Blood Type Infected 3 - Death Becomes Us: Blood Type Infected, #3

By Matthew Marchon

The convoy didn't make it. The armored buses have been overrun. There's no help coming.

But from the ashes of what was lost, a new hope arises. The evacuation center has fallen, but there's still someone the government may want to rescue. Locked inside a dam, not far from their research facility, are the scientists who could very well be responsible for the outbreak, and might just have the cure.

In a race against time, where failing means being left behind in the expanding wasteland, Noah and his friends are faced with an impossible task. One they won't all survive. But with the help of some unlikely allies, they just might stand a chance.

Friends become enemies. Revenge is sought. Hearts are broken. Lives are lost. And the infected remains of mankind are becoming even more dangerous in their desperation to feed. But when the world falls, heroes rise.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Orange Rock Publishing
• Release date: Jul 23, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393612391

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

"T

hey’re coming. Back up!"

I’m trying. Marty throws the bus in reverse.

Nothing happens.

The gears groan and grind but we don’t move an inch. We’re stuck. These bastards must be tangled up under the tires. I can’t move.

A line of deceased soldiers files out of the buses, breaking into a sprint when they spot fresh meat. They were sent here to save us.

Muffled gunshots erupt in quick bursts. Rapid fire. It’s a machine gun.

Someone’s alive in there. It’s coming from one of the buses.

Someone’s still alive. Fighting.

Plumes of smoke rise from the engine of the nearest armored transport vehicle, its front end crumpled against a bus laying on its side. It’s recent. This must have just happened. The rest of the convoy might still be heading to Shasta Lake. All we need to do is get around the pileup. There’s still hope. We can still make it. As long as we can clear the bodies clogging our gears.

I waste no time grabbing one of the swords Caylee sharpened. We needed to clear that undercarriage thirty seconds ago.

What are you doing? Felecia’s holding a katana, ready to follow me before I even have a chance to respond.

There’s too many bodies under us, we can’t move.

A chorus of bullets cuts through the rainy night, their blast amplified by the dense fog, as if reflecting off every raindrop they pass. The absence of the windshield has created a waterfall streaming into the bus, pooling on the steps like we’re trying to install a hot tub on this thing. We’re not that luxurious. Forget a jacuzzi, we could really use a front window.

One of them is still shooting. Felecia’s eyes lock on me as she tightens her bloodstained ponytail.

He’s alive. We need to save him.

Buckley rocks back and forth, trying desperately to speak. He’s still wincing in pain from the bullet Neil put through his deranged father’s hand before tying him up. The gag around his mouth keeps his words just the way I like them, inaudible.

Noah, Blake calls from the back. We don’t have time. We’re not saving anyone. We gotta get the fuck outta here, like, now!

No, he’s right. Caylee jumps to my defense without glancing in Blake’s direction. If it’s a soldier, they’ll have answers.

Yeah, easy for you to say, you don’t need to go out there. You can’t even walk.

Then I’ll hop, she growls, jumping from the seat, grabbing a sword of her own. And I won’t cry like a bitch the whole time. A little below the belt but certainly true.

Felecia helps prop her up and they hobble to the front to join me.

Caylee, no. I don’t know why I think a stern shake of my head will stop her, or stop Felecia from acting like her crutch.

I’m not letting you two do it alone. Just get me down the steps, I’ll hobble from there. Noah! She positions her sword and points behind me, her eyes damn near bugging out of her beautiful face.

A loud bang convinces me to turn around before I’m done arguing with my sort of ex-girlfriend about whether or not my sort of new girlfriend is going to help her hopscotch her way around a zombie battlefield. It’s not a gunshot. It almost sounds like something hit the front of–

The bus. Shit, one of them is on the hood of the bus. Marty lets out a panicked man scream, leaping from his faux leather throne. The zombie disguised in army fatigues bear-crawls across the hood so fast his knees don’t touch. He slips and slides on the wet surface with a steady stream of bloody saliva swinging from his lower lip. That’s a six foot vertical leap, how the hell did he get up here?

Before I have a chance to react, he pounces through the missing windshield. His bloody body, dotted with bullet wounds, crashes into the driver’s seat. He’s moving so fast he bounces and slams into the steering wheel. A quick blast of the horn lets the others know we’ve arrived.

Their undead faces all turn in unison. They drop the mangled limbs they were chewing on and race towards us, some of them not even bothering to swallow. Human flesh flings from their diseased mouths as they approach this new source of food they have yet to deplete.

