Decay (Book 2): Humanity

by Locke, Linus

  Bill’s wife, however, screamed enough for both of them. She rolled the paralyzed man off of her and began begging for her life as she slid onto the floor. Globs of Corey’s blood running from between her legs.

  “We didn’t plan for this to happen,” she cried. “It only happened this one time and I’m so sorry, baby. Please forgive me.” Her fingers interlocked in a prayer as she begged. Her naked body glistened with lover’s sweat.

  Bill didn’t say a word to her. He half-smiled, and then drove the large hammer down onto her right foot. All twenty-six bones shattered. Arteries and veins burst. The skin instantly turned black.

  While she screamed in pain, Bill turned to look at the man on the bed. Corey was his oldest friend. Something about the way his broken back arched made Bill chuckle. The busted man looked like a fish flopping out of water. The sheets that covered his lower body were soaked with blood.

  Bill drove the hammer down onto his friend’s head. Even cushioned by the bed, the force was too much. His already bulging eyes broke free of their sockets, gray matter oozed from his ears. There was no more flopping. His dead body was perfectly still except for the occasional twitch.

  “Please don’t,” his wife begged. Her tear streaked face showed terror, sadness, and heart-ache.

  She was beautiful to him. Even like this. He didn’t want her to die, but it had to be done. The hammer collided with the top of her head, shattering her neck and forcing her skull down between her shoulders. The crying stopped.

  Bill was going to spend life in prison, and he was fine with that. The other inmates treated him alright. He enjoyed talking to the guards as much as they enjoyed talking to him. Then everything went to hell. The deadies came, causing a riot. He escaped with a few others, and the only reason he left was to survive.

  And then he was offered the chance to rebuild his life and be a new man. All he had to do was sit back and stay alive.

  Now it was his job to take out this group of murderers that hid behind their wall. But Bill knew that there weren’t murderers behind those walls. He was the murderer. His misled people would be the murders. And Randy–that old bastard–was going to let the boy to cut him again. Randy would find himself at the end of a rope soon enough, but for now the boy would die.

  The ground shook violently as the big explosion took the first part of the wall down. It caused his heart to pump that boiling blood even faster. Despite the awful shrieks in the smoke, Bill was pleased with how this was going. Casualties happen in every war, after all. He looked at Darren, a thirty-something with a scraggly beard that didn’t grow in evenly. Darren sat in the driver’s seat, his knuckles white from gripping the wheel with crushing force.

  Darren and a fat kid that sat in the back seat of the Humvee climbed out and fired rounds at the last of the deadies that found their way through the smoke that covered most of the massive, dead field. Bill felt bad for the fat kid, that’s why he didn’t want to know his name. Just a boy in a dying world with little food, yet he managed to stay well over two-hundred pounds standing just over five feet. He was an appalling thing, really.

  But Bill watched the fat kid wriggle his pudgy fingers around the trigger of a nine millimeter handgun and fire hopelessly. He managed to take down one dead man, but couldn’t hit the other. Luckily for him, Darren put a round in the deadie’s skull, and the fat kid climbed back in the rear seat of the Humvee. The smell of piss accompanied him.

  That’s when Bill watched the black semi cut through the thinning smoke, followed by an entourage of cars. The wall was still crumbling around their small town. Michael made it out, Bill knew. That snaky little shit always made it out. The temptation to strangle the fat kid was held off, for now. It wasn’t his fault, but Bill wanted so badly to wrap his fingers around someone’s neck. He doubted he could wrap his fingers around that thick neck, anyway. It’s no wonder the boy’s mother is so skinny.

  He picked up the handset to the radio in the Humvee, pressed the push-to-talk button and screamed, “Someone better bring me the head of every one of those bastards!”

  Mad Man Rob had heard this, of course. A number of different radios were mounted under the dash of the big rig, and one of them luckily was tuned to the same frequency that Bill was using to communicate with his army. As a matter of fact, the Mad Man had been listening since the attacks started.

