He could smell the gunpowder, and when he turned and saw his grandson Hunter with a rifle, the color came back in a flash. The teenage boy was trembling as the sound echoed throughout the mass of the trees.
Everyone cried out his name, but Hunter stood still as if nothing else in the world existed. At the first release of his salty tears, he pointed the gun at Steven. “Leave my father alone!” The wild in Hunter’s eyes told the soldiers he wasn’t playing—that and the gaping hole in Glenn’s chest.
Abraham scrutinized Steven and his men as they retreated to their vehicle. In the still moment, he saw many memories of war. Was this a victory? Or the beginning of something far worse? Steven drove away and Abraham couldn’t help but wonder if the fool would return with the authorities. Guns were illegal. The spinning wheels pounded over ruts and potholes, the vehicle almost scraped its springs. Steven is gone.
A few moments later, his oldest son, Peter, rolled up in his station wagon with Abraham’s daughters, Lilly and Alison. This would be the last time the entire Heinz family stood together on the farm. Abraham gazed at each of his five children and staggered back to the steps of the porch. His heart fluttered. The wild fire in his chest was spreading. And then all he saw was darkness.
Nobody standing there on that dreadful night understood the far-reaching truth of Robb’s words. Yet, it was there for all of them to see two years ago. Had Abraham listened back then, things might have different. He didn’t know how, but he needed to believe.
VI
Abraham’s eyes flickered back to reality, pulling hard from the recollection. Remembering had put him in a dark corner with little optimism. He grunted a cry as he felt the sharp edge of a dagger pull out of his sore chest cavity. The memory seared him as he swept upright and steadied his feet on the carpet. Clutching his throat, he fought for air as the panic of the past curled back and left him to his disturbed thoughts. In his twisting and turning, he had thrown the decorative pillows from the couch.
“Beth,” he said, feeling her heartbeat within his own. After the breathless moment ended, he glared around the room. Across from him Hunter sat, his rifle in his hand, the safety off. The boy’s eyes were bottomless holes of confusion. Abraham grunted as he reached for his frameless glasses on the coffee table.
“You okay?” Hunter questioned, looking back over his shoulder. Near the big bay window was Sam, crossbow slung over her narrow back as she stole a peek outside into the blood-colored night. The crossbow was Abraham’s sons. Peter had kept it up stairs in the spare bedroom for over a year.
“Did you find them?” Abraham asked, fighting a bad case of the shakes. The nightmare relived took a toll on him. Hard to believe it’s been two years.
“I found tracks, bus tracks. I think some sort of military or government agency must have come to the farm. The word ‘infected’ is spray painted on the barn door and its sides. I think they evacuated our family.”
“Did you go in?” Abraham was up and ready to fight.
Hunter looked down and then up. “No. There really are some infected trapped in the barn. I can’t get inside without freeing them. They are everywhere now. I was out scouting and saw a horde of them heading this direction.”
“The bus tracks,” Abraham said, “can they be followed?” A bitter chill had crept up his waterlogged back. He looked at his black-banded watch and realized he’d been out for a half hour. The daylight would soon break the horizon and chase away the monsters.
“I followed the tread back to Highway 9. They were heading toward the dinosaur gas station. If the people are stopping to pick up survivors, we might be able to catch them. Maybe Denver is safe and sound.”
“Someone’s coming,” whispered Sam, too loud for the moment. She ducked inside the curtains as the harsh buzzing sound left the three of them plaster-white and begging for a break.
“You mean something,” Abraham corrected. With a quick, one-eyed glance around the corner, he caught sight of more shadows near the back door. “They have us surrounded.” He knew they weren’t going to escape though the first floor. “Get upstairs, to the roof.”
Abraham worked his way up to the second floor and then rattled the stubborn window open. Both teenagers slipped out onto the roof and inched toward the side of the house. Abraham knew after Robb left, Hunter would sneak out to the roof and stare at the enormous red planet. That explained how the boy knew the terrain so well.
“Should we wait?” Sam questioned.
