Step by Step/Issue 4

This is Issue #4 of Step by Step. This is the fourth issue of Act One.

Issue 4
Adrenaline scorched like a wildfire through Joseph as he pushed forward through the dimwitted crazies. His lungs burned, his calves ached, and his heart was about ready to implode. He couldn’t stop now. He had already made it halfway to the fence.

He blinked and opened up to a narrow path. The waves of undead were parting, centering their cross hairs on him. Joseph dodged the grasps of an emaciated woman, literally slipping through her bony white fingers. They were consistent, though, for they kept taking hold of him.

Joseph rocketed past them with great agility. He was getting closer to the fence. He could hop over it. It looked like he could. What if he tripped over the wiring? He blurred out the thoughts, knowing that right now all he needed was his endurance back.

Taking a breath of air slowed him down. His heaves for air were short lived. He needed all the time he could get. He was more confident than he had been in days. Surely, he could make it.

You think?

Quit thinking. Quit it. Joseph inhaled rapidly, his legs breaking down into a walk. A couple more feet and he was home. Short thoughts, Joe. Don’t think, just do it!

Defenseless, he could only shove the crazies back. He had hoped that no more would reach for him, but they always did. With hungry, chalky fingers they grabbed the edges of Joseph’s uniform. He slid along the forest of fingers with his legs. Oh, it hurt, but it was worth getting past them. His weakening velocity worried him.

Don’t think.

The mobs were a growling, moaning sea of undead. The thought of tripping over frightened Joseph. It was now or never. Jump. The fence was half his size. Easy, he thought, now to pass through. He glanced up with sweat dripping from his forehead. Several soldiers noticed him and were staring back in astonishment. A few tried to alert their superiors, but it wasn’t fast enough.

Even if they unlocked the gate, the body of undead would seep through like water falling into a cup. He had to hop it- now.

“Coming through!” He shouted half-heartily with a hoarse voice. He grabbed the first crazie he could see in his way. As he knocked her onto her back, she glimpsed at Joseph with enraged, yellowed eyes. And then, a blast of stomach-churning stench erupted from her mouth.

He tried to subside the queasy feeling and grabbed the fence, digging one foot into a hole and throwing the other over-

A burning sensation of pain sprang throughout his kneecap as he hopped over the deteriorating. He bit his tongue and doubled over on the soft pillow of grass.

He felt immensely better than before. Lying on the grass made him feel safe and relaxed. That was, until, a man from the mob protruded his arm at him from the fence.

Joseph backed up and started to crab walk farther from the fence, noticing that he was inches from the gate. “That was close...” He said breathless, eying the pus coated hand that was protruded at him.

The rest lasted a mere second as he flailed across the grass as pain jolted and tensed up his bones. He groaned, “I'm not the only poor sucker y'all left out there.”

There were already soldiers staring at him in shock, thinking the question that nobody wanted to answer. Did they leave more of the battalion behind? The grim feeling engraved itself into the whole remaining infantry.

“Are you guys done pissing your pants?” Joseph barked, louder than he anticipated for. No, they needed to hear it. “You're telling me that because there's a god damn fence,” He pointed, taking it easy with long breaths. “That we're going to let innocent people die? How about the ones that we've lived with here for nearly a month, hm?”

Suddenly, there was someone who left his post offered Joseph a hand. The striking face of Gordon Black met with Joseph’s stressed eyes. They met with palms and brought Joseph to his staggering feet. “I’d ought to say you’re the luckiest guy I’ve seen today.”

“You think?” Joseph replied, trying to regain his strength with steady breaths of air. He dusted off himself of the rubbish dirt and weeds that covered his limbs. He stretched his arms out, smiling and saying thanks over the harsh gunfire.

No problem!” Gordon said with a tooth-filled grin. “You look beat up, dude.” Gordon patted Joseph’s back, smacking off his filth.

“There’s so many of them,” A voice in the back ended the silence. “So many…”

Joseph turned around to face the crowd of soldiers in the section of the parking lot who had ceased use of their weapons. “Of course there are a lot of them,” he retorted. They all looked at him as if he were a ghost. The flocking soldiers were simply shocked with their eyes in disbelief. “Doesn't mean we can let people die.”

Gordon started to laugh. “These things can outsmart us now? Ha!” Gordon reached for the protruding arm and yanked it to see the owner. A squabbly man slipped out, his greasy and mangled hair covering the better part of his face. “Look at him; he’s a freak!”

The men boasted and soon were raucous with laughter. What were they afraid of? They weren’t scared of the blokes. For all they could care, they were a just bags of walking rot-

The sound of a handgun hammering back came into action. The hardened, muddy face of Brock stared intently at Joseph, the barrel of the gun sitting at his chest. “He could be contaminated.”

