“It’s a place to start, I guess,” Matt said. Then to Arnie, “So it’s gone? Not one drop of need left in you?”
“Seriously. I’m clean. It’s like trying to remember a dream, those little fragments that start disappearing the moment you wake up.”
Jimmy said, “Yeah, kind of, except I was never really asleep. Half and half, you know? Ever take cold medicine that does that to you?”
“So we know we can fight it, or maybe we can build up immunity. I don’t know yet. As soon as I hunt down George, I’ll need to check out that rest area.”
Arnie shook some snow off his pistol. “I’ll go with you.”
“Yeah,” Jimmy said. “It’s a lot better than staying put with all of them walking around.”
“No, there’s just…too much can go wrong. You guys need to see about keeping the band from converting everybody who gets within ten feet of them.”
“Wait, I’m the cop here. I’m the one responsible for George. So I’m the one who says who does what. I don’t even know you. How can I be sure it wasn’t you who shot Quaker?”
Matt didn’t need a pissing match, but he also didn’t need a cop cuffing him and shoving him in a corner somewhere so he could go off half-cocked trying to redeem himself. “Fine, all right, you go. I’ll stay here with Jimmy.”
“I’ll be back. Don’t worry about a thing.”
He crawled out from under the truck and took off, stomping through the snowdrifts. Matt closed his eyes and began silently counting.
“You’re just letting him go like that? By himself? That guy tried to kill him once.”
Five…six…seven…
“Man, that’s cold. We’ve got to help him.”
Eight…nine… (funny, but for all his protests, it sounded more like You go help him)…ten…
“Jesus, you don’t care at all, do you? You’re just as scared as—”
“Would you shut up already?” Thirteen…fourteen…okay, fifteen ought to do it. “Come on.”
“What, where are we going?”
“I’m going to follow Arnie to make sure he doesn’t get hurt, and you’re going to follow me to make sure you don’t get hurt. Got it?”
“Why…why did you wait so long?”
Matt shrugged. “He needs our help, but he’s too proud to take it. So this is the best way to give it to him. You coming?”
It was good enough, Matt guessed, because a few minutes later they were hot on Arnie and George’s trail. Well, not “hot” hot. And not long after that, they came across a compact car, still running, and evidence of a scuffle they had just missed.
CHAPTER TEN
It was a lost cause. Too many infected. Too many trails. Just…too many everything. Matt was way behind the curve, and there was no catching up. This thing, whatever it was, was beyond him. All he knew so far was that it could be fought. He wasn’t sure how, but if these people he had picked up along the way could overcome it, then there had to be a cure, or at least some underlying reason why this little band of survivors weren’t pawing people or trying to find the nearest car.
And whatever it was…and as bad as it was…it made people immune to Mr. Dark’s touch.
So this virus wasn’t all bad. And if it could be controlled, it might just offer the first ray of hope in his battle with the sick, supernatural bastard.
They found several larger vehicles—vans, semis, SUVs—packed to the gills with people mumbling about how much they needed them. But in addition to Jimmy and Rhonda, a handful of other nonzombies turned up in the snow along the way and followed.
Rhonda was still half-numb from having her kids nearly kill her, but when Matt asked if either she or Jimmy remembered seeing a rest area, she spoke up.
“We passed it so many times before. I really wish it had been open. The kids were…they were restless.”
“So how far, can you remember?”
She looked around, but the snow seemed to confuse her. Matt didn’t even know how to find his way back to Otto’s eighteen-wheeler anymore. She had that same look on her face, but more panicked when she realized that her children and husband were out there, infected and lost, and she didn’t know how to find them anymore. Jimmy still looked just as dazed as he had back at the van.
Jimmy answered instead. “I think it’s, like, up there.”
“How sure are you about that?”
Shrug. “I mean, I guess.”
Jesus. Even with his tolerance of the cold, he was beginning to lose feeling in his fingers and feet. He was still reeling from a twisted ankle, throbbing toes, a sore ass, and a head cold. So he had to be patient with these two. Hypothermia might be setting in soon. At the very least, he wanted to get them inside before heading out to look for George and Arnie again.
