I saw nothing coming at us.
“We’re good, so far,” I said.
Palmeri opened the Humvee door. I circled around the vehicle. Could not believe how quiet the night was. Were all the zombies at the house fire? Were they inside the encampment?
“Climb in, everyone,” Palmeri said.
“Son of a bitch,” Dave said. “Can you believe it?”
Everyone had opened a door to the Humvee when I heard it. A moan.
“Dad!”
Palmeri pushed a button, starting the engine. “Get in.”
I saw him. A fast shadow.
He came at me, right at me.
I raised my machete, holding it like a baseball player at home plate.
It was Marfione. Marf.
His face had bites ripped out of it, his eyes…milky and lifeless. He was covered in mud and tattered clothing, I could smell him before I could reach him with my blade.
I stepped into the swing. The machete cut with ease. I severed the head and right arm at the shoulder, causing his body to flop onto the loose gravel. “Sorry about that, Marf. I am. I’m sorry about that.”
“Get in, Daddy, get in.”
Felt a little like deja vu. Palmeri and Erway sat up front.
Dave and Sues sat across from me.
Allison and Charlene sat on either side of me.
Only thing missing was Cash.
“Everything is going to be fine,” I said.
And the Academy Award goes to…
THE END…
Don’t missing the thrilling conclusion to the VACCINATION Trilogy in
Phillip Tomasso’s
PRESERVATION
Coming Soon from SEVERED PRESS
Read on for a free sample of Cordyceps Rising a Post-Apocalyptic Thriller from JE Gurley.
June 26, Chiquibul, Belize –
Roger Curry clambered up the rugged rocky slope, little knowing that each step brought him closer to death. Even if he had known, he would not have retreated. Roger was no adventurer, but his friends were missing and it had fallen on him to find them. The oppressive heat and humidity of the Belize jungle didn’t help matters. Roger, used to milder Tennessee summers, stopped frequently to wipe the beads of sweat from his face before they rolled stinging into his eyes with his already soaking wet handkerchief. His shirt was plastered to his clammy skin, and his damp underwear chafed his crotch. He resisted the urge to reach down his pants and scratch his scrotum. He moved with slightly less agility than did his guide, Chiri Hutapec. The young, diminutive Yucatec Mayan scampered over the loose boulders and sharp limestone scree with the agility of a New World monkey.
Juan Saldo, his interpreter, smiled down at him from his boulder perch, as he pointed ahead. “The entrance is on the other side of this ridge.”
Saldo was at home in the jungle, naming almost every bird and creature they had encountered on their long trek through the wilderness. Roger envied Saldo and his composure in the withering heat. Saldo looked as if he were walking home from a tavern after a few cold cervezas, while on the other hand, Roger was ready to collapse.
“I hope you’re right,” Roger replied.
The Chiquibul Cavern system lay deep in the heart of the Chiquibul National Park on the western slopes of the Maya Mountain Massif region of western Belize and eastern Guatemala. It was inaccessible in the rainy season and difficult to reach at any time of the year. This was Roger’s first trip to Chiquibul, or to anywhere outside the U.S. for that matter. The Tennessee Conservancy, in a joint venture with the Belize government, was performing a thorough study of the 540,000-square foot cavern system to determine the number of visitors the cavern could safely accommodate without damaging its fragile ecosystem. More administrator than spelunker, his journey was to determine the fate of the last expedition, now over two weeks past due. No word had reached any settlement since the expedition had first entered the jungle two months earlier.
The expedition’s leader, Michael Harris, was a thirty-two-year-old-veteran caver with spelunking credits from twenty-five caverns around the world. It was unlike him to remain out of communication for so long. The area’s native Indian tribes – the Garifuna, the Kekchi, and the Yucatec Maya – had heard nothing of the missing team. Roger had hoped to question natives in San Antonio, a small city upriver from Punta Corda where they had arrived by boat from Belize City, but Saldo inexplicably had suggested bypassing the city. “Trouble,” was all he replied when questioned, leaving Roger to ponder what kind of trouble – drug smugglers, or an uprising of the indigenous population over newly imposed strict hunting and fishing laws.
Standing atop a fallen tree, Hutapec waved Roger to stop. The diminutive guide shaded his eyes as he scanned the terrain around them, and then pointed higher up the slope.
“Il Xiib,” he called in Mayan.
Roger turned to Saldo who had waited for him to reach his position. “What did he say?”
“He said he sees men,” Saldo replied.
Roger’s pulse quickened. Had they found Harris? “What men? How many men?” Roger asked eagerly.
Hutapec held up five fingers and yelled, “Ho.”
“Five men,” Saldo translated.
Roger pushed past Saldo, but Saldo reached out and grabbed his arm as Hutapec said something more. “Wait,” Saldo warned.
“Wait for what?”
Saldo shook his head. A look crossed his face that Roger recognized as fear. “Hutapec said ‘Hook’ol’, leave.”
Roger was livid. “Leave,” he snapped, “after coming all this way? If he sees men, it must be some of Harris’ group.”
“Something is wrong, senor. They do not move. They stand as still as statues.”
“I must see.” He shook free of Saldo’s grip and climbed higher up the slope. He quickly spotted the five men standing in a group at the edge of a cliff. “Harris,” he yelled. His voice echoed across the valley, but none of the men moved. Were they deliberately ignoring him? Then he noticed vines growing around them, up their legs and across their faces, as if binding them to the cliff. “What the fu ...” he moaned.
Saldo joined him.
“Are they dead?” Roger asked, knowing no other reason men would stand silently as vines encircled them.
“Hutapec says they are.” He pointed to vultures circling overhead. “He questions why the buitres do not land.”
“I must go to them.”
Saldo sighed, clearly against the idea. “Let Hutapec go first to see if it is safe. Then we follow.”
Roger chaffed at waiting, but after arguing briefly, couldn’t persuade Saldo to change his mind. “Oh, very well,” he finally conceded.
He sat on the ground and waited as Hutapec climbed the slope, disappearing into the trees for fifteen minutes before reappearing beside the motionless men. He waved Roger and Saldo forward. Roger’s heart pounded both from the exertion of the climb and from a sense of dread that mounted with each step that he took. It soon became apparent that Harris and the others were indeed dead. The stench of decay surrounded them, along with another odor, reminiscent of overripe bananas.
As he climbed over the last boulder and got his first close glimpse of Harris, the manner of the men’s deaths became apparent, but still unbelievable. What he had first mistaken as vines anchoring them to the ground, was a network of finger-thick mycelia from a strange fungus growth covering the men’s bodies, almost completely enveloping them. Their desiccated flesh sprouted tendrils with dark purple bulbous tips that swayed ominously in the breeze. Similar bulbs emerged from their ears, eyes, nose, and cracks in their skull, as if their brain had exploded from within. As he watched in horror, one dark bulb burst open, spewing tiny spores that drifted with the wind toward him. The smell of rotten bananas increased. Hutapec, who had remained cautiously upwind of the men, scampered higher up the slope away from the scene of death.
“What … what is this?” he asked Saldo.
Saldo shrugged. “A fungus, maybe, but I’ve never seen it before.” He spoke to Hutapec, who barked out a one-word reply. “He calls it Black Death,” Saldo said. He shrugged again. “I don’t know what he means. He is afraid to speak more of it.”