Afflicted_Patient Zero_Book 1

by Derek Shupert

  “Put the gun down, he’s not a threat.” The bushy haired man speaks up as all eyes and weapons are trained on me.

  “Tony, you keep that piece glued to his head.” Another man walks towards us. He is fairly tall and moves with a swagger as if he owns the joint. His dirty blond hair is messy, and a half smoked cigar lays nuzzled between his chapped lips. He’s the sorta person that one would make out to be a douche bag, regardless if they knew them or not. “And what makes him not a threat? Look at him; he could be infected like those damn things out there.”

  My current attire sure isn’t helping my case any—ripped clothing, blood stained jeans and shirt, and who knows what else they are judging me on. A change of clothing probably would have done wonders.

  “So tell me . . .”

  “Mike.”

  “Mike . . . are you threat?”

  “I’m about as big of a threat as you gun wielding idiots, especially this moron right next to me who forgot to take the safety off his piece and who needs a Tic Tac ASAP.”

  I don’t think he’ll actually go for it, but I must’ve sold it pretty well because I catch him out of the corner of my eye checking the safety, taking his eyes off me for a brief second. I lean back fast and smooth and rip the pistol from his hands, slamming my right forearm into his throat and sending him hard to the ground.

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa. All right, let’s calm down and not do anything stupid!” the man yells out as I glue the pistol to his forehead. The cigar leaps from his now quivering lips and plummets to the floor.

  “So . . . I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name,” I say.

  “Pete.”

  “Pete, do you think I’m a threat?”

  The only other gun holder just stands there, his blue eyes frozen in place while the other jackass is still on the ground grabbing at his throat. He appears to be some young kid, probably in his early twenties. I really don’t know if this stupid gun is even loaded, but I take Pete’s nearly shitting himself as a good sign that at least he thinks it is.

  “Please, let’s not do this for Christ’s sake. We’re all on the same side here,” the bushy haired man says.

  “What do you say, Pete, can’t we all just get along?” I ask, my eyes still keeping a look out for the other two men while the pistol stays against his forehead.

  “Yeah, fine, whatever . . . Just get that damn gun out of my face!”

  “Sure thing.” I remove it from Pete’s head and spin the gun around, the black grip facing towards him. “Here you go.”

  Pete cautiously takes the pistol from my hand and places it in the back of his black, dirty pants. “A.J., get over here and help me.”

  The pair helps their less fortunate friend off the ground. Pete and the other two men walk off, leaving me and the bushy haired man standing there.

  “I’m sorry about that. Not the friendliest welcome I bet you’ve ever gotten,” the bushy haired man said half heartedly. “I think everyone’s just on edge with everything that is happening.”

  “No worries. I would rather deal with them any day than those things out there. At least these guys seem to have their brains somewhat working.”

  “They’re good guys, just give them a chance,” the bushy haired man replies as Alice makes her way over to us. “Oh, by the way, my name is Deacon.”

  “Nice to meet you,” I reply, shaking his worn hand. Funny enough, I wouldn’t have pegged him for a Deacon. Maybe father time or something like that.

  Alice walks straight up to me and wraps her arms around my neck. Her skin is soft as silk and her body seems to be more at ease now. No trembling or shaking of any kind.

  “Thank you.”

  She presses her ample lips to my cheek, giving me a gentle kiss that says it all. It’s warm and a nice change of pace. I would rather have this than the walking dead outside anytime.

  “It’s no problem.” I give a slight smirk. It did feel good to help her, but my guard and attention to everything is still hot. The kiss was a moment of brief comfort, one that I can’t let distract me from the pressing matters that lay beyond these walls.

  I smile back and Alice leaves us alone, walking back over towards two other women sitting together across the room.

  “Very nice, Mr. Hero,” Deacon says with a smile on his face.

  I don’t want to be rude considering what he has done for us thus far, but I don’t want anything going to my head. I’m not a hero or anything like that. I’m just some guy that is trying to keep himself alive in this hellish nightmare, and if I save some souls along the way, then so be it.

  “Thanks . . . so what do you know about what’s happening here?” I ask, changing the subject.

  “Not much, most of us in here don’t remember anything beyond these walls. We remember our daily lives and some near memories before this, but nothing to the point where we could tell you how we got here. It’s like we were plucked from our lives and dropped straight into here. We have, however, come across a schematic of this complex, we think.” Deacon leads me through what appears to be some sort of storage area. The place is filled with crates and other boxes, worn and tattered to the point of showing their age. The room follows the same decorating style of everything else I have seen so far. The urine stains are void in this room, but the dimly lit web infested lights above barely tear through the darkness that covers much of the area. Plus, the stale, moldy air is still hot on my trail, keeping pace with my nostrils no matter where I go.

  “Is this everyone you have come into contact with that wasn’t a raging psycho? I mean minus the three meat heads back there.”

  “No, there were a few more of us, but they didn’t make it.” Deacon enters a room near where the women are sitting.

  Through bloodshot eyes and with mascara streaking down their faces like some rock band, the women huddle together, trying to comfort the others. Their clothes are filthy, like everyone I have come into contact with thus far, and their bodies look like Alice’s, black and blue, as if some drunken husband lost his temper once again.

