Pathogen: Thomas, #6

By Aaron Abilene

Thomas finds himself going through the entire process that he'd already been through again when a new strain sweeps the country.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Syphon Creative
• Release date: Apr 9, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224801886

Book preview

Pathogen

Thomas, Volume 6

Aaron Abilene

Published by Syphon Creative, 2024.

This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

PATHOGEN

First edition. April 9, 2024.

Copyright © 2024 Aaron Abilene.

ISBN: 979-8224801886

Written by Aaron Abilene.

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Raising Hell

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Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

Also By Aaron Abilene

Pathogen

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Also By Aaron Abilene

Pathogen

Written by Aaron Abiene

The once bustling streets of the town were now a macabre tableau of decay. Abandoned cars lay like discarded toys, their colors dulled and windows shattered. Buildings that had proudly scraped the sky now stood gutted, their innards spilled out through broken windows and gaping doorways. Vines crept with insidious intent over the cracked pavement, and somewhere in the distance, the ceaseless moans of the undead punctuated the otherwise grave-like silence.

A figure moved through this desolation like a specter of the world that had been—a giant among the ruins. Thomas loomed at six foot eight, his presence as jarring as the jagged skyline. His skin was a living canvas, inked with tattoos that told stories of survival and loss, each one a grim testament to the days before the world fell silent. Muscles honed from relentless combat bulged beneath his dirt-stained shirt, and an array of scars crisscrossed his flesh—souvenirs from teeth and claws that had sought his life.

Damnation, he muttered to the wind, his voice a deep rumble lost amidst the eeriness of the town. His hands, large and calloused, ran over a particularly vicious scar that traced its way down his forearm—a bite that had nearly turned him into what he hunted.

Thomas's eyes, sharp and piercing beneath a heavy brow, scanned the desolate vista for any sign of movement. He knew the risks, knew that every noise could be a harbinger of death—or worse. Yet, there was humor too, found in the absurdity of talking to himself, or in the sight of a zombie trapped under the neon sign of a pet store, endlessly reaching for freedom.

Keep on trying, buddy, he chuckled darkly, the sound harsh and out of place in the quiet street.

His laughter faded as quickly as it came, replaced by the perpetual sadness that gnawed at him. The sorrow of remembering what these streets once held, the echoes of laughter and life now snuffed out. It was a weight that pressed down on his broad shoulders, a constant companion amid the debris of civilization.

Where are you guys? he whispered, the question more to the ghosts of his past than to any hope of response. He clenched his jaw, steeling himself against the ache that thought brought. His siblings, two souls in a world overrun by soulless predators, drove him forward.

Every step he took was a defiance, a refusal to succumb to despair. Thomas squared his shoulders and pressed on, each stride a testament to the determination that burned within his chest. In a world where the dead ruled, Thomas walked alive, a beacon of human resilience amidst the ruins.

The half-emptied shelves of what used to be a grocery store loomed over Thomas like the ribcage of some gigantic, long-dead beast. He rummaged through them with a practiced hand, his large frame dwarfing the aisle as he sifted through the detritus of a world that had gone off its axis. Each can he found was a small victory against the hunger that gnawed at him as mercilessly as the undead outside.

Beans again... gourmet dining, apocalypse style, he murmured to himself, the words laced with a grim humor that didn't quite reach his eyes. His voice was gravelly, almost lost in the quiet, save for the occasional distant groan that served as a chilling reminder of the constant threat lurking beyond the walls.

Thomas paused, a rusted can of peaches in his hand, the label worn and faded. It brought back a memory, unbidden, of a time when choices were about flavor, not survival. Remember when the biggest worry was high fructose corn syrup? he thought, the internal monologue bitter. The peaches went into his bag with a soft thud, alongside the other meager findings.

Those bastards really did a number on us, Thomas continued in his head, recalling the onset of the virus. The way it spread like wildfire, tearing through cities and upending everything in its path. The collapse had come swiftly, society unraveling at the seams until all that was left was this—scavenging in the bones of the old world.

Could've been anyone of us... he whispered, running a finger over a scar that traced its way down his arm—a permanent reminder of an encounter too close for comfort. His tattoos seemed to shift with the motion, dark ink telling a story of loss, survival, and the will to keep fighting.

