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  Tainted Mind

  The Tainted Chronicles

  Book 2

  T. J. Christian

  Copyright © 2019 by T.J. Christian

  All rights reserved.

  Original cover image copyright © T.J. Christian. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without written permission from T.J. Christian, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages for review purposes.

  This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person, living or dead, any place, events, or occurrences, is purely coincidental. The characters and storylines are created from the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Thank you for downloading this eBook. This book remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be redistributed to others for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy from their favorite authorized retailer. Thank you for your support.

  WARNING: This story contains adult language, situations, and sexually explicit content: it is intended for readers over the age of eighteen.

  Chapter One

  The dead are an illusion—they are the Tainted and walk amongst the living.

  The living are the new dead—they keep to themselves, preferring to stay locked in coffins the size of houses. Watching through broken doorways and shadowed windows—they duck away just as Chris’s gaze wonders in their general direction. He knows they are there, the scattered remnants of a civilization that used to be—but unlike himself, they were afraid of the outside world. Having never learned to adapt, they stay mostly indoors and never, ever receive guests. They only leave their hiding places long enough to forage for rusted tin cans of vegetables or, if they are lucky, a can of potted meat.

  For every living soul he manages to glimpse, the Tainted outnumber them ten-fold—and they are always at the ready to feed their driving hunger. No matter how quiet the community, the Tainted are always there—rotting noses sniffing the air, tattered ears listening, thin arms reaching, and hands forever grasping, ready to lock onto the living.

  Most of the time, the smaller the town, the fewer numbers of Tainted. But Chris, always at the ready with his twin, red-handled machetes, remains cautious.

  Today is no exception. The faded wording on the water tower says either Marlinville or Martinville. Whichever the case, this town is bigger than most he’s visited lately. This particular street, however, is a carbon copy of so many others—cracked, weed-strewn pavement with tightly packed houses lining each side. Before the world ended, he wondered how anyone could live in such close proximity to one another—there was barely enough room between the houses for two people to walk side-by-side. Yes, he’d been around then—but that was a long time ago, back when he was young and his mother, father, and sister were still alive.

  But he’s lived in this new world longer than that old one—long enough that the time before has become just a jumble of fractured memories.

  Most recently was the little peninsula that stuck out into the Snake River like an exclamation point: Homestead—the place he and father had called home. Protecting it was the picket fence made of living corpses. And the horror he felt after discovering those corpses were the undead bodies of various members of his family—his mother and sister included. Until Father’s death, Chris had felt trapped there.

  No, not necessarily trapped—claustrophobic.

  Father: it had been just the two of them for so long. Chris often felt as if a part of Father is still here, still present within his mind—speaking out periodically, usually when Chris didn’t want or need his advice. But for Chris, he’d rather have his consciousness to himself and not share it with his dead father. But such is life—his naiveté knew no difference.

  Now, Homestead is gone and Chris has wandered far from the river. As the distance grew, his father’s voice seemed to fade. He’s not sure if it was distance, time, or a combination of both, but Father’s voice had grown quieter these last few months. Maybe, as he grows to be more self-sufficient, the spirit of his Father realized he’s no longer needed. That the mere act of living is driving his father’s voice away.

  Living? There’s no living here. There’s nothing left but death and the promise of death.

  * * *

  A deep growl comes from the house to his right. Dog, maybe? Just in case, he draws one of the machetes. Hopefully, it was a dog and not something else. From what Chris had witnessed, this disease taints humans and much of the animal population. Dogs, however, seemed to be immune. He wouldn’t have lasted as long as he had if the dog population had turned.

  He’d had one run-in with a pack of dogs and he didn’t want any repeat encounters. Making a fist with his right hand, he can still feel the stiffness and pressure from heavy scarring. Not long after leaving Homestead and the river he’d called home, a pack of dogs had attacked him. He’d dispatched three of them before the fourth and final one latched onto his hand, its sharp teeth puncturing his skin.

  He learned a valuable lesson that day. Stabbing a dog isn’t the best way to dispatch them—no, slice them open, spill as much blood as possible. Hungry dogs are prone to cannibalism and are attracted to the blood—even if it’s one of their own. Slice the lead dog open and while the others attack the fallen pack member to feed, that’s when you make your escape. Squeezing his hand again, he knows he was fortunate to escape with nothing worse than a wounded hand.

  Worrying about infection plagued every waking moment in the days after that encounter—it was actually a worry that hovered in the back of the mind every day. He was lucky—very lucky to have survived. And even luckier that he had enough fresh water to boil and clean the wound.

  The growl comes again and Chris steps closer to the house. A metal fence surrounds it. It’s bent and crooked in places, but is still upright and would be sufficient for keeping a medium-sized dog contained. As if reading his mind, the dog springs from beneath the house. It’s a scrawny thing—hair matted in a tangled mess and covered in dirt and other grime.

  It barks—a loud, shrill yapping that, if it continues, will draw every Tainted within a mile in every direction.

