The Orphans (Book 2): Surviving the Turned (26 page)

“Knee caps; he can’t stand now.”

McClellan walked up, trying to keep his distance between himself and Clare.
“We can’t hit him with that helmet on.”

He got within a few feet, underestimating the quickness and strength of the man. Clare gripped his ankle with an iron tight grip, snapping it. McClellan dropped to the ground, leaving no shot to hit the turned man. Clare snapped at him, trying to rip skin from bone. McClellan screamed in pain and gripped his knife in one hand, stabbing through Clare’s right hand. When that did nothing to stop the monster, he took his pistol out, pulled back on the hammer, and shoved the barrel under his chin, pulling the trigger twice. Clare’s head snapped backward twice, in succession, from the force of the forty-five caliber bullets.

The blood from his gun wounds sprayed into air and into McClellan’s mouth and eyes. He rolled over to his side, spitting it out quickly. He tried to get to his feet and fell back down, forgetting about the ankle. Phelps screamed, “Are you good?”

McClellan held up a hand, sitting on his hands and knees, breathing heavily. He spit everything that he could from his mouth. “I don’t know yet; just stay back. That fucker snapped my ankle. I don’t think I’ll be able to walk on it.”

Phelps looked at the man watching him, “You stay here and don’t go anywhere. Get something on that ankle to stop the bleeding.”

Shaun got closer to Phelps, “You’d be doing us a favor shooting him in the head now, before he turns. That broken ankle will mean nothing to him as soon as it happens.”

McClellan heard this and screamed, “Shut the fuck up, kid! You aren’t doctors. You don’t know shit.”

Phelps yelled, “Stop fighting! We don’t do anything yet. We don’t know what’s going to happen to—”

BAM! BAM!

McClellan’s ranting ceased immediately. The two bullets struck him through the skull and spun him around, leaving him dead next to Clare’s lifeless, Turned body.

Phelps screamed, “NOOOO!”

He turned around and pointed his rifle at Greg, whose barrel was raised, releasing a ribbon of smoke that faded away as it rose. “You son of a bitch! What the hell is wrong with you? You aren’t God, you little fucker!”

Phelps could barely control his emotions as they fought to pour from his body. He was shaking with the gun in his hand. Shaun, who was to his side, had the gun raised. “Lower that gun now, and stop pointing it at my friend. He saved us a lot of possible heartache and risk. You shoot him and I’ll paint that wall with you. Lower your gun now!”

Phelps looked at McClellan and Clare on the ground and thought about the fact that he was aiming at and ready to kill an American teen. He was losing hope rapidly in how this day was going to turn out. He laughed. “Looks like we got a little Mexican standoff here, don’t we kids?”

Shaun said, “We don't have anything but shitty circumstances. Just put your gun down, we go two doors down and get my dad’s research, and get out of here. You go home and we go on living here. You don’t like losing men; well, either do I, so I suggest you lower it or pull that trigger, but if you do you’re fucking done.”

Phelps lowered it, letting it hang on his side. He hit his mic again. The chatter had been non-stop in his ear. “Yeah, we lost McClellan. He got blood in his mouth and one of the kids took him out before he turned. I guess he did him a favor.”

Clary’s voice came back over the mic, “Can you handle this on your own?”

Phelps replied, “Yeah, I think I’ll be okay. These kids seem to be just fine handling themselves. You just keep an eye out on the perimeter and make sure we don’t have any more shit sneak up on us, all right?”

“You let me know if you want us back in there. We can be back inside in a minute; we just need the word.”

“You two stay there. We will be out of here in no time. I hope that is the last surprise we run into.”

He started walking out to the hallway. Shaun said, “Don’t you want to ask Kristy if it’s clear?”

Phelps walked out, turning back around. “Do you two ever shut—”

Before he could finish, a Turned came out of nowhere, diving, and knocking Phelps onto his back. Phelps held up his arms, gripping the man’s suit coat lapels, trying to keep it from ripping his face off. Its saliva fell freely from its mouth and Phelps grunted, keeping his mouth shut, refusing to get the potentially changing spit into his own mouth. It pulled him up by his bulletproof vest, slamming him down repeatedly. The only thing keeping him from losing consciousness was his helmet. Greg and Shaun took aim but neither had a safe shot. Greg yelled, “It’s one of the guys who works with my dad! He must have been here yesterday!”

