Nearing the house, she reached in her coat and slowly unsnapped her Colt .45 1911 from its holster. Her fingers were numb, and they felt useless in such a technical task. Near the heat of her body, her fingers never wanted to leave the warmth of her jacket. She freed her gun and brought her hand outside back into the cold. The handgun felt more like a clunky weight. She switched the reins between her hands and held the Colt near Willie’s flank.
The horse led her around the back of the house. The cars were coated in a chalky layer of white. A single step led to a back door and there were no footprints lining the ground. A weak snowdrift had built up about six inches to the bottom step.
“Looks perfect for me.” She unhooked her foot from the stirrup and swung off Willie’s back. Pins and needles of numbness shot through her toes as her foot touched the ground. She hopped as she tried to get her other foot free.
Willie turned to watch her struggle. “What you looking at?” She escaped the stirrup then jumped up and down for a moment as she regained the sensation in her rigid frozen feet. She led Willie over to one of the cars and wrapped his reins around a side mirror. “Stay.”
Shoving a hand in her pocket, she walked for the house. A white-framed storm door barred her way, and she pulled on it. It didn’t budge, so she threw her back into it. The door rattled as it sprung free from the ice locking it into place. She glanced over her shoulder at the only being present for her struggle.
The horse stared in her direction.
“Not a word.” She tried the doorknob, and to her surprise it twisted one-hundred-and-eighty degrees. The hinges groaned as it opened.
In silence, she walked inside a kitchen. The smell hit almost immediately. It was sickly nauseating, and she knew what it was right away. The inherently revolting scent of death. She covered her mouth with a thick sleeve of her jacket. She lifted her weapon level with her eyes, scanning for threats. A small white kitchen table was set with two place mats, cream-colored plates and silver utensils.
A skillet rested on the stovetop, and blackened food encrusted the center. Maggots had long since come and gone through the rotting food. She checked her corner and walked into the den. Black stains caked the carpet. They streaked out of the room and down a hallway. The sight of the dried blood made her heart leap in her chest. No matter how many infected she’d seen or killed, it was an innate part of the human experience to have a physiological response to the sight of blood, even old dried blood of violence past.
Down the dark hall, she could see the form. It was a humanoid shape sitting on the ground. She pointed her pistol at the figure, and it didn’t move. Prolly dead.
She holstered her firearm and drew her knife. Step after step, she moved down the hallway. The carpet squeaked beneath her feet. The form grew larger. It had the broader shoulders of a man but was thinly clad in flesh as if he’d starved to death.
Stooping down near the dead man, she thought maybe he was just regular old fashioned dead. He had a cold putrid smell to him. Her heart bounced when its head tilted up. A hand reached for her, and she reacted by ramming her knife into its temple with a dry crunch.
“Jesus, you slow fuck.” She shoved the body to the floor. It slid on its shoulder and lay motionless. She put a foot into its neck, and bent over, and yanked her knife free.
The door behind him vibrated scaring her. “God damn.” She sighed getting herself under control. The infected slapped the door almost methodically. It let out a groan muffled by the barrier.
“Shut up,” she said at it. She rested her head near the door for a moment. “Just shut up,” she whispered. It slapped the door. “Just shut up.” She leveled her head and exhaled, gripping her knife as she psyched herself up for her next close encounter.
“That horse looks like good eatin’,” a voice said from behind her. She spun around. A camouflaged man stood in the center of the hall holding a common woodcutter’s axe in both hands. She didn’t hesitate. Her knife thudded on the carpet.
The man charged down the hallway at her. Her fingers grasped the skin around her armpit inside her coat. He bounded like a wild animal with long strides. Her fingers found the rough handle of her weapon. As he neared, the axe rose over his shoulder for a downward strike. She ripped the Colt 1911 from her harness and ran for an open doorway. She backpedaled into the room and tripped, her back hitting the wall as her bottom hit the carpet. He yelled as he rounded the corner.
She sighted the handgun on him, and his eyes went wide as he recognized his immediate fatal danger. He halted himself, and a look of calm washed over his stubble-covered face.
