Zombies Begin (Zombies Begin Series Book 1) (15 page)

Fuller continued his advance, shotgun trained. He aimed point blank. The agent lay dead at Lloyd’s feet. The distant truck horn stopped. Fuller spun around to see what was happening up the gravel road. It was too dark and too far to see anything.

“You shot me, ya dumb son of a bitch!” Lloyd screamed through clenched teeth.

Flashes of lightning lit up the dark sky. Thunder rumbled in the distance. Strong wind blew through the trees, stirring up leaves and dust. A storm closed in.

A beam of light from the truck’s one, unbroken spotlight cut through the night air. Fuller approached the truck cautiously. Shotgun pointed down, but ready. He squinted to see into the truck, using his forearm to shield his eyes from the bright light. Where were Santiago and Davis?

Lloyd moved out of the shadows behind Fuller, blood running down his wounded right arm—unable to hold his gun. His left arm would have to do, but he wasn’t the best shot with it. He threw himself against a tree, using it to help prop up his gun.

The truck’s back door was wide open, as well as the driver’s door. No sign of Santiago or Davis.

“JENNIFER!” Fuller called.

“Shhhh!”  rebuked Lloyd. “Let everyone know we’re here! You’ll end up with a cap in your ass!” he said in a loud whisper.

Fuller looked back at Lloyd, then back at the truck. Scratched his head, not sure how to proceed. He got low to the ground and waited.

A rock ricocheted off the back of Fuller’s head. He whipped back to see who/what had attacked him.

Lloyd nodded his head to move on and check out the truck.

Fuller slowly got back to his feet. He moved in quickly, securing the truck. The windshield had been almost completely kicked in. Things had been tossed about in the cabin. A complete mess.

Lloyd stumbled up behind Fuller, nursing his wounded arm. He was visibly disappointed at the condition of his truck. It was his pride and joy. He laid his gun down on the front seat and gathered papers and other small items, organizing them back in the glove box.

Fuller moved out into the middle of the dirt road and took a deep breath. The air was cool and misty. He looked in both directions, staring into the darkness to see if he could see anything—nothing. His mind raced. Where was she?
I should’ve come as soon as the horn sounded. Is she dead? Is she now infected? Am I going to have to put a bullet in her head?

His eyes darted around, staring into the dark woods. Dried leaves cracked. Someone walking. Fuller snapped the shotgun to his shoulder, finger on the trigger. His hands calm, mouth dry, hard to swallow. He blinked rapidly, trying to focus his eyes. The cool air made his eyes water up.

Dried leaves and branches continued to crack. Fuller trained his gun, still crouched. Sweat beaded on his forehead. He scanned—looking for the enemy. Up, down, side to side. His awareness heightened. Noises seemed to be everywhere. He spun in circles, trying to get a lock on a target. Shadows seemed to dance around. Noises getting closer. Out of the trees a figure appeared on the road. Fuller squeezed the trigger—Lloyd hit the end of the barrel. The shotgun noise cracked the night sky. The bullet harmlessly blasted leaves, ripping a chunk of bark from the base of a tree. Birds fluttered out of the trees.

“WAIT!” yelled a terrified, dirt-covered Davis. His orange and white horizontal-striped T-shirt looked more like solid brown. “It’s me! It’s me!” 

Fuller was breathing hard, fast. He shot an unnatural look of rage at Lloyd. Almost like he didn’t know who he was.

“Put the gun down,” Lloyd said in a gruff, commanding voice. “You’ll be better off without it,” he said in a trailing voice. “Trust me, I know.”

Davis stumbled toward the truck, relieved to see the guys, but shocked that he almost took a bullet.

“Where is she?” demanded Fuller. “What happened?”

“I don’t know,” Davis said, trying to catch his breath. “We ran in different directions.”

Fuller lunged, grabbing Davis by his shirt. Davis froze. Submissive. He looked at Lloyd, like a son hoping his father would protect him. Not sure what to do. Samson growled to defend him, with teeth exposed. Davis pulled him a little closer to his chest.

