Plagued States of America (Book 5): Plagued [The Angel Rise Zombie Retribution Experiment]

by Army, Better Hero

  Forty-Five

  Hank woke to insistent shaking. The hotel room was dark, enough light seeping in through the curtains to see by, though. The alarm clock on the nightstand read 2:17…in the morning. Aside from a soft, urgent grunt from Penelope, the only noise in the room was the hum of the heater.

  “Wha—?” Hank managed to mumble, dragging a hand over his bleary eyes.

  Penelope shook him again.

  “What is it?” Hank whispered.

  Penelope pointed at the door.

  “Huh?”

  The electronic lock let out a whir that ground to a halting click.

  “What the—?”

  The door burst open…an inch, striking hard against the steel stopper.

  “Shit!”

  Hank pushed Penelope aside as he rolled to his feet. A boot thumped against the door once. On the second kick, it swung open. Hank nearly tripped over the blanket caught up in his legs. The pistol was on top of the dresser across from the beds.

  The lights came on. Hank squinted against the sudden brightness. His hand was inches away from the butt of the gun when a dark figure slammed into him, tackling him to the ground. Hank hit hard, still mostly blinded from the light in the room. Even though he managed to get his arm around his assailant’s neck, the guy had all his weight on him, and the space between the foot of the beds and the dresser wasn’t much.

  Another figure jumped past them onto the bed. Penelope let out a yelp.

  Hank rolled to his back, trying to take the guy holding him with him, but he was no slouch and pushed his weight into Hank to pin him. Then a third man dropped over him and their combined weight made it hard to breathe.

  “Stop fucking moving,” the third man rasped into Hank’s ear.

  Hank stopped struggling. He’d rather get a chance to breathe anyway. He eased his grip on the first man’s neck.

  “You think that’s gonna work again?” This voice came from the bed. Hank felt a little disoriented hearing it, but he recognized it at once. That bastard Paul.

  Paul stood on the bed, or alongside it, or somewhere Hank couldn’t see. “Go ahead, hit me. Try it!”

  Shit. Paul was goading Penelope. He must have had her cornered. Hank couldn’t breathe enough to warn her.

  She decided to fight, though. A second later there was a whump on the bed as someone hit it hard. Hank hoped it was Paul.

  “You think that’s gonna fucking work again?” Paul said through his teeth. Hank heard a hard slap, like a fist hitting skin, then another. The whole bed shook with the violence of it.

  One of the goons on top of Hank climbed off and Hank was able to catch his breath. It only lasted a second, though. The rip of duct tape was followed by the press of it against his face. He tried to turn his head slightly, to leave a gap, but the guy moved with him and made sure Hank’s whole mouth was covered.

  The two men dragged Hank up, twisting his arms behind his back. They had leverage and strength, and Hank had yet to get a good breath of air. His nostrils flared as he breathed as deeply and quickly as he could.

  On the bed, Paul hovered over Penelope, pinning her arms with his knees. Two, three, four more merciless punches were pounded down into her face. She turned away from each hit, catching it in the cheek or temple or jaw. Her whole head sank into the bed under the weight of each blow.

  Hank tried to shout, to get Paul to stop, to get his attention, but with the duct tape over his mouth the best he could do was a muffled cry.

  Paul stopped hitting her. “You think you’re fucking tough now, bitch?” Paul sat up straight, glowering with a perverse sense of triumph, breathing hard.

  Hank let out another muffled cry, turning slightly to test the grip of his captors. They both bore down on him, twisting his arms at the shoulder and pressing their knees into his back. For as much pain as he felt, it was nothing compared to what Penelope had just endured.

  And yet her bloodied face turned, her narrowed eyes glaring up at Paul defiantly. She spat out a mouthful of blood, not at Paul directly, but toward him. It splattered on the bed.

  “Still squirming?” Paul glanced between Hank and Penelope. “Hey, tough guy. How do you like this idea? I’m going to fuck her, then I’m going to fucking kill her and make it look like you did it.”

  Hank growled.

  “Maybe all three of us are going to fuck her. You guys want to fuck her, too?”

