Riposte (The Redivivus Trilogy Book 2) (24 page)

The doubt circling continuously just beneath the surface of his mind reared its head once again, as it had done since he received Lin’s broken call a lifetime ago. To John, it seemed impossible that less than two months had passed since then. Ethan called from behind him, pulling him away from his sullen thoughts:

“John, you okay?” Ethan asked, limping breathlessly. His clothes were covered in blood.

John was unsure if it was Ethan’s or that of the poor bastard he had attacked. “I should be asking you. You look like hell,” John said with concern.

Ethan chuckled as he remembered Scout’s words. “Yeah, like
the pot
I’m told…”

“What?” John replied in confusion.

“Never mind. I’m fine. This blood isn’t mine. It’s theirs. All I got out of the deal is a sore ankle. What’s up with him?” Ethan asked as he pointed to the man quailing behind John.

“The Mad Scientist’s name is Chef. They call him that because he’s a meth cook. Lately he’s been making krokodil to satisfy the cravings of the junkies here,” John replied with a clear note of disgust resonating in his words.

All around them the aftermath of the bloody shootout was splattered across what had essentially become a high-end crack house. The nearly faceless body of a man Ethan recognized as the Shitter lay sprawled against the leg of Chef’s worktable. Even at a distance, the motionless corpse exuded an overwhelming, redolent sewer smell that caused the bile to rise in Ethan’s gorge. Combined with the noisome fumes still spewing out of Chef’s unsupervised glassware, the stench was nearly too much to handle.
All of this to feed a drug habit…

“Did he give you the information you needed about the Pied Piper?” Ethan asked.

Before John had a chance to answer, Ethan’s eyes were drawn to the previously still form of the Shitter who now sat bolt upright, sawed-off shotgun in hand. Everything slowed to a crawl as the mangled figure drew a bead on John, whose back was turned to him. Thick, gelatinous droplets of blood sprayed from the Shitter’s mouth as he muttered something undecipherable. His mutilated lips flapped as he tried to speak, a ruined mess where John’s bullet had torn a vicious path of destruction. 

Without hesitation, Ethan burst into action. Lurching forward, his vision narrowed into a tunnel focused on the man’s dirty finger as it applied increasing pressure on the gun’s trigger.
Come on, Ethan! You have to make it!
At the last second he threw himself forward, diving headlong like a goalkeeper trying to block the game-winning penalty kick.

A split-second later a deafening blast shattered the world around John, who stood stock-still in confusion about the flurry of events transpiring around him. 

Spinning, John took in two things that he could not immediately rectify in his mind. First, he saw the Shitter—crazed, bloody, and maimed—resting on his haunches with shotgun in hand. His face was ruined beyond recognition, and smoke crept lazily out of the gun’s stubby barrel as though the weapon had recently been fired. Second, and far more concerning, was Ethan’s limp body flopping lifelessly to the ground like a sack of potatoes. As the last few seconds replayed in his mind at high speed, the situation became painfully clear.

A curtain of red dropped in front of John’s eyes, and he stormed forward with his rifle raised. He fired two quick shots into the Shitter’s brainpan at point blank range, finishing what he had not during their previous encounter. Out of the corner of his eye, John saw Chef make a break for the clubhouse. The out-of-shape man muttered something about John being crazy, though the specifics were lost among his ragged gasps for air.

Momentarily torn between the burning desire to exact revenge on everyone at the country club and providing aid to his wounded friend, John rushed to Ethan’s side.

Taking full advantage of the situation, Chef escaped toward the relative safety of the clubhouse. As he neared the building, a crazy-eyed woman wearing nothing but a pair of dingy, panties dotted with little pink hearts burst through the door. Were it not for the underwear, it would have been difficult to identify the figure as female at all. Her emaciated body appeared positively skeletal, and her paper-thin skin did little to hide the bones threatening to poke through her sagging integument. The tattoos adorning her pallid, wilting skin were faded and distorted, like smudged ink on a deflated balloon. Now little more than dysmorphic caricatures of their original forms, it was impossible to make out what each had been at its genesis. She held Dirty Harry’s .44 magnum, which looked enormous in her gaunt hands.

Upon seeing the bloodied corpse of her lover, Scout, sprawled out on the grass, the wraithlike woman shrieked like a possessed harpy. Her face contorted into a grotesque mask of pain, disbelief, and rage as she wheeled around with the gun flailing wildly in search of the perpetrator of his brutal murder. Coupled with her ghastly appearance, her blood-curdling cries were the fodder of nightmares.

