The Last Bastion (Book 3): The Last Bastion

by K. W. Callahan

  Both the kids just shrugged and stayed silent.

  “Stay here,” he told the kids, both of whom were frozen in place, silently staring at him with concerned eyes.

  Stuart got to the back door and had the curtain pulled aside just in time for the second terrifyingly violent impact against the door. More glass was smashed out of the small panes at the door’s top half as a blue-clothed shoulder landed hard against them. And Stuart could hear the wood of the door’s frame crack and groan under the stress of the impact.

  “What the hell?” Stuart cried. “Kids, get upstairs with your mother and lock the door!”

  He heard the sound of scrambling feet behind him as the kids obeyed his orders.

  Seconds later, there was another impact that sent the center of the door bulging inward, smashing the door handle lock. The bolt lock held, but barely.

  Stuart could see the blue-clothed biter outside and feel the cold morning air now blowing through the rapidly widening hole in the door’s top section.

  He realized that the biter he’d seen outside was trying to break into their home. But he didn’t think biters knew how to do this sort of thing. Sure, he’d seen shots of them on the news pushing or pulling weakly on locked doors, occasionally hitting them with closed fists or open palms. But he’d never seen nor heard of them becoming this violent in an effort to break through a barrier of any sort. It shocked and frankly scared the living daylights out of him. And he once more found himself wishing he’d gone against his wife’s wishes and purchased a firearm. He could easily have disposed of the biter in one fell swoop by firing through the smashed glass of his back door. But that wasn’t an option, so Stuart did the next best thing; he retreated upstairs to the safety of their master bedroom where his wife and children were currently taking shelter. He grabbed a wooden baseball bat from beside the front door on his way.

  “What’s going on? Is that you, Stuart?” Cynthia cried as someone pounded on the bedroom door.

  “Yes, it’s me! Let me in!”

  Stuart stood anxiously awaiting entry into his own bedroom. Meanwhile, downstairs he could hear the back door finally giving way under the overwhelming pressure of repeated blows from the biter outside.

  “Hurry up!” Stuart cried.

  Finally, he heard the lock click on their bedroom door and he pushed his way inside, frantically closing and re-locking it behind him.

  “What? What is it?” Cynthia tugged at his arm as he entered. “The kids said something about a biter. But biters don’t know how to get inside…do they?”

  “I didn’t think so,” Stuart shook his head, pushing his wife back and away from the door. “But apparently I was wrong.”

  “Oh my god!” Cynthia put a hand over her mouth. “But how? I thought they were…were, stupid or something,” she shook her head in disbelief.

  “I don’t know,” Stuart said. “Get inside the closet with the kids,” he ordered her.

  Sally and Jessup were huddled up on the bed, Sally clinging tightly to a pillow, Jessup clutching the sheets up around him.

  “Come on, kids,” their mother instructed sternly and as calmly as she could, ushering them off the queen-size bed and over toward the closet lining one wall.

  “I thought biters didn’t know how to operate locked doors,” Cynthia turned to her husband as she waited for the kids to conceal themselves inside the closet.

  “They don’t.”

  “Then you left the door open?”

  “No.”

  “Then how’d they…”

  Stuart heard footsteps on the stairs leading to their bedroom on the second floor.

  “Shhh!” he hissed.

  “Mom! There isn’t room in here,” Sally whispered, gesturing to the fully packed closet. “You have too many clothes.”

  “And too many shoes,” Jessup added.

  “Then get under the bed!” Stuart hissed, exasperated by his loved ones’ diddling at such a critical moment.

  Cynthia silently led the kids back to the bed where she helped each of them underneath and then crawled under herself.

  She positioned herself toward the end of the bed, not only as an instinctual way of protecting the children, but also to shelter them from what they might see.

  Suddenly there was a loud bang against the bedroom door. Cynthia felt the shockwaves of the impact reverberate through the floorboards and up into her body, causing her stomach to knot and her breath to catch in her chest.

