The Infected (Book 4): Death Sentence Page 6

  “Don’t ask,” said Leon as he lifted the lumber up onto a table for Cliff to cut.

  “Get a drill and the longest screws you’ve got.” Cliff quickly determined the center of the beam.

  No time for safety googles. He thought to himself. Cliff closed his eyes and fired up the saw. He joked with the guys on site that he could do this job blindfolded. Now it was time to put that claim to the test.

  A hand with three missing fingers pushed its way through the door and tried to scratch at Jim’s face. He ducked the approaching hand, but that took pressure off the door and a leg came through up to the knee.

  “Get it!” Jim yelped.

  Sara grabbed the arm by the wrist and forced it against the wall next to the door. She swatted at the thick part of the arm and sliced open the skin and meat, but the blade bounced off the bone. The hand went limp after she cut the tendons, but the rest of the arm kept swinging. She did some quick thinking and held the machete against the wall next to the door, making sure to keep the blade facing out. Then she grabbed the wrist again and forced the back of the forearm onto her weapon. It made a crackling sound like she snapped a thick tree branch. The pressure broke both bones. Sara stepped away from the door and swung down onto the dangling arm, cutting it in two.

  “The leg! Get the leg!” Jim buried his shoulder into the door, but it wouldn’t budge.

  Sara swung the machete, but the angle of the blade was just a touch off. She tagged it right below the knee cap and the machete slid along the shin, slicing a long chunk of skin. As if Sara was serving lamb at a Greek restaurant, it peeled away from the front of the leg and landed on the hardwood floor with a sick plop.

  Cliff finished off the second two-by-six just as Karen arrived with a tool-belt loaded with screws and the drill hanging in its holster. She wrapped it around Cliff’s waist, clicked it and tightened the belt.

  “Here!” Cliff handed her the saw and lifted up two pieces of lumber. Leon had the other two and they took off for the front door.

  As they left the garage there was a thunderous crash in the dining room. Shards of busted safety glass scattered across the floor. Zombie arms shot through the gaps in the barricade. They stretched after the three tasty morsels leaving the garage in a hurry.

  Karen skidded to a stop as Cliff and Leon kept going. She faced the pack of zombies and raised her gun. Nasty teeth chomped at her as the infected attempted to fit through the six inch hole. They pushed at the barricade and the wood groaned under the weight.

  Sara chopped again and again at the leg, but couldn’t get a good angle on it and the bone was just too thick. “This isn’t working!” she was desperate to break bone so she launched her foot into the door. Kicking it as hard as possible, but the damn thing wouldn’t crack.

  Two more arms joined the leg and the door creaked open a little farther.

  “Please tell me we have a plan!” Jim pressed his forehead to the door as his strength was about to give out.

  Cliff nodded at Leon, “Grab the other end!” they lifted the length of lumber up above everyone’s heads. They pushed it against the door, but it wouldn’t lay flat. “Damn it, that’s not going to work until we can get the door shut. Karen, we need the saw.”

  Karen squeezed off ten rounds. Each one an easy head shot through the opening in the barricade. She left the dining room and moved for the foyer.

  Cliff reached toward her, “Give me the saw.”

  Karen handed it over and stepped back, pulling Sara with her, away from the door. She’d seen yesterday how much of a mess that saw could make. Cliff knelt next to the opening and fired up the saw’s motor. “Sorry everyone!” he yelled as he held the whirling blade to the hacked up leg. The saw’s teeth flung blood and flesh everywhere. It covered all four of the men with black goop. He got through the shin bone and the calf came free from the zombie outside. Cliff stood up and started in on the two arms.

  “Jesus Christ!” Frank cursed through pursed lips.

  When the last arm dropped to the floor, Cliff tossed the saw with it, picked up the wood and held it to the door. “Keep it closed!” Cliff commanded.

  With a drill bit he punched five holes into the end of the lumber. Leon slid in next to Frank and Troy as he held up the lumber all by himself. With a fast twist Cliff had the drill bit out and the driver bit in.

