The Redivivus Trilogy (Book 3): Miasma

by Kirk Withrow

  “Okay. I’ll contact John and let him know the plan. In the meantime, get yourselves prepared. We’ll be in the fight before you know it.”

  When Cujo did not immediately spring into action, Mother asked, “Everything okay? You sure you’re up for this?”

  Cujo shook her head as if coming out of a trance. “I’m fine. Just eager to take the fight to this asshole, sir.”

  Mother offered her a weak smile before picking up the radio to call John.

  * * *

  “Copy, One. We’ll move out now and circle in to approach from the west. See you at the finish line. Two, out,” John said.

  The tactical lingo sounded odd to him, and he suddenly felt like a little boy heading off to play army with his buddies. Sweat beaded on his forehead, more likely the result of his anxiety over the upcoming fight and his worry for Ava than the exertion caused by their short hike. He looked at Reams and Lydia, who had been nervously listening to Mother’s instructions. Charon appeared as steadfast as ever.

  Although none of them were trained soldiers, they were all survivors, and that meant they could handle their own; no one that couldn’t was still alive. Having fought alongside one another since the early days of the pandemic, John and Reams had become an effective fire team. When the time had come to split into two groups, there’d been no question that Reams was going with John. Lydia, too, was a proven fighter and a welcomed addition to their group. What she’d done to keep Ava safe and to get her to the CDC was nothing short of remarkable, and John was forever indebted to her. Beyond the nervousness they all felt, John saw strength and determination on their faces. It was contagious, passed between them like a germ, until all that remained was a resolve to see this thing through to the end.

  John opened his copy of the map and quickly penciled in the pertinent details of Mother’s plan. When no one had any questions, John adjusted his bearing, and they moved out heading in a northwesterly direction. After what seemed like an hour of creeping slowly through the lightly forested area, the terrain began to slope downward, placing a low embankment between them and the old manufacturing plant. Charon, who had been quiet up to this point, let out a low growl that rumbled deeply in his throat. He stood motionless, his docked tail pointed skyward and his boxy muzzle pointed to the east.

  Lydia turned to him and asked, “What is it, boy? What do you see?” Not expecting an answer, she followed his gaze but saw nothing out of the ordinary.

  All of a sudden, Charon tore off at full speed, racing eastward toward something only he’d sensed. John, Reams, and Lydia watched as he disappeared into the trees.

  “What the hell got into him?” Reams asked rhetorically.

  John looked serious when he replied, “Charon can take care of himself. We don’t have time to wait for him. If he’s not back before this is all over, we’ll look for him on the way home.”

  John’s words sounded far more confident than he felt, but he forced himself to quash any doubts he had about their success. He knew Ava’s life depended on it.

  They travelled along the embankment, which allowed them to move more quickly as they were out of sight of anyone who might be watching from the plant. When their path led them to a road, they followed it north until it veered away from the direction they needed to head. Finally, the plant’s smokestacks came into view to the southeast of their position.

  “There it is. I think we’re out far enough. Let’s circle back and get closer to the building,” John said.

  As they grew nearer, the faint sound of voices and laughter echoed through the trees. The abandoned plant lay fifty yards ahead beyond a field of tall grass.

  Crouched along the tree line at the edge of the forest, John took out his binoculars and surveyed the area looking for any sign of Connor or his men. Several large smokestacks poked out from the top of the building like giant antennae. The building itself was so blackened that it appeared to have suffered a fire, though it may have been the combination of its industrial past followed by years of neglect. Two large metal roll-up doors—rusted and closed—occupied the center of the building’s south wall. He saw no sign of the people responsible for the laughter.

  John panned the binoculars across the landscape but saw only a field of tall grass between the building and his position. It swayed lazily in the breeze until a strong gust of wind caused it to bend and bow; that’s when he caught sight of movement near the building’s southwest corner. What he saw when he adjusted his focus made his skin crawl.

  Reams noticed the change in his demeanor and asked, “You okay, John?”

  Although he heard the big man call his name, John’s mind was unable to formulate the words to respond. The depravity of the scene in front of him had rendered him speechless. At that moment, all he could do was stare as the worry he felt for his daughter soared to new heights.

