The Roaming (Book 2): The Toll

by Hegarty, W. J.

  Contents

  Title Page

  Title Page

  Copyright

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Title Page

  The Roaming

  The Roaming

  The Toll

  W.J. Hegarty

  The Roaming is a work of fiction.

  Names, characters, events and locations

  are either products of the authors imagination

  or have been used fictitiously.

  Any resemblance to actual locales or persons;

  living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  Valkyriur Song poem excerpt

  by Felicia Dorothea Browne Hemans,

  1793-1835

  https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Felicia_Hemans

  Cover art by Edward Moran

  https://www.deviantart.com/edwardjmoran

  Copyright © 2019 W. J. Hegarty

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof

  may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever

  without the express written permission of the publisher

  except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Printed in the United States of America

  First Printing, 2019

  ISBN-13: 9781697005356

  CHAPTER ONE

  Contact

  Canvasback’s Landing, South Carolina, was a small coastal town a few hours’ drive north from Hilton Head; it lay deserted and largely in ruins. The city was left mostly untouched by the epidemic that swept the nation, though Mother Nature’s fury wouldn’t be so kind. It was a modest city. Even before the crisis, Canvasback wasn’t the type of place anyone would mistake for a tourist trap. The city was composed of locals, mostly. A tight-knit community with ties to the sea. It was a quiet fishing town; most of its citizens were born and raised right here, mere steps from the ocean. The city was abandoned, and with it, so too was local infrastructure maintenance. Its drainage system had been irreparably clogged with debris that washed in from large storms.

  Vast stretches of the city streets were flooded with ankle-deep standing water. Storm damage was extensive. With no one around to shore up buildings, the weather had its way with them. Awnings were ripped from their moorings, sent careening into other buildings, and left where they lay. Corrugated aluminum, bent and twisted, littered the streets. Shattered fencing, torn shingles, and entire sections of buildings were left strewn about the town. In some locations, sand had blown in from eroded beaches and piled so high against homes and businesses you would need tools to dig your way in or out.

  Most of Canvasback’s citizens fled inland to get out of the way of the season’s first major hurricane. With the crisis having engulfed the region, rescue would be nigh impossible, should the need arise. The few people that remained rode out the storm—and the storms that followed. The ones that fled never returned. Whether they succumbed to roaming bands of carriers or violent drifters was a question their neighbors were left to ponder. In time, for one reason or another, and usually in small groups, the residents that remained left Canvasback’s Landing for good. Now the city was nothing more than a ghost town.

  A block from the ocean, a fully armed group of seven wearing black leather gear patrolled the city streets. If they weren’t military or otherwise professionally trained, they at least appeared to be. This unit marched two by two with a single sentry bringing up the rear. Appearance-wise, they were an eclectic group composed of two women and five men. If anyone still lived in Canvasback to hear them speak, it would have been clear that all but one of them most likely hailed from foreign soil. This team moved with precision, with purpose. Each of them was well-armed, carrying an automatic rifle, a sidearm, and a close-quarters combat weapon. These implements were mostly long and bladed, no doubt to keep any attackers outside of arm’s reach. One had a pair of nightsticks strapped to his back. Another carried what looked to be a comically large war hammer you might see in a fantasy movie. Not at all practical.

  The black-clad team entered select buildings and ignored others. To the casual observer, it would have appeared that they had no rhyme or reason for which buildings they searched and which ones they passed up. Out in front marched the smallest of the group; the pair of them seemed to be signaling which buildings were of interest. One of them was a small blonde with yellow highlights on her suit. She sounded like she hailed from Eastern Europe. The other, a young black man, was the only American in the group. The woman pointed out a nearby two-story building. Its bottom floor was a drinking establishment named the Ruddy Duck Inn, and its second level looked to be lodging. The building itself appeared to be in relatively decent shape considering the state of its surroundings. Their leader, the one with the nightsticks and who brought up the rear, directed the group in. He was Hispanic and the only member of this group without markings on his pristine black leather uniform.

  The interior of the building was dark except for what little light shone through hastily boarded-up windows. Garbage was strewn about, dried to the sides of the carpet and partway up the wall. The surface of the wall itself was stained up to a foot off the floor in spots. It was apparent that the place had sustained massive water damage, likely due to a storm surge. The two smaller members of the group hurried to the exterior of most rooms and yanked the boards from the windows, letting in much-needed sun. With this increase in light, a host of rats scurried back into large holes in the wall. The leader of the group wrinkled his nose as he entered. The stink of dried animal urine hung in the air. There were obviously many more rats living in the walls, or something much bigger had taken up residence in man’s absence to produce such a stench. The African American rushed to the back room, where he opened a window. The airflow sucked in the ocean breeze, clearing away most of the foul odor.