Whether due to the sight of the seething woman or the mighty revolver in her hands, Chef froze and put his hands up as though he had just been caught during an attempted prison break.

“WHAT DID YOU DO? YOU KILLED HIM, YOU BASTARD!” the enraged woman screamed.

Without so much as aiming, she pointed the gun at Chef and squeezed the trigger.

The deafening blast of the handgun caused John’s head to rise in time to see Chef slump to the ground, a gaping hole surrounded by an expanding circle of red blossoming in the center of his back. Dropping to his side, John watched as the unimaginably frail-looking woman charged Chef’s collapsing body with the gun still raised. The fury in her eyes and in her screams made John shudder. He heard a meaty,
thwack
when her bare foot connected with Chef’s face, folding him over backward. Her insane eyes locked with John’s as soon as she had both feet back on the ground. She let loose another feral scream as she started toward him but was silenced by three shots to her chest before she had a chance to raise the revolver.

Seeing no additional threats in the area, John shifted his attention back to Ethan’s motionless body. Face down on the ground; his left arm was bent underneath his torso at an unnatural angle. John placed two fingers on Ethan’s carotid artery but felt no pulse. When he withdrew his hand, it was covered in warm, sticky blood—evidence that Ethan had sustained a significant neck injury.

Carefully rolling him onto his back, John saw that the damage was far more extensive than only a neck wound. Ethan’s body was riddled with buckshot from the close-range blast. Despite his bulletproof vest, it had punctured his neck and abdomen, as well as the side of his chest. John felt for a femoral pulse but again found nothing. He placed his ear against his chest hoping for some sign that his friend was still in there. Once again—nothing.

Overcome by rage, John performed CPR as though his ass was on fire. Despite his intense effort, Ethan did not stir again. John’s anger blossomed inside, and he rained down vicious blows on the dead man’s chest. “You can’t die, you asshole! Damn you! You can’t die! You hear me? You can’t be dead!”

Emotionally and physically drained, John collapsed onto Ethan’s body, sobbing loudly. As he did, he felt as though he was being torn apart from the inside by the intense feelings surging through his body. Although he had lost so much already, death did not get any easier over time. In fact, Ethan’s death felt nearly as bad as that of his own wife. Perhaps it was because Ethan seemed to be above death, and the fact that the Grim Reaper was able to claim him so easily meant that he—and his beautiful daughter, Ava, for that matter—had almost no chance of survival in this cruel and dangerous world. Or maybe he was just sick of seeing good people die; he did not know which.

John had long ago accepted that everyone died eventually. As a physician, death was just part of the job description. Even though he had seen death more times than he could count, this seemed far worse than anything he previously experienced. With so few good people left in the world, and such a ruthless plague running amok across the land, it seemed unfathomable that uninfected people could still be capable of killing one another. This—the fact that Ethan’s death had been at the hands of a bunch of drug addicts—was the worst part.

With his head buried in his hands, John did not notice the figures moving slowly through the woods. Their searching eyes scanned the area for the source of the noise that had captured their attention. Upon seeing John collapsed over Ethan’s motionless body, their intense eyes locked on, and they quickened their pace. Moments later, they emerged from the tree line about ten feet from where John knelt, still completely unaware of their presence.

“John! Oh my God! What happened?” Kate cried as she rushed to his side. Reams remained in a low crouch, dutifully sweeping the barrel of his rifle around the area to ensure there were no additional threats.

“Ethan! Is he?” Kate asked. The rest of her question died in her throat.

The only reply John could muster was a weak shake of his head that told Kate the answer she already knew.

Having seen no further signs of danger, Reams rushed over to join them. “We heard the gunshots and came as fast as we could, John. Jesus, man. I’m sorry. You all right?” Reams asked.

Still not taking his eyes off Ethan’s lifeless body, John considered how he could possibly answer Reams’ simple question. His shallow breathing, the thrum of his heartbeat in his ears, and the occasional sob told him that he was okay—in a manner of speaking, but the hollow feeling of plummeting into a bottomless pit of perpetual darkness assured him that
okay
was a thing of the past.
Is it possible to be something as well as its antithesis at the same time?

The confusion must have been apparent in John’s wistful eyes, because Reams did not wait for an answer. Instead, he leaned down and scooped John up into a huge bear hug. “Come on, man. It’s not your fault. Let’s get him out of here,” Reams said. When John wiped his eyes, took a long steadying breath, and nodded his head weakly, Reams was confident his friend would pull through once again—somehow.