Didn't think I'd miss traffic jams and television commercials. A short laugh escaped him, hollow in the empty store. But I'd trade a hundred zombie hordes for one crappy sitcom rerun now.

He moved to the back of the store, where the pharmacy once promised relief from everyday ailments. Now, the shattered glass and empty pill bottles spoke only of desperation. Thomas's eyes scanned for antibiotics—always in short supply, always in demand. When he found a lone, forgotten box of pills tucked behind a toppled shelf, it felt like striking gold.

Jackpot, he said aloud, tucking the precious find into his pack. But even as his hands worked, his mind churned with the memories of how quickly the hospitals had overflowed, how the sick had become the undead, and how the world he knew had faded into this harsh reality.

Should've paid more attention in health class, he mused darkly, picturing the diagrams of viruses that seemed so abstract and distant then, so deadly and immediate now.

Wouldn't have made a damn bit of difference, though, Thomas concluded, pushing away the thoughts that led down the road of 'what ifs.' They served no purpose. Not anymore. All that mattered now was staying alive, staying one step ahead of death—or worse.

And with each day that passed, with every silent conversation he held with himself amid the ruins, Thomas carved out an existence in the shadow of the apocalypse, driven by the singular need to keep moving, to keep surviving, and to never forget the world that once was.

The skeletal remains of Burnt Oak’s main street lay before Thomas like the ribcage of some colossal beast, picked clean by scavengers. He trod carefully over the cracked asphalt on which weeds dared to reclaim territory, their resilience a mocking contrast to the fallen human empire around them.

Ugh, he grunted, kicking aside a child's doll with peeling skin, its plastic smile an eerie relic in the desolation. The hollow echo of his heavy boots was quickly swallowed by the oppressive silence.

Movement caught his eye—a figure lurching awkwardly between two crumbling buildings. It was one of them, but different. This one's limbs were grotesquely elongated, fingers tapered to sharp points like nature's crude attempt at creating knives. Its jaw hung slack, lower than what was natural, swinging from side to side with each disjointed step.

Son of a... Thomas whispered to himself, the hair on the back of his neck standing at attention. New strain. Perfect. As it turned its head, a single milky-white eye fixed on him. He could see intelligence there, a cunning that sent shivers down his spine.

Guess the party’s just getting started, he muttered with a bitter chuckle, clenching his fists inside his leather gloves. That was no ordinary zombie; it was evolution in the most perverse sense.

Keep it together, big guy. No room for fear, he coached himself, muscles tensing for a fight he knew he couldn't afford to have.

Focus, Thomas. The kids. The thought of his siblings—brave Lily and headstrong Sam—pierced through the fog of dread. He could not allow himself to be paralyzed by the horror of this new enemy.

Got to get to them before these...things do. His voice was a low growl, a promise made to the wind. Images of their last day together played behind his eyelids, the way they had huddled close, the world already burning around them. Their faces were a beacon, outshining the encroaching darkness.

Can't let them down. Can't let them become one of these freaks. He shook his head, as if the motion could dispel the gruesome tableau unfolding around him.

Big brother's coming, he said, a mantra against the madness. He pushed forward, every step a defiance of the fate that seemed hell-bent on claiming humanity.

Better find you guys soon, he mused, scanning for any trace, any sign that would lead him to salvation—in the form of family. I'm not cut out for babysitting zombies.

Come on, clues. Talk to me, he urged, scouring the area for anything out of place among the debris of civilization. His eyes settled on a scrap of fabric caught on a jagged piece of metal—the same bright yellow of Lily's favorite jacket.

Gotcha, he breathed out, a fierce joy lighting up his features. It was a small victory, but in this world, even the smallest victories bore the weight of life and death.

Alright, Lily, Sam... hold on, he vowed, pocketing the yellow scrap like a talisman. I'm on my way.

With renewed purpose, Thomas set off towards the unknown, the image of his siblings fueling his every step. He was a giant in a world brought low, a silent guardian in search of a light amidst the unending darkness.

The sun had surrendered to a murky haze, casting the world in a dim, sickly light as Thomas edged through the skeletal remnants of what was once a bustling town square. The air was thick with the stench of rot, and the silence was punctured only by the occasional distant groan.

