A Dark Evolution (Book 2): Deranged (7 page)

Dylan rummaged through the basement with her. Together they found a mostly intact tent that even had a rain cover, some raincoats, the small camp stove he and Sophie had been using, and a multipurpose tool that had been stuffed into a bike bag.

They filled Kala’s backpack and one other bag, which Dylan wore. Sophie carried her dirty Barbies. Dylan scooped up both lanterns, and an old rusted tent stake fell from his pack.

“I got it,” Kala said, scooping up the bit of metal. The thing looked dangerous, but she stuck it in her back pocket before scooping up her axe.
I just have to remember to take that out before I sit on it,
she told herself, thinking that going out because of a tetanus infection would be pretty lame during the zombie apocalypse. “Okay, I think we’re ready,” she said.

“Let's go,” Sophie said excitedly.

Dylan smiled at her. “You tired of the basement, Soph?”

She made a sour face and gave him a thumbs-down.

“Ha! All right princess, let’s find you a new castle.”

“Castle, castle!”

Kala couldn't help but chuckle at her happiness. Laughter really was contagious, she just hadn’t felt the occasion for it in a long time. Maybe this is going to be okay.

*****

Or maybe not. Dylan listened at the steel fire door for just a moment before letting it swing open. He waved for them to follow. Sophie walked between them with Kala bringing up the rear carrying her pack and fire axe. Dylan pushed up the metal grate above them, having to heave it hard with one hand, sending it clattering open. Behind him Sophie said, “Shh, they'll hear.”

Kala smiled at the little girl’s acumen. “We’re leaving so fast we won't even need to worry, honey.” Dylan disappeared into the evening above them and Kala thought she heard a grunt, or an
oof
, like he’d fallen over.

“Dylan, you okay?” she called, but they were right on his heels. Then a hairy arm reached into the stairwell and grabbed Sophie's arm, yanking her out forcefully.

“What the -”

She couldn’t finish her statement, because the black and brown barrel of a Kalashnikov 47 poked into the void where Sophie had been, aiming right at her head.

“Oh shit,” she cursed. There really had not been any way for them to recon outside before they emerged, not that they would have thought to anyway. They just wanted to get the hell out of here. She thought about trying to stash the axe, but a pair of camo clad legs walked into the space. She knew she was caught. Dragging her feet, she trudged up the last of the steps and into the humid Florida evening.

She was met by a big, stinking, toothy grin.

“Well, Mitch, it looks like we have a regular old interracial party here.”

Mitch, a tall, skinny white-haired man with skin drawn tight over an angular face stood off to the side, with Dylan held tight against him in a headlock. In his other hand he held a long, heavy shotgun. The man who was speaking was shorter than Mitch but still a few inches taller than Kala. He had dark green and black painted over his soft face, and long brown hair fell around his ears in a style that could be, at best, described as a mix between Billy Ray Cyrus and Harry Potter. It was not flattering. The man named Mitch spoke, and it was a slow, southern drawl.

“It certainly is a party, huh, Terry? We’ve got blackie here, kid sister, and as a bonus, this skinny little hottie,” Mitch sneered at Kala, and she could almost see the sinister, lust-filled thoughts leaking out of him.

Terry nodded, backing up slowly as Kala emerged, keeping the rifle trained on her. She observed the rifle carefully, noting its condition, oiled, but not polished. It had probably sat for years, unused, and was recently brought back into active duty. There was a little black residue around the inside rim of the barrel, indicating that it had in fact been fired recently, which meant that it at least worked. Good information to know in her current situation, but since the weapon was thirty years old, she would not rely on it.

“Oh yeah, boss man, it’s going to be a good night tonight. We’re going to have a big old fire, some good fresh meat, and even some dessert,” he said, the last with a sloppy, malicious slur to his words which made Kala’s skin crawl.

She tried to understand what the relationship between these two might be. Even though Terry was the talker, Mitch was obviously the one in charge. But he was so much older. Could they be brothers? Father and son? She didn’t know. Sophie stood looking terrified between them. All Kala knew was that she couldn't let Sophie fall into their abusive hands, because they meant naught but harm to them.

