by B. T. Wright
Just as he backed away from the truck, he heard Colonel Jenkins whistle. Colt spun around, and Colonel Jenkins waved him over.
“What is it?” Colt said before he reached him.
“Keys.” Colonel Jenkins pointed through the window. “But it’s locked.”
Sure enough, there they were, dangling from the ignition, teasing them. Colt knew exactly what that meant. An alarm.
“Go get Wesley. We need to be ready to drive off the instant we get inside.”
Colt stared to the tree Wesley was perched in. “Wait, what if the car is out of gas, or it doesn’t start? This thing can’t be newer than a 2000.” Colt backed away, getting a better look at the exterior.
“Maybe we’ll get lucky. Maybe it doesn’t even have an alarm.”
“That’s unlikely, even for a 2000. I had a 2000 Honda in college. That baby had the best alarm system I’ve ever owned. And it came standard.”
“So, what, you wanna just leave this thing here in hopes we find another?” Colonel Jenkins words struck Colt hard.
Colonel Jenkins was right. This was their best opportunity. “You’re right. I’ll grab Wesley, you find a rock to break that window.”
“Will do.” Colonel Jenkins rested his rifle against the side of the car and scanned the area, before running after a rock.
Sprinting toward the tree, Colt stopped beneath the branches and looked up. “Come on down, buddy, we found a way out of here.”
Wesley climbed down limb by limb. Colt scanned for infected. His eyes danced, and he couldn’t focus. He started to rock in place. “C’mon, bud, you gotta hurry.” He didn’t mean to rush his son. The last thing they needed was Wesley to fall out and get hurt, but Colt knew they couldn’t linger in one spot. Not as long as they had.
Wesley reached the bottom branch, and Colt reached up and lifted his son free.
“That’s my boy.” Colt smiled at Wesley and ruffled his hair.
Just as Colt raised his eye from his son, he instantly put his hand across his chest, locking him in place like a seat belt. In the distance, there stood three infected. Two men and a child. They were at the edge of the parking lot, on the opposite end of Colonel Jenkins. He hadn’t seen them yet, as he was busy making his way back to the sedan with a bulbous rock in his hands.
The infected waited to attack. They were just standing there, staring at Colonel Jenkins. It was as if they wanted Colonel Jenkins to see them attack, as if they were hunting for sport. As if they didn’t want to surprise their prey, but wanted their prey to flee and make their kill more difficult.
Colonel Jenkins caught Colt’s eyes and nodded to him. He must’ve expected them to walk toward him and the car. Colt did the only thing he could think to do. He shook his head no. Colonel Jenkins scrunched his brow, not understanding at first. But after a moment, he spun around and looked behind him.
Colt couldn’t see his face, but imagined it wore a shocked expression. He removed his hand from Wesley’s chest, then unwrapped his rifle from around his chest and fixed it against his shoulder. He peered down the sight and waited for the infected to move. Colonel Jenkins slowly turned back around to face Colt and Wesley, then called out.
“Get your boy to safety. These bastards are mine.” Colonel Jenkins held the rock tight—his only means of protection, since his rifle was stacked against the driver’s side door of the sedan.
Colt’s mouth gaped. Inside he was screaming, No! But Colonel Jenkins didn’t even hesitate, instead he sprinted directly at the flock of three.
Forced to make a quick decision, Colt could either swing around and run back into the trees, or sprint across the parking lot to the adjacent building.
It was the latter. They’d tried the trees, and the truth was Colt wanted to stay out of the forest. He had no idea how far the trees and golf course went. And with no understating of how to make it back to the academy and toward his son, Colt didn’t want to take the risk.
They had ground to make up. The side entrance to the building was almost a football field’s distance away. And the three infected who stood at the entrance of the parking lot were nearly the same.
Colt clung to Wesley’s hand and guided him forward as they ran. In his periphery, he witnessed the infected child break away from the two adults and make his way toward them to try and cut them off.
