Night Plague: A Post Apocalyptic Thriller (23 page)

Chapter 1 - The Present

I stood on the second floor balcony of the library, overlooking the smoldering remains of books and the overturned shelves. Soot stained ceiling tiles told a tale of a fire which did not completely take. Nevertheless, the damage was done. Many books had survived, but they had sustained extensive smoke and water damage. Amazingly, the fire retardant system still had a little pressure left in it. The water was flowing out of the sprinkler heads at a trickle now. Tendrils of smoke were still emanating here and there. This had been set recently, within an hour. There were other acts of vandalism as well. Most of the windows were broken, and obscene graffiti had been painted maliciously on the walls of a facility that existed only as an educational facility.

Heathens.
It is the noun I use to describe them. Somehow, many of them had survived when so many good people had died. They roamed in gangs of various numbers, leaving a trail of ruin in their wake. They had little regard for rebuilding society, bent only on their own shortsighted, destructive desires. There was nothing for me here.

Since the infection outbreak, my visits to the Nashville area were infrequent. The urban areas, densely populated back when society was normal and functional, were now populated with the infected.

My thoughts were interrupted when I heard angry yelling. It was not inhuman in origin, definitely human. My survival instincts warned me against it, but I was curious. I surreptitiously exited the library through a side door. The muffled voices were now more succinct, and I could discern the direction. I crept south along Edmondson Pike toward the sounds, scanning the area warily as I walked, hugging the abandoned cars for cover. I did not have to go far.

There were three of them. I used my rifle scope to get a good look at them. Two of them were rough looking men. The third one was a young girl with long dark hair. One of the men, a tall lanky man with rounded shoulders, was loudly berating the girl, and as I watched, he hit her with a stinging backhanded slap. She fell to the ground. The other one, a shorter, dirtier version of his friend, laughed loudly. Both of them had beards with some kind of beads braided in them. It looked stupid. The tall one then began kicking the girl. Not hard kicks that would have broken ribs, but softer kicks. Kicks intended more for debasement and humiliation.

I crouched beside an overturned car and rested my rifle on one of the flattened tires. About the time I got sighted in, the tall one picked up the girl by the scruff of her neck and gruffly yanked her pants down.

Correction, did I say girl? With the aid of my scope, I could see other things.
Nope, definitely not a girl. He was skinny as a rail. It was difficult to determine his age, maybe eleven or twelve.

I made a decision. Kill the bastards. They were bullies. I had a special dark place in my heart towards bullies. They had been passing a whiskey bottle back and forth while bullying the little boy. The short one took a long pull from it and laughed gleefully when his friend yanked the kid’s pants down.

I scanned the area with my scope, then took my eye off of them for a moment and did another quick check of my surroundings. Paranoia was a positive character trait in this day and age, and I did not want to be ambushed from behind. When I looked at them again, big and ugly now had his captive bent over the lowered tailgate of a truck and had his own pants down. He had no idea I was watching him as he started brutally sodomizing the boy. Disgusting.

His body was gyrating fervidly, too much for a clean head shot. So, I put the crosshairs at the center of his shoulder blades, took a slow breath, exhaled, and gently squeezed the trigger. If I had made it past the tenth grade, I could probably give you a nice graphic description of the destruction the boat-tail hollow point bullet caused, every action book I’ve ever read does it, but I won’t bother. I think you get the idea.

After shooting the first one, bully number two stood there looking dumbfounded. His alcohol sodden brain was slow to process what had happened. I worked the action of my Winchester and fired again. The whiskey bottle fell out of his hand and shattered on the ground.

I didn’t have to worry about being arrested. This was the way of the world these days. What a way to celebrate my eighteenth birthday.

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