Rebekah said, "Okay. But Trackers is plural. You only seen one, so where's the rest of them?"
"I would say they were caged or tracking others." I said.
“Tracking others?” Rebekah asked.
Mike continued, "Some kids were out last night and those soldiers arrested them. I would say that they got a free ride home but they were placed in plastic restraints and hauled off in two black vans. If we can get a couple of them soldiers to talk I figure we can get ahead of the pack, find out whatever we don't know, find Diana and get on the safest route toward the docks."
"Why the docks?" Rebekah asked.
Ann answered, "It's probably our only way out the city alive."
“You don’t think the bad guys would have thought about that too?” Rebekah sarcastically asked.
“The dock is like a hole-in-the-wall nightclub.” Mike picked up the slack. “The only way you would notice it is if you had a boat or worked for Sea-Tow. Other than that you’d overlook it. Shit… most of the city does. You go down a long dirt road that isn’t even on the map.”
“And I take it you work there?” Rebekah asked.
“And it sucks. Trust me. It’s our best and only shot.”
The street cleared. I peered out the window and a few seconds later a WCPD patrol car slowly passed by – so much for the bike chain.
"We might be in luck." I said to the group as I backed away from the window and pointed to the cops through the mirror.
Mike took the hint and ordered me to follow him, looked at Jon and said, "You wanna find your daughter, come with us." then looked to the girls, "You girls stay here." then asked Rebekah, "Where do you keep the tube socks?"
She walked to her vanity and came back with two dark colored scarves and said, "These will work just the same." as if she knew what he had in mind.
Mike told us the procedure. It was simple, but Jon was the bait. I don’t think anyone wanted to be the worm at the end of the hook, or the chicken breast in the crab net, but Jon was ready to play his position like Jimmy Hendrix played guitar. He waited for the patrol car to make its way back, and defenseless, he walked out in the street and flagged down the authorities.
The cops fell for it. They both stepped out of their vehicle with their guns drawn. The driver and ranking officer, appearing more experienced in his urgency and persistence, holding a firm grip on his semi-auto and keeping his eyes on the target; the passenger and rookie moved his head in every direction like he knew something or someone was watching from the shadows; he was right. They ordered Jon to his knees with his hands above his head.
Jon simply stretched out his wrists, and then asked the cops if they'd seen Diana. They didn’t respond. They holstered their weapons, put him in restraints and begun to escort him in the backseat of their cruiser.
Mike and I flanked the cops from both sides of the street, rifles raised.
"Don't do it!" Mike advised to the beat of a band, quiet but threateningly enough to make his point as we approached the officers.
"Hands on the hood; now!" I ordered.
The cops immediately threw their hands in the air instead of reaching for their protection; they complied with our demands without putting up a fight. That was a good thing. If they didn’t, and decided to draw their weapons, someone was target practice. But deep down inside, I didn’t have it me to kill another human being, if they’d reached for their arms I was pretty sure Mike would have let off the first shot.
Mike placed the cops in restraints and took both their firearms and used the scarves to blindfold them; apparently he had the scenario mapped out inside his head before we left out the house. He cut Jon loose with his hunting knife and handed him the officers’ guns, kept his voice lowered and told Jon, "Stash the car around the corner.” Then grabbed the cops by their collars and said, “If you do what we say, we won't turn you over to them. For now, we need you both to stay quiet. That's the only way we get out of here alive. If you understand nod your heads."
They nodded in agreement.
Jon got in the driver’s seat of the patrol car and headed around the corner to the next block. Mike and I escorted the cops into Rebekah's garage and she met us at the side door.
"What the fuck did you bring them here for?" she argued.
Mike answered, "We need your basement." and walked into the house.
"I don't have anything to do with kidnapping." she said, following him. But not stopping him.
Mike retorted, "What did you think the scarves were for?" he stopped in the living room.
"I didn't think you were going to bring them here!" Rebekah defended.
“What did you think?”
"It's alright. What do you—" the cop from the driver's seat started to say before Mike cut him short.
Mike looked at his badge, and then peered over at his partner.
"You talking, Sergeant Tolson? Pana hasn’t said shit yet?" Mike asked him.
Tolson said, "Hey, we don't want to be here either. You think it’s fun taking orders from someone other than the lieutenant? I'd rather be a hostage here instead of bait out there..." said Tolson.
At that time I knew we had the right guys. They were offering information and ready to tell us everything. It wasn’t hard to tell that they were in way over their heads.
Rebekah finally led us to her basement for a further interrogation. The thought of what Mike was trained to do entered my head and I felt as if taking hostages was a bad idea. As a kid Mike had a mean streak I’m sure Ann never seen, and taking it back to his high school days, I begun to mentally reminisce about a time when Mike forced a bully into the bathroom stalls and would not let him out until school let out. Mike whooped his ass for hours; that kid ended up switching schools. Once he stuffed a kid in his locker, school security caught up with him after the fact, grabbed his arm the wrong way intending on a forced escort to the principal’s office and ended up in the hospital with a broken nose and a skull fracture. Mike was just that bad. And there was no telling what type of training the military gave him.
