Dext of the Dead (Book 2): We Are The Infected:

by Kuhn, Steve

  That one got me. I can’t lie to you. I stopped. “What do you mean by that?”

  JC sighed heavily and said, “That bullet went straight through a geek’s brain and into Trey. It was Mark’s round, and I know exactly what happened. He’s infected, Dext. Trey’s going to die… and he’s going to turn. I thought he was gonna be okay after the first couple of days, but Murphy told me what his wound looks like. It’s a matter of time, Dext.”

  I’m waiting until we get back to the compound to tell Cutty and Kylee but, for now, we watch… and we wait. Hopefully we can come to a consensus before someone gets hurt, but after the lesson we learned with Tom, we can’t afford to fuck around here.

  Entry 66

  Remember how we found out that Tom was bitten? It was Trey that confronted him with a handgun pointed at his nugget. It was Trey that was ready to put him down right there on the spot. How is this situation any different? Tell me why any one of us shouldn’t pull Trey aside and dispatch him so he doesn’t turn and endanger everyone else? The answer is that the situation shouldn’t be any different… but it is… It’s different because we like Trey. That’s pretty fucked up when you think about it. If Bizzy wasn’t standing right there, I would have had zero problems with Trey pulling the trigger on Tom. Now that the tables are turned on a friend, though, I don’t even want to think about putting down Trey. Why is that? What kind of person am I? Is that normal?

  Telling Cutty was the hardest part. I knew Rebecca was going to be a mess, and I hadn’t gotten as far as thinking about how Trey would take the news. We’re talking about a death sentence here—Dead. Dead. Dead. That word was commonplace even before the spread. I hated the way people never really respected the thought of death. I’m sure it was because of my lack of faith. Death is a much easier pill to swallow when you have something to look forward to afterwards… like heaven. I guess I can understand how it wouldn’t be so scary.

  Not for me, though. I always thought death was just like before you were born—just nothing, lights out. That makes dying tenfold scarier for guys like me. I could never decide if I would want to know I was going to die before it happened or not. On one hand, you can make arrangements; say your goodbyes, and all that. On the other hand, it would loom over me like a dark cloud, and I would probably be so anxious and nervous that the quality of my remaining days would suffer greatly based on just knowing. I hate this. I hate this world. I’m over being scared of it. Of course, I still get scared a lot, but being scared of the actual state of this place is a thing of the past. I’m just pissed off.

  I guess I have to tell this story—not that I really want to. It’s just another tale of how a friend of mine met his end. Damn, these stories must be getting old by now. Aren’t you people tired of reading this shit yet? Are you as sick of it as I am? People dying… friends? And on the back of every death comes fallout, comes mourning, comes dissention in the remaining ranks of our shitty little group of people holding onto a life for no good reason. That’s the answer, though, isn’t it? We’re holding on because we’re more afraid of dying than we are of being alive in this place and in this world. Well, I don’t know about you, but I think it sucks. It sucks megahard.

  One thing that I think we did right was that we all stood together and delivered the news to Trey as a cohesive unit. All the bitterness and bad blood between any of us was put aside, and we stood together as a group for possibly the first time. We had to.

  ‘Congratulations on your marriage… Now consummate this bitch so we can shoot your groom in the fucking face,’ just wasn’t gonna do it. I sort of expected that out of JC when we decided that since he saw it with his own eyes, it was probably best for him to break the news. He didn’t even protest. He stepped right up and said, “I’ll tell him.”

  But it wasn’t to be. Cutty waved him off and told us all, “Nah, man. I’ll tell ’em.”

  I bet you’re expecting some gruesome tale of how Trey turned before we had a chance to get to them… and how maybe Rebecca was bitten and all hell broke loose… I dunno. Truth is, it was even more gruesome than that. To look a man and his young wife in the face and hear Cutty say the words—it was worse than any of that. Nothing was worse than seeing Rebecca cling to Trey and watching them both cry—fuck that… watching all of us shed tears—and when the tale was done, they asked for a moment alone. So, we left them.

  Rebecca and Trey held hands as they walked down to the creek, and they hugged. They stayed in each other’s arms until even I turned my gaze from them so they could have the moment together. It wasn’t long before we heard the shot.

