THE
TURNED
Contents
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
LEFTOVERS
1
Susan Chambers flitted across the bare floorboards of her bedroom, dashing from one side of the room to the other as she peered through the boarded-up windows. The young widow’s emaciated frame was drenched in sweat, soaking her jeans and vest, and making her long hair stick to her shoulders.
She made no noise as she moved, gliding effortlessly in her bare feet even as the temperature outside soared, and the baking heat in her pathetically fortified home doubled within. But the heat was the least of Susan’s concerns, as was her rumbling stomach.
She knew her dilapidated farmhouse was not going to be missed by the mob. Susan could hear them off in the distance, a shot or a scream reaching her ear as she upped her pace to try and check each of the windows of the generous sized corner room. The virus had turned people crazy, and by the sounds of it they had been busy all morning. She wasn’t sure of the time, maybe just after lunch, but the killing had been going on since dawn.
The plan had been to flee the previous night but unseen events had gotten in the way, so now all Susan had to do was hang on until dark to make good her escape. Running during the daytime just wouldn’t work, no cover, out in the open and with nowhere to hide. At least the night would shield her, and not just Susan. If she was going solo then Susan would already have ran, but she had the little ones to care for.
They were safe for now, as safe as anyone could be in these dangerous times, hidden away in the basement. Susan had given them strict instructions not to make a noise and to keep watch through the gaps in the boards on the half-windows, which were level with the ground. The un-kept grass had almost covered the dirty panes of glass, but that was now an advantage, in that an approaching threat might not see them, and give time for one of the children to alert their mother.
Susan just hoped they were watching, because the sounds of mayhem and murder were growing louder as the mob made its way. There was a chance they wouldn’t even bother with the Chambers farm, all knowing that it hadn’t been a working farm for years, its barren fields only producing weeds. But those fields that surrounded Susan’s home, with their broken down, dead corn, now allowed her an unhindered view of all around, which meant that it also gave everyone else the same view when looking her way.
The dead fields gave way to a dense forest, more or less wrapping itself around the small plot. In its time the land had expanded to fifty acres beyond the trees, but that had all been sold off to pay the widow’s debts, or at least some of them. Now Susan was left just with the five acres her broken down house sat within.
But she didn’t have time to feel sorry for herself, or the hand life had dealt her, because Susan knew there was plenty of scorching daylight left, the high-summer kind that just didn’t want to die, and she had to get through it and to the night before she could flee with her babies. And the temperature just kept climbing, still not even at its mid-afternoon peak. Not that Susan was mindful of it, even as the sweat splashed from her and onto the floorboards as she kept darting between her windows, searching between the gaps in the pathetic fortifications for any signs of approaching nastiness.
They could come through the woods, which is the way Susan was intending to run with her little ones when night came, but the men out murdering, and it was mostly men, would almost certainly not come on foot. They might tear up the ground coming across the fields, but Susan was guessing that when they came, they would be in trucks. And when those trucks came they would be heading to her property up the intended route, the only route for anything on wheels, the dirt track.
Just like the house and fields surrounding it, the dirt track was rutted and in need of urgent repair, but it would still do the job in conveying any murderous convoy that hadn’t forgotten about Susan Chambers. Which was ironic, because that was exactly what everyone had done with the young widow until now, they had tried to forget all about her. Not that Susan cared, she’d stopped caring long ago.
To other people the virus ravaging America was the end of life as they knew it, to Susan Chambers it was just another day. People were turning into savages overnight, but as far as the young widow was concerned there wasn’t much difference, only now they were openly showing their true colours. Most people had shown their true selves to Susan already. She had learnt all too quickly that was how it was with the downtrodden, everyone put on an act for the normal folk, but they didn’t care with the broken souls.
If you didn’t matter, then what you thought didn’t matter either. So the virus was just another obstacle to overcome, as were the crazies roaming nearby. Just another day surviving in the world of Susan Chambers, the woman everyone had crossed the street to avoid. Just another obstacle to overcome.
Then she heard them.
Susan dashed to the window as her heart rate soared, peering through the gaps in the boards just as the first vehicle came into view, roaring up the dirt drive. She silently counted the mini-convoy, refusing to panic as she evaluated her options. One, two . . . six. Four pickup trucks, a tow truck and a land cruiser, and it was the land cruiser leading that made Susan tense her jaw.
Decked out in its police colours, the Sheriff’s ride skidded to a halt outside, stopping at the pathetic barricade Susan had erected the night before. The 4x4 could have easily crashed through the wall of broken wooden pallets and junk that the owner of the house had set up around her home, but at least Susan had tried to make a defence.
Not that it mattered now. The mob had come to visit and, in these times of craziness, even the town’s lawman wasn’t immune to its pull. But Susan wasn’t surprised, she had been let down by all the men she had ever met, so she saw no reason for the Sheriff to be any different.
As she peered down at them Susan counted again as the figures emerged from their vehicles, counting ten in all. They weren’t scrambling over the junk wall to break down her door, or screaming insanely as they charged forward with whatever weapons they had armed themselves with. Instead the calling mob merely gathered around as they leant up against their rides, guns in hand, to look over their latest victim’s lair.
