Post held Keaton’s severed arm and began to pry the fingers back one by one to release the death grip on the revolver.
“He’ll want that when he gets up.”
“Mine now,” Post said. Each word carried the pain along his jaw and down into his neck. His head throbbed.
“He’ll shoot you over that.”
“Not unless his mother tells him to. You still need what’s up here,” Post said, scratching his temple with the barrel of Keaton’s revolver. Sweat poured from his trembling temples.
“You have no intention of giving up that particular ghost, Sgt. Post.”
“I haven’t made up my mind yet. I might catch wind of the religious fervor going round and buy what Moya’s selling.” Post pointed the massive firearm at Pathos Two and cocked the hammer back. He closed one eye, saying, “If I were like him—” he nodded to Keaton— “I’d have killed you just now. Would’ve splattered your blood all over your precious little bottles and plants. Wouldn’t even have shot you in the head. Would’ve put a cap in your gut or leg and watched you change. If I were like him, like them, I’d wait for you to rise again and then put you with the rest. I’d never let you die. That’s who you choose to run with, to break bread with. Remember that when the bullets start to fly, Father Myar.” Post’s jaw burned. The agony of the words ripped him apart, but he fought through it with a grittiness born from years of struggle.
Pathos Two stood speechless.
“You should watch what you leave laying around this wagon, for the good Lord sees all, and don’t you forget that. You might have left that man behind, but you can never outrun who you used to be.”
“No one’s running. Sgt. Post. It’s merely survival at work.”
“What happened to God’s plan?”
“God’s plan never mentioned the Creepers.”
CHAPTER 20
“Fog’s clearing,” the man said, nodding towards the window as if he wasn’t pointing a loaded weapon at Howard.
Howard had his hands up. With a smile, the man stared at the orange glow coming through the window. Howard kept a close eye on that weathered finger resting on the trigger, ready to end him. The man stood up and put the gun against the wall. He walked over to the window and whistled.
“Shit, look at them all. Never seen anything like it.” He turned to Howard. “Howard, right?”
“Yes.” He dropped his hands.
“Name’s Brooks.”
Howard searched for some sign the man was being truthful and found it in his eyes, and that’s what scared him. He knew then that these shifts weren’t intentional. They were the side effect of some deep rooted wrong within Brook’s mind, which made the old timer unpredictable. Howard had to get closer to the gun. He wasn’t taking any chances.
“Nice to meet you, Brooks. I think I might have something. A story for a story.” Howard remembered how his father would get sometimes. The doctor would be cold and clinical while the dad would be kind and nurturing, but he never knew what one he’d get. So he adapted a style of dealing with it all his own. If dear dad was talking to him, he responded to the doctor, and if the doctor was present, he’d respond to his dad. It worked most of the time. He hoped the alteration would work with Brooks, if that was even the man’s real name and not some figment of a memory.
“What’s that you got?”
Howard handed him a tattered paperback. It had been in Jennifer’s pack. He’d watched her read it by the fire before things went bad. He never got around to asking her what it was or what it was about. He simply enjoyed watching the shadows play on her face as she read. He found her concentration fascinating.
Brooks whistled as he inspected the book. “Been read many a time. Told its story to many people.” He waved it at Howard.
“Or the same person many times.”
“Could be. You know what this is?”
“I never got a chance to ask her.”
“We never get a chance to do a lot of things. One of the reasons I read as much as I can. Never know when the end is coming. Never know what you’re going to miss. This is Milton. One of the greatest poems ever written. Banned in its time by the ignorant. Misunderstood, misquoted as well, but I don’t want to ruin it. Here take it back.”
“I can’t do that. You said a story for a story, now I want my story. That was the deal.” Howard could almost hear the broken machinery of Brooks’s mind trying to put all the pieces together.
“Right, well at the shit end of the First War, when we had all but given up, every unit in the states was given the ‘Fuck You’ order. That was just before we lost all communication. We were already hurting. We had already conceded Denver and the surrounding area. We had no air support, and the stories we were picking up on the small wave radio were painting a grim picture. To top it all off, the brass tells us to fend for ourselves, that it was over. Believe that shit? The most powerful nation on Earth threw in the towel. Well, we said fuck you to Fuck You and we drove north.” Brooks flipped the venison steaks to sear them evenly.
“A wise decision, but at that stage of the war I’m guessing a lot of survivors had the same idea.” Howard wondered what Jennifer's eyes looked like at the end. He watched the dead below. They stretched across the land like a decaying carpet, writhing, aimless without his direction. Would she follow? Don’t do this to yourself, he thought.
“You don’t miss a thing. The roads out of the suburbs, every highway, back road, every damn way was flooded with people armed with whatever they could find. It was a mass exodus. But with little food, and the water departments long since shut down, they were dropping like flies. I can’t tell you how many roadside funerals I witnessed in those first few days. You see, the Creepers were swarming over the city, and aside from a few stragglers, the roads were relatively safe, until we hit Fort Collins. The Creepers were coming south after having their fill of Cheyenne. With new members added to their ranks, they moved south along the twenty-five, and we were headed north on the twenty-five.” Brooks looked at Howard with a dour smile. “We didn’t know, the civi’s didn’t know. We were just looking for a way out, safety, but what we found was, it was insanity, hell on Earth. Call it whatever you want, it was the grand fuck you from fate.”
