The Dark Trilogy

by Patrick D'orazio

  Megan wrenched her hand free and backed up, looking at Lydia as if she did not recognize her. She shook her head.

  “I’m going to get the rifle, if I have to break down this fucking door, and then I’m going to go out there to look for them. They could be dying, and all you want to do is sit around here and wait for them? Screw you!”

  The slap knocked Megan off balance. Lydia was growing tired of slapping around newcomers to the camp. She grabbed Megan’s hands before she could run away or respond with a slap of her own.

  “Listen, Megan, you’re not going out there. Do you understand me? I will not have you risking the children’s lives because you have some misguided desire to save Jeff and George.”

  She stopped, expecting a response, but Megan was stunned into silence. “Even if they are dead—and NO, I don’t think they are—but if they are, we still have to find a way to survive. I don’t relish the idea of having this place exposed because we acted foolishly, because that won’t do anyone any damn good. Do you understand?” She shook Megan until her teeth rattled. “Do you?”

  Megan kept on staring, looking into those wise old eyes. They were peering down at her, Lydia’s graying mane making her look like the wicked witch. Megan had been shocked by the slap, and her face colored with anger, but she restrained her desire to lash out. Because somewhere down in her core, she knew Lydia was right. She hated her for it, but could not deny the truth in her words.

  That was when Jason came out of the RV, looking as confused as everyone else. He glanced around and saw the two women and looked embarrassed and afraid, unsure of what to do.

  When Megan saw him, her demeanor changed. The rifle was forgotten, and so was the idea of leaving the camp on some crazy rescue attempt. All she wanted to do was run to the boy and assure him that everything would be okay.

  Megan walked away from Lydia, not saying another word. The door to Michael’s RV was locked anyway; there was nothing she could do about that. She glanced back up at Cindy. If she had noticed the two other women bickering in front of her door, there was no indication. Cindy’s attention was focused outside the walls of the camp.

  Despite feeling an almost obscene hatred for the heavily tattooed woman, Megan prayed Cindy knew how to use the rifle.

  She inched closer to Jason. He noticed her and moved away, darting between the fire pit and the chairs. “Jason, please! I just want to talk to you.”

  It was no use; he was still far too angry. Just give him some time, he’ll come around. Lydia’s words echoed in Megan’s head as she collapsed into one of the lawn chairs. Chasing Jason around the camp was pointless. Pacing was pointless as well, though she had energy to burn. Instead, Megan’s feet tapped nervously on the ground, and she gripped the armrests as she settled in to wait for the others. George and Jeff would return soon … wouldn’t they?

  Jason avoided Megan, unsure what to say to her. The shots had drawn him out. But now that he was outside, all he could do was watch Lydia run back toward her RV. He was sure she didn’t notice him standing there, because she was so focused on the children huddled inside her RV.

  No one besides Megan was out in the courtyard. The camp felt abandoned. He had only spent a day in the place, but it felt strange without the bustle of activity. Jason spied Cindy moving around on the roof of Ben’s RV and was tempted to yell up to her. She was the one adult still at the camp with whom he had no issues, but she made him nervous. Besides, she was hefting one of the rifles and didn’t look too interested in having a conversation.

  There was more gunfire. Three more shots in quick succession. Jason ducked instinctively. The shots were off in the distance but thunderous, overwhelming. He waited to hear more and inched away from the RVs, afraid something was going to seep through the walls and attack him. He continued to back up, moving toward the center of the courtyard.

  “What do you think is happening out there?”

  Jason could not face Megan, even as she asked the question. Her voice fluttered as if she were on the verge of tears.

  “I-I don’t know.”

  It was a harmless enough response, noncommittal. Jason thought he heard her crying and desperately wanted to turn to Megan. He did not want to admit he needed her as much as she seemed to need him—having to apologize, to strip away his pride like that. Because it felt as though pride was all he had left.

  He heard her footsteps behind him. Jason thought Megan would not come right up to him, not with how timidly she was speaking, but it sounded as if she was. His shoulders stiffened, and the footsteps stopped.