“Why’d you leave her?”

Davis swallowed nervously. “We were under attack. We fled our separate ways. There was no time.”

Images of Santiago frantically fleeing through the woods with the agent hot on her tail flashed into Fuller’s mind. Alone, in the dark, with a monster hunting her. Fuller started to lose control. His body trembled. He closed his eyes. Trying to maintain control.

“Easy, son,” Lloyd spoke softly. The gravity of the situation apparent.

Fuller pushed Davis back, not sure what to do next. His mouth still very dry. He moved to the enclosed truck bed, sorted through some of Lloyd’s gear. He found shotgun bullets and a bottle of water. He shoved a handful into his pocket and downed the water. He wiped his mouth with his forearm, still holding the shotgun.

Lloyd followed to the back of the truck, looking for his first aid kit. He noticed the small case he kept in the back with his flare gun in it, open—the gun missing. He gave a small, crooked smile, realizing Santiago had probably grabbed it.

“English, get your ass over here!” Lloyd said, grabbing the first aid kit.

Davis did as instructed and shuffled over to Lloyd. He could see Lloyd’s badly wounded arm and the first aid kit he was holding. He knew what the old guy wanted. He wiped his brow with the back of his hand. His fingers felt numb in the cold night air. Nervous pains stabbed his stomach. He wasn’t built for this shit.

***

Fuller took a couple more bullets and shoved them into the shotgun. Anger and anxiousness consumed him. He reached into his pocket, removing his bottle of pills. As he pulled out the bottle, the tiger-claw amulet—from the old Chinese man—dropped to the dirt ground.

Fuller looked down at the amulet, staring at it; almost like it was the first time he had seen it. He removed the lid to his pills and popped a pill. He looked into the bottle. That was his last one. His eyes moved back to the amulet on the ground. He closed his eyes, picturing Yat-Sun tearing the tiger-claw amulet from around his neck and placing it into his hands. He could hear the old man’s Cantonese ring in his ears. And the translated version softly spoken by the young granddaughter. “Courage to rise up against plague and be great warrior.”

Thunder rumbled in the distance. The wind blew hard against Fuller’s back, like a hand pushing him. He turned his head into the wind, letting it hit his face. He breathed deeply, filling his lungs with the fresh, cold night air.

Fuller crushed the empty pill bottle in his hand, bent down and scooped up the amulet. He rubbed dirt off with his thumb. Fine gold enrobed the top, with small, intricate patterns. The almost transparent claw was rounded at the tip. Maybe the old man was right. He hung it around his neck.

“You’re useless!” Lloyd jarred Fuller out of his daydream. “You’re reckless! You can’t shoot straight.”

Fuller casually threw his crushed pill bottle at the cranky old man. It only went a few feet and landed in the dirt, but it was enough to show Lloyd he didn’t care about his jab at him. He grabbed a flashlight from the back of the truck, flashing it on and off to test it.

“You’re gonna to be the hero now?” Lloyd said. “Just run off into the woods, gun blazing?” Lloyd imitated running off into the forest with his two fingers.

Fuller ignored the mocking and grabbed a large hunting knife, strapping it to his belt—ready to head out after Santiago.

“I can still kick your ass,” Lloyd chuckled, “even with one arm—”

A bright red flare shot high into the sky, not far in the distance, breaking their conversation. It cast a red glow over the woodlands. The three men gave each other a look of hope that Santiago was still alive. Red light painted their faces.

Fuller grabbed his things, ready to go.

“Don’t shoot the doc,” muttered Lloyd.

“What are you going to do?” Davis asked.

“What do you think I’m going to do?” Fuller pumped his twelve gauge. “I’m gonna kick some zombie ass.”

A soft, red glow flickered on Santiago’s exhausted, dirt-stained face. The flare drifted back to ground. She balanced, standing on a small branch; desperately clinging to the trunk. She had managed to climb about half way up, twenty feet, to hide from the predator. Her teary eyes searched the ground below. No sign of the infected agent.

