Nurse Alissa vs. the Zombies | Book 3 | Firestorm

by Baker, Scott M.

  Dickson felt none of this. His shirt had already melted into his skin. Like a slab of meat, the outer skin charred while the tissues and muscles cooked. The flames reached his face, drying up his eyes until they collapsed and charred the inside of his mouth. Fortunately for Dickson, his agony only lasted thirty seconds before his corpse combined in a funeral pyre with the two deaders that had eviscerated him.

  Alissa did not feel the satisfaction she thought she would watching Dickson die. Not that she mourned his death. She didn’t. His demise served as another reminder of the constant violence that dominated this new world.

  The firestorm reached its apex. Everything surrounding the parking lot burned, including the two commercial buildings. She could feel the heat against her exposed skin. A strong wind raced across the open area as the conflagration, desperate to stay alive, sucked in all available oxygen.

  Alissa tapped Rebecca’s shoulder. “We gotta move.”

  The two women ran to the other side of the Chevy, telling Nathan to follow. They raced back to the Hummer. The others already lay face down, Chris in between Miriam and Kiera near the Ram, and Diana and her kids between the two vehicles, her arms wrapped around their shoulders. Alissa scanned the area for any remaining deaders and, seeing none, crawled onto the ground.

  The roar reminded her of the old furnace in the basement of her grandmother’s house, only now intensified a hundred times. She had never experienced heat so intense in her life. As the wind increased, she found it increasingly difficult to breathe and gasped for air.

  Alissa’s last thought before her vision closed in was, “After all I’ve been through, please don’t let me die this way.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Something stirred Alissa. At first, she had no idea what, then it happened again. Someone gently shook her shoulder. This time accompanied by a voice.

  “Wake up.”

  Alissa rolled over and opened her eyes, half expecting to find herself in the afterlife. Kiera and Nathan knelt beside her, with the others watching from a distance, all except Chris who kept his back to the group, scanning the parking lot for danger.

  “I’m glad you’re all right.” Kiera smiled and hugged Alissa. “We were worried about you.”

  “How long have I been out?”

  “Over an hour,” said Nathan.

  “What happened?”

  “The firestorm burnt itself out. It’s heading south.”

  Alissa sat up and looked around. Everything around them had been consumed, leaving behind the charred remains of trees and buildings, along with smaller fires scattered throughout the area. She spotted the inferno to their south, a deadly wall pushing its way across the countryside.

  Alissa got to her feet. When she stood, her head spun. Nathan grabbed her before she fell.

  “Thanks,” she smiled, spending more time in his arms then she needed to.

  “You’re welcome.” He steadied Alissa. “Are you ready to head home?”

  “How are we getting there?”

  “The Ram is banged up pretty bad thanks to Chris—”

  Chris turned to the group. “You’re welcome for saving your lives.”

  “—but will still get us home. Everything else is shot up too bad to drive.”

  “It’ll be cozy,” added Kiera.

  Everyone climbed into the Ram. Nathan drove and Chris road shotgun, with Alissa in between them. Diana, Connie, and Brian sat in the back seat. Rebecca and Miriam rode in the rear, with Kiera providing cover. Nathan left the parking lot, turned north onto Route 302, and headed home.

  * * *

  Stratman played dead for almost two hours, lying in the parking lot and hoping no one would notice him. After what those crazy bitches did to Dickson, he didn’t want to be next on the revenge list.

  After the Ram drove off, Stratman waited a few minutes before getting up. He checked out the Hummer and Chevy, but both were shot up too bad to be going anywhere. Of the few other vehicles in the parking lot, none were usable. That left only one option.

  Slinging his hunting rifle over his shoulder, Stratman made his way to the main road and walked north.

  * * *

  A buzz of excitement raced through the cabin upon their return. Steve and Little Stevie were glad to see everyone made it back alive and stunned to see their ranks had grown. Shithead was the happiest of all, thoroughly sniffing the newcomers before begging for attention. Archer sat by the patio doors for a few minutes before disdainfully going upstairs.