But he was out of time.
“Rhonda, do me a favor.” He put his hands on her shoulders, made sure she was looking him in the eyes. “I need you to lead these folks to the rest area and see if you can get inside. I’ve got to find a couple of guys we left behind.”
“What? I mean…you’ve got an ax. What have I got?”
“Jimmy’s bass. Hank’s walking stick. Whatever the hell that thing Jenny’s holding is.”
“I, uh, think it’s, like, a personal toy—”
Matt waved it off. “I don’t want to know. It doesn’t matter. Why is it shaped like—forget it. Listen, most important, they’ve got you. Lead them, and they’ll stay safe. One hundred percent.”
She shook her head. “Please.”
“It’s either you or Jimmy.”
They both turned to look at the bass player, his head tilted back, watching the snow, mouth hanging open.
Rhonda said, “Okay, but you’d better hurry.”
Matt hefted the ax over his shoulder and said, “Damn right I will. I’m freezing.”
And he jogged off the way they just come, the wind in his face now, snow stinging his skin. He made a mental note to check into what sort of evil was brewing in Hawaii next week.
The drifts were deeper this time, and Matt was walking along the shoulder to keep away from the infected still on the loose and looking for more people to be close to. This thing sure as hell didn’t like to be alone. He tried to find his way back to the last place he had lost Arnie and George’s trail, but the blizzard had blown most of the paths away, covered them, a complete blank. All around he heard mumbling voices—“Need, need, need,” and so on, and that goofy laugh, like it was mocking him, out of nearly every car. Now and then Matt saw a pack of people wandering from car to car, looking for space or looking for victims. He ducked down whenever he saw them coming but then realized it didn’t matter. They had already decided he was immune. Must be a smell or something. Or maybe they communicated with mind waves. Whatever. They let him be, so pretty soon he was walking out in the open, brushing past the zombies, who were, he realized, heading backward. Of course. More fresh bodies behind them. More cars. As long as this highway remained open, there were miles and miles of people to infect.
And Matt couldn’t do a goddamn thing to stop them all. A handful, maybe three handfuls, but that was about it.
Fifteen minutes, twenty, twenty-five. He was back at Otto’s semi, only the man’s frozen hand peeking out of the mound of snow that had buried him. Matt stopped, looked around, and took a few deep breaths. What was he doing out here? How did he expect to find two needles in this…it didn’t even work, that analogy. This was much worse. Could be that both George and Arnie were shoved into somebody’s Pontiac singing “Hallelujah” or “Krishna Krishna” or whatever the fuck, laughing like Cheech and Chong.
In the next lane, a Toyota with a spiderwebbed windshield. The folks inside, a young couple and a child seated in the back, stared at Matt, unblinking, steaming.
He shivered and kept on.
Another ten cars, and there was blood. Blood in the snow, disappearing fast, but there was enough of it to follow. Someone hurt, someone like Quaker, maybe. Someone savable. He followe
d the ebb and flow of the snow, valleys that someone had recently trudged through. Matt was leaping from one to the next. Heart beating faster. More blood, warm and melting into the snow. The tracks were more obvious as he kept on. He saw boot prints. But those disappeared, and there was more blood, and the valleys gave way to one long canyon of red snow, and at the end of it, on all fours, was Arnie.
Matt rushed over, dropped his ax, and pulled Arnie out of the snow by his shoulders. The cop slumped into Matt’s lap, a gaping stab wound right below his rib cage. His head lolled back, and the jagged slashes on his neck spilled more blood. Shallow breaths, not enough air left to speak. There was that same anguish he had seen on Erik’s face before he shot himself. But this wasn’t suicide, was it? It couldn’t be.
It took only the slightest movement. He would’ve missed it had he not turned his head at just the right moment. Coming for him fast from behind, shaking off the damned snow. The cop’s jacket draped over the orange prison issue. George was back, this time with a blade.
