Riposte (The Redivivus Trilogy Book 2) (17 page)

Kicking around the scattered bits of broken pavement strewn across the cracked and worn parking lot, Reams finally located the manway access for the gas station’s tanks. Moments later, he had the cover off and was diligently working to get the tank open, his broad back facing the abandoned storefront. John kept a watchful eye on their surroundings as Reams worked, focusing most of his attention in the direction of the road and the hotel. Neither man was aware of the eyes surveilling them from inside the shadowy recesses of the country store.

Without turning, John asked in a voice barely above a whisper, “How’s it coming, Reams?” Reams let out a low grunt of exertion that told John he was still working to gain access to the buried tanks.

Facing the hotel, John squinted his eyes in the direction of the last place he had seen his two companions, as if that might allow him to gather enough light to break through the gloom. So intense was his concentration that the cold, biting steel suddenly pressing against his neck caused him to let out an involuntary gasp as a wave of dread surged through his body. His eyes went wide, and his ears were inundated with the sound of his own heartbeat until that was all he could hear; the adrenaline rallying his heart to beat ever harder and faster.

With each hammering pulse of his carotid artery against the pressure of the finely whetted blade, John felt the slightest tinge of pain; so inconsiderable he couldn’t even be certain it was truly there. The knife’s edge was so well honed that he imagined the whiskers on his neck sheering away as the skin shifted imperceptibly with each rhythmic undulation. Paralyzed by the notion that any movement could spell the end for him, he stood motionless. Like a bushwhacker hacking and chopping through the dense jungle, several words finally elbowed their way past the collective throng of his pounding heart:

“John, take it easy. Don’t make any sudden movements.”

Still facing the hotel, John’s mind was filled with confusion when he realized the voice that uttered those words was none other than Reams Wilkins.

* * *

After the initial pop of the glass panel, which was akin to a Howitzer cannon being fired right next to them, the aggregate of tiny sounds made by countless glass shards combined to create an inordinately loud salvo that seemed to roll on for eternity. Raising his head slowly as though just having endured a mortar barrage, Ethan glanced around nervously, surprised to see that the hotel had not been reduced to a ruined pile of rubble. Like dust settling after an earthquake, the alarm that cluttered his mind cleared, allowing two horrifying sensations to worm their way through his gray matter.

First, as the last reverberations of the explosion of glass faded, a far-off thrum laced with malice and esurient need heralded the unmistakable advance of countless infected. Growing slowly but steadily, it left no doubt that every rev in a one-mile radius was now converging on their position. It didn’t take long for the second, and arguably more troubling of the two sensations, to arrive. The sickly smell, like that of carcass and excrement marinated in a frat house urinal before being braised in a demi-glace of bile and putrefaction, was as unsettling to the mind as it was the stomach. Running and retching vied to be first out of the gates in response to the realization that they were about to be overrun. For one terrible moment, the two survivors stood stock still, paralyzed by the indecision of the conflicting reactions.

Before either Kate or Ethan was able to settle the fight, flight, or puke dilemma currently playing out inside their heads, the first of the infected stumbled through the shattered front door as though merely coming to see what all the commotion was about.

Her own eyes wide with fright, Kate stared at the rev’s menacingly vacant eyes and saw a trace of confusion and uncertainty ripple beneath their frosted surface. It was as though the wretched abomination had been locked in the dark catacombs of the hotel for so long, it had not yet accepted that they could be anything more than a mirage. Unfortunately, this proved to be short-lived as the infected former housekeeper fell under the control of a primal and savage instinct. An impish hiss emanated from the rev’s widening mouth as it lunged for Kate’s unmoving form.

Ethan charged from the side like a battering ram, colliding with the rev, and launching it into the other glass door. A second, equally loud, explosion erupted when the housekeeper’s flailing body crashed through the fragile glass pane. Out of the corner of her eye, Kate saw three more revs round the corner of the hotel less than twenty yards away.

“Kate, come on! We have to move!” Ethan implored as he dragged her by the arm.

