Infected Freaks Volume One: Family First Read online

  Jason Borrego

  INFECTED FREAKS

  VOLUME 1

  FAMILY FIRST

  Copy Right

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Infected Freaks

  Copy Right © 2014 Jason Borrego

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means –electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or another—except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Broken Light Studios

  First Edition: September 2014

  http://www.jasonborrego.com/

  Table of Contents

  Copy Right

  Authors Note

  Prologue

  I

  II

  III

  IV

  V

  VI

  VII

  VOLUME 2: THE ECHO OF DECAY

  CORDYCEPS FUNGUS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  OTHER BOOKS BY JASON BORREGO

  CONTESTS

  Authors Note

  INFECTED FREAKS isn’t your typical zombie apocalypse. The survival horror series brings to life the struggle of Abraham Heinz, his family, and the torment of a world facing extinction. The series, fused with emotion, will be delivered in a volume of novella-sized episodes that will make up a much larger tale of tragedy. Think of it as a favorite TV show or comic that will continue to build upon each breathtaking volume.

  Dare to enter into the promise of heart-wrenching decisions? Make sure to leave the light on first.

  Prologue

  Abraham Heinz sipped his whiskey and settled into the stiff wooden chair in his two-story barn. The salvaged police radio was ready to broadcast in the studio he built on the second floor. He took a long look at the rusty microphone he recovered and exhaled. This was his last chance to reach his two missing children in the ruins of America. Abraham, a devoted father of five, had three of his grown children with him on the mountain farm. His two missing children, a son and daughter, fled to different sides of America’s second Civil War. In his heart, he knew the broadcast was limited, but he was determined to try anyway. Abraham would never rest until he discovered the fate of both Robb and Alison. He started his broadcast the same way he did every one of them, with a description of how things got to where they were today. He always tried to give information to any who may be listening in for the first time.

  “It’s been three years since the planetary object known as Red Dead first appeared in the sky. What’s left of my household thinks that’s the least of our worries, but I don’t think it was a coincidence the first shots of combat happened hours later. It wasn’t long after the United States of America erupted in a merciless Civil War. Again, the greatest nation in the world was alienated by an extended version of the Mason Dixon Line. The rest of the world followed suit, picking sides for reasons only God knows. That’s when I packed up my family in Denver and fled to the Rocky Mountains. I had to get out of the city. The good state of Colorado banded together with Kansas and Utah, shaping America’s only neutral zone. Working together, the three states were safe from the effects of the Civil War.”

  Abraham hated his digital voice; it sounded arrogant and gaudy. His sun-weathered skin itched from a dozen hay pricks and the combined smell of human and animal feces assaulted his broad, wrinkled nose. “We took over a small farm a few clicks from the Heart of Colorado. It took some getting used to, living in the mountains away from all the glamor of the Mile High City. But we had everything we needed, and most important, my family was safe. Then, life got real. Some say the Northern Republic was the first to drop a nuclear bomb. Still, others suggested the dirty rumor was all a setup organized by the Southern Liberty. All I know is that one year into the dreadful war every nation launched whatever it had. According to the news, the hardest hit regions were overseas, but that didn’t mean America escaped unscathed.

  “The East Coast of America was reported to be a radioactive wasteland. A few days later, a terrible silence blanketed the airwaves. Televisions were reduced to static. Odd enough, the antenna radio stations lasted for a few more days. The self-proclaimed experts explained that the sheer force of the countless bombs provoked perpetual tremors throughout the tectonic plates. Mother Nature responded to our stupidity with a fury that devastated more or less every inch of dirt. The last bit of news we heard was that California had broken and slipped off into the salty sea. I guess, in the end, all those conspiracy shows got it right.”

  Abraham knew handheld radios existed out there somewhere. What he didn’t understand was why nobody responded. It was always a one-way address. “It took almost six months before we came across our first set of survivors after the initial bombing. For the longest time, I thought the mountain folk might have been all that was left. Then, rumors of the sickos, murderers, and the ruthless assaulted our ears. In the southern part of the state, the wicked banded together and plundered the weak and the innocent. A few of them drifted my direction. I killed to protect my family, and I would do it again. By the grace of God, we managed to endure. Only a few survivors ever managed to find my farm. Most of them stayed true to the far-reaching highways leading toward Denver and promise of its bright lights.

  “I didn’t trust anyone. My wife made me give a few of the travelers a night’s stay in my barn. One of them I was forced to murder. The other thanked us and continued on toward the Mile High City. The Stiles, a nice bunch of folk, they asked me and my family to tag along and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t think about it. Yet, my wife was quick to remind me that no one ever came back from that direction. We spent many nights watching the vacant roads. Her words gave me an eerie feeling, so I declined. I figured my chances were better in the sticks. Don’t know if they ever made it, and right now, I don’t care.”

  His words sounded like a monster with terrible fangs, terrifying anyone out there listening. He took another deep gulp and wiped the wetness from his cracked lips. His back was soaked with sweat, his nerves on end. Yet Abraham was determined to finish his routine broadcast.

