A Heartbeat from Destruction (The Heartbeat Saga Book 1)

by Reece Hinze

  Mrs. Nicola gasped, and Cooper growled. Dax sat calmly, twisting his mustache as he examined the Captain’s eyes.

  “My heavens,” Mrs. Nicola squeaked.

  Dax Nicola laughed. He laughed and laughed and then stood. Sergeant Cooper’s mechanized warriors were drawn to the porch by the Captain’s shouting but he waved them away.

  “Your eyes, dear Captain,” Dax said. He twirled the golf club he still carried and walked towards James. He placed a hand on his shoulder and looked directly into his eyes. “Your eyes are not the ones you were born with, sir. You have deep red blood flowing through them. I can see swirls of red, like the gasses in the atmosphere of Jupiter, twirling and mixing together. You have the eyes of the infected, yet you sit on my porch, drink my tea, and speaking to me.

  “I told you he was important,” Cooper said turning the Dax. “I took a great risk bringing him here. Can I trust you?”

  Dax stared at James, watching the blood in his eyes swirl.

  “Can I trust you?” Cooper repeated. Dax only smiled.

  “Sir!” Foster shouted from across the yard. The gravelly synthetic of his voice synthesizer and the mean looking design of his helmet made him seem more a demon from hell than a solider. “Westlake is picking up an inbound heard.”

  “How long?” Cooper asked.

  “Minutes.”

  Cooper turned his gaze back to the smiling Dax.

  “We shouldn’t linger,” the old man said.

  Chapter XIII: The Atwoods

  One crisis replaced another at the Slaughter ranch. Bridgett was safe but the late Susanne Garza’s cat food was all but gone. If they didn’t find food and fast, the survivors would be starving within the week. “That way,” Wade shouted. He stood in the back of the old Dodge pointing ahead like a pirate ship captain seeking plunder. “On the right up ahead. That’s where we will find some food.” He spoke confidently but no one believed him.

  Luke turned the wheel. “It looks dangerous Wade,” he shouted through the open truck window.

  “It is dangerous! That’s why we will find the food there. Just make sure you hold tight of that shotgun Mr. Worsby,” Wade said.

  Mr. Clifford Worsby said nothing but spit a wad of phlegm out of the passenger side window. As the truck moved, the breeze carried pieces of spittle through the air to pepper Wade’s face.

  “God dammit,” he cursed wiping his face with his shirt sleeve. Clifford was set in his ways but Wade was glad for his company. The old man proved dauntless at the school and he would have to, Wade was sure, prove his courage again before things went back to normal. Whatever this sickness was, it was unlike anything anyone had seen before. Phone lines were down, commerce was halted, and before the power went off for the last time, the T.V. broadcasted nothing but static. A corpse, one of hundreds they had seen littering the roadways, popped like a water balloon as Luke rolled over it. Getting back to normal, if that was even possible, might be easier said than done.

  With so many mouths to feed back at the ranch, none of the men would come back from patrol empty handed today. Luke made a right turn onto a narrow back road. A bar ditch and a wide field patched with trees flanked the right side of the bumpy road while small households lined the left.

  “Look,” Richard shouted.

  “I see it,” Wade answered with hope and excitement.

  “It looks like a tipped over semi,” Richard said. Richard, nearly shot at Susanne’s house, had grown to become a trusted colleague amongst the food patrols. He carried a big pistol, a nicotine addiction, and a sharp instinct.

  Wade banged on the roof of the truck. “Pull over there!”

  Richard pulled out the last cigarette and threw the carton to the ground. “I hope we find some Goddamn smokes.”

  Wade drew his weapon to his shoulder. It was hot out and even with the breeze from the moving truck, sweat rolled down his forehead. The protection his body armor offered made the heat much worse but he was glad for it, for when they crested a small rise, a few hundred yards from the tipped over grocery truck, he saw them.

  A small group of people worked diligently inside the trailer. Someone hidden inside heaved rotten groceries into a pile while a tall athletic looking teenager ran a box of cans to the back of an old rusted out suburban. The boy, seeing Luke’s truck, dropped the cans and waved his arms frantically back and forth. Sentinels, who stood on the roof of the suburban, turned their attention, and their rifles, towards the truck.

  “Whoa,” Wade called to his brother. “Stop the truck.”

