Machines of the Dead 2 (8 page)

Chapter 13

Jack ran as fast as he could, breaking branches off trees and leaving a trail in the snow-covered ground. He winced as a maple poked him in the cheek, then carved a gash across it. Running for his life, he didn’t have time to worry,
or the time to dodge everything in his path. If he’d taken his time a little more, he might’ve been able to leave less of a trail, but all he wanted to do was get as far away from that house as possible.

He had hoped no one would pursue him. It seemed like a ridiculous notion, but it helped his mental state as he ran for his life. Then he heard hooting and hollering—and knew he couldn’t slow down. 

He trudged on, breathing heavy, but feeling okay. He and Jess had been runners, hitting the streets and Central Park regularly, so he didn’t fear cramping up or growing tired would be an issue. The main problem would be the cold weather. He wore only a long-sleeve button down flannel shirt. The air was cold, the breaths he was taking chilling his lungs. He would sweat soon, and with sweating, came danger. Hypothermia would set in if he didn’t slow down or find shelter soon, and for now he could do neither.

Gunshots rang out, but they sounded far enough behind that he didn’t worry about a bullet catching him in the back. With all the trees about, it would take a close-range slug to find its way into his flesh. He guessed they were shooting for affect, trying to scare him, or maybe they were simply acting like the “cowboys” they were.

Jack kept on going full bore, sweat now lining his body. As long as he kept going, it wouldn’t matter much, but when he stopped it would be an issue. For now, the adrenaline kept him going, kept him fleeing and able to fight off the chill of winter’s bite.

The men continued to holler and shoot, the sounds growing louder. Bark from a nearby tree exploded. Like harmless shrapnel, pieces of it cascaded Jack’s face. He ducked and decided to run in a not-so-linear fashion. It was the best he could do to avoid a bullet. 

He saw a clearing ahead and burst from the tree line. He was in someone’s yard. A bi-level house with cedar siding stood about one hundred feet away. A small shed sat behind the house near the adjacent tree line. Jack bolted toward the house, hoping not to feel the sting of a bullet in his back when he was out in the open.

Stairs led up to a deck, but he could reach the front of the house faster, leaving him less vulnerable to the men chasing him from the woods. Shots rang out. The air next to his left ear grew hot as a bullet whizzed by. He dove around to the front of the house and out of view of his pursuers. “He’s around front,” a voice called.

Jack had moments before he was either captured or killed. For a second, he breathed a sigh of relief. It felt good to be out of the sights of a gun. His mind worked sharper now. He needed to find a weapon and a defensible position, or at least put the pressure on them.

He grabbed the garage door’s handle, praying it wasn’t locked. The door held for a moment, then lifted, rolling up to the ceiling with a thunderous rumble. Dashing inside, he closed the door and turned the handle, locking it. A Volkswagen Jetta sat in the space. Rakes, shovels, and a leaf blower hung on the left wall. Garbage pails sat on the right. Jack grabbed one of the snow shovels from the wall and hurried up the three steps that led into the house.

The door opened to a thud. A zombie crashed to the ground. It was a woman with curly, short blonde hair and half her neck missing. Blood covered her white blouse, turning it crimson. Jack raised the shovel, bringing the sharp edge down on the thing’s neck, severing it easily. He spun around and turned the lock on the door. It wouldn’t keep his pursuers out if they wanted in, but it would slow them down.

Glancing around, he saw a cream-colored couch, ottoman, and a large television. Colorful artwork hung on the walls. Bookshelves lined with books took up a corner. Jack crossed the room and entered into a wide hallway. Stairs led up. He didn’t know where to go and headed into the kitchen. Another zombie was heading his way. It was an older lady, missing her left cheek and hand. Dried blood decorated the tile floor. Jack dropped the shovel and grabbed a steak knife from the block of knives on the counter. He knocked the zombie’s arms away, then sank the blade into the bot-controlled corpse’s head and watched it crumble to the floor. Turning to the butcher’s block again, he plucked another knife and wished he had thought things through. The zombies he killed should’ve been left for his pursuers to deal with. 

He exited the kitchen and heard a crash from the living room. The men had gotten inside the garage and were attempting to smash through the living room door.