  Near the building were three men who John believed to be the source of the ruckus. One in particular seemed to be responsible for the lion’s share of the commotion, as he repeatedly threw his head back and unleashed huge gales of laughter. His fat belly jiggled obscenely when he chortled, and he placed his hands on its sides as if to stabilize the thing. Another man paced back and forth in front of the building as though looking for something he had lost, while the third man sat atop a low rise of steps with a half-empty bottle of whiskey at his side. He alternated between drinking from the bottle and thumbing through an old copy of Hustler. Only occasionally did any of them glance out across the field around the building. All three of the men were armed with assault rifles.

  Forming a defensive perimeter around the men were two row of revs that were staked to the ground and secured by chains around their necks. Their attention was largely directed outward, leading John to wonder why they weren’t overly interested in the men standing behind them. His answer came a second later when he saw something fly over the heads of the infected. The loose cloud arced through the air, stretching out like a comet’s tail. When John followed its trajectory back to its origin, he saw the fat, laughing man holding a gore-encrusted soup ladle. A broad, filthy grin showcased a mouth full of nicotine-stained teeth.

  “My God. They’re feeding them,” he said.

  “Feeding who? What is it, John? What do you see?”

  Still unable to answer, John looked to the ground as he handed the binoculars to Reams. Reams got an uncomfortable feeling of déjà vu when he remembered how he’d done the same thing to John when they stood on top of the airport hangar so many months ago. Reluctantly, Reams raised the glass to his eyes. He immediately began to shake his head from side to side. “What the hell is wrong with these guys? This Puppet Master is one sick bastard.”

  Reams let the binoculars fall away from his face. When his eyes met Lydia’s, he said, “You don’t want to know. Come on, we need to get closer. We should take these guys out quietly so we can find Kate and Garza,” Reams said, patting the suppressed FN Five-Seven pistol holstered at his side.

  John nodded in agreement, though he still looked rather green around the gills. The butt of his suppressed Tavor rifle was already on his shoulder.

  The gentle breeze blowing through the tall grass provided excellent concealment as they slowly crept toward the building. The grass was tall enough for even Reams to hide within it, and its swaying movement allowed them to advance more quickly without much chance of rousing suspicion. They only hoped no one was watching from the roof or upper floors of the building.

  Spread out in a semi-circle, John, Reams, and Lydia settled in about twenty yards away from the men. That put them about five yards away from the closest staked rev, and judging from its agitated snarls, it certainly sensed their presence. For a moment, John envisioned the chain breaking and the monster collapsing on top of him. He pushed the thought out of his mind and focused his attention on Connor’s men. As if what he’d already witnessed wasn’t bad enough, he saw something so depraved that it made the rev petting zoo in front of them look like a Girl Scout project.r />
  Near the stairs leading into the building, an infected thing wearing a bloodstained business suit was strapped to a post by a belt around its waist and neck. Its legs had been amputated at the knees, and its stumps rested on the ground, making it look oddly disproportionate. The tattered remains of a paisley tie—stiff with dried blood and gore—hung from what was left of its neck. Behind the tie was a large open cavity where its chest and belly had been emptied of internal organs.

  “Better feed Stu. I swear that guy has a hollow leg!” the fat man said with a chuckle.

  Neither of the other men laughed at his pun, but he didn’t seem to care. Instead, he stepped forward holding the soup ladle filled with gore that he’d scooped out of a five-gallon bucket. Thick, red droplets dripped from the sinewy tissue draped over the metal spoon. With its arms extended toward the offering, the infected monster strained against the belts. When the rev could finally reach it, it nearly wrestled the ladle out of the fat man’s hands.

  “Shit, Stu! How the hell am I gonna feed you if you take my damn spoon? Ever think of that, dumbass?”

  The soldier who’d been pacing stopped and turned toward the fat man. “Meat Sacks don’t think, you dumb shit!” he said pointedly.

