The Next World - RESISTANCE - Book 2 (A Post-Apocalyptic Thriller)

by Jeff Olah

He had to go now.

  Sliding between the block wall and the four-foot boxwood shrub, his pack caught the leaves, pulling the straps tight to his chest. He quickly stepped out onto the driveway and crouched as he slipped in behind a black Lincoln Navigator. He peered through the window toward the house and was given the answer he had come for. The silver Range Rover on the opposite side was now missing.

  Margaret had done exactly what she’d said she was going to do, and although he still had that hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach, something told him it was better this way. He didn’t like the thought of her out there by herself, and liked it even less that he now felt a sense of relief. Traveling light, only responsible for himself and for what he needed to do, it was selfish, but right now he had to remind himself of what was at stake, of what the world stood to lose if he were to make even the slightest mistake.

  Gentry turned once again and checked his car. Thirty seconds without any trouble, maybe a bit less. He knew she was gone, but also wanted a clear head as he pulled away from the neighborhood. Ten seconds to her door and then another fifteen to the street.

  Now or never.

  He stayed close to the garage and peeled off around the front of the Navigator as he neared the walk that led to her front porch. He checked the trio that moved down the front lawn and then as quietly as possible sprinted to the door. On the porch, he gave the doorbell three quick rings and started backing away.

  Before exiting the alcove, he reached into the side pouch of his pack and retrieved his weapon. There were a few seconds—just as he reached the turn in the walkway—where he thought he heard the door opening behind him, but as he quickly glanced over his shoulder, he realized it was only the sounds of his footfalls against the concrete.

  To his left, the three Feeders—two elderly women and a heavyset man dragging a leaf blower—made it to the sidewalk, but had turned back, and were heading in a straight line toward the driveway.

  In the other direction there were only two, but they were closer to his Jeep, and looked to be recently infected. They had little damage and walked at an increased pace, almost a slow jog. It was going to be closer than he had calculated, and although he didn’t like his odds, he liked it even less that he had been wrong.

  The passenger door. It would be clumsy and not at all what he was used to, but for now he couldn’t see any other way. The path along the sidewalk instead of the street also eliminated the problem of those coming from behind.

  Two birds, one really lucky stone.

  Gentry sprinted the last thirty feet and was at the rear passenger door as the pair in the street reached the other side. He dipped his left hand into his pocket, and with his heart pounding in his chest, his hands a sweaty mess, he fumbled for the key.

  It scraped against the door, rebounded off the edge of the curb, and skidded to a stop somewhere behind the rear wheel. He instantly felt the blood beginning to drain from his face and his eyes start to lose focus. There was white noise now starting to ring in his ears and from experience he knew what was coming.

  Gentry held tight to the pistol, leaned back into the door, and took two exaggerated breaths in through his nose.

  Just grab the keys and get in the car, just grab the keys and …

  Unable to see any real alternatives, he dropped to his knees and then to his stomach. He was face to face with the gutter, now forcing his left arm into an impossible position. His shoulder fought against the scorching pain, beginning to convulse as he clawed at the asphalt along the backside of the tire.

  It was there, it had to be.

  Two seconds, and then three, and then five. He turned his head, tried tucking his chin into his arm, but his eyes were drawn to the rear of the vehicle. The two from the street had made their way around and were now cornering the rear of the Jeep.

  With one last surge of adrenaline he pushed his arm another few inches and clamped his hand around the key. Gentry tucked in his feet, pushed off the uneven concrete and pulled his arm out from behind the rear wheel.

  His left arm was numb from elbow to shoulder and the side of his face speckled with gravel. He flipped onto his back and still gripping tight to the weapon, began to push away from the sidewalk.

  As Gentry got his legs pulled back and started to stand, the two from the rear of the vehicle were met by the trio from Margaret’s front yard. And in the time it took to cover the fifty feet, they appeared to have gathered another six or seven.