  At the intersection where a Fast Break convenience store sat, Mad Man slowed down and turned left, past a junkyard, a set of railroad tracks, and a facility filled with railroad tankers. The hump in the middle of the next intersection, where Highway 61 met with what the locals used to call the bypass, was the only thing that slowed him down as they approached, and he still took it kind of fast. Michael watched as the handful of tools–sockets, a screwdriver, even a pink BIC lighter–drifted into the air where they hung suspended, as if the gravity in the cab had been turned off, for a solid second before crashing down in a metallic clatter.

  “Take it easy, please,” Guillermo pleaded from the back.

  “Sorry. But we need to move,” Mad Man Rob stated before pointing out the driver’s side window down the highway they had just crossed. All he could make out in the brief glimpse he caught was a blob of sand that he knew was the Humvees driven by Bill and his so-called army.

  The muscle cars went airborne as they crossed the intersection, going quite a bit faster and being much lighter than the semi. A man known only as Canon almost lost control of the Mustang. He punched the throttle down, just for fun, right before hitting the hump, causing the rear end to slide just enough to cause the car to land crooked. He shot into the other lane and down into the ditch where he regained control and drove out of the parking lot of a body shop that he was certain he came close to needing.

  With everyone back together, the Road Runner and Camaro sped off ahead once again as if in a race. The young Aaron handled the Chevy much better than Rick handled the big block Mopar. Aaron’s father was a gear head who loved to race and had Aaron in the driver’s seat as soon as he could reach the pedals (despite his wife’s disapproval).

  Even over the roar of the big diesel, Michael could hear the dull pangs of lead hitting the thick aluminum of the cab. The other cars in the convoy darted ahead of the semi, seeking cover. The semi had steadily climbed to sixty miles-per-hour by the time it rumbled past a large shop, the home of a construction company that had, after the attacks, loaned Mad Man Rob some of their heavy equipment.

  One of the Humvees pulled beside the semi and worked its way up to the cab. The passenger rolled his window down and aimed a handgun toward Mad Man Rob. Who in turn smiled a big smile and waved a big wave before slowly turning the back of his hand toward the Humvee and curling all of his fingers but the middle one. The passenger fired a single shot at the window and watched in amazement as Mad Man Rob feigned being hit by the slug that was deflected by the bullet proof glass. Imaginary blood sprayed from the side of his neck, where he kept his hand held tight for a second.

  Without warning the semi swerved into the side of the Humvee, launching it over the median. The SUV landed on all fours, wobbled, and hit the median from the other side. The driver overcorrected and the Humvee lifted up on the two driver’s side tires. It rode like that for a few yards before tipping the rest of the way over and spraying sparks as it slid steadily on its side. Two of the Humvees were ahead of it while the other was showered in the sparks.

  Mad Man Rob felt the heavy semi slowing down as they drove up a steep hill. He downshifted and pressed the accelerator to the floor. The other three Humvees sped on up the hill where they could cross over into the other lane cleanly. The muscle cars that surrounded the semi slowed down, wanting to keep the mobile bulletproof barricade between them and the Humvees.

  As the semi climbed to the crest of the hill, it began to speed up. Then the Humvees came into view further up the four-lane road, just before it curved to the left. A man stood on top of the center truck, they couldn’t tell at first, but it was Bill. He
raised a long tube, aiming carefully. Smoke burst from the rear of the tube and Mad Man Rob knew what was in flight.

  With cars on either side of the semi, he couldn’t swerve without crushing at least one of them. The small missile blasted its way toward them on a deadly accurate path to the sinister chrome grille. But it never hit them. The Road Runner bolted out in front of the semi and veered into the path of the rocket. The yellow Road Runner blackened instantly as it burst into flames. A charred chunk of Rick’s torso spattered the black hood and windshield in front of Mad Man Rob and Michael.

  The fiery remains of the Road Runner were swatted aside by the semi, and a path was cleared for the following cars.

  Bill’s eyes widened as he saw the black monster charge toward him. The black smoke rolled from the stacks like a pissed off cartoon character spewing smoke from his ears. Only none of them saw the comedy in the demonic looking semi. Its smoke was hellsmoke and the roar of the big diesel engine was the devil’s battle cry.

