“There’s no power.”
“Ethan said they have a backup battery life of three to five years. It’s been ten months if the power shut off the day the plague hit...”
“Got ya. Fire door—last resort. They’ll come in here. It’s a store. Fuck.” Before he places the baby food in the pack, he glances at the label. “This baby formula is full of nutrients.”
“They don’t appear desperate enough for formula.”
“But we could drink it if we had to.”
Becky rolls her eyes.
The men spread out in teams of two. One man sweeps with a rifle while the other focuses on a target. She witnesses a team move to a building. One opens the door, the other scoots inside.
Becky sidesteps from the window. “Move back to the office.”
Chad doesn’t argue. He grabs the bag of baby items. “How many?”
“Enough to give Ethan a challenge. And they’re practiced. Not military, but they’re hardcore.” She moves the desk chair. “Climb onto the desk.”
“Why?”
“I want you to hide in the ceiling. Move. I’ll distract the scavengers. When they’re gone, you get this gear back to the baby.”
“Becky.” Chad’s voice protests, but he steps onto the desk. The tiles slide easily. He checks the crawl space with his flashlight. “They might hurt you.”
“They might hurt you. Remember the bastards in the gun store.”
Chad spends every minute trying to forget it was his ass those men forced their wicks into first. They didn’t even glance at Becky. He slides both bags into the crawl space. “We could both hide up here. They have no reason to search...”
“Get up there.”
Chad squirrels around, dropping his head back through the hole. “Becky, there’s plenty of room up here.”
“Get the supplies back to the baby. Promise me. Ethan said. You know it’s important.”
You better tell her. “Becky, I love you.”
“I know, Chad.” She blows him a kiss. “Ethan would never forgive me if I didn’t take care of the baby,” she mumbles. What concerns me is all three trucks have Missouri license plates. We’re near the state line, so maybe not so strange. Raiders from the Show Me State, but still, they have plenty to raid without venturing south. It stinks.
The bell above the door rings.
Becky darts out the office door. She doesn’t fire on the men, wanting to distract them from Chad’s location.
The two men give chase to a figure they know moves too fast to be undead.
Someone orders no guns and then—wet.
Becky meets with an arm clotheslining across her face. Warm, wet—her blood gushes.
She grabs her face, pinching the bridge of her nose to staunch the flow. She suspects it’s a broken nose from the pain. Her instincts to deal with the blood first allows someone to tear the gun from her hand.
She struggles against the muscular arms lifting her into the air by her pits. Tears cloud her vision, and she has no idea how many more men secure her. Two entered the store, but a third nailed her. From the breeze cooling the blood on her face, she knows they maneuvered her to the street.
Maybe outside will distract them from searching the office. Stupid Chad better protect the baby.
Her back slams against metal. The lowered tailgate forces a puff of air from her lungs. Blood, snot and tears drip down her face, encasing her neck. Her spine burns. They flip her over and position her. With the hard pop across her ass, meant to be playful, she knows what will happen. Forced to witness Chad’s assault at the gun store, she accepts her fate, and she will fight with every fiber to be dead before they rape her.
“Kaleb, man, it’s been a while. We’re in another state. Let us have this one.”
“No. I promised the wife no more rapes. And we will live by our new rules. We protect those who work our fields.” The Bowlin brother whips his right arm behind his back. The tweaking twitches have returned. I promised my brother no more drugs. But I might have to break it. I need a fix worse than a piece of ass.
“We going to take her back with us, Kaleb?” One of the men holding her down asks.
“It’s a lotta work for a skinny cunt. Let’s jack her gear and be gone.”
“She may have friends.”
Kaleb stares off into space. Frozen. His mind explores a distant planet. When the immediate need for a fix quells, he orders, “Find her bag.”
“Kaleb?”
“You idiots. She’s not a lone scavenger. She’s got a camp around here, and gear. You must examine more than her ass. You must check her appearance. She stashed her gear, and I bet she’s got some more guns. Find it,” he orders. The tremor originating inside him knocks his forearm against his back. He’s never gone this long without a fix.
