“She makes my Subdue-do look like amateur-time,” said Nelson.
“You’re memory is your true talent,” I said. “I’d give anything for that.”
“That’s a good point,” said Hemp. “Nelson, when I work with Isis, I’d like you there whenever you can manage it.”
“Why?” he asked.
“Because. As we accumulate information on her abilities, nothing will slip your mind. You may put puzzle pieces together the rest of us miss.”
“The pothead?” asked Bug, nudging Nelson.
“Dude, you know better than to touch me,” said Nelson. He held up his hands. “Come on.”
“I don’t feel like gettin’ muddy right now,” said Bug smiling.
Dave walked around the corner of the house and we all looked toward him. It was by force of habit. The abnormals had a way of just moseying up, even when we were all on WAT-5. Right now, none of us were. We were on full alert and armed, so it would have been a waste, mostly.
Dave gave us all a wave as he came closer. “I put all the chairs and junk from the back porch inside,” he said. “No projectiles back there.”
“Cool,” I said. “Thanks, Davey.”
I looked at my watch. I only wore it when I was worried about someone out on a run, and I wasn’t even