Roads Less Traveled | Book 5 | End of the Road

by Dulaney, C.

  “Whatever you’re thinkin’, unthink it.”

  Kasey realized what she was doing and let her lip pop out from between her teeth, then pursed them together to keep from doing it again. “Mind your business.”

  “You’re my business. Whatever it is, girl, you knock that shit from whence it came, cause it ain’t a good idea.”

  “We’ll see.”

  Jonah’s breath came out like a growl, which made Jake laugh behind him.

  “Think it’s funny?” Jonah snapped.

  “No. I really, really don’t.” Then he fell quiet except for the intermittent gasps of breath and muffled sobs he tried to hide behind his hand.

  Chapter Seven

  Meanwhile, in Ohio…

  The night the terminators attacked, Mort, Brad, and Adams had just stumbled away from a welcome home party at Fort Reuben. Brad and Adams had way too much to drink, and right about the time they started making passes on the same woman, Mort decided it’d be a very good idea to put the boys to bed.

  “Aw, c’mon, Mort,” Brad slurred. He stopped and leaned against a wooden barrel, and Adams tripped over it because he was laughing like an idiot. While Mort helped him to his feet, Brad shoved away from the barrel and said, “We worked hard down there. You know, you know,” he snapped his fingers as he repeated himself, “the CC. See-see? Seeeeeee!”

  Brad and Adams both thought this was the funniest damn thing they’d ever heard, and Mort ended up picking Adams back up off the ground.

  These three were all that was left of what Mort had once called the Book Club. It hadn’t really been a club, and they’d never sat around and discussed books they’d read. It was a large network of psychics, or Psy, spread across the country. Mort had names and contact information for most of them written down in a journal, and back before the zombies rose, he’d gathered a handful together to try and stop it. They didn’t, of course, but they had screwed up the plans of some very powerful people. A company called PhoenTek, which was basically the professional version of Mort’s Book Club. Eventually, agents of PhoenTek caught up with them and offered them a choice: work for them and try to fix the world, or die. Obviously, they chose the former.

  “Goddamnit, boys,” Mort cursed. “Go, move, that way.” He pointed to their cabin, a small, two-room thing tucked back in the corner of the Fort. “We’re almost there. Come on.” He slid under Adams’ arm and dragged him onward. Brad followed, weaving back and forth, laughing to himself.

  “We deserve a celeb-celebra-” Brad wiped his mouth and tried again. He could see Mort and Adams in front of him but was confused as to why they were so blurry. “Celibate? Cellophane? What the fu-” His right foot caught against the heel of his left, and he face-planted into the dirt.

  Mort heard a grunt behind him and swung Adams around so he could see. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.” He dropped a giggling Adams onto the ground and went back to help Brad, whose feet had apparently decided to play the-floor-is-lava.

  Mort noticed Brad was blinking. Rapidly. And he’d stopped laughing. The boy was using his danger sense.

  Probably doesn’t know he’s doing it, Mort thought. The drunken dumbass.

  He knelt next to Brad and wiped the hair out of his eyes. “You going to puke, boy?”

  Brad stared at the ground a long time. Finally, he looked up into his old friend’s face. The slur was still there, but Mort heard the message loud and clear.

  “Something’s wrong,” Brad whispered.

  He turned his head and blinked again. His danger sense had popped up in front of his eyes the second he’d hit the dirt. This was the only Psy ability he had full control of. He called it his spidey-sense, and it worked like an old-school radar screen. Each time he blinked, it sent out ripples around him. If there was danger in the vicinity, it showed up as dots on the screen.

  Now, each time he blinked, dozens and dozens of dots popped up. He could barely think straight, but it seemed to him that the dots surrounded the Fort. They weren’t squiggly, glitchy, or jumping all over the place, so he knew it wasn’t zombies. The dead really screwed up all their abilities, either causing a painful feedback or simply fuzzing up the things they looked for. These dots were bright and solid, and that meant real danger.

  From the ground behind them, Adams croaked, “Hey.”

  Mort looked over his shoulder.

  “Ask me if we should run,” Adams said. That was his ability; he could answer any yes-or-no question immediately and correctly, every time.

