They say that the eyes are the windows of the soul. Goat had heard that a million times. If so, then these windows looked into a landscape that had suddenly become blighted, like the floodplains of Mississippi and Louisiana after the levees failed. Like Japan after the tsunami. There was wreckage that proved that life had once existed there, but the life itself was gone.
Or … was it?
“Yes, you’ve heard the Red Mouth speak and you’ve listened, haven’t you, boy? You listened real good and you took it all to heart. That’s nice. That’s real nice.”
For the briefest of moments, as Homer spoke to the infected in his slow, rhythmic backwoods voice, Goat thought he saw a shadow move behind the zombie’s eyes. Was it the mind of the dead leaving a deserted house? Or was it something else? A lingering trace of the man Homer had killed? A ghost haunting the body it once owned.
Whatever was happening, it was horrible from every angle. A life destroyed. A monster created. And a soul …
What?
Lost?
Trapped?
Goat’s mind rebelled at placing too precise a label on it.
The zombie pounded at Homer’s hand with soft, clumsy fists.
Without turning to Goat, Homer spoke to him, “I done this, you know.”
“What?”
“I done this. This plague thing. It ain’t no bioweapon like they’re saying on the radio. It was me that done this. The Black Eye opened in my mind and now I speak with the voice of the Red Mouth. Used to be I was a slave of the Red Mouth, or at least I thought I was, but after I died and woke up in that body bag…? Well, hell, I knew. I realized that all this time the Black Eye was my own mind’s eye, and the Red Mouth is my mouth. You understand what I mean by that, son?”
Goat didn’t know how to answer that question. It seemed like there was a thin tightrope between possible answers and that rope was covered in slippery grease. He clamped his mouth shut and shook his head.
“Go on, son,” said Homer, clearly understanding Goat’s reluctance. “Don’t be shy. I won’t bite.”
There was a beat after that last phrase came out and then Homer realized what he’d said and what it meant, and he burst out laughing.
The zombie pounded on his arm, tore at the flesh of the hand holding him. Black saliva dribbled from the corners of his mouth.
Suddenly Homer got to his feet and dragged the zombie upright. It was a display of enormous strength because the struggling infected had to weigh at least two hundred pounds. Homer let go of the creature’s throat, grabbed both shoulders, spun him around, and shoved him toward the door. The zombie staggered and tripped over the twitching leg of a barista who was just now returning from some dark place to a world that was darker still. Homer looked down at her and at the man he’d just shoved.
“This is about to get twitchy,” he said, though Goat didn’t know if he was speaking to himself or not. Then a slow smile began to form on the killer’s pale lips and he turned fully toward Goat. That smile was perhaps the most frightening thing Goat had ever seen. Homer once more stabbed a finger at Goat. “You tell stories, right? I mean, that’s what reporters do, right?”
Goat nodded. A tiny, frightened nod, but there didn’t seem to be any traps built into so simple a question.
The zombie Homer had shoved, spun back around, and he lunged forward. Not at Homer, but to try and barrel past him to get to the only person in the whole place who wasn’t dying or dead. Goat.
Without a blink, without a fragment of hesitation, Homer drove an elbow into the zombie’s face with such sudden, shocking force that the infected’s whole upper torso froze in place while his legs ran up into the air. Then the creature’s body canted backward and he fell bonelessly to the floor. The back of his head struck the marble floor and exploded, spraying red and black outward in a starburst pattern. His legs and arms instantly stopped moving and he lay dead. Truly dead.
“Impolite motherfucker,” muttered Homer. Then he smiled once more at Goat. “Where was I? Oh yeah, telling stories and shit. During my trial and when they killed me, you were one of those asshole reporters who was there nearly every day. Telling the court’s version of my story. Only the thing is it isn’t really my story. It isn’t the story of the Black Eye and the Red Mouth. No, sir, it is not. It isn’t the full story and it sure as shit ain’t the right story. And, let’s face it, son, I got a story worth telling. Look at me. I mean, seriously, look at fucking me.”
