Afflicted: Patient Zero (An Outbreak Zombie Infected Horror Suspense Series, Book 1)

by Derek Shupert

  10

  I can feel every cell in my body changing, mutating or some crap like that. It’s an alien sensation, my skin acting as if it’s moving around and doing its own thing— like I’m the back seat driver in my own flesh. I guess it’s not all bad though. My eyesight is better than ever and I feel as strong as a raging bull. But what ultimately keeps eating the back of my now confused and stressed mind, is what side effects come along with this. It’s like those ads that say “hey, take our pill and you’ll be able to sleep better,” but the side effects most times are worse than the cure. I guess right now I can view this as more of a gift than a curse, or at least until I get out of here.

  I shake the currently pointless and non-important thoughts from my head and get back to the business at hand. I’ve been cautiously following the guide that has been leading me through the bales of this complex. No sign of the dead, but their presence is all around. Blood smears the walls and their stench looms in the air, refusing to dissipate.

  I’m getting close to the video surveillance room, only a few more corridors to work through and I’m there. There’s so much junk and random crap scattered through here, making my eyes work double time in the event that there might be an undead ambush waiting for me. I don’t think they’re smart enough to come up with a scheme like that, but I could be wrong.

  Even though I’m armed with some “sensory enhancements” and maybe other “gifts” I’m not aware of right now, it would be more comforting to have a gun, knife, or any object I can hit, stab, or mutilate with. You know, just in case I run into a world of hurt that might make taking out the undead, or the bastards who are running this show, a little easier.

  I access the vivid schematic in my head and locate an armory that is to the right of the approaching junction and down the corridor. It doesn’t look very far and it’s in the same hall as the video room. I don’t see any need in weighing if this is a smart move. Having weapons in a hostile environment is always a plus and generally well worth the risk.

  At this point, I’m not even sure if I can seriously get hurt, or dare I say it, die. Every time I’ve been at death’s door and faded away, I’ve come back with a vengeance. I hope there isn’t another episode where I turn geriatric and fall to the floor like a withered old man. That mess is getting old.

  I hit the junction and stop in the middle, peering to my right and down the pitch black hall that has flickers of light spitting out at different points. I’m thinking some wires have been ripped out and torn open or something like that. In any case, it doesn’t look any better or safer then every other place I’ve come from.

  My new night vision eyes have a short field of view and beyond that point, it becomes grainy and distorted. Up close, I spot hairs growing out of unseemly places on the infected, but far away, it’s not as useful.

  I twist my head to the other side and find the way to the surveillance room to be about the same, dark as a black hole, minus the flickers of convulsing wires. For once, it would be nice to have a clear path that wasn’t set up like some damn horror movie where the odds of something lying in wait are a sure thing. Oh well, maybe my luck will change soon.

  No use dwelling on the things I can’t control. I’m not scared by any means, but the likelihood of getting injured or being severely eaten on goes up in this type of situation. If anything is waiting for me down there, then I guess I’ll have to find out first hand.

  I turn and start my way down the hall towards the armory, keeping my third eye on the schematic in my head as I cautiously move around the mounds of boxes and other crap scattered about. Water squishes beneath my feet, and more leaks drip from all over, echoing throughout every inch of the hall. The sparks from the wires temporarily give brief snapshots of what’s coming. So far, so good.

  Three doors down and it’s on the right.

  I make haste and maneuver my way through the labyrinth of clutter, finding spent casings all over the floor and bodies lying about in distressed manners. All have been mangled beyond recognition and left for the flies to feast upon. It’s almost a landfill for the dead. Looks like whoever fought back got some of the undead before they perished or retreated.

  I would feel sorry for them, but I’m not sure if they’re a part of what’s happening here or just some poor bastards that were caught up in the wrong place at the wrong time. I guess what they say is true, when hell is at your doorstep, kill ’em all and let God sort ’em out.

