The Infected_Torn Apart_Book Six

by Joseph Zuko

  What he was experiencing at this moment went way beyond anger or blind rage. Dead or not, those people killed the sexy lady he had mounted to the hood of his car. Took his shotgun. Destroyed his beloved Firebird and then like the mega assholes they were, they left him for dead.

  Hanging from the hood of his car was a set of handcuffs. Still trapped inside one end of the cuff was a severed limb. The delicate hand had three fingernails painted hot pink. The skin around its wrist was worn away. The exposed muscle and bone of the forearm glistened in the midday sun. A bloody stump hung on the other end. Attached to the car’s bumper was a severed leg that was devastated in the same fashion. He glanced around the field and found his woman’s torso wrapped in the barbed wire fence.

  “Goddamn, that’s heartbreaking.” Ryder reached for the hand and he interlaced his fingers with it as if they were a normal couple in love.

  “Gonna miss you girl. You were the best woman I’ve ever had.” He recalled a fond moment. “I can still taste your sweetness on my lips. God, you could take a pounding!” Ryder fumed, “I will avenge you!” He ran his sleeve across his face and wiped the blood from his eyes. “Get focused, man. What do you need?” Other than hanging out with drunks at bars and hitting on floozies, Ryder spent most of his time alone. Over the years it became normal for him to talk to himself. After all he was the coolest guy he knew.

  “Gotta find a ride.” He pushed himself from the side of the car, steadied his legs and turned three-sixty. He spotted a farm house next to a barn at the edge of the property. “Bingo!” He lifted the pistol, pressed the release, dropped the mag from the grip and checked the count. “Two fucking shots, great.” He searched the wreck. The bat he found at the Hockinson Market, the one with knives taped to the end, lay in the dirt next to his car. Its handle had snapped off during the car crash. “Damn it!” He knew there was nothing useful in the Firebird’s trunk. The only thing he had in there was musty old porno magazines.

  “Get moving, Ryder.” His feet were like bags of cement mix as he jogged across the muddy field. He wasn’t sure how he was going to find the bastards that did this to him, but his mind went to work on the problem.

  He huffed, already out of breath, “They could be heading anywhere.” The muscles in his legs ached. His lungs burned. The broken rib throbbed at his side every time he sucked in a lungful. The pain added to his fury and kept him sharp. He was sure he had been jogging for a while, but the house didn’t appear to be any closer.

  He grumbled. “Damn, I hate running.” But the drive to hunt the bitch down pushed him forward and kept his injured legs turning. “I can’t wait to get my hands on that little cunt.” He huffed, “Who knees a man in the balls?” His nuts were swollen like avocados between his legs. “Getting a hard on right now might kill me. It could take a couple days before my plumbing works itself out. That means I’ll have to think up other ways to inflict some punishment on that dumb bitch.”

  Ryder was unable to fire up his disgusting imagination. Every brain cell was concentrating on keeping him upright and moving forward.

  “I’ll figure it out later. If I find her.” He recalled something. “They took Desiree with them… I bet they’re heading for her father.” He often visited her store for smokes and beer, but the conversation was mainly the bullshit you say to clerks. ‘No, I don’t need a receipt. I don’t need a bag. I can’t believe how the price of gas has gone up. Crazy weather, right?’ That kind of shit.

  However, two months ago they ran into each other at a bar and she wasn’t shy about sharing. After hours of drinking and yakking it up he learned every detail of her horrible life. Everything, but where she lived. He knew it was in the area and on the outskirts of town. One of the only things Ryder could remember from his brief tenure in high school was a quote from General George S. Patton.

  ‘A good plan, violently executed now, is far better than a perfect plan next week.’

  Ryder had only half a plan, and not a good one at that, but one thing he knew he could do was execute violently.

  He slowed his pace and grabbed his knees. “Why did I ever start smoking?” There were three hundred yards left to go before he would reach the two-story building with a wraparound porch. The place badly needed a paint job and it was clear the farm had seen better years.

  An image popped in his brain. It was of that smug redhead giving him double middle fingers from the back of the bus. Ryder’s feet moved like a million bucks was waiting for him in the house.

