ReZiliant: The ZurViral Series, #2

By David Viergutz

The dead have a way of snuffing out hope.

 

Brock's latest decisions have created a mess of things, and his next will most likely do the same. And the surviving townsfolk look to him for answers nonetheless.

 

In the bleak landscape of the Texas highlands lies a haven nobody wants. Guided by hope, he tries to look on the bright side of their increasingly bad situation.

 

It has solid walls, a heavy fence, and natural protection – perfect for a telekinetic like Brock to defend.

 

Can a facility meant to hold people in also keep the dead out?

 

They are relentless and unforgiving. Always walking. Always hungry.

 

But people, dead or not, bring problems with them wherever they go.

 

Uncertainty, turmoil, and back stabbing. Just another day in the apocalypse…

• Language: English
• Publisher: David Viergutz
• Release date: Oct 15, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223149835

David Viergutz

Disabled Army Veteran, Law Enforcement Veteran, husband and super dad by nature. David Viergutz is the author of several novels and short stories from every flavor of horror. Take the plunge into David’s imagination as he delivers chill-bringing adventures where the good guy doesn’t always win. David remembers dragging a backpack full of books to class beginning in middle school and leaving his textbooks behind. David takes his inspiration from the greats and fell in love with complex universes from the desks of Nix, Tolkien, King, Stroud and Lovecraft to name a few. David's imagination, combined with his experience in uniform give his books an edge when it comes to the spooky and unnerving. One day, David’s wife sat him down and gave him the confidence to start putting his imagination on paper. From then on out David’s creativity has no longer been stifled by self-doubt and he continues to write with a smile on his face in a dark, candle-lit room.

Book preview

ReZiliant

REZILIANT

BOOK 2 OF THE ZURVIRAL SERIES

DAVID VIERGUTZ

The Nightmare Engine

A SPECIAL THANK YOU

Building a relationship with my readers is the best part about being an author. If you’re reading this, it’s likely you purchased a book directly from me.

This is huge, and you’re more special than you realize. Amazon and the other retailers don’t make it easy to connect with you. Selling my books directly to readers was my way around that. Consider this the equivalent of shaking your hand in a bookshop — it’s nice to meet you, and thank you for reading my work.

When you buy a book from me, your hard-earned money goes directly to supporting myself and my family. I promise to show respect for that by always writing the best books that you can lose yourself in for a bit.

From my heart to yours,

David

ANGORA STATE HOSPITAL

Too late. Brock Skeller mumbled, unsure if he was talking to himself or the approaching storm as he drove down the highway. He had arrived within sight of the town in an MRAP. The massive military truck with six wheels could withstand a roadside bomb. A second vehicle followed containing Carmen Santora, a Spanish beauty, and Mouse, a stiff-lipped squirrely woman with short hair and a perpetual layer of dirt on her skin.

They were the last remaining survivors of the mission that claimed two members of The Extractors, and now, their lack of timeliness meant they were to blame for Deep Vale’s demise. It wasn’t the fire that killed off the town. It was the dead. A herd six hundred strong descended the nearby freeway and overran the community. Its sheet metal walls and chain-link gates had been unable to hold back the hoard.

But as images of the town’s residents flashed through his mind, Brock questioned his feelings for the town.

Did he really care? He had only met them a few weeks prior.

Instantly, his subconscious answered him. Of course he did. They needed him, and he promised to be there for them. Brock was a telekinesis user, one of the best, and a retired commander of the United Militarized Front, the UMF. Just like the missiles that destroyed the country, Brock was a weapon. A relic, but a weapon still.

As he stood atop the MRAP, Mouse motioned to him from the roof of the truck behind him. At first, he couldn’t see what she was pointing at, but as he scanned the town from left to right, something moved near the western fence. Brock squinted, his eyes catching a bit of movement, and his heart swelled. A black truck with its headlights on was driving along the fence line, towing a cattle trailer.

He didn’t hesitate, almost jumping through the turret hole on top of the vehicle and scrambling into the driver’s seat. He fired up the engine and floored the gas, willing the armored vehicle to move faster. The heavy duty engine rattled and shook, billowing black smog behind it but eventually gained speed as it went on. Not checking to see if Carmen was following him, Brock focused on the truck and keeping its headlights in view. The road would lead him directly to the front gates of the town, but about a mile ahead it split through the bleak landscape and stretched parallel to the highway.