He saw stairs, but decided against going up and ran down the hall to the where the house’s front door was located. It seemed pretty solid, but to each side were a row of small horizontal panes of glass. To his left and behind him, he saw another door. It was under the stairwell that led upstairs, and immediately he thought
, basement.

Jack heard the splintering of wood as the living room door gave way.

The men were inside.

Screw the basement, he wanted out. He was about to open the front door when he saw a man standing outside with a shotgun. Jack dove out of the
way, as a blast from the weapon shattered one of the small windows and wood frame around it.

He pushed himself up and scurried to what he hoped was a basement door and not a hall closet. Yanking the door open, his heart leaped with relief at the sight of stairs leading down into darkness. He grabbed the handrail and hurried down, but not before pulling the door closed behind him.

The gloom seemed to thicken the farther down he traveled, the light creeping in from under the door fading. Finally, he reached the bottom of the stairs to the cement floor. Looking left, he saw only darkness. Right, he saw a small window about twenty feet away, a minute amount of daylight shining through.

Hiding in a corner wasn’t going to do much except get him killed, and finding a better weapon than the kitchen knife was going to be difficult in the dark. He would have to be the weapon.

He moved behind the staircase and crouched, allowing his eyesight to adjust to the environment. Gunfire came from upstairs. The men must have run into more zombies. Men shouted to each other before one said, “He went down there.” Footfalls thudded overhead, stopping at the top of the stairs. Jack’s heart pounded as he squeezed the knife’s handle. Maybe they wouldn’t come down after him. Maybe he was too much trouble.

The door at the top of the stairs opened. Bright light exploded into the basement, illuminating the staircase and immediate area below. The rest of the basement remained in darkness. Jack felt his body tensing up. He forced himself to breathe, realizing he’d have one shot at this.

“Fucking dark down there,” a voice said.

“Here,” another voice said.

The stairs creaked as a man descended them. Jack saw the circular shape of a flashlight’s beam dance around the wall at the bottom of the stairs.

The creaking stopped. “You coming?”

“I’m waiting here in case he gets past you,” said another voice.

“Come on, Scars. Grab another flashlight and come with me. Mack and Freak can watch the stairs.”

“The one you got is the only one we found,” came the reply.

The stairs creaked again as the man continued. He moved slowly, shining the beam on both sides of the staircase. Jack scooted underneath the structure completely and out of the light. The guy shined it on the right side, then switched to the left, almost hypnotically. Good, Jack thought. The guy was scared.

Jack followed the light wherever it shined, getting a layout of the place and hoping to catch a glimpse of an exit or a better weapon.

“I don’t see nothing here,” the man on the stairs said.

“Come on,” said another voice. Get down there and check it out. The guy’s got nothing. You see him, shoot him. If we go back without him, Cannibal’s going to be pissed.”

“Fucking psycho bastard.”

Jack couldn’t let the guy reach the floor. He waited for the stairs directly above his head to whine. Sweat dripped down his cheek, tickling him, but he ignored it, focused on listening.

The step complained.

Jack sprang out, brought the knife up behind the man’s knee and sliced as hard as he could. At the same time, he saw the handgun the guy was carrying—his own .45—and reached for it. He got hold of the man’s jacket arm instead, and yanked him over the railing. The gun went off. The flashlight flew from the man’s hand as he crashed to the hard floor. Jack was on him in seconds, pressing the knife’s bloody blade to the man’s neck and slicing the soft flesh with ease. The man squirmed and clawed at his throat as Jack held him still.

Gunfire erupted from upstairs. Bullets chewed up the floor, ricocheting and pinging the surrounding walls. Jack saw the glint of metal from the .45 and dove for it, then rolled into the gloom away from the staircase.

Leaning against a wall, the darkness too much to see anything, he felt a burning pain above his left knee. He prodded the area with his fingers and winced. The clothing was torn and the area was covered in a warm liquid. One of the bullets must’ve grazed him. He bent the leg, put pressure on it. The pain was tolerable and would not impede him.

He had a gun. His gun. The weapon felt right in his hand. He was far from safe, but now the odds were a little better. Only a little. But he no longer was the animal on the run, unable to defend himself, having to run and hide and hope not to be found. Now, he could take different measures; fight back. Anyone that came down the stairs was getting a bullet.

