Red Runs the River

by Tony Urban

  "That ain't no oatmeal I ever saw," her daddy's voice said. "Less someone ate it and refunded it."

  She knew she'd never make it to the bathroom even though it was only twenty feet away. That was too long to feel his barf in her hand. She realized the bedroom window was open and moved toward it as quick as possible without sloshing more vomit out of the pail.

  She couldn't believe the weight of it. It must be five pounds of puke, she thought. How's that even possible? Not puke, she told herself. Oatmeal. Oatmeal. Extra chunky oatmeal.

  Only this oatmeal had gone rancid. She didn't dare look in the bucket. The smell was bad enough. The sight would push her over the edge. She didn't bother upending and dumping the pail, she pushed - no, launched - the entire horrid mess of it out the window. She heard it hit the ground below, a heavy wet splat, but she kept her eyes averted and tried to catch her breath.

  "You dropped me bucket," Saw said.

  "I'll get you another."

  The bed squeaked, and she heard his footsteps moving toward her.

  Don't come to me. Don't touch me. "Stay in bed, Saw. You need to keep your strength."

  But he was on her. She felt his bare chest press into her back. His flesh was hot and clammy at the same time and it seemed to meld into her own, adhering to her naked back like an oversized suction cup.

  "I'm starting to feel more like me old self."

  His lips pressed against her shoulder. One hand wrapped around her waist. The other groped at her barely-there breasts.

  Why'd I take off my shirt, she thought.

  Despite months on heroin, despite losing more than fifty pounds from the addiction, his arms were still so strong as they wrapped around her. He could break me. She knew that was true. And as scared as that knowledge made her, the power in his embrace also reminded her why she went with him in the first place.

  Safety.

  With Saw, she was safe. He'd never harmed her physically and rarely said a cross word to her. His cruelty was always directed at others. She hated him, loathed the way he treated people, despised so many of the things he'd done, but through it all he'd kept her safe.

  As his hands caressed her, Mina felt wetness at her crotch and a low groan slipped from her mouth.

  At the sound, Saw held her tighter and she felt his hardness pressing into her buttocks. When he reached around and unzipped her pants, slipping them down her slender thighs, she didn't protest even though the smell of vomit seeped from his gaping mouth.

  Four years ago, Mina made a deal with the devil. He'd held up his end of the bargain. It was her time to do the same.

  Chapter Twenty

  Even though summer was coming to an end, it was still hot and dry, and Wim could see a zombie walking through the hazy mirage of purple and pink flames that rose up from the asphalt.

  "You see that?" He asked Mead who sat beside him in the wagon.

  "I do. You going to shoot it?"

  Wim pondered that for a moment, then shook his head. "Can't see wasting a bullet."

  "Smart man."

  Aben was ahead of them, riding the black mare. Pablo pedaled along in the rear. They were all at least a hundred yards from the zombie and with the slow pace of each party, it would be a spell before they met.

  The attitude on the return trip was far lighter than it had been on the way to the Ark. It was as if the cloud that had hung over their heads had dissipated with Doc's death and their lives could begin anew.

  Even Pablo was marginally more talkative and outgoing and partook in meals more regularly. On that day, for lunch, the older man had shared with them his culinary skills, adding some canned tomatoes with jalapeño peppers to their bean and corn stew. The result, to Wim's bland palate, was about as hot as a firecracker and he drank two canteens of water all while Pablo laughed hysterically. Wim was glad to see him laugh, but even now, two hours later, his tongue still burned.

  The distance between the men and the zombie had grown close enough to see the creature in detail now. It was a young man, probably in his twenties. Its jeans were filled with ragged holes, the kind that had been fashionable once upon a time and it wore a t-shirt with an upside down American flag. When they got a bit closer, Wim saw text above the stars and stripes reading, "Fuck the flag!" That annoyed Wim and he reconsidered whether it would actually be a waste of a bullet.

  He reached behind and took hold of his rifle, leveling the scope and examining the zombie in more detail. Its face was a chewed upon lump of mangled flesh and Wim saw its earlobes were of the stretched-out variety. The rings that had once filled them were long gone and they jiggled with each lumbering step. Wim estimated he could fit three fingers through the holes if he was so inclined, but he was not.