“All right, honey, bring me that axe, nice and slow.”

Kala nodded meekly and held out the axe to Terry with both hands. He let go of the Kalashnikov with his left hand and grabbed the axe. As he did, the gun drifted off to the side a little. As soon as he grabbed the axe, Kala let her right hand drop to her side, as if in defeat. But her hand flicked behind her jeans and gripped the rusted metal in her back pocket.

In the one second between him taking her axe and holding it up to admire, Kala whipped the tent stake around in a wild, Hail Mary swing. She took one big step forward as she swung, inside Terry's arms so the gun was pointing out, then she sunk the rusted, corroded steel shaft into the side of his neck. Both her shoulder and Terry screamed in agony, then she yanked the stake out, opening his neck to let his life spray out. Before he even fell, Kala spun around, stripping the AK from his grip and bringing it to bear on Mitch, who was too shocked to say anything. His thin pink lips were stretched into a horrified O.

“Drop him,” she said, deep calm and cold as ice. Sophie was crying, looking at the large, dead, white man on the ground. Mitch had a pistol in a belt holster than she watched carefully. “Let him go, now. I don't know if I can shoot you and not him, but I’m willing to try.”

Though his eyes were full of defiance that came from a long life full of bullying others and getting whatever he wanted, Mitch pushed Dylan out of the way. Then he faced Kala with his shoulders squared and his arms out wide at his side, as if he were an old west gunfighter. Kala shook her head at him.

“You gave up your only leverage, fool.” Then she squeezed the trigger. The ten-pound trigger stuck for just a moment, then the action engaged, and she sent eight rounds blasting out into the aged man, filling his camouflaged chest with split lead. Bright red blooms filled his desert camo vest and he fell to his knees, gasping for air. “Just breathe man, just breathe,” she said mockingly before he fell to his face on the ground.

Sophie's wails brought her back into the moment. Dylan had his arms around her, sheltering her from the sights he could not erase. Kala felt bad for what the child had seen, but better to see two murders than to be a victim of rape and murder yourself.

“Let’s go,” Kala said. “Pack all our shit in the car, come on, hurry.”

Dylan grabbed their supplies and piled them into the back of the station wagon while Kala stripped the two men of their weapons and ammo. She came out with an old AK-47, a 10 gauge shotgun, two decent hunting knives and a black powder pistol that frankly scared the shit out of her. But she brought it anyway, just in case.

“It's a damn good thing I’m so good at killing things,” she told herself.
And to think, when I was a kid, I thought I wanted to be a doctor or a scientist. Looks like my true calling was as a mercenary.
She chuckled at the ridiculousness of the idea, then Dylan shouted to her.

“Kala, the zombies, they’re coming!”

Kala ran to the car with her booty. Sure enough, there were almost a dozen of the dead ones coming toward them from both directions down the street. Crap. Time to go. She tossed the guns in the back seat with their bags. Dylan sat, holding Sophie on his lap in the front with him, and Kala jammed on the ignition and stepped on the gas. Thankfully, the car started with no problems this time.

“We’ll run right through them, but it's going to be rough,” she said, aiming in the direction of the highway and pressing the accelerator. The six-cylinder engine shot them forward, blasting through two nearly dead humans, sending one doing aerial cartwheels over the car. It would have been funny, she thought, if anything was funny anymore. Kala continued to gain speed and tore through the residential district, aiming for I-75. She flew up the on ramp and was immediately shocked to see that the highway was…empty. She had expected a wasteland of cars to dodge, but there was nothing in sight. She smiled.
Finally, something in our favor,
she thought, and pressed the accelerator harder. When they hit eighty, she turned on the cruise control.

“We’re going to be okay guys, we’re going to be okay.”

She looked over. Sophie was sleeping on Dylan's lap already, and Dylan was looking at her with a mixture of sadness and admiration. He started to speak and his voice cracked, then Kala saw the tears in his eyes.