Becky doubts her stay from assault will stand. From the way the men eye her, these men have only recently curtailed their free rein among the survivors they encounter. The wife must have some hold over Kaleb for him to maintain his word. And she would never know what he did to her.
One man binds her wrists with a tie down bungee. She flexes her arms to keep the stretch in the cord. When they release her, she has some wiggle room, but she dares not test how much until no one is lording over her.
She lands hard on the unnatural bend in her arms as one of the men flips her. He paws at her body in the guise of a search. He barely brushes between her legs, instead lingering his hand on her flat chest.
“She ain’t got no place to hide nothing. It’d be like fucking a ten-year-old boy.”
“I thought you liked ten-year-old boys, Mason?”
A callused, dry hand forces itself down the front of her shorts. With no gentleness, he inspects her.
Becky pushes away from him. The asphalt scrapes her knees.
“She’s clean, Kaleb.” Mason sniffs his fingers.
“What are you doing, girl?”
“Scavenging.” Truth. Becky thinks her nose has ceased bleeding, but her eyes remain crusted with dried blood and mucus, despite the tears. She won’t allow these bastards the satisfaction. She twists a leg. It pinches as tendons tear. With her toes under her, she vaults like a swimmer from the block. Deflected off Mason’s solid frame, her resistance earns her a punch to the ear.
“Bitch.”
Becky clamps her teeth into his arm. The salty taste of his skin operates her gag reflex, but she won’t release. Fresh copper flavor soaks her tongue. Hep C will be the last disease to kill her.
Two.
Three punches chip a tooth in the upper left row of teeth.
Acheron has a dentist. She laughs, spitting out chunks of enamel. Ethan saved a fucking dentist. Her torso jostles from the gut laugh. One of the dam technicians has a daughter, and her braces hurt, so Ethan scavenged a dentist.
“What the fuck’s wrong with this girl?” Mason demands.
“You scrambled her brain.”
Becky’s laughter bites her chest, as she lacks the power to halt.
Kaleb grabs her by the hair. “You know these buildings are dangerous after an earthquake?”
“Girl’s got to eat.” Becky giggles. Blood drips from her mouth.
“And fuck. Let’s fuck her, Kaleb. She’s wrong in the head,” Mason says.
“I told you, we don’t rape anymore.”
He’s suppressing the control rape gives these limp-dicks over women. How to use their emasculation for escape? All the muscles in her chest tighten with her last snicker.
Water from a canteen splashes her face. It moistens the blood and mucus but fails to wash any crust away. A heavy hand towels part of the coating away, nearly popping out an eye in the process.
Kaleb waves a paper protected in a plastic folder before her clear eye. With her face swelling, she wonders if it hides her recognition of the face sketched on the page. The etching resembles Ethan.
“I’m not much of an art critic. Didn’t think it is a career choice anymore.” Sarcasm contorts her face
away from fear.
“It’s important I find this man.”
Ethan spoke of his missing daughter. Could this guy be like Ethan and risk everything to find the family members of others? He’s not Ethan. Ethan would never toss in with admitted rapists. He castrated Kyle for rape. People search for lost loved ones. No trust. You don’t beat a girl then ask for help for a loved one. The likeness has a photo rendition quality. It must be Ethan. Not everyone could grab photos when the undead attacked. How do I respond?
“We’ve all lost family. My poor mom… How do you know he’s still alive?” A good question. Shouldn’t give too much away.
“He’s alive and heading to Memphis.”
At the city name, her face crinkles in a manner she’s unable to disguise. How the fuck does he know that? Does that mean they have been to Acheron? NO. They would wait at home. Too much risk, and Ethan always returns.
Kaleb notices the eye shift at the word “Memphis.”
“Spread out, you fuckers. Search ever corner of every closet. Then, after you’re sure the buildings are empty, torch them.”
“No. You can’t.” Becky’s protest provides more information than she intended.
