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.
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.”
Next Episode is the Season One Finale and will be posted at 12:30 on December 21st, 2012. If reality survives, this story shall continue. A major preview will be online soon. Thank you for reading this far, and be sure to contact me if you have any questions/comments/ideas! (see Mid-Season break for more info).
-Final Revelation