Dead Limit: 2012

Friday, December 21, 2012

Season 2 Teaser Spring 2013

"Where have all the Seekers gone?"
---
"They're all dead. We burned every last one of them."
---
"What are we going to do about Paul?"
---
"I'm fine guys, really. I feel better than ever!"
---
"This is a broadcast from F.E. Warren Air Force Base. We offer food, shelter, and security for all surviving personnel and civilians in Colorado and Wyoming."
---
"I want to visit their graves, one last time."
---
THIS SPRING
---
"It's Evolution."
---
"We have to leave, we can't stop it!"
---
BE A WITNESS
---
"I believe you are a special case, like me."
---
"Let me give you the shot. It will unlock your true potential. No more pain, no more worries."
---
OF EVOLUTION
---
"GET-OUT-OF-MY-HOUSE-RIGHT-NOW!"
---
"Everything will change, because of the actions of one man."
---
"Just do it."
---
Dead Limit, Season 2
---
Starts February 15, 2012

Episode 108 I Say You Say

Previously, on Dead Limit:

Quickly, before the guard returned and saw what was happening, Pierall called all the campers into a huddle.

“We’re taking down the big guy tonight,” he explained. This caused a bunch of cheers that were hurriedly silenced.

In the next few seconds he saw many things happen, fantastic and horrible at the same time: Rick collapsed as the others downhill swiftly ducked into the grass, the guard brought his foot down on his stomach, and Pierall stepped out from behind the tent, aimed carefully at the juggernaut’s unprotected head, and fired, point-blank, three times in a row.

The first bullet went straight through one cheek and out the other, taking several teeth with it. The second slashed clean across his nose, leaving a semicircle open just below the bridge. The guard stumbled, almost falling on Mason; spitting blood. Mason rolled further down the slope to escape the falling mass of the incapacitated man. Before the guard even hit the ground, the last shot flew into his skull at the temple, snapping his head sideways with a sickening crack.

Then everything went silent. The men below clambered up the slope as the juggernaut hit the ground, dead at last.

Mason stood up, wiping dirt off his hands, and then grabbed the knife Pierall had left in the RV Seeker’s head from his pocket and cautiously approached the zipped tent flap. After a minute of waiting for the others to catch up, and listening carefully for any sign of danger within the tent, Mason raised his knife and slashed. He whacked the flap to shreds, then stared, dumbfounded, at the interior: stacks and piles of clothes, food, weapons and ammo, all cluttered up around the edge with another tent in the middle. They entered and heard a quiet laugh, followed by an eerie voice:

“I’ve heard my old boss finally kicked it. Patcorn was an intelligent man, but he made one fatal mistake: ME.”

=====

They came to a halt for the second time on the trail that day. Before them this time was the rest of the avalanche debris, a high mound of dirt and rocks; and a large dead tree. Tyler dashed across the debris and leapt into the air, clearing the old trunk by several inches, even though it was a yard high. Roger shook his head in annoyed jealousy: his younger brother was far more agile than him and loved to show it off.

“Wait for me,” he said, “I have to climb over.” He hoisted his backpack over the tree trunk and started to clamber over, barely noticing when the log began to slip, the surrounding debris gently rolling off the trail edge and down the mountainside to the forest below. Roger was on top the log when it suddenly jerked downward, causing him to cry out and momentarily loose his balance. Tyler noticed and came back down the trail. He could feel the tree trunk slipping now, and hurriedly dropped off the other side. His feet did not hit solid ground, however. Instead they got sucked into a current of loose dirt that was moving towards the trail’s edge. Tyler reached him and pulled him back, but at that moment the battle between gravity and inertia around the log was decided, and the old tree jerked forward, its few remaining braches sweeping Roger and Tyler in its path.

And so it was that; on the very first day of the infection, Roger and Tyler Torrens fell, rolled, and slid down a four-hundred foot section of bare mountain, towards the end of their lives: or so Roger had thought. His flailing body came to a halt just feet away from a looming pine, but his brother, still caught in the wave of sediment, was smashed between the tree and a protrusion of limestone. Though barely conscious, Roger had to witness the life of his brother get squashed out forever.

· · · — — — · · ·

They all stood in a sort of trance, listening to the echoing, eerie voice that emanated from the tent they had surrounded. It sounded like multiple voices speaking the same words simultaneously.

“I have listened to your stories, your ideas, and I know you have much to ask. It was, indeed, the three reported ‘failures’ that began this whole catastrophe. I say this because I happen to be one of them.”

Mason gave Roger a fearful look, and the others continued to look at the little tent, conveniently placed in the middle of a stockpile of all sorts of supplies inside another, larger tent, with worried eyes.

“I went home after testing that day, with just a headache. When I returned to my boss the next day, I had something more. He considered me a failure and scheduled a chemo therapy session. I believe he also had plans to terminate me.”

Roger, bound by the powerful, purposeful voice, continued to listen, unable to will his body to move.

After a brief pause, he continued to speak: “both in revenge and in scientific pursuit, I sought to make myself stronger; more powerful. The Stem virus changed me, but the Limit virus, it did so much more. Patcorn might have defeated injury, but I have defeated death itself.”

“You created them,” Mason hissed through gritted teeth, but still seemed unable to move. A dry laugh filled the air.

“Yes…my early…subjects did not so readily receive my virus. Either I am just a special case or the effects only work properly when the Stem and Limit viruses are joined. Apparently I did not dispose of the bodies correctly.”

“Patcorn thought it had mutated!” Roger blurted out.

“You son of a bitch, you killed my family!” Mason roared.

“You brought about over five million deaths, the nuking of Denver; all these horrors and nightmares-“Pierall growled.

“Yes, indeed I did. But I believe it’s the next step in a great cycle: evolution.”

Mason started giggling deeply, and suddenly asked; “Tell me, oh great one, have you eaten recently, by chance?”

The voice wavered for a moment, then said, “I do not see how your question is relevant to the situa-“his voice broke off when Mason shouted; “Because I’d like to watch you burn!”