  The two men holding Hank chuckled. Hank tugged his arms, trying to cut down on the angle in which they had his shoulders twisted back. One of the men tightened his hold and shoved his knee into Hank’s back a little harder. He twisted with it, but they still had him pinned painfully hard.

  “I think they want to fuck her.”

  Hank’s nostrils flared as he tried to breathe. He didn’t have enough air for a fight.

  “But for this to work,” Paul went on, raising his fist. He plunged it down on Penelope’s face. She turned to avoid some of the blow, but again the force and his weight buried her head into the mattress. “You need to stop squirming, bitch.”

  Penelope didn’t move when Paul’s hand came into the air again. He shook his fingers out, staring at her as though he just didn’t trust that she was out. Even Hank expected something more. For as much as he wanted her eyes to snap open and for her to do something, he was just as happy if that last blow had knocked her senseless. At least she wouldn’t have to live her last minutes thinking the worst of the world. Being beaten by a Neanderthal like Paul was a bad enough exit, but the thought of what he was about to do.

  “Hey,” Paul said softly. He slapped her cheek and flicked a finger against her closed eye. She didn’t even flinch. “You better not be dead, yet, bitch. I’m not fucking a corpse.”

  He put two fingers against her throat, feeling for a pulse.

  “Oh no, you’re still there,” he said, grinning ear to ear. He let her arms go and climbed off her, easily flipping her limp body over. He grabbed her jeans and yanked them down, exposing her rear to her thighs. Her stark white skin made her look like a corpse already. “Oh, yeah. That’s nice. Look at that ass, guys.”

  Paul stood up, unbuckling his belt. “Shit,” he said, ripping open his holster and removing his pistol. He put it behind him on the dresser, right beside Hank’s. He let his pants and underwear down to his knees and started stroking himself.

  Hank’s blood boiled. How could this man be aroused like this? Beating her, and now…Jesus!

  “Too bad this ain’t getting filmed like Moby and Reese’s shit,” Paul said to the other two assailants with a one-sided grin.

  Paul grabbed Penelope’s hips and lifted her rear into the air, pressing his erection against her.

  “Yeah,” he said, closing his eyes and looking at the ceiling. “This is going to be fucking—”

  In the blink of an eye, Penelope was propped up on one arm, her body twisting so she could reach her other hand down between her legs. Hank’s eyes opened in nearly as much surprise as Paul’s.

  “Ah!” Paul’s whole body stiffened, an involuntary convulsion that seized him from head to toe. “Aaaaahhh!” It was more of a scream this time, a cry of agony as Penelope squeezed her hand as tight as she could, gripping Paul’s testicles.

  Before he could move, Penelope fell forward onto her shoulder and twisted her whole body on its side, curling in one leg as she hooked Paul with the other. The sweep carried them both off the bed, tumbling to the floor.

  “Fuck,” one of the other two assailants said, letting Hank’s arm go as he rushed forward to help Paul.

  The second Hank’s left arm was free he spun, getting a foot out in front of him, propping his chest against the corner of the bed for a split second. He probably wouldn’t have been able to make a move at all if not for the proximity of all the furnishings. With the bed as leverage, Hank surged up as though he meant to leap out of his shoes. The guy holding his right arm couldn’t stop the blow, or even dodge it. He had been so intent on holding Hank down, he forgot to
let go of Hank’s wrist and thumb.

  One hit was all it took. Hank’s fist connected with the guy’s throat. Taking a page from Penelope’s book, he didn’t stop there. He punched like he meant to hit someone out in the hall.

  The guy slammed into the wall. Hank turned his blow and shoved his forearm into the man’s throat to pin him there. The guy’s grip slackened around Hank’s right hand, his eyes rolling to the back of his head. He was out. He might even be dead.

  Hank could cry about it later. He yanked open the guy’s holster and tugged out the pistol, letting him drop to the floor. A quick turn and Hank fired into the television. Blam! He didn’t expect to hit anyone, but he did want everyone’s attention.

  The other assailant had maneuvered to the end of the second bed and was trying to pull Paul out of the tangle of bodies. Paul still screamed, so Hank knew Penelope wasn’t letting go or easing her grip in any way. Good for her. He hoped she ripped his nuts clean off.

