***
A wet, slobbery tongue woke me up, and I felt Tray squirming close to me to get into every nook and cranny of my other ear. I chuckled, then jerked upright, my chest pounding at the memories of the previous day. Sunshine poked through the clear parts of the windows, making spears of light that pierced the murk of the cab’s interior. I cracked the door open, concerned, even in daylight, to let the outside world into my tiny island of safety, even though I knew the safety was an illusion. The dried mud covering the pickup cracked, falling to the ground as I stepped out to look around. Tray barked as she dashed across the field, reveling in her freedom and attempting to mark each clod of fresh-tilled earth as her personal property.
It was a beautiful, early winter day, the sky a pale, cloudless blue, and the air brisk and cool, with just enough bite that my breath fogged. I looked behind the truck, whistling as I saw the tracks, and how far above the field the road was. The trailer lay on its side fifty yards behind the truck, most of its contents strewn haphazardly around the field. Looking at the ruined tow bar hanging loosely off the back of the truck, I knew I was shit-out-of-luck in reattaching it.
“Shit, Tray. We are a couple of lucky sons-o’-bitches.” Tray glanced up at me to see if I actually wanted anything, then continued running around like a Tasmanian devil, burrowing her face into the soft dirt with pure delight. “Though I suppose you’re a daughter-of-a-bitch, not a son.” I smiled at my logic. The smile lasted all of a second as I turned around to see the farmhouse, less than a hundred yards away. A chill ran over my skin, colder than the air, and I shivered. The collection of buildings was just there. How could I have missed them?
Then I looked again at my vehicle sitting half buried in the earth. We’d come to rest with the farm buildings to our left side, and the headlights had missed them. I’d looked out last night and seen nothing. No lights, no life; which meant only one thing. The Treaters had been here.
“Tray, come here, girl.” She ran over, sitting panting at my feet. She’d been well-trained. She was filthy, so I lifted her and put her in the front footwell of the car, cracking the windows enough so it wouldn’t warm up. I didn’t plan to be away for long. I almost changed my mind at her pitiful, attention-seeking yelps, but I girded myself and marched toward the farmhouse.
By the time I walked the short distance, I was dirtier than the dog, mucked up to my knees. I climbed the wooden fence, jumping into a deserted yard. It was utterly silent. Nothing stirred. Not a person, bird…shit, even the insects were quiet…or dead. I should be hearing cows moo, chickens cluck, maybe even seeing a few cats lurking around for mouse control. Nothing moved, except the light breeze flowing through the branches of the wilting trees behind the house.
What the fuck? The trees around the house were dying or dead. Not leafless, like winter trees…the bark was cracked, and the branches drooped to the ground. The smell of rot filled the air. At the front of the quaint farmhouse, the once lovingly tended rose garden was filled with skeletal bushes. The grass was a sickly shade of yellow. I looked down the long lane. The orchard adjoining the house was a collection of wilted stunts, the branches drooping to touch the dead ground they floundered in.
The field at the bottom of the lane was green, muted in the normal way of early winter, but still alive, its vitality stark against the death surrounding the farmhouse.
Whatever had leached the life from the ground was close to the house, and not strong enough to kill anything outside the grounds. I drew my Glock, advancing on the farmhouse. At any moment, I expected some horror to rip my throat out before I could resist, but I made it to the building. I wish I hadn’t.
I braced myself as I stepped up onto the veranda of the farmhouse. I didn’t bother knocking. The door wasn’t there, having been ripped off its hinges. Large holes in the railings and doorframe revealed signs of shotgun fire. The farmer hadn’t gone down without a fight.
It was chaos. The now-familiar devastation was evident; wrecked interior and furnishings, crockery smashed, and that awful coppery-excrement smell, with tacky blood drying on almost every surface. I’d seen and smelled it before, of course, but this morning it him me. I retched, running for the sink. There wasn’t much in my stomach, but I left the contents there.