Suddenly the trance broke, and everyone regained the ability to move. Mason grabbed two beer bottles from a cluster of six-packs and smashed them together over the little tent, then brought out his lighter. Roger looked at Mason and then at the stacked boxes of ammunition, and shouted, “NO!” but it was already too late:

The tent burst into bright, blue flames. Almost immediately the fabric started to collapse, and the surrounding air quickly heated, forcing everyone to stand back. Realizing his huge mistake Mason began shoving the ammunition boxes towards the exit.

Suddenly a loud clap like thunder burst from the flaming tent, a shockwave ripping through the air and knocking everyone to the floor. The fire went out with a last failing flicker, and smoke that filled the little space started to clear, revealing:

“Oh my god…” Roger breathed. Standing in the middle of the swirling gray smoke stood the source of the voice, but to call it a man would be an understatement. Most of his body looked pretty normal; maybe a bit starved, and where skin was visible Roger could see that his veins were green. His long hair was a deep green as well, and at first concealed the most prominent feature of the guy: his skull was swollen at the back, extending several inches further back and higher than a normal human’s. His eyes also were creepy: horizontal snake pupils, and a light green glow inside. He wore a simple lab coat, torn and tattered; and denim jeans. There was nothing special about his dress, but his head already caught enough attention. Roger noticed a name tag still clipped to the coat that read: Otis C. Graham, Ph.D.

Otis stood over them, with a humorous complexion of silent laughter.

“I had no intention of killing any of you; I no longer have a purpose here. But now it seems worth it to destroy you, rid this planet of aggressive idiots like you.” He gave a dark look on Mason, who shuddered but yelled, “you and what army?” childishly. Otis smiled confidently and replied, “I should ask you the same.”

Before their eyes could register what was happening, Otis was over Mason, yanking him off the ground and tossing him like a doll into the ammo pile. Pierall stumbled to his feet at the other end of the tent and raised his pistol. Before he could even blink, Otis was standing next to him. Pierall turned to shoot, but the pistol was knocked out of his hands. Carlos picked a rifle from the stack of taken weapons and fired a round as Otis pushed Pierall aside and approached him. The bullet dug right into his stomach, but Otis barely grimaced and continued to strut towards Carlos, who was reloading the rifle feverishly.

Mason crawled across the tent floor, moaning from the pain in his back. Otis grabbed the barrel of Carlos’s rifle and bent it with ease so that the barrel twisted back to Carlos, who yanked the gun back and tried to swing it. Otis moved away however, because Roger and Pierall were firing their Browning handguns. Otis did a back flip through the air, avoiding the .22 rounds that flew past him. As soon as his feet touched floor he did a limbo move as Pierall let loose a second clip. Roger, however, had dropped his Browning in favor of M16 that he grabbed from the pile of weapons. Otis saw the muzzle flash rapidly and did a move that looked something like ‘the worm’ vertically, and watched the 5.56mm bullets fly by, some missing his face by inches.

Then in a blur he side stepped in a zigzag pattern to Roger, faster than the carbine could fire. He grabbed Roger by the shoulder and flung him over his head onto Mason, who was inches away and brandishing the combat knife. Mason grunted and rolled the unconscious Roger off his back and drove the blade deep into Otis’s shin. He then received a sharp kick in the jaw. Shaking, he stared up and saw Otis’s eyes were glowing bright green. The monster of a man smiled evilly, pulling the knife out of his leg and, with extreme precision, threw it at Richie, who had just entered the tent. The blade struck the cast on his right arm, and he collapsed, screaming and holding his twice-wounded appendage.

Pierall stumbled to his feet and raised a fist to attack Otis from behind, but suddenly found himself on the ground again with an extreme pain in his stomach-Otis had turned around in a blur and delivered a round-house kick; and watched hopelessly as Carlos charged with Mason’s axe, and swung it with all his strength, only to find that Otis had already ducked.

Rudolph entered finally at that moment and, having very little time to register the scene before him: Pierall laying on a pile of food, burnt fabric on the ground, Richie trying to pull a knife out of his arm, Mason and Roger unconscious at the feet of…something inhuman. In all the chaos Rudolph saw an M16 carbine lying next to Roger’s body. He made a lunge but was knocked aside by the flailing body of Carlos.

“I believe you’re ignoring an important detail about the Limit virus,” Otis replied, speaking to all of them, “I cannot die.”

Suddenly he winced, and then spat a glob of green liquid. He then grinned when he saw the machete blade poking out of his chest. Rudolph watched in awe as Otis reached behind him and lifted Pierall off the ground, swinging him onto the floor before him. Pierall looked directly into the glowing eyes.

“Go to hell,” he hissed. Otis laughed. “They already kicked me out. “

He reached behind him again and yanked the sword out of his chest, bringing it around to kill Pierall, who was defenseless.

“No!” Rudolph exclaimed, lunging again for the M16. Otis merely kicked it away. Keeping the-Could you call him a mutant? Rudolph thought-keeping Otis’s attention became his top priority. He tripped over Mason but managed to swing his fist at the mutant, both keeping his balance and hitting Otis where it hurts most. This move bought enough time for Pierall to grab a pistol off the ground near him, and also for Carlos to jump on Otis’s back, putting the large-brained freak in a choke-hold. Even with his strong muscles Carlos only maintained the hold for five seconds before getting his arms pried apart and two elbows to the ribs. Rudolph though he could hear a bone or two cracking. Pierall had just enough time to put his pistol to Otis’s temple.

“Go ahead, fire,” Otis said, almost in a bored tone. Even though he knew it wouldn’t do anything, Pierall pulled the trigger. The recoil forced him to take a step back, and he sadly watched as the hole the bullet had created sealed itself up, clean and scar-less.

Otis cracked his neck and kicked Pierall, sending him flying out of the tent and a short ways down the hill. Rudolph at last picked up the machine gun, but could only fire two bullets before the carbine was knocked aside. Otis did not notice Roger regaining consciousness, or Mason’s fingers twist. He grabbed Rudolph forcefully by the throat, lifting him several feet off the ground. Rudolph, choking, attempted to kick the (man?), but Otis showed no sign of pain. Instead he gave Rudolph a look of deep disappointment, saying, more to himself; “People never learn, do they?” He then slammed Rudolph into the ground.