  She could only see Stuart’s feet up to the ankles from her position beneath the bed. She could tell by his stance that he was ready to swing the bat should the biter break through the door.

  She prayed silently to herself that her husband would be able to defend his family. If not, well, she couldn’t bring herself to consider the possibilities. He had to protect them.

  Cynthia could hear the floorboards creaking outside their bedroom door followed by another earth-rattling impact. The doorframe cracked loudly and then let out a bone-jarring pop that informed the entire family that it was not faring such jolts well.

  It was an interior door, not meant for much more than providing privacy. It certainly wasn’t meant for full body blows from an obviously determined biter.

  Stuart could see the framing around the perimeter of the door starting to pull away from the wall. It was held in place mostly with small trim nails that had been driven into the wood and drywall surrounding the door.

  The next impact tore the sidepieces of the framework away completely and shattered the locking mechanism.

  Cynthia could see the bottom of the door swing open and was horrified to find that it wasn’t just one set of feet that greeted them, but multiple sets.

  She heard a grunt, and then a thud that she assumed was Stuart bringing the baseball bat to bear upon one of the biters. Then she heard the sounds of struggling, a cry, and the baseball bat clattering to the floor near the edge of the bed. She could see Stuart’s feet, moving, intertwining with the feet of the intruders, sliding on the floor, scuffling.

  A few seconds later, she saw Stuart’s shoes angle to one side and then she was met with Stuart’s bloody face, his lifeless eyes staring into hers as he hit the floor.

  She screamed aloud, and then covered her mouth to stifle further sounds, but it was too late. She saw the biters’ feet moving to surround the bed. She could see one of them crouching over Stuart, already starting to feast on his remains. The sounds were terrifying. She prayed that in the commotion her cry hadn’t been heard.

  She listened. She could feel the children scooting back away from her, closer to the wall. She could hear the sound of air being inhaled through nostrils. And she could hear that clattering, chattering of teeth that drove tingles up her spine.

  The biters were sniffing the air. They could smell them; she just knew it. Suddenly, the bed was being moved. The kids were screaming and scrambling to stay beneath its protective cover. Then the bed was being lifted, lifted by a black man in blue work clothing.

  At first, Cynthia thought he might be there to help. Then she saw his teeth.

  And then…instants later, she felt the teeth.

  Chapter 3

  Wendell started to turn back toward where Charla was taking shelter in Chris’ condo. But then he stopped. As much as he wanted to be rid of the handsome neighbor turned uninvited houseguest, he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t just leave Chris there to fight the biter alone.

  “I’m coming!” he moved back down the hall to where Chris was pinned beneath the biter.

  As soon as he spoke the words, the biter atop Chris slowed his attack and looked up and over at Wendell. The biter seemed distracted by Wendell’s approach, shifting its weight to one side. It seemed somewhat surprised, maybe even frightened, but not enough to back off the potential meal on which it sat. But its movement had an unintended consequence. It shifted enough weight off Chris to allow him to extract his arm from beneath the bulk of the biter.

  With this newfound freedom
, Chris reached out toward where he’d dropped his knife. Not daring to wrench his eyes from the biter’s gnashing teeth, its jagged fangs just inches from his face, Chris’ fingers felt, fumbled, grasped, and groped blindly. Finally, the tip of his middle finger touched cold metal, and a second later, he found the knife’s handle. Getting the best grip he could under the circumstances, he grasped the knife and plunged it into the side of the biter’s neck.

  At the same instant, Wendell delivered a hard kick to the biter’s pudgy side, timing his arrival perfectly with the infliction of Chris’ mortal wound upon the beast. Wendell’s action had little affect as the biter reeled up and away from Chris, rolling over onto its back while clutching at its neck. Blood was spurting everywhere – on Chris, on the floor, on the walls, even on Wendell who stood several feet away.

  The biter was making horrific gurgling sounds and thrashing frantically in its death throws.

  Wendell reached down and grabbed Chris by the arm, helping him up.

  “Thanks,” Chris wheezed, panting and out of breath from his struggle.

