Strain of Resistance (Book 1) (6 page)

Kingsley's response is a bit more civilized.

"Look again," he says calmly enough, but I pick up on the strain in his voice. It worries me. So I look closer, as do the others. Luke is the first to notice.

"Their clothing. It's not ripped apart and filthy like they’ve been wearing it for the past eight years. It's still in decent condition like..."

"Like they've only recently been infected. Very recently. By the condition of their clothes, probably just days ago I'm guessing."

I stare at Kingsley like I didn't quite hear right.

"But... that's impossible. I mean, the infections all happened that very first day. I haven't seen or heard of anyone who survived the first day being taken over after. I figured—we all figured—if you weren't infected the first day, you were immune somehow."

"That was the general consensus, yes. But something’s changed. There's no way this bunch have been playing host to those parasites for the past eight years. They look too fresh."

Kingsley's words chill me deep in my bones. Is it true? Are the aliens somehow infecting us again? And how? There's been no report of that strange mist since the invasion years ago. Have they learned to pollinate, or is it now conveyed through a different medium? The thought of the black drippings that had fallen on me earlier sends a shiver crackling up my spine, and I wipe my cheek roughly with the back of my hand.

A terrifying, echoing yell shatters the night’s silence. I jump in fright, my heart slamming into my ribs. That damn screaming never fails to unnerve me, no matter how many times I hear it.

"Ravagers," Luke says, glancing back the way we had come. "And close. They must have heard our little gun fight. They're on the way. Probably hoping to find some carcasses to pick over. We better move out. We're not far off from a safe zone; I'm thinking we should lay low for the night."

Another yell follows the first, and we head out without another word. Our discovery has rattled us for sure, because if what Kingsley says is true, then God help us. And He’d better be listening this time.

CHAPTER SIX

The
old, dilapidated leather factory had been the producer of a top of the line sneaker in its heyday. A multi-million dollar business. Now it just looks sad in the predawn light.

Hulking monstrosities of machinery loom in the shadows like ghostly dinosaurs, just waiting to be brought back to life by workers that no longer exist. Half the ceiling has long since caved in and now litter the floor with bits of steel, broken tile, and glass that crunch under our feet as we walk. Graffiti covers the remaining walls, dire warnings of doom and death and end of the world predictions along with passages from Revelations. One budding artist, Rocky according to his tag, has even done a very lifelike spray painting of a leech erupting from a person's throat, with all the exploding blood and gore that accompanies it. His message underneath simply reads, 'We are fucked.'

No shit, Sherlock,
I think as I read the message for the umpteenth time. Like always, I find myself wondering what happened to Rocky. Had he found a place to survive or had he, in his own words, been fucked? I guess I’ll never know. But if I ever come across a survivor someday with that moniker, I’m sure as hell gonna ask how handy he is with a can of spray paint.

We stop in front of the rickety stairs leading up to the office. Luke and Badger pull away the heavy metal shelf placed strategically across the bottom steps, just enough so we can squeeze by. To any outsider it looks like it had simply toppled over, but for us it’s a security measure.

"Gordo, check the seal," Luke orders and the boy nimbly climbs the ten steps to the metal door.

"Still intact," he calls down. I breathe a sigh of relief. An intact seal means it hasn't been breached by other survivors or ravagers, and that nothing is lying in wait for us on the other side of that door. Plus it means none of our supplies have been looted.

Each of our safety zones are set up with anything and everything we need when out on patrol. That in turn keeps what we carry in our backpacks down to a bare minimum so we can move faster- including sleeping bags. As pumped as I’d been at the run in with the leeches, the past 24 hours are catching up with me, and all I can think about now is sleep.

We take the stairs one at a time, not trusting it to support all of our combined weight. By the time I make it up, Luke already has the lamp lit, so I go to work on setting up the paint can heater/stove he taught me to make. Simple enough, it consists of a roll of toilet paper, cardboard center removed, stuffed into an empty paint can and then saturated with rubbing alcohol. It burns amazingly well, is smoke free and safe enough for us to use inside to keep us warm in the drafty old building.

Toilet paper and rubbing alcohol. They rank up there on our list of priorities along with any sort of food product when out on patrol. Who would’ve thought that finding a stash of ass wipe could be almost as exciting as winning a lottery back in the old days? Kind of funny if you think about it.

