No Room In Hell (Book 3): Aftershocks

by Schlichter, William

  “Today. But what if we keep fucking? Will you always be able to? If we live together?”

  “If we live together, we won’t be allowed on the same outside work teams. Hell, I might be put on the high road for allowing the undead inside.”

  “Now you’re moving too fast. I’m not ready to live with a girl. I was just saying—”

  “Wow. You know I should be mad, but I can’t. The rules of relationships are nothing and never will be again like before.”

  “It’s a weird conversation for me, too.” He slides his hand toward the inside of her upper thigh.

  EMILY’S EYELIDS TEAR through the gathering sleep boogers crusting in the corners.

  “God,” Emily muffles around the tube crammed down her throat. Even though she knows, she jerks her left hand anyway to find the cold metal of the securing handcuff. Camp policy. Anyone in the hospital must be cuffed. Keeps the dead from getting far. At least I know I’m not dead.

  The hospital ward was once a classroom at the elementary school Ethan commandeered as a community living space. They eat, store weapons, have comradery and live until housing’s available for people in this building. A second home and her job—operating the library. A newfound career she never thought possible. Without cable television, books have returned as a staple entertainment.

  She shifts her body to face away from the window. Pain radiates from her toes to her brain, where her vision swims. Emily grabs at her head where a dagger must be sticking to cause such pain. The plaster arm cast prevents her follow-through.

  She closes her eyes. The throbbing decreases. How bad was I? They didn’t shoot me. Amie could have. Ended our competition for Ethan. No one would have known. How is Dar? Those screams. Poor kid. No way an apology will fix the damage.

  Spikes of pain dig into her brain.

  The left side of her head tingles.

  She tugs and twists her left arm to reach the nurse call button. It shouldn’t take them long to respond. Most days the medical staff has nothing to do. If invasion of undead went poorly, they still won’t have many patients. A bite means death. Other wounds are still possible.

  An EMT peeks his head through the door. Emily wonders were Kayla went. As head nurse, she always works days. The painful sunlight illuminated the room when she first opened her eyes.

  “You’re awake. Doc Baker said it could be days.” Victor tugs at the tape securing the plastic in her mouth. “This part will suck. It’s a long tube.”

  The ruined taste of plastic remains after the tube leaves her esophagus. I’ll never use a straw again.

  “Where is Kayla?”

  “I should wait for the doctor.”

  “To tell me where a nurse is?”

  “I don’t have much of a bedside manner. Fix them and fly them was what I did. You nearly had to have a decompressive craniectomy,” Victor says. “You got lucky they were able to perform a ventriculostomy.”

  “I need to touch my head,” Emily demands.

  “They were able to cut a small hole in your skull and insert a drain tube.” Victor unlocks the metal bracelet. “When I let you go, don’t tug at the tube. Doc Baker will have to remove it once he’s determined enough cerebrospinal fluid has drained and you have no more pressure on your brain.”

  “A traumatic brain injury and I wouldn’t have turned if I died.”

  “Possibly. It’s why we find dead bodies sealed in cars with no apparent cause of death. People hit the windshield. Damaged the brain.”

  “It was a risk to try and save me.”

  “Sanchez insisted.” Taking her hand gently, he guides it to the bandages around her head. “I don’t know how important your hair was to you, but they shaved part of it off in order to perform the procedure.” He releases her hand. “You’ll look like Natalie Dormer in that one dystopia hunting movie.”

  “I should freak out. But part of me’s thankful no one capped me.”

  “Sanchez said we should do all we could, first. You might be the only person to calm Dartagnan down since Ethan is weeks from returning.”

  “I...I’m grateful.” She presses on her head, and the throbbing increases.

  “We’re quick to end those who will turn. We have to be.”

  “Am I going to be okay?” Emily asks.

  “You’re a teenage girl. Is there a cure for that?”

  “If I wanted abuse about my age, I’d ask for Ethan. Is he up?”