  This might sound heartless or even cruel, but I look past their obvious signs of hardship and look them over as best I can for any signs of bites or major scrapes. I notice some cuts on their arms and their pant legs have holes forming all over.

  The older woman to the right, who is doing a little more comforting to the early twenties girl, looks up at me and just stares. She doesn’t say a word, blink, or even flinch. I’m not sure if it is the pure shock of everything going on or if she thinks I am just dangerous from that little exhibition earlier.

  Inside the musty room, the smell of mold and rotten meat mingle, gagging me a little and sending my right hand up to my mouth as I breach the doorway. Deacon doesn’t seem as bothered by the stench, standing behind a lime green desk with skinny silver legs that looks like it has been transported from the seventies. All that is missing is a dookie brown cloth chair on wheels, which I happen to notice in the corner off to Deacon’s right.

  “Yeah, the smell is pretty bad. Not sure what it is. Think it’s from all the death and rotting meat infesting this place.” Deacon unrolls a blueprint and smoothes it out on top of the scarred, rough desk top. A small etching is carved into one of the corners.

  To my wife, Pam. I love you!

  I lean over and glance at the schematic, not sure what all I’m looking at. It is very plain and nearly empty, only showing a few corridors and bays at random points. I think the facility might be underground from the way some of the exit points seem to rip up and out of the surface.

  I’m not sure how or why it happens, but like starring at one of those paintings that looks plain but has a hidden message contained within, everything on the blueprint starts to form out of thin air and get into place. It’s in focus now.

  “So, what do you think?” Deacon asks. “Nobody here can make heads or tails of this damn thing. We’ve all looked it over and we’re not even sure if it’s for where we curr
ently are.”

  “Ok, that’s weird,” I say softly under my breath, taken back a little from the blueprint crawling around like it’s alive. It shouldn’t surprise me though, considering what’s going on and the mere fact that I’m still alive.

  “What . . . what’s so weird?”

  “Did you not see that?”

  “See what?” Deacon asks, confusion clouding his face as he looks down at the schematic. “I don’t see anything different, just the same old stuff. What do you see?”

  “I see everything. There is more on here then you realize—locations of every exit, weapons holdings, communications departments.”

  “Do you think you could navigate it and get us through?” Deacon asks, a slight glimpse of hope rising on his face.

  I stay silent for a moment, somehow memorizing the most direct path that would lead me through the maze of death and past all of the much needed drop points. Weapons, communications, etc. . . .

  I’m grateful for all of Deacon’s help, but just don’t have the heart to tell him that I don’t want to play guide to a bunch of people I don’t know. I’d think he’d understand, but that glimmer of hope shinning bright in his eyes says otherwise.

  “You wouldn’t happen to have any food lying around in here, would ya? A vending machine or something like that? Hell, I don’t even care if the crap is in date,” I ask, changing the subject.

  “There’s a vending machine right around the corner on the other side of this office. There’s not much in it and it’s all stale. Glad you’re not picky,” Deacon replies jokingly.

  I’m all too happy to leave the rotting smell of the office and the even more awkward conversation we were having. I’m not sure which was worse.

  The smell seems more defined now wherever I go and travels with me like a dog at his master’s side. I round the tiny office corner and come upon the only source of food I have seen in I don’t know how long. My stomach really isn’t churning at all, but it sure did the trick of getting me out of there. Plus, a little fuel for the body probably wouldn’t be a bad thing. No telling when I might get another shot at something edible.

  I step towards the busted up and aged vending machine, my feet crunching on what sounds like hundreds of tiny bugs being squished beneath my boots in the barely lit corner. One lone little light illuminates the inside, making it a little easier to see what stale piece of food are left.

  The front of the machine is broken out, leaving jagged pieces of thick glass rimming the outside like a hideous monster’s mouth. That must be what I’m stepping on.

  Not much to choose from though, looks like it’s been picked clean for the most part. A thick layer of dust covers the black metal spirals and the food, making a meal out of here a little less than to be desired. A bag of wavy sour cream chips, some peanut butter crackers, a few varieties of candy bars, and some glazed donuts that look like the glaze has met its maker waiting to be eaten. Oh well, better than nothing.

  I reach into the gaping hole and pull out a Snicker, dust falling from the bar. I don’t second guess the thought of eating whatever is contained inside, I just rip the package open and dive right in, sinking my teeth into the hardened outside. I break off a small piece and chew the chocolate and caramel mixture, which actually doesn’t taste all that bad.

  I reach back in and snag a few more of the expired bars, placing them in my pocket for a later time. It’s not much, but something is better than nothing.

  I turn away from the fattening food graveyard and that damn smell still haunts my nose. It doesn’t matter where I go now, it follows my nostrils, stalking them. I’m trying to enjoy my stale Snickers bar, but the smell pees in my cheerios.

  I choke down the last little bit of chocolate and walk by Alice, who sits next to the other ladies in front of the office. Her face is long and the horrific experience we are in shows grimly all over her face. I’m not much on comforting people, except for my Becky, but I figure a small gesture could go a long way.

  “Here, you need to eat something.”

