The Infected (Book 4): Death Sentence Page 22

  Karen rested against the countertop. “We are not killers here, Shawna. It’s your church that shot up that van full of people. It’s your people that killed Frank.” Karen’s foundation, the base of humanity she was built on, was quickly crumbling away. “I’m going to ask you a few questions and whether you live or die will be completely up to you, okay?”

  “Okay,” Shawna shook her head.

  “Where are the keys to the bus?”

  “In his pocket.” Shawna pointed at Blaine.

  “Leon, can you drive that vehicle?”

  Leon perked up. “Absolutely.”

  “Can you get the keys from his pocket?” Karen asked Shawna.

  Shawna nodded again and reached for Blaine. He let out a groan. “I’m sorry.” She dug into his pocket and pulled out the radio first, dropped it on the floor next to Blaine, then she found the keys. She tossed them to Leon.

  “Sara, Leon, can you guys gather up all of the guns, weapons and that medical kit, then load them onto the bus?”

  “No problem.” Sara reached for the duffle bag on the counter and muscled it up onto her shoulder.

  “How long have these two been dead?” Karen pointed at Theo and Charlie.

  “A minute.” Answered Sara.

  Karen aimed Frank’s revolver at Theo’s skull. Boom! Then Charlie’s. Boom!

  Shawna screamed and ducked fearing she was next.

  “Sorry, I didn’t want them turning into one of those things. Okay, last question. We are heading out of here right now. You can stay in this house, alone with no weapons, or you can come with us and patch up my husband. It’s your choice.”

  Shawna’s bottom lip trembled, “Where are you heading?”

  Karen looked at her husband, “North, to Battle Ground. Jim’s folks have a big place out in the woods.”

  Shawna contemplated it for a minute and said, “Okay. I’m with you.” She pulled herself from the floor.

  Karen reached out to shake the woman’s hand, “I’m Karen.”

  Shawna took hold of Karen’s palm and gave it a shake. The blood on both of their hands made a nasty squishing sound. Neither of them gave a shit.

  A handful of minutes later the group headed out of the garage, loaded with gear and marching toward the bus.

  Leon tapped Karen on the shoulder. “You didn’t take care of that last guy with the machete in his back. Should I go?”

  Karen readjusted Robin in her arms as she answered. “He wasn’t dead yet and I don’t want to wait around for him to get there.”

  They climbed up into the bus and seconds later Leon had it in gear.

  A bloody set of fingers reached for the radio on the floor. Blaine pressed the call button. He sounded weak, but there was no lisp. “They killed Eric.” He let go of the button and waited for a response.

  Brother Paul answered the radio, ‘What happened? Where’s your team?’

  Blaine coughed up a cup of blood. It gushed from his lips. He pressed the button once more. “They killed everyone and took Shawna… They’re heading to Battle Ground… They’re going to his parents…” Blaine expired. The radio fell from his hand.

  ‘Blaine… Blaine! Dallas! Someone answer me right now!’

  The End.

  Thank you for checking out The Infected: Death Sentence. I hope you had as much fun reading it as I did writing it. It would mean the world to my family and I if you could take a couple of minutes and leave an honest review. Books on Amazon are measured by reviews and total downloads. The more reviews I can get the more people will have a chance to see my books. Then they too can join in on the fun of the Infected World I have created. When people see honest reviews it helps them decide if they want to take a chance on me. It also helps me figure out what I need to add or take away in the sequels to make future books even more fun. I check every review I’m given and they truly help me become a better writer. Thanks again for your time.

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  Sweet Home

  By Joseph Zuko

  Story by

  Josh McCullough & Joseph Zuko

  This is a work of fiction. Names and characters are fictitious, and any

  resemblance to actual persons, living or

  dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2016 Joseph Zuko

  All rights reserved

  Chapter 1

  It reeked of ungodly body odor inside the prison transfer bus. The smell reminded inmate number 7532 of a body he had kept for too many days. The hitchhiker he picked up on Highway fourteen had gone sour so fast.

