A Heartbeat from Destruction (The Heartbeat Saga Book 1) Page 7

  “Ramirez!” Wade screamed. The suburban plowed directly into back of the officer’s car. Instead of smashing like a pancake, it lurched onto its side, wheels spinning in the air, plowing into Luke’s store. Glass and wood that had stood for over a century, shattered and splintered. The vehicle struck the strong old granite counter and pivoted wildly, the back end swinging deep inside the store. And then the violent collision was over. Smoke and dust rose away from the wreckage. A shredded yellow newspaper drifted towards the earth. A splintered plank swung back and forth precariously over the gaping hole.

  If it wasn’t for Officer Ramirez’s quick thinking, he would have surely been crushed. When the suburban smashed into his car he had lunged left, receiving only a glancing blow. He fell safely to his stomach but screamed as his squad car’s back tire rolled over him, twisting his foot into a grotesque angle.

  One of Mrs. Campbell’s unwelcome hitchhikers fell under the suburban when it toppled, leaving only a trail of body parts and a great swath of smeared blood. The other, a female, miraculously held on and was standing before anyone else had time to recover. The last rays of dying sunlight shone on the front window of the suburban as it lay half in, half out, of the store. Mrs. Campbell lay on her side, trapped by her seatbelt and airbag.

  The female stared, her breathing labored and raspy. Her hair lay askew in strange Medusa-like angles. Dust swirled around her like a blanket. She let out a terrible, high pitched scream and launched herself onto the windshield, fists flurrying.

  Wade was the first to recover. “Smith, get Ramirez out of there. Ramirez!” The man looked to his Sergeant with teeth locked in a grimace. “Suck it up, God dammit! Draw that pistol!” Ramirez nodded and fumbled for his side arm.

  Wade crouch ran, looking for a shot on the deranged female. “Freeze bitch! I’ll shoot! I swear to God!” He couldn’t risk opening fire without hitting Mrs. Campbell. He prayed the woman would stop.

  She did not.

  Giving up on her fists, the woman decided her forehead would do the trick and slammed it into the windshield. The glass stretched in a thousand cracks like a spider’s web.

  “Don’t touch her, you bitch! I’ll shoot!” Wade screamed. He ran for her but it was too late.

  The woman had her entire torso in the cab of the suburban, swinging left and right at Mrs. Campbell’s face. John’s mother raised her arms to shield herself from the blows but as she was pummeled, she began to lose consciousness and her defenses dropped. The woman pounded with merciless, sickening smacks. Wade grabbed the woman’s bare ankles. As if sensing she was about to be robbed of her prize, the woman leaned forward and sank her teeth into Mrs. Campbell’s nose. A piercing scream welcomed Mrs. Campbell back into consciousness. Wade’s eyes widened in horror. He yanked the woman as hard as he could and she broke free of the cab. Wade fell back, his AR bouncing away.

  The woman shot to her feet and turned on him.

  “Shit,” Wade said. Her blood red eyes bulged fanatically. She gasped like a child seeing what Santa brought on Christmas day. Chunks of flesh and gore fell from her mouth to the gravel.

  And she ran for him.

  Wade stopped her charge with boots to her chest and fumbled for his pistol. Blood dripped from her mouth, splattering the ground inches from his face.

  “Sarge!” Officer Smith yelled. He dropped Ramirez and reached for his pistol but Wade had his in hand already. He fired round after round into his attacker’s face until it disappeared from site. A geyser of warm blood misted into the air while chunks of flesh and hair smacked into the hood of Mrs. Campbell’s suburban.

  Luke ran to his brother. “I’m fine, I’m fine,” Wade assured him, getting to his feet. “Ramirez, you ok?”

  “I’m good Sarge! Just sprained my ankle.” Wade saw his foot twisted in an unnatural way and nodded, proud of his bravery.

  “Smith, get in that vehicle and pull that poor woman out of there. Where are my Goddamn paramedics? Everyone ok over there?”

  John answered by breaking free of Bridgett’s grasp and running towards the destroyed vehicle. “Momma, momma…” He repeated. Tears streaked his chubby cheeks.