  His finger danced around the trigger. It wasn't hard getting an aim even with the bumps and bounces of the wagon, but he still debated whether he should take a shot, or just let Aben bash its skull in with his war club when he was close enough. Wim took another look at the zombie, then decided he was worth a bullet after all.

  As his finger curled around the trigger, he squeezed one pound, then two. He was almost at three when a flurry of black and white filled his scope, obscuring the dead man.

  "What the..."

  "Son of a bitch!" Mead yelled out, excited, almost gleeful.

  Wim lowered the rifle to get a broader view of what was happening. When he did, he saw a bald eagle attacking the zombie. Its talons sunk deep into the zombie's chest, shredding the flesh like it was tissue paper. Black blood oozed from the wounds.

  The eagle's wings flapped as its head darted forward, striking at the zombie's face. First, a wide divot was carved into his cheek, then his left eye was ripped out as the bird attacked.

  The zombie clumsily waved its arms, trying to knock the bird loose but it was no match. The eagle's head struck like a snake and its yellow beak came away with a mouthful of stretched earlobe. The next bite took off two thirds of the zombie's nose.

  "Pablo, are you seeing this shit?" Mead screamed as he bounced up and down in the wagon. "Get up here!"

  Wim caught Pablo's approach from the rear out of the corner of his eye.

  The man looked panicked. "What is going on?"

  Wim pointed ahead. "Bald eagle versus zombie."

  The zombie landed a glancing blow, striking the eagle in the side of the head and the bird released the dead man and flew backward a foot. But the pause in the attack was brief and it was back on the zombie in an instant.

  That time, it grabbed hold of the zombie's head, its claws digging into the dead man's skull. Its remaining eye popped as a talon sunk deep into the socket. The bird flapped its wings once, twice. The zombie's body stretched upward, and he appeared to get four inches taller.

  The eagle flapped again, harder, more forceful. The tendons in the dead man's neck pressed taut against his flesh, every muscle and fiber visible under the strain. The zombie's arms swung side to side, his feet tap danced on the pavement like some bizarre dance club move.

  Wim could barely believe what he was seeing when the eagle's enormous wings flapped again, harder, stronger. And then the dead man's neck burst in a spray of black, semi-coagulated liquid. The flesh gave way first, tearing almost as if it was perforated paper. Then the veins and muscles and tendons underneath carried the weight of him. Those stretched like taffy before snapping under the force.

  And then, the head was severed from the body. The bald eagle soared upward, unleashing a triumphant scream as it flew through the air, soaring over Wim and the others. Droplets of black blood fell like rain.

  Wim turned his attention back to the zombie's body which took one more staggering step forward before crashing to the ground.

  "That's the most American thing I've ever seen!" Mead screamed, then beat Wim on the shoulder with excitement.

  "You didn't slip some peyote into that stew, did you Pablo?" Aben asked.

  Pablo shook his head, a broad smile on his face. It was the most emotion Wim had seen fr
om the man so far. "No. I cannot say I did."

  Mead shook Wim again and Wim found the man's excitement contagious. "That was fucking awesome, man! Wasn't it?"

  "It sure was."

  They were still half-drunk with excitement over the eagle attack when they came to an old bridge about half an hour later. The frame was metal, but the base was wooden slats that had gone gray and rough through weather and time. A hand-painted sign hung at the edge. "Weight Limit - 2 Tons."

  "How much do you weigh, Wim?" Aben asked.

  "Been a while since I checked, but back then I was two ten."

  "Two and a half bills here," Aben said.

  "You two are fat asses." Mead pinched his waist where there was little extra flab. "One fifty-five tops."

  "But how much with all your armor?"

  Mead shrugged his shoulders. "Another thirty or forty."

  They looked Pablo's way.

  "One hundred and sixty."