  “Come on man, you’ve got to move faster!” Jim begged. “My arms are about to give!”

  Cliff held a large screw to the newly drilled hole. “Almost got it, just hold it a little longer.”

  Banging at the backdoor called to Karen. She looked through the kitchen and spotted another pack of zombies working to squeeze through the gaps at the sliding glass door. Karen tugged at Sara, “Come on!”

  “Wait!” Sara headed in a different direction.

  “What is it?” Karen followed her into the living room.

  “We need these.” Sara held two homemade spears. She handed Jim’s to Karen and she kept Devon’s for herself.

  They raced for the barricade. A gnarled zombie head had pushed its way into the room, but was stopped at its shoulders. The force it took to get its head through such a small hole had peeled off most of the skin around its scalp and ears. Sara thrust the razor sharp knife blade of the spear at the top of the zombie’s head. It popped through the bone and Sara wiggled the spear’s handle around to scramble up the brains before pulling the primitive weapon back out. The zombie went limp as ooze dripped from its wounds and splattered onto the dining room floor.

  Karen held the base of her spear with her good hand, felt the lanyard and looped it around her wrist. She used her injured hand to guide the weapon toward her intended target. She carved out the eye of a zombie woman. The thing was in her late thirties with a similar dye job, colored red like Karen’s.

  Damn, that could be me out there. Karen thought to herself as she twisted the handle of the spear and turned the lights out on that unlucky woman.

  Cliff secured five screws through the lumber and into the wall next to the door. “Keep it held tight. I’ve got to get the other end.” He switched positions, moving for the other end of the lumber and got the drill bit out again. Cliff quickly punched five holes into the lumber, exchanged the bits once more and worked five screws into that end of the barricade.

  The pressure from the other side of the door had dropped in half. Leon and Cliff lifted the next chunk of lumber and placed it at about shoulder height. Cliff was in the zone, working smoothly and with efficient motions until that length of lumber was locked into place.

  By then Jim was only keeping his foot and one hand against the door in case the wood gave. Frank and Troy wiped the gunk off their faces and stretched out their tired arms.

  “Good work.” Jim nodded at Cliff, then Leon. Each one of them was covered in sticky black blood. It was in their hair, on their faces and embedded in their clothes. The walls around the front door were caked in gunk. The floor was slick with it. Jim brushed his face on the only clean spot he could find on his sleeve. “I feel so funky,” he whispered under his breath.

  In the dining room Karen and Sara stabbed at every ugly face appearing at the back door. The pile of bodies outside had quickly grown to hip height, but more and more of them flooded into the backyard. Every slain monster leaked fluids from their jagged wounds and a puddle of black ooze inched farther into the dining room, making it tough for the women to keep their footing.

  Every inch of Karen’s body was is pain, but it didn’t stop her. She kept up the same pace as the young girl standing next to her.

  Karen couldn’t help but wonder what her story was.

  How did Jim meet her? Shoot, what was her name?

  She’s one hell of a fighter.

  Karen got one in the mouth. Outside, the hill of bodies was beginning to act as a disgusting barricade itself. The soft, slick mound of flesh was making it harder and harder for the next batch of the dead to get close to the house.

  Cliff and Leon squatted as
they attached the last chunk of lumber, at about ankle height to the door. It seemed to be working. The banging of fists and gnashing of teeth on the other side of the door was going to get old fast, but they were all still alive.

  Jim and the others took the moment to reload all the magazines to each of their guns in case there was a breach. He looked through the kitchen and into the dining room. Karen and Sara were killing a platoon of the dead army all by themselves. Pressed up against the slats of wood was a horrible image. Zombie hands, feet, eyeballs, intestines, brains and meat made up a wall of gore that was slowly leaking into the house.

  We won’t be able to stand the smell in a day or two if we can’t clean up that mess. The direness of their predicament was drowning Jim’s hope. For the last twenty-four hours he had been fighting to get to his family and find them safe. He had gotten what he wanted. A few minutes of loving embraces from his girls and a kiss from his beautiful wife, but now it looked like this was where they would meet their end, unless he and the group came up with a brilliant plan to survive another day.