  Rebecca met us once again at the buildings near Wyatt’s gravesite with a tear-streaked face and told us, “Trey’s gone.”

  Tomorrow, we’re going out—out of the compound and away for a while. In fact, since there aren’t really any holidays left to celebrate, we’re starting one of our own. We’re calling it “Z-Day,” which is really just code for ‘Kill-every-fucking-deadhead-we-see-because-we’re-sick-and-tired-of-being-afraid Day.’

  We’re all done being afraid. Death is coming. We were all given our death sentence the day this thing started. Some just get to stay on death row longer than others.

  It starts tomorrow.

  Entry 67

  JC told them it was time to put up or shut up—go hard or go home. The cross-huggers geared up and loaded their Humvee as we sorted ourselves out. Murphy and Fart are riding in Murphy’s pickup with JC, while me, Cutty, Kylee, and Rebecca have the jeep. After the last week’s events, and our losses, we wanted to see the ruins of Kilo Company for ourselves. It wasn’t like we were forcing Matthew to take us or anything, but it was strongly suggested that he lead us to them. By strongly, I mean maybe Cutty stood behind them while JC and Kylee idly chatted about how they would gut anyone who lied about possible rescue.

  I’ve spent this time in the jeep with Rebecca, trying to offer some sort of comfort. She seems at peace with the whole thing. The marriage ceremony has put her mind at ease; and being that she believes in God and the vows she took, I think she is happy knowing she will see Trey again one day. I worry about it, though. She never did say whether Trey pulled the trigger himself or if she did it for him.

  Either way, it was a murder or a suicide by definition… and isn’t there a rule about that and getting into heaven? It’s really hard to offer someone comfort and support when their manner of thinking is the opposite of your own. I’ve caught myself more than once nearly blurting that out. It just feels like I’m getting colder… like I care less and less.

  Murphy found a sleeper in one of the remaining buildings this morning as we began the final clearing phase. We were busting the locks and going room to room, scavenging and gathering whatever we could find that would be useful. We kicked in the door to one of the stock rooms, which was really just full of blank targets and shit. This stinker was just lying there, clearly bitten on the arms and neck.

  So, anyway, Fart instantly started her low growling to warn us as the dead bitch sparked to attention and tried to get to her feet. Fart was having none of that shit and darted into the dimly lit room, pinning it down by the neck. Murphy put an arrow through its eyeball and told Fart she could back away. “Lividity,” Murphy said as he pulled the arrow from the dead bitch’s eye socket with a sickening schlok.

  I asked him what he meant.

  “Lividity, Sally. It happens when you die and lie there for a while. All the fluids in your body, blood for example, settle because of gravity and pool at the bottom of the corpse. So, back before the dead began to walk, if someone died lyin’ on their back and wasn’t found for a day or two… When they were discovered, they would be all bruised and purple lookin’ if you rolled them over—lividity. I think that’s why these things sleep sometimes.”

  I was following what he was saying with regards to lividity, but he lost me when he suggested that was why we saw sleepers every once in a while. I just figured there were some that lay there until they were prompted to m
ove, and there were others that constantly shuffled around.

  Murphy had another theory altogether. He told me, “I think they all have to ‘sleep’ at one point or another. Listen, these things are up and around for days on end without any circulatory system that we know of. So, all that blood and fluid in ’em settles to their feet. I’m thinkin’ they need to lie down every once in a while to get that fluid back up into their idiot brains and keep them going. If they lie down for a while, whatever is in that nasty mix of black blood spills back into the brain and sort of jump-starts ’em again.”

  I nodded my understanding, and we continued on. We were only met with one more that morning, but it was all fucked up and had no legs. I smashed its head in with a chair, and we dragged them out for the fire. There are still about four more buildings left to do, but we needed to get outta there for a while.

  The ride heading west is actually kinda enjoyable at the moment. It’s a beautiful day, and our crew is ready to bust some heads. In fact, I’m actually looking forward to seeing some deadheads. We’re ready this time, I think. It feels right. A little revenge and blowing off a little steam will do us all some good.