Otis took a moment to view his surroundings; the bodies of all his attackers lying around him, unable to fight anymore. He was not happy, felt no pride in his victory over the weak, but neither did he feel any regret for his actions. Richie, tears running from his eyes and blood dripping from his reopened wound, gave him a look of extreme fear. Otis gave no expression and felt no emotion as he knelt and picked up Pierall’s dropped pistol, and fired point-blank at the young soldier’s head. Richie’s lifeless body slumped against the tent wall.

Otis looked out over the camp, over the fields, at the city in the distance, and took a deep breath. Then, hearing movement and groaning from in the tent, he went back in. Roger was starting to crawl towards him.

“What are you?” Roger stuttered, spitting blood. Otis smiled wryly, and knelt beside him. “I ought to kill you all, yet it seems fate has another way of death planned for you,” he whispered. He put two fingers on Roger’s neck, and for a moment nothing happened. Suddenly Roger screamed-a burning sensation was spreading from his neck. Mason, lying many feet away, looked up and saw Otis approaching, and Roger collapse behind him, his eye-glowing green.

“Sleep now, you’ll need to be well-rested for the nightmare that is coming,” Otis whispered. Next thing Mason saw was Otis’s foot coming down on his face.

“Roger! Pierall! Oh my god, what happened?” cried a woman’s voice out of the deep fog. Mason tried to sit up but every fiber in his being screamed in protest.

“Let me sleep,” he grumbled. Blinking in the darkness (darkness!) he saw a blurred person lifting a big object. A few more blinks, and he could make out the object as a body, and after a moment of slow focusing he could see the body was Roger’s. The woman helping him to his feet was Mary.

Mason groaned as he got to his knees, wiped the dry blood off his hands, and then almost lost his balance. His vision swam and he felt nauseous, until the head rush wore off seconds later. Pierall entered the tent, rubbing his back. Again he almost barfed when he saw Richie’s face.

Mary and Pierall woke up Carlos, who was snoring loudly.

“Wha- where’d e go?” Carlos sputtered. He glanced at the flotsam and jetsam around him: two bodies, scattered food, guns, ammo and other supplies; Mary, and three Seekers.

“Holy sh-look out!” he shouted, swinging at Mason dumbly.

“Watch it!” Mason exclaimed, jumping back.

“Damn, I thought you dead,” Carlos said, confused.

Mason helped Carlos to his feet. “Mary, what the hell hit us?”

“You were the one up here, you tell me,” Mary answered. They all picked up some of the supplies and left the tent.

“What about Rudolph?” Roger asked. Mary hung her head. “Rudolph’s dead,” she answered mournfully.

As they tripped and stumbled and clambered down the hillside, Mary spilled a huge bucket of questions on them:

“Who was he?”

“Dr. Otis Graham, former assistant of James Patcorn. He was the real starter of the virus. Called it Limit or something. It’s a whole other thing, separate from the Stem virus we’ve been blaming,” Roger explained.

“How did he beat you-five grown men-so easily?” Mary inquired.

“He’s untouchable,” Pierall told her; “I shot him point-blank in the face and it just healed right up. And his eyes…they like, glowed and then he would do these crazy moves…”

“So fast…” Mason grunted, “One moment he’s yards away, then in a blink he punches you.” The three of them described the battle while they continued down to the camp.

“So much loss,” Mary muttered as they reached the tent cluster. “Rudolph, Ms. Irene, Rick, Richard- what will Paul think when he wakes up?”

Mason frowned. “That kid’s still living?” he wondered.

“Yeah,” Mary answered, “He’s sleeping in Irene’s RV.”

The camp was silent and empty still, but once they had set down the supplies they were carrying and sat at one of the tables, a commotion began as forty worried campers came out of the tents and recreational vehicles. Fifteen minutes of wild and random chatter ensued, mostly concerning the battle on the hill.

One woman, a friendly blonde in her mid-twenties, told Roger what she had witnessed from her RV window:

“I saw blue light coming from the interior, the suddenly it went out and the whole tent bulged for a moment, as if something exploded inside-“

“Mason set the place on fire and Otis sort of…clapped and it went out.” Roger interrupted.

“Okay...” The young woman continued, “Then a couple seconds later the gunshots began. We heard lots of yelling and shooting, then everything went quiet. We saw the …man…come out of the tent, and he just gazed around for almost five minutes before going back in. When he came back out he seemed in a hurry, for he...” she paused, trying to find the correct word to describe Otis’s action.

“He did what?” Pierall asked, joining the conversation.

“He…ran away…” the woman answered, “but it was more like sprint; no wait, that’s too slow. It was like- he took a step then became a blurred figure that just sped away.”

“Will he return?” someone in the crowd asked.

“It’s been over two hours,” another voice replied. Somewhere in the throng the familiar unhappy tone of Mason yelling reached Roger’s ears: “You damn kept us up there, knocked out and alone and injured? You didn’t even bother to poke your stupid little faces out the door to see if we were still alive? You selfish sons of-“his cursing was lost somewhere in the giant group of frantic survivors, all of whom needed answers: who (or what) was Otis Graham, and was he going to return to murder each and every one of them?

“It hasn’t been two hours,” Mary assured Roger.

“How long has it been?” he asked.

“Maybe fifty minutes,” she told him, “We wanted to be sure it was safe to come out, and know that he wasn’t hiding in wait, ready to slaughter everyone. The other women-“she blushed, “-forced me to go up there. They said I was the bravest person here.”

Roger raised an eyebrow humorously. She smirked. “As in the camp at that moment. Last time I heard you and the others were lying unconscious up there...” her voice trailed off, as if she regretted that last sentence.

“I’m grateful you’re here, by the way. I take back everything I said-well, yelled I guess-earlier back.”

Roger looked at her: starved and weary, dirty from not having bathed for a couple days, but still there was an inkling of the old Mary, the good part he had wed, and in that moment ten years of his life vanished.

