Frenzied - A Suspense Thriller

by Brandon Massey

  Alex hit the ground too, but he was prepared for the impact, and rolled when he met the pavement. He was back on his feet within a couple of seconds.

  The soldier lay spread-eagle in the middle of the street. His crimson-rimmed eyes were open but he wasn’t moving. He looked dazed.

  “Don’t kill him!” someone shouted from behind Alex. “I don’t want the boy hurt.”

  In the process of drawing his pistol, Alex paused. The cowboy hustled around the truck and approached. He wore leather western boots, too. The soles clicked against the concrete.

  “He was gonna kill you,” Alex said.

  The cowboy squinted at Alex. He had haunted green eyes—the eyes of a man who had witnessed many terrible things. Alex put the man’s age in the mid-fifties. He smelled of tobacco, leather, and sweat.

  Shaking his head, the cowboy spat. “He’s my neighbor’s son, goddammit. He’s out of his everlovin’ mind.”

  “Like my wife,” Alex said.

  The cowboy’s eyes widened a bit. “Sorry. It’s spreading fast. The end of days is nigh, hombre.”

  Alex blinked at the remark. End of days?

  The soldier began to stir. Sitting up, he unsheathed a combat knife from his belt. The cowboy shook his head grimly, aimed his rifle at the soldier, and squeezed off a shot with a soft pop, firing some sort of small dart that punctured the soldier’s neck.

  “Tranquilizer,” the cowboy said. “Meant for horses. Still ain’t gonna put him to sleep like it ought to, but it’ll let us hogtie him and toss him in the truck till we get him somewhere safe.”

  The cowboy drew a pair of plastic handcuffs from a utility pouch he wore around his waist. The soldier slumped to the ground, eyes open, lips parted in a slack-jawed expression. His arms twitched slightly, an involuntary reflex. He kept whispering the word insurgents over and over, in a madman’s mantra.

  “What’s he talking about?” Alex asked.

  “He had tours in Iraq, Afghanistan,” the cowboy said. “Ain’t been right since he came home, and then this shit right here happened.”

  “What happened, exactly?” Alex asked. “Some kind of sickness going around?”

  The cowboy shot him a skeptical look. “Some uninformed folk might call it a sickness, yeah. Ain’t how I see it, though.” Kneeling, the cowboy rolled the soldier over onto his stomach. The guy started to struggle when the cowboy attempted to cuff his hands. “Help me out here, will you? Keep the boy from kicking the hell outta me.”

  Alex gripped each of the solder’s calves and attempted to pin them to the pavement. It was like trying to contain a pair of furious snakes. The soldier’s legs kept writhing, boots barking against the concrete.

  As Alex struggled to hold him down, sweat dampened the back of his neck and trickled along his spine. What struck Alex the most about the incident was that no one intervened. They were out there in broad daylight on a hot summer day, subduing a man in the middle of the street, and he noticed no passerby or curious residents. His was normally a quiet street, but the sense of isolation that had taken over the neighborhood was downright eerie.

  The cowboy secured the soldier’s wrists with the plastic handcuffs. He got another pair of zip ties around his ankles.

  “Let’s get him in the truck,” the cowboy said.

  “You’ve got a flat tire.” Alex nodded toward the sagging wheel.

  “Yeah, that was the next thing I was gonna tackle.” The man extended a large, strong hand toward Alex. “Name’s Wayne Purdue. I could sure use your help if you’re willing to lend it. We got work to do, and I need a man who knows how to get things done. You knocking the kid here ass over teakettle tells me you ain’t afraid to get your hands dirty.”

  Alex glanced toward his house. His heart kicked as he thought about his dead wife inside, lying on the sofa underneath a blanket. The wave of grief was too powerful for him to confront, and he forced himself to look away and meet his new friend’s steady gaze.

  “Alex Vasquez,” he said. “I’m happy to help.”

  Chapter 13

  The police weren’t interested in Deacon’s help.

