The Outbreak

by Atherton, P. A.

  Chapter Twenty Seven

  Hunger Pangs

  Paul eyed his meager bowl of canned peas with disdain. “Is this all that we have left?”

  “Afraid so. We need to go on another food run.” John sighed.

  “Great. Just fucking great. Where to?” Eileen shifted in her seat uncomfortably and spoke up. “How about the school? You guys left a lot behind last time.”

  “ Alright, the school it is. Let's leave sooner than later, because I'm damned hungry, and this tiny ration of nasty peas isn't going to cut it.”

  Isaac picked up the pair of pistols and doublechecked their ammo supply. “Between the rifles and the pistols, we're fully stocked.” He chuckled. “We have enough to take out a small army.”

  “Good. Let's go now.”

  Eileen rose to her feet and reached for a rifle. “I'm going too.” Paul turned to face her. “No way. You're arm's still healing, and I think it's safe to say you've never fired a gun before in your life. No offense, but you'd be a liability.”

  “But I want to go with you guys.”

  Isaac interjected. “I have to agree with Paul. It's too risky with you there.” She turned to John. He shook his head and sighed. “I think it would be better if you stayed here.”

  She slumped over in defeat and sat back down in her armchair. “Fine.”

  “Sorry, it's just -”

  “No, fine, just go on without me.” An awkward silence filled the room as the men armed themselves and left through the door, closing it tightly behind them.

  It only took a moment to descend down the rooftop ladder, and when they reached the bottom Paul gave a brief order. “Same plan as last time.”

  The other two nodded quickly and they set off towards the school, rifles armed and ready, and John and Paul's pistols tucked into their waistband. The streets were deserted and silent, except for the odd corpse here or there, leaving behind a rotten smell that left their stomachs' convulsing.

  Their crossing was uneventful and they made it to the school rapidly. As they entered Paul took the lead, with John holding up the rear and Isaac in between, sweeping his flashlight back and forth. The darkness was unnerving, made all the more so by the stifling silence. Only the padded sound of their footfalls could be heard.

  They eased on steadily, sweat dripping down their brows and stinging their eyes. The summer heat was intense, especially indoors, without the conveniences of air conditioning. They came to an intersection and rounded the corner.

  Isaac's flashlight was steady, but froze upon a lone figure at the end of the hallway. John aimed his rifle to shoot, but Paul held his hand up.

  “Might be a survivor.” He whispered. As if in response, the figure threw its head back, let out a long, ghastly howl, and charged them. John fired and the figure dropped. The gunshot echoed loudly in their ears and they stood still, waiting with held breaths.

  Another howl in the distance and running bodies turned the corner into their hallway. The three took off running, separating at the staircase. John and Paul ran up the stairs, taking two steps at a time, and ducked into a nearby classroom. Slamming the door shut behind them, they proceeded to barricade the door, throwing desks and chairs against it until the classroom was emptied of furniture.

  The door shuddered as body after body piled against it, pounding their fists against the solid wooden door.

  Paul looked around the room. “The window!” They both ran to the window and looked down. On the ground below swarmed a dozen or more infected, leaping up at them,

  gnashing their teeth and glaring with

  fearsome, hateful eyes.

  “Shit. We're trapped.” “Clear the ground outside.” Paul nodded and the brothers began unloading into the crowd. Five bodies fell before a loud splintering crack drew their attention back inside. The door was broken and an arm reached through the crack, grasping wildly for them. John raised his rifle, but Paul lowered it again.

  “Can't risk damaging the door more.” John sighed and they watched the door break apart faster and faster, the air filled with a cacophony of crazed chaotic sound. First a head peered through and soon a body started crawling through the mesh of tumbled furniture, making its way towards them. Paul drew his pistol and calmly walked over, shooting it between the eyes. The body slumped over, dead, but another body was rapidly following.

  “Fuck. We're screwed.” “We'll get through this, Paul.”

