Odium IV: The Dead Saga

by Claire C. Riley

  We all dive down to the ground and quickly make our way over to a broken-down tractor to hide behind as more bullets zoom past our heads.

  “Did you see who it was?” O’Donnell yells, sticking her head out from around the tractor only to snap it back when a bullet bounces off the corner with a loud ping.

  “No,” I yell back, pulling out my pistol. “I just, I had a feeling. Like someone was watching us. I thought I was just being paranoid.”

  Ricky looks at me, his eyebrows furrowing together. “Dude, paranoia is normally an experience of a—”

  “I know!” I snap, cutting him off. “She already said.”

  “We need to work out where they’re shooting from, how many of them there are,” Phil says, peering around the corner carefully. “And what the hell they want!”

  “I think they want us dead,” I bite out sarcastically, ignoring everyone’s glares of irritation.

  Another bullet bounces off the metal, followed seconds later by one after another after another, the noise so loud it has us all crouching as low to the ground as we can get and covering our ears.

  “Fuckkkk!” Ricky yells as a window in the tractor is blown out and the ground is peppered with glass—and so are we. We all cover our heads and wait for the glass to stop falling.

  I look over at Phil and Fluffy. Her leg is still bleeding and she’s panting heavily. Phil sees my gaze and strokes her head and she nuzzles against his hand, licking across her leg to get rid of some of the blood. She farts, and I thank God that we’re outside and not trapped inside the deader house behind us, fumbling around in the dark while being simultaneously gassed to death.

  Ricky spits on the ground to get rid of the fart taste from his mouth and then he crawls under the tractor to get a better look out front.

  “Anything?” I call to him.

  “It’s coming from the barn,” he says. “Can’t see how many, but there’s definitely more than one shooter.”

  “Why are they shooting at us?” O’Donnell asks, her voice sounding obviously stressed.

  I watch as she puts away her pistol and swings the rifle from around from her back. She adjusts the scope on the end as she looks through it, her mouth set in a grim determined line.

  “How the fuck should I know? They aren’t waving a welcome flag with a list of demands!” Ricky snaps back to her.

  “Get out of there,” O’Donnell says. She grabs hold of Ricky’s leg and starts trying to drag him out.

  Ricky scoots backwards. “Alright, woman!” he yells at her, but she ignores him and takes his place under the tractor. More shots are fired, and the ground to the side of the tractor is once again peppered with bullets.

  “Goddamn idiots! Wasting ammo like that!” Ricky says, covering his head.

  I watch Phil tear off a thin strip of material from his Hawaiian shirt and wrap it around Fluffy’s leg. He glances across at my leg, which is still bleeding out, and tears off another strip before handing it to me.

  “Thanks,” I say, putting my pistol down next to me and using the colorful material to wrap around my leg.

  Fluffy whines and Phil pats her head again. I look behind us, seeing shapes moving in the distance. It takes me a moment to work out what they are. And not for the first time in twenty-four hours, I wish that they were the shapes of deaders in the distance. But no, the wild dogs are back, and bounding across the field right toward us.

  “We’ve got company,” I say, my voice sounding grim even to my own ears. “And I’m not talking about the good kind. I’m talking about the mother-in-law-from-hell kind of company.”

  Phil and Ricky follow my gaze, both of them cussing at the same time. For the second time in twenty-four hours, I’m coming face to face with our newest foe. And this one isn’t slow like the deaders, or emotional like the Forgotten. These are feral dogs, and they are quick and savage, with sharp teeth and a desire to survive that goes way beyond a chemical spark in their dead brains. They are animals, and as animals they have no rules.

  The ground erupts around us again as Ricky tries to look around the tractor to see what’s going on at the barn and O’Donnell calls out to stay still. Actually, her exact words are, “stay the fuck where you are before I crawl out from under here and kick your asses!”

  The dogs stop running when the second round of gunshots sounds out, their heads low, their ears flat against their heads, and their tails tucked between their legs as they watch us. Fluffy stands up, though her injured leg is lifted in the air. She bares her teeth and snarls, froth foaming at the corner of her mouth as she watches the dogs coming slowly toward us.

