Blood Type Infected (Book 5): The Departed

by Marchon, Matthew

  “I’m on him,” Maxwell growls, taking off without a second’s hesitation. But she stops a couple steps in. “We gotta get them outta that chopper before it falls off the roof. And this probably isn’t the best time to mention it, but I’m guessing the town is that way because we’ve got infects making their way over already. We won’t have long. Kid, your brother wanted to take your dad out, can you fill in for him?”

  “Damn right I can. Let’s find this asshole. For Caylee,” he says, raising his fist in our direction. He bumps it against Maxwell’s and they take off, through the dead, don’t open doors, in search of the last of the old world.

  I realize he’s not actually the last, that there will be tons of them who survived, doing despicable things to keep it that way, but I’ll personally see to it that they’re stripped of whatever power they have left.

  “God damn that’s a lot of fucking zombies,” Marty grumbles, shaking his head at the horizon of townsfolk making their way towards the commotion.

  “We’re not all fitting in that Humvee,” I say, wiping the last of the tears I don’t have time to cry right now. “Marty, can you try to find us another vehicle?”

  “You got it, boss man.”

  “Go with him Squirt,” Sami grumbles, in what I’m assuming is supposed to be an impersonation of me.

  “No, we’re gonna need you with us,” I say, putting my hands over hers to tighten her grip around the morningstar mace. “There’s too many up there.”

  “You mean, go with you, to the roof? To, like, actually do something useful? Me?”

  “You up for it, Sami Slayer?” Felecia asks, grabbing her swords from the ground, pausing to kiss the bandana around her arm. It’s the bandana Caylee put there to cover the bite mark that should have killed her. “Please say yes.”

  “I’ll do my best to fill in for her,” she says, smiling at the bandana. “Oh by the way, we’re roomies now so get used to it.”

  I don’t know how many are on the roof, but it looked like a lot, like three of us won’t be nearly enough. But then I look at the three of us. Yep, we’re enough.

  Let’s get the hell off this god forsaken continent.

  CHAPTER 42

  The inside is even smaller than it looked. Main lobby, some offices, a stairway up to the second floor balcony, the one Buckley jumped onto, all drenched in drying blood, slowly crusting onto the carpet.

  I don’t know if the footsteps echoing through the empty space are Max and Scott, hunting down his father, or remaining infects still trapped in here. Let’s hope it’s Maxwell and the youngest Buckley. It’s fitting in a poetic justice sort of way, watching the hunter become the hunted.

  I can’t help but wonder who locked the infects inside. Are they still alive somewhere? Are there groups out there, like us, doing whatever it takes to survive? Or is it someone like the men who ran Sami’s island, taking advantage of the situation and all those caught in it?

  It makes me worry for Neil and Norwood, until I realize this is Norwood we’re talking about. He’ll be the one doing the intimidating. And Neil, he’s a natural bully, it’s in his DNA, he’ll be right at home here in the wasteland, more than he would where we’re about to go. All I can see is them liberating groups from their current regime and bringing them back to the base. The United States of Norwoodia.

  We burst through the roof entrance, all undead eyes landing on us like we just farted at the fanciest ball during the silence between songs. How many of them were hanging from the landing gear? There’s gotta be at least twenty up here, all banging on the side of our dangling helicopter. Yes, our, because we should have been on there, with Buckley nowhere in sight. It doesn’t matter, we made it anyway, let it go.

  “You get the chopper,” Sami shouts, already running across the roof. “I’ll climb up that generator thingy and distract them.”

  “I think she hangs out with us too much,” Felecia says with a chuckle. “She’s like a little mixture of you and me.”

  All I can do is slam my palm against my forehead when Sami springs into a flying karate kick, slamming her foot into the first infect she reaches.

  “See told you, she’s a miniature us. It’s like looking at our child. You can tell she’s mine because she landed on her feet.”

  “Beginner’s luck,” I shoot over my shoulder, holding up a middle finger as I make my way across the roof to the hanging helicopter.