Afterward, I looked around the place, noting items I would scavenge but mostly looking for keys. I needed either another vehicle or a way to get mine free. I got lucky. A cabinet mounted by the kitchen door yielded a key on a kelly green rubber keyring that made me smile. I walked out of the house, ignoring the stench as I walked over to the barn. The shining green monster lay under the shadow of a gigantic, dying pine tree.
A John Deere. I grinned. I hadn’t driven a tractor in years, but this was a challenge I looked forward to. I turned back to the farmhouse to finish the search.
Back inside, I found an empty…of course…pump-action Remington shotgun. An inspection of the bedrooms revealed a few boxes of ammo, but as I raided the stores, I paused.
The pristine arrangement of the bedroom disturbed me, even more than the ruin downstairs. It was just a bedroom…an utterly, completely normal bedroom, untouched by the violence inflicted below. The bed was made, and a nightie and pair of pajamas lay on the pillows.
I smiled. Sherri used to do that, too, every night. I crossed the room to touch the silky nightie, and my eyes stung. The nightie…dear god, it smelled like her. Cashmere Mist, the same light, floral scent she used. I dropped it as if it were on fire, but stood, staring at the small piece of satin, silky fabric, my head spinning with the memory.
When it was finally over, I stood in the shaft of sunlight next to the hospital bed we had set up in the living room. After laying her hands on her still, cooling, motionless chest, I tenderly caressed her nightie and lifted it to my face, breathing in the scent of her perfume. I had said my goodbyes to the woman I loved, the woman who had forgiven me for the death of our son, the woman I had planned to grow old with. I had done everything that needed to be done, so why did I feel so numb? I looked over at her, her gaunt face relaxed and pain-free for the first time in weeks, and I rubbed the satin against my cheek, wondering why I was unable to cry.
It all hit at once, the impact of a freight train against a straw man…Mama and Dad O'Reilly were dead, I was sure of that now. The world was dead, too. Whatever these things were, wherever they came from, we were screwed. I had cried the night before, for Ted. Now, I thought of the big picture…of everything and everyone I would never see again. Mostly, I thought of Sherri and my son. It came rushing out, unable to be stanched away any longer. I sat on the bed, careful not to mess the coverlet. I put my head in my hands, and I sobbed myself sore.
When it was over, I shook it off, hard. I had to get back to Johnnie and Bill, to give them the news I couldn’t tell them over the phone. Without looking back, I walked out through the devastation and climbed onto the tractor.
I turned the key, and the engine roared. Shit, it was like the fucking space shuttle! Warning lights flashed, and bleeps filled the partially enclosed cab. Fuck. Okay, you got this. It’s only a machine, I thought, as I pressed the gas, holding onto the wheel as I jerked and barrelled toward the garden. I managed to demolish most of the wall and the flower beds before I hit the brakes, sliding to a stop inches from the house. Not that it mattered. They were all dead.
I put the gears in reverse, slowly rolling over the ruined wall. The stones scraped the bottom of the tractor as I goosed the gas, the sound grinding down my spine. I ended up pointing up the drive, facing a gate to the field where the pickup lay buried a little over a hundred yards away.
It was short work to attach the chain Ted and I had grabbed from the hardware store and haul the vehicle out of the muck and up to the barn.
Tray barked at me while I used the hose to wash the caked-on mud off the truck, so I got some dishwashing liquid from the lady's kitchen and turned the hose on Tray as well. She whimpered, but it wasn’t from the impromptu bath. The dog knew they were c
lose and she was scared, but she stayed with me; she trusted me. Before noon, we were on the road again, the truck’s bed full of as much as I had managed to salvage from the wrecked trailer.
Chapter Five
The Cabin
The previous night I’d taken a circuitous route, staying away from major population centers, angling tortuously toward where my friends waited in their dad’s cabin.
It took me over two hours to backtrack, but I smiled as I pulled onto the dirt track and saw the smoke drifting over the rise in the road. I lowered the window, savoring the scent of the pine forest engulfing me.
Tray whined. “It’s okay, girl. I have a couple of friends I know will love you.” As the tires crunched the fallen leaves and twigs, my smile faded. My nostrils flared, and a ball of ice formed at my core as the scent of rot filled my nostrils. I clenched the wheel and accelerated. The path was straight, but littered with potholes, and I hung on as the truck shook.
