No Room In Hell (Book 3): Aftershocks

by Schlichter, William

  The kid freezes as the rest of the gathering camp residents back away in shock from the lightning attack.

  Ethan continues, “The body moves different under the added weight.” He holds out his left hand. The .22 dangles from his trigger finger. He signals for his M&P. “How about I thank you for saving me, and I leave without incident.”

  “What do you call this?”

  “A demonstration on not to fuck with me. I assure you, I’ve killed people for less.”

  The two knights recover. Most of the villagers return to work with watchful eyes on the stranger.

  “You’re dismissed,” Gentarra orders.

  Ethan holsters his M&P and then the hidden .22. “Kid, get my Magnum.”

  “Do we want to give this guy back his guns?” questions the boy.

  “Go ahead, Andrew,” she relents. “He could have killed all of us already. He didn’t. And if he takes over, I get the feeling we’ll live a lot better.”

  “He’d have never gotten off the bridge without us,” one of the knights says.

  Ethan cements his authority. “You can take me back and we’ll see. I’ve faced down worse odds.”

  The kid hands over the gun.

  “All of you, return to your business. Nothing left to witness. I’m going to speak with this man.” Gentarra waits until they are alone in the center of all the eyes of the camp. “We could use someone of your skills to improve our defenses. The ones in armor do well against the Nachzehrer, but there have been growing numbers of attacks by the living. At least before the quakes.”

  Ethan holsters his Berretta. “Store-bought supplies are reaching an end. People with no survival skills are desperate. I’ve got my own people to return to.”

  “Are they far? Could we arrange some sort of trade for goods?” Gentarra asks.

  “You’ve a blacksmith. How about someone who tans cow hides?” He holds out his palm.

  “Our man shoes horses,” she says, as she sprinkles his bullets into his hand.

  “My camp’s too distant for viable trade practices.”

  “Stay here and help us. We’ll find a way to make trading work.”

  “A little too Game of Thrones for me, Khaleesi,” Ethan says.

  “We try not to kill each other over the seat of power and have yet to taken to sleeping with our siblings. However, winter is coming, and we don’t have the rations for a cold, snowy one.”

  “Winter? It’s only June.”

  “We won’t have enough stores. We’ve no way to grow more.” She leads him to the far wall, monkeying up the guard station scaffolding. Ethan follows. He takes twice as long, with his leg, to follow her up the scaffolding.

  With hands on her hips, when he reaches the top, she says, “Well, Superman, I’ve found your kryptonite.”

  “It’s why I shoot so well.”

  Behind the camp wall, plowed acres would yield enough crops for two winters of food. But instead, the tracks of a biter herd have trampled all green plants into the dust.

  “The earthquake?”

  “The Nachzehrer were thinning. We used the last of our gas and plowed the field with tractors. Much of the seed scattering was done by hand. We’d crops growing. Not sure about weeding. But as much as we planted, if even half matured, we’d make it through the winter with some seed for next season.”

  Somewhere between this camp and home, a herd stretches for miles, moving toward the quake epicenter and damn everyone in its path.

  “I’m so fucked.” No, maybe not. Maybe the river. No, Chad’s out there with the baby. A baby born alive from a biter mother.

  “We all are when they figure out there’s no food,” Gentarra says.

  “You need to tell them.”

  “Is Ethan Edwards your real name?”

  “Is Gentarra yours? Sounds a bit Dungeons and Dragons,” Ethan snaps.

  “I need help. We’ve got a lot of hardworking people, but once they understand there’s no winter food, the knights will leave, and we will collapse.”

  Ethan considers. Teaching them to fight better is the equivalent of pulling a rotten tooth from a dead horse’s head; they’ve nothing to fight for. Instead, he offers his best Arnold impersonation. “Come with me, if you want to live.”

  CHAD DRIVES THE nail through the carpet piece he cut from the floor. “Why am I hanging carpet over a door?”

