It’s not all for him, though. The Highwaymen require penance for his betrayal. If they leave him a quarter of his harvest, he’ll be lucky. Still, a quarter is better than none, and since he’s alone, it would still last him. He convinces himself it’s for the best—otherwise most of it would spoil.
He checks his backpack, shaking it to make sure the different cans and such don’t rattle around and attract unwanted attention. Canned food was becoming iffy, but sometimes, with just the right conditions, he’d find some that were still relatively fresh. His find of the year, however, was in a basement beneath a house on the outskirts of Carson’s Crossing. Whoever lived there before the world changed was preparing for something. Was it this current world? Probably not—otherwise, whoever stockpiled those cases of military MREs would still be alive.
Now that he’s thinking about them, he pulls one from a side pocket and rips into it. Meals-Ready-to-Eat—if it wasn’t for those, he’d probably had to go back to the Highwaymen by now. That find had been a God-send—and something he kept strictly to himself. There’s no way he would let the Highwaymen know about them.
Resting under the shade of a tree, he takes his time eating. Needs salt and pepper, he thinks, smacking his lips to stir up some moisture in his mouth. MREs had everything his body needed, but when it comes to taste and texture, they were definitely lacking.
He stops chewing to listen. From the other side of the tree came a noise. It sounded like an animal, but he couldn’t be sure. Cattle roamed these parts, but they were rare. However, he’d seen them often enough that they could be a worry—especially that big red bull he’d seen about a week ago—the one grazing with two heifers off in the distance. He’d skirted around them, giving them plenty of space—the last thing he wanted was an angry bull setting its eyes on him.
The noise behind him didn’t sound like a cow though. It sounded more like a horse snorting.
Then he heard quiet laughter.
And talking! There were people behind him.
His first thought was of the Highwaymen—but they wouldn’t carry on as these two were. He sneaks a peak around the side of the tree and spies a horse, a man, and a woman. They speak to each other in quiet tones, but their voices carry, probably not realizing that any dead within a quarter of a mile would hear them.
And the horse—the dead would make a meal out of a horse in an instant. It amazes Zak they even have a horse. He hasn’t seen a tame one in years.
As he watches them crest a hill and disappear over the rise, he realizes he’s seen the male before. Zak recognizes the twin machetes. He’d been sitting at home in Carson’s Crossing when he saw him. The Machete Man (as Zak called him) stayed one night on the western edge of town, before heading west. Zak hadn’t seen him again—until now.
He’s just about to rise and follow when something else catches his eye, causing him to slink back behind the tree again.
He smiles. It’s a dog. They have a dog following them. As if hearing his thoughts, the dog stops, sniffs the air and looks towards Zak.
He eases to his feet and moves around the tree. Digging into a pocket, he pulls out a thin strip of dried deer meat. The dog sniffs the air again, taking a few tentative steps toward Zak.
“It’s okay,” Zak whispers, not wanting to startle the animal. The last thing he wants is to have it bark and give him away. “Come on.” He holds the meat out towards it.
Head lowered, the dog slinks closer, looking at Zak with a wary eye. Its tongue slides across its lips—it’s obviously hungry.
“It’s okay,” he says again, kneeling so he’ll be at the same level as the dog. It’s a pretty thing. Its coat is a mixture of grays with black spots. Three legs are white as snow—the fourth, the front left, is gray.
“That’s a good boy,” he coos, keeping his voice as friendly as possible. It takes a few steps closer. The thought of food overcoming any fright it might be feeling.
Zak shuffles forward, keeping the dried meat out before him. Talking to the dog is having an obvious calming effect, so he continues, first by issuing an apology. “I’m sorry,” he scoots another half-foot. “You’re a girl. You’re a sweetheart, too...aren’t you?” Another shuffling step forward. The dog’s muzzle is less than a foot away. He shakes the meat. “You’re welcome to have it. Go ahead.”
She lowers her front to the ground and tilts her head upward, coming up toward the meat from below. Zak lowers his hand and puts the strip of meat into the dog’s mouth. She backs off but doesn’t run away. She turns to look at him while she chews.
Zak smiles, “You’re welcome,” he says aloud. Looks like I’ve made a new friend, he thinks, grabbing another small piece of meat for the dog.
“Now,” he says to the dog. “Do you mind if I follow them with you?”
He’s curious about the couple. For him, it’s rare coming across people other than the Highwaymen. When they find strangers roaming through their territory… well, he doesn’t want to think about what they do to them. A shiver runs through his body. That was one reason he left—the Highwaymen began as a community of survivors, but over the last few years, they turned dark, practicing things in which Zak wanted no part. They’d do unspeakable things to strangers. Stress can do that—starvation too. Yes, food was scarce and feeding an entire community has its logistical problems, but that’s no excuse to eat the living.
When Zak escaped, they’d almost done it to him too, but since he was not a stranger, they allowed him to negotiate his present deal: he would provide them a percentage of any food spoils he happened upon. To keep himself from having to take part in such evil, providing them with a little food on a regular schedule was a deal worth taking.
He shivers again. How could they expect him to eat another living, breathing, human being? No, he’d rather take his chances on his own.