As soon as I have a nice flame burning I put the metal grill over the top, and Badger plunks a tin pot full of water on it, then throws in a couple of chunks of Cookie's dried herb and veggie concoction. It tastes like shit, but the hot soup always fills our grumbling stomachs so none of us complain too much. Well, that and the fact we don't dare complain in case word got back to Cookie. Nobody wants to face that wrath.

We eat in silence sitting around the makeshift heater, our ears alert for any sound of ravagers having followed us, but it remains quiet. My mind keeps hashing over what Kingsley suggested and wondering if it has any connection with what happened at St. Joseph’s. Hell, maybe those leeches
are
the people from St. Joseph’s. My mind won't let go of this idea, and finally I voice it out loud to the others. Kingsley stares at me over the flickering flames.

"Anything’s possible," he responds quietly to my words.

Gordon stops slurping his soup and looks up.

"You think so, Kingsley? What really happened at St. Joseph's? Do you even know?"

Luke chimes in. "Maybe we all should get some rest first before we dive into that can of worms. It's been a long night, and I'm sure we'll think better after some shuteye."

"No," I say stubbornly. "Cooper said Kingsley would fill us in en route. Now is a good time. How do you expect us to get any sleep with the idea of newly infected bouncing around in our heads? Coop knew more about St. Joseph's than he was willing to admit, isn't that right, Kingsley?"

I omit mentioning the fear I’d seen in Cooper's eyes. Most of us consider that man a legend. I didn't want to tarnish him with his show of weakness, as much as it had scared me. I'm hoping Kingsley can shed some light as to the reason for that fear.

The man in question slowly sips his soup, not even looking at us. Almost as if he doesn't know where to start. Finally, decision made, he raises his eyes.

"Lois left out some of the story. She called us in-Coop and me-as soon as she heard that distress call. The guy was screaming like she said, but he was screaming about monsters. Not ravagers or leeches. Monsters. And there was something else. There was this sound I've never heard a leech make before. You could hear it above the guys screaming. You could hear it as the poor sonofabitch was being ripped apart. I don't know why we could hear it. Maybe his mic was locked on. Maybe it stayed in his hand right up until he died. The radio went silent after that. We thought it was over. But then...then it came back on for a split second, and I can't be sure but I swear we heard the words 'You next.'"

Gordon puts his tin cup down like he’s suddenly lost his appetite.

"You next? Like in the Grand is next?" he asks, with bug eyes.

"I can only assume."

"So was it ravagers?" I ask. Then more firmly, "Well, it had to be. No leech has the smarts to speak, let alone operate a radio. But how the hell did ravagers get inside? St. Joseph's defenses were just as good, if not better than our own."

"No, that's the scary part. I don't think it was ravagers at all. You had to have heard this voice—these sounds. They weren't human, I'm certain."

At first, I think Kingsley is just shittin' with us. But then I see his face. He's not shittin'.

"You think it was leeches? But leeches can't fucking talk," Dom says, and for the first time in a long time his words aren't filled with his usual arrogance.

"No leech we’ve ever met, no. But Cooper and I think this is something entirely new. Some new form, some mutation of these leeches maybe? We know they assimilate to their host bodies senses. They use their sense of smell, sight and hearing. Why can't they have assimilated their intelligence as well over the years? It would make sense..."

"Nothing about this makes any sense!" I interrupt, refusing to believe our shit situation can get any worse. "You said the St. Joseph's dude was screaming about monsters. Ravagers dressed in their attack skins would look like a monster to anyone not used to seeing them. Right?"

I look around at the others, desperately seeking their agreement. But no one agrees.

"So
you
believe we’re dealing with a totally new evolved strain of this parasite," Luke speaks slowly, as if he didn't want any misunderstanding in the slightest.

"I do," Kingsley answers.

"And that this new strain has the ability to think, speak and to infect new hosts?"

Kingsley nods in response and my pent up breath escapes in a low groan. Great! Just what we need.

"Fuck me," Gordon whispers, wrapping his arms around himself as if warding off a sudden chill. I can't help but shiver myself. If what Kingsley believes is true; if there’s a smarter breed of leech, then we don't stand a chance in hell.