  Luke caught him in stride. “It’s okay John,” he said. “Everything’s going to be okay.” John looked on as Officer Smith crawled into the wreckage. Bridgett crouched in the gravel, her hands hiding her face. Mr. Worsby leaned on his cane, shaking his head slowly back and forth.

  Please Lord, for John’s sake, let her be okay.

  Mrs. Campbell was a small, frail woman whose good natured face had been ruined by the woman’s ruthless assault. A bloody stump protruded from her face where her nose had been. Smith pulled her from the vehicle and laid her gently on the ground. Luke kneeled at her side, pulling John with him. John, at a loss for words, ran stubby fingers through his mother’s hair, pulling bloody strands off of her face which was already turning purple from the beating.

  “John, I love you.”

  Mrs. Campbell spurted blood as she spoke. Smith, who kneeled across from Luke, shook his head. She spoke softly. John leaned an ear close to her mouth so he could hear her last words. “You must always remember how much Mommy loves you. I… Aaaggghhh!”

  The words caught in her throat. Whatever she meant to say came out as a gurgling exhale. She coughed and fresh blood trickled down her chin. Her eyes clouded with blood. Red oozed from her ears.

  She coughed again and spewed a great fountain of bloody vomit into the air. Smith was caught full on the face. He flung himself away, wiping desperately at the blood. His fingers streaked the red like a Native Chief’s war paint. Mrs. Campbell turned towards her son. She screamed, as loud and terrifying as when her nose was ripped off. And then something happened that Luke would not soon forget. A tear ran down her cheek. Even though John was close, she turned away from her only son and instead attacked the blinded Smith. With lightning speed, she clamped her teeth into the middle of his neck. Smith pulled away, reaching for his gorged neck with surprised wide eyes. His heart pumped, squirting red bubbles through his fingers.

  The gentle and loving Mrs. Campbell turned towards Wade. He stuck out his left hand and aimed his pistol with his right. He ordered her to stop. She ran at him anyway and he emptied the rest of his magazine into her chest. John wailed in agony as his mother crashed to the earth.

  Smith looked at Wade, his terrified eyes filled with blood. He coughed and gasped and struggled towards his Sergeant with arms outstretched as if asking for something.

  “No, Smith. God dammit, no!”

  Smith answered with a gasping, gurgling sound.

  “Stop it!” Wade commanded, his eyes misting.

  When Smith reached him, Wade gave him a mighty right hook. Blood flung into the gravel. The blow knocked Smith sideways. Luke spotted Smith’s gun laying in the gravel.

  “Quit that shit!” Wade yelled.

  Smith reached for him again. Luke went for Smith’s pistol. A thundering boom rang out. Smith’s head snapped backwards, his red eyes full of confusion, before he fell like a sack of potatoes.

  Clifford Worsby lowered his smoking pistol and said, “I think it’s time we go.”

  Chapter VI: Cui Bono

  Patient 1113, formerly Captain James Lasko, struggled, like he always did, when they strapped him down. He knew his attempts were futile but he resisted none the less.

  The Doctor had given him a third shot, this one with a blue liquid inside, and the overwhelming rage and craving for violence that had consumed him, had lessened with time. But like a coal smoldering in the embers of a bonfire, the anger burned inside him still, just beneath the surface. They forced him into the hood again. Always the hood. The darkness enveloped his entire world. Its removal signaled only feeding or torture. Even crueler than the torture was the fact they never asked a single question.

  He sat in the chair strapped and slumped, waiting for the pain to begin. 1113 half intended his posture as an act, to make his captors think he was weaker than he was, but also
because he was in fact, feeling so weak.

  “Off with his hood,” a voice commanded.

  I know that voice.

  Patient 1113 felt the swoosh of fabric and a sharp pain. He winced. Whoever removed his hood also removed several hairs from his beard. He squinted, sparks flying in his eyes, investigating his whereabouts. This wasn’t the usual place.

  1113 sat in a metal chair at a metal table in a small white room. A large black mirror flanked the right wall where he assumed someone stood watching from the other side. There were no machines or bubbling cylinders. No gurney and no doctor.

  “Good morning Captain, or should I say good evening? It’s so hard to tell the time in a place like this, isn’t it?”

  “You!” 1113 shouted, dribbling and snarling. He launched himself against his restraints, hoping to topple his chair but it didn’t budge.

