The last flight of stairs was shrouded in smoke like a gray funeral shroud, an acidic chemical burning their eyes and stinging their nostrils. Gwen coughed, covering her mouth with her sleeve as she walked.
“A few more steps,” Ahmed said, breathing hard and pushing up Gwen’s pack as they crested the cliff. Steele’s heart thumped in his chest trying to get enough blood and oxygen to his muscles. His three comrades stood on the top landing waiting, all eyes preoccupied.
Steele bent down, sighting up the infected that struggled even slower up the stairs. He exhaled and squeezed the trigger. The lead infected fell backwards, mangling the other infected in a mass of limbs as they rolled down the steps. He turned around when he heard Gwen gasp.
“What?” Steele shouted, pounding out rest of the steps.
Ahmed looked at Steele fast approaching with fear in his eyes.
“What?” he said. He took the final few steps in groups of two.
He crested the cliff edge.
Gwen’s hand instinctively covered her mouth. Kevin peered at the ground. Ahmed put a hand on Steele’s chest. “Steele, man. Let’s take this slow.” Steele removed his hand with more force than he would have liked, unable to take his eyes off the destruction before him.
“Don’t,” was all Steele could squeeze out.
The house was a charred, blackened foundation of what used to be an exquisite log cabin. Around the edge, tan, round full logs lay scorched, cracked, and broken. His childhood sanctuary lay in ruins before him. His only place of refuge. The place where he found peace. He ran forward.
“Mom?” he said at the rubble.
“Mark, no,” Gwen said softly. He breezed past her.
“Mom?” he shouted louder.
Heat emanated from the structure like he was next to a blazing fireplace. He raced around the sides of the building looking for any signs of her. The woman that had raised him. The woman that had loved him unconditionally as only a mother could. The mother that supported him when he decided to join the Division instead of playing it safe as a teacher or lawyer.
He looked over at her neighbor Jim’s house. The large white-and-green lake house stood, still intact. Hope bubbled inside him. Maybe she’s there. Or somewhere else.
“Mom?” he called out.
Gwen walked near the ruins. “Mary?” Gwen called out behind him. “Kevin and Ahmed, check that house,” she said. The two men jogged off.
No one returned his calls. The only sounds filling the air were the soft crackle of wood, the waves of the lake, and the moans of the infected at the bottom of the steps.
He paced near the burnt down home until the two men returned, unable to comprehend the scene ahead of him. A somber Kevin shook his head no, and the bubble of hope in Steele’s chest popped. He stopped pacing and his eyes felt distant and unfocused. His M4 dropped from his hands. The sling did its job and the gun swung down at his side. His hands dug into the smoldering charred wood as he searched for anything to solve this mystery. He threw pieces to his sides, looking for something to prove him wrong, something to prove that this wasn’t his house.
“Mom. I’m here!” he shouted. His voice was absorbed by the black hole of the ruined structure. He could hear the others shouting his mother’s name, but he ignored them. Piece after piece he tossed behind him until his hands were black and scalded, and his clothes filthy with soot.
Exhausted, he dropped to his knees in tall grass badly in need of a cut. What happened? Where is she? Who did this?
“Steele, check this out,” Ahmed yelled from the garage.
Steele pushed himself up off the ground and stumbled for Ahmed. His mind was a foggy mess of confusion and questions.
Ahmed stood near the garage next to the front lawn looking down at the ground. “Look.” Ahmed pointed at the ground. Deep tire treads lined the grass and earth, not bothering the driveway. Long ago, his father would have murdered whoever had destroyed his well-groomed lawn.
“Over here too,” shouted Kevin. The lanky man kicked at the ground. Steele was a bloodhound on the trail, his mind a blind haze going from track to track.
“Must be at least a dozen vehicles,” Ahmed said. Steele bent down, feeling the earth that was now a clue to finding his mother.
“There’s some single tracks over here,” Kevin shouted.
Steele stared at him. “Someone knows what happened here, and I will find them,” Steele muttered with bloodshot eyes. “Come on.”