  Inmate 2704, in the seat next to 7532, turned and whispered, “This weather is killing my arthritis.”

  7532 glanced at the old man’s gnarled hands. They were swollen and no longer bent at the knuckles. The old inmate’s name was Arthur Wright and he was on this bus for the same reason as 7532. Murder.

  7532 nodded at Arthur. Head shakes and nods were the prisoner’s main form of communication. He had chewed his tongue down to a nub several years ago. 7532 flicked his head back and attempted to whip his greasy locks out of his face. His stringy hair drove him insane. It was always getting in his face and blocking his view. The first week into his life sentence he had opened a guard’s throat and the warden put him on lockdown for six months and then heavy restriction for the remainder of his stay. Barber visits and other prison luxuries had been off limits from then on.

  Arthur grumbled, “I hope this fancy hospital we’re off to will give me some fucking pain killers.” He kept his voice low so the guard wandering up and down the aisle couldn’t hear. “I wanna feel absolutely nothing before I get to hell.”

  7532 smirked at Arthur.

  “Oh yeah, sorry. I forgot about your… condition,” Arthur said as he attempted to flex his fingers. He grunted in pain as he continued. “You don’t know how lucky you are, brother.”

  7532 raised an eyebrow and shook his head.

  Arthur looked beyond him, “Goddamn.”

  7532 tilted his head and gazed out the barred window. Snowflakes melted on the glass. Beyond the window was an endless forest of evergreens. The trees were solid white. A snowcapped mountain in the distance looked like a postcard. Dark clouds blocked out the sun, but 7532 knew they had left at eight a.m. and had been on the road for close to three hours. The sun should be directly above the bus.

  “That’s majestic. Stare at a concrete wall for thirty years and you forget how beautiful the world really is.” Arthur readjusted himself in his seat, “I hope we get there soon. I gotta take a shit.”

  7532 shifted his attention from his foul mouthed neighbor and studied the very tip of the mountain. He pondered what the world looked like from that vantage point. He could probably see for a hundred miles in every direction.

  Can I see a town from there? Then he wondered.

  How many people in that town could I add to The Reckoning?

  “Jacob?” Arthur whispered. 7532 didn’t turn his head from the window. Arthur spoke a little louder, “Jacob?”

  He snapped out of the daydream. It had been a long time since he was called by his first name.

  “How long did the quack give you?”

  Jacob held up his index finger.

  “A year?”

  Jacob closed his eyes and shook his head.

  “A month.”

  Jacob nodded.

  Arthur sucked at his teeth. “The good news is in thirty days you’ll be set free.”

  But it wasn’t good news. He wasn’t ready to die. His masterpiece wasn’t finished. Jacob was so many bodies shy of his goal. He had rotted in a cell for sixty-three months and now he was on his way to a hospital. The state planned to leave him shackled to a gurney until his number was
up.

  “I hope I can sweet talk a nurse, male or female I don’t give a shit, into cranking my peter one last time before I go. I’ve been grinding my dick raw on a mattress for ten years. Damn near whittled it away to nothing.” Arthur smiled revealing a mouthful of yellow stained teeth.

  Jacob grew weary of Arthur’s filth. He wished he could lean over and bite out his tongue to shut him up. He closed his eyes, placed his head on the backrest. The thought of not hitting the mark he had set for himself was devastating and weighed heavy on his mind.

  All that work. He thought. Was it for nothing?

  “Jacob,” Arthur whispered again. The convict opened one eyelid. His pupil drifted to the corner of his eye as he looked to Arthur.

  “Is it twenty-seven?”

  Jacob opened both eyes and stretched his neck.

  “Regan and I have cigs riding on this. Come on man,” Arthur asked sweetly. Doing his best to get the info and gain the upper hand.

  Regan Straight, inmate 6897 a.k.a. “The Clutch” as the newspapers called him, sat directly in front of them. His bald head reflected the overhead lights like a disco ball. A fresh scar ran from the top of his scalp, plummeting down the right side of his skull and stopping just below his ear. He cranked his neck to eavesdrop.