Jack crept closer to the stairs, the darkness his ally.

Minutes passed. The men upstairs asked if anyone “got him.”

“I think so,” one voice said.

“No idea,” said another.

Silence followed, then, out of the stillness, the stairs creaked again. He saw a pair of legs, then the torso. The idiot had no flashlight and was simply peering from side to side in the dark. The man held a rifle.

“Can’t see shit,” the man on the stairs said.

“The guy’s unarmed,” said a voice from above.

“How do you know that? He might have Opie’s gun.”

“No way. We blasted that whole area. I’m telling you, the guy’s dead or bleeding out.”

This was too easy, Jack thought, and took aim.

The guy kept glancing back and forth, finally stopping and staring in Jack’s direction. He squinted, then his eyes went wide. Jack fired. The man’s head jerked back. Grey matter exploded from the man’s skull as the newly created corpse tumbled over the railing. The rifle fell to the stairs and slid down to the floor. Gunfire rang out from above, but Jack was nowhere near the bullets’ area.

The shooting ceased.

“The motherfucker just killed Freak,” someone said. 

“He’s fucking armed,” another said, stating the obvious. “Going to pick us off one by one.”

“Fuck this shit.”

Jack eyed the rifle, wanting it, but couldn’t risk trying to reach it. He was doing well. He’d taken out two men—one with only a knife, and wasn’t sure how many shots he had left, so he’d have to make sure each counted.

“Where’s the prisoner?” a voice asked, authoritatively. 

“Damn, man,” another voice said. “You scared the shit out of me.”

“He’s in the basement,” a third voice said.

Jack could pick them off one by one, but doubted that’s how this would end. He needed to do something, preferably find a way out of the basement before it was too late. Suddenly, a body came tumbling down the stairs, flopping wildly until it reached the bottom and crashed against the wall. It wasn’t moving. Jack recognized the guy; it was the one from the house named Scars, his hideous markings unforgettable.

Jack swallowed, feeling the lump in his throat. He had no idea what was going on, but there was no way the man fell down the stairs. Someone had shoved him.

Chapter 14

Cable couldn’t believe he was put on guard duty. Fucking guard duty. The prisoner named, Jack, had escaped. Cable should have been sent after him, but he’d been out scavenging when the situation occurred, returning to the house minutes after Cannibal sent men after the escapee. But guard duty? He was above this shit. As far as he was
concerned, all the prisoners could die, save one. Maria.

She was like him—former
military and she’d been through tough times recently. They all had, but she came from Manhattan, the heart of the epidemic. That place had been cordoned off, millions of undead everywhere. Yet she and her companions escaped, no doubt because of her training. She did
something
to him too. Stirred his loins. Her beauty and obvious warrior spirit was a complete turn on. He wanted to make her his, but Cannibal said otherwise. That sick bastard only gave the skinny bitches away—and that wasn’t often.

Cable wondered why he didn’t simply put a bullet into the man’s head. But then he did know why, it just didn’t seem fathomable.

Like the other men, Cable was afraid of the man. Maybe it was his size, the way he united the prisoners, even rival gang members, or maybe it was the fact that he ate people. It was probably a combination of all of the above. The man wasn’t bullet proof, and if it came down to it, Cable could probably take him in hand-to-hand combat. Still, he didn’t like being around the guy. He hadn’t felt this way since he was a kid and lived with his alcoholic father. His mother had run out on them. His father turned to booze, blaming him as the reason his mother left.

“You ain’t my kid,” Cable’s father would say after drinking a bottle of cheap whiskey or some kind of grain alcohol. “You’re a constant reminder of her cheating on me. That’s why she left, you little bastard. Now I’m stuck with you.” Then the beatings would come, by fist, belt, or foot. Once his father held a knife to his throat, but Cable managed to get away from the man. After that night, he went to live with his Aunt. He only saw his father on occasion. Then one day the man put a gun to his head and blew his brains out.