Alright, you sunsabitches, Thomas growled under his breath, his voice a low rumble. Time to dance.

A shuffling mass of decayed figures emerged from the shadows of crumbled storefronts, their broken silhouettes twitching grotesquely as they caught wind of living prey. Thomas's tattoos seemed to ripple across his massive arms as he hefted an iron pipe—the kind that told stories of survival inked in blood and pain.

Come get some, he taunted, a grim smile cracking the hardened veneer of his face.

He swung the pipe with precision, the metal connecting with a nauseating crunch against the skull of the nearest zombie. It collapsed like a marionette, strings cut mid-performance. Another lunged, jaws gaping, but Thomas sidestepped, using the creature's momentum to send it sprawling into a heap of its own kin.

See, I'm not just a pretty face, he quipped, even as his mind raced with strategies, anticipating movements in this deadly chess game.

Amidst the fray, one figure detached itself from the horde. It stalked forward, limbs contorting in ways nature never intended. The new strain—it was unmistakably different; its eyes held a glint of something akin to cunning. And it moved... faster.

Shit, Thomas muttered, noting the aberration. His pulse quickened. This was a new kind of hell.

With deft movements borne of countless close calls, Thomas whirled, swinging his makeshift weapon to fend off another wave of attacks. But the mutated zombie closed in, silent and swift as a shadow at dusk.

Come on, big guy, think! he urged himself as he narrowly ducked beneath a swipe that would have torn through flesh like tissue paper.

Enough playing around, Thomas said, his tone laced with a mirthless laugh. He reached for the small, homemade incendiary device he kept strapped to his belt—a last resort for when things got too hairy.

Fire in the hole, freaks! He hurled the explosive into the heart of the crowd, not waiting to watch the burst of flames consume them.

The blast rocked the square, sending charred limbs flying. Thomas seized the moment, sprinting away from the blaze, but the mutated creature was relentless. It emerged from the firestorm, skin blistered and peeling, yet its advance undeterred.

Of course you're fireproof. Why wouldn't you be? Thomas spat out bitterly, darting past overturned cars and debris.

His heart hammered against his ribs as he turned down a narrow alley, the tattooed scars on his back tingling with the proximity of the abomination behind him. It was too close—too damn close.

Come on, legs, don't fail me now, he thought, pushing himself to the limits of human endurance. A dead end loomed ahead, and Thomas felt the icy grip of dread. He was trapped.

Think, THINK! His gaze flickered over his surroundings—the fire escape ladder, just out of reach. Without hesitation, Thomas launched himself upward, grabbing hold of the bottom rung and hauling his body up just as the zombie crashed into the wall below.

Better luck next time, ugly, Thomas panted, perched precariously on the ladder. The creature snarled, its malformed features a testament to the virus's cruel artistry. But it couldn't follow where Thomas could go.

Okay, brief break over. Gotta move, Thomas resolved, knowing that daylight and his luck were both running thin. He clambered up onto the rooftop, taking a moment to glance back at the thwarted threat below.

Sam, Lily... hang tight. His voice was a whisper carried away by the wind, a promise that stitched the tattered edges of his resolve together. I'm coming for you.

Thomas's boots crunched on the brittle asphalt, stirring a cloud of dust that danced away into the still air. The town, once vibrant and teeming with life, now lay in ruin, its skeletal buildings stripped of their flesh by the relentless decay of neglect. Amidst the rubble, he searched for any sign, any clue that might signal the presence of his siblings.

Sam's old cap... Lily's scarf... something, he muttered, rifling through the remnants of civilization with a practiced urgency.

Wouldn't be like them to leave breadcrumbs, but you never know, Thomas thought, his eyes darting from one shattered storefront to another.

A faded poster flapped against the side of a building, the image of a family smiling grotesquely down at him. He tore his gaze away, only to have it land on a small, battered doll lying amidst the debris.

Damn. A sharp pang of sadness cut through him as he picked up the toy, turning it over in his hands. Lily loved these things.

The doll triggered a flood of memory—their last Christmas together before the world turned upside down. The tree had been small, more twig than pine, but Lily's excitement had filled the room as she unwrapped a similar doll, her laughter infectious. Sam had rolled his eyes but smiled all the same, ruffling her hair affectionately.

