A Heartbeat from Destruction (The Heartbeat Saga Book 1)

by Reece Hinze

  “No matter dear, let’s retire to the study so those monsters won’t hear us and bang my door down,” she said matter-of-factly. “If they don’t see you for a while they forget what they are doing.”

  So Bridgett, in a trance-like surreal state, allowed Elizabeth to take her by her hand and lead her further into the house. They went down a twisting hallway filled with paintings of floral landscapes and peaceful settings filled with rich colors. “They are beautiful,” Bridgett mumbled. Elizabeth didn’t hear her or didn’t answer. The farther they descended into the house, the less Bridgett saw bright happy colors and the more she saw blacks and reds.

  At last, Elizabeth led her into a small cozy room dominated by a painting easel and a cushy green couch. It was dark, the only light coming from a small battery powered camp light. More paintings, these hung without frame, dominated the room. Nearly all of them were painted on a black background with swirls and swirls of red. All of them save the one currently on the easel. The paint was still wet. An open bottle of wine and dozens of tiny white pills lay on a small stool nearby. The hair on the back of Bridgett’s neck stood on end.

  “Your art is beautiful,” Bridgett repeated. This time Elizabeth’s face lit up in a wide smile.

  “Thank you darling! I try to keep myself busy.”

  Bridgett walked over to the new paintings. “What do these represent?”

  “Oh, life… and death. Family. The circle of life really,” Elizabeth said with a wave of her hand. She sat down on the green couch and patted next to her. “Come and sit my dear.”

  Bridgett sat, stiff and rigid.

  “You remind me so much of my daughters.”

  Bridgett tried to smile. “What does that one represent?” she asked, pointing at the fresh painting on the easel. Her finger was trembling.

  “Oh that one,” Elizabeth smiled sadly. She walked to her easel and cast a long forlorn look towards the dripping paint. Her eyes bulged. A skeleton, painted on a black backdrop, held two dripping red babies in its arms. “That one represents the eternal struggle of motherhood. Both of my babies are grown and on their own but I know they’re dead. Or worse.”

  She turned to look at Bridgett. “I intend on joining them, my dear. In fact…” Elizabeth gestured to the pills. “I’m in the process of it right now.”

  “Oh,” Bridgett said. She was trembling now. Something about Elizabeth unsettled her.

  “Come with me dear,” Elizabeth said. “This world is for the damned. Come with me and we can both be free.”

  Bridgett just stared at her. “I’m okay,” she managed with a stammer.

  Elizabeth’s bulging eyes turned savage. “Why would you want to stay? There’s nothing for you here.” She was on Bridgett before she had time to react, straddling her, pinning her hands to the couch. “Sweetheart!” Bridgett thought her eyes might bulge out of her head. The sour smell of wine burst from Elizabeth’s mouth. She smiled with great teeth. “Death is just an illusion.” Elizabeth wrapped her hands tightly around Bridgett’s throat. She slapped and scratched but Elizabeth only squeezed tighter.

  I don’t want to die.

  It was all she could think in those last moments.

  I don’t want to die. I don’t want to die!

  But the mad painter’s grip was too much. The darkness came at the edge of her vision. Elizabeth’s bulging eyes were all she saw, welcoming her to the next world.

  Just before she slipped away, Bridgett saw the painter’s mad eyes turn to fear, suddenly disappearing from sight, replaced by the dark frames of Paul’s big glasses. His lips moved but his words seemed far away.

  Breathe, he mouthed. Breathe!

  The world came flooding back with spots of color and tunneling sound. “Paul,” Bridgett stammered.

  “Oh my God,” he said. “What in the hell are you doing?”

  Bridgett sat for a moment. Her head was swimming. “Did you see my dog?” She managed. “Did you see her Paul?”

  “We found her. She ran up to the truck when we were leaving. She’s fine.”

  Bridgett sat a moment longer. She saw Elizabeth laying in a slump, her head twisted at an unnatural angle. “I’m leaving,” she said suddenly.

  Paul laughed. “Leaving huh? You nearly got yourself killed before you got half a mile! Come on.” He grabbed her but she slapped at him.

  “No! Let me go!”

  “What in the hell are you doing?”

