Tainted Cure (The Rememdium Series Book 1) (21 page)

“Thank God.”

Walt took a deep breath. Unable to hide the sarcasm in his voice, he asked, “What did you say to the grunts to make them knock you out? Question their authority or somethin’?”

“That story is for another time, Walter,” Regina answered. Walt caught a glimpse of anger behind her eyes, but it disappeared as quickly as it arrived.

“What’s really goin’ on, Chief? Ebola? Smallpox? The Plague? Any idea how it’s spreadin’?”

Regina shook her head. “I don’t know. From what I’ve seen, it’s a combination of anythin’ and everythin.’ The only thing I know for sure is if you get bit, you—well, not sure how to say it. Turn I guess is the best way to put it. Oh, and I got an email from the Governor earlier, warnin’ all personnel to wear biosuits. Contaminated people are to be taken to the jail.”

“Why not the hospital? The jail doesn’t have the resources necessary to help anyone!” Martha interjected.

“My guess is because there isn’t a way to stop the progression once infected. They turn fast and don’t stop unless you destroy the brain. They can keep them behind bars at the jail.”

“For what purpose?” Turner asked.

“Not a clue,” Regina answered. She turned her focus to Walt and Martha. “Okay, so I’m gonna say this once and fast. Walt, Martha, Lamar—thank you for savin’ us and tellin’ me where to find my daughter. Before I go get her, Walt, I need to ask you to do somethin’ for Clint Chesterson. I made a promise to him.”

“Is he—?”

Regina cut him off. “Yes. So is Roger. Clint wanted you to get his parents to safety. Said you and Martha were the best—and beyond prepared for whatever the hell is goin’ on.”

Walt nodded. “Come on, Turner. We need to get to Ol’ Bubba then go get the Chestersons.”

“No. I’m goin’ with Chief Parker.”

Walt stared at his son. The boy from hours ago was gone, replaced by the hardness of a man. Walt had seen it happen to young men during the war. Dire situations with death as the end result burned away youth in a flash. The defiance in his eyes spoke volumes.

“We all are goin’ with the Chief. This ain’t the time to be splittin’ up into splinter groups. Safety in numbers, remember? Then, once we gather up everyone, we’re gettin’ the hell out of this town.”

Mouth agape, Walt stared at his wife. He started to protest, but he knew she was right.

As always.

“Chief, let me get those cuffs off you and patch you up first,” Martha said while scrounging in her pack for medical supplies. “You got your key on you still?”

“Yes, right front pocket,” Regina answered.

“Okay. Let’s do this. Can’t have you bleedin’ all over. I imagine those things are attracted to the smell of blood.”

Regina nodded, glancing back behind her toward the school. “Yeah, and noise. So let’s end this conversation and approach the jail in silence.”

Five heads bobbed in agreement.

With the precision of a nurse, Martha covered the wound to Regina’s head in seconds. They all stared at each other for a minute, each knowing they were about to embark on a mission that could end with all of them dead, whether from the military or the dead.

Turner took off first, and the rest followed as they ran toward the jail.

Benito’s entire body ached. The pounding in his head made his stomach queasy and his vision blur. He tried to sit up but couldn’t get his muscles to work right. Blinking twice, he took a deep breath and nearly cried out loud. Burning pain tore through his chest. Benito figured he suffered from several broken ribs. Taking shorter, smaller breaths, he tried to keep himself from panicking.

The last thing he remembered was being in the air with Fernando. They were approaching the landing strip at the edge of the estate when they crashed. Fernando started to convulse and the helicopter took a nosedive. When Benito tried to pry Fernando’s fingers from the controls, Fernando tried to bite him.

Infuriated, terrified, and not thinking about the consequences of killing the pilot, Benito pulled his gun and shot Fernando between eyes. As the helicopter’s warning system blared, Benito tried to regain control of the chopper but failed. The ground rushed up and then everything went dark.

The images and sounds from earlier while on top of the building in San Salvador slammed into his mind. Knowing he was an easy target if any of those things from the city had made it this far, Benito forced his body to obey his mind. He stood and winced in pain. His left arm hung limp at his side. Unsure if broken or dislocated, Benito really didn’t care. At least it was his arm and not his legs.

He took a few tentative steps and felt something warm run down his side. Stopping, he pulled up his tattered shirt, revealing a long gash about the length of his hand above his hipbone. It didn’t seem very deep yet it bled profusely. He couldn’t move his other arm, so taking off his shirt to use as a tourniquet was impossible. Benito tried ripping a section off from the bottom, but lacked the strength to tear the material.

With nothing left to use, Benito simply let his shirt back down and clamped his good hand over the folds of torn skin. He had to bite his lip to keep from screaming as he crushed the split edges together.

Looking around, Benito squinted. The morning sun hurt his eyes. He glanced to his left and saw the mangled remains of the chopper about twenty yards away. Pieces of what had once been Fernando were strewn across the tarmac.

Benito stumbled toward the manse. He was more than a little shocked he’d actually survived the crash. Benito tried to recall how he ended up extracting himself from the chopper before impact, but couldn’t remember. At this point, it didn’t really matter. What mattered was getting inside the brick fortress and barricading himself in.

Pace slow, it took Benito almost fifteen minutes to make it to the back gate. He looked up at the brick wall and cursed. It was over fifteen feet high, and in his current condition, there was no way to scale it. Shuffling over to the wrought iron gate, he prayed it was unlocked, though he knew it wouldn’t be.

Sure enough, it didn’t budge when he tried to open it.

The heat and the pain from his injuries made him dizzy. Pausing to catch his breath and for the dizziness to pass, Benito leaned against the hot bricks of the wall. There was no other way inside except one: push the buzzer and have one of his men unlock the gate from the inside.