  Luke broached no argument. They stopped in the middle of the hot Texas black top; their four guns pointing at the five guns pointing at them. A rippling mirage danced in front of the gunmen and suddenly the breeze stood still.

  Neither side moved a muscle for a long time.

  “A cock sucking Mexican standoff? What are we doing?” Wade said, more to himself than the others. “I’m a fucking police officer and this is America for fuck’s sake.” He crouched and spoke through the open back window. “Luke, give me something white to wave.”

  Luke handed his brother a dirty rag, which on its best day could have been grey, and Wade waved it vigorously. “Alright Luke, drive towards them but slowly. No one make any sudden movements but keep your Goddamn weapons at the ready.”

  Luke’s old Dodge crept forward. Wade, clad in his police uniform, stood in the truck bed waving the greasy old rag back and forth. A middle aged man with white-grey scruff, disheveled hair, and a navy blue mechanic’s uniform walked into the middle of the road. He held a palm up to Luke’s truck while casually cradling a hunting rifle in his arm.

  “That’s far enough,” the man said. “This road is closed.”

  “That’s no problem,” Wade said, hoping down from the truck bed, “because we just need what’s in that truck.” He carried his AR-15 at the ready.

  As Wade passed the open side window Wade whispered to Mr. Worsby, “Be ready for anything.”

  He turned to the mechanic again. “But… Come to the think of it… I wasn’t aware of any orders to close down the road.”

  The man eyed Wade’s police uniform uneasily and took a step back.

  “Are you the leader of these people?” Wade inquired casually.

  “My name is Bobby Atwood,” the man said, avoiding the question. He took a few steps towards Wade and offered his hand.

  “A pleasure to meet you Bobby,” Wade said, shaking his hand and eyeing his well-worn hunting rifle. His stitched name badge read Bobby. “What happened here?” Wade asked, walking towards the overturned truck.

  “The truck was tipped over and… my boys are hungry officer.”

  Wade passed the pile of rotten food and peered into the trailer, activating the light on his rifle to get a good view. “So you helped yourself.”

  Bobby looked nervously at two younger men, who were also armed, standing on either side of the open suburban doors.

  Wade turned back and slapped him on his back. “Relax man. I don’t blame you. I would have done the same thing.” He gestured to the crumpled truck cab laying low in the bar ditch. “What happened to driver?”

  Bobby looked at his companions like they would answer for him. “He was sick, officer. We had to, uh…”

  “Go on,” Wade said, staring his directly in the eyes.

  “We had to, uh… We had to shoot him but it was self-defense.”

  “Ah, I see,” Wade said, scanning his surroundings. In addition to the two armed men on top of the trailer and the athletic boy, an ancient woman in a bright muumuu and house slippers stood near the rusty old suburban. Neither the woman nor the boy were armed. “Well Bobby, I think we have two options here.”

  Bobby shifted his weight from one foot to the other. He looked back at the two sentinels on top of the trailer, into the field beside the trailer, and at Wade again.

  “I can either arrest y’all for murder,” Wade said, drawing out the word murder. “Or you can return the stolen goods and I
can look the other way. The choice is yours.”

  Bobby Atwood flicked his eyes back and forth like a cornered animal. A bead of sweat slowly trickled down his forehead. “You can’t do that Officer,” he said. “We is hungry you see.”

  “Ahh,” Wade interrupted. “Hungry enough to murder and steal?”

  “No, sir. It was self-defense like I said.”

  “Alright Bobby. Drop your weapon and put your hands behind your back.” Wade spoke to Bobby but had his eyes on the two men at the truck. “All of you are under arrest.”

  “Sir,” Bobby protested.

  “Drop your weapons now!” Wade shouted. The two men in the truck raised their weapons and Richard, Luke, and Mr. Worsby did the same.

  “No one has to get hurt now. Lower your…” Wade’s words were cut off by loud vicious barking. Four large dogs bounded around the tipped over trailer and ran straight for him. He took a few steps back and aimed his rifle. There was no way he could shoot all four dogs before they were on him. His heart beat out of his chest. Wade’s finger fell to the trigger.

  A loud shout stopped the hounds dead in their tracks. A big pit bull whimpered and walked to and fro with its tale between its legs while the other three sat instantly. Wade let off on the trigger, a hair’s length away from firing a shot. His heart beat fiercely.

