Tainted Mind

by T J Christian

  But looking to the right, he sees something that sparks panic. He’d just glimpsed Karen darting to the left side of the street where she disappeared into the shadows of a building. Behind her, between himself and her, are four of the Tainted. They stumble slowly after, but there’s no doubt they in pursuit.

  He removes the second machete and takes a step toward the dead. He stops after only three steps as a fifth body joins the others. This one is small—a child. Chris’s heart sinks. Unfortunately, he had to deal with Tainted children before and it was never easy. He had to psych himself up for it every time by telling himself that he was doing them a justified service.

  Try as he might though, he still had trouble doing it.

  Looking ahead, he notes that Karen disappeared into a red brick building. There’s only one other red brick building on the block and it is on the other side of the street—hers wouldn’t be hard to find. Instead of following the Tainted and hoping to surprise them from behind, he makes his way toward the alley behind the buildings. Hopefully, he will make it to Karen before the Tainted can make it to the front door. If the rear exit is locked or barricaded, then Karen will be in a hell of a lot of trouble. He’s also taking a gamble he’ll make it in through the rear of the building. He isn’t crazy enough to take on five Tainted on his own—even if one of them is the size of a child.

  Trash litters the alley between the buildings. A rusted vehicle leans against one, two of its rotting tires on the ground, the other two against the brick. There’s just enough room for him to skirt by without cutting himself on the vehicle’s twisted metal body.

  Something jerks his arm. At first, he thinks a piece of metal had snagged his sleeve, but when he looks down, an emaciated hand has hold of him. He tries to jerk away as the Tainted hisses and gurgles from behind the driver’s seat—thankfully; the seatbelt locks it in place. Chris was lucky. He’d been so intent on reaching Karen that he neglected his own safety. If it weren’t for the seatbelt, his arm could have been between the Tainted’s teeth before he could do anything about it.

  He has no time to waste so one sweep of the machete separated the hand from the arm, freeing him so he could continue on his way. After the car though, he takes a little extra care as he passed windows and open doorways—making sure there were no more surprises lying in wait.

  Finally, he approaches the back of the red-brick building. The back door is missing, torn from its hinges sometime in the past. Peeking in, he can see all the way through to the front. The Tainted have not yet made it to the front door, but he can see them on the street beyond.

  “Karen,” he whispers.

  A second later a voice comes from above and to his left. “Up here.”

  He sticks his head inside. To the left is two sets of stairs with a landing midway between. The lower set of steps run perpendicular to the wall and ends at the landing. The other set runs parallel up the back wall and to the second floor. Standing on the landing is Karen, ax at the ready for the imminent encounter. Relief is apparent on her face. The Tainted are just outside so he makes his way up to her, but she waves him back.

  “No,” she says. “Stay outside until the first two are on the stairs.”

  It’s not until that moment that Chris realizes she is crying. He asks, “What’s wrong?”

  She shakes her head back and forth rapidly. Stammering, she says, “I can’t…I can’t…”

  “Can’t what?” he asks, glancing toward the door again. The Tainted are just outside. He only has a few more moments before they are inside and see him.

  She stammers and all he makes out is, “…the kid, the kid…”

  “It’s okay,” he says. He has to get out. The Tainted are at the door. “I’ll take care of it.”

  Chris ducks outside and waits. As soon as he hears her strike down the first one, he’ll rush the room and take the ones in the rear.

  But nothing is as easy as it seems.

  * * *

  Quincy dozes. Sleep would be a blessing, but the pain is too much. The ache within him modulates, rising to a crescendo, then diminishing—almost to the point he thinks it might go away. As he breathes easier, and just when it seems sleep is within his grasp, relief slips away—as if his body is teasing him.

  He’s there now, right at the point the pain is at its least—for the moment, it’s bearable. Eyes fluttering, he searches for sleep, but this time, as exhaustion should win over, his mind won’t quit spinning.