Mason was the first to notice; he grinned when he saw his new friend in the arms of that woman, who he’d heard was Roger’s ex-wife. Without even thinking he blew a loud cat-call. He nudged Pierall in the elbow, but the old man glared at him. “Don’t be rude,” he said. Mason just frowned, and then remembered something he’d asked Roger the night they’d met:

“You don’t have a family, do you? It’d be awful if you did, because- and I’m only pointing out the truth- they are probably dead.” He had asked.

“No, I’m divorced,” Roger had replied.

“Glad to hear it. You know, because now I don’t have to worry about emotional problems from you or anything.”

An hour went by, then two, and plenty of work occurred during this time. The men gathered all the supplies from Otis’s tent: 33 guns, close to a hundred rounds of ammunition for each; four days’ worth of food for the entire camp, and nine frag grenades. The women (at least, those who could stomach it- meaning only Mary and the blonde woman Roger had spoken with earlier) cleaned the bodies and took them down the hill to the small makeshift graveyard by the ranch. Pierall and Mason buried the bodies of Richard Daley, Rick Dawson, and Rudolph.

“Never even learned the guy’s last name,” Mason muttered as he shoveled the last few scoops of dirt over Rudolph’s grave. The sky was darkening; the sun already set minutes before. The last colorful rays spread over the cloudy sky, creating a false feeling of peace and beauty across the open land.

“Not much you can learn about a person in six hours,” Pierall said, finishing Richie’s grave.

Mason, now finished, rested his aching chin on his shovel’s end. “What about the kid? Richie was his best pal, I think. Paul begged Pot horn to save him.”

“You almost killed us all up there,” Pierall reminded him, speaking in a sincere, almost threatening voice. “You heard what he said. Otis had no intention of hurting us. It wasn’t worth it to him.”

“Practically called us weak…’ Mason diverted.

“That’s not my point. Don’t you remember trying to blow up the place?”

“Not really, no.’ Mason retorted.

“An aggressive arrogant bastard, that’s what you are.” Pierall growled, standing straight so he loomed over Mason.

“Whoa, are you threatening me?” Mason exclaimed, raising his shovel.

“Don’t start brawling!” A woman yelled from the cluster of trees. She stepped out of the shade and strutted briskly towards them. She was a short, blonde, youthful girl, no longer a teenager but not quite a grown woman in Mason’s perspective.

“Dinner’s almost ready. Hot dogs or burgers, and how many?”

“Two burgers, well done,” Pierall answered, stepping away from Mason but not taking his eyes off him.

“Five dogs, I’m freakin’ starving. I could eat a dog,” Mason told her grinning. Pierall followed her back through the trees, and Mason could have sworn he heard the old man mutter; “You ARE one.”

Nobody ate dinner that night. The reason: a large red truck roared down the road just as the meal was about to begin, and the vehicle’s rebellious passengers dropped a fleshy object onto the bare asphalt just outside the camp.

“Grave clubbers!” Pierall roared, heading for the highway. He and Roger reached the road first; and by then they could only see the red taillights disappearing in the darkness.

He looked at the thrown-out object lying in the road. By size and shape it looked like a Seeker, but the ugly thing was curling up into a fetal position, breathing deeply. The horrid wheezing carried through the air, its’ shoulders visibly rising and falling between inhales and exhales.

“Go tell your wicked friend to fetch his axe,” Pierall ordered. Roger sprinted into camp, catching the attention of forty or so fearful campers. He scanned the crowd and saw Mason sitting at the end of the farthest table.

“Mason!” Roger shouted. Mason looked tiredly, “Come on, we need you. Bring your axe.”

Mason rolled his eyes and lazily got up. “Hurry!” Roger told him impatiently. Carlos stood and pushed Mason towards Roger, and nearly got a fist in the ribs.

“Listen to yer friend, get going,” Carlos rumbled. The three of them walked out of the camp and rejoined Pierall by the highway.

“So strange,” Pierall said, “it’s just sitting there…” Carlos scrutinized it, searching for any sign of incapacitation.

“Oh hell, just die already,” Mason muttered as he stalked over to the creature. He lifted his axe for the decapitation but paused, hearing the thing suddenly growl.

“Shut up,” he told it. The Seeker raised its head a little, and Mason heard words leave its mouth: “awwaay...g...oh...away...”

Mason stepped back involuntarily, shocked at the vocalization.

Carlos stared at it, a hint of recognition on his swollen face. “Mace, get back! It’s a screamer!”

“Then I hope it screams nice and loud!” Mason roared furiously, swinging the axe down towards the creature’s neck.

“GO AWAY!!” the screamer shrieked, suddenly standing and grabbing the axe’s handle, trying to force it out of Mason’s hands.

“Shit!” Carlos cursed, charging at the screamer, which let out a long, high-pitched note, forcing Carlos to cover his ears. It tugged against Mason, and he let it go. The blade sliced right through the screamer’s jaw. A detail he had not noticed before but, unknown to him but recognized by Carlos, defined a screamer and made it unique: the cheeks were missing entirely, replaced by a pink stretchy muscle cord on each side. Carlos would later explain that screamers were infected host that specifically had their mouth area eaten or otherwise badly damaged before turning.

The screamer fell back on the asphalt. Mason tore his axe out of zombie’s esophagus and proceeded to chop the viral body to bits, the metal blade clanging loudly whenever it hit the bare road. Once he’d chopped to his heart’s desire he kicked the remains across the highway into the grassy fields.

During that time Pierall had retrieved his binoculars, and was now watching the point where the southbound highway curved around a short foothill. If the Grave clubbers drove back up the road, he would know. After Mason’s minutes of butchering he glanced up the road, at the city. He could hardly believe it had changed so much in only nine days. He turned to speak with Carlos, and then spotted something out of the corner of his eye: there was a larger moving mass moving towards them, only a few hundred yards away. Although the sun had fallen and the sky was almost a navy blue, he could see what it was.

“Guys,” he stammered, pointing a finger north towards the movement up the road. “We’ve got a horde incoming.”

Mason ran up to Pierall and glanced where Pierall was pointing. He took one glance and cursed, then sprinted back into camp, followed by the hobbling Carlos.

“Get the guns!” He shouted, himself heading for the tent where the firearms were stored.

