The Night Sweeper: A Zombie Conspiracy Novel (The Sweeper Chronicles Book 1) (9 page)

He looks at me with full knowing in his eyes. “Too late,” he sputters. “Too late… for me.”

I hear movement in the distance and Mira rises, moving in the direction of the sound. I stay beside Harbin, that funny feeling in my gut returning as I look at him lying there, his life ebbing away. I can’t help but feel there’s something so familiar about him.

Without warning he grabs me with both hands, pulling me close, his grip surprisingly strong, and starts speaking hurriedly, intensely. His words shake up everything about my world!

Mira

By the time I get back to the top of the hill, Harbin isn't moving and Cray is standing there looking at him with wide, shocked eyes, like somebody has stunned him into stupidity. Did my little stunt really affect him that bad? He doesn’t even know the half of it.

“We have to move, we’ve got problems,” I say from behind him, taking in the scene. “Is he…?”

“Dead,” he finishes in a daze.

He continues to stand there, staring. “Cray.” Nothing. “Cray!!”

He turns to look at me. “We’ve got incoming, dozens of Festers moving our way, too many to take on. We have to get away from here, now.”

He finally seems to pull himself together, like the light comes back on behind his eyes.

“Follow me,” He says, suddenly the cunning warrior again. We memorized the layout of this area in reviewing for the mission, and I know there used to be a small residential area about half a mile from here to the east. It’s our best chance of finding shelter, and that’s exactly the direction he’s heading. We certainly can’t risk the airfield. Who knows what else could be waiting for us back there?

Branches and thorns swipe at our faces and legs as we careen through the woods, and I have to hold back not to outrun him. I would never leave him behind. He’s fast, but he’s still fighting for every step of distance he can put between us and the Festers, their chase becoming ever louder and closer. Both of us have to be running low on ammo by now and it would be stupid to try to take on that many hand to hand. We’ve gotta find someplace safe.

Up ahead, I can see the morning sunlight peeking through an opening in the woods, and just beyond that, the shapes of houses lining either side of a forlorn street. Any dwellers with any sense would have long since moved to the cities or been killed, but we might be able to find safety in one of the houses.

“There!” He points to a house a couple of doors down on our left. From here, I can see the door is open. The Festers are hard on our heels now, their animal noises right on top of us. It’s not until we start racing up the small driveway that I realize Cray’s not going to make it in time, and neither will I.

Something grabs my shirt and jerks me hard. Spinning as I trip, I kick into the chest of the infected, its foul breath puffing from its lips from the impact as I use my leg and momentum to launch it up and over my head. Before I can move, another one grabs my arm and pulls me up, my gun clattering to the ground. I spin into the pull and smash my left elbow into his temple, his grip loosening as he falls unconscious.

Somewhere close, I hear Cray’s gun firing off a steady rhythm, and the painful screams of his victims, but I’m surrounded, and I can’t see him as I thrash against the wave of freaks surging against me like a tsunami. I swing with all of my might, felling two and three Festers at a time, but it’s not enough. There are just too many of them.

I can see Cray off to my left now, kicking and lashing at the creatures, his gun nowhere to be seen. A large Fester flies at him and smashes into his side, driving him to the concrete driveway, his head slamming into it with a sickening smack.

He’s out cold and in a second the freaks will start to tear at him like a piece of meat. I scream like a mad woman and plow into them with all the force I can muster while still dragging my previous attackers behind me. The force is just enough to buy Cray some space, and I spin wildly to throw off the ones still clinging to my clothes. I grab Cray’s limp hand and drag him to the open door, slinging him inside with one hand while I kick a charging Fester squarely in the sternum. I feel the bones in his chest shatter as he flies backwards into his pals.

By then I’m through the door and slamming it shut, thankful that it still has a working deadbolt. Quickly scanning the room, I see that the previous occupants had the windows boarded up before they left. I sprint through the small house and verify the others are the same.

The Festers are screeching and banging on the outside walls and the door. I need to reinforce it. Crossing to the open dining area, I grab the table and find handholds on the underside, feeling a rush of satisfaction when I pick it up. It's old construction, sturdy, two hundred pounds easily. Maybe not much for a Fester, but better than something lighter. I jog across the room and plop it down in front of the door, careful not to set it on Cray's legs. I grip his shirt and pull him deeper into the living room out of the way, grab the arm of the couch with my left hand, and sling it against the table.