  “The baby’s colicky, and until we get her to stop crying, we need to muffle her. I’ve seen walls of recording studios with carpeted walls.” Walter rocks the baby, but nothing seems to quell the crying or the little toots emanating through the diaper.

  “That baby hasn’t stopped crying since I met her. That doesn’t seem normal,” Lindsey says.

  “We’re traveling fine. I can’t get over how no vehicle on this route had gas.” Chad slides the hammer into his belt.

  “Give me my gun and we’ll scout,” Lindsey offers.

  “Get this place secure, muffle the noise, and we can hold up for a few days if necessary,” Walter says. He opens the package of new pacifiers. “She doesn’t have a fever. I say we let her cry it out. If you go search for supplies, my son and I will watch my granddaughter.”

  “You’ve got Noah, too,” Chad says.

  Lindsey rolls her eyes.

  “You’ve noticed he’s missing some cards from his deck. But the boy can shoot.”

  The father has remained out of reach with the death of Sandra. Ethan said to protect the baby. Protect the baby. Why is the baby so important? Chad glances at Lindsey. “You going to be able to keep up?”

  “If I find gas first, you allow me to keep my gun,” she says.

  “You want a lot of trust, lady. You might have saved us, but your detour cost us fuel.”

  Lindsey marches from the living room.

  “I wouldn’t be so tough on her, kid. She ain’t bleeding from her period,” Walter says.

  “Oh.” His meaning slaps Chad in the face. “Oh!” He follows her into the kitchen.

  “Um. I’m sorry.”

  “Why? I wouldn’t have trust for a battered stranger either,” she says.

  “I’m slow sometimes. Maybe that’s why Ethan always put me on point.” Chad chews the inside of his cheek. “I don’t guess it compares…considering. You’re not alone. I…well, these men tied me to the bed…”

  Lindsey approaches Chad and hugs him. “Don’t.”

  He wraps one arm around her and squeezes.

  Before she cries, Lindsey pushes herself away. “Nothing we could do. But I want to help people prevent it from happening to anyone else. Let’s find some gas and protect the little girl.”

  Chad hands her the shotgun. “You remind me of my friend, Becky.”

  “Strong?”

  “Bossy.”

  “Becky allowed herself to be captured to ensure I returned to help the baby. I go after her and get killed, then everything’s for nothing. I’ll make sure I get the baby back to Acheron. Ethan made Becky swear. I’ll carry out her promise.” Chad swings his rifle over his right shoulder, his homemade shield secure on his left arm.

  “He’s correct. Everything’s now about that little girl,” Lindsey says. “You really have electricity? Gas for generators would be in equally short supply.”

  “I’m not a hayseed.”

  “Never thought you were, kid. Your shield is genius. I want one. It won’t stop a bullet, but no cadaver will bite through it.”

  “I want to paint it. Some warrior glyph.”

  “Maybe a library will have a book on warrior symbols. A lot of books where you live?” she asks.

  “We’ve electricity where we live. I’ll share no more.”

  “Smart.”

  The snarls of a biter place them on the defense. Chad glances around for it, discovering it hangs from a tree. It twitches and snarls, reaching to attack them.

  “A warning?”

  “Doubt it. Some fool thought they would end it. Only they didn’t tie the rope to break the neck, so t
hey turned and are stuck like a bad Halloween decoration,” Chad says.

  “Then why do it so far from the house?”

  “My guess, the branches are thicker on this tree.”

  “What about that tree?” Lindsey points. Down the road, at the next driveway, is another undead hanging from a tree.

  “One neighbor got the idea to opt out from the other. Whole families would go all Jones Town,” Chad says.

  “You see a lot of death?”

  “More than I wanted. Put down some friends,” Chad admits.

  “I know the houses behind us have no fuel, but I don’t like this,” Lindsey says.

  “We don’t have the gas to backtrack. And we can’t cut across fields with a crying baby.”

  “You better come up with a plan, because I don’t want to be the next corpse they use to mark these houses.”

  Gravel road dust from a vehicle traveling toward them drifts across the field.

