Free Infected Freaks Volume One: Family First by Jason Borrego Page B

vein in his temple throbbing. “You think the blood spilled by the Northern Republic doesn’t stain your hands, Steven?”
    Glenn rose and threaded his hand in his daughter’s yellow hair. He yanked her back hard. “You have turned my own daughter into a criminal.” He pushed her into the dirt and charged Robb again.
    Weak, hairy arms grabbed around Glenn’s collar and tugged. It was Robb, and the sight made Abraham proud. His son had never fought back. During Robb’s teen years, the boy would come home with black eyes and tales of how he only cowered. Whatever cause Robb was sworn to, it made him fight. This was something new. Robb forced himself on top of old Glenn and more slapped than punched.
    “Nobody touches my wife,” he howled.
    It was in that moment that Abraham realized the crimson night had turned the weakest of souls into fierce predators. Everything that happened after blurred as the onset to his first heart attack ensued. Steven and his men thought it would be a good time to take advantage of a stunned crowd. One of them, a plump man with a splash of freckles, swung at Abraham. The heart medication made Abraham numb to an otherwise stinging blow. He took a second punch to the gut and spit. Then he gave a series of his own.
    He could hear Beth screaming at the door’s edge. Then and there, as sudden as it began, the screaming stopped. Abraham imagined the end of the conflict. The tussle would see Steven and his men away and Glenn back to his home. Imaging the typical ending, he failed to see Crazy old Glenn reaching for something in his pocket.
    “I always hated you,” Glenn slurred through his whiskey breath. “Either the soldiers take him or I kill him.” As he pulled out his hand, a knife flashed in the crimson light.
    “Put it down,” Abraham snapped, holding up a cautious hand. It had happened too fast. “Glenn, you’re not thinking right.” Breathing hard and waiting for the pain in his knuckles to subside enough for him to gage the situation, Abraham trembled with raw adrenaline. The silence stretched across the shadows of the farm in an uncanny manner.
    After three or four seconds, Glenn stood above Robb and held his three inches of honed steel at the ready.
    “I need him alive,” slurred Steve, holding a hunk of flesh dripping from his fat lips. He tried to sit up, but the beat down suffered at the hands of Benjamin left him stunned and tangled.
    “This isn’t you, Glenn.” Abraham slid his hand back and grasped the familiar grip of the pistol. “Nobody has to get hurt. We can still all walk away from this and fix it another day.”
    “I do this for the good of the country,” Glenn said, his voice shaky as he took a moment to appreciate the daunting blood-colored night. Closing his big eyes, Glenn ran his hand down in a swift downward motion. Red Dead must have spoken to Glenn in a rage of consuming fire as if a dark god were forcing his hand. The pleas fell silent on his deaf ears. Red Dead had ushered in commands that could never be disobeyed.
    “Die!” Glenn shrieked.
    Adrenaline rushing, Abraham swung the pistol and steadied his aim. Yet, before he could pull the trigger, a loud bang rang in his old ears tearing the color from his world.
    He could smell the gunpowder, and when he turned and saw his grandson Hunter with a rifle, the color came back in a flash. The teenage boy was trembling as the sound echoed throughout the mass of the trees.
    Everyone cried out his name, but Hunter stood still as if nothing else in the world existed. At the first release of his salty tears, he pointed the gun at Steven. “Leave my father alone!” The wild in Hunter’s eyes told the soldiers he wasn’t playing—that and the gaping hole in Glenn’s chest.
    Abraham scrutinized Steven and his men as they retreated to their vehicle. In the still moment, he saw many memories of war. Was this a victory? Or the beginning of something far worse? Steven drove away and Abraham couldn’t help