  I count down two doors and have the third in my sights, finding more bodies scattered around as I see the armory to my right. Blood streaks and bullet holes that have ripped through the door from the inside greet my eyes as I stop cold. Standing there, I give a quick glance around for any waiting predators or trigger happy gunmen. Nothing stirs except for the hand of death sweeping through this building.

  I grab the handle, pushing down. No dice. Locked, jammed, or just plan fubarred. I instantly start calculating how I can get in, only coming up with a brute force approach that involves breaking the damn handle off. Might not be the best idea, especially if I get surprised by those things and need to separate myself from them.

  Damn it!

  Looking at the door and pondering other solutions, I notice a black square device located off to the right a little from the door handle. It has no markings of any kind and no lights showing what it might be.

  It could be some kind of access panel for a security card or something like that. I’ve seen a wide variety of these over the years and figure it’s worth a shot. I dig into my back pant pocket and pull out the card, hoping it’s what I think it is. With a quick prayer to the man upstairs, I swipe the card over the black box.

  Nothing! Not even a laugh or a “you’re screwed pal.” Not deterred from the minor setback, I swipe it again and hold it to the box for a little bit longer. I see no activity and feel like ripping the damn device out of the wall, but when a green light appears, my heart feels a sense of relief.

  I owe you, Big Man!

  The door clicks and pops open, allowing me access to hopefully a Mecca of various killing utensils. I take a step back and slide to the left, grabbing the handle and gently opening the bulky door. I don’t hear any movement, but that doesn’t mean much. There would be no reason for anyone or anything moving around just for the hell of it. But the door opening could stir up the undead or some skittish gun toting fool that shoots at the site of his own shadow.

  A soft, luminescent light crawls out of the room and greets my eyes, a rare and unfamiliar site that I would welcome ten times over. My night vision fades away, the green hue transforming to my normal sight.

  So far, I don’t see or hear anything, but the smell of those things is strong and the odor of gunfire is tantalizing my nostrils. I’m not sure what I’m walking into, but I’ve come this far and having some weapons is really outweighing anything that might be stirring in there.

  I peer into the room and scan it over, spotting a few more dead TGP soldiers lying on their backs with their stomachs and other organs hanging out their bodies. It’s a gruesome sight, but my feelings of sorrow and sadness for them is escaping me. Oh well.

  I continue inside, looking over every single inch of the cluttered room. Black crates and dull gray shelves chop up the fairly large room. So many available hiding spaces for some flesh-eater to stow away and wait for some unsuspecting sucker.

  It’s still so quiet, making me think that I’m all alone in here. But I guess that’s when it’s the worst—the calm before the storm.

  I walk over more spent shells littering the floor, and head to the two dead and defiled men on the far side of the armory, checking to make sure they’re really dead. I kneel next to one of them and reach for his slender and form-fitting helmet, his black as night visor completely blotting out his face.

  I unlatch the taut strap from under his chin and slowly pull the helmet off. His face looks normalish and his eyes have that wonderful brown pupil, no black eyes or any sign of the infection. At le
ast the dead did a good job of finishing them off for good.

  I toss the helmet to the side and go over to the other poor bastard, wondering how much getting your organs ripped out like that hurt.

  I kneel next to the body and reach for his helmet.

  In the soldier’s visor, I get a glimpse of something stirring behind me, emerging from between some of the oddly shaped black wooden crates. I knew this room was too good to be true. The infected’s clothes are shredded to bits and its body looks like it’s been run through a meat grinder. Mangled and ripped are understatements. It’s covered in blood, most likely belonging to the two soldiers laying here with their entrails making a break for it. It’s looking at me with those devouring eyes, like a lion stares at a gazelle—cold and focused with its dried crusty lips split apart. Streams of blood and spit mixed together ooze out of its mouth and other infected open sores that litter its face and body.

  I get to my feet and spin around, waiting for it to lunge at me, but for some reason it just stands there. It’s like it’s looking at one of its own—another dead soul roaming around looking for its next meal.

