The Uncivil War Series Box Set

by B. T. Wright

  Colt chased after her, leaping forward to catch her by the heel just before she reached their son. Colt held on for dear life as she kicked wildly when Dylan came into view.

  “Dylan! Get Wesley out of here. Get to the truck, now!”

  Though distracted by clutching at Anna’s thrashing leg, Colt saw his boys escape through the front door. Anna screeched again, turning her vacant eyes back on him. His stomach dropped. He couldn’t let go, but she was strong—much stronger than any man he’d encountered, including those he’d wrestled in college.

  “Anna. Please, stop!” he pleaded with her.

  But she didn’t. When she finally ripped her leg free, she kicked Colt in the solar plexus, sending him scooting across the floor until his back hit a thick round wooden beam that ran the height of the two-story living room.

  Before he knew what was happening, she charged again. Out of instinct he ducked, and she flew over his shoulder, tumbling down the staircase to the basement below.

  Colt stood and peered into the darkness of the lower level. He was tempted to walk down to see if she was okay, but he remained. Then she rose from her prone state. Her arm was broken, with the bone pushing through the skin. The compound fracture didn’t even faze her.

  Upon her first step on the staircase, Colt ran for the open front door. He slammed it shut and locked it with the keycode combination from the outside. Giant two-story windows looked in on the home, and as he moved by, he caught Anna’s eyes. Staring in disbelief, Colt could not comprehend the sight before him. As she walked toward him, her arm remained stuck at an angle not accustomed to human anatomy. She reached with the opposite arm and ripped her forearm to the left, jarring it from where it was stuck.

  Watching, Colt waited for her to react. She did. She rushed directly at the window that Colt stood behind and threw her fists into the glass. Upon contact, the window cracked across the middle.

  Colt stumbled two steps back, and gripped the handrail of the decking. Upon stepping backward, he kicked his axe over in the process. When he bent down to retrieve it, Anna rushed the window again, and again the window cracked, now along the bottom. It was only a matter of time before it gave way.

  Colt jogged down the staircase that led away from the deck and ran for his truck. He threw the axe into the bed, but never took his eyes off the house. Her violent assault on the glass was ceaseless, and seemed nothing was going to stop her attack.

  Sitting in the driver’s seat, Colt looked to Dylan who held his brother to his chest as they both sobbed. Colt began to speak but swallowed his words. What could he say? Both had witnessed their mother, or what used to be their mother, vicious toward them, as well as their father. Their world would never be the same.

  Keys dangled from the ignition, as they always did; no reason not to leave them there. Colt spun the ignition and started his Ford F-150, still staring back at the house, back at Anna, who would not give up. A single tear welled up in his eye, but he wouldn’t allow it to fall. He had to be strong in front of his boys. But this situation was beyond comprehension, and this might be the last time he’d ever see his wife, even if it was only a shell of her former self.

  He refocused, let off the brake, and rolled away. Feeling his phone on his thigh in his front pocket, he leaned over and lifted it to call his brother. The phone rang four times, then went to voicemail.

  “Jacob. Call me back immediately, it’s—it’s Anna—” Colt stopped and looked to his boys. He couldn’t continue, not with them listening to the conversation. “Just call me back as soon as you get this.”

  The steep decline away from their house brought them to a gap where Colt stopped, and shoved the truck into park. He reached for the handle and opened the door.

  “Dad! What are you doing?” Dylan stammered.

  “I’ll be right back. Just hold on to your brother.”

  Colt walked up the dirt road which ran parallel to their property. He walked nearly 100 feet before stopping. He reached back to unsling his Browning from his back. Putting it tight against his shoulder, Colt pointed the barrel back at the house.

  I don’t know what you are, but you are not my wife. He stared down the sight and gritted his teeth. His aim locked on the oversized propane tank resting five yards from the kitchen wall. It was perfect, an easy shot for a marksman like him, but he lifted his jaw away, and sucked in breath. Come on. You can do this. She’s not Anna anymore. Just pull the trigger. But then, out of his left ear he heard it. More crying as his sons looked on. They would witness his next decision and carry it with them always.

