Affliction Z (Book 3): Descended in Blood

by Ryan, L. T.

  Nodding, Addison extended her arms. “On my grandparents’ farm. I’ve got a thirty-aught-six there, Remington 700.”

  “Should be able to handle this no problem then.” Sean demonstrated how to handle the rifle and turned it over. “Don’t shoot anything at a distance. Only aim and fire if something comes out of the woods or is within 30 yards of the front of the house. If you see a car or person approaching, fire a shot into the air. That should be enough to make them pause, and wake me up. Can you handle that?”

  Addison held the rifle with both hands, shifting it up and down as she acclimated to the weight. Sean thought she looked like something out of a video game, a slender woman with bright red hair holding one of the most heavily used rifles in the military. She lifted it to her shoulder and stared down the barrel, through the sights.

  She said, “Yeah, I got it.”

  Sean squeezed Emma’s shoulder as he moved toward the back door.

  “Sean?” Addison said.

  “Yeah?” he said.

  “Why don’t we stay here for a day so that everyone can rest up?”

  He glanced up at the clouds racing past. “We’ve got a long way to go and little time to complete the journey. And we don’t know who, or what, is out there watching us, waiting for an opportune time to make a move. We’re safer traveling than waiting it out, Addie.”

  Chapter 3

  Charleston, the city that had risen like a phoenix following massive damage due to the Civil War and the Great Fire of 1861, had fallen. Once dubbed “The Holy City,” the charred remains of the proud South Carolina port now bore a resemblance to hell itself. Not even General Sherman himself could manage what the afflicted had. Annihilation of the city and its inhabitants. The hordes of those damned beings cared little about preserving the relics of days past. What hadn't been reduced to smoldering ashes had been torn down to the studs. In some cases, even those had been reduced to dust. Perhaps along with the bodies of those who had succumbed to the sickness. Maybe even a few of the afflicted who hadn’t figured out how to escape their burning tombs.

  Or hadn’t cared to.

  Turk hoped so. It wouldn’t bother him if there were fewer of those horrid creatures to deal with. He’d reached the point where he didn’t consider them human anymore. Hell, that point had been reached eight years ago while trapped in that facility, watching his men perish at the hands of the first afflicted. He could no longer recall most of the people he’d slain, but the looks on the faces of his own men as he put them to rest was something Turk would never forget.

  He’d offered them mercy. A quick death instead of being eaten alive. Torn to shreds. They’d have done the same for him. At times, he wished that had been the case.

  In the weeks since the worldwide outbreak, Turk had lost almost everything. His home. His bunker. His brother. Those who had perished of asphyxiation from the fire. All the friends and family who didn’t make it to Charleston in time. But he had his wife, Elana, and his daughter, Layla. He’d thought he lost them, too. When he approached his burned-out bunker with Sarah, the girl he saved in the woods from a group of hyped-up survivalists, he thought for sure Elana and Layla were gone.

  And he’d left them behind again.

  He had to. The burned-out city was no place for them. Not until he’d had a chance to scout it. One glance was all it took for him to know he wouldn’t bring them here. Not downtown. Not to the outskirts. They were safer in the small house they’d found five miles from the bunker. The fact that it hadn’t been looted and ransacked meant it was far enough off the path any survivors and afflicted had travelled. His family was safe there. The house also had a clear path for escape through the back if necessary.

  It won’t be necessary.

  No matter how many times he told himself that, Turk knew there was a chance his family would not be at the house when he returned. All the more reason to complete his current mission and get the hell back to them.

  Charleston had, among many things, boats. And lots of them. Standing at the end of Bay Street, looking out over the harbor, Turk realized it wouldn’t be as easy to find one as he had thought. The water was littered with the remains of ships.