  When the shotgun blasts began, Jason jumped again. They echoed like thunder, and he heard Megan gasp in shock.

  “Jason, I’m scared. Please. I’m so sorry … about everything.”

  He shook his head, not sure what to do or say. The moaning was back, the dreadful caterwaul of the dead, floating on the air from Manchester, excited and greedy. They heard it along with the gunfire.

  Any hope that things would be okay was chipped away with each gunshot. Jason realized George and Jeff were going to die out there and he would never get the chance to tell them he was sorry.

  He could hear the moans growing louder. If they got any closer, the infected would engulf them. Right behind him, he could hear a softer noise, that of weeping. The last of his resistance fell away, and Jason turned, thrusting himself into Megan’s arms. As more shotgun blasts rang out, the two of them reacted as though electrical jolts were coursing through their bodies.

  Somehow, when they held each other, the shock did not hurt as much.

  Chapter 17

  WHAM!

  Jeff swung around, giving Ray enough time to maintain his balance as he fired at another stiff that had gotten too close. It was his third shot. The first had nearly knocked him and Ray over. The kick of the weapon was a hell of a lot more than Jeff had expected. As he adjusted to compensate, his second shot was just as bad. That was when he realized how pointless it was to fire a shotgun at a target more than fifty feet away.

  The third shot was better. It drove the man in the white smock backwards until he tumbled, bowling over a woman behind him who had been slowed by a broken foot flopping at the end of her leg. The appendage kept getting snagged on different obstacles in the road as the rotting woman dragged it behind her.

  Ray groaned, but said nothing as he tried to hang on. Blood and sweat oozed out of him in copious amounts. He had somehow maintained a grip on the handgun despite his arm bouncing weakly against his side repeatedly. Jeff grunted in response as he tried to limit his words and conserve energy.

  After they cut across the parking lot and hit the street, Jeff squinted back toward the field behind the general store. He could see more infected coming for him and Ray from that direction. The first ocher-colored body that crossed into the lot from the tall grass stopped and sniffed the air. Jeff watched with a mix of revulsion and relief as it and the two behind it pounced on Marcus’s corpse. He looked away, but not fast enough to avoid seeing one of them lift the dead man’s arm to take the first bite.

  As Jeff and Ray limped away from the parking lot, they could feel the excitement building behind them. Howls and catcalls cascaded down on them from all sides, echoing off the buildings that surrounded them. Fear gnawed at Jeff, but he fought to resist it, refusing to let the numbing sensation consume him as he cast his eyes over his shoulder toward the horde chasing them.

  WHAM!

  Another spent shell flew out of the shotgun, and another round was chambered. Ray leaned on Jeff’s back so he could have both hands free to fire and reload. The man in the white smock—a pharmacist?—had gotten back up, and Jeff was forced to splatter his runny brains across the pavement. The ghoul would not be getting up again.

  “Jeff, I don’t think I can make it much farther,” Ray said, his words slurred. Jeff adjusted his position to get a better grip on the boy, and they moved down the street once again. Tremors wracked Ray’s body, and Jeff glanced down at the teen’s injured
leg. The hemorrhaging had stopped, but the kid was getting worse. There was no telling how much time he had left. The infection seemed to spread at different rates with everyone.

  “You can make it, Ray. We’ll get you back to camp.”

  Ray’s response was drowned out as Jeff fired the shotgun wildly at a girl wearing a pair of bedazzled jeans and a High School Musical t-shirt. She looked like one of the less physically traumatized infected, which had allowed her to move at a pretty healthy clip toward Jeff and the boy. But despite her lack of injuries and superior mobility, her body had swollen to an almost cartoonish level. Her clothes cut into her flesh at her neck and midsection, and a distended belly and breasts gave her the look of a pregnant woman, though she couldn’t have been any older than ten. Jeff thought at first that her eyes had been plucked out, because there were two cavernous recesses in her face, but a closer look revealed that they were still there, buried within the bloated flesh.

  Jeff had seen her moving up and almost yelped as she got close. His crazed giggle was drowned out as he racked another round and fired at her a second time. Ray leaned against Jeff’s back, doing his best to remain upright.

