The Redivivus Trilogy (Book 3): Miasma

by Kirk Withrow

  “Mother, take a look at this,” Cujo called. She stood at the lip of what appeared to be some kind of drainage ditch.

  Mother assumed the aqueduct had been used for irrigation or perhaps to handle run-off, though it was empty at present. Despite its size, the channel was so overgrown that they would’ve walked right past it had Cujo not nearly fallen in. It was in the shape of a V and lined with concrete, its steep walls angling down nearly eight feet to a flat, two-foot wide bottom. While the local flora provided the ditch with excellent camouflage from the sides, the lack of such vegetation overhead allowed far more light to filter in.

  “We might be able to make up some time if we moved through the ditch,” Cujo said.

  Mother was considering the possibility when Animal spoke. “Did you guys see that?” She was staring at something ahead of their position.

  Seeing nothing, Mother furrowed his brow. “What was it?”

  “Movement—a person I think, but not infected. It was too purposeful, almost furtive,” she said. The only thing anyone else could see was a wall of green stretching in every direction.

  After watching for a moment longer, Mother said, “Let me know if you see anything else. For now, it seems like the ditch is our best option.” They all agreed that seemed like the most logical course of action.

  The ditch seemed as though it stretched on indefinitely. Most of the time they moved unhindered, though tree limbs and other debris piled up to create small dams that had to be climbed over in a few areas. Animal worried about what she’d seen and kept a watchful eye on their surroundings. Although nothing else seemed awry, she couldn’t shake the bad feeling in her gut. She felt confident that what she’d seen had been a person—a regular, uninfected person.

  Nearly half a mile from where they entered, the ditch emptied into a concrete channel that was roughly thirty feet wide. Several other ditches, all of which had metal grates blocking their entrance, also connected to the channel. Approximately fifty feet ahead, atop the ten-foot wall, sat an old brick building that had served as a pump house when the channel system was in use. Aside from climbing the walls, the only obvious way out of the empty reservoir was via a rusted ladder that led up to the old building.

  When they arrived at the end of the drainage ditch, Cujo, Plant, and Animal fanned out to form a defensive perimeter while Mother studied the map to determine what heading they needed to take. The sun was no longer visible above the horizon, and daylight was fading fast.

  “I’ve got movement to the right of the pump house,” Plant called. No sooner had he spoken than it was gone.

  Mother hadn’t anticipated encountering any trouble before they reached the exchange location, and he’d been operating on that assumption. With his primary focus having been on reaching the destination as quickly as possible, he didn’t become acutely aware of how exposed his team was until Plant spoke. The only options for cover were an old refrigerator and a rusted-out industrial air conditioner, neither of which were close. He cursed at the realization that he’d led his team into the perfect spot for an ambush. Unfortunately, by the time he’d recognized his tactical error, it was already too late.

  In an instant, all hell broke loose. Multiple engines roared to life, echoing off the concrete walls until it sounded as though the vehicles were in the reservoir with them. They snarled and growled like a swarm of beasts from hell as they threw up dirt from the ground they tore up. The beams of headlights shone in all directions, crisscrossing the air overhead like a light show at a 1980s rock concert. Moments later, four vehicles came into view, two on each side of the reservoir. They were the type of high performance side-by-side UTVs that cost well-to-do hunters at least $25,000 before the pandemic. Almost as soon as they appeared, their engines fell silent, leaving only an uneasy quiet that made the air bristle with the anticipation of what would happen next. The sound of voices and doors slamming could be heard coming from each vehicle.

  With the UTVs’ lights still beaming, it was difficult to see exactly how many people there were. Each vehicle appeared to hold four passengers, and they seemed to be filled to capacity. Mother did the math and realized his team was outnumbered by nearly four to one. He didn’t even want to think about the tactical advantage they had over his team. While the majority of the men dropped into the reservoir, a few stayed on top of the wall, crouching and training their weapons on Mother and his team.

  “Drop your weapons and keep your hands where we can see them. No quick movements, and no one has to get hurt,” one of the men said in an authoritative voice.

  Mother’s mind raced as he considered his options. He was outmanned, outgunned, and quickly being surrounded. His team had four firearms in total, but he and Cujo carried them all. Plant and Animal had insisted on carrying only their melee weapons. While that was fine for most situations, it was little help in their current predicament. As it was, he doubted any of them would’ve survived a firefight even if his entire team were armed with fully automatic rifles.

  Mother glanced over his shoulder, and it occurred to him that retreating down the ditch might be their best option. One of the approaching men them must have noticed the gesture because he said, “Hold it, partner. I don’t think you want to go that way.”

  At first, Mother felt inclined to disagree with him; it seemed like exactly the way he wanted to go. No sooner had the thought crossed his mind than he heard the sound of another vehicle approaching from behind. A walkie-talkie chirped in the distance, and Mother heard people talking, though he couldn’t hear what was said. Nevertheless, the vehicle stopped before it reached them. There was a screech like that of a rusted hinge opening followed by a loud clang. What came next was a low murmur carried on the wind that crescendoed, leaving no question about the horrors heading their way.