Please be open. Please be open, Colt thought as they approached the side of the building. He made a gamble. If that side entrance was locked, they ran the risk of having to use the loud weapon to defend themselves.
Colt spied the infected child as he ran, then looked back toward the building, gauging the distance they had to make up. They were slightly ahead of the threat, and odds were good.
Sixty feet to the door and only inches away from an alleyway that led to the side entrance. Colt took one last fleeting glance at the infected. He was close, but not close enough, and he’d have to change his route once he made it to the corner.
Colt continued sprinting and pulling Wesley along. He breezed through the alleyway and hit the side door at full speed. The door slowed him down but didn’t stop his momentum fully. The door gave way, and Colt fell inside . . . but he fell inside without his son. Wesley slipped from his grasp and into the arms of the attacking infected.
13
From his butt, Colt watched the closing door as fear took him in that moment. His stomach fell, but he didn’t hesitate to regain his footing and throw the door back open. When he did, to his surprise, the infected child wasn’t pinning his son down, not standing over him, not even threatening Wesley at all. He was waiting for Colt.
Colt glanced to Wesley, who was bent at the knee covering his head, shaking and crying uncontrollably. In the momentary lapse when Colt’s vision was cut off by the door, the infected child made its move. The boy lurched at Colt and grabbed him around the waist, wrestling him into the steel door. Surprised by the attack, the back of Colt’s head knocked on the door. He couldn’t believe how strong the infected child was. Far stronger than any human boy of his age—the infected child couldn’t have been older than ten.
As Colt shook the cobwebs from his mind, he watched the infected boy attack with a punch to his midsection. Colt shifted his elbow downward to force a block, but it didn’t seem to faze the young infected. Instead he came in with another blow. This time with his left arm. Colt lowered his right elbow in time to deflect the punch.
Colt had to move on the offensive if he wanted to win the fight, his son, and enter the building. His only option was to catch one of the child’s blows with his arm, lock him tight, and follow with a knee to his groin or stomach.
On the next punch, Colt caught his fist and held his arm tight to his body, then lifted his knee and caught the infected child in the gut. The move only moved the child off him by about two feet, not nearly enough space for him to pick up Wesley and run for it.
The infected child lowered his head and screeched, but not the normal singular high-pitched squeal Colt was accustomed to hearing. Instead it was a series of high pitches, followed by low grumbles. He was calling reinforcements.
Colt looked over the infected child’s head and witnessed two infected men walk out from the tree line, almost exactly where Wesley and Colt had run from.
Bastards.
Colt knew he had to get more physical with the infected boy. Lucky for Colt, the infected boy didn’t wait for the others join. He ducked his head and rushed him again. When he did, Colt dodged to the side and allowed the momentum of the infected boy to carry him full speed into the steel door. The crown of his head rammed the door, sending his spine into his brain.
Colt stepped over the limp body and grabbed Wesley by the arm. Once inside, there was a long corridor of white—a long hallway. Colt ran as Wesley shoved his head into his father’s side. They needed to get away from the side entrance as quickly as they could. There was little doubt the reinforcements would soon find their way inside and seek vengeance.
At the end of the h
allway, the corridor turned right and led to a set of double doors. Colt stopped at the double doors and peered through the porthole-style windows. There was a wide-open room, chock full of circular tables decorated in white. Beyond the first set of tables was a parquet dance floor where a group of long rectangular tables were draped with fine linens and showcasing an accompaniment of buffet style food. Colt’s stomach growled at the thought of food.
He pushed through the double doors, holding tight to Wesley. But while they were escaping the threat from outside, Colt also had to consider if infected lurked inside.
Colt couldn’t help but glance to the head table—at the place marked bride and groom. He was transported back to his own wedding. It was in a hall not to dissimilar from the one he and his son currently occupied. He remembered how beautiful his wife Anna looked on that day. Dressed in a pure white sleeveless gown. Her hair tied pulled back to accentuate her high cheek bones and piercing sea green eyes against her tanned skin.
