The Liger Plague (Book 1) (23 page)

“On the northern section of the island, where I live, there’s a bunker from World War II where we can hide out in if we have to. It’s in the woods too. We just need to find a way over there. It’s probably three miles away, but I don’t know how much good it will do. It’s wide open and there’s no doors.”

“We’re going to have to try to come back here tomorrow morning,” he said, reaching into his pack and pulling out one of the hand grenades he’d taken with him.

“Listen to those poxers, Tag. I think they’re trying to tell us something,” Fez said.

“Indeed they are, but what are they trying to say?” Versa asked.

“They’re saying something like ‘help me,’” Fez said. “At least that’s what I think they’re saying.”

“I’ll help them alright,” Versa said, aiming at the two poxers coming near. “I’m going to put the sorry bastards out of their misery.”

“Wait, Versa. We need to work together if we’re going to get past them safely.”

“Just hurry up and tell us what to do, Colonel, before we get eaten alive.”

Tag counted to three, and then together they opened fire. Pulling the pin from the grenade, he tossed it into the crowd. It landed smack dab in the middle of the diseased. The poxers stared down at the grenade before starting to move away, a vague realization that something bad was about to happen. He saw adults and kids among the crowd, and felt guilty about what he’d just done. It was either survive or get torn apart by these poxers, and he wasn’t about to die yet with Monica and Taylor still missing.

The front line collapsed to the ground, blood oozing from their leathery hides. A second later the grenade exploded, and the ground shook around them. The concussion blast resounded in his ears and caused a loud, high-pitched ringing. He draped his body over Fez, trying to keep the kid from inhaling the bloody bits, pulps of flesh and hot blood now raining down over them. The stench of burnt flesh and sulfur sizzled in his nostrils.

He looked up seconds after the explosion and saw a narrow opening in the crowd. Many of the injured poxers struggled to their feet, body parts everywhere, their alligator skin shredded to pieces. The blast had caused them to become disoriented and confused. Some had missing limbs or large chunks of flesh torn out of their bodies. Yet it didn’t seem to frighten them, and they continued to move forward, plodding at a steady pace. Their seeming lack of pain indicated a central nervous system that had been severely damaged due to the virus’s disruptive influence. Whether these injuries were temporary or permanent was unknown, but he couldn’t imagine the psychic damage it would cause these people later in life if they managed to survive with their mental faculties intact.

He grabbed Fez’s hand and yelled for Versa to run. They sprinted through the shrinking corridor, feeling the poxers’ crusty hands brushing against their arms and shoulders. Tag saw that the other diseased people in the crowd were turning around to pursue them. He lifted his Magnum and fired a series of rounds until the three of them had made it safely out of their reach. A few stragglers wandered along the street and, upon seeing them, turned and stumbled in their direction. The scabs running along their bodies limited their flexibility; their skin simply wasn’t supple enough for the rotation of their joints.

Tag saw an oversized pickup truck parked midway on the hill. Its driver’s side door was open almost as if the owner had fled in a hurry. He sprinted toward it and called for the others to follow. Once he reached the door, he turned and helped Versa inside. He looked around for Fez but couldn’t see him anywhere. Where had the kid gone that quickly? Six poxers appeared to his left, naked but for the wispy strands of hair flapping around on their burned scalps. He looked around one last time to locate the boy, but Fez was nowhere to be seen. Guilt washed over him. He jumped behind the wheel and slammed the door shut just as three poxers reached the truck and started banging on the window. Glancing under the steering wheel, he saw keys dangling in the ignition. Luck was on his side.

Tag turned the key, and the truck roared to life. He stared through the windshield and saw the cars parked below them on the hill. Four cars away, two hands reached up and out of the roof.
Fez
! Poxers swarmed around the truck, and in a matter of seconds their blistered faces pressed up against his window, leaving behind streaks of blood, pus and scabs to cling to the glass. He slammed both palms down onto the horn, and the shrill blast caused them to cover their ears. The blisters, he surmised, had taken up residence along the inner ear canal and eardrum.

Fez popped his head out of the moon roof and waved to him. The diseased crowded around the car he was standing in, rocking it from side to side, hoping to flush the kid out. Tag heard a banging noise behind him and quickly turned back to see some of the diseased climbing up into the bed. They staggered toward the cab, banging their hands against the rear window of the truck, pleading with him for help.

