Children of the Dead, page 15
*****
Exhaustion overwhelmed Jodi and she nearly collapsed to the foyer floor. She continued to grip the table in bloody hands. It was some time before Jodi found any amount of stability, enough at least to shuffle to her grandmother’s bathroom. There was no anger left to express when the faucet only dripped onto her lacerated palms. She held them there for quite a while, feeling the drops smack into stinging wounds and drive red trails down the edge of the sink. The splinters were many and deep; her palms throbbed with pain like a flashing caution light. It didn’t matter right now—nothing really did except rest. She fell onto her grandmother’s bed and found the deep, dreamless sleep so long denied.
Ruin
“How’s the gas holdin’ up?” Joe Boggs asked from the passenger seat. It was an innocent but absent-minded question, immediately regretted. Joe had forgotten his place in the world. No doubt, Rodney would remind him.
Rodney took some time to answer, perhaps mulling over a choice of cruelties.
“Good idea, Joe,” Rodney finally said. “We should make a pit-stop.”
Joe felt his heart sink. He didn’t invite such abuse, but Rodney was more erratic than ever. His obsession with guns and food came at the expense of other necessities, like fuel. Rodney’s chosen headquarters kept a large stash of gasoline, but the supplies would not last forever. The drive to acquire weapons had eclipsed questions about their other needs. In the five days since the dead came back, they had added several dozen more to the rolls. Joe had not personally pulled a trigger, but was front row for most every murder, theft, and worse. Last night was the low point.
They had found a group of survivors in a basement, the last hold out in a trashed upper-middle class neighborhood one exit up on the interstate. Every other house was destroyed. It looked like a swarm of zombies had gone door to door recruiting and didn’t take no for an answer. There was no sign of life but plenty of death. Rodney had almost led them into an ambush at a cul-de-sac and it took several harrowing minutes of shooting before they had a chance of driving out of there.
It was the usual crew: Rodney, Mark, Adrian, and Joe. There were others back at the yard, but Rodney didn’t seem to put much trust in them on raids. The smell of gun powder hung in the air and their ears were ringing from the firefight. Adrian had a real bloodlust going and he scared the shit of out Joe. The big guy was falling in with Rodney’s sadism more and more, reveling in the murder of others to take what they had. Joe hated it, but knew his place. He had chosen to throw in with Rodney and survive. So far, they were still alive, at the expense of his conscience.
In checking out the houses, they uncovered a hiding spot in the closed basement of nice, two-story house that was easily five times the size of any house Joe had ever lived in. The upstairs was empty, more so than any other, as if someone had looted the place before anything dead had gotten to walk through. That was unusual. Downstairs, they found the Wells family, living fairly comfortably in a finished basement with full kitchen and bathroom. Jack Wells even had a short wave radio. He also had a wife and college-aged daughter who, unfortunately for both, were gorgeous to look at.
Rodney forced open the door to that basement and descended like he was Alexander the Great. He went through the usual questions about food and guns. Jack gave the wrong answer, though there was really no right answer where Rodney was concerned. He had nothing except what would take care of his family. He was quite obstinate to Rodney, who put a bullet into his head. Joe had stayed upstairs. He knew what was coming next; a murdered family, looting, and back on the road as victorious conquerors. It didn’t quite go that way. The boys’ blood was up and things took a brutal and perhaps inevitable turn. Joe tried to block out the sounds of the women, finally retreating to the Blazer and weeping alone. The others returned sometime later, laughing and smelling of sex. No one from the Wells household left the house alive. They tore into Joe for running away and he took it in silence, grateful that they had not seemed to notice he had been crying.
“Where we gonna get the gas?” asked Joe, breaking the bad thoughts. If there would be some fresh abuse, he wanted it over with. He thought of the possibilities. The QuikFill station out by the exit was the closest one but it had gone up in a fireball the first night. Joe heard the bang clear across town. There were a couple other stations they could get to, but most looked like wrecks any time they had passed by. The town of Harmony had eaten itself within the first two days, and the living had gone to ground.
