The Infected (Book 4): Death Sentence Page 11

  Scott shuffled to his desk, recharged with energy for his new task.

  Paul had read in a leadership book once that one part of being a good leader is to pile on as many responsibilities as possible. If you almost drowned them with work, it keeps them too busy to ask questions.

  He zipped down the list. Reading each name in the hopes one would be recognizable.

  Maybe Eric went to visit a friend.

  Or maybe one of the others on his team wanted to stop and get someone.

  He got three quarters through the list before one of the names popped - Penny Winfield.

  Why does that name look familiar?

  Paul dug though his memories and cursed that last drink. It was someone in the last day. Not from this church.

  When did I see that name?

  He was sure it was someone he had talked to recently. Paul faced his desk and picked up the folder from the people he interviewed and released back into Vancouver. He thumbed through the pages. Each one had a license stapled to their background report. He turned one more page and found what he was looking for.

  Jim Blackmore.

  Brother Paul remembered him quite well. He had saved the three others he was traveling with and was on his way to his apartment to be with his family. Penny was Jim’s mother-in-law.

  “What are the odds?” he whispered to himself. Jim was a good man, strong, well-armed and had a tough crew with him. Perhaps he made it home, gathered the family and raced across town for his mother-in-law. “I gave him a radio. Perhaps I should give Jim a little call. See if he knows anything about Eric?”

  Gunfire erupted on the western front of the perimeter. The radio on Scott’s desk squawked and a panicked voice yelled over the tiny speaker, “A large horde is coming! We need back up!”

  Brother Paul blasted out of his chair. “Sound the panic alarm! We need every able body now!”

  An alarm rang. A tired set of hands picked up the egg timer and clicked it off. Dana could smell the delicious cookies. She didn’t need the bell to tell her they were done. She only set it so she wouldn’t fall asleep while she waited for them to bake. The clock on the oven claimed it was ten fifteen in the morning.

  “This is going to be another long day,” Dana told herself.

  She clicked on the oven light. The cookies were a perfect golden brown. This baked good was a guarded family recipe, created by her grandmother back in the fifties and according to the funny old broad only a select few would ever get to know the secret to what Granny affectionately called, Monster Cookies. The mix called for chocolate chips, shredded coconut, brown sugar, Cheerios along with other traditional cookie ingredients. But the most important ingredient, according to Granny, was love.

  When Granny’s time was coming to a close she finally passed on the exact recipe to Dana. The eccentric matriarch required her granddaughter to swear on a stack of cookbooks that she would bake the cookies often, but keep the recipe a family secret. Dana remembered when Granny handed her the worn index card with faded hand written instructions on it. She never told anyone this, but when she touched the card for the first time she could feel an electric charge course through her fingertips.

  Dana kept her promise and baked Monster Cookies so often she had memorized the recipe. Thank goodness she did because the legendary three by five inch piece of paper was tucked away in Dana’s kitchen on the other side of town. As she slid the oven mitt on to her hand she realized something. She had no one to pass Monster Cookies on to. Her family had been ripped apart when both of her sons and her husband died three years ago in a tragic car accident. For a long time she wished she had been taken with them. If it wasn’t for the church adopting her as a surrogate mother she would have…well she didn’t want to think about what she would have done.

  I baked these blasted things to make myself feel better.

  Not to tear open old wounds.

  It was too late. Her sorrow was as piping hot as the cookies themselves. Dana opened the oven door and a wave of dry heat smacked her in the face.

  No grandchildren means there’s no one to swear on a stack of cookbooks.

  She fought back her tears as she reached for the cookie sheet. Dana knew the exhaustion and stress were fueling these emotions and the batch of Granny’s Monster Cookies didn’t help matters.

  Why the heck did I bake these cookies?

  As she lifted the hot pan from the oven’s rack she realized why her subconscious picked this tasty treat to make for the children of the church. The logic became clear. Most of the children lost their grandparents this week.

  I can’t replace them all, but maybe there will be a child, one that falls in love with the story of the secret recipe and the cookie itself, so I can keep this family tradition alive a little longer.