While following the couple, he stays well out of sight. There’s no need to stay close, he will know if they veer off onto another old road or anywhere else—all he has to do is follow the signs left behind by the horse. And then there’s the dog. She may not be friendly to them, but she’s following them as if to protect their rear.
They travel in the right direction, too—the same direction that would take him home to Carson’s Crossing. He hasn’t decided if he’s going to make himself known to them. He enjoys being alone. But still…
6
“Have you seen Trixie?”
Karen glances over her shoulder, scanning the field for any sign of the dog. Her coloring makes her hard to spot, but she’s usually not far behind them.
“I don’t see her.”
“Yeah, I haven’t seen her at all today.” He pauses, thinking. “In fact, I don’t think I’ve seen her since yesterday.”
“She’ll be along, eventually.”
“Probably,” he agrees, yet something inside him says there’s a reason the dog is no longer following. He wonders if one of the Tainted had happened upon her, but he nix’s that train of thought before it can take hold. Trixie is a guard dog—she makes it known when one of the Tainted is around and he’s not heard a peep out of her.
“Looks like a bridge up ahead.” He pulls on the rope, slowing Pete as they approach.
“It’s an overpass,” she says.
“Looks like a bridge to me,” he responds, smiling.
“I guess it can be both.” They take a few more steps when Karen stops. “I don’t think we can get through there,” she says, indicating the twenty or so rusting vehicles scattered haphazardly along the overpass.
“Why not? That’s the way I came.”
“Yes, but you weren’t leading a horse then either, were you?”
Chris glances at Pete and pats him in the neck in reassurance, “Don’t worry, Pete...she’s not calling you fat.”
Karen pokes Chris in the side, making him jump. “Ouch.”
“That didn’t hurt, you big baby.”
Grinning, Chris leads Pete to the slope at their right. It leads down
to another crumbling road that runs north and south. “Guess we head down then back up.”
“Lead the way,” Karen says.
Chris clicks his tongue and pulls Pete toward the ramp.
“What the hell...” Chris says, pulling Pete up short.
Karen steps around them to see what’s drawn Chris’s attention.
“Have you ever seen anything like that?” He asks.
Karen shakes her head.
From the road above, they would have never seen what it hid in the shadows below. A wall of wood and metal enclosed the entire lower portion of the overpass and stretched from one end to the other.
“Here,” Chris says, handing over Pete’s lead rope. He scrambles back up the incline, crosses the road, and moves down the opposite side so he can see the north face of the overpass.
He returns to Karen. “It’s the same on both sides.”
“What do you think it is?”
“I’m not sure, but it looks like it’s not being used anymore.” He points toward the nearest section. “Looks like several panels are about to fall.”
“What’s that?” Karen asks. He follows her finger along the bottom. Just beyond the half-way point is a rectangular hole.
“Looks like it might have been a door.”
“Want to check it out?”
“Sure,” Chris says. “But let’s take it slow and easy. We don’t know what’s in there.”
Karen hand Pete’s rope back and slides her ax through the loop of cloth sewn on her waistband. “Ready when you are.”
Chris smiles and moves off, mumbling under his breath. “That’s what I like you.”
“What?” Karen asks, skipping down the incline to catch up. “What was that?”
“Nothing,” he says, trying to keep from smiling and failing miserably.
A few steps later, though, the smile fades. As much as he enjoys Karen’s company, there comes a time when the need to focus takes precedence. Karen recognizes that too. As if to instill that fact, the closer they get to the road below the overpass, the quieter her footsteps become. She’s so quiet he has to look over and confirm she’s still there. A few feet away is a scrawny tree and Chris loosely wraps Pete’s lead rope around one branch. Pete should have no trouble pulling lose and getting away.
They draw their weapons and continue toward the doorway. So far, they’ve heard nothing from within the structure.
* * *
Zak's not sure where the dog ran off to, but he knows where the couple is—they are down below, exploring the southern face of a wall built beneath the overpass. He watches from a crumbling brick wall hidden within the trees. Fire destroyed this building years ago—probably during the initial panic after the dead began roaming the land. Only partial walls remain, marking the exterior of what used to be a large structure. Unlike other places he's seen, it didn't take long for vegetation to reclaim the entire area, making it the perfect place to stay hidden. From this vantage point, he can see all the way down the incline and across to the other side of the overpass.
He sees the horse tied to a tree about half-way down. Content, it chomps on a tuft of grass. The couple are near the doorway to what used to house Highwaymen. He's not sure of the story behind this location, he just knows they abandoned it quite a while ago. Probably outgrew it, he thinks. The place where he grew up is ten times as large as this one. That one encompasses six major road interchanges, all coming from different directions. Some overpasses were low to the ground while others crossed over and beneath each other a hundred feet in the air. Every one of them with walls of wood and metal built beneath them: They were the homes of the Highwaymen.
Below, the Machete Man bends down and flips over a piece of wood. Even from this distance, Zak can see the number splattered across its surface. He'd seen this before—writing the number of dead on a building's main doorway was common practice in almost every town he’d seen. It served as a warning to anyone that came along, a universal language so-to-speak. He'd done it himself on houses and old business in Carson's Crossing.
