Tainted Future (The Rememdium Series Book 3) (8 page)

I’m right there with you, Kevin. Right there with you.

Kevin snapped his fingers. Dirk, Everett, and Clive stopped in their tracks, each turning around. The man was rock still, his head cocked right. The foursome held their collective breaths, each listening for any foreign sounds.

After a full minute, Kevin shook his head, motioning for them to continue forward. Dirk nodded toward Clive and Everett, and then walked over to talk to Kevin. “What did you hear?”

Glancing once back toward the glen, Kevin muttered, “Swear I heard radio chatter. Must be losing my mind, or slipping back into my days in Afghanistan. You didn’t hear anything, right?”

“No, but if you say you did, I have no reason to doubt you. We already know we aren’t alone, so let’s hope it’s just one of the survivors you encountered yesterday. Probably out searching for food.”

“That thought doesn’t worry me. What puts me on edge is thinking the soldiers followed them here and plan on wiping them out. We need to hurry and get back to the lab. My gut tells me—”

“Then let’s move,” Dirk said. Turning, he jogged up the trail. The others sensed the urgency, even Dr. Berning, and followed.

FATEFUL ENCOUNTERS - Monday, December 22
^nd
  – 8:15
a.m. – Central Standard Time

Walt watched his son slip and tumble down the cliff from about twenty feet away. Turner’s screams were muffled as his body bounced and rolled over the boulders and ground.

“Turner!”

Running full speed, Walt didn’t even slide to stop at the edge. Bracing his hands behind him for traction, dirt and rocks exploding under his feet, Walt went after his boy. The sound of Turner’s body slamming into the ground made Walt’s stomach lurch. The first two tumbles, Turner grunted and groaned with each impact. When he quit making any noise, Walt thought his heart would stop.

“Walt! Wait!”

Ignoring the voice of Reed above him, Walt kept his focus on Turner. The mountainside was steep and rugged, full of large boulders and jagged shale. The scenery whizzed by in a blur as Walt slid down the treacherous terrain. Up ahead, he saw Turner’s body flip about ten feet into the air then land with a final, hard thump at the bottom of the cliff.

“Son-of-a-bitch,” Walt mumbled under his breath. “God, please? Don’t let my boy die.”

Time crawled at a snail’s pace as Walt maneuvered his body down the slope. By the time he reached Turner, he realized his son wasn’t moving. Even from ten feet away, Walt could tell Turner’s right leg was broken.

Reaching Turner’s side, Walt knelt down, heart thundering in his chest. Turner was a bloody, broken mess. His leg was bent underneath his back at an odd, unnatural angle. Cuts and gouges peppered his face, arms, and neck. A four-inch gash over his right eye split the skin, and it looked like his nose was broken.

Small wisps of steam streamed from Turner’s nose. Walt thought his heart would explode with joy. His boy was still alive. Yanking off his gloves, Walt gently patted Turner’s bloody cheek. “Son? Son? Can you hear me?”

No response. Turner was out cold.

The sound of someone coming down the slope behind him made Walt look up. Kyle Pender was less than twenty feet away. He’d never been so glad to see a cop before. In seconds, Kyle slid to a stop next to him.

“Reed went to go fetch Jane. He okay?”

Walt nodded, turning his attention back to Turner. “Leg’s broken, along with his nose. That last boulder knocked him out. We’re gonna have a hard time gettin’ him outta here and back to the cave. That’s a good fifty-foot drop.”

Kyle glanced around, studying the terrain. “Looks like there’s a glen about twenty yards ahead. The incline isn’t as steep as this one. Probably will take longer to reach the cave, but at least we’d be able to carry him without havin’ to wrangle some rope and pull him out.”

Walt opened his mouth to answer, but the sounds of footsteps crunching through dry leaves made him clamp it shut. Using hand motions, he signaled to Kyle. The cop’s reaction was immediate. Kyle pulled his weapon from its holster, training it in the direction of the noise.