  It’s been a week since Chris arrived. His feelings about the boy were good in the beginning—they still are but he can’t help but feel the doubt. It’s probably the cancer wreaking havoc on his mind. When he’s in pain, it’s all he can think about—but when he’s not, he still thinks about it, wondering when it will return and how bad it will get this time. These thoughts are the only thing keeping him company—at times like this, he wishes he had the strength to walk across the room and grab the shotgun, but he’s so weak he probably couldn’t even pull the trigger.

  He drifts, eyes closing. Is this it? Is he going to finally get some sleep? Or is it his time—time to die?

  His startles awake. Something has awakened him—and this time it’s not his body. He heard something.

  “Karen?”

  Surely it was her. She’d only left a few minutes ago, right?

  He tries to lift onto one elbow, but his arms buckle and he sinks back into the layer of quilts covering the couch.

  He tries again, “Karen?”

  No answer.

  He’s positive he heard something.

  Then it comes again—distant thunder. But is that what he heard? Whatever jolted him awake was closer than that distant storm. It had been a sharp sound. Not glass. Not a voice. Definitely not thunder. He closes his eyes and imagines himself walking through the house. He’s been here long enough that he should know every squeak, groan, and whine. Near the back door is a floorboard. It’s not loose, but it is weak. It bows about half an inch when stepped on. He and Karen had learned to avoid it so they wouldn’t break it and cause there to be a hole in the floor.

  Was that what he heard? If so, then it wasn’t Karen.

  “Chris?”

  Oh, God, his voice is so weak. Bless Karen, she left a large cup of water on the coffee table. She even brought the table closer to the couch so he could reach it without having to get up. Although it’s warm, it feels good on his tongue and down his throat.

  Squeak!

  Quincy jerks as if struck by something. The cup slips out of his hand and strikes the edge of the couch. Water sloshes onto him as the cup bounces off the soft quilts and topples onto the floor.

  “Karen?” he asks again.

  A figure steps into the living room and it’s not Karen.

  * * *

  Karen kneels on the landing between the first and second floors, making herself visible to the Tainted as they come in the building’s front entrance. She squeezes the pick-ax and tenses her muscles to strike. Here comes the first one—the right shoe barely hanging onto the thing’s foot. The sole, hanging several inches below the foot, slaps the ground with every other step. It mounts the stairs, stumbling awkwardly but with renewed vigor as it catches her scent and focuses its cloudy eyes on her. The Tainted’s foot comes down on the wooden step like normal, but the rubber sole slides underneath it. Karen doesn’t realize there is a problem until the Tainted falls toward her.

  She swings her ax, but it misses, slicing through the air where the thing’s head had been just a moment before. Still kneeling, the ax’s momentum turns her body, causing her feet slip out from under her. One foot splays off the landing while the other kicks out toward the Tainted’s head.

  She screams, “Chris!” just as the lead one tries to right itself. Its milky eyes lock on her foot. It reaches for her.

  * * *

  Karen screams his name and that’s all it takes for Chris to spring into action. What he was expecting was to find two of the Tainted on the stairway with the other
two near the bottom steps, ready to climb. Just as he’d hoped, two of them were on the steps, but the other two weren’t—they were just inside the doorway and heading for him. Apparently, he hadn’t ducked out quickly enough a few moments before.

  A grey-skinned hand touches his face. Its fingernails try to dig into his skin—thankfully, they are too fragile to penetrate. Instead, the pressure causes them to lift and separate with a moist sucking sound. Something wet splatters onto his face and he turns his head to keep from getting it in his mouth. Then the smell of a newly opened wound hits him, a mixture of rot and bile, almost causing him to throw up. There’s nothing like the smell of a corpse that would not die.

  Still holding the machete, Chris places his fist against the dead woman’s chest to shove her away, but even though his hand moves forward, the Tainted’s body doesn’t move. His hand slides through her chest as if it were made of mud instead of skin and bone. The machete slides in too, like a knife through warm butter. It enters at an angle, bisects the sternum, snaps ribs, and makes it half-way through the clavicle before stopping. Repulsed, Chris jerks his hand away and sliced downward at the same instant—the pelvis is the only thing preventing him from cutting it in half.