“Contaminated?” Gordon scoffed, letting go of the frail man. “Yeah, you’re right about ‘could be’. How do we know?”

“That’s it. We don’t know.”

“Hey, hey. I didn’t get touched by those things.” Joseph raised his hands above his head on the defensive side.

Brock’s grubby, blackened face didn’t change its cold blooded tone. “I saw you zigzagging through that crowd. You were being passed around like a cigarette.”

Gordon snickered, “Brock, you look stressed out dude. When I spotted you lying in that dirt you were all bent and twisted.”

“Doesn’t really change a thing. I’m not the infected one here.” “Still not infected,” Joseph sighed.

Gordon tensed up. Hesitant he said, “Brock, look. Call your family. You’re worried, they’re worried- your kids.”

It was like a switch was flipped in Brock’s mind. Fury and guilt poured out of him. Demoralized. He began to sob, trying to maintain his stature. “I-I’m just so-” The soldiers continued their boasting laughter. Gordon joined in, raising his assault rifle at the same squabbly man. Gordon wrapped his hand around the chubby man's hair, jokingly patting the freak on the head with the gun's barrel. “I say we save who we can. That's why we're here right? To save people.”

Gordon paused, looking at his superior. “We've done enough by slammin' mortar shells on the god damn highway.”

“I told you all,” Brock turned to face the worried squadron. “Time and time again... don't use the mortars. Now see what you did.” Brock adjusted his composure, spitting on the parking lot asphalt. “See what happens? Now, I'm in charge, capiche?”

“I'm liking where this is going!” Gordon exclaimed, throwing the bowling-ball shaped man into the growling crazies. “I say we start off by drawing a path,” Gordon said, mocking his sergeant. “Then, how's about we actually do our job for once!”

The chain link gate snapped off its hinges, a sea of arms snatching the clothing of Gordon without warning. Soon, Gordon was engulfed by the massive amount of growling, determined crazies. The startled infantry roused their weapons with great fear.

Joseph watched as his friend dispersed into the mobs of hundreds. Though his eyes were sore, Joseph could see what was happening. They were eating him. Eating Gordon. Marching towards Joseph was the anger fed courier, dragging himself at him, obviously displeased.

Oh shit.

Once Joseph made a complete spin, he witnessed the spill out of a bunch of distraught refugees escaping the school and wailing for help. They blocked the doorway like a stubborn blood clot. Joseph moved out of the way, shoving and kicking back the crazies to keep them at bay. Then, a frightening scream muffled by the ravaging bodies. It was Gordon. The voice was spot on. It made Joseph’s spine tremble. How could they have been so careless?

What could he do? Joseph gulped when a bloody hand shot out from its grave in the buildup. The hand twitched, and if it had eyes they would be on Joseph. It was his fault. Joseph’s. Creepy as it was, Joseph was frozen in guilt just how Brock was. The total realization hit him in the gut as the courier ripped out of the crowd and sliced his teeth through the air...

-

The pleas for help were shattered by rattles of gunshots Brock left the scene, fumbling for his mobile cell phone. He told his wife he’d stay in contact with her. He had failed her. Failed his platoon. Left them to die exhausted deaths without their sergeant, a gracious supervisor to them who had stripped them of ordinance.

“Why won’t you work, huh?” Menster looked up to see Alexander, the technician, hard at work with his unshakable radio. They were twisting buttons and smacking the sides of it in desperate attempts to reconnect communication.

“It’s no use,” Menster fished out his phone. It wasn’t a classy phone, more ancient then modern. “You should get going, you know.”

“No. I’m going to save us.” Alexander spat, spitting at the ground. “I ain’t going just let everyone die cause of a blasted technical difficulty.”

“Fine.” said the sergeant. “Go ahead.”

“Wait, what are you doing here?”

“That's personal,” Brock jeered, flipping up the antenna of the dinosaur of a phone.

“My family isn’t in New York, eh?” Alexander cracked a shining smile, shaking the piece of junk in his hands.

“New Jersey?” Menster asked, trying to pass the time. He looked over his shoulder, wiping the sweat from his neck. Chaos everywhere, people being trampled. His men were losing. And here he was making his last wishes.

The technician scoffed. “Course not. They’re farmers. Want me to demonstrate with an accent?”

“No thanks, I’ll pass.” Brock said with a mild smirk. “They weren’t supposed to get through. This wasn’t supposed to happen.”

“Scared?” The technician settled his shaking with the radio and let a ripple of static flow out. “So am I.”