“Where is he?” Kaleb demands.
“I don’t know him. I need those buildings. They are full of supplies. Life.” She backpedals. “How can you be on a rescue mission and torch supplies the living are desperate for?”
The damaged nerve endings in her shattered teeth sting against the air. Her gut burbles, and the tendon in her leg pulsates.
Kaleb slaps her hard enough to sting. “Ethan.” He shakes her. “Where is he?”
“I don’t know an Ethan.” But he knows his name. He drove from Missouri after him. Chad and I are fucked.
He leans so close his lips brush her ear. “You give me the correct answers, or I will give you to my men.”
“I don’t know that man you drew,” Becky lies. She has little control over her bruising poker face.
He clamps his hand on her chin and squeezes. “I think you do. Or he helped you. He does like to help people when he’s not killing brothers.”
Bowlin. He’s a Bowlin. Ethan killed two of his brothers. Explains his obsessiveness to travel this far in the apocalypse for anything other than supplies. There was a lot of talk about these Bowlin brothers from those who dealt with them at Fort Wood. Bastards. Got to protect Chad, so he protects the baby. Lie. Make it good, sister. “He helped us. After the quake,” Becky blurts out.
She has Kaleb’s attention. “Where is he?”
Don’t take too long to answer.
“He—”
He open palm slap-punches her shoulder. “Where?”
“A boat,” she whimpers.
“What?”
“After he helped my group escape some biters drawn toward us by the quake, I helped him launch a boat into the Mississippi.” Truth. Most of it. Best way to hide a lie.
“Why?”
“I don’t know. He was trying to get to Memphis. I was told it was full of biters, and I thought the quake would destroy whatever he was searching for.” Reasonable.
“Show me.” He jerks her to her feet. “You want to live, you show me where he entered the river.” Dragging her, he flings her into the cab of his truck.
“You still want us to fire the town?” Mason asks.
“Toss some flares into the buildings. We move. Now!”
Becky droops her head as the shattering of glass and the hiss of road flares fills her ears. Her nose, too clogged to detect the sulfur, drips more pink snot. “Don’t!” She lunges to escape. The window of the baby store crashes from the impact of a rifle butt. If she screams to warn Chad, she risks both their lives, and Ethan’s. Once caught, Chad’s lies about Ethan won’t match hers.
Kaleb raises his fist. He pulls his punch before impact. “I need your pretty mouth to work.” Jerking her by her neck, he sneers. “You’ve been beaten enough. Only the truth will set you free.”
MIKE. MIKE. MIKE. Sergeant Hammerstein!
Mike jars awake blasted by an oven of heat. He draws his fingers through sand. Kandahar? IED? His ears ring. He knows sounds come out of the mouth of the Private. He of all people has the experience to not be caught in an IED blast.
Wait. I was discharged. I was shot. The blast! I was caught in gunfire, and my wound got me discharged—honorable.
The faces of the soldiers around him decompose into moan-howling undead.
Mike reaches for his rifle
Gone.
Your weapon is your life.
He doesn’t wake. It wasn’t a dream. More of a disjointed thought from a house falling on him. What I wouldn’t give to be back facing Insurgents.
His eyes flicker, finding the low light. The building didn’t collapse. It shifted and listed to the side. Like that stack’m up game where you knock the wooden blocks out and hope it doesn’t fall. It sort of laid over. Assess, soldier. He lifts his right arm, finding the ceiling an inch above his flattened body.
Praise my instincts. Whatever part of my brain knew what the rattle meant saved me. Too bad I didn’t reach the door… Grade school training—being in a doorframe was the safest place to be.
His brain forces him to test the ceiling. Nothing logical would allow him to bench press the building, but he pushes up anyway with all his strength. Might have been better to die by being crushed. I don’t know how I’ll crawl out with the entire upstairs on top of me. Trapped forever in this makeshift crawl space as an undead. One day, some archaeologist will be digging this place out, and they will find my bloated, undead corpse waiting to snap at anyone salvaging the building. It might be a hundred years from now.
