Blood Type Infected (Book 4): Betrayal of Hope

by Marchon, Matthew

  The dust hasn’t even settled before another wave of infects crash through the mangled fence, tripping over human remains still falling from the sky. I called them infects again, didn’t I? Damn it, too much time spent with the soldiers. Doesn’t matter what we call them, by the time we’re done with this cookie cutter community, they’ll all be dead.

  One sword is not going to cut it. Now that the floodgate is open, and they know damn well we’re here, they’re pouring through at an insane rate. Eight, eleven, fourteen, I can’t keep up. Caylee’s still shooting but the gap is too wide now, they’re not being funneled through one small space. She’s sinking bullets into their shins and ankles but most of them don’t flinch or even seem to notice. They’re coming my way with nothing to stop them.

  I pull Doug’s sword from the sheath we fastened to my bulletproof vest, holding one in each hand like a ninja version of Yosemite Sam. You’d be surprised how quickly you learn to wield a weapon when your life hangs in the balance.

  Last week I would have barely known how to swing a sword without chopping off my big toe, and here I am, entering a duel to the death with two of them, ready to decapitate and maim anything that crosses my path. Well, everything except my big toe. We are getting on that helicopter, whether you step out of my way or get hacked to pieces.

  I let out a roar that should make them think twice about who they’re messing with as I race towards them on a collision course with death.

  Doug’s blade collides with the first open mouth I come to, teeth stained red with her victim’s blood. How many women from her book club did she chase down and annihilate? Judging by her perfect form, I’d say she was a runner in a past life. Was she out for a morning jog after dropping her kids off at school when this all began?

  I slash through her pretty face, wishing I didn’t have to. Hoping she’s not still in there, watching the blade of my fallen friend’s medieval weapon tear through her jaw in one swipe, sending her sailing to the side, sliding on the pavement as her chin goes airborne.

  I spin from the momentum and catch the second in line with a backhanded swing that rips through his throat. My heel’s digging into someone else’s stomach with a mule kick before blood’s even gurgling through the fatal incision. I don’t hear the air bubbles pop until I’m chopping through another neck, blades meeting in the middle with a sickly clang that sends shockwaves through my arms.

  I’m ready for this. Everything I’ve been through has prepared me for this moment. You can send as many as you want, I will not fall.

  “Noah, we gotta get the Stryker through,” Norwood yells from somewhere behind me. “You think we can cross the field?”

  “Not the fuel truck,” I shout back, severing a set of knees and dodging the falling amputee. “That ditch is too big, it’s not gonna make it.”

  “What if we chain it up?” Felecia’s shaky voice comes from somewhere near the fire, clearly fighting while talking like only a woman can do. If I tried to think, speak and swing a sword at once, I’d end up losing that big toe in two seconds flat. “The same way they got it outta the ditch. He can drive into it, Max can pull him out. This fire isn’t dying and that tanker can’t drive through it.”

  “Norwood, if we hold them back,” I say, pausing to rip through Officer Friendly’s gullet with a katana because, you know, can’t walk and chew bubble gum at once, “can you get the truck hooked up?”

  “Are you crazy? Bro, we can barely hold them off with all three of us. We gotta fall back. Cover me while I get it latched on, then we’ll hop in.”

  How is it that every plan we devise sounds dumber than the last? To be honest, I don’t know how we haven’t gotten ourselves killed yet. But what other choice do we have? Felecia’s right, we kinda screwed up with that fire. The Stryker can roll through it like it’s a bunch of kids waving around sparklers, but the tanker, if that thing explodes, we’re fucked. There’s no flying out of here without fuel.

  Norwood launches himself off a heavyset man down on his hands and knees, errrr, sort of hands and knees, more his thighs and biceps because one of these sickos chopped his limbs in half. Wait, was that me? No, mine was an older gentleman with an epic neckbeard. I am not the sicko, in this particular instance. For once.