Susan quickly ran to the landing to look downstairs, listening out for the children. She was relieved that they were doing as instructed, knowing to keep silent when the strangers came, although they weren’t strangers to their mother. She hurried back to the window, catching sight of one of the few remaining framed photographs still hung on her bedroom wall.
It was of a different life, a life that seemed like an enchanted fairy-tale compared to the life that had evolved for the smiling young mother in the picture. A life Susan had tried to forget about, as to recall it was to torture herself even more. Just to glance at it, even as danger loomed below, was painful. The handsome, loving husband. The pretty young mum, beaming a smile that showed only contentment for what she had.
And the laughing little boy, clasping hold of his mother’s finger as they all looked into the camera. All gone.
The thought of what she once had galvanised Susan’s protective instincts. She had lost all before, and it wasn’t going to happen again. Her little ones hiding in the basement needed their mother to stop the danger from finding them, and Susan wasn’t going to let them down.
But then she heard them, thrashing arou
nd in their hiding place just she had instructed them not to. Susan was going to run down to the cellar, to try and hush them, but instead she ran to the window to see if the reason for the commotion was the mob making their assault. And as she peered out, looking down at the Sheriff and the others still stood, still assessing their options, the reason for the breakdown in discipline in the cellar hit Susan.
It was the gentle breeze that had flowed through the woods and carried itself across the dilapidated farm and down into the depths of the house, as well as up to Susan’s boarded-up bedroom. And on that breeze was carried the scent of the people stood outside.
Above all it wafted the smell of the blood coursing through their veins, and smelling that blood was nothing short of torture for the Susan and the children she had acquired, all seven of them just as ravenous as their new mother.
She ran her tongue over her razor-sharp fangs, grimacing at the hunger-pains. Susan pressed her nose into the gap in the boards and breathed deeply, drinking in the scent as her stomach groaned. One of the lower boards splintered as her talons dug into it with longing.
It was all Susan Chambers could do not to burst from the window and tackle her callers, ripping each one apart as she drank them dry. But the sun had become her enemy. Were it not shining down, the young widow would have been feasting already.
2
Sheriff Wylett looked up at the Chambers house, certain he could see the young widow looking at him from behind the boards of her bedroom window. He knew he should have dealt with her before now, and it had nothing to do with the virus that had changed her into the creature she had become. Susan Chambers had changed a long time ago and, even though he didn’t like to dwell on it too much, Sheriff Jake Wylett had played a hand in her demise, albeit as an innocent party.
Travis Trent walked up to him, taking off his dirty baseball cap to mop his brow with an equally filthy handkerchief, which he then used to wave in front of his nose. ‘Smells like we us got some ripe petunias, boss.’
Wylett nodded, realising more than ever how desperate he was for helpers when the likes of Travis Trent had to be deputised to assist the law. As far as the Sheriff was concerned, Travis Trent was a full-time idiot. But needs must.
‘Wanna make us a hole?’ he asked, pointing at the corrugated iron and wooden slats Susan had heaped up as a lousy barricade.
‘Sure thing,’ replied Travis as he lumbered back into his tow truck.
Sheriff Wylett watched as Travis hoisted himself back into the seat. He was dressed in his usual look, his only look, of faded denim dungarees, with one shoulder strap undone. Steel toe-capped boots, beaten and worn with the metal tips showing through the broken leather. Under the dungarees was the standard dirty white vest, straining between Travis’s bulging gut and the outer garment, and all of it topped off with his ragged baseball hat.
‘Jesus H Christ,’ Wylett muttered to himself as he rolled a cigarette, just as his Deputy walked over to him.
‘Would it be possible to find a sorrier looking posse, Sheriff?’
Wylett smiled, despite the dire times. ‘I don’t believe it would.’
Out of the rag-tag group of Brentwood’s townsfolk he had assembled, Sheriff Wylett was just grateful that his official Deputy hadn’t fled like the rest of his meagre department. Deputy Jones had called in sick and fled the county, whereas Deputy King had told the Sheriff straight, he was heading to one of the safe zones with his family. Which left only Deputy Gribbin.
But out of the three, the only Deputy that hadn’t jumped ship, was the one Wylett would have picked every time to watch his back. Gribbin had the makings of a fine police officer, and one whom Wylett would have happily handed over the reins of power when he eventually hung up his gun.
Not that it mattered anymore. Just surviving another week was a lofty ambition the way things were going.
Just as he was lulling over the hopelessness of it all, Travis took to his task, ramming his battered tow truck easily through the defences. Sheriff Wylett couldn’t decide if the mechanic was hiding his fear of events, or genuinely without a clue as to the deadly seriousness of the pandemic sweeping like a wildfire across their country. Or maybe he just didn’t care, glad of the break to his monotonous existence. Whatever his mind-set, Travis Trent seemed to be having the time of his life, whistling as he demolished the barricade.
