The Last Bastion [Book 2]

by K. W. Callahan

  Across the street, he could see a second van, larger than the smashed mini-van, where it looked like another small group was also being attacked by biters. From Wendell’s vantage point, it appeared as if a biter was atop someone who was lying on the ground by the van at the river access. But in the darkness, he couldn’t tell much more than that.

  Wendell wondered just how this small convoy of vehicles had gotten themselves into such a predicament, and more to the point, how they were going to extricate themselves from it.

  He glanced from the mess unfolding on the streets below and over to Hofmann Tower that bordered the river on the other side of their condo complex parking lot. It stood looming in the darkness, its base lit by large spotlights strategically situated in the park. The aging tower was the river’s silent sentry of stone and steel, quiet, dark, massive.

  Charla came outside. “Whatcha doin'?” she asked, moving up beside where Wendell stood at the balcony’s edge, arms propping him against its rail.

  “Watching these idiots get themselves eaten,” Wendell scoffed, nodding down to the scramble of activity taking place in the parking lot and streets around the bridge.

  “Oh my God…that’s horrible,” Charla put a hand to her heart as she took notice of what was going on below. “I heard the gunfire, but sadly, the sound of guns is starting to become second nature lately.” She watched for a moment as Michael and the other Blender men tried unsuccessfully to reach the Mendoza mini-van and then were forced back as the growing number of biters on the scene began to surround them. “Those poor people,” Charla shook her head. “We have to help them.”

  “Help them?” Wendell snorted. “How are we supposed to do that? We can’t even help ourselves.”

  Chris made his way from inside the condo and out onto the balcony to join his temporary new roommates. “What’s going on out here?” he asked. “Who’s doing the shooting now?”

  “Group of idiots,” Wendell pointed to the parking lot. “Got themselves into a real bind down there. It’s like watching reality television…unscripted, unedited.”

  “Jesus,” Chris made a face as he saw the scene below. He cupped his hands to his mouth and yelled “Hey!” Then he waved his arms up over his head.

  “Shut up!” Wendell hissed. “The biters will hear you!”

  “That’s the point,” Chris said. “Come on and help me,” he nudged Wendell’s arm with a hand.

  Wendell looked down reproachfully at where Chris had made physical contact with him.

  “Hey!” Chris called again. “Up here!”

  “Hey!” Charla waved her arms up over her head, joining Chris in his calls of distraction. “Hey biters! Up here!”

  Wendell just stared at his wife and this unwelcome guest, mouth open, in awe of their audacity and the danger in which they might be putting themselves all for the sake of these foolish strangers.

  Chris started jumping up and down on the balcony and then grabbed a set of metal tongs from Wendell’s grill. He began banging it against the grill top, the metal balcony railing, and anything else that would make noise as a distraction to the biters below.

  Wendell turned and went inside, making sure to close the balcony door securely behind him so that the biters still in the hallway wouldn’t hear.

  Moments later, Chris came barreling inside, almost knocking Wendell over as he rushed to where he’d left the aerosol spray canisters on the kitchen counter.

  Five seconds later, he was back outside with Charla doing who knew what to distract the biters.

  Wendell went to check the barricades in place before their own front door, gritting his teeth at the fear and angry frustration he was feeling at the situation unfolding around him.

  Wendell didn’t like not having control, and the spreading Carchar Syndrome was anything but within his control. And so was Chris – at least for the moment.

  * * *

  Everywhere Michael looked there were biters, everywhere but directly behind them. The river blocked a complete retreat to the rear. But between the parking lot where they stood, and the river, was a small park area with a massive, eight-story structure. Michael, having grown up in the area, was familiar with the spot as a local landmark – Hofmann Tower.

  The tower had been constructed in 1908 by George Hofmann Jr. as part of a park that offered picnicking and boat rentals for visitors. In 1978, the tower had received landmark status, and eventually the Lyons Historical Commission moved into the building. It had begun repairs to the structure in conjunction with the Hofmann Tower Restoration League. The tower housed a museum during that time. But eventually, due to the massive amounts of maintenance the structure required, paired with a lack of funding, the museum was closed. The entire structure had sat vacant ever since.

  Michael, along with Josh, Manny, and Patrick, were being forced back toward their vehicles by the growing number of biters flocking to the area. And now, biters were encroaching upon the remaining vehicles in the Blender convoy. The sound of gunfire coming from several of the Blender women inside those vehicles could now be heard as they defended themselves and their children.

  The group’s outlook was bleak. The concrete barriers erected in the streets prevented them from using the roads as an escape. They could shelter in their vehicles, but with so many biters around, it was only a matter of time before the creatures smashed through the vehicle windows. Then, it would be almost impossible to keep the beasts at bay, even with firearms. There were just too many.

  Michael had to make a decision. In another minute, maybe less, the chance of them being able to form any sort of plan of escape might be gone completely.