Phelps turned his head toward the boys, holding on for dear life. “Would you do something to get this fuck off of me, goddamn it?”

Greg said, “He’s screwed; what do we do?”

Shaun dropped the rifle down from aim and ran toward Phelps and the Turned man. Phelps eyes were beginning to roll into the back of his head. Shaun brought up the rifle yelling, “Hey!”

It snapped its head at Shaun who brought up his new military boot and extended the heel of it into its jaw. He knocked it off of Phelps, who gasped for air as he rolled onto his side. It went to its stomach, pushing up, only to be pushed back down as Shaun jumped off of his back and brought the butt of the rifle into its face, smashing its nose. Blackened blood oozed from it, snapping its head backwards, and it fell to the ground.

It screamed and Shaun went to shoulder the rifle, but it was too quick. It gripped the weapon and yanked it from his hands, throwing it behind him. Shaun looked at Greg in confusion, not expecting that to happen. Greg motioned. “Run! Fuckin’ run now! What are you looking at me for?”

Shaun sprinted down the hallway, jumping dead bodies and running with everything he had. He looked over his shoulder, peering behind him. The Turned man was racing after him, sprinting, and as it sped up, it bent at an impossible angle then started jumping and leaping forward with its hands and feet.

It launched itself at Shaun, who ducked and let it fly past him, crashing into the elevator doors. The lights illuminated and the doors opened. Shaun pulled his pistol, taking aim and firing. The Turned man moved in time and got hit in the shoulder, spinning him around. It fell to the floor inside the elevator but jumped to its feet again, crouching and readying itself to attack. Shaun took steady aim, and as he placed pressure on the trigger, the doors shut. The
L
button for the lobby lit up next to the doors. Shaun saw this, and the only thing he could think of was Ellie.

Shaun sprinted through the hallway, running for the doors. Greg looked down the hallway, seeing that the Turned man was now gone and also took in the
L
. He knew that he'd never catch up with Shaun at the pace he was moving. He went through the door and took the steps four at a time, trying his best to keep his balance and not to fall down headfirst.

Shaun made it to the bottom of the steps, jumped into the handle that opened the door, and ran straight across the lobby hallway. The four teens saw him and were already pointing toward the elevator with their weapons. Shaun halted in his sprint, not wanting to get in the line of fire. The elevator bell dinged and the doors opened slowly. The Turned didn’t wait or care about what was in front of it. As soon as it locked eyes on the teens in front of him, it sprinted. The five of them unleashed hell’s fire on it, hitting shoulder, gut, knees, arms, and finally the skull. It dropped to the ground, unmoving. Shaun yelled, “Reload! Now! Make sure you stay full; always stay full. Do it!”

Patrick jumped and yelled, “We did it! We took one out!”

“Yeah, but it took four of you firing everything that you had. Check the monitor. Is Greg okay?”

They’d all but forgotten about anything but the craze going on in front of them. They watched the monitor in awe. Greg was standing in the hallway, holding his hands up, and walking backward. Phelps was walking toward him slowly, twitching sporadically. Shaun said, “Damn it! He must have gotten bit when that thing was on top of him. It happened so quick, we must not have seen it.” Phelps bent his head down to his arm and came back up quickly with a flap of flesh hanging from his mouth.

Shaun didn’t know what to do. He’d never make it up the steps again in time. Greg said, “Hey, oh shit.”

He walked backward stumbling and bringing the rifle up, firing two rounds in succession. The shells ejected, echoing down the hallway. The only other sound was that of Phelps’ heavy breathing and snarling. The bullets snapped his head backward, but the helmet kept it safe and sound and still intact to kill. Phelps leaped into the air, almost hitting his head on the twelve-foot ceiling. Greg’s eyes grew wide in fear, watching the man who was fighting by his side a minute before, ready to rip his jugular from its still functional place, where he felt strongly about it remaining.

