by Micah Gurley
The second attacker latched onto his left arm, its grip strong, but mostly clutching the fabric of the large coat James wore. He swung the already bloodied short sword and hit the man in the temple with the hilt. The hit staggered the diseased, but didn't finish him. James twisted his body, pulling his now free left arm up and sending the short, black blade up through the soft flesh underneath its jaw. The black blade, thought shorter than the sword, still tore through meat and gristle to plunge into the diseased’s brain. The second attacker fell and James turned back, waiting for the next two.
The small woman, having regained her footing, attacked as the last diseased, a penguin like man, wobbled to grab James from his right. Knowing he couldn't kill both at once, James dropped his black blade, grabbed the advancing woman by the throat and squeezed it like a rotten lemon. With the struggling diseased thrashing in his vice like grip, James prepared a third front kick, which landed in the gut of the obese man, barely rocking him back. Grunting, James picked up the woman and threw her at the fat man.
Though strong, the disease ravaging their bodies didn't make them any heavier and the throw had all of James’ considerable force behind it. The fat man lost his balance and stumbled, the woman hitting him and flipping over behind him. James didn't wait this time, he straddled the fat man, shoving the sword into the top of his head. The fat man fell still and James, breathing heavy, ripped the sword out. He stalked the young diseased woman, wanting to finish this. She attacked, unmindful of the loss of her friends or her certain demise, viciously trying to bring her jaws within reach of James. He almost easily pushed her reaching arms to the side, setting her off balance and slid the sword through her eye socket.
James quickly turned around in a circle, checking in every direction to find anyone else to kill, anyone else to fight. There was no one. He let his arm drop, fatigue hitting him, as it always did after a fight. He carefully walked around the cubicles, looking into everyone, but there was nobody left, except an unmoving body laying at the end of the aisle.
Kyle! James jerked up, having almost forgotten his friend. Panic, like none he'd felt facing the diseased, gripped him. How long had he been fighting? Seconds? Minutes? He hadn't cleared the whole building, but the guy at the end of the aisle wasn't moving and James’ fear for this friend urged him to check on him. James moved swiftly, but silently, back through the rows of cubicles, over the unmoving diseased and back through the glass doors. He kept to the side of the building and saw his friend still leaned up against the dead bush, out to the world. James breathed a sigh of relief as he saw him still laying there. He grabbed both packs, both rifles and again picked his friend up by the collar, and dragged him inside the building.
James needed to clear the rest of the building, so he pulled Kyle into a cubicle, moved aside a rolling office chair and put him under a desk. He put the bags in front of Kyle, rolled the chair back and turned to finish the job.
He walked towards the man he knew was lying at the end of the aisle and stopped dead when he saw him. James was no rookie when it came to blood. In his previous life he'd seen kids shot down, people beat to a pulp and general horror. But what he saw in front of him almost made him want to run and hide like a child. An average sized man, who at one time wore the same uniform as the others, lay before him. His upper torso was bloody but intact, the rest of him wasn't. Where the man's legs had once been, now only two bones protruded, the meat having been eaten away. Blood, meat, muscles and skin lay everywhere, like a bomb had exploded from his insides.
James turned his eyes from the loathe sight before him and knelt down carefully, his body ready to spring if any sudden movement came from the man. Almost worse, he saw the man's chest, if only a little, rise and settle. James jerked back up and away from the man. He was alive. James’ brain refused to accept the scene in front of him. How could he be alive? James moved closer to the man's upper body, his head facing the ceiling.
James kneeled again, trying to get a better look at the man in the darkened building. The man's eyes were clear, not clouded or murky like he'd seen of the infected. He hadn't caught the virus. The man didn't move his head, didn't turn his eyes towards James in a silent plea. Only pain remained in the man and James hoped he didn't realized what happened to him. He silently and quickly jammed the sword into the man's eye, trying to give him the quickest death possible. He'd been through enough.
James cleared the rest of the building: a conference room, a break room, a larger room for meetings and some small offices in the back of the building. He finished clearing the bathroom, and stuffed some old clothes he found into the crack at the bottom of the door, then turned the light on. James didn't recognize himself. Blood and gore covered his body, from his neck down to his pants. The fluorescent lights blared off him, making him seem almost inhuman himself. He retreated from the sight but sucked in his breath and began cleaning. Like so many times before, he forced everything out of his brain except that needed for survival, and then did what needed doing. He needed to get back to Kyle, he was all James had left.
An exhausted James peaked outside to make sure it was all clear, the tension on the trip taking a toll on him. He tied the doors together, walked back to where Kyle lay and checked on him. Still out. James didn't know what to do for him, but he'd rest for a minute and see if he woke up. James watched Kyle sleep, comforting himself that he'd just been knocked out. James couldn't help but think of Yolanda when he saw Kyle, it was because of both of them that he was here today, probably that he lived at all.