Joe looked back at Rodney. His eyes were ringed with red and his sandy blonde hair stood unwashed and stiff. The boy was carving out a little empire from the corpse of the town, but it took a toll. Joe got the feeling that Rodney was finally starting to realize the magnitude of it all. The world was broken before the dead, but now there was no fix left. An empire of ruins is still a ruin.
“School’s in,” Rodney answered. “I hope you brought your tooth brush, fuck-face.” He cackled at his passenger. The weariness vanished from his face, replaced with a sinister smile.
“Aw, come on. There’s got to be a working pump instead,” Joe said and hated the whine that crept into his already squeaky voice.
Rodney let go again with his hyena laugh, seeming to stretch his grin past the edge of his face. That smile and that gleam in Rodney’s eye were a familiar sight to Joe. It scared him shitless every time. That was the same face Rodney wore when he used to beat up kids after school behind the gym. It was there the first day when he put a shotgun into Jack Hughes’ mouth and evacuated his skull. In the week of the dead, the expression had been accomplice to every violent deed and cackling insult. Rodney was losing it, and Joe couldn’t say shit about it to anyone. Adrian, Mark, Billy the Bulk, most everyone back at the yard were believers. Rodney had organized them, given them a fortified place to live, and a purpose. He only gave Joe the creeps.
The Blazer barreled down New Cut Road on the outskirts of town. West Harmony County High School was visible to their right. Light smoke still drifted up from the smoldering shell of the gymnasium. Rodney spun the Blazer into the student parking lot and came to a stop with a tire-shredding squeal. Joe’s eyes were wild, scanning back and forth across the parking lot. It was about half full. There had been a football game Friday night, interrupted in the fourth quarter by a zombie outbreak. Many had run blindly in panic, their vehicles left for posterity. The rest turned the parking lot into a scene from The Road Warrior and the ensuing chaos of crashes and murder was left in place. That night and by their own hand, the citizens of Harmony added greatly to the local zombie population.
“What do you want me to do?” Joe asked. His stomach cramped and his bowels loosened.
Rodney’s grin did not falter. “Better get going before school lets out.”
Joe didn’t move. He just stared at Rodney for a pass that wasn’t coming. Getting out of this wasn’t an option. What did Rodney want him to do?
“Go on, Joe. I ain’t gonna wait long,” Rodney said. “They ain’t either.”
Rodney lifted a finger towards the school. Joe squinted through the bright windshield glass. A few hundred yards away stood three zombies, motionless and watching.
“In the back is a gallon jug. There should be a piece of rubber hose in there too. Get ‘em, and get to sucking.”
Joe took a deep breath of resignation. This was a fucking game to Rodney and he’d had enough. Joe turned but his attempt at rebellion died. Rodney had laid his 911 on the thigh of his jeans.
“In case they get too close,” he said. “I’ll try and keep ‘em off ya.”
Joe stepped out of the Blazer. The afternoon sun was harsh and he squinted through the sharp reflections from the metal and glass around him. He went to the back and popped open the glass window. There were a couple of empty gallon jugs shoved to the side and a coil of rubber piping underneath. He grabbed them and stepped back out. The zombies still stood quietly. Maybe they couldn’t see for shit or their brains were too much mush to comprehend the fresh meat.
He began to clumsily shove the hose into the gas tank of a Honda Accord; its front end was deeply buried in the passenger door of someone’s once cherry Corvette. His hands kept slipping as his palm sweat greased up the hose.
“Stop fucking around Joe and hurry up,” Rodney taunted with a chuckle.
The hose struck metal and Joe started sucking air, cursing Rodney. This was it. He was going to ditch Harmony first chance he got. He’d rather be dead than stuck with this psychopath. There came a loud HONK of a car horn just as gasoline spurted into Joe’s mouth. He gagged and spit up gas onto the asphalt with a splosh! The gas poured from the hose onto the ground. He forced the tube into the gallon jug and coughed violently. Then he heard something else: a concert of low moans from shambling corpses. He stood up to survey his situation and gasped. The three corpses were close at hand, and beyond them came at least two dozen more. Joe turned instinctively and grabbed for the door handle of the Blazer. It wouldn’t budge. His eyes met Rodney’s and his heart sank. Fresh urine streamed down his leg.