  “You’ve got to catch up with them… Before they leave the city.” Revenge was one hell of a motivator.

  Ryder stormed the seven steps to the porch. He caught a glimpse of himself in the reflection of the door’s window. He looked like a pile of bloody dog shit. He stopped once he noticed fingerprints on the door.

  “We’ve got another bloody asshole running around here?” He pointed at the handprints that coated the faded white paint. He scanned the area for any of the infected. The property was clear. Ryder inched toward the entrance. He tried the knob, but it was locked. He tapped the barrel of his gun against the glass. Playing it big and loud at the Hockinson Market hadn’t worked so he decided to change tactics and see if some honey could snag him a fly. “Hey. Anyone home? Your fellow man needs some assistance.” He put his ear to the pane and listened. Something moved inside.

  He cleared his throat and softened his tone, “I really need help. Can you open the door? If not, I might have to break it down and I don’t want to do that.”

  An older woman appeared in the foyer, a hunting rifle tucked tight to her shoulder. It was clear she had been through some crazy shit this morning. Her hair was a mess and she had blood splatters on her blouse. Her eyes grew to the size of baseballs once she spotted the hulk of a man covered in blood at her door.

  Ryder managed a smile and said, “Hello ma’am. I see you’ve had a doozy of a morning yourself.”

  She didn’t move.

  Ryder’s grin faded as he glanced around her house. He pointed to the wounds on his face. “As you can see. I was in a car accident. Maybe you heard it a little bit ago? There was some gunfire followed by the sound of a crash. That was me. I was viciously run off the road by some pirates in an armored school bus. Do you think I could come in, clean my wounds, and possibly get a handful of pain meds? I’m hurting real bad. I’m sure I’ve got a broken rib. Don’t worry, I won’t stay long. I’ve got to hit the road and hunt those bad guys down…” Ryder fabricated some fake, but convincing tears. “They took my girlfriend and I’ve got to get her back.”

  The woman narrowed her gaze and spoke through gritted teeth. “If you grunt in a way I find unpleasant, I’ll take the shot.”

  “Sounds fair.” Ryder backed away from the door.

  She clicked the locks and pushed the door open. “Bathroom’s down the hall. Advil and Tylenol in the cabinet. Don’t touch my good towels. I’ll get some old ones from upstairs.”

  Ryder reached for the door. “I can’t thank you enough.”

  She spotted his boots. “Take them off and leave them outside. I don’t want mud on my floors.”

  “Yes ma’am. I’m Ryder, by the way.” He kicked off the boots and stepped through the entry. “I hope I’m not being rude by asking, but who left the bloody prints on your door?” Ryder stepped farther into the house. Something rustled in the living room. “What was that?” Ryder moved toward the noise.

  She followed him, but kept her gun trained on the back of his skull.

  Ryder found a young man, maybe twenty if he had to guess, tied to a chair. Its eyes were black as night. A puddle of blood surrounded the infected man and large droplets raced across the floor toward the exit. Ryder surveyed the rest of the room. Hanging on the walls were family photos. The one that grabbed his attention was of the woman, the young man tied to the chair, and the wrinkled face of the infected he killed out in his wrecked Firebird.

  The math was simple.

  Ryder conjured up a batch of bogus e
mpathy. “Oh, ma’am. I am so sorry for your loss.” He faced her. The man spent so much of his life bullshitting at the drop of a hat he could spit out a boldface lie and not even think twice about it. Then again, sometimes he spoke the truth. “My daughter got bit yesterday. My girlfriend and I… We tried to restrain her too, but in the end, I had to put her down.” He was so good even he believed the lie.

  And the woman bought it. She lowered her rifle and said, “I haven’t given up hope, not yet. The government will find a cure. I’m sure of it. They’ll bring my boy back.”

  Ryder nodded at the photo of her family. “Did he get bit too?”

  “My husband, the lovable idiot, tried to give his son a hug. Like affection could fix him. He got a chunk taken from his hand.” She caught a tear with her palm as it fell. “He said I couldn’t restrain him well enough. He raced out of the house and ran for the woods.”

