Devoured, - [chapter books to read to 5 year olds TXT] 📗

the disease had spread to Asia and Africa, it would only be a matter of time before everyone had it.

They were witnessing an extinction event.

No place would be safe.

No escape.

The restaurant wasn’t a bad place to be. He had some food and water. Booze if he wanted to get shitfaced and walk outside, putting the kobosh on his problems.

A metal freezer that, while not the most secure of places, would keep him relatively safe. Or so he hoped. Lance peered around the dining area by the bar.

“This could work.”

As long as he stayed tucked away, not giving up his position, he could stay there for a while. He would have to venture out for food at some point, but he would cross that bridge when he got there. The one thing he refused to do was ration his food to the point where he would become weak and sluggish.

Going out to loot a grocery store when he could barely walk was a death sentence waiting to be carried out. No, he would eat as much as his body needed and figure the rest out.

The occasional gunshot rang out as Lance straightened the faucet head in the kitchen and ran hot water from the tap. He took his clothes off and scrubbed at his body with dish soap, running individual limbs under the water to rinse. Fresh underwear and socks from his pack went on, along with a clean shirt he found in the waiter’s station. Neosporin and a new bandage covered the wound on his foot.

The woman and Jim disappeared from the television, replaced by a scrolling warning to stay inside. Lance hoped they were only napping.

Rummaging through the place as the morning went on, Lance found some eggs and bacon inside the fridge in the kitchen. His mouth watered at the thought of throwing it in a skillet, but hearing the mumbles and wails outside kept him from doing so. He remembered the Xavier victim in the hospital sniffing the air, as if it smelled him approaching.

Under the cash register, he found a hidden box of Butterfingers that he tossed in his pack.

As noon rolled into the later parts of the day, Lance’s eyes continually wandered back to the exposed front of the restaurant. How long until those things burst through? He figured the freezer could withstand one, maybe two, of those things beating on its door. If a group of them came through, however, he’d be finished.

The bread in the window came down, replaced by wireframe shelving that Lance wrapped in tablecloths. He taped it to the wall with a large roll of duct tape he found in a closet by the bathroom.

He stepped back and inspected his work. “Better than bread.”

Two shots of Jack Daniels at the bar, and Lance turned in for the night.

With the door locked, he lit his candles and settled in his hard bed. He flipped through a Glamour magazine he’d found rolled up in a waitress’ apron.

He threw it into the corner ten seconds later. No matter how limited his reading choices were, he just couldn’t get into that kind of stuff.

That night proved the loudest yet.

The concussive blows of heavy ordinance shook the building, waking Lance every few minutes. Barrages of machine gun fire erupted occasionally, strafing by as if it belonged to a helicopter.

Around midnight, a massive earth-shaking explosion rocked the freezer, knocking over one of the racks.

The banshee-like wails never ceased.

Lance rolled over and covered his head with a tablecloth.

Morning came too soon and Lance staggered to the bar, exhausted from the night’s festivities.

“Red Bull and pretzels again. Yay.”

The young newscaster had returned, this time sitting in a chair, her blouse buttoned incorrectly, hair disheveled. She nodded to Jimmy, who must have stood behind the camera.

“Are we on? We are? OK. Hello again, Pittsburgh. It was a long night for all of us, and Jim and I are still getting our bearings under us. As you probably noticed, the military pushed into the city last night. Helicopters cut down hundreds of those infected by the Xavier virus. Artillery rained from the sky.” She cleared her throat. “They’ve destroyed at least two hundred bridges in the city. We’re still getting calls about other detonations, but that’s what we know so far. If you were planning on using any of the major bridges to escape, you’ll need to come up with a different route.”

Lance held his head in his hands, the fatigue not going away no matter how much caffeine and sugar he pumped into his body.

