Battle Lines (The Survivalist Book 5)

by Arthur Bradley

“I don’t know. Let’s see.”

  Mason clicked on his flashlight and swept it across the room. The warehouse was enormous, easily spanning the length of a football field in both directions. On one side sat dozens of white tote bags, each standing nearly as tall as a man and neatly aligned in front of a high bay door. On the other side of the room were forklifts, empty pallets, and a huge set of double doors, leading further into the plant.

  “It looks like a receiving area,” he said, standing up and brushing himself off. He reached down and helped Leila to her feet. “From the looks of it, this is where they bring in the peanuts.”

  “Do you think the soldiers have already been here?”

  Mason studied the exits. The rollup door was secured to the floor, and the large double doors remained closed. There was a smaller door that looked like it led out to an office corridor, but he saw no signs of anyone’s passing.

  “It doesn’t look like it.”

  Bowie wandered over to inspect the giant white tote bags, and Mason and Leila followed. A black stamp on the side of the bag read Gross Weight: 1 Ton. The dog sniffed one of the bags and then sneezed, trying to clear the scent from his nostrils. Mason stepped closer and patted the side of the bag. It was hard and bumpy, as if filled with millions of tiny pebbles. The top of the bag was open to the air, and four heavy lifting loops stood upright at its corners.

  He reached over the top of the bag and scooped out a handful of shelled peanuts. The nuts felt shriveled from having sat for weeks in a room that was no longer temperature controlled. He brought the handful to his nose and took a quick sniff. They smelled like sour milk, boiled cabbage, and sweaty sneakers all rolled into one. He tossed them back into the bag and brushed off his hands.

  “Rancid.”

  “Shame,” she said, rubbing her hands across the surface of the tote. “This could have fed a lot of hungry people.”

  Bowie was already making his way through the maze of bags, sniffing them as he went, but even he had yet to find anything worth eating.

  Mason motioned toward the double doors.

  “My guess is that those doors go deeper into the plant. If Lenny’s here, he’s likely to be that way.”

  She nodded and followed him across the room, using her injured hand to hold lightly onto the back of his arm. Bowie stayed close too, ever skittish about being left alone in the dark. They maneuvered around the forklifts until they stood directly in front of the huge double doors. Each door was twelve feet tall and eight feet wide, and they swung open from the center like decorative French doors—the main difference being that these were large enough to pass a M1 Abrams tank with room to spare on either side. The doors were secured with slide bolts that went six inches into the concrete floor. Likewise, the tops of the doors had latches that allowed them to be locked into the heavy metal frame that was mortared into the cinder block wall. Not surprisingly, those difficult-to-access latches had been left unsecured.

  Mason placed his ear against the door and listened. The only thing he could hear was Bowie’s nails clicking on the concrete behind him. Letting his rifle hang from the single-point sling, he inched the slide bolt up out of the concrete. When it was finally free, he eased the door open a couple of feet, and all three of them leaned around to peek in.

  Surprisingly, the room was already partially lit by a dim green glow emanating from something on the floor. A long conveyor system spanned nearly the entire length of the room, passing through a stainless steel box the size of a school bus. Matching metal carts were positioned at the far end of the conveyor system, and behind them, another set of double doors. As was the case with the receiving room, a smaller office-like door sat open along the right wall.

  With a little prodding, Bowie went in first, heading straight for the light. Mason stuffed his flashlight into his pocket and followed, sweeping his rifle across every dark corner of the room. Leila paused briefly at the door, covering them with her pistol.

  When Mason got to the light, he stopped and rolled it around with his boot. It was a standard military-issue chemlight. The outer plastic sleeve had been filled with hydrogen peroxide and green dye, and the inner glass vial contained pheynyl oxalate ester. When the unit had been cracked, the chemicals mixed, resulting in chemiluminescence. Chemlights were a modern marvel and a favorite of special ops teams because they were lightweight and didn’t release any heat.