The basement was dark and cold. The only light was from a 60 watt bulb dangling over top of the cops who was sat on an old dusty sofa, bound in restraints that were placed on their wrists.
Mike jerked off the cops’ blindfolds and Officer Pana immediately started talking. "We were just doing our job. We were told to detain anyone outside and call for Zone One to pick the detainees up to be treated. We all got shots, everyone that went to the hospital. They didn't tell us much outside what we didn't see." He said.
"And what did you see?" I asked.
"The dead are coming back to life. The soldiers open fire on anyone in their way. The handcuffing of citizens being placed in tents they called healthcare facilities, mobile transports and helicopters. Barriers across the city." the lower ranking passenger confessed.
"How many are there in total?" Mike asked, sticking to our original way of doing things.
"We don't know the numbers, exactly.” Tolson answered. “They set up camps within the health facilities, but the ones at North Warwick and Warwick City hospitals were overrun by Bleeders and Trackers. West Warwick is between quarantine lines, and no one gets in there on foot, period. The soldiers are set up across the borders of the city. Others patrol thru the night, but we don't know what they do…" he looked to us. "You know we're on your side, right? We live in the city too."
"So the mosquito threat is out of the question?" I asked. Just to see if he could be trusted.
The driver and higher ranking officer answered, "The mosquitos are what started this. The World Health Organization was called in the other day. National Guard, FEMA, and other organizations have been dispatched, and the agency is making sure the remaining, willing citizens are properly taken care of."
It was clear that they were brainwashed. They were saying the same thing Maria was saying the day before.
Then Ann walked down the basement stairs and said, "My cousin’s a nurse at Warwick City Hospital, a
nd there isn't any threat of a mosquito virus. Even though proper isolation precautions have been met, the healthcare teams capability to preform diagnostic tests or nursing techniques are completely unpractical. Your superiors made up the mosquito threat to conceal the truth. The WHO was called in, but the team became victims of the virus, and that's if they were who they said they were. We're all bait. We need your help to escape, and anyone else who isn't infected to join us, and help spread the word to the world of what's happening here before it’s too late."
Tolson said, "How are you going to escape when all the city borders are being patrolled, defenses are completely surrounding the damn place, and your only real hope is West Warwick City Hospital."
"But you said no one gets in." I said.
"Yeah… No one gets in on foot." he repeated. "The helicopters lift up and rally there. The feed came in over the radio."
Rebekah turned to Mike and said, "Where's Jon?"
Shit. Jon never made it back.
“Damn!” Mike pointed to the officers.
“Yeah, you girls keep an eye on these two.” I said of our hostages.
Mike and I, rifles in hand, ran out the way we entered and cautiously up Rebekah's quiet street to see what was holding Jon up. Mike took the lead, crouching as he made a right on the next street.
My nose started to tingle the wrong way from the stench of Bleeders. As I got down low and raised my rifle, I realized we were walking through the tracks they left behind, and as I made it to the corner of the street, Mike had his eye in the scope.
The police car was surrounded by the deathly savages created by a contagious virus that was factory driven to the point it wouldn't get up enough horsepower to pull away. Something was odd about the Bleeders but made since; they were not howling like animals or critically injured patients of Satan’s workshop. They just lingered in a pack of at least forty. When they didn't acknowledge our presence or the scent of us — that close — I realized something else.
I looked thru my scope. Jon was unharmed, sitting still but nervous, and the Bleeders ignored him. I looked toward the homes to survey the rest of the area in the cul de sac. Wet and turned over plants, mild debris from houses, children toys and garden tools scattered across the Bleeder-infested area, and one unusual but useful vantage point of a home, with a second story master bedroom balcony in the front was my intended destination. The vantage point wasn’t that far from where we were positioned.
Mike sped back toward me and said, "We gotta draw them away from Jon without lettin' off a shot."
I just came out and told him, "They’re blind." under my breath, "And why do you think they haven't made their way to us?" then waited for a second and said, "We're standing in their tracks."
Mike smiled and said, "You sure?"
I confidently grimaced, "Damn right."
"Good going lil' bro."
I gave him my idea of approach and led the way. I followed the trails the Bleeders left, careful, low, slow and quiet. Mike held onto his blade, his rifle strapped across his back.
We were mere inches from Bleeders, nearly shoulder-to-shoulder.
Once we finally made it to the house safely and without incident, I hoisted Mike up on top of the garage and he used his hunting knife to pry open the mid-size window leading into the house. He entered and let me in thru the garage side door in seconds. And knowing that we were no longer on the Bleeders tracks; our scent would draw them to us. Jon would be able to make his escape, and we could do the same, escaping from the second level window Mike entered.
Mike opened the front door to the residence and backed up, positioned his knife point down and heard that familiar click of the hammer on a revolver pistol drop from behind us.
"Get the hell out of my house!" grunted a matured and stern but feminine voice.
"Ma'am" Mike said in a lowered, yet still calming manner, "I'm sorry. You don't understand—"
She cut him off, "I don't understand why you're in my house?" she continued, "If you don't leave from here I will—"
I cut her off, "Wait a minute. We're trying to save a friend, lady. You're in danger by staying here. Those things out there..."