  Among the group were two giant men, each nearly seven feet tall and built of pure muscle. One was Scandinavian, the other Haitian. Both of them had white handprints slapped all over their armor. One wouldn’t be wrong in assuming that these men decorated each other’s gear just this morning with paint they found in a local hardware store. The Haitian’s bald head was adorned with a cracked white handprint. The other had a hand decorating his face, with excess paint splattered into his long blond locks. Dried white stains around the cuffs of their uniforms told the tale. They had adorned each other as a form of war paint. Their leader directed them to guard the exits—one in the front of the inn, the other at the back.

  The two smallest of the group took point again. They led the remains of the team farther into the building and up a flight of stairs. On the second floor, they spread out, each point man guiding another teammate to a particular room. Not a single movement was wasted. The smaller, quicker team members had obviously been here before. The leader paced the hallway as his team set upon its objective. He kept his rifle at attention, his head on a swivel.

  The male point man led his group into a room at the end of the hall. He entered and paused for a moment before pulling out his sidearm. “Don’t move.”

  A disheveled-looking pale young man was rummaging through a carefully organized pile of supplies near the center of the room. When he noticed the trio of armed soldiers towering above and saw the gun drawn on him, he scurried to the nearest corner. “Please don’t shoot!
Please don’t shoot!”

  A redheaded member of the team darted forward. His hair was shoulder-length, and he sported a matching beard. This one’s leather was adorned with thick red lines that looked to have been applied with a large paintbrush or a small roller. He demanded answers behind a pronounced Australian accent. “Does this stuff belong to you?”

  “No.”

  “You’re goddamn right it doesn’t. This shit’s ours. We got here first. Hands off.” The Australian snatched a can of peas from the frightened young man.

  Another member of the team spoke up in the young man’s defense. Like the others, she was dressed head to toe in black leather. Hers was carefully highlighted with blue paint at the seams. She was a light-skinned black woman with long, light-brown curls pulled back into a thick ponytail. She spoke in a soothing French cadence. “Take it easy. He’s scared.”

  “He’s stealing our shit,” the redhead argued.

  “Maybe this shit was his first.”

  “Look, you guys, I was just passing through. I don’t even live here. I’m just hungry as shit, man.”

  The redhead studied the young man for a moment before relenting. “No harm, no foul, friend.” He helped him to his feet. “I get a little worked up out on the road. Never know what you’re going to run into out here. Know what I mean?”

  “Yeah, I suppose I do.”

  “What’s your story?” the Frenchwoman asked.

  “Not much to tell. I’m homeless. I was homeless then, and I’m homeless now. When the crisis hit, I was in Fort Lauderdale. I was trying to get a job during spring break, but no one wants to hire the homeless guy. Anyway, I got out of there quick. I could see what was coming. On the streets, you could feel it. The people were already losing their minds, like a rage was boiling over. You ever been in a riot? Let me tell you, it fucking sucks, especially when you don’t have a real home to go back to when it’s all over. Afterward, everybody looks at you funny, like you somehow started it. Anyway, this was different, so I started walking, and thank God I did. It sounds like the cities turned into war zones. In the earliest days of this shit, when transportation was still kind of a thing, I snuck aboard a freight train, hopped off somewhere south of Charleston. Been following the coast north ever since. Can’t say I’ve gotten very far. This is only the second town I’ve come across.”

  The team leader joined the conversation. “What’s your name, kid?”

  “Tate.”

  “Tate, I’m Cortez, and if you think you can pull your weight, we might be able to find a place for you with us.”

  “I’ll take it.”

  “Not even a single question?” the Australian asked with a puzzled look.

  “Are you kidding me? Life on the road sucks. You need help carrying anything?”

  The Frenchwoman gave Tate a pat on the back. “Welcome aboard.”

  One of the large men yelled from downstairs. “Cortez, we’ve got contact!”

  The alley behind the Ruddy Duck was slowly but steadily filling with the undead. Many of them had bloated skin that was sloughing off their bones like they were submerged for quite some time and had been washed ashore from some distant tragedy, perhaps even a far-off shipwreck. Their origin was unimportant. What was of the utmost importance was their destination. They were converging on the small building, and their numbers were swelling. It was as if the carriers’ mere presence attracted more who were otherwise content to stumble around the area, oblivious to Cortez and his team.

  The two giants took turns heading into the fray, the blond with a medieval battle-ax and the bald one with his hammer. When you saw him swing the bludgeon, any notion of its impracticality quickly vanished. They were careful to stay away from each other’s wide arcs as they kept the back entrance secure. Any beast within reach was cleaved or crushed. From above, Cortez and the rest of his team took positions on balconies and fire escapes, offering covering fire from the high ground. Nearly every depression of the trigger was a headshot. Rarely was a bullet wasted.

  “Cease fire! Cease fire!” Cortez yelled while waving his hand for the benefit of those who might not have heard his command. “Let’s wrap this up. All that noise is bound to attract attention we don’t need. We have what we came for. It’s time to bug out.”