James had met Yolanda two years earlier, on a drug run from Detroit, his home. He found in her all the things he'd been missing up North, all those things a basic human being takes for granted, doesn't realized they have until they’re gone. James never knew any different. He didn't choose his life; his life chose him. That's how it was in inner city Detroit. Join a gang or die, or that's how it had felt at the time, when his only parent, his mom, died. He was thirteen and moved in with his grandma, who was too old to look after him. He tried to be a good student like his mom had wanted, tried to do the right thing but he wasn't given a choice, at school or on the streets.
After being jumped more than once, he'd been forced to join a gang, just to be safe walking up the street. Never comfortable in the gang, he grew in size and importance until none challenged him for anything. At six foot four inches and a body of rippling muscles, it was his complete lack of fear which caused others to back away from him, to fear him. His reputation grew and with it, along with his unease in the world in which he lived.
It all changed when he personally moved a truck full of drugs down from Canada to South Carolina. It was a big pay day, but James had taken the job just to get out of town. He took country roads back, stopping at out of the way burger joints along the way. It was in one of these that he met a little round, cornrowed woman who told him he'd made a mistake. James had just ordered something from the menu, when the girl behind him unapologetically told him to choose something else. James just stared at the girl, it had been a long time since anyone spoke to him like that. The girl didn't seem to care, and walked in front of him, actually changing his order for him. The girl slapped him on the arm and got back in line.
The two had lunch together, then James decided to stay a few days, to get to know her and avoid going home. He felt like he was in another universe down there. Yolanda was like no one he'd ever met. She was loud, opinionated, but also kind and carefree. More shocking than anything else were her friends. James didn't consider his gang members friends, not really. But Yolanda's friends were all friendly, laid back and mostly white. Reluctantly, James said goodbye to Yolanda after a four day visit. He had to head home and reassume the mantle he despised.
For six months, James kept in contact with Yolanda, using secret phone calls when he could get away from everyone, and late night Skype sessions. He didn't know if it was love, didn't know what love was, but he respected her and he trusted her which, more than anything else, was
enough. Trust wasn't something he'd given out before, to anyone. Then she told him to just move down there, to get away from that life. James had laughed at the idea of just quitting one of the most notorious and deadly gangs in the city and moving to a small town. She told him to be a man, then hung up on him. He moved the next day, not saying a word to anyone or taking a thing. He had some money saved and he just disappeared.
To call his surprise small, when he found out he'd be staying with a white guy, would be like calling Moby Dick a guppy. Yolanda had picked him up from the bus stop and drove him right to a suburban looking house, with fresh grass planted in the yard. When Yolanda told him her plan, he became incensed at the sheer gull of her. He wouldn't do it, couldn't do it. Again, she told him to stop crying and be a man. More than anything else, when she talked to him like that, he respected her and most times just thought it funny. She knew who he was, what he was and it never curbed her tongue toward him.
"Do you trust me James?" she had asked, her eyes not allowing his to break contact.
"I do," he answered simply, though it was not so simple.
"And I trust Kyle," she said simply.
His decision was cut short when an average looking white guy came out of the house, walked directly towards their car and opened Yolanda's door.
"Hey Yolanda, and you must be James. I'm Kyle, glad to have you here, come in, I made some chili," the guy said and walked back in the house. James hadn't felt fear since he was young. He'd learned to shut it out, to act without fear. But he felt it then, a different fear than normal, something he wasn't familiar with; rejection.
His fear proved to be baseless. He spent the next week at Kyle's house, saying little, not knowing what to say. Kyle also kept quiet, being polite and social but not pushing for anything. James had heard the cries of terror come from the white boys' room at night, the sorrow of his dreams, and felt for the first time, they might have something in common. Often, the two would meet in the kitchen in the dead of night, neither mentioning what kept them up, but it was then they first started talking.
James stayed with Kyle for another two weeks, starting for the first time to allow someone else in his life, learning what a real life was like. Yolanda would come over every night when she and Kyle would finish work, and they would have a BBQ and talk. James never told Kyle everything, but enough for him to understand where he'd come from, the things he'd done. Kyle never pushed or asked for more.
The next major change in his life came when one night while having dinner with Kyle and Yolanda. She asked if he wanted to work with them, to be security at a Nuclear power plant. James laughed openly at the idea of him guarding anything, not to mention that he basically had no past. No education, no former job, nothing really to put on paper. Kyle told him not to worry about it, that'd he taken care of it, and he had. James never knew what Kyle did, but he was pretty sure he'd created a work history and gotten a fake diploma for him. He'd lied for him and trusted him to live up to it. They'd set the interview up and before he knew it, he was in an eight week long class on how to use firearms. James found a place, found a life and Kyle never said another word about it.
Now, James watched Kyle sleeping, in a world crumbling. For James, Yolanda dying had killed something inside him. She was more than he’d ever told her, more than he was able to express. He thought she knew though, and that gave him peace. Rage fueled him, that he wasn't able to protect her, and he vowed that the only other person he trusted or cared about in this world wouldn't die. He couldn't share feelings, couldn't really show them, but he thought Kyle knew and that was enough.
Chapter 8
"There’s a million of them!" whispered Billy, as he sat in the passenger side of Old Ben's truck. "We knew it was bad, but what can we do against that?'
