“You going to put me out without a gun?”
Kale nudges the pack with his boot. “I packed you a week’s worth of food and water and everything you need to survive. Even a gun. And a box of fifty rounds. Don’t get any ideas. It’s disassembled. You’ll have to put it together.”
“Generous of you.”
“Get dressed.”
“Smart, driving me yourself,” Mary says.
“I figured you’d seduce any men accompanying you, Regina.” Kale keeps both hands on the steering wheel.
“I love your brother.” She twists her wrists, but the leather strap binding them has no give.
“I doubt you’re in love. You’ve succeeded in bewitching him. You only desire control over him.”
“As do you. You need him to run the men. We both desire the same thing. Why not work together?” she asks.
“We both would accomplish nothing. We know at some point the other would find an opportunity to backstab.”
“It’s essential for me to be a queen. Make it happen, and you have nothing to worry about. It’s the same arrangement with your brother. You’d never be ruler, just the power behind his throne.” She works her pinky nail into the leather thong binding her wrists together. With time, she might weaken the strap.
“It’ll be difficult at first, but under my system, we shall rebuild a utopia. Live as humans should live. There’s no place for a queen.”
Mary recognizes Kale, genius he is, has the same insanity of the brother she slept with. His mind operates on a grander scale. “We can build whatever you want. Don’t send me away. I have the ear of many of the men.”
“I made sure those in your trust buried the bodies of those you murdered. You lost control.”
“Then kill me.”
“My brother might find a way to return, but revenge clouds the mind. I’d rather say you ran in fear when I discovered what you did. He might even find your body. You might find a group and survive. By then, the spell you had over him will have dissipated.”
Mary digs her feet against the door panel and lunges. She forgoes fighting with Kale and reaches for the wheel. The jerk counterclockwise sends the truck reeling off the left side of the road. The center cable catcher deflects the truck back onto the road.
Kale releases the wheel to shove Mary off him, but without guidance, the tires turn on their own.
The truck slides down the highway on its side.
MIKE SLAMS HIS back against the seat in an adult temper tantrum when he accepts the engine has flooded or there are enough human guts clogging the air intake. The scabbing skin breaks, and he knows the bandage will soak up the fresh blood.
“Mike. I need you calm,” Kelsey says. “We wait them out.”
“We still need a working car. I think they smell our blood. And the dog.”
She touches his arm above the elbow. “What would the plane mean?”
The thumbing tattoo of hands on metal rattles the El Camino.
“What? You’re now worried about the plane?” He checks his ammo. He slips loose rounds from his pack to top off the magazine.
“What does it mean? It wasn’t military.”
“I think it means a well-supplied and established group,” he says. “A plane isn’t like a car. You can jump-start a car and go. But an aircraft requires regular maintenance.”
The vehicle rocks.
“Couldn’t the pilot do that?”
Mike brings up his M16. He points at the biters pawing at his door window. “No. Not always. And I don’t know what kind of plane, but it could be a two-seater or a four. So you have a few men and room for light cargo. Maybe half a dozen people to keep it flying.”
“Airports aren’t in the usual thought when it comes to supplies. Even if they aren’t picked over, the passengers would have to travel miles to scavenge.”
Mike tracks the barrel from one undead face to another as they thump against the glass.
“Advanced scouts. They fly low over a town and check for viability, and then send out a crew in trucks to clean out supplies.”
“Sounds like a group size of dozens,” Kelsey says. Or larger than my group. If they’re raiders I’ve got to warn…
“Put your fingers in your ears,” Mike orders. He flips the safety.
The glass shatters. Biters fall as bullets shred their skulls.
Mike kicks the door back using it as a shield while he exits.
Kelsey reaches for the ignition. She twists the keys. The engine sputters.
Mike keeps his back against the doorframe.
She twists the key again as she reaches down and mashes a hand on the gas. The car bucks as the engine fires.
Mike falls inside, jerking the gear shift. The El Camino speeds backward. He gets his leg on the brake, and Kelsey pulls herself into her seat. Mike revs the engine and drops the transmission into forward. He rams through the undead.
“No sleeping in the car now.” He adjusts the rearview mirror to check on the dog still cowering in the cage.
The needle on the temperature gauge spikes into the red. Mike pulls into a driveway as the engine hisses. “The car’s shot.”
“No immediate neighbors. Might get lucky and no biters.”
“I hope the fence encompasses the whole backyard, so the dog can run free and not get away.”
“I don’t blame him for running,” Kelsey says.
“I hope he trusts us enough to stay in the next car. This antique has crapped out.” Mike checks his rounds. “You need anything from the house?”
“Pain meds.” She adds, “Maybe some better shoes. And a dress. I hate them, but the loose fabric helps with the burns.”
If she has pain, then her legs aren’t as badly burnt as they appear. But I’m no medic. Mike disappears through the gate into the backyard. He returns and carries Kelsey to a suspended bench swing before retrieving the dog. “Watch the mutt. He needs to potty. I’m going inside.”
He inspects each drawer and cabinet in the kitchen and bathroom. Ibuprofen and canned peaches are all that’s worth pilfering. Kelsey’s body will welcome the sugar water.