  ETHAN DOESN’T NEED to inspect the plowed furrows beyond his bird’s eye view from the battlement. The earth was kicked over and trampled on by thousands of undead shuffling over the crops in search of the source of the earthquake. No wonder it smells of shit. That many undead would cause me to evacuate my bowels.

  “This camp had walls,” Gentarra says.

  Ethan notes she doesn’t call it home.

  “The professor and Corduroy threw up the wall in the first weeks. They brought me in as an act of political correctness to keep control over the women folk. Many had kids, and their husbands, in their redneck logic, ran off to play with guns.”

  They never returned. “You’ve got a medieval army.”

  “Those guys came later, and they’re mercenaries.”

  “Fighting with plastic swords and bashing the undead in the head isn’t the same as a live action hero.”

  “You insulted them. But they needed it,” Gentarra says.

  “Will the whole camp go?”

  “Corduroy won’t like it, but he’s smart. He knows the truth about the food.”

  “You’re putting a lot of trust in me awful fast. You didn’t even debrief your men about what happened on the bridge.”

  “Mead-swilled tales of high adventure. I don’t have time to pick out facts. They recovered you from a bridge populated by undead. They draw lots before each scavenging mission, and if they engage an overwhelming number, one knight is tasked to return to report while the others die a valiant death. I knew they charged the bridge. To save a crazy gunslinger.” Her smile hints at an impish quality.

  “Then you put a lot of trust in a stranger superfast. How do you know I wasn’t the bad guy in that battle?”

  “You didn’t kill when you took your guns back. There’s something about you, Ethan?”

  “Maybe I’ll tell you one day, Gentarra.” Ethan returns the unspoken question.

  “It doesn’t matter who you were before. Only who you are now. I need you to help my people,” Gentarra says.

  “Not here.”

  “Your camp?”

  “We’ve a rule. You don’t work, you don’t eat. We’re growing. We need more people to safely expand our border wall. And I can feed everyone this winter.” Dar’s going to love these numbers, but we’ll have the trains.

  The low bellow of the ram horn draws their attention.

  “Those reenactment guys must be loving this.”

  “You’ve no idea. I don’t mind being called ‘my lady.’ Beats ma’am. I’m not old enough to be a ma’am.”

  Ethan smiles at her. A lady and one of experience. “The signal?”

  She rolls her eyes. “Someone approaches. Someone I wish would get eaten.” She climbs down the scaffolding.

  Ethan follows, placing his boot on each metal pole like a little kid scooting down stairs, one at a time, until he reaches the ground.

  “You messed your leg up.” It isn’t a question. “Not many people unable to run have lasted ten months without living behind walls.

  Ethan pats his Magnum. “All the wall I need.”

  Gentarra would find his macho, male bravado unattractive if it was genuine. She leads him around the back of sheet metal huts.

  “The professor wants us to expand our wall beyond the Wapanocca National Wildlife Refuge, but there are no more telephone poles. Corduroy says these were in a field a few miles from here,” Gentarra explains.

  More of the community exists behind the house. Next to a swimming pool rests a semi-truck bracing a windmill. At the base of the windmill, a black man fiddles with a pump.

  “Corduroy chose this place for the house and the pool.”

  The black man doesn’t glance from his work. “The house was a good size and isolated. I wanted the pool to collect rainwater. I built this windmill to keep the pool full.”

  “We boil the water before we drink it,” Gentarra adds.

  Corduroy gives her the, “I thought of that, woman” glance through lenses as thick as coke bottles. “We’re going to have to get the knights to scavenge a machine shop. I need some parts. I need to go with them to get what I need, or we’re going to lack fresh water.”

  “Hook the truck back up to the pump, Corduroy,” Gentarra suggests.

  “The knights will have to scavenge for diesel. But I have enough to fill the pool if it gets low; after that, we’re dry.”

  “What if I offer an alternative?” Ethan asks.

  “We’ve all heard you went Wyatt Earp on a herd at the bridge. But unless you can conjure needed supplies, you’re as useless as the knights,” Corduroy says.

