Uncivil War: Takeover

by B. T. Wright

  “It’s just up here.” Bald pointed to the utility trail. When their feet met the gravel, Bald continued, “Technically if we follow this trail, it will lead us through the entire course. The path weaves in and out of the course. We will be in the trees mostly, but sometimes we’ll be out in the open, so make sure you’ve got your ears turned on and your butts puckered. This is going to be one hell of a hike.”

  Dylan held his breath for a moment, then let it go just as Bald took his leading step.

  Lagging only a little, the vice president leaned in and asked, “How far does this go?”

  “If I had to guess, three miles or so.”

  Holy shit. Dylan thought, then gulped the lump of spit that rose from his gut and sat in his windpipe.

  With his eyes watching all around as they walked, Dylan couldn’t control his racing mind. He tried to calm his breathing, he even closed his eyes once or twice, but every time he did, he saw nothing but approaching infected. It was like a bad dream that played over on repeat. And now that he’d killed more, the daymare he’d experienced was relentlessly attacking his psyche.

  The only way Dylan could calm his thoughts was to think about Wesley. He didn’t know why his younger brother brought a smile to his face or a calming over his soul, but he did. Dylan looked to the trees on the golf course and thought of the memory—one from their house back in South Park. They’d built a fort—really it was sticks from a downed tree thrown four feet off the ground into a rotting pine, but nonetheless, it was their escape from reality. A spot either would go when they were mad at one another, or their parents.

  One time, Dylan had spent the better part of four hours out there. It wasn’t until Wesley led his parents to their secret tree that Colt and Anna found him. Dylan had been mad at his father then—he couldn’t remember why—even now as he walked. That was the way it was—the meaningless time he’d spent mad at his father for no particular reason. Perhaps he was seeking to find himself, or the solitude to think. Dylan had reached a time in his life where no longer felt he needed his parent’s permission to do things, or their input on how to run his life.

  Soon, the cheerfulness memories of Wesley had inspired, switched to fear at the sight of an infected. Dylan stopped, and the vice president noticed.

  “Bald, stop!” the vice president said. “Dylan sees something.”

  Bald rushed to join Dylan by his side. He searched in the direction Dylan was watching.

  “What do you see?” Bald said, trying to capture Dylan’s attention.

  But Dylan was transfixed.

  “Dylan!” Bald moved closer so Dylan could sense his proximity.

  Dylan shook himself free. “An infected.”

  Bald whipped his head around, again searching the fairway and raising his rifle. “Where?

  But as Dylan blinked, the infected was no longer there. “He’s . . . he’s gone.”

  Bald sighed. “Are you sure?”

  “But I thought . . . I could’ve sworn it was there. It’s like he just vanished.”

  Bald cleared his throat, then, moved ahead, “C’mon, we’ve gotta keep moving.”

  Dylan continued searching the opposite fairway for another sign. The infected had to be there, lurking, now out of sight. But in fact, it wasn’t.

  Where did he go? He was just there? How could he disappear?

  Then Dylan glanced ahead and caught the vice president’s eyes. His face was worried and drawn. Dylan didn’t know what was on his mind, but maybe he was wondering if what Dylan saw was really an infected man, or just an apparition of his mind.

  15

  The sound of the screeching door made Colt fall against the tiled bathroom wall. He gripped tighter on his rifle until a voice bragged, “Two more infected dead.”

  Colt breathed a sigh. When Colonel Jenkins appeared inside the doorway of the bathroom stall, Colt stood with Wesley.

  “What do you say we try that car again?” Colonel Jenkins said.

  Colt was thrown. “You want to go back outside? After what we just went through?”

  “Yeah, don’t you?”

  Colt dropped his head to look at his son. He didn’t want to answer, not after their narrow escape, with Wesley almost falling prey. “Are these buildings connected?” Colt couldn’t be certain.