  Entry 68

  They were just kids, man. I’m pretty sure I heard at one time or another that a huge number of politicians in the U.S. Congress had children that were old enough to serve in the military, yet only one, one, had a child in the service. I remember snorting to myself that those were the guys that sent our boys and girls to fight silly wars in shitty countries. They weren’t fighting it themselves, and they weren’t encouraging their own children to “defend our nation,” but they had no problem sending other people’s children to die. And most of those ‘other people’ were poor or middle-class. Many joined up hoping to serve their time on a dream that one day they’d be the first person in their family to go to college. Those are the ones that knew how to truly survive.

  I could make a can of tuna last a week until payday just to make the mortgage. A buddy of mine lived on three bags of ramen noodles and a two-litre of Mountain Dew for eight full days while he waited on a cafeteria voucher. I’ll tell you this: Those rich, fat-cat motherfuckers were worthless, and all that money didn’t do a damn thing for them when the shit hit the fan. Those lazy pricks probably lasted all of about a week. Know why? Because they never learned how to survive like the little people, which brings me to today’s events.

  I was shocked to find out that we were only thirty miles behind Kilo when Matthew, Mark, and Luke came rumbling up towards us that night—kind of a kick in the nuts if you ask me.

  When we came upon the burned bodies of the dead and all the trucks, it was readily apparent that it was one hell of a mess they had gotten themselves into. The ground was littered with so many shell casings that we had to walk carefully for fear of tripping on them and busting our asses. The smell of burnt flesh is something that one never gets used to.

  Luke told us, “This is what’s left.”

  Matthew added, “When we first saw the trucks, we were elated. We had thought that the Lord had our Army ready and waiting, but as we got closer, it was clear that the demons had already defeated them. It was disappointing, but we resolved ourselves because the Lord works in mysterious ways.”

  There it was again, that stupid cop-out shit. Whatever. I started turning over pieces of junk and peeking in the trucks for anything useful, but all I found were some empty ammo boxes.

  Kylee figured I was on the right track and announced, “Pair up, and see what’s around. Stay close to your partner, and if anything looks strange, call for some help.” No surprise that she paired off with JC immediately.

  I hooked up with Murphy and Fart for a few reasons. The first was that I knew Fart would be able to let us know if anything came too close. I also knew Murphy was no slouch. He’s grizzled, proven, and lastly, I just really liked Murphy. I enjoyed his company, and he’s a smart guy—it’s interesting that I now choose my company by their usefulness first and their companionship second.

  Murphy knelt beside Fart and scratched her under her chin, saying, “All right, girl. Anything looks outta place, you git ’em, hear?”

  She licked him on his face and pranced a bit, but as Murphy rose to his feet, she went into badass mode.

  Straight up, I was ready for a fight today. I felt warmed up, for lack of a better term, after clearing the buildings with Murphy this morning, and I was feeling that burn in the pit of my stomach that comes with nervous rage.

  We rounded the front of the lead truck and immediately heard the unmistakable crack of rifle fire from the rear of the caravan. We couldn’t see shit from our spot, but we both heard Cutty shout, “Ah fuck, man! I think I’m hit. I think I’m hit!”

  Fart took off down the side of the road like a bat outta hell. I already had my gun drawn, and out of the corner of my eye, I saw Murphy draw back on his bow where he already had an arrow notched.

  We took off to follow Fart as fast as we could run. I dusted Murphy in my sprint, and it was seconds before I reached Cutty, who was now on one knee, examining his shin.

  It took a few moments, but the scene was one of chaotic control. Another scream from off to my left was choked out immediately, and I could make out the figure of a single assailant pinned to the ground by his throat, held fast by our trusty canine homie. JC had his foot on the figure’s weapon and his bear aimed directly at the gunman’s forehead.

  Excellent! They had that shit on lock! I moved to check on Cutty.

  He was flanked on either side by Kylee and Rebecca as Murphy and the cross-huggers headed our way, panting. The girls were tittering like they were on the playground at a schoolyard, and Cutty was like, “Dat shit ain’t funny, man! I thought I was fucked up fo’ real, and y’all laughin’ like some young-ass kids.”

