Tainted Reality (The Rememdium Series Book 2) (12 page)

Roberto assumed after Benito took over the reins, he would eventually get past the years of abuse. Move on and enjoy the treasures he stole from the old geezer. In some ways, he did—like boning the man’s daughter. However, when Benito discovered Mario’s secret hidden in the safe, the San Salvadorian street trash turned into an obsessed man. A crazy fool driven by his own insecurities and insatiable desire to have his name whispered in awed, hushed tones by other drug dealers around the world.

Unwilling to think about the disturbed man any longer, Roberto shifted mental gears. He thought back to when Carlos, Santos, and Gregory didn’t answer his calls or return to the bachelor party.

Roberto realized there was a problem and naively assumed something went awry with the plans set out for Maria. Since the partygoers were drunk and high, they never noticed Roberto sneak out the back door of the strip club.

When he drove up and went inside the old slaughterhouse to see what was keeping them, Roberto opened the door only to discover the unthinkable. Three dead men missing most of their flesh rambled around the inside of the building, biting, snarling, and tearing chunks of flesh from each other. Roberto’s legs carried him just fast enough to outrun the bloodied, growling shells of Gregory, Santos, and Carlos, and back to his SUV.

In the rear  view mirror, he watched in horror as the trio lurched off toward downtown Phoenix, leaving a trail of blood and gore in their wake.

By the time he made it back to the party, Roberto was shaking so hard all he could think about was downing enough tequila to wipe away the images. Yet the second stepped inside, what he witnessed at the slaughterhouse was mild compared to what had happened at the club while he was away.

The scene was nothing short of a bloodbath—worse than any horror movie set ever conceived—and Roberto was no stranger to seeing death up close and personal.

Before he’d left the party, Roberto noticed two of his henchmen, Rico and Calvin, break out a huge pile of coke onto the table. Several of the strippers and other patrons swarmed the private room, each taking turns snorting up the white powder. Before it was all gone, Roberto stepped over and yanked the half-empty kilo from Rico, pocketing the blow for later.

Rico had arrived only a few hours prior from picking up a kilo from one of Benito’s runners at the Mexican border. Though tempting and hard to resist taking a hit before he departed, Roberto left, assuming the party would still be rocking when he returned. The guests were so wasted they’d never notice him slip back inside.

He was wrong.

Dead, wrong.

While the music thumped and the strobe lights flashed in time with the beat, Roberto stood in shock at the front entrance. Blood coated the stage, leaking from the torsos of two strippers ripped to pieces. Rico—or what sort of resembled Rico—shoveled handfuls of intestines into his mouth.

Tables were flipped on their sides, chairs tossed across the dance floor. Not one bottle of booze behind the bar remained intact. Red dripped from the walls, the painted ceiling, and off of the fake chandeliers. Chunks of muscle, skin, intestines and other body parts, littered the floor like putrid confetti, mixed with blood and liquor.

Calvin was about fifteen feet away to Roberto’s right. The fingers of his left hand clutched a section of lower bowel, his nose and upper lip still coated in white powder. When he shot his right arm forward and ripped out another long string of intestine from what used to be Holly-Woody, the buxom brunette and star attraction of
The Nut Hut
, Roberto puked. The stream of vomit continued to spew forth while Roberto backed out of the club. He tripped and fell down twice while running back to the SUV.

By the time he made it inside, the retching stopped long enough for him to start the engine. In a panicked rush, Roberto didn’t notice the stream of people on the sidewalk up and down University Road. When he threw the vehicle into reverse, he ran over a few.

And then the screaming started.

Which brought out the former, beyond-recognition-partygoers of
The Nut Hut
.

That’s when the
real
screaming started.

At the time, Roberto still hadn’t made the connection between the coke and the dead. That changed when he arrived home. He ran inside, his clothes covered in vomit, and headed straight toward the enormous bar in the den.

The two men left behind to guard Teresa, Geraldo and Eduardo, followed him as he ran through the house.

Geraldo threw out a barrage of questions which Roberto ignored. After downing several shots to stop his hands from shaking, Roberto told the men about the night’s previous events. Eduardo mocked him, asking Roberto what type of hallucinogen he was on. In a fit of anger, Roberto stormed back out to his vehicle and extracted the blow from under the passenger seat. He threw the package at Eduardo while yelling he wasn’t on a damned thing.

Roberto pointed to the dented bumper and blood stains on the back of the SUV. “Solid proof for you fools.”

“Let’s turn on the news, see what’s going on,” Geraldo suggested as they walked back inside.

For the next half-hour, the three men sat hunched on the couch, flipping channels. Geraldo and Eduardo took several snorts to wake up, but Roberto decided to stick with the tequila. A stimulant would just heighten his ability to remember what happened at the club and slaughterhouse. Alcohol was a great, temporary memory eraser.

Those thirty minutes on the couch, watching reports and videos flood the screen with the same type of awful things Roberto witnessed earlier, were Geraldo and Eduardo’s last moments alive.

After seeing similar events occur around the globe, Roberto had retrieved his favorite handgun from the desk. No sooner had he locked and loaded a full clip, the den filled with strange, gurgling noises. He turned around and came face-to-face with what used to be Geraldo.

Without hesitating, Roberto blew the man’s head off, trained the gun on Eduardo, and did the same.

It was at that precise moment, he knew exactly what was going on—and how people were turning into bloodthirsty, flesh-eating monsters. He yanked out his other cell and called Benito to warn him. The connection was horrible, and Roberto barely got three sentences out before the line went dead. He redialed three times, yet Benito never answered.

Teresa flew down the stairs at the sounds of gunfire. Roberto had shut the door to the den and ushered her into the living room. He made the mistake of turning on the television to distract Teresa from all her questions about the noise, and he’d regretted the decision. When she saw what was going on, Teresa lost it.