Cray's head is bleeding profusely, but at a quick glance, it appears to be superficial. I stand for several minutes, as long as I dare, to make sure the barricade holds, but I finally can't wait anymore. Cray needs tending to.

The creatures continue banging outside, but the walls hold, and I move back to Cray, sinking down beside him with a deep sigh. First things first. I go to work on the ugly gash in his scalp to stop the bleeding. I’ll have time to think about everything that just happened later.

I sit beside him on the bed and watch his chest rise and fall as he dozes. Heavy scars snake across his torso, the proof of countless battles fought.

He’s handsome in a rugged sort of way. Not beautiful in the classic sense, but he has an inherent manliness, strong jaw line, and powerful shoulders. But there’s also his boyish shyness, and a gentleness in him, something deep inside that peeks out from underneath the tough exterior. It’s this combination that makes him fascinating to me. He’s probably the most lethal person I’ve ever met, and yet there is nothing twisted about him. He simply is what he is.

He wakes with a start. “Mira!?”

I place my hand lightly on his bare chest and shush him, his skin warm and smooth and prickly with hair. He must shave it, and for some reason, that makes me want to giggle. “I’m right here. We’re safe. At least for now. Lie still. You took a pretty good beating.”

That’s an understatement,
I think. The gash on his head’s a mess and his left side looks like a bruised prune where the Fester tackled him. I’m sure he’s gotta have some broken ribs. He tries to sit up and instantly regrets it, moaning in pain.

“Where am I?” he says, plopping back down onto the shredded mattress.

I glance around me. “I believe we’re in the guest bedroom of our temporary shelter,” I say.

“How long have I been out?”

I can’t resist. “Two days.” His horrified expression almost makes me feel guilty. “Just kidding.” I look at my watch. “It’s only been a little over an hour.”

He sighs and it turns into a grimace, but he looks at me suddenly, intensely.

Great, here we go.

I sit there without flinching even though I know what he’s thinking. An endless minute passes before he speaks again, and I can imagine the wheels in that suped-up mind of his spinning.

“How did you do that with the door?”

The question is simple and straightforward, but I’m not willing to jump into my history.

“It’s complicated,” I say.

“And you carried Harbin like he was light as a feather.”

I look away and say nothing.

“Is it some kind of Zen, mind-over-matter thing or something?”

“No.”

More silence.

“I’m sure you’ve got a concussion,” I say, “and your ribs look like somebody spray painted them black and blue”. It’s an obvious dodge.

“Yeah,” he says with a pause. I guess he’s content to let the conversation go for now, but his expression leaves no doubt that it will come up again. “Definitely some fractures in there.” He reaches his hand up to me for help and I slowly pull him to a sitting position and hand him a bottle of water I found in the pantry. He drinks a little and asks what our status is.

“We’re alive, obviously,” I say, “but we’re trapped for now. The Festers beat on the walls a long time before they seemed to get the idea that they weren’t going to get inside that way. I’m just glad this place is brick and not siding. All the windows and doors are boarded up tight. Found the water in the pantry, but no food. But they’re still out there. They’ve got the place surrounded. I think they’re trying to wait us out.”

“They’re still here? In the light?” A strange expression crosses his face.

“Yeah.”

He stands with great effort, his legs wobbly, and crosses to the window, peering between the reinforcement slats.

“I've never seen anything like it,” he says. His voice is tinged with concern and I know why.

We've always been able to count on their nocturnal nature as part of our defense. The Festers had always shown aversion to sunlight, fleeing at the first rays of the sun. Those that had been captured and studied over the years corroborated this behavior, wailing and thrashing when forced into sunlight, screeching as if in pain until they were removed from it. But these guys show no discomfort at all. Granted, it's a small group compared to the hordes, but what if this isn't isolated? What if they're changing? If the Fester populace forgoes hiding during the daytime, our fledgling society could crumble under the strain of having no respite.

“You can worry about that later,” I say. “You need to rest.”

He shakes his head. “This isn't exactly a relaxing atmosphere.”

“Eckert and Archer will come looking for us. For now, this is the safest place to be.”

He comes back and sits on the bed, eyeing it dubiously.

“Rest!” I say again. “That's an order.”

He smiles at me. “Since when did you get seniority?”

“Since I became the least wounded of us. Besides, if you don't, I'll break both of your legs and tie you down.”

It takes several minutes of convincing, but he caves in and stretches gingerly on the mattress.