A second one leaps against the grille and pulls himself up like this is some kind of basic training exercise. A free climber conquering the little rock wall on a playscape. At this rate, they’ll swarm the bus in a matter of seconds. I swear, the other walking corpses didn’t do this, they banged on the sides of the giant yellow snack machine but none of them actually parkoured their way aboard.

My blade meets the neck of the intruder currently taking up residence in Marty’s seat. One swing does it. God, I freakin’ love this thing. I contemplate kissing my sword as his head rolls into the imprint left from Marty’s clenched butt cheeks, blood gushing from the open wound. The decapitated corpse reaches out his hands before suddenly going still. The hole where its neck should be continues to pour a steady stream of blood over the dashboard.

The reanimated soldier with a promising future in the zombie basketball league crawls toward us on all fours, a slab of human flesh stuck between his front teeth. Felecia leans through the open windshield and swings her sword like she’s chopping firewood. Her katana splits his skull right down the center. She yanks it back with a girly grunt, her frustration turning it into a dissatisfied growl.

He continues to crawl into the bus. He doesn’t care that everything once inside his head is beginning to leak out, like slicing open a rotten watermelon. It’s not enough to stop him.

His shaky movements lose momentum as he pulls himself forward in one last ditch effort to reach us. His face is slowly prying apart, cut clear in half. The horrifying snarl he emits only exacerbates the problem. The two prongs of his tongue flap separately, a snake sensing its surroundings. Blood and brain matter fill his mouth, bubbling over, secreting from the laceration that divides his face.

As if her blade were a bat, Felecia swings again, the katana Caylee sharpened slicing through his throat with little resistance. The two halves of his face flip into the air, separated completely during the beheading. One half bounces off his headless corpse. The other lands by my feet, hitting the floor with a wet slap, flat side down. His evil eye stares up at me, lifeless, hopeless, oozing a yellowed pus that tells us the reign of mankind is over.

He was sent here to save us. The only reason this poor guy is here is to extract civilians from the danger zone. He doesn’t want to be here any more than we do. I’m sure it wasn’t his decision, it was his job. And now he’s dead because of it. Because idiots like us refused to die. How much easier would this be on everybody if we stopped fighting? If we just let nature take its course?

Another camo clad corpse bounces off the bus in front of us, propelling himself onto the hood. He starts slithering his way closer, literally slithering, his arms are missing. Both of them, chewed off at the shoulder. His exposed humerus bones wiggle back and forth as if his arms are still attached, trying to crawl or push himself to a standing position. But there’s nothing there. He just flops around like a fish out of water, slowly squirming his way closer.

A waitress slams herself off the door, large portions of her chest and neck completely gnawed off. Blood gushes between the bare bones in her ribcage with every heartbeat. I swear I can see it pounding through the muscle tissue her skin should be covering.

We can’t stay here. With holes on both ends of the bus, they’ll overtake it in no time. We need to get on that delivery truck with Tyrone and Neil. Not that there’s any way in hell we’re all fitting. I think it’s time to thin the herd. Dad, Buckley and their remaining accomplice have to go. They can die slow painful deaths for all I care. And they can take Darius with them, fucking traitor. I hope he’s too injured to fight off their hungry mouths. O’Connor, Hansen and the quiet girl, you can go too. Your presence isn’t needed. Time to stand on your own.

Felecia slashes the throat of our next uninvited guest. Before his head finishes rolling off the edge, she’s crawling through the broken window.

I’ll hold the hungry hippos back, she yells over the rain pounding off our only ticket out of here. God I love her. See if you can unclog the bottom of the bus.

Noah, Marty grunts, his good arm on the lever to open the door. If they’re too tangled up under there, we’ll have to abandon ship. Don’t waste too much time on it. Besides, I think that’s what we want right there. He points at the only armored bus still on all fours.

This thing’s done for, Doug yells over another sporadic round of ammunition, a fearful shake of his head. We barely got it started back there. We need that one. He points to the same bus Marty’s hoping for. Come on, they can’t do it alone. Doug gets to his feet and grabs a sword, handing one to Shane without bothering to wait for a response.

Scott, I shout, preparing to step foot into the world I want no part of, you and Blake guard that back door. Paul, forget my dad, grab a weapon and help Felecia. Whoever isn’t fighting these fuckers, sharpen swords, we’re gonna need them. Caylee, I hold her by both shoulders, knowing she’s going to fight whether I ask her to or not, guard this door. We’ve gotta keep it open just in case we need to jump back on.

She nods, a determination in her eyes that should be enough to scare any intruders back to whatever hole they crawled out of.