* * *

Kate took point and carried the weapons, as John and Reams carried Ethan’s body through the woods, away from the horror and bloodshed of the country club. As they walked, a thundering explosion rocked the air behind them—likely Chef’s final batch going up in smoke. 

They were grateful not to find any revs when they reached the truck, affording them the opportunity to give Ethan a proper burial. At least as proper a burial as was possible in this unforgiving world. While they would have preferred to bury him next to his family, such luxuries simply were not feasible any longer.

Kate cleaned Ethan’s body as best she could, while John and Reams dug his grave in silence. After wrapping him in a blanket, they carefully lowered him into the earthen tomb. They each tossed in a handful of dirt as they said a few words about the man they had come to love and respect in their own way.

“I know you said this wasn’t my fault, but it sure feels like it was,” John said as he stood staring into the gaping hole that stared back into him. “You see, Ethan died to save my life. He literally took a bullet for me, because that shotgun blast was meant for me. That’s the kind of person he was—one willing to give his life to save someone else. And the worst part is that I had shot that guy earlier in the fight. Ethan wouldn’t be dead if I had only taken care of him the first time.”

“That’s bullshit, John, and you know it. You can’t blame yourself for Ethan’s death. You didn’t let that guy go only to have him rejoin the fight. You thought you took him out, and the fact that he survived somehow is out of your hands,” Reams said.

John did not respond as he stared into the seemingly bottomless pit before him.

An air of finality settled over the trio as they shoveled the rest of the dirt on top of Ethan’s wrapped body. John assembled a rough-hewn cross to mark the grave just as he had a month ago when he buried his wife, Rebecca.

Perhaps sensing his morose thoughts, Reams walked over and placed a hand on John’s shoulder. “Come on, buddy. Let’s get out of here,” Reams said as he turned toward the truck.

Slowly, John climbed to his feet, and said, “With death in such abundance these days, how long will it be before everyone with Ethan’s level of integrity is gone? I don’t want to know what the world will be like after that.”

18

October 22, 2015

Marengo County, Alabama

“There you are! You had me worried sick! How many times have I told you not to go off by yourself? It’s not safe, Annalee,” Lydia said as soon as she saw the girl round the corner.

“I’m sorry. I had to go to the bathroom really bad, and you were busy. I didn’t want to bother you. Besides, I know how to take care of myself,” Annalee retorted with a subtle hint of defiance coloring her words. “Then I heard a commotion so I crawled through a drainage tunnel to see what was happening. I found this girl in trouble, and I helped her,” she added, casting her hand over her shoulder in Ava’s direction.

Lydia’s eyes moved past Annalee and settled on the bedraggled girl standing just behind her.

Shooting Annalee a stern look of disapproval, Lydia stepped past her. She looked Ava over thoroughly before asking with genuine concern, “Are you okay, sweetie? Who are you with? Surely you’re not alone out here.”

Ava nodded her head silently, only able to recall the woman’s first question. “What’s your name?” Lydia asked.

Ava stared straight ahead without meeting the woman’s eyes and said nothing.

Annalee spoke up, “She hasn’t said anything since I found her. There was a sizable group of them chasing her, and they almost caught her. She had to fight a couple to get away. I signaled her from the opening of the drainpipe and luckily she saw me. We crawled back through the pipe, and here we are. I think she might have PSTD or something.” The young girl spoke as though she were explaining how they were forced to detour around a closed sidewalk on the way home from school.

Once again, Lydia felt her anger rising at the nonchalance with which Annalee relayed the story, and she decided not to tell her that she was trying to say PTSD.

“Look, I’m glad you were able to help her. It sounds like it was a good thing you were there. But you need to stop taking unnecessary risks like that. Get me and I’ll help you,” Lydia pleaded.

With an uncompromising expression, Annalee said, “You
aren’t
my mother!” Tears welled up in her eyes as she turned and stormed off.

Despite her retreat, Ava noticed that Annalee did not move out the woman’s line of sight. Lydia sighed and hung her head. Ava thought she heard the woman sniff back tears of her own, as the woman stood there with her fingers pressed against the bridge of her nose.

After a few moments, Ava abruptly shattered the uncomfortable silence. “I was trying to reach my dad.”

Both Lydia and Annalee turned toward the sound of her voice, all thoughts of their little spat evaporating.

