by Jay Brenham
The infected were the same, toying with their victims just like Montgomery had.
A Mercury Grand Marquis was parked next to the side of the building. Bags of mulch had been stacked against its front right tire until they were taller than the hood. Sam could just make out a pair high-heeled shoes under the mulch bags.
He approached the car slowly. “What is that?”
“I don’t know,” Matt said from behind him. He sounded like he didn’t want to know.
Sam was a few steps away before he realized what he was looking at. The bags of mulch had been piled on top of the woman to prevent her from escaping while the Grand Marquis rolled over her head. Her head was split like a cantaloupe, sending the precious inner fruit of her skull sliding onto the concrete.
The infected were so much more than what Sam had first feared. In the city he’d believed them to be ragers, only capable of seeking and destroying. But their level of sophistication was far greater. They worked together, united by their lack of conscience. Setting an ambush was the tip of the iceberg; it’s what they did when they caught someone alive that was the problem. There were things much, much worse than death.
Sam knelt down beside the woman, letting his hand hover just above the surface of her face. Her body was cold. The blood was dry. The circus of horrors was not a danger to them right now.
He stood and turned back to Matt. “Let’s get the gas and get out of here.”
“No need to tell me that.”
Just then a gunshot rang out.
#
Sam and Matt ran around the corner just as Megan took a second shot with her shotgun. A female infected, covered in red hand prints, fell to the ground.
Megan cracked her double barrel shotgun in half and reloaded in time to send two more rounds at a second infected man who’d been closing the distance between them. The two shots hit the man’s chest, nearly ripping a hole through him. As she reloaded again and fell back, Franklin took aim at an oncoming group of five with his Mosin Nagant and missed. Franklin was slow with the bolt and as a result his follow-up shots did nothing to slow the group down.
Matt raised his AR-15 and stepped into the breach. “Fall back to the boats,” he yelled just before unloading into the group of infected that was about to overrun Franklin.
Another dozen or so infected came from an outcropping of buildings to their right. Sam took aim and fired, but there were too many. Way too many. Rodrigo left the gas cans and sprinted toward the end of the pier. Before he could reach the end of the dock, Evan gunned the engine of his waiting Zodiac, pulling away with a roar and leaving the second boat adrift.
Rodrigo didn’t stop running. He hit the water with a splash and began swimming toward the second Zodiac, which was rapidly drifting away from the pier.
The infected poured into the marina like rain in a gutter, their attention focused on Megan and Franklin. Even Matt’s AR-15 couldn’t stem the tide.
Franklin turned, running toward the boat, but the infected moved to head him off. Sam’s head whipped around, searching for Matt. “We’ve gotta go,” he yelled. “Now, or we aren’t going to make it out of here.”
Infected were streaming in front of the pier now, blocking their exit. Sam looked around wildly, searching for another way to safety. He spotted a locked door to the marina building and shouted for Matt to cover him. He took aim and fired, dislodging the lock enough that the door flew wide when he rammed it with his shoulder. The room he fell into was large, open, and lined with enormous boat-filled racks.
Matt stepped backward through the door after Sam. Not far away, Franklin was still fighting the infected. He thrashed the Mosin Nagant back and forth, trying in vain to keep the infected off of him. An infected man grabbed him by the arm and Franklin looked desperately toward the door where Sam and Matt stood.
They raised their weapons in unison, ready to end Franklin’s life before he was subjected to the torture they’d seen. Franklin gave one last frantic push and shrugged off the infected. More infected were charging. Franklin dodged one and tried to stiff-arm a second, but cried out in pain as the infected bit down on the webbing between his thumb and forefinger, stripping off a piece of flesh.
As Franklin broke free and ran to Sam and Matt, the infected shifted their focus to Megan. She had made it to the pier and was running toward the end, where Rodrigo sat just out of reach in the idling Zodiac, waving frantically at her to hurry. She was only a few strides from the end when her foot caught on one of the nails protruding from the pier. Megan sprawled forward, landing on the bleached wooden deck with her shotgun several feet away. She scrambled for the shotgun but before she could turn around the infected were on her.