  The men standing around the Humvees scrambled to find safety inside the SUVs. Realizing that they wouldn’t move the trucks in time, Bill jumped out and ran to the other side of the highway. A few others followed. The fat kid who Bill hadn’t learned the name of was unable to climb out and away fast enough. The Semi had hit the center Humvee at sixty-three miles-per-hour. It was thrown into the Humvee to its left, smashing the fat kid in between. Oozing fat, blood, and guts splattered the street in gobs.

  None of the three Humvees survived. The far right truck was clipped hard enough to smash the radiator, spraying coolant. Bill swore loudly and fired off several rounds from the M16 that was slung over a tall, muscular man’s back, the strap almost choking the muscular man. Darren, remaining disturbingly calm, walked to the only Humvee still on its tires and reached in for the radio.

  “Damn it!” Mad Man Rob screamed after they had blown through the next intersection, he had the semi pushing eighty now. His wild hair made him look even crazier when he was mad.

  “I’m sorry, Mad Man,” Michael said solemnly. “Rick was a great guy. He saved us. He saved them.” He nodded to the cars in the side mirror. “We can mourn him when we finish this.”

  “How’s your brother doing back there?”

  “Sleeping. Hopefully he’s fine.”

  “How about you, Guillermo? How are you doing?”

  “It’s been a rough ride, but I’m good.”

  Dog whimpered lightly as if to reply that he was good but shaken up.

  The Mad Man drove on, staying on the bypass. The entire road had been cleared after the once large group split up. Even for a while afterword they worked together. They were no longer one, but they stood by each other for the common good. What the hell happened to us? He slowed the semi down as he approached a strip mall off to the left just ahead of them.

  “What are you doing?” Michael asked.

  There were several miles between them and where they left Bill and his wrecked Humvees, but Michael wanted to put many more miles behind them before stopping.

  The semi turned off the highway and onto a side street, following it back past a restaurant and a large hotel. The windows in the restaurant were busted out during the looting right after the attacks, and black soot marred the hotel’s white walls above several of the windows where survivors had stayed and set up small camp fires inside.

  Turning right, Mad Man drove the semi up onto the curb and came to a stop. A grassy yard separated them from a strip mall to their right. On their left was a large clearing filled with untamed grass that wrapped around the hotel. The driver’s side door unlatched and swung open. Mad Man Rob grabbed a pistol that had been holstered in the upholstery of the door and hopped down onto the street. Michael held up his hand to Guillermo in a wait here gesture and followed his friend.

  Spotty clumps of wet snow crunched under Michael’s boots as he walked first to the front, then to the rear of the semi. The bitter chill slapped his face as he turned, and he pulled his hood up over his head out of habit. He wasn’t sure where the Mad Man had gone, but he assumed he made a stop back by the others.

  May leaned out of the passenger side window of the Little Red Express and waved Michael toward her. She pointed into the large clearing where Mad Man Rob was walking toward a deadie shambling about in the tall grass. “Keep an eye on him, we’ll go on ahead.”

  Michael only nodded his understanding and stood back as the line of cars drove around the semi and reconnected with the highway.

  The Yenko Camaro, driven by Aaron, seemed a little less peppy as it kept a steady pace at the back of the pack. Michael watched the Camaro and knew that the pain Mad Man Rob felt, Aaron felt even worse. Rick, who had been a born-and-raised Mopar guy who always gave Aaron a hard time about the boy’s Chevy, was the closest thing to a father Aaron had in this world.

  Michael knew that Mad Man’s pain wasn’t just due to the loss of Rick. The Mad Man wasn’t one to be emotional, angry yes, but he took the loss of lives as just another part of being alive, even before the undead attacked. After spending many months on the move, it was hard to lose the closest thing to a home they had. Mad Man’s friends were his family, and that garage was his home, and it was gone now.

  In the grassy field across the street, Mad Man easily took out the deadie before taking down two others that were unfortunate enough to come for him. With the three dead bodies sprawled in the tall grass, Mad Man Rob decided he wasn’t finished with them. He unsheathed a large hunting knife and began to stab them repeatedly.