  Breathing hard, it’s talon like hands flexing, I catch it’s one and only eye peer to my right then dart right back to me. I train my ears and notice another set of footsteps and deep breathing, almost growling, from behind me.

  You tricky bastards. Looks like you have me dead to rights!

  The one in front of me shrills and charges at me, mouth ajar and those stained red teeth glistening under the lights. I throw up my leg and kick it square in the chest, sending it reeling backwards and smashing through one of the few wooden crates in the room. My brief moment of satisfaction is short lived. Something hard and jagged rips through my upper left shoulder and out through the front. I feel like it should be tearing me apart, making me scream in pain and writhe in agony. But there’s nothing—just intense pressure from something foreign entering my body.

  I sharply twist and snap the thing’s limb clean off, the crunching and cracking sound playing sweet, sweet music in my ears. It shrills from what I’m guessing is pain, if they actually feel anything at all.

  It takes a couple of steps back and looks me dead in the eyes, its stub leaking fluid like a busted hose. I spot a blackish brown rusted crow bar lying on the ground off to the side—probably teaming with all sorts of diseases.

  I’m focused and my body is relaxed, every muscle fiber poised and coiled like a snake about to strike. I dart for the bar and scoop it off the ground with my right hand, my left catching the infected by the throat as it bites and fights for my flesh. I hear the other scrambling out of the shattered wood crate, thrashing around like a fish out of water.

  With one fluid motion, I thrust the crow bar up through the bottom of its decaying jaw, the tip busting free out of the top of its head. Chunks of brain matter cling to the rusty edge, curbing its ravenous appetite as it seizes up and falls to the side like a rag doll.

  I turn my attention back to the other getting to its feet. I still have the razor sharp limb jetting out of my shoulder. Funny, something like this should have slowed me down, disabled my arm, or at least distracted me from what’s going on.

  I grab the very edge of the limb and pull, its serrated edges tearing through my insides like a hot knife gliding effortlessly down a stick of cold, hard butter. Chunks of my skin and muscle hang from its barbs, dangling like a treat for some hungry carnivorous animal. My blood is thick and red, coating the outside. It almost looks coagulated, lumpy even. Like oatmeal mixed with red food coloring.

  I don’t wait for infected to advance again, but take the offensive and go after it. It tries to move in once more for the kill, its arms flailing erratically and its mouth trying to find the mark. One of its claws slashes the right side of my face, digging deep into my cheek. I knock its arm away and jam the limb into the side of its neck, severing its vocal cord and throat in one fluid motion. It tries to shrill, but comes up with just a nasty gurgling sound that sends blood bubbles squeezing out the side of its neck.

  Peering into its eyes, I flick my wrist hard and fast and yank the limb across its neck, lopping its deformed head off with ease.

  I let go of the makeshift weapon and knock the headless infected out my way, kicking its head off to the side. The plump and rip melon skirts across the ground and smacks the wall, making a subtle squishing sound.

  Two more down and probably a million to go.

  Regardless of how many are left, I’ll kill them all to get out of here. Satan himself would fall before my feet, so these undead souls have no chance in hell. That’s for sure.

  I stand still and listen for any more movement, my honed, sensitive ears scanning all around for anything else that may be lying in wait.

  It’s dead silent, no pun intended, except for the scurrying sound of rodents and bugs moving about in this horrid mess. Must be nice, to be able to escape into the walls and away from all this.

  My sense of the surroundings stays alert and taut as I rummage through the armory, finding little to be desired. Most of the weapons have been picked clean or are in a state of disrepair. Either I find guns and no ammo, or ammo and no guns to marry them too. But hey, being self-sufficient and able to adjust to messed up situations is what separates the survivors from the cadavers. Adapt or die, literally.

  After tossing the already distressed room, I manage to scrounge up a couple .45 pistols, extra clips, a shotgun with a strap and flashlight mounted under the barrel, extra shells, some flares, and another knife that I take from one of the dead soldiers. Although I was wishing for more, beggars can’t be choosers.