  The five of them still banging relentlessly on the cabin door turn their attention towards me. At the moment, I’m the easier meal. You fuckers were better off trying to break through solid steel, I’m Noah freakin’ Britton.

  The teetering helicopter stops shaking immediately. How much longer until they would have knocked it over the edge?

  “One last time?” Felecia asks, holding one of her swords out beside me. “For Caylee.”

  “For Caylee.” I clang mine off it, toasting the end of our time in this zombie infested shithole.

  We’ve truly been through hell and back, so many times I thought we’d be lost in it forever. But here we are. This is it. I can feel it in my bones. There’s this soothing song in my soul, a peace I never thought I’d feel again. A part of me is missing, knowing Caylee won’t be there with us, but I swear I can hear her whispering in my ear, telling us to go.

  I strut towards the last line of defense the undead horde has assembled, not trusting myself to land a flying kick. Watching them run at top speed confirms my decision, they’re slipping and sliding, trying to regain their balance on the gravel covered rooftop. I crack a smile at their clumsy flailing, they still haven’t realized who they’re up against.

  Arching my arm back like I’m swinging an axe, I release Doug’s sword from my grip. It spins through the air, whistling, before entering a woman’s chest, directly in her barely contained bosom. Not sure if it’s a muumuu or a nightgown she’s got on but whatever it is, it’s not enough to support her girls. I bet it’s from the same place Felecia’s maternity tent came from, the one we found in that house the day this all began. It seems like an eternity ago. That, or yesterday, not really sure.

  The tip of the blade pierces her chewed up sternum, sending her falling backwards, still running, the floppy wings beneath her arms flapping like she’s about to take flight. Her knees crash land on the stones, skidding to a stop, bent back further than is naturally comfortable. I doubt a woman of her stature is meant to bend that way. Hell, I’m not meant to bend that way. And she’s exposed, that’s lovely. A pair of half eaten watermelon breasts, that’s what you wanna see.

  My hands find their grip around the lacey handle of the katana, it’s not exactly the sharpest at this point but it’s got more life left in it than Doug’s medieval blade. I swing with enough force to decapitate the security guard in one shot. I guess she’s got some slice and dice left in her after all. The fact that a large portion of his neck was already missing might have helped just a little, but I like to think it has more to do with the brute strength behind my swing.

  His head bounces off my arm as I spin from the momentum, trying to keep my balance on the unstable stones. I know his partner in crime is no more than a couple steps away, hands outstretched like he’s coming in for a hug, wispy white hairs doing nothing to cover his age spotted scalp.

  This one’s for you Dustin. I crouch down, still spinning, and launch myself into the old man’s abdomen like a torpedo. Ribs crunch against my shoulder on contact as the elderly farmer gets bent in half. The gruesome sound of flesh tearing and bones cracking is enough to make my skin crawl.

  I land on top of him, prepared to fight out of his farmer hand vise grip, definitely the type of guy to squeeze as hard as he can when he shakes someone’s hand. Probably sent every one of his daughter’s boyfriends to the ER. I bet she’s still single.

  But he doesn’t grab me. His hands just flop limply beside him, grasping at the air for a second or two before going still. Why is he not clawing away at me, trying to dig his teeth into my skin?
>
  It’s not until I push myself off his still carcass that it clicks. His head is missing. It’s rolling across the rocky roof, neck shredded to bits by human teeth. They must have gotten him from behind. My tackle did him in, knocking his head from his already devoured neck. I just tackled someone so hard, I knocked his damn head off. Take that Coach Flannigan, track stars aren’t man enough to play football my ass!

  I make it to my feet in time to see Felecia’s blades clang together, beheading an overweight man from both sides of his neck. Not sure why he’s on his knees or how she got him there, kinda mad I missed that. Does he even have knees or did she cut them off? I think he’s standing on maimed stubs.

  Ms. Nightgown, with the sword protruding from her obese chest, is wiggling her way to her feet. Only, I think her spine is broken. Her legs are moving into standing position but her head is still resting against the stones. The backbend she’s arched in is anything but natural. It’s like she’s doing the crabwalk without using her hands.