  The biter’s flailing calmed, and then ceased altogether.

  Wendell got Chris to his feet before moving to the end of the hall. There, he quickly closed the stairwell door before returning to where Chris stood, staring down at the dead biter in a sort of semi-dazed state.

  Wendell figured that Chris was probably in a state of shock after his traumatic battle. “Come on. Let’s go,” he took Chris by the arm.

  Back inside Chris’ condo, after she’d ensured they were uninjured, Charla gave the men a few minutes to collect themselves. Meanwhile, she continued her search of Chris’ cabinets, pulling useable items from inside.

  The condo was sparsely furnished, but its décor had a touch of class that surprised Wendell. He’d expected the standard grungy bachelor pad, but this had an element of style that Wendell actually found appealing.

  “Well, you don’t have a whole lot in here,” Charla stood on her tiptoes to reach for a jar of peanut butter on a top shelf. “But it’s better than nothing. And it’s better than what we had before.”

  After taking a few more minutes to clean themselves up as best they could, Wendell and Chris joined her.

  “I wasn’t planning for the zombie apocalypse or I’d have stocked up,” Chris admitted in his best attempt at levity in what was becoming an ever-increasingly tense situation.

  “Let’s just take what we can get and get out of here,” Wendell said.

  “Here,” Chris said, “let me see…” he opened the fridge and then backed away with an arm over his nose.

  “Uh!”, “Dear god!”, “Oh lord!” came the comments from the group.

  “Sorry!” Chris slammed the fridge door close.

  “What about the condiments and stuff?” Charla asked.

  “What about them?” Wendell frowned.

  “Well, they are food. We should take them with us.”

  “Wait until we’re ready to go, then we’ll get a garbage bag, hold our breath, and make a make grab for as much as we can get before we need to breathe again,” Wendell said.

  “Sounds like a plan to me,” Chris nodded, shoving some boxes of mac ‘n cheese into his backpack.

  “Your taste in food leaves something to be desired,” Wendell held up some pudding packs, inspecting them with an air of distaste.

  “Better than nothing,” Chris shrugged. “And most of this stuff will last a while un-refrigerated,” he added.

  Wendell just took a deep breath, exhaled heavily, and continued searching through the cabinet in front of him.

  “I know it’s not a gourmet restaurant in here,” Chris admitted. “But what can I say? I ate most of my meals at work. And often, I’d pick up dinner on the way home. Just didn’t need a lot of fancy food around. If I had a spouse or something, it might be different, but, well…I don’t.”

  “It’s fine,” Charla smiled. “You’re right, it’s better than nothing. And considering the situation, beggars can’t be choosers.”

  “You two about ready?” Wendell asked.

  “What’s the big hurry?” Charla shook her head. “You closed the stairwell door, right?”

  “Yeah,” Wendell nodded.

  “Well then, we should be fine. Biters can’t re-open it.”

  As soon as she finished the words, there was a thud at Chris’ front door.

  “Shhh!” Wendell hissed, moving to the front door to peer out the peephole. “Darn! Another biter,” he whispered to the others.

  “But how?” Charla whispered back.

  “Must have been in one of the other units on our floor,” Chris shook his head.

  “If that’s the case, why didn’t it attack us earlier?” Charla asked incredulously.

  “Heck if I know,” Chris shrugged. “I don’t know how these things operate. I just try my best to steer clear of them.”

  “Shhh!” Wendell hissed again, holding up a hand, his eye still pressed to the peephole as he looked out to the hallway. “It’s leaving.” He angled his head to watch it go. “Oh no,” he said after a few seconds. “Awwww man,” he moaned. “It’s stopping right in front of our door. “Oh, come on,” he cringed. “Now it’s sitting down. It’s leaning back right against our front door.”

  “Great…just great,” Charla shook her head. “Now what?”

  “We try for the tower?” Chris suggested.

  “I don’t think we have much of a choice now,” Charla looked at him and then at Wendell. “Unless you two want to take on another biter or stay in here for who knows how long.”

  Chris looked at Wendell who was looking at him.