Both men crouched lower, listening to the sounds draw closer. The glen was surrounded by a thick tangle of trees and boulders, so he couldn’t make out who—or what—was heading their way. Straining his ears, Walt picked out three, distinct footfalls. Judging by the steady rhythm, they weren’t dead.

Relieved they were dealing with humans, rather than reanimated monsters, Walt’s heart rate slowed down. It spiked again when three bodies appeared at the edge of the glen. Dressed in full bio suits and carrying a body bag, Walt’s gut rumbled in disgust.

I knew it! Government tools!

Kyle seemed to understand the gravity of the situation, too. With slow, controlled movements, he holstered his gun, replacing it with the rifle. Careful not to make a sound, Kyle moved to the prone position, barrel aimed at the intruders. Walt held up a hand to wait. Though he hated the idea of not blowing the bastards’ heads off when they had the chance, he didn’t want to risk it. There might be more hiding in the shadows. Even if Kyle took out the three men, the gunfire would draw out any others lurking about—or worse, give away their presence to any dead corpses shambling about—and they couldn’t run away fast enough carrying Turner’s unconscious body.

Kyle’s hands moved in a strange pattern. It took Walt a few seconds to recognize the motions.

The man knows sign language? Hallelujah!

Kyle signaled,
“I won’t shoot unless they spot us or head this way.”

“Good. Looks like they just plan on burying someone. Probably one of their buddies. They wouldn’t risk being outside to bury some unfortunate civilian they killed.”

“Agreed. You were right all along. Wonder where they’re holed up? Hopefully, not close by.”

“See those other mounds? This ain’t their first trip to the makeshift graveyard. Their camp’s gotta be close.”

For the next fifteen minutes, Walt and Kyle focused all their attention on the three men. Walt’s heart pounded, worrying about how long they had before Reed returned with Jane. He was almost glad Turner was out cold, because if awake, Turner was just klutzy enough to give their position away.

The thought made him feel like an ass, but it was the truth. They wouldn’t be here, crouched against the cold, hard ground holding their collective breaths like scared prey, had Turner paid more attention to the surroundings. How many times had Walt warned him to be careful near the cliff’s edge? Too many to remember. Martha was going to rip him a new one when they returned, especially after seeing the damage Turner’s fall had on his body. He dreaded seeing the anger in her eyes; hearing the accusations spewed in his direction from a fit of a mother’s worry for her only child.

No one could rip a person apart verbally better than his sweet Martha. When angry, she was a force of nature. Mild Martha morphed into Molten Martha. That’s the nickname Walt had secretly bestowed on his wife the first time he saw her in full riot mode.

Thoughts of Turner’s predicament, his wife’s reaction, the cold ground, worry about noise giving their position away from Jane and Reed, vanished. When the men eased the body bag into the grave, they all removed their white bio suits. Walt’s blood ran cold when he recognized one of them as the man he’d followed in the woods—and lost—the day prior.

Kevin Warton.

The men were talking now, but Walt couldn’t make out their words. Blood pulsed in his ears as anger overrode his thoughts. He wanted to kick himself for losing the man’s trail. Any doubts he had about Kevin Warton being military were all gone.

Barely able to contain himself from giving Kyle the signal to shoot, Walt concentrated on memorizing the other faces and body structures. He knew, without a shadow of a doubt, they’d run into each other again.

Because once Turner was back at the cave and safe, Walt planned on having a long discussion with the rest of the group, setting out his plans to find—and wipe out—the government bastards lurking in their territory.

The sound of another’s footsteps crunching through the leaves caught Walt’s attention, followed by a male voice yelling, “Stop! You can’t bury him!”

One of the men yelled a response, then the other voice screamed, “Because of the fungi! You can’t bury him because of the fungi!”

The three men turned and walked up the hill, out of earshot. Walt tried, yet couldn’t make out, the rest of their conversation, though he could tell it was fairly heated. After a few minutes of back-and-forth, the men turned and headed west, away from Walt and Kyle. Neither man spoke for an additional five minutes after the foursome disappeared.

“That was close,” Kyle whispered.