  But their numbers didn’t matter. The fact that he had the keys in his left hand also didn’t matter. And the weapon, although it had a full clip, probably didn’t matter either.

  The first of the growing crowd—a man wearing a dark blue track jacket and faded jeans—was shoved forward by the others. The man’s body seemed to hover in the air, momentarily frozen as Gentry pictured how he was going to die.

  He wanted to look away, wanted to avoid having to watch as the crowd took his life. There were other times, especially in the last year, he’d wished that his life had taken a different direction. That he’d never met Marcus Goodwin and that he could erase every single memory of his time at BFX Technologies.

  But none of that mattered, not anymore.

  On instinct, Gentry dug in his heels and slid back along the curb. He held the keys in his mouth and brought his left hand to meet his right, squeezing off three quick shots. The first two took off the left side of the man’s head and snapped his neck back. The third round tore into the woman’s face that was directly behind, also causing her body to go instantly limp.

  The two bodies fell against the side of the Jeep and then down onto his legs. He pushed away once again, slowly sliding back as another female—who was missing her right arm—stepped on the leg of the first man. She lost her footing and came down on the sidewalk only inches from his left arm.

  Not making any progress, and with another three already coming in from behind the downed woman, Gentry switched the pistol into his left hand, and reached back and up with his right.

  He was able to get a hold of the axel, and with a strength he didn’t know he possessed, Gentry pulled himself out from under the two bodies, just as the third woman began clawing her way down into the gutter.

  His hand was moist with sweat, and combined with the thin layer of the oil on the axel, he wasn’t going to be able to continue using only one hand. And as the woman from the sidewalk used her left hand to pull herself toward him, he laid the pistol on his stomach and bent his already tortured left arm up and back.

  Now with both hands on the axel, Gentry quickly pulled himself away from the woman, and out from under the driver’s side of the vehicle. He rolled onto his right side, scooped up the keys and his weapon, and slipped in through the driver’s door.

  There were hands scratching at the rear of the Jeep and a low monotonous growl that seemed to be coming from all around him. It bled in through the windows and filled the space with a sound that brought back memories he’d fought hard to forget. Dropping his head back, he took a quick look into the rearview mirror and slid the key into the ignition.

  The road was mostly clear as he drove away from his friend’s home and exited the high-priced beach community. There were a few glancing blows and a handful of near misses, but nothing to get excited about. However, as he coasted to a stop at Highway One, gently resting his foot atop the brake, there was a shooting pain that radiated from his right calf, and a warm sensation that ran down his ankle, and into his sock.

  Okay, so now what?

  39

  Owen stood at the door, a two-way radio in one hand and the handle in the other. He stared at the radio for a few seconds and then turned back to Travis. They hadn’t spoken to one another in the last several minutes, and now the awkwardness of their previous conversation began to fill the cramped corridor.

  “They’ll get there.” Travis’s voice sounded rehearsed, not an ounce of emotion. “It’s not a problem.”

  Owen turned back to the walkie, keying a
nd then releasing the mic button. “But it isn’t your family, not your friends, is it?”

  No response.

  Owen was only able to see the edges of Travis’s face, but could sense the disappointment in his delayed silence. He thought about a proper retraction, but knew it wasn’t necessary. Travis wasn’t that kind of man, and until he got back to Natalie, Ava, and Noah, neither was he.

  “Again,” Owen said, “run it back for me one more time.”

  “Listen.” Travis sounded more normal now. Like being hidden in the shadows somehow helped with dropping the guard he’d had for the last two days. “I know this garage like the back of my hand. I wouldn’t have asked that the others go out ahead if I wasn’t sure.”

  “Yeah, okay. But how about we go back through it one more time.”

  There was static on the radio, but there wasn’t a voice that followed. Owen instinctively brought it up to his mouth, but then waited. He looked over his shoulder at Travis, but again couldn’t make out much more than his shape.