I breathed again when I saw the cabin, about a quarter mile down the drive. Smoke issued from the stone chimney at one end of the cabin. They were alive, thank God.
Then I saw the forest around the building. It was a sickly shade of yellow. I shook. This was wrong. How could a cabin so remote attract the attention of the monsters?
Tray was barking aggressively by the time I skidded to a stop. I stepped out of the truck, shutting her in with the windows halfway down. The cabin looked fine. It faced away from the drive, which I'd always thought was weird, but Mama O'Reilly preferred the eastern view, and Mama O'Reilly generally got what she preferred. The back door was intact, and John’s Chevy sat in its normal slot, but the smell...it was the same as the farm. Rot and death.
As Tray barked and growled, I drew my Glock and walked to the front of the building. Shit! Hope died and ice flowed in my veins. The logs were deeply gouged, and the door was missing. The windows...well, there was no glass on the outside, so I knew what to expect.
I swallowed the bitterness rising in my throat, resisting the urge to turn around and drive away. Top...he had to be alive. Denial coursed through every cell in my body. Johnnie had training and enough firepower to kill these fucks, right?
“John?” The railings of the veranda were shredded by bullets. I narrowed my eyes and gritted my teeth to fight back the bile rising in my gut. I didn’t want to go in. I knew what I’d see, but I had to; so I stepped into the cabin, taking in as much as I possibly could as quickly as I could.
It still took a few seconds to register, but I realized something was different about this massacre scene. In addition to the dark smears of red, there was a large, wet pool of green on the kitchen floor, and the stink of the stain overwhelmed the scent of the rot outside. John and Bill had made their mark.
Something had died here, and Johnnie or Bill had killed it. Something big. I shuddered, remembering the thing that had killed Ted, and the smaller ones that pounced on his corpse.
A fire lit inside me, banishing the ice. These bastards could be killed...okay, maybe nukes couldn’t take them out, but close in…the blood proved it. They could die. The question was: how?
Tray’s barking changed into frenzied snarls. The smell of blood, or something worse, must be freaking her out. I stepped outside the door just in time to see her squeeze her body through the window and rush into the forest.
Shit!
“Tray! Get back here, you dumb dog!” I shouted, running after her. My heart hammered in my chest as I followed her snarls. The sun was high overhead, but the dying trees were still thick enough to block most of the rays.
What the FUCK? I stopped short, skidding on the undergrowth as I came face-to-face with what had spooked Tray.
In the center of a small clearing sat...something. I’d never seen its like before. It was some sort of hive, or shelter, and a wave of fury took me as I realized what was inside. I’d have known even without Tray’s incessant barking.
This was where they hid during the day, this construct of branches and…shit! My stomach lurched as I saw the bloody bones woven into the walls of the structure; my friends’ bones and blood! I raised my gun, ready to empty the mag into this thing, but I lowered it a moment later, knowing the gesture was futile. I had an effective way to kill these bastards.
I hoped.
“Tray, come here, girl.” I crouched down. With her hackles still raised, Tray backed toward me. I was her master now, and she was protecting me from the monsters. “Good girl.” I patted her back, but she didn’t take her eyes off the den.
Lifting her gently, I headed around to the truck parked in back of the cabin. I set Tray on the driver’s seat, making sure the driver and passenger windows were up far enough to keep her inside the cab, before grabbing a couple of full jerry cans from the bed of the truck. I needed something to flush them out. I knew fire couldn’t kill them, but I was pretty sure I knew what would…if what I’d seen scattered on the floor of the cabin had been what had killed the green-blooded bastard.
I steeled myself and went back in to retrieve the shotgun, along with as many of the custom-packed shells as I could find. Looking down at the randomly-colored jackets, my lips twitched as I remembered when we’d replaced the buckshot with rock salt, in an attempt to create our own – painful – version of paintball. Good times.