  “They provide protection,” Gentarra says.

  “The wall protects us. They’re a useless resource, except when they have desires, and they do just enough. They could scavenge more. Or farther. They’ve picked clean the area within a day’s ride because they don’t want to be out after dark.” Corduroy wrinkles his nose to push his glasses higher.

  “Again, I’ve an offer you can’t refuse,” Ethan says.

  “You have ammo and gear. Makes you resourceful. What do you bring to us?” Corduroy asks.

  “Not bring. Take. I’ve a camp. Room for all your people. And a source of hydroelectric power.”

  “You have electricity? Most plants were shut down within days of the outbreak.” Corduroy uses a finger to correct the placement of his glasses.

  “I found the workers in a refugee camp. They were willing to return when I offered real protection for their families. We’ve one major law in our camp. You don’t work, you don’t eat.”

  “The professor wouldn’t do so well,” Gentarra says.

  “What’s the catch?” Corduroy asks.

  “It’s four hundred miles north.”

  “Through the epicenter drawing all the Nachzehrer. You’re insane. We’re safe here.”

  “Safe to starve,” Ethan says.

  “You told him.” Corduroy’s face melts into disappointment. “Now you have no leverage,” he scolds Gentarra.

  “I don’t see a lot of choice. We’re going to starve this winter, or maybe before.”

  “Chances are, half the camp will die on such a journey,” Corduroy says.

  “How many will die after you run out of horse meat?” Ethan asks.

  “The knights won’t allow that,” Corduroy says.

  “I don’t think they’ll stick around once they learn we don’t have food,” Gentarra adds.

  “How do your people not know?”

  “Gentarra lies to them. She’s a master.”

  “She’s a woman. It’s natural,” Ethan says.

  “They want to believe when I say some of the plants will recover,” she says.

  “Everyone needs hope. We won’t burst bubbles yet. But my offer stands. And if you listen to me, you won’t lose half. I can’t promise everyone, but I’ve been doing this since the outbreak. It’s what I do.” Ethan pats his Magnum.

  “The professor won’t leave,” Corduroy says.

  “And I say fuck him,” Gentarra spits.
<
br />   “I won’t leave until I know your plan is sound.”

  “How many semis with flatbeds can we get up and running?” Ethan asks.

  “There are plenty around. We need fuel.”

  “Send your knights out after gas and three flatbeds. Build a pen for the horses on one—no horse trailers—and load the other two down with your gear. You’ll want at least four support pickups, ideally with winches.”

  “It will take me a few days,” Corduroy says.

  “Wait. You’re going to do this?” Gentarra asks.

  “When the aftershocks cease, that herd will break apart and won’t ignore us. We don’t have winter stores and can’t scavenge enough to feed our group. The knights will abandon us for greener fields. The herd is distracted by the aftershocks. Now is the time to go if we want to sneak past them, if that’s the correct term. Better we die trying than starve here,” Corduroy says.

  “I’m all in. We don’t need the professor’s support,” Gentarra says. “Some will stay with him. But if they’re willing to follow him, then we don’t need them.”

  “Then the gene pool won’t suffer from their loss.” Ethan’s hand grips his Magnum at the roar—of cheers. He glances at Gentarra.

  She rolls her eyes. “He’s back.”

  “It wouldn’t hurt my emotional standing to leave him either,” Corduroy says.

  The trio march around the house to the compound entrance.

  Guards open the gate wide enough for a single man to slide through. Sporting a backpack and plump duffle bag, he struts in as if a god, down to mirrored sunglasses and a fringed leather coat.

  Elvis he’s not, but he could get work as an impersonator in a poorly lit club.

  Children rush to him and spread out a tarp.

  He unzips the bag, turning over the stuffed duffle bag, spilling out supplies onto the tarp.

  Before Ethan’s visual examination concludes, women mob the arriving rock star. “Popular, isn’t he?”

  “You have no idea.” Gentarra spits, “He’s allowed to do whatever his little hard-on desires, and nothing I say stops it.”