“Too close. Wish we could’ve heard the rest of the reason why the old man was in such a tizzy about buryin’ the body. Did he say fungi?”

“Yeah, he did. Do you think he meant fungus?”

A fleeting memory of prepper meetings surfaced. “Fungi is the same as fungus, so yeah.”

“God, I hope that means they ain’t still contagious after death. Or, shall I say, their second death?”

“Fungal. Makes sense. No wonder the government wanted to burn the bodies. Well, that little spectacle did help us in some ways.”

“Agreed. We know there are at least four, they’re armed, obviously military, and their camp is that way,” Kyle nodded west with his head. “And they didn’t seem to be concerned with coverin’ their steps, so trackin’ them should be a breeze.”

“Exactly. In fact, I think we should—”

Walt’s comments were cut short when the radio on his hip crackled to life. “Walt? We’ve got ropes and Jane’s here. Want us to head down?” Reed asked.

Turning around, Walt looked up. Reed and Jane stood at the edge of the cliff. Walt shook his head then answered on the radio. “No. We’ll secure his leg down here and circle back. Maintain radio silence. I mean it. We ain’t alone.”

Reed waved in acknowledgement, so Walt turned the radio off. “Damn good thing they didn’t come back while those grunts were within hearin’ range.”

“No shit. I’ll need your rifle to use as a splint, so unload it please. Well use this to secure it with,” Kyle offered up his belt then removed his jacket and shirt. He ripped the shirt in two and immediately wrapped the material around Turner’s bleeding skull. “You should let me handle this.”

“No, I can do it.”

Kyle put his hand over Walt’s. “Didn’t say you couldn’t, I said you should let me. He’s your son, and though he’s out right now, the pain will probably wake him up. You cover his mouth to muffle the screams. I promise, as his father, you don’t want the memory of knowin’ you caused him so much pain. I got this.”

Walt hesitated. “You…know how?”

“Yes. Cop and trained paramedic. Remember we lived in a small town. People had multiple roles. Now, use the other half of this shirt and hold his mouth and head.”

Scooting over until he reached the top of Turner’s head, Walt remained quiet. His fingers shook while he rolled the material into a ball and placed it over Turner’s swollen lips. Just as he leaned over to get a firm grip on Turner’s shoulders, his son woke up. The terror and pain in those big, beautiful eyes, tore at Walt’s heartstrings. In a flash, Walt removed the cloth.

“Son, listen to me. Don’t say a word. We ain’t quite alone out here. If you understand me, nod your head once.” Turner did, so Walt continued. “You broke your leg, so before we can move you, Kyle’s gotta set it in a splint. It’s gonna hurt like a son-of-a-bitch, but you can’t scream. I’m gonna put the cotton back into your mouth. You bite down on it all you want, but no sounds. Can you do that?”

Turner closed his eyes while tears leaked from the corners. He nodded again and opened his mouth. Walt secured the cloth and gently covered his lips.

“I’ve gotta move your leg out from under you first, then set the splint. I’ll move as fast as I can. On the count of three,” Kyle whispered.

Turner opened his eyes again, locking gazes with Walt. “You can do this, son.”

“Okay, here goes part one. Turner, can you roll to the left a bit?”

Without answering, Turner groaned while shifting his weight. Kyle worked fast, pulling his right leg straight. Tears of pain erupted from Turner’s eyes.

“Good job, son. Okay, on the count of three. One…two…three!”

Walt felt Turner’s body tense as it vibrated with a muffled scream. Even after all the years in the military, watching boys die in front of him, listening to them cry for their momma’s with final breaths, Walt never experienced the kind of sorrow Turner’s yelp of pain brought. Hearing—and seeing—his son in such agony, made a lump of tears form in the back of his throat.

Turner’s anguished scream stopped. Walt realized he was out cold again. The pain had been too much for his mind to endure, so it shut down.

“Well, the good news is the breaks are clean. Didn’t penetrate through the skin,” Kyle offered.

“And the bad news?”

“Turner broke both his tibia and fibula, which means he ain’t gonna be walkin’, even with a cast or brace, for quite some time.”