Goat couldn’t take his eyes off of Homer Gibbon.
The man was huge, powerful, covered in blood, and …
And he was a monster.
An actual monster.
Something the world had never seen before.
Dead and yet not dead. Infected with the Lucifer 113 plague and yet still capable of thought—though whether that was “rational” thought was up for debate in Goat’s mind. A man who had been the nation’s most notorious serial killer—up there with legendary murderers like Ed Gein, Albert Fish, Saint John, and Ted Bundy—and who had been tried, convicted, and executed.
And who was now what, exactly?
Was he a victim of Dr. Volker’s insane desire to punish criminals of this kind? Yes.
Was he the brutal and sadistic maniac who slaughtered __ __ people and deserved the punishment given him? Absolutely.
Was he patient zero of a new plague, something that, should it be allowed to spread, could become an unstoppable pandemic?
Yes.
God almighty, thought Goat. He felt like fireworks were exploding inside his head. Everything was too bright, too loud, too massively wrong. And all of these thoughts tumbled through his brain in a burning moment.
Homer was still speaking, but his smile had dimmed. “You listening to me, boy? You’d better be ’cause it looks like you’re ankle deep in shit right about now. Tell me I’m wrong. No? Nothing? But I got your attention, right? Give me a nod or something, boy.”
Goat nodded.
“Good boy,” said Homer, his grin returning. A few of the other dead were starting to rise. “We ain’t got no time at all, so how about we cut the shit and get to it?”
Goat found himself nodding again, though he had no idea what the “it” was Homer wanted to get to.
The twitching woman rolled over onto hands and knees and began to rise. Homer took two short steps closer and snapped his foot out in a powerful kick that sent her sprawling into the path of two other dead who had managed to get to their feet. The three of them collapsed into a hissing tangle of arms and legs.
Homer snorted, amused by it. But at the same time he seemed momentarily uncertain as he watched his clumsy victims.
“Shi-i-i-i-i-i-it,” he breathed, drawing it out. Then he blinked and turned back to Goat. “Okay, boy, here’s the deal. I’m going to get my ass out of here before this becomes a buffet. I don’t think these fuckers will hurt me—not with the Black Eye open inside my mind—but they’ll definitely go ass-wild on you. You’re a bag of bones, but I’ll bet there’s some tasty meat on you, yes, sir.”
Goat felt blood drain from his face.
“But I think I’d rather let you keep sucking air. For a while, anyway. You game with that?”
The sound that escaped Goat’s throat might have been a yes, but it sounded like a mouse’s squeak.
Homer took it as assent, though, and he nodded. “So, here’s the deal. You come with me. You do what reporters do. Interview me, whatever. You do that for me, you tell my story, my side of it, you let the Red Mouth speak through me and you write down every word and then pretty it up some for the newspapers. What do they call it? Edit it? Rewrite it? Whatever. You do that, and you play fair with me while you’re doing it, you make sure to tell the whole truth, and you might just walk away from this. How’s that sound?”
The dead were getting up now. The three who’d fallen and others. Goat didn’t know how many people had been in the Starbucks when Homer came in. Fourteen, give or take? Some of them were hurt but not dead, vi
ctims of Homer’s rage. Shattered bodies, torn limbs, bitten flesh. No one was whole. No one was uninfected.
Except him.
The moans of the newly resurrected dead filled the store.
“Think quick, son,” said Homer. “Big ol’ fucking clock ticking right here.”
Goat tried to answer, squeaked again, coughed his throat clear and forced out a reply. “You promise you won’t hurt me?”
He hated how weak and small and terrified his voice sounded.
And he hated it much more when he saw how his words and his tone changed the grin on Homer’s face. The killer licked the blood from his teeth and lips.
“I just said I wouldn’t hurt you, boy.”