  The man who’d advised against fleeing down the ditch held up his hands as he continued to advance slowly. He had a dark beard and wore a flannel shirt, but the dying light made it difficult to ascertain many details beyond that. When he spoke, it was with a thick, country accent. “Nobody has to get hurt here, brother. We just want to talk. I know you hear that mess of awful heading this direction. How about you and your friends put down your weapons so we can sort this out? I’ll make sure my boys here keep them things off you.”

  Mother had witnessed what happened when people complied with requests like that from men like these, and he wasn’t about to go down without a fight. Plant and Animal had inched closer to one another and now stood back-to-back in preparation for the fight that seemed imminent. Cujo fidgeted nervously, and Mother worried she might start shooting at any second. She kept repeating, “This is bad, Mother. What are we going to do?” Despite his best effort, he could not come up with any plan that didn’t end with them being killed or taken hostage.

  The man stopped about ten yards away with his hands still raised in the universal sign of surrender. Mother wasn’t sure what the man was up to, but he thought he could see him smiling underneath his beard. When the first snarl erupted from the ditch behind them, he understood why.

  No longer solely concerned with the armed men encircling them, Mother and his team whirled around to face the new threat, as an untold number of revs streamed out of the aqueduct like an unholy effluence from Hell. Plant and Animal hacked and slashed at the cadaverous bodies, while Mother alternated between shooting and stabbing the few revs that made it past them. Paralyzed with shock, Cujo stood with her rifle clutched in her shaking hands. Less than thirty seconds later, they stood panting amidst a sea of lifeless bodies.

  Once again, the sound of snarls, even more ferocious than the last, could be heard in the distance. The screams of men and bursts of automatic gunfire joined in to paint a grisly picture of what was happening. In less than thirty seconds, the commotion had stopped completely. One of the armed men brought a walkie-talkie to his mouth.

  “Bobby, everything okay back there? We heard screams and shooting. What’s going on?”

  A scared voic
e that they assumed belonged to Bobby came over radio. “Shit, man! It killed Kenny! It was like a monster or something—maybe a werewolf. It just came out of nowhere and started tearing him to shreds. I think I shot it; I think it’s dead. But Kenny, man, shit…”

  “There ain’t no such thing as werewolves, Bobby. It was probably just a coyote or something. Pull yourself together and take the trailer back to the base, understand?”

  Plant and Animal exchanged a knowing glance that told Mother they read more into the conversation than he had. When he turned his attention back to the armed men, he saw that they had fully encircled them while they fought the infected things. He found himself staring down the barrels of at least ten rifles. Although no one spoke, the slow clapping of hands could be heard coming from outside the circle. A second later the clapping man stepped between the men.

  “Nicely done,” Bayani said. “Now your weapons, please. Surely you must see there is no other choice.” The man spoke with a Spanish-tinged accent that Mother recognized as Filipino. He was of average size, and his face possessed an intensity that couldn’t be overlooked. The fact that he seemed to be in charge of the group of men, many of whom were bigger and better armed than him, led Mother to believe the Filipino was a very dangerous individual.

  While he did not say as much, Mother saw no choice but to surrender. Cujo, the only other member of his team armed with a gun, remained frozen in shock. Plant and Animal appeared ready to fight, but he knew they stood little chance going up against a firing squad with only blades and bludgeons. Even their substantial skill at hand-to-hand and edged combat couldn’t protect them from being cut down by gunfire the moment they made a move.

  When Mother did not respond to the request to surrender, Bayani ordered several of the men to move in and disarm them forcibly. They moved to secure Mother and Cujo first, as they were the ones with firearms. Although Mother didn’t offer his weapons willingly, he put up very little fight to keep them. Cujo offered no resistance whatsoever. They were shoved to their knees and their hands zip-tied behind their backs.

  The men exercised far more caution as they approached the two black-clad figures, perhaps because of the lethality with which they had dispatched the infected horde. Animal was armed with a vicious pair of brush tools that transformed her into a human Cuisinart on high whenever a rev got in her path. Plant, on the other hand, wore a heavy gauntlet with a four-inch tapered metal spike protruding near the wrist. He carried a long weapon that looked like a wide, two-pronged pitchfork, which he used to keep the infected at distance until his kukri machete could take care of it. They were an intimidating pair to behold—a two-person death show.

  As soon as the first man reached for one of the brush tools sheathed at Animal’s waist, she lashed out with a backfist that connected with the bridge of his nose. There was a sickening crunch as blood began pouring from the shattered structure. He staggered back as two more men crashed into her from behind. The first wrapped her in a tight bear hug, while the second proceeded to wrestle the weapons away from her. When she continued to resist, he backhanded her across the face, causing her head to snap to the side.