  “I’m leaving. I’m getting out of here. I’m going back to Dallas.”

  “Dallas is gone!” Paul said. He shook Bridgett as he spoke. “It’s gone Bridgett. It’s all gone.”

  “No!” Bridgett shouted, refusing to believe him. “No,” she said.

  Paul held her and she cried, shaking with grief. “You have to come back. You need someone to protect you.”

  “Who you?” She asked. Her voice was muffled. Her face was buried in his shirt.

  “No, not me.” Paul looked into her eyes. “Luke. He’s a good man.”

  She looked at him and him at her. “What about you and me?”

  And they kissed. Their tongues danced among the psychotic sketching’s of the mad painter. Footsteps interrupted their embrace. Paul pointed his weapon towards the door.

  “Holy shit,” Wade said. “Bridgett!”

  “Hi Wade.”

  The policeman shined his flashlight towards the crumpled woman on the floor. “Holy shit,” he repeated.

  “Yeah,” Bridgett said. She and Paul looked at each other.

  “Let’s get the fuck out of here,” Wade said.

  Paul looked at his brother. “Yeah.”

  A spark drifted lazily through the air. Amazing. Such a small thing can cause so much pain. James watched as the tiny spot of orange drew closer and closer. Just when he thought the fragile thing would snuff out, it erupted into a wall of fire. He tried to scream but found his breath torn from his body. He heard someone shouting for him. Run or the fire will consume you but his legs wouldn’t respond. The shouting grew louder and louder. He looked to the ground and saw Devreaux beneath him, holding his feet and smiling. The wall of fire drew near. The shouting was loud now. He couldn’t make out who it was but his skin was already melting. Not one voice but two. His boys. Yes, his boys pleaded with him to run. He could not. He screamed.

  James shot awake, his adrenaline surging as rapid as his breath. Awake was the wrong word. He erupted into full consciousness because he was already awake. He never slept anymore. He was in the A.P.C. again, his face melted but healed. Everyone was on their feet.

  “It’s go time gentlemen. Suit up, suit up!” Sergeant Brickson shouted. Men scrambled for helmets and weapons. Gears wined and suits flexed.

  As they passed through the remainder of what was Dallas, Texas, the gentle droning of the huge diesel engine had subdued James to a resting semi-conscious state but now the big vehicle droned hard. James stumbled his way to the front of the armored personnel carrier and braced himself on the headrests of the two front seats.

  “What in the hell is going on?” He had to yell in order to be heard over the churning of the engine. And just then, the vehicle lurched low and James barely kept his footing as the huge vehicle smashed into a ditch. Sand sprayed the windshield and wet globs of it stuck there as they labored uphill again.

  Cooper was fully dressed in his exosuit, save his helmet which he held in one of his hands. “We are closing in on a very old Cold War contact of mine. He was retiring right as I was coming up but I still managed to get to know him and well, a man like this doesn’t just retire.”

  Foster was at the wheel now, his smug gum-smacking face creased hard with concentration. He flipped a switch and Weapons Armed appeared in big bold letters on the window’s heads up display. Dawn’s early light poured gently into the cockpit. James looked to his right and saw the big black tank keeping pace with them. The vehicle lurched once more and suddenly, for the first time since their daring escape from the facility, they stopped moving.
He turned around to see Tupac Breaker smiling back at him.

  “That gel shit really does work huh Captain?” He said. “Don’t think you’ll be ready for that modeling carrier you always dreamed of though,” he laughed. “Wear these man,” Breaker said handing the Captain a pair of dark tinted sunglasses. James opened his mouth to say something but a booming voice cut him off.

  “Dismount! Dismount! Line formation,” Sergeant Cooper Brickson roared and the men, helmets on and weapons charged, filed out the rear hatch. “Not you Captain.” Cooper’s giant hand held him tight. “You’re not healthy enough to fight just yet. Grab your rifle, stay close to me, and don’t forget those sunglasses.”

  And so James followed the big man out of the vehicle, half hiding himself behind Cooper’s suited body. Dew wettened the thin boots of his grey undersuit as he ran through closely cropped grass. He expected incoming fire and explosions but was instead greeted by happily chirping birds and welcoming early morning sunshine.

