The Orphans (Book 2): Surviving the Turned (33 page)

Andy’s eyebrow remained cocked.“Well, sounds like you’ll be needin’ some weaponry then.I got lots of great new stuff you’ll want to check out!”

Pat cut him off.“No, Andy, no thank you.I’ve seen these things.I’ve seen these in my nightmares for years and I tried to hide.Now my nightmares are coming to life.I need a gun I know and trust.You remember the type they gave us.We got in a line and handed a rifle before we left it.You got any laying around?”

Andy cocked his other eyebrow, apparently starting to believe the severity of the situation—though the large quantity of blood had been a good tip.“Yeah, I got one in the back.Lots of ammo, too.”

Andy watched as Pat gathered up his gear.“No charge, Pat.” He said, with a note of respect in his voice.“Where you going?” Andy asked curiously.

“I’m going to war.But first I gotta save my Christy.And my dog.” And with that they said a silent goodbye.

The End

By Shaun Phelps

Continued Adventures

By Shaun Phelps

Pat walked out of Andy’s shop feeling a dark peace settle over him.  He had his trusty weapon and said his goodbyes to an old friend.  The blood covering his clothes and hands were a constant reminder of the world he was about enter.  With every step he slipped between awareness of today’s events and the events of yester-year in the jungle.  Always on his toes, watching--waiting for the monsters hidden in the trees to come out and slaughter.

Pat checked his perimeter as unconsciously as many people check their rearview mirror when driving.  The coast was clear, but he knew that wouldn’t last.  He made a lap around his car, gently setting his pump-action rifle in the passenger seat and the case of extra bullets in the back seat. 

Pat needed to get to Christy.  He could feel her desperation pulling at him and his heart felt ready to explode with every moment; But Pat couldn’t go to her just yet.  If he was going to save Christy he would need all the help he could get. 

He climbed into his worn-down Mustang, and started the engine.  Again Pat checked the perimeter and saw no evidence of the creatures who seemed so avid on mutilating everyone in sight.  He started down the road and drove cautiously toward his home.  His house was a few blocks past the Raccoon City High school and Pat unknowingly drove a little too close to the carnage. 

One moment the streets were clear, Pat took a left turn and found himself surrounded by the Turned.  He slammed on his breaks and stared at the street full of blood trails, gore, and monsters.  Pat only had a moment to decide his plan of action, and his only real weapon was his car.  Pat revved the engine, drawing the attention of every Turned on the street.  Pat swore under his breath and made a mental note to make less noise in the future.  It was a silly mistake.  If Charlie, the name Pat had now given the Turned, had a car and revved it Pat would have gone in for the kill as well.

Pat tore down the street, clipping any Charlie that got close enough to touch with his car.  Pat was careful to protect his undercarriage.  In the back of Pat’s mind he remembered the saying: “Any dead Charlie is a good Charlie,” but Pat also knew that enough dead Charlies stuck under his car would be counterproductive. 

Pat swerved to the left and took out one of the Turned and a headlight at once, as one of the Turned bounced off the side and fell to the ground.  Pat swerved right to much the same effect.  After a couple blocks and a few turns the amount of Chas had decreased substantially and Pat was home free. 

The rest of the drive was calm, except for the screaming in Pat’s soul.  He pulled into his driveway, but then cut across his lawn to park in front of his door.  Pat had prided himself on maintaining a nice and green lawn.  He didn’t figure tire-treads in the lawn were going to be a big deal at this point.  When Pat got out of the car he could hear Muffin barking a “hello.”

Pat opened the door and his wolf dog, about half the size and brawn of a horse greeted him with enough force to knock him back into his car. 

“Easy there, Muffin!  You know I wouldn’t leave you!” Pat exclaimed, rubbing Muffin behind the ears and making sounds most people would make at a newborn baby.  Muffin finally calmed enough and un-pinned Pat from the car.  Pat pulled Muffin inside the house and started making a mental list of priorities.

Priority 1:  Save Christy.  That was the priority screaming in Pat’s head.  Pat had to take a step back from this priority though.  He couldn’t save Christy if he didn’t plan well.  Pat had been sent into more than one boondoggle in Vietnam and he was not about to send himself and his granddaughter into one now that he was in charge.  Pat decided to create prior-priorities so he could save priority 1 as quickly as possible.

