by M. D. Massey
I get to my feet and spin around, waiting for it to lunge at me, but for some reason it just stands there. It’s like it’s looking at one of its own—another dead soul roaming around looking for its next meal.
Breathing hard, it’s talon like hands flexing, I catch it’s one and only eye peer to my right then dart right back to me. I train my ears and notice another set of footsteps and deep breathing, almost growling, from behind me.
You tricky bastards. Looks like you have me dead to rights!
The one in front of me shrills and charges at me, mouth ajar and those stained red teeth glistening under the lights. I throw up my leg and kick it square in the chest, sending it reeling backwards and smashing through one of the few wooden crates in the room. My brief moment of satisfaction is short lived. Something hard and jagged rips through my upper left shoulder and out through the front. I feel like it should be tearing me apart, making me scream in pain and writhe in agony. But there’s nothing—just intense pressure from something foreign entering my body.
I sharply twist and snap the thing’s limb clean off, the crunching and cracking sound playing sweet, sweet music in my ears. It shrills from what I’m guessing is pain, if they actually feel anything at all.
It takes a couple of steps back and looks me dead in the eyes, its stub leaking fluid like a busted hose. I spot a blackish brown rusted crow bar lying on the ground off to the side—probably teaming with all sorts of diseases.
I’m focused and my body is relaxed, every muscle fiber poised and coiled like a snake about to strike. I dart for the bar and scoop it off the ground with my right hand, my left catching the infected by the throat as it bites and fights for my flesh. I hear the other scrambling out of the shattered wood crate, thrashing around like a fish out of water.
With one fluid motion, I thrust the crow bar up through the bottom of its decaying jaw, the tip busting free out of the top of its head. Chunks of brain matter cling to the rusty edge, curbing its ravenous appetite as it seizes up and falls to the side like a rag doll.
I turn my attention back to the other getting to its feet. I still have the razor sharp limb jetting out of my shoulder. Funny, something like this should have slowed me down, disabled my arm, or at least distracted me from what’s going on.
I grab the very edge of the limb and pull, its serrated edges tearing through my insides like a hot knife gliding effortlessly down a stick of cold, hard butter. Chunks of my skin and muscle hang from its barbs, dangling like a treat for some hungry carnivorous animal. My blood is thick and red, coating the outside. It almost looks coagulated, lumpy even. Like oatmeal mixed with red food coloring.
I don’t wait for infected to advance again, but take the offensive and go after it. It tries to move in once more for the kill, its arms flailing erratically and its mouth trying to find the mark. One of its claws slashes the right side of my face, digging deep into my cheek. I knock its arm away and jam the limb into the side of its neck, severing its vocal cord and throat in one fluid motion. It tries to shrill, but comes up with just a nasty gurgling sound that sends blood bubbles squeezing out the side of its neck.
Peering into its eyes, I flick my wrist hard and fast and yank the limb across its neck, lopping its deformed head off with ease.
I let go of the makeshift weapon and knock the headless infected out my way, kicking its head off to the side. The plump and rip melon skirts across the ground and smacks the wall, making a subtle squishing sound.
Two more down and probably a million to go.
Regardless of how many are left, I’ll kill them all to get out of here. Satan himself would fall before my feet, so these undead souls have no chance in hell. That’s for sure.
I stand still and listen for any more movement, my honed, sensitive ears scanning all around for anything else that may be lying in wait.
It’s dead silent, no pun intended, except for the scurrying sound of rodents and bugs moving about in this horrid mess. Must be nice, to be able to escape into the walls and away from all this.
My sense of the surroundings stays alert and taut as I rummage through the armory, finding little to be desired. Most of the weapons have been picked clean or are in a state of disrepair. Either I find guns and no ammo, or ammo and no guns to marry them too. But hey, being self-sufficient and able to adjust to messed up situations is what separates the survivors from the cadavers. Adapt or die, literally.
After tossing the already distressed room, I manage to scrounge up a couple .45 pistols, extra clips, a shotgun with a strap and flashlight mounted under the barrel, extra shells, some flares, and another knife that I take from one of the dead soldiers. Although I was wishing for more, beggars can’t be choosers.
With my substituted wish list filled and a shotgun clutched in my hand, I shove the .45 down the front of my pants and attach the knife to my lower leg under my pants. I throw the extra goodies into a small black bag near me and leave the dead to the rodents and bugs, making for the door.
11
I pause for a moment and let my new best friend take the lead, the nose of the shotgun barrel inching out the cracked door.
I can feel the damp air rushing through the hall and hitting the gaping wound on my shoulder and cheek. It’s an odd sensation—my shoulder numb and ripped open, but no pain registering. Either it’s delayed or the threshold has vanished, leaving me immune to any such injuries.
Everything is still and as quiet as a normal graveyard, the door ever so slightly squeaking as I push it open a little more and move out into the hall. I flip the switch on the flashlight and scan both directions, training from side to side. Its range looks to be a bit further than my newly acquired eyesight, something that will come in handy for sure.
I see and hear nothing.