  The idea was silly but it gave her hope. Dana was halfway to the counter when the church’s P.A. speakers chirped and Scott’s panicked voice yelled.

  “We need every able body to the western field now! We are under attack!”

  The sharp jolt made Dana jump. She lost her grip on the pan and the Monster Cookies fell. Every round treat was lost to the dirty kitchen floor. Dana was upset that she ruined her precious treats, but her emotions were quickly overcome with a new sensation.

  Fear.

  Brother Paul raced across his office toward a closet as Scott called in the alarm over the churches P.A. system. Paul swung open the closet door and grabbed a black tactical vest loaded with extra magazines, a Glock 17 and a Ka-bar. He slid into the vest and zipped it up. A semiautomatic rifle hung from a rack inside the closet. Paul grabbed it, checked the mag and clicked off the safety.

  Paul sprinted out of his office and down the hall. More than ever he regretted asking Dallas to go after his brother. He entered the medical station and armory. The place was a flurry of bodies, snagging rifles and handguns. He darted for the door and fell into the ranks with the others.

  Once outside, the battle on the western front was deafening. Along with screams of fear and the shouts of commands was the endless crack of gunfire. As Paul zoomed across the field the ground felt uneven.

  I really shouldn’t have had that last drink.

  He headed for the command bus. The shift leader would be stationed there and Paul wanted a status report. The others around him raced for the vehicles that made up the semi-circle around the back of the church. Once in position they opened fire.

  Paul climbed the ladder leaning against the rig and crested the roof of the bus. Eight others were already on top of the vehicle and didn’t notice his presence. They were busy emptying magazines into the infected as they emerged from the treeline. The monsters appeared in droves. Packs of twenty would burst through the brush all at once. There was a stack of dead bodies, two feet high running the full length of the property. Paul got both feet under him and tapped Connie McEntire on the shoulder. She flinched as if the infected were attacking from the rear. Connie bore a scar on her cheek that gave her a permanent frown. Five years ago she was attacked by a cougar while hiking. She saved herself with the corkscrew on her trusty Swiss Army knife. Connie trekked ten miles to the camp before she could get hold of 911. On the long walk back she held half of her face in position with a sleeve from her shirt. She was one of the toughest humans he had ever met.

  Paul screamed in her ear, “What can you report.”

  She lowered her rifle and yelled back at him. “A spotter team, stationed six blocks out, says there are thousands of them heading this way.”

  If those numbers were accurate Paul wasn’t sure they had enough firepower to take out a horde of that size. A group of fifty scrambled through the treeline. Brother Paul raised his rifle and opened fire. He recalled Dallas saying headshots were the only way to take them down. The scope mounted to his rifle made it easy to zero in on them, but they moved with such speed it was extremely difficult to land a kill shot. Before he knew it the rifle clicked empty. His heart was pounding in his chest and sounded louder than the barr
age of gunfire all around him. He couldn’t recall ever facing this level of terror in his life. He exchanged magazines just as a hundred more infected breached the treeline.

  Dear God in heaven, please see us through the day.

  He opened fire and prayed his shots would find their target.

  Chapter 13

  The heel of Jim’s boot crashed into the rain gutter. A few feet below was a rowdy, infected mosh pit, clamoring for the hunk of meat about to fall into their laps. Jim couldn’t believe it. He made it out of Portland, crossed Vancouver, fought hundreds of these things and now he was about to die because he fell off the roof like a dumbass husband in a bad sitcom. The screws holding the rain gutter popped and gave way. The thin sheet metal folded back from the eave. It offered no support and did nothing to slow him down. Jim clawed the roof as he desperately tried to keep himself from tumbling over the edge.

  “I got you!” a voice yelled as a set of hands wrapped around Jim’s wrist. His butt teetered on the lip of the roof. A bloody hand scratched at his foot. Gnarled fingers danced along the rubber tread of Jim’s boot. Jim looked up to see who saved him. Half of Leon’s body poked out the new hole in the roof. He laid completely flat against the shingles with his arms fully extended. His face was flush, his knuckles white and his expression baffling. For a moment Jim was sure Leon was about to let go.