  “My brother used to say we needed struggles to polish our hearts. I still think that’s a crock of bologna. One year into this senseless war, right before the first bomb fell, my sweet son Robb ran away with some foolish scientists. He decided to fight for the South. I told him we didn’t have a stake in this accursed conflict, but he went anyway. It broke my heart and damn near killed my wife. A few days later, my youngest daughter, Alison, enlisted in the Northern Republic Army. Her new husband was a high-ranking officer. That was the real reason she left.

  “Still, that night I suffered my first heart attack. Looking back, death would have been much kinder. But I’m sure you’ve had troubles too. When it rains it pours. It seems the end of the world was simply the beginning of my nightmare. Partner, if you’re out there in the wilderness, listening to me ramble on this old police radio, then you already know about the infected freaks. That’s what my family calls them. They aren’t senseless like those zombies you used to see in the movies. These things are right out of a nightmare.”

  Abraham sighed. He saw a great mountain when he closed his stinging eyes. The mound was covered in fresh graves, and he wished he could have been buried in one before all this trouble went down. Breathe, you need to breathe. He gripped the longstanding microphone and rasped. His tired hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

  “My s
weet mama used to tell me to turn on the nightlight if I was scared. Bless her soul, the whole night sky is a pulsating red light, but I don’t feel any safer. My family thinks I’m crazy, and at this point I might be. I’ve studied that foul crimson light escaping Red Dead. I’ve seen the way it nourishes the infected freaks. I was reading a book about photosynthesis and I’m willing to bet my farm that’s exactly what’s going on. Those creatures aren’t dead. They’re living monsters that don’t need to sleep or rest. The only thing they need is to spread those spores by devouring man and beast.”

  As his eyes grew accustomed to the dark, he saw frightening images in the rough wood timber of the construct. He pushed away the whiskey bottle and decided to be more careful about his life choices. Was he an alcoholic? He didn’t think so.

  “Materials are slim. Most of the neighboring ranches have been looted. It seems the infected have already consumed everything outside of fifty miles of my farm. As much as I hate the monsters, I hate the buzzing sound chiming in their foul mouths ten times more. It hurts my old ears. If you hear something that sounds like a swarm of bees riding hell’s wave, you better run until you can’t run anymore. I learned to love the overcast skies at night because the churning clouds blot out the crimson color of night. When the cherry light is blocked, the infected seem to go away. I don’t know how else to explain it. Red Dead did this. I don’t know how, but everything is linked to the approaching planet. Peter, my oldest son, says the planet is still out near the edge of the Milky Way. To me it looks as close as the moon.”

  The creaking boards under the pressure of the hissing wind brought his attention back toward the rocking loft doors. It was almost dark, and that meant locking down and praying nothing infected ventured this far into the woods. “I’ve been thinking hard about packing up and heading to Denver. The infected have stalked closer to the farm in recent weeks. I don’t know how we’ve survived this long. That and the dwindling supplies have kept an old man like me second guessing the safety of the farm. I want to find my missing children. I guess that is part of the reason I’ve been talking your ear off for the last few months. Is it safe? Does anyone know what is happening in Denver or anywhere else? Is anybody out there?”

  Abraham wanted nothing more than to stay at that farm. The Civil War separated him from his blood and getting them back was his deepest desire. Had Robb and Alison stayed at the farm, he might have relaxed for a small time. For all he knew, the farm was the last bit of civilization left in post-apocalyptic America. Perhaps both sides of the war killed what little life was left on Earth. Abraham didn’t want to think what it meant if his family was all that remained. We will never be alone. His mind centered on the infected monsters creeping closer with each new season.

  “This is Abraham Heinz, and if you can hear this, I will help you. Meet me at the dinosaur gas station where Highway 24 and 9 intersect. Do it tomorrow before dusk. I will help you in exchange for labor or answers. Robb, Alison, if you can hear this, you get your butts home. If anyone else is out there, the daylight is all burned up. You best get somewhere safe and do it fast. That daunting, blood-soaked sky is going to get them vile things moving in a hurry. You can have all the money in the world. You can drive fancy cars and travel across the oceans. But without family, you have nothing. Goodnight.” Abraham flicked the power switch and buried his carven face in his hands. How did this happen?

  He told himself he was done with the silly broadcast, but in his heart, he thought he might try it again tomorrow night. He was beginning to think it might help him survive.

  I

  Abraham’s sour features hovered above the rocks, needles, and yellow grass, inching closer to the threshold of the cliff. His face was etched in rich dirt and carved by close to sixty years of strenuous life. The foul stench of his breath told of wasted hours spent watching and observing. Out in the distance, he saw a glimmering light kindle through the broken window of the abandoned gas station. Using his collar, he wiped at his sweaty cheek and took a second glance. His age had left his eyes in question. Yet, without a shadow of a doubt, he saw the spark of a flickering candle. Somebody’s in the station. What he didn’t know was how that was possible. Looking at his black banded wrist watch, he wondered if the intruders had been in there since last night or maybe longer.