  “I’m going to get Doc Baker. He can explain. You were out a long time.” He won’t speculate on what her memory loss means and just says, “Ethan’s fine, he’s out seeking more survivors.”

  “What does Dr. Baker have to explain that you can’t?” Emily asks.

  “It’s more he has a degree and why insurance bills you so much.”

  “There’s no more insurance or bills.”

  “I don’t know, I’m pretty sure the student loan people are more relentless than the undead.”

  “You have student loans?”

  “A few. I’ll get the doc. I uncuffed you. Don’t die on me.”

  “I won’t.” I should have asked for a mirror. The undercut look was coming into fashion when the world ended.

  “You shouldn’t mess with the bandages yet.” Dr. Baker picks up Emily’s chart as he approaches the bed. “And you should remain handcuffed. You suffered a severe head trauma. It might leave you with memory loss. What do you recall before waking up?”

  Emily’s eyes roll up, exposing the white as she searches her memory. What’s the last thing I remember?

  Dar’s screams.

  “Where’s Dartagnan?”

  “I have sedated him. He’s physically unharmed, but between you being hurt in the attack and his model project being destroyed, he has yet to fully calm down.”

  “Destroyed? It was a few trees. I made Victor apologize.”

  Dr. Baker releases a long breath. “There’s no easy way to speak to you, Emily. I’ll have Ulyana come in and spend some time with you.”

  “Why do I need a psychiatrist?” Emily’s head throbs from raising her voice.

  “There was an earthquake. It caused the undead to migrate south, and we stood in their way. The wall’s held. During the conflict, some outsiders scaled the fence. They attacked the farm house. You killed two of them before the third beat your head against the floor. Private Sanchez shot him.”

  “No.” I don’t remember. She fishes out an eye booger along with a tear.

  “Victor, why don’t you get Ulyana,” Dr. Baker says.

  The EMT nods.

  “Where’s Dartagnan?”

  “I sedated him. The invaders destroyed his work. They hurt you. You killed two of them.”

  “You said that.”

  “Your short-term memory seems to be working. You may have lost pieces of the last few weeks,” Dr. Baker says. “You may never get them back.”

  Emily stares at the doctor. “My head hurts.”

  “It will. You have swelling. I’ve never seen anyone wake up this fast.”

  “And Nurse Kayla?”

  “The rescued man, Levin, murdered her as he escaped. He was a serial killer known as The Blonde Teen Slasher.”

  “Oh, God. I brought him books.”

  “He’s dead. Kayla’s dead. Don’t dwell on what could have happened. You must focus on healing.”

  Emily slides each foot on the floor. The grippy socks the nurse put on her keep her from tumbling. She wonders how many pairs they have in storage. She doubts Ethan gathered them over bandages. Maybe a scavenging group looted everything from a clinic.

  She eases toward a mirror mounted to the wall. She doesn’t touch the wrap around her skull. Half of her face remains covered in bandages. The bloom of blood seeping through informs her it’s still fresh. All too real. Not sure if she has lost the taste for blood or if she’s used to it. She had no idea how much pain teeth induce.

  The man was so dirty. And rancid breath. God, I thought he was a biter. After the biting, he
tore at my pants to rape me. How sick have I become? I’d rather be raped over being bit. I’ll recover from an assault. His bite won’t turn me. I’d have done anything to keep from being bit.

  God, I hate Ethan. Why didn’t he take me? I told him I needed... I wanted to give myself, before I was taken. She peels at the bandage exposing a section of her face wound. Now what man would desire me? Teeth marks ring the crater that was her cheek.

  Without the convenience of a plastic surgeon, I’ll have a permanent face scar. I was never a runway model, but I had a cute little girl face.

  Maybe that’s why Ethan wouldn’t touch me.

  Emily peels back more of the bandage. The bite doesn’t go through her cheek, but she’s missing a massive chunk of skin. No plastic surgeon will be able to fix me. I was never beautiful, but now I’ll never get Ethan to desire me. Maybe in the dark. No boy will ever want me. She tosses the bloody gauze in the trash.