  Leon’s balls throbbed. He didn’t want to leave the kitchen, but he felt compelled to once he realized how inappropriate it was to be standing there, fondling his sack, in front of Sara and Karen. It was a painful hike up into the attic, where he was startled by the gruesome-four-some of mannequins killers, but made it in time to hear a funny exchange between Jim and Cliff. Not that he would ever tell Jim it was a good joke, but it was pretty damn clever.

  We are going to need a bigger spear, classic.

  The second Leon stood up through the hole Jim was already sliding toward the edge like a doofus and before he could stop himself he reached out and saved Karen’s husband, like an even bigger doofus.

  He would have been ripped to shreds nice and easy with no blood on my hands.

  Then I would have been there to comfort her. Comfort her right into the bedroom.

  Damn it!

  So what if the sex with Karen was only mourner’s grief, fueled by ample amounts of vodka, and tripled by the fact they were all surely going to die soon.

  Sex with a widow, nice!

  It was the desperate kind of lonely sex Leon enjoyed best. That five minutes before the bar closes. The last ditch effort not to go home alone. When you snag a warm body, no matter her condition, take her home and pound her shamelessly. That was one of Leon’s top five favorite things to do.

  In the few seconds Leon was trying to think up a logical, good old fashioned, lie as to why Jim slipped from his fingers, Cliff, the stupid ball crushing hero, already scaled the roof and had a solid hold of Jim’s other hand.

  “Pull him up,” grunted Cliff as they strained to get Jim safe.

  Jim got both feet under himself and carefully crawled back to the opening in the roof. He locked his hand around the lip and tossed his spear in next to Leon. Jim pulled himself up next to Leon and anchored a leg into the hole.

  With both arms, Jim reached for Leon first and gave him one hell of a hug. “Thank you for saving my ass. I feel like such an idiot. Thank you, man. I owe you big.”

  As Jim let go of Leon and reached for Cliff to say the same thanks, Leon thought,

  Do you owe me enough to loan me Karen for the night?

  Probably not.

  Jim moved quickly into the safety of the attic. It was a cramped fit for him and Leon. Jim patted Leon on the shoulder. “Thanks again, partner.”

  “You’d have done the same.” Leon flashed him a dazzling smile. Or so he hoped. Leon tried his hand at gambling once he turned twenty-one, but he had the worst poker face. His eyes would bug out. Lips went sideways. Nose twitched. His friends, people at the casino, everyone he ever played against could instantly tell if he was holding a killer hand. He held his fake smile in the hope that Jim couldn’t tell he was full of shit.

  There it is again. Thought Jim.

  The look on this guy’s face, pure bullshit.

  Jim couldn’t read the guy. His actions said one thing, but his face kept saying something else. Jim chalked it up to the adrenaline coursing through his veins. It must be making him see things that aren’t there. “I’m going to look for rope in the garage.” Jim disappeared into the attic.

  Cliff hunkered down and sat his butt on the roof next to the opening. Leon leaned against the cut plywood. His free hand continued to cradle his sore sack. The view was devastating. There were so many infected crowded around the building that they could only see the top of Cliff’s van.

  Leon felt compelled to say something. “We are in a pickle.”

  Cliff’s face was blank and he glared into the distance. Leon traced his stare out to the van. Leon had an urge to share, to relate with this broken, hopeless man.

  If he hears about the shit I’ve been through maybe we’ll relate on some level.

  Leon started his tale. “When I was in my twenties I had this beautiful Russian girlfriend. She was as crazy as they come, but smoking hot. I was laying on my bed trying to get some sleep before my shift started at the bar. She got it in her head that it would be a great idea to jump on my back and surprise me with a massage.”

