Hellspawn | Book 8 | Hellspawn Vengeance, page 21
part #8 of Hellspawn Series
“Nowhere Man,” Peter gasped.
A wooden box was strapped down against the large plastic collection container. Steering with one hand, he reached back with a knife and cut them loose. Hoisting the box by the handle, he slipped it onto his lap.
“What the hell are you doing?” whispered Peter as he worked at the clasps.
“Mikey, how about now?” Lennie yelled.
A crack shattered the afternoon, causing Peter alone to flinch, but not before he saw the bullet hit a zombie at least eight feet from the target.
“Did you get him?”
“Fuck! No! I’m not a bloody sniper, Len!”
Peter returned to his vigil and felt his blood run cold when the Nowhere Man retrieved the contents of the box. Tossing the wood aside, the baby lay across his lap like a blanket, unsecured. The man didn’t even seem to care that it might fall at any moment. Coming to a stop, he climbed down and returned the infant to the seat. Giving it a pinch, the little thing started to wail in pain. “Oh no.”
“What do you see?” asked Braiden.
Peter didn’t want to see anymore and handed the binoculars over in a daze to Mrs Hampton. She made a noise that Peter couldn’t make out. A mixture of a sigh and hmm of… of what? Recognition?
Braiden’s response was far more pronounced when another fighter handed his own set to the youth. “What the fuck is he doing?”
The zombies had nearly reached the mower when the man wedged something against the seat and pedal. Without a driver, it trundled forward, carrying the screaming baby with it. Waving at the camp, he turned and was swallowed instantly by the dead.
“He’s got live bait!” Braiden snapped. His entire body was buzzing with surging anger. “A baby!”
“Clever,” mused Mrs Hampton. “Very clever.”
“Clever?” Braiden cried. “It’s a fucking baby!”
“Mikey, how long until you can get a clean shot?” called Lennie.
“A clean shot at what?” demanded Braiden, squaring up to the huge gypsy.
Lennie looked down at the skinny teenager. “The threat, lad.”
“Another hundred yards or so and I should be able to hit it!”
“You could hit the baby!”
“He’s aiming for the machine,” Lennie replied, unconvincingly.
“It’ll still kill the baby, you fucker! They’ll tear it apart!”
“It’s one life. This place has hundreds of lives. Men, women, children… babies.”
Braiden’s face darkened. “You all deserve to die,” he sneered at Lennie. “We’d be mad to try and work with you.”
Before the big man could reply, Braiden spun around and scurried down the steep face of the mud.
“Bray! Careful!” Peter yelled as the youth barrelled down towards the zombie filled moat.
He didn’t slow at all when his feet hit the thin ledge, kicking clods of soil into the faces of the reaching zombies. Pushing away, he raced across the trench support pole without slipping to his doom.
Above, Peter’s heart was in his mouth.
“He’s got a little bit of the devil in him,” said Mrs Hampton.
Peter could only stare.
Chapter 41
The expectation of a gunshot followed Braiden’s every step. Either punching into his back, sending him sprawling as he coughed up blood waiting for the zombies; or the spark as it impacted the mechanisms inside the mower, dooming the child to an agonising fate before he could reach it.
Shouts carried after him. They all blended into a wailing dirge. Whether they called for his success or death, he didn’t care. Pumping his legs, the renewed training in the castle was a blessing. His breathing was steady, drawing great lungful’s of air. His heart pumped the oxygen effortlessly around the demanding limbs. The ground passed in a blur, his feet barely touching the impacted mud. At any moment Braiden felt he might take off, soaring into the sky to join the birds which circled overhead.
The hum of the motor and the warbling cries of the baby drew him away from comforting fantasies of airborne safety. This was a deadly situation for them both. If the Nowhere Man was lurking with a gun, he could take pot-shots at leisure from the safety of the crowding ghouls.
Death to the front of me, death to the back. Here I am, stuck in the middle with you, Braiden sang inside his head, remembering the old Stealers Wheel tune favoured by his dad as he threatened friends with a straight razor kept in his pocket at all times.