Shit.
The girl.
I forgot about the girl.
It was only a few minutes ago, Mike recalls where he was. What he was doing? She was on the sofa. If the building crushed her, then my death might be from a bite instead of a week of no water and starvation. Pushing up on his shoulders, he inches toward the couch. He uses the wiggle room and patience to maneuver. Cramps tomorrow will render his upper body useless. Up, down. Up, down. Inch by quarter inch. He cranes his neck to locate the door, but doesn’t have enough room to move his body to soak in more light.
“Hey. Hey, girl,” he whisper-yells, realizing he’s never said her name. “You alive?”
Nothing.
He’s gotten used to no birds and the lack of dogs barking. But insects have stilled. The whine of pressure of shifting lumber.
Okay, soldier. You need to assess and formulate a plan. Get out of the damn house. There will be aftershocks, and they will crush you.
Weapon?
By the chair. Which is deeper in the house. Foolish to move deeper if I don’t know if I can reach the door.
Your weapon is life.
Light.
Light means there is an opening in the direction of the door.
Moans.
Fuck me running. She’s a DK.
Where’s my M16?
Leave it!
Mike twists his body, worming an inch closer to the light. Poor girl. To live through being burnt to be smashed by a building. He must turn his shoulders for traction. If he uses his feet to push himself, he might offset the delicate balance he knows the house is in.
Get outside. Poor girl can be trapped forever…if she is dead.
Two more inches gained.
Light doesn’t mean the opening’s large enough to exit. If I could only roll over. It’s like being in a CAT scan machine. No wiggle room and no place to go.
Trapped in a tight space—I can’t get out.
Don’t panic. You’re not claustrophobic. I live through this I might be.
Another inch.
Shoulder twist, wiggle forward—BANG.
Mike’s head jars from the impact. His hand whacks the ceiling as he instinctively reaches for the sore spot on top of his head. With not enough room to get his arm above his body, he doesn’t know what impedes
his slow crawl to the light. Mike’s lungs suck in the dusty air. He coughs, and his body raises up, unable to convulse freely. He whacks the ceiling, confirming he’s imprisoned in a confined space.
Trapped.
His brain understands he’s entombed—sandwiched between the floor and the ceiling. He must extend his arm out straight, moving it toward his head as he twists akimbo the elbow for his fingers to massage the bump on his head. Wet flesh grabs a finger. The vice hold on the digit again releases his bladder.
“FUCK.”
“I’m. Not. Dead,” she sputters.
The girl. He wet his pants over the girl. What grabbed him was a living girl, and she was not going to chew his finger off. Even if his mind thought so the moment it opened his urethra valve.
“I fought in Iraq. I’ve been shot at by towel-heads. Never once lost control of my body. Now every boogie man makes me piss myself.” Part of Mike’s brain wishes the house would have crushed him—a grown man continually pissing himself.
She draws in a breath, preparing to spew her thought in one breath. “A madman beat and burnt two of my friends to make us confess to our leader’s location. He left us for dead. I had to kill my friends. Now, my betrayal will cost my leader his life and maybe my camp of survivors theirs. To top off my day, a house fell on me as if I were some Kansas witch. I don’t care about your weak bladder.”
“I don’t care to die in my own piss puddle.”
“You don’t have to crawl through it to escape.”
Mike considers if she made a joke. Levity might be what they need. Now they must escape. “Where are you?”
“I rolled off the couch as I saw the ceiling move.”
“How did you land?”
“Painfully.”
“Back or tummy?”
“Tummy.”
“Do you see the light?”
“It’s hazy. Lot of plaster dust, but I see light. I think the door.”
“Good. I need your eyes. I’m stuck on my back. As I move, direct me toward the door.”
“You’re not going to fit,” she says.
“What?”
“The opening is too flat for you to squeeze through. We’ve got more space here. The couch seems to be load bearing. The hole might be too small for me.”
No Room In Hell (Book 3): Aftershocks Page 4