  At the sound of the shot, the second assailant let go of Paul and dove onto the bed. Hank tried to follow him with his aim, but if he shot randomly, he might hit Penelope, so he let the guy roll off the bed and into the gap between the two beds.

  Hank fell to the ground as well, his head going the other way. A pair of boots stuck out, twisting as the man rolled on the ground to try to get to his own pistol. Hank leveled his shot and fired two quick rounds. Blam, blam! One round went right into the guy’s feet.

  “Ah, Jesus fucking—!”

  The guy’s feet were hauled out of sight. Hank scurried to his hands and knees, threw himself onto the bed, and rolled to where the second assailant was curled in a ball, holding his legs close to his chest as he rocked side to side, crying out, “Fuck, fuck, fuck, you shot my fucking feet.”

  Hank knelt onto the man’s side with his pistol shoved into his throat. The man stopped blabbering, his eyes wide as he stared up the length of Hank’s arms and into his uncaring eyes. Across the channel, in the Quarantine Zone, he might have killed the guy—no, he would have killed him. There were no rules there. No police. No questions. No one to answer to except your own conscience, and no courts of law.

  Hank ripped open the guy’s holster and pulled out its weapon, then backed away. He still needed to deal with Paul.

  He rounded the bed quickly, both pistols leading the way. He had half a mind to empty both weapons into the guy. Fuck the law.

  Paul’s back was against the wall. He faced the bed, throwing one punch after another into Penelope’s back. Her rear was pressed against his stomach, her head against the bed frame, her body curled to protect her right arm, which tugged between her legs at his testicles as though she was starting a lawn mower.

  Blam!

  Hank fired the pistol into the wall beside him. Paul flinched and looked at Hank as though for the first time, his eyes pleading for help. Penelope turned her arm, twisting her grip once more.

  “Fucking….” Paul shouted, and punched at her again. “God damned!”

  With the duct tape over his mouth, Hank couldn’t say a word. He threw one of the pistols to the floor behind him and ripped off the duct tape. It took skin, or whiskers, or something, because it burned.

  “Kitty!”

  Penelope’s head turned in his direction, a sense of recognition breaking through the feral beast torturing the deserving son-of-a-bitch.

  “Kitty, stop!”

  Hank knelt down behind Paul and shoved the pistol into the guy’s exposed crack.

  “And don’t even fucking think about moving.”

  Forty-Six

  Penelope held an ice pack against her swollen cheek. The distance that the look in her eyes made the half-eaten grilled cheese sandwich in front of her appear was more telling to Hank than any sign language or grunting she ever used. Penelope’s cheeks had several strips of surgical tape holding glued cuts together, her right ear was completely covered in bandages, and her left eye was so swollen she could hardly see out of it.

  The paramedics had patched her up really well. Even though they insisted she go to the hospital to be looked at, Hank had waved them off. The last thing he wanted was anyone doing blood work on her.

  The paramedics had even done a proper wrap job on his hand, and taped up a few cuts on his arm and face as well.

  Hank pressed the power button on the phone to look at the time again. Tom had texted saying he’d come as soon as the excitement died down, that his father was with him and that he couldn’t just walk out, not while they were trying to get Larissa out of town. Apparently, Paul’s extracurricular activity had messed with their plans of a quiet exit. The whole town was awake right now, with reporters crowding the streets trying to figure out what had happened.

  Hank pushed the zombie survival pack against the wall of the booth and leaned into it, letting his tired legs lay across the seat as he closed his eyes. The hard indent of his pistol inside the pack dug into his back. As soon as he had called the police, he’d shoved his own weapon into the pack and out of sight. Give up the other guns, that’s fine. He’d be an idiot to give up his own. Stupid cops hadn’t even searched him or his things. He was the victim in all this, after all.

  Even when Frankie had been brought in and gave a shit statement they didn’t ask for Hank’s weapon. Frankie probably assumed they had already confiscated it and didn’t mention it.