“No, if they surround the house we will be trapped.” Curse you, Red Dead, Abraham thought, scrambling down the rough bark of the devolved tree. Before he knew it, he was squirming around the backside of the barn, and by God’s good grace, avoided the infected monsters clawing at the front windows and door.
“Barony Tompkins,” Abraham whispered. It was a neighbor twenty miles west of his farm. They had shared drinks on a fishing trip after Robb left. Barony’s son had joined the South too, and both Abraham and Barony were heartbroken to lose their children.
“It’s not him, at least not anymore,” Hunter reminded his grandfather.
This was true. The fungus had woven itself amongst his human tissue creating a cluster of peeled flesh and oozing sores. It was hard to think this man was once human. The thing screamed one of its best buzzing sounds and then the rest of its friends trapped in the barn joined in like a group of baying wolves. Was that how they communicated? Could they communicate? Abraham didn’t know, but he was pretty sure they were locking in on his scent.
The sound of shattering glass was sure to be the front windows back at the farm house. His old friend didn’t wait; Barony hurried toward the sound at a frightening pace. When he did, Abraham cut across the empty space, praying the rest of the way was clear.
He weaved behind a cylindrical garbage can, then a tree, and from there, it was a straight shot toward his closest hunting cabin. The rattling of chains gave him pause, and when his eyes adjusted, he saw Greta Tompkins trying to get into the crude cabin. Inside, he had hid the keys to the old Blazer and a wealth of supplies, guns, and ammo. Nonetheless, the woman who used to bake him apple pies was guarding its only entrance. Only she was infected.
“We have to get in there,” he called back to Hunter.
“You want me to draw it away?”
“Hell no, there are too many of the infected stirring about. We need to be silent.” Abraham turned his stoned glare toward Samantha. Her ebony skin blended in the shadows and gave her a healthy advantage when it came to natural camouflage. “Samantha, what is your last name?”
“Why?”
Abraham only growled.
“Downs, Samantha Downs.”
“Samantha Downs, can you shoot that thing in the head?”
Sam’s finger edged at the base of the crossbow and whipped it in front of her chest. “My brother taught me to hunt small game back in Durango. It was how we ate before he got good at cards. I had this exact model.”
“Can you kill it?” Abraham asked, realizing how monstrous he sounded. Hunter was already forced to grow up too fast, and now he was asking the girl to do the same. He would need them both if they were to survive. He would worry about giving Peter back his crossbow later.
Sam didn’t smile. She had the look of a person who had never killed.
“It’s not a person,” Abraham said.
“I can do it,” she replied
Abraham knew what it meant to fight the smothering demons of fear.
On feet as soft as a cat, she scurried toward a fern, then took aim at the head. Everyone could see ring worm scratching through the putrid eye holes of the freak, and the sight caused her to look away for a moment. She whispered something and it must have inspired her.
“Go help her,” Abraham whispered back to his grandson.
Hunter paused and before he could move, Sam had positioned herself for the shot. The bolt was snug in the flight groove, and the stock wedged tightly against her shoulder. One hand gripped the trigger and
the other the clasp. The string was trapped and the iron sights lined up seamless with her eyes.
The corpse rattled the chain binding the front door to the hunting cabin, and then it was over. Sam blinked hard and pulled the trigger. The bolt sang through the air and bit hard into the neighbor’s skull. The thump of its dead frame brought a certain joy to her face. Abraham could almost hear her say, I did it.
The padlock parted as Abraham used a tarnished key that hung around his neck. He left the door ajar and went to collect supplies. Looking through the window in the back, he saw another of the infected stirring about outside. It pushed its nasty, decomposed flesh against the window and pressed, revealing hideous details in the dim, red light. It sensed them. Abraham approached and opened the window. The thing reached out its infected hands and threaded them through the opening.
“You filthy monster,” he whispered as he hammered an old railroad spike into the things eye—deeper and deeper until the infected freak slipped down into the blanket of pine needles.
“It’s dead,” Sam said, showing a great deal of resolve. Abraham didn’t like the look she gave him. Her wide eyes accused him of enjoying the killing. He wanted to remind her she smiled when she saw Rictor burning, but he didn’t have the time.