  Wim did the math in his head. "I'd say between us and the wagon, supplies, and dog, we're looking at thirteen hundred pounds. Gypsy's mostly skin and bones. I doubt she hits nine hundred. Aben, your girl's solid though. I'm thinking twelve hundred. That's around a ton and a half. Leaves us a fair bit of room to spare but I think we should cross in pairs, just to be safe."

  "Sounds like a plan." Aben waved Pablo toward him. "Let's be the Guinea pigs, professor."

  Pablo didn't protest and, together, the men moved onto the bridge. Wim moved the wagon as close as possible without getting onto the wood, and he and Mead watched.

  The bridge was about twenty yards across. A mostly dry creek trickled along underneath. The steep decline on both sides was lined with generic, scrubby brush.

  Aben and Pablo crossed the expanse in under a minute. "You're up!" Aben called from the other side.

  Wim gave Gypsy's reigns a shake and the horse trotted forward. Once on the bridge, Wim was less certain that the decision to cross was wise. The wood wasn't just old and weathered, it was knotty and cracked in places. They were a third of the way across and he still hadn't taken a breath.

  "Everything okay?" Mead asked, and his voice caused Wim to flinch.

  "Yep," Wim said through tight lips.

  They crossed the half-way point and were nearing in on the two thirds mark when he heard the snap. That was immediately followed by the wagon lurching sideways and sinking to the left

  "Everything okay?" Aben called out.

  Wim looked behind him and saw the wagon wheel had crashed through one of the wood slats. It was balanced between the boards in front and in back of it and hadn't fallen all the way in. He turned back to Aben. "We'll know soon enough."

  He shook the reigns again. Gypsy took a step forward, but the wagon didn't move, and she wasn't about to put any extra effort into it.

  He turned to Mead. "We're gonna have to push."

  "Whatever you say."

  The two of them retreated to the back of the wagon and gave it their best try but the wheel was further in than Wim thought. They pushed again but it made no difference. From the back of the wagon, Prince watched them, tail wagging.

  "Darn it," Wim sighed. He still thought there was a way out of this, but it would take more than the two of them.

  "Aben? Pablo? Care to lend your muscles?"

  Aben tied off his horse and the men came to them.

  "If you can lift a little, we'll push," Wim said.

  "I think I got this." Aben crouched down and put his shoulder under the rear of the wagon. "On three?"

  Wim counted off. Aben pushed up, using his whole body. The wagon's back end came up a full inch, but the wheel still caught.

  "Push harder!" Aben grunted and used all his strength to lift the wagon further.

  Wim, Mead, and Pablo dug their feet in and shoved with everything they had. The wagon began to move. Then, the wheel popped over the hole and onto the next board.

  "I think we got it," Wim said.

  "Bout damn time!" Aben fell to his knee and the wagon came down with him. Hard.

  It slammed into the bridge and when Wim heard the crack, he thought a piece of the wagon had broken. Maybe the axel or something in the frame. But Mead changed his mind.

  "Oh, fuck."

  As soon as the words spilled from his mouth, the board which the wagon had been set down upon splintered, breaking off in large chunks that tumbled free and disappeared below them. Both wheels dropped into the hole and the frame smashed into the bridge. That brought forth a reverberating groan Wim could feel in the soles in his feet. He knew this was all kinds of bad.

  "Mead, untie Gypsy and get her across the bridge!" Mead raced to the front of the wagon and worked on the ropes.

  Wim grabbed hold of the scruff of Prince's neck and threw the dog off the wagon. It bounced onto the bridge with a startled and pained Yip that made Wim feel bad but there was no time for remorse. "Take your dog and get off here!" Aben wasted no time.

  The wood underfoot creaked and cracked as Wim grabbed as many guns as he could carry. Pablo was on the opposite side of the wagon doing the same. "Go, Pablo!"

  "I will help. We need these!"

  "Leave it!" Aben yelled from the end of the bridge.

  Wim looked up and saw that he, Mead, the horses and dog were all safe. Another board snapped, then two more. The wagon sagged toward the hole which was opening underneath and Wim knew there was no more time.

  He turned to Pablo. "Let's go."