  “You’re going to follow me out and to the right.” Travis ignored the disruption, and it appeared intentional. Maybe he was trying to keep Owen focused on what was to come next or maybe he just didn’t think it meant anything. “Once we get past the stairs, you’ll be looking for a white Ford Bronco. It’s got some damage to the passenger side—you’ll know when you see it.”

  Owen still stared at the walkie, but nodded his head. He was ready to go, had been for the last ten minutes. “Yeah okay, give me the keys.”

  Travis stepped in close, turned on a compact flashlight, and pointed it at the door. He handed Owen the keys and pulled the SIG nine millimeter from his waistband. “If there are any near the Bronco, I’ll lead them back over to the stairs. You just get it started and head toward the ramp.”

  “So—”

  “And,” Travis apparently wasn’t finished. “Make sure that the passenger door is unlocked.”

  “The others, they won’t be anywhere near the ramp when—”

  Static came through the radio once again. It was a longer burst and quickly followed by a woman’s voice. It was Natalie. “We’re ready.”

  “Okay,” Owen spoke in a hurried whisper. “We’ll meet you out there, stick to the plan.”

  He wasn’t going to wait for a response. He and his friends knew what they were doing and now just needed to act. Owen stepped back, slowly pulled open the door, and reached to his lower back for the Glock. “Let’s go.”

  Travis was quick for a man of six feet. He had the build of a professional baseball player, and it seemed the speed to match. He dipped under Owen’s arm, pointed the beam from his flashlight to the right, and began to run.

  Owen was three paces back, but spotted the Bronco right away. He also caught a quick glimpse of a half dozen Feeders crowded around the passenger side, now turning and heading toward Travis.

  He kept his voice low and his eyes on the crowd, but continued toward the older SUV. “You see them?”

  Travis didn’t answer, but slowed considerably, and had widened his path around the Bronco. There were a few seconds where it looked as though he may run straight into the group of six, although as he came to within twenty feet, he cut hard to the right and started toward the stairs.

  Out of the corner, hidden behind the stairwell, another, much larger group appeared. There were ten and then fifteen and then Owen stopped counting and sprinted to the driver’s door. He took a quick glance to his right just as Travis came back into view, squeezing between the front of the Bronco and a close group of three quicker moving Feeders.

  Travis slipped past the front bumper, made eye contact with Owen for only a fraction of a second, and then swept the beam of the flashlight across the entire garage, end to end.

  Not enough time to get a full picture, but enough to know what he was up against. The right side, and between himself and the ramp, there had to be at least another two dozen. They were more tightly packed together, one almost on top of the next.

  There was an instant where Owen blinked his eyes, thought he could burn the memory into his mind, hold on to the fading image as he drove toward the exit, and then somehow navigate the remainder of the underground lot on what little he had seen.

  But he knew that wasn’t going to be possible. Not on the best of days and especially not now. So instead, he shifted into drive, unlocked the doors, and followed Travis.

  Fifteen feet ahead, the bounding motion of the light came to a stop and again swept the garage from one side to the other. Travis was now just an obscured silhouette, frozen in place. He took a step back, quickly turned his head to the right, and ran the flashlight toward the outer stairwell. There were a few seconds where he just stared off into the darkness, and then turning back to Owen, he started to run.

  This wasn’t what they had planned. Travis was only supposed to lead them away from the ramp and then double back to the Bronco. Owen considered driving around him, although Travis was now too far ahead. Easing his foot down onto the gas, he increased his speed just enough to pull to within twenty feet, and turned on his headlights.

  He had told Travis that he wouldn’t, but hadn’t—until this very moment—understood why. Now he did. Eighty feet to the ramp and somewhere close to one hundred Feeders formed a wide circle around Travis. They originally walked the edges of the garage, but as Owen’s location became known, they turned and started toward Travis and the Bronco.

  Owen shifted into park, dropped the Glock into his lap, and lowered his window. “IT’S NOT GOING TO WORK. GET IN.”

  Travis looked back at the crowd as they continued toward him, sweeping the flashlight across the faces of the dead, and then turned to face Owen. He shook his head, dropped the flashlight into his pocket, and pulled out the SIG.