There was a lot of chaos: screaming and rushing into the RVs, Carlos shouting instructions to everyone who could fight while the children were herded indoors. The youthful blonde woman refused insisting that they let her fight. “I can handle myself!” she told Mary, who was unsuccessful in persuading her not to fight. “I’ve got my weapon. I’m not a child, so stop treating me like one.” Mary, who was holding her arm, let go.

“I’m sorry, Gloria.” She apologized, and then added, “Just be careful.” Gloria grinned in excitement and ran through the throng to her blue Honda civic. She threw open the trunk and grabbed her weapon.

Shots ripped through the still night air like Independence Day fireworks. Seven survivors stood spread out over the highway, shooting at the closest Seekers. They were now within easy firing range, and for the moment dropping like flies. Mason had the M16, Roger had a shotgun, firing slug rounds he’d found in the ammo stash. Carlos wielded Mason’s axe, Pierall had the sniper rifle Otis’s guard had used, a cowboy-looking man had a large revolver, and Gloria-

“What the hell is that?” Mason thundered, staring blankly at the object in her hands.

“Weed whacker,” she shouted back. It took him a moment to recognize it, for she had removed the shield and extended the wire a foot out.

There had must have been over a hundred Seekers, because wave after wave got closer to the human barricade. Somewhere in the camp someone was playing ACDC’s highway to hell loudly. Bullets sprayed against the oncoming army of undead. Shout of joy sprang every few moments. One of the men (it might have been Carlos) tossed a grenade, which illuminated the mass of moving corpses for a moment. The Seekers growled, and began to charge.

“Keep your ground!” Mason ordered. Then he bull rushed the Seekers, hitting one in the face with his carbine, tripping another, and spraying rounds into the rest. Now only fifty were left standing.

“Charge!” he yelled, half-jokingly.

The others cried out and ran at the remaining Seekers, shooting gun and swinging axe (and tearing weed-whacker). Within two minutes they had brought down all but five.

“I’ve got this one!” Gloria announced, shoving the whacker, which she called ‘flesh-ripper’ into the zombie’s face. The wire tore through the skin and splashed blood everywhere. The last Seekers collapsed after taking slug shots to the brain.

They cheered, grateful to all be alive.

“What do we do now?” Roger wondered aloud. He looked at the mess around him: two hundred destroyed bodies that were beginning to squirm again already. Carlos beat his axe into the head of one that was already standing up.

“Fire,” Mason answered. He strolled, deliberately, back towards the gravel lot where all the cars were parked. He returned several minutes later with two five gallon tanks of gas, one of which he handed to Roger. Gloria was busy ‘flesh-ripping’ some of the Seekers that were regaining their strength.

“They’re like cockroaches,” Mason told them, spilling fuel over the awful corpses. “You can step on them, stab em’ tear them limb-from-limb, but they stay alive. But even the toughest-“he kicked a nearby Seeker in the stomach, “-can’t survive being charred to ashes.”

Once both gas cans were emptied thoroughly over the area of massacre Mason pulled a fistful of dry grass from the road side and used his lighter. The others stood back, watching him drop the burning brush onto the oil-dampened highway. In awe they saw the fire leap up and race across the asphalt, lighting up every Seeker in its reach. They could hear crackling and groaning, and even some screaming from within the inferno.

Mary came out and joined them; standing at Roger’s side and gazing into the hot flames. She did not turn away when one came out of the fire, collapsing at Mason’s feet. Nor did she show any remorse for the Seekers-although it was now obvious that they could feel pain, they were NOT human. Not anymore. Roger was thinking this too, remembering what Otis had said about them: they were just the next step in evolution. Now they’re on the endangered species list, he thought.

He looked at Mary, who was still peering wonderingly into the dying fire. She looked back at him, for a moment, then suddenly they kissed, thankful for being together again, and alive, and for the moment, safe.

“We’ll have to leave soon,” he told her after they broke apart. “More will come, eventually. I’m sure of it.” They embraced, and looked on at the burning corpses, most of which had fallen and were unmoving.

“Death is limited by life itself,” Pierall muttered to himself, turning away from the burning road and heading for his RV, where he could be at peace, at least for a while.

Thursday, December 20, 2012

Friday, December 14, 2012

Episode 107 Ours Is His

Previously on Dead Limit:

“There’s an occupied safe-zone near here?” Roger questioned. “We haven’t seen any.”

“It’s not in the city, its south of here some miles,” the older man said.

“You’re kidding! A gang of teenagers can do whatever they want? You’re joking.” Rick had said in disbelief. “I guess I can live with these rules, but the prejudice…jeez.”

“Look at us now. We argue-we always did. But what’s the point? The world has ended. Can’t we start over?” Mary said, looking at him with a longing sorrow.

“We’ll see,” Roger assured.

Out of the shadows Roger could see them, limping or stumbling, moaning and growling. They practically flowed out of the forest, without warning. He got up, wondering what he could possibly do without a weapon. And then people started screaming.

=====

Paul Marshall was still surrounded, after the groups had mingled. His excitement was still fresh, the feeling of freedom, no longer needing to fear, swelled inside him. However, his joy began to fade when he realized his situation. Those around him looked no older than eighteen, except maybe the big buff one. The others, muscular dangerous-looking teenage boys, were looking at him with evil grins.

“Name’s Jericho, I’m head of the Grave Club.” The big one said, forcing out a welcoming hand. “How old are you, and how many zombies have you killed?” he went on as Paul nervously shook his rough hand.

“Twenty-three, and about three hundred. I was a chopper-gunner,” he answered. “What’s the Grave Club?”

“Us,” one of the guys answered. “And many more.”

“This is just a chapter of a growing group,” Jericho explained. “The young will adapt to this new era, and triumph over the old and the dead!” he chanted. He looked Paul over.

“You’re a bit older than I thought, but I guess you can still join. If you can pass initiation.”

“What kind of initiation?” Paul asked, suspicious.

“Oh, not a hard one-you just have to kill a zombie without any weapons.” One of the other boys said. He gave Paul a reassuring smile. “And get this: the master up the hill actually likes us, so we get to keep our weapons and everything. We’re gonna go zombie hunting tonight!” Jericho gave the boy a dark look, a you-better-shut-up look.