  The teenage boy near the suburban stood tall, his thick arms stretched his white t-shirt tight as he held them wide. He emitted a sound that certainly wasn’t English and might not have been a word at all but more like a strong grunt. The beasts ran to him without a moment’s hesitation. A big mutt with bristly black hair writhed on its back while the other three climbed over each other to receive the affection the boy now gave to them freely. He smiled and said, “Goo dag. Goo.”

  Wade, Bobby, and everyone else pointed their guns nervously. The standoff continued.

  “Goo,” the boy repeated. “Goo.” He was petting the dogs very hard, plainly making the hounds uncomfortable. “Goooo,” he called out, almost screaming the word. His filthy dark hair hung wildly to one side. The veins on his neck bulged as he patted one of the dogs into the ground with an obsessive stair. All of the hounds whimpered and wined.

  “Jacob!” Bobby called. The harshness in his tone snapped the boy out of his strange trance. After a moment’s pause, as if his brain were a dated computer trying to decipher what command to execute next, the boy stood abruptly and stared at Wade. There was something about his gaze that was extremely unsettling. Wade, a combat veteran and police Sergeant, subconsciously retreated a step. The disheveled and muscular teenager took a step towards Wade, staring at him with an aggressive bug-eyed gaze.

  “What in the hell?” Wade mumbled, retreating another step. The boy approached closer.

  “Jacob,” Bobby called. The boy didn’t listen. He stood, still as a statue, staring at Wade. His four dogs, now standing with him, snarled and growled, ready to spring at a moment’s notice.

  “Jacob?” Wade asked. The boy, as if encouraged by the policeman’s voice, walked directly at Wade, his dogs close behind.

  “Jacob, I need you to stop now,” he said again, training his rifle at the boy’s chest, but the boy just marched on, each step bringing his tense muscular frame and the four dogs closer. Every bit of Wade’s combat experience flew out the window. He had never seen anything so strange in all his life, including more recently, a normal person turning into a violent, bleeding psychopath. He hesitated.

  Jacob, with his strange blank expression walked directly into Wade’s barrel. The boy pressed against Wade’s gun, ramming the policeman backwards. His intense, animal like gaze, never faltered.

  “Enough of this,” Wade said suddenly, lowering his rifle. Jacob Atwood stood straight, staring into his eyes no more than a few inches away. Wade turned his gaze to the mechanic. “We have over 50 children to keep alive Bobby. I can’t go back empty handed.”

  Bobby opened his mouth to say something but it was his turn to be astonished because the wrinkled old woman wearing a huge bright muumuu stepped forward gingerly. Her oversized legs shook the ground as they carried her forward. The loose skin on the back of her arms wobbled fiercely as she waved her arms in the air as if beseeching God.

  “Oh, that’s quite enough boys,” she said beckoning to Wade. “Why didn’t you mention you had so many young ones back home?”

  Wade made a move to step towards her but Jacob stood motionless in his way.

  “Jacob,” she called. “Jacob, get your scrawny butt out of the way.” And the boy, reacting similarly to the dogs he controlled, nearly sprinted back towards the old woman. He rested his head of wild hair against her huge bosom and continued his disconcerting stare at Wade.

  “Momma,” Bobby said.

  “Don’t Momma me, boy. We are sharing the food and another thing,” she paused, having to hack and spit a glob of phlegm before continuing. She pointed her big arm at Luke’s Dodge. “We’re going with them.”

  Wade and Bobby protested at the same time. She raised an open palm. “I made my mind and that’s final. Now you two make up and you boys,” she raised her voice and pointed at Luke, Richard, and Mr. Worsby who were still in the truck. “Get on out here and load up that truck.” She looked at the two younger men on top of the trailer. “Bobby Jr., Billy, get down here and help these men load some groceries in that truck.”

  Wade walked up to her and offered his hand. “My name is Wade and…”

  “Oh don’t worry about it,” she interrupted, producing a pack of cigarettes from between her enormous bosom. “You can call me Momma,” she said, lighting up a Pall Mall with an expert flick of a lighter.

  Wade laughed and looked at Bobby. The mechanic cast his eyes to the ground. Apparently Momma’s emasculation had happened before and often, judging from the look on Bobby’s face.