  Survivors had boarded in desperate attempts to flee the onslaught of afflicted. Some of the vessels had been overloaded and sank under the weight. Several were wrecked on the banks. Competition, he figured. People would rather see others suffer the same fate than allow them to escape and live another day. And perhaps that explained why some of the boats had been burned out. Twenty, fifty, a hundred feet from shore, their ashen skeletons smoldered still. Turk envisioned a scene where flaming cocktails were launched from the banks. Or maybe the fires originated onboard. Cases where afflicted had infiltrated. Desperate passengers doing what had to be done.

  No matter the reason, terror-filled escapes had been cut short.

  No ship appeared salvageable. Without inspection, Turk couldn’t be sure, though. A glance at the slick water told him he’d be better off exhausting all possibilities on shore before diving into the gas- and oil-soaked bay. He had swum through similar conditions in the past. Ten yards might as well be a mile when your eyes, throat, and lungs were burning.

  After several minutes studying the watery graveyard, Turk continued to the end of Bay Street. He turned right on Murray Boulevard, then continued toward the Coast Guard station. Judging by the surrounding area leading to the installation, it would be a surprise if it hadn’t been overrun too.

  Still, there was a chance a subset of survivors had made it through the initial onslaught of the afflicted. And if fate had shone on them, they’d have banded together. The station was as good a place as any in the city for them to take up.

  Chills raced up his spine as he made his way down the road. There was no safe place. If he stuck to one side he could easily be spotted by someone hiding on the other, and he’d have no way of knowing what was ahead, out of sight, waiting for him. So Turk kept to the middle of the road. It went against every bit of training he’d been through. Did the situation warrant new tactics? Was this really any different than anything he’d faced during his time as a SEAL?

  Yeah, he figured, it did. This enemy acted irrationally. And not only the afflicted. Survivors, too. People with no training were now armed with rifles and pistols and bats and whatever else they could get their hands on. They wouldn’t follow any particular set of tactics. They’d attack in much the same way a trapped animal would, lashing out at anyone or anything that approached.

  The middle of the road was the safest place. At least that’s what he told himself.

  The wind rustled through the charred remains of the buildings that lined the street. Turk had adjusted to the pungent smell, but the lingering smoke still stung his eyes.

  After rounding a bend, the gate came into sight. It sat off-kilter, leaving a gap an elephant could walk through. No one manned the guardhouse. The road beyond appeared deserted. Turk didn’t care if anyone was on the base. He had one objective in mind.

  Get a boat.

  As he passed the intact remains of a four-story Victorian, a series of loud bangs erupted to the right. He slid across the hood of a Ford sedan and took cover behind the front fender.

  The bangs continued, never growing closer or moving away. Turk breathed a small sigh of relief. It wasn’t gunfire.

  The pace slowed over the next few minutes, then the noise stopped. Had it been a survivor attempting to scare him away? Or a starving afflicted trying to draw him in? Maybe someone who was stuck in between the states of life and eternal damnation, trying to get his attention.

  Turk slid to the passenger door and inched up so he could peer through the car’s windows. No one walked along the litter-coated sidewalks on the opposite side of the road. The area was deserted. He studied the Victorian’s windows. Most had been smashed out. A fire had burned inside, he presumed. Someone had been in there when it happened, and had broken the windows for ventilation.

  Or someone outsid
e had done it. For what reason, Turk wasn’t sure. Anger. Frustration. Despair. All at not being able to get inside.

  A flash from the second floor caught his attention. It was gone by the time he adjusted his sight line. Turk held steady, waiting for it to reappear. Was it possible a survivor had tried to signal him for help?

  Forget about them. There’s no time.

  Adding Sarah had already taxed him more than he imagined it would. Watching out for three others while on the move was not ideal. One more soul to protect might result in all of them dying due to Turk losing focus.

  After several minutes of no activity from the house, Turk continued on. He cast a backward glance every few steps. The noise didn’t return. The windows remained darkened. And it felt as though something watched him. A sensation he’d had many times before. One that had never failed him. It was all the more reason to push for the gate.