Rodney was no longer smiling. He simply stared at Joe with his hateful, red eyes as if weighing the boy’s fate. The dead closed in, just a few yards away now. Joe found no compassion in the other boy’s eyes. He dropped his hand from the handle and turned to his end. The first wave of dead was on the other side of the Accord and swarming around. They hissed at him, arms reaching. The sound of the door latch popped behind him.
“Move your ass, Joe,” Rodney shouted.
Joe snapped around, fumbling for the handle, wheeling it open to jump in. Rodney revved the engine loudly, the brakes straining to keep the Blazer at heel.
“Get the gas can, asshole!”
The dead were within a few feet now. Their eyes were glazed, hazy. Did they see Joe as human anymore? Joe grabbed for the gas can, barely getting a grip on the handle. He vaulted backward into the cab, sloshing it onto his shirt. The door shut tight and the first corpse smacked the window were frightening force. Rodney gunned the engine. The Blazer launched forward, turning the corpses ahead of them to paste. They were out of the pack and soon the parking lot.
Rodney was grinning again and talking excitedly about Joe’s “little adventure”. He laughed and mocked Joe’s screaming, his pissing, calling him a little bitch. Joe Boggs sat still and silent, clutching the gas can to his chest. He held the taste of gasoline on a dry tongue and wished he could get the smell of piss out of his nose.
Harmony in Death
The corpse of Earl Hamby finally made it to town and the place had gone to shit. The tiny downtown was once an impeccable time capsule of southern architecture and charm. Two neat rows of shops lined the central street; each fronted by a large picture window which gave tourists and residents a view into antiques, curios, and shined-up junk. Dwight Porter’s tiny shop, More or Less, harkened back to the Nineteenth Century general store with its hardwood flooring and old soda bar. It had lost a bit of charm with the rear end of a police cruiser sticking out of the shattered front. The town would not win any more write-ups from Southern Living or play host to film crews shooting idyllic small town life. It was good and well dead.
Fire had destroyed a few storefronts, contained by the red brick walls that separated them. Some hand-painted ads were still legible on the old brick: Harmony Farm & Feed, Jerry’s Barber Shop, and the 8-Ball Pool Hall (rhyme intentional). The Farm & Feed was long gone, taken over by a sandwich shop with free Wi-Fi. Jerry’s Barber Shop was gutted to share space with Betty’s Beauty Shop, equality of the sexes progressing right through the old town. The 8-Ball was a favorite of the local hard-luck set. Drugs and desperate pussy could still be had in abundance at the 8-Ball if you hung around long enough. Across the street, the town’s first green grocer had been renovated into the town’s new police station. A single building, a train depot, stood apart by the roadside. It was now the Harmony Train Museum and Uncle Sam had footed the bill for that in the name of historical preservation.
Harmony was a chimera as were most small towns that were within 50 miles of a big city and hugged an interstate exit. They had become suburbs and were the worse for wear with every corporate fast food joint and subdivision house that was carved in. The old timers still hung out on street corners and talked of what was. Those that hadn’t sold the family fields for commercial development still might be found out on a tractor, bailing hay for a handful of cattle. The younger generations talked of what will be, but over a digital phone, video chat by tablet, or text message. Harmony was just another commuter town, soulless and forgettable.
Of course, Earl wasn’t thinking about any of that. In his living days, he had been through the town several times along the trucking route southwest. He followed that path once again when he shuffled into town on the trail of distant car engines. He stood alone in the shadow of the old Harmony water tower at the town’s center and felt hunger for something other than the burgers down at the 8-Ball.
Earl had already had a full morning. He had been chasing a cat from an old auto garage, stepping over rusting tools, parts, and a ratty newspaper advertising “Buy Gold! The only way to survive the tough times ahead.” He nearly had the damn thing cornered before a rival stepped in and ate his prey. Earl had watched the spry corpse of a child tear into the cat’s abdomen. Maybe it was frustration leading as he walked over and broke the zombie’s tiny neck with one swipe. He hadn’t tasted the cat but finished it just the same. It wasn’t about taste or want or emotion as the warm flesh went down the throat. The zombie of Earl Hamby just was and that meant it was going to do certain things, behave in certain ways. Not much had changed for the living dead. They were still creatures of habit.