Priority .1:  Wash face, change clothes.  Pat ran through his house, tripping a couple times over Muffin, grabbing at clothing and wiping his face.  When it was done it was obvious he wasn’t planning to attend church, but it was passable.

Priority .2:  Gather supplies.  Pat rummaged through his house for anything useful.  He filled a few backpacks with necessary items such as canteens (which he filled), canned goods—and a can-opener for good measure, knives, a revolver and all the bullets he had stocked, wet wipes, a couple first aid kits and a 20 pound bag of dog food for Muffin. 

Priority .3: Get out of the house alive.  Pat looked out the window of his house to see if Charlie had overtaken the neighborhood.  Things looked normal at first, the street was quiet with just a single person taking a walk down the street.  Pat took a closer look at the person, it was Giles.  Giles was a nice enough guy, he was British, but no one is perfect.

Pat was about to call out to Giles when he realized Giles’ usual over-confident stride had an unnatural limp.  That was enough to put Pat back into paranoia-land.  Pat watched silently from his window as another neighbor, Denise, made the same mistake Pat had.  She opened her door and waved to Giles.

Pat couldn’t hear the conversation but he predicted the outcome even as it played out.  Denise spoke some sort of pleasantries at Giles and Giles limped toward her with an odd throaty groan.  Denise’s face changed from pleasant to confused.  She took a step further out of her house just as Giles’ pace increased.  He was on her before she could cry for help. 

              Suddenly Pat had a flashback to the scene at E&T.  To watching the paramedic and the officer die.  He remembered them coming back to life.  This is how the world worked now.  Pat made it his official business to understand the world.  He swore after he survived Vietnam that he would always know his enemy.  He was never the best or bravest of soldiers, but he knew a losing battle when he saw one.  That was not going to be Pat’s demise.  It could NOT be Christy’s demise. 

Instead of helping Pat watched the dismal scene.  He watched as Giles tore through Denise’s belly like she was a turkey made of crack-cocaine. Pat kept an eye on his watch from the first bite.  After Giles had finished attacking what was left of Denise’s body he became suddenly…bored?  Bored wasn’t the right way to describe it.  He went from fixation to a look of emptiness.  He stood and continued his trek down the block.

Within about twenty seconds of Giles walking off, almost exactly a minute after Denise was first bitten she began to spasm.  Pat looked at his clock to mark the time once the spasms had started, when he looked back up Denise was siting straight up.  Pat watched closely; this was the enemy. 

The thing that was Denise, now named Charlie in Pat’s mind, stared incomprehensively for a moment and then moved both her right arm and her face together.  Denise took an uncomfortably large bite out of her forearm, Pat could feel it from his perch inside the house.  Denise’s teeth cut through flesh and any ligament that remained was ripped out as she pulled her face back from the damage.  Muscles snapped and retracted into her arm as the blood left in her body flowed down her arm.  Pat held his breath, this is a technique he learned long ago:  Hold your breath before you think you will vomit—then try to cross your fingers.

Priority .4:  Know your enemy.  Check.  Pat got up, grabbed his packs, ran out the front door and threw everything into his car as quickly as he could.  Muffin seemed to understand the dilemma, as he jumped directly into the passenger seat.  If Pat were thinking realistically he would have realized that Muffin tried to do this every day.  Instead, Pat took it as a sign of comfort.  He was on a team.  A team helped keep each other alive.  Pat needed that.

When Pat had finished packing the car he heard a disturbing noise.  It was almost incomprehensible, and nearly impossible to explain.  It was a mixture between a scream and a death rattle.  Pat looked where Denise was chewing on herself and saw her running in his direction.  Pat checked his watch.  It had been about two and a half minutes. 

It was good to know your enemy, Pat congratulated himself on that.  The fact the enemy only took two or three minutes to kill was another story.  Pat jumped in his car, and started driving toward his Christy.  Screw priority .5-.9.  He was just going to have to improvise.

***

Somewhere on Route 12.

Christy and Mike had been sitting in his beat up Pinto for the last hour, maybe more.  Christy, dressed in her volleyball outfit can’t see herself in a mirror or even by looking down or to the side without the blatant and constant reminder that she is missing the game.  Christy may not be the star player but she is damned good.  Way too good to be stuck on some god-forsaken backroad with Mike, who seemed to be taking every opportunity to try to turn this discouraging venture into a porno.

“Mike, back off!  I said I’m not in the mood.  Either you cut it out or you can walk home!” Christy half-yelled.