I move towards the hall, but he calls me and I turn back into the doorway.

“Thank you,” he says. “I don’t remember what happened after I fell, but I’m sure I owe you my life.”

His cheeks grow red and he clears his throat. I can see some of that little boy awkwardness return that he’s struggled so much with.

“Don’t mention it.”

Cray is asleep, and I stand again in front of the door to the small room at the end of the hallway. I’m drawn to this room like a magnet, and keep wandering back to it, finding myself unable to resist it and the mysteries it presents to me. I look again at the small blue sign on the door handle that reads “Riley’s Room.” I walk inside and look around. Toys are scattered on the floor along with several stuffed animals that have been shredded, I guess by the wildlife that was able to get in here, or maybe Festers. Posters of monster trucks are hung in various places, some about to lose their adhesive backing and hanging precariously.

I’m transported back to my own childhood, and I wonder what happened to the child that used to occupy this little room. What happened to the family that was here? I whisper a silent prayer that they’re somewhere safe and at least relatively happy, but I know the odds are not in their favor.

Stepping to the boarded up window, I find a small crack to peer through and try to see as much of the outside world as possible. There are dozens of infected in the front yard of the house, most lying there as if asleep. Some are sitting, some picking through the dirt, or roaming around the small patch of woods directly in front of the house that partly blocks the view of the street. Their behavior has me baffled. It’s contrary to everything we know about them.

I notice the house across the street didn’t fare too well, the victim of a fire at some point, and now mostly just a burned heap of rubbish. From my small vantage point, I can see a few other average, middle-class homes spanning out in either direction, a testament to a gentler time when things were a lot better and people didn’t know how good they had it. I close my eyes and let my mind wander into the past, to the mystery that I am to myself. So many unknowns, just like this room.

“I don’t understand their behavior,” Cray says from behind me. I didn’t hear him get up. “And I can’t figure why they’re not trying to get in here still. They know we’re inside. It’s been four hours. They could have broken down that door by now if they really wanted to, if they threw enough force against it. Sitting out there on the lawn, some of them look almost human still.”

“Do you think there’s anything
left
of their humanity? What if all we know, all we’ve been told is wrong? And the way they stick together, not just these, but even the smaller groups in the cities, it’s like they have some sort of bond. They never attack their own.”

I turn to look at him. The implication of this way of thinking makes my stomach turn. He looks at me, but his focus is somewhere else. I can tell he feels the same discomfort at the thought that I do.

“How many Festers have I killed?’ he asks, almost to himself. “How many have I chopped down like insects, night after night after endless night, making my living from their demise? People who were once fathers, wives, somebody's child...”

He’s quiet for a long time, his jaw muscles working. He's struggling inside, maybe more than he should be. He speaks again, his tone flat, a contrast to the emotions that are eating at him.

“If we’re wrong about them…that makes
me
the monster.”

That realization sinks in for me as well, but I don't feel guilty about it. It is what it is.

“You didn’t know,” I say. “None of us knew for sure; we still don’t. After all these years, the docs aren't any closer to understanding them. It's not like they haven't tried…and I’ve killed more than my fair share.”

“I wonder how hard they've really tried. When The Virus hit, we took the Festers at face value, everyone more concerned with their own fear than trying to help them.” He looks away. “And we became efficient at wiping them out. Survival of the fittest.” He sighs, and appears to regain his composure with great effort. When he turns, his expression has changed. “Speaking of which,” he says with raised eyebrows, “do I get an explanation for what you did out there?”

Now it’s my turn to look away, way more uncomfortable than I care to be, and thrown off by the sudden subject change. I’m desperately trying to find a way out of having to explain this right now when the stillness is shattered.

The sound of automatic weapons rips through the quiet followed by the screaming of Festers. Cray and I dive onto the floor for cover, instinctively reacting, but it doesn’t take long to realize there aren’t any bullets hitting the walls. I stand and move cautiously to the window, peering through a crack. Outside, the Festers are being plowed down by a small attack team. They try in vain to fight back, but they’re overwhelmed by the soldiers moving in on them. It takes less than a minute for the team to finish them off. Dozens of Festers litter the yard, their bodies torn to shreds.

A man charges up the driveway while the others hold in attack position covering his approach. As he gets closer to the house, I recognize him about the same time that he shouts.

“Cray! Mira! It’s Johnson. We’re here to take you home.”