Howard opened himself up. He grabbed images of a man holding his dead wife’s hand as she changed on him, from cold corpse to biting nightmare. He focused on that terrible scene and began to move the man, arms and legs at first, then full steps, coordinated steps. There were so many out there. He felt all their intrusions, but compared to the shock of Jennifer, all they had were numbers alone.
“I was in the front of the meat train with what was left of my squad. We had some ammo, we had our wits, and we ran recon. The government might’ve given up on everything, but we sure as hell weren’t. We had a fucking oath to uphold.” Brooks stared out the window. His tired eyes brimmed with tears, but he retracted them as soon as they appeared.
In that moment, Howard felt sorry for the old veteran. He felt sorry for all of them. He wondered how many times Brooks relived this story in solitude. How many years had the man waited to tell it? Or had he told it over and over through the years and forgotten? The pain must’ve been unbearable. The image of Jennifer’s clacking teeth drifted through Howard’s mind. How many years would he go without telling his own story? When he returned to the road, and it wouldn’t be long now, there was a good chance he’d never see another living human being again. But Howard couldn’t tell this man, for he had to keep it to himself. He needed the thought. It made what was coming next matter.
“I’ll never forget it. We’d just come to the top of a rise in the highway.” Brooks’s eyes were distant, seeing that stretch of highway so far in the past. “At first I thought it was a dust storm. But I knew it couldn’t have been. I thought maybe smoke. The color was right. All black and swirling. It wasn’t. Then the sound hit us like the wall of some ridiculous storm. It was flies, fucking flies, billions of them. Buzzing, that terrible b
uzzing. Think of when you got a mosquito in your ear, and then imagine yourself in a swarm of them so thick that you could no longer see the sky, and maybe it’ll come close. Even miles away we could still hear it, and when the wind shifted we could smell them. There were so many—a moving ocean of rotting flesh. The moans and the buzzing drove all but the bravest souls mad. People were running every which way. Some gave up entirely and fell to their knees on the road, waiting for the end.” Brooks removed the skillet from the stove and slid the steaks onto the plates. He stuffed a big chunk of venison in his mouth and chewed loudly.
Howard did the same. The gamey juices made him realize just how hungry he was. He could almost hear the meat echo as it hit his hollow stomach.
“A fucking slow moving, stinking, inevitability. It was then that I knew this was no longer our world. Sure there may be some of us left yet, enough to fight even, but we are few and too scattered to do a damn thing. And we're old now. Our time is all but up. I feel sorry for you, kid. This is all you know.”
“We can survive and kill as many of them as we can.” Howard swallowed.
“And what then? When there are none of us left to reap the benefits.” Brooks dismissed the bravado. “Those of us that didn’t panic, maybe a thousand strong, and perhaps a hundred or two with guns and ammo, watched the dead throng march slowly towards us. We couldn’t go back and we couldn’t go forward. The Imp comes strolling up from the back of the column. He looks at what’s coming and says, ‘Shit boys, I guess it’s time I broke out this case of Budweiser.’ He starts passing them out and we start drinking. Nothing like warm skunked beer. Best drink I ever had.
“The Imp was a big bastard. Probably weighed three hundred pounds. Used to play o-line for Bama. He downs a beer and smashes the can against his forehead. He goes, ‘We can’t kill ’em all, but we can slow ’em down good enough. What do ya’say we have a us a fucking Creeper barbeque?’ We cheered, and the Imp pulled out his bowie knife and started popping gas tanks. The abandoned cars covered the highway from us all the way to the Creepers. That section of the twenty-five was like a big cup, and there was plenty of gas left in those tanks. We got to work.” Brooks finished the last of his steak and wiped his mouth. He removed a small oak box from under a pile of books. He pulled from it two brittle looking cigars. “I’ve been saving these.”
“What are they?” Howard was truly perplexed. There were several things Brooks mentioned that he had no clue about. But he kept silent. The weight was slowly lifting from the man, and Howard could practically see the madness disappear. Much like his father had done when the end came.
“You’re kidding, right?” Brooks cut the ends off with his knife.
“No.”
“I forgot, Howard. It’s hard for me to imagine what you know and what you don’t know. Being raised post-war and all. You know what a cigarette is?”
“Yes,” Howard said, as a painful memory of men rolling tobacco in an old newspaper they’d come across on the Sunset Strip streaked through his mind.
“They’re kind of like that, and in better times these were sweet. They’re cigars. We used to smoke 'em on special occasions. And seeing how I’m about to finish the Imp’s story, I figured it’s about time we indulged ourselves.” Brooks lit both cigars and passed one to Howard.
Howard puffed and started to cough.
“Don’t suck it down. Just let it rest on your taste buds and blow it out. Tastes like shit but tradition is tradition. Where was I?”
“You were about to have a Creeper barbeque.”