Just as George stabbed at his neck, Matt pushed Arnie to the side and ducked, sending George sprawling into the snowbank. George stood slowly, turned to face Matt, who was still on the ground but with his ax in hand, ready for the next attack.
But something about George had changed. There was still rotten flesh, skull showing through, but it looked as if he was healing, waxy new skin growing across the festering wounds.
“What’s happening to me? What the hell is this?”
“We can talk about it, all right?” Matt slid away, keeping his eyes on George the whole time. “Let’s lay down the knife and just talk, okay?”
George shook his head. “Shut up! I…need…no, no, I don’t need anyone! I…need…Shit!”
He stumbled, grabbed the top of his head, and let out a moan, which turned into that same mopey laugh. “Get it off! Get it off me!”
There wasn’t anything on him, unless he meant the quickly spreading new skin. He couldn’t see his own rot, could he? None of the others ever had. He clawed at his scalp, over and over, more furious each time. Matt eased himself off the ground and started to lift his ax, hoping this nut job would keep himself distracted long enough for Matt to do him in. One swift chop, taking the head off. It should be easy.
The ax came down, but then George went all Superman, grabbing the handle and stopping the swing. It was like hitting a brick wall. Matt seethed. He pulled back, and George came right at his face.
Head butt.
Matt went down, eyes shut tight, black flashing green. But he needed to shake it off fast. Opened his eyes. Saw the knife coming at him. He dodged left. George caught his ear—fuck—and sliced on through. It burned. Blood stopped up the ear canal, sound muted like half his head was underwater. George grabbed Matt’s shirt at the chest, knotted it up, and slammed his fist into Matt’s nose, still holding that goddamned knife. Like someone punched him with a brick.
No, Matt was not going to lie there and let him keep at it. Not one more minute.
He bucked his legs, threw all his power into tossing George over his head. Rolled onto his stomach. Ear fucked up, nose fucked up, throbbing white-hot.
He pushed off the ground and swung the ax wide, swept at George’s legs. Caught him with the flat side of the blade. Off balance. George was toppling.
Time to end this.
Time to stop making silly mistakes.
Matt brought the ax back for a final showstopper, but then saw the weirdest thing…
Mr. Dark was standing behind George, whose newly grown eyes had rolled back into his head, and had his hands on both sides of the killer’s head, teeth gritted, hissing, “Come on! Come on!”
Tendrils of rot and nastiness seeped from Dark’s fingertips across George’s scalp, but it wasn’t taking. A sore would appear like an impact crater, only to be swiftly taken over by the waxy new skin. The smell of decaying flesh would bloom, only to be pushed back by a chemical sweetness.
Holy shit. Dark was losing.
The Dark Man let out a guttural cry that shook the snow from the trees and made Matt wince. George convulsed all over, and the craters grew larger, erupting pus and blood until there wasn’t a square inch of his face that wasn’t compromised. This time the evil was staying put, racing outward until George’s face was one nasty roasted hellscape with two dark eyes and lips that had burned away to reveal red-tinged teeth.
Dark let go and shouted, “Yes!”
Vanished.
Leaving Matt with Return of the Living Dead George.
Meh. He’d seen plenty of zombies. Never stopped him before.
He took a swing and nailed George right in the neck, but it was like trying to chop down a redwood. The reverb lit up every nerve in Matt’s arms, jolted his bones. George was still coming, even with the ax lodged all the way through to his trachea. He came at Matt with his knife, but Matt blocked George’s arm and they tumbled off the shoulder, down the incline, and onto the surface of a frozen pond.
The fall sent them skidding apart on the ice, the ax dislodging itself way the hell out of Matt’s reach. George’s knife bounced on the ice before cracking a thin sheen and going under. He sat up, ice popping and snapping beneath him. It hadn’t been that cold a winter so far, which meant the ice wasn’t as thick as usual.
Matt moved carefully. As he brushed the snow away, he could see air bubbles beneath the surface, finding the now-visible cracks, looking for a way out.
He was on his hands and knees, sliding toward his ax, trying hard to keep his weight balanced. Louder pops. Cracks spread fast like spiderwebs with every inch he moved forward.
