He slowed the bike as he approached the intersection just before the trap. He kicked the transmission down a few gears and let the engine idle him closer. His eyes shifted side to side as he scanned for ragers. He could almost feel them out there, watching.
Waiting.
He slowed the bike and put his feet down as it rolled to a stop. He allowed plenty of room to turn around in the event of a fast getaway. He eyed the sides of the road and even spotted an emergency exit, should his retreat be blocked. He didn’t mind riding on the sidewalk. It would be just like old times.
He killed the engine and sat in the stillness of the early morning light. He allowed his ears a moment to adjust to the silence before he dropped the kickstand and climbed off the bike.
He walked carefully to the where he and Salty had prepared to make their last stand. There were bloodstains and bones scattered about. He couldn’t be sure if they were rager bones, picked clean by the cannibals, or if they were the remains of uninfected humans.
He remembered the asshole with the pipe who stood on the car and screamed at him. Out of curiosity, he weaved through the abandoned vehicles and approached where he last saw the creature. A large bloodstain in the grass next to a piece of old gas pipe made him believe that the shotgun slug had found its mark. He kicked at the pipe with his boot and was surprised at the weight. The way the creature shook it at him, he would have assumed it lighter.
He bent and picked it up. “They must be a lot stronger than they look.” He carried the pipe with him back to the ambush area and used it like a walking stick. In the back of his mind, he could see it being an effective weapon against a small handful of the ragers.
Savage picked at the sight and was surprised at the lack of bodies. Where the stranger had attacked and drew them away was littered with bits of flesh and bloodstains.
“Are they eating their own?” He kicked at what looked like part of an ear, drying in the morning sun. He stood and looked around. There weren’t any blood trails indicating they were removed. Could they have been eaten where they fell? Perhaps torn apart and the pieces taken back to whatever level of hell they called home?
Savage walked back to his bike more frustrated than when he arrived. He had more questions and fewer answers. He didn’t like that.
He dropped the pipe next to his Harley and straddled the bike. He hit the ignition and revved the engine a few times, practically daring the ragers to make themselves known.
Savage scanned the area with his eyes, praying that something would show. He wanted a pound of flesh and he was willing to risk himself to get it. He revved the engine again, the large V-twin barking and echoing off the surrounding buildings.
When it became apparent that nothing was prepared to step out and announce its presence, he slowly turned the bike around and prepared to return to the camp. He could almost smell the gruel that Stella would insist on making him for breakfast.
He turned the bike and was about to gun the engine when something caught his eye. He held the clutch and waited. The figure that stepped into view caused the corners of his mouth to twitch upward slightly.
“You son of a…”
Dr. Charles Carpenter rubbed at his wrists absently as he went over the viral loads on Brenda Wilkes’ readout. He almost regretted the young woman’s passing. She was almost tolerable as most non-academics went, but she was also vital to the mission.
He heard through the grapevine her fiancé had to be subdued and given a sedative when he heard of the unfortunate events. He kept screaming they had killed her. He knew that simply couldn’t be the case. Yet, here they sat with nearly four liters of her blood.
He pulled another sample vial and prepared a pipette. If her viral load was something other than the mutated version of the primordial rage virus, he needed to isolate it. In order for their work to be fine-tuned, they had to identify which version she carried. Two of the mutated forms were so closely related they were barely distinguishable.
He sighed as he stretched his neck and yawned. The short naps he was able to get while strapped down was not the deep, regenerative sleep that he so desperately needed. He filled the vial with a reactive enzyme, then set it into an incubator.
He knew this would take a few minutes, so he stood and reached for his coffee cup. The back of his hand brushed the handle and knocked the ceramic mug to the floor.
He threw his clipboard and screamed, a rage rising to the surface faster than he would have ever imagined. He cursed and gripped the stool he had been sitting on. With a twist of his body, he sent the metal chair flying across the workstation, destroying weeks of experiments as glassware was shattered, their contents splattered across every surface. He grabbed at the corner of the workbench and lifted with all his might, intending to upend the station when something punched him in the back of the shoulder.
He spun, ready to flatten whatever dared strike him when the room suddenly began to swim. He blinked rapidly a few times, the rage suddenly dissipating as quickly as it had arisen. His hand reached over his shoulder and his fingertips brushed the stainless-steel tranquilizer dart buried in his shoulder blade.
He felt his legs go out from under him and he gripped the edge of the table, trying to keep from face planting into the floor.
“W-why?” He stared into the eyes of the young female researcher holding the dart gun at arm’s