  Why can’t I stop looking at her chewed up breasts gyrating with every awkward step? What happened to this poor woman’s nipples? What kind of zombie eats a woman’s nipples? Wait, Marty hasn’t turned has he? Please tell me he’s still alive and well, tracking down a vehicle large enough to fit our scientist friends.

  I pull Doug’s sword from Nightgown’s chest, trying not to make direct eye contact with her droopy boobs. Before I can do what needs to be done, Felecia swipes her katana across the woman’s throat, putting an end to the creepy, discombobulated yoga pose only meant for advanced classes.

  “And that’s about enough of that,” she gasps. “I swear, you like making them do creepy shit just to freak me out.”

  The helicopter door slides open with a sickly squeal. Paul! You son of a fucking bitch.

  He makes a run for it, darting across the rooftop, nearly tanking it on the stones. I don’t waste a second. He’s not getting away with this. I’m not letting him. This is his doing. He’s the reason Buckley’s here with us. He’s why Caylee’s dead.

  Stones fly behind me as I sprint after him, slipping the katana into its resting place on my back. I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t have it in me to kill him. Not Paul. Buckley yes, but not my friend, regardless of what he’s done.

  I’m not even sure why I’m chasing after him. Isn’t it enough to know that he’s not getting on that flight to New York? That he’s stuck here, in hell’s dungeon until death claims him? I know he’s not getting on because I’m not letting him. Not after what he’s done.

  Love is stronger than vengeance.

  I stop running, sliding on the gravel until I grind to a halt, letting it go. Just like his girlfriend taught me to do. Out with the bad, in with the good. Inhale. Feel the forgiveness, and the acceptance of what is, flow through me. Accept what can’t be changed, and change only my perspective.

  It’s over.

  I can’t change what’s been done. Revenge isn’t letting go, revenge is merely continuing the cycle. A cycle that needs to be broken. A cycle that should have never begun in the first place. In that peace, I’m able to let him go. To let it all go.

  We’re leaving. We get to escape this warzone we’ve called home. A warzone I’m finally ready to say goodbye to, once and for all.

  He must hear my footsteps stop because he glances over his shoulder in disbelief, knowing there’s no way in hell he outran me. Not understanding what Jenny tried to teach us through yoga and spiritual healing. Healing we didn’t know we needed at the time. Or didn’t admit to. Because we’re men, and men are supposed to bury it. Men are supposed to avenge, not forgive.

  I was three strides away. All I had to do was reach out for him. I could have tackled him, which of course, as already evidenced, when paired with my strength would have decapitated him in the process. Or clipped his ankles. Or rammed into his side and sent him falling over the edge of the building. But why? I’ve already let it go. None of this matters. We get to leave and start anew. He has to live with the fact that he doesn’t.

  Paul looks over his shoulder once again, making sure I’m not still hunting him down like he knows I should be. Why did he stop chasing me? How did it come to this? I’m not making it out of here alive, am I? I never was. I knew it the moment this all started. I don’t have what it takes. I never should have made it out of that school. He doesn’t need to say it for me to hear him.

  That moment of distraction is all it takes. He crashes into the waist high wall, tumbling over the edge.

  CHAPTER 43

  “Paul!” Dr Hopkins’ voice comes from behind me as he emerges from the helicopter, helping the others out now that the threat has been neutralized, like his son should have been doing.

  I race to the side of the building, not for Paul, but for his father. I’ve come to peace with it, because Felecia’s come to peace with it. And because that life is behind us now.

  He’s hanging onto the edge, hands desperately grasping at the brick wall, trying to hold himself up. It’s funny how they’d tease me for being soft, for being the girly one, yet, I’m the only one still standing.

  I’d tease them back, because that’s what we’d do, but never concerning their insecurities and flaws. I felt like… like friends should lift each other up. Not tear one another down. For what?