  Stumpy’s stubs flail out from under him as Norwood comes crashing down on a young un-legged guy in a MAGA hat, curb stomping his face into the edge of the sidewalk. Teeth and bones shatter on contact, I can hear the crunch from ten feet away.

  “Make your face great again you stupid fuck,” he shouts, bouncing off the cracked skull of the kid in the suit. He skids to a halt, nearly tanking it before doubling back and snatching the red ballcap.

  Without a word, Norwood runs it back in the direction he came, dodging burning infects like this is a competitive game of lava touch football. What in god’s name is he doing? Oh you’ve got to be kidding me, he just ran it all the way back so he could throw it into the fire.

  It goes to show, we really don’t need to turn into our fathers. We become who we want to become. His dad would strangle him if he could see this right now.

  Felecia and I have no choice but to double back and clear some flaming residents out of his path. Is he insane, just to destroy a stupid hat? What am I saying, of course he’s insane. But I don’t hesitate to run right in after him and make sure this crazy decision isn’t his last.

  “My bad,” he exhales before dropkicking an incoming postal worker, like, literally leaping into the air and kicking him with both legs so hard I’m pretty sure I heard ribs crack. “I couldn’t control myself. Fuck you Dad! Sorry, sorry, come on, let’s get this thing hooked up. If I wanted to be gay, I’d be gay, you ignorant asshole! And guess what, I lost my virginity to a black chick!”

  And he’s stopping to thrust his pelvis to the heavens.

  “Suck on that you piece of shit!” Okay, clearly he’s still got some issues he needs to work out with what I’m assuming is his dead father. The question is, was he bitten or was he dead before Norwood showed up to school Tuesday morning?

  “Excuse my language,” he mumbles with a shake of his head, bowing in Felecia’s direction. Yep, he just bowed to her. “Alright, the chain’s still hooked up to– Oh and it was me you racist bastard! I’m the one who replaced your retarded confederate flag with a Mexican one. Viva la freakin’ raza!”

  Is he done? Okay, I think he’s done now, it looks like we’re heading back to the Stryker.

  Wait, was Norwood right? I swear to god I saw someone in the passenger seat beside Paul. Did he sneak one of them out of the hospital? Darius? If that’s Darius, I’m tossing them both out and driving the damn thing myself. I am not letting him screw this up for whatever righteous reason he convinces himself he’s doing it for.

  When it mattered most, Darius betrayed us to help the infamous JJ Buckley, a known racist who probably would have rather died than be saved by a black kid. I get that he thought Buckley was leading them to safety while I was leading them deeper into the wasteland, but to turn on your best friends, for someone like that, there’s no coming back from that kind of decision.

  Was it Darius who let Buckley escape? So much has happened since then we haven’t really given it much thought but someone in that hospital cut Buckley loose, allowing him to take off with our bus full of supplies. Darius helped him once, did he make the same mistake twice?

  Is he really that stupid? Or desperate or whatever it is that would cause a person to do something so detrimental? Has this apocalyptic scenario changed him that much? He’s the funny guy, the one who jokes when it isn’t appropriate, always on, never completely serious and when you think he is, bam, there he is with a one liner. Honestly, I always found it a little irritating but how can you be mad when you’re laughing?

  He doesn’t even smile anymore. He may as well be dead already because that’s not Darius. He’s nothing more than a zombie of his former self and I can’t let the shell of a friend ruin our one way out. I don’t know what he and Pa
ul have planned, but I’m putting a stop to it right now.

  I race past the Stryker, making a beeline for the tanker truck full of traitors. It kills me, it does, but they both have to go. I’ve become a monster, I get that. The fact that I could sacrifice two of my best friends in the whole world, it makes me something evil.

  But this isn’t about me anymore, or my feelings being hurt. This is about the lives I hold in my hands. This is about the two people fighting beside me, and everyone back on that armored vehicle depending on us. I have the opportunity to get them out of this nightmare and if someone has to die in order for that to happen, someone who’s tried to hinder our survival already, they have to go.