"Not millions, just a lot," Abe responded, not caring for the exaggeration. But Abe had to agree with the guy, there were a lot of diseased out there. His thoughts weren't really on the number of diseased, but the Tahoe that led them away. Abe watched as the Tahoe drove out of sight, the disease following as they sat quietly in the truck. There was still a few diseased outside of the truck, but most had followed James and Kyle.
Old Ben's truck, though a sleeper, still seemed cramped with six men crammed into it. The group didn't speak as they watched the fading horde move away, shocked at the size and enormity of the horde.
Abe shook himself, pushing away the fear for his brother, and decided to get this thing going. "Patrick! Where's the store?"
"Ah, one more street down and then take a left at the intersection and it will be on the left."
"Okay, Ben, let's go," said Abe. He wasn't comfortable calling the shots, but nobody else seemed to be doing anything.
"Yep," called out the old man. "Here we go." And the truck came to life, everyone cringing at the sound of the big diesel engine turning over. Old Ben put the truck in gear, grinding the clutch, speaking to it soothingly and the truck sprung forward, as if waiting for the call. They soon came upon the intersection and made a quick left, encountering only a few diseased, those too lame or hurt to follow. Old Ben seemed to make a point of running those over, his cackling laugh sounding out as the big tires of the truck crushed them.
"There," said Patrick squatting in the console between the seats. "That's the front of the store, but we need to go to the back."
"I'll get you there, or my name's not Old Ben,"
"Your name's not Old Ben, it's just Ben," Patrick pointed out with a grin.
"Shut your gob, you purple hair punk, I'll tell you what my name is." responded the Old Ben with a snarl. Despite the banter with Patrick, Old Ben quickly took the next turn around the small Costco, and made his way around the shopping center that housed it. Along with Costco, there was also a laundry mat, a Chinese restaurant and a large Hardware store.
The shiny black truck hit a bump, throwing everyone in the air, and slowed to enter the docking area of the small shopping center. Two trailers were backed up to the building, both alone, without a truck hooked to them.
"There, hook to that one, "Abe said pointing at the trailer.
"Good catch on that one," Patrick said with a laugh, referring to the large Costco trailer.
Abe ignored Patrick, and kept his eyes peeled for diseased.
"I'll need eyes outside and someone to back me in," stated Old Ben as he swung the truck in a wide half circle, putting the back of his tractor directly in front of the trailer. Fifty feet separated the two.
"We should all go, set up a security zone around you. And we should work in twos," said Abe, a little self-conscience about saying it. He sounded like Kyle.
"Good call," Billy said, "let's go everyone and watch out for diseased. If you see any, let's try to put them down quietly, but safely. Ben, as soon as you get hooked up, turn this thing off."
With that, Billy opened his door, looked outside, quickly took a step down and exited the truck. Patrick and Abe followed, then Billy's son, who'd been quiet up to this point, but quickly joined his father. The young college kid, Jack, stayed in the truck with Old Ben in case he needed help.
Patrick tapped Abe on the shoulder and pointed to the loading dock. Abe nodded and the two rounded the side of the trailer, heading for the concrete loading dock the trailer was backed up to. Before the two could get to the stairs, a white caped woman ran off the side of the dock and fell directly in front of Patrick, splatting on the black ash vault.
The white cape turned out to be a lab coat, or rather a white coat from working with meat. She was a butcher. The coat, covered in dried blood, hung from the large woman in tatters, only being held together by small pieces. The woman, now pushing herself off the ground with only one working arm, looked up at Patrick and Abe, growling and moaning as if in pain. Her face, what was left of it, twisted and shifted as she focused on them.
Abe, taken aback by the sight as he always was, recovered quicker than usual and pulled the sword Kyle had given him from his belt. It felt heavy in
his hands, unnatural even, but something about it made him feel medieval, strong. He stepped forward, giving it no more thought and jammed the sword into the top of the head. To his horror, the sword tip bounced off the woman's forehead. Shocked, he froze, but was saved from the snarling woman by Patrick, who stomped on the woman's head. The woman moaned and struggled as her face was pushed to the ash fault.
Patrick took advantage of the woman's lack of mobility, pulled his own sword and rammed it into the skull of the woman, ending her movements. Patrick looked up from her, his face showing no sign of amusement. "You got to mean it Abe."
Abe nodded his head in thanks, deciding that was the last time anyone would save his life. He needed to get with the program or he would die. The two looked around, checking their surroundings once again, then headed for the stairs that led to the top of the loading dock. They gained the top of the dock and ran to the back side of the trailer. Apparently, Billy and his son had done a good job guiding Old Ben, because the trailer moved slightly, followed by a loud thunk as it settled on the truck. Old Ben got out, connected some wires and then turned the engine off.
"Cover my six," said Patrick, his voice low in the dead silence. With the truck turned off the day became eerily quiet. Abe nodded and turned around, scanning the surrounding dock. On the other side of the loading dock, opposite the truck, was a wide metal door, which led into the store. Abe kept his eyes on the door as he heard Patrick unlock the trailer door, then begin to raise it slowly. Abe saw movement from his side and turned to see Old Ben move up the stairs, his white hair blowing in the wind.