He stepped on the gas and accelerated forward. The front end of the truck plowed into the bumper of the car in front of him. The collision rippled all the way down the line. A few of the infected, standing in the open space between Fez’s car and a Toyota Prius, instantly got severed at the waist. Geysers of blood shot up and rained down on the windshield. Tag turned on the wipers and swiped away the dark blood with the help of cleaning fluid. Once he could see properly, he backed up and then shifted into drive, smashing anyone in his way. Poxers went flying. He pulled the pickup as close as he could to the Toyota Prius so that only an inch separated the passenger door from the Prius. Fez climbed onto the roof of the Prius and stood there, waiting to jump into the truck. Glancing back through the cab’s rear window, Tag saw two poxers climbing onto the Prius’ roof.

“The kid’s in a jam,” Versa said.

He passed her the Magnum. “Open your window, and throw the gun up to him. Then tell him to jump in the bed of the truck.”

Versa took the gun and tossed it over to Fez. Once he had it in hand, he fired at the poxers jumping off the truck’s bed and onto the roof of the Prius. Tag heard the gun click and knew it had run out of ammo. A mob had formed at Tag’s door, banging and screaming to be let in. He leaned over Versa and yelled up to Fez, but it was too late. The kid stood toe to toe with a naked, infected woman trying to grab hold of him. Fez kicked her ankle, catching her off balance; then with the butt of the Magnum, he struck her upside the head, sending her sprawling onto the hood of the car. She started to get up, but not before he jumped down into the bed of the pickup and shouted for Tag to go.

Tag gunned it toward the middle of the street. Hundreds of the infected now loitered near the bottom of the hill. He performed a nimble three-point turn and then sped up the hill toward the center of town. Most of the poxers had made their way to the bottom, leaving the top of the street uncluttered. He knew that would soon change, though. Staring into the rearview mirror, Tag could see the mass of them beginning to stagger up the hill.

He swerved around a few of them marching down the street, clipping some and sending others flying toward the sidewalk. Once he reached the top, he turned onto Maine Street. The entire downtown teemed with them. Just the sight of these bloody people milling about filled him with despair. All the shops, bars and restaurants had been destroyed, and the diseased wandered in and out of them at will. Had everyone on the island turned into monsters? He assumed that there must have been a few lucky ones out there, safe and protected, and waiting for the authorities to save them. At the sight of the truck’s headlights, the diseased covered their eyes and looked away. The fleeting shadows darted in and out of his line of vision. He cruised carefully past, fearing that he might damage the radiator if he hit too many, and then become stranded among them. The poxers banged on the truck’s windows with their scarred hands, leaving bloody handprints in their wake. One climbed onto the truck’s bed and shuffled toward the rear window.

“Step on it!” Versa screeched. “They’re going to break inside here if you don’t get a move on.”

“God help me,” Tag said, noticing one of the webcams affixed to a light pole and pointed down toward the truck.

Taking a deep breath, he pressed his foot down on the gas and turned on the high beams. The pickup truck plowed through the crowd, sending them flying everywhere. He wondered how many of his neighbors and friends he had just injured or killed.

The further north he drove on Main Street, the less congested it got. A thick fog descended over the island, and he could sense the heavy presence of ocean around them. He rarely came over to the north side of Cooke’s Island, where most of the locals lived, particularly the fishermen and the longstanding families who’d lived on the land for years. The houses, he could see, were grittier and far more modest than on the rest of the island, and they were concealed and hidden away. Some of the homes even resembled broken-down shacks. Many were patched up indifferently with plywood or had their roofs covered over with tarps. These were the people who did most of the grunt work on Cooke’s, kept away from the tourist area but were necessary to make the gears of local commerce turn.

The lights of a vessel drifted out in the harbor. He stopped the truck and shut off the high beams to better see ahead. Rolling down the window, he heard someone shouting far below. Once his eyes adjusted to the dark, he saw the shadow of a rowboat moving just off the beach. The ocean looked choppy and dark, hardly decent conditions to be out rowing. It appeared that the strong current was pulling the boat out to sea. Fez pointed excitedly and climbed over Versa, despite her loud protests. He ran outside and toward the rocky shore a hundred feet below. Tag opened his door and chased after the kid, wondering where he was going.