  His leg was bleeding but just barely, and it was readily apparent that a small chunk of concrete chipped off the ground and hit him when the gunman’s round ricocheted at his feet.

  We tried helping him up, but he ended up doing it on his own. I teased him and said, “I’m gettin’ sick of liftin’ your big ass up all the damn time, Cutty.” I caught myself listening for Junior or Wyatt to chime in, but it never came to me.

  Rebecca snapped at JC, “You good?” and JC nodded without taking his eyes off our prisoner.

  Murphy called off Fart with, “Atta’girl, Fart. C’mon back!”

  She didn’t budge. She stood her ground with her jaws locked firmly around this little dipshit’s windpipe, almost begging him to move. Murphy scruffed her up when we reached them and pulled her off.

  I could now see that he was a young man about nineteen or twenty years old and of Italian or Greek descent. He was wearing a Kilo uniform, emaciated, and badly dehydrated. His lips were cracked and dry, and his face was pale—not sickly or infected pale, more like scared shitless pale. JC growled, “Please move. Please? I dare you.”

  Cutty limped forward and said, “Nah, muhfucka, I double dare yo’ ass ta move. Matta fact, JC, back up off dis li’l bitch a hot minute.”

  JC knew not to fuck around with Cutty, so he kicked the rifle away and took a step back, lowering his bear just slightly.

  Cutty scooped the dude up by his shirt like a misbehaving three-year-old and held him up face to face, saying, “Gimme one good reason why I shouldn’t snap yo’ li’l bitch-ass neck right now.”

  The dude coughed and sputtered, barely managing to say, “Bernies… I… thought you were bernies.”

  We all looked at him like he was talking nonsense.

  Cutty shook him hard and asked angrily, “Da fuck is ‘bernies’? You hearin’ me, boy?”

  The kid choked and answered, “Water… You guys got water? Please. I need some water.”

  Mark stepped forward and quietly passed him a canteen as Cutty dropped him on his ass, disgusted. Kylee gave Mark a shitty look as the soldier boy greedily gulped down the entire thing. “Nice move, dumbass. You’re supposed to give him the water after he spills his
guts, and only then just a little.”

  Mark replied, “Give us your weak, your ill, and your—”

  Kylee cut him off with a wave of her hand, saying, “Yadda-yadda-yadda, yeah whatever.”

  Once the dude had his shit together, JC nudged him with his foot—Okay, I’m lying. JC kicked the shit outta this kid and nodded to Cutty that he was ready to continue.

  Cutty crouched down somewhat painfully to look him in the eyes. “What’s yo’ name, Billy Badass?”

  The kid replied gingerly, “Giacomo… Giacomo Fulci.”

  Cutty nodded and asked, “What’s all dis ‘bernie’ shit?”

  The kid propped himself up slightly and told us, “Zs… dead… ya know? Bernies.”

  Rebecca snickered a bit and told us, “Oh, I get it! Bernies! Like that movie Weekend at Bernie’s where the guys make the dead guy act alive so they can use his beach house.”

  I have to admit, that shit was funny.

  Matthew tried to be the voice of reason with, “It’s an obvious misunderstanding, and we’re alive. The Lord has placed this young man with us for a reason.” He reached out a hand to help Giacomo up and said, “Come, brother. We have much to discuss.”

  JC was like, “Fuck yeah, we got shit to discuss. Bring your ass!”

  This little interrogation was far from over, but in a brief conversation we were able to determine that he was alone and had been for some time. He’s a tough little shit. No surprise there; he’s a fuckin’ marine. Know what else he is? He’s in the back of Murphy’s pickup with Fart standing guard until we get back to the compound, because no one’s taking any chances.

  Entry 69

  The cross-huggers took Giacomo off to get a meal and clean up a bit. It was more of an argument that we let them win. Most of the crew’s logic revolved around letting him starve, then rewarding him with food and drink in return for decent information regarding Kilo’s ultimate fate. Matthew wasn’t budging, though. He was insistent that we sort the kid properly before any interrogation took place. They figured he’d be more apt to share any information if he was treated as one of our own.