  He moves a couple of feet away to put some space between them. When there’s room, he slices through the air with the machete in his other hand. The top of the head separates and the Tainted falls to the ground like so much dead meat—now it was truly dead.

  Moving inside, he dispatches the next one with little effort.

  He turns to the stairs and his heart leaps into his chest. Karen screams and kicks to keep it from biting her leg. The second Tainted isn’t moving, but it lies on top of her, trapping her with its weight against the wood landing—her weapon sticks out of the side of its head. The thing is dead, but her ax is apparently stuck.

  Tossing one machete to the ground, Chris scrambles up the stairs and grabs the Tainted’s leg. His fingers lock around its ankle. He pulls and falls backward—the thing’s leg is in his hand but the rest of it is still attacking Karen. Tossing the leg to the side, he scrambles off the floor and mounts the stairs again. He grabs the tattered fabric of its shirt and pulls it off of Karen. Dragging it down the stairs, he plunges the machete through its eye.

  Chris signs in relief and slumps to the ground. He removes the blade. It’s coated in greasy black gore and he uses the things shirt to wipe off as much as possible before sliding it back into the scabbard on his back.

  He glances toward the landing. “You okay?” he asks, but Karen screams—a mask of panic on her face.

  He can’t understand what she’s saying, but when she points behind him—toward the front of the building, he hears her loud and clear.

  “It’s behind you!”

  The child.

  He turns to face it, but it’s too late—it’s already on top of him.

  * * *

  “Remember me?”

  Quincy stares, unbelieving. The answer is, yes, he remembers this man. He also remembers hoping he’d never see him again. He’d met very few people throughout his life that he didn’t like. This man fell into that other category. It had to have been nearly a year ago when he came through town. There were two of them and they didn’t stay long.

  At the time, Karen had been out of the house, exploring the town or doing the things she liked to do when she wasn’t home. He never bothered to check up on her or pry into her activities. He’d trained her well. She knew how to protect herself. And she also knew to check the house before returning just in case someone showed up unannounced.

  Such was the case with this man—Harvey. His name was…is, Harvey. He and his companion (now what was his name?) had shown up the same day another man had left. That man had been kind—Quincy could feel a calm spirit about him. Bob was his name. He always felt Harvey and Jack (yes, that was his name—Jack) were following Bob. Bob stayed just the one night before moving on. Within an hour of his leaving, Harvey showed up and Quincy remembers feeling sick to his stomach. He remembers not feeling the same about Jack. Harvey was the bad apple.

  Still is, by the looks of him, Quincy thinks.

  Nausea hits him now, and he knows this time it’s not related to the disease. Quincy never claimed to have any extra-sensory abilities when identifying good from evil—but there were those few times before the world ended where an overbearing sense of dread accompanied someone new. He’d had that feeling when Harvey showed up.

  He felt it now.

  “Yes, I remember you.”

  A half-smile spreads across Harvey’s face. “I knew you did.” The grin widens, but his eyes bore holes into Quincy. “Do you also remember telling me you were alone?”

  Silence—Quincy can’t speak. Harvey steps further into the room and stands over him.

  “I do…I remember as if it were yesterday. You spouted off this long-ass diatribe about your poor, innocent granddaughter was killed.” There’s a chair on the wall beside the couch and Harvey grabs it and slides it over, placing it in front of Quincy. He takes a seat, leans over, and stares into Quincy’s eyes.

  “You don’t look so fucking hot, Quincy.” He reaches forward, places a hand on Quincy’s head, and mocks concern, “Oh, Quincy…you’re burning up.”

  The slap comes as a shock. “Who the fuck is Karen? It can’t be your granddaughter because you told me she was dead. Didn’t you, Quincy?”

  Another slap.

  “…”

  Harvey leans closer. “What was that?”

  “…please…”

  “Please what, Quincy?”

  “I’m sorry…”

  “Sorry for what?”

  “I didn’t mean to lie…I was protecting her.” Quincy can’t stop the tears now.