  Plant heard the slap as another of the men approached him to collect his weapons. The sound filled him with rage, but he managed to keep his wits about him. When he held out his kukri as if to surrender it, the man looked unsure about taking the offered weapon so easily. Unaware of the danger he was in, he lowered his rifle as he reached for the blade. Plant capitalized on the mistake by flipping his hand over and driving his spiked gauntlet into the center of the man’s neck. Air and blood gurgled out of the hole in his throat, sounding like a mix between gargling and drowning. The man dropped to his knees with a surprised look on his face, suffocating as his lungs filled with blood. Not wasting any time, Plant brought the pointed end of his spear up and buried it in the soft spot just below the jaw of the man holding Animal. The man released his hold instantly. Surprised by the sudden movement, the man who’d slapped Animal turned toward Plant, only to be greeted by the razor-sharp edge of Plant’s kukri. Its curved blade bit deeply, slicing through the flesh of his throat as though it were warm butter.

  Perhaps sensing a challenge, a chiseled man with the hardened face of a career criminal stepped forward to enter the fray. He threw a hugely telegraphed jab that Plant slipped with ease. The follow-up straight right also missed its mark as Plant rolled back to the other side. As he crossed the man’s centerline this time, however, he plunged the spike of his gauntlet deep into his adversary’s eye socket. The man doubled over, screaming and clutching his ruined eye. In a matter of seconds, four men were dead.

  Mother, like everyone else, was in awe of the speed with which Plant dispatched the four thugs. He wasn’t sure if the other men weren’t shooting because they were in shock or because they wanted them alive. Whatever the reason, he imagined that Plant’s killing spree was about to end when he saw two men rush him from his blind side. Although they managed to grab his arms, Plant did not look fazed in the least by their advantage. In fact, he seemed more angered that two more men moved in to restrain Animal. True to her name, she kicked and screamed in an attempt to escape from their grasp.

  Before Plant had a chance to kill anyone else, Bayani yelled, “Enough!” The word was uttered with enough authority that everyone took notice.

  Although they didn’t release Plant, the two men stopped trying to overpower him. Rather than fight to free himself from the thugs holding his arms, Plant focused his attention on the man walking in his direction. Even in the low light, the expression on the Filipino’s face made it clear that he represented the greatest threat out of the men Plant had seen thus far.

  Having witnessed Plant’s impressive abilities, Bayani had no doubt that he’d just saved the lives of the men he’d ordered to stand down. He knew that Plant could easily kill the rest of Connor’s so-called men if given the opportunity. He also knew that he could end Plant’s reign of terror by putting a bullet in his head, but he did not think that a suitable death for someone as skilled as Plant. Being a skilled martial artist himself, Bayani felt that Plant deserved an honorable death—a warrior’s death—and he wanted to give him that.

  Stepping forward, he said, “My name is Bayani Lumaban. What is your name, and why are you here?”

  “I’m Plant. Benjamin Plant. My friends and I were just looking for the closest Walmart. It’s funny, it seems like they’re on every corner until you need one. Any chance you can help us with directions?”

  Bayani obviously didn’t appreciate his smart-ass remark, because he slammed his fist into Plant’s abdomen, doubling him over in pain.

  Groaning, Plant muttered, “I guess not.”

  With her hands bound behind her back, Animal struggled against her captors as she yelled, “Don’t touch him, you piece of shit!”

  Bayani didn’t acknowledge the outburst. Instead, he handed his rifle to one of his men before removing his vest and tossing it to the side. “Mr. Plant, you seem like a smart man. I’m going to ask you one more time, and I want to think very carefully before answering this time. Why are you here?”

  Plant closed his eyes and let his chin fall. When he raised his head, his eyes were serious and determined. “We just want what everyone else wants: to save money and live better.”

  Once again, Bayani drove his fist into Plant’s solar plexus—this time knocking the wind out of him and leaving him gasping for air. His knees buckled, and for a brief moment, the men holding his arms were the only things keeping him from collapsing to the ground. When he got his feet back under him, he straightened and said, “That really hurts, you know.”

  “I’m afraid my patience for you has gone, Mr. Plant. Connor will not be pleased that you killed so many of his men. Perhaps it will help if I bring him your head,” Bayani replied.

  “Oh, you know the Puppet Master? What’s he like? That whole head thing seems kind of harsh if you ask me,” Plant said.

  All of a sudden, several
spotlights mounted on the vehicles clicked on, flooding the area in light. Bayani stood in the center of the group with his ginunting in his right hand. The shadowy silhouette made him look even more dangerous. He swung the wicked, concave sword in a wide X, making it whistle as it sliced through the air.

  “Give him his machete and set him free,” Bayani said coldly. The men did as they were told before stepping back to make room for the impending showdown.

  He glanced over to the men standing guard over Mother, Cujo, and Animal. “Make sure they watch. I want them to see what happens to their friend.”

  Bayani raised his sword in front of him and nodded slightly; Plant returned the gesture. It seemed strange that two men who were about to try to kill one another still exchanged such pleasantries.

  At first, the two men circled one another slowly, each one matching the other movement for movement as they maintained their distance. While there seemed to be very little happening to the outside observer, there was actually a great deal taking place. Each man was completely focused on the movement and body language of the other as he tried to read his opponent.

  Bayani moved with the grace of a dancer, his feet flowing effortlessly through choreographed steps that had been practiced a million times. The tip of his ginunting snaked from side to side like a serpent sampling the air, never stopping to allow his opponent to get a fix on its position. It was clear that his life had been devoted to attaining proficiency in his art.