  Turk jogged the remaining distance. He kept both hands on his H&K MP7. The barrel aimed ahead. No point in wasting time adjusting from the street to a target. Anyone, anything, that appeared had to be considered hostile.

  He closed the distance in less than a minute. A quick investigation of the guardhouse revealed it to be as empty as it had looked from blocks away. Dried blood covered the floor, but nobody was present. Outside, whatever evidence had been on the walkway surrounding the small structure had been washed away by the rain. An M4 rifle rested in the corner. Turk grabbed it, as well as a box of snack cakes set atop a filing cabinet. Not what he’d normally eat, but food was food at this point.

  He exited and continued onto base. Without security, anyone could be there. A scared Coastie or two that had managed to survive the outbreak and initial onslaught of afflicted. Local residents might have gathered at the base with false hope they’d be protected. Worse case, the base provided a bottleneck enemies would have to pass through. There might be survivors. And a chance always existed that there’d be afflicted present.

  Turk prepared himself to deal with any possible situation.

  He passed the first two buildings, one on either side, with optimism. The water was near. He could see it. Four more buildings stood between him and a possible boat. Hell, at the very least there could be a raft he could take. With that, they could navigate through the snaking estuaries and along the coast. Maybe all the boats here had been taken or damaged, but somewhere he’d find one. And if it came to it, an inflatable could get him past the southern tip of Florida if he remained close enough to shore should something go wrong.

  Hope built.

  And with every sound, paranoia did as well.

  And then he heard the worst sound possible.

  Thunk-thunk.

  A rifle. Followed by a voice.

  “The hell you doing here, son?”

  Chapter 4

  Phil took a long pull from his canteen. Water trickled through the hair on his chin. He couldn’t tell if it was the water he was smelling, or cow shit. His parched mouth and throat didn’t care. He poured a splash in his palm and used it to wipe the sweat from his face. The temperature had already soared higher than the previous day and it was still mid-morning. The heat wasn’t noticeable while moving through the woods on the ATV. Stopped in the clearing with not a trace of wind was a different story.

  He watched as Derrick headed toward the woods, muttering something about taking a shit. Phil hoped the moron didn’t wipe his ass with poison ivy. Again.

  Ralph remained seated inside the ATV, hovering over the GPS. “Still in the same place, Phil.”

  Before leaving camp, they had used the device to locate the GPS unit associated with the ATV Sean had left on. It had honed in on a location between Danville and South Boston. Phil had expected that Sean would keep moving, leaving him with roughly the same amount of distance, maybe more, to cover.

  “What do you suppose is there?” Ralph asked.

  Phil eased into the vehicle, leaving one foot on the soft ground. He stared at the display while creating a visual in his mind of the area they were en route to. Rolling hills and lots of wide open space, best he could recall.

  “Could be anything,” Phil said. “Maybe a friend, or another bunker. Could even be that they got in an accident or had a run-in with those things that attacked us last night.”

  Ralph nodded as though he’d considered those possibilities.

  “This guy has a background,” Phil said. “He spent a dozen years in the special forces community. And he knew this was coming, even before we did. I’d say there is a good chance he already had a network established. The people he knew might not have made it, but I’m willing to bet their preparations held up.”

  “What you propose we do if he’s got others there? I mean, if he’s former spec ops, I imagine the people he kept in touch with were, too. How do we handle them?”

  Looking down at dirt permanently etched in his weathered hands, Phil shrugged. “Kill them?”

  Ralph looked back, past Phil, and jutted his chin toward the woods. “What about the idiot?”

  Phil had pondered that question several times that morning. Even now, he considered driving off, leaving Derrick behind. It would make things easier for everyone, including Derrick. Nature would take its course. With him along, they were all at risk. That didn’t sit easy with Phil.

  “We keep him along,” Phil said. “For now.”

  Ralph stepped off the ATV and grabbed his AR-15. The ATV carried four M4 rifles, but that wasn’t enough. Before leaving, the two men grabbed five or six additional weapons each.