Behind them, Hunter slung a few bandoleers of ammo across his chest and then picked up a fresh survival pack. “And to think three years ago, I thought you were crazy,” he said as his face broke into a tired grin.
“Hurry up and get to the Blazer,” Abraham replied. He slung an assault rifle over his shoulder and thought the icy chill of the metal felt respectable. Then and there, he saw Sam twanging the crossbow. He almost understood her awareness as he flinched at the sound of the cord flinging forward and launching the bolt. Abraham hit the ground in a hurry, and felt his body for holes. That crazy bitch, he told himself. Lost in the moment, he shifted and saw the bolt deep in the skull of the diseased thing he had just stabbed. A starburst of gore and bone fragments splattered about.
“I guess it wasn’t dead,” she said, shrugging her narrow shoulders. “You didn’t think I was going to shoot you, did you?” she asked, showing her teeth.
Abraham snarled as quiet as he could. He snatched a survival bag and then tossed it to the girl wearing a menacing smile. “You might prove useful,” he whispered, careful to watch her fluttering eyes. Abraham was annoyed by his grandson’s soft laugher in the background. “Shut up!” Hunter fell silent when he saw the curved edges of Abraham’s mouth. For the first time the boy actually listened.
It was dark outside as a gust of wind ushered in a series of dark clouds. It shielded them from the eerie crimson light of Red Dead, and it felt pacifying upon his exposed skin. The temperature had an icy tint to it, cutting through his flannel and pinching his skin. Abraham crept across the space back toward the farm house. Cautious, he avoided a pair of infected freaks, their gazes locked toward the darkened sky. Their vacant eyes, slack jaws, and seedy faces suggested they missed the crimson color of the night. I hope you never see the red again. He watched them for any proof to his theory.
The dead appeared to freeze in place like a child searching the sky for life. They all looked up as if to curse the storm clouds. “I knew it,” he said, wishing his son Robb had stayed behind. Robb would have understood the science behind the phenomenon. Yet, the fool stormed off to save the day, and was now probably dead. He had to be; everything was dead and rotting in a discolored kind of way.
“Should we burn it to the ground?” Hunter asked.
Abraham focused on the last three years and tried to remember any bit of good. Yet, all he recalled was a string of bad memories. It was here his grandson lost his father and mother to duty. It was here he watched his daughter Alison join the North with her no-good husband. It was here Hunter killed his other grandpa, and in doing such enabled Robb to escape to the South. And it was here the rest of his family was torn away from him by an unknown group. Abraham struggled to overcome the strangling thoughts of reality, his reality. He felt like screaming and then killing every infected corpse on the farm. Was this the beginning of his lunacy? Or had it begun a long time ago? I don’t think so, he thought, welling up in tears.
“We leave it,” he finally said, winded and shaking. I’ll return one day, he thought, and I’ll have my family with me. He marched quiet toward the big black ’76 Blazer. The shadows of the slight stirring from the infected made his heart race. However, they remained frozen and locked upon the churning and rolling clouds. The best part was the high frequency of the buzzing had fallen too.
Scratching at his chin, he reflected on a poem his wife had told him. Nothing comes close to a mother’s love and the way she feels and adores her children. Was this the same love Red Dead shared with the infected freaks? Was that even possible? Were they somehow that planet’s bastard children? It sure seemed to be. That crimson illumination seemed to give the diseased freaks life and power. It was like the shade of red was a cheerleader, calling out praise for every inch of space they infected and spoiled.
Bringing a strained hand to his eyes, he wondered what would happen if the mother was taken away forever. Would the infected corpses fade away or would they unleash a child’s scorn? Or was Abraham mad?
“Grandpa Heinz! Grandpa, it’s time to go,” said Hunter, shaking his grandpa’s shoulder.
Abraham turned and pressed his back to the cold steel of the vehicle, his fists doubled, his wits stretched. “Good-bye,” he said, peeling the door open. There were too many of the infected oddities. He knew they wouldn’t stand a chance. Beth told him to stay away from the gas station. Maybe he should have listened. It might have saved his family. Good-bye never came easy, and it left its nasty residue upon his sticky mind.