After the television switched over to the EBS system, their cell phones died and the internet was unavailable, Roberto made the mistake of going outside. Though they lived in an exclusive, upscale neighborhood, the location didn’t matter. He spotted several lumbering bodies walking up and down the street, a few crouched in the middle of the road near their driveway, chewing on the flesh of those who hadn’t turned.

He’d grabbed another bottle of tequila and yanked a screaming Teresa behind him, retreating to the basement, and they’d remained there for the last twenty-four hours. When the emergency sirens blared, followed by an order from some government fool for every citizen to present themselves for testing at their local high school, Roberto and Teresa cowered in silence.

Roberto looked over at the remains of the laptop he’d destroyed earlier after the internet went down. The shattered remnants sat in silence next to his useless cell phone. For the first time in years, Roberto wished he had a land line, though he imagined telephone lines were down as well. The terrifying sounds from outside—the screams of victims running in vain away from their pursuers—the steady
bam bam bam
of gunfire and explosives, had driven Roberto to the breaking point.

Daylight streamed in through the small windows, so Roberto crept over and peered outside. A multitude of military vehicles swarmed the streets, the soldiers in camo gunning down the things ambling around in the street. Like a swat team moving in on a target, a band of them went house-to-house, kicking in the doors and storming inside. More gunfire erupted then the group exited without any civilians in tow. Smoke from numerous fires blocked out the clouds, and the beautiful, well-maintained street looked like a war zone. Abandoned vehicles lined the curbs, some left with doors wide open and engines idling. The continuous sounds of people screaming for help sent waves of hysteria throughout Roberto’s body.

He couldn’t stand another minute caged like an animal at a kill shelter, cowering in fear for his number to be called.

“I’ve got to get out of here before they come in and kill me, but where should I go? Oh, shit, like it matters. I just need to stay one step ahead of those armed fools.”

Looking over at Teresa, Roberto felt nothing for the woman whom he’d shared a bed with for years. At least, not enough to wake her up. Squaring his shoulders, he nodded his head once, his choice made. Teresa would just slow him down, and the thought of trying to escape with a frantic woman by his side made his head spin.

Engagement’s over, mi cielo. Good luck. Maybe you’ll get lucky and still be asleep when they bust in and shoot you. Go, join your sister on the other side.

Ignoring Teresa, Roberto sped up the stairs and into the den. When he opened the door, the stench of the two, rotting corpses overwhelmed him. Burying his nose in the crook of his arm, Roberto dodged the bodies and headed straight to the wall safe. He removed several stacks of cash, two more guns and clips, his citizenship papers, and the keys to a tricked-out Jeep locked in the garage.

Sweat poured from his face and neck while shoving all the items into a trash bin under the desk. His eyes watered from the odor of the dead bodies less than fifteen feet away. Grabbing the container, he ran from the den and out the side kitchen door to the garage.

The sounds of the army outside drew closer. Roberto tried to open the garage door with the automatic opener after starting the Jeep.

Nothing happened.

“Shit! Forgot the power’s out! Gotta lay off the booze for a while.”

Jumping out of the Jeep, Roberto ran to the metal door and pushed it open. He gave a quick scan of the yard, thankful no hungry corpses or troops were in his driveway.

His excitement was short-lived.

The second he backed out of the garage, a barrage of bullets sprayed the hood of the Jeep. One entered the windshield, sending shards of sharp glass inside the interior, peppering his face and chest.

“Ha! You missed, assholes!”

Throwing the vehicle into drive, Roberto tore through the manicured yard at full speed. In the rear view mirror, he saw a Humvee barreling down on him. Roberto pushed his foot down as hard as he could on the accelerator.

He made it to the end of the street, turned left toward the entrance to the interstate, screaming obscenities at the men trying to stop him.

Dodging stalled cars, trucks, roadblocks, and several dead people, Roberto pushed the Jeep to her limit. The occasional
ping
of a stray bullet hitting the vehicle made him grip the wheel harder. One blew out the back windshield, ripping a hole in the passenger headrest.

“Missed again!” Roberto shouted, glancing over for a split second and eyeing the embedded bullet in the dashboard.

Taking his focus off the road was the biggest mistake Roberto Jesus Sanchez ever made.

“Oh, shit!”

Roberto’s motor skills were swimming in alcohol. He jerked the wheel hard right, trying to avoid a large group of dead people in the middle of the road. Fear made him overcompensate, and when the tires hit a pothole, the Jeep flipped.

Without his seat belt on, Roberto bounced around like a child’s doll. He lost count of how many times his head and body slammed against a hard surface; felt the sting of glass and debris pierce his skin. The Jeep rolled several times before coming to a halt on the roof.

Stunned, blood pouring from his head and equilibrium off, Roberto tried to move. Every inch of his body screamed in pain. Upside down in the back seat, pinned beneath the crumpled roof, Roberto had no choice. He’d have to beg for help from the bastards who’d been trying to shoot him seconds before.

He never got the chance to utter one plea for assistance.

Because several sets of cold, clammy hands reached through the busted windows of the Jeep, tearing Roberto to shreds before his brain had a chance to register the pain.

PAYBACK - Saturday - December 20
^th
– 2:10 p.m.

Lieutenant Gerald Pack cracked a wide grin as the parking lot of the supercenter came into view. Less than two klicks away, he was antsy to get things rolling. He double-checked his weapon and felt the familiar rush of the anticipation of a fight flood his system. Nerves on high alert ever since the phone call activating his unit nearly ten hours prior, he’d been running on pure adrenaline.

He had never deviated from any directive given to him in all the years he’d served his country. Today, in the midst of global chaos, he wouldn’t let the fear of the world collapsing stop him, either.