  Stay positive. He told himself.

  It could be worse.

  At least I’m not a stuffed squirrel. That thought brought a chuckle to Jim’s throat. It was only yesterday Sara stitched up his forehead, which reminded him he needed to clean the bandages on his head and leg soon, but it felt like a life time ago.

  Cliff sunk the last screw into the board, then he tested each length of lumber once more. “That should keep them out.”

  Leon dropped to his butt, exhausted, he rested his back against the wall and thumbed some zombie chunks from his eyebrows. “Yeah, but it also locks us in.”

  “We’ll think of something.” Frank clicked another round into his banana mag.

  Jim slipped his full magazine into the bottom of his gun. “Penny hoarded food in this place and we have a freezer full of meats, fruits and veggies. There’s enough to last all of us a few weeks.”

  Leon’s smile went sideways, “And then what?”

  Jim focused on reloading the next magazine, but Leon’s question plagued him.

  Yeah, and then what?

  Chapter 8

  Dallas marched across the field at the back of the church. An assault rifle hung from his shoulder along with a backpack. At his side he carried his hunting rifle in a camo colored case. He headed straight for a recently modified yellow school bus in the center of the lot. He slipped a toothpick out of his pocket and placed it in the corner of his mouth. Halfway to the bus he glimpsed a stack of blood covered bodies at the far edge of the property. It sent a spike of fear to his core. The dread of this situation got him thinking.

  Outside the perimeter of the church is no man’s land.

  There was no telling what horrors we might encounter on this mission.

  Dallas felt an evil urge rising in his belly. One he felt he’d conquered years ago, but seeing Brother Paul sip that brown liquid gave Dallas a powerful thirst. The voice in his head started small. It was the same old tired bullshit that plagued him before he was found by Brother Paul. The voice claiming the stress was too much and he needed something to take the edge off. It went to work promising how he would only have just the one and no more. That was a bald-faced lie and Dallas knew it. Once he started, Dallas would not stop chugging booze until he puked a lake of vomit and passed out next to a toilet.

  So many years lost to that poison. Dallas thought to himself.

  Two years ago he finally won the war against his addiction, but every day was a battle. A tooth and nail fight to the death that never seemed to get any easier. It’s why Dallas kept himself busy. He hit the gym hard for hours at a time and developed a muscular body. He spent his off days helping around the church getting it ready for whatever disaster might strike next.

  Oh boy did it strike.

  No matter how powerful the temptation was, Dallas’ resolve to stay sober was stronger than ever.

  I don’t want double vision when Jesus shepherds me to heaven.

  Dallas touched the metal cross that hung from a chain around his neck. It helped push the fear aside and kept him focused. As he approached the bus he tucked the cross into his shirt.

  A man wearing overalls and a welder’s helmet was busy tacking spot-welds on a piece of steel he attached to the bus’ main door.

  Dallas called to him, “Taggart?”

  He spun and lifted his helmet to see who was yelling his name. “Yeah?” The man was missing an upper front tooth and his tongue nervously licked at the open hole.

  “I need the bus. Is it ready?”

  “No. I mean, yeah, I guess. It’s not perfect, but… Wait, where are you going?” Taggart yanked the helmet from his head and dropped it on the cart full of tools next to him. He turned off the torch welder and hooked it to the tank of compressed oxy-fuel.

  Dallas stopped walking a few feet from Taggart. He was close enough to smell the stink of sweat and grease on the man. His overalls were filthy and Taggart’s hands and face were completely black. Every bit of skin was covered in dirt, and dried motor oil.

  “I’ve got to take it outside the perimeter. Have you made all of the mods yet?”

  Taggart’s face scrunched up like he was sucking on a lemon. “Outside? Are you nuts? Why would you go do a fools thing like that?”

  Dallas adjusted the strap of his backpack. “Have you made the mods?”