  Something’s wrong here. The dog, scrawny yes, but someone’s feeding it…

  …it’s an early warning system.

  Chris turns a quick circle while drawing the second machete. His main concern is someone using the dog not just as an alarm, but as a distraction for an ambush. Sometimes, the living could be more dangerous than the Tainted.

  The second concern is that if there are any Tainted around, they’ll be here within minutes. He hurries up the broken street and away from the dog. Within a few yards, the overgrowth of weeds and brush block the view and the dog whines and whimpers at losing sight of him. In less than a minute, the malnourished dog is silent—obviously too tired to exert the energy.

  Chris has to admit that using the dog as an early warning system is brilliant. It not only warns of human intruders, but it also attracts the Tainted.

  There’s one undead coming now.

  It lumbers toward him and Chris waits at the side of the street, wondering—as he often does—what motivates them. What keeps them going? How do they stalk their prey? The eyes, jaundiced and clouded, couldn’t see very far—if at all. Smells don’t seem to attract them either—he’s built plenty of fires, and while the flames and smoke will attract them, the smell of smoke does not seem to. Sound is a definite factor—they can hear very well.

  It's fortunate he and his father kept to themselves through most of Chris’s youth. As isolated as it was, the forest and the river that protected Homestead also provided ample food. Ten years ago—hell, even just five years ago—there probably would have been a significantly larger
population of Tainted in this town. Which means the dog would have attracted more than just the single figure lumbering towards him.

  Since someone is feeding the dog—that same someone must have also dispatched most Tainted in town.

  His eyes sweep across the street—the broken and cracked pavement, the houses that sit too close together, some falling inward from time and neglect. The way nature has overtaken everything, it makes it look more like a jungle village than a place that was once civilized. Someone had taken the time to board over many of the doors and windows, then taken the time to paint large numbers on the front of each house where it would be most visible. This house has the number one, the next house has a three—and so on and so forth. Each number representing, as Chris can only assume without actually checking, the quantity of Tainted held captive behind those closed doors.

  The numbers scrawled in bright red stand out against the pale wood like scars on the skin. If the Tainted is still in those houses, he’s not about to test that theory. He’s not curious by nature—and that’s a good thing, curiosity can get you killed.

  Most houses only contain a single Tainted, but during his walk through town, he’s seen numbers as high as six. If it were up to Chris, there wouldn’t be a single house with a number one on its face. No, he would have cleared those houses because to stay in one place for too long is to die. The Tainted are not the only thing to fear in this world—there are human elements that are much, much worse. Clearing those houses would give the living residents here—if there were any—options to duck and hide if escape ever becomes necessary. Having an escape route through three or four houses can be the difference between life and death.

  He doesn’t live here though, and they made these choices without his influence or input. The people found a way to survive that works for them—more power to them. Chris just wouldn’t take any chances. He’s seen what the human element can do—and to him, they are much scarier than the Tainted. The dead are predictable—the living, not so much.

  Before him, the lone dead man is close. He watches it warily, but curiously—wondering how the thing can move in such a dilapidated state of decay. Its clothing has long since decayed or torn away, and the naked thing is nothing but a grey mass of sinew, bone, and skin as thin as paper. Its arms lift—well, one of them does. The other lifts, but only the upper arm rises. The shattered bones of the left elbow poke out of the skin at odd angles. The forearm, attached by a few strings of flesh, dangles like a pendulum, but the hand still opens and closes with a life of its own.

  Chris quickly scans his surroundings again—he doesn’t want this one to distract him from another that might approach from behind. The house on the right has the number four on the door, the next has the number two. On the left, this house also has the number two, while the next house has no numbers and no boards barricading the door or windows. He’s alone—just him and the single Tainted.

  Stepping forward, he brings the machetes up and crosses the blades, forming an X against the Tainted’s neck. The machete’s ring, a sound that reverberates through the air as he draws the blades away from each other. They slice through rotted skin and brittle bone with ease. The decapitated head falls to the ground with a wet, hollow thump. Thick black liquid sprays briefly as the thing’s heart takes its final beats. The body slumps to the ground but the head continues to snap its jaws. Chris chops downward—the blade sinking deep into the skull, silencing it forever.

  After dispatching the Tainted, he continues his trek up the street, but something gnaws as him—something he noticed just before dispatching the Tainted man.

  Something about the houses.

  Stopping, he turns a full circle, eyes scanning the numbers written in red. That one, the house without a number—the house without barricades over the doors or windows. The house that looks—normal.

  The paint, curled upward from years of summer heat, looks identical to all the other homes, but something is different. Despite the peeling paint and overgrown plants, the place looks clean. Where other houses have plants growing through cracks in the wood, this house is void of weeds growing through the porch. Nor are there any creeping vines snaking up toward the roof. Most of the window panes contained clouded, cracked glass. Where the glass is missing, precisely cut planks of wood fill the gaps—someone took some time and care.

