Riposte (The Redivivus Trilogy Book 2) (22 page)

From the seat next to him, Kate spoke up. None of them noticed her studying the map as they discussed the situation. “We’re here, near mile marker sixty. There’s not much off the interstate in the direction you saw the man go, aside from a country club a mile or so away. Do you think he may be headed there?”

Reams was scarcely able to conceal his disbelief at the notion that a rev was making choices at all, let alone that it was choosing to go to a country club. “Sure. I could stand to bang out a quick nine! Let’s hit the links!” guffawed the big man. “Surely you guys can’t be serious! If that thing is heading for the country club, it’s only because there’s food there. REVS DON’T GOLF! They don’t think—they just react.”

John was unsure if Reams truly believed that there was no way a rev could retain some degree of mental capacity, or if he merely
needed
to believe that in order to accept the madness. The idea of
thinking
revs was more horrifying than anything he could imagine. Truthfully, John was not even sure what he believed anymore.

Ignoring Reams’ sarcastic comments about her suggestion, Kate said, “Reams, I’m pretty sure revs shouldn’t exist at all, nor should they be able to do much of what I’ve seen them do in the last month—but they do. Now I don’t know who or what these two saw either, but I agree we need to find out. That said, if we are going to follow this guy, I think we should split up.”

Reams threw his head back in frustration before saying, “Here we go again! Haven’t you guys seen a single horror movie
ever
? That’s what always happens right before somebody gets their face eaten off!”

“Let me guess,” John said, “it’s usually the black guy that gets it first.”

Thrusting his hand out in John’s direction as if to acknowledge the truth in his words, Reams said, “Thank you!”

With a broad, toothy smile that looked strangely sincere despite the chasmal defect above, Ethan said, “Don’t worry, big guy, it’s not so bad.”

Reams immediately felt embarrassed by his poor choice of words. “Shit, Ethan. I’m sorry. I didn’t think…” Reams said, at a loss for words.

“Don’t worry about it,” Ethan said with a slight chuckle. Even as he spoke, he and John were already getting out of the truck, having decided that they would tail the strange man while Reams and Kate guarded the truck.

17

October 24, 2015

Lowndes County, AL

Kate informed them that the Shady Oaks Country Club was located about a mile and a half north of the interstate according to the map. Ethan estimated they could cover that distance in an hour or so while still maintaining some degree of stealth. Add one to two hours for scouting the area as well as another hour for the return hike, and they estimated the whole trip would take roughly four hours barring any obstacles.

Kate and Reams planned to stay with the truck, which they parked amidst a group of abandoned vehicles along the interstate. Aside from the fact that none of the doors were left open, the truck blended in fairly well thanks to the grime it had accumulated during their travels.

John and Ethan moved around to the truck’s undersized bed to don their gear. Although they only expected to be gone for a few hours, they knew that nothing ever went as planned and loaded out accordingly. Each man was armed with a rifle, a sidearm, and a melee weapon. They also carried food and water, as well as assorted survival gear. Ethan felt the preparations were a good idea, as they were unsure of what they would find on their hike through the woods. They both checked to ensure their respective load was quiet and carried well.

After applying camouflage paint, Ethan bid Reams and Kate farewell, and slipped into the forest.

John gave them a terse nod before turning to follow Ethan into the wilderness. He felt his pulse quicken when he did not see Ethan, who blended seamlessly with his surroundings after dropping into a low crouch just beyond the forest edge. His concealment was so good, in fact, that John did not see him until he signaled to indicate his location.

The air remained cool despite the midday sun, as the two men moved silently through the sparse autumn underbrush beneath the woodland canopy. Much as it had been since the start of the plague, the world was eerily quiet. John had become accustomed to the lack of noise caused by people and the modern way of life, but he found the conspicuous lack of natural sounds unsettling. An unpleasant sense of déjà vu overcame him as he recalled a similar sonic void outside of Al Forrester’s house. Then, as now, the sounds of animals typically so abundant were absent.

The strange half-rev moved carelessly, making no attempt to conceal his tracks. Ethan picked up on his trail with ease. After following him for nearly an hour, Ethan raised his fist and dropped to one knee.

John noiselessly moved into position next to him. His eyes followed Ethan’s outstretched finger, and he saw what had caught his attention. The ground before them was littered with empty containers of camping fuel, automotive starter fluid, and all manner of junk food packaging. John stared in confusion at the large stone covered with dozens of crushed batteries in the middle of the trash.
What the hell is going on here?

