Z Force 1: A Post-Apocalyptic Thriller (Infection Chronicles Book 2) Read online

“Damn straight.”

  “If I were president, you better believe everyone would have a job. Weed would be legal everywhere. And there wouldn’t be no goddamn terrorists.”

  “I’d vote for you,” Earl stuttered. Just about everything that came out of his mouth took a lot of effort.

  “I swear to God, if I ever see that president of ours, I’m gonna punch him in the face,” Duke said. “I’ll do it too. He’s a little bitch.”

  Duke took another hit off the bong.

  “Can you believe he’s got people that will take a bullet for him? Fuck that noise.” Duke was getting riled up. “What kind of job is that?”

  A knock on the door disrupted Duke’s rant. His eyes bugged out and he pulled back on the RK’s charging handle. It snapped forward and chambered a round with a click. The weapon was locked and loaded.

  Duke sprung from the couch and crept to the door. “Who is it?”

  “It’s me.” The voice of a southern belle breezed through the door. It was as sweet as apple pie.

  “Who’s me?” Duke winked at Earl and tried to stifle a laugh. He knew good and well who it was.

  “Cut the shit, Duke.”

  “What’s the password?”

  “Just open the door.”

  “What’s the password?”

  “Duke!” she pleaded, exasperated.

  “Ain’t nobody gets in without a password.”

  You could hear her sigh through the door. After a moment, she finally said it. “Pussy.”

  Duke and Earl snickered a moment, then he finally pulled open the door.

  Brandi Leigh stood on the porch in her super short cutoff jeans, boots, tight tank top, and straw cowgirl hat. She was straight out of the pages of monster truck magazine. She had golden legs, tight abs, and perky little breasts that had no need for a bra. She was a slice of heaven in a crappy, backwater town.

  Duke left her at the door and plopped back down on the couch.

  Brandi rolled her eyes in disdain. She stepped inside and closed the door behind her. “This place is disgusting.”

  “Clean it up then,” Duke barked.

  “H... H… Hi, Brandi Leigh.” If Earl had a speech impediment before, it was magnified around Brandi. His face flushed red. There was no hiding his crush on this southern goddess.

  Brandi’s face crinkled up. “Make him leave.”

  “He ain’t hurting nobody,” Duke said, watching TV.

  Brandi gave Duke a sassy look. Then her sexy, breathy voice filled the air. “You want that hot, wet password rubbing up and down on your pistol?”

  As dumb as Duke was, he got the hint. “Get the fuck out, Earl.”

  “But, I thought we was gonna go shoot’n?”

  “We’ll shoot later.”

  “Fuck this,” Earl said. It was a rare act of defiance. “I’m going to go join Ray Ray’s militia. At least they train.”

  “Playing video games ain’t training.”

  “The survival of this nation may well come down to the preparedness of well organized militias. If you don't have the courage to lead, I may just start my own.”

  Duke looked at him like he was crazy. “You ain’t gonna start shit, Earl. Now get lost before I put a beat’n on you.”

  Earl’s face reddened and his eyes slicked over. He stood up and stormed toward the door.

  “Load two of those Disruptors in the truck before you go. I gotta meet with a buyer later this afternoon.”

  “Load them yourself,” Earl said.

  “Don’t make me tell you twice.”

  Earl flung open the door and slammed it behind him. The blinds rattled against the glass.

  “You didn’t have to be that much of a dick to him,” Brandi said.

  “You were the one who wanted him to leave?”

  Brandi grinned. “That’s because we got business to take care of.” She took off her cowgirl hat and tossed it aside. Then she grabbed the bottom of her tank top and slowly peeled it up over her chest. The soft, ribbed fabric traced her delicate skin. Then she pulled it over the top of her head, wiggling out of it. Things bounced in divine ways. Brandi was perfectly put together. She tossed the shirt next to the hat and smiled. A naughty glimmer flickered in her eyes.

  Duke’s stoned eyes went wide.

  3

  Earl’s life was about to change forever.