As he neared the gigantic swell of undead flesh, the stench became almost unbearable. Skidding to a stop by the ride-on, he grabbed the baby and was on his heels in an instant. It was a girl if the pink clothes and swaddling were to be believed. She started to screech harder as the previously sedate journey became a jumbling, bouncing pell-mell for the gypsy camp.
“Where did you… come from, huh?” he asked between breaths.
The mother and father were likely now dead, just another on the list of fallen chalked up to the lunatics with the head injuries and impossible invisibility. How many settlements had they razed? How many men, women, and children? How many future leaders that could’ve helped to rebuild? How many plumbers, builders, engineers, farmers, doctors? The deaths were tragic enough. The lost knowledge and experience was far worse. Each day saw them descend further into the abyss of ignorance. The thought of what they would be in a year, or two years, or ten, caused Braiden’s mind to wander in horror. At full speed, he snagged his left foot on a root. Now he really was flying, with a priceless cargo in his arms. Managing to turn slightly, he impacted with his right shoulder. Grinding along the mercifully flattened earth still tore his coat at the seam, leaving the skin below painfully grazed.
The crowd lining the bank sucked in a collective hiss of breath.
“Get up!” cried a man.
“You can make it!” yelled a woman.
Suddenly, the spectators were roaring support and warnings. Braiden pushed the white hot pain of his abraded skin aside. The baby was screaming, its jaw trembling with the sheer level of effort.
“Sorry about that,” Braiden groaned, climbing to his feet.
The cries of encouragement reached a fever pitch. Something brushed his undamaged shoulder before being snatched away. The crack of the gunshot followed an instant behind. Whirling around, Braiden saw the zombie scrambling on the ground, trying to stand. The bullet had hit it in the left cheek, taking the meat, bone and ear from that side of its head. Without the base of its socket for support, the creature’s eye dropped through the gap into the lolling mouth. Bouncing on the optic nerve, the tongue pushed it to the right which still had an intact jawbone. The black teeth bit down, mulching the soft white orb.
Braiden recoiled as the jellied mucus was swallowed. ”Gross!”
“Quit sightseeing and get your arse moving!” roared the unmistakeable voice of Lennie.
The baby took a fresh breath, ready to unleash hell. Braiden was already in motion when the wail pealed forth. Each footstep was a lesson in torture. The bounce sending shockwaves of pain into his brain from the bruised and scraped shoulder. Making for the trench and their less than reliable steel supports, Lennie’s shout drew him up short. “We’ll drop the gate! Now, move!”
Veering to the right, he circled the half full pit of the dead, running with an unseemly gait that tried to combine speed while at the same time minimising the jarring to both the child and his ravaged shoulder. Above the growing din of the eager dead and the furious gypsies, he could hear the clatter-rattle of thick chain as the bridge lowered. Passing around the southern edge of the earthen fortification, the platform crashed into the waiting bank. Two men with machine guns ran across to cover him, though none of the undead were even close. He smiled as best he could through the pain in thanks as they flanked him, sweeping their sights across the no man’s land that had once been the rest of the village.
“Bray?” came an emotion choked cry from the ruins.
Braiden’s heart stopped at the same time as his feet skidded to a halt. Time seemed to slow down as the two men waved at the new arrivals to get inside.
“Is it really you?” asked the woman, the words drawn out by Braiden’s numbed brain.
Slowly, ever so slowly, he turned. He felt nothing now, but saw everything in minute detail. The scratched out serial numbers on the guns held by the men. Their fierce eyes and days stubbled cheeks as they barked orders. Below, the bolts, welds, and braces that held the makeshift bridge together. Between the gaps, the ice infused zombies, their bodies alive with beautiful white crystals that shimmered in the morning light. Turning, the vertical scoop marks cut into the earth by the nearby excavators. The interlocking trench support plates, marred by the scrabbling dead. Looking up, the cracked remains of the road on which the bridge had settled. The imprints of hooves and boots on the previously wet mud adjoining it. Then… Her.