  “He’s gonna get us killed,” Ralph said as he headed toward the trees off to the right, away from Derrick.

  A breeze blew past. It chilled the sweat on Phil’s brow. He almost didn’t notice the smell it carried over his own body odor. Wood smoke. He sat up and looked to the west where farmland spread through the valley and across the hills. There was no sign of a fire. It had to have come through the trees.

  Phil reached for his rifle and aimed it in the direction Ralph had walked. Visibility was reduced to nothing after the first ten feet or so. The dense woods were impenetrable by the sun, its light being filtered and reducing visibility from the clearing. A lack of sleep and a heavy dose of paranoia left Phil seeing things in the shadows. Figures raced through the trees. They stopped and stared in his direction. Teeth were bared. No one stepped out into the open.

  He dropped his other foot to the ground and repositioned himself along the far side of the ATV, using the railing to support his rifle. The wind died down again. The woods fell still. Phil peered through his scope, affording him a deeper view into the woods, past the area where the shadows came to life.

  He saw nothing.

  “Got a deer?”

  Startled, Phil swung around and leveled his rifle at Derrick. The young man dropped his own weapon and hoisted his good arm into the air.

  “Jesus Christ, what’d I do?”

  Phil lowered his head and pulled in a deep breath. “Just a little on edge, son. That’s all.”

  Derrick smiled, though it was obvious the gesture was forced. He reached for his pistol and continued toward the ATV. His nostrils flared and his eyes narrowed.

  “That smoke?” he asked.

  Phil nodded. “Coming from those woods.”

  “Where’s Ralph?”

  Phil glanced at his son, arching an eyebrow. “In those woods.”

  The men stood still and silent for a few minutes. Phil honed in on the ambient sounds of the forest. Only, he heard no birds or insects.

  Why hadn’t Ralph returned? Had he decided to set off on his own? No, he’d have waited until he was alone with the ATV for that. It had food, water, and other supplies. That left misfortune as a possibility. Perhaps he’d uncovered the source of the smoke. Or maybe the source of the smoke had found him.

  “What if he’s in trouble?” Derrick asked.

  “We’ll give him five minutes,” Phil said.

  “Then what?”

  Phil looked
past his son, toward the stretch of farmland.

  “We can’t leave him,” Derrick said.

  “We can’t?”

  “Not to die.”

  “What if he’s already dead?”

  “What if he’s hurt and needs our help?”

  If it were you, we’d be gone.

  “Dad, come on. Let’s go look for him.” Without waiting for Phil to reply, Derrick set off toward the trees.

  “God dammit,” Phil muttered. He was fine with losing one of the men, preferably Derrick. But continuing solo was not in the plans. He had to sleep, and having someone there to keep watch was integral to his plan to survive. He reached into the cargo area, grabbed a pistol and tucked it into his waistband. “Wait up, Derrick.”

  Together they crossed the threshold into the shaded woods. The air chilled by fifteen degrees as the leaves and branches beat back the sun’s rays. Every step on dead leaves set off an alarm to anyone, or anything, within thirty yards. Phil kept his rifle aimed ahead. Derrick did the same with his pistol.

  “Should we call for him?” Derrick whispered.

  Phil ignored the question as he scanned the ground, looking to pick up Ralph’s trail. He’d entered the woods at the same spot. There had to be something indicating which way the man traveled. After a few seconds, Phil spotted a broken twig.

  “This way,” he said softly, pointing to the right.

  Twenty yards in they heard a crash off to their left. Both men spun toward the sound, lifting their rifles to their shoulders. Derrick stared down his iron sights. Phil scanned the area through his scope, looking for anything out of place.

  Nothing stirred. No follow up noises ensued.

  “Tree limb,” he said through a heavy sigh. “Come on, let’s keep going.”

  “Shouldn’t we call for him?” Derrick asked.