Remember, little sis, it's about who we're with, not what we get, Sam had said, glancing at Thomas with that knowing look they shared when trying to be strong for Lily.

Right, because this macho man doesn't need anything but his two fists and a good punchline, Lily had teased back, grinning up at Thomas.

He could still hear the echo of their laughter, a sound so rare and precious in the silence that now enveloped him. Clutching the doll tighter, Thomas tucked it into his backpack—a talisman against the desolation.

Got to keep moving, Thomas murmured, pushing the nostalgia away. His eyes scanned the ground for tracks or disturbances, anything out of place among the littered chaos. The scent of rot hung heavy in the air, masking subtler odors that might hint at life—or at least, recent passage.

Come on, give me something to work with here, he pleaded softly, more to the universe than anyone who could answer.

Alright, think. They knew the old safe house was compromised. Where else would they go? Thomas's mind raced, tracing the map of the city he had memorized long ago. The secondary spot... but that's across town.

Would they risk it? Damn right they would, he decided with grim certainty. Every decision now was a gamble between bad and worse, but he knew Sam and Lily were survivors—they'd make the play.

Okay, Sis, Bro, if you're out there, just stay alive a bit longer, he whispered, touching the tattoo over his heart, a symbol of their bond. It was time to move, time to find the next piece of the puzzle in this broken world.

Time to bring us back together. His voice was a solemn vow, carried on the wind that swept through the empty streets, a lone sentinel moving with purpose through the ruins of humanity.

Thomas shuffled through the skeletal remains of an old storefront, his boots crunching on shattered glass and debris. The world outside was a quiet, desolate canvas, painted with the broad strokes of decay and the finer details of desperation.

Sam... Lily... he muttered under his breath, the names a mantra to keep the silence at bay. He rifled through a tattered backpack slumped against a checkout counter, its contents spilled like the innards of a long-forgotten beast.

Useless junk, he grumbled, flicking aside a rusted can opener and a broken wristwatch. His fingers, however, paused over a crumpled piece of paper, edges frayed and ink smeared by time and weather. It was a makeshift map, and there, in a childlike scrawl, was a message that sent his pulse racing: New Eden - West. Look for the sunflowers.

Sunflowers? Thomas scoffed, a humorless chuckle escaping his lips. In this hellscape? Might as well look for a damn unicorn. But the seed of hope was planted, its roots taking hold even in the barren soil of his heart.

Could it be? he whispered, his mind conjuring images of sun-drenched fields, a stark contrast to the gloom that enveloped him. Sam had always loved those flowers, said they were like beacons in the darkness—a sentiment that now seemed prophetic.

Okay, you two. If this is your trail of breadcrumbs, I'm biting, Thomas resolved, folding the map with reverent care and tucking it into his jacket. West it is.

The streets whispered secrets of the lost world as he navigated through the ruins, his towering form casting long shadows in the fading light. Each step was a deliberate act of defiance against the death that hung in the air, thick and palpable.

New Eden, huh? he mused aloud, the irony not lost on him. If you're out there, playing Adam and Eve, just know that your big brother's coming. And hell’s coming with me.

He could almost hear Sam's retort, her voice a mixture of sarcasm and warmth, filling the void left by the absence of humanity. You'd better not be late, Thomas. You know how I hate waiting.

Never been late before, have I? he replied to the ghost of a conversation, a sad smile touching his lips. Memories danced in his mind—three siblings against the world, a bond unbroken even by the apocalypse.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of fire and blood, Thomas set his sights westward. With each stride, the image of sunflowers swaying in a nonexistent breeze beckoned him onward, and he clung to the image like a lifeline in a sea of despair.

Stay safe, he whispered to the dying day, his voice carrying the weight of a promise. I'm coming for you.

With the night encroaching, and creatures lurking in the shadows, Thomas moved forward, a solitary figure braving the treacherous path to salvation—or doom. Whatever awaited him in New Eden, he would face it head-on, for the chance to see his siblings' faces once more. There was no turning back.

The rusted sign of the gas station loomed ahead like a relic from a forgotten time, its once vibrant colors now faded and peeling under the oppressive sun. Thomas's boots crunched over broken glass, his eyes darting to every shadow, every silent corner that could conceal a threat. The world had taught him that negligence was paid for in blood.