It took a couple of seconds, but Kate finally broke free from the bewildered stupor caused by the chaotic sequence of events.

The two survivors slipped around the opposite corner of the building, and out of view of the staggering revs approaching from behind.

Silhouetted against the bone-white concrete sidewalk in the distance, Ethan saw the stumbling forms of several more infected emerge from behind the building. In addition, the continual crunch of broken glass being trampled underfoot ensured them that heading back the way they came was not a viable option. Turning, Ethan saw the infected throng advancing toward their position. Previously only three, the group now numbered more than a dozen. Frantically scanning their surroundings for any way out of the burgeoning nightmare, he saw what he hoped might offer a means of escape when his gaze fell on the side of the building. Seeing the outline of the cluster of balloons in the moonlight, a rudimentary plan materialized in Ethan’s mind.

Ethan motioned for Kate to move into the narrow shaft between two vertical concrete slabs spaced approximately four feet apart. The slabs stretched from the ground all the way to the hotel’s roof. He pantomimed ascending by stemming his arms and legs between them, reminding Kate of chimney climbing on the Devil’s Tower. Considering the Hell on earth converging all around them, the irony was not lost on her.
That place is just a big rock; this is the real Devil’s Tower.

Kate immediately began shimmying upward, first moving one leg, and then the opposite arm. Soon, she was nearly ten feet off the ground with Ethan right behind her. Fortunately, the concrete slabs had small horizontal ridges, which improved the traction and greatly facilitated their ascent. When Ethan was about eight feet off the ground, he stopped and settled his back against the hotel wall behind him. Wedged between the vertical faces and supported only by his legs, he drew the air pistol and took aim at the polychromatic cluster of balloons just visible in the distance. Given the noise they had already made, Ethan wondered if the IDDs would have any effect at all. With a slow, controlled breath, he sighted in on a red balloon on the fringe of the bunch.

Foomp! Pop!

The sound seemed infinitesimally small compared to that of shattering door, causing Ethan to doubt the ability of the diversion to help them out of this scrape. Still, he shifted his aim to the adjacent blue balloon and repeated the process.

Foomp! Pop!

After a couple of seconds, he targeted a yellow one.

Foomp! Pop!

Looking at the various clumps of revs previously en route to the hotel’s lobby, he was relieved to see that many had changed course in the direction of this new sound. Even the group pursuing them as they rounded the corner of the building was veering off toward the commotion of the infected now investigating the popping balloons. For good measure, Ethan decided to fire one more shot at an orange balloon.

Foomp! Pop!

Several seconds after the last of the ghastly procession of revs poured around the building, a lone straggler hobbled into view. As its brethren continued their death march toward the balloons, it paused a few feet away from the base of the chimney where Ethan and Kate hid, suspended above the infected tide rolling across the ground below. Their arms and legs quivered and burned as fatigue and lactic acid slowly chipped away at their chances of survival. Neither of them knew how long they could maintain the position.

A brief flash of lightning illuminated the Acheronian world around them, and Ethan silently prayed it would not start raining. The straggler’s thinning gray hair contrasted sharply with its sallow scalp, which was mottled with myriad brown splotches from years of sun exposure. Well into senectitude at the time of his infection, the straggler was dressed like Mr. Rogers, complete with a red cardigan and blue lace-up sneakers. The low rumble of distant thunder elicited a collective moan from the infected, like some morose call-and-response funeral dirge.
I only hope they aren’t singing for our funeral.

All of a sudden, the wind kicked up, forcing a gust of air past the two survivors struggling to remain unnoticed in their suspended positions. The cool air—humid with the stench of rotten fish, curdled milk, and raw sewage—hung in their noses and stuck to their clothes as it flowed past them with painful slowness.

Ethan’s initial relief at the success of his diversion was brief, replaced by nervous concern as Mr. Rogers craned his arthritic neck around in search of the survivors he sensed nearby. On wobbly legs that popped and cracked like dry firewood with every step, the straggler hobbled into the narrow shaft between the vertical slabs. Ethan watched as its face collided with the hotel wall, walking into it as if it had not even seen it. Staggering back a step, the straggler continued forward, once again smashing its face with no apparent understanding that it was hitting a concrete wall.

