Into the Badlands by Brian J. Jarrett Read Free Book Online Page B

as hard as he could. He buried it into the top of carrier's head before it could get up, piercing the skull and driving the blade into the thing's decaying brain.
    The screaming abruptly stopped as it dropped to the floor like a bag of sand, toxic blood pouring from the gaping wound in its head. It twitched a couple of times before finally lying motionless.
    Dave looked at his hatchet, still buried in the thing’s head. A thick, infected layer of blood ran down the hatchet's handle, draining into a pool on the hardwood floor. The hatchet was too bloody to retrieve safely, so he decided to chalk it up to a loss and leave it. At least they still had the pistol, plus the shotgun they’d found. He hoped the shotgun was functional.
    Jim turned to Dave. “You okay?” he asked. Then his eyes grew large and he motioned toward the corner of Dave's mouth. Dave wiped his face; his fingers came back red.
    Carrier blood.
    “Shit,” he said, then wiped the blood on his pants. He couldn't let Sandy know; she would lose it for good.
    “Yeah. I'm fine,” he replied. He looked himself over. His head was pounding, he had rug burn on his elbows, a few scratches on his arms, and a knot was forming on the back of his head. No carrier blood was on the cuts, at least not that he could see. He breathed a sigh of relief at that.
    “Thanks for the help,” he told Jim. Jim nodded.
    “Where’s Sandy?” Dave asked.
    Jim pointed to her; she was still sitting on the floor of the kitchen, sobbing. He and Dave exchanged a knowing look, then they walked into the kitchen and helped her to her feet.
    “Let's get the hell outta here,” Dave said.
    They stepped out onto the snow and ran.

    They escaped from the house, running as quickly as they could down the ruined streets of the forgotten subdivision. Signs of lives abruptly halted were everywhere: porch lights that hadn't been lit in years, sandboxes with faded plastic shovels and pails, a dog collar attached to a chain in an overgrown back yard. A rusty bicycle lay on its side on a street corner. Cars sat idle in driveways. It suddenly occurred to Dave that there hadn't been a new car manufactured in the world in three years.
    The bodies were everywhere, now mostly decayed into blackened lumps. They saw so many bodies they barely noticed anymore. It was impossible to know exactly how many of the corpses were dead carriers and how many of them were uninfected.
    After running a few blocks the trio slowed to a stop, breathing the crisp, cold air deeply into their burning lungs. Their legs ached from the lactic acid buildup caused by the sprint. Dave's head swam from the sudden exertion and the impact with the floor during the struggle with the carrier.
    The area was clear, so he decided to take an opportunity to check out the shotgun. He fired the unloaded gun once to ensure the hammers were still functional. They were. He then loaded the shotgun with two shells retrieved from the prior house then closed up the barrels. He handed Jim the pistol. Holding the barrel down and cradling the shotgun across his forearm, just as his grandfather had shown him while rabbit hunting as a young boy, they continued walking.
    As night continued to creep in, the darkness began eating up the scenery around them. They needed shelter; not only from the wind and the cold, but also from the carriers. After the attack at the house they were all reticent about just flippantly strolling into just any random house. As they walked they scoped out houses that looked safe, mostly those with unbroken windows and tightly closed doors. These were less likely to be squatter homes for carriers seeking shelter from the bitter cold.
    Eventually they happened upon a small house on the corner of the street on which they walked. Dave and Jim circled it with Sandy in tow, ensuring it appeared reasonably safe. It did. They walked to the front door and prepared to pry it open with Jim's claw hammer. On a whim, Sandy decided to check under