  “Yes, me,” Colonel Fennimore Devreaux said in his Cajun accent. He leaned back in his chair quite unconcerned with 1113’s anger. His black uniform was flawless. A malevolent smile danced across his lips. He nonchalantly gestured to a thin man in an elegant robe of a priest. Richly embroidered golden designs adorned the black sleeves of his robe that flowed to the ground. The man seemed to float, rather than walk, to the Colonel’s side.

  “This is the Monseigneur Richelieu.” The Bishop looked upon 1113 with dead grey eyes. The churchman’s disdain washed over him like a baptism from hell.

  The Colonel stood abruptly. “I trust your stay has been comfortable?” His boots clicked the ground as he walked. Suddenly he stopped, drawing his pistol, fast as lightning. “Nothing to say?” He asked, jamming his pistol into 1113’s filthy black smock. His bullet wound had never fully healed and he groaned in agony. The Colonel blurted out a laugh, twirling his pistol around and around before holstering it as fast as he had drawn it.

  “You psychotic piece of shit!” 1113 shouted at his captor. “What in the hell is wrong with you?”

  The Colonel wagged a condescending finger back and forth. “Now, now. That is no way to address your host,” he scolded. He walked back to the other side of the table and sat down, leaning back in his metal chair. He stared at his captive, relishing the moment, twisting the side of his mustache with an amused smile.

  Patient 1113 felt a fresh surge of anger. The evil pleasure these two men took in his pain and humiliation was evident. He glanced at the one way mirror and back at his captor with a look of utter disgust. “I always knew you were an animal but I had respect for you at one time. I never knew deep down, you were just a sick kid playing with a magnifying glass.”

  A flash of anger passed the Colonel’s face but he chose to ignore the comment. “I have a special surprise for you Patient 1113.” He beckoned and a squat, shaved headed, mean looking man wheeled a T.V. cart into 1113’s view.

  “I was wondering when I would get to see you again, sweetheart,” 1113 taunted, making a kissing sound with his lips. A strong backhand caught him on the side of his head.

  “Don’t you…”

  “That’s quite enough,” Colonel Fennimore Devreaux commanded. His tone was even but dangerous. The bald man looked his direction, mute and afraid. “You may go, sir.”

  The man nodded dumbly and smiled gratefully, as if the Colonel had just decided to spare his life. A few seconds later a door shut. 1113 let his head loll to the side where the man had hit him. A thin line of red spotted the sterile white floor. Blood dropped steadily from his eyebrow into his lap, mixing with the other Godforsaken stains on his filthy black smock.

  “Terrible form, that man. I do hope he hasn’t spoiled the anticipation of your surprise.” The Colonel smiled and produced a remote control.

  The T.V. flicked on and Patient 1113 rolled his lolled head towards the noise. It was a live broadcast from C.N.N. The news feed cycled through scenes of violence and unrest while a nameless correspondent mumbled something he couldn’t hear. The caption at the bottom of the screen read Epidemic. The Colonel cycled through different news stations as Patient 1113 watched with increasing horror.

  …Washington, D.C., Dallas, Seattle, Los Angeles...

  …has recalled all personnel from overseas…

  …known deaths in the thousands...

  …a judgment from God. This is the end of the world as we…

  …mix between Ebola and rabies. This has to be man-made…

  …at this time we are being told the President is being flown to a secure location…

  1113’s careful defenses and mind games failed. His mouth hung open. “What in God’s name have you done?”

  The Bishop made the sign of the cross.

  The Colonel smiled.

  A tear of rage trickled down his dark bearded cheek. “No… How could you do this? You will destroy everything!” He could barely fathom the evil this man, whom he thought he knew, had unleashed.

  And for what?

  The Colonel leaned back in his chair and folded his hands in front of him with a satisfied grin. “Why… yes. I suppose we might do just that. That’s where you come in my good Captain.”

  This was all wrong. This isn’t supposed to happen.

  “Hell…” 1113 mumbled. His head slumped again.

  “What did you say, sir?” The Colonel asked.

  “Hell! You’re evil!” The words flowed uncontrollably from his mouth. “You will burn for all eternity for this.” He looked straight into the Colonel’s eyes and for the first time saw a flicker of doubt.