“Bray! Oh my, Bray! It’s you!”
Chapter 42
Winston ignored the glares of the travellers as he marched through the caravans. He strode on, heedless of the chaos breaking out nearby. The house, one of several dozen buildings secured within the boundary of the zombie moat came into view. Sapping at his will, the last few steps were less gallant, more the shuffling awkwardness of old. What the hell was he thinking? Mrs Hampton was likely to fry his guts. Still, he couldn’t ignore what was right, no matter the consequences.
All of the windows were boarded up, which left only one way in, and he didn’t have the key.
Kick it in? Go in all gung-ho, guns blazing?
“I don’t have any guns,” he muttered.
It wasn’t like the movies, either. The mortice lock alone would ensure he received as much damage as he dished out with each kick. By the time the frame and lock started to give, he would be pinned down under the weight of a dozen gypsies.
“So, what now?” Winston whispered.
Raising a fist, his knuckles hesitated inches from the door. What would the chances be of Kizzy even opening the door? Slim? None? What would he do even if he made it inside? He had no blade. Would he be able to use it if he did? A pillow then, held firmly over the sleeping face of his… friend? Did he hold that title, truly? Or was it simple desperation at the time? Winston was crippled by indecision.
As if sensing something was amiss, soft footsteps could be heard inside. Whoever it was paused at the threshold, peering through the spyglass. Keys jangled and the heavy lock snicked. Hinges creaking, the door opened and Kizzy cocked her head quizzically at him.
“Hello again,” she said.
Winston thought frantically for something to say. Nothing seemed quite right. “Can Mike come out to play?” he blurted, before slapping himself in the forehead with an open palm. “Sorry, I mean…”
“Mike won’t be coming out ever again, I’m afraid.”
Winston considered rushing her. She was petite. He could probably get past her unless she had a weapon. But that would mean potentially hurting a lady, and that was just not done. Letting his head hang and shoulders slump, he mumbled an apology and turned away.
Stupid! Stupid! What did you think would happen?
“Would you like to come in?” Kizzy asked, gently.
Winston hesitated, wondering if his anger would resurface once inside, dooming he and his friends to a more painful death.
“It’s ok. I’ll kick you in the dick if you try anything.”
Winston let out a half laugh, half sob. “You’d have to be a damned good shot.”
“I’ve had a lot of practice,” she replied with a wink. “Come on.”
Following like an obedient puppy, he moved inside the house. Kizzy closed and locked the door once he was inside. The ‘ward’ was only a few paces away, but now that he was inside, Winston found himself loitering in the hallway. “Aren’t you worried about being alone with me?” he asked as a distraction, nodding at the door.
“I know what you are and what you aren’t,” she replied.
“I could be a crazed rapist.”
Rapist? Are you fucking high? Why would you go there?
“That’s one of the things you aren’t,” she said with certainty.
“A serial killer?”
“Nuh-uh.” She shook her head.
“Someone that doesn’t pick up their dog’s poo?”
“You’re not a monster,” she replied.
“I’ve left the toilet seat up more than once.”
She considered his admission. “Ok, maybe you are a monster.”
Winston felt like a deflated balloon. Empty. Weak. Her warm hand reached out and took his own, leading him into the room. Mike, Craig, and the stranger were all fast asleep. Or unconscious, which was much the same thing.
“Why?” Winston managed to croak out.
Kizzy let go of his hand and fetched them two chairs. Helping him sit down at Mike’s side, she joined him. “Because Claire said so.”
“She’s evil.”
“She’s what she’s needed to be,” Kizzy replied, cryptically.
“No one needs to do this!” Winston snapped.
“I know you think I’m evil too, but I’m only feeding my family.”
“Feeding your…” Winston was aghast. He had no words.