  “Jacob, you help too,” she said.

  “Maa,” the boy said. He sprinted to the trailer grabbing a huge armful of cans, shoving the others out of the way in the process.

  “Thank you Momma,” Wade said. In less than an hour, both the truck and the suburban were loaded to capacity with food stuffs.

  Wade, Luke, and Clifford examined the contents of the trailer with Wade’s flashlight.

  “Not counting the rotten stuff there should two more truckloads of food in there,” Luke said.

  Richard was acquainting himself with Momma. He bummed a cigarette and laughed out loud at something the boisterous old woman said. A nearby Jacob, who obviously did not understand the joke, laughed too loudly and too late. Clifford puffed slowly on a cigar and nodded at the old woman. Momma raised an eyebrow and winked back at him.

  “Clifford, you sly devil,” Wade teased.

  “Damn thing is heaven sent,” Mr. Worsby said, ignoring Wade. Wade looked at Momma and back to Clifford with a disbelieving smile. The old man gestured at the trailer with his cigar. “We could use five more just like it.”

  “Oh...” Wade said.

  “That’s the truth,” Luke said. “At least we found this one.”

  Bobby walked over to the three men with his rifle shouldered and his hands tucked uncomfortably in his greasy mechanic’s overalls. “Sure is a pretty evening,” he said when none of the men offered him greeting.

  “Evening?” Wade asked, realizing with sudden horror they had been out most of the day. It would be dark soon. “We’ve lingered too long here. It’s time to go.”

  Clifford nodded and headed back to the truck. Wade kept his brother behind a few paces. “Plus,” he said, “You need to see what’s up with Bridgett. She very nearly died last night.”

  Luke sighed and walked on in silence.

  “Richard, time to go,” Wade yelled over his shoulder. “Y’all can follow us.”

  And so two truckloads of food and more hungry mouths traveled to the Slaughter Ranch.

  Like everyone else on the ranch, Paul Slaughter was hungry. His brothers, the old man, and the chain smoker he never bothered to learn t
he name of had been out all day on a food mission but he decided to change up the pace with an expedition of his own. If they failed again, he would be the one to bring home some food. It hadn’t been hard “borrow” one of his father’s hunting rifles. He walked silently and delicately down a gently winding dirt path into the woods.

  When Paul and his brothers were young, his father used to drive back into the woods with the three of them riding in the truck bed but the years had dragged on and the forest had taken the old path back, narrowing the lane to no wider than his shoulders. His father had taught all three of them the ways of the hunt. Paul turned down a bend in the path, careful to avoid a bed of dried leaves that could scare away his potential prey with a fall of his boot. The white clay of a dried old creek bed stoked his memory. He had stumbled across the site of his first kill.

  When he was twelve he shot a deer, just missing the heart. Paul had wanted to give up but his father angrily turned to him and said he had taken the shot, snatched a life from this earth, and now he had to live with the consequences. The poor beast stumbled and tripped its way through the forest, shedding its life blood all the way, before finally collapsing on the old creek bed. They tracked the blood trail for what seemed like hours. When they finally caught up with the doe, she lay on her side and her breathing was shallow. Blood oozed down the ancient water smoothed clay, turning the white rock a deep red. Paul had walked up to her and she was too exhausted to run anymore so she just stared at him with wide terrified eyes. Paul’s father handed him a knife but he started to cry. He didn’t wanted to hunt anymore but Tim reminded his son that he had already killed her and now he was just ending her misery. It was a lesson he never forgot. He cringed, all these years later, at the memory of sawing through her neck and bone.

  Paul continued up the path, silent as a field mouse. He hated killing that doe. He never took pleasure in taking life, no matter how much they deserved it. Memories, sad and violent memories from before prison invaded his mind but he swept them away as he turned into a grove of large oak trees. The ground was miraculously clear of any underbrush, as if this were the meeting place of the great oaks, and no bushes or plants were allowed to hear their conversation. Paul took the rifle from his shoulder and crouched, laying the stock across his knees. This place had always been his favorite part of the forest. He soaked it in, tilting his head back, closing his eyes, and breathed deeply. The sun hung low in the sky and he would have to head back soon for fear of being caught out here after dark.