H7N9- The Complete Series

by Mark Campbell

  Dark blood pooled around the sergeant and Teddy could tell that he was close to passing out.

  “I’m pretty busted up,” Parham said woozily as he turned his attention back towards Teddy. “If you’re going to run, I won’t stop you. Hide behind that silo across the street and you’ll probably be safe until back-up arrives.”

  “And you?” Teddy asked.

  “I’m not going anywhere,” the sergeant responded flatly. He stared down at the gun in his hands. “I’ll hold them off.”

  “You’ll die.”

  “I’m dead either way,” he said as he motioned at his fractured leg. “Either by their bullets or by bleeding out.”

  “But you—”

  “Go!” Parham growled. “Hide!”

  Teddy looked at the silo.

  Escape was tempting, but he had to get back to the camp; Ein was still stuck inside.

  Besides, Teddy thought, he had never run from a fight before and he sure as hell wasn’t going to let a bunch of fucking militant farmers make him turn tail and run.

  Teddy looked up at the Humvee.

  It was his only chance.

  He reached up and grabbed the driver-side door handle and pulled himself up, crying out in pain.

  “The engine’s shot to hell,” the sergeant said in a disheartened tone. “You’re wasting your time.”

  Teddy ignored him and pushed himself to keep moving through the pain. He peered through the door’s broken window.

  A bullet-riddled officer sat back in the driver’s seat with his head hung out of the window. His dead eyes were rolled up in their sockets and stared vacantly up towards the sky. Two more corpses sat slumped over in the back of the vehicle. Legs dangled in the middle of the Humvee from the rooftop turret nest—the gunner had attempted to crawl out but was too slow.

  The sound of the militiamen’s trudge through the corn grew closer.

  Teddy opened the driver-side door, pulled the officer out, and let him flop to the ground.

  The corpse made a meaty smack as it landed next to the sergeant.

  Parham winced and tried to edge away. “What are you doing? Are you trying to get shot? The motor’s shot! It’s not moving!”

  Teddy ignored both the sergeant and his body’s painful protest. He crawled inside the vehicle and towards the center. He grabbed the gunner by his legs and yanked him down.

  The gunner’s corpse slunk inside through the hole and landed hard. Gore splattered from his emboweled body.

  Teddy wiped the blood off of his face and climbed up the steel rungs into the turret nest.

  He had to keep going.

  He had to keep moving.

  Up in the turret’s nest, Teddy grabbed the .50 CAL’s handle grips and pointed it down at the field.

  A row of six militiamen were only fifteen yards away from the road and every last of them stopped at the sight of Teddy as he aimed his weapon towards them.

  Fear washed across the men’s faces. They had not thought anybody was still in fighting condition and certainly had not figured that anyone would be dumb enough to come out of cover after what they did to the officer who had tried surrendering.

  The militiamen brought their hunting rifles and shotguns up to their shoulders, but Teddy was faster.

  RAT-A-TAT-TAT-TAT

  Four of the militiamen were flung backwards as the large caliber rounds tore baseball-sized holes through their bodies.

  The other two scuttled on all fours and took cover in the crushed corn as Teddy kept firing relentlessly.

  Chunks of earth flew up in the air along with broken corn stalks as the rounds pummeled all around them.

  One man’s head shattered open like a rotten pumpkin as one of Teddy’s rounds found its mark.

  The final militiaman lost his resolve. He dropped his weapon and made a mad dash back towards the trucks.

  Back at the center truck, the fat man climbed out of the cab and crawled back up into the elevated bed where the machinegun was welded down.

  Teddy pointed his .50 CAL towards the gunner before the man had a chance to fire.

  The pick-up truck bucked and rocked as rounds punched through it. The driver splattered onto the dashboard and spurted out the windshield.

  The fat gunner seemed taken by surprise as rounds socked him in the gut and caved in his chest. His plump lips formed an ‘O’ as blood gushed out of him.

  Teddy kept firing at the truck, fearful that one of the others would climb up into the bed and take the fat gunner’s place.