  Somebody lives here.

  He steps toward the house and there’s movement through the screened door. Squinting, he can just make out the silhouette of a man standing inside. It’s not one of the Tainted—that is, unless Chris is looking at its back and somehow the thing hasn’t heard him or the dog.

  No, that’s no Tainted—that’s a person—something he hasn’t seen in…

  Months. It’s been months since he’s seen, much less talked, with a living, breathing human being. He has seen no one—even from a distance.

  Something aches within him now. Something he didn’t realize he needed—a need for companionship. People are not meant to live alone—not for this long. He needs to talk with someone like he used to talk with his dad—or even that bitch of a woman that seemed to suck all the life from him. At least, the Tainted only wants one thing—to eat. But she had other ways of coming after the living—she devoured the mind with her beauty and consumed the soul with her sex.

  No! He shakes his head. He cannot think about her. He promised himself that he would not dwell on the things she did to him. That experience is behind him now, and he refuses to spend any more waking moments thinking about her.

  He can tell himself that all he wants, but try as he might, he couldn’t keep her from haunting his dreams.

  Chapter Two

  “Karen, wake up!”

  The blurry darkness fades and light filters through her eyes as the dream fades. That voice—that sweet, sweet voice—it had belonged to her mother. She was always there to protect her. Now she’s just a memory made distant by time. Much like the dream, the mental images Karen has of her mother fade with each passing day—as do the pictures she has in her head. These too, are fading. Her mom’s face, once so clear and focused, is now blurry and undefined. Just a shape with no identifying features—save her voice. Karen’s mom’s voice would always be crystal clear in her dreams.

  The dream-voice couldn’t have come at a better time. The echo still lingers even as Karen rises from where she slept—the second-floor balcony of a dilapidated Colonial home. She can imagine it as it once was—majestic, sparkling bright white in the sun, a place where the occupants felt safe.

  Now, though, its floorboards creak with every step. Except for this room, none have been polished or swept in a long time. Creeping vines snake up the outside walls, covering almost every visible surface. Weeds and brush push up through cracks in the porch and, like broken teeth, shattered glass sticks from the panes of the first-floor windows.

  Karen recognizes the charm this house once contained, and she wishes things were different—that somehow they could go back to that time before. A time she barely remembers. Like her mother’s physical appearance, the past is now nothing but an impression within her mind.

  Something rustles below. On bare feet, she tiptoes to the open French doors and onto the second-floor balcony. She eases toward the rickety banister and presses her face between the spindles. Below her, one of the dead stumbles through the yard. It barely maintains an upright position—the flesh of its right leg, below the knee, has been scraped away—leaving grey bones surrounded by only a few strips of muscle and skin.

  How can they continue to move? Without muscle and tendon, how are they able to function? This one shouldn’t be able to walk at all. There have been others in a worse condition than this one—those were skeletal, with hardly any meat remaining, yet somehow, they continue to maneuver. It’s not the first time she’s wondered this and it wouldn’t be the last.

  Karen slowly backs away from the banister and retreats deeper into the house. She enters what would have once been the master bedroom
and wishes this place was hers. She smiles—this place is hers. There’s nobody here but her to claim it. As far as she knows, she and her grandfather are the only two living people in town. Nobody owns anything anymore. Possessions are outdated and worthless. In this new world, you took what the land provided and the most valuable things are water and food.

  Thinking of the dead man walking through the front yard, she adds weapons to that list: water, food, and weapons. What else do you need?

  Her parents would have loved this place, but they are no longer here—the dead took them. Her brother and mother had fallen to a swarm of them, becoming bloody meals in a matter of seconds. It happened so quickly that Karen had no time to process what was happening before being whisked away by her father and grandfather. But her dad had not gotten away unscathed. One of the dead had bitten him on the arm as he’d tried to pull his mother free of their unrelenting grasps.

  Almost immediately, the deadly infection turned the wound red and hot. As the poisonous spores traveled through his veins, they turned black and pulsed beneath the skin with each heartbeat. A ghostly film spread across his once bright blue eyes, and before the virus overtook him completely, he lost all sight. Karen remembers him blindly reaching out for her, calling for her, but she’d been too afraid. His body, consumed by fever, burned fiercely and she could feel the heat coming off him without having to touch him. Before her eyes, he was turning into a monster—and that scared her to death.

  Sometimes, she wishes her dad would have gone out like her mother and brother. Hearing his screams of pain as the virus took over his body would haunt her for the rest of her life. At least with her mother and brother, their deaths had been relatively quick.

  Just inside the door is a three-legged nightstand. Before heading out onto the balcony to rest under the cool, fall sun, she’d placed her weapon of choice on that stand: a small pickaxe. She’d tried using a normal pickaxe, but they were too big and heavy for her small frame. This one was perfect. Her grandfather had found it while scavenging vehicles along the ancient interstate a few miles north of town.