The red glow dissipated. Santiago was soon left in darkness, with only the moon as her companion. A few drops of cold rain speckled her face. Dirt-mixed-water streaked her olive cheeks and forehead. The pitter-patter of rain hitting forest leaves and dripping to the ground would normally be peaceful—if she was in a wooden cabin by a warm fire.

Rain poured. Lightning flashed and thunder cracked.

Her denim jacket and jeans soaked up the water like drought starved lawn. Her cold face almost felt numb. The wet jacket heavy. This could be a very long, wet, cold night. She shifted her weight to relieve heavy arms, tucked the flare gun into her waistband and repositioned her body. She pulled another flare cartridge from her jacket pocket.

Santiago carefully removed the gun from her jeans. Cracked it open while leaning her shoulder against the trunk to balance, and slowly slid the cartridge into the pistol.

As she closed the gun her foot slipped. Her hand darted out to grab hold of the trunk again. The wet gun slid between her fingers. She grabbed at it. Clutching at air with her wet hands. The gun tumbled away. There was nothing she could do. The gun hit branches below, spinning into the darkness. She clenched her teeth, closed her eyes and rested her head against the trunk. Dejected, exhausted.

The flare gun crashed into a soft bed of leaves below, just in front of the soaked agent. It stared at the bright orange gun lying on the ground. Its head turned slightly, trying to figure out where it came from. Its sunken black eyes drifted up into the tree. A flash of lightning lit up Santiago clinging to the tree. She glared down on the agent. Their eyes locked. Santiago’s skin buzzed. Her stomach sank. She wished she could close her eyes and be invisible, like a small child pretending to disappear. She even closed them for a second—in desperation. Terrified. Maybe the lightning would strike the monster dead.

The agent slowly circled the tree, like a wild dog. Fixated on Santiago—fresh meat. Its hand reached up, grabbing hold of a low-lying branch, pulling itself up into the tree with ease. Santiago took shallow, fast breaths. She looked around, trying to find a place she could go. There was only up, but she had already gone as far as she could.

Santiago frantically searched for something to use as a weapon. A broken branch, anything. The agent closed in fast, leaping from one branch to the next. She grabbed twigs and leaves and tossed them down at the agent. It wouldn’t do any good, she knew that, but it was all she could do. A drowning man will clutch a floating straw.

The agent closed to a few feet from her, growling, with teeth flared. Water ran over its white, undead face. Dead eyes. No emotion. No way to reason. No way to stop it. Santiago’s body trembled with fear. Maybe jumping head first would be a better way to die.

She considered moving around the tree trunk. But to where? There was nothing to stand on. Even holding on was hard, with the beating, cold rain. Her wet clothes clung to her body, even heavier, colder than before. She started to shake uncontrollably; lips trembled. More from fear than cold.

“HELP! HELP ME!” she screamed to an empty forest. “Please!” she cried desperately, fighting back tears.

The agent’s hand slapped down on the wet branch. The branch she was standing on. Water splashed onto her black boots.

She raised her boot high and smashed her heel onto its wet, cracked-skin hand. Its pinky finger snapped sideways. Dislocated. Not even a flinch from the freak.

She stomped again, and again—furiously. Its fingernails shattered. Blood splattered the branch. Like a hammer smashing a thumb on a hardwood floor. Its knuckles disjointed, hand deformed; but it held the branch just as tightly. Its other hand slapped hold of the branch.

Santiago pressed her back against the rough tree trunk as hard as she could. That was as far as she could go. The wet jacket pressed to her back like a sheet of ice. The agent’s head and upper body appeared over the branch. It gave almost a creepy smile. It conquered the climb.

Santiago screamed. A scream of absolute terror. The beast roared back. Its gaping mouth no longer human. Drool, mixed with rain, flooded down its chin. It stood crouched on the branch, like a cat. On all fours.

A calm came over Santiago. They say that happens moments before you die. She could no longer hear the rain. No longer feel the cold clothes strapped to her body. Everything stopped. Peaceful, finally.