But inside that sweet memory, he heard a shriek from behind and the sound of the side door slamming shut. His pace quickened, and his eyes danced around the room, searching for a way out. On the opposite side there was another set of doors, and to his right a staircase that led upstairs. He decided in favor of the staircase, the last thing he needed was the other doorway to led to a dead end.
On the first step of the staircase, Wesley finally lifted his face from his father’s side and looked at the floor, making sure he wouldn’t lose his footing. Just as they reached the top of the side by side staircase, Colt swore he heard the double doors from below swing open. He wouldn’t dare double back or stop and look. Instead, he got his bearings on the upper level.
Directly in front of him was another room, not unlike the lower level, but this looked more like a chapel room—a place where the couple would say their vows before heading downstairs for the reception. The wide room had a peaked ceiling, outfitted with wood that ran the entire length of the room.
The problem was, there was nowhere inside the room to hide. Nothing but a pulpit remained in the center. Colt glanced left where the doors led outside. He didn’t want to take his chances outside again, not yet.
His heart bounced in his chest. He didn’t know what was next, but was forced to pick when he heard the infected touch the bottom step of the staircase beneath them. He shuffled Wesley along toward the only other door he saw.
The men’s room.
Once inside the bathroom, Colt moved Wesley to the stall, opened the door, locking it behind him, then pushed himself against the tiled wall. He slung his rifle away from his body and aimed it at the stall door, knowing that was a last resort.
Sweat poured from Colt’s brow and began to drip into his eyes. He wiped it away, then regripped the rifle just when the door to bathroom opened. The door’s squeak ate at Colt as he sat, adding to the fear he’d already been set into. He readjusted his position on the wall and aimed.
Bare feet dragged across the tile, like they were calloused, worn down from running outside for the past three days. Then Colt heard something he hadn’t before, not from an infected. The noise was a deep groan—a rumble. Colt didn’t know what it meant, but in that moment, he couldn’t control his breathing as his heartrate climbed.
Part of him wished the infected would just break down the door so he could put him down for good, but that would mean firing a round, and who knew how many more infected that would call to his position. They were completely vulnerable. Trapped. With nowhere to hide.
The infected stepped toward the closed door—Colt could see the tops of his feet. The infected shook the stall, pushing the door inward. Wesley let out an uncontrolled yelp, and Colt turned to reprimand him, but as he did, the infected broke the lock and appeared.
As Colt whipped his head around, he sighted down his rifle, but before he could pull the trigger, he saw there was another figure. Two people now. Colt hadn’t heard or seen the other man enter, but quickly realized the second person wasn’t an infected—it was Colonel Jenkins, clinging to the very same rock he’d held in his hand as he left Colt and Wesley in the parking lot. Colt watched him bring the rock high above his head before bringing it down into the back of the infected’s skull.
The force of the blow dropped the infected to the ground. Colonel Jenkins looked to Colt and smiled. “Surprised to see me?” he said.
“Shocked, more like it,” Colt said.
“It’s gonna take a hell of a lot more than two infected in a parking lot to bring me down. Are there anymore in here?”
“At least one.”
“Good.” He smiled. “Stay here with Wesley. I’m going hunting.” He turned and walked out.
Colt wasn’t used to having anyone fight his battles for him, but he wasn’t going to argue with Colonel Jenkins, at that moment, he had to tend to his sons’ feelings.
“Dad.” Wesley peered up through misty eyes.
Colt expected his son to speak of the dead infected sitting directly in front of them, but his thoughts went somewhere else. “Do you think Dylan’s alright?”
The question was like a punch to the gut. “I don’t know, bud.” Colt couldn’t lie.
“Do you think he’s one of those . . . those . . . things?” Wesley finally looked at the dead man on the floor.
“Oh, no, no, not at all. Bald and the vice president will take care of him.”
“How do you know?” Wesley was blunt.
Colt didn’t. And there was nothing he could say to reassure him. He didn’t know himself. The only thing he could think to say was: “We’ll get back to him soon enough.”