  Now is not the time to be worrying about allegiances and being double-crossed out of fear and desperation. We’re all scared, we’re all desperate, and we need to be working together, not against one another in our moments of need.

  I realize this makes me a walking contradiction but I’m not letting whatever crackpot plan they’re concocting get in the way of us getting out of here. I know they’re up to something. I can feel it in my bones and I haven’t been wrong yet.

  We’re putting an end to this, right now. If it makes me the bad guy, then kiss the good guy goodbye.

  I grab the passenger side handle, no clue what I’m going to do once it’s open, but knowing what needs to be done.

  A loud bang erupts from the back of the fuel truck. What the fuck? And then another, and another. Is someone shooting at me? It sounds almost like someone’s shooting the tanker.

  Instincts tell me to duck and I listen, but if someone’s dumping bullets into the side of our fuel tank, ducking isn’t exactly going to help. I might as well be hiding under my desk during a nuclear strike.

  Are those feet? Holy shit, we’re not being shot at, they’re running down the hill at full speed and crashing into the backs of our vehicles, moving too fast to stop themselves in time. They must have followed us here. We were too busy trying to clear a path through Sonny Valley to notice the horde of hell’s rejects coming from behind.

  The leaders of the pack have arrived, and they’ve brought an army with them.

  CHAPTER 25

  We’re surrounded. There’s no going back now. The winding road that leads into the valley is a sea of humanity. Have you ever seen ant piles swarming a crack in the concrete? Or an aerial shot of the opening moments of the Boston Marathon? I can’t tell where one body ends and the next begins.

  We led them right to us. With these wide open roads at the foot of the mountains, they could see us for miles.

  “Holy fucking shit!” Norwood screeches, presumably the second he turns around with the chain in his hand, staring down a parade of death with no end in sight. The line disappears beyond the bend, weaving its way through the mountain pass.

  “Go go go!” I scream, just in case he didn’t hear me the first time. “I’ll cover you! We gotta get this truck to the dam.”

  When you run the bulls in Spain, you run from them, because running towards them would be just about the stupidest thing you could do. Here I am, racing towards the stampede. It takes every fiber of my being not to turn and run.

  We need this fuel. Without it, there is no getting out of here. The helicopter’s empty, the Stryker’s running on fumes, and time was thrown out the window the second they slammed into the back of our truck. Our last hope.

  Machinegun fire sends my heart racing as Caylee unloads on the incoming army, the steady drum of bullets punctuated by bursting bombs. Someone’s launching grenades at the fire festival in an attempt to slow them down. Something tells me the charred remains of Sonny Valley’s inhabitants aren’t deterred by the flames nor the bullets. I’m just hoping the impact from the gunshots and explosions will be enough to hold them back. How long does it take to chain up a truck? And if the answer is any more than five seconds, we’re royally screwed.

  This is downtown Leyland all over again. How many times can we fight the same battle? When does it end?

  The pile of broken bodies are scrambling to their feet as I round the corner. They collided with the back of the tanker at such high speeds, they literally broke themselves. Dislocated limbs dangle freely from their sockets. Blood pours from noses. One man’s knees are caved in from smashing into the bumper. His dad shorts reveal the sagging flesh covering the shattered bones of his kneecaps, crunching and grinding as he tries to stand.

  There must be at least ten of them on the ground in front of me, it’s hard to tell in the condition they’re in, piled up and tangled in a game of zombie Twister. You’d think they’d know not to ram full force into inanimate objects but their lack of common sense is my only saving grace.

  I take advantage of them when they’re down and slice left and right through every neck I see. If they get to their feet, there’s no way I can take on ten of them at once. Or the second batch of sprinters coming in hot.

  They lose one when he stumbles over his feet and hits the ground with enough momentum to send him spring-boarding off the pavement. His body collides with a street sign, snapping him in half. The back of his head meets his heels, like he’s bending to touch his toes but going in the wrong direction. Ribs explode through his arched stomach, opening his insides to the world in a gruesome intestinal detonation. I can hear him pop from forty feet away.

