The Liger Plague (Book 1) (33 page)

“Shouldn’t have expected you’d know how to drive.”

“Dumb mistake. Thought I was hitting the brakes instead of the gas.”

“You’d make a good race car driver, kid.”

“Never use brakes when I’m riding my bike anyway,” Fez said, gathering the vials in hand.

“Watch out!” Tag shouted, seeing a poxer looming up behind Fez.

He took a step and felt his leg go numb, but somehow he managed to stay on his feet. He could barely move after that violent collision. The poxer opened its tattered mouth and set to take a bite out of the kid’s scalp. Tag lifted his gun and pulled the trigger but heard only a click. He pulled out his combat knife and limped over to where the poxer stood, plunging the blade deep into its skull. A stream of blood and brain matter exploded out of the slit and shot ten feet up like an opened fire hydrant. A quick diagnosis told him the victims’ brains had swelled to a dangerous level because of the infection, and that this was the reason why the brain sought release from the pressure being exerted on the skull.

The other poxers staggered towards the car. Tag pushed Fez into the Crown Victoria’s open door and scrambled in behind him. One of the poxers reached in through the door before he could fully shut it and tried to drag him out. Using the butt of his gun he beat down on its infected arm, but it seemed to have little effect on the attacker. He slammed the door shut with all his might and at the same time stepped on the gas. Then he punched the brakes and sent the poxer flying up over the roof. The blood-soaked arm dangled from the door, hanging by the fragments of its blistered skin. He took hold of the hand, opened the door, and tossed it onto the street. Then he sped toward the northern end of the island.

The infected seemed to be emerging from every opening, and he swerved to avoid hitting them. After driving about a mile, he saw someone standing in the middle of the road, waving their arms, desperately trying to get his attention. Was the person infected? He started to slow down when the man pulled a rifle out from behind his back and pointed it at the windshield. A group of poxers staggered toward him from both sides of the road, and Tag realized that if he didn’t stop and help this man, they would quickly overtake him.

“It’s Reverend Roberts, Tag! You can’t let him in here,” Fez said.

“Duck down, everyone. He’s got a rifle pointed at us.”

Tag stepped on the gas and yelled again for everyone to duck. A shot rang out, shattering the windshield. Tag kept his head down and his foot on the gas. Looking up over the dashboard, he saw Roberts trying to limp out of the vehicle’s path. A second later he heard a loud thump against the front end. The car shook and swerved, skidding into a pine tree off to the side of the road. Roberts’ body rained down on the pavement thirty yards away. Tag’s head bounced off the steering wheel, and he fell back against the seat. Fez got tossed around until he came to a rest on the passenger seat. Monica and Taylor both remained strapped to their seats, apparently unharmed, but where was Stain?

Steam hissed out of the front end. Tag climbed out of the car and looked around, finally seeing the actor dangling from one of the tree limbs, his torso impaled by a sharp branch protruding from the trunk. Fez jumped out and stood by him, staring up at the mortally wounded actor. Stain was still moving his arms and legs in an attempt to extricate himself from the branch. Neither Monica nor Taylor had moved from their seats. Three poxers stood underneath the actor’s body and reached up, snagging his limbs and taking bites out of his legs and feet. Stain screamed in agony.

“Come on, kid, let’s get out of here,” Tag said, limping back to the car.

“You can’t just leave him there like that.”

Tag turned and stared at the unfortunate actor. “Yeah, you’re right.”

“Hurry up and take care of him, Tag There’s more of them coming.”

Tag opened the back door and helped Monica and Taylor out. Twenty yards away hobbled another group of poxers. He put down his bag, pulled out another magazine, and reloaded. Lee cried for help, but Tag knew that there was nothing he could do for the man. He aimed up toward the branch and fired a round into Lee’s head, and immediately the actor’s body went slack. Then he took out the three poxers chewing on Stain’s feet.

They hobbled along the road toward the northern section of the island where the old lobsterman lived. Tag could see the Portland skyline to their left. To the right he could just make out a blue slice of ocean. He held his ribcage, trying to control the pain he felt every time he breathed. Helicopters buzzed overhead. The endgame was nearing. Soon those Navy Seals would be coming ashore, and they had very little time left to find a way off this island.