TESS
Northern Michigan
Squeezing her knuckles, Tess pushed them in until they popped one by one down the breadth of her hand. Faces formed a continuous crowd around her. Just outside their rowdy ring was a tall maroon-bricked lighthouse that spired for the sky. People at the top leaned over the black railing, ringing the observation deck.
The faces around her laughed, yelled, and pushed, trying to get a view of the entertainment. Tess wiped a hand through her thin short hair, letting the grease from not bathing hold it slicked back.
A big fat woman stood across from her. Big Bessie was a truck driver and new to the camp, bringing in a large supply of non-perishable food from the local grocery store Edmund’s in Muskegon. Her chins doubled up upon other chins. “Bring it on, you fuckin’ twat,” Big Bessie shouted at her. She raised her big bloated arms up and down beneath a crudely cut off long sleeve shirt to fire the crowd up.
They cheered.
“I got a can of tuna on Bessie!” shouted a man.
“Double or nothing Bessie breaks her tiny little arm,” said another.
Ye of little faith.
Two gamblers shook hands on the wager.
Tess gave Bessie an ever-so-sly smile.
An attractive lightly-bearded man stood behind her. She turned toward him. He gave her a wide grin, his strong hands taking her slender shoulders in his hands. He massaged her like he was prepping a prize fighter for a fight.
He leaned close to her face. “You think you can take her?” he said under his breath.
“She’s all fat. No technique. She’s already lost,” Tess said. She wobbled her neck from side to side while he rubbed her back. Keep it loose.
“I put a week’s worth of food on it with Randy, so I hope you are right,” he said. She looked over the crowd, locating Randy. He laughed with the rest, already celebrating his victory.
“What a dick,” she muttered.
Glancing down at his hands touching her shoulders, she laughed short melodic notes. “I don’t lose, Pagan.”
“Oh look at the little baby. Needs a little back rub from her pool boy before she gets her arms ripped off,” Bessie roared at her. Bessie’s voice was deep and cracked, having been scarred by years of smoking.
Tess raised her tattooed arms over her head, stretching. Speed, leverage, and timing were her only weapons. A hundred-and-ten-pound woman wasn’t going to stand a chance against all of Big Bessie’s weight for long. Size mattered, but it could be mitigated with proper technique.
Tess stalked up to a table that had been set in the middle of the encampment for this single activity. Big Bessie positioned herself at one end and Tess took the other. Wedging her elbow into the table, she locked eyes with Bessie. Bessie’s eyes were the color of a fresh turd. Ugly yellow hair hung down in dirty curls around her shoulders.
“Look at this girl here,” Bessie wheezed with a sneer. “Little mosquito bites for tits.” The crowd laughed at her insult. “I remember my first beer.”
“Pagan,” Tess called over her shoulder. “Vodka,” she said coolly.
Bessie thought this was hilarious and laughed uproariously with the crowd around them. Bikers and woodsmen were the loudest, but most of the people were refugees with nothing to do.
Pagan slammed down a bottle of 150 proof Whitetail Vodka and set down two shot glasses. The harshest vodka found in the Mitten State. Better off drinking pure gasoline. He poured the vile, clear liquid in both glasses. It smelled like a blend of fuel and rubbing alcohol; it prob
ably could be used as both in a pinch.
Tess grasped a glass with slender fingers. Don’t think about it. She threw it back and the booze burnt the length of her throat like she had swallowed fire. Bessie reached for the other shot glass, but before she could wrap her pudgy fingers around it, Tess had scooped it up. She smiled at Bessie and tossed that one back as well. Bessie smirked.
“So the little thing can drink a bit,” Bessie grunted.
Tess smirked back. “Fill it up again,” Tess commanded. Her eyes never left Bessie’s round, plump face.
“Hahaha,” Bessie chuckled. “Fill it up, pretty boy.” She made kissing noises at Pagan.
Tess inwardly laughed at his discomfort.
Pagan leaned close, filling them up. “I hope you know what you’re doing. I’m not sure getting drunk is going to help.” He tipped the bottle once and then twice. Bessie swatted at Pagan’s behind. He tolerated her with a mild grin.