  I look at where I am, trapped between some insane shooters and a pack of wild dogs, with no escape in sight, and wonder how this moment could get any worse. As if answering my unspoken question, a growl to the left has us all looking, and we watch as three deaders shamble around the side of some abandoned equipment. These are definitely the original homeowners, I decide. All three of them are wearing dungarees, the clothing of a red necks.

  O’Donnell lets out a round and I hear a short, sharp cry of pain coming from the barn. More gunshots sound out, but this time they’re coming from O’Donnell and not just the barn.

  “That’s two,” she calls back to us. “How are we looking, Mikey?” she asks.

  Phil, Ricky, and I look at each other, our gazes straying to the wild dogs circling closer and then to the deaders shambling toward us.

  “Uh, not good,” I reply.

  “Not good? How so?” she asks, firing off another round. “Gotcha’, you little fucker,” she yells happily. “Come on, boys, what’s going on back there?”

  “There are a bunch of dogs headed toward us, and they don’t look like the friendly kind,” I say. “Plus there’s deaders.”

  O’Donnell scoots back from under the tractor with me and Ricky dragging her out the last couple of inches. She sits up and wipes the sweat from her brow.

  “What did you say?” she snaps.

  “Dogs, deaders, shooters—pretty lousy fucking odds if you ask me,” I say, jerking a thumb in one direction and my head in another.

  “Aaah, crap,” she replies. “We need to get moving.”

  “Which way, smartass?” Ricky asks without an ounce of sarcasm in his voice.

  I eye the hand grenade on O’Donnell’s belt. “I’m seriously doubting that Adam is in the barn, and if he is,” I shake my head and swallow, “I don’t think it ended well for him. But I don’t think he would have been dumb enough to go anywhere near them. The kid knows how to survive, trust me on that one. So I think we need to hightail it back to the truck and get our asses out of here.”

  “So, what are you thinking, dude?” Phil asks, pushing his glasses farther up his nose. His bright Hawaiian shirt seems so out of place right now that it makes me want to laugh.

  Fluffy’s ears are flat to her head as her snarls get louder, and Phil removes his hand from her head in case she gets lost in the moment and bites him.

  “That.” I nod toward the grenade. “That’s what I’m thinking. Drop and run,” I say.

  “That’s for emergencies only, Mikey,” Ricky says matter-of-factly.

  “Dude, this is an emergency!” Phil and I say at the same time.

  “Jinx,” Phil says with a laugh. I smirk but don’t say anything.

  The deaders have stopped walking, and are looking around trying to find their source of food. Their noses lift to the air as they catch scent of the blood both Fluffy and I are losing, but thankfully they mistake it for the live feral dogs and then begin shambling toward them instead.

  The dogs are barking and growling as the deaders get closer to them. And I’m surprised that the dogs know the difference between deader and human. Then again, I think, it’s only the difference between good meat and bad, and I should probably be at least a little glad that I’m classed as the good kind.

  “That was lucky,” O’Donnell says looking surprised. She turns away from the dogs-and-deaders situa
tion. “Okay, can you run?” she asks me.

  I nod yes and she looks over at Phil. “And her?”

  “She’ll be fine,” he says. He strokes Fluffy’s head gently. “You’re going to be okay,” he whispers to her. Her ears are still back but she’s turned the snarling down to almost silent.

  “Who’s chucking it?” I ask. “Because whoever chucks it needs to be able to run fast to avoid the deaders.”

  “I was a high school volleyball champion. Trust me when I say a little Zed action is nothing to worry about,” O’Donnell says.

  Her gaze is back on the deaders-and-wild-dog dance-off happening and I half expect ‘It’s Like That’ by Run DMC to begin playing over some imaginary speakers.

  I get a firm grip on my pistol, my machete in the other hand, and I crouch down, ready to run. From our position, we can see our truck farther down the road, but there’s no way we can make it with all of those dogs hot on our tail. We have to shake some of them off. Not to mention that all this noise is bound to bring more deaders to our position.