  “I’m guessing the soldiers left that,” Leila whispered, coming up from behind him.

  “Probably to keep track of what areas they’ve already cleared.”

  Mason scanned the room. The top of the conveyor belt was covered with a thick layer of peanuts. Those that had passed through the machine were noticeably darker than the virgin nuts on the left.

  “I think it’s a roaster,” she said, following his gaze. “When the cooked nuts come out the other side, they’re dumped into those big carts and wheeled to the next room.”

  He nodded. While it was all very interesting, it wasn’t helping them to find Lenny.

  Bowie had grown bored with the chemlight and was now busy sampling some of the roasted peanuts. When he returned, several nuts were stuck to the fur around his mouth.

  “I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself,” Mason said, brushing away the peanuts. “What do you say we go deeper and see if we can find more than a snack?”

  Bowie licked the back of his hand.

  Mason turned and headed for the second set of oversized doors. Unlike the doors before them, these were already ajar. Once again, he dropped to a knee and peeked around the edge of the door. The next room was also lit by a chemlight. A handful of the stainless carts sat in front of a conveyor that led through a huge drying system. Once past the oversized fans, the conveyor narrowed, passing the peanuts between two rubber belts that removed the skins. A handful of matching carts were already lined up at the end of the conveyor, ready to be taken through yet another set of metal doors.

  Ignoring the chemlight this time, Mason led them around the outer edge of the room. There was an eeriness to the abandoned factory that none of them could quite shake, and all three walked a little closer than the situation required. Mason suddenly slipped on something, and Leila reached out to steady him.

  “Careful,” she said, pressing against his back.

  He nodded his thanks.

  “Something’s on the floor.”

  He pulled out the flashlight, cupped his hand over the lens, and clicked it on. Even diffused through his fingers, the bright white light flooded the area. A trail of something wet and slimy led around the conveyor system. Bowie immediately stepped forward and sniffed the substance with great interest.

  “What do you think it is?” she asked.

  Mason slid his boot over the slime. It was slippery but also sticky.

  “I’m not sure. Something from the factory. Grease, maybe.” He scanned the outer edges of the room with his flashlight. “There,” he said, pointing to a large mass lying at the other end of the conveyor.

  They hurried over to the mound, not at all ready for what they would discover. The body lay face up in a pool of its own blood. Even with the flashlight, Mason was unable to discern whether it was male or female. To be fair, he wasn’t fully prepared to declare it human at all. The creature’s limbs had oversized muscles and swollen joints, no different than some of the most seriously infected he had seen in the past. What was different was that this one had become a blob of fat and pus-filled blisters. It was completely naked, but thick rolls of fat hanging from its neck, torso, and legs completely obscured its genitalia—something for which both Leila and Mason were grateful. A thin layer of the same sticky substance they had discovered on the floor was smeared across its flesh. It was a creature that reeked of gluttony and evil, conjuring images of the fat-sucking pishtacos from Peruvian lore.

  “My God!” said Leila. “What is that thing?”

  Mason shook his head. It didn’t seem fair to suggest that it was human. With numerous bullet hole
s still oozing blood from its blobby chest, however, the cause of the creature’s death, was less of a mystery.

  Bowie approached the pishtaco and sniffed it. When he was satisfied that he understood what he was smelling, his tongue snaked out and licked some of the slime from its bloated belly.

  “Please, no,” Leila groaned, cringing as she squeezed Mason’s arm.

  Bowie took a few more licks and then turned to them as if to say, What? It’s not so bad.

  Mason stepped around the pool of blood, squatted down, and rubbed his fingers over the creature’s flesh. Even before smelling it, he knew what the substance was.

  “It’s peanut butter.”

  “Peanut butter? Are you sure?”

  “Here,” he said, holding up his fingers. “Taste.”

  She took a step back.

  He laughed and stood up, wiping his hands on his pants.

  “I think this is one of the infected survivors. He must have been living off the nuts and peanut butter for the past few months.”

