Wildfire Chronicles by K.R. Griffiths

Author:K.R. Griffiths [Griffiths, K.R.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: K.R. Griffiths
Published: 2014-09-19T00:00:00+00:00

*

The noise, soft and stealthy, came from behind the door, mingling with the stench of death and decay, making Rachel’s nerves howl with tension.

Hands trembling wildly, she placed the tip of the baseball bat against the door and pushed gently.

It was like the curtains coming up on a special effects extravaganza: the bedroom was awash with blood, painted like a Pollock from hell, stringy spatters of gore decorating the walls; even hanging from the low ceiling.

She heard John’s intake of breath close behind her, shallow and tremulous; heard the dumbstruck fear and wonder echoed in her own ragged breathing. This wasn’t just the standard level of insanity that she had already come to expect from the Infected: this went way beyond. The atmosphere of the room was charged with the fury of the killing that had occurred inside, like the violence wrought between the ancient walls had left a permanent imprint.

What was left of the farmer’s body was strewn across the bed. The man’s head was almost completely removed and, even from the doorway, Rachel could see the teeth marks on the ruins of his neck.

Someone tried to chew his head off.

The thought settled in her mind like oil on water, blocking out the light, leaving her feeling greasy; tainted. The world was moving beyond her comprehension, moving at a pace she was not sure she could match.

Hold it together, Rach.

Her eyes found no respite further down the bed: most of the flesh had been ripped away from the man’s arms, and his torso had an obscene new orifice torn into it; a grisly gash from which the smell of the man’s last meal oozed, lending the stink of his death a terrible familiarity. He reeked of rot and bacon.

Rachel turned away, trying and failing to meet John’s eyes, searching for a point of focus, anything that might suppress the urge to vomit. She clutched her stomach.

And then it occurred to her: aside from the remains on the bed, the room was empty. Where had the noise come from?

The answer to the question forming in Rachel’s mind nearly sent her over the edge: the corpse on the bed suddenly twitched.

It’s moving, oh dear God, it’s moving…

All their talk of zombies and the undead suddenly did not seem so far-fetched to Rachel, and her mind was filled with the images from the movies: hands clawing their way out of graves; shambling corpses, stiff with rigor mortis; the dead ravenously seeking out the brains of the living.

And then the torso on the bed erupted.

“Rats!” John yelled, and then his hand was on her shoulder, twisting her, propelling her back into the hallway, just as a half-dozen of the creatures spilled from the distended belly of the corpse and charged straight at them.

Rachel saw their eyes as she stumbled backward, and again the image of her beloved family dog surfaced in her mind, and something clicked into place. It’s not just humans. She had known it, of course, had seen it with her

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