Tess belched rancid fire. “Eyes over here, Big Bessie,” she said, pointing her index and middle fingers at Bessie then back at her own eyes. “He’s mine.” The crowd laughed.
“Come on, Tess,” Gregor shouted. He was a broad-framed welder from a construction company in Cadillac. Long black hair hung down to his shoulders.
“Drink it up,” added Garrett. The tall biker smiled in glee through his salt-and-pepper beard. He wore the same black leather vest as the other bikers from the Red Stripes Motorcycle Club.
Tess threw the next shot back and tossed the glass onto the ground. Before it hit the earth, she was sucking down the next. Shaking her head like a dog, she was ready.
“Whew,” she shook out.
Bessie laughed. “Look at her. She can hardly sit in the chair.”
Tess placed her elbow on the table, exhaling loudly. She glanced from her hand to Bessie and back again.
Bessie’s elbow thumped down, shaking the table. It trembled under her weight. Her sweaty hand engulfed Tess’s, letting Tess carry the brunt of her fatty arm.
Thunder, a grizzled gray-bearded biker, pushed his way through the crowd. His leather vest was covered in patches. The largest one was a black skull with its mouth slightly open encased in a diamond of blood-red. Stripes of the same blood-red color lined overtop of the skull. Four small blue naval stars decorated the background.
He cleared his throat. “Ladies, and I use that term loosely.” Bessie laughed uproariously at the comment, coughed to the side, and hacked a glob of phlegm on the ground.
“I see plenty of ’em round here,” Tess said, staring up at him. Her eyes dared him to say otherwise. Thunder’s patch-covered motorcycle club vest hung open, revealing a basketball-sized hairy belly. A red bandana held his long graying hair back behind his head.
“We still can’t confirm if you’re a girl, Miss Tess,” he said with a grin beneath his bushy beard. “Only rules are, feet can’t leave the ground and hands must stay locked together for the entire match. Do you understand?”
“I do,” Tess responded.
“Let her stand up, won’t matter,” Bessie said.
Tess rotated her body so her hips were in line with her shoulders and arm. I must pull fast and hard toward myself to negate her great strength and size.
“Then let’s begin.” His weathered, cracked hand rested briefly on the two women’s.
“Ready. Set. Go.” He raised his hand with a flourish, standing back to watch the mayhem with a smile.
Bessie grunted as Tess hooked her hand, pulling Bessie toward the edge of Tess’s side of the table. The booze was starting to kick in and she felt invincible. Bessie saw it too, glaring intently at their hands as Tess moved her inch by inch, her thin muscles straining as hard as they could in her arm.
Bessie turned red with effort. “Rarrr,” she screeched, focusing her energy on bringing their hands back toward her. Tess’s arm quivered as Bessie gained the advantage, pushing Tess’s hand further and further from victory.
Tess’s arms were skinny at best. She wasn’t going to win a pushing match. The pressure on her forearm made her think her arm was going to fracture and explode.
Bessie exhaled and sucked in more air, her face looking like a red balloon. One more inch and Bessie’s weight would finish Tess over the top.
Tess twisted her hips in her seat, using her shoulder to gain leverage. With a slight maneuver of her hand, which Bessie would never notice, she forced her competitor to grip the bottom of her palm. Then she pulled Bessie’s hand directly in toward her body, displacing her challenger’s center of gravity. Using her momentum, she slammed Bessie’s hand home, letting the table be a backstop. Releasing the woman, Tess stood to the cheering of the crowd and the jeering of her defeated opponent.
Tess held her hands open wide in the air and spun around in a circle.
“Are you not entertained?” she yelled at them.
Pagan wrapped an arm around her. “That was great, babe.” From the side, Thunder nodded his head approvingly like a proud father.
“You never cease to amaze me, Miss Tess,” he said.
Bessie rubbed her hand. She stared at it, confused as to why it had betrayed her. “Bessie, you can leave those supplies by the camper.”
“How did you do that?” Bessie said. She cradled her hand in the other.