  After leaving his father, Deacon had resolved to connect with the cops on-site in South Haven, to assist their investigation and try to get more details on exactly what was going on. He had located a phalanx of officers stationed near the community’s large playground. An ambulance was nearby, too, paramedics loading a muttering older man into the vehicle. Nylon restraints secured him to the gurney; a vicious bloody laceration marked his forehead.

  Probably he tried to attack the cops, too, Deacon thought. After he’d assaulted someone else.

  Deacon approached the officers, gave a quick summary of his law enforcement background and current role. He was immediately rebuffed.

  We’ve got it under control, buddy. You want to help? Be our eyes and ears and call us with whatever you see.

  But what are you guys seeing? Deacon had asked. There’s been a string of violent incidents here. What’s causing it?

  What are you, a media guy? I can’t tell you any of that shit.

  I can help.

  We don’t need your help. We need you to stand aside and let us do our jobs. Get the hell out of here.

  It was the disrespect for his position, Deacon realized. A security guard typically was mocked as a toy cop, and even though he explained his previous experience in the Atlanta PD, the officers regarded him with unmasked skepticism.

  It pissed him off but he understood it, because he’d used to have the same attitude. There were so many wanna-be cops out there who studied cop lingo, who used police scanners to tune into department chatter, who sometimes went so far as to dress in uniforms and pass themselves off as cops (particularly when wanting to impress women). Nothing he could say was going to convince them to trust him. He was wasting his time.

  Deacon returned to his command center to regroup.

  The South Haven Security team headquarters was located near the entrance to the community, just past the manned gates. The building was artfully designed, with a stucco exterior, stacked stone accents, and a flat roof. Potted ferns and beds of petunias flanked the building. From the outside, it looked more like a place that might be featured in Architectural Digest than a fully functioning security center.

  A bank of parking spaces provided electric charging stations for the fleet of golf carts, all of them branded with the “South Haven Security” identifier. A late-model Ford Expedition, painted black and with the community’s insignia emblazoned on both sides, was parked near the glass doors. The vehicle was intended for Deacon’s use but he rarely drove it.

  Inside, the HQ had plenty of modern touches, too. Multiple flat screen televisions broadcast up to sixty-seven security feeds from cameras positioned throughout South Haven. The cameras were stationed on Main Street, where they provided a clear view of every inch of the business district; in the lavishly appointed community clubhouse; the dedicated greenspace; and they covered each residential block, too. It wasn’t an exaggeration to state that any incident that occurred outside of a resident’s home in South Haven was going to be captured on camera.

  “What’s happening, Jim?” Deacon rounded the front desk.

  Jim was on duty at the front desk, leaving Lisa, the only other guard working a shift at that hour, at the community gates. Eventually, their night-shift guy would arrive for duty.

  “I’ve got a front row seat at the apocalypse.” Jim indicated the wall of monitors with a wave of his hand. “It’s hell out there.”

  “We’re about to leave the seats and jump onto the stage,” Deacon said. He told him about his conversation with Falcon.

  “Unbelievable,” Jim said, shaking his head. “What a fucking prick.”

  “I can’t force any of you to assist me here,” Deacon said. “You aren’t employed under the same terms that I am. You can just keep on doing your job and I’ll . . . I’ll figure out what I’ve got to do.”

  “That’s bull crap.
We’re partners.”

  “You didn’t sign up to play cop again,” Deacon said. “Hell, you’re retired, man.”

  “I may be retired but I’m not dead. I’m with you on this. So what’s the plan?”

  Deacon smiled. “Okay, I got nowhere with the cops. Maybe that’s okay because I get the impression they don’t know what’s going on, either, they’re just reacting as things unfold, providing damage control. But from what we’ve seen with the off-the-wall behavior of these residents, it’s as though they’re infected from rabies, or something like it. That dog, Jake, had it too.”

  “A virus,” Jim was nodding. “It’s in the eyes, like I’ve been saying.”

  “We need to talk to a doctor,” Deacon said.

  “We’ve got a medical clinic on site,” Jim said. He accessed the computer at his desk. “We’ve got Dr. Britt, at the Take Care Clinic on Main Street.”

  “Call her,” Deacon said.