  O’Donnell stretches out her shoulder, circling it twice until she hears a satisfying click of bone. Then she pulls the grenade from her belt.

  “All right, on three,” she says.

  “Three didn’t work out too well for you guys last time,” I say, referring to inside the house only ten minutes before.

  Ricky glares at me, Phil finds the energy to smirk, and even Fluffy cocks her head in my direction as if to say dude, now’s really not the time for your smart-assed remarks.

  “All right, on two then, funny guy,” she says with a soft shake of her head.

  “Sounds good.” I smirk.

  “One,” she says, “two!”

  And then we all run. The dogs being circled by the deaders catch sight of us, one of them breaking from the pack to chase us. O’Donnell pulls the pin on the hand grenade and throws it at the circle of dogs and deaders, and it explodes as it bounces across the ground in front of them.

  The force of the blast almost makes me lose balance, my feet coming out from underneath me until I manage to gain my footing again and continue to run. We run as fast as we can, a lone wild dog still giving chase, the others writhing on the ground as the deaders clamber to get at them. A grenade is nothing to these deaders and their ability to withstand almost anything other than a short, sharp blast of anything to the head. Unfortunately a grenade at their feet only slows their forward momentum, I realize grimly as they begin crawling toward us on their stomachs.

  We’re closing in on the truck, my leg throbbing, the blood now freely flowing from it, and my chest is burning as I struggle to catch my breath. I really need to work on my cardio, I decide.

  Ricky gets to the truck first and he throws the door open before diving inside. I’m second, and I grab the handle at the back and pull it open so I can get inside. The dog that’s chasing us is gaining on Fluffy, and Phil is calling her to hurry up even as her steps slow down.

  O’Donnell climbs in next to Ricky, automatically grabbing her rifle and looking through the scope.

  “I can’t get a clean shot,” she says as she gasps for air.

  “Come on, Fluffy!” Phil is calling, his steps slower than they should be so he can run alongside his dog.

  Her tongue is lolling out of her mouth as she runs, her injured leg lifted and only going down every third step. I’m not sure what makes her stop and finally turn to face the dog. Maybe she knows it’s futile to continue running, and that this dog is leaner than her and uninjured. Maybe she just simply knows that it was only a matter of time before it caught up to her and she wants to go down fighting. I watch her eyes glance at Phil the second she makes the decision to stop.

  And even though she’s only a dog, and I’ve only known her for two days, I still call out for her to keep on running. But it’s too late as she turns and faces the other dog, bares her teeth, and lets out the most bloodthirsty snarl that she can muster.

  Chapter Thirteen

  There’s something to be said for loyal animals and their ability to love and fight to the very end. Phil stumbles in his steps but then keeps on running, his feet pulling him forward toward the truck even after he’s left his heart behind with Fluffy. I see his expression, and know that I had a similar look on my face when I had to leave Nina behind.

  Phil makes it to the truck and climbs inside. O’Donnell stands upright, using the top of the door as a rest for her rifle. She watches down the sight as the two dogs square up to each other, teeth bared, ears back, their snarls and growls heard across the field.

  “I can’t get a shot,” O’Donnell calls, sounding distressed. “She’s in the way!”

  “Take a shot, O’Donnell,” Phil yells at her. “Kill that thing before it kills my girl!” His words break on his sentence.

  “We need to go,” Ricky yells at them both. “She’s just a fucking dog, our lives are more important.”

  “Don’t ever say that to me again,” Phil says to Ricky through gritted teeth.

  I hold my breath as the two dogs dive at one another, their teeth clashing as they each go for the side of the neck, both missing and rolling onto their sides before immediately getting back up. The other dog dives at Fluffy again, its teeth finding purchase in the soft fur on her stomach and she screeches out, her pained cry echoing loudly.

  “No, Fluffy!” Phil calls out. He tries to get out of the truck but I grab ahold of him to keep him back. “Get off me!”

  “No can do, man,” I reply regretfully.

  He shrugs under my grip, but his movements are slow and full of reluctance.