  He marched away from Duke’s trailer. It was a grungy white mobile home with faded green accents. It sat in a field, ensconced by old oak trees and surround by bits of rusted out junk. An old washing machine. A red and white 57 chevy on blocks with weeds growing up around it. An old stained toilet and dozens of other small items and car parts.

  Parked in front of the trailer was a jacked up 2035 Toyoma Rumbler 4x4. It was waxed and detailed to perfection. It gleamed in the brilliant sun. It was Duke’s pride and joy, and he loved that truck more than life itself.

  Duke had inherited 40 acres of land that had been in his family for ages. He liked to think of it as his own nation. A sovereign state. Duke Land—a renegade survivalist compound. But he really hadn’t taken any steps to prepare for the impending disaster. It was something that he and Earl mostly just talked about.

  Earl stomped from the trailer to the barn. A wooden shack with peeling red paint and a tin roof. The building was leaning askew and looked like it might blow down in the next big storm.

  Earl yanked open the barn door and stepped into the blackness. Beams of light filtered in through the cracks and holes in the wood. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust. The barn smelled damp and musty. There was an old rusty tractor that hadn’t been started in ages. Wooden beams supported the vaulted ceiling, and a wooden ladder led up to the loft.

  Several bales of hay were stacked in the center of the barn. Earl moved them aside to reveal a trap door in the floor. He grabbed the handle and pulled the door open. A creaky wooden staircase led down to a dark cellar. Earl grumbled as he shuffled down the steps. The air was several degrees cooler down below.

  He flipped on the light—the cellar was filled with row after row of weapons, ammunition, and survival supplies. But this wasn’t your ordinary, backcountry weapons cache. There were RK 709 assault rifles and RPG-7 grenade launchers. Cases of thermal grenades and advanced medical kits. Four Hell-Storm air to ground missiles and two MXR-9 Disruptors. Bricks of C9 plastic explosive. Plus tons of other tactical gear.

  The Disruptors were precision guided, shoulder launched surface to air missiles. They had an effective range of 10 miles. Onboard cameras would lock, and motion track, the target. A remote guidance system allowed the operator complete control of the missile—with the option to abort at any time. They were great anti-aircraft and anti-tank weapons. They were even effective at taking out incoming missiles. But they came with a hefty price tag of $208,000 per unit. At least, that’s what the Army paid for them. On the street, Duke would be lucky to get half that.

  Earl didn’t really want to know where they came from, and he didn’t ask. Though, he had a suspicion they came from Fort Ramsey. Earl helped Duke load weapons in and out and went with him on pickups and deliveries. Duke paid Earl in cash, and it was enough for him to pay the bills and keep food on the table. He also got to shoot as much ammo as he wanted, and he occasionally got to blow stuff up—and that was good enough for him.

  Earl grabbed a plastic, impact resistant, waterproof case containing a Disruptor. He slid it off the shelf. The damn thing was almost as tall as he was. And almost as heavy. He lugged it up the steps and across the lawn to the truck. He dropped the tailgate, hefted the case up, and slid it in the truck bed. Then he plodded back to the cellar for the second Disruptor. Once it was in the truck bed, he covered them both with a tarp and slammed the tailgate shut.

  The mobile home was shaking. He could hear the rusty springs of the couch, and Brandi’s moans. Earl shook his head and grumbled to himself again. Then he headed home.

  Earl crossed the field and scaled the barbed wire fence. The wires were
rusted and slack. The mesquite wood posts leaned in every imaginable direction. From there, he plowed through the tall grass. Then trudged across the railroad tracks and up to the highway. Then took the bridge across the river.

  A black armored personnel carrier roared past him. The sides were emblazoned with the Homeland Security logo. The fat black tires were taller than he was. A gust of wind from the passing vehicle tousled his hair. He could feel the heat from the engine, and his nostrils filled with the smell of diesel exhaust.

  His heart raced. He wondered what the hell Homeland Security was doing here. He thought, for a moment, they were looking for Duke’s weapons cache. Then he remembered the president’s speech on TV—something about a vaccine. He watched the APC as it crossed the bridge. Then it turned on to the Matheson’s property—Earl’s nearest neighbor.