“Thank you Kala, thank you so much for saving my Sophie.” Kala grinned at him, not sure how to respond without bursting into tears herself. Instead, she patted his leg, which was still trembling. “Go to sleep, I’ll take care of us.”

“What’s your name, son?” Rosa asked.

“Kevin, sir,” was the clipped response.

Rosa rode in the front seat of the Humvee next to an iron-faced soldier. The man couldn't have been more than twenty, with his smooth skin and lack of wrinkles, but his jaw was hard with determination and pride. A half-shell helmet decorated with urban camo was pulled down over his forehead, and his hands gripped the wheel at precise marks. Mindful that he was staring, Rosa turned away from him, watching the city fly by. The radio jumped to life, with a man's voice spitting out what to Rosa was completely incomprehensible. His driver’s eyes widened just slightly.

“Is there a problem, Kevin?”

“Hold on tight, sir.”

“Oh great.”

A moment later the lead vehicle radioed back again. “We’ve broken through on the road, but they're coming at us from all sides, they're everywhere!”

“What kind of response authorization do we have, sergeant? Mike? Mike!”

Mike did not respond, but ahead of them gunfire erupted. Even over the roar of the Humvee’s turbocharged diesel engine, the sound was unmistakable.

“Sparks, get on the fifty cal, now!” Kevin yelled. Sparks, a.k.a. Mr. Sparkles, or so he was called on account of his one shiny gold tooth up front, scrambled to get up to the top gun. He fell twice because of the way Kevin was driving the big vehicle, dodging parked cars and vehicles trying to flee, as well as bloody, mindless swarms of zombies flooding into the street.

“Holy shit!” Rosa yelled. “Did half the city just up and change?”

His driver was out of breath and frightened. That was understandable, Rosa thought, as he watched the Hummer plow through a teenage girl with blood and gore hanging from her mouth. Her body made an audible crunch beneath them.

“I feel a little sick,” Rosa mumbled, to no one in particular.

Apparently Kevin heard him because he shouted, “Puke on the floor, and keep your head down!”

A moment later, the loud rhythmic chop of the fifty caliber roof-mounted machine gun roared, and bodies started to fly all around them. Sparks mowed down the zombies with impudence. At least Kevin hoped they were all zombies, a court martial and prison time were not in the plans for him and his fiancé.

“Oh shit!” the driver suddenly screamed and slammed on the brakes. The other Humvee was stopped diagonally in the road in front of them, smoking and overrun with the dead. They hadn’t hit the brakes fast enough though, and their front end smacked into the vehicle. Kevin heard a cry from above and saw Mr. Sparkles body fly over their hood and crash into the disabled Humvee in front of them. He slumped down to the ground, fumbling to unsnap his sidearm.

His heart pounding, Kevin screamed into the radio. “Humvee one is down, the road is blocked, find another route.” Then, as the zombies advanced on Mr. Sparkles, who was not doing well at all, Kevin shouted behind him to the remaining two soldiers. “Out, secure the damaged Humvee, secure the wounded, check for survivors!”

“Yes sir!” the two shouted. Rosa was wide-eyed, his mouth open and dripping the last of his curdled lunch onto his lap.

“Director, STAY HERE! Don’t move, and keep your head down!”

Then Kevin dove out the door. The soldier that had been thrown was firing into four zombies that ran right at him. Then one jumped down onto him from the top of the Humvee. Before it could strike, a three-round burst from Kevin’s mp5 took his head off. Kevin swiveled and fired more rounds into the zombies that were charging Sparks. The two soldiers from the back split up and went to either side of the Humvee. They swiveled as they walked, as if there were bearings in their hips, firing tight bursts into the oncoming dead.

Holy crap, they really sent the A team for me,
Rosa thought. Kevin reached Sparks and dragged him by one arm back toward their Humvee. Sparks continued to fire with his free arm, providing them with cover. It looked like the young soldier’s leg or hip was broken. Rosa was supposed to keep his head down, but was enthralled by the action unfolding in front of him. It was like Black Hawk Down meets The Walking Dead. His heart was beating so fast that he was afraid he was going to have a coronary, but he found himself cheering for his military escorts.