Zak watches for a few more minutes as the couple converses with one another and then walks toward the entrance to the Highwayman's abandoned complex. He'd been in there before and what he saw raised more questions than answers.
When they disappear inside, he rises from hiding and crosses to the other side of the road. Silently, but moving quickly, he moves down the northern incline to the road below. He crosses to the east side, scampers up the slope, and slides into the tree line. Zak's certain the couple are heading to Carson's Crossing. He doesn't know how he knows this, it's just a feeling he has and his feelings have yet to fail him. Picking up the pace, he puts as much distance between himself and them as possible.
Once he reaches Carson's Crossing, he'll continue observing them under more familiar territory.
* * *
Full of nervous energy, Karen scans her surroundings. Interstate forty-five, the largest highway in the closest proximity to Martinville. Her grandfather told her stories about it—that cars and trucks, by the thousands, would make their way north to Dallas, or south into Houston every day.
In the past few weeks, she'd taken a deep interest in the map Cowboy had left with them. Studying the map had helped her visualize how people saw the world before it all went to hell. And now, to view what was once one of the most actively used means of transportation was awe-inspiring. What was once a blue line on a map now has shape and texture.
Her view was obscured by the enclosure beneath the overpass, so she couldn’t see the road snaking north. But here, to the south, the wide valley was too polished to have been created natural. After ten years of neglect, trees and brush encroached on the wide lanes of concrete, but it hadn't made it far enough to camouflage the sloping inclines—one of which she was now descending. An overgrown median of grass and scrub split the four lanes down the middle, stretching south as far as she could see.
Scattered along the road were cars and trucks. Some were small while others were so large they carried other cars on metal trailers. She'd been young when the world changed, but seeing all these vehicles, like dead roaches scattered across a floor, brought back images of how it used to be here. Like a misty dream, she could see them all moving, rolling both directions with enormous speed. She could see them sliding back and forth, passing one another with familiar ease—the drivers never acknowledging that with every vehicle they passed, they are mere inches from catastrophe. All it took was one person to make a mistake, causing cars to plow into one another.
That’s what it looked like here. A dozen vehicles rest together at the end of the off-ramp a few hundred feet south of her. Even now, the violence is clear, as if frozen in time. Several vehicles rest on their sides, one on its roof, and others fused together by violent impacts and fire. As far as she could see, cars had come together in much the same way. Pieces of metal lay strewn about the cracked concrete.
She wonders how the surrounding violence began. She could sit here for hours, looking over the wreckage, and never determine how it all started. The wrecks at Highway 7 and Interstate 45 would forever be a mystery to her.
She focuses on the task at hand. Chris has reached the roadway below her and is crossing toward the center of the overpass. Large, concrete pillars stretch from the ground to the bridge above. There are cracks all along its surface and she wonders if they should have even considered crossing it earlier. Without this little side trip, they might have never had the visual confirmation that the overpass was in such disarray. It might be on the verge of collapse, only needing their vibrations to set it off.
"You see that?" she asks, pointing to the concrete riser.
Chris nods. "We probably need to stop using them. I'd hate to have it collapse while we're walking across it."
She’s not sure they should go to those extremes. From what grandfather told her, these bridges last centuries. Her reason for bringing it us was just curiosity—wondering if the wreckage and carnage st
rewn about the road below is what caused the uprights to crack?
They've heard no sounds from within the wooden structure built beneath the overpass, leading them to believe it's been unoccupied for some time. Chris steps up to the wall and places his hand against the wood. The wall comprised hundreds of wooden sheets—each of them nailed to some internal structure that wasn't evident from the outside.
Chris moves toward the black maw of the doorway.
"Chris?" Karen asks, voice full of concern.
"I want to see inside."
"But..."
He cuts her off, "I won't go far...besides, I don't have a light."
As she approaches, the notices a piece of wood paneling on the ground in front of the entrance. "I think that's probably the door."
Chris looks to the ground—he's standing on it and luckily, avoided impaling his foot with a nail—there were at least a dozen of them sticking up around its perimeter. Carefully stepping off, he reaches down, sets his machete on the ground, and grabs one of the long edges. He flips it over.
Karen gasps and Chris snatches up his weapon and backs away from the doorway. Splattered on the wood's surface is the number 26.
"Does it mean what I think it means?" she asks.
"Probably," he says, stepping back toward the wall.
Karen moves that way too.
"Thing is...I don't think they're here anymore." He reaches the entrance ahead of her, runs his hands along the surface and touches a weathered hole about shoulder height. "Here's a nail hole," he states. Moving his hand down, he adds, "Here's another one. If there were Tainted here, they either escaped or someone let them out. I'm thinking the latter…there are a dozen nails in that piece of wood. It would have held on its own, no problem."
"Why would anyone let them out?"
Chris shakes his head. "I have no idea."
"Well, if we're going to look, I'd rather get it over with and get out of here."
"Yeah, I'm with you."
Chris steps forward, and it's as if the lightless interior swallows him. A moment of panic gives her pause, but she pushes through it, forcing her feet to move forward. A few seconds later she steps through the threshold, following him into darkness.
Tainted Souls Page 3