Matt raised his rifle, ready to take a mercy shot, but he couldn’t even see her through the throng of bodies. Rodrigo would need to take the shot.
“Close the door,” Franklin said. “Before they stop paying attention to her and come for us.”
Sam held the door shut while Matt and Franklin rolled fifty-five gallon drums of antifreeze in front of it. Soon the infected were banging at the door, trying to force it open. The sound of many hands and feet echoed loudly inside the metal building.
Matt gave the door an appraising look. “That will only hold for a few minutes.”
“Then we better hurry up,” Sam said, starting toward the rear of the building.
The only light inside the metal building came from a pair of skylights in the ceiling. None of them had flashlights, so they hurried to the storefront portion of the building overlooking the pier. Matt grabbed a length of rope and they each grabbed a sports drink and some beef jerky. They didn’t have time for anything else.
The large glass windows at the front of the store were covered by Venetian blinds. Sam carefully bent one down to peer outside. The infected had taken hold of Megan and were carrying her toward the place Matt called the circus of horror. She was covered in bites and scratches but still seemed to be in control of her mind. Sam wished she’d already become infected; maybe they wouldn’t torture her. The group passed around the corner, carrying Megan out of sight.
From an earlier conversation he knew Megan wanted to be put out of her misery—that’s what he would want someone to do for him—but there were no windows on that side of the building, no vantage point to shoot from. Just the door they’d entered through, which was now blocked by the huge antifreeze drums and, judging by the clamor, an ever-growing group of infected on the other side.
He glanced back toward the pier. “Shit.”
Matt appeared at his shoulder. “What is it?”
“Fuck.”
Matt ducked his head to see out the barely raised blind. “Fuck,” Matt repeated.
“For God’s sake, what is it?” Franklin demanded from behind them.
“Rodrigo is leaving,” Sam said, not taking his eyes off the window.
“What? How are we going to get out of here?”
No one answered.
After a moment, Sam gently lowered the slat of the blind and turned around. “I guess he thought we were dead.”
Matt looked dazed. “He wouldn’t—he’s not like Evan. He waited for Megan. He must’ve seen the horde running around the side and thought they’d gotten us.”
Franklin slammed his fist into his other hand. “Doesn’t matter what he thought. What are we going to do?”
The infected increased the tempo of their banging suddenly, yanking them from their bewildered stupor.
“We don’t have much time,” Matt said. “That door will give any minute.” He jerked his thumb toward a second door on the other side of the marina building and Sam and Franklin followed his lead. Matt unlocked it and peeked outside.
“Coast is clear,” he said, closing the door softly. “It seems like they’re focused on…on the other side of the building.”
Sam looked away. He knew what Matt had been about to say: the infected were focused on Megan.
Franklin nodded. “Seems like they have
trouble focusing on multiple things at once. Like they’re wearing blinders.”
It was true, Sam thought. Despite their apparent ability to set traps, their problem-solving ability was limited. “Then we should go now,” he said. “Before they become un-distracted.”
The marina was situated on a peninsula; without the Zodiacs, the only direction they could go was inland. They bolted out the door and hurried away from the marina while the sound of Megan’s screams held their pursuers’ attention.
#
About a mile from the marina was a housing development, situated prominently next to the road. The houses were large and expensive; none were more than a year old. Some of the houses had clearly been ravaged by the infected. Others looked untouched.
Sam, Matt and Franklin found a row of unscathed houses and selected one in the middle. The three men filed into the backyard, quiet and wary. The tool shed in the back was unlocked and it took Sam only a moment to find a sledgehammer. He walked up to the back door and broke the lock. He was becoming quite adept at breaching doors, he thought wryly.