  “Yeah… Mostly, come on I’ll show ya.” Taggart headed for the front of the bus. “It took all night, but I got the snowplow bolted on.” He leaped up onto it and stood on the plow. Then he bounced all of his weight on it. The bus barely moved and the plow appeared solid. “See. It should hold. Don’t go through a brick wall or nothing, but it’s gonna shred those diseased people things, real good.” Taggart jumped off the plow and headed around the side of the bus. Dallas followed, trying to stay upwind from the man.

  Taggart pointed at all of the windows that lined the driver’s side. “I got steel on the bottom half of all the windows on both sides of this thing. They’ll still open so ya can shoot from inside, but you’d have to be eight-feet tall to get in through there.” He kept moving and rounded the back of the bus. “I welded this thing completely shut and barred up the windows. I don’t know about you, but I don’t want nobody, lady or gent, climbing up into my backdoor.” Taggart snorted at that one. Clearly he’d been waiting to say that joke all morning.

  Dallas reached up and tugged at the emergency handle and it didn’t budge. “Good. What about the main door?”

  “I’ll show ya.” Taggart quickened his pace as he headed back to the main door on the bus.

  As Dallas followed him around the corner of the bus they were now facing the back of the church.

  Taggart wrapped his knuckles against the plates of steel he had attached to the four windows of the main door. “Ain’t none of them busting through this. Its half inch thick steel, it’d take a grenade to pop this tuna can.” He pushed on the doors crease and headed up the stairs. “Let me show you the rest.”

  Dallas held his breath as he followed Taggart up into the bus. The mechanic yanked on the handle that shut the door behind them.

  Taggart pointed to a set of three bolt locks attached to the edge of the door. “That should keep them from storming in on ya.”

  Dallas nodded, “That’ll work.”

  Taggart tapped at the driver seat. “You cleared to drive this beast?”

  “Blaine’s got his CDL.”

  “Goodie, good. I didn’t want to get roped into being your chauffeur. No thank you. I’m fine right here in this field.” Taggart pointed to a small stack of boxes sitting in the first row of the bus. “Extra ammo and some medical supplies are here.” Taggart headed for the back of the bus as Dallas stayed put. A rope ladder hung from the emergency exit leading to the roof. “I mounted this in case y’all needed to get up top and gun’em down from there.” His tongue poked through the hole in his yellow stained teeth. “Where ya heading?”

&nbs
p; Dallas set his backpack on a bench seat directly behind the drive’s seat. “Past 164th out in east Vancouver.” Dallas took a knee on the next bench and opened its window four inches. He raised his rifle and tested the gap to see what kind of angles he could get from this vantage point.

  “Oh, sweet baby Jesus, that sounds like…”

  “…An awful idea?” Dallas spotted Blaine as he exited the back of the church and headed their way. Behind him were Charlie and Theo. A rifle and full backpacks hung from their shoulders. Scurrying behind them was Shawna. She fought with her gun in one hand to get her pack on straight. Finally she got it and sprinted until she was right behind the others.

  “Worst I’ve heard all day.” Taggart sucked at his upper teeth. Something caught Taggart’s eye and he took a seat three quarters of the way to the back of the bus.

  Dallas set his hunting rifle case next to the backpack and headed for the front door. “You’ve built quite the war rig here. We’ll try and bring it back in one piece.”

  Taggart was no longer listening to Dallas. He was off in his own world and spoke to himself as he stared at some childish graffiti scribbled on the back of the seat in front of him. “Well now, what do we have here?” The artist used a Sharpie and wrote, ‘Stacy Brenner gives the best H.J.’s!’ Taggart touched the green naugahyde. His filthy finger traced along the words as he wondered.

  Where’s Stacy the H.J. queen now?

  Taggart slipped a knife from his pocket and cut a square around the unimaginative scribbling. The chunk of plastic seat cover popped free.

  No need for anyone else to see this dirty talk.

  Taggart folded the artwork and put it in his chest pocket as he rose from the bench seat.

  Blaine arrived with his crew. He nervously itched the side of his skull as he asked, “Bus ready?”