While some of the items did not look out of place at the typical derelict post-apocalyptic campsite, John could not fathom what the batteries and starter fluid had been used for.
Maybe they were components for some sort of explosive or Molotov cocktail. Maybe they were just used to start a fire.
As they surveyed the scene, the low sound of voices could be heard in the distance. Gazing around, John half expected to see the specter of the campsite’s former occupant weaving through the trees. Instead, he saw nothing.

Listening intently, Ethan got a directional fix on the faint, lilting voices that sounded like off-key singing. The two men stalked silently through the rubbish, Ethan in the lead. As he was clearing the minefield of refuse, John stepped on a patch of dead leaves, still wet with morning dew.

Ker-clunk!

The noise of the previously concealed, empty metal container denting in and popping out resonated through the quiet forest. Both men dropped down instantly, motionless as they waited for any response to the noise. After a couple of minutes with no apparent repercussion, they padded toward the growing sound of voices ahead.

A brighter area in the forest ahead signaled a break in the woodland canopy. Wordlessly, Ethan relayed this to John, who acknowledged. When they reached the tree line at the edge of the clearing, they saw that it opened up onto one of the golf course’s derelict greens. The yellow flag hung limply on the pin that was rapidly being overtaken by the untended Bermuda grass. Beyond the similarly overgrown fairway that stretched into the distance, they saw the outlines of several small buildings of the former country club.

Peering through the binoculars, Ethan traced the winding course of the untended fairway all the way to the clubhouse. Shuffling along a cart path that climbed a short rise leading up to the clubhouse, he finally caught sight of the man that had led them to the country club. “I’ve got him,” Ethan whispered as he handed the binoculars to John.

John quickly located the slowly moving figure and observed him for several seconds. Panning the binoculars up to the clubhouse, he caught a brief glimpse of at least one other figure lumbering past the window inside the clubhouse. “There are more inside. I only caught a glimpse, so I can’t say if they are like our pied piper. We need to move closer.”

Sticking to the cover of the trees, Ethan and John advanced toward the clubhouse to gain a better vantage point from which to observe the building and its occupants. After a sharp dogleg right, the rest of the former country club’s buildings came into view. Through the binoculars, they saw several more individuals scattered around the property.

Although Ethan didn’t think they looked any less infected than the man they had followed, he noticed that they also exhibited behaviors not typically seen in the infected.

A disheveled man whose mottled skin was sloughing from his neck caressed an equally unkempt woman wearing a tattered, multicolored dress that did little to hide her necrotic feet. Although John was too far away to count her toes, he was certain she would be at least a few short of an even ten judging by the discolored tissue that extended to mid-calf on her left leg and nearly as high on her right. Less than twenty feet from the pair crouched a shirtless man whose sallow skin was marred with oozing sores, as though he might be afflicted with cutaneous syphilis. Without any regard for the fact that the Rotting Couple was less than a stone’s throw away, the bare-chested man squatted with his pants around his ankles as he relieved himself in the grass.
My God. This place looks like the leper colony of the damned.
Muffled screams that sounded as though someone were torturing a Bassett hound came from within one of the buildings, causing the Rotting Couple to giggle like middle school kids after hearing a particularly dirty joke. On the contrary, the Shitter didn’t seem to notice anything at all.

Suddenly, a loud bang reverberated through the air, echoing like a distant gunshot. A puff of thick, black smoke followed by a nearly inarticulate stream of profanity drew John’s gaze to another man who was busy dousing a small fire. While
normal
would be the last word John would use to describe the man, he certainly looked the least like one of the infected of everyone he had seen at the country club. The man wore a yellow-tinged, bloodstained butcher’s apron, a pair of oversized safety goggles, and gloves that looked as though they once belonged to a welder. His wild, nicotine-stained white hair blew in the wind as he scrutinized a rather elaborate hodge-podge of glassware, tubing, and burners. A perverse satisfaction gleamed in his eyes, like an artisan completely embroiled in his lurid work.

To John, the man looked so much like a malign, backwoods, meth-cooking version of Doc Brown from
Back to the Future
that he half expected to see a tricked-out Delorean parked nearby.

“Can you tell where the screaming came from?” Ethan asked, squinting to see through the afternoon sun.

“No, but there is some seriously messed up shit going on down there,” John replied. “That
bang
was a small explosion that came from who-the-hell-knows what kind of experiment the Mad Scientist is doing.”

A look of genuine concern spread across Ethan’s face as renewed screams erupted in the distance. “We need to get down there,” Ethan said with grim determination.

John saw a trace of the same disgusted look Ethan wore when he told them about the bikers at Hermitage Estates.

“Agreed,” John replied.