A search of the house turned up no signs of infected. As Sam had suspected, it was well-appointed, with everything from granite counters and stainless steel appliances to a large flat-screen TV. They piled furniture in front of the broken door to prevent anyone from entering and moved to the upstairs.
The second floor had a long hallway with a number of bedrooms branching off of it. In the ceiling at the top of the stairs was an attic door. They checked the upstairs rooms for infected and then lowered the wooden ladder leading to the attic. The ladder was rickety and only wide enough for one person. There was a musty smell as if moisture had been trapped. The attic floor was unfinished with plywood over parts of the exposed beams for storage. If they stepped anywhere but the plywood path they would fall through the fiberglass insulation and through the ceiling below.
After checking the house for infected, they settled into the master bedroom which overlooked the road.
The master bedroom had a king size bed that sat on a rugged looking frame made of exposed logs. Franklin sat on the edge of the bed facing a large window that had the blinds drawn. His eyes were closed.
Matt and Sam exchanged a look of concern. This was the first time they’d gotten a good look at him since the marina. Franklin had more damage on him than the bite on the webbing between his thumb and forefinger. Bite marks and deep cuts covered his arms, hands, and neck.
“How are you doing, Franklin?” Sam asked. He wasn’t sure why he bothered. He knew the answer and what needed to be done.
Sam glanced at Matt and saw that he had a length of rope wrapped around both hands, with about a foot of rope dangling between them. As brutal as it seemed to strangle Franklin, Sam couldn’t bring himself to disagree. Franklin would turn and, when he did, he’d try to kill them both. If they could do it now—quietly, with rope—they’d avoid a loud altercation that would summon more infected.
Sam nodded at Matt, signaling that he’d help. Matt crept toward Franklin, keeping silent, while Sam eased to his feet.
Somehow sensing the change in the room, Franklin leaped to his feet, grabbing his rifle and pointing it back and forth between the two of them.
Franklin narrowed his eyes. “What are you two doing?”
“Come on, Franklin,” Matt said. “Put the gun down.”
Franklin’s eyes flicked to the rope in Matt’s hands. “Why? So you can strangle me, nice and quiet?”
“You don’t want to turn into one of them,” Sam said, striving for a soothing tone. “You’d try to kill us if you turned. You know you would.”
Franklin shook his head violently. “I won’t. You don’t know what’s gonna happen. I can make it through this.”
Matt glanced down at the wounds on Franklin’s hands and arm. They were deep and hadn’t stopped bleeding. “I bet every place you were bit is feeling hot, isn’t it?” he asked. “That’s how it starts. I knew someone who started to turn.”
“SHUT. THE. FUCK. UP.” Franklin’s finger was on the trigger.
Sam put his hands up, like he was calming a wild animal. If Franklin became trigger happy, either he or Matt would end up shot. Even if they didn’t, the sound would attract infected to the house.
“Just get out of my way. I’ll leave,” Franklin said, sounding like he was reassuring himself as much as Matt and Sam. “I don’t want to hurt either of you. If I don’t turn, I’ll be back. I just need a chance to prove I can beat it.”
“No one is stopping you,” Matt said quietly.
“Get in the corner. Both of you,” Franklin said, motioning with the barrel of his gun.
They both moved to the other side of the room but by unspoken agreement didn’t stand next to each other. No use making the job easier for Franklin if he decided to take the shot. Franklin kept his gun trained on them for a moment, and then turned and sprinted down the stairs.
Matt raised his rifle, training it on Franklin’s retreating back.
Sam grabbed his shoulder. “Don’t. The noise will only draw more infected.”
Matt lowered it reluctantly. They heard the front door open and watched through the window as Franklin sprinted across the yard and into the woods.
After a moment, they retraced Franklin’s path down the stairs. Matt went to the kitchen, already searching for anything useful. Sam went to the front door.
“Good luck, Franklin,” he murmured as he turned the bolt.