  Michael took one last look at the Mendoza mini-van as Josh and Manny took down two more approaching biters. The vehicle was almost impossible to discern among the swarm of biters swarming around it. Michael recognized that there was no hope for the Mendoza family. And he had no idea what was happening to the Hines family. If the situation on the other side of the street was anything like it was where Michael and the rest of the convoy were, he feared the worst for them. A feeling of helplessness swept over him. But that feeling was quickly replaced by the realization that he still had a responsibility to the rest of the Blenders, even if he had failed the Mendoza and Hines families.

  It was at that moment, he heard the distant sounds of shouting and a sort of metallic clanging coming from somewhere above and behind him across the condo parking lot.

  Several of the approaching biters nearest the men and their families sheltering in the vehicles turned toward the noise, distracted by the clanging sounds. Slowly, a portion of the biter herd broke off, moving toward the noise.

  Michael saw it as the chance he’d been waiting for. “Come on!” he yelled. “Grab everyone from the vehicles! We’ve got to move!”

  “What about all our stuff!” Josh cried.

  “Screw the stuff! Just grab your guns, ammo, and families, and let’s move!” Michael fired at an approaching biter, sending it scurrying off into the blackness of night.

  “To where?” Manny called.

  Michael turned. “There!” he pointed to the castle-like turret of Hofmann Tower looming behind them.

  * * *

  Monte felt the scrape of fingernails against his face. He wasn’t sure if they were those of the biter currently atop him or of the terrified Rebecca squirming at his side. He smelled the stink of hot biter breath waft over his face and heard the clattering chatter of its hellacious teeth.

  His head throbbed from where it had come down hard against the gravel when he’d fallen. But he knew that pain would be nothing compared to that of the biter’s teeth or the mental anguish if the biter should select his precious daughter for its first bite rather than him. Therefore, Monte, almost without thinking, and without knowing what the results would be, brought his knee up into the groin of the biter atop him as hard as he could. The biter, a male, made a high-pitched sort of whine and then rolled over off him.

  Monte made a mental no
te that unlike in zombie movies, a well-placed shot to the crotch seemed to work on biters – the male ones at least. He released his hold on Rebecca and got to his feet. Once up, and without hesitation, he aimed at the biter still on the ground, and squeezed his weapon’s trigger.

  The bullet struck the center of the biter’s back, causing it to cease its writhing.

  Across the street, Monte could hear the clanging of metal in between the intermittent sounds of gunfire. And the sounds seemed to be distracting a sizeable portion of the massed biters. Monte thought the distraction might be what they needed to get across the street to where the rest of the Blenders were gathered.

  “Come on!” he called to his family. “Stay close! This might be our chance!”

  He grabbed Rebecca’s hand and began leading his family toward the intersection formed by the meeting of 39th Street and Joliet Avenue in front of the river bridge.

  The screams issuing from the Mendoza mini-van had stopped. And other than the sound of clanking metal, and the distant rumble of a jet airplane, the night had grown eerily silent. With exception of their teeth rattling when they prepared to attack, and an occasional snarl or snort, the biters didn’t make much noise. They didn’t talk, and they didn’t really make any other sounds except when they ate or when they were injured.

  Monte didn’t know if the sudden stop in gunfire meant that the other Blenders had abandoned the fight against the biters or they had been overwhelmed. He prayed it wasn’t the latter. If it was, he could kiss his own family’s chances goodbye.

  The rumble of the plane was closer now, and the metallic banging from the condo building across from them had grown louder. Monte strained to see in the darkness, trying to make out who or what was in the parking lot across the street from them, but it was of little use. All he could really see was that there were at least a dozen or more biters around the Mendoza mini-van and probably a dozen more between him and where he wanted to get to. There were even more biters heading for the metal clanking sounds, whatever they were.

  Suddenly, there was a deafening roar as a fighter jet shot out of the southern nighttime sky following the path of the river. The jet unleashed two rockets that ripped into the bridge beside where the Blender convoy had been forced from the road. The rockets exploded as the jet pulled up hard, banking away in a screaming turn that took it around Hofmann tower and between the condo complex and downtown Lyons.

  Between the sound of the jet and the noise of the bridge as the rockets tore into it, it was almost more than the bystanders could bear. It was a blast louder and more violent than anything that Monte or any of the other Blenders had ever encountered.

  The kids being hauled along by Monte and Victoria, crumpled in heaps to the ground in a combination of shock and fear amid the sounds, heat and concussion of the blast. Their parents dove to cover them, sheltering their children as best they could with their bodies. The night sky lit up in a massive fireball as the bridge connecting Lyons and Riverside was blasted into a billion pieces.

  * * *

  Chris and Charla were using their grill accoutrements to bang the condo balcony railing as loudly as they could.

  “Would you stop it?” Wendell whined. “They’re going to hear us!”

  “That’s the whole point!” Charla frowned angrily. “Without a distraction, those people down there are done for. Look at how many biters there are!” she kept up with her banging.

  Wendell gritted his teeth, mashing his lips together firmly. His frustration at the situation was getting the better of him, and he needed to put a stop to this ridiculous behavior. There was no sense in risking their lives for these people they’d never met and had no connection to whatsoever.

  And while Wendell might not be able to stop Chris, he certainly could stop Charla.

  “Would you please shut up!” he snatched the metal grill tongs she’d been using to bang with out of her hand.

