The Undead Possession Series: Book 4: Legion, page 2
Finally, they made it to the shelter. Roaming nearby were several full-breed stragglers that might have gotten separated from the main groups. When they saw them arrive in the car, they scrambled up the walls of the adjacent buildings, crouching on the rafters like gargoyles, ready to pounce. One of them had what looked like a half-eaten cat in its mouth, the bushy tail swinging below its chin.
“Get them in the house,” said Terry. “I’ll take care of these.”
Jean struggled to lead Mark up the garden path, while Chris carried Jackie. He turned around briefly to see one of the full-breeds jump from the roof of the house, immediately followed by all the rest, landing on all fours. They scurried toward Terry, growling fiercely until he shot them—their heads exploding like melons.
Jean knocked on the door. They waited, tense, unsure if anyone still remained. It had been almost twenty-four hours since they’d left the shelter, and Chris was sure Tim wouldn’t have had time to make so many journeys to and from the bunker yet, but there was a niggling doubt in his mind—Eric.
After being kicked out, there was the possibility he had sought some kind of revenge upon them. Chris had half expected to see the place in flames as they drove up the road—he didn’t think Eric was beyond doing such a thing. But fortunately, after a few moments, someone opened the door and peered out.
Tim.
“Chris, thank God for that. You made it back.” He looked at Jackie, then Mark, and winced. “Get in. Quick.” When Terry had caught up, Tim slammed the door shut. “Jesus, what the fuck happened to them?” he asked.
Chris told him briefly about the incident with Samantha and the boy. Tim gave him a strange, questioning look Chris recognized immediately. You shot your own daughter?
Chris said nothing.
“Man, that’s some fucked-up shit. How could the kid have grown so quickly? He should only be a few weeks old.”
“I don’t know. But then, nothing’s right with them. I blew half her face off, and still, she survived.”
“Fuck. Okay, we need to get Jackie to the bunker, and fast. I suggest now. Everyone else is already there. I was going to give you one more night, then assume you were all dead. Good job I waited. And what the fuck happened to you, Mark? You been bathing in blood or something?”
Mark moaned and collapsed on the sofa.
“It’s a long story,” said Chris. “By the way, don’t suppose Eric has reared his ugly head since he left?”
“No. And if he had, I would have shot it off. I hope the arsehole’s being eaten alive as we speak.”
“Good. So, I guess it should be Jackie and Mark go first. And you as well, Jean. At the bunker, there’s a medical facility. We need to get her back on the antibiotics.”
They all agreed and soon left. Just Terry and Chris remained at the shelter. It was eerily quiet in there now, not so claustrophobic like before. Chris found an unopened bottle of wine and sat beside Terry.
“So, Chris. You wanna tell me what’s going on with Samantha and that kid?”
He didn’t, but he told him anyway.
Chapter Three
He watched them as they hurried from the car to the shelter. Two of them looked like zombies themselves. He thought he recognized them from his position—Jackie and that religious freak, Mark. What the hell had they been doing? he wondered. Fighting zombies on their own? The kid looked as though someone had poured a bucket of blood over him at some point. But still, that wasn’t his problem—that thug Terry was carrying a sub machine gun, the kind that looked like the ones the army used, short like those Israeli ones. An UZI or something. He’d had a politician friend who used to collect them—all highly illegal of course—and he’d told Eric they were extremely effective and devasting at short range. This was a problem.
To prove the point, he watched, fascinated, as Terry wiped out a small group of zombies, their heads shattering, fleshy shrapnel flying everywhere. The noise was deafening, but that was irrelevant; what kind of chance did he have against one of those? Chris also had one slung over his shoulder, and he knew there had been more inside the shelter.
If only he had managed to grab one before being kicked out.
His initial plan had been to ambush Chris when he stepped out of the car. He had a large knife in his pocket, as did Paul, crouching just behind him. He was going to grab Chris, drag him back to the hellhole they were staying at, and make him pay for forcing him out. The zombie they had supposedly given the antidote to was now rotting in its own blood and shit after it had scared Eric when they first entered. Paul, it turned out, had an extra use—he was good with his fists.