  “I’m sure he’ll be fine. I’ll get cleaned up and be out of your hair in no time. Thanks again, ma’am.” Ryder headed for the hall and found the bathroom.

  “The name’s Beth,” said the woman as she ascended the stairs to the second floor.

  Ryder entered the room, flipped on the hot water, set his gun on the sink, grinned at himself in the mirror and said, “The award for most convincing human goes to…” He ran his hands under the tap and splashed his face and hair. As he cleaned the blood from his skin he found a large gash in his cheek. A dark bruise formed around the slit. “That’s where my face must have hit the steering wheel. Chicks dig scars.” He smirked. He discovered more cuts on both of his palms. Ryder popped open the medicine cabinet and found a roll of gauze, tape, and the pills. He took everything he needed from the shelves and set them on the sink. He held both hands under the running water and washed them clean. He turned off the hot water and flipped on the cold tap. After that he slurped mouthfuls of water. He drank until his belly was full.

  He wrapped his hands with gauze and taped them like he was a boxer. Once he had his hands covered, he popped open the Advil and downed five of them. He checked and made sure Beth wasn’t heading his way and pocketed the rest of the pills.

  He held a length of gauze to his face and taped it into position.

  Beth arrived with a well-worn bath towel and handed it to Ryder. “Thank you. I’m almost done here.”

  Beth waited in the hall. Her rifle aimed at the floor.

  He examined her tired face. Ryder could tell, twenty years ago she was quite the looker.

  Hell, I’ve banged worse. Much worse.

  An idea lept into his head.

  Now that Beth is single, I bet she would love it if I took her old pussy for a ride. Pain radiated from his groin.

  Oh, right. I forgot about my grapefruit sized ball sack.

  If I find Red, I’ll bring her back here and pretend I’m doing a mother, daughter thing.

  Now, that’s freaking hot.

  He used the towel to dry himself and clean off the excess blood and mud from his clothes. “I’ve got to hit the road. I hate to ask for more, but you wouldn’t happen to have nine-millimeter bullets. I’m down to two shots.”

  “I’m afraid all we have on the farm is this rifle, but out in the barn I’m sure you could find something hefty.” Beth’s tone was sounding more like a computer program. The gravity of her situation was fully setting in.

  “This is the last thing I’m going to ask, I promise, you wouldn’t happen to have an extra vehicle I could take? God knows what those animals are going to do to my…” He acted like his emotions were overflowing. “…girlfriend, if I don’t catch up with them soon.”

  Beth thought about it for a moment. “My son…” She fought through her impending mental breakdown. “…he’s got a dirt bike in the barn. You can take it.”

  He pretended to be overwhelmed by her kindness. “God bless you.”

  “Find your girl and never let her go. I’ll get the keys for the bike.” Beth turned and headed for the kitchen. Ryder reached for the lock on the window to the bathroom. He gave it a twist.

  Hopefully she doesn’t check this until I return. He thought to himself as he snagged his pistol and followed her into the next room.

  Beth slid open a drawer, dug through the junk and found the key. She handed it to him. “What’s it like out there?”

  Ryder tucked the key into his jeans. “It’s bad. These… sick people are everywhere, and the decent folk have lost their damn minds. It’s like the regular people were raised by animals. I’ve seen theft, murder. Rape.”

  She doesn’t need to know I was the one having all the fun. He reasoned.

  Beth dropped her head and leaned against the counter and said, “How could it spread so fast?”

  “You got me.” He shrugged his shoulders. “I’ve got to hit the road. Thanks again.” Ryder headed for the front door. Halfway there he paused, turned, and asked. “Are you going to be okay out here, all by yourself?” Ryder motioned at her infected son.

  Beth’s eyes were glassy, her expression withdrawn. She sighed and said, “Time will tell. I won’t give up hope. Not yet.”

  Ryder nodded at her then turned for the front door.

  If things go as planned, I’ll be back to check on her tonight.

  But first I’ve got to catch me a fuckin’ redhead!

  Ryder exited the house and stepped into his boots. Maybe it was the pills or just cleaning the blood from his face, but he was re-energized.

