The Zombie Virus (Book 2): The Children of the Damned (43 page)

Dontela removed the gauze from Katy’s calf
where the bullet had passed cleanly through. It was ugly looking,
though she didn’t think it had caused any major damage. The girl
would probably have a limp for the rest of her life. Katherine
winced again when her friend pulled the bloody gauze off and
immediately pressed a fresh piece against the wound before more
blood could seep out. Dontela was in shock at what had happened
earlier that afternoon. In the blink of an eye their joyous reverie
had been reduced to utmost sorrow by some human garbage from the
inner city. She felt no kindred to the black men and women who had
perpetrated this bloodbath and now lay stacked like bloody cordwood
against the fence, only a seething hatred. It had always been
people like that who had stirred the fires of race hatred on either
side of the color aisle. She was saddened to see that it had
survived the Apocalypse. After wrapping a length of gauze around
her friend’s calf, she stood and rubbed the swollen, painful knot
on her head where the gangster had struck her with his gun. If she
had her way she would work to eradicate anyone who hated someone
else because that person was different. Whether it be from their
own skin color, or religious preference, or hair color, or what
they ate for breakfast, there was no room for that kind of hate in
this diminished world. If they were going to rebuild society,
people like that weren’t going to be welcome in it. Yeah, in and of
itself, that was admitting her own prejudice, but damned if it
wasn’t a justifiable prejudice. She stared at her rifle that leaned
against the chair. It was the way of the gun now, and with a gun
she would set things right.

An hour later, the two Strykers rolled into
the refugee compound and pulled to a stop near a pile of blood
soaked bodies. Sergeant Heinlich approached the vehicles as they
cut their engines and personnel poured out and looked around with
dazed eyes. The boy’s dog, Jumper, was the last out. First Sergeant
Shavers had tried contacting Heinlich several times after they had
retreated from the armory and had not been able to raise him. He
assumed that the unit had been out of the Humvee and therefore
radio contact.

“I didn’t expect you to bring the entire
squad,” Heinlich remarked. “You only left Reese to hold down the
fort?”

He knew almost instantly that something was
amiss by the haunted look in all of their eyes.

“This is more than a rescue mission isn’t
it?”

Shavers nodded. “We lost Gypsy Hill.” He
explained to the Sergeant what had befallen the Thomas D. Howe
Memorial Armory and the heroic actions of retired Marine Kyle Reese
and his delaying actions that had allowed them to escape and had
also resulted in his loss. As they walked toward the building where
the others waited, the Sergeant filled Shavers in on the events of
the past two days, including the gun battle that took place here
with the group of gangsters who had tried to ambush them.

The body of Steven McQuinn was laid out on an
office table in the far corner of the storefront. Beside him
Shavers saw the dark-haired beauty that must be the girl named
Kera. Standing by a window and staring out at nothing stood Jeremy,
absently tracing patterns with a finger on the dirty glass. The dog
spotted the boy instantly and bounded over to him, jumped up, and
began licking his dry, salty cheeks. Jeremy wrapped his arm around
the dog and hugged him tight, burying his face in the dog’s fur and
murmuring something unintelligible.

Sarah was resting on a chair near the
entryway and a smile split her face when she spotted PFC Nantz walk
through the door behind the two Sergeants. She jumped out of her
chair and the two raced into each other’s arms, laughing with
relief that the other was safe.

A tall black woman, Dontela, according to
Heinlich, was tending to another blonde girl’s leg, who was next to
two other women that the Sergeant told him had been held captive by
the D.C. gang and now stood free, dressed in ill-fitting clothing
they had liberated from some of the dead bodies. A little girl,
Angela, held on tightly to the blonde girl’s hand, sorrow haunting
her large, dark eyes. The pretty black woman changed the
blood-soaked bandage that covered the holes in the ex-sorority
girl’s calf where the bullet had passed completely through.

What
a
shit
sandwich
we
were
all
forced
to
eat
today
, Shavers thought, surveying the
sad, weary bunch of refugees who would now look to him for
leadership. Right now he had doubts that he should be the one doing
this. He was exhausted to his core. He was tired of taking two
steps back for every one forward, tired of an enemy who seemed
unending in their numbers. Most of all, he was simply tired of
losing good people. He felt like every one of them was damned.
Someone else should be doing this!

No
, he sighed to himself,
it
has
to
be
me
. He knew he was the glue
that held these people together. The only other person who could
possibly lead the 29th in this war was now lying dead, crushed and
torn by an inhuman swarm of an unimaginable size back at the
overrun armory. He would persist in this fight, and continue taking
it to the enemy until he was physically unable. He would not quit
and run. He owed it to these people. He owed it to Reese and Benton
and the dozens of others who gave their all against impossible
odds. He would reinforce the growing squad’s equipment from what
could be liberated from the Annex and the Armory. They would find
another building to call their base, someplace more impenetrable
and easier to defend, far away from the larger swarms. They would
get the Willy-Pete and payback would be brutal and final for the
Staunton swarms. He squared his shoulders and stood taller as the
group watched him, waiting for him to lead them, and lead them he
would.

He walked over to Jeremy and placed one of
his hands on the boy’s shoulder and tried to convey the sympathy he
so strongly felt for the youngster. It was a rough world for any
child to have to live in.

Maybe
we
were
wrong
, he thought when the boy glanced up at him with
red-rimmed eyes.
Maybe
it’s
these
kids
who
are
truly
the
children
of
the
damned
.

###

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Paul Hetzer was born and raised in the mining
country of West Virginia. He spent six years in the military before
leaving to earn a bachelor’s degree in Marine Biology and a
master’s degree in Chemistry. Paul is an avid gun enthusiast,
biker, scuba diver and amateur astronomer. He presently lives with
his wife and son in Maryland.