  Once the introductions had been made, Alissa tended to everyone’s wounds, starting with the newcomers. Rebecca was fine except for some physical trauma she had experienced the first day with Dickson’s group, which had been healing well. The same could not be said for Diana and her kids. Except for Brian’s broken arm, which she would reset later, there were no major physical injuries. However, being held captive for so long in such poor conditions had taken its toll. All three suffered from malnutrition and dehydration as well as sores from being filthy for so long. These were all reversible with time. The emotional and psychological scars would never go away.

  As Miriam took the newcomers upstairs to get them hot showers and new cloths, and as Steve prepared a hot meal, Alissa examined the others. They all came through with nothing worse than a few minor cuts and scrapes. Halfway through the exams, her mind began to focus on the next priority—a possible evacuation.

  With the firestorm now south of their location, nothing stood between it and the cabin. A change in wind direction, like what brought the fire into North Conway, could just as easily send it toward them. They would have to load supplies, find another vehicle, and plan an evacuation.

  Nathan came over to help Alissa dress the wounds to her arms, following her instructions on how to clean and dress them properly. As he stitched up the chunk taken out of her upper arm, Alissa spoke softly so none of the others would here.

  “Sorry for nearly getting us killed.”

  “You didn’t.” Nathan almost sounded like he meant it.

  “Yes, I did. I should have listened to you. You didn’t trust them. That’s why you gave Nora an empty revolver.”

  Nathan grinned. “I’m a cop. I’m used to seeing the bad side of people.”

  “I need to let go of my faith in people.”

  “That’s the last thing you want to do.”

  His answer caught Alissa by surprise. She jerked her head up.

  “Keep you arm still. I’m having a tough enough time with this as it is.”

  “What did you mean by that?” she asked.

  “By what?”

  “That I need to keep my faith.”

  “You do.” Nathan paused to make eye contact. “I never would have gone in there and risked my life. I would have detained and interrogated Nora, and then let them come to me. If we had done it my way, Rebecca, Diana, and the kids would still be abused by Dickson and the others, or worse. They’re alive because of you.”

  “I know.” Alissa sighed. “Still, I need to be less trusting.”

  Nathan went back to stitching the wound. “You will. That’ll come with experience. Don’t let it negatively cloud your judgment. If the world ever hopes to survive this nightmare, we’re going to need people who hold on to their humanity.”

  “Thanks.”

  Nathan finished a few minutes later. As he wrapped the wound in gauze, a low rumble sounded in the distance. Shithead’s ears went up. The sound occurred again, this time closer and louder. Shithead whimpered and curled up at Chris’ feet. A few seconds later, something struck the roof and deck.

  “Oh my God,” said Kiera. “It’s raining.”

  They all rushed onto the deck. Rain was an understatement. The area experienced a downpour.

  “It’s a miracle,” mumbled Nathan.

  Chris shook his head. “I’m not religious, but you’re right.”

  “How so?” asked Kiera.

  “If this lasts long enough, it’ll put out that fire.”r />
  Kiera’s eyes widened. “I never thought of that.”

  “You don’t have to any longer,” said Alissa. “We’re safe now.”

  For a while, she added mentally as an afterthought.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Stratman made his way through the woods. Honest to God, green, plush woods. Not that forest of burnt death he had traveled through after leaving North Conway.

  He had wanted to get as far away as possible from those assholes who had killed off the rest of his group and from the deaders, both of which he had more than his fill of. He hoped to eventually find another band of survivors he could either tag along with or take control of, or at least a well-stocked cabin he could hole up in for a bit as he planned his next move. Right now, he needed to survive. It had taken him almost a day to reach the spot where the fire had started. After that, he found fresh water to drink and a decent place to get some rest. And he didn’t have hordes of deaders to contend with.

  Sooner or later someone would stumble across him.

  From its perch on top of a nearby ridge, the deader in the weathered and blood-stained hunter’s camouflage suit watched the lone human trudge his way through its territory. The other five deaders around it began to groan. It held up its hand. The others went silent. It carefully watched the human. The human was still too far away. Any attempt now to trap him ran the risk of their prey getting away. It bided its time, waiting for the right moment.