Brooks laughed, flicked an ash from his cigar. “So, there were about eighty, maybe a hundred, cars on that hill. The last leg of the First War was still in full swing and the scavengers and madmen hadn’t pilfered the obvious stores yet. The gas ran down that asphalt like a waterfall and pooled at the bottom. The flies were thick then, the Creepers not more than a couple hundred yards away. The Imp says, ‘I’m done fella’s . . . I can’t do this anymore. Ya’ll gonna make a go of it . . . I wish you luck. Me, I’m done. I’m just so tired.’ He’s practically yelling it over the buzzing, and his tone spreads like plague over our ranks. There are nods and shouts of agreement. Though he didn’t say what he meant to do, we all understood. We were all so tired.”
“What about you, Brooks? Are you tired?”
“There is not a word for how exhausted I am. But let me make one thing clear, Howard. There are those that, when pushed to the breaking point, well, they want to lash out and go for the glorious death. I’m not one of those people. I’m all about continuing to draw breath and fill my belly. Shit, I’d like to think there’s hope. That at the end of this fucking mess there is peace to be had, a world to rebuild. And I think you’re one of those people too. Otherwise you wouldn’t have that eerie calm look on your face, knowing what’s waiting beneath us. I can’t stop you, and I sure as hell won’t go with you, but I do wish you luck, and I hope that you find what you’re looking for. I hope you make it.” Brooks blew a ring of smoke and eyed Howard with admiration.
“I have to for her sake,” Howard said, thinking of his last night with Jennifer, thinking of his father's dying words.
“The dead are dead. What you do only matters to you, just like the Imp. He lead that final mad charge into the wall of Creepers. I watched it through my scope from afar. He commanded that ass over backwards army with the skill and clarity only attained when nothing else matters. They brought so many down, but for every one they took, the Creepers added five to their ranks. I watched every death, heard every scream. The Imp climbed atop a car in the thick of the Creepers. He cracked his last Budweiser and downed it. Gently, as if nothing was happening around him, he put the empty can down on the roof of the car and got out his Zippo. He flicked it and threw it into the pool of gas. The flames swept over the undead, lighting them like candles. Hair, and what was left of their clothes, burned and smoked black. The Imp, too, caught fire, and he meant to fry alive. Some kind of macho last stand bullshit, but I couldn’t watch another human being do that. There was no way I could talk him out of giving up, and it would’ve been stupid to try, but I sure as hell wasn’t about to watch him immolate himself like some zealot. I zeroed his dome and put him down.”
“You shot him,” Howard said in disbelief, wishing silently that he could've had the courage to free Jennifer. She came for him, stumbling, moaning. He pushed her away. But he didn't kill her, couldn't kill her.
“Fuck yeah I shot him. The way I look at it I saved him from a second death somewhere down the road.”
Howard didn’t know what to say. He hadn’t quite thought the story would end that way. He’d been raised on the bravery of sacrifice. So many stories of laughing in the face of death. And as he looked into Brooks’s tired eyes, he realized just how blind such acts were. There was always a way out. He had to believe that. He had to trust in his skills and his wits if he ever found himself in a potentially hopeless situation. To give up in the face of certain death was to defeat yourself, and he wasn’t about to do something so stupid. His father never gave up.
“This isn’t some epic tale. This isn’t Beowulf. This is survival. You don’t give up, ever. I don’t care how bleak it looks. The moment you let that fear in, you’re done.”
“Thank you, Brooks.” Stale or not, Howard didn’t understand how anyone found cigars appealing. He let his burn between his fingers. Every chance he got, he sipped cold water from his canteen and swished away the taste of smoke. “Can I play something for you?”
“Play what?”
Howard pulled out the device and the headphones. He handed one to Brooks and put the other in his ear.
“Shit, haven’t seen one of these in a long, long time. Looks brand new.”
“It kind of is.” Howard thumbed the song and set the volume with a swipe.
Brooks eyes focused for a second then moved into the infinite distance of memory. He bobbed his head, saying, “Eddie Vedder. By God, thought I’d never hear that voice ever a
gain. This is special. First time I heard this song I was so high I thought my heart was going to explode.” Brooks laughed.
“What?”
“Nothing. Just memories.” Brooks wiped away a tear. “You got that look like you’re getting ready to leave. Can’t do that. They’re still out there. Sometimes it takes them awhile to get moving. I got some food and water. You’re welcome to stay.”
“I can’t.”
“Sure you can, but you won’t. I’ve known too many people with that look in my life. You won’t, Howard, but are you sure? Are you really sure?”
“I’ve been sure since the day I left L.A.” Brooks did not need to hear the details. With details came questions. Howard didn’t know how the man would react if he discovered the secret coursing through his veins. That secret had cost his mother's life and Jennifer’s, and in a way, his father’s.
“But North. Shit. There’s a lot of reasons to head elsewhere. You’re talking about heading into what’s out there. I’ve seen the tribes move south. I’ve seen animals moving south when they shouldn’t be. Something’s out there, but you already know that.” Brooks scratched his beard and began to rummage through his collection. "I kind of miss the crazies, the tribes. I used to hear them on calm nights, chanting and hooting and shit, like damn cavemen. I’d see their fires."
The Creepers (Book 2): From the Past Page 20