Kevin reached their Humvee again and rolled Sparks into the back. Rosa noticed his legs were not moving at all.
Fricken spinal,
he thought.
He’ll never walk again.
The driver was sprinting back to the other vehicle. The two other soldiers had already pulled out the driver and front-seat passenger, both dead.
Crap
. Kevin swung open the rear hatch and a zombie launched itself out at him.

“No!” Rosa cried as the creature landed on Kevin's chest, knocking him to the ground before gripping his throat tightly. There was no time for Kevin to react. With almost superhuman strength, the zombie tore Kevin’s throat out, sending a geyser of blood into the air. The zombie howled as blood splashed over his body. Rosa wretched at the sight, and at the carnage inside the back of the Humvee.
They’re all dead.

He frantically waved at the two soldiers to hurry back, but they couldn’t see him. They saw their comrade soon enough though. One of them covered his mouth, but the other shot the zombie off of Kevin and dragged him at a run back to their Humvee. They flung the driver's side doors open, and both crammed in, one of them falling into the back with Sparks and the very dead Kevin. There was a wave of the undead now swimming over the first Humvee, and more heading their way.

“Get us out of here!” Rosa cried.

“We’re going!” was the shouted response, and his new driver slammed down on the accelerator while spinning the wheel to the right. Rosa looked out his side window just as a zombie flew at it, striking the glass with its head hard enough to make him jump. Then the zombie sloughed off, not even making a scratch in the glass.

“Yeah, that’s blast proof glass, his head is mush now,” Sparks said from the back seat with a chuckle.

“How can you laugh at a time like this?” the new driver, whose name Rosa had not yet heard, shouted as he mowed over more bodies, careening around the disabled army transport.

“It’s either laugh or cry, brother. Our friends are dead, zombies are taking over, and I’m probably paralyzed. Tell me, what the hell else am I supposed to do?”

“Just shut up, how’s that? Sir, are you all right?”

Rosa looked at him with blank eyes, then slumped over against the window. “What the hell is wrong with him?” he faintly heard, through a cottony pillow of sound. Two fingers pressed against his neck.

“Did he faint?”

“No,” the driver said faintly, “he’s having a heart attack.”

“Christ.”

“Yeah, poor fool. Nothing we can do for him now, we are heading straight for evac.”

As their driver blasted through the carnage that was consuming Atlanta, he made the sign of the cross over his chest and then kissed the tiny silver crucifix he wore around his neck. Then he did something he had not done in years.

“Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee…”

*****

The helicopter made it to Dalton, but only just. Jason gripped the edges of his seat as the bird limped its way to the airport, the engine jumping and choking.

“We aren't even running on fumes now,” his pilot said nervously as he guided them closer to their landing.

As soon as the skids touched the ground he cut the power and let out a big breath.

“Wow,” he called back to Jason. “That was pretty close.”

All Jason could manage was a nod; his body was still frozen in place. It took a good two minutes for him to come unglued. As the rotors slowed overhead, Jason picked up his leather bag and held it to his chest.
That was terrifying.

The pilot exited and came around to open his door. “You have got to go, sir. This area isn't stable, there have been sporadic outbreaks. Your plane is waiting. In fact,” he paused, scanning the horizon, “it’s right there,” he said while pointing to a small tubular Learjet 35.

“You better go now, sir,” he repeated, shaking Jason’s shoulder. “Make haste, sir!”

Jason nodded and started jogging across the tarmac toward the waiting plane with its engines winding up. There was a man in khaki slacks and a button-up plaid shirt hanging out the door of the plane. When he saw Jason running, he raised a menacing looking black rifle and Jason’s heart skipped, then the man quickly lowered the weapon, presumably because he recognized that Jason was not a zombie. The man gave him a short wave. Jason looked over his shoulder and saw his pilot sprinting toward a fuel truck. He, too, wanted to get the hell out of here. He was twenty yards away when Jason saw a dark figure come running toward him from the terminal building.