He grabs some clean sheets form the linen closet and uses a pillowcase to gather all the women’s shoes from a bedroom. He picks a couple of dresses clearly fashionable for a grandmother in the sixties.
Mike plops on the swing. His back presses against the slats, and pain shoots through him. Biting his lower lip to hold in expressing the discomfort, he pops the pull tab on the can and spears a peach slice with a fork. He savors the sugar-coated fruit before handing Kelsey the tin. “It’s expired but tastes delicious.”
She accepts the can and takes a dainty bite from a peach quarter.
“I had no idea what you thought was comfortable.” He fishes through the pillowcase pulling out orthopedic shoes.
“These are all old lady shoes.”
“The dresses aren’t any better.”
She half-hugs him. “Thanks for trying.”
The dog sits before the bench, out of reach, eyeing the can of peaches. Kelsey flings the last peach quarter at the dog. It snatches the morsel out of the air.
“Such a good boy.” She waves her hand, wanting to pet the dog.
“He’s not ready to trust us. What do you think about sleeping outside tonight? With this high fence, I could build a small fire. We could camp out.”
“Sounds romantic. Mr. Mike, are you trying to seduce me?”
Mike smiles. Levity is good. Her face restored some of the beauty it had before it was scared. True beauty—the kind gained from understanding someone’s soul and not their appearance.
“I doubt I’ve the skills to win over a girl like you unless she desired it. I doubt someone your age would be interested in an honorably discharged soldier who pisses himself every time the undead attack.” Never mentioning her face, he pats her shoulder.
She touches his arm. “Every time?”
“Close. I was under fire from Insurgents in the Middle East and na
ry a drop of urine, but the first herd I encounter—it’s time for Depends.”
“I could live with that.” She smiles. “A warm fire would be nice.” She addresses the dog. “Don’t you agree, boy?”
The dog remains out of arm’s reach.
“He trusts us enough. I’ll bring in his food. You select a dress while I scout the area. Scrounge up a car. I can use the battery in ours to jump-start the next one.”
Mike pokes the fire with a long stick. The dry wood crackles.
Between the dying sunlight and flickering flames, Kelsey’s face glows an orange. “I think I should fear the flames after what those bastards did, but I don’t. I enjoy the dance as it consumes the wood.”
Mike holds out his hand with a pile of food pellets piled in it. The dog cocks his head but won’t approach. “He let me lead him into here, lock him in a cage, but he sure won’t allow me to pet him.”
“We don’t have many dogs at Acheron,” Kelsey says, as she opens a bag of snack machine crunchy potato chips.
“It’s why I caught him. Thought we could protect him. I wonder where all the dogs went?”
She crunches on a chip—stale, but edible. “I don’t remember. The pain, I guess.” She concentrates on not scratching or touching the backs of her calves. Her whole body radiates with a throb of sticking pins into her flesh.
“Your doctors will help.” Maybe they can do something where that tart cut away my skin.
“I told you we had doctors.” She stresses her disappointment in the use of the plural. “I shouldn’t have communicated so much. We invite people, but we don’t give away too much in case scavengers get bold. We must protect what we have, or we won’t be able to help anyone.”
“I get you may not trust me, but I’ve done nothing but keep you alive,” Mike reminds her.
“And I’m ungrateful. Sorry.” She tosses a chip to the dog.
“Don’t apologize. I was attempting to be funny. When you’re ready, I welcome your trust. I do get it. From the way you talk, your home’s a paradise. I wouldn’t want marauders learning of it.”
“It’s our job to bring in survivors.”
“And those men who attacked you.”
“They wanted our leader. He killed their rapist brother.”
“Did he kill him because he was a rapist?”
“He was a bad man. We have a work-or-you-don’t-eat rule, but Ethan cut off the dick of a rapist in our camp.”
“Any other crimes I should be made aware of?”
“People get docked rations for lack of work, but normally only once. The only other criminal punishment I know they enforced was the rape.” She leaves out the death of Levin.
Mike notes how she repeats her facts and seems to have some other memory issues.
“Everyone pulls together. Since we don’t have a lot of material goods, there’s no theft.”
“I’ll work.” He reaches toward her forehead with the back of his hand.
Before she protests, he says, “You’re warm.”
“I’m cold. And my legs are prickly. I thought burns didn’t hurt when they were this bad?”
Mike shakes his head. “Above my pay grade.”
“You were a soldier. If you still shoot well, you can get a guard post.”
“Guard was never a reward. It was usually given to lower enlisted when it wasn’t a punishment. We were in teams of two armed with weapons, MREs and best of all, we fought to stay awake. I’m betting you don’t have too many former military jumping at the duty,” Mike says.
Kelsey considers his answer. “No, we’re all crack shots but were civilians before.”
“And you don’t want to be the one on guard if some bad shit happens.”
“Depending on your skills, you could work with protecting scavenging teams. You’re still a guard, but you won’t be bored. Not with all the undead on the prowl.”
“It worries me we haven’t seen any since the road.”
“The earthquake pulled them away,” she says.
“Yes, but there have to be more stragglers, and those farther out who haven’t reached us yet.”
“The biters are easily distracted.”