“So, what are we gonna do, boss?” asked Paul.
“I don’t know. For now, we wait.”
They had been hanging around the area since they heard the car return earlier—Tim, no doubt, come back for more refugees to take them to the new wonder-bunker. He’d thought briefly of setting Paul on him then, but Tim was ex-army. The guy towered over Paul and wouldn’t think twice about snapping his neck. The thug. And then the others had returned from wherever they’d crept to. He guessed it had been to look for that bitch, Jackie, and had been surprised that they’d returned. From what he’d overheard, that Samantha thing was a pretty nasty creature too. And yet, there they were.
In the distance, something howled. Or snarled. It was hard to tell—a dog, or one of those things. Rats scampered around them, oblivious to the humans’ presence, pecking and nipping at the remains of old zombies or dead animals they found lying about. Even though they were both wearing masks, the night air was still foul. It reminded him of a time on one of his large construction sites where they’d been excavating to lay the foundations for a new block of flats. A decomposing body had been found, partially buried, alive with bugs and worms squirming over the remains. The wave of rotting flesh had made him vomit there and then, and it had followed him around all day, to the point he had thrown his new suit in the rubbish bin as if the smell had soaked in.
Thinking about that, he looked down and saw he was surrounded by giant cockroaches too. Disgusted, he stamped on them. Too damn long this shit has been going on. Living in a country surrounded by vermin and bugs and thugs. When things got better—and he still held onto the idea that one day they would—he vowed to take a stance against all those that opposed him or failed to comply with his demands. The country needed someone like him as soon as possible to make things right again. Chris surely couldn’t be the only one trying to make some kind of vaccine or antidote.
Why hadn’t the Yanks come to help, for that matter? Couldn’t they napalm the hell out of the zombies? Couldn’t be that hard. But somehow, he didn’t think England was the only country affected. No, whoever had caused it had done a real good job of fucking up the whole world. Greenhouse effect? Pollution? Well…didn’t have to worry about that anymore, did they?
“Someone’s coming, boss,” said Paul, startling Eric from his thoughts.
“Huh?” He looked up to see Tim leaving with the nurse, the kid, and Jackie, carried by Chris.
“It’ll be okay,” Chris was telling her. “Once you get to Norwich, there’s a big medical facility at the bunker. Jean will take care of you, get you better.”
Eric watched and listened carefully. So, they were going to Norwich. That was several hundred miles away. He knew the city quite well; as a teenager, he’d lived there for six months, studying business management at the university. On one of his touristy days out, he’d heard about a bunker that had been used during World War II. Surely, that was where they were going, then?
But right now, after helping his wife into the car, Chris was alone out there in the middle of the road. It looked like Chris and Terry would be the last ones to leave. That made him vulnerable.
“Get ready,” he whispered to Paul as he pulled out his knife. “Soon as the car goes, you jump him.”
“Right, boss.”
Together, they crept out and, keeping as low to the ground as possible, moved along the wall toward Chris. After a moment of talking, Tim drove off. Chris was all alone. He turned his back to them just as Paul raised his knife and prepared the assault.
This is it. You are going to severely regret throwing me out, you little fucker. But just when Eric was going to tell Paul to jump him, a noise came from behind them—a twig snapping in the garden they hid in. Eric spun around, expecting to see some starving mongrel or cat, and was terrified to see it bore a human form. Before either of them had time to react, an arm reached out and smashed Paul’s head against the brick wall, knocking him out instantly. Eric jumped back, unable to run or call for help, and brought his knife up to stab the creature.
But he was too slow.
It grabbed onto his wrist and squeezed with impossible strength, forcing the knife to fall, then sunk its teeth into his throat. Eric punched and pushed at the thing’s head, grimacing in pain, feeling the flesh and skin stretch to the breaking point. Finally, it ripped free with a horrible slurping sound. The zombie swallowed the bloody chunk and let Eric crash to the ground.