Still staring into the distance, as if speaking to the heavens around her rather than to anyone in particular, Ava continued, “He was out of town when this all started, and I hadn’t seen him until this morning. I was going back to my house to look for supplies when a large group of infected spotted me. I ended up trapped on top of a boulder after trying to lose them. From that height, I saw a man standing across the field in the distance. Even though he was far away, I could tell it was my dad. I don’t know if it was the excitement of seeing him after so long without even knowing if he was alive, or if I was just being sloppy,” Ava paused briefly to allow her emotions to pass, and to recollect her thoughts. “I was careless and nearly died because of it. I likely blew my only chance to find my dad.”

Unable to control the tide of emotion that accompanied her last statement, Ava dropped her head into her hands and sobbed freely. She felt four hands come down upon her almost immediately. They were not the cold, ravenous hands that had become so commonplace in the world, but rather the warm, kind hands of people still capable of empathy. They were hands that possessed firsthand knowledge of the shared experience that came with living through this nightmarish chapter of humanity. The warmth from those hands suffused her entire body, and Ava felt as though she had stepped out of a cold house and into the sun’s magnificent rays on a summer morning.

Raising her head, Ava said, “Thank you for saving me. I’m certain I would be dead right now if you hadn’t been there, Annalee—but Lydia is right. It isn’t safe in the world anymore, and you two are lucky to be able to look out for each other. My name is Ava…Ava Wild.”

Immediately, they both wrapped her in a tight embrace that carried enough power to make the horrors of the world around them vanish, if only for a fleeting second.

Pulling away, Lydia looked directly at Ava, and said, “You can stay with us, and we can all look out for one another. We need to get somewhere safe for the night, and tomorrow we’ll see if we can find your father.”

Sniffing, Ava wiped her eyes with her sleeve, and said, “Thanks. I’d like that.”

The three moved quietly to a nearby house that Lydia and Annalee had stayed in previously. Knowing there was a significant infected presence in the area, they were mindful not to attract any unwanted attention as they crept through the stygian darkness. Once inside, Lydia guided them to an upstairs bedroom in which both windows were covered with several layers of sheets and blankets to prevent any light from escaping. The windows opened onto the roof of a wrap-around porch, and a large dogwood tree growing nearby provided them with an alternate means of escape should the door become blocked. A tripwire strewn with several empty cans spanned the top and the bottom of the staircase, ready to sound the alarm should anyone or anything disturb them. Additionally, once they were upstairs, they barricaded the top of the staircase with various pieces of furniture as yet another obstacle to intruders. Even if it failed to stop them, it would hopefully buy them enough time to get out the bedroom window.

Settled into the relative safety of the room, the three survivors relaxed slightly. Ava watched as Lydia and Annalee performed what appeared to be a nightly ritual judging from the nearly choreographed movements flawlessly executed without the exchange of a single word. Lydia searched the room, ensuring that it was safe and secure before moving on to inspect the windows. Annalee brought out a small candle, and while its light output was meager, it seemed as bright as the high noon sun against the utter blackness that previously filled the room.

In the dim candlelight, Ava could see that all of the furniture had been pushed to the room’s edges, eliminating any possible hiding places, and blocking the closet door. A low dresser and a chair set in front of the two windows, partially obscuring the openings. Several small glass and porcelain trinkets were perched precariously atop each piece of furniture.

Noticing Ava staring at the knick-knacks carefully arranged around the room, Lydia spoke in a hushed tone, “They’re kind of like an alarm system while we are away. If any of them are knocked over when we return then we know someone or something has been here. It was Annalee’s idea,” she added with a proud smile.

Busy looking through their sparse provisions, Annalee nodded her head in agreement without looking up.

A few minutes later, they sat with their shoes off, stretching their weary toes. With a soft, satisfied chuckle, Lydia said, “You know, I’ve taken my shoes off every day of my life, but it took the end of the world to make me appreciate just how good it feels.”

Although neither girl said so, they could not have agreed more.

Annalee raised both hands, displaying their dinner options with the faux glamour of a game show assistant. “What will it be? In my left hand we have a special, exotic blend of peanut butter and crackers, with your choice of cold canned corn or stale pretzels. In my right hand, feast your eyes on this prime cut of beef jerky, complete with artificial smoke and barbeque flavoring, also with your choice of cold canned corn or stale pretzels. So what will you have? The clock is ticking. Please make your selections.”

Annalee’s ability to find humor even in situations as bad as this was one of the qualities Lydia found most endearing about her. The three shared a wonderful banquet of beef jerky, cold corn, and stale pretzels.

After eating, they each settled down onto their makeshift pallets. When the rustling of clothes and blankets died down, Ava spoke, “Thanks again—both of you. I feel like you guys saved me in more ways than one.” With no comment from either, Ava shared the abbreviated version of her experience since the beginning of the plague up to the point when she joined them earlier that evening. The catharsis that came with others bearing witness to all that she had seen and done was immense, and she felt a thousand pounds lighter after putting everything into words.