  The second round blasted a hole in the girl’s chest. The noxious gasses and rotten meat stored inside her erupted in a cloud of filth. Jeff steadied and took a third shot, which was close enough that he was able to target her mushy head. The shotgun pellets connected, and her skull exploded like a syrup bottle as she tumbled to the ground.

  Click.

  Jeff cursed the empty shotgun and turned so he could get his arm back around Ray. The ghoul he had been aiming at after finishing off the girl was still a good twenty feet away, but closing the distance rapidly.

  “Jeff, just leave me here, man,” Ray groaned. “This shit hurts like hell, and I don’t want to go any farther. I’m slowing you down. Just leave me.”

  Jeff pushed down hard on the creep of panic that threatened to overwhelm him when he heard Ray’s defeated words. Instead, he let the anger that had been bubbling below the surface ever since Michael had dumped him and the others on the side of the road rise up as he glared at the dying boy.

  “Fuck you, Ray. I’m tired of listening to your shit. Just move your ass.”

  Ray looked up at Jeff with a surprised expression on his face. Jeff’s anger bewildered him, and the boy seemed unsure how to respond.

  “Get it through your head that I’m not leaving you. If I were going to leave, I would have let Marcus shoot you. So stop crying like a baby, and start firing that damn handgun.”

  A dark cloud passed over Ray’s face, and his angry expression mirrored Jeff’s. His back went rigid, and he stood up straight. The sweat was a waterfall streaming off him as he allowed Jeff to move underneath his shoulder so they could head up the road once more.

  A quick glance back told Jeff all he needed to know. The number of infected in pursuit had doubled or even tripled. They were climbing out of windows and pushing open doors everywhere on the street. Most were still just shadows off in the distance, but several were getting pretty damn close. He caught sight of a swarm of them surrounding Marcus’s corpse, fighting over the meat that remained.

  A tinkling of glass near the dead hillbilly caught Jeff’s ear. It was the small crate filled with booze from the bar. It had been crushed beneath the feet of one of the infected as it strolled past Marcus. It ignored the dead man and instead focused on the two moving targets up ahead. Others followed its lead, disdaining the cooling meat that had already been picked over for far fresher prey.

  Jeff turned around, and they continued hobbling up the street. They were barely moving faster than the sluggish crowd chasing them, and some of the infected were actually closing the distance.

  Ray’s hand was trembling, and Jeff knew he was going to be a lousy shot with the handgun. It would just be a waste of bullets. Swapping weapons would be tricky on the move, and Jeff dismissed the idea. He looked around desperately for anything that might help them—some building in which to barricade themselves or a car in which to hide. Otherwise, they would be overtaken inside of a couple of minutes at their present pace.

  “Over there,” Jeff whispered.

  He adjusted, shifting their angle of movement. Ray hopped, nearly stumbling, but Jeff supported him until he regained his balance. They moved over to a building on their right. It was the one with the long green awning they had passed earlier. The front door was still shut, and that was all the incentive Jeff needed as he headed for the building, hoping no one was inside.

  The building had seen better days. Shaped like a T, it was fairly narrow at the front, perhaps fifteen feet wide, with the door in the center underneath the awning. It went back about fifty feet before the two wings spread out to both sides. Someone had used its walls for target practice. Smears of dried red liquid ran down from the bullet holes, making it look like the building was weeping blood. As they moved closer, Jeff saw a bright red ‘X’ spray-painted on the door. It was as crimson as blood, but reflected the sunlight and had a high gloss to it.

  Their journey from the general store parking lot to the doorway of the building had taken just a few minutes, but felt like an eternity to Jeff. After testing the door to confirm that it was locked, he gingerly slid Ray off of his shoulder and eased him to the ground in front of it. Jeff propped him up as Ray shuddered.

  “I am not leaving you,” was Jeff’s answer to Ray’s unspoken question. The tears were already beginning again as the teen shook his head in protest.

  Ray slammed his head against the door. “Please,” was all he said as he dropped the gun in his lap. He lifted his bloodstained hands to cover his face as he did.