Ethan felt the adrenaline surging through his body, causing his heart to race as his mouth went dry and his skin began to sweat. He was grateful that Kate could not see the vile creature below him, and he silently prayed she would not lose her footing. The thought of her slamming into him, and in turn, driving him into the infected old man was more horrifying than he wished to consider. Somewhere in the twisted recesses of his warped mind, he envisioned the maligned patriarch lunging for him with dentures bared and clacking.
Would you be mine? Could you be mine? Won’t you be my neighbor?
Any other time the thought might have been comical, but at present, it was nothing short of mortifying.

A lone drop of perspiration formed on Ethan’s forehead. With the glacial speed of a river carving a path through rocky soil, it trickled down his cheek to his chin. Hanging there precariously, it threatened to break free and potentially give their position away with the slightest movement. Ethan held his breath, not wanting to give the droplet any reason to take flight from its unstable perch.

As he waited for Mr. Rogers to lose interest and move on, an intense chill rippled through his body, afflicting the muscles of his neck with a sudden tremor. The vibrations reverberated all the way through the droplet of sweat, causing just enough agitation to sever its tenuous connection and send it tumbling through the air. As though in slow motion, Ethan watched with horror as the single drop plunged toward the ground. While the actual sound was virtually inaudible, in Ethan’s mind the tiny drop of water slamming into Mr. Rogers’ bald forehead was as loud as a wave crashing during a typhoon.

The rev’s head jerked instantly as though stricken by a sudden jolt of electricity. To Ethan, it looked like it was trying to look toward the source of the precipitation. The hunched figure’s chin raised a couple of inches before coming to an abrupt stop as its vertebrae locked against one another, preventing any further neck extension. Heedless of its apparent physical limitations, the rev continued to look upward by means of bending at its lower back. In a wholly unnatural and gruesome display of the depravity of the infection, the former grandfather or perhaps World War II veteran continued to arch his back in an attempt to direct his eyes skyward. The muffled crunching sound of collapsing vertebrae as well as the sharp snapping sound of ligaments rending apart echoed up the shaft.

Ethan prayed the old man was mercifully unaware of the irreparable and excruciating damage occurring to his spinal column as the moth-eaten body collapsed onto its back, no longer able to communicate with the muscles of its legs owing to a severed spinal cord. The fact there existed an affliction that could make a person do such a thing was beyond imagination.

The combination of auditory, olfactory, and visual stimuli sent an overpowering wave of nausea through Ethan’s gut, nearly causing him to lose his already sketchy footing. He fought desperately to maintain control as he swallowed back the bitter saliva filling his mouth. Through watery eyes, Ethan’s gaze locked with that of the paralyzed rev lying eight feet below him. Despite the darkness and the cloudy film covering its vacant eyes, Ethan saw a distinct change—a faint glimmer of recognition followed by fiery need, like a pilot light igniting a furnace. He watched its mouth begin to open as the horrible realization of what was about to happen hit him like a freight train.

Without thinking, Ethan pulled his legs in and plummeted toward the ground. His feet crashed down hard on the thing’s skull an instant before it let out the first moan of insatiable hunger—the moan that would have served as a dinner bell for all of the nearly fifty revs inside the fence. The brittle bones of its skull gave way readily under Ethan’s full weight, exploding like a ripe melon dropped from a two-story building, and sending jagged shards splintering outward. Thick, viscous jets, like currant jelly mixed with pulverized blackberries and chunks of tofu, spewed out in every direction, painting the ground and walls like a Jackson Pollack masterpiece. A loud
pop
erupted in the distance as a gnarled fingernail or broken tooth found purchase on one of the remaining balloons, effectively masking the squashing sound of the collapsing calvarium. The sickly sweet, metallic, brine, shit odor that filled the air in the wake of the disgusting mélange finally got the best of Ethan as bile and stomach acid flooded the back of his throat.