Cannibal wasn’t like that though. The man didn’t drink or do drugs. He was just a psycho with a high I.Q., and for a large person, he was fast. The man had the two things needed to be a leader of the ragtag lowlifes: fear and presence. Cannibal was an alpha. As much as he wouldn’t like to admit it, Cable wasn’t a leader. He was an order taker. A soldier. But he was also a loner. If he had to, if the timing was right, he’d leave this place and go out on his own. For now, he had it good: a roof over his head, food, and protection. This was the whole reason he joined up with Cannibal’s crew—safety in numbers. Now that things were settling down—most of humanity dead or dying, at least the local humanity, for he had no idea what the rest of the world looked like, he could figure things out. The initial craziness was over.

Cable was also a thinker. He may obey orders, but that did not mean he didn’t question them in his mind. In the military
, he followed orders whether those orders seemed righteous or totally fucked up. In this new regime, he had the right to disobey should he see fit. To leave should he see fit. The men under Cannibal’s command were mindless, wanting nothing more than to be free, get wasted and act like animals.

Cable headed down the stairs to the basement where the prisoners were held.

“Where’s Jack?” the guy named Zaun demanded. “You people are sick. Keeping us prisoner when the world around us is falling apart…”

Cable couldn’t deny the statement. What Cannibal was doing to these people was sick. About as twisted as it got. But he was on the sicko’s team, and these people weren’t his problem.

“How can you stand by and let this happen to us?” Maria shouted.

Cable sighed. The last thing he wanted was to hear shit from anyone, let alone the cattle. Why couldn’t they all just be killed and left outside where they wouldn’t spoil? It wasn’t like it was summer and there was a reason to keep them fresh.

“I suggest you all shut your mouths while I’m here,” Cable told the room. “This is your only warning.”

“Fuck you, asshole,” Zaun said.

Cable felt his blood surge. For the most part, he was easy to get along with. He didn’t consider himself “good” or “evil,” but simply there. He acted when he felt the need, and now he was feeling it.

Cable stood in front of Zaun. He expected the man to cower, but Zaun did not. Matching stares with the prisoner, he saw a mixed bag of
goods; weakness and strength, determination. It wasn’t often you found both so prevalent in an individual. He’d seen it in prison, the inmates that were beaten on and raped, but had somehow managed to hold onto their pride and were never fully broken. He had also seen it in the recovering drug addict. Always a weakness present, but also the will to remain strong. This man, Zaun, was one of these people, and if he had to guess, it would be
the recovering drug addict
. This man had turned his life around, but whether it was the current state of things, or a relapse as of late, he was suffering again more than he probably had in a long time.

Cable had always been good at reading people, but prison seemed to hone this skill. Zaun was a troublemaker. Punishment was good for his kind.

Cable shot a foot forward in an attempt to kick Zaun in his head, but to his surprise, he missed. The lanky man had gotten out of the way. Then Cable found his feet knocked out from under him and he was falling. The little bastard had used his legs to bring him down.

Cable braced for the fall, then pivoted once he was down and rolled away before the prisoner had a chance to inflict real damage. Back on his feet in moments, he eyed Zaun with a grin. “Well, well,” he said. “Looks like we have a—”

The door at the top of stairs opened.

“Cable,” someone called. “Watch is over. Boss wants you.”

Cable turned to Zaun and winked. “We’ll finish this later.” 

He climbed the stairs, groaning to himself. He hated visiting the psycho, but at least he was getting out of guard duty.

“Track down the escapee,” Cannibal said. “Make sure my men aren’t fucking this up. I want Jack back here alive if possible.” He glared at Cable. “I have unfinished business with him.” He held up a thick finger. “But if you have no other choice, air on the side of caution, and kill him. We can’t have him returning to Cliff House and warning those people.”

Cable nodded. Cannibal dismissed him.

He had his sidearm, a .357 Desert Eagle. He liked power, and the weapon looked mean. Then he grabbed his Heckler and Koch G36, a sweet machine gun with a 100-round C-Mag drum magazine. Most weapons in the house, having been gathered from various residences and a State Trooper barracks, were shared. The G36 was Cable’s gun. He found it a week ago in a house a little over a mile away, along with an M16 rifle, 3 AK-47’s, 6 pineapple grenades, a Beretta, two 12 gauge shotguns, one a sawed-off, and a Ruger .22 pistol. The collection was an odd one. The guy must’ve been a collector or seller. Either way, Cable made it clear the G36 was his.