  Out of instinct, Colonel Jenkins looked to the bathroom wall. “To what, the airfield? Hell no.” He laughed halfheartedly. “Oh, you’re serious.” He could tell by the look on Colt’s face. Then he looked to Wesley. “I suppose you don’t want to risk it out there with him?”

  “That’s my thought, yeah. At least not yet.”

  “Tell you what, why don’t we search inside for some food first? Wait an hour or so. Maybe give the infected time to cool off. Who knows? They might lose interest.” His attempt at humor.

  “Or find a more desirable prey,” Colt said.

  “That’s probably the likelier case.” Colonel Jenkins grabbed Colt’s shoulder and said, “C’mon, I know where they keep the stash of food in this place. At least, I used to. I haven’t been in this hall for about twelve years, but by the looks of things out there, not much has changed.”

  They moved from the bathroom, Colonel Jenkins going first. Wesley walked between both men. Colonel Jenkins looked over his shoulder and said, “Stay on my butt, kid. I don’t want to have any surprises out here.”

  Their line was tight, and Wesley did as he was told, keeping within inches of the colonel’s backside. The colonel paused once more and looked down at him. “Oh, and kid, if I break one off while you’re back there, I’m truly sorry. They’ve been known to creep up on me. Especially at my age.” He grinned.

  “Gross.” Wesley stared up at Colt, bewildered. Colt smiled back at him, then shook his head.

  “Alright, the kitchen’s downstairs.” Colonel Jenkins took the first step down.

  As they walked, Colt’s mind turned to Dylan again. For some reason, he began to relive the highlights of his life, starting with his birth. A twenty-seven-hour labor that left Anna exhausted and Dylan clinging to his life. He’d stopped breathing in the birth canal and the doctors had to perform an emergency C-section to remove him to revive. A close call which earned him the nickname Lucky since birth. Colt clung to that luck. And with each step, the desolation of despair he felt in the bathroom only moments prior loosened. He’s not dead. We heard the shots. Gunfire that outlasted the approach of the infected. They’ll find a way out.

  “It’s just through here.” Colonel Jenkins said as they walked toward the door that Colt had elected not to take as he ran for the staircase.

  The stark white of the walls inside the kitchen was precisely what Colt had imagined a kitchen would look like in that venue. Pots and pans were strewn about on the metal shelving and a collection of fine china was stacked neatly in high rows.

  Colonel Jenkins walked over toward the oven, where a three-tiered wedding cake sat atop a rolling cart. The design was flawless—the cake light pink with white ornamental flowers sketched throughout each level.

  “Is it real?” Wesley peered up at his father.

  With his stomach aching for food, Colt needed to know. He stuck his index finger into the lower tier. His finger stalled at first, but then pushed inside. “It appears so.” Colt took his finger out. He thought about licking it, but then thought better. He quickly chased down a napkin to wipe the frosting away. The napkins happened to be by a set of forks. Colt grabbed three, then lifted three pieces of china from the shelf.

  He handed Colonel Jenkins and Wesley their own. “I’d look for a serving knife, but what’s the point? Dig in, boys.”

  From the moment the buttercream frost hit Colt’s tongue, his taste buds flew into ecstasy. He hadn’t enjoyed sweetness in what seemed like forever. His eyes rolled back into his head, and he leaned against the countertop and chewed as slow as he could, savoring every bite. After half his cake was gone, he looked to Wesley, who was patiently awaiting his father’s approval for seconds. />
  “For sure, bud, go ahead.”

  Elation moved over Wesley’s face as he dug in for more.

  Colonel Jenkins joined Colt on the countertop, both smiling at the normalcy this cake had brought to their situation. “Look at him. Pure enjoyment,” Colt said as both watched Wesley stuff his face. When Wesley looked up from his bite—frosting all over his face—Colt and the colonel shared a laugh.

  Then Colonel Jenkins leaned in and spoke truth. “You know we have to make for that car, right?”

  “I thought you said an hour.”

  Colonel Jenkins glanced at his watch. “It’s been twenty minutes. I say we make a break for it.”