  “Bloody hell,” he heard a man curse loudly in a British accent. James peered over Cooper’s massive metal frame and saw a late aged man wearing Bermuda shorts, a bright Hawaiian shirt, flip flops accenting a horrific sock line, and a dirty straw cowboy hat. The man turned towards Cooper. His long grey mustache, twisted at each end with wax, outlined his furious expression. He threw something to the ground and put his hands on his hips. A dumfounded James realized the man just threw down his golf club and they were standing in the middle of a golf course.

  “Sir, do you have any idea how difficult it is to chip with a tank riding up in your backswing?”

  Just then another man, this one wearing a torn golf polo and long pants, appeared from behind a tree and sprinted towards the furious Englishmen. He screamed for what seemed like a long time, running the long distance as fast as he could. His red eyes ached with a craving for violence. James assumed the Englishman didn’t hear the approaching danger because he simply stood with hands on hips, staring daggers at Cooper but at the last moment, he produced a gigantic knife from somewhere in his Bermuda shorts and threw it with a skilled overhand directly into the screaming man’s throat. After an awkwardly long struggle, the attacker fell lifeless to the ground. James stared through his dark tinted sunglasses at the dead man’s glazed red eyes, looking upon the last morning he would ever see.

  The Englishman turned to look directly at James. His mustache twitched. “Can’t beat a free round of golf though, eh chap?” and burst out laughing.

  Cooper looked back at his men and then laughed in the synthetic bass voice his helmet produced. He unscrewed his helmet and walked towards the man.

  “Gladio 7, it’s been a long time,” Cooper said in way of introduction.

  The Englishman’s eyes lit up. “Cooper, I thought that was you old boy.” The men embraced like old friends. “I see you finally got those bloody suits operational. “Well,” he said, walking up to the dead infected man and pulling his big knife free. “Since you couldn’t get them done in time to beat the Red Army, maybe you can use them to fight whatever this new evil is,” Cooper grabbed him by the arm and walked with him back towards his men.

  “You ran over the bloody 7th green you big oak,” the man said slapping Cooper on his back but recoiling because the blow hurt his hand. “And who do we have here?”

  “This is the one I was telling you about. Meet Dax Nicola aka Gladio 7.”

  “It’s a pleasure,” James said, warming to the man immediately.

  “Likewise, my boy. Likewise,” Dax replied. James felt the man examining his melted face. “And your name is?”

  “Not important at this time,” Cooper interrupted. Dax eyed the big man curiously but said nothing further. Suddenly the old man’s face turned sour because he saw the Doctor peering from around the side of the A.P.C.

  “You had to bring that bloody bastard?” Dax asked Cooper, refusing to acknowledge the doctor personally.

  “You know I did,” the Sergeant replied.

  Dax eyed the lanky doctor disdainfully. “Bullocks.” He turned his eyes into the sky and sighed. “Well, that’s the end of that round of golf. We better get inside. I’m sure we’ve already been spotted. Follow me then,” he said, picking up the bag of clubs he laid just off of the green. James thought the man curious as he strolled off the course, in the middle of the end of the world, merrily whistling, and twirling a club, a pack of futuristic warriors and their tank Betsy following closely behind.

  “Right this way,” Dax said waving ahead. “I don’t mean to lead you around the side of the house like some sort of second class rabble but I’m afraid your armor might crack my tile!” He snorted at his own joke as he led the men through a creaky white picket fence and high hedge that cut off the breeze. Dax’s massive stone house, which lay just off the 3rd hole, stood enchanting and welcoming. As the years had passed, vines had crept their way across much of the dark stone. Rows of colored flowers, neatly arranged, lined their walk into a beautiful back yard. “Margret will bring tea to the back veranda for you chaps,” Dax said happily.

  Dax waited near the gate for James to approach. “And my good sir, it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance but ah…” he hesitated as the skeleton like doctor strode towards the gate. The man held his long head low and stared at Dax from underneath his eyebrows. A thin smile made his stretched skin taught. “That man,” Dax said, pointing at the doctor with an accusing finger, “Is not welcome in my home.”