  Jeff bit his lip. There was no time to comfort the boy. Instead, he shoved his hand into his pocket and dumped the remaining shotgun shells into Ray’s lap next to the Beretta. As Ray moved his fingers away from his eyes to see what Jeff was doing, the man shoved the shotgun at him. Jeff knelt down and picked up the nine millimeter.

  “Reload the shotgun for me, okay? When I’m done with this, we’ll trade.”

  As he stared at the pimply-faced boy, Jeff could see that Ray’s brown eyes were getting cloudy. His breathing was shallow and sounded like there was a gallon of mucus trying to work its way into his mouth from his throat.

  Ray nodded and raised his arms, taking hold of the proffered shotgun. Jeff turned away as he saw Ray grab one of the shells. The handgun felt as light as a feather compared to the other weapon. Jeff surveyed the street. Though his vision was cut off by the front of the building to his left, he could see several persistent forms creeping into view. He moved away from the doorway and into the small parking lot.

  “What are you doing?”

  He ignored Ray as he picked his first target.

  “Over here, assholes!”

  Some of the rotting forms had spotted Ray and were moving in his direction before Jeff spoke. He drew their attention back to him and braced his arm to prepare for his first shot. The weapon kicked, but compared to the shotgun, it was nothing. The bullet traveled fifteen feet and punched a hole through the jaw of an armless stiff. It flopped to the ground, immobile. The empty cartridge shot clear of the weapon and bounced off the hardtop as Jeff took aim again.

  He moved back slightly, pulling the trigger and nailing a short-order cook wearing a grungy white apron. Arms that were riddled with tattoos did a little pinwheeling dance as the shot blew off the back of the heavyset man’s skull.

  Jeff lined up a shot on a mailman. There were already three bloody bullet holes in the rotter’s chest, and several fingers were missing from the thing’s hand. Jeff could also see that one of his kneecaps had been shattered, and there was a groove above one of the courier’s ears that creased his scalp. Dry, crusted pus leaked out of the wound.

  “Jesus, pal, I almost feel sorry for you.”

  Jeff took careful aim and pulled the trigger, clipping the mailman in the shoulder. Grumbling, he aimed again, and his second shot went wide.


  “Fuck!”

  As he tried to steady himself, Jeff wondered if the bastard were charmed or something. His next shot put that fearful notion to rest as it tunneled through the postman’s forehead and knocked him to the ground.

  For about a minute, Jeff had the ghouls confused. He would dart in one direction and then quickly move in another before lining up his next shot. But for every stiff he brought down, there were ten more behind it … and twenty more behind those.

  “What the hell are you doing, Jeff?”

  Ray couldn’t decipher what Jeff was thinking, but his best guess was that the man had flipped his lid.

  Jeff responded by picking off two more pus bags in rapid succession. The slide locked back on the gun, and he yelled, “Out!” as he scurried over to Ray and swapped the overheated Beretta for the shotgun.

  Ray didn’t let go immediately. He looked up, his eyes full of confusion as he resisted Jeff’s attempt to pull the weapon away. Jeff sighed and looked over his shoulder to be sure he had a few seconds, then stared down at Ray, exasperated.

  “Listen, I don’t plan on just standing here so a whole shitload of those bastards can gangbang us. When I move, they follow me, and if I’m careful, they don’t bunch up.” Jeff looked over his shoulder at the approaching crowd again and then turned back to Ray. “Now let go of the damn shotgun.”

  Ray relinquished his grip on the Mossberg. Jeff moved back out to the street, whooping and hollering to regain as much attention as he could. Ray shook his head as he reached for the last clip and slid it into the Beretta. He racked the first bullet and watched as Jeff danced in front of his audience once again. Quivering, the teenager turned the gun around until the barrel was pointed at his face. He shivered as a whimper escaped his throat, but did not slide his finger into the trigger guard. He would wait a little longer … just a little bit longer.

  Jeff looked around and knew there were too many stiffs to hold off. The swarms of creatures coming for them were stumbling over the bodies he had already laid out and would overwhelm him and the boy in a matter of moments.