  She crawls back into bed, spooning her blanket in the fetal position. Tears form in the corner of her left eye.

  No.

  NO. I won’t cry anymore. I’m done crying. There’s no place for it anymore. And in this world, no one cares. She sits up. If I was a better shot, I’d get a job guarding a scavenging patrol. No, I’m done being a little girl. No more crying.

  Victor comes in. “You’re going to get your wound infected.”

  “It doesn’t matter. I’ll always have a scar.”

  “Not forever. When the world goes back to the way it was, you’ll find a doctor to restore your face,” he says.

  “I didn’t know anyone still alive believed such shit. The world’s never going to be the way it was. Never again will anyone be able to grow old and die.”

  “Rumor has it Ethan traveled to Memphis because Major Ellsberg’s brother had a cure.”

  Don’t cry, Emily snaps at herself. “We can’t hold onto such a pipe dream. This is our life now. We’ll forever beware the undead and be afraid of the living.”

  IF LINDSEY WERE to bet, she’d win money. Her back wound opens when she lands in the brush. Leaping from the road to hide from the approaching vehicle wasn’t her brightest move. The tall grass stalks hide her, but not her trail. She mashed them down along the way, allowing a trail any blind man could follow. The spasms contort her into flops like a fish landing on the bank. Each wrong twist of her body resonates pain, thwarting her movement.

  The next jarring motion doesn’t originate from her body but from the ground.

  Aftershock…

  Before her thought finishes, a tree crashes across the road and against her abdomen.

  Tires screech.

  The crack of branches and the fluff of leaves slapping against the blacktop echo.

  Car doors open.

  Pressure pushes on her spine from the weight of the tree trunk. Lindsey bites her forearm. Dangerous. Someone might think I’m bitten. Her own teeth marks her arm to prevent a scream. Let them pass.

  The whine of a baby reaches her ears.

  They’re heading toward Bowlin’s people. God, they have a baby. I must stop them. She pushes against the tree trunk as leverage to scoot out from underneath, ignoring the pain demanding she cease.

  Before she does, her body betrays her and convulses again. She howls.

  The spasm ceases. No pain, as if nothing was ever wrong with her. Lindsey remains still, listening to the voices.

  “No way it was a planned ambush. The quake brought down the trees,” an older man’s voice reasons.

  “And some poor soul was waiting in the woods at the same moment.”

  She would bet that was some arrogant older teen, young and headstrong—knows everything.

  Lindsey hedges her bet or she’ll become an undead forever trapped under a fallen tree. She calls out, “I hid from your approaching car and now a tree fell on me!”

  Nothing.

  Stupid.

  Chad waves a shotgun in her face. “Where’re your friends?”

  “I’m alone,” Lindsey says. I was close. Still a kid, even close to twenty.

  “Where’re your weapons?” Chad demands.

  “I don’t know where my shotgun landed when I dove down here. I’ve got a pistol. I’m alone.” How much do I say? I must get them to trust me and not go north. And dig me out. “I escaped from a camp north of here.” She stretches out her arms.

  “Escaped?”

  “Terrible men. They forced weaker survivors to work in their camp.” Mostly true.

  “If you move toward a weapon, I’ll shoot you.”

  Chad leaves her view. Move where? Dumb kid. Lindsey listens.

  Even muffled in the truck cab, the baby’s wails reach her.

  “She seems alone, hurt and trapped. Warns of a slave camp ahead.”

  “Do we help her?” the older man asks.

  Yes. Be decent people. I heard a baby. People with a baby must be decent.

  “She’s trapped under the tree. Stay here. Alert.”

  Check the trees, kid. Make sure I’m truthful. Establish trust and then don’t go north.

  When he returns, he’s sporting her shotgun. “I can’t find anyone else. Reach for your other gun and use two fingers like in the movies.”

  Without orders, Lindsey moves slow. She draws the gun and tosses it out of reach.

  Chad scoops up the gun. “You got any more?” He notes the empty clip.

  “A knife.”