  Colt raised the barrel. He couldn’t do it, he couldn’t murder her, even if there was no semblance of what she used to be. There was too much history, too much love.

  When he walked back to the truck, Wesley peered up from Dylan’s chest and asked, “Dad, where’s Mommy?”

  Dylan locked eyes with his father, waiting for Colt to speak. He couldn’t lie, not with Dylan knowing the truth.

  “Gone, son. She’s gone.”

  Then Colt drove away from the only life the boys had ever known.

  3

  The sun was getting lower in the sky, only peeking above the line of fourteeners stacked in the western sky. Colt looked over at Dylan, then Wesley, who leaned on his older brother. Dylan held his gaze westward, resting against the window and staying silent. Colt could only imagine what was running through his mind. What thirteen-year-old could comprehend this? None.

  Colt wished to speak, to give his son hope, to express wisdom. But this lacked understanding. And if what Jake said was true, and more had become what Anna had become, then things would turn dire, and hopefulness would fade like the passing breeze.

  Turning his attention back out the windshield, Colt stared up on the hill. His neighbor, if you call someone with his own fifty-acre property a neighbor, was driving up his driveway.

  “Walker,” Colt spoke, if only to himself.

  Walker Gantry was in his early seventies—a Vietnam vet with a prickly demeanor. Colt hadn’t said much to him over the past few months since he’d once yelled at Dylan while he was driving their four-wheeler. Dylan had accidentally careened onto his property as he swerved to miss a fox that scooted across the roadway directly in front of him. Walker had seen the incident and yelled down from his house before coming over and chewing out Anna and the boys while Colt was away in town.

  Colt’s focus shifted from his neighbor when his phone vibrated. He pulled it out and saw it was his brother.

  “Jacob, you got my message? What the hell is going on?”

  “Is everything okay? Anna and the boys? Are they all right?”

  Colt’s mouth was glued shut. He turned to look at his son’s as emotion struck again. Just hearing her name brought on a paralyzing sentiment.

  “Me and the boys, we . . . we just left the house.”

  “And Anna?”

  Colt lifted the phone away from his ear and brought it down to his chin. He looked to the ceiling of his truck and stuffed the tears back down.

  When he returned the phone to his ear, Jake spoke again. “She was infected?”

  “Yes.”

  “Shit, Colt.”

  Colt ground his teeth, pissed that his wife had been taken over, by this, this pandemic. “What are these things, Jacob?”

  “I’m not sure. It’s spreading like a virus, but . . .”

  “But what?”

  “It’s just strange, is all. How the whole thing started.”

  “You know how it started?”

  “Doesn’t matter. All I can tell you is I know a doctor who is in DC with the president right now. She said our entire military is gone. And not just ours, countries all over the world are reporting the same thing. That their armed forces were infected first.”

  Colt stalled. He couldn’t believe his ears, and he spoke out of speculation. “So, what? This is a terrorist attack? Bio-chemical warfare that turns people into . . . zombies? That doesn’t make sense. What good woul
d that do the terrorists if the entire world was infected?”

  “You’re right, it doesn’t make sense. But maybe something went wrong. Maybe whoever did this didn’t mean for it to have the effect that it had. Or didn’t mean for it to spread this wide.”

  “How widespread is it?”

  “Wide as it gets. Right now I’m holed up in an attic, surrounded by the bastards. Where are you?”

  “We just left the house.” Colt paused, looking up at Walker’s house. “I might stop by the neighbors and make sure everyone is all right. After that . . . who knows.”

  Jake paused on the other end. Then came back. “Colt my contact in DC is calling. I have to take it. We are going to do our best to get to DC and try to figure this thing out. I know it’s a long way for you, but I don’t know what else to tell you.”

  “Listen, little brother. The power could go out at any time, cell service too. I suggest you find an old CB radio somewhere. I’m sure that’s the way the government will have to contact everyone. Might be the only communication soon. We’ll do our best to get to DC, but that’s a lot of road. Not sure what we’ll run into.”

  “Be careful, Colt.”

  “You too, Jacob.”