  Jim used the office phone system to place the call, putting it on speaker so both of them could listen. The line rang and rang, and after several rings it went to voice mail, asking them to leave a message to have their call returned and advising the caller to contact 911 in case of an emergency.

  Jim ended the call and looked at the monitors. “I think I’ve seen folks coming out of there, though I don’t see any one now. I wasn’t paying much attention but I’m pretty sure I saw them open for patients.”

  “They might be busy,” Deacon said. “Let’s pay them a visit.”

  “Right with you, chief.” Jim rose from his chair. He picked up his Mossberg pump-action shotgun and grinned. “I’ll ride shotgun.”

  ***

  Although it was a short drive to the medical clinic on Main Street, less than a mile, Deacon opted to take the Ford SUV. With all the craziness going on, he felt too vulnerable in the golf cart. If Mr. Falcon wanted them to play cops, they would have to be equipped like legit officers.

  Deacon had already been carrying his Glock 17 in a holster clipped to his duty belt. He took an AR-15 rifle from the command post’s private arsenal and stowed it in the vehicle’s overhead weapon rack. He and Jim had both slipped on Kevlar vests, also taken from the arsenal. The vests were so new that the purchase tags were still on them.

  “This feels like old times,” Jim said, getting settled in the SUV’s passenger seat. “I’m ready to go on a narc raid.”

  Deacon smiled, pleased that his heart continued to beat at a moderate pace. After the dog attack that morning, he’d been worried that his heartbeat would soar into the red zone, but he felt good. Steady. In control.

  Perhaps, he was back where he belonged.

  He shifted into Drive and rolled away from the command center.

  Soon into their journey, they passed a squad of police cruisers clustered around a house, and near them, yet another news crew gathered like a pack of coyotes waiting for a piece of meat to drop. At Deacon’s last count, half a dozen newsworthy incidents had taken in South Haven since that morning, but the news media wasn’t interested in speaking to the security guards who patrolled the community. No one gave a damn about Deacon and his team.

  He was itching to make fools of them all. He wanted to bust this thing wide open. His interactions with the cops had wounded his pride, made him question why he’d ever thought becoming a security guard—a toy cop!—was a good idea, and he wanted to prove to everyone, himself most of all, that he could still deliver the goods. He could still make a difference. He wasn’t some has-been cop gone out to seed. He was a—

  Someone rear-ended them.

  Deacon rocked forward in his seat, the harness tightening across his torso. Jim, in the process of raising a bottle of water to his lips, lost his grip on it and the bottle flipped onto the floor, water spraying everywhere.

  “What the hell was that?” Jim asked.

  Deacon twisted around in his seat. A flame-red Dodge Ram pickup jacked up with a suspension lift kit had struck them. The truck’s cabin was raised so high off the ground that from Deacon’s vantage point, he was unable to see the driver.

  Deacon thought he recognized the vehicle as belonging to a resident, though he had never made the acquaintance of the owner. Thinking it was only a friendly accident, he went to open his door—but stopped when the pickup’s engine revved. The truck rolled backward several feet. The customized chrome grille resembled a malicious grin.

  It’s one of them, Deacon thought, though he still couldn’t see the driver.

  “Oh, shit,” Jim said.

  The truck bore down on them again.

  He braced himself for the collision. The pickup hammered against the Expedition’s rear bumper, harder than before. Metal shrieked and popped. Deacon felt his teeth snap together painfully, and he nearly bit his tongue by reflex.

  “Get out of here!” Jim said.

  But Deacon was already mashing the gas pedal. The SUV surged forward. They were in a commercial section of the community, passing by a YMCA and a credit union, both of the parking lots virtually empty. Deacon spun the wheel hard to the left and veered toward the YMCA.

  In his rearview, he saw the pickup sitting in the middle of the road. The driver was doing a burnout, engine thundering as the tires spun, artificially created blood-red smoke churning from the spinning wheels. The vehicle’s windows were so darkly tinted it was impossible to see the occupants, and as the lurid red smoke swirled around the truck, gave the impression that the pickup was a supernatural vehicle materialized from some hellish nether realm.