Don’t worry, us cripples got this, Marty growls, grabbing a morningstar. I’ll stand outside, you stay on the steps sweetheart, he says, nodding at Caylee.

And with that, he pulls the lever.

The doors fold open with a hiss, allowing the savage waitress entry into our not so safe haven. The small pond that collected on the bottom step washes over her veiny feet, slowing her ascent ever so slightly. Her aging chest collides with the sole of my shoe, sending her sailing backwards. I can hear the gruesome sound of bones snapping in her frail body as she hits the pavement. Or who knows, that could be what it sounds like every morning when she rolls out of bed and grabs her pack of menthol lights. She’s already scrambling to her feet, losing her other high heel in the process. I fly down the steps just as Tyrone springs into view, his sword meeting the back of her neck with little resistance. Her headless body lunges for me anyway, losing momentum mid jump, crashing in a crumpled heap at the foot of the stairs.

Those are the buses, aren’t they? What the fuck do we do now?

First things first, we gotta get outta here. I squat down to check the undercarriage. I can barely see them in the darkness, but the light reflects off their bloodthirsty eyes. Bodies that should be still and lifeless reach for me with desperation in their every movement. They’re tangled in the gears. We’ve gotta try to get that first armored bus.

It’s running. That’s a good sign. We keeping the delivery truck?

We might need it, I shoot over my shoulder, heading towards the bulletproof box on wheels, dismembering an incoming soldier. We’ll drive both of them to Shasta Lake, just in case this was only part of the convoy. I can’t see them only sending three vehicles. Shane, Doug, try to save whoever’s shooting on that tipped over bus. They’ll know if there’s still a rescue crew heading to the lake. Come on, I say, motioning for Tyrone to follow me. Let’s see if we can clear these bastards out.

Another serviceman emerges from the nearly windowless bunker, half his face missing, the rest of it dangling from the skeletal frame beneath exposed muscle tissue. What’s he holding? With the headlights aimed right at him, the reflection makes it hard to tell. It looks like, no, it couldn’t–

Bang!

CHAPTER 2

I

t is. It’s a gun.

A shot goes off the second he touches the ground, hitting his own foot. This son of a bitch is holding a gun. He must have died with it in his hand and for whatever reason, he never let go.

He spots us and begins running, shooting again in all his excitement. The bullet ricochets off the tipped over bus, proving that it is indeed bulletproof. Not really sure how much good that does us if we are able to acquire it. Then again, if we’re going to encounter more trigger happy zombies, we might just need it to deflect their firepower.

I hold the handle tightly with both hands and prepare to swing as he runs straight at me, gun still clutched in his vise grip. I go for his neck the second he’s within range...

But miss. I missed. How? He’s six feet tall with shoulders so broad you could project movies onto his back.

He ducked! They never duck.

He slams into my abdomen and we both go crashing to the puddle covered street. This asshole just tackled me. He dodged my sword and rammed his body into mine like he’s sacking a quarterback.

His shoulder connecting with my twisted torso knocks the wind out of me before we even hit the tar. I dropped my sword, I know it. My hand is still clenched but it slipped out. I can tell I’m just making a fist with nothing in it.

He bounces off of me but doesn’t go far. He’s got a handful of my shirt, I can feel the fabric yanking against my neck. I’m sure he’d use both if he could, but he can’t. His other hand is still wrapped around the handle of his gun. He’s going to shoot me. Out of all the ways to die, I’m going to get gunned down by a damn zombie.

He refuses to let go, getting dragged along with me as I struggle to my feet.

Nope, failure. He’s too heavy. With one tug, I’m yanked to my knees, helpless under his strength. What the hell did this guy do in his spare time, wrestle alligators?

All I can do is hold his head back with both hands as he chomps away, inching closer to my face. Where’s Tyrone? Why isn’t Tyrone helping me? This guy’s teeth are so close I can see his cavities.

A large chunk of his cheek is peeled down, shredded by human incisors, slapping off his bloodstained chin. Bone peeks through the bite marks in his torn muscle tissue. They tried to eat his freakin’ face off. Someone took a bite out of his nose. The tip of it is missing, completely gone. And now he’s going to do the same to me.

Tyrone’s not coming, I can see him, he’s got his hands full. And there’s another one barreling down on me. How does every situation we find ourselves in put me right back here? Helpless and at their mercy. No one to come to my rescue because there’s no one left. We’re it. We don’t meet other humans out here, they’ve all turned. Why are we even fighting this hopeless battle? Even if we scratch and claw our way out of this particular mess, all we’re doing is running towards more of the same.