  “It’s not like any of the infected I’ve ever seen.”

  Nor was it like any that Mason had encountered. Whatever was lying dead before them was massive and deformed in entirely new ways.

  “All I can figure is that the deformations depend on their diet and environment. This fella,” he nudged the mass with his boot, “turned into some kind of blob.”

  “It’s disgusting,” she said, wrinkling her nose.

  “No disagreement there. It looks strong though, so we’d better be careful. Where there’s one, there’re two.”

  She nodded, unable to take her eyes off the gluttonous creature.

  Mason turned to Bowie. “You finished?”

  Bowie took one last lick of peanut butter and then started for the third set of doors.

  The next room was even larger and smellier than those before it. The pungent odor of roasted peanuts was so strong that it seeped into their hair and clothes. An eight-foot-wide conveyor system carried peanuts high into the air and dumped them into a huge grinder, beneath which sat a five-thousand-gallon mixing vat. Smaller vessels of salt, sugar, and hydrogenated vegetable oil encircled the hopper, presumably to administer precise amounts as the mixture was stirred from solid into paste.

  The room was so large that the soldiers had left three chemlights, one along each side wall and one directly in front of the door at the opposite end of the room. Even with the glowing lights, however, much of the room remained shadowed in darkness. Before they had time to survey the room, a string of sharp puffs sounded from the next room.

  Mason dropped to a knee in the doorway and pulled Bowie close. Leila fell in behind them. More gunfire sounded, followed by the sounds of men screaming in agony. The door at the back of the room suddenly burst open, and two soldiers backed out, their rifles spitting fire. They wore night vision optics and carried MP5 submachine guns equipped with long black suppressors. The man on the right ran dry and did a rapid reload. As he released the bolt, a pishtaco lunged forward, engulfing and pulling him back into the room.

  His partner stopped in the doorway, searching the darkness. When he found his target, he began firing again. Before he could empty the magazine, massive blobs came at him from both sides. They collided against him with such force that the bones in his chest splintered and bloody vomit sprayed from his mouth. The pishtacos each grabbed an arm and tore it from his body as they retreated back into darkness. Blood spurted from the amputated joints as the soldier slumped to the ground.

  A third soldier raced from the room, limping and firing blindly behind him. A pishtaco chased him, shuffling its feet across the concrete as it tried to catch its prey.

  Leila tugged on the back of Mason’s shirt.

  “We’ve got to get out of here.”

  The soldier’s weapon jammed, but rather than try to reload, he dropped it and limped ahead with his last bit of energy.

  Leila’s voice became an impassioned plea.

  “Marshal, please.”

  “Take Bowie and go,” he said, pointing behind him. “Get to the next room. I’ll follow.”

  Mason pulled away and stepped into the room, bringing his rifle up to his shoulder. He took his time and aimed for the pishtaco’s oversized head. He squeezed the trigger twice, sending six 5.56 mm rounds into the nearly shapeless mound. It stumbled and fell, writhing on the floor in agony.

  Mason waved the soldier on.

  “Hurry!”

  The man hobbled toward him, screaming with every step. As he drew closer, Mason saw that the soldier’s leg was broken just above the ankle, and he now ran with this foot folded completely sideways. The fact that he hadn’t passed out from the pain was a testimony to his grit.

  Mason slipped his shoulder under the soldier’s outstretched arm.

  “Twenty more feet!”

  Tears ran down the man’s face as they shuffled toward the door.

  Bowie raced past them to cover their retreat, barking and baring his teeth as more of the pisthacos pushed their way into the room.

  Together, Mason and the soldier stumbled through the open doorway. As soon as Bowie darted in behind them, Mason slammed the doors shut and stomped the sliding latch into place. He couldn’t reach the bolt at the top of the door and didn’t dare take the time to worry about it.

  As if noticing for the first time that there was a stranger in their midst, Bowie turned and began growling at the injured soldier. The man was covered in sweat and weaving from side to side.