“Keep working, Alexander.” Brock commanded flatly.

Menster gulped nervously, dialing his home number with shaky fingers. You can do this. Mary and the kids are okay. What if they aren’t? He waited for the beep in solemn. He was eager to hear Mary answer or one of his sons. He troubled over the thought of his sons worried. “Ha! You’re mine now, scrap metal!” Alexander cheered, lifting up the radio in praise and kissing its hull.

Menster turned his back to Alexander, waiting for the ring tone. “They’re okay, Brock.” Menster said reassuring himself.

Several yards from him was a man in baggy clothing moving at him like a snail. Boils had formed a new layer of skin on his face. An empire of acne stretched itself across the teen’s forehead.

They growled voraciously, tempted by Menster. The teen shambled across the sidewalk beneath the pavilion with arms sprang out ready to grab him.

“Answer dammit answer!” Menster whacked the teen back with an elbow. “Please Mary.” The teen came back for seconds and was shoved back again. His wife was always alert for his messages. Where could she be? He moaned in the pain of impatience. So did Menster. The wait itched up his spine, irritating him from the inside out. Where was sh-

"...the number you are trying to reach has been disconnected or is currently busy. Please hang up and try again..."

No…

“Sorry Sergeant Menster,” Alexander chimed in, hearing in on the message.

A swarm of humiliation flooded the sergeant. It was his fault. “Get back to your post. Tell the remaining infantry that still haven’t lost their virginity to control this hell hole.” The technician nodded.

Brock slipped his phone into his pocket. He readied his handgun at his side. He threw a smacker at the teen, and then blew his brains out with a single click. A fuse zapped Brock. His eyes fell to the crumpled teen on the concrete. Brock’s lips slowly formed a devilish smile.

Brock Menster’s eyes lit up in excitement. He pushed his way through the group of wild people. “Everyone get their shit together!”

A soldier with a flat face left his post and went for the sergeant. Private Wyatt Johnson transfixed his eyes on the worrying situation. “Permission to ask, sir?” He stuttered out.

“Granted.”

“What is the plan?”

“Rile these hogs up and get them into the school,” He raised a finger towards the struggling Alex. “That tech is re-establishing communications with the other refugee camps.”

Wyatt nodded anxiously. He was restless, like everyone else, but he was unsure. He wasn’t sure that he was going to make it out alive. Wyatt had left his comedic partner a while before whilst guarding the barrier. Lyle C. Jackson was the last relative he had in this city, and he hoped he wouldn't be left on his own. Wyatt looked down at the forming boils on his hand where a burning injury was covered with infection. He hadn’t meant to let his guard down when he was checking his ammunition supply.

Like he hadn’t meant to get two other soldiers killed an hour ago. A plate full of guilt choked him. He knew he deserved it for blasting mortar shells on the road. He was becoming more and more lightheaded, clawing at his itchy throat. “Sure thing,” Wyatt quivered, turning around and waving his hand up at the crowd. “Form lines!” He threw up his carbine and ushered a group of unwilling refugees back in the school.

He hadn’t walked a yard yet before he heard a voice: “They’re gonna get us.” Wyatt shot a glance down to see a chubby child backing away from the group.

“Hey, kid, I need you back here with me,” Wyatt walked towards the boy, making a step forward. Turning to the worried refugees he said two dreary words, “follow me.”

“No. No!” The roundish boy started backing away, pushing himself away from view behind idle soldiers. Horror stretched across his chubby face and left his jaw agape.

Wyatt bit his lip, making a move for the boy and making a grab at his arm. That was when his head started to ache and explode from the inside out. “Ow.”

“Please. The monsters are in there!”

“Huh?” The kid said something about monsters. Wyatt had heard him, but he had no clue what the boy meant by monsters.

“They’re in there! The policemen are dead,” replied the boy and making a gesture with his finger and slid it across his neck. “Dead!”

Wyatt let his carbine balance from its string at his side, grabbing his pounding head. His head burned. His skin did too. He felt his forehead. Did he have a fever?

Wyatt shuddered in fear. He blinked twice and came back into reality. He was starving. His muscles were on fire.

He shook the feeling and pulled the kid him. “C’mon kid, you’ll be safe with us-”

“Ah!” The boy slipped from Wyatt’s hand and hit the concrete sidewalk. The boy was obviously hurt, but Wyatt knew there was a bigger issue as panic arose in the form of screaming.

He turned to see an array of sick, disgusting faces stumbling out of the doors. “Oh crap.” Wyatt lifted up his carbine. “Follow me you all!”

He shot. One fell, two, three. But more would come growling and adding up their numbers. “This wasn’t part of the plan!”