I call up the layout of the facility in my head and retrace the route to the video surveillance room. It’s not too far and I should be able to make it fairly quickly, barring any run-ins with more infected people. I twist around on my heel and head the other way, trying to remain silent while I move at a fast pace.
I’m not sure if my mind is playing tricks on me or if I’m having rampant déjà vu. Everything I see, touch, or even smell feels like I’ve already encountered it once before. I know the layout of wherever I am is pretty uniform, or at least that’s the way it appears from the schematic, but I feel like I’m spinning my wheels in mud. I’m stuck in a rut and wasting energy without moving forward. Maybe that’s what they want, to have us confused and second guessing ourselves to the point where we break down and just give up.
Not me.
Not now.
Not ever.
That voice of doubt is there, nestled in the back of my clouded mind, rearing its ugly little head at random times. Whispering in my ear like an influential parasite, trying to guide me down the wrong path. Fortunately, he’s shut up and cut off before any real influence can be made.
I shake the doubt and inner monologue away, getting my scattered mind back to the here and now. I’ve cleared 5 of the 6 corridors in no time flat. I’m barely out of breath and my legs drive forward like their fixed with NOS. I haven’t run into any more infected or armed TGP soldiers, but that doesn’t mean anything. I hear brief screams and moans that come at different intervals—most likely coming through the venting ducts that are running along the walls.
I’ve got my trigger finger hugging my heart stopper, no nonsense negotiator that is trained ahead, scanning from side to side like an automated gun station. Hoping that, deep down, something undead might just peak its mutated head out.
Hitting the last corridor, I pause and sweep the hall, my flashlight bringing to life more death and destruction. Part of the ceiling has caved in and bodies lay scattered about, both undead and uninfected thrown together in a horrible jumble of human carnage. I check the blueprint and find my destination lays just beyond the cave in, second door to the right. Just my luck.
I move out from around the corner and make my way up th
e hall, looking for anything that might be twitching or thinking of moving. I catch a quick glimpse of scorch marks crawling along both sides of the walls as I come to the cave in. Looks like a last ditch effort where someone decided to use some heavy explosives. Good for them, but now it has kind of screwed me over.
I look over the rubble, twisted rebar jetting out of the concrete that is smashed to hell. Exposed wires hang from the open ceiling and dangle above my head like dull green snakes in a tree. I’m not sure if they’re active, and definitely don’t want to get bit by one. For the most part, I’m not seeing a way to make it through. Concrete and contorted metal greet my eyes as I assess the situation.
I catch a series of moans and shrills from the way I came. It doesn’t sound like it’s coming from the vents anymore, but from the halls that I just passed through. The last thing I want is to be between a rock and a hard place. I look at both sides of the hall, finding available rooms, but the doors have either been blown clean off or are broken beyond use. Not only that, but I’m unsure what might be lurking within the darkness. Good thing I’m used to adverse conditions.
Being left without a bucket to piss in, I play the light back over the rubble, trying to find an hole I can squeeze my big frame through. I want to avoid anything along the bottom of the pile.
I scan over the top and find a small glimmer of hope in the right corner. It looks tight and the rebar coiling all around isn’t much help, but it’s better than the alternative.
I sling the shotgun over my shoulder and start my way up the pile, mindful of the jagged metal protruding out of the concrete. Chunks of debris slip and give way as I make my way up, creating a loud, clamoring noise. I lose my footing and fall flat on the unforgiving concrete, my chest and stomach jabbed hard by the busted up rock. Some of the sharpened ends puncture my ribs, digging deep into my internal organs.
Just another wound to add to the others I’ve already collected on my journey.
I dismiss the gash in my side like it’s a bug bite, and get back to my feet. I’m already halfway up the mountain of rubble and my hopefully spacious outlet will become my current savior.
I start the climb again. The moans and shrills break the corner of the corridor and slam my ear drums, spinning my head around. I was hoping it would just be the slower and less agile ones, but I’m out of luck.
The murder is not very large, but a mixture of dawdling and voracious soul snatchers bombard my eyes. A few break from the pack and sprint towards the rubble, mouths foaming and their clawed hands reaching for me.
Sometimes, I think they have some sort of homing device on me that tells them where I am.
I make haste and scramble up the rest of the way, sending more concrete hurling towards the floor below as I reach the summit. The opening looks much smaller now then what it did from the ground, but I don’t have much of a choice.
I remove most the gear from my person and cram it through the opening, my bag tumbling end over end as it slams into the ground. I don’t bother inspecting the other side for any dangers that might be waiting, figuring that the video room is right there and I can make for it once I reach the bottom.
I suck in my gut and go head first, the shotgun leading the way. It’s tight, very tight, but I’m able to wiggle through. Half my body is already finding haven and I’m bringing in the rest, not caring that pieces of steel and rock are getting intimate with every inch of my body. It’s almost like I’m being sent through a cheese grater on steroids.
I hear the first wave of undead hit the rubble, shrilling and sprawling up the mound, reckless and wild. I keep my cool, not wanting to freak out and run the risk of tearing a major artery that will possibly bleed me dry.
Can I even bleed that much?