“We’ve also been told that the military forces on the ground were completely overrun. There are thousands upon thousands of infected roaming the city. The BBC is reporting on its website that the Xavier virus has landed in Western Europe. Coupled with several military defeats in U.S. cities, it’s likely that we’re on our own now. Help will not be coming.”

The large window on the front of the building smashed inward. Tables toppled over. Men shouted.

Lance spun from the stool, scooping the shotgun up and jamming the butt of the stock into his shoulder.

Three men, clad in camouflage, climbed through the window, scrambling over the tables. Each held a rifle, one that was bolt action.

“Stop,” Lance shouted, sighting the nearest man.

They hesitated, eyes round circles of shock.

Shrieks came from behind them.

“They’re coming!” The man on the left, broad-shouldered and bearded, stepped forward. “They’re right around the corner!”

“I don’t give a shit.” Lance swung the barrel toward him. “Not my problem.”

The foremost man, white-haired and older than the rest, held his free hand up. “Unless you’re going to kill us and them, then you better let us inside.”

Lance looked over all three of them, his options running through his mind. As far as he could tell, he didn’t have a whole hell of a lot.

“How many are chasing you?”

“Half a dozen,” White Hair said.

“Shit.” Lance lowered his shotgun and stepped forward. “Help me get these back up.”

They watched him as he grabbed the leg of a toppled table.

“Hurry up!”

The men dropped their guns to the floor and stacked the tables in front of the window, wordlessly working to hide themselves.

Lance grabbed the remote from the bar and muted the television, turning his attention back to the front of the restaurant. The men stepped backward, lifting their guns again.

A shriek came then, shrill and close.

Too close.

Footsteps slapped at the pavement on the sidewalk. They stopped directly in front of the window. Lance heard panting, barely above a whisper, rasping on the other side of the tables.

His ears pulsed as his blood pressure spiked.

Another cry from the infected startled them, making Lance wince at its shrillness.

The footsteps continued on, the sound dying out as the infected moved away.

Lance blew out a long sigh, realizing he’d held his breath the entire time.

“Thanks, mister,” the youngest of the group said. His straight black hair touched his eyebrows. His baby-smooth face and lack of stubble betrayed his youth.

“You have seriously fucked my hiding spot.” Lance lowered the shotgun, but kept his finger by the trigger. “Why are you guys wearing camouflage? You aren’t military.”

The oldest man, obviously the leader by the way the others deferred to him, moved to the bar and grabbed shot glasses. “We were part of a militia.”

As he poured four shots of vodka, Lance moved between them and the back of the restaurant, not wanting anyone going near his pack. “They talked about you on the news. You’re running around executing people.”

The man offered him a full shot glass.

Lance shook his head.

All three of them threw back the liquor. The youngest coughed, grimacing at the aftertaste.

“We only shoot the infected. Why wait around until they fully mutate and then come for us?” The leader poured another round. “We were controlling the plague better than the goddamn government was, that’s for sure.”

“Were?” Lance asked as he watched them pound booze.

“Yeah,” the old man said, slamming his shot glass down. “They hit us last night like a freight train. We had seventy-five men at sundown last night. We’re all that are left, I think.”

The teenager stood in front of the TV, watching the silent newscast.

“They came from everywhere.” The broad-shouldered man plopped into Lance’s stool. “Out of sewer grates, from buildings, hell they even jumped from the back of a tractor trailer.”

White Hair nodded at the teen. “That’s Mike. The big fella is Tony, and I’m Ralph.”

“Lance.”

“You own this place, Lance?”

“I do now.”

Ralph smiled. “I hear that. Owners are probably dead or infected. You all alone in here?”

“Yeah.”

“Thanks for not shooting us,” teenager Mike said.

Lance stayed quiet, still assessing the men. He understood their logic for shooting the infected, but he still had to consider them dangerous. They were shooting people in cold blood, sick or not.

“You seem tense, Lance.” Ralph placed his rifle on the bar. “We didn’t even know you were here when we broke through the window. We’ve