  “No, we won't. This is it.” Paul glared at the bodies through the door. The large mass of tangled desks and chairs inched inwards, with each mighty push of the pounding mob. Paul walked towards the window again and looked at the swarm below with sad eyes. The group had grown larger and he watched more and more infected join in, rushing to their comrades.

  John drew his pistol and began firing into the mob, sacrificing accuracy for a quick volley. The bullets spread far, few finding their marks. He popped out the clip and started reloading with shaky hands, dropping a quarter of the rounds on the floor. He ignored the fallen bullets and continued reloading.

  “Paul! You mind helping?”

  Paul still stood by the window, gazing out sadly. He turned slowly and surveyed the damage to their barricade. “It's over.” His voice was weak and trembled slightly.

  “Don't do this to me now, Paul! Don't give up, god damn it!” John resumed firing, but the first body was already almost through the barricade, crawling out quickly, hissing with every shot that hit it's bleeding body. John finally stopped it, just as it started climbing to its feet, with a wellplaced bullet in its forehead. He turned and faced Paul with a triumphant grin. His smile was short-lived, quickly fading to a twisted frown, as he watched Paul raise his pistol to his forehead. Tears streamed down his eyes and the color drained from his face.

  “I'm so sorry, John. I'm so sorry.”

  “Paul, don't do it!”

  “Goodbye, brother. I love you.”

  “Paul!” A loud shot echoed throughout the tiny room, amidst the sound of the rapidly falling barricade.

  Chapter Twenty Eight

  Failure

  Vincent opened his eyes and saw Christine was sitting in the corner, absentmindedly paging through a law book.

  “Good morning, sleepy head.”

  “What time is it?” “ I don't know, but the sun's been up for at least a few hours. I've had to resort to reading through these boring legal texts just to pass the time. Did you know it's illegal to make faces at a dog in this state?”

  Vincent laughed. “I'll keep that in mind. Let's go eat.” He stood up and ejected the clip from his pistol. Only eight bullets left. He reminded himself to get some more from the armory, assuming Harry hadn't already looted it clean. With a grunt, he slid the desk away from the doorway and turned the knob slowly, peeking out through the crack. All clear. He motioned for her to follow, and the pair walked in nervous silence down the abandoned hallways. Harry had been an ever present threat since their last encounter and neither wanted to risk running into him. Vincent kept the pistol ready and aimed ahead of them, and they took each corner carefully.

  Music sounded in the distance and they froze. It seemed to be coming from the cafeteria and Vincent leaned close to Christine, whispering in her ear.

  “Stay here, I'll go check it out.” She nodded and swallowed hard. Creeping forward slowly, he reached the cafeteria and peered through the tiny window in the door. Nobody in sight. He opened the door and walked in. The CD player above the grill boomed loud, obnoxious heavy metal, a telltale sign of Harry's potential presence. Ducking behind a nearby table, he aimed his gun towards the back room and waited.

  A few tense minutes passed. Still no sign of Harry. Figuring that the bastard must have left the music playing when he left, he exited the room and went back for Christine. He turned the corner and froze.

  Harry. The man stood behind Christine, with a long, slender knife resting across her throat, gun pointed at Vincent's chest.

  “Harry -” “ Don't try reasoning w
ith me, boy. This is over. Drop the gun, or the bitch gets a new air hole.”

  Vincent didn't move and thought through the situation, his thoughts racing as fast as they could go. Finally, he slowly lowered his gun, muscles tense. He watched Harry relax his grip and at that moment Vincent swung his pistol up and fired. The shot pierced Harry's right shoulder and he let out a bellowing cry. The knife clattered to the floor and he started firing. Christine struggled to get free, but Harry grabbed her arm, pulling her closer. Vincent leaped behind the corner and waited for the barrage of bullets to stop. When Harry's gun clicked empty, he whirled around the bend and pointed his gun at Harry's head.

  The knife was back in his hands and around Christine's slender neck. He grinned and laughed.

  “Just remember, Gaultieri, you killed her.”