  In the distance, I watch another two dogs moving away from the carnage of the grenade and slowly starting to make their way over to Fluffy. They’re slow—injured, no doubt—but between the three of them the slim chance Fluffy has is obliterated to nothing.

  “O’Donnell, will you take a fucking shot!” Phil roars when the first dog dives at Fluffy again, its teeth sinking into her once more as another pained cry leaves her.

  “I can’t!” she cries back. “I’ll hit her.”

  O’Donnell looks at Phil, her eyes full of desperation. Phil squeezes his eyes closed and when he opens them, he looks determined. “Do it,” he says, his voice full of regret. “Don’t let her be torn apart by them, please,” he says, tears escaping his eyes. “We’ll take out every last one of the bastards afterwards.”

  She nods and looks back through her scope.

  I know that he’s right, and if Fluffy had a choice she wouldn’t want the agony and pain, but I can’t let O’Donnell do it. I just can’t. I honestly believe we can still help her, maybe even save her, I decide. Maybe I’m growing soft, because to risk my life for a damn dog is ridiculous, but I’ve already made my decision when I push past Phil and jump out of the truck. My feet hit the dirt heavily and I jog, feeling protected from behind by O’Donnell, as I move forwards. The wild dogs’ eyes flit to me briefly, giving Fluffy a second or two to dive at the other dog and take a chunk out of its leg.

  The dog howls in pain, and the two dogs making their way over to us speed up, ready to help their comrade no matter what.

  I move closer still, my pistol aimed and ready. All I need is to get a single shot on this dog. I’m ten feet away, and I crouch down to one knee, my aim following the other dog. Fluffy must sense me behind her, and she moves in front of me as if trying to protect me. But it’s the opposite of what I need her to do.

  I wait, letting the two dogs growl and snap at each other for a couple more seconds, and when the wild dog launches itself at Fluffy I stand up and shoot downwards at it, gaining the upper hand because of my height.

  It cries out and Fluffy launches herself at it, her teeth sinking into its neck where she bites down and then shakes her head to tear the hole wider.

  “Fluffy!” I call, and she stops what she’s doing and hobbles over to me, her energy failing her as she reaches me and collapses in a heap. I holster my pistol and reach down to pick h
er up, letting O’Donnell pick off the other two dogs as they bound toward us.

  I jog to the truck as quickly as I can and hand Fluffy over to Phil. He lays her across the backseat and then I climb in myself, slamming the door shut behind me. Ricky starts the truck, the roar of the engine sounding quiet against the rushing of the blood in my ears.

  “We’re heading back to Haven,” he says, as if there’s any other plan right now.

  Phil is hunched over Fluffy, the rest of his shirt pressed against her side to stem the blood. I’m at the back end of her and I stroke her side as Phil speaks to her and she whines in pain. My leg is bleeding profusely again now, and I stop petting Fluffy long enough to take off my shirt and wrap it around my leg to stem the blood loss.

  He glances at me. “Thank you, dude, thank you.” Tears are in his eyes when he speaks.

  “It’s the NEO way right? Never leave a man behind.” My gaze slides from Phil to Fluffy. “Or a girl,” I say, giving her a soft pat.

  I’m not sure if I got to her in time, but at least I tried. If this is the NEO way then I hope I have just proved myself. But there’s one thing that bothers me, and that’s Ricky. He didn’t move to help any of us get out of that mess, and I have a sinking feeling about the guy and that he quite possibly would have left us all behind if he thought he could have gotten away with it.

  I hope I’m wrong and it’s just my paranoia. But as both Ricky and O’Donnell had said, paranoia is usually remembering a past experience. And I have plenty of those.

  *

  Ricky drives us straight to Haven, honking his horn once as we get close so that the gate is sliding open as we arrive and we can pull straight through it.

  He slams on the brakes and I open my door, grabbing the back end of Fluffy as Phil grabs the front end.

  “This way,” Phil says, directing me toward the center of town and to a small store with a large front window and a big-ass crack down the center of it. “Doctor’s office,” he says.