As soon as Ranger Bob braked the vehicle and shut off the engine, however, all bets were off. With a nauseating gurgle, Jill leaned farther out the window and released a torrent of otherworldly vomit.
“Jesus,” the ranger sputtered, almost leaping from the vehicle. “What’s wrong with her?”
I pinched my temples, a major migraine on the rise. “You wouldn’t believe us if we told you.”
When Jill had finished evacuating the contents of her stomach (and probably a few liquefied organs as well), our clueless captor gingerly approached the rear of the SUV. He covered his mouth with a bandanna—either unsettled by the odor of vomit or worried about the contagious nature of Jill’s disease—drew his gun, and opened her door. As a courtesy, he circled the vehicle and opened my side, too.
With his weapon at the ready, Ranger Bob gestured for me to vacate the SUV. Happy to be liberated from the cramped interior, I did as requested. So did George and Clare, the latter of whom hastened to the other side to assist her mother out of the car.
I gazed at the ranger station, which sat on a low, flattened hill in a cozy clearing and, even in the moonlight, looked fairly new. Roughly the size of a double-wide trailer, the one-story structure featured dark wooden siding that blended well with the surrounding trees. I noticed two large windows on the front of the building, one on each side of the main entrance, and several smaller windows along the side. A couple of dumpsters abutted one end of the station, and a forest-green golf cart sat on the other.
I assumed Ranger Bob and his cohorts had used the open-air vehicle for cruising around the nearby campsites. Which made me wonder… how many folks had been staying in Homochitto when the world turned to shit?
“This wasn’t on any of my maps,” I mused aloud, then half-turned toward the ranger. “When did they build it?”
“It’s brand-new,” he replied, nudging me toward the front door with his pistol. “They haven’t even finished the interior yet.” A fact that obviously perturbed him.
I longed to tell him that the ranger station was as complete as it was ever gonna get, but why waste my breath? He hadn’t believed anything else I’d told him. He surely wouldn’t believe that either.
Chapter
10
“Now I realize there are some things worse than death, and one of them is sitting here, waiting to die.” – Kenneth, Dawn of the Dead (2004)
Ranger Bob hadn’t exaggerated: While the exterior of the new station looked fairly pristine and prepared to welcome hikers, campers, and curious zombies, the interior was still a total mess.
Thanks to several solar-powered lanterns peppered throughout the building, I could see two primary rooms: a spacious area in the front and a glassed-in office at the rear. Though the front room had more depth than the separated office, it wasn’t quite as wide—due to the space occupied by restrooms on one side and a storage closet on the other (all of which I only recognized by the signage posted on them).
Although the construction workers had finished installing all the windows before the world fell apart, little else seemed complete. Only half of the ceiling tiles extended above my head, the rest lying in a stack against an unfinished wall, along with several unopened paint cans, various brushes and tools, a pile of dirty tarps, and numerous pieces of inner wall paneling that had yet to be nailed in place.
Four plastic-wrapped desks, with their drawers still taped shut for transportation, lined another unfinished wall. Numerous unopened boxes covered their surfaces, and a dozen padded, wooden folding chairs leaned against the storage room.
Exposed wires dangled everywhere, and the few light fixtures present contained no bulbs. Not that it mattered with the power grid out. Even if the workers had finished securing all the electrical wiring, Bob would’ve needed an on-site generator and a decent supply of gasoline to keep the lights on. For all I knew, the ranger had already depleted his limited fuel, except for what remained in his SUV.
Beyond the inactive ceiling lights—and the solitary lamp I spotted on the rear desk—I saw no sign of any electrical devices. No radio or television, no refrigerator or air-conditioning units, no phones or computers. Not even a coffee maker in sight.
The only thing in the front room that seemed set up and almost ready to use was an unplugged water cooler that stood beside the door leading to the rear office. Suddenly, I remembered my ever-present thirst.
As if reminding me of our awkward circumstances, Ranger Bob slammed the door behind us.