  The slanted sign with the goofy green dinosaur reflected the dying sunlight, causing a glare. Exhaling a grave breath, Abraham realized the comfort of daylight was about to diminish in a hurry. It was hard for him to believe it had been three years since Red Dead first appeared in the sky. He shifted back, his sore spine aching, and waited for the durable rucksack to sink into the soft earth. His deep-rooted eyes steadied and searched for his grandson. A faint outline stood erect near an old ponderosa pine. “Come on over,” he whispered, careful to cup his hands around his chapped lips. It wasn’t long before Hunter joined him on the tangled overlook. The view gave them a faultless line of sight. The teenage boy had become his strength over the tumultuous years. Still, Hunter was brash and unwise.

  “Are we heading home?” Hunter questioned, crouching near a berry bush. The boy’s stonewashed jean jacket was smeared in a week’s worth of filth and briny sweat. He slipped his hands into his pockets and stared. “What’s wrong?”

  The agony on Abraham’s stamped face spoke volumes to the type of world he was forced to withstand. It had become an ugly place of horror and death. “We’re not alone.” Abraham pointed to the lambent light. He watched the boy unsling a bolt action rifle and slip behind its scope. “Can you see anything?” Abraham asked as he rested his hands on his hips and waited for the boy to scan the tiny strip of town.

  “I see a filthy man in the building.” Hunter pulled back and adjusted the optics. “He’s the only one inside the gas station as far as I can tell.”

  Abraham was amazed Hunter could see through the broken windows of the ruined structure. “Is it your father? Is he inside the building?”

  Hunter sighed. “Nope, the flesh is too dark.” Abraham knew his grandson was ready to give up on his missing father. Robb, the boy’s father, left in a hurry two long years ago. Nobody had heard from him since, and in all reality, he was most likely dead. At least that’s what his grandson believed. Abraham hated hearing him whine. He had told Hunter a hundred times that he sounded like a little girl. It wasn’t meant to be mean; it was just the way Abraham was wired. The Apocalypse caused the old man to callous. In a way, Abraham knew Hunter was having a difficult time. That’s why he put up the sass.

  “Is it one of those things?” Abraham asked, leaning closer. He had only encountered the creatures a few times. Each time, the infected scared the piss out of him. The buzzing hum was terrible.

  Hunter rolled up his cuffs, pinching his gun between his side and elbow. “The infected, no, this is a normal human best I can tell.”

  Abraham had come to hate the infected freaks. Whatever they were, it was something dreaded. “Daylight is running out. You ready for this?”

  “Let me go,” Hunter pleaded. “You’re getting too old to keep rushing into the darkness. It should be me down there.”

  Abraham shook his head and scrunched his white, bushy eyebrows. “What did you say?”

  His grandson showed his teeth and this only pinched Abraham harder. “Nothing,” the boy muttered.

  Abraham heard the smartass loud and clear. He decided to ignore it. “You’re the better shot,” Abraham explained, believing in the boy’s raw talent. “Besides, I left my glasses at the farm.”

  “Why don’t we leave him?”

  “What if he knows what’s going on? I need answers. I can’t stand the silence. I need to know if Denver is a smoking crater. Nobody ever comes back from that direction. Or maybe it’s all that is left.”

  His grandson looked at him as if his words bored him. “Alright, do what you need to do.”

  “Oh, never mind.” Abraham looked up at the planetary object, knowing that in less than an hour, its crimson light wou
ld bring the infected out to the abandoned highways in swarms. He didn’t want to think what the cities might actually look like. “I promise, next time you can go, and I’ll cover you. But this time, I need your eagle eyes scanning for threats. My radio broadcast is far-reaching and we don’t want any trouble.” Abraham had fed the boy the same line at least half a dozen times over the last month.

  “Okay, Grandpa. Remember the candle light, you’ll draw those things like a moth to the flame once the daylight dies,” his grandson reminded him.

  Hunter made it sound as if he were a parent reminding a child. This only burned Abraham’s patience more. He thought about the wretched creatures and how fast they sprung upon the Stencil Ranch and its bright lights. If Abraham hadn’t dragged Hunter out of it, his grandson would have perished with the entire family of ranchers. Remembering the sight of moldy blood threaded through the freaks’ fast fangs brought a shade of gray to his tough features. The screams of terror echoed in his mind. The monsters seemed to enjoy the warmth of light.

  “We got about twenty minutes. Keep me safe.” Abraham gulped.

  “Whatever,” Hunter said, rolling his piercing eyes. He rested his elbows on the edge of a dubious boulder. On his belly, he placed his focus on the optic and rested his finger parallel to the trigger.

  “Never touch the trigger until you’re ready to shoot,” Abraham repeated for the third time this trip. The words Remington were stenciled to the stained wood frame of the high-powered rifle. The gun had served Hunter well over the years. It was the same rifle Hunter used to kill a man, a real, living human.

  It took a moment for Abraham to muster the strength to carry on. Once he did, he hiked down the curved dirt pathway, staying low for cover and support. To the left and right were knots of rocks and weeds that stretched on for miles in every direction. Wild bushes and pine trees dotted the rigid landscape. A light breeze whispered through his blue flannel shirt as he kept an eye on the empty highways that intersected at the strip of town. The several buildings etched together didn’t deserve to be called a town. It was too small.