  The fat man didn’t even acknowledge the comment. He was too enthralled by the rev greedily devouring the morsels he’d given it to pay the man any attention. Almost immediately, the bloody slurry began oozing out of the thing’s severed throat—first drop-by-drop, and then in a steady stream. Everything it put into its mouth splashed into the thing’s eviscerated pelvis before spilling over the side onto the ground.

  The fat man chuckled with delight. “That is some of the craziest shit I’ve ever seen. You know, you’re messier than a fat kid in a hot dog eating contest, Stu.”

  The bona fide smile on the man’s face told John that he was really enjoying playing with his pet monster. John fought to suppress his nausea, even as bile rose in his gorge. His friend, Ethan Long, had told him about some of the twisted things the bikers had done to the infected back in Hermitage Estates. It had made him sick to his stomach to hear about such things, but watching them take place right in front of his eyes took things to a whole new level.

  The fat man stared into the five-gallon bucket thoughtfully before turning his attention back to Stu. “Let’s see if we can make you whole again, brother. What do we have here? Looks like you're missing one of these.”

  Slowly, he drew the ladle out of the bucket, carefully balancing what looked to be a human heart. The rev groaned in anticipation, which made the fat man so giddy that he almost dropped the organ. As soon as it was close enough, the ghoulish thing snatched the offering and began tearing it to shreds with its gnashing maw. This time the man didn’t bother watching as the pulpy tissue dropped from its throat like ground beef out of a meat grinder.

  “What else you needing, brother?” he asked matter-of-factly. He used the ladle to search through the bucket’s contents with no more emotion than if he’d been thumbing through the day’s mail. Nothing in his pail of horrors must have caught his eye, because he let the spoon fall into the bucket. Taking his hat off, the fat man scratched his head and yawned loudly.

  John marveled at the depth of the man’s insanity. One minute he was feeding body parts to a disemboweled monster, and the next he looked like he was getting ready for a nap. Not for the first time since the pandemic swept over the land, he thought about how quickly the dregs of humanity rose to the surface when the rule of law and civilization as he’d known them vanished. Turning to his left, he shot Reams a worried look and nodded to let the big man know to be ready for action.

  Slinging chum must’ve made the fat man thirsty, because he scooped up the bottle of whiskey with his blood-encrusted hand. Seemingly oblivious to the filth and who knows what infectious diseases covering his hand, he raised the bottle to his mouth.

  Up until that point, the man sitting on the stairs hadn’t paid either man much attention. Whether he’d read all the interesting articles in his magazine or he simply noticed that his whiskey was missing, he looked up before launching into a tirade. Glaring at the fat man, he said, “What the hell are you doing drinking my whiskey? Put that shit down! And quit playing with that thing. The Puppet Master said we need to keep watch for anything out of the ordinary. Unless you want a place next to your buddy, Stu, I suggest you do what the hell he says.”

  The fat man looked genuinely hurt by the outburst, as he lowered his head and placed the bottle back on the stairs. Grabbing the ladle out of the bucket, he sent another spoonful of guts hurtling over the revs. Their blighted eyes seemed to follow the course of the projectile as it soared overhead. Almost in unison, they shambled after it, testing the strength of their bonds as they strained to reach the offering.

  John had to admit, between their snarling faces and esurient moans, the revs provided a fairly convincing deterrent. He didn’t have long to think about it, because the fat man began walking toward them, assault rifle in hand. Realizing he would be on top of them in a matter of seconds if he continued his current trajectory, John sighted in on the man’s head. He nodded toward Reams and began counting with his fingers. When he reached three, his Tavor coughed twice and the fat man’s head exploded into a red mist that had the revs growling even louder. He looked past the monsters and saw that Reams and Lydia had hit their marks as well. The man on the stairs lay motionless, while the third man struggled to pick himself up off the ground.

  Clink. Clink.

  Two more shots from John’s rifle put the man down permanently. They held their positions and waited to see if their suppressed shots had drawn the attention of any more of Connor’s men. When the only movement they saw was that of the revs pulling against their chains, the trio emerged from cover and maneuvered around the infected guard as they approached the building. Even though the infected were staked to the ground, it was unsettling to have the entire group leering at them, and they worried it might draw attention to their position.