Johnnie must have run out of conventional ammo and grabbed the box that lay under the sink. That’s when he made the kill, or at least injured the thing. At least, I hoped that was how it went down. If I was wrong, I was screwed; but hey, I’d be dead soon enough, anyway. I wondered why there was no carcass; perhaps these things cannibalized each other with the same thoroughness they devoured human flesh? I didn't want to consider it.
I walked back to the den, slowly this time, and watched the pine needles fall like rain from the trees. Even as the branches emptied, they drooped toward the floor of the forest in an eerie, stop-motion kind of way.
My eyes narrowed; I ground my teeth as I opened one jerry can, then the other and poured the contents over the stinking collection of bone and branches. Backing up, I poured a trail of gas back to the edge of the clearing.
I set the pile of shells at my feet, before taking a Zippo with the Corps' emblem from a pocket. I didn’t smoke, but I’d had one of these for years. What Marine didn’t? I couldn't think of a more fitting sacrifice for my friends.
One flick and the flame rose, dancing in the breeze. I raised the shotgun with one hand, dropped the lighter onto the gas trail with the other, and then brought my free hand up to the pommel. The flame streaked toward the gas-soaked den and it went up with a loud WHOOSH!
SHIT! The structure was small, maybe five feet across. I expected two, maybe three, monsters to burst out of the hive, not the seven abominations that scrambled and flew out, screaming with unholy horror, burning with gasoline and sun-inflicted wounds. I winced as the hideous sounds assaulted my eardrums and gagged at the stench of their burning flesh, choking on the bilious acid rising in my throat. I didn’t have time to recover, as the largest creature finished rolling out the flames on its fur, and crouched, staring at me. I swear, its eyes narrowed. This thing, this monster, was intelligent. Bigger than the others, it kept back and roared.
The sound shook my soul, and I remembered the wish to die I’d had when Ted’s killer had looked me in my eyes. This time, the compulsion was weaker, but it was there. These things had some sort of telepathic power in addition to their horrific appearance and lethal weaponry.
The half-dozen smaller monsters heeded the bellow of the alpha, running screaming toward me. That’s when my training kicked in. BOOM! My first shot took two out – pure, dumbass luck. They stayed down. Fuck, John. I wish you’d realized this before you died.
My next shot blew the head off another, but then they were on me. I cried out as a spear of pain pierced my side and another wicked barb sliced my forearm. I dived, rolling to the side, the movement saving me from another attack as the creature hit a tree trunk with a satisfying thump.
I rolled, pumping and firing at the monster about to disembowel me. Shit, their blood stank. The shot blasted it back, but as it flew away, its hand shot out, hooking the barrel of the shotgun and yanking it from my hands. Fuck!
Time slowed as I looked around, floundering, unarmed, flat on my back. The three monsters stood in the sparse shadows granted by the dead trees, no more than ten feet away, wary since I’d managed to harm their kind. They had survival instinct, at least.
A deep sound echoed around the clearing. It took me a second to realize it was coming from the leader...the fucker was laughing at me, if the noise could be called that. It was like claws dragging down a blackboard, and I gritted my teeth against the sound.
The shotgun lay six feet away. It was close enough to get one of the fuckers, before the others gutted me. They smiled – the bastards actually smiled at me! They wanted me to fight back – I was sport to them now.
Well, fuck them. I steadied myself, ready to roll and grab the gun, just as a gray and brown blur raced at the alpha, digging teeth deep into the tendons at the back of its leg, hamstringing the beast. I saw a splash of green blood before the Treater kicked its attacker away.
“TRAY!”
How had she gotten out? I’d closed both windows – Shit! I had forgotten the back window of the cab, and she was just small enough to squeeze through it. Those thoughts flew through my mind in the odd, slowed-down speed of life-or-death panic.
The screams of the leader drew the attention of the other beasts. I used the distraction to reach for the shotgun, rolling to my feet as I pumped the action and took the head off one of the fuckers. The other small one fell to a stomach shot as I ran toward the prone body of my dog lying at the base of a tree. My blood boiled in rage as I saw Tray’s still, unbreathing form.
Treaters: Book One of the Divine Conflict. Page 5