  Earl lived in a modest country home, built in the mid-1930s. It had a breezy porch, with creaky wood and peeling paint. The little white house sat on several acres of what used to be a sprawling farm. Most of the land was sold off long ago by Earl’s parents when things got tight. There was still an old, green John Deere tractor in the barn. Earl kept a small garden in the back. Tomatoes, potatoes, onions, green beans, strawberries, raspberries, and blackberries. He wasn’t much of a cook, but he followed his mother’s pie recipes religiously.

  They didn’t turn out half bad.

  He stepped onto the porch and the wood creaked. You could always tell when someone was at the door. No need for a doorbell.

  He pushed through the door, stepping into the foyer. His little sister, Isabella, was at the kitchen table doing homework. At 12, she was completely self sufficient, and a helluva lot smarter than Earl. She was in the advanced program, taking freshman classes. She had thick brown glasses, amber eyes, and brown hair that she wore in a ponytail.

  “What are you working on?” Earl asked as he plodded to the fridge.

  “Essay. Restoration and preservation of traditional cultures in the face of globalization.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “The integration of people and cultures driven by international trade and information technology.” She looked at him like he was a moron—which wasn’t far from the truth.

  “I know that. I was just testing you.”

  “Whatever.” She rolled her eyes and put her head back down to the paper.

  “Are you hungry?” Earl asked.

  Isabella nodded.

  Earl threw a pan on the gas stove, tossed in a pad of butter, and began making two grilled cheese sandwiches. Then he set four places at the table.

  “How long are you going to keep setting places for them?” Isabella asked.

  Earl shrugged. “Until they come back.”

  “They’re dead, Earl. They’re never coming back.”

  Earl frowned and moved back to the stove. He was going to keep setting plates for his parents. He had done it every day since they passed. It made him feel like they were still alive—just out there, somewhere. Like they hadn’t come home for dinner yet.

  It had the opposite effect on Isabella. She hated it. It served as a constant reminder of the family she had lost.

  Earl flipped the sandwiches, then went to the living room and switched on the TV. Monster truck engines blasted out through the tiny speaker. A mammoth 4x4 rolled over a row of cars in a giant arena.

  “Earl, I’m trying to concentrate.”

  Earl turned the volume down. He lounged around on the couch for a few minutes. Soon, the smell of burnt toast filled the air.

  “Earl,” Isabella yelled.

  “Shit.” He leapt over the couch and dashed into the kitchen. He flipped the sandwiches again. But the bottom side was charred. He browned the other side, then scooped them out. He cut them diagonally, and brought them to the table.

  Isabella raised an eyebrow at the crispy meal.

  “Sorry.”

  She peeled off the side of the bread that looked like charcoal. Earl followed suit. Then he handed Isabella his lightly toasted side, and she made a full sandwich. Earl may have been a lot of things, but he loved his little sister.

  “I know I’m not as good a cook as mom,” Earl said. He sulked back into the kitchen to cook another grilled cheese sandwich for himself.

  “You got half the sandwich right. I think you just need to apply yourself a little more.”

  “I ain’t naturally smart like you.”

  Isabella shook her head. “It’s not rocket science, Earl.”

  Earl heard the front porch creek with several footsteps. Then a forceful knock on the door rattled the house. Earl’s brow scrunched up—not many visitors came to the house. He wasn’t expecting anyone. The pounding on the door was too heavy to be one of Isabella’s friends.

  Earl strode to the door and peeked through the peephole. There were several men dressed in black tactical gear. They had full body armor, bio-masks, and assault rifles.

  There was another thunderous knock on the door. Then a filtered voice called out. “Homeland Security. Open up.”

  “What the hell do you want?”

  “We’re under orders from the president of the United States. Operation American Shield. Compliance is mandatory. Open the door, or we will break it down.”

  Earl hesitated, then pulled the door open.

  The tactical team flooded into the foyer, almost knocking him over. One of the goons held up a piece of paper. “Inoculation Task Force. How many residents in the home?”

  “Hey, you can’t just barge in here.”