  “Westlake,” Cooper growled, keeping his eyes on Dax as the soldier jogged up. The purple lighted eyes of his helmet stared at his Sergeant. “Take the Doctor back to the A.P.C. Make sure he stays safe and stays put.”

  “Yes, sir,” Westlake growled.

  Dax stared suspiciously at the Doctor until he was out of sight. “You have a well-trained unit Cooper,” he said. “But your company is lacking.”

  “I told you Gladio-7, he’s important.”

  Dax raised an eyebrow and then nodded with a grave expression. He paused for a moment, looking back towards James and staring through him rather than at him. The look was disconcerting. A warm smile crept across his face. He gestured to Cooper. “Well then old chap let us take tea and discuss importance.”

  Mrs. Margaret Nicola did in fact greet the men on the veranda with tea and settled James, the only one of the group not wearing an exosuit, into a great paisley cushioned chair that could swallow you if you weren’t careful enough. The great expanse of a porch was well tended with fresh varnish and sweet smelling flower pots that seemed to set the world right. Thick vines tangled overhead on a wooden frame to form a living ceiling. A gentle breeze rustled the tree limbs in the yard.

  Margaret was a lovely, homely lady with a wide face and a generous bosom. She carried a small shivering Chihuahua in a pocket on the front of a flowered apron that fit her just right. She was quick to smile but had a keen, intelligent eye. The wife of a seasoned spy.

  Cooper stopped at the wooden stair steps. “Breaker, Foster, keep watch at the end of the yard.” He stepped onto the wooden porch. It creaked under the weight of his massive exosuit. He placed his helmet on a chair and stared down at Dax, smiling for the first time James had ever seen.

  “Weapons hot,” he ordered.

  Dax reclined in a comfortable chair near his wife. “Cooper, my dear boy, I would offer you a chair but I doubt any I own could withstand the weight of that tin can,” he said snorting mutely in his own haughty British way.

  “I’ll stand,” Cooper said, blank faced again. His broad cheeks accentuated the narrowness of his determined eyes.

  James felt a tension, an old unspoken tension, between the men. They stared at each other, neither man budging. Dax with a frozen mustached smile and Cooper with his fierce narrow eyes and grisly scar.

  “There is quite an amount of smoke to the west,” Dax broke the silence. “I suppose the yank Air Force is firebombing downtown Austin today. The Great Plague they are calling it.”

  There was a lot of
smoke. The dark grey expanse towered over the gently moving oak trees in Dax’s back yard.

  “You know they are,” Cooper said flatly.

  “Of course, I doubt there are many survivors in the city now, after the plague has had so much time to take hold. But you and I know a thing or two about bombs don’t we Cooper?” Dax laughed. “Oh, that was a long time ago though. Almost another age indeed old friend but an evil that has reached out to touch this generation.” Dax’s tone turned icy.

  Cooper said nothing.

  “So,” Margaret broke in with her small squeaky voice. “Tell me about our new guest, Cooper.” She smiled warmly at James while stroking her shivering Chihuahua.

  James, smiled awkwardly looking to each person in the group. Cooper did not acknowledge her question or even look in her direction. “My name is,” James began.

  “Not important,” Cooper growled, repeating what he said earlier on the putting green.

  James felt a sudden surge of anger flow through him. The tension between these two men confused him. Being left in the dark infuriated him.

  Didn’t Cooper bring me to this man to help?

  “My name is Captain James Lasko,” he continued stubbornly, staring daggers at Cooper. He spat his words with venom. “I was employed with the Central Intelligence Agency after a distinguished career in the Army. This man, and someone he used to work for, captured me and a very dangerous virus from a secured facility on the West Coast. I was shot, tortured, experimented on and infected at the hands of that doctor they took back to the A.P.C.”

  “Captain,” Cooper snapped but James would not be stopped.

  “They killed my children. They destroyed the world.” James paused and looked away as the tears came. “This man and his squad rescued me but burned half of my face away in the process. We travelled through destroyed cities, and dodged hordes of infected civilians, to end up here, on this porch drinking tea with a strange British golfer, his wife, and scrawny dog.”

  “This is not the time,” Cooper said.

  “Not the time for what?” James said, staring at Cooper. He ripped off his dark tinted sunglasses and roared the question again. “Not time for what?”