  After several rounds into the engine block, something caught and the entire truck erupted into a massive fireball.

  Teddy palms were bleeding and his arms were numb. The .50 CAL’s kickback was overwhelming despite being attached to the Humvee. Spent brass casings flew everywhere and cordite blew back in his face. He wanted to turn the weapon and fire towards the other two trucks, but his vison grew blurry and his legs gave way.

  Teddy let go of the guns and sat back against the turret rail, trying to steady himself.

  He knew that he lost too much blood and he knew that he was about to pass out.

  As his blurry vision started to fade to white, he saw the remaining two militia pick-up trucks speeding away in a frenzy. They left the burning husk of the gunner’s rig behind along with their dead sprawled out in the ravaged cornfield.

  The last sensation Teddy felt was falling before he lost consciousness.

  CHAPTER 12

  Hours later, Teddy awoke in an unfamiliar bed in an unfamiliar room.

  The windowless walls were painted a pale blue, and harsh white fluorescents washed everything in cold, clinical light. A strong smell of chemical disinfectant hung in the air, and seemed to stick inside his nostrils.

  On one of the walls a framed poster hung prominently next to a medical chart of the human skeletal system.

  His eyes lingered on the poster as his vison went in-and-out of focus. The poster’s background image showed a pallid man wearing a surgical mask and the superimposed text in front read:

  KNOW THE SIGNS – STAY ALIVE!

  Cough? Fever? Body Aches? Report it!

  Early Treatment and Medical Intervention Can Save Your Life!

  Teddy scoffed—he knew exactly how far early treatment and intervention got folks. He groaned and tried to raise his head, but doing so took herculean effort. His head felt unusually heavy. There was a strange metallic taste in his mouth. He felt lightheaded as if he had been drinking. The pulsing, gut-wrenching pain that he had experienced earlier had been reduced to a minor, insignificant throb.

  I’ve been drugged, he thought through a thick mental haze.

  Teddy’s clothes had been replaced with a flimsy white gown—he was lying on a gurney that had its steel rails pulled up to keep him from rolling over. An IV fed into his left forearm. Wires and probes were attached to his skin and were connected to monitors situated on a cart nearby.

  No, not drugged—sedated, he realized.

  His eyes found a door located on the wall at his feet.

  He had to get out of there.

  Teddy tried to move, but the drugs had left his body quite inert. He squirmed weakly on the bed. After struggling against the sedatives for a few minutes, he grew exhausted, closed his eyes, and lay still.

  “I was wondering when you’d wake up,” a voice said from the corner of the room. “I wasn’t sure how much shit they pumped into your system.”

  Teddy’s eyes opened swiftly, and he turned his head toward the voice.

  Lt. Hock sat slouched in a recliner positioned next to a small side-table over in the corner. He still wore his dress uniform, but his face looked troubled—his mind elsewhere. An unlit cigar hung out the corner of his mouth and he idly flicked open his lighter’s lid and then thumbed it closed again.

  “I remember you from the train,” Teddy said in a dry voice.

  “And I remember you.”

  “What do you want?” Teddy asked, frowning. “Where am I?”
<
br />   Hock rose from the recliner and stretched. He slowly started to walk towards the bed while continuing to flick his lighter. He stared down at Teddy—as if mulling this over in his mind. “They said that you took quite a blow,” he said, ignoring both of Teddy’s questions. “You lost a lot of blood.”

  The lieutenant walked around Teddy’s bed and then stopped next to his bandaged leg.

  Teddy’s eyes followed him.

  “What do you want?” Teddy asked again.

  Hock flicked open his lighter, spun the spark wheel, and held the flame just below his cigar. He methodically rolled the cigar between his fingers until the tip glowed orange. As he took the initial puffs and put the lighter away, he stared down at Teddy once more.

  Teddy was starting to get irritated by the man’s deliberate slowness and his lack of answers.

  Hock took his first drag and held onto the flavor like a wine connoisseur enjoying a vintage bottle. As he blew the smoke up towards the ceiling, he smiled.