  Colt set the plate down on the counter and wiped his hands off. “Okay, but what do we do if the car doesn’t start? Or they’re the wrong keys?”

  “Who in Sam hell would have a different set of keys in their car?”

  “I don’t know, I’m just playing devil’s advocate here,” Colt said. “Okay, say we make it to the car. Then what? Are we going to search for Dylan? For the vice president and Bald?”

  “That’s exactly what we’re going to do.”

  “Oh . . .”

  “What did you think we’d do?”

  “I guess I figured you wanted to get to the academy, to the airfield.”

  “I do. But not until we search everywhere for them. It’s gonna be nightfall soon, so we better hurry, because once that sun goes down, all hell’s gonna break loose. If you ask me, I think that’s what the infected have been waiting for all along.”

  The look on Colt’s face was fearful. “You think?”

  “That’s what I’d do. Since they failed to kill us in the fire, why not wait until nightfall? Take us down when we can’t see them. Like Seal Team Six.”

  Jake’s face flashed to the forefront of Colt’s mind. Jake wasn’t navy, but Colt figured his missions were made with the same regard, the same calculation.

  Colonel Jenkins was right. They needed to try, if Dylan stood any chance. They couldn’t leave them alone, not in the dark.

  16

  The golf clubhouse was steps away. Dylan stood close on the vice president’s back as they waited for Bald to enter the building and give the all clear. Bald insisted he enter the clubhouse first. With so little ammo between them, it was necessary. He was well-versed in killing people with his bare hands or a knife in close-quarter combat.

  Dylan strained to see through the soft tint of the windows. He swore he witnessed Bald walking inside, but he couldn’t be certain. But then, as he looked through the shadowing tint, his heart fell. There was more than one body inside.

  “Inside.” Dylan pointed. “Look! There’s another person.”

  “I saw that as well.”

  Dylan moved away from the vice president and toward the building. “We need to tell him someone’s there.”

  The vice president held up his hand. “Trust me, he knows what he’s got himself into, kid. Just have faith. He’ll come out okay.”

  “You’re certain? Maybe we should’ve all gone inside. To help each other out.”

  “No. He was adamant. And I trust his professional opinion. This is what he’s trained for. You know our military is quite capable of these kinds of things.”

  “I know, my Uncle Jake is a Delta. A real badass.”

  “That’s right, your father’s brother, correct?”

  “Yeah.” Dylan nodded.

  “Then you know exactly what I mean. Stand down. Our boys are the best of the best. No way some . . . thing is going to get the best of him.”

  Dylan still wasn’t certain. He fell away from the vice president and looked back to the golf course. The clubhouse was out in the open. Multiple holes led away and finished near their position. As Dylan continued his search, he found the driving range. A wide-open area at least 350 yards long and maybe 120 yards wide. Dylan looked down the driving range where a grouping of three greens came together just beyond the ranges end.

  Something was there. Like a dark cloud. Or a mass moving fast. A low rumble of sound began to grow louder as the shape rushed closer.

  “Uh, Mr. Vice President, sir!” Dylan’s voice went higher, then pulled on his arm to get his attention. “Are you seeing, what I’m seeing?” Dylan needed to make sure.

  The vice president turned and witnessed the horde. There were over fifty, easily. This was a group assembled for one purpose: takeover.

  “Go!” The vice president grabbed Dylan by the shirt and pulled him in front of himself.

  Dylan didn’t even bother to raise his Glock. He followed the guidance of the vice president and sprinted toward the clubhouse.

  The vice president was by his side, and when Dylan reached the double glass doors, he threw them open and yelled, “Bald!”

  Dylan didn’t care who heard. There was a bigger threat approaching. He knew he could handle coming across one or two infected with the Glock. The approaching storm was what needed Bald’s attention.

  Dylan’s eyes danced around the interior in search of Bald, but he wasn’t there. He yelled again, “Bald! Where are you? Come out, now! We’ve got company!”

  Bald came running from around the corner with an infected on his tail. Bald didn’t slow to take care of the threat. “Run!” he instructed, waving his arms in the air, suggesting the vice president and Dylan to continue in the opposite direction.