If I die—you die too
. At that moment adrenaline pulsed through her veins. She released a scream of rage. It shattered her own silence. She charged the beast.

Her body slam connected. The two went airborne, no branch beneath them. They fell. It felt like falling in slow motion to Santiago, until they impacted hard on solid ground below. Leaves and sticks burst upwards. The air forced out from their lungs.

Santiago landed on top. Her fall partly absorbed by the freak beneath.

She rolled off the agent, flopped to her back, face red, lungs bursting for air. The tree canopy faded in and out. Wet hair matted her face. She forced her starving lungs to suck in air. She breathed.

She whipped her head to the right to see the agent beside her. It was motionless, at least for now.

Santiago noticed the flare gun only eight feet away. She managed to crawl to it. A sense of security overcame her as she held the gun in her wet, shaking hands. She rolled to her back, letting out a cough, not able to stand. Her arms dropped down by her side, exhausted. She partially lifted her head to get a glimpse of the beast.

Its arm raised and slammed the ground, slowly getting to its feet.

Santiago scrambled backwards, using all her strength to frantically get to her feet; flare gun aimed. The flare whizzed through the air, missing its intended target and exploding in the nearby trees. Small flames burned around the tree. Her hand searched her pocket for another cartridge. Nothing.

The beast rolled its head around, snapping it back. Its vacant black eyes locked onto Santiago. It started to advance.

“Yo, bitch!” Fuller called to the agent.

The agent looked up, grunted and fixed its attention on the nearby Fuller. The twelve gauge aimed at its chest.

Fuller squeezed the trigger. A direct hit to the beast’s chest. The blast launched it backwards. The agent’s wet, torn, black suit and dirty, white shirt now soaked red. Fuller advanced, cocking his gun. Another round connected. And another.

He stood over its dead body, staring down at it. A final shot echoed throughout the forest. He turned back to Santiago, giving her a look of reassurance. She quickly stumbled towards him. Both hands cupped over her nose and mouth, holding back tears. Her wet, thick, black hair still matted her face. She wrapped her arms around his neck tightly, just wanting to be held. To feel secure. Safe. She couldn’t hold it together any longer and wept. Fuller let his shotgun slide down to the wet ground and wrapped his arms tightly around her small waist. His warm mouth and nose pressed on her cold forehead.

At that moment a figure moved amongst the trees. Not too far off in the darkness. It immediately caught Fuller’s attention. He pushed Santiago aside. She gasped as he scooped up his shotgun. Santiago partly shielded herself behind her protector.

The figure walked forward toward the exhausted couple. The small-framed man looked familiar to her. “Dr. Fiedler?” she said in an unsure voice. “What are you doing out here?” She stepped out from behind Fuller.

She moved forward to greet him. Fuller grabbed her wrist. Something wasn’t right. Fiedler’s movements were awkward. Arms by his side, fingers extended, head twitching, body swaying.

Santiago glanced back. Fuller slightly shook his head “no.” She turned back to the swaying Fiedler, and stepped backwards.

Flashes of lightning lit up the forest around them, like a hundred camera flashes. She saw him in the white flashes. His torn, short-sleeved, brown, buttoned shirt and his dirty tan pants. She saw his eyes. Emotionless. Black. Hair full of mud, dirt and leaves. His face half covered with a black stubble beard. He looked like a diseased homeless man, rather than the experienced scientist she had worked side-by-side with.

Fuller released Santiago’s wrist. Snapped the shotgun up to sight the doc. Would killing him be a big mistake? What about a cure? His finger half squeezed the wet trigger. Maybe it was too late now anyway. Maybe this was his curse to bear. Maybe he would turn completely and spread this disease himself. Maybe he would have to blow his own brains out. Lloyd would do it for him, that he knew for sure.

Santiago raised her hand to her throat. They had finally found the doctor, but not in the way they were hoping. She shot a look of desperation at Fuller. “We need him,” she said softly.