  Colt hung up the phone and peered back toward Walker’s driveway. That snake. Should I warn him? He doesn’t deserve it. It was true there was no love lost there. Colt continued to drive, nearing Walker’s driveway. As he followed the road around the corner, he was about to pass, but stopped instead. He was reminded of his own words to his brother. It was humane to check on him.

  “What are you doing?” Dylan turned his attention away from the mountains.

  Colt glanced up the long driveway, then spun the wheel to the left and climbed.

  Dylan persisted. “Dad. What are you doing?”

  “Warning Walker. He may not deserve it, but . . . I can’t just leave him.”

  But as Colt drove, they came upon Walker’s old Chevy, which was stopped halfway up the drive, precisely where Colt had seen him driving from far off. Colt’s mouth fell open. “What the—”

  “Why’s he stopped there, Dad?” Wesley said.

  Colt shoved the gearshift into park and let his F-150 idle. He waited a moment and gathered his bearings, glancing up toward the house, searching for any sign of movement because the Chevy appeared empty. Colt reached down and unbuckled his seatbelt. Grabbing the grip of his Glock, he lifted the handgun free to set it on the dashboard. “Only in an emergency.” He looked to Dylan, then nodded to the gun.

  “Dad, no. Don’t go,” Wesley begged.

  Colt reached for the door handle and got out. As he held his door open, he lifted his Browning and gave one last fleeting glance to his boys. “I’ll be back,” he said, then gingerly shut the truck door and proceeded to the backend of the Chevy.

  It was quiet. Even for the mountains, where you’re unlikely to encounter another human being unless you mean to. But this was different. Even the sound of nature was absent. No chirping birds. No wind rustling through the leaves of the aspen trees. Nothing.

  He took one step. Then another.

  As Colt crept along the passenger side of the Chevy, he glanced to the house perched on the hill. There was no movement. Why was the truck still there, stalled? Were his eyes playing tricks on him from the road? He swore Walker had been heading up his driveway. Maybe Colt was in a state of shock? But he would’ve staked his life savings that the Chevy was in motion.

  Nearing the passenger door, he reached for the handle to push in the button, but as he got close, as he was about to thumb the switch, Walker made himself known.

  The old man rose from the bench seat and put his hands on the steering wheel at ten and two. Something felt off. Colt lifted his hand away from the button, then rapped on the window as Walker stared forward.

  “Walker.”

  But the old man didn’t acknowledge his call. Colt never knew him to be hard of hearing. Perhaps he was lost in thought.

  Colt knocked again. “Walker. You alright in there?” Colt grasped his Browning tighter now, not knowing what to expect.

  Walker’s mouth fell open, and he turned his head slowly—inch by inch—until his cold black eyes stared back at Colt.

  “Holy shit.” Colt backed away, struck in disbelief. He lifted his rifle, aiming it Walker’s head. “Walker, you just . . . just stay there.” Colt warned, but deep down he knew this thing wouldn’t listen.

  Like a ball being shot from a canon, Walker lurched forward, head butting the glass of the passenger side window.

  Colt kept his aim locked. Soon Walker, or whatever this thing was, would break free and reach for him. Instantly he was reminded of what Jake had said. Jake witnessed one of these things ripping the throat from a young boy. As he stared at Walker, he imagined that young boy being Dylan, or Wesley, and there was no way he would let that happen.

  One more thrust of his head and Walker broke through the window. Shattered glass stuck in Walker’s thinning hair as he looked up. Colt didn’t hesitate, he wouldn’t allow another attempt at his life. He squeezed the trigger and sent the bullet directly through Walker’s skull. From that distance, with the caliber of his bullet, there was little left of him as his body tumbled back onto the bench seat of his truck.

  Colt looked to his own truck. Both sons stared at him through the windshield. They’d witnessed the entire thing. As he looked into their eyes, fear was fixed on their little faces. Wesley dropped down, huddling into Dylan’s chest. Dylan continued to stare at his father, but his eyes were glazed over. Colt knew it then: the innocence of youth was gone.

