passing by other people minding their own business, working outside, smoking, having a conversation, sewing, or carrying baskets of vegetables or wood. A few waved to Kara and she waved back.

  She threw the backpack over her shoulder again and slid her hands into her pockets. “You guys made another pyre.”

  “The horde sizes have been insane the last few nights. Never seen so many,” Jim stated as they arrived at a one-story brick structure that had once been a convenience store, judging by the front window.

  The front door was propped wide open, as were the windows, the box fans on the countertops humming. The thick heat enveloped Kara as soon as she stepped in. There were five diner tables along the right wall, the tops of which had seen better days.

  She threw her backpack onto one of the bench seats of a table and took off her long-sleeved camo shirt. Underneath she was wearing a black tank top, the straps thin and the fabric frayed. She sat down, watching Jim as he slid into the seat opposite her and set his rifle beside him. He laughed.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “You and that knife are goddamn inseparable.”

  She looked down, regarded her belt, and nodded toward the machete in its sheath. She looked back up at him and smiled. “It’s a machete, Jim, and there are times I don't have it on me.”

  “Oh yeah? When?”

  “When my pants are off.”

  He smirked. “That's a lie. I know you sleep with it.”

  “Says who?”

  “I have an inside source.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “So it is true.”

  She pointed a finger at him. “I like to be prepared.”

  “Don't we all.”

  “Anyway... So, how are you doing, Jim? For real.”

  That crooked grin appeared again. “Oh, just swell. Just living. Day to day. Night to night. We had a fort bug run through the house. Be glad you missed that. Barf everywhere. Kids were whining. Fort folk were avoiding my house like it was plagued by the Infected. Just a great time. Oh, and Annie is due any day now. She was a real peach during the bug, let me tell you that. Can't wait to get that baby out.”

  “Better stop after this one.”

  He snorted a laugh. “Yeah. I know. I feel lucky this time. It’s gotta be a boy.”

  “God, man, you’re going to overrun the fort with all your girls. Give it up.”

  “I will. When I get a boy. Or when Annie kicks me out of the bed,” he said, and then raised his eyebrows.

  “I'm surprised she hasn't yet.”

  “How could anyone turn away all this?” He gestured toward his chest and face.

  Her eyes rolled. “I'm sure it's a real struggle. Anyway, about the Wailers. How many we talking here?”

  “Hard to say. Swarms,” he replied.

  “It's been quiet out my way for days, weeks even. Strange. Something must have attracted them here. What do you think it was?”

  “No idea. If the Red Brethren had made a ruckus nearby, we’d have heard them. This swarm came out of nowhere. Usually it’s three or four, a dozen tops, when we do see 'em, but this had to be thirty or forty. They circled the perimeter-no breaches of course-but they didn’t run from the lamps like they should have,” he said, “These Wailers were bold. I don't know. Never seen anything like it, but if you put a bullet between their eyes, they die just the same. Weird to see 'em horde up though. Out here, I mean.”

  “Yeah,” she said.

  “Wasted a lot of bullets.”

  She smiled, stuffing her camo shirt into her open backpack and adjusting its position beside her on the bench. “So you’re saying my next run is going to be for ammo?”

  “Actually, yeah, at this rate. We got Yomar and Val, but they can only work so fast, you know?” He shrugged. “The old businesses are all long raided, so we got what we got, and Red Brethren ain’t trading with us. North Corner has been quiet on the radio, so they’re probably ignoring us, and Hollow End has turned into a bunch of paranoid recluses out there in the mountains.”

  “Isolation does that to people. It was… shoot… a year ago I last ran to Hollow End, and they stared at me like I had two heads. Scared to even let me in, knowing full well I had their damn meds. It’s a far run anyway, too risky, and they were taking a vote on kicking me out an hour before nightfall instead of letting me crash there. Well-armed, but crazy. They stopped answering comms soon after, I heard,” she said, “No more outsiders.”

  He paused to think. “If Blue Lagoon has a stockpile, we might have to beg your daddy to load up the old tin can and bring some over here.”

  “Now that’s a joke.”

  “Boss man Larson would appreciate the help.”

  Her face grew warm. “Don’t call him that.”

  A large, red faced man in a stained tee-shirt and worn jeans approached the table. The tattoos on his arms were faded, his head shaved bald. “Jim. Kara. Can I get you a bite?”

  “Can I get a menu?” Jim asked. “I want to see the specials.”

  “The specials? Jim, you son of a bitch...”
>
  Kara laughed. “Excuse him, Carl, he's in rare form today. I'm starving. I'll have whatever you'll give me.”

  The tattooed man shook his head. “You should mind your company, Kara. Does Ash know you’re here?”

  “He knows I was coming.”

  “Whiskey on the rocks!” Jim exclaimed.

  “We ain’t got no rocks, y’idgit.” Carl looked toward the open door. “It’s too hot today to deal with you. If you want something, just go get it. Got a stew in the kitchen, if you want it, Kara. I'm about full of Jim though. I’m going back to sleep.”

  “Free booze!” Jim slid out from the seat and made his way to the counter. Carl stopped him with a long and dangerous glare.

  “I count my bottles, so you watch what you take, James Kalamon, or I swear to God, I will throw you over the wall one of these nights, so help me.” Carl gave Jim’s shoulder pad a shake and then stormed off to the back of the store, walking through the racks that had once held paint cans and tools but were now lined with cans of food, bottles of water, and ration buckets.

  The door slammed shut, leaving Kara and Jim alone with the hot air and the pointlessly running fans.

  “I will throw you over the wall, James Kalamon, so help me.” Jim mimicked Carl, curling his top lip before he squatted to rummage through the bottles of liquor behind the counter. She could hear the thick clanking of the glass.

  “Carl loves you,” she stated.

  “He loves to imagine throwing me to the Infected, you mean.” He came back to the table with two shot glasses and a bottle of whiskey. The paper wrapping was missing, the brand name a mystery.

  “Yeah, but, who doesn’t?”

  As he poured the two shots, he lifted his gaze up from the glasses to look at her, offering his most charming smirk, his eyebrows doing a quick double lift. He pushed one shot toward her. “Annie doesn't.”

  “That she tells you. Hey, I was told there'd be food.”

  “Let me go find you something,” he said, and left the table quickly. “There’s some kind of slop back there.”