  Leon looked to see if Cliff was even paying attention and to his amazement the guy was all ears. “I wasn’t ready for the impact and she accidently drove her knee square on my spine. It hurt so bad I thought she broke my back. Within a week there was a bulge on my spine where the bruise had formed. I went to the doctor and paid him a hundred bucks to tell me I was just being a baby and to keep ice on it. A few days later I woke up and I couldn’t walk. I dragged my ass back to a different doctor and he finally discovered the bruise on my back was infected by some rare blood disease that had caused an abscess to grow on my spine.”

  Leon got a little more animated and released his ball sack so he could talk with both of his hands. “The abscess was like this giant bag of acid that started eating away at my first two vertebra. Oh, did I mention I didn’t have insurance and because I kept missing work they fired me. On top of all that, the crazy Russian, the one who started this whole mess, dumped me because and I quote.”

  Leon did a spot on Russian impression. ‘I don’t want to take care of baby man who can’t walk. Also you suck in bed.’ Leon wasn’t sure why he added that last part. The story would have been just fine without him admitting she thought he sucked in bed, but it just slipped out.

  He continued without a pause. “Now I’m jobless, single, evicted from my apartment and I still couldn’t walk. After an outrageous medical bill the doctor was able to get the blood disease cured and the abscess under control. Months of physical therapy and my legs got working again, but I’m broke, lonely and under a mountain of debt. I was a hopeless broken mess living in my car and all I wanted was for the world to come to an end. A decade and a half later my wish finally came true.” Leon blew out a mouthful of exhausted air.

  “How did you keep going?” Cliff’s tone was low and rough.

  Leon was taken back that his story was good enough to warrant a follow up question from someone so lost. Most people are only waiting for their turn to talk about how bad they’ve got it. Maybe it was because Leon already knew how bad Cliff’s life was and the man didn’t feel compelled to prattle on about his misery.

  Leon took a moment and focused his thoughts. “Well life has a funny way of just rolling. Try as you might, you can’t stop the sun from rising. After enough days in a row, the pain lessened and the new day had a different set of problems to solve.”

  Cliff’s head bobbed in the breeze as he contemplated.

  Jim rummaged through the endless piles of stuff in Penny’s garage. He was looking for a good length of rope. The adrenaline rush was tapering off and his ha
nds were no longer shaking. He had experienced so many jolts of the high-octane fear juice that he was getting used to it and this last spike dissipated in less than four minutes.

  “I hope I don’t become an adrenaline junky,” he whispered to himself.

  The soft and loving sound of Karen was at his back. “Better adrenaline than crack.”

  Jim could smell the hot cup of coffee calling his name as he turned to face her. “The only crack I’m addicted to, is the one in those jeans.” He reached for the steaming mug in Karen’s good hand.

  “Play your cards right and you might have an overdose tonight.” She waved her eyebrows at him. It was very common for the two of them to go on strange and drawn out make believe, fantasy like tangents, as they playfully discussed the possibility of having sex in the near future. They knew it was not the time or the place, but if Cliff and Tina’s tragic story taught them anything it was to live in the moment and love each other as much as possible.

  Jim set the cup on the workbench as he took Karen into his arms. “I remember the first time I took a hit.”

  “Yeah,” Karen’s body melted into his.

  “Euphoric, would be the best way to describe it and I’ve been chasing the dragon ever since.” Jim’s hands explored as Karen’s lips moved closer to his neck.

  “Well the first hit is always free. Now it’s time to pay the dealer.” Karen planted a wet kiss below Jim’s ear.

  He shivered with ecstasy. “How much does she charge?”

  She continued down the length of his neck and between each kiss she answered, “If you… have to ask… you can’t… afford it.”

  Jim’s eyes rolled back into his skull. “I’m willing to pay any price my crack dealer asks.”

  Sara cleared her throat as she entered the garage. “I don’t mean to interrupt you two weirdos.”

  The couple froze mid-make out. Karen’s mouth suctioned onto Jim’s neck. His hands spread out across her butt. Jim said, “Stay still. Her vision is based on movement.” Karen and Jim didn’t budge as Sara continued passed them.