“What the hell, Christy? It’s my damned car!  Why they hell would I have to walk?  I’m just trying to make the most of our time!” Mike rationalized for Christy.  Emphasizing that the only person walking was NOT going to be him.

Christy mimicked her mother’s award-winning eat-shit-and-vomit-it-up-and-then-eat-it-again look.  Christy’s mom had capitalized on this look in her time, rumored to have actually killed a man once.  The effect from Christy’s face was only sub-par.  Mike pulled back and looked disappointed.  Christy also looked disappointed.  At this point she wanted him to die—at least until some came to save them.  She loved Mike, but she was mad at him. 

Stupid Mike and his stupid car.  If she’d have rode the bus she’d be at the school getting ready to kick ass. Instead she was stuck here with this loser—who she loved—wasting time until her Grandfather, Pat, could come and rescue them.

She loved her grandfather for as long as she could remember he was always there for her.  He made it to every game, every birthday, and anything he could be at to support her.  He called to check on her but gave her the space she needed when it was necessary.  

Christy knew it was hard on her grandfather to keep in contact.  Even a phone call got him a nasty cursing out by Christy’s mom, Karen.  Christy never understood how Karen could hate her grandfather so much.  He was so sweet and giving.  Sure, he was a bit weird sometimes. Grandfather Pat’s eyes would occasionally glaze over and he’d start talking about Alpha-con this and Charlie that…But in the end he was always sweet and giving.

Sweet and giving was just not enough, though.  While Christy called her grandfather, “Grandfather,” Karen called him “bastard,” and “self-righteous mother-fucker,” and “arrogant prick.” Regardless of the names, Grandfather Pat always took it in stride as long as he knew Christy was the prize at the end of the name game.

“Mike, I said back the fuck off!” Christy exclaimed, pushing Mike’s arm off of her.  “You know, you are a real arrogant prick!  Why don’t you take a walk and deal with that testosterone a bit!”

Mike, tired of being abused for just following his natural instincts silently agreed by slamming the car door and stomping off as loudly as possible.  He wasn’t going to complain but he was going to make goddamned sure Christy knew his feelings were hurt.

After taking a few steps Mike had passed his car.  He realized suddenly this was a good opportunity to urinate.  He looked left and right.  He chose left as the least dark and frightening path and went to claim his territory. 

***

Pat had been driving for about thirty minutes.  He hadn’t seen many signs of carnage except a rare blood trail here and there.  Pat wasn’t sure if the police were aware of the situation this far out so he maintained a semi-appropriate speed limit, while still exceeding it. He had to save Christy.  She was his reason for living.  The day she was born the world became bright again.  Nothing could change that.  Pat wouldn’t LET anything change that.

Pat’s 8-track player looped as he drove, attempting to sooth his tension but never getting past his brain’s survival filters.  Pat was on constant surveillance, as was Muffin.  Both watched left to right, right to left.  Watching for any threats.  Any people laying inconspicuously by the road, in the road.  Any lumps or wires that may be landmines waiting to explode.  Pat and Muffin had no intention of letting Charlie win this one, not while Christy’s life was at stake.

Pat eventually drove past the strangest of cars.  A Pinto.  Charlie must have been slipping if they thought Pat would fall for that.  But then out of his rear view mirror he saw Christy jump out of the car and wave dramatically. 

“What the…?” Pat exclaimed, stepping on the breaks.  Pat rolled down his window and poked his head out yelling, “Christy, get the hell away from that thing, it’s a trap!”  Pat did the fastest U-Turn the world had ever seen and pulled up beside Christy. 

“Grandad!  It’s not a trap,
it’s
Mike’s car!” Christy exclaimed.  She found the humor in the situation but decided she was too irritated to laugh.

“A Pinto?  That things a death trap!  No wonder you are stuck out here!  Where is this ‘Mike’ fella’?  I’m gonna need a word with him!” Pat expressed, trying to show concern and empathy through his paranoia.

“I’m not sure, Grandpa!  We had a fight a few minutes ago.  He wandered into the woods and never came back!”  Christy again battled between anger and fear, this time the fear won out and her face showed Pat enough heartbreak to make him charge into the combat zone without a second thought.

“Which way?!” Pat half-shouted?  Christy pointed and Pat ran, Muffin at his heels.

It didn’t take long to find Mike.  He was whining loudly and making odd body convulsions.  Pat slowed to a stop watching Mike curiously.