Noah, hold on! Felecia. I don’t know if it’s really her voice or if I just hear its sweet sound echoing in my head. That’s why I’m still fighting this hopeless battle. That’s why.

My sword, it has to be around here somewhere. It couldn’t have gone far.

I can’t hold him off anymore. His violent thrashing is too much. My injured wrist just doesn’t have the strength. Every contorting jolt stings with an unbearable pain that makes the hairs on my body stand on end. This isn’t working.

I slam my hand down, letting go of his face. I couldn’t hold on any longer. Where the hell is it? It’s got to be around here somewhere.

My hand lands on something. It’s not my sword, that much I know. It’s a... hand. I can feel its fingers. It must be one of the body parts these douche noodles were nibbling on as if they were chicken wings.

It’s all I’ve got.

I grab the wrist and swing what’s left of some poor soldier’s half eaten forearm like it’s a dagger. They chewed through the flesh until there was nothing left, leaving me the most primitive weapon imaginable. I feel like a caveman fighting dinosaurs with their own bones. I know cavemen didn’t live at the same time as dinosaurs, kind of a dino buff here, but that’s what all the kid’s toys teach us so that’s what I equate it with, alright?

The broken end of the ulna and radial bones that make up his forearm, yeah I paid attention in anatomy, disappear into his eye socket. I can feel it pop. Through the arm I’m holding, I can feel it pierce his eyeball. White goo mixes with blood as it drains from his orbital.

His gun goes off, an involuntary reaction.

I’m not hit. I can’t hear a damn thing but he didn’t shoot me. The bullet must have fired into the air. It didn’t hit the ground. But if he keeps pulling that trigger, one of these times I won’t be so lucky.

I slide my grip down the severed wrist until my fingers are intertwined with his, like we’re about to do the test of strength that started every 80s wrestling match.

The slop pouring from the soldier’s face collects on my chest as I slowly push him away. The broken bones are piercing his brain. Why does this feel so familiar? Have I done this before? What kind of question is that? Who the hell punctures a man’s brain through his eyeball with another man’s broken forearm? What kind of sick individual–

Oh... It was me. Never mind, please disregard that sick individual comment. Only it wasn’t a forearm last time, it was a yardstick.

I must be hitting some kind of motor function nerve in his brain. Half his body is thrown into a fit of convulsions while the other half continues its relentless assault. The gun hits the road. He dropped it. The entire right side of his body is spasming. His tongue flaps uncontrollably, squeezed between his teeth as they clamp down... until his bicuspids meet.

It sounds like he bit into a giant Slim Jim. A large chunk of his tongue falls from his mouth in a geyser of blood and thick saliva. No control over his movements on that side of his body, he bit it right off. It lands on my belly, flapping around like a giant slug covered in salt. I never did it personally, I felt too bad, that was more of a Paul thing, strictly for scientific purposes.

The tongue-less wonder’s lost control of his muscular movement. I’m finally able to throw him off me and roll to my hands and knees. His tongue slides off my stomach. All I want to do is wipe it away like Mr. Adams, but there’s another one so close I’d be able to hear the soles of his boots hitting the pavement if I could hear anything at all.

The gun.

I roll out of the way at the last second, grabbing it, knowing how useless it is against someone who’s already dead. But what other choice do I have?

He stumbles over his comrade with the forearm protruding from his skull. The collision sends him skidding on the asphalt like it’s a slip n slide as the other one tries to get to his feet, half of his body too seized up to move. He doesn’t make it past his hands and knees.

I hold the barrel to his neck and empty the clip, one shot after another.

Sgt. Slip N Slide is on his feet in no time, though he left half of himself on the tar. He’s running towards me before he’s even regained his balance. All I can do is throw the gun at him. Why? Why would I even? What good could that possibly do?

It bounces off his chest and he doesn’t so much as flinch. Obviously.

Arm-In-His-Eye here is already back to his hands and knees. I let off at least eight shots into his neck, how is his head even still attached? I punt the son of a bitch out of pure rage and whoa, apparently that was enough to do it.

His head goes airborne, completely detaching from his body, forearm still sticking out of his eye socket. It catches Slip N Slide in the face with enough force to snap his neck. Now that’s an interesting whiplash story. His feet keep moving but he tips over backwards, tripping on his own ankles.

I need my sword. Using dismembered body parts as weapons will only work for so long. How the hell’d it get way over there? How hard did this guy tackle me? I still can’t get over the fact that he ducked. It’s got me wondering now, the two that chose to go after Tyrone instead of me, downtown, when he was