“Are you sure?”
Tears formed in Colt’s eyes. He didn’t want to think about what he would do if he lost his son. Colt nodded up and down to reassure Wesley, but deep down, hope was fading.
14
The barrage of gunfire Dylan and Bald rained down on their enemy was enough to make Schwarzenegger jealous. Dylan sucked in wind behind the end of his smoking gun as he, Bald, and the vice president stared at the fairway of green grass decorated with over twenty dead infected. Bald’s intent was to stay and fight. He might have calculated the odds on the fly, or maybe he just didn’t want to be the prey as they worked their way amongst the thickets of shrubbery and scattered trees. This was an easier way to clean up the mess, but with all the noise, the mess might have just begun.
“Let’s go!” Bald turned from the scene and walked onward, in the direction of the green.
Dylan ran to catch up. “Wait!” He reached for Bald’s arm. “My dad. My brother. They’re back that way. Didn’t you see where they went?”
Bald scowled as Dylan gripped his arm. “Didn’t you hear the explosions?” Bald said.
Dylan was forced back at his words. “Yeah, but . . .”
“But what? We saw the grenade take out the group of infected who followed them into the bushes. Then there was the second blast. Guarantee that was a trap set by Colonel Jenkins.”
“A trap? How can you know that?” the vice president interjected.
“Because I know the colonel better than his own wife. Your dad and brother are perfectly safe, believe me.”
“Tell yourself whatever you want, but I’m going after them, that’s my family.” Dylan was brash, even for a teenager. He stepped ahead, but Bald caught his arm.
“What the hell? Let go of me.” Dylan pulled, but Bald’s grip was too strong.
“Trust me. The colonel will get them back to you. Our mission has changed. Now we need to find some way out of here. A golf cart, an abandoned Humvee, a Jeep. Anything.”
Dylan gritted his teeth and scanned the trees, hoping to see proof of life.
Bald continued his insistence. “We don’t have a choice now. We need to haul ass before the next wave of infected hits us. Trust me, we don’t want that to be here, not again. Truth is—” Bald reached for another magazine and mounted it into his rifle—“we got lucky.”
“Which direction do we nee
d to go?” the vice president asked.
“The airfield is southeast of us. And the Academy northwest.”
“Does that mean we head southeast, then? Follow Colonel Jenkins’ path?” the vice president said. “Get Dylan back to his father?”
“For now, we’re moving north. Then east. We’ll travel on the northside of the golf course. I know for a fact there was an old golf cart barn on the northside, near the clubhouse. Maybe we’ll get lucky and find a gas cart with leftover fuel inside, or an abandoned truck from the greenskeeper. After that, we’ll head south, regroup, then decide.”
The vice president sighed. “Sounds promising.”
“It’s our only option at this point. If we encounter another wave like that again, we won’t be able to fend them off. I’m running low on ammo. Down to two mags.” Bald turned to Dylan. “How many magazines do you have left?”
“Only what’s left in here.” He held up the Glock.
Bald calculated in his own head. “Less than fifteen.”
Dylan nodded in agreement.
“Let me rephrase then. There is no way on God’s green earth we will withstand another attack. We need to be smart. Move as quietly as we can.”
“And you expect we can do that after that melee?” the vice president asked.
Bald gulped, then said, “I don’t. But this plan’s the best I got, so . . .”
He started to a walk. With the vice president waiting, Dylan continued his stare at the brush his father and brother had entered. He didn’t see the vice president stall until he returned and touched Dylan on the shoulder, leaned into his ear, and said, “You’ll see them again, I know you will. Now, c’mon, let’s go.”
On the fringe—at the edge of the green—there was a small building: a restroom designed for patrons of the golf course to relieve themselves during the round. In front of the restroom was a path which wrapped around the hole. Beyond the reach of the concrete there was another path—this one was dirt—a roadway made for the staff, not one you’d travel on if you were enjoying a round of golf.