“Listen, I know Patrick is dead. He’s a… zombie.” She laughed, shaking her head at the absurdity. “But these people killed him. He was my cousin. Who’s to say he’s not still in there somewhere? Who’s to say I’m not giving him some kind of peace with the meat I provide?”
“It’s not meat, it’s people!” Winston put his head in his hands.
“People who killed two of my family. This is a different world now… Winston, was it?”
He nodded into his hands.
“Ask yourself this. How many others will live now that these friends of yours are out of the way? How many rapes will never happen. How much violence will be spared.”
“But you kill. You commit violence. How are you any better?”
“We only do what we have to do to survive. Our people have been outsiders for generations. Hated. Ridiculed. Attacked.”
“I’ve never attacked you.”
“And that’s why you’re welcome here. It’s why you’re safe. We watched what happened at the prison. We knew who they had and what they suffered.”
“Then why didn’t you do anything? You have far more guns than we do.”
“Again, Winston. They’re not our people. They would’ve spat on us in the old world.”
“You can’t know that.”
lived it. All through training, I was shunned because I lived in a traveller camp. Even when I worked the wards, nothing I ever did was good enough,” she declared, vehemently. “The others would sit around chatting about boyfriends or holidays, while I cared for people. I nursed them back to health. I washed the shit when they didn’t make it to the toilet in time. I held hands as people took their last breaths. I was damned good at my job, but it still wasn’t enough.”
“And now you do this to people,” Winston whispered.
Kizzy leaned away from him, a pained expression on her face. “I do what I have to do. Even now, I’m doing my job well.”
“How the hell do you figure that? You’ve cut their arms and legs off.”
“I did.”
“Then you’re evil too.”
“If I was evil, would I go to the trouble of ensuring they don’t feel a thing? Or would I be a bitch and leave them to writhe in agony?”
“I…” Winston had no answer.
“Claire said it had to be done, so it was done. Don’t you get that?”
Winston could see she was conflicted, the way her eyes didn’t linger too long on the pathetic bodies. Their awful state led him on to a question. One that he hated himself for asking even as the words came out. “How do you even know what to do? This is… I dunno…”
“Surgeon stuff?”
Winston nodded.
Kizzy shrugged. “It’s not a tidy job. They’re not expected to… you know, make it. Once the arteries and veins are pinched, with some transfusions they’re ok for a few days or weeks. I keep them dosed with antibiotics to keep infections at bay. Plus the morphine so they don’t really know what’s going on anyway. It’s the best I can do. Some of the other folks in our little slice of heaven want to torture them even now. I make sure that doesn’t happen.”
“Is that supposed to make it better?”
“No!” Kizzy snapped. “I wasn’t doing it for you, or for anybody else. I was doing it for myself.”
Winston sighed. The world had gone from black and white to a grey morass of questionable morality. Wouldn’t he do anything to protect his new family? Hadn’t he crossed a zombie infested wasteland to try and find out what had happened to his ‘friend’? And now, after all that and despite the warnings, he wanted to end Mike’s suffering. Somehow. Some way. “I can’t hurt you,” he said.
“That’s good to know. You’d get a dick kick anyway.”
“But I need to do something.”
“I’m meant to stop you.”
Winston looked at her directly. “Why did you say ‘meant’?”
“Because I can see you have love for him, Mike, whatever his name is.”
Winston stood up. “You won’t stop me?”
“I’m meant to,” she repeated, watchful but unmoving.
“I need to do this…” Winston moved to the side of the bed. Mike’s eyelids fluttered open again. He didn’t see Winston. He didn’t see anything, judging by the drugged glaze before they slowly closed again. “But I don’t know how.”
Kizzy remained seated, her gaze shifting from Winston to her patient. With a resigned sigh, she pushed herself up from the chair and headed towards the stainless steel cabinets. “This could get you killed. It could get me killed,” she warned, sliding open a drawer to retrieve a plastic packaged syringe. Taking a vial from the cabinet, she tore the wrapper off and slipped the needle through the cap. Drawing a full dose into the tube, she stared at the clear liquid for a few seconds.