A glance over his shoulder, and there was George, standing upright and glaring.
Without warning George leapt, and there was nothing Matt could do. The killer came down on Matt’s back…
Crack…down, down, down, the cold water a shock to the system. It stung Matt’s eyes and teeth and shocked his lungs, and he had felt this all before, yes he had, yes he had, deep in the snow, that avalanche, and it was happening again, unless…
George’s hands tightened around Matt’s throat. Had to throw the son of a bitch off. So Matt pulled as hard as he could and dove deeper, the pressure and the cold squeezing the air from his chest. He coughed out too much of it, felt the need for more. His body didn’t know any better. It would reach desperation and override his conscious mind, suck in the water thinking it was air. He couldn’t let that happen. He pulled forward again and flipped head over heels. Let the momentum fling George into the deep. The madman figured it out, Matt could tell, when the hands on his throat went vise grip all of the sudden. Matt punched above him, where he thought George’s face would be, and connected. Bam-bam-bam, just kept giving it to him until the fingers came loose and Matt pushed George down, then gave him a kick to sink him farther.
Water rushed into Matt’s sinuses. He blew it out, but it was too late. He had to find his way to the surface and cough it all out. The spin had left him dizzy. Couldn’t tell up from down. He looked up. Despite the sting in his eyes, he could make out the cloudy light versus the dark. He flapped his arms and legs and scrambled for the surface.
Right into the ice sheet. Almost out of options. His cheeks puffed out, holding on—barely. He rammed his head into the ice, one, two, three. Nothing. Again. One, two… lungs screaming. An alarm bell going off deep in his head. One, two, three… There was no way he was going to…no way…
One. Two. Goddamn it, Matt! One, two…
The ice gave way and Matt leapt for the surface like a breaching whale. Let out the bad air, rasped in the new. The water on his skin turned to ice immediately. He felt it latch in place. Death hadn’t let go of him, not yet. He struggled to lift himself onto the ice, but it was so thin that he kept breaking off more, losing strength after each surge. If he could just keep doing it on the way to shore, that would be enough. Better to die of exposure—again—than drown in a roadside pond. Just sounded more comfortable that way.
He rested up to take another go at it when something wrapped around his ankle and began dragging him under. He clawed at the ice—Come on, catch something, please—but his nails slid across the surface, nothing he could do. Time to hold his breath again.
Once under, he began kicking at the grabber with his free leg. Definitely a hand. Which had to mean it was Mr. Dark’s love child again. Matt got his bearings and looked down. It was George, as sure as shit, but not the rotten bastard he’d been fighting with. He had all of his skin back, as pink as the day he was born. And the expression on his face wasn’t hatred, wasn’t confusion, wasn’t tortured. Matt knew this look: pure fear. The man was terrified. He didn’t grab on to Matt to pull him under. He wanted to climb up his leg.
What, was Matt going to fall for this? He kept kicking, kept his eyes on George’s face as he did so. Was there anything false about the fear? Was it just another trick? Could the killer seriously be…what was the right word? Exorcised?
A voice in the back of his mind: You know you’ll never forgive yourself if you—
Fine, fine, yeah. Matt got the picture. He reached a hand down, grabbed George by the arm, and pulled him up alongside him. George broke the surface, gasped in air, and immediately showered Matt with thanks.
And then, a look of horror. “Oh my God, what have I done? I’m sorry! I’m so, so sorry. My God. Oh God.”
Matt shook his head, tried to keep his teeth from chattering. His cold, which had been on the decline all day, now came back with a vengeance. A sneezing fit nearly sent him under again, but he recovered, still holding on to George, and said, “Apology accepted. Just swim, damn it.”
They made it to shore, and George was exhausted, one hundred percent. The cold was getting to Matt more and more, but he willed himself back onto what was left of the ice to retrieve his ax. Slow, steady, careful, and he had it in hand. Just gripping the handle made him feel a little better already, like a shot of vitamin C. Not enough to get him through for a long time, but hopefully enough to make it back to the rest area.
Colder than Hell Page 6