  What was the purpose in teasing me for not being a manly man? Like any of them would know a manly man if he was caressing their peach fuzz faces with his burly hand. I think this past week has proven who the real men are, and most of them aren’t men at all.

  Honestly, I’d rather not be a manly man. I’d rather be a womanly man. Compare me to Felecia. To Caylee. To Maxwell. To Sami, who’s eleven freakin’ years old. Compare me to them before you ever compare me to a manly man like Joseph Buckley.

  It bothered me before. But not anymore.

  I grab hold of his wrist, watching the confusion wash over his terrified face. He knew I’d let him fall, that this was his end. His body goes still as I hold him here, two stories up, suspended in midair, completely at my mercy.

  When you see this moment on the screen, in movies, on TV, you never really understand why the good guy lets the bad guy live. Bad guy says you don’t have it in you. Good guy thinks long and hard about doing it, to a point where you think he will. Good guy’s friend says he’s not worth it. Bad guy urges, do it. Good guy doesn’t. Bad guy jumps to his feet and tries to kill good guy, only to get killed in the process.

  Maybe there are no good guys and bad guys. It’s all how we perceive it. In his story, I’m the villain. I’m the one who betrayed him. Who tried to steal his girlfriend, it doesn’t matter what actually happened, not in his eyes. All that matters is what he believes happened. His truth.

  In his narrative, I’m the bad guy for sleeping with the enemy. I joined Felecia’s side. He doesn’t see it as us creating our own team, together. To him, I left his side for hers. And we joined Neil’s side. And let Norwood be one of us. And then made his own father like me more than him. To Paul, I’m the bad guy.

  I pull him up with both hands, using the wall for leverage. It’s strange how things come full circle. Almost a week ago, it was Felecia I was pulling up, a practical stranger I despised. Now it’s Paul. Again, a stranger I despise. My best friend, someone I don’t even know anymore.

  He doesn’t say a word as I hoist him up, pulling him over the barrier. He straddles it for a second before collapsing onto the rooftop, heart rate preventing him from catching a full breath. The blank look in his eyes offers no gratitude or regret. It’s just confusion mixed with fear and anger.

  I don’t need a thank you or an apology, at this point, I doubt it would mean a whole hell of a lot.

  Turning my back on the past, I jog towards the helicopter where Dr Hopkins is standing, frozen in shock, no clue what to make of what just went down. All he wants is to be proud of his son. But what is there to be proud of? At every juncture where he could have done something brave and remarkable, h
e chose not to.

  It was a choice. Just like the choices we all make every minute of every day. One bad decision turns into a string of bad decisions, until the right ones are too far to reach. At some point, there’s no coming back. All we can do is make as many right decisions as we can. We know them when they’re presented to us. We can claim not to all we want, but the fact of the matter is, there’s a right and there’s a wrong and we color it in shades of gray. Our hearts know. We just try to argue with them so we can justify making the wrong decision because it’s easier at the time.

  “Thank you,” Dr Hopkins whispers over trembling lips, patting me on the back with a weary hand, knowing his son is watching and not wanting to further the divide between them by hugging me like he so desperately wants to. “Noah, son.” He spins me to face him anyway, wrapping his arms around me. “This world is a better place because of you. You, and your friends, your girlfriend, you’re what we should all strive to be. For a million reasons I can’t list right now, thank you.”

  “It’s my honor.” I pat his back, pulling away from our embrace, trying to ignore the daggers Paul is shooting through me for receiving the affection he’s wanted from this man his entire life. This is far worse than death for him, and it brings joy to my soul.

  “Ms. Harmon,” he says, nodding proudly, “the epitome of strength, grace and beauty. It has been… enlightening. You really are something else.”

  “Thank you, Doctor. You realize this isn’t goodbye though, right? They’re waiting for us at the airstrip, not even a half hour from here. We’re saved, we’re going to England.”

  “Not me,” he says with a slight shake of his head, his voice cracking, on the verge of tears. “I uh, I have to stay here.”