She grew agitated, "You're in danger. And if you don't leave," her voice lifted a couple notches, "I’ll fire!"
The moans erupted from outside. The Bleeders were on to her.
We turned around to see a woman who looked to be in her late twenties, she held a revolver outward as a little girl grappled her leg. The girl, hooked to the woman’s leg looked to be no more than eight, squeezing her eyes shut. Who knew how long they had been cooked up in that house? The woman had a loaded firearm, and she was, obviously, also prepared to use it.
The woman looked out the door, "Oh my God!" she yelled.
A Bleeder approached. Its skin was bloody and peeled, and was drooling blood and leaving a trail of it. As it walked in the door, Mike shoved his ridged hunting knife thru its open mouth. The tip of the knife extended past the top of the Bleeders skull, and the blood drained from its mouth and squirted from its skull.
Mike pulled the knife out. The Bleeder hit the floor as the mother and daughter screamed, and then Mike wiped the Bleeders blood on his jeans and holstered the knife.
BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG!
The woman unloaded her firearm out the door in the direction of Bleeders. She might not have been afraid to use the pistol, but she was a terrible shot; she hit everything but her target.
Mike slammed the door and pressed himself against it.
I rushed to the woman and grabbed the gun.
Mike excitedly told her, "The back door! We got to go, now!"
The woman froze. The girl’s eyes were still clenched shut, and tears rushed down her face as her quivering lips told the story of her visual trauma.
"What are they?!" the mother cried.
"Those? Things are people! Reanimated or just seriously infected by some fu—” I paused, not wanting to use foul language in front of the child. “We can't stay here! You can't stay here! We're all in danger!" I said, as fast as lightning.
THUMP! THUMP!
I looked back toward the door when I made out the pounding. The moans were getting louder and the door was being repeatedly hit.
THUMP! THUMP!
The Bleeders moans were gathering closer. Numerous gunshots bumped from outside the woman’s boarded up windows of the first level. Maybe it was Jon, fighting his way out; or fighting for our safety.
The woman snapped back to reality and led the way toward the rear of the house. We made our way behind her.
We quickly made it to the back of the house. The sliding glass door was boarded from the outside. The girl’s whimpers turned to loud outbursts as the moans continued. The woman picked her up and held her tightly. "Shhh," she spoke low into the girl’s ear, rapidly brushing her brown hair, "it's okay, Sharon."
Mike pulled on the sliding glass door, and when it opened, he busted thru the wooden boards like a defensive lineman shoving through his opponents to sack the QB. In seconds, we were in the backyard, staring down Bleeders scattered around the empty pool, the out of place, bare bushes and tree limbs, shingles and trash barrels, overturned flower pots, and trash from a neighbor’s yard. They were everywhere. The house was completely surrounded.
I raised my rifle and began to open fire. “One, two, three down,” I counted, hitting others just to slow them down.
Mike opened fire with his rifle. “One down… Two, three, four and counting,” Mike added.
Sharon covered her ears to the thundering shots and moans. Her mother held her tighter.
"There’s too many of them. Get back in the house!" Mike yelled through the rapid shell-bursting, "The second floor."
The Bleeders were closing in. Mike closed the sliding glass and we carried up the flight. Then, the sliding glass shattered, and Sharon screamed, her ears still covered.
Sharon’s mother led us into the master bedroom, where we barricaded ourselves insi
de with a heavy wooden computer desk, grabbed a large dresser and threw it on top of the desk, using another for support while Sharon and her mother went out on the balcony.
The moans became intense as they approached. The sounds of their aching bones crackling as they made their way to the door with the appetite of a cannibal wasn't easy to mentally digest. Mike put a finger over his lip, silencing me in hopes of the dead army passing us by. Then, the moans faded, and the sounds of their crunching bones proceeded to pass us.
Once we were out on the balcony, I see the patrol car was abandoned, and four contaminated citizens lay on the blooded pavement near it; the masses of them had moved in the house following our scent, the remainder standing motionless – or just barely moving – their heads lowered as if they were standing while apparently sleeping.
It seemed safe enough to make an escape, not meaning it was any less dangerous. Mike was the first down, the mother was assisted my Mike and I next. Then, I handed the girl down to Mike and made my descent.
We were quiet and cautious, and on the Bleeder trails heading back to Rebekah's house. As I past a downed abnormality, I gazed over at the patrol car and seen the driver side door had been left open, blood smearing across the shattered window. The four Bleeders lying in the street was close to the car, and a fifth was visible at the car’s rear driver's side door, a hole in the back of its head the size of a grapefruit.
CHAPTER VIII
Ann slung open the garage side door and said, "We seen you coming," as if eagerly awaiting our arrival.
Mike's first words were, "Jon make it back?" barely acknowledging Ann's concern, or even sympathizing with her emotions – and walked inside.
Maria ended up being the one to answer, "He’s in the bathroom. I had to bandage him up, but he'll survive...”
“Was he bit?”
“I don’t think so.”
They Came With The Storm (The Effacing) Page 7