“Back the fuck up,” she ordered.
A perverted grin split his face. “Sure, babe. You do you.” He let go of his axe, held it with one hand and took a step back. “Don’t get hasty. Just wanted to talk.”
“Drop the axe, you piece of shit.”
He squatted and set it on the ground. “Sure thing.”
She used a twin-size bed to help herself, keeping her gun trained on him with a single hand. The thumping of the infected in the other room increased. She eyed the man standing with his hands held up in the air. His camouflage was dirty. The name tag on his breast read Low. His stubbly cheeks were gaunt, his cheekbones pointed beneath his eyes.
“Keep backing up,” she ordered.
The man backed down the hallway. She followed him and stepped over the body of the infected.
He stopped in the living room. His hands wavered in the air.
“No funny business,” she yelled at him.
The infected continued to pound the bedroom door with fists.
The soldier still smiled at her.
“What the hell are you smiling at?”
He shook his head lightly. “Nothin’.”
The sound of a window breaking forced her to turn. Her eyes flashed to the bedroom, and Low bolted for the kitchen.
“Goddammit,” she swore. She sprinted down the hallway and turned the corner. The door banged as it swung back and forth. The wind keeping the storm door open.
The soldier’s footprints dented the snow as he sprinted for the line of nearby timber. Following him to the door, she watched him run into the woods.
“Yeah, that’s right. Run, you prick.” She shook her head as he disappeared.
She glanced at her gray horse. Willie stared at her with big black eyes. His off-gray color made him seem like an offset outline in the snow. “Could have said something.” The horse stared at her and stamped his foot. She shook her head at him. “You got a lot of attitude. You know that, Willie?”
The audible click of a gun hammer was a bass drum in her ears. She gulped, but her throat was dry.
“Drop the gun, girlfriend.” Her Colt 1911 clattered on the kitchen floor. She slowly raised her hands. The barrel of his gun dug into the back of her skull, and she gritted her teeth at the hard metal. The thought of a bullet screaming into her brain made her grimace.
She turned around and a scraggly-bearded man sneered down at her. A necklace of gray-and-black fingers was draped over his chest as if they wanted to play his chest like a piano. Some of the fingers were stacked atop the others. He grabbed her by her jacket and drove her up into the kitchen cabinets with such ferocity her eyes bugged out of her head.
Twisting her face to the side with grime-stained fingers, he sneered. “What do we have here? A nice little piece of ass.” His sneer became an all-out smile filled with yellow-filmed teeth. “Ripe for the takin’.”
GWEN
Shimek State Forest, IA
The evening sun filtered through the dormant forest. It was warmer than yesterday, but when the wind kicked up, it still nipped at any exposed skin.
“Not so bad today is it, Kenny?” she said. The older farmer next to her laughed a short laugh.
“Could still lose a finger or toe if you ain’t careful.”
“I know you could.”
He flicked the horses harnessed to the hayrack. “Get goin’ you two.”
“Open
ing ahead,” Gregor grunted. He gestured with his chin forward.
The trees dissipated to snow-concealed farmland, and when she squinted, houses.
The group kept onward, and Gwen held herself in check from forcing them into a trot. Time was lives and there was a little girl in particular she didn’t feel like losing anytime soon.
Wasted corn lay on its side, trampled beneath weather, animals, and rot. Their horses marched through the unplowed roads, and the houses grew larger. They passed the first few simple ranch-style homes. Interstate 2 became the main road through the town of Farmington. People walked around one of the homes.
Jake brought his shotgun to his hip. “That don’t look right.”
“Way too many people out for this kind a weather,” Gerald said.
Kenny confirmed with a nod. “Aye, they should be inside.”
Gwen gulped. “I agree. Be ready for anything.” Within her blankets, she removed her hand from her belly and released her Glock 43 9mm from its holster. The men of her group unslung their weapons. Gregor struggled and almost toppled off his horse but managed to move his AR-15 to his front.