  “Not particularly,” Chris said.

  “I agree,” Wendell breathed and then turned back to the peephole. “Wait!” he said suddenly. “It’s getting up!” He was silent for a moment and then said, “It’s walking down the hall. I think it just went into the condo beside ours. This is our chance if we want to get back home.”

  “What about the condiments?” Charla asked.

  “Screw the condiments! Chris can have them!” Wendell shot back. “Let’s move. We can get back to the rest of our stuff and decide what to do once we’re there.”

  “But why go back to your condo if we’re going to go to the tower?” Chris argued. “Why not just make a break for it?”

  “This is not the time to discuss it,” Wendell said excitedly. “Charla, we can get back to our condo…just us!”

  “Chris is right,” Charla agreed. “We’ve got some food with us. If the people at the tower aren’t willing to take us in, we at least have something to barter with. With the firepower they have over there, we might be able to get them to come back with us and get the rest of our supplies later.”

  Wendell frowned, not wanting to leave his condo comfort zone. But he sensed he was going to have to leave at some point, and that point was looking to be sooner than later.

  “Fine,” he gave in reluctantly. “I don’t like it, but I don’t think I have much of a choice. I suppose that getting back to our own condo would probably only buy us another day or two anyway. So I guess I’m in.”

  “Okay,” Chris said. “I’ll lead. We make a bee-line for the stairs. We have to keep moving. We stop, and we’re done for, especially once we’re outside.”

  “What if we get there and they won’t let us in?” Wendell pondered aloud.

  “We can’t worry about that now,” Chris said. “But I wouldn’t expend all your energy getting there, because we might have to turn right back around if that’s the case. Everybody got their knives?”

  Charla and Wendell nodded in the darkness as they lined up near the door behind Chris.

  “Okay, we go on three,” Chris instructed. “One…two…three!”

  * * *

  “I’ve got movement outside!” Michael’s hand-held radio crackled alive as he stood on Hofmann Tower’s seventh floor. The voice was that of Josh Justak who was working to shore up the tower’s ground level entrance.
Michael had climbed to the seventh floor to get a better view of a massive herd of biters headed their way. The three Blender youngsters, Justin, Jack, and Andrew were there with him.

  “Shit!” Michael hissed. “You mean in addition to the hundreds of biters?” he cringed into the radio.

  “Yeah…a group of three people, not biters, headed this way from the condo building across the parking lot.”

  “I’ll be right there,” Michael answered.

  Most of the group – commonly referred to among themselves as the “Blenders” – was already downstairs on the tower’s ground floor. They were working with Josh to repair the damage done to the tower’s entry barricade. This damage had occurred earlier that morning by a group of outsiders who had tried to infiltrate the historic tower in Lyons, Illinois.

  The Blenders had been calling the tower home since their attempt to escape Chicago had been cut tragically short and resulted in the death of nearly half their group several days earlier.

  Only Patrick, Michael’s adult son, had been left on the tower’s third floor. He was nursing a leg injury from the morning’s gun battle. On the way downstairs, Michael and the three youngsters he had in tow made a quick stop to inform Patrick of the massive biter herd’s approach.

  “I’ll get a gun and head to an open window,” Patrick hefted himself slowly to his feet with the aid of a nearby folding chair.

  With that, Michael and the boys continued downstairs where they were met with a flurry of activity as the others worked hurriedly to repair their entry defenses.

  Just as he arrived, Michael heard Josh, positioned near the tower’s main entrance, yell, “Stop where you are! Hands up or I’ll shoot!”

  Michael was glad that Josh wasn’t taking any chances. After their recent run-in with outsiders, God only knew what this new group wanted or was willing to do to get it.

  “What do you want?” Michael heard Josh yell from around their rapidly reforming entry barricade as the other Blenders hefted pieces of wood, furniture, and debris in to place to repair it. But he couldn’t hear the response.

  “Stay here and help the others finish the barricade,” he instructed the boys. “Should things get rough, you beat it back upstairs like before. Got it?”