“No,” insisted Goat, grabbing whatever thread of a lifeline he could, “listen, listen … you want your story told? I mean really told? Told so that it reaches everyone and everyone knows who you really are? That’s what you want? Then I can give it to you. I’m the one who broke this story. Me and my friend Billy Trout. I got the story out that no one else could. I know how to make sure it gets out.”
Homer narrowed his eyes.
There were sudden screams behind Goat and he turned to see the newly risen dead falling on the dying victims of Homer Gibbon. The infected snarled and growled as they tore into living flesh. Blood sprayed the walls and the screams were high and piercing and entirely without hope.
“You broke that story?” said Homer slowly.
“Yes. Billy and I.”
“I heard that Trout fellow on the news.”
“He’s still inside the town. In Stebbins. He’s at the school.”
The screams rose and rose. Goat cringed away from it, edging toward Homer only because he was closer to the door. If he could get Homer to take him outside, then maybe Goat could make a break for it. The highway was right there. He’d take his chances with high-speed traffic in the rain.
Homer was still studying him with narrowed, suspicious eyes.
Then his eyes flicked to what was going on behind Goat.
“Shit,” he grumbled, “those are some persistent fuckers.”
There was no need for Goat to look. The slap of slow feet on the wet floor told the story.
“Please,” begged Goat.
Homer snaked out a hand, caught Goat by the front of his shirt and jerked him forward just as something brushed the nape of Goat’s neck. As he stumbled forward, the cameraman craned his head around to see long, red fingers clutching at the air where his head had been a moment ago.
“I need my laptop,” Goat said. “And my camera bag.”
Homer shrugged. He picked up the MacBook and tossed it to Goat, then snatched the handle of the canvas camera bag out from under a murder victim who was twitching his way back from death. Homer slung the heavy bag on his brawny shoulder and began backing toward the door as the zombies shuffled forward.
“Get your ass in gear,” warned Homer as he grabbed Goat again and hauled him away. Goat staggered toward the door and then thrust through it into the rain. He wanted to slam it in Homer’s face, but the hydraulic door closer was too strong, Homer came outside and he tried to slam it, too. When it resisted him, he leaned his full weight against it. The dead hit the door with enough slack weight to push it several inches outward again.
“Shit,” said Homer, though he did not seem particularly concerned. He still held Goat with one hand and had the other pressed against the glass. He cut a sharp look at Goat. “Listen to me, boy. We got to make a run for the car or they’ll eat your dick sure as God made little green apples. But … and I want you to listen real hard to what I have to say now. If I let you go and you try to run, then you better pray that I can’t run faster than you, ’cause if I catch you then I’m going to bite your dick off and make you eat it. You believe me when I tell you that?”
Goat did. And he said so.
Homer pushed back against the door. “Then let’s go. Car’s unlocked. Go!”
He shoved Goat toward the passenger side and held the door long enough for the cameraman to take a few stumbling steps, correct himself, and begin backing toward the car. Goat clutched the laptop to his chest as if it was a shield. Forty feet away the highway was bright with headlights and fast metal. Could he make it? Then he caught Homer watching him; the killer turned to follow Goat’s line of sight, then turned back and smiled.
“Call the play, son.”
Goat’s heart hammered like desperate fists. Tears fell down his hot cheeks. His legs and muscles trembled with adrenaline and terror.
Go, he told himself. Go, go, go!
A sob broke from his chest as he spun around and reached for the door handle of the metallic green Nissan Cube.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
STEBBINS LITTLE SCHOOL
STEBBINS, PENNSYLVANIA
Billy Trout left the basement gymnasium after the bodies had been taken care of. Because they were forbidden to open the exterior doors to the school, the two corpses in their makeshift body bags were placed in one of the shower stalls. After the others left, Billy lingered and stared down at the silent forms.
He wanted to say something, a prayer or something of importance, but even though he kept calling on God since this whole thing started, his actual faith was as dead as the town. This sort of thing did little to rekindle what had always been a weak flame in him. Even so, he mumbled something, a fragment of the Lord’s Prayer, getting some of the words wrong but getting the gist of it out there. For the dead, in case they believed. And … in case he was wrong about there being no God. Trout was open to taking any help they could get. He’d have prayed to the Flying Spaghetti Monster if he thought it would earn the people in this school even a small measure of grace.