  The Bishop seemed to pick up on it as well. “God will forgive his own, of course.”

  “You will burn!” 1113 screamed. “Burn!”

  The Colonel signaled to the black glass mirror and an instant later, James’ tormentor returned. “Corporal, escort Patient 1113 to medical bay three.”

  He knew he should be afraid but all he felt was anger. The black hood slid over his face. Darkness covered him as it covered the world and he laughed, a cackling, unbalanced laugh. He laughed as he screamed. “You’re going to hell Devreaux. I’ll see you there!”

  1113 fought his captor as the man strapped his arms. “You killed everyone!” He laughed and laughed.

  “You…” The tight shock of the bald man’s stun gun set his ribs on fire. The muted silence of Colonel Fennimore Devreaux accompanied him into unconsciousness.

  Police Sergeant Wade Slaughter’s boots kicked up dust as he ran towards his injured companion Officer Danny Ramirez. “You okay Ramirez?” Wade asked, knowing the answer.

  “Like I said boss. Just twisted my ankle,” he replied, cradling his limp boot and wearing a smirk that looked more a grimace. “What the fuck happened to Smith?”

  Wade ignored the question.

  Where are my Goddamn paramedics?

  Across the lot, Luke had his hands full comforting his traumatized friend John Campbell. Although J.C.’s mother lay lifeless a few feet away, Luke made sure his friend could not see the corpse. Bridgett lay a hand on Luke shoulder and bent to kiss John’s forehead. “Everything is going to be okay J.C.,” she said. “Your mother loved you with her whole heart.”

  “If she did,” John asked between sniffles, “then why was she so mean to us?”

  Bridgett simply kissed him on the forehead again and locked eyes with Luke. He felt John’s pain. Over the years they had known each other, J.C. had become more than a friend. He was a brother and Mrs. Campbell, a second mother. Luke closed his eyes. A single tear drop splattered the dust.

  “I have to check on…” Bridgett ran off before she finished, climbing over the wreckage and into to the Feed Store. A light came on inside. Bridgett crouched to the floor and covered her face, her chest heaving.

  Clifford Worsby leaned heavily on his cane as he shuffled towards Wade. He puffed his cigar slowly. A ball of thick white smoke rose above the brim of his WW2 veteran hat. “How’s your man?” He asked.

  Wade glanced back over his shoulder. Since he thought no one was looking, Ramirez didn’t bother hiding the pain. “He’s fuc
ked Mr. Worsby. He needs his ankle set and probably surgery but the paramedics are God knows where, I can’t reach anyone from dispatch, and Smith is fucking dead!” Ramirez looked up when he heard him raise his voice. Wade smiled and gave his man a reassuring thumbs up. “Something seriously fucked is going on,” Wade said, turning back to the old man. “Did you see their God damn eyes? I’ve never seen that shit before. Ever.”

  Clifford simply stared into the distance, the embers of his cigar illuminating his dark face.

  Bridgett climbed out of the wrecked storefront. “The phones are down,” she said. “The land line, my cell phone, everything.”

  Luke frowned. He walked John to the nearest curb and gently sat him down. “Bridgett, we will figure this out,” he said, glancing over his shoulder towards Main Street.

  All quiet.

  “First we need to go somewhere safe.”

  Bridgett gasped as Luke took her cheeks into his hands. Her dark curls fell around his forearms as he stared into her deep blue eyes. His lips moved to her ear. “I need you to be strong for John,” he whispered. She looked at their friend, sitting on the curb alone and confused. She nodded solemnly and tried to smile. A moment later she was sitting on the curb with her friend, holding his gentle soul as he cried for his mother.

  Luke walked over to Ramirez and signaled for his brother and Clifford to join. “Sorry about your ankle Danny,” he said, barely hiding the disgust on his face. The injury was severe.

  “It’s nothing bro,” he replied. Danny Ramirez had served with Wade in Iraq and after they got out, Wade convinced Danny to move to the sleepy town of Cibolo, Texas with him. They had forged a brothers bond in combat and as far as the Slaughter Clan was concerned, that made him one of their own. Anne Slaughter, the boy’s mother, expected him at all the family gatherings.