  It was so quiet in the diner, Hank heard the shifting air when the door swung open. He opened his eyes to look at the latest arrival. Penelope already had her head craned over her shoulder expectantly, hoping for Tom. It wasn’t.

  Doctor Samuel Tate stood at the door, casting a disapproving glance over everything, as though he might be categorizing the numbers and kinds of infectious diseases at play. Frankie stood by his side, pointing toward Hank, wearing an unmasked glower of irritation.

  “Ah, shit, again?” Hank whispered.

  Penelope seconded his feelings, letting out a groaning sigh as she returned her stare to the plate in front of her.

  “Henry,” Tate said as he approached the table. Neither Hank nor Penelope left him any room to join them. “Miss Kay,” he added somberly, addressing Penelope. “I’m so very, deeply sorry for what happened to you tonight.”

  Penelope didn’t even look at him. Hank had to think twice about the name himself. Mary Kay. That’s the bullshit name he’d given Frankie earlier. He almost laughed. It would have been funny if the circumstances and the way he was feeling right about now weren’t what they were.

  Penelope sighed, putting the ice pack onto the table in front of her. What little of her eyes that could still move narrowed, a glower cast toward Hank.

  Tate leaned forward and put his hand over Penelope’s. Before they touched she snatched it away.

  “I’m so sorry,” he said, withdrawing his hand. “I know words won’t make any of this easier. I can’t even begin to offer my sincerest apologies for the irreprehensible behavior of Mr. Madueno and his cohorts earlier this evening. It’s….”

  Penelope shot daggers with her eyes at Hank. He figured half the words Tate was using were a bit above her comprehension level.

  “Doc,” Hank interrupted. “We’re not really in the mood—”

  “Of course not. I understand. If I thought it would help, I’d offer to provide you with some of our security. Maybe it would help you sleep. Maybe….” Tate took a deep breath. “At any rate, please don’t worry about any medical expenses. We’ll cover everything.”

  “Thanks, Doc,” Hank said.

  “And Henry,” Tate added cautiously. “I certainly hope this doesn’t influence your decision to join our team. I know this is terrible timing, but the last thing I want is for the actions of someone like Mr. Madueno to ruin our relationship.”

  “We’ll talk later,” Hank said dismissively.

  “Of course,” Tate replied, nodding curtly. “Miss Kay, again, I’m so very sorry for what transpired.”

  Penelope looked up at Tate, eyeing him warily.


  “I’ll leave you two alone, then. Let me know if I can be of any assistance.”

  “Sure,” Hank said.

  It took Tate a second to work up the courage to walk out of the restaurant. Penelope sighed and rolled her bloodshot eyes.

  “Put the ice pack back on,” Hank told her. “It’ll help with the swelling.”

  She growled.

  “It’s not like it hurts, right?”

  She sighed and picked up the ice pack and placed it against her cheek with dramatic flair.

  Hank knew she didn’t feel nearly as much pain as the injuries looked like they were dolling out, and the ice pack was about as cold as holding a can of beer with her numbed senses. He ignored her and looked over at the television mounted on the wall across the room.

  The 24-hour news was eating up the attack, keen to point out that the three assailants were all part of a Breckenrock special security detail assigned to Senator Jefferson’s daughter. In between long stretches of conjecture about what was happening while showing the outside of the hotel with lines of police cars, their strobes lighting up the night, they managed to recap some of the day’s news.

  Hank had been able to watch the whole unveiling of Larissa Jefferson finally. The poor girl looked like a bald Helen Keller. Parading her like that wasn’t helping their cause any. Seeing her only made Hank pity them all, to the point of actually thinking they may be better off just being zombies. He wondered what the world was thinking about it, too.

  The news feed changed again, this time showing Doctor Tate, with a large headline banner underneath him. It was from his press conference earlier in the day. The banner read: NO CURE, IMMUNIZATION FOR NOW.

  “What the—?”

  Penelope looked over her shoulder at the television. Hank slid out of the booth and walked over to the television to read the closed caption better.

  —CLINICAL TRIALS IN JANUARY ON

  THE IMMUNIZATION, BUT DOCTOR

  TATE REPEATEDLY CALLED OUT