  “Hey!” Charla cried. “Give those back!”

  Wendell ignored her, tossing the tongs over the side of the balcony.

  “You jerk!” Charla spat, spinning around to search for another item to continue her banging. “What if it was us down there? You wouldn’t want anyone to help?” She found what she was looking for in a rubber-grip-handled steel spatula hanging beside the grill. She began beating the grill top violently with it. The impact of her blows created a dull, metallic sort of booming noise that reverberated loudly. “Instead of just standing there complaining, why don’t you help us?” Charla urged her husband.

  “Because I’m not intent on dying tonight!” he shot back angrily. “If you would just…”

  But his words were cut short by the deafening sound of a fighter jet, screaming down the path of the river. A second later, there was a massive explosion at the bridge followed by a huge fireball that billowed skyward.

  All banging on the balcony ceased as the group stood open mouthed, watching the destruction across from them. The center of the bridge rose up, as if being lifted by giant hands. As the fireball rolled upward, chunks of concrete and other debris followed it into the sky. From their position high upon the balcony, it appeared as though the debris was almost moving in slow motion. Then the bridge center began to fall back down, collapsing into the river and leaving an almost 100-foot gap between the two sides that remained. As the fireball mushroomed and began to dissipate, large chunks of concrete and steel reinforcing rods began spackling the river and surrounding landscape.

  Suddenly Wendell was knocked back hard against the balcony’s glass sliding door. He hit so hard in fact that Charla was surprised he didn’t go straight through it. Several bits of stone and other debris pelted the side of the building around them and they could hear large chunks landing on the rooftop.

  Chris instinctively turned his back to the bombardment of debris and inserted himself between it and Charla. A few seconds later, the sound of the debris raining down upon them, lessoned. The fireball over the bridge faded into the blackness of night.

  Wendell had slumped to the ground, holding his arm up to him and cringing in pain.

  “Hon’, are you all right?” Charla moved to him, crouching to inspect his arm. But he pulled away from her, sucking through his teeth in pain.

  “My arm…something hit it…hard. It feels like…like…ugh, I’m going to be sick,” he turned his head to the side and away from Charla and vomited.

  Chris came to kneel beside him once Wendell was finished heaving. Wendell slid away from him, not wanting anything to do with Chris.

  “Let me see,” Chris insisted, taking Wendell’s arm gently so he could inspect it.

  “Aaaahhh!” Wendell cried as Chris straightened out the arm.

  “Mmm,” Chris frowned. “We need to get you inside where we can get your shirt off and we have some light so I can take a better look at this. Help me get him up,” he told Charla.

  Taking Wendell’s good arm around her shoulder, and with Chris carefully hefting him from the waist, they got Wendell up and inside. Just as they were about to set him on the couch, Wendell resisted.

  “Not on the sofa,” he said. “Lay me on the floor. But put a towel or something down first. I don’t want to bleed on the floor.”

  “Jesus Christ, man. Your arm’s half off and you’re worried about getting blood on the fucking carpet!” Chris shook his head. “Here,” he instructed Charla, “let’s put him on the dining room table. It’s better for operating anyway. And then he won’t cry about the blood. We can just wipe it up,” Chris sighed, leading them over to the table, which he cleared with a single swipe of his arm. The result was a teeth-grating crash as several wine glasses and plates loaded with silverware they’d yet to clear from dinner fell to the floor.

  Once Wendell was on the table, Chris gave more instructions to Charla. “Get me some hot water, some towels, needle and thread, some antibacterial ointment, and any bandages you have.”

  Charla hurried off to fill the order.

  “And a pair of
scissors!” Chris called after her.

  Suddenly there was a loud pounding at the front door. “Hang tight, buddy,” Chris patted Wendell’s good shoulder. Then he hurried to the front door where he looked out through the peephole into the hallway.

  “Charla! Come here!” he called.

  Charla hurried back, several towels in her arms. “What is it?”

  “A biter…outside. It’s pounding on the door. One biter doesn’t bother me all that much. It must have heard us in here and gotten curious. But I’m afraid that if we don’t do something about it, it will end up drawing more. And then we could have a real problem on our hands.”

  “What do you want to do?” Charla asked.

  “Just hold tight for a second,” Chris moved to grab an aerosol can and the butcher knife from the counter. He slid the knife down in place so that it was stuck between his pants and belt at his right side. “When I say, open the door wide and stand back.”

  “Okay,” Charla nodded, following him to the door.

  After they’d moved aside the items blocking the front door, Chris readied himself. He unlocked the front door, gave the aerosol can he held in one hand a vigorous shake, flicked on the cigarette lighter he held in the other hand, and said, “Okay…now!”

  Charla yanked the door open. At the same time, Chris hit the spray button on the aerosol container. The biter was blasted directly in its face with a spray of flame that sent it reeling backward into the door of the condo across the hall. It then turned and ran screeching down the hallway.

  Chris let the flame die and then stepped back, allowing Charla to quickly close the door and relock it. “Hopefully that will send it looking for easier pickings,” Chris said as he worked to replace the barriers before the front door. “We’ll leave this here, just in case,” he set the spray can down on their barricade.