  Reckoning human souls was Jacob’s legacy. He surmised it was the reason people became doctors, airline pilots or the President. Holding a human’s life in your hand was real power.

  Jacob gave an upwards motion with his thumb.

  “Higher?” Arthur was taken back. “Damn boy, you were busy.”

  Regan turned back around in his seat. The game would continue.

  Nobody but Jacob knew the real number or the true goal that he had set for himself. For twenty years he collected human lives like someone might collect comics. It took real passion to amass the numbers he had.

  “The focus and determination… I wish I had that when I was in the game,” Arthur said as he licked his bottom lip. “I was all run and gun. Flying by the seat of my pants. Killing at random and leaving a damn mess everywhere I went. This one time I had this old gal tied to a chair. I was about to dump a glass of bleach down her-”

  Jacob could do nothing but listen to Arthur ramble on. He wanted so badly to silence the man. He needed a few miles of peace. All of this talk was boiling Jacob’s brain. He ached to open an artery, but no matter the thrill he would never take out Arthur. There was nothing to gain from it. Only healthy vibrant lives could be reckoned. A hunter wouldn’t take credit if a sick bear stumbled into camp and died next to the fire. That would be cheating. Effort had to be involved. It must take skill and a level of patience. Otherwise, what was the point?

  “-I left fingerprints on the glass. Jizz in a towel and hair in the sink. Two weeks later I was arrested,” Arthur said as he rolled his eyes at his own stupidity. He noticed he had lost Jacob’s interest. “I heard Zarren took out an entire mining town in northern Idaho. Can you believe it? Every man, woman and child.” Arthur leaned forward and bowed his head. He stretched his shackled hands up toward his face so he could itch his nose. He glanced at Jacob and saw he had the man’s attention again.

  Jacob looked over the inmates and found the prisoner Arthur was discussing. Zarren Torros was a full head taller than any other inmate. He sat alone at the very front of the bus. The big man needed two seats. He sported a lion’s mane of raven black hair and a matching beard.

  “No survivors.” Arthur cleared his throat. “It was like forty people. He did it all in one night. The bodies were almost impossible to identify.” Arthur mimed swinging a hammer down between his legs. He struck an invisible skull and then his mangled hands become the skull blowing apart. He made an explosion sound with his mouth. Arthur’s fingers became chunks of the skull that landed in his lap. He pretended to shake them off in disgust. Arthur nodded at Zarren, “That boy’s a crusher.”

  Jacob scanned the entire bus. It was only a quarter full with a headcount of twelve convicts. Only the two guards and the driver were healthy enough to count towards his masterpiece. The other inmates were just a waste of time. Their diseased and dying bodies were nothing but empty husks to Jacob. They sat around in chains and waited for Death to pluck them from their miserable existences. Jacob wasn’t going to do Death’s job for him. On top of that, every one of the men here was at one time or another a colleague in the murder game. This fact also gave them a pass. It was common courtesy to not snuff out a peer.

  Jacob looked at the back of his hands. Rough and jagged scars crisscrossed his skin. One of his favorite scars was in the shape of a scythe. It curved around his thumb and down his wrist. Looking at it conjured up the image of “Death” as portrayed in the movies and on TV. He enjoyed this concept of a black robed, scythe toting Grim Reaper. The entertainment business made Death out to be a working man. Close to a plumber or a garbage truck driver, as if Death worked in a union. Jacob imagined Old Bones wearing a t-shirt on the weekends that read, Local Chapter of Soul Collectors number 666. His pay was good but Grimmy hated the long hours. The endless job of collecting souls must have been a dirty, disgusting grind that no one ever appreciated him for, but some asshole had to do the nasty work.

  Reckoning never felt like a job to Jacob. It was often exhausting and troublesome, but never work. The hours zipped by when he stalked his victims. Running his knife through human flesh was better than any other high in the world.

  The bus made fresh tracks in the snow as it wound its way up the highway. The sun crept behind the mountain as it headed west.