Shit, it's one of them.
He knew right away because part of the man's dark-skinned face was hanging off, and splatters of blood splashed out of it and onto the ground. The terminal was still a hundred yards away, so while he was freaking out, Jason had no fear of being caught by the running madman. He hit the plane's steps at a run, and the man at the door ducked inside, calling to the pilot.

“Take off immediately, there's one heading this way!”

The engines whined. “Pull the door closed, Jason,” the plaid shirted man called to him. Jason found the stair actuation lever and pulled. The stairs ascended painfully slowly. “Come on, let's go! The plane won't move until the stairs are secured.”

“Ugh, really?”

“Yeah, really,” the plaid shirt man said, and chuckled.

Jason watched impotently as the zombie got closer and closer. Then, with only two feet to go until the door was shut, the running man leapt and gripped the stairs, pulling himself toward them.

“Cover your ears,” Jason thought he heard from behind him.

“What?”

An assault rifle roared next to him, blowing away the zombie’s head, and Jason's eardrums. He clapped his hands to his head and fell to the floor, crying out in pain. A moment later he felt the plane begin to roll forward. “Why?” he shouted. “Why did you do that?”

“I told you to cover your ears,” plaid shirt said, only all Jason could hear was a muffled roar.

Plaid shirt took hold of his arm and led him to his seat. “Buckle up!” he yelled. Jason shook his head in frustration but complied. Then he watched out the window as more zombies sprinted toward the plane. He hoped the helicopter pilot had escaped. Then the plane was speeding down the runway, leaving behind their pursuers as it attained lift and soared out above the city.

There were only three passengers on this flight: Jason, plaid shirt, and an aged man wearing a crisp blue dress shirt, sitting quietly and staring out the window. The sight of him was so strange, from his slicked back hair, to his deeply lined face, to the vacant expression in his eyes, that Jason wondered if he had been drugged. Or if he was drunk. Then a voice spoke over his shoulder. Jason was surprised to be able to hear, thankful that the roar was receding. It was still there, but at least he could hear now. He glared at the man.

“I’m sorry about your ears, doctor. I didn't have much of a choice though; do you agree?”

Jason sighed and nodded. “Yes, of course, I was just frustrated. I am Jason Carpenter,” he said as he stuck out his hand, watching the appendage waver in the air as the plane rose through some air currents.

“Of course you are, doctor, I know your work well. I am Nolan Peterman.”

Jason paused while shaking the man’s hand, then a grin came over his face.
Nolan Peterman, really?

“Wow, what are you doing in America Dr. Peterman?”

“Well truthfully, it was bad timing. I was lecturing as a special guest at Johns Hopkins University when the shit hit the fan, so when Europe slammed its borders shut, I was stuck here. What I’m telling people is that it is kismet, that I was meant to be here, to help the western world through this crisis.”

“Sounds like a good book pitch,” Jason teased.

Nolan pointed at him and smiled big. “You’ve got it, my friend, that's supposing there are people left to read it.”

“Well, that’s what we are supposed to be doing here isn’t it?”

Nolan didn’t miss a beat and Jason had to admit that his charisma was infectious. “What do you think of our mysterious friend here?” he asked, referring to their still silent travel companion.

“What’s his deal?” Jason asked, though they were clearly within earshot of the man, who continued to stare blankly out into the darkened sky.

“He was on board when I arrived. I’m thinking, based on his pupils, that's he’s been hitting the Xanax or Prozac pretty hard.”

“Any idea who he is? His face seems…oddly familiar, though I'm sure I would remember meeting someone who looks like him.”

“Well, I was given this,” Nolan said, and picked up a manila folder off the small table in front of him. “Or rather, this is for all of us. There’s not much here though. Here’s you, with a brief bio and your creds.” He handed Jason three sheets of stapled paper. “Here’s me,” he pulled out half a dozen sheets, thick with ink. “And here is our friend,” he continued, and pulled out a single sheet of white paper, which he passed over to Jason, who took it curiously.