*****
The Campbell house had long disappeared from view as David started out onto County Road 11. The road was a cracked two-lane that wound its way across the county, hitting the squared courthouses of half a dozen small towns. Harmony was the next stop along the route. Most of the county’s inhabitants lived out on roads like these, far enough to still be considered country living, and close enough to make a run to MacDonald’s out by the interstate. There were about four or five miles of open blacktop before hitting Teddy’s Grocery and the outskirts of Harmony. From there it was a short stroll through downtown, another half mile to the freeway, and beyond to Macon or Atlanta.
The forest closed over the road like a canopy shutting out most of the afternoon sunlight. David continually glanced back in the direction of the house. Birds chattered in the surrounding trees and wind rustled loose leaves onto the road, giving away the deepening autumn. It was a perfect day in all respects. David whistled the Andy Griffith theme song, a favorite show of his mother. He kept an ear out for sudden movements in the woods. All I need is a fishing pole and a skipping rock.
He walked on hurriedly down the blacktop. The road disappeared over a hill about a quarter-mile ahead. David stopped and scanned the roadsides. There was no movement that he could distinguish. Gripping the bat tighter, he started again at a trot, feeling more vulnerable than ever in the peaceful setting. His sneakers smacked the pavement loudly and a light sweat shone on his forehead. Barry’s gun felt very heavy in his jeans.
Still, the feeling of freedom was ecstasy. The house was claustrophobic with all of the windows and doors covered. It got to him quick, even during the few days he had been there. Jodi had spent almost double that time and he admired her for it. Maybe it would all work out, getting away to Atlanta. He understood Jodi’s need to find her mother. Lucky him, he knew just where his mother lay. The thought was depressing.
Surely, the state government would have set up some sort of compound or protected zone to house survivors. The infrastructure was much stronger in a city for emergencies. They didn’t have as many cemeteries to cough up walkers. There would be food, water, and a little rest for the weary. It would be good to see some more living people. Out on the road alone, he felt like the last man alive. He smiled to himself; a twinge of hope in his heart. David took a hard practice swing with the bat and quickened his pace. The road stretched on.
*****
Teddy’s Grocery was a shithole, or at least it had been. That was an apt description for the place before zombies tore through the front door. Windows were punched through and stained with dried, black smears. It looked like someone’s last stand had failed. Theodore Stansfield Jr. had been born and raised in Harmony and took over the family business after his father died from lung cancer. Theodore (Teddy to most) also took over his father’s three-pack-a-day habit, and so for most old-timers Teddy Sr. had never left. No doubt Teddy had spit out his last cigarette late that night when he realized the person scraping at the shop’s door was not having an attack of the munchies, not the kind he was used to anyways from stoned teenagers and drunks.
The outside was a dingy, grey cube of a building, the ground around it stained by decades of spilt motor oil. The petroleum stench permeated the air. This had been the town’s sole fill-up station for generations until they put in the Fast-Trac station out by the exit. Teddy had known the Jacobs, never failing to greet little David in his rattled, tar-shredded voice or to leer at his mother, smiling wide with bright yellow teeth.
The ghost of a thousand cigarettes hung about the interior of the store. The smell of smoke barely hid the stench of rotting vegetables and meat. Teddy had been attacked behind his counter and dragged into the street. What was left had been scattered by speeding residents driving hell bent out of town. David sifted through the destruction of the shop, way too small to be an actual grocery, and found a few remnants of its stock. It had been stripped clean though he did find an old pack of cheese crackers under the front counter. He tore into the crackers, spooning the thick, yellow goop onto the cracker with the tiny, red stick. There was nothing else to be found at the store. There was no car outside the shop. Teddy had always driven around an ancient looking Chevy, more rusted than painted. The car was nowhere to be found though its parking spot was clearly marked with tire ruts and puddles from a leaky radiator. Someone other than Teddy had taken it for a joyride.