  Harvey straightens, a look of confusion on his face. “Protecting her? From who? Little Ol’ me?” The slap against his cheek is lighter this time—playful. And that grin again—that shit-eating grin scares Quincy to the core.

  A faraway look masks his face. “That means little old Bob lied to us too.” He shakes his head, looks down at Quincy and continues, “Yeah…we met up with him a couple of days after leaving you. He said you were alone, too.” He hits his leg. “I knew we should have killed him and come right on back.”

  A smile spreads across Harvey’s face. “Where’s Karen? I’d really like to meet her.”

  Quincy shakes his head and weakly utters two words, “Please. Don’t.”

  Someone else enters the living room, startling Quincy. It’s Jack. He looks just as frightened as Quincy feels.

  Harvey turns to him, a mask of anger spreads across his face. “Jack? I told you to stay the fuck outside.”

  Jack ignores him. “What are you doing? You said you wouldn’t hurt him.”

  Harvey leaps out of the chair and lunges at Jack, grabbing him by the shirt and shoving him back the way he’d come. “Wait…the fuck…outside!”

  Quincy tries to get up while Harvey is distracted, but even with the surge of adrenaline within him, he’s still too weak. He recognized Jack immediately, but he also remembers there was something else he was known by—a nickname. It was a name that perfectly reflected his personality—quiet, calculating, but quick to crack a joke. In the few hours he’d spent with Quincy, the name was perfectly fitting.

  Poker Jack. That’s it—Poker Jack.

  What’s wrong with him? Why is all this important to him right now? He should worry about getting away from Harvey. He should worry about Karen’s safety. Something’s wrong with this whole situation. Quincy realizes what it is. The cancer. Even though Harvey is here threatening him, his mind is elsewhere and not on the rotting organs inside him. Shame floods through him. He was almost convincing himself he was thankful for this distraction.

  So, if they caught up with Bob, what happened to him?

  They are both in the other room now, but Quincy has no trouble hearing them even though they speak in hushed whispers now.

  Jack: “Yo
u said you wouldn’t hurt him.”

  Harvey: “Well, that was before I found out he lied to me.”

  Jack: “So what…he’s an old man. We’ve got bigger problems than him.”

  Harvey: “I know…that’s why you’re supposed to be watching our backs. Outside!”

  Jack: “Just don’t hurt him.”

  Harvey: “And what if I do?”

  Silence follows the question. Quincy waits in anticipation, hoping Poker Jack takes this moment to face the bully that is Harvey.

  Quincy’s heart sinks as footsteps retreat toward the back of the house.

  Harvey reenters the living room like a rooster that’s just won a cockfight. “Well, I guess that’s that, huh?” He focuses in on Quincy. “Now, what am I going to do with you and that sweet granddaughter of yours?”

  He takes a seat and settles in to wait.

  * * *

  Karen fights against the dead weight that’s pressing her against the stairs. The ax is firmly stuck in the thing’s head but, lucky for her, the two corpses that attacked her are now lifeless husks. Glancing continually at the back door, she pushes and kicks, trying to slide her body out from underneath, hoping to see Chris come back inside.

  When the dead child attacked, the momentum took both of them out the door. He’d only been gone from sight for a couple of seconds but to Karen, it felt like minutes have passed.

  Finally, she gets her lower body out, wedges her foot against the back wall, and bucks her hips upward. The dead thing slides off, slips through the large gaps in the railing, and falls heavily to the floor. She’s free.

  “Chris,” she shouts.

  No response. She bends down, attempting to remove her ax again, but it’s still lodged firmly in place. It only comes loose when she puts her foot against the handle and kicks downward. The skull shatters and the ax comes free. She turns to the back door. Taking a tentative step forward, she calls out again, “Chris?”

  His voice comes back to her, “Don’t come out here.”

  But she’s already at the door and looking for him. He’s kneeling in the middle of the alley and covered in black gore. One of his machete’s rests before him, his hand gripping it so tightly the muscles and tendons in his forearm bulge with tension.