  “Don't -” With a rapid jerk, blood gushed from her throat and she let out a gasp before

  collapsing. Harry swung back around the corner and Vincent heard his footsteps vanish rapidly in the distance. Rushing forward, he ran to Christine and put his hand around her neck, lightly applying pressure to the wound. Tears streamed down her face and she mouthed words that he couldn't hear.

  “Don't die on me now! Don't die!” She grabbed his wrist weakly and stared deep into his eyes before the light faded from her, and her arm fell limp to her side. Vincent brushed away the tears from his eyes and the look of sadness was replaced with hatred. He closed her eyes with his tear-stained hand and stood up, cocking his pistol.

  Harry was a dead man. Creeping down the hallways, Vincent began checking the entire prison, section by section. The day passed slowly and still no sign of the murderous bastard. Wherever he was, he was hiding well. As he continued his search, he noticed the sunlight slowly vanish through the barred windows. He was in Cell Block Four when the lights flickered off, leaving Vincent in complete, total darkness. The intercom crackled, and the familiar voice echoed forth.

  “Hello, Vincent. Enjoying yourself?”

  “Where the fuck are you, you coward!?”

  “Nothing like the thrill of the hunt. Except this animal bites back. Come get me, little man.”

  Vincent staggered through the darkness, feeling his way along the wall.

  “Getting colder...”

  He turned around and started heading for the exit.

  “Warmer, warmer -” A gunshot echoed out and Vincent ducked, breathing heavily. The fucker has night-vision goggles. Figuring that Harry must have been in the guard perch, he closed his eyes and mapped out the area mentally. All the way to the end of the passage, and then left. He started walking again, when another gunshot echoed out and he felt a piercing pain in his ear. Only a flesh wound, but it was a hit. Now running, he took off down the end of the corridor and turned left.

  Another shot sounded, narrowly missing his chest. Soon he found himself in the control room and he began flipping switches frantically. The lights flickered back on and he saw Harry in the guard perch, ripping the goggles from his face, temporarily blinded. Vincent steadied his gun arm and took a deep breath.

  Bang. Harry collapsed and Vincent fired again into his prone body, a satisfying jerk

  accompanying the successful hit. The revenge was calming, but strangely tinged with guilt. Harry was dead, and he had killed him. He'd never killed anyone before, except for a few infected inmates, but that was different. This was a human life, although a twisted one.

  He walked slowly towards the front gate, turning the corners without caution. The events of the day left him feeling drained and he wanted badly to just be free of the entire damned prison. It wasn't until he reached his car that the tears started flowing and his eyes stung sharply. He wiped them away, finally gave up trying to hold them back and let loose, sobbing uncontrollably.

  She was dead and he couldn't save her. And now the only person left, Harry, was dead too, by his own hand. Who could know for sure how many other survivors were out there? He made up his mind quickly and decided he had to try his luck at finding others like him.

  Starting the ignition, he turned on his headlights and drove out through the twisted, fallen front gate. The streets were filled with scattered debris and he had to drive slowly to avoid the various wrecked cars and piles of broken glass.

  The city was abandoned and he quickly lost hope of finding other survivors in the area. Turning onto the highway, he began the long drive out. It wasn't until a half hour had passed that he noticed his tank was running low and he cursed his stupidity for not refuelling in town.

  A camp ground was only ten miles up the road and he made the turn inward. A small cabin stood at the end of the driveway with a Jeep parked in the front. He pulled his keys out of the ignition and stepped up to the doorway. The gravel crunched loudly underfoot, but he didn't care. The odds of there being any infected in the area seemed remote.

  He turned the knob and opened the door, only to get greeted with a sharp blow to the face. He fell backwards and his head banged sharply on the wooden porch. Squinting out through his rapidly swelling eye, he saw a man towering over him with a semi-automatic rifle pointed at him.

  Chapter Twenty Nine

  Fallen Grace

  Dante gently prodded Noah and the boy quickly stirred from his sleep, sitting upright.

  “Is something wrong?” Dante smiled. “No, nothing is wrong. We're going to see Father MacKenzie, so that he can meet you, blessed child. Get ready, we're leaving in five.”