  I pull a Milky Way out of my pocket, which incidentally is faded and probably just as stale as my meal, and present it to her.

  “Thank you,” Alice replies somberly, grabbing the bar from my hand.

  This would be the time to say something reassuring and comforting, telling her that everything is going to work out. But my words for such delicate matters are all twisted together, leaving me momentarily speechless.

  “A.J., go check that door again and make sure it’s still secure,” Pete bellows, pointing to a set of dull gray doors nestled between some crates.

  I turn my head to the side and watch A.J., the young buck from earlier, clutch his rifle tight and cautiously walk over to the darkened corner. He fades in and out of the blackness and moves with uneasiness, his head rotating every which way within the shadows.

  A.J. stops in front of the doors and checks the semi rusted chain that is spun around the double handles on the door like a spider web. A single pad lock completes the attempt at comfort, bringing the chain together in the middle. He grabs the pad lock and jerks down a couple of times, making a god awful racket that sends everyone in the room looking his way.

  “What the hell, A.J.,” Pete hollers, spinning around from chatting with Tony. “Christ boy, I told you to check the damn door, not to announce that we’re here!”

  “Pete . . . settle down, it’s ok,” Deacon says, walking out of the office. “He didn’t mean to make so much noise.”

  “Whatever, old man.” Pete rolls his eyes at Deacon. “A.J., make sure that door is shut all the way, get your ass back over here, and try to be a little quieter.”

  “All right, Pete. Dang, I’m sorry.” A.J. makes sure the door is shut, too.

  Finding that everything was is fine and secure, A.J. turns back around and walks towards the group, his eyes connecting with me. He has a look of being beat down and run over. I’m not sure if it is from the flesh-eaters outside or Pete. My guess would be the latter.

  Drifting back through the blackness among the massive wooden crates, A.J. suddenly stops. Both hands grip his rifle tightly and his head tilts upwards to the gray duct work that snakes around the ceiling.

  Pete takes notice and decides to once again badger the young man. “A.J., what are you doing now?”

  “I thought I heard something moving in the ducts, scratching even.” A.J. circles one of the access hatches above him. He there for a moment, frozen in place, and his weapon trained on the metal grate.

  “It’s probably nothing, just some damn mice or noise from the infected being carried around from wherever they are,” Pete says.

  The subtle but bone chilling sound dies off as fast as it started, sending A.J.’s weapon slowly back down by his side. “I guess you’re ri . . .”

  5

  A.J. doesn’t even have a chance to finish his sentence as the grate crashes down on top of him with two of those things emerging from the ductwork. Screeching loudly and bearing razor-sharp teeth like a wild, uncontrolled animal, the grotesque fiends drop down from the duct and land on the ground next to A.J. Screams and panic engulf the room, sending most everyone into a frantic frenzy of kill or be killed.

  On the ground and trying to get his gun trained on either of the vile monsters, A.J. pops off a few rounds before both monsters turn their ravenous appetites on him. He manages to hit the one on the left twice in the chest, the slugs tearing through its sagging flesh and ripping out through its back. It screeches loudly and its spiked arms flail in every direction as it falls backwards onto the ground.

  It was a doomed scenario from the get go. The poor kid is just delaying the inevitable. The untouched beast lunges from the concrete floor and lands on top of him, driving its single spiked arm through A.J.’s chest.

  Screaming and whimpering like a wounded dog, A.J. squirms on the floor for a brief second, only to find himself watching as the thing opens its mouth wide and drives it
s teeth into his stomach. With its human like arm, the thing holds down A.J.’s now lifeless body as it devours his flesh.

  The sight is brutal, blood squirting up and out of A.J., and his organs being eaten from his body. The women next to me scream and back towards the office in a panic, unsure what to do.

  The noise made by the injured demon must have sent the others in a feeding frenzy outside of the locked door; their loud screams and violent thrashing bulge the gray doors towards us. The chain around the handles stretches to its limits. I’m not sure how much longer they are going to hold. I don’t want to hang around to find out.

  “We need to get the hell out of here before that door busts wide open and those things come pouring in!” I yell to Deacon, hearing a succession of gun fire from across the room.

  Tony and Pete act as I thought they would and start to shoot up the place, firing their machine guns recklessly. Tony manages to finish off the injured spawn of Satan while Pete’s trigger finger must have been stuck on full spray mode, wasting way more ammo then they needed.

  Fortunately, that damn hillbilly actually hits something of use, striking the monster through the back of its oddly shaped head and sending its brains splattering to the ground in front of it.

  “You might want to make sure the kid is actually dead as well,” I yell as I glance back and notice Deacon trying to fold the blueprint the best he can.

  Pete gives me that stare that makes me know exactly what he’s thinking. But he knows I’m right and walks towards A.J., his weapon pointed down and acting like it’s all over. Pete nudges A.J.’s mangled body a few times with no reaction or movement of any kind.

  “Damn, that thing sure tore into his body good,” Tony says, standing next to Pete like there is nothing wrong.

  “Hey, asshole, he looks pretty dead to me,” Pete sarcastically says, their backs turned away from the body. “Looks like we saved all of your sorry asses yet again.”