When Ava was finished, Lydia said, “Honey, I’m so sorry. I know what it’s like to lose someone you love more than anything else in the world, but I can’t imagine what it’s like to have to be the one to put that person to rest. To hell with this damn plague and whoever is responsible for it.” She trembled with fury as she spoke those last words.

Ava thought if there was ever any doubt when it came to the fate of the responsible party, the venom filling the woman’s words would be more than enough to tip the scales.

When her anger faded somewhat, Lydia continued, “All of my immediate family lives in Ohio. Sometimes I wonder how they are, and if it’s just as bad that far north. Sometimes I pretend it isn’t. It was just my husband, Lonnie, and I living here. We moved here on account of his work. Like so many others that first night, we went to church to ask the good Lord to see us safely through the storm. Trouble was, the storm was already brewing right in the middle of the church—none of us saw it until it was too late. It was as subtle as a gentle breeze at first, and then it swirled into a dust devil. Before long it was a raging tornado tearing through the place, sucking up everyone in its path. About eight of us, including Annalee and me, escaped into the preparatory room near the front of the church. Annalee’s parents were stuck outside in the chaos. Lonnie made it inside with me but…” Lydia averted her eyes as if unable to face what she was about to say.

Sensing the woman’s struggle, Annalee took over, “He was bitten and somehow understood what that meant for him even then. He went out first, fighting the infected back so that we could escape. He gave his life to save ours.” The young girl put a reassuring hand on Lydia’s arm. “It was the bravest thing I’ve ever seen,” Annalee added.

As horrible as the story was, Ava saw the courage and love in Lonnie’s action as well. She was surprised when she found comfort in sharing in the knowledge of their losses, just as they had in hers.

During a brief lull in the conversation, sleep finally overcame the two girls. Upon noticing this, Lydia smiled through her waning tears as she thanked God for granting the girl’s the small gift of sleep. In Ava’s case, the sleep she found was accompanied by a sense of security she had not experienced since before the outbreak. For the first time in as many days, her nightmares seemed muted and distant—like something from a fantastical realm rather than true nocturnal depictions of her real-life, daily horrors.

* * *

The following morning, Lydia woke before the girls. She was a light sleeper, capable of functioning on just a few hours of sleep before the outbreak; now she managed on even less. Although the morning sun had risen, almost no light seeped through the thick blankets covering the windows, leaving the veil of blackness enshrouding the little room undisturbed. While Lydia knew that an element of healing came with sharing the story of how she and Annalee came to be together, the painful memory also left her feeling lost and helpless. She watched as the two young girls slept peacefully and wrestled with the idea of disrupting what she imagined was the first decent night of sleep Ava had in weeks. Still, Lydia thought the little girl would be livid if she knew the daylight hours were burning away and they were not doing everything possible to find her father. With a resigned sigh, Lydia roused the girls from their slumber, hoping they had found enough rest to see them through another day.

As Ava and Annalee prepared to leave, Lydia peered through the windows and saw no sign of the infected outside. After a light breakfast of peanut butter, crackers, and canned corn, they stepped out of the house. The crisp morning air felt good against their skin—a welcomed contrast to the stuffy air in the cramped bedroom.

Ava paused for a moment, fighting back panic as she tried to regain her bearings. Sensing her distress, Lydia tapped Ava on the shoulder and pointed in the direction of her house. Ava nodded, relaxing noticeably.

The three survivors walked quietly toward Ava’s house. Along the way, Annalee eased to the front to indicate the direction of the drainpipe she had crawled through to save Ava. Given the rather predictable behavior of the infected, Lydia assumed they were likely still crammed against the other side of the pipe’s opening, trying futilely to reach the girls who had long since fled to safety.
I hope the infected didn’t find a way to get through to this side.
If they had, she knew they would be in for an unpleasant surprise.

As they approached the drainage culvert, a glacial chill flooded through them, freezing them on the spot. Crouching behind a low rock, they listened as the moans and growls of the horde echoed from right around the corner. Lydia’s first instinct was to retreat, but her uncertainty about the exact location of the horde left her feeling unsure.

Once again, Ava felt the wretched plague coming between her and her father, as though it had some personal vendetta against them.
It isn’t fair!
The groaning of the infected seethed in her ear nearly causing her to break down into tears, but something about the noise was wrong. It sounded flat and jumbled, as though projected from a bad television speaker.