Phelps came back down, kicking both feet into his chest, which sent Greg sliding backward on the blood-covered floor, leaving an imprint on the red floor with his body. His rifle slid backward, twenty feet behind him. Phelps bent down, crouching. He lifted his hand to his mouth and licked his own the blood. He leaped toward Greg again and Greg wasted no time rolling onto his side. He then pushed himself up, slipping in the blood and running for everything he was worth. Greg got onto a clear space of the tile and pushed his body as hard as he could to move across the space, putting as much of it as he could between himself and Phelps. He dived into Frank’s laboratory and slammed the door shut hard. He locked it and slid a table in front of it. The table jumped with every pound of the door.

Greg looked around the office frantically, scared to death. He ran to the window and tried to judge if breaking both legs jumping out of the third story of the building seemed justified. He nodded that it was and looked around, seeing an emergency firehose. Greg sprinted to it, pulled every inch of the wound hose from its place, and grabbed the largest chair that he could lift. He then launched it through the window, shattering the glass. He used his pistol to knock the rest of the glass from the edges. He’d seen enough blood that day and didn’t want to see any of his own. He threw the hose out of the window and climbed up on its edge just as the door breached and broke in half, slamming the remaining pieces of it open. He jumped, screaming and sliding down the firehose. His hands felt like they were on fire from the friction of the hose.

Greg hit the ground hard, collapsing in a heap. He grunted, pushing to his feet and started a sprint for his life across the property. Aslin heard the glass breaking and sprinted to the east wing of the building to see what was happening. He saw what looked like a blood-soaked Greg running for everything he was worth and then some, but he was still running at a pace that looked like that of a human.

He looked up at the window, where Phelps stood, looking for his meal. Phelps jumped, ignoring the fire hose and landed hard on the ground before jumping back up and taking off in a sprint that would have earned him a medal. Aslin rested the high caliber rifle on the edge of the building, taking aim at Greg, and then adjusting the scope, looking down and seeing Phelps sprinting after the boy, closing the distance at an insane speed.

Aslin fired off a round, striking him in the head without hesitating, knowing that Phelps would have done the same for him if the worst case happened. The round from the rifle did not penetrate the helmet, but the force knocked Phelps flat on the ground. He got up, growling and running again for Greg. Greg rounded the corner of the building where Clary had taken position. The look on Greg’s face was all he needed to know that something very bad was coming and most likely coming fast.

Aslin took aim a second time on Phelps, ejecting the spent shell and pushing the bolt back home, getting a second one ready. He fired as Phelps jumped unexpectedly. The round missed his head by a foot, but struck his right arm, tearing it from its place and leaving a gruesome sight. Blood poured from the arm; the half that hit the ground with the bite wound lay twitching in the grass.

Clary waved for Greg to keep running straight, screaming, “Don’t stop! He’s catching up to you! Get going now, goddamn it! Do it now!”

Greg pumped his arms with everything he had, dropping his pack, and pushing faster and faster until he was barely able to keep his balance. He did not see the explosion but felt the warm heat of the blast on his back, sending him into the air and ten feet forward. He could hear nothing; there was only smoke to be seen.

He pushed up slowly, feeling dizzy from the blast and his equilibrium thrown out of whack. Clary sprinted up to Greg, helping him to his feet while he shouted in his face. Greg could only see Clary’s lips moving, clueless as to what he was saying. Clary picked the boy up; Greg thought he was floating for a second. Clary clapped his hands in front of him, moving his fingers back and forth in front of his eyes. Greg followed them lazily and slow. Clary nodded to him, realizing his senses were going to be jacked for a while.

The smoke dissipated and Phelps, or what was left of him, crawled toward Clary and Greg on the ground. Clary walked to his commanding officer, who had lost everything from the torso down. Only the blackened top half of him remained, but he was still trying to kill. Clary walked up, horrified that he was still ready to kill everything he saw and unsure how the hell anyone could cure the devil’s work. He un-holstered his pistol, a 1911 forty-five caliber, cocked the trigger back, and walked to Phelps and then kicked him over onto his back. He placed a bullet through his mouth, which ricocheted up through his skull and bounced around inside of his helmet. The need to kill in his eyes faded and went away.