The pain was terrible. He had been bitten. That was it. All his plans were over. Instead of taking over the country when the zombies were finally slayed, he would become one of them, doomed to roam in search of flesh until he died of starvation, or someone shot him. His eyes watering with the sharp throbbing of his neck, his hand barely stopping the blood loss, he tried to push himself to his feet and escape, make it to Chris who would forgive him, give him one of those antidotes, and he would promise never to betray them again. He’d get on his hands and knees and beg if that was what they wanted—anything to prevent the inevitable.
He made it to his feet, but a hand wrapped itself around his neck and pulled him closer.
“No. Please. Get off,” he whimpered, trying to push himself away.
“Hurt, does it?” said the zombie.
Eric stopped. In the dark, it was impossible to see the zombie’s face or anything, but a zombie that talked? Yet it didn’t sound like how a zombie might talk, even if it was one.
“Soon, very soon, in a matter of minutes in fact, your brain will start to switch off. You’ll feel terrible agony, your brain incapable of controlling actions anymore. Then you will die. And when you wake up again, one thing, and one thing only, will you care about—flesh.”
“Wh-who are you?” he said, grimacing as the throbbing in his neck grew stronger.
“Don’t remember me? You kicked me out. Left me to fend for myself. Well, now it’s your turn. I think—considering the type of fucker that you are—that you will even enjoy it. I’d avoid dead dog meat, though. It’s too tough and tastes like shit.”
“M-Mike? Is that you?”
The face came closer, his nose touching Eric’s, foul breath seeping into his mouth and up his nostrils. “Yes,” he said, then threw Eric to the ground.
“No. No. It’s not possible. What have you done? Chris!” he screamed, but his strength was already fading, and dark images began to fill his mind. Of tearing into human flesh, slobbering and chewing on sinewy muscle and organs, an almost orgasmic state as warm, salty blood ran down his throat. The images came and went quickly, one replaced by another, but all with just one thing in common—the need to eat living flesh.
As the blood continued draining from his own neck, his vision became blurry and his body stiff and cold. The world around him darkened, becoming distant; Mike, standing over him, was now just a shadow far away. He wanted to reach out to him, beg for one last chance, but that desire was already being overridden by a far greater need.
And then everything went silent and black.
* * *
When he opened his eyes again, everything was still dark and silent. But he was hungry, terribly hungry, as though he hadn’t eaten for weeks. He looked around, at first unsure of his surroundings or why the need to find immediate food. He dragged himself to his feet and almost fell over again; there was something wrong with his coordination, as though his limbs were foreign to him and they moved in a stiff, jerky fashion. On the ground nearby, a rat stopped to wash itself. Drooling, Eric fell on top of it, snatched it up, and shoved it into his mouth, crunching down on its head even while it struggled. Not bothering to chew, he swallowed its head whole, then ate the rest.
The gnawing in his stomach and obsession in his mind subsided only a fraction—he needed more. Fresher. He stumbled toward the road, looking for more, bigger meals, but only saw discarded limbs and torsos. For now, that would do. Maybe it would take away his immense need. Eric picked up an arm and tore a chunk from it. It was tougher than the rat, and there was no blood left in it to soothe the burning in his throat. But still, he ate some more.
And then while chewing, other alien images came to him, yet he recognized them somehow. A human. Several of them. He saw them as blurry outlines first, then slowly, their faces morphed into view. A rage grew inside him, bigger than the need for flesh, for he knew those people. They had done terrible things to him in a life long before that one existed. They had made him like this—a ravenous, insatiable monster with an unstoppable craving for meat. Nothing else existed except for that one, simple necessity. Except…
Revenge.
