by Crae, Edward
That’s what friends are for. Right?
Right.
He popped open another beer, leaning against the window as he warmed up. He mindlessly reached for the bottle of Vicodin, popping two of them, and hummed to himself as he waited. He knew he would get very little sleep tonight, regardless of how he felt. It was just too cold, and his mind was abuzz with too much activity.
The night vision binoculars crossed his mind. Or were they goggles? He couldn’t remember. He threw off his blanket and crawled into the cargo area, turning on the dome light. Among the rifle magazines and other supplies, he spied the familiar case. They were binoculars. He could use them to scan the city at night.
Smiling, he grabbed them and donned the heavy field jacket that was neatly folded in the gear box. He opened the door and stepped out into the night. It was cold as fuck, and his teeth immediately began chattering. But, he stepped to the edge of the platform, leaning against the wall and looking out over the darkness.
He switched on the binoculars and put them to his face. Everything was black, with only a faint green glow of the warmer areas of the buildings visible. He adjusted the view, going through each spectrum until he found one that showed more detail. Now the buildings were clearly visible with a red tone, and all heat sources were displayed in faint orange.
There were tons of them.
Tiny orange blobs moved through the rubble, slowly shuffling or stalking the streets or alleys in their hunt for human flesh. There were no fast moving objects at all, other than what he guessed were dogs or cats. But one thing caught his attention, and sent a chill up his spine.
Against the faint red of a distant building, a black, spindly object moved up and down between windows almost effortlessly. It reminded him of the video posted by the random guy on the bulletin board. It was human shaped, but with long and thin arms and legs. It was crawling upside-down, stopping at each window, apparently in an effort to look inside.
And it wasn’t alone.
There were others on the ground, at least three of them, spidering their way through the alleys, as if on some kind of stalking mission. Dan’s heart quickened and his skin felt like it was shrinking. He watched one of them curiously as it climbed over a tall wall, then crawled downward toward a moving target. The speed of the target told him it was probably a Shuffler, mindlessly wandering the streets.
The black creature suddenly became a blur, encapsulating the orange blob until the glow faded. Little pieces of orange fell around it, slowly dying out and becoming as dark as the surrounding areas. The black shadow then returned to its hunting, crawling back onto the wall and ascending.
“What the fuck?” Dan whispered.
He lowered the binoculars, taking deep breaths as this new revelation pieced itself together in his mind. The shadows were not part of the infection, he realized. They were hunting the infected. But were they friendly? He distinctly remembered the shadow he had seen in the woods near Lafayette. It didn’t appear hostile; it was just observing him—watching him.
But why?
What were these creatures? Were they even real, or just some weird figment of his imagination?
“Fuck me,” Dan said.
Shaking his head and feeling a little creeped out, he turned his attention toward the glow to the east. Through the binos, the glow took on more detail. He could see the faint heat signatures of vehicles, choppers, and activity in the windows. He zoomed in, hoping he was close enough to something useful.
But, unfortunately, it was too far. If he was going to observe and make plans, he would have to get closer. The university was at the edge of town, and he was right in the center—mostly. There would be no spying tonight. There was no way he was moving around at night, especially with the city full of wandering zombies—and freaky, spidery shadow things.
He would try to sleep again. It was the only thing he could do.
Chapter Nine
2nd Street went all the way to the east side of town. At least, it was supposed to. Traffic had been horrific on the day of the outbreak, and the mass of abandoned cars on the street prevented any access for more than a few blocks at a time. Dan had to constantly turn down the alleys to bypass the blockage, making the whole trip frustrating and maze-like.
Since he had awakened over two hours ago, he had only gotten about five blocks. The going was slow for many reasons, and the blockage was really only a small part of it. In addition to the white fog that obscured everything from the ground to about fifteen feet up, it was obviously not a good idea to go tearing through the streets at top speed. The mercs would be watching. Dan knew they would be scouring the city; not only for any stragglers like himself, but for any squads of military personnel that might be plotting against them.
His major concern for the moment was finding a better vantage point to scope out the university grounds. The most obvious choice would be the parking garage on Atwater, which was four stories and a roof. There, he could park and watch without getting too close. The IR binoculars and the built in scope of the Sig would suffice.
There was something strange about the city, Dan noticed; there seemed to be very few infected. Either Gephardt had eliminated a great majority of them, or very few people had survived long enough to become raving monsters. Perhaps college students were more susceptible to the immediate fatal nature of the mold/virus thing.
It was ridiculous theory, but Dan would go with it.
After what seemed like an entire day of driving, the garage at Atwater came into view. It was mostly intact, with only a few crumbled spots on one corner. The surrounding buildings were in random states of ruin; some of them intact, some of them completely demolished. Whatever their state, they all seemed ghostly against the thick fog that had settled in the early morning hours. Though inconvenient and creepy, it was probably to his advantage.
He pulled into the garage cautiously, noting the layout had changed slightly since he had last parked here. The ramps had been rerouted for heavy traffic; some of them blocked off with concrete barriers during construction. But, thankfully, he was able to find a clear way up. The garage was about half full, he noticed, and there were no cars blocking the ramps. He made his way up without incident, but hesitated as he reached the final ramp to the roof.