“Good gracious,” he muttered, trying not to choke up. The clouds had parted for the moment. Then, a thunderous boom assaulted his ears. As he stood there with his hands pressed over his lobes, the infected freaks came back to life and with them the terrible buzzing sound from hell. Yet, that wasn’t the assaulting sound he heard. He looked out across the daunting house to the sealed barn and saw the glowing mocha-colored eyes of a little girl standing near the open loft doors on the second level of the barn.
“Emme,” he said, closing the truck door. “And she has a gun.”
VII
Abraham was up and on the run. A bittersweet sense circled his soul. Emme’s alive. He plucked a hammer from a work bench and split the first putrid skull close to enough to taste his wrath. He ducked under the branches of the cottonwood, splashing his carved features with fresh blood. More and more plasma slapped his body as he swung the hammer toward the diseased freaks breaking out of the big red barn. The trapped creatures poured out like a river.
“Emme, you wait up there,” he yelled, and when he did, a band of infected shifted his direction. He slapped them across their temples and followed up breaking one’s moldy cheek. Rotten, withered hands reached out to greet him. He howled at them and swung down hard, fracturing bone and spilling brains. They didn’t smell too good; of course, he didn’t smell fresh himself. His nostrils flared like a thoroughbred champion kicking down the final stretch of the track.
“Let go of him, you jack wagon.” He heard Emme scream. That was something he used to say. “Go back to hell,” the twelve-year-old hollered, tossing down a shovel at one of the infected. “I hate you!” Emme had picked up her foul mouth from hanging out with Abraham.
“Emme, hold on!” Abraham glided over a broken car and stomped down an infected freak. His boot crushed the soft, rotten noddle until it spilled a bunch of plump worms.
“Get back!” Emme screamed, tossing a rake down. On her shoulders was her little black backpack stuffed with little girl things. She was too innocent for this world.
He continued toward his barn, killing anything that stood in his way. Sucking air through his mouth, he clenched his fists tight around the base of the hammer. Standing in a web of fungus was Mr. Tompkins.
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“You stay back,” Abraham slurred. “Dammit, Barony, I’m not playing with you!” Like the mindless beast he was, Barony staggered forward and dove for Abraham. The blast from Hunter’s gun left Abraham’s ears ringing as a gaping hole was left in the middle of his neighbor’s face. “I warned you,” Abraham stuttered. Abraham didn’t feel bad that would come later.
Emme managed to kick a bucket down to the first level. The squishy thud brought Emme back from the ledge as she shook in violent tremors. “Take that, you piece of garbage,” she yelled down.
It was Barony’s brother, Timmy; he rose with fractured limps and lunged toward Abraham. Old Abraham dropped his hammer and reached for his pistol. The crusty old man swallowed his agony and fired, his eyes cold as a serpent. The first shot slammed into Timmy’s clustered shoulder. However, the creature’s momentum drove Abraham into the ground. The dull teeth of Timmy tore at Abraham’s flannel like a zealous dog, his dislocated jaw swallowing clumps of the cheap fabric.
That’s when something snapped in Abraham Heinz. His hands nailed up under Timmy’s cleft chin, and after the third strike, he gripped Timmy’s neck and squeezed. Rolling over, Abraham was now on top of the flesh-eating disease. He clawed his thumbs through its puss-filled eye sockets and pressed his fists through the decomposed skull. A slurping sound followed the creature’s brain as it shot out its eyes, ears and nose.
“You killed him,” Emme wailed from the second floor. Abraham saw her wide eyes flooded with tears. He knew her little mind was trying to understand what she had witnessed. “You can’t do that.”
“Dammit, Emme, get down here,” he snapped. He rested his stained hands on his knees and climbed to his feet. No cuts, he considered, looking at his hands.
“Timmy came by yesterday. I saw him talking with Grandma,” Emme shrieked. “And you crushed his face.” She disappeared, hiding in the shadows of the second floor. “You’re not my grandpa.”
Infected Freaks Volume One: Family First Page 7