  Owen kept an eye on the crowd as Travis jogged back. There was a group of four that had come from the left and as they entered the path of Owen’s headlights, they caught Travis off guard.

  The first in the group—a tall woman in torn jeans—moved away from the others and lunged at Travis as he twisted away. Falling forward and reaching out with her badly disfigured left arm, she was able to get a handhold on his pant leg, which caused him to stumble into the front bumper of the Bronco.

  The collision rocked the large sport utility vehicle as Owen shoved open his door and stepped out. He bit into his lip, driving away the voices in his head. The ones screaming for him to get back in the driver’s seat.

  With a quick check to his left, he raised the Glock and then cornered the front of the Bronco. Travis had taken a blow to the head and was lying motionless just under the bumper. The woman who’d taken him down was on his legs clawing her way toward his chest.

  Owen racked the slide, planted his left foot, and fired one round through the side of the woman’s head. Her body torqued violently to the right and dropped at the feet of the three who were behind her.

  Backlit by the Bronco’s headlights, Owen raised the weapon and fired another three carefully placed rounds. The shots, spaced less than a second apart, eliminated the trio of male Feeders, each toppling over the one before.

  Another look over his shoulder and then straight out from the Bronco told Owen he had maybe twenty seconds to get Travis into the SUV. Stepping in and dropping to his knees, Owen pulled the younger man up by his collar and rolled him onto his back.

  With an open hand, Owen reached back and slapped Travis with about sixty percent of what he could have. There was a small jolt of movement, but nothing that told him Travis was going to get up on his own.

  Okay, this is gonna be fun.

  Owen took one last look around before slipping the Glock into his waistband, steadying his legs, and pulling Travis up onto his shoulder. In one motion, he stood and moved quickly to the passenger door.

  “Let’s go buddy, wake up.”

  Another jolt ran through Travis. This time his body stiffened and he gripped the back of Owen’s shirt. “Uh … uh … what?”

/>   There wasn’t time for anything but forward movement. Owen held him tighter, opened the door, and then tossed him into the cab. And as he stepped away, he again pulled the weapon from his waist and started around the rear of the Bronco.

  There were two that were close, but Owen turned the corner, hopped in behind the wheel, and slammed his door. Turning to Travis, he dropped the Glock into the console and made a point of looking at it. “What was that all about?”

  “We wouldn’t have made it.”

  “You know what, I don’t really care. We just need to get the hell out of this garage.” Owen pointed toward the ramp at the right side of the garage, the crowd beginning to thicken. “Is that where we’re going?”

  Travis rubbed at the lump beginning to form along his hairline. “Yeah, then two levels up on the left.”

  Owen shifted the Bronco back into drive and mashed his foot into the gas pedal. “Hold on.”

  Sixty seconds later, they rolled out onto the street level, and pulled alongside Lucas’s Toyota 4Runner. Owen nodded to Lucas, opened his door, and stepped out. He helped Ava and Noah climb in to the back seat and then kissed Natalie as she followed them.

  “All good?”

  Natalie looked like she had been crying, but nodded as she passed him. “We’re okay.”

  Back to Lucas at the driver’s window, Owen leaned in and gave the teen a thumbs-up. “Good job my man.”

  Lucas offered an even grin. “Thanks”

  Into the back seat of the 4Runner, Owen looked from Zeus to Kevin and finally over to Harper. “How’s our patient? He behaving himself?”

  Harper nodded. “He’s been good, but he’s stubborn. Nothing we can do about that.”

  To Cookie, now seated beside Lucas, Owen smiled. “You okay?”

  She buckled her seatbelt and tucked her hands into her lap. She looked uncomfortable, like she wanted to be anywhere else. Her voice came out low and quick. “Yes, I’m fine.”

  Owen stepped back and patted Lucas on the shoulder. “Maybe an hour, maybe less, depending on what the highway looks like … you got this?”