  Dropping into the driver’s seat, Colt set his rifle on the floor next to his right leg. There was silence until Wesley reached for his father, and wrapped him tight around the mid-section, squeezing with all his might.

  “It’s okay, buddy.” But it wasn’t. And Wesley wouldn’t let go.

  Colt held onto him. We can’t stay here. Colt knew they wouldn’t be safe in the truck overnight, and it would be dark soon. As Colt spun around to look out the back window to the west, he knew they had to find shelter. Since Walker lived alone, Colt figured the best place to hunker down for the night would be his house.

  Colt reached over his son’s head and lowered the gear into drive. The driveway wasn’t wide, and Colt would need to off-road up the side of the sloped driveway to climb beyond Walker’s Chevy. The tires of the F-150 caught the shoulder of the incline, and Colt turned the wheel to the left as the truck tilted on the axis of the rising property and continued.

  When they passed the Chevy, Colt kept his eyes forward as Wesley pushed his face deeper into his father’s side. But curiosity got the better of Dylan. He glanced back to witness the blood spatter engulfing the inside of the cabin.

  The switch-backing driveway rose until they reached the perched house—an A-frame cabin with a tuck-under garage. The garage was topped with a deck that stared westward to showcase the view of the mountains in the distance.

  Colt stopped and glanced at his sons. “We’re going to stay here tonight.”

  Dylan leaned forward and stared out the windshield but remained quiet.

  Just as Colt reached for the door, Wesley grabbed tighter. “No. No. I don’t want to go, I want to go home, I want to see Mommy.”

  Colt rubbed his son’s back to calm him. “Shh, I know you do, buddy, but . . .” he stalled.

  “Mom’s dead,” Dylan said abruptly, then swung the passenger door open and stormed out.

  “Dyl—” Colt wished to stop him, but Wesley looked up at his father from his lap, his eyes misty. Colt forced a smile through the emotion that struck him. “It’s just for tonight, okay,” Colt whispered, but that smile faded at another sound. Only one word, a shout from his eldest son.

  “Dad!”

  4

  Three mountain lions crept close to Dylan, tracking him after he stepped outside. Their eyes were piercing yellow. All six focused on Dylan as he trembled. As Colt assessed the situat
ion, he recalled two things: mountain lions are solitary animals. And they never let themselves be seen. This scenario was disconcerting, and their behavior uncharacteristic as they snuck closer, almost circling Dylan, sizing him up before they pounced.

  Grabbing the Glock from the dashboard, Colt leaped out and fired three shots into the air. The mountain lions shuddered but didn’t retreat. Their attention shifted to Colt. He pointed the Glock toward them, but as he adjusted his grip, he realized the .40 caliber rounds wouldn’t likely stop them. Especially if they worked in unison. The likelihood he would get more than one shot off if attacked was dubious.

  With the mountain lions’ attention off Dylan, Colt spoke out of the side of his mouth, “Dylan, walk to me. But come slow.”

  Upon his first step, rocks shifted beneath his feet. The lions’ attention returned to Dylan, and the closest let out a growl. Dylan went rigid, and Colt stepped closer to his son, aiming the Glock. It was decision making time. Should Colt shoot the lion who roared, clearly showing dominance over the other two by his action—or should he run to cover his son as the lions tore through his flesh, devouring him for a meal?

  Before Colt could act, a thunderous cacophony echoed amongst the trees and mountains. Disoriented by the sound, the mountain lions took one step back, then another. But Colt didn’t believe they were withdrawing from the fight; perhaps it was a trap for him to let his guard down.

  Colt stepped forward again. He blew anger through his teeth as the lions fell further back into the property. It wasn’t until they disappeared into the forest that he dropped the raised pistol and ran to his son.

  Colt held Dylan tight, while peering over his shoulder, waiting for the lions to reappear. They didn’t. And when Colt pushed out of the hug, the noise from overhead grew louder, rising from the north and west.

  An AgustaWestland AW139 helicopter was bookended by two Bell UH-1N’s. They flew low in the sky and in-formation. Air Force? Colt thought. He and Dylan looked to the blueish-orange sky above and waved their arms.