  Michael watched this ongoing act of rage for a minute. He found it morbidly entertaining to watch this man throw the dismembered body parts out into the grass. He didn’t sense any real threat in the area, so he decided to give Mad Man some time. The young man walked around the semi and off toward the small strip mall.

  There were just a handful of shops in the little mall. The storefront windows were dusty, which Michael found to be a little odd. Most windows had been busted out during the looting that took place over the first few days of the attacks. Perhaps this place was too far out of the way for most people. Or maybe it’s because there was only one restaurant and none of the other stores carried anything necessary for survival.

  Peering into the window of the restaurant, Michael could just make out the booths. He also saw what appeared to be an old jukebox. He used a gloved hand to wipe to thin layer of dust off the window and realized that most of it was on the inside. A film of grime and mildew coated the inside, so he would have to go in if he wanted to check the place out.

  The door opened with a hard pull. It obviously hadn’t been opened in a long time. The smell of rot and death were overpowering. Michael pulled a scarf out from inside his coat and wrapped it tightly around his face to cover his nose and mouth. He made his way to the jukebox, but he really couldn’t see much as the windows were too tinted with grime to allow much light to shine in.

  He decided to check out the rest of the small restaurant, and found the décor to be quite interesting. Pictures of 50’s style restaurants lined the walls. Underneath the dust he was sure the booths looked just like they did in those pictures. He would have really enjoyed coming here before the attacks.

  He ventured through the kitchen area. The remains of food that had long ago rotted away and been consumed by the flies and maggots could still be seen in the stainless steel trays and bins. For a second he pushed the grotesque image of decay aside and imagined himself working here, the smell of the delicious food, the clambering of the customers as they carried on their lunchtime conversations. It was fun to think about, as he knew he would probably never have a job anywhere. Missing out on his teenage years cleaning tables for extra cash to blow with his friends was all of a sudden a little harder to deal with.

  He picked up a dusty pad of paper used for taking orders. The edges were moldy. He bent the pad and allowed the pages to flip rapidly off his thumb before tossing it down on the counter. Casually, and out of habit, he checked under t
he counters, finding nothing.

  At the back of the kitchen were a supply closet and a large walk-in freezer. The freezer door was open, and even in the dim light he could see that it was empty except for a few torn boxes. A steel chair had been wedged under the door handle to the closet. This was a clear sign that a deadie would be in there, but Michael had to check. Besides, he could easily take a deadie. He pulled his knife free and leaned close to the door.

  There was no sound, but there were scratches on the door from where it rubbed against the chair. Perhaps the deadie behind the door was frozen. After all, it was damn cold in the restaurant. Even under the thick layers of clothing Michael could feel the chill snipping at his skin.

  He picked up the chair and moved it to the side quietly. The door handle moved smoother than expected. Michael heard the soft click as the latch cleared and he gave the door a gentle pull. His breath held tightly.

  The door burst open, smashing the young man in the face. He reacted quick enough to avoid a broken nose, but he could feel the pain explode in his cheek. Despite his disorientation, Michael was able to drive the blade into the skull of the dead man as he rushed through the door.

  Before he could pull the blade free, two more deadies came out from the door, taking Michael by surprise. The first one, a short, thin woman with matted brown hair and gray eyes, bit down onto his arm. The bite was stopped by his thick coat, and he was able to push her back into the young girl behind her. The young girl was probably eleven or twelve and had the same matted brown hair as the woman. Michael assumed, in the brief moment he had to make assumptions, that they were mother and daughter.

  The girl rushed around the woman and immediately took the bottom of Michael’s right boot to her face. Thick black blood oozed from her nose and left eye, but she was hardly slowed down.

  Michael maneuvered back into the kitchen and managed to position himself with the preparation counter between him and the two deadies. This bought him time to catch his breath and think. He pulled the scarf down to his neck. Looking around he confirmed there wasn’t much left to use as a weapon. His best option was to run for the door and hope to reach Mad Man.