“If I told you, I’d have to kill you,” Tess said, raising an eyebrow.
Bessie stood up from the table. “I’ll drop off the food. You are a strong little bitch; I’ll give you that,” Bessie said.
The crowd dispersed to their separate campsites. Tess and Pagan crossed back to their camper, his arm hooked around her waist. Tess stopped, turning back to Bessie.
“Bessie, you are free to stay here as long or as short as you would like. You need not be alone.”
Bessie smiled faintly. “Thank you, Tess. I’ll stick around for awhile, but I want a rematch.”
“You’re welcome to try,” Tess said with a smile.
Back in the camper, Tess had sex with Pagan. The combination of her victory and the pleasure made her feel alive again if only for a fleeting moment.
They lay next to one another in their musty camper from the ’70s. Fake wood made from plastic covered its interior panels. Long thin vertical lines of brown, tan, and white decorated the couches. It was the worst color scheme she’d ever seen, but the camper was home. She looked up at the yellow-stained ceiling, hands behind her head, naked aside from an old patchwork quilt covering her lower half.
The man next to her was lean and hard. His body had more muscle when they first had met during the beginning of the madness, and now he was only thin muscle. She had been with Darren Pagan ever since. Tess would never call it a relationship—she didn’t have relationships—but it was a mutual agreement they had fallen into. More of a person to pass the time with. She felt the former Marine although there were no former Marines, only Marines, stir next to her as he woke up.
“Can’t sleep?” he whispered. He shifted his weight in the futon-style bed and the whole camper creaked.
“You know I don’t sleep.”
“You want to talk about it?”
“Nope.”
He paused. “Thunder and his gang said they saw torched homes along the lakeshore again while they were out collecting.”
“Who do you think is setting them?” she asked. She rolled over to pull a joint from a baggie beneath her pillow. Lighting it up, she took a hit and passed it to Pagan. He burned the weed, its deep red embers glowing brightly. It always surprised her that the Marine would smoke weed with her, but then again she never expected to be a de facto leader of a group of survivors in the apocalypse either.
“From what I can gather,” he said, his voice rose as he tried to hold it in before exhaling the light blue smoke through his mouth, “it doesn’t seem to be diversionary or random. The fires seem to be set on purpose.”
“But to what end? You don’t think it’s those nutjob Christians.”
“I’m not sure. This is pretty
far north for them, but I won’t know unless I get up close and investigate.” He passed the joint back to her. She placed it in her mouth and inhaled.
“I don’t want any surprises from anyone. Tomorrow you should go check it out.” She put out the weed in an ashtray. Her body felt light and relaxed. The only way she could feel relaxed now was by smoking. Survival was a constant anxiety that never went away. That’s what happened when everywhere you went people tried to kill and eat you.
The Little Sable Point community had started with her and Pagan holed up inside the lighthouse. Narrow steps led upward three floors to the lighting chamber. They had slept on the top-level observation deck, wind howling around them with views of the lake and dunes for miles and miles. It was breathtaking in more ways than one. The land had been summer green, the dunes sandy gold, and the water ocean blue. The old age of the lighthouse had made her wonder if it would even stay up in the gushing wind.
Within a week, others had found their way to Little Sable Point. Refugees that fled the infected were drawn to its rotating lights while there was still power.
The surrounding woods and few houses isolated it from most people. Soon after the people came, the infected found them. She and Pagan had killed the most, gaining them the loyalty of the others.
Now it was a refuge for roamers and the unaffiliated, the lost and the broken. They all came here and found a bit of solace from the storm. While the power still worked, the light shone, calling to the fleeing people. No one made them stay. A loose rule of law was set forth, mostly from the Red Stripes who enforced it. It was enough to keep everyone safe.
They came in campers, semis, buses, pickups, and cars that all encircled the lighthouse, providing a protective barrier to the outside world of the infected. When one left, the others closed ranks. Any large packs of infected were sighted from atop the lighthouse, and the small groups or individual infected that came upon them were forced up against the sturdy ring of vehicles.
The Rising (The End Time Saga Book 3) Page 6