Sighing, I refocused my attention on our surroundings. Even in my fatigued state, I needed to maintain my situational awareness—particularly if zombies decided to crash our temporary prison. Clare and George, whose eyes also darted around the station, were likely thinking the same thing.
My gaze fell upon the horizontal wall separating the two main rooms, which contained windows on the top half and pinewood paneling along the bottom. The half-opened door opposite the front entrance likewise featured an upper pane of glass.
From my vantage point, I could see a hulking oak desk near the back wall of the station. Various notebooks and folders cluttered the top surface of the desk, along with the darkened lamp, a glowing, solar-powered lantern, and a slender, parqueted pencil holder filled with pens, scissors, and an old-fashioned letter opener. I also spotted an empty, oversized box that must’ve once housed the water cooler.
Clearly, Bob hadn’t lied. His only links to the outside world were his car radio (apparently busted), a walkie-talkie (useless for long distances), and a smartphone (pointless without cell service). No wonder he didn’t understand what was happening in and around his woods.
Still, I was shocked he hadn’t encountered a zombie yet. We’d only been in Homochitto a few hours, and we’d already seen several. George and I had even dispatched two of the nasty fuckers. But, by the ranger’s own admission, he’d been in the forest for at least three days. How the hell had the ravenous undead passed up such a tasty morsel?
While my companions and I lingered near the entrance, Bob stepped around us and strolled toward the rear office, his gun once again nestled inside his holster.
“Come on, folks. We’re gonna sit back here.”
By we, he obviously meant his four prisoners. Without access to a jail cell, he needed to figure out how to secure us before attempting (in vain) to contact his higher-ups and report our supposed acts of terrorism.
Perhaps I should’ve been grateful he hadn’t simply locked us in the storage room. Cuz I certainly didn’t fancy getting trapped in a tight space with a mother-in-law about to turn feral.
After guiding us into the rear office, Bob gazed around, as if searching for any tools or weapons he might’ve left in plain sight. Spotting the pencil holder, he hastened toward the desk and plucked out the scissors and letter opener. I refrained from telling him that writing utensils could also serve as decent weapons in a pinch.
Clare, meanwhile, coaxed her mother toward the room’s only seat, an ergonomic office chair on wheels. I also noticed a disheveled cot in the corner—presumably Bob’s bed for the last few nights—but none of us opted to park our asses there. Instead, the ranger dragged three folding chairs from the collection by the front door and dispersed them around the desk.
“Sit,” he commanded.
My wife, who had yet to comply, looked up from tending to her mother, concern streaked across her face. “Could I get some water for my mom?”
Bob gazed at Jill, obviously aware that something was very, very wrong with the woman, and nodded. With the ranger watching her every move, Clare stepped around the desk and through the doorway, where she paused to snatch a small paper cup from a short stack atop the water cooler. After filling it almost to the brim, she carefully carried the cup toward Jill and tipped it over her mother’s open mouth.
After one small sip, Jill grasped the cup and waved her daughter away. “I’m not a child. I can hold it myself.” But after a few painful gulps, her face softened. “Sorry, Clare.”
<
br /> “It’s OK, Mom. I know you’re hurting.”
Clare’s patience didn’t surprise me. Despite a handful of hotheaded moments over the years, she was typically a calm, tolerant person—especially when someone she loved was hurting. And Jill really did look as awful as she sounded.
Since her second puking, her complexion had turned from pale green to a yellowish gray. The infection she’d received from the scratch must’ve spread throughout her entire system and was now beating the hell out of her. We might not have gotten along over the past two decades, and in fact, her unwarranted—yes, I said unwarranted—hatred toward her only son-in-law had always bothered me, but still, I didn’t want to see her die in such an awful manner. I wished I could think of some way to save her—beyond risking my own life to snatch more useless drugs—if only to spare my wife from having to witness the coming transformation.
Clare toted one of the chairs toward her mother and dutifully sat beside her while George reluctantly perched herself near the far side of the desk, leaving one seat on the opposite side. Intended for me, of course—though I didn’t feel like relinquishing control just yet.