As he finished up the group gathered around Wylett. The Sheriff looked at his improvised task force, trying to appear positive, if only for their sake. The only other useful body apart from Deputy Gribbin was Wylett’s childhood friend, Hank Amis. Just as the lawman, Hank was into his sixty fifth year, and one of the finest taxidermists in the mid-west. He was also a man of steady nerve and dependability, which the Sheriff was appreciating more than ever.
That left seven other volunteers. A veterinary receptionist, an unemployed lumberjack, two school teachers and Travis, as well as Betty and Lou who owned Wylett’s favourite diner. There had been another four at the beginning of the week, but three of them had been killed by the infected, with the fourth calling it a day and leaving town.
Adjusting his Stetson, adorned with the badge of office, Sheriff Wylett looked at his watch. It wasn’t even noon, but the summer heat was savage and only climbing, and they still had plenty of work ahead. But the Chambers woman was going to be different, pure savage.
Wylett wasn’t sure if the virus was from nature or biblical wrath, but he knew that when it turned people, they took something of their old selves with them. For Susan Chambers that was all the hate and bitterness she had built up since the day he had turned up at her door to destroy her world.
But that was in the past, and Wylett had to deal with the thing she had become.
‘Okay,’ he said, trying to sound confident as he hitched up his thick leather belt which was struggling against his widening girth, whilst also carrying the mini-canon strapped to his hip.
‘Listen up, ’cause this is gonna be different. The two houses we cleared earlier were a piece of cake compared to this. Susan Chambers is in this one, and she’s been keeping busy since she turned. I know of at least a dozen people she’s taken down, all of ’em ripped to shreds, and she’s been collecting keepsakes.’
Wylett heard scampering in the Chambers cellar as he glanced over before continuing. ‘I think she’s taken seven children from those she’s killed, and we have to assume she’s turned all of them, and that they’re in there with their new mommy . . .’
‘I think it’s eight,’ Lou called out.
‘What’s that, Lou?’
Lou wiped his sweating forehead with the back of his sleeve. ‘The Kitners were killed last night. No sign of their little boy.’
Sheriff Wylett grimaced. ‘How old?’
‘Eight,’ answered Lou as he held his tearful wife’s hand. ‘They held a birthday party for him in our place three weeks ago. Sweet kid.’
‘We’ll have to assume he’s here now. And it’s not him anymore, remember that, none of them are. They’re all infected. We have to put them out of their misery, but we don’t wanna lose anyone else, so nice and easy, and everyone watch each other’s back.’
‘We going in?’ Travis asked.
Wylett shook his head. ‘No one’s going in. We take care of it from outside. That house and the things that used to be people in it are going to die where they are.’ He looked back at Travis. ‘Let’s get it done.’
The mechanic nodded as he jumped into his truck, reversing it as the rig’s lifting gear raised up with the chain and hook swinging from it.
As Travis manoeuvred his ride, Hank, dressed in his standard black suit, which made him look like an undertaker, walked up to Wylett as he hung a huge wooden crucifix around his neck, making his old friend smile.
‘They ain’t the undead, Hank.’
Hank shook his head as he eyed the Sheriff under the brim of his black fedora, brushing down his handlebar moustache. If The Sheriff was battling his expanding waistline, Hank
was the opposite, stick-thin with hawk-like features, and twinkling blue eyes that missed nothing. Sheriff Wylett had never been more grateful of his loyal friendship.
‘Don’t be so sure, Jake,’ Hank smiled as he loaded up his Remington pump-action. ‘You need to make your peace with Jesus.’
Wylett nodded as he lit up his rolled cigarette, pocketing the tobacco pouch. ‘I’ll wait until I’m up there.’
‘Don’t sweat it. I been puttin’ in double prayer time for us both, and a sinner like you needs all the credit he can get.’
They both laughed, each savouring an old friend’s company in dire times as Travis’s lifting hook smashed into the side of Susan Chambers’ house, splintering the wood cladding like matchwood.
‘Careful now, Travis,’ Wylett called out. ‘We got plenty of sun, so don’t rush it. Nice and easy, that bobcat inside is just waitin’ to pounce. You hear me, boy?’
‘Loud and clear, boss.’
As the mechanic shifted the controls of the gear from within his cab, trying to hook onto something solid, Sheriff Jake Wylett couldn’t help but recall the day he had called at the property to deliver the news which he knew would destroy the lady of the house.
3
It had been a spring evening, still warm as the light was beginning to fade when the lawman had called at the Chambers house, two years past. It looked different then. The fields leading up to the house and beyond the forest were rich with produce, every acre taken up with the lush harvest being grown for market, and the family home itself was immaculately kept. Picture perfect.
From the clipped lawn to the freshly painted five bedroom two storey house, and everything else around and within, Ken and Susan Chambers kept a charming family home and slowly maturing business. Even the swing and slide out on the deck looked polished clean.
They were living the idyllic middle-class lifestyle, in perfect Middle America. The small mid-west town was pure apple pie and rodeo, with a good living for anyone willing to work hard and strive for better. The Chambers family slotted in perfectly.
The Turned Page 1