Once out of the shadow of the overpass, Brock cut the wheel hard to the left, not waiting for the intersection and instead chose to meet the truck and its passengers. In his mind, he imagined all the town’s residents piled together into the trailer. He imagined The Doctor sitting in the front seat of the truck because he was pretentious and thought highly of himself. He imagined Austin, the kid who was also a telekinetic, riding in the bed of the truck, eager to protect his friends. But most of all, he imagined the children, a mess of them, holding on tight to the bars of the trailer, playfully thinking it was a fun time.

Then, as the wondrous, hopeful visions crossed his mind, he imagined how he would feel if any of what he hoped for didn’t happen. If people didn’t make it to safety or got caught in the fire, or got bitten. His thoughts of the worst possible things flashed faster than he could prepare himself for, and he panicked. Though the truck would not go any faster, he jammed his foot harder against the accelerator, white-knuckled the steering wheel, and sat up so his back was off the seat.

C’mon c’mon c’mon! Go faster, you piece of shit!

It lumbered on, its top speed somewhere between forty-five and fifty. The truck was designed for durability and torque instead of speed and maneuverability. It was a painful drive, and up ahead, the black truck approached, its headlights appearing as two blips of light on an otherwise dark landscape. The earth became uneven with small rolling hills like oversized graves, but Brock didn’t slow. He needed to know they were all right. He needed to fulfill his promise to Austin and give his mother his rations. He needed to give The Doctor the research he had gathered from the facility. He needed to tell everyone what had happened to Rickers and Carter. He needed to give them hope.

The headlights drifted closer as the driver of the truck saw the MRAPs coming to meet them. The pickup truck was slower as it was much smaller and unable to handle the uneven, compact terrain like the military vehicle could. It stopped approximately a half a mile away, and three doors opened and closed, the occupants hidden behind the blinding light of the headlights. Brock came to a halt and he dropped the MRAP in park, leaving it idling. Seconds later, the second MRAP pulled up next to him.

He closed the distance between himself and the driver, standing up on his tiptoes to try to see the occupants of the cattle trailer. An unsavory familiar voice called out over the rumble of the three vehicles.

Well now, ain’t you a bit familiar. A bit worse for wear, but familiar. The last time I saw you, your friend tried to TK me. Ol’ Jimmy took care of that little problem though, didn’t he? The man’s voice dripped with a thick southern drawl.

Brock’s heart stopped. These were the same men who attacked them, eventually killing Rickers, and stole their equipment as they started their mission to gather the trucks just a day prior. Now he needed to know if they had helped the residents escape Deep Vale.

We can handle that later. Please tell me if there are others with you. Did anyone else make it out alive?

See, I thought you might be interested in that, since I came up on ya. I’m Russell Kirkland. Who are you? One of them trucks would look better if I was drivin’ it, don’t you think? What do you say we trade?

Brock’s mind flashed back to the back window of the blacked out pickup truck opening up and the barrel of an automatic rifle poking out; Rickers’ saddened face as he succumbed to his wounds. Anger replaced sadness in an instant and boiled over into uncontrolled rage. He tapped into his abilities. A strong pulse emanated outward and shook the ground. Dirt and small stones shuddered and the men backpedaled towards the pickup. Brock reached out to the doors of the trucks, intent on ripping them off the hinges and beating the men to death with them.

Then a door squeaked open, followed by another familiar voice calling out.

We don’t need to be doing that now, do we? We are all on the same side. The living side.

Brock let his consciousness relax and his power wane as the man speaking came forward and stepped in front of the light. It was Ernest West, The Doctor, and he was beaming. The overweight, white-haired southern man had abandoned his white lab coat and tweed jacket for a pair of high-water jeans and a green T-shirt bearing the name of the town and a windmill.

We owe our friends here for helping us. No need to fight. We are on the same team, he continued.

Where is everyone? Brock spat.

Safe. About twenty miles from here. These fine gentlemen have just carted the last load of our people off.

How many made it?

Almost everyone. A handful became trapped, including Mrs. Briggs.

Who else? What about the fire? The dead? Brock’s mind went to Austin and how tore up he must be.

The Doctor grew serious. We abandoned the town long before our saviors showed up. He nodded to Russell and the man Brock recognized as Jimmy with the boyish features, a shaved head and oil-stained coveralls. I suppose the fire was incidental. We left you a note at the gate with our heading.

They killed Rickers, stole our supplies. Almost doomed the mission.

From my understanding, Carter attacked them first. I’m truly sorry to hear about Rickers, of course, but what these men have done here cannot be dismissed. We need to let it be water under the bridge. This isn’t the place to settle a score. The dead are about, and it is dark.