Her party continued walking, getting closer to the home. A cluster of people had formed at the front doors and windows. Gwen steadied herself. She knew they were infected. Their skin was a deep shade of gray as if they had frozen and rotted at the same time. They weren’t clothed for any kind of weather.
“Should we drive on past?” Jake asked.
“No, there could be people inside. Nothing risky but take them down.”
Jake and Gerald kicked at their horses, followed a few seconds later by Gregor and Hank. Kenny flicked his wrists and the team hurried after.
Gunshots penetrated the winter air, dominating the crispy silence. Jake point-blanked an infected woman with a boom as she turned around to face the newcomers. A third of her head disappeared. Gregor’s AR-15 banged into an echo that washed over the houses like a thunderstorm.
“Stop the wagon,” she commanded.
“Whoa,” Kenny said with a shout. His team drew to a halt.
She lined up her sights on the skeletal face of a man with a gaping jaw. He had lived a long life before he turned, and now he still moved slowly. Her grandfather flashed through her mind, but she knew that it wasn’t him. He was safe at Camp Forge. She squeezed the trigger. Pop. The infected went down like a bag of bones.
“Gwen,” Jake yelled. She turned toward him. He pointed his gun near her and kicked his horse forward. Infected struggled along the edges of the wagon.
“Ah shit,” Kenny cursed. “Giddy up!” he yelled at the horses. The wagon lurched and she braced herself. She twisted her body and fired multiple times. Pop-pop-pop. Jake drove his horse into the others, forcing them back. He swung his shotgun like a club and unleashed a slug into the head of another, a raw fierceness taking him over.
Another emerged from the side of the house. Its shoulders swayed hard as it walked. It raised a bony hand for them. Stringy limp hair hung from its head down its back like ragged weeds.
Gerald drew a brush hook from his saddle, a twelve-inch hooked blade with a three-foot shaft on it. He brought his horse to a trot, and as he rode by, cleaved his tool downward and to the side. It caught the infected in the neck and cut deep through artery and bone alike. The force from the impact whipped the infected around, and its head slipped to the side and the body collapsed. The dead lay strewn about in the snow.
Gerald turned his horse back toward the group and sat looking pleased with himself. “We use them for trimming trees. Thought it might be a tool against these things.”
“I’ll be damned. It is,” Jake said with a laugh.
The farmer slid the brush hook back into his saddle.
“We should check on whoever’s inside,” Gwen said.
With a curt nod, Gerald rode to the house.
A small group walked down the road toward them.
Kenny squinted. “More infected?”
Gwen studied them. They all held guns. Their gaits were controlled and calculated. “No, they look normal, but that doesn’t mean they’re friends.”
“Ha, my eyes just ain’t what they used to be.”
She touched his shoulder. The strain on the elder farmer must be trying. But like all old farmers, he was sturdy and used to the hard work. “You’re doing fine, Kenny.”
“Happy to help, Ms. Gwen.”
She draped her blanket over her pistol. The four men stopped near them and fanned out in a line. The man in the center wore a black 5.11 winter coat, tan trousers, and a brown campaign hat of the Iowa State Patrol. He held a police-issued AR-15. The other men were dressed in hunting coveralls and jackets with shotguns.
“Who are you?” the trooper said.
“We come from Hacklebarney.” Jake turned toward Gwen. “This is Mayor Reynolds.”
“Trooper Linden, Iowa State Patrol.” He scanned the still dead bodies strewn about, pieces of human meat. “Must have slipped across the Des Moines in the night. Why are you here?”
“We need medical help.”
Linden eyed them for a moment, judging them truthful. “Follow me.”
They trailed behind the trooper along the town street. He steered them to a single-story red-bricked town administrative building. He pushed open a glass door, and a woman stood, waiting for them inside. She had gray hair drifting toward a snowy white.
Linden nodded at the woman. “Mayor Tibbets, these people come from Hacklebarney.”
“Please sit down,” she said, holding her hands in front of her body like a kindly grandmother.