  Pablo struggled to free a rifle strap which was caught under some supplies, pulling at it with no results.

  "Come on!"

  The wood groaned again. Then the painful sounding groan turned into an explosion. Dust and debris filled the air and Wim thought it was rising and assaulting his face. It took him a moment to realize he was falling.

  He dropped through the hole in the bridge, but managed to grab onto a jagged shard of planking before plunging into the abyss. He only had hold with one hand and dug his fingernails as far into the wood as possible. Anything he could do to hold on.

  As he dangled there, everything seemed to shift into slow motion, allowing him to get a better look at the goings on than he needed or wanted.

  He locked eyes with Pablo an instant before the man plummeted through the hole. The man's face was filled with shock or fear or maybe just confusion as he fell. Then, the wagon tumbled through the bridge, back end first, somersaulting through the air, their supplies scattering into the wind.

  Wim stared below where Pablo fell twenty feet before hitting the ground. He tried to decide whether the man had survived the impact, but a moment later the wagon landed on top of him. Wim saw a spray of blood burst from the pile and he hoped the man had died on impact.

  "Wim! Wim, hold on!"

  It was Mead's voice and Wim turned his attention from below to above. All he could see was the open sky and the metal bridge rafters. No faces.

  His hand was numb, like his fingers had gone missing and he couldn't even tell if he still had a good grip or not. He only knew he was almost out of time.

  Footsteps pounded against the wood. They were close and getting closer.

  Hang on, Wim, he told himself. You only need to last a few more seconds.

  Dust rained on his face as the footsteps came nearer.

  He's almost here. You can do this.

  "I've got you, Wim!"

  His head swiveled, trying to find Mead, trying to find his rescuer.

  And then he fell.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Grady's bible had long ago grown tattered. The spine was cracked, allowing pages to slip free if he wasn't careful enough. It wasn't that he needed the pages. He'd read the good book so many times, not dozens, but hundreds, that he had virtually every word burned into his mind. He could quote entire books without so much as a glance. Yet, to him, the bible wasn't a text, it was a sacred object.

  That was why, when a gust of wind ripped free a half dozen pages from the book of Ruth, he spent nearly half an hou
r chasing them through the empty plains of Kansas. He caught the last one moments before it drifted into a puddle and he held the recovered pages tight to his chest as his heart pounded with relief.

  He turned back, moving toward the small hill that overlooked their encampment. Grady stared down at his followers and felt pride in his heart. He'd accomplished so much over only a few years and he knew that he could wander for another 40 if that's what it took. He could be this new world's Moses, leading his people to the promised land.

  Just as a satisfied smile pulled at his thin lips, he was attacked by a stabbing fire deep inside his skull. His hand flew to his eyes, the bible and the recovered pages falling, forgotten. All he could see was bright, light so intense it felt like his eyes were being deep fried in their sockets.

  The white-hot agony sent him to his knees as tears streamed, carving thin tracks through the grime that had built up since his last bath. And then the fiery pain was joined by a deafening roar, like a tornado whirling and ripping and tearing through his ear canals. Grady had experienced this before, but on a smaller, less miserable scale. This was the voice of God only now God wasn't sharing his love or wisdom. God was punishing him.

  The slender, almost waifish man who wanted nothing more than to please God collapsed face forward into the dirt, his entire body shaking and spasming as God's wrath went off inside him like an atomic bomb.

  Grady emerged from the blinding whiteness disoriented. He felt hands on him. In his confused delirium he thought he was back in the first days of the plague and that zombies were attacking him. He flailed and lashed out with his arms, trying to push them away.

  "Grady! Stop, it's me!"

  The voice was soft, gentle. Unlike the sonic boom of God's commands that still had his head ringing. He risked opening his eyes, gradual, tentative, afraid he'd be again blinded by the white. As the world came into focus before him, he instead saw Juli. She knelt over him, her hands holding his own.

  "Grady? Are you okay?"

  He tried to remember where he was, but the visions God had put in his head had filled it up like a pitcher too full of water, yet more kept pouring in and it had nowhere to go except to splash over the sides. He could barely think.