There was a pull down steel door in one corner; probably some kind of private parking spot. The door was open about two feet. If he could open it the rest of the way, it would make a great shelter. He had frozen his ass off the night before; maybe this little cubby hole would be warmer. He backed up and drove over to it, getting out to check the door. He kept his rifle up, pointing it at his field of view as he bent to peek underneath.
It was quiet inside; but dark.
He reached out to push up the shutter, gritting his teeth as it groaned in protest. The inside was large enough to hold the Hummer with room to spare. It appeared to be some kind of maintenance shed; complete with cleaning tools, and a riding floor polisher. There was also a desk, a shelf with small propane canisters, and a portable propane heater.
“Sweet!” he said.
He pulled the Hummer inside, and got out to pull the door closed. It was cozy; slightly chilly, but cozy. There was a little bit of sunlight coming through a tiny window to the outside. It was just enough to break the total darkness he would expect, and give him enough light to setup shop—so to speak. He checked the propane heater. Both canisters were loaded up and at least half full. He turned the knob, grinning as the pilot clicked on. After a few seconds, the mesh came to life, and he felt the comforting warmth immediately.
He picked up the heater and sat it next to the desk, plopping down in the chair to warm his hands. As he gazed at the desk’s clutter, he noticed a newspaper dated the day of the infection. It was open to the local news section. There were various stories about local events; including a disturbance at a Winery along 37.
But another story caught his attention.
Domestic Dispute in Martinsville
Morgan county Sheriff’s Deputies were called to investigate a disturbance in the 3400 block of Old State Route 37. Neighbors called to report that a resident, Robert Rathburn, had shot and killed a neighborhood dog for wandering onto his property. Though no arrests were made in connection with the incident, the neighbors reported that the resident has a history of violent and disruptive behavior. Police have not commented on any accusations.
Next to the article was a photo of a strange-looking man. He appeared similar to the man whose throat had been cut in bed; the man that Dan had pissed on. As he stared at the photo, his heart quickened as he realized he was looking at the psycho himself.
“Jesus fucking shit,” he whispered.
So, “R” stood for Robert. Robert Rathburn. What were the fucking odds he would read this story; right here, right now?
“What the fuck?”
He swept the newspaper onto the floor, and then stood, his hand covering his mouth in revulsion. He began pacing, nervously clenching his fists as he remembered his ordeal at the hands of the man whose face stared back at him in black and white. He had come so close to death, he realized; not only during his captivity, but even before that. Robert had been stalking him; scoping him out and fantasizing about how he was going to kill him.
Load him up painkillers and watch him withdraw, the journal had said. Pure, unadulterated torture before the final killing blow—whatever that was.
“Fuckfuckfuckfuck,” he droned.
He suddenly felt sick. He stopped and rested his hands on the Hummer’s hood, hanging his head as the acidic burn of nausea trickled into his mouth. Though his stomach churned, he forced the feeling away, taking deep breaths to calm himself.
“No fucking puking,” he said. “No fucking puking.”
As the bile returned to his stomach, Dan realized he needed some air. He pulled up the door enough to duck under, going to the concrete wall of the garage and looking out over the ruins. His mind raced with thoughts of the psycho; the way he appeared in his mutated form, and the way he had been following him—even after his own infection.
But how could Robert still be sentient and vocal after mutating to such a horrid form? Why did everyone else become mindless monsters, while he seemed to be become some strange, horrific mutant that could still think and speak?
Perhaps there was a difference in how the pathogen infected different people. If there were Shufflers, Shamblers, Stalkers, and other unknown types, then he supposed someone who was already a nutjob would be affected differently. Robert himself had said he, and people like him, were completely compatible with the gene altering effects of the infection. They would evolve to a higher form of life; something powerful and alien.
That meant Robert was not the only one.
“Holy fuck,” Dan said, realizing how many psychopaths there were in the world.
The Middle East was full of them. Even among the average goat-fuckers that destroyed everything they touched, there were those particularly hostile and crazy fucks like ISIS, who ran around chopping the heads off of college students, and shooting women in the head for wearing a red jacket in public.
How many of those sickos were there now?
How many serial killers in the US were now out there killing the remainder of humanity unchecked; all mutated and invincible? There could literally be millions of them, Dan realized. Millions, as long as they weren’t susceptible to the deadly, initial infection. Psychos galore. But why was Dan immune? Why were Jake, Drew, and Vincent immune? How about the mercs, or the military? Did they have vaccinations? Did they know beforehand?
The questions were endless.
Dan cleared his head as best he could. There was no use dwelling on things he couldn’t change—or understand, for that matter. He needed a beer. That was that. There was a liquor store right down the block within his view. It looked fairly unmolested, and would probably have a good selection left; maybe even something other than jerky and canned food to munch on.
Dan went back to the Hummer, grabbing the 870p from the back, and the .45 from the passenger seat, sliding down the metal door. He stuffed the handgun in the back of his pants, slung the shotgun over his shoulder, and headed down the stairs.