The human he was seeing in his mind now, he was responsible for everything. He had to find him, make him pay what he’d done. Tear open his throat, his guts, feed upon them while the human writhed and screamed in agony. Make him eat his own organs. Stuff his little cock down his throat and watch him suffocate. Then, he remembered something. Seeing him before he was turned. The man was going somewhere. Escaping somewhere. A place he knew. He remembered it all. Norwich. Before, he had lived with them all, and now they were fleeing to another site. He knew how to get there.
But why were they escaping?
Her.
Yes, she wanted them too. Him and the prayer-boy. He knew where she was now also. He would go to her, tell her what he knew. Together, they would make the journey to Norwich and kill them all.
Eric snarled and howled triumphantly now that he had another reason to exist. He shuffled along the road, occasionally tripping over abandoned torsos and dead animals, reaching out for scurrying rats yet never fast enough to catch them. It didn’t matter. She would make him stronger and faster. Soon, he would have enough human flesh to consume that all the rats in the world could die, and it wouldn’t matter anymore.
Chapter Four
“Hey there, Dr. Jennings! Welcome aboard!” Gary rushed to greet Chris as he stepped into the bunker with Tim and Terry. He held a glass of wine in his hand that was spilling everywhere, and he had developed suspiciously red cheeks and nose. His eyes were bloodshot too.
“Hello again, Gary. I see you’ve been making yourself at home. I hope you left some for me. I think we deserve it.”
“Man, there’s enough wine in this place to keep a thousand alcoholics in good supply for a year! And you should try the steak—medium rare, of course. Chris, I’m telling you, it’s better than sex. Well, I guess, can’t remember now…But…”
“I get the idea, Gary. I’m sure there’ll be time to try everything later and catch up on what you’ve been doing. Aside from drinking all the wine, of course. Is Agatha around?”
“Yeah, she’s, umm, in the lab, I think. You know,” he said, now whispering, “I’ve got my doubts about her. All this time here on her own…like…and yet, I don’t think she likes me. I tried. I mean, I’m not the most handsome man in the world, but you know, after a while and all that…”
“Gary, I don’t want to know. And we didn’t come here to increase your potential with the ladies. Talking of which, where’s my wife?”
“Ah, yes. She’s in the medical facility with Jean. Jean hasn’t left her side hardly.”
“Good. Take me to her.”
Gary hugged Terry, welcomed him aboard too, splashing him with wine in the process, then led Chris to Jackie. As they walked along the vast bunker, all the others in the group saw him and cheered. Chris had never seen such happy faces in a very long time. It was almost as if the apocalypse was already over. If only they knew, he thought.
The two young children ran over and hugged him. They looked far healthier, too, not like refugees from some Middle East country. He wanted to be as happy as they were, but the thoughts of Sam and that kid kept returning to the forefront of his mind. He had the sensation that some great, impending doom was following him everywhere he went, like a dark shadow, and he couldn’t shake it off. He hoped Agatha had some good news for him. And Jean.
They found Jackie in the makeshift infirmary, hooked up to an IV machine and a heart-rate monitor. Jean sat by her side. When she saw Chris, she jumped up and ran to him, hugging him tightly. “Glad you made it, Chris. I was beginning to wonder. My husband okay?”
“Yes, he’s fine. Probably having a well-deserved tipple right now. How’s my wife?”
Jean’s face darkened. “She’s not well, Chris. I’ve put her on an immediate course of antibiotics again, and all we can do is hope. After what happened with that zombie, it may take some time for her to recover. When she’s awake, she keeps trying to scratch her stomach. I think she has an infection there. It’s quite swollen, but all I can do is keep giving her the medication. I’m just a doctor, unfortunately, not a surgeon, so don’t know what else to do.”
Chris looked at the pitiful state of his wife, bent over, and kissed her forehead. Her skin burned with the fever. He glanced down at her stomach. If he didn’t know any better, he’d say she was pregnant. But that was ridiculous—after Samantha was born, she’d been operated on to prevent further children from popping out, as she’d liked to put it.