  A guard moved slowly down the aisle as he checked the convicts. He tugged at their cuffs. The bus sped around a tight corner and climbed the switchback when a family of deer bound across the highway. The animals stopped in their tracks when the headlight of the bus illuminated them.

  The driver stomped on the brakes and cranked the wheel. He yelled out, “Shit! Hold on!” There was an enormous crunch as the bus plowed through the deer. Blood and gore splashed across the windshield. Antlers exploded through the glass, impaling the driver. The bus slid out of control, hit the guardrail, rolled over the embankment and down the steep tree-lined ravine.

  Jacob could feel the pressure of his restraints against his body, but there was no pain. It looked like his month was about to be cut short. The bus tumbled over and over. Tree branches pierced the windows, killing several of the men in chains and both guards. Heads smashed against reinforced metal.

  The bus came to a stop on its side. Fluids and smoke poured out of the engine block. It was total carnage inside the bus. Only a few inmates remained alive. The guard laid across Jacob’s lap. A set of keys dangled next to the convict’s hand.

  Chapter 2

  Two men circled each other. A fury of punches were exchanged. Drops of sweat spattered onto the mat. Mumbled words poured out over a mouth guard, “Move faster. I hit you with the jab every time.” The man giving the advice fired another quick left. His opponent blocked it this time. “That’s it. Keep your feet moving. Your enemy won’t tell you when he’s about to kick you in the nuts.” A padded shin and foot launched from the mat. Its destination? The groin of his sparring partner. The devastating kick was blocked in the nick of time.

  Another round of punches were thrown. Each man made contact with his intended target. The fists moved faster. The hits were harder. Some of the blows were thrown in anger. The friendly competition suddenly became strained when the man giving the lesson landed too many painful and accurate strikes in a row. A mouth guard flew across the mat. The sparring ended with a powerful hook. A body fell to the floor. The man’s arms and legs went limp for a few ticks, his chest heaving.

  “Oh, shit. I’m sorry, Ben. Are you alright?”

  Ben breathed heavily, his sweat soaked t-shirt clung to his chiseled body. He pulled at the Velcro that held his boxing gloves tight and then tugged at the strap to get his protective headgear off. He laid exhausted on his back and rubbed his sore jaw, “I’m fine. That�
�ll teach me to block next time.” Ben’s vision snapped into focus as his friend, Dominic, knelt down beside him.

  He quickly pulled off his gear and examined Ben’s pupils. The two of them were clean shaven, healthy men in their forties with strong, muscular builds.

  Dominic steadied his breath as he spoke, “You want to keep going? Or call it a day?”

  “Do I want to keep getting my ass handed to me or go get an ice pack from the fridge? Let me see. Yeah, I think I’m done with today’s lesson.”

  Dominic extended his hand and helped Ben to his feet. He threw an arm around Ben’s shoulder and gave him a friendly pat. “You’re picking it up fast, man. I promise in a few months you’ll be right there with me and I’ll be the one getting my ass kicked.”

  “This is one hell of a deal you talked me into,” Ben said as he reached down to pick up his spit covered mouth guard. He continued, “Hey Ben, let me workout in your gym for free and I’ll beat the shit out of you a few times a week in exchange. Does that sound good?” He stepped over to a bench and plopped his tired butt down on the black vinyl. “It’s like I’m paying a bully to give me wedgies and flick boogers at me.”

  Dominic took a seat next to him, “That’s not how I see it. I’m giving you lifesaving lessons that would cost the average consumer a hundred and fifteen dollars a month in exchange for a gym membership that you only charge thirty dollars a month for.”

  Ben swallowed a swig from his water bottle, “Oh, really?”

  “My math says you should be giving me eighty-five bucks a month on top of the free gym membership. So let’s see, eighty-five divided by four lessons a week,” he paused as he crunched the numbers, “I should be getting seven dollars a beating and I haven’t even got one damn nickel off you.”

  “Deputy Dominic Spence you are a true friend.”