"Why didn't Cooper tell us this at the debriefing?" I question harshly, still refusing to believe the implication.

"We were going to. Then we found out the council members wanted to attend and well, he didn't want to start a panic. As well-meaning as they are, some of them are known for flapping their lips. Until we know for sure, we don't want to create a plague of fear throughout the Grand. That’s why he left it up to me to fill you in."

"So that's your job? To find out if what you suspect is true? This isn't about finding Kelly and the others?" I ask abruptly.

"Of course finding our people is still a priority. But we have to admit, the odds of finding them alive aren’t the greatest." Kingsley answers and I snap back at him immediately.

"You don't know that. There could be any number of reasons why they've broken radio contact."

He nods slowly. "I agree, and I hope to God you’re right. But our main focus is to find out what the hell attacked those people at St. Joseph's and exterminate any threat it may cause to
our
people."

"And how do you propose we do that?" Luke asks in his even tone, his calmness only accentuating my surliness.

"That pack there in the corner is our plan," he says, pointing his chin at the heavy canvass backpack he's been carrying since we left the Grand. "It's filled with C-4. If we find whatever attacked St. Joseph's is still there, my orders are to bring down the building...immediately. We’re not to hesitate at all. Do you understand?"

"Jesus H. Christ. You've been carrying around a goddamned bag full of explosives? All the while we've been shooting guns and shit?" Dom looks horrified at the mere idea, but Kingsley just gives him a patronizing look.

"Relax. The C-4 is stable. It needs a detonator to do any damage. Bumping it around or shooting at it won't set it off. I used to be a demolitions man before all this went down. Trust me; I know what I'm doing."

Ah. So that's what Cooper meant by a 'set of unique skills.' Still, what Kingsley is implying doesn't sit well with me. I study the faces of my crew, to see if this tidbit of info bothers them as much as it bothers me. Their expressions mirror all stages of understanding, the insinuation of Kingsley's words finally dawning on them. Kingsley and his two men however, sit as stone faced as gargoyle statues.

"Blow it up? But you mean after we've searched it for survivors right?" Gordon asks, and his voice is tinged with confusion. "I mean, we have to find Kelly and the others first. My brother, Mike, is part of that group."

"Smarten up you dumb fuck," Dom stares at Gordon in disgust. "This ain't no rescue mission." His eyes switch back to Kingsley. "Is it, Guard? We're not going to St. Joseph's to get anyone out of that building. We're going to make sure whatever’s
inside
that building, stays in."

Kingsley doesn't even try to lie.

"You all saw those leeches earlier, same as me. They're newly infected. We can't take any chance of bringing that infection back to the Grand. If there's indication of any type of strain of the parasite at St. Joseph's..."

"If there’s any indication that our people are still alive, then yeah, we’re getting them out." My words are meant for the young ginger, but my eyes stare defiantly at Kingsley. Don't know what kind of shit he’s trying to pull, but we are
not
turning our back on any survivors.

"Cooper's orders are to bring that building down, Bixby. Are you going to defy the Captain's orders?"

My top lip curls in anger, but I don't bother to respond to the softly asked question. I truly don’t know if I could defy a direct order from Coop, as much as I don't agree with it.

"No sense arguing over things we know nothing about yet," Luke interjects calmly, once again trying to diffuse the situation. "Those leeches back there...well, could be any number of reasons why they didn't look worn down. Maybe they were locked in somewhere when they turned eight years ago. We know for a fact those infected that don't get to feed, seem to go into a form of dormancy. Maybe they've been cooped up for years , just recently got released and that's why they still look fresh. Sounds reasonable enough, doesn't it? Now why don't you all get some rest? I'll take first watch."

A couple of halfhearted murmurs follow Luke's question, almost as if agreeing with him is easier than acknowledging the glaring truth. No one wants to admit that a new wave of infected can even be possible. We’ve been fighting the infected for eight years now, and we’re nowhere close to winning this war. Christ, truth be told, we’re barely surviving. So the thought of more infected to fight, well it kind of makes me want to cry. And if Kingsley is right, now there’s a whole new threat to worry about. If the alien parasite is evolving and has learned to speak and think; then to quote Rocky's waxing poetic, 'We
are
fucked.'