As he exited the house, he didn’t think it mattered much whether the escaped prisoner warned the people at Cliff House. With the weapons found at the Trooper Barracks and the newly acquired ones, Cannibal had enough firepower to defeat his enemy, but that wasn’t the issue. The problem was the people using the weapons. Half of the men were crazed, unstable maniacs while the people at Cliff House proved to be organized.

Tracking the men proved easy. Snapped branches, trampled shrubs, and footprints made the task almost boring.

After traipsing through a densely wooded area, Cable came upon a two-story house with a
moderately sized backyard. A shed sat within fifty feet of the structure. Multiple tracks led across the lawn and around to the front of the dwelling. He surveyed the scene before stepping from the woods.

The frigid wind blew, causing his eyes to tear. He heard gunfire from inside the dwelling and hurried across the open tundra, following the tracks as they led around the house to an open garage door. He shook his head in frustration at how the men had allowed the quarry to get as far as it did, especially after seeing the wide-open yard it had to cross. He stepped inside and pulled the door closed, wanting one more obstacle in the prey’s path should the man make it back this way. 

Cable proceeded up the steps and into the living room, hearing another set of rapidly fired shots. He gave the dead body with its severed head a quick glance, then moved past it. The men were yelling. He turned left out of the living room and down the wide hallway, sneaking up on his former prison brethren. As he stood behind them, they had no idea of his presence. He could’ve killed them all before they knew what was happening.

“Where’s the prisoner?” he asked.

The men jumped, spinning around. Cable held out a hand and caught one of the men’s rifles before it pointed at him.

“Damn, man,” Scars said
, “you scared the shit out of me.”

“He’s in the basement,” Mack said.

Cable pushed past the men and peered into the darkness. A flashlight was off to the left, shining on Freak’s body. Not a bad guy, Cable thought. Just stupid. Of the two men standing with Cable, Mack was all right in his book. A killer, but sane. Scars, built like a brick house and had his face cut up by his mother when he was a boy, was a sick fuck. A rapist of not only women, but of former prison mates. Cannibal never should have allowed such unstable, scum into his gang.

Seeing a sweet opportunity, Cable grabbed Scars by the neck and head-butted the guy across the nose. Blood exploded from the man’s nostrils. Cable snatched the man’s Glock 21 from his grip, then hurled him down the stairs. Scars tumbled head over ass, feet flying into the air only to disappear under him before he crashed to the floor and against the wall. Cable aimed the Glock at the man, ready to put a few bullets into him, but didn’t. Scars wasn’t moving.

Cable turned his head to Mack, who was staring slack-jawed into the basement. Mack’s eyes met Cable’s. “You have a problem with what just happened?”

“N . . . no way, man,” Mack said. “Guy was as rotten as they come.” He cleared his throat and launched a wad of phlegm down the stairs. “Far as anyone needs to know, Scars was killed by the escaped prisoner.”

Cable smiled. “This ‘Jack’ is well-trained. Dangerous.”

“That ain’t no lie,” Mack agreed.

“He needs to be put down,” Cable added.

Mack’s eyebrows bunched together. “But Cannibal said he wants him alive.”

“I know what he wants, but he isn’t here getting his ass handed to him, is he?”

Mack shook his head.

“We had no choice.”

“No choice,” Mack repeated. “Got it. I don’t want to be here any longer than necessary. Fuck this prick.”

“I’m glad you agree, because you were scheduled to go down next if you didn’t.”

The man inched back a step. “Then . . . then how are we going to kill him?”

“Wait here,” Cable said. He unlocked the front door and exited the house. He didn’t remember seeing what he wanted in the garage and doubted the item was kept there anyway. He went around to the back of the house and over to the shed. Removing his handgun, he blew off the lock and opened the sturdy wooden doors.

The scent hit him immediately—gasoline. There were rakes, a leaf blower, hoes, and other gardening tools on the walls. A riding lawnmower sat in the center of the small shack. In the corner on his right was the
5-gallon gas container. He picked it up, feeling its weight and guessed it was about 3/4’s full.

Perfect, he thought, then returned to the house.