The couple backed up slowly as the doctor inched toward them. Stalking.

“It’s me, Jennifer,” she said in an unnerved voice. “Jennifer Santiago. Remember?”

The doctor stopped. His eyes looked over at the slaughtered agent lying amongst the foliage. His eyes slowly rolled back to look at the couple. The rain continued to batter them, as they stood staring at each other.

Fuller’s mind was racing like crazy. How was he going to take down the doc without putting a bullet in his head?

Fiedler suddenly bolted back into the trees.

Fuller took chase, bursting through trees, after the doctor. He was quick and powerful. Santiago followed behind, struggling to keep up with Fuller. The wet leaves and branches slapped their faces, leaving small cuts. Fuller felt no pain and continued to crash through bushes, right behind the doctor.

Fiedler was fast. He darted in and out between trees. Fuller sometimes lost sight of him—only seeing flashes of his back in the dark. Intermittent flashes of lightning provided glimpses of the doc’s rapidly changing directions. Fuller pressed on. The wet, muddy ground was slippery. Fuller slipped to a knee. Cold mud splashed his face—he recovered quickly and regained the chase.

They continued to crash through thick bush. Just as Fuller thought he had gained ground, closing the gap, a dead branch tripped his boot. He stumbled. Caught himself. He breathed hard and fast.
Which way did Fiedler go? Shit.
He glanced around in the dark. Nothing but thick vegetation, highlighted by white flashes. Where was Santiago?

He had lost both doctors and wasn’t even sure where he was. He patted down his jeans to find the flashlight; clicked it on to search his surroundings. Heavy rain cut through the beam of light as it lit up trees and bushes.

Fuller slowly turned in a circle to see if he could find his way.

Through partly covered trees the beam found its mark. The doc. He stood facing Fuller, motionless. Soaked. His eyes locked on Fuller. Mud and cuts covered his face.

Fuller kept the powerful light shining in Fiedler’s wide, black eyes. He didn’t squint.

Fuller raised the shotgun. Not sure if he would actually use it. “Don’t you friggin’ move!”

Fuller advanced toward him. The doctor slowly stepped back, matching Fuller’s speed, keeping the same distance between the two. Fuller ran toward him, keeping his gun trained at his chest. The flashlight gripped to the barrel with his left hand.

Fiedler spun around and ran, disappearing into thick bushes.

Fuller smashed through the bushes in pursuit.

He burst through the other side and met a sharp decline. Downhill fast was his only choice. He was moving too fast to stop.

He plunged down, sliding down a mud embankment. He crashed and rolled. Mud painted his body. Sticks and rocks stabbed and cut his body. He didn’t feel it.

Finally the ride stopped, and he splashed into a pond of waist-deep water at the bottom.

Mud packed his eyes, blinding him. The water was almost like mud. Thick and smelly. Fuller groped around in front of him to find his flashlight and, more importantly, the shotgun.

Shoes slapped muddy water close by. At least that’s what it sounded like to Fuller.

Images of Fiedler leaping out of the darkness and sinking infected teeth deep into his skin rattled his mind. He might not feel it, but it still scared the shit out of him.

He stripped the large hunting knife from its sheath. He slashed wildly all around, cutting air and rain; like a blind, wounded animal fending off an invisible attack.

Water splashed, mud sprayed. He soon stopped, realizing he was alone. He breathed fast, catching his breath. Clothes and mud molded to his chest like plastic. He stood still in the waist-high water. Rain poured. Lighting flashed. He stood steady, knife in hand.

He tilted back his head, to face the dark clouds above. Rain washed mud from his eyes.

Suddenly something brushed past his side. He spun with his knife. A branch floated in the muddy water next to him. He calmed himself, controlled his breathing. He pushed the branch away with the knife. No sign of the doc.

Lightning flashed across the sky. Fuller’s eyes scanned the area. He found what he was looking for: Fiedler squatted down on the side of the bank—arms on knees, like a caveman—looking down on him. Watching and waiting.