Gwen took an uncomfortable seat on a stiff lobby couch. “I apologize for coming in unannounced.” She grasped her hands together. “I come on behalf of the town of Hacklebarney and Captain Steele, commander of U.S. forces in southern Iowa.”
Tibbets took a seat across from Gwen. “Are you warm enough, sweetie?”
“I’m okay, thank you.”
Tibbets glanced at her. “Linden. Get her that blanket. Can’t you see she’s pregnant?”
The trooper handed her a bulky down blanket and Gwen wrapped it around her body with a tiny shake.
The mayor smiled, a thoughtful look settling upon her. “Do I know you?”
Gwen snuggled further into the blanket. “I don’t think we’ve met.”
“Hmm. You look like somebody I know. What’d you say your name was again?”
“Gwen Reynolds, ma’am.”
The older woman’s smile deepened. “I didn’t know John and Lydia had any daughters?”
“They didn’t.”
Tibbets raised her eyebrows. “Oh?”
“I’m their granddaughter.”
Mayor Tibbets nodded her head. “I knew you had their look.” She wagged a finger at Gwen like a teacher. “I know John and Lydia from a long time ago. Must’ve been over ten years since I’ve seen them. How are they?”
“Holding on.”
Her smile saddened. “I suppose that’s all we can do in times like this. How can I help you?”
“I’m afraid my task is urgent. Hacklebarney has been hosting the U.S. military forces at Camp Forge. We’re holding the Mississippi against the dead.
“Camp Forge?” Linden interjected.
“Yes, Officer. Named after Valley Forge. It’s a training base for militia defending the river.”
“I didn’t think much was left on that front, but I’m happy to hear that some are fighting.”
Gwen turned back to Tibbets. “But we have a problem. There’s been an influenza outbreak, and now, a strep outbreak through the base. It’s rendering the forces ineffective. We’ve had multiple deaths already.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“It’s severely weakening our ability to defend Iowa against the dead.” She made sure to stress the word Iowa. “If you have any medicine, antivirals, antibiotics, any spare clothes and blankets, we would be forever indebted to you.” Gwen leaned forward toward the mayor. “My niece
has come down with a bad case of strep. We don’t have much time.”
Tibbets pressed her hands together. “This is an unfortunate effect of terrible times. I’m so sorry.” She tilted her head to the side. “My dear, have you been to Farmington before?”
“I have.” Gwen nodded.
She gave her a tepid smile. “Then you know we are only six hundred people here.” She glanced at the trooper. “We didn’t even have an official law enforcement presence until Trooper Linden showed up in the night. We only have a single doctor. No pharmacy. I’m not sure how much we can help.”
“Please, we will take anything.”
“We’ll do our best to find something. Us Iowans, we look out for each other.”
“We do and thank you.” Gwen relaxed. “I must ask.”
“Yes, dear?”
“Captain Steele requests all willing and able men and women who wish to fight to come to Camp Forge for training.”
“You have our deepest thanks for helping us today, but as you can see, we have our hands full here defending our town. I think you would put us at risk if you took away what few folks we have that are capable of fighting.”
“I understand, mayor, but the battle isn’t here. It’s on the Mississippi. If we don’t hold there then the nation will be overrun. This town won’t last more than a few minutes against the masses of the dead.”
Mayor Tibbets face paled. “We’ve heard.” She stopped for a moment. “Rumors mostly. There’s no real information. Trooper Linden has dealt with most that have wandered in from Missouri, but what you speak of is unimaginable.”
“Ma’am. It’s real. Tens if not hundreds of thousands. Here. We need anyone you can spare.”
“What do you know about Captain Steele?”
“He’s a militia captain commissioned by the United States government to lead the southern Iowa area of operations and my partner.”
Tibbets gave a short smile. “Quite a mouthful.”
“That it is.” Gwen gave a small grin.
The women sat in silence for roughly thirty seconds. Tibbets’s eyes were a pale hazel, and her mouth stayed flat.
“I just don’t know if we can spare the men, but I’ll say that I’m not an expert in security and defer to Trooper Linden.”
The End Time Saga (Book 5): The Holding Page 18