  “Keep it. I won’t leave you defenseless, but if I don’t trust you, I’ll fire.” Chad eases closer. “I should fire anyway. You’re as dirty as a biter and smell worse.”

  “Fuck you.” Lindsey needs assistance, but not abuse.

  “They don’t speak, so you’re human.” He disappears from her view again.

  Listening, she hears him explain to his others, “Someone did a number on her. I don’t know how she’s moving.”

  The old man asks, “Do you want to assist her?

  “She’s alone, best I can tell. We’d have to winch the tree off her. If we mess up the truck, we’ll have to march miles with a crying baby.”

  Lindsey screams, “You don’t want to go north this way!”

  The old man hovers over her. “You got a name, lady?”

  “Lindsey. Whatever you do, don’t go north this way. Bad, bad people. I barely escaped.”

  Tracking time seems impossible. If they had left, she’d have heard the truck, but she hasn’t heard them speak in minutes.

  “I’m Walter, and this young man’s Chad.”

  Chad fishes the winch cable around the tree truck.

  “How did you escape?” Walter asks.

  “I was a FEMA agent. We have emergency supplies stationed at a farm for Midwest disaster relief. My team dwindled since the dead raised, and the last few of us were killed by rednecks. I traded our stash of supplies to be released.”

  “I don’t think I could have made that up,” Walter says.

  Chad secures the hook. “I don’t know if this’ll work. I may crush you when I pull the tree, but I think if I move it a hair, you’ll have enough space for Grandpa to drag you out. “

  “You ever do anything like this before?”

  “Nope. Some kind of crane to lift it up would be best, but we do with what we have,” Chad says.

  “We crush you or we get you free. Not much else,” Walter says.

  “Promise you won’t let me become one of those things.”

  “We won’t,” Chad and Walter answer together.

  Chad folds his roadmap and slips it back into the clear plastic travel sleeve. “We’re on Highway 72. We drag this tree more and drive around and take this FF road to Highway 68.”

  “You said 19. Ethan said to Cuba.”

  “Last Ethan knew, Rolla was devoid of people and undead,” Chad says. “I broke his rules. We stayed on the road and in a truck way too long. But with the quake drawing the undead southeast, I thought it was worth the risk to get the baby to Acheron quicker.” He draws his finger along a
highway. “We go across country. Go here, to Meramec Springs Fish Hatchery. I like the direction and the idea of catching fish.”

  “You ever been to a hatchery, son?”

  “Not really,” Chad says.

  “Someone has to feed those fish, or they die,” Walter says.

  “I’d be more concerned people who have moved in will protect the food source,” Lindsey says.

  “It’s the best direction. We’ll scout the hatchery. If there are too many living, we go around and we’re back on path. Loop down here and we’re back on 19. Ethan will find us at that point.”

  “He’s got an army between him and us. More undead than anyone’s ever seen.”

  “He received a beating from twelve men and killed them all. You’ve no idea what he has done. No undead horde stands a chance against him.”

  Walter doesn’t argue with the childish enamoring.

  “We’re low on gas. Any chance we’ll cross by a QT?” Noah asks as he pours the last contents of a red gas can into the tank.

  “It’s a country road. Have to be some cars with the fuel not all stale or burnt up,” Chad says.

  Lindsey leans against the rear truck tire. “What kind of outfit are you guys?” She sips from a plastic water bottle.

  “Survivors helping each other.” Chad lifts his snow shield from the truck bed and takes point, inspecting the area beyond the trees.

  “With a baby, that’s brave.”

  “My granddaughter is who this young man is mandated to protect.”

  “He seems all heart,” Lindsey says.

  “He is,” Walter says. “Noah gave you the water. The baby-daddy’s in the truck. You’ll forgive him. He’s been in shock, but he’s finally holding his daughter.”

  “And the little girl’s name?”

  “Sandra was her mother. She died giving birth. Haven’t settled on a name.”

  Lindsey sips from the bottle, fighting the urge to gulp it all down. “I’m glad I talked you out of this road. Those people—”