Tag put his arms under Monica’s shoulders, and Fez did the same with Taylor, and they helped them along. The road darkened under the thick canopy of trees. It turned toward the ocean and descended at a significant pitch. The sun was setting in the west. Every few feet a poxer emerged out of the woods and stumbled forward. Tag shot them dead, doing so with a heaviness in his heart, knowing full well that this diseased person was once a father, mother, son or daughter.

These people he’d killed had been his neighbors and friends. He said a silent prayer, asking God for His forgiveness for taking their lives. Many of these people had simply come over for the day to enjoy the island’s amenities, along with the wonderful scenery and beautiful works of art. His many years summering on Cooke’s Island had embedded him in this rich and diverse community. Now the island had been destroyed, and he had to somehow find a way off it before it was too late. If he was lucky enough to leave the island, he knew he’d never set foot on it again.

Chapter 23

They hobbled down the street, keeping their eye out for any of the diseased hiding in the woods. Tag was afraid he might drop from exhaustion. His entire body screamed for rest, and he felt as if he might need to spend a week in the emergency room after this all ended. The recent events made him question his initial strategy of not killing off any poxers he came across. Maybe Reverend Roberts had been right after all and the poxers should be eliminated, yet he couldn’t reconcile that strategy with his moral purpose in life, which was to save human lives. The extent of the poxers’ brain impairment had turned them into involuntary psychopaths, symptoms never before seen in any illness. Maybe a portion of this engineered virus was a new form of transmissible spongiform encephalopathy that had been caused by an overload of prions, an infectious agent made up of protein and resulting in brain tissue becoming spongy, porous and swollen with fluid. With any luck, there would be time for study and analysis later, assuming he could clear his name and return to the lab. But for now he had to find a way to keep everyone alive and somehow find a way off this godforsaken island.

They stopped once they came to the narrow path leading to Cooper’s house. Fez nodded appreciatively, relieved to have made it this far. Above them the sky radiated a bright pink, signaling the oncoming darkness. They had no choice now but to travel down the treacherous path or risk getting caught in the dark with little defense against the poxers.

“Fez, take up the rear. And don’t hesitate to shoot if they come close.”

“Sure thing.”

“We’re going to walk down this path now, hon,” he said to his wife, who nodded in agreement. “You okay to continue on, Taylor?”

She nodded, unable to speak.

Tag placed his bag down and pulled out two more magazines and shoved them in his pocket. He looked back at the paved road and saw three poxers staggering down the yellow median strip.

“Okay, let’s move out.”

They made their way onto the dirt path. Monica whimpered and Taylor cried out in pain as their blistered bare feet hobbled over the pebbles, rocks, roots and sharp sticks. Monica limped along, slowing them considerably. Tag scooped her in his arms and continued to trudge down the road. His wife had always been fit and slim, having run marathons in her spare time, but now she felt as light as a bird in his arms, despite the pain shooting throughout his body. Crickets chirped and frogs croaked deep in the woods. The nearer they got to the house, the louder he could hear the waves crashing ashore.

“Poxers to our right,” Fez called.

An army of the infected were stomping through the woods. He placed his wife down on her feet, took out his gun, and opened fire. Heads exploded, and poxers fell back amongst the shrubs and vegetation. Their skulls were now like pressure cookers, exploding violently against the branches and tree trunks. Another wave appeared behind the first. There appeared to be no end in sight.

“Come on, kid,” Tag urged, “we need to keep moving.”

He continued to shoot as he hustled his group along the road. Something seemed wrong. He looked around but couldn’t see where the kid had gone. A shot rang out behind him, and when he turned back, he saw Fez kneeling on the ground and in the shooter’s position.

“Forget them, Fez. Hurry up and catch up to us!”

“It’s all good, Tag. Get your family to Cooper’s while I keep them occupied.”

“No way! I’m ordering you to fall back!”

“Get your family back to safety first.”