  “We’ve got a resistor,” one of the task force goons said. He grabbed Earl and slammed him against the wall. Another goon drew his weapon on Earl.

  “Hey, get your hands off my brother,” Isabella said, standing at the entrance to the foyer.

  Black helmets snapped in her direction. “Secure her,” the task force leader barked.

  Two goons marched toward her. Isabella shrieked and ran off through the house. But the goons were upon her in a matter of steps. They snatched her up by the arms and drug her back into the foyer. She was kicking and screaming. Her glasses fell from her face and were crushed under a heavy tactical boot. Everything in her field of view was just a fuzzy shape now.

  “You leave her alone,” Earl shouted. He tried to twist free of the goon’s grasp. But another goon jammed the butt of a rifle into his belly. Earl doubled over and dropped to his knees.

  “Inject her,” the leader said.

  The task force’s medical technician pulled out an injection gun. “Don’t worry. This isn’t going to hurt. It’s for your own protection.”

  Tears were streaming down Isabella’s face. She wiggled and squirmed.

  “Leave her alone,” Earl said.

  The goon jammed the inoculation gun against the flesh of Isabella’s upper arm. His finger squeezed the trigger. A rush of vaccine flowed into her veins. He recharged the inoculation gun and moved toward Earl.

  Two other task force operators pulled Earl to his feet.

  “Hold him steady,” one of the goons said.

  The inoculation gun moved closer to Earl.

  Isabella was trembling with fear and crying. A moment later she collapsed.

  “Isabella,” Earl screamed.

  “I don’t feel so good,” she said. Then she vomited. A partially digested grilled cheese sandwich spewed onto the floor. One of the task force guys looked like he was about to puke in his mask—a sympathetic vomiter.

  “She’s having a reaction, sir,” one of the goons said.

  “No, she’s fine,” the leader said.

  All eyes were on Isabella. Earl broke free and kicked one of the task force guys in the balls. The man crumpled to the ground. Earl snatched his weapon. He spun around and took aim at the leader. “What did you do to her?”

  “Take it easy, son,” the leader said, calmly trying to diffuse the situation.

  “What’s in that goddamn vaccine?”

  “Just a routine vaccination. A little
dizziness and nausea are perfectly normal. The vaccine is for your own protection. Now, put the gun down before someone gets hurt.”

  Isabella started convulsing and continued vomiting. But this time, she was puking up blood. It splattered on the floor as she heaved uncontrollably.

  “That don’t seem normal to me,” Earl said.

  Isabella’s body shook, then seized up in a spasm. She convulsed a few times, then went limp.

  “Isabella,” Earl screamed. His face was panicked, and his eyes were red and teary.

  Isabella didn’t move.

  The medical technician knelt beside her and rolled her onto her back. He peeled open her eyelids. “Looks like we’ve got another one, sir.” He looked back at the leader.

  Isabella lunged for his neck. Her teeth flashed, and her eyes glazed over red. She tore into his flesh, ripping a chunk out. Blood spurted everywhere.

  The man fell back, clutching his throat. Torrents of blood spewed through his fingers. He was dead within moments as the blood drained from his body.

  Isabella snarled and turned toward the rest of the task force. The goons looked dumbfounded.

  “Goddamn it, shoot her!” the squad leader yelled.

  Earl wasn’t about to let that happen. He squeezed off several rounds, dropping one of the task force goons. Then another. Then he aimed his weapon back at the squad leader. It all happened in a flash.

  “Son, I don’t think you understand.”

  “I understand just fine.”

  “What’s your name, son?”

  “Earl,” he stammered.

  “I’m sorry, Earl, but your sister is already dead. And we will be too if we don’t stop her. She’s infected.”

  Isabella looked rabid. She staggered toward them, hissing and growling.

  “And who’s fault is that?” Earl asked.

  The squad leader was in between Isabella and Earl. He was trying to keep an eye on both of them. He knew if he moved to shoot Isabella, Earl would take him out. And if he didn’t, Isabella would be upon him in a matter of moments.

  4

  The squad leader backed away into the living room.