“No reason to drop our guard.”
The dog races around the fenced yard. It plays, then sniffs for territory to mark.
“You going to name the dog?” she asks.
“Thought you might like to do it.”
“We have three in Acheron. Wild as hell. I never saw many after the undead.”
“A few cats, but not many dogs. They might be smart enough to avoid both the living and the dead. Dog meat will serve if you’re hungry,” Mike says. He tears open a silver candy bar wrapper.
“You’ve eaten dog?”
“In South Korea. I had a layover and I tried it. You wouldn’t know it wasn’t pork.”
“If I weren’t in Acheron, I bet dog would be one of the better things I would have eaten to survive.”
Mike zips his fly. He concentrates on not scratching his back side where the girl flayed him like a fish. She desired to eat him—slow. She would have intended to finish his liver last with some mushrooms. He shudders.
“You okay?” Kelsey asks.
“My side itches.”
“Doesn’t that mean it’s healing?” she asks.
“I hope so. If it gets much worse, I may have to handcuff my hands. I want to scratch.”
The dog snarls.
Mike snags his rifle. “She smells something.”
“Not a biter.” Kelsey’s fingers fidget for her gun. “Aftershock?”
Mike agrees with her assessment. If it was undead, the dog would have a fit. “Likely. I noticed my sleep was wracked with them. The ground growled as I slept. I swear it did.”
“Some people are sensitive to nature.”
The dog growls.
Growling means something living. The question is what? He whispers, “Can you handle it while I sneak into the tree line?” He hands her a pistol.
She raises the Ruger, nods and smiles as best she can.
This girl is something else. He says a quick prayer for her recovery.
Mike closes the gate. He circled the house last night but didn’t venture into the tree line so close to sunset.
His footfall breaks twigs. After three steps, his silent movement ability restores in him. Half an acre and the trees give way to a hillside overlooking several buildings. He uses the cheap dime store kid’s binoculars he found the first night with Kelsey, and they magnify the abandoned farms. He laughs in spite of himself, as almost all buildings are now abandoned.
At the edge of the tiny lenses’ ability to magnify, he spots a single engine plane.
The cluck of a chicken waters his mouth. Kelsey said they eat a lot of eggs at Acheron. Catching one means we’ll have fresh protein. We both need it to heal better. I’m sure it will be gamey. For ten months, it hasn’t been corn fed. Mike scans the buildings. Or maybe it has. Several chickens scratch and peck in the area around a grain silo. One white hen has a green strip spray painted across her back.
He marches down the hill. Reaching the bottom, Mike unslings his M16. He props it against a tree. He scrapes his hands on his pants to make sure they are dry. Someone should film this. It’d make a fortune on America’s Funniest People. If anyone had a television to watch it. He prepares to leap from the tree line.
Before he chases the bird, two children dart for the green-striped chicken. Both dirty, the girl must be about eight and the boy, clearly her brother, a few years older. They snag the poultry and the little girl twists its neck until it pops.
“No eggs and you’re next, girls,” she scolds the other hens.
The chickens ignore her, returning to their scratching for the corn the little boy tosses to them.
Mike freezes at the bluntness of the child. His stomach growls. He eases back, lifting his rifle by the barrel.
I won’t take the food source from children. Maybe they want to come with, but
why trust me? Kelsey might have better luck. I’ll need a vehicle first. He backs up, not wanting to alert the kids, or any adults, to his presence. But, somehow, he thinks they’re alone.
The little girl plucks the feathers.
Mike leans the M16 against the leg of the swing frame. “Do you think you can walk?”
“What did you find?” she asks.
“Little kids. Living off chickens.”
“No way.”
“A little boy and girl. I thought I might scare them.”
“And my hunched back and burns won’t?”
“I also saw an airplane in a field a few miles away.”
“The one we spotted?”
“Not sure. It was too far, and my stomach screams KFC.”
“How young?”
“Below ten.” Mike packs their supplies into the pillowcase turned into a sack.
“They have to have had an adult to reason with to last ten months.”
“The little girl knew to kill and eat the hen when it stopped laying eggs. They even marked her.”
“Will the car make the trip?” She slips the dress over her head.
“It was overheating. It might get us around. Maybe they’ve a farm truck we can trade it in for. Neither one of them are tall enough to reach the pedals.”
Stabbing pains sear his right pec muscle. Mike grabs the boy. Warm blood pours from the shallow knife wound.
“Let me go, you fucking pervert!” the boy screams, unable to break the grip on his arm.
Mike stumbles from the farm house, still holding onto the boy while the girl follows him out. She swings a broom and whacks the filleted section of his back.
Kelsey crawls from the passenger side of the El Camino. “What the hell!?”
Mike bear hugs the boy to restrain him with one arm, allowing him to jerk the broom from the little girl’s hands. “The kid stabbed me!”
“I won’t let you touch my sister!” The boy kicks.
Kelsey raises her Ruger. Mike has cared for her, but she doesn’t know him.
“I have not touched her,” Mike protests.
It takes all his strength to hold onto the struggling boy as blood spills from his pec muscle.
No Room In Hell (Book 3): Aftershocks Page 16