  Mort’s face fell. He shoved his arms underneath Brad’s, jerked the man to his feet, and grabbed Adams by the elbow as he hurried past.

  “On your feet, come on.” He dragged them both to their cabin, propped them up beside the door, threw it open, and shoved them inside.

  “Shit,” Adams whispered. He bent over and braced his hands on his knees.

  “Don’t you dare puke,” Mort said. He ran to his bed and pulled a bag out from underneath it. He snapped his fingers and pointed at Brad. “How close?”

  Brad blinked a few times. “Around the wall? Up the wall?” He pressed a hand to his forehead. “Can’t tell.”

  Adams breathed rapidly. Beads of sweat popped out all over his face.

  “Don’t you puke!” Mort yelled, then yanked similar bags from underneath both Brad and Adams’ beds.

  He hurried over and helped Brad shrug on his backpack, then turned to do the same with Adams.

  “Gabs. It’s the gabs.” Adams wiped his nose and his hand came away red. “Gabs” is what all the Psy called the terminators. Genetically altered beings, referred to as Operation Phoenix, created by the company they worked for, PhoenTek, to wipe out the zombie menace.

  “Oh damnit.” Mort pushed him up straight and pulled Adams’ arms through the straps. “Stop asking yourself questions! Stop it. We need you right now.”

  It happened every time Adams asked himself the questions. That’s how his gift worked. It was a dependable ability but had a severe downside. He could only answer yes or no questions. The second he asked himself anything to get more details, or anything at all that didn’t follow the yes-or-no format, he suffered for it. Pain would wrack his body, his head would fill with pressure, and he’d start leaking blood until eventually he’d hemorrhage. Luckily, he had never pushed himself to the explosion stage.

  Mort went back to a chest in the corner and gathered up their handguns.

  “Can’t be the gabs,” Brad mumbled. He rubbed his face hard, trying to shake the drunk off. “No way. You’re wrong, Eight-Ball.”

  “No, I’m not.” Adams burped, mumbled oh god, and covered his mouth.

  Brad jabbed a finger at him. “Don’t do it. Don’t you fucking do it.”

  “I’m gonna do it.” Adams spun around, bent over, and puked.

  Mort took this opportunity to shove Adams’ pistol into a pocket of his backpack, then handed Brad his own. He slapped his shirt pocket to make sure his pen was still there but knew he didn’t have time to use it. Mort depended on the instrument to use his empathy. He probably didn’t need it, but rubbing it helped him focus his Psy ability. If they were under attack, he didn’t think it was necessary to reach out to the people of the Fort and feel their fear and anger. He was too busy trying to get their gear together and ready his drunken friends.

  “Boys,” Mort hissed. He jerked on his own backpack and slid his holstered pistol into his pants. “Get your shit together!” He pointed to the door. “We’re being attacked. You need to sober the hell up right now.”

  A scream tore through the night. Brad and Adams jumped away from the door, and all three stared at it.

  “Adams,” Brad whispered. “Are the gabs over the wall?”

  “Yes,” Adams whispered back. The blood had stopped dripping from his nose.

  Mort stepped up to the door and grabbed the handle. He turned back to the other two.

  “Can we make it to the stables?” he asked Adams.

  Adams swallowed hard. “Yeah.”r />
  Brad held up his hand. “Wait. We have to help them.” More screams outside, followed by gunshots. “Mort,” Brad whispered. “We have to.”

  Mort took a deep breath and stared hard at Adams.

  Adams stared back. His face slowly twisted up in pain, lips pursed and eyebrows drawn together. He shook his head and blew out a breath.

  “We can’t help them,” Mort said to Brad.

  The noise of the gunfire outside rose to the same volume as the screaming, but soon they were both drowned out by the hunting screeches of the gabs.

  Brad’s mouth fell open and he moved for the door. Mort stepped in front of him but was shoved out of the way. Brad jerked it open, pulled his pistol, and rushed out into the open.

  “Mort,” Adams breathed, “we have to go.”

  They huddled together in the doorway. Out in the yard, Brad took aim and fired over and over at gabs. They were attacking, alright. Folks they’d known for almost two years ran like roaches after the light had been shown on them. Most fought back, or tried to, as they ran. These people were skilled, knew how to hunt, how to fight, how to shoot. But these gabs…they were too many, and they were quicker.