  Noah stood up and stretched. A bowl of dry cereal sat on the counter, already prepared for him. He ate quickly, watching Dante out of the corner of his eye. The man was polishing his guns and moved with a purposefulness that Noah envied. Dante seemed so strong, so capable, and he couldn't imagine ever growing up to be that big. He was always a small child and figured he'd grow up to be a small man. Assuming he lived long enough to reach that age.

  Dante checked his watch and stood up. “Time to go.” Noah nodded and the pair climbed down the ladder silently. The walk to the church was short, but Noah could already feel his lungs gasping hungrily for air. It had been a hard few weeks without his inhaler and he'd already had several asthma attacks since the outbreak, each one getting progressively worse. He dreaded moving at all, for fear of a final attack, the one that might kill him. The irony of dying from an illness in the midst of the apocalypse wasn't lost on him.

  They finally reached the tall, ornately carved double doors that led into the church and they entered together. The heavy smell of incense and burning candles greeted them and Dante led the boy to the back room. Father MacKenzie sat behind his desk, his ample gut flowing over the sides of the armrests.

  “Ah, Dante, I wasn't expecting you again so soon.” “ I brought someone I'd like you to meet.” Dante ushered Noah into the room and the priest stared at the small child.

  “You've found an innocent, I see.” “ I'll leave you two alone, while I go pray.” Dante pivoted and exited the small office. The tapping of his footsteps echoed forth and he stopped at the altar, falling to his knees in prayer.

  “Close the door, my son, and come closer.” Noah felt an uneasiness inside of him and an instant distrust for the priest, but Dante trusted him and that was good enough for him. He closed the door and walked deeper into the room.

  Dante prayed for guidance and felt a familiar comfort as he did so. The boy was now being approved by Father MacKenzie and all would be well.

  The praying left him in a meditative state of mind, and he stood up, enjoying the calm in his typically chaotic mind. He paced back and forth in front of the giant crucifix and studied the peaceful look on Christ's face. Now here was a man who met his fate properly. He felt an affinity with Jesus and knew that if they had existed at the same time, he would have been His greatest follower.

  After a few moments passed, he headed towards the back room and opened the door. His jaw slackened and it took him several seconds to process what he saw.

  Noah and Father MacKenzie were both in a state of undres
s, the boy sitting on his lap, teary eyed. The priest and the child sat frozen, staring at Dante with wide eyes. Dante's expression quickly turned from astonishment to intense anger, and the priest held both of his hands out.

  “Listen, my son, I can explain...”

  Dante made no motion, and maintained his hateful stare.

  “It's not what it seems like, I just -” With a deft movement, Dante drew his pistol and shot Father MacKenzie through his left eye. His head rocked back and he slid down his chair. Noah just sat there on his lap, paralyzed with fear, the side of his face coated in blood, which dripped down off his chin with a steady plink. Dante lowered his gun and turned his gaze towards the boy, the hate replaced with a mournful glare.

  Noah finally moved and began breathing rapidly, clutching his chest. “I... can't... breath...”

  “I'm so sorry that this had to happen to you. Let's go home.”

  Noah nodded weakly and stood up on unsteady legs. He pulled his pants back up and fastened the button before dropping to the ground, gasping for air. Dante panicked, scooped the boy up in his arms, and began running back to the bar.

  It wasn't until they made the first turn onto their street that Dante stopped. A pair of infected men were crouched over a corpse, feasting on tattered flesh. One of them paused and looked up at Dante, before letting loose a terrifying howl and climbing to it's feet. Dante gently laid the boy down, who was still gasping for air, and then drew his gun, dropping the first infected man with a wellplaced shot to the chest. The second one didn't even have time to finish standing before a blast to the temple sent it down, and it fell in a heap over the corpse.

  Another howl sounded in the distance and Dante quickly scooped the boy back into his arms, and took off running. The climb up the ladder was challenging with the child over his shoulder, but he made it, and pulled the ladder up behind him.