For a few awkward seconds, Ranger Bob and I simply stood in the dimly lit office, sizing each other up.
“You have to believe us,” I insisted. “We’re not lying.”
No response. Just kept staring at me.
In the eerie silence, a thought popped into the forefront of my mind. A new angle to convince him. “Don’t you think it’s odd how quiet the forest is? Haven’t you noticed a strange lack of birds, squirrels, and other rodents? Even the crickets have shut up.”
The skin above his nose crinkled. Perhaps he had noticed.
“It’s the fall,” he said hesitantly. “Animals are livelier in the spring and summer.”
“Since when? That might be true up north, but not in southern Mississippi.”
“Well, I mean…”
I gestured toward Jill. “This woman was scratched two days ago, by a zombie. Look how sick she is now.”
At the z-word, he noticeably flinched. Once again, I’d pushed the issue too far—but my patience had thinned too much for me to care.
I almost sighed, but instead, I implored him with my eyes and tried—fruitlessly—to conceal the disdain I felt. “The disease has spread, we believe, all over the country… maybe the world.” I took a deep breath. “Zombies are real.”
There it was again… the flinch. He just couldn’t believe in something so outlandish.
But before I had a chance to share my own disbelief at his stubbornness, he retreated toward the doorway. “I suggest you sit down, sir. You’ll probably be here a while. In the meantime, I’m gonna lock you in.” He pointed to the windowed door that separated the office from the rest of the station. “Gotta drive up the road to get some cell service.”
Yep, Ranger Bob was a world-class idiot, who would surely die as soon as a roving zombie reached his cozy middle-of-nowhere nook. Or if he crossed paths with one on his pointless search for cellphone service. Knowing him, he’d likely get out of his car and demand to see the creature’s camping permit—right before he, she, or it took a huge bite out of him.
I did have one positive thought, though, as he closed the door: As soon as he left, we’d simply break the glass and trek back to our ride. True, we’d lose a bunch of guns (the ones he’d left in his trunk), but I still had a few weapons and lots of ammo hidden inside the van, hopefully enough to get us to Michigan.
“Yep, he truly is a bigger idiot than you,” Jill spouted. “Too stupid to realize we can just break through the glass and get the hell outta here.”
I groaned in frustration.
Ol’ Bob might’ve been too stupid to realize that, but he clearly wasn’t too deaf to miss what she’d said. As soon as Jill had finished sharing her glorious words of insight, he reentered the room, opened a lower desk drawer, and pulled out some heavy-duty zip ties. His handcuffs still dangled from his utility belt, but one pair wouldn’t be enough for all of us.
“That’s completely unnecessary,” I said. “We won’t go anywhere, I promise you.”
But my protest was in vain.
Ranger Fucktard circled the desk and, naturally, made a beeline for me. Even though Jill was the biggest pain in the ass in the room, I still presented the greatest threat—at least in his misguided mind. Since I had yet to take a seat, he nodded toward the chair beside me and drummed his fingers on the butt of his holstered gun for good measure.
With a sigh, I slumped onto the flimsy seat, whereupon he zip-tied my wrists behind my back and attached them to the chair. Then, he secured George and Clare in the same fashion. If we hadn’t all been so drained by the events of the past few days, we might’ve tried to defend ourselves. One of us could’ve lunged for his gun or beaned him in the head with a stapler, but the fight had gone out of us.
I knew we needed to escape this mess—and get back on the road—but I didn’t have the physical strength or mental clarity to come up with a solid plan. We required a distraction, something to keep Ranger Bob busy while we fled back to our campsite.
Jill caught my eye. As frustrated as I felt, it was hard for me to get pissed at her knowing what we knew, knowing her time on Earth (as a human) was dwindling fast.
“Sorry, Joe.” She smiled impishly, a momentary twinkle in her otherwise pain-stricken eyes. “Look at it this way, though… Maybe when I turn, I’ll bite Ranger Dickhead’s nose off his stupid face.”
She glared menacingly at our captor, who’d paused beside her chair. His face was a swirl of emotions… apprehension, fear, uncertainty, pity, even annoyance.