  Mort, frozen in place, turned his head this way and that. “Why are they doing this?”

  Adams whined and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I don’t know, man. We’ll figure it out later.”

  “If there’s a later,” Mort whispered.

  Three gabs chased a girl straight toward Brad. Mort and Adams sucked in a breath to yell out to him, but Brad saw the gabs at the same time they did. He didn’t have time to react. The girl ran into him, grabbed him, screaming and crying for him to help her. Half a second later, one gab yanked Brad aside and threw him to the ground, and the other two gabs tackled the girl. They rolled around on the ground, ripping and tearing and grunting. Her screams choked off into gurgles, then nothing.

  Mort and Adams jumped back and held to each other. Brad lay on the ground and watched. When the trio of killers were finished, they sprung to their feet and ran off, paying no attention at all to the three Psy.

  “Fuck,” Adams spit out.

  Mort just shook his head. They both heaved, unable to catch their breath. Mort had a hard time seeing through tears that had filled his eyes. He felt a pull on his elbow.

  “We have to go.” Adams tugged him out into the yard. He held out a hand. Brad grasped it and pulled himself up.

  “They ignored me,” Brad said. He turned to Mort. “Why’d they ignore me? What the hell’s happening?”

  The older man wiped his cheek. To Adams, he asked, “Did the gabs…evolve into this?”

  Adams shook his head. “No.”

  Mort sighed and closed his eyes. After a moment, he asked another. “Were they turned into this after we left the CC and headed back home?”

  “Yes.” Adams’ eyes widened. “Yeah, they were.”

  “They were changed into this?” Brad spun around to the sound of running feet. A small group of people ran for the wall. Why, Brad wasn’t sure. They wouldn’t be able to climb it. It was made of giant wooden posts, twenty feet tall. Hell, he wasn’t even sure how the gabs had climbed over it.

  A larger group of gabs that chased behind slammed into the people, pinning them against the timbers. Mort, Brad, and Adams held onto each other as grating, hoarse screams assaulted their ears. They couldn’t tell whether the noise came from their friends, the gabs, or both. Blood and chunky bits flew into the air. Jeff Fetter’s head, the man who had taken them in and watched over them, taught them everything they’d need to know to survive, flew up out of the death ball and hit the ground. It bounced to a stop at Brad’s feet.

  Adams voice strained to come out of his mouth, like he was clenched up. “We really have to go.”

  Mort glanced over. He pulled a handkerchief from his jacket pocket and dabbed blood from Adams’ nose. “Stop it,” he whispered, then louder he said, “To the stables. Stay together, right on my ass.”

  He led them like a couple little kids around piles of gabs and the squirming, screaming bodies of their friends underneath. The ground was muddy. Then Mort realized it hadn’t been caused by water. By the time they reached the stable, their boots were coated in a thick layer of congealed blood. He let go of their hands long enough to undo the lock on the barn door. Another bunch of gabs ran by, so close this time they brushed against them.

  Again, the gabs ignored them.

  Mort pulled one of the double doors open, motioned the boys inside, then shut and secured it behind them.

  “Adams,” he said. “Grab the rifles and ammo. Brad, help me get them saddled.” Mort moved to the saddle rack and pulled off a blanket.

  Brad looked around as though he was lost.

  Mort threw a saddle blanket over his own horse, went back to the rack, and hissed at Brad, “Hey. Get with it. Help me with this.”

  Brad snapped his head around. “Right.” He gathered what Mort thrust out to him and started work on his and Adams’ horses.

  Adams ran to the gun cabinet over on the far wall.

  Rifles or shotguns?

  A loud squeal filled his head. He grabbed it with both hands and gritted his teeth.

  Rifles. Or shotguns.

  Another squeal, followed by a wailing.

  “Fuck it, both.” Adams slung a rifle over each shoulder and grabbed a shotgun. He carried them over to the horses and slid them into their saddle sleeves once the other two got them ready. He went back for the saddle bags and filled them with ammunition. His heart pounded, and he noticed it was the loudest thing he could hear now. No more screams. No more gunfire. He handed off bags to Mort and Brad, and swung his own up and over his saddle. His hands shook so bad he couldn’t tie the leather straps.