Then, heavyhearted, he turned away and climbed the stairs to the first floor. He tried again to call Goat, but he still had no signal. Frowning, he went to the second floor and found a room with big windows so there was no chance of interference.
Nothing. The little meter on the satellite phone said that he still had half a charge. Power, but no signal. No contact with Goat, or with anyone.
The explanation for it was obvious to the realist in him, but Trout resisted it nonetheless. He didn’t want it to be the case.
“Uh oh…” he murmured.
Depressed and frightened, he went downstairs and looked once more into the big classroom. Two of the teachers were handing out little plastic containers of fruit cocktail. Trout thought it was such a bizarre sight. He remembered getting those little cups when he was a kid in this school. It was always a happy moment. They packed a ton of sugar into those cups, and it was nice to see halved maraschino cherries floating among the chunks of peach and pear. Now it seemed incredibly sad. The children took the cups, opened them with clumsy fingers, spooned out the fruit, chewed, swallowed, and all in a ghastly silence.
Trout backed out of the room and went to find Dez.
At first she seemed to be nowhere at all, and he poked his head into every room. Then he caught sight of her heading toward the fire tower at the far end of the hall. He immediately understood where she was heading. He limped down the hall as quickly as he could, hissing whenever the pain shot down the back of his leg. The heavy fire tower door creaked as he opened it, and for a moment he listened to the sounds from below. Soft footfalls fading into silence. He descended slowly and silently, and finally paused on the stone steps and saw her there, standing with her palms on the steel door, shoulders slumped, head bowed.
On the other side of that door was what was left of the infected from the school.
And JT. He was out there, too.
“Damn,” breathed Trout. His voice was soft but in the utter stillness of the fire tower it carried and Dez suddenly stiffened. She didn’t turn though.
“Billy?”
“Yeah, babe.”
There was a beat. “Don’t call me that.”
“Right. Sorry.” Now wasn’t the time to test the limits of whatever new connection they’d for
ged.
He descended the last few steps and moved toward her, mindful to come into her peripheral vision well out of strike range. Experience is a wonderful teacher.
She stared at the closed door as if it were made of glass. “What do you want?”
He almost said that he came looking to see how she was, but Trout preferred his balls still attached to his body. So, instead he said, “They said they’d airdrop some food to us. That’s fine, but nobody I talked to knows how to get up on the roof without going outside.”
“There’s a fire access stairway.”
“Right, okay, that’s good,” he said. “But no one else knew that.”
She turned to look at him, but said nothing.
“Once they drop the stuff,” Trout continued, “it’s got to be inspected, sorted, and distributed. You’ve seen how people are reacting. They’re going to do it wrong. Some of these people are a twitch away from losing it. They might grab stuff or horde stuff. We have to take control of things. We have to make sure we do everything right.”
Her eyes searched his face and after a long moment she gave a single nod.
“There’s something else,” he said. “No, two things. The first is that we have to double—no, triple—check everyone. I mean everyone.”
“We did. No one has a bite.”
“That’s not what I’m saying. The guy who … I mean the guy down in the gym. I didn’t see a bite on him.”
A line formed between her brows. “Of course there was a bite.”
“No, there wasn’t. I, um, checked. Everywhere. I even had to cut his clothes off just to be sure.”
She pushed off from the wall and turned completely to him, her eyes hostile and hot. “The fuck are you trying to say, Billy?”
“That guy didn’t die from a bite. Maybe he got infected some other way. Maybe he got some of the black blood in his mouth. When Goat and I interviewed Volker he said something about the infected spitting. So maybe it was that.”
“Shit.”
“Or maybe it’s just enough to get blood on your skin. Everybody’s pretty badly dinged up. Maybe the worms in the blood can get into an open wound and…”
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