Brock paused, not believing what the man was saying. Water under the bridge? Carter and Rickers gave their lives for these vehicles. And it’s like he doesn’t care.

Not here, Brock said under his breath. Where is this haven?

Thirty miles west. It’s safe. Secluded, the southern man replied.

Where?

Angora State Hospital.

1919

Without a word, Brock stepped back up into the vehicle and motioned for Carmen to follow him. He couldn’t see her from the glare of the headlights, but she followed. Russell led the way. Angora State Hospital. Brock knew nothing of the place. In fact, he knew nothing of the surrounding area. He hadn’t had time to explore upon his arrival. All his attention had been directed towards the mission with the trucks.

Brock glanced at a small green notebook on the passenger seat. People died for that book, he thought. His eyes shot to the gas gauge. The dark green paint of the vehicle’s interior was chipped and fading, and it looked as if someone had picked at the paint around the dial.

An eighth of a tank. Carter and Rickers had died for an eighth of a tank of gas and some mysterious research.

His mind continued to wander. Periodically he glanced in the side mirror to make sure Carmen was still behind him.

They made a great team. It was only because of her they were able to complete the mission in the first place. He glanced at the floorboards. Two pounds of plastic explosives, C4, and twenty foot detector cables laid in a tangled pile. A silver handle to a small square compartment shone beneath the mess. Brock twisted the handle, slid the explosives inside and closed it again. Carmen hadn’t asked about the explosives again, and he didn’t intend to bring them up. At this point in time, they didn’t exist.

The road was like most of the roads in this part of Texas. A two-way runway covered in a layer of dust and dirt obscured the markings on the sides. Every so often, the flat landscape was broken up by a corpse, up from its grave, stalking about aimlessly. Just as soon as Brock thought they were lost, on a wild goose chase, or in a timeless vacuum, a sign came into view. It was white with faded black letters.

Angora, Texas. Lie Still the Heart of Texas.

Brock had never heard of Angora, Texas, but from what was depicted on the sign, its founders had expected it to be a calm community. Those same founders never predicted the world would end twice. Up ahead, the occasional bush, pecan tree, and other fauna dotted the edges of the road. Texas wasn’t all desert, as many believed. Near its heart, it was a rich landscape of rolling hills broken up by straight flats of greenery that turned the springtime into its own beauty. In the heat of summer, especially post apocalypse, the landscape was unpredictable.

Stealing a glance in the right side mirror, Brock expected to see the flames of Deep Vale illuminating the impending stormy sky with an orange glow and smoke, but all he could see was the headlights to Carmen’s MRAP. They blinded him, and maybe it was meant to be that way so he was unable to look behind him to see what remained. Or maybe he was afraid to look back on what he had done. Much of his time in the UMF had been like that. Taking steps forward without looking back. Thirty minutes after passing the sign for Angora, the crumbling ruins of the town came into view. On a dry water basin, all that remained was a cluster of two-story ruins scattered about without visible roads connecting them, as the earth long since reclaimed the land.

One thing stood out. A three-story monstrosity built of steel and concrete loomed off in the distance. A sign to the right read Angora State Mental Hospital, 5 miles ahead.

More surprising than the ruined town or the dry basin or the building itself was its off-white color.

Bone, he said aloud, his mouth gaping. It looks like bone.

The building was lit with six floodlights on the inside of a wrought iron and concrete barrier. The fence was over six feet tall, and had evenly spaced concrete towers with attached lighting which broke up the chainlink that was topped with coils of barbed wire.

As Brock drove through the ruins of the town, he couldn’t help but think how odd it felt. With the bone colored building ahead, he felt like he was driving up the spine of a great beast, with the ruins being the ribcage, and the hospital the skull. The pickup, driven by Russell, slowed as they reached the gate. It was reinforced, the metal at least twice as thick as the surrounding fence. Atop the gate were intricate flourishes of turned metal and a cursive sign. Angora. Where Healing Begins. Est. 1919.

Headlights shone on someone manning the gates. Brock immediately recognized Austin Briggs. His scraggly blond hair and hooked nose were unmistakable. There was a second man with him that Brock didn’t know. He was short and wiry, and wearing a ball cap and blue coveralls. He had a rifle slung across his back and paced to the left of the gate, staring out into the dark. Austin pulled a lever attached to the stone braces holding the fence and it creaked open. The vehicles quickly drove onto the hospital grounds and shut off their engines to avoid attracting the dead.

One by one, everyone exited the vehicles. First Russell, followed by The Doctor, Brock, Carmen, and Mouse.