  “Hush,” Mason said, waving him away.

  Leila stepped forward and leaned in close.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m helping a fellow brother in arms.”

  “I see that, but have you forgotten that he’s our enemy?”

  “Enemy or not, he knows things that we don’t.”

  She didn’t argue any further, instead moving around to support the soldier by sliding under his other arm. Together, they half carried, half dragged the injured man toward the next set of doors. Before they had even crossed the room, a thunderous blow hit the door behind them. Both of them instinctively looked back.

  “Think it’ll hold?” she asked.

  “No.”

  Bowie sprinted ahead into the drying room, finally skidding to a stop on a pile of peanut skins. Mason, Leila, and the injured soldier struggled in behind him. As soon as they cleared the doorway, Mason closed and latched the second set of heavy doors.

  He turned and studied the room, looking for a place to run or hide. Going through one of the smaller doors was an option, but there was no reason to believe that the pishtacos wouldn’t follow. No, he thought, they had to find something strong enough to stop the behemoths.

  An idea came to him.

  “Back to the receiving room. Quick!”

  Still supporting the injured soldier, they hurried across the roasting room. As they passed the final chemlight, Mason kicked it ahead of them into the receiving area. Once inside, he turned and locked the final set of doors. Even with three sets of incredibly sturdy doors, he had no illusion about their inability to hold off the pishtacos. They would be along soon enough.

  He pulled the flashlight from his pocket and shined it toward the overstuffed tote bags. The tightly packed bags were as defendable as any machine gunner’s nest.

  “Leila, do you think you can you get him over there by yourself?”

  “If he does his part, I can.”

  Mason slipped his M4 over her shoulder and handed her the flashlight.

  “If you have to fight, shoot for the head.”

  “What about you?”

  Mason patted his Supergrade. “I’m not defenseless.”

  Neither of them felt it necessary to state the obvious. A pistol was unlikely to stop such massive creatures.

  Leila leaned the injured man toward her.

  “Last leg of the race. Don’t give up.”

  The soldier forced a few breaths in and out as he struggled to stay
conscious.

  She lifted up, and together, they began hobbling across the room, the flashlight beam bouncing up and down with every uneven step.

  Mason turned to Bowie. “Go and keep them safe.”

  The dog looked at Leila disappearing into the darkness and then back at Mason.

  He nodded once, and Bowie took off after them.

  “Now, let’s see if we can put some of this equipment to use.”

  He snatched up the chemlight and used the glow to guide him to the nearest forklift. The seat was old and worn, and it sagged in the middle from years of having to carry workers who undoubtedly took home their fair share of the company’s fatty product. Mason had never worked a forklift before but figured it couldn’t be too difficult, certainly no harder than his recent experience operating a garbage truck. He felt around for an ignition switch, finding a key along the right side of the steering column. The engine turned over a few times before finally starting. So far, so good.

  A loud clang sounded from the adjacent room. The pishtacos were one set of doors away from ruining everyone’s day.

  Mason spun the wheel and gave the forklift some gas. The engine groaned, but the forklift didn’t move. He held the chemlight out in front of him and scanned the controls. What was he missing? A sliding knob on the left side of the steering wheel had the letters F, N, and R. The transmission! He shoved it up into Forward and punched the gas. The forklift lurched but still refused to budge. He was about to check to see if a safety block might be in front of the wheels when another idea came to him. The emergency brake.

  He searched the entire control space and finally found a handle on the left side that resembled the handbrake on a car. He squeezed the button at the end of the handle and lowered it flush with the dash. As soon as the emergency brake released, the forklift started rolling forward.

  Mason felt his pulse quickening. He was finally moving, but he had wasted valuable time. He clicked on the headlights and steered the forklift toward the white tote bags. Leila and Bowie were both watching him with great interest. The soldier lay behind them, eyes closed, leaning back against one of the tote bags.