  Unfortunately, his buddies are less clumsy and they’re coming in at speeds they can’t control. Running downhill has always scared the bejesus out of me, sure, jogging downhill is easy but full on sprinting is way too dangerous. And they’re just proving my point.

  I sidestep the guy in stretchy capris and catch him in the adam’s apple with a backhanded swipe of the sword. His body backflips, losing his head in the process. He crashes into the fuel truck with enough force to move it forward a foot before falling into the heap of headless corpses collecting below the bumper. Or was that Paul hitting the accelerator? Are we chained up already?

  Felecia springs from the other side of the tanker, swiping at a pair of incoming bare feet. How is he running this fast without shoes on? I can barely walk across the hot sand and here he is sprinting down the road like he’s got the feet of a hobbit. The young man in the swimsuit smacks off the pavement and skids under the truck, losing half his flesh on the street, as well as his left foot.

  “No not yet,” Norwood yells, which I’m assuming means Paul started driving before he should have. Why’s he still moving? The truck is rolling. “Stop! Stop the fucking truck! Shit, help! Guys, I need help here!”

  “I got it,” Felecia screams, not wasting a second as I behead another mach speed marathoner.

  What the hell is Paul doing? Does he not realize what’s going on here? This is our one chance and I swear to god, if he blows it for us, I will kill him with my bare hands. Friendship be damned, he is not ruining this for the rest of us. He can whine about Jenny and his dad all he wants, I am done feeling sorry for him. Now is not the time to throw one of his passive aggressive hissy fits.

  Two more, coming straight for me, not even pretending to slow their roll. They’ve got their mouths open in preparation, salivating at the thought of sinking their teeth into my sweaty flesh. Probably not the time or place but random thought, Felecia was infected, is it weird that they’re still going after her when they don’t feed on each other? You’d think it would have acted as some kind of disguise, even if just for a little while, until it all left her system or whatever it is that happens.

  I launch myself directly at them, aiming for the small gap where their hands smack off one another as they run full force down the hillside. My katana catches Business Suit in the shins and he goes sliding, but Sundress leaps right over it like we’re playing jump rope. She turns in midair, keeping her cold dead eyes locked on me at all times, too smart to be tripped, but not smart enough to stick her landing.

  Her foot hits the ground halfway through her attempt to reverse direction. The horrific popping of her leg spiraling out of its socket is
enough to make my testicles retreat into my stomach as every hair stands on end. It’s twisted in the opposite direction, her leg is backwards.

  She crashes onto the pavement and rolls like a car taking a corner too fast. Her body’s launched off the pig pile in a perfect spiral before her head smashes into the corner of the fuel truck, damn near decapitating her with a crack loud enough to overpower Caylee’s machine gun.

  Wait, where did Business Suit go? I don’t see him, unless, yep, that’s him, wedged face first under the tire, trying to wiggle his way out. Shit, oh no no no no no, one of them slid under the truck and hasn’t re-emerged. If he crawls all the way through, he’ll be biting Norwood’s ankles before he even knows he’s there.

  I throw myself to the ground, dust and pebbles sticking to my saturated skin. The son of a bitch is dragging himself along the undercarriage, burning his hands on the pipes while sliding on his back. I can smell his skin melting onto the metal. He peels them off slowly like velcro as the flesh from his fingers liquifies, singed beyond recognition, a hamburger dripping grease into the grill.

  Hold on, wait, no! Why the hell is Norwood under there? He’s under the truck! Felecia’s pulling him out headfirst. They have no clue Velcro Fingers is inching his way towards them, using the skeletal remains of his charred hands to slither his way closer.

  I spring to my feet in the quickest burpee known to man and race to the side of the tanker before I’m fully upright. I slide to a stop like I’m stealing second, not caring how badly it scrapes my leg to shreds. He is not getting them. It is not going down like this.

  He turns to look at me, smoke pouring from his deformed hands, just in time to see me skewer his face. The sword pierces his eyeball and exits the back of his skull in one fluid motion.