“Our…schedule is full at the moment, but we should be ready tomorrow. Can’t have initiation without a zombie, you know.”

Paul nodded nervously, wondering whether the club would be worth it. This was his first opportunity to be part of a group, to many friends. Jericho waited a moment, then said;

“So, are you in?”

· · · — — — · · ·

He saw flailing arms between tents a few rows over, and dashed over to help. A Seeker was tearing open the large belly of an enormous man, yanking out coils of intestine and trying to shove it all in its bloody jaws. Roger clutched the knife in his hand tightly and brought it down on the monster’s bare, bony spine. It let out an eerie screeched and fell into the mushy mass of its meal. Roger knew the man was dead. He heard a low growl behind him and spun on the spot, in time to see a shovel blade severe a bearded zombie’s arm. The wielder, to Roger’s delight, was Mason. He watched his friend tear the digging tool into the thing’s rib cage, and kicked it roughly to the ground. Roger gave him a thumbs-up before running towards Mary’s tent, where another two Seekers were limping.

The sound of shots finally burst from up the hill. Finally! Roger thought in relief as he drove his knife through the ear of a Seeker. He saw Miguel beating at a fat one with the police batons he'd been allowed to keep, and yelled when he noticed one sneak up on the Mexican and take a chunk out of his arm from behind.

Roger watched sadly as Miguel took one last swing before, to his shock, the young man’s head exploded into shards of bone and bits of flesh. He could frightfully up the hill, at the sniper. The guard had murdered and ally.

“No!” he heard multiple people exclaim. Mary clambered out of her tent, looking scared out of her mind.

“What are they doing here? How is this possible?” She asked.

Shots continued for several seconds, Seekers were killed one by one. The stench of death hung in the air through the camp. People were running in all directions, some with make-shift weapons, the rest just wanting to avoid death. Roger couldn’t believe how weak the security was. Standing in the middle of the clearing he had a view of all the carnage; the bodies of Seekers and friends, multiple shredded tents, unrecognizable gore spread on the ground…

He closed his eyes, wanting to block it all out, for the nightmare to end. He thought back to his hike, seeing Tyler’s…guts splattered on that rock…He couldn’t take it anymore. I should have died to.

He heard soft wheezing behind him, and turned to throw his hardest punch—then stopped. It was a child, a little girl probably no older than five. She wore a tattered skirt and a graphic tee, and held a stuffed bear in one hand. He looked around, seeing Mason beating one of the creatures to a second death with his bare hands, saw Carlos swinging a pipe around, noticed Pierall clubbing an armless old hag with a large tree branch; Everyone capable of fighting trying to take down the remaining Seekers, and others chopping up the bodies before they reanimated again.

The child stepped closer, hardly a yard away. Roger knew it was dead; in fact it wasn’t even a child. Whoever this girl once was is gone. This is only a shell, filled with the foulest of evils, seeking only to feed and infect.

Still, he could not bring himself to do it. You’re weak, he thought to himself. You think this camp needs better security, but you can’t defend it yourself. His face twisted in fury, and he swung his knife at the thing’s head. But before he could put the creature out of its misery, a bullet did the job for him.

Day Eleven of Infection:

Roger could hardly sleep the rest of the night. Mary’s tent had been ripped open in the back, and when she half-heartedly asked if she stay whit him for the night he agreed without question. They were both to shocked from the attack to care about their past. Roger hoped that the camp rules could have an exception for a while. Around five in the morning, after waking up every half hour and constantly imagining he heard more Seekers, he got up and went for a stroll, leaving Mary sleeping alone.

He walked around the perimeter of the clearing, making sure there wasn’t another impending attack. Across the highway the pile of Seeker matter still smoked heavily. It had taken longer to clean up after the battle than it had taken to kill the monsters.

I hope that smoke isn’t a beacon for zombie food, he thought.

He heard people chatting within the clearing and decided to join them. Sitting at one table, speaking urgently, were Mary, Pierall, and Rick. The pilot took a swig of Coors and said loudly, “We could build a barrier, put up a fence or something.”

“What we need is our weapons,” Carlos said gruffly.

“I agree with both, but those aren’t possible at the moment. We know the rules, and the consequences as well.”

“He killed Miguel,” Mary muttered sadly, staring at the giant up the hill.

“He was dead anyways,” a new voice pitched in. Roger noticed Mason approaching. Nobody had even noticed Roger was there.

“Hey bud, you look awful. No sleep, huh?” Mason commented.

“Yeah,” Roger replied. He sat down next to Mary, and his friend dropped onto the bench across.

“So will there be like, a revolution or something today?” Mason asked.

“Shh!” they all said at once. Mason laughed. “Okay, sorry. I’m all ears...”

Roger leaned forward to listen, but Mary nudged him, standing up and motioning away from the table. He sighed and followed her back to his tent.

“Look, about last night—” he began, but she threw herself into his arms and kissed him. He was startled, and pulled back in surprise.

"Roger, I...don't really know how else to say it, but...I never stopped loving you." Mary whispered.

He stammered, at a loss for words. Before he could say anything, however, he heard a familiar voice, screaming. He suddenly stood up, along with all the other campers. The source of Paul’s loud yelling was coming, of all places, from the black-and-gray RV with the red words The Grave Club.

Back at the table the others heard the scream as well. “Of all the mistakes your friend could make today, he had to associate with them,” Pierall growled at Rick. Mason reached the Grave Clubs’ vehicle first and twisted the door handle, only to find it was locked. Before any of the other men could reach him, Mason kicked open the door, knocking it clear off its hinges. He took no hesitation, jumping the steps into the cabin, where he, followed by Pierall, Carlos, Rick, and Roger; beheld a gruesome sight:

Paul was against the wall, an oozing bite wound on his shoulder and his arms tied behind, struggling against a Seeker that was missing its arms. “Kill it!” He yelled. Pierall took a knife from his belt; the only weapon in the room, and lunged at the Seeker, driving the blade deep into its skull.

The Seeker hit the floor with a gross thud, its blood flowing from the stab wound in its forehead. Pierall yanked the knife out of the corpse’s head and shook Paul, who was leaning against the wall in shock, staring at the body on the ground.