The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end and my senses heighten, my inner motivator urging me to pull my legs in now. I reel the rest of my body through the tiny opening and tumble down the other side half way, getting worked over by the debris that has been waiting for me.
I glance over my shoulder and see a flesh deprived body emerge, its clawed and spiked arms gripping whatever it can to pull itself through. It looks my way and lets out a different kind of shrill, more precise and focused—almost like it’s trying to signal someone or something through Morse code.
I stop and listen closely. For some odd reason I’m picking up some of its chatter. It’s muffled and completely French to me, making me wish I had an undead translator.
I dismiss the creature’s gibberish and focus my attention on it. Its body appears to be stuck within the contorted steel, thrashing around uncontrollably as it struggles to free itself. It stretches out its torn and mangled limbs, open sores oozing yellowish bile all over the busted rock beneath it.
I get to my feet and remove the shotgun from my shoulder, training the barrel right between its enlarged eyes. I can hear the others scratching and beating on the rubble from the opposite side, fighting to get through and get a piece of me. This is one time where a cave in comes in handy.
I grip the pump and load a cartridge, my finger anxious to pull the trigger. Even in the face of death for the second time, the infected show no fear. No cowardliness. I guess having that part of your brain shut off and thrown into a mindless state makes life much easier. Less cumbersome.
I waste no more time and deal the demon its final blow, the shotgun exploding with anger and striking it in the head. Chunks of brain matter and thick, pasty red blood paint the rocks, silencing the beast and sending it back to hell where it belongs.
The barrel smokes with satisfaction as I pump the gun once more, ejecting the spent shell. A fresh slug slides into place and holds tight, waiting for its next victim.
With the dead and immobile body plugging the only hole I can see that the infected could possibly slip through, I make my way down the rubble and hit the ground. I grab my jostled gear and sling it onto my back.
The surveillance room is a few more doors down on the right. It’ll be nice to get a better idea of what I’m looking at. Hopefully they’re all contained on the inside of this facility.
12
The noise from the infected fades away as I move on, passing door number one and approaching door number two. I guess they decided to give up momentarily and go look for some easier prey, or maybe they’re just searching for another way to get to me. Either way, I’ll be ready.
Looks like I might have some company to contend with on the inside of the video room.
Streaks of blood and claw marks riddle the outside of the heavy door. When you’re running for your life and need some cover, a thick metal door separating you from those crazy ass things can make a person feel all warm and cozy on the inside.
The access panel has been ripped off and exposed wires reach out from the wall in a tangled and useless mess, but the door appears to be latched shut. No need for the card then. I grab the handle and gently pull down, trying not to make too much noise. I’m still not sure if or what is lurking around on the inside.
The silver handle gives enough to fulfill my notion that it’s unlocked, which is actually kind of unnerving and relieving all at the same time. Whoever is in there must be really lucky or really dead. Guess I’m about to find out.
I train the shotgun straight ahead and pull the handle down all the way, feeling the latch retract fully and the door break free. I stop and listen for a second, my ears scanning for any sort of movement.
Nothing.
Doesn’t mean there’s nobody home, considering my last run in with the two suckers that tried to snare me. I’ve accepted the fact that most, if not all these rooms will probably have something that either wants to eat me or shoot me without pause. Can’t say I blame the latter though. I’m pretty much operating the same way.
I place my left palm on the door, the thick red blood smearing over my hand, and slowly push it inward. The glow from what I assume is the monitors lights up the room just enough to make out shadows. My eyes bring the rest into focu
s and wipe out any dark spots, making things a lot easier to judge if I’m walking into a world of hurt or not.
Everything looks to be clear and I push the door open more, carefully taking small, calculated steps forward. The monitors and control center cover the wall to my right, leaving a lone empty chair pushed up nice and neat under the desk. I turn my head to the left and peer past the door’s edge. A woman lies on a couch, a dingy black coat draped over her upper body. Those same three letters are etched into the sleeve—TGP. She’s motionless and doesn’t appear to be breathing. not sure if she’s dead dead or just undead. I wish her face was turned towards me.
I train my shotgun above her neck, just below the top of her skull, the sweet spot. One shot, one kill. Easy enough.
I keep quiet and move in a little closer, my nostrils capturing the putrid and dead smell of those things. She must be freshly dead, not yet turned all the way where the flesh is her main driving force. The humane thing to do is to send her on her way, whether she goes to heaven or hell is up to her to find out in the afterlife.
I approach the couch and place the barrel of my peacemaker close to her skull. Something explodes out of the darkness from behind the door and grabs my shoulders. It tosses me with ease across the room, slamming my body against the cinderblock wall.
Air escapes my lungs and I’m caught trying to fetch it back—my eyes wide and my mouth gaping open. I double over, trying to cough, but coming up with wishful thinking.
My eyes roll up and see whatever it is standing over the woman, looking down at her, almost like an obedient dog looks over his master. Before I can say anything or think of taking a much needed breath, it twists around and darts right at me. I get a good clean shot of its face, mutated and that crazed hungry look for flesh swimming in its black, soulless eyes.