#
Hours ticked by as Matt and Sam alternated watching the street. During one of Matt’s turns, Sam found a five gallon gas can in the garage. It was the same kind Rodrigo had been carrying. Rodrigo must’ve made it back by now. Evan, too. Sam wondered if anything would happen to Evan when Quinn and the leaders of Raft City found out how he’d marooned them. He hoped they’d put him ashore some place that was crawling with the infected.
He spent the next few minutes emptying gas into six glass Corona bottles that were in the recycling bin. Using a knife from a kitchen drawer, he cut a bed sheet into strips and stuck the ends into the glass bottles: a six pack of Molotov cocktails.
Sam carried the Molotov cocktails up the stairs in the cardboard six pack carrier.
“Want a drink?” he asked.
Matt’s eyes widened. “Nice work. Have you ever used one of those before?”
“Nope. Never made one either. You?”
“Nah, but it can’t be that hard. I’ve seen protesters use them in riot videos. Light the end and chuck it, right?” He thought a minute. “Do you have anything to light it with?”
Sam held up a grill lighter and pulled the trigger. An orange flame shot into the air. “I hope we don’t need to use them. I feel like I’m just as likely to light myself on fire as one of the infected.”
Matt laughed. “Just run toward the infected if that happens, not toward me.”
“Nah, were a team. All for one and one for all. It wouldn’t be fair for me to spare you,” Sam said.
Matt’s face turned thoughtful. “Seriously though, if we use those, we’ll burn the infected but we’ll burn too.”
Sam nodded. “That’s the plan.”
Matt looked at him like he was crazy.
“We need to have something in mind if the infected come before we can leave.” He held up the gas can and the torn sheet. “We’ll need these, and every pot, bowl, and shallow container we can find.”
Sam set the Molotov cocktails on the floor and together they walked through the house and attic looking for anything that could hold gasoline. They spread the containers strategically throughout the house where the infected would be most likely to step on them and knock the gas onto the floor.
A few hours later, during Sam’s watch, he caught sight of something moving along the tree line at the edge of the development.
“Pssst. Matt.”
Matt jerked upright in bed.
“Come look at this. It’s Franklin.”
Matt peered out the
window. “He’s still carrying the Mosin Nagant.” He paused. “And he’s coming toward us.”
Franklin followed the line of the woods until it came even with the street, then took a hard right, straight across the road and toward the house. He stopped in front of the house, peering into the first floor windows. The afternoon sun was just starting to make its descent in the sky. The front of Franklin’s shirt had been ripped open from neck to waist, flapping a little as he moved. There were none of the bloody marks that the infected seemed to adorn themselves with.
“Do you think he remembers that we’re in here?” Matt whispered.
“He must. He came straight to this house.”
Franklin stepped back and gave the house another long look. His expression was pensive, as if he was appraising the residence for value. Not the value of the craftsmanship, but the value of potential inhabitants. Despite his calculating look, Franklin had an air of wildness that he hadn’t possessed earlier. It was in the way he moved, like a less evolved man, and the way he held his head, cocked to the side at every little sound.
As Franklin watched the house, Sam saw something moving behind him: a group of people, walking in their direction. For a split second, part of him thought—hoped—it might be rescuers sent from Raft City. As the group approached he realized the opposite was true; it was more infected, not a rescue party.
The group loped toward them, their mostly naked bodies marred by red hand prints that had dried in the sun. One man stayed in front of the rest and Sam recognized his status quickly. It was written in his strut, the way that he looked at everything he passed, taking possession of his surroundings. The world was his domain; he believed it and the others followed after him.
Like the rest of the men who’d been infected, the leader had a scruffy beard, thick from weeks of growth. His muscles were thick, rippling like coiled springs beneath a covering of skin. It was the body of an elite athlete, someone who’d taken pains to stay in great shape. The scene reminded Sam of King Leonidas leading his soldiers in the movie 300.