  The cloying smell of the cigar filled the room and made Teddy cough.

  Teddy had had enough. “Tell me what you want!”

  “Do you think they’re making anymore Churchills?” Hock asked.

  Teddy was taken aback by the nonsensical question. “What?”

  “Churchills,” Hock repeated. He took the cigar out of his mouth and held it out towards Teddy. He rolled it between his fingers. “If you get the right brand, then they have a woody flavor that hits the pallet just right.” He paused and put the cigar back in his mouth. “Do you smoke, Mr. Sanders?”

  “No.”

  “Pity,” the lieutenant said. He blew another puff of smoke up at the ceiling. “I’d wager that it’s too late for you to enjoy one of life’s most heavenly vices. The unfortunate truth is that I don’t believe that anybody is making Churchills anymore, do you?”

  “I reckon not,” he answered rather flatly, waving a hand in front of his face to try and get away from the smoke.

  “I reckon not,” Hock repeated. “Fine cigars are in very short supply… I only have three left. Can you believe that? Only three left…”

  Teddy’s vision was starting to float in and out of focus as he stared up at the lieutenant. “Is there a point to your rambling?” He cupped a hand over his strained eyes.

  “My point, Mr. Sanders, is that I’d trade most of my paltry army of meritless milksops for one more box of cigars,” Hock said irritably.

  Teddy remained silent with his hand over his eyes, listening.

  “You see, Mr. Sanders, the majority of the men and women under my command are inexperienced cowards, but there are a few who stand out… Despite the horrible hand God has dealt me, there are a few cards worth holding onto. Parham, as obnoxious as he can be, is one of my better sergeants. He’s admittedly crass in his methods, but he keeps the slobs under him in line.”

  Teddy lowered his hand and looked up at him.

  Hock took another drag of his cigar and then looked down at Teddy.

  “When the bus was attacked two civilians from your detail escaped, but you stayed behind and did what you didn’t have to do,” Hock continued somberly.

  “What happened to them?”

  “To whom?”

  “The two civilians who escaped.”

  “They were chipped so we tracked them down and executed them, but they’re of no consequence,” he waved his hand dismissively. “What matters is that thanks to your actions, I still have one of my best men.”

  “I didn’t do anything for him,” Teddy curtly replied. “I was just protecting my own ass.”

  Hock gave a passive smile. “Perhaps, but I don’t think that matters. The thing that matters is that you have grit.”

  “Grit?”

  “Courage, mettle, fortitude,” the lieutenant elaborated. “Whatever you want to call it, you have it—you displayed it. Blood is a precious resource and I would have never given you so many liters of it if I didn’t see your true potential. Any other civilian would’ve been one more body for the pit, but you have grit.”

  “I was just doing what needed to be done.”

  “Exactly.” Hock blew another puff of smoke towards the ceiling and then knowingly waved a finger at him. “It appears that I misjudged you on the train, Mr. Sanders.”

  “Why are you telling me this?” Teddy asked.

  “I came here to do more than just give you my thanks,” Hock answered as he rolled the cigar between his calloused fingers. “You see, circumstances are forcing me to recruit from within the camp’s population.”

  “What sort of circumstances?”

  Hock simply took another puff and then blew the smoke up and away. “I want you out of that work crew and in a uniform. I need someone like you.”

  Teddy was awestruck by the unexpected proposal. Having spent so many years on the wrong side of iron bars, he had never imagined becoming one of the people who held the keys. This was something he had never asked for—nor did he find this proposal particularly appealing.

  To him, the lieutenant’s offer was a nonstarter.

  He had never worn ink back in Tucson and had never joined a gang just to survive—he sure as hell wasn’t going to join one now that he was out.

  Plus, how could he work with the likes of Parham?

  It’d never work out and his temper would only earn him a spot on the gallows.

  Hock studied Teddy’s expression and looked like he was trying to get a read. He gave up and sighed. Thick ashes hung off the tip of his cigar. “Unfortunately, the doctor wants to spend some time with you after you heal up so I can’t take you quite yet.”