  With my substituted wish list filled and a shotgun clutched in my hand, I shove the .45 down the front of my pants and attach the knife to my lower leg under my pants. I throw the extra goodies into a small black bag near me and leave the dead to the rodents and bugs, making for the door.

  11

  I pause for a moment and let my new best friend take the lead, the nose of the shotgun barrel inching out the cracked door.

  I can feel the damp air rushing through the hall and hitting the gaping wound on my shoulder and cheek. It’s an odd sensation—my shoulder numb and ripped open, but no pain registering. Either it’s delayed or the threshold has vanished, leaving me immune to any such injuries.

  Everything is still and as quiet as a normal graveyard, the door ever so slightly squeaking as I push it open a little more and move out into the hall. I flip the switch on the flashlight and scan both directions, training from side to side. Its range looks to be a bit further than my newly acquired eyesight, something that will come in handy for sure.

  I see and hear nothing.

  I call up the layout of the facility in my head and retrace the route to the video surveillance room. It’s not too far and I should be able to make it fairly quickly, barring any run-ins with more infected people. I twist around on my heel and head the other way, trying to remain silent while I move at a fast pace.

  I’m not sure if my mind is playing tricks on me or if I’m having rampant déjà vu. Everything I see, touch, or even smell feels like I’ve already encountered it once before. I know the layout of wherever I am is pretty uniform, or at least that’s the way it appears from the schematic, but I feel like I’m spinning my wheels in mud. I’m stuck in a rut and wasting energy without moving forward. Maybe that’s what they want, to have us confused and second guessing ourselves to the point where we break down and just give up.

  Not me.

  Not now.

  Not ever.

  That voice of doubt is there, nestled in the back of my clouded mind, rearing its ugly little head at random times. Whispering in my ear like an influential parasite, trying to guide me down the wrong path. Fortunately, he’s shut up and cut off before any real influence can be made.

  I shake the doubt and inner monologue away, getting my scattered mind back to the here and now. I’ve cleared 5 of the 6 corridors in no time flat. I’m barely out of breath
and my legs drive forward like their fixed with NOS. I haven’t run into any more infected or armed TGP soldiers, but that doesn’t mean anything. I hear brief screams and moans that come at different intervals—most likely coming through the venting ducts that are running along the walls.

  I’ve got my trigger finger hugging my heart stopper, no nonsense negotiator that is trained ahead, scanning from side to side like an automated gun station. Hoping that, deep down, something undead might just peak its mutated head out.

  Hitting the last corridor, I pause and sweep the hall, my flashlight bringing to life more death and destruction. Part of the ceiling has caved in and bodies lay scattered about, both undead and uninfected thrown together in a horrible jumble of human carnage. I check the blueprint and find my destination lays just beyond the cave in, second door to the right. Just my luck.

  I move out from around the corner and make my way up the hall, looking for anything that might be twitching or thinking of moving. I catch a quick glimpse of scorch marks crawling along both sides of the walls as I come to the cave in. Looks like a last ditch effort where someone decided to use some heavy explosives. Good for them, but now it has kind of screwed me over.

  I look over the rubble, twisted rebar jetting out of the concrete that is smashed to hell. Exposed wires hang from the open ceiling and dangle above my head like dull green snakes in a tree. I’m not sure if they’re active, and definitely don’t want to get bit by one. For the most part, I’m not seeing a way to make it through. Concrete and contorted metal greet my eyes as I assess the situation.

  I catch a series of moans and shrills from the way I came. It doesn’t sound like it’s coming from the vents anymore, but from the halls that I just passed through. The last thing I want is to be between a rock and a hard place. I look at both sides of the hall, finding available rooms, but the doors have either been blown clean off or are broken beyond use. Not only that, but I’m unsure what might be lurking within the darkness. Good thing I’m used to adverse conditions.