  After several minutes, the human neared the ridge.

  The hunter deader turned to the deader to its side and grunted. The deader, which wore the soiled remnants of a National Guard uniform, nodded and moaned, loud and prolonged, almost like that of an animal. Another moan echoed from the distance.

  They six deaders stood on top of the ridge and waited.

  Stratman heard the first moan and nearly shit himself. It sounded part deader and part animal. Could animals be turned by those things? The last thing he needed to deal with was a living dead bear or coyote.

  A second moan emanated much closer and to his rear, followed a few seconds later by the sound of something, or more appropriately several things, moving through the woods. He had no idea what chased him and did not want to find out.

  Stratman ran.

  Up ahead he spotted two ridges, a large one and a smaller one that formed a valley. No way would he go in there and get trapped. Stratman turned left to go around them.

  The lead deader raised its hand, held it for a moment, and dropped it. The deader at the end of the line, the one dressed in a motorcyclist’s leather pants and jacket, moaned loudly, its cry distinct from the previous one.

  Off to Stratman’s left, more snarling echoed from the woods. A pack of ten deaders broke through the brush, spreading out to prevent him from passing. Behind him, the other pack emerged, eleven in total.

  Fuck. They had him surrounded.

  Both packs paused, their milky yet hungry eyes centered on him.

  Stratman searched for a way out. He spotted a gap between the packs several yards wide. If he ran, he might—

  The deaders at the end of the two packs spread out, filling the gap.

  Stratman shivered as the realization of what happened struck him. He inched his way toward the deaders. They surged forward, their steps careful and precise. They were herding him into the valley.

  With no other options open, other than a desperate last stand, he entered the valley.

  The lead deader nodded its head and groaned. Stepping away, it proceeded to the path descending into the valley. The other five fell in behind it.

  Stratman made it half-way down the valley. He turned a bend to find another ten deaders blocking his path. They moaned when they saw him but did not move.

  A rocky path along the right leading to the top of the ridge provided the only way out. He had enough ammunition to clear a path if—

  As if reading his thoughts, the pack moved forward, forcing Stratman to retreat. When he did, they stopped.

  A moan came from behind him. The other two packs had entered the valley. They stopped upon catching sight of him and stood still, as if waiting.

  Stratman raised his hunting rifle. A deader in a National Guard uniform with a huge chunk of flesh torn from its neck stepped forward three paces and paused. It snarled once, pointed toward Stratman’s rifle, and motioned for him to drop it. Stratman could not believe it. Had that thing told him to discard his weapon? When he didn’t comply, all three packs became agitated. Stratman held his rifle to the side, crouched, and placed it on the ground. The agitation stopped and the National Guard deader moved back into line.

  The silence ended a minute later. A chorus of moans rose from the three packs. Every deader lowered its head. Stratman turned to the path. Six deaders descended it. As the first one drew near, the pack blocking the path stepped aside, letting it pass. It wore work boots and hunter’s camouflage gear, and a plaid shirt stained with dried blood from a wound in its neck. A large gash, more than likely caused by a machete, ran from its upper right forehead, across its nose and mouth, and ending on the right side of the chin.

  The lead deader approached the human. It smelled fear and resignation. Good. Resignation meant the human would not resist. Fear meant the meat would taste that much better.

  Stopping in front of the human, it cocked its head to the side to examine him. The human trembled. It’s gaze met the human’s, looking deep into his eyes. The human went white and lowered his head.

  “Please don’t kill me.”

  The deader recognized the words but had long since forgotten their meaning. It stared at the human a moment then attacked.

  Its teeth dug into the human’s neck, puncturing deep into its skin. Warm blood squirted into its mouth, moistening its tongue and throat, and quenching a thirst it didn’t even realize it had. The deader pulled its head back, tearing off a chunk of flesh. It ate, satisfying its insatiable hunger. It held the human in place as it chewed and swallowed, then took another bite. It would take its fill and then allow the others to feed, making sure the packs each partook of the meal.

  It was the proper way.

  It was as the Alpha had ordered.