  A large hand laid itself over his. “Easy, Eight-Ball.” Brad edged him aside. “Just breathe, okay? We’ll make it out of this.” He went to work securing Adams’ saddle bag.

  Adams looked back at the barn door. “I’m not worried about us.” He jerked his chin toward the door. “They did something to them after we left. On purpose.” He looked over Brad’s shoulder; Mort was nearly finished saddling his horse. Adams leaned closer and lowered his voice. “Did you know this was going to happen?” He grunted and answered his own question. “No, you didn’t.”

  Brad’s hands paused against the saddle, and he took a breath before answering. “They didn’t tell me anything was going to happen like this, no. And I know they didn’t say anything to either of you, or you’d have said something.”

  Adams shook his head. “Not what I meant, dumbass. If they’d come up to you and been all, ‘Hey, guess what, guys? We’re about to drop some genocide on your stupid asses,’ I know damn well I’d have heard you from the other side of the complex.” He bobbed up on his toes and checked over Brad’s shoulder again. Mort was headed in their direction. He quickly whispered, “Any dreams? Premonitions?”

  Brad’s skin blanched. His only other ability, premonitions, came to him in either dreams or quick flashes while he was awake. He couldn’t control it, couldn’t use it to help them. If he dreamed a vision, fine. If he had a quick flash of something while eating lunch, fine. He worked with what he was given, and was very happy the day Mort finally gave up trying to teach him how to force a premonition. They sucked, he hated them, and they had only ever served to drive him toward suicide.

  Brad shook his head in answer and turned to Mort, who’d slipped up behind him. “Where do we go?” he asked.

  Mort considered the two a moment. “Check for trouble,” he said to Brad.

  Brad blinked over and over, and turned his head this way and that. The same dots covered his radar, but no more than before. He shook his head to clear it. “Same as before. But I don’t see any more danger, if that helps.”

  Mort tipped his head and snorted. “Adams, will the gabs always ignore us?”

  “Yes.” Adams’ eyebrows shot up.

  “I was afraid of that,” Mort said to
himself. “Boys, I don’t know why PhoenTek did this, but I’m pretty sure they’ve turned the gabs against regular people. I mean, shit. Look what happened.” He waved a hand toward the barn door. “Can’t be dumb luck they left us alone.”

  Brad turned to Adams. “Did PhoenTek turn the gabs against non-Psy?”

  “Yeah.” Adams turned away and wiped his eyes. Brad laid a hand on his friend’s back.

  “Blueville is closest. Down the road and across the bridge,” Brad said to Mort.

  Mort grimaced. “Those boys turned against PhoenTek. They were pissed before, when the Guard there helped Kasey and them shut down the CC. They might be bringing vengeance back to everyone who mutinied.” He ran a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair. “Wasn’t just the West Virginia Guard, either.”

  Brad nodded. “I know. I overheard a couple of the scientists say it was happening all over. Not here,” he pointed at the ground, meaning Ohio, “but an awful lot turned against them after Kasey kicked the hornet’s nest.”

  Mort’s jaw set and his eyes hardened. “Could be they come after us, too, if we run. If we don’t stay here, or report back to Columbus? Then we’ve betrayed them same as the others. You ready for that?”

  “We didn’t sign up for this, Mort.” Brad patted Adams’ back and turned the man around. “Not this.”

  Adams agreed. “Yeah, fuck this and fuck them.” He stared at the door, eyes still glassy and cheeks flushed red. “They killed our-” He rubbed his face. “Like I said, we have to go.”

  Mort held their gazes for a long moment. “Alright, boys. We’ll ride for Blueville, then. Is the Guard still there?”

  “Yes,” Adams said.

  “Okay. They’ve never seen us before, so we don’t tell them we worked for PhoenTek. I don’t doubt by now they’ve figured out who did this.” Mort went to his horse and climbed into the saddle. “As far as they’re concerned, we’re just survivors of Reuben looking for a safe place to rest for a few days.”