  “What doctor?” Teddy asked with a confused expression.

  Hock took his cigar and tipped the ashes towards Teddy’s bandaged leg. “When he’s finished doing whatever the hell he does down there and releases you back to my custody, we’ll talk again.”

  Teddy furrowed his brows and tried to make sense out of what he was saying. “What doctor?” he asked again, agitated. “Down where? What in the hell are you going about?”

  Before the lieutenant could answer, the door opened and a male nurse wearing blue scrubs entered the room pushing a medicine cart.

  The nurse appeared surprised at the sight of the lieutenant and came to an abrupt stop. “Sir…” He gave a nervous salute. “The doctor told me to administer some more hydromorphone. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

  “I was just leaving,” Hock said. “Go about your business.” He walked towards the door, puffing his cigar.

  The nurse held up a shaky finger. “Um, sir, you, uh, can’t smoke in here,” the nurse said awkwardly. “It’s, uh, clinic rules.”

  The lieutenant paused and cocked a brow at the young man. He took a long drag and blew smoke at the man’s face.

  “I won’t tell if you don’t,” the lieutenant said with a grin. He took another puff and left the room.

  “Asshole,” the nurse muttered very quietly under his breath as he pushed the cart towards Teddy’s bed. He brought out a small vial and a syringe as he fiddled with the IV port.

  “I need to speak to the doctor,” Teddy said.

  The nurse ignored him and pushed the syringe’s plunger in.

  “Are you deaf?” Teddy asked angrily. “I said that I need to… speak… to…” His words trailed off and his ears started ringing.

  “Sweet dreams,” the nurse said as he withdrew the spent syringe from the port and tossed it inside a red bin on his cart.

  Within seconds, Teddy’s world started spinning.

  He drifted off into a deep, drug-induced slumber.

  CHAPTER 13

  NOVEMBER 27th

  2:07 AM

  Mark Hammond was awoken by the sound of gunfire.

  He lifted his head from his desk and looked around the darkened study with a hungover, delirious gaze. The stubble on his cheeks had grown into a thin patchy beard. His wrinkled face and the whites of his eyes were yellowed with jaundice as his failing liver struggl
ed to keep pace with his unrelenting drinking.

  Restful sleep remained elusive and was a luxury that he hadn’t experienced for a very long time.

  Each time he attempted to sleep, the same nightmare played over and over in his mind:

  Laura, pale and deathly sick, staring up at him.

  The pillow, soft and supple, in his hands as he pressed it down on her face.

  Her nails digging into his forearms and her legs flailing as she struggled to hold onto whatever life she had left.

  The feeling of her body becoming limp as she succumbed.

  Hammond’s dreamless bouts of rest only came from the bottom of a bottle and at the expense of his rapidly dwindling health. Empty whiskey bottles covered his desk and lay shattered on the floor. The air was sour with the stench of old urine and spilled alcohol, but his nose had already become accustomed to it.

  Hammond smacked his dry, cracked lips and stared at the empty glass on his desk.

  He frowned, and reached for the bottle tucked away in his desk drawer.

  He stopped when he remembered that he was already on his last few bottles and he didn’t think they’d bother restocking his personal supply anytime soon.

  Won’t be too much longer until I’ll be making rancid moonshine in my goddamn bathtub, he thought bitterly.

  Who was he kidding though?

  He’d happily drink moonshine, rubbing alcohol, or anything else that took his mind off of the pain even if only for a little bit.

  He withdrew his hand away from the drawer and his heavy eyelids started to shut once again.

  He heard more gunfire—closer.

  Hammond’s eyes shot open and he forced himself to stand up. He tied his soiled robe and shuffled towards the study window with one hand pressed against his aching lower back.

  At the window, he peered down at the moonlit ground below.

  A black Chevrolet Suburban with blue police lights flashing in its grille had rammed through a section of the fence and wove in-and-out of the road in a wild circular motion. Its frontend was buckled and the driver-side front tire had been blown off.

  Two more Suburbans sped out of the vehicular sally port and gave chase.