The two men dropped into a low crawl and made their way along the edge of the long forgotten fairway toward the freak show underway at the clubhouse. When they drew close, Ethan was alarmed to find that the Shitter and the Rotting Couple were no longer in the same location. He scanned the area hoping to get a bead on them, but they were nowhere to be found. The Mad Scientist still lorded over the labyrinthine chemistry set-up, and they heard what sounded like incoherent gibberish as he carried on a rather involved conversation with himself.

The ungodly miasma that filled the air stung their eyes and noses, making both water profusely. Smelling of burnt plastic and human hair combined with the chemical reek of ammonia and various organic solvents, the toxic fetor nearly rivaled the repugnant stench of the infected. Beakers and glass tubing connected by dry rotting rubber hoses brimmed with the acrid witches’ brew as the Mad Scientist monitored and manipulated the unholy reactions. A quart-size pot set atop a homemade stand over the white-hot flame of a Bunsen burner, its contents bubbling and burping their noxious fumes into the air.

John and Ethan edged closer, intent on putting an end to whatever horrors were taking place, and learning the truth about the Pied Piper. The gentle breeze shifted directions carrying the inimical vapors straight to Ethan, who was on point. The intense burning in his nose and sinus cavity incited paroxysms of pain, and he fought to control his rising need to cough.

Although severely muted, the faint expulsion of air from a partially escaping cough was just enough to capture the Mad Scientist’s attention. His insane eyes went wide when he turned to find the two men dressed in tactical gear, and armed to the teeth. Throwing his hands up in surrender, he ducked behind the table and yelled, “Don’t shoot! I didn’t do anything! They made me do it! I’m innocent! Honest!”

John shot a confused glance at Ethan, who looked equally nonplussed. Before either man could reply, they heard the door to one of the buildings being thrown open behind them.

“Dammit, Chef! Don’t be such a pussy! Those two soldier boys ain’t shit!” the man bellowed from within the darkened building. The blast of a shotgun rent the air as buckshot ricocheted off everything around them, shattering a beaker filled with a thick, boiling, olive green concoction. Another fire immediately sprang up on the cluttered table.

John felt the sting of several pellets striking his back as he and Ethan dove for cover behind an overturned golf cart.

Chef busied himself putting out the small conflagration even as more gunfire rang out all around him.

Whatever the hell he’s working on must be pretty damn dangerous for him to risk his life in a hail of bullets to put out that blaze!
John thought.

Both John and Ethan returned fire, one shooting while the other kept watch over the Mad Scientist behind them. Although their weapons were suppressed, those of the country clubbers were not. The report of so many firearms being discharged at one time and place would serve as an irresistible dinner bell for every rev within earshot. Whatever they were going to do, they knew they needed to do it quickly.

Crouching and leaning out from behind the front end of the golf cart, Ethan’s gaze fell upon a pair of deranged eyes filled with an unsettling, psychotic glee. The man stood in the open, framed by a shattered window, with a long barrel Smith & Wesson Model 29 held in a two-handed grip.
OH SHIT! Dirty Harry’s got a .44 magnum!
Not wanting to experience the cartridge’s substantial power firsthand, Ethan fired two quick rounds through the man’s forehead. The certifiable, unhinged look never left the man’s eyes even as he sagged to the ground. Only then did Ethan notice the woman with the rotting feet clinging to the man’s arm. Her lackadaisical expression instantly transformed into one of unadulterated rage as she bent down and scooped up the massive revolver. The gun had looked big in the man’s hands, but it was positively massive in the woman’s grip.

Being slightly smarter than her now dead better half, she sidestepped to take cover behind the door leading out of the building. Eyeing the flimsy door, Ethan estimated her position based on where he had last seen her and shifted his aim. He fired three quick shots, two to center mass and one to the head, then waited for any return fire. Instead, he watched as the woman’s lifeless body slumped to the side, landing immediately on top of her significant other.
Well, good. I would hate to separate a happy couple.

To his left, Ethan heard the suppressed fire of John’s rifle. The Mad Scientist decided to make a run for it when he saw Ethan take the Rotting Couple down. A well-placed shot directly in front of the backyard alchemist sent him sprawling to the ground; John wanted him alive.

Howling like a banshee, the Shitter exploded from the front of the building, charging toward the rear of the toppled golf cart like a civil war soldier trying to overrun an enemy position. In his muzzy head, he must have thought he was doing the smart thing by avoiding the front of the golf cart where he had seen Ethan dispatch his two compatriots with impunity. As he rounded the rear of the cart, sawed-off shotgun in hand, he never even noticed John hunkered low to the ground. He fired two rounds directly at the Shitter’s head, at least one of them finding its mark. The shotgun clattered to the ground at John’s feet as the Shitter pitched forward, his momentum nearly knocking the Mad Scientist’s worktable over.