  Reams grimaced as he looked at the bucket. Grabbing the ladle, he said “Oh, what the hell.” He sent the blood and tissue sailing over the revs. The metallic stench reached him a second after he’d sent the bloody chum sailing, causing him to gag several times. When he wiped away his tears, he saw that the infected’s attention was once again directed away from them. Appalled, he dropped the ladle and wiped his hand on his pants vigorously.

  “I think we should follow the outside the building rather than head through the back. If it’s this bad out here, who knows what kind of horrors they’ve got in there,” John said. When no one argued, he added, “Form up on me. Stay low and keep your eyes and ears open.”

  Still preoccupied with ensuring that no trace of the soup ladle’s residue remained on his hand, Reams stepped too close to one of the revs near the building. Its diseased hand shot out and latched onto his collar, nearly dragging him to the ground despite the significant size difference. The sudden tug had his arms pinwheeling in an effort to keep his balance. His rifle fell to its sling as he staggered backward into the rev’s waiting arms. Its diseased mouth opened wide in anticipation as it craned its neck forward to sink its teeth into the soft flesh of his throat. The smell of the ghoul’s fetid breath was beyond imagination; it was almost bad enough that he wished his life would end just so he didn’t have to endure it any longer.

  A second before the infected thing delivered its fatal blow, Reams saw his life flash before his eyes. He’d always imagined that was just something people said to emphasize the fact that they’d narrowly avoided death. Now he knew it was a real phenomenon; he felt surreal and at peace.

  In that same second, a blur of movement erupted outside his field of vision. The grunts and snarls that came next made his skin bristle with the expectation of the coming pain. There was a dull thud, followed by a line of cold, thick fluid running down his neck. The next thing he felt was the sensation of falling, and he wondered if that meant he might be going to hel
l. I guess that doesn’t surprise me, though I’ve tried to do the right thing whenever I can. No sooner had it started, however, than it came to a crashing end as a surge of pain exploded in his head and neck. An intense flash of light made him squeeze his already shuttered eyes even tighter as brilliant bursts of color danced on the inside his eyelids. Then everything went black.

  Although faint at first, the voices grew increasingly loud until they made his ears hurt. “Reams, are you okay?”

  Reams blinked his eyes several times before noticing the hazy outline of a woman hovering over him like an angel. Maybe this is heaven after all. I wonder if I’ll see Grandma? As his senses slowly returned, however, his gaze settled on the bloody dagger gripped firmly in the would-be angel’s hand. He wasn’t a religious expert, but he would have expected a trumpet or a maybe a cross.

  “Reams! Reams! Get up buddy! We need to move,” another voice called urgently.

  Reams opened his mouth to speak, but no words were forthcoming. Something pulled on his arm, though he didn’t seem to move.

  “Reams, you big bastard! I can’t lift you. You’ve got to get up. We need to get out of the open,” the voice added.

  You can talk like that in heaven? Reams’s confusion slowly faded, and he recognized the voice of John Wild.

  “Maybe if your white ass wasn’t so scrawny,” Reams replied blearily.

  “Phew. For a minute there, I thought you were a goner,” John said with a smile. He held out his hand and helped Reams to his feet. “It’s a good thing Lydia was there to save your ass.”

  Lydia shot them both a disapproving look that told them this wasn’t the time or place for their banter. “Boys, can we get moving now?”

  33

  Mother stowed the map before checking his weapons one last time. After ensuring that the rest of his team was ready to move out, he took point and headed to the northeast. He hoped they could set a sufficient pace to get them into position before Garza and Kate got into any trouble. Animal and Cujo fanned out directly behind him, while Plant brought up the rear. It was getting late in the afternoon, and the dense canopy overhead blocked out enough light that it seemed as if the sun had already set. The heavy undergrowth constantly snagged their feet, forcing them to adopt a slower pace than he’d hoped. Mother knew that daylight was growing short, and the darkness would be a blessing and a curse. If they hadn’t reached the old factory by the time night descended upon them, it would be more curse than anything.