Wyatt sounded the alarm, pushing back the restless refugees behind him. “Stay close!” He ordered over the raucous cracks artillery. He didn’t care if they heard him; he just needed to get as many people to safety.

Wyatt felt his wound, scratching several hot bumps on his skin. He examined his hand for the striking features that had settled there. A mountain of blisters had formed. Hot, flaming bumps oozing across it and spreading fast with effortless ease.

He gulped. He was scared. Wyatt was scared to die at the hands of the crazed people. He didn’t want their filthy disease, nor did he want to ask for medical assistance. Two months ago, news reports had announced that the disease was contagious. Wyatt wasn’t going to take any chances and get isolated from the general population.

He brushed his palm against his forehead. It burned to the touch like the magma from a volcano. Wyatt struggled for his air, realizing how rash he had been. Too late now, he thought.

“Where are we going?” A soft voice peeped into Wyatt’s ear. He cocked his head in curiosity, finding the face of a weary woman.

Hell, Wyatt didn’t even have a clue as to where they were headed. “Back into the camp, it’ll be safe in there; trust me.”

The worried woman frowned. “Don’t lie to me,” Eyes filled with desperation. “Please.”

Wyatt hacked up something in his throat. He had whatever the crazies had and he knew it. Stupid, stupid. “Hopefully, you’ll be able to trust me. I promise!”

The unsure woman meekly smiled. “Thank you.”

Wyatt felt his chest tense up. He spit up a wad of snot into his sleeve. Instantaneously, he felt an immense relief. “Clear ahead!”

Wyatt slid through the cracks in the crowd, signaling for the other lost soldiers to follow him out of the labyrinth that was the crowd.

He got a close encounter with the diseased people. He lifted his rifle and centered the sight on the enraged people. “Halt.” The crazies continued. Groaning and hungrily chomping their jaws.

“Do we fire?” asked a soldier behind Wyatt who was sweating profusely.

Wyatt realized his sergeant wasn’t with them. He thought Brock would be with them. He was their commander after all, so where was he? “Uh...” Wyatt flashed a look at the crazies. He nodded. “Raise your guns,” He shouted. “On three!”

Wyatt browsed his troupe. Five others stood by him. Wyatt swallowed the ounce of bravery into his veins. “One...”

The unhurried dead made no hesitates as they shambled at the six men and woman with helpless refugees. The impatient crazies were scattered out in the many.

“Two!” Wyatt readied his stock. He wiped a new layer of sweat from his eyes. “Get ready!”

An outburst of groans and swears broke out. “And... three.” A ripple of shots bombarded the dead. Clouds of smoke soon engulfed the area in a smoggy form. The soldiers covered their mouths from the smoke, but they still coughed in sequence.

Wyatt lowered his gun. He leaned forward into the mask of smoke. Was it safe to go into the school again? Wyatt’s field of vision was a puffy, dazed mess.

“See anything?” said a soldier that was having a coughing fit.

The smoke wrapped its hands around Wyatt's throat. He choked up, struggling to keep his rifle upwards. Wyatt gulped. Had they succeeded? Please, oh please. He was burning up from the dreaded fever, wishing for Lyle to come. “Give me a sec-!”

Wyatt's train of thought derailed at the screech. He didn't have time to figure out whether a human had made it. A battered woman lunged out from the thick gun smoke with violent swaying arms at an unaware Wyatt, knocking his assault rifle from his hands. The regime of undead fell out of the disarranged smoke, still standing strong and compact. This time they were victorious as they grabbed the uniforms of Wyatt’s troops.

Wyatt fell back, out of breath and weak. Pain jolted throughout his back. He kept the woman’s orange teeth away from him as her snot and drool slobbered his face. After a few seconds, Wyatt was becoming quite tired.

He gave her one last punch to the face and moved to get the string that was connected to his rifle. It turned out to be his last move. Checkmate. The woman had sunk her filthy teeth into his neck, tearing out a chunk of his flesh.

“Oh my god...” Wyatt mumbled, prying the woman away from him. He inhaled deeply, knowing that he had no hope. He saw the familiar faces of his group of refugees enveloped by a flock of the crazies.

Before he gave out, he scanned for the boy. The bowling ball-shaped kid had escaped. “Good.” Wyatt coughed up blood, “for him...”

Wyatt winced at the sharp, dagger-like pain stinging his neck. “I’m sorry.” He watched in horrific agony as the refugees were immediately slaughtered. “So sorry...” He rolled his head back up to get a last glimpse at the afternoon which had a blissful cloud-blooming sky.

And then three sets of teeth plunged at his peaceful face.