“It’s alright, it won’t hurt you now.” Pierall told him. However, as if to contradict his statement, the Seeker started to move again, reaching its head towards Paul’s legs. Mason stepped forward and stomped his boot hard into its face, grimacing as they heard a sickening crunch. He then kicked it across the floor, while Carlos searched the RV’s cupboards for something to use as a weapon.

Mason continued to furiously kick the Seeker into the bathroom while Pierall hustled Paul to the exit. Carlos pulled one of the kitchen drawers open and gleefully brought out a pistol.

“I knew they kept their guns! He exclaimed. He joined Mason in the bathroom, planning to shoot the Seeker to pieces, when Pierall shouted “No! Keep it hidden!”

Carlos nodded, and slipped the gun into his pocket. He then proceeded to help Mason kick the life out of the growling, undying creature.

Meanwhile, Roger and Pierall carried Paul outside, laying him softly on a patch of bare dirt. “Get medical supplies!” Roger yelled at the group of campers surrounding them. Paul was struggling for breath, his skin becoming a ghastly white. A pool of blood was already forming around his shoulder. Richie ran right through the crowd, shoving everyone aside and then kneeling next to his dying friend.

“Paul!” he yelled, ripping his own shirt and tying the cloth around Paul’s arm. “What the hell happened to him?” he screamed at Pierall. Mary ran over with a first aid kit. Feeling selfish, Roger took it from her and opened it himself, bringing out a tube of Neosporin.

Shaking his head sadly and pouring through the kit’s contents (Band-Aids, hydrogen peroxide, gauze, a bottle of Benadryl, tweezers, and an ice pack) and said; “none of this will work. Even if we could stop the bleeding, he’s still infected.”

“What?” Richie yelled, his head snapping up (he’d been looking at the wound and mopping up the blood), “You mean he got bit!?” He looked down at his friend, who was gasping for breath, and nearly drained of color. “How could you do this?” he whispered. “Why did you let it bite you?” Richie suddenly stood up, exclaiming “James!” under his breath, and took off toward the other side of camp.

“Hey, what are you doing?” Pierall yelled after him. He then brought is attention back to Paul, and grabbed the hydrogen peroxide from the first-aid kit. “This is going to sting like hell, but it might save you.” He told Paul, who nodded almost imperceptibly.

Unwrapping Richie’s shirt-tourniquet, Pierall opened the bottle and dumped it directly onto the wound. Paul screamed, reaching his other arm to his shoulder, which was already bubbling thick with the white foam from the peroxide. Roger grabbed Paul’s arm, saying “I know it stings, but don’t touch it.” Paul clenched his teeth together. He was surprised at how much it hurt- he hadn’t felt much pain from the bite itself because he’d been in shock.

Pierall gently dabbed away the foam with the torn piece of shirt, then opened the tube of Neosporin while Roger held the ice-pack to the open flesh. Paul winced as the cold plastic came in contact with his torn flesh. The blood was still flowing, but less persistently. Pierall was about to pour the pain-reliever over the bite, but Roger stopped him, saying;

“That won’t help. It’s too big a wound, and too deep.” Just then Richie returned, panting and carrying a metal container covered in biohazard signs.

“Thank god James gave this to us…” he gasped. He unlatched the lid and took out one of the syringes Dr. Patcorn had given them.

“What the hell is that?” Pierall asked.

“A cure, we think,” Roger asked.

“Come on, friend, you’re going to make it now!” Richie yelled, holding the syringe above Paul’s shoulder. He was about to inject it when Paul shook his head weakly.

“No,” he wheezed, “It’s alright…I’m dead anyways.” Richie looked like he’d been punched in the face. A tear dropped down his cheek.

“Don’t do this to me,” he cried, “don’t you dare leave me here alone!” his hand twitched, lowering the syringe closer to Paul’s shoulder.

“Don’t start bawling now;” Paul said between sharp air intakes, “There will be plenty of tear-time later.” He laughed weakly. Richie only cried harder, remembering that he’d said those exact same words to Paul yesterday morning. Paul closed his eyes, taking a deep, raspy breath. Richie sniffled, and felt his friend’s arm for a pulse. After a few moments he found one, barely able to feel it. Then he waited, not at all anticipating the moment that was sure to come; when the pulse would be lost and Paul would die and be gone forever.

Yet that moment never came. Most of the group who had been watching had left after twenty minutes or so, and after forty the only people left by Paul were Richie (still sobbing lightly); Roger, Rick, Rudolph, and Mason; who had joined them after finishing his “zombie business” as he said. Paul was still silent and unmoving, except for the occasional twitch and grimace that told everyone he was still alive. Richie continued to check his pulse every few minutes.

“I swear it’s getting stronger!” he said with a smile at one point.

“I think he’ll make it,” Roger whispered in a comforting tone, trying to calm Richie, who replied:

“But he’s only got a day at most; he’s still infected!”

Roger thought carefully for a minute, and then said, “It’s his choice.” Richie nodded, but still held the Modified-HIV syringe tightly in his good hand.

Mary came over, accompanied by an elderly woman, whom Roger assumed was Ms. Irene. She was frail and tired in appearance, but she had a look of concern and knowing that gave her a wise aura.

“Is he feeling better?” the old woman asked kindly. Mary’s face was grave. As if to answer Ms. Irene’s question, suddenly, Paul gave a long, loud snore.

“I guess that answers that question!” Richie exclaimed, giving a whoop of delight. He was grateful and relieved that his friend’s condition was improving. “Now we’re even,” he whispered. At the same time, Pierall struck up a new and more concerning conversation:

“I always knew those boys were trouble,” he growled.

“They had a pet Seeker,” Mason muttered, shaking his head in disbelief. “They must’ve captured it last night. We beat it to pieces, but what do we do with the remains?”

Roger stood up, an expression of fury on his face. “We light ‘im up.”

Mason pulled a lighter out of his pocket, and evil grin spreading over his weary face.

“Where did it come from?” Richie asked.

“There was a wooden crate half-under the bed,” Mason told him as he got to his feet, “So they probably kept it locked up in it the whole goddamn time.” He trotted back towards the Grave Club RV, flicking the lighter on and off.