  Dylan spun around and caught sight of another hallway. It wasn’t long, and it led to another door—the exit. No. We can’t. Dylan thought, but Bald wasn’t stopping. Dylan turned to go—the vice president too—and as Bald crept closer, he spun around and dropped the chasing infected with one shot to the head.

  When they reached the door, the vice president grabbed for Bald and pulled on his shirt to look him square in the eye. “We can’t go out there. That’s why we came inside. There is a group of infected chasing us down at this very instant, and they’re right outside.”

  “I know. I saw them coming through the windows in the pro shop. But we don’t have a choice.”

  “What do you mean? Why can’t we lock the door? Stay inside?” Dylan said.

  “Did you see the windows? They’ll break through. That’s a guarantee,” Bald said.

  “I’d rather stay inside and take the chance, than risk it out there,” the vice president said.

  “Me too,” Dylan chimed in.

  “Look! There’s no time. And I’ve got a plan. You’ve just gotta stay on my ass. Every move I make, you need to be there.” Bald reached for the handle of the door.

  The vice president grabbed for his hand.

  “Please, sir. Let go!” Bald insisted.

  Dylan’s heart was racing, and there was no way to calm it. He could see the fire in Bald’s eye. It was then that the first infected from the approaching threat hit the back door.

  “I’d say we’ve got about two seconds before we’re dead.”

  Immediately, the vice president let go, and Bald forced the side door open. Once outside, Bald sprinted toward the parking lot, which sat just to the left of the exit and away from the approaching crowd. Lucky for them, most of the infected followed Dylan and the vice president into the same door they entered, but it didn’t take long for them to recognize their escape.

  Bald didn’t head for the parking lot, instead he turned into the grass and sprinted east toward an outbuilding. There was another oversized garage door—similar to the aircraft hangar.

  The smell of smoke swam into Dylan’s nostrils at the memory of the hangar and what had almost been, but that quickly faded when Bald reached the door. Dylan saw Bald fiddle with the handle, like he was holding the key.

  “Hurry! They’re coming.” Dylan’s voice shook with fear.

  He raised his Glock and fired, dropping the lead infected. Bald caught Dylan’s eye and pushed him inside the open door. “Save your bullets,” he said.

  Inside, Bald grabbed the handle and pulled the door toward him, shutting it just as an infected flew
into the door without caring about the consequence to its body. Once closed, Bald spun the deadbolt.

  The vice president and Dylan stared at the interior. There must’ve been over 100 golf carts lined up side by side. Dylan sighed and thought, Finally. A way out.

  But his thought was young and impetuous.

  “What’s the plan? Now that we’re here, how the hell do you plan on getting out with all those things coming after us?” the vice president said.

  Bald searched the interior of the building. His eye moved from the front to the back. It was then that he answered. “By using their rage against them.”

  “What do you mean?” the vice president stared at Bald intently.

  “I mean, we create a diversion.”

  “What do you mean?” Dylan said.

  Bald finally returned to their side and began to explain. “There are two doors. This massive garage door—which I don’t plan on opening—and that double door in the back. The double door is where we will make our exit in one of these golf carts, but the infected bastards will think we’ll be making our way out the garage door.”

  “Okay, but how do you plan on getting them to take the bait?” the vice president said.

  Bald grinned.

  “What’s with the smile? Something funny I don’t know about?” Dylan didn’t want to be left out of the humor strictly because of his age.

  “We ram the door,” Bald said.

  “What? How? With what?” Dylan said.

  “Every cart in that row.” Bald suggested they look.

  The vice president stood on his tip toes. There were six facing the front. “You really think that weight will knock that door down?” The vice president said.

  “It doesn’t have to. It only has to draw their attention away from the rear entrance.”

  Noise erupted from the back side of the building. Pounding fists from every direction. It seemed the infected were looking for a weak point in the structure.

  “You really think that will work?” Dylan said.