Tag felt pulled in both directions and knew he had to choose between the kid and his family. The kid was putting his life on the line to save them, and if he went back for him, they’d all die. He fired at the poxers coming out of the woods, continuing to hustle his family along the path. The closer they got to the water, the fewer poxers he saw. He stopped firing and listened for any sign that Fez had made it out of the woods, but heard the continuing shots going off. Behind him, he saw only the dark road and no sign of the kid. By the time he turned back to Monica and Taylor, he could see the dying light in the sky and the orange sun reflecting off the harbor water.

Emerging into the clearing, they were immediately greeted by a swarm of startled poxers stumbling along the beach. He pushed Monica through the warm sand and toward the fence surrounding Cooper’s house and urged Taylor to keep close to her. Once they made it to the gate, he climbed over, groaning in agony, and popped the latch to usher them inside. Monica collapsed on the rocky isthmus leading to the house, and Taylor stood panting. Tag slammed the gate behind him and reloaded. Once he’d gotten his bearings, he escorted them into the house, then started back toward the road in order to help Fez. He sprinted through the sand toward the dirt road when a swarm of the infected spilled in front of him. There was no way he could get past that mob. He fired off some rounds, dropping three in their tracks, but dozens more continued to swarm out like bees from a hive. To try to get past them would be suicidal. Tears streamed from his eyes, knowing that the kid had likely died trying to save his family’s life. He’d never forget Fez and promised himself that he would do all he could to honor the kid.

He jogged back toward the house, shrugging off the grabbing hands of poxers. He shot as many as he could, hearing the familiar sounds of their heads exploding like firecrackers on the 4th of July, their brains desperately seeking release. Versa came running out to meet him.

He didn’t bother to lift the latch, just scaled the gate and fell the ten feet to the rocks below. The pain radiating through his body seemed like it would never end. He lay there, groaning in agony and not wanting to get up. He had no idea how he’d even made it this far without becoming infected or killed. He propped himself up before limping inside the house and collapsing next to his Monica. Everything spun around him as he lay there staring up at the dark ceiling, the sweeping beam of the lighthouse racing across the room. Moments later he heard the sound of a foghorn blaring.

“Where’s the kid?” asked Versa.

Tag shook his head and wiped his eyes.

“Didn’t make it?”

“Stayed back and covered for us so we’d make it back here. The little shit wouldn’t listen to me.” He couldn’t stop the tears from falling.

“Sorry about the kid, Colonel,” Versa said. “Maybe he wasn’t so bad after all.”

They made their way inside. He listened to the waves rolling onto the rocks just outside the window. Never in his life had he absorbed so much punishment. He thought sadly about Fez. He tried not to dwell on what happened but on the kid’s legacy and all the brave things he’d done. He’d been such a tough little bastard. Had he not stayed there and drawn the poxers toward him, Tag, Monica and Taylor might not have made it out of those woods alive.

Something inside him wanted to give up and stop running, raise his hands up and surrender to the authorities. What had started as an enjoyable weekend with his family had turned into a nightmare of epic proportions. He tried to position his body to get comfortable, but his body had already begun to stiffen and rebel against him. The stinging pain in his mangled ear hurt beyond anything he could have ever imagined, and he had to gulp down more aspirin to keep the worst of it at bay.

The poxers rushed up to the gate outside the front door and shook the metal fence with a vengeance. They roared and screamed, pleading for help and displaying the wild and unpredictable mood swings that came with this onerous brain disease. Tag knew that they were safe inside Cooper’s house for the time being, but for how long? Amidst the rolling waves, the moaning and rattling of metal, and their crazed pleas for help, Tag heard footsteps approaching. He stood uneasily to his feet and turned to see Versa tending to Taylor. The sight of her familiar face warmed his heart.

Tag spread a blanket over Monica. She gazed up at him with an odd expression that was neither sadness nor relief. Oftentimes, he knew, though no one knew why, victims of smallpox displayed expressions of bemusement or anxiety. He saw that Taylor bore the same puzzled expression. Taylor opened her mouth to talk, but nothing came out. Pustules and open sores covered her tongue and the back of her throat, preventing her from speaking.

“Are you hungry?” he asked Monica.

She nodded.

“Does your head feel any different? Do you feel angry or upset?”