  Ryder didn’t have a clue as to what kind of headstart the bus had on him or how long he had been unconscious in his car. A sense of urgency nagged at him. He hated running, but the drive to find Red and inflict pain got the better of him. He jogged down the steps and raced toward the barn.

  Ryder flung open the door, found the light switch and kicked it on. The place was packed with junk, tons of hay, a tractor and other assorted farming equipment. On the far wall was a workbench and above it a pegboard full of tools. Tucked in the corner of the barn sat the dirtbike.

  Ryder bolted across the barn. He stopped in front of the workbench. It was covered in tools and half-finished projects. Papers and instruction manuals overflowed a box on the center of the bench. Poking from a corner of the box was a folded map of Clark County.

  Ryder scanned the wall of tools. “It needs to be something I can easily carry on my belt but have the power to crush a skull or slice the son-of-a-bitch open.” He spotted a hatchet with a leather sheath wrapped around the head. It had a loop for his belt. “Better than nothing.” He grabbed it and worked the tool onto his belt. A roll of duct tape hung from a peg. He grabbed it and forced the tape into his jacket pocket as he walked toward the bike. On his way he noticed a phone mounted to the wall of the barn. Sitting on the bench was a stack of old phone books. The newest one was about two years old. He grabbed it and opened the book. His brain throbbed from the car crash and the base of his skull ached from the fire extinguisher Red hit him with back at the store. It hurt so much to concentrate, but he was forced to if he wanted it to conjure Desiree’s last name. His memory flashed to the night at the bar. She had a dirty mouth and that made her fun to talk to. Plus, she loved giving away personal details most people would never want anyone but their doctor to know. That’s what he focused on. The story she told about her doctor.

  Ryder closed his eyes and drifted back to that night. “What did she say?”

  Then it came to him. The punchline to her joke was what a doctor had said to her.

  ‘Well Mrs. Jenkins, that’s the biggest set of hemorrhoids I’ve ever seen.’

  Ryder flew through the pages and turned to the J’s. His index finger searched until he found it. Desiree Jenkins, 1337 N. 23rd ST. Battle Ground 98604.

  Ryder set the book on the bench, stepped back to the box full of papers, grabbed the map and tore it open. He refolded it until the city of Battle Ground filled the page. He located 23rd Street. Four seconds later he knew exactly where she lived.

  “Jackpot. I’m coming for ya, bitch
. I’ve gotta get there before they leave!” Ryder tossed the map to the floor then tucked his pistol into an inside pocket of his jacket and zipped it shut. The bike had bright red fenders and a matching gas tank. It was old and had been dropped more than once by the kid. Ryder twisted the gas cap and checked the tank. It was full. A matching red helmet hung from the handlebars. Ryder grabbed it and tried to slide the protective gear onto his big head, but the damn thing was too small.

  “The kid’s head was the size of a peanut,” said Ryder as he dropped the helmet to the floor. He tossed his leg across the seat, slid the key into the ignition and turned it to ON.

  His thumb found the red button on the handle bars. He pressed it and the engine turned over. Ryder clicked it into first and cranked the gas. The bike took off like a bullet. He aimed for the open door and blasted out onto the farm.

  The engine howled as he ripped through the gears. Ryder screamed at the top of his lungs. “Your ass is mine, Red!”

  Chapter 2

  Even though the bike was a little undersized for a man of his stature, it still had power to spare. When Ryder twisted his wrist, the front tire lifted off the ground.

  “Slow down, buddy. Remember you ain’t got a helmet on.” He yelled to himself over the roar of the motor. “Last thing I need is another head injury!”

  The wind whipped through his hair and burned his unprotected eyes. When he was a kid all the way until he was twenty he raced on all the local motocross tracks and loved it. After he hit twenty-one, drinking beer and chasing ass became his main thrill. It had been years since Ryder last rode a bike, but his muscle memory took control. Using the clutch, shifting gears, it all came to him as if no time had passed.

  “Oh shit!” He cursed at a pocket of infected as they raced in his direction across the blacktop. He tapped the brakes, geared down, and headed for an adjacent ditch. The suspension bottomed out as he dropped into the ravine. The seat bounced and hit him in the groin. Pain shot from his sack. “Damn my nuts!”