The street was quiet. Dan stopped at the doorway to listen, disturbed by the strange stillness that hung over the block. He looked at the piles of rubble and stacks of overturned cars around him, searching for any signs of movement. Though he saw nothing, there was still a frightening feeling that he was being watched. Or perhaps he just felt that something was coming for him.
Or maybe, for fuck’s sake, he was just being paranoid. That was more likely.
Shaking his head, Dan wandered over to a wall of cars and stepped between them, squeezing through a narrow gap onto the sidewalk. The liquor store was just a half a block down. He stuck close to the buildings, keeping his eyes on the street and his shotgun ready. When he reached the liquor store, he cupped his right hand on the glass and peeked inside. It was dark, and only slightly cluttered.
He tested the door. It was locked. No problem. This was the end of world, and he had a shotgun. Nobody would give a shit.
He busted the door out with the butt of the 870p, reaching in to undo the deadbolt. He wasn’t sure why, but he did it anyway. He then stepped in; peering into the shadows, then remembered that his shotgun had a flashlight. He flicked it on. The store was completely untouched.
“Cool,” Dan whispered.
He lowered his shotgun, going to the nearest shelf to grab a bottle of Jim Beam. He squatted down in the aisle, cracking the bottle open and taking a deep swig.
“Oh, sweet liquid Jesus,” he sighed.
A scuffing noise caught his attention in the back of the store. He set the bottle down and quickly pulled up his shotgun. The flashlight flared on, and he swept it from side to side as he stalked forward slowly; ready to blast anything that came into view.
A face came into view.
He blasted it. Bottles shattered and liquor spilled to the floor in a wet shower of glass.
“Damn, mutha fucka!” he heard someone curse.
Someone that sounded like…
“Vincent?” he shouted into the darkness.
A black head poked around the corner, complete with a black bandana tied around it with the knot in the front.
“Dan?” Vincent said.
“What the fuck!?” Dan said, charging his friend as they recognized each other.
They bro-hugged, clapping each other on the back.
“Damn, dawg,” Vincent said, stuffing a handgun into his belt. “We thought you was dead.”
“Where are the others?”
Vincent shook his head. “They still at the compound,” he said. “I escaped two days ago. I been trying to find some other mutha fuckas to go back and get all them people out.”
Dan nodded. “How many are there?” he asked. “And where?”
“They’s at least a few thousand there,” Vincent said. “But they killin’ folk every day. Anyone who don’t swear allegiance to some dude… I forget his name. But they all at the campus. Uhh, Cyberinfra—somthin’ building.”
“Cyberinfrastructure?”
Vincent slapped him on the shoulder. “Yeah, dat’s it.”
So, he was right. That was good news. At least if Vincent hadn’t have arrived, he would have still been looking in the right place.
“Are the guys alright?”
“Yeah,” Vincent said. “They got Drew diggin’ graves and shit with some other people. Jake’s doin’ somethin’. I don’t know what it is, but he all fucked up when he comes back.”
“Are they giving him his medicine?”
Vincent nodded. “He got it with him. They don’t wanna deal with it but they keepin’ him alive for some reason.”
“Because he’s fuckin’ smart, that’s why.”
Vincent grinned. “He figured out how to get out,” he said. “But he didn’t wanna leave Drew. I promised them I’d come back.”
/>
“Then we need to get them out. All of them.”
“I’m with ya, dawg,” Vincent said. “But we can’t be goin’ in there all gung ho and shit. We need a plan, and some more people.”
“Right,” Dan agreed. “I saw some Army guys before, back in the downtown area. I wonder where they are now.”
“Shit,” Vincent said. “If they here, then they goin’ to the compound.”
Dan nodded. “Probably. We should scope out the compound. I’m parked up in the garage over there.”
“You got the Hummer?” Vincent asked.
“Sure do,” Dan replied. “And I brought the arsenal.”
Vincent grinned. “A’ight, nigga,” he said. “Let’s make a plan.”
Chapter Ten
Vincent sat in shock as he listened to Dan’s story. He was not only amazed, but sickened by the thought of Robert’s transformation, and what it meant for the people of the world. He cursed in revulsion when Dan described his appearance, and his seeming alien nature. It was almost too much for the hardened thug to handle.
But, he took it rather well, considering.
“I can’t believe you survived that shit, dawg,” he said. “I would have hung myself.”
“I thought about it,” Dan said. “I don’t know what was worse; the situation, or the torture.”
“A mutha fuckin’ harlequin mask?” Vincent said, shaking his head and swigging the whiskey. “That is some seriously fucked up shit.”
He passed Dan the bottle and went back to scanning the distant university with the binos. Dan took a swig, screwed the cap back on, and raised his own binos. The two of them searched the campus—what they could see of it—looking for a route through the cluttered city streets.
“I don’t know how we gonna get through with the Hummer,” Vincent said. “We may have to walk.”
Dan nodded. “That’s a possibility,” he said. “Either way, we’ll be on our own. The military squad I saw is nowhere to be found.”