“Where did those boys go? They’ve been gone for nearly an hour, though I’d daresay they don’t want to return now.” Roger said, turning his attention back to Paul.

“I think I saw them going up to the ranch earlier,” Ms. Irene replied. “You should get that poor boy inside,” She continued, “There’s room for a spare mattress in my-“ Out of nowhere they heard a rapid-fire gun go off, and Roger saw four holes appear in Ms. Irene’s abdomen. There was a loud commotion near the camp entrance, followed by many screams and campers running everywhere. Pierall rushed to help Mary lower the flailing body of Ms. Irene, which had four fountains of dark blood spurting from it.

Mason dashed out of the club RV and sprinted, soon followed by Roger, to the source of all the chaos.

The teenagers; Jericho and Thomas and four others, were boarding a large red truck, packs on their backs and guns in hand. Before Mason could get within yards of them the truck roared to life; kicked up a blinding cloud of dirt and gravel, and sped off up the road. All anyone could do was watch the vehicle race down the highway, and listen to their celebratory cheers.

“They’re going towards the city?” Richie asked as he caught up to Mason, who kicked the ground in fury.

“Those idiots will be back,” He growled, “and when they return, I’ll kill them all!” He then ran through the throng of frightened onlookers, and ducked into his tent, bringing out the backpack Dr. Patcorn had given him.

He brought it over to Roger, Rudolph, and Rick, who were carrying Paul towards Ms. Irene’s yellow RV. “Remember how when we learned the stupid ‘rules’ I said I would take our guns up to him?” he said in a maniacal joy. Roger nodded, already knowing what Mason was saying.

“Well, I’m damn glad I am such a liar. I snuck away all those pistols Patty gave us, and now you are going to help me use them. We need real weapons, and boss-man will kill us before he sees us lay a finger on them.” He opened his pack, handing a pistol each to Roger, Rudolph, and Rick.

“Why didn’t you tell us last night?!” Pierall exclaimed. We could have saved a few people, there would’ve been less damage—do you know how damn hard those things are to kill?”

Mason hung his head. “Look, I admit I totally forgot about the guns at the time. But at least your ‘ruler’ still doesn’t know we have these,” he defended.

Pierall nodded solemnly and took the last one, saying: “I’ve wanted big guy-“he nodded towards the tent up the hill, where, to his sudden surprise, he noticed the guard was missing;”-dead for so long. You go up there and distract him, and I’ll get him from behind. Don’t worry; I’m a pretty good shot.”

Quickly, before the guard returned and saw what was happening, Pierall called all the campers into a huddle.

“We’re taking down the big guy tonight,” he explained. This caused a bunch of cheers that were hurriedly silenced.

“I want all the women and children to get inside or somewhere safe,” he went on, bring a bunch of groans and murmured complaints.

“Now, act normal, and start heading into shelter a person at a time. The RVs are your best bet, but if we run out of room take cover in the tents. Snipey won’t have such an easy time seeing you there.” His joke brought a few giggles from the children but all the adults understood this was not a happy moment. They nodded in agreement to the plan then spread out, returning to their normal activities. Twenty minutes went by, with nothing happening to cause suspicion.

“Who’ll be leader after this one’s gone?” Roger casually asked Mary. She shrugged.

“Likely Peirall, since a lot of us look up to him.”

“People look up to you,” Roger reminded her.

“Yeah, and I would suck as leader. You on the other hand, mister captain-of-the-baseball-team and…” Their conversation continued as the headed towards Pierall’s RV. Meanwhile Mason started up the hill, while Pierall snuck through the trees and overgrown brush. Once he reached the tent: a green and white over-sized ten-person camp dwelling; he took in a panoramic view of the landscape. Below was the camp, which seemed small even from just a football field’s distance away. He could see the flat grassland spreading east before him, the city up north, and the hills to the south. It’s a nice view you’ve got up here, boss-man, he thought. He spotted Pierall crawling in the grass about twenty feet away, almost level with him. He then took a breath, turned around, and found himself face-to-face with the giant.

“Jesus, you scare the hell out of me!” he cried out. The juggernaut just smiled. “I have a frightening appearance, don’t I?” he said with a laugh. He pulled out a cigar and lit it, and after a puff grabbed his sniper rifle off his back-holster, then replied, “I know what you want, and you can’t have them. If those boys return I personally will have a chat with them.” He took a look through his scope, then added; “The red head will have to die, by the way. Zero tolerance for infe-“

Mason never let the man finish his sentence: While the giant was peering down his scope Mason seized the moment and brought his fist up to the man’s face; the only part of the guy’s body that was not concealed in armor, and hit him square in the jaw. He flinched but swung his rifle at Mason, who dropped backwards onto the ground, delivering a hard kick to the juggernaut’s groin. Once again, the giant barely seemed to feel it. He raised his rifle high in the air, ready to pound Mason into the ground with it, when Mason heard a clang! : A bullet bounced of his thick armor. Mason only had a second to see Rick climbing the hill, firing his pistol. He rolled away before the guard could react further, and just in time it seemed, because all four men down the hill who had pistols (Carlos included) let loose a barrage of bullets; most so poorly aimed they tore into the tent or hit the dirt. The guard, somewhat calmly, raised his rifle’s scope to his eyes.

“Duck!” Mason yelled as loud as he could, climbing to his feet and launching himself, not at the guard, but at the rifle itself. He was too late. “Bang!” the sniper muttered while simultaneously pulling the trigger, the gun emitting a similar but far louder sound.

Mason slammed into the rifle at approximately the same moment as the .50 caliber round sliced through Rick Dawson’s stomach.

He heard the man yell “Score!” in a voice of dark humor.

Somehow, Mason’s weight and momentum was not enough to knock the rifle out of the giant’s hand’s, and he hit the ground again, hard. In the next few seconds he saw many things happen, fantastic and horrible at the same time: Rick collapsed as the others downhill swiftly ducked into the grass, the guard brought his foot down on his stomach, and Pierall stepped out from behind the tent, aimed carefully at the juggernaut’s unprotected head, and fired, point-blank, three times in a row.