Okay, Tom, nice and easy, he muttered to himself, just loud enough to break the crushing quiet. His voice sounded alien in the stillness, a stark reminder of how long it had been since he'd had an actual conversation.

He stepped through the threshold, the door hanging off its hinges with an accusatory creak. Inside, the air was thick with the smell of mildew and decay. Flickering fluorescent lights cast an unnatural glow, turning what might have once been a sanctuary for weary travelers into a ghastly scene straight out of a horror flick.

Whoever designed these lights owes me a drink in the afterlife, Thomas quipped, but the joke died on his lips as swiftly as it came. He used to be the funny one, before the world went to hell. Humor felt like a luxury he couldn't afford anymore—except it kept the creeping dread at bay, if only for a fleeting moment.

His gaze fixed on the rows of empty shelves, dust-covered and barren. Great place for an ambush, he thought, the back of his neck prickling with unease. The silence bore down on him, heavier than the rucksack strapped to his back. It was the kind of silence that screamed danger, the kind you could cut with a knife—a knife he kept within reach, its handle worn from use.

Should've brought a damn flashlight, he chastised himself, though he knew light was just another beacon for trouble. His hand hovered near his belt, fingers brushing against the cool metal. If darkness was a cloak, then he'd learned to be a shadow within it.

Come on, Tommy boy. In and out. He edged further into the gas station, each step a calculated risk. The fluorescent lights sputtered above, casting intermittent shadows that danced along the walls like specters taunting him with their erratic movements.

Last time I trust a map, he grumbled, feeling the weight of his solitude. Maps were relics too; they didn't show where the dangers lurked now. Not the real ones. But he needed supplies, and hope, foolish as it was, had led him here.

Hope's going to get you killed, he reminded himself, his breath forming a cloud in the cold air. Was it the chill that made him shiver, or the knowledge that at any moment, death could come barreling out of the dark?

Wouldn't be the first time, he whispered, almost laughing. There was a certain comedy to his predicament—the end of the world had a sick sense of humor. But beneath the laughter was the unyielding sadness of a man who remembered a world where stepping into a gas station didn't feel like walking into a grave.

Thomas squared his shoulders, shook off the chill, and pressed on. He had survived this long by being cautious, by listening to the instinct that told him when to fight and when to run. Right now, it screamed at him to be alert, to be ready for whatever lay hidden in the silence of the gas station.

Let's find what we came for, he said, more to the ghosts of the past than to anyone—or anything—that might be listening. But in a world ruled by darkness, even a whisper could be a death sentence.

The shadows played tricks on his eyes, turning rusted cans and broken glass into lurking specters. Thomas's hand hovered over the butt of the gun strapped to his hip, the familiar weight a cold comfort. He edged further into the skeletal remains of the gas station, the fluorescents above stuttering like the pulse of a dying star.

Settle down, he muttered, the sound of his own voice a betrayal in the oppressive silence.

Then it came—a low, throaty growl that slithered through the stagnant air, sending a spike of ice through Thomas's veins. His head snapped toward the direction of the sound, which seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere all at once.

Ah, hell, he breathed, the words a puff of vapor in the cold.

His pulse hammered against his temples; fear was a living thing within him, coiling around his heart with serpentine ease. Without conscious thought, Thomas lunged for cover, throwing himself behind a row of shelves that had long been stripped of anything useful.

Think, damn it, think, he chided himself as he crouched low, feeling the grit and grime of the floor beneath his fingers.

A shiver danced down his spine—not from the cold this time, but from the realization that they were here. The new strain. The evolved nightmares he'd heard whispered about in hushed tones among the few survivors he'd crossed paths with.

Okay, Tommy-boy... not the time to freeze up, he whispered to himself, fighting to keep the tremor from his voice. He tried to focus, to push past the primal urge to flee, and instead let his mind race for a solution.

Got more lives than a damn cat, he murmured, a wry smile flickering on his lips for just an instant before the gravity of his situation pressed it away.

Let's see if you can earn one more...

Thrust into the dim, flickering light of the gas station, the zombies were a grotesque ballet of chaos. Limbs, too long and jointed in unnatural ways, flailed as they moved with a