  Deacon braked in the middle of the YMCA’s vast parking lot.

  “What’s the play?” Jim asked. Perspiration had collected on his brow.

  Deacon searched the console, flipped on the Expedition’s light bar. The vehicle was equipped with a radio, the system tuned to a frequency they used for their team’s walkie-talkies, but he had been hoping it included a megaphone so he could broadcast a warning to the pickup’s driver. No such luck. He wasn’t sure whether it would have mattered anyway.

  “If he keeps coming after us, it’s game on,” Deacon said. “He’s crossed the line. At this point we’ve got the green light to hit back.” He added: “To disable, not kill.”

  “You don’t need to tell me that, chief.” Jim snatched his shotgun from the overhead gun rack. He rolled down his window.

  Clutching the steering wheel, Deacon brought the Expedition around to face the pickup. Perhaps a couple hundred feet separated the two vehicles. Deacon’s heart raced, normally a danger sign, but a fresh infusion of adrenaline had given him heightened strength and focus.

  Jim had levered the firearm outside the passenger window, using the doorframe to help balance the weapon against his shoulder. He and Deacon had visited the gun range many times. Jim might have been retired, but he retained the skills of an experienced marksman.

  “Come on,” Deacon said softly.

  With a roar, the Dodge truck burst out of the web of smoke.

  Deacon tensed. The pickup bounced over the curb. It was coming directly at them.

  Deacon couldn’t believe it. It was suicide. What the hell was the matter with this guy?

  “I’m hitting him,” Jim said.

  Deacon swallowed. “Do it.”

  When the truck reached a range of about forty yards, Jim squeezed the trigger. The shotgun boomed, the harsh noise making Deacon’s ears ring.

  Double-aught buckshot sprayed the truck, shattering the windshield, but the driver kept coming, didn’t veer away.

  “Son of a bitch.” Jim pumped the Mossberg. He fired again. The spray hit one of the truck’s front tires. Rubber popped and flew in tattered black shreds.

  But the driver kept coming. Closing in fast.

  “Hang on!” Deacon said. Slamming the gears into Reverse, he floored the accelerator.

  The SUV rocketed backward with a screech of tires. Deacon wrestled the wheel to the right, taking them out of the pickup’s path, but the Dodge still clipped their front end, spinning
the SUV around several feet and tossing Deacon and Jim in their seats.

  Roaring past, the pickup smashed into the brick exterior of the YMCA building. The front end crumpled like a ball of aluminum foil. The tires, still spinning, spat out serpents of red smoke.

  Glasses askew, Jim started to climb out of the vehicle. Deacon stopped him with a hand on his arm.

  “It’s not over yet,” Deacon said. “Stay in here, let’s take out those rear tires.”

  Jim nodded, his narrowed eyes like chips of ice. As he positioned himself at the window, Deacon shifted to Drive and fed the gas.

  The Dodge started to move, too, as if the driver finally realized that he was unable to plow through the YMCA’s brick wall. Deacon got them within a safe range before the driver could straighten out, and Jim let fly with another spray of buckshot. One of the truck’s rear tires exploded into useless scraps of rubber, but the vehicle continued to roll, orange sparks sputtering from the exposed rims grinding across concrete.

  “Christ, he’s still coming,” Jim said.

  “Not for long,” Deacon said. “Let’s see how he likes this.”

  He drove the Expedition directly into the pickup, their front ends almost perfectly aligned, the pickup’s damaged grille looking like a mouthful of shattered teeth. Deacon knew the SUV was much heavier than the pickup, with greater horsepower. They shoved the pickup across the parking lot, and though the driver of the Dodge had the accelerator married to the floor, the engine wailing, with two ruined tires, the pickup couldn’t gain purchase, couldn’t resist.

  Deacon drove the pickup all the way back against the brick wall and pinned it there like a bug trapped under a boot heel. He shifted to Park and engaged the parking brake for good measure.

  “Now,” he said. “Let’s arrest this asshole.”

  He was going to open the door when Jim grabbed his arm. “Wait, chief. I think the guy is coming out.”