All kidding aside, though, I acknowledged a sad truth: As far as I could remember, that was the first time my mother-in-law had ever apologized to me. She had to feel pretty hopeless to muster that kind of humility and compassion.
OK, maybe those were strong words. But based on Jill’s usual behavior, her brief atonement had seemed like a real Mother Teresa moment.
Hesitantly, Bob approached her, with the obvious intention of zip-tying her as well. But before he could, a coughing fit overcame her. She gripped the armrests, her knuckles whitening in the gloom, and leaned forward, her body racked with convulsions.
Ol’ Bob may be losing his nose sooner than he thinks.
Chapter
11
“Never say, ‘Who’s there?’ Don’t you watch scary movies? It’s a death wish. You might as well come out to investigate a strange noise or something.” – Ghostface, Scream (1996)
“Oh, god, Mom,” Clare said, squirming in her chair and tugging at her secured wrists in a valiant attempt to comfort her mother.
Her face strained with the effort, but when a few seconds passed, and she realized she couldn’t free her hands, she slumped back in her seat, sighing in disappointment.
Meanwhile, Jill’s coughing fit subsided, but she looked worse than ever, with blackish blood dribbling down her chin, her gray-rimmed hazel eyes filled with unimaginable pain, and her face so gaunt and hollow she resembled the zombie she would soon become.
Jill had always bragged about her high pain threshold, proud of the fact that she’d suffered through several hours of natural childbirth so she could “feel every second of bringing my daughter into this world.” But I had no doubt this was the worst pain she’d ever endured.
Bob, meanwhile, had stumbled backward and fumbled for the bandanna sticking out of his shirt pocket. Even if he didn’t believe that Jill had been infected with a zombie virus, he had to realize that he’d already been exposed to whatever ailed her. Since he’d allowed himself to be cooped up in a stuffy car with her, using the bandanna would do him no good now—but perhaps he felt too unsettled to think about the scenario rationally.
With his mouth covered, he ventured toward Jill again, his last zip tie at the ready.
“You can’t be serious,” George shouted. “You’re going to tie her up after seeing the condition she’s in?”
/> “Well, I…”
“At least don’t tie her hands behind her back,” she added. “She’s already in enough pain as it is.”
“And if you cherish the varnish on that shiny new desk of yours, I wouldn’t tie her to the chair.” I gestured toward the far corner, where a lidded steel trash receptacle stood. “Even on wheels, she might not be able to reach the can in time.”
With a melodramatic sigh, the mulish ranger secured Jill’s hands in front of her, paused for a few seconds, and then retrieved another zip tie to link her restraints to the handle of the nearest desk drawer. Before I could protest the lack of logic, Ranger Bob circled the desk, grabbed the trash can, and set it beside Jill’s chair.
“Thank you,” Clare said, her tone less cordial than usual.
I could sense her frustration, a mixture of anger toward the ridiculous ranger, dismay at the hopeless situation, and concern for her mother.
As the ranger circled the desk, passing close to my chair, he abruptly stopped, staring at an open folder lying beside an old-fashioned ink blotter. Suddenly, his eyes widened and his skin turned ghostly pale, then as if a light bulb of recognition had exploded in his brain, he whipped his head toward me, his cheeks blooming with anger, his eyes seething with rage.
“You better not have hurt any of them!”
“Hurt who? Now, what the hell are you talking about?”
He loomed over me, his itchy fingers resting on his holster. “Were you planning to hurt those kids? Kill them even? Was that their blood all over your disgusting van?”
A part of me wanted to defend my awesome zombie-mobile, but he had a valid point: She really was filthy on the outside. Disgusting even. She needed a good scrub-down or, better yet… a Cat 5 hurricane. Too bad it was so late in the storm season.
In a matter of seconds, our accuser had morphed from a nerdy, overweight ranger reject into a deranged version of a gunnery sergeant from some old war movie.
Zombie Chaos Box Set | Books 1-4 Page 55