Benito didn’t want to do that. The thought of letting his men see him in his current state was just as much of a death sentence as remaining exposed outside the walls. Mario’s words replayed over in his mind, “You may ascend to the top now, but one day, you’ll be the old dog. The pack is full of scheming members just waiting for the time to strike. They may bow to your whims now, drooling over whatever reward you dangled in front of them to betray me. Yet one day—just as you’ve done—they’ll turn and sink their teeth into you.”

Benito’s anger flared. The ominous warning from Mario was right on target. He couldn’t risk entering the manse while so weak. He had to find a place to hole up and heal before he faced his men.

Forcing himself to continue on, Benito headed to the stables. There was medicine and bandages for the horses inside the office. He could patch himself up and rest long enough to regain his strength. Glancing over to the closed-circuit camera facing the gate, he smiled. It wasn’t on, which meant the men inside had no idea he was there.

He used the brick wall as a shield and hugged it close while making his way to the stables. Struggling to stay on his feet from the intense pain, Benito used the tricks he’d learned to block the pain when he’d been abused by Mario. He forced his mind to believe he was climbing a mountain. At the top was an enormous treasure chest, stuffed full of everything he’d ever wished for. Each painful step was pushing him to the peak, and the rewards would outweigh the painful journey.

This time, instead of picturing a treasure chest on top of a mountain, he imagined himself back on the rooftop. He watched from his perch as the streets of San Salvador were full of beautiful, naked women strolling down the cobblestone streets toward him. They converged at the condo and danced their way up to the roof. One by one, each woman descended on him until the hundreds of naked women became one writhing pile of sensuality.

With Benito in the middle, his body in a constant state of orgasmic bliss as the wenches stroked, rubbed, caressed, and sucked him dry.

By the time he reached the big door, he was exhausted from the mental jousting. He pulled the door open and stepped inside, grateful the place shielded him from the burning sun.

The barn housed six horses, all Maria’s. Well, not anymore. Now the beautiful Arabians were his, though at the moment, he didn’t care. They were leftovers from Mario—gifts to his headstrong daughter to help placate her constant state of boredom. He figured they were hungry and again, didn’t care. Taking care of the beasts had never been his responsibility, and it certainly wasn’t on his agenda at the moment. As he made his way down the aisle, he considered letting them starve inside their stalls. Though tempting, he decided to let them live—at least long enough to retain some muscle. If things continued to go downhill in the world, horse meat was quite tasty and a good source of protein.

Ignoring their collective whinnying at his appearance, Benito made his way to the office.

The door was locked, so he grabbed a shovel leaning against one of the stalls to his right. He groaned in pain with the movement. He smashed the glass covering the top half of the door, reached in, and turned the deadbolt. Once inside, he went to the desk and removed the key to the medicine cabinet from the top drawer.

Grabbing everything he could use, Benito set about cleaning and caring for his injuries. The first thing he did was chew up a handful of aspirin, hoping it would kick in soon and help ease the pain. The bitter pills made him gag and he almost threw them up.

He struggled to open the lid on the hydrogen peroxide. After several attempts he succeeded. He ripped open the plastic housing a fresh bandage then pulled up his shirt. The wound seeped bright, red blood.

Fearful he might faint when dousing the wound with medicine, he decided to lie down on the desk. It took him a few seconds to clear the top and get himself situated. Once ready, hands shaking from the upcoming pain, Benito closed his eyes and took his mind back to the rooftop of pussy, and then poured.

For the first few seconds after the cold liquid hit, Benito kept his mouth closed. His body shook as though he was being electrocuted. After holding out as long as he could, Benito screamed at the top of his voice.

He couldn’t stand the pain any longer. Benito threw the bottle across the room, his chest heaving for air. Blackness filled his vision and threatened to swallow him in its dark vortex. It was at that precise moment something sparked inside his mind: the crash.

Fernando arrived a little before 1:30 a.m. He didn’t know what time it was now but guessed early morning. The manse was less than half-an-hour’s ride from San Salvador, which meant the chopper crashed sometime between two and two-thirty a.m. Though Benito didn’t know the exact time of day, he figured around maybe eight or nine.

Which meant he’d been unconscious for hours less than half-a-mile from the manse.

Why hadn’t anyone come to help? Where were his men? The manse was big yet wasn’t sound proof. A chopper could be heard approaching, and even if the men were in a state of panic from watching the world fall apart on the news or web, they couldn’t have missed the noise from a helicopter crashing!

While wrapping the bandage around the cleansed wound, Benito tossed around two possible scenarios inside his mind. Did his men flee like cowards at the first sign of trouble? That would explain why no one came to the crash site. The other idea rumbling inside his head made his stomach tremble. What if one of them decided to party and snorted some tainted coke? If even one of them turned…

Pushing the disturbing second scenario away, Benito focused on the task of dressing the wound and trying to figure out where his men were. The horses grew louder and a few stomped and snorted in their stalls, making it difficult for him to concentrate.

Benito yelled, “Necesito que te calles!”

Bandage secure and mind racing, he rose from the desk, fighting back a wave of dizziness.

Benito shouldn’t have ignored the warnings of the horses.

His instincts sensed a presence behind him before his mind had a chance to grasp he was in danger. The hair on his neck and arms stood erect in response. When he heard weird, gurgling sounds coming from multiple positions behind him, Benito swallowed, grabbed the scissors to his right, and spun around.

He had the answer as to his men’s whereabouts.

Raising the scissors above his head, Benito yelled, “Me cago en la leche!”

Benito San Nicholas—possibly the only man left on the planet who knew exactly how society fell and why, and the man responsible for ushering in the end of the world—never had a chance to inflict any damage or make another sound.

His dead, hungry former foot soldiers never gave him the chance.