  Cortez and his people packed as much of the spoils as they could fit into their duffels. Tate helped as best as he was able with a thick contractor bag he packed as full as he could and still carry. Within minutes, Cortez, his team, and Tate were on the road.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Aftermath

  Dawn’s cleansing light blanketed Miller’s caravan as it finally reached the highway. Blinding rays bounced off windshields and peeked through dried blood, casting foreboding shadows, an ominous reminder for the weary occupants of a disaster mere hours past. Tommy finally settled down. Little more than twenty minutes ago, and for the first time since before they escaped Pepperbush, silence filled the car. Tobias stole a glance around the interior, his youngest fast asleep in his sister’s arms. Isabelle stared blankly out the window, emotionless, a state more common of late. He longed to comfort her but didn’t know how; he had no voice for it. What would he say? That everything was going to be alright? That would be a lie or at the very least false hope. Everything was not going to be alright. Tobias knew that much. Their lives would never be the same again. He gripped the steering wheel tight and pressed on into the sunrise.

  The remains of a downed 707 lay strewn across the highway. Miles of debris stretched as far as he could see. Was the pilot trying to land? What would cause him to attempt such a thing on a congested highway. Surely there were more people in these destroyed vehicles than his plane could carry. It’s feasible the pilot wasn’t even trying to land, Tobias thought. It didn’t really matter anyway. Just another unanswered question for him to ponder at night. Negotiating the wreckage was a chore but manageable; it was as if someone had already attempted to clear a path. With any luck, this helpful stranger didn’t stop halfway through the mess. Turning around in here would be nigh impossible.

  Following the fall of Pepperbush, Miller was thrust into a leadership role he never wanted. Colonel Takashi was swallowed up in a sea of undead. There was nothing Miller could have done for him. His commanding officer and surrogate father figure of sorts was gone, another in a countless list of victims claimed by the undead crisis. “Put your back to the sea” was Takashi’s final command. Miller would see it done; he would see these people to safety if it killed him. But first an inventory was needed; taking stock was paramount. How many members of his unit made it out of Pepperbush, and how many civilians did they have with them?

  Five vehicles in total made up the caravan. Since their retreat from Pepperbush, some drivers stayed in contact with each other via the soldiers’ short-range radios. Discussion ran the gamut of where they were going to who made it out. No real answers were forthcoming; “save your batteries” was the usual response.

  The debris field was quickly narrowing. Miller called ahead to the lead car. “Soraya, tell Marisol to make a path. We’re not stopping.”

  “Yes, sir,” she responded.

  “We should stop, Miller. There’s shit all over the place. We could probably use some of it,” Radzinski added from his end.

  “Negative. Too many blind spots. If those things are mixed in with the wreckage, we could find ourselves surrounded, boxed in. We’re not stopping until we find a clear stretch of road,” Miller insisted.

  “Yeah, but—” Radzinski started.

  “Negative. We are not stopping! Miller out.” Miller threw the radio onto the dash, displeasure with Radzinski written all over his face.

  “This guy’s fucking incredible.” Radzinski’s final transmission echoed through Tobias’s truck.

  “Maybe he’s right, Miller,” Tobias offered.

  “I’m sure he is,” Miller replied. “There are probably tons of useful supplies out there, but the risk isn’t worth the reward. Are you willing t
o chance your family for a couple cans of soda and some shoes?”

  “Of course I’m not, but—” Tobias tried to reply, but the soldier would have none of it.

  “Then keep driving. We’ll find somewhere safer to stop eventually.”

  “And if we don’t?” Isabelle asked.

  Miller didn’t answer, though he caught the woman’s glare in the rearview mirror, her contempt-filled eyes burning into his reflection. He knew that no matter what he said, she wouldn’t be satisfied. Best to avoid further conflict, he thought.

  Marisol’s truck sped along out in front. She was careful not to get too far ahead of the caravan. For the most part, those with her remained relatively quiet since fleeing Pepperbush. The weight of what they’d witnessed, combined with Mayor Lancaster’s cruelty, filled the truck with a thick, tense atmosphere. All morning, since the situation calmed, she’d been chain-smoking, adding to a particular occupant’s discomfort.

  “I certainly enjoy a good smoke as much as the next, but really, would you mind cutting back on the cigarettes? It has become absolutely stuffy in here,” Mayor Lancaster suggested.

  Marisol took a big drag, bigger than usual, and turned to face Lancaster behind the passenger’s seat. “Feel free to get out anytime you like. If you want to walk the rest of the way, I won’t stop you,” she replied, exhaling the smoke into his face.

  “My word, was that completely necessary, woman?” Mayor Lancaster gagged.

  “Climb in the back, all the way back! I don’t want to have to look at you.”

  “But—” he protested.

  “Now!” she demanded.

  “Let’s go, old-timer. Over the seat.” Seth helped Lancaster into the back of the truck, sufficiently far away from Marisol.

  Up front and comfortable, she and Soraya shared a grin at the man’s expense.

  “Do you mind?” Soraya motioned for a cigarette.