“Get back here, Fez! You’re going to get yourself killed.”

“I know those guys. My three cousins are in that boat.”

“You can’t do anything for them now,” Tag said.

“They’ll get shot like the others if they don’t turn around and head back to land. Those Coasties will shoot them, Tag. I got to convince them to come back.”

“They won’t even be able to hear you from up here.”

“I don’t give a crap! I’m going to try anyway.”

The boy sprinted down the steep path and disappeared into the night. Off in the distance Tag saw the revolving beam of the lighthouse swirl past them and begin its arc out toward the Atlantic. Standing in the open, he felt vulnerable to attack. He knew that if they went toward the water, they’d have a difficult time making their way back to the truck if any of those poxers came down the path.

The sound of a man’s amplified voice bellowed out in the bay, beckoning for the boys to jump out of the boat and swim back to the island. He knew exactly why the Coast Guard had ordered them back. They were planning on destroying the boat so that it could never again be seaworthy. Aiming the flashlight into the dark, Tag scampered down the steep path, careful to watch his step. Near the bottom he tripped over a root sticking up out of the dirt and tumbled down the hill. Fez’s voice sang out below. Once he came to a rest at the landing, Tag pushed himself off the ground. Fortunately, nothing felt broken, just a few bumps and bruises to add to the growing list of battle wounds.

“Get back here, cuz, or the Coasties will shoot you!” Fez cried into the fog.

Tag heard something rustling in the woods. He looked around and saw the silhouette of the kid standing in the water up to his ankles, his hands cupped around his mouth. A twenty-foot-wide beach sat nestled between a series of large boulders. He gazed out into the dark harbor and thought he saw the rowboat bobbing in the water, but couldn’t be sure. The churning motor of the Coast Guard vessel drowned out Fez’s cries. The three boys in the boat couldn’t hear him, and instead continued to row toward the Coast Guard vessel in the hopes that they would transport them safely off the island. Fez kept shouting at the top of his lungs, trying to get their attention, warning that they’d be shot if they didn’t turn around. Tag heard the rustling in the woods again. He reached into his boot and pulled out the combat knife, knowing that if he discharged his weapon now the Coast Guard might return fire.

A shadow came out of the woods to his left. Tag turned and stood face to face with the figure until it emerged into the moonlight. The poxer’s naked, leathery skin had morphed into one continuous sheet of scarred tissue. The man’s hair lay long and greasy over his shoulder, and he had a pathetic beard trailing down to his desiccated throat. The infected man cried out in agony and reached for him. Tag stuck him in the gut three times, yet it seemed to have no effect. Blood poured out of the wounds and gushed onto the sand. The poxer wrapped his hands around Tag’s neck and tried to pull him in, but Tag managed to drive the knife into his heart, dropping him to the ground. Blood poured from the wound and onto his hand, and he knew that he was at risk of becoming infected with the second virus if he didn’t take precautions immediately. He bolted to the water’s edge and washed his hand and knife in the salty water, praying that the infection had not entered his bloodstream.

“They can’t hear you, Fez,” he called into the thick brume.

“I’ll swim out there and bring them back if I have to.”

“And get yourself killed?”

“Dude,” he said, his voice breaking up, “they’re my blood. We’re as close as brothers.”

The kids shouted frantically in the night. A man’s voice came over the loudspeaker, ordering the kids to jump in the water and swim back to shore. Yet the kids ignored the warning and continued to beg for help, pleading to be taken aboard and off the island. Tag saw a flash in the open water, followed by the peppering sounds of machine-gun fire. The Coast Guard gun pulsed like a strobe light. Then it stopped and was followed by a thundering silence. Seeing the kid’s silhouette against the water, Tag tackled the kid to the sand, burying both of their heads as bullets pinged off the rocks and trees. He grabbed hold of Fez’s hand, and the two of them sprinted behind a downed tree. Looking past the trunk, Tag saw a faint light out in the harbor and watched two men on the boat, dressed in hazmat suits, fish out the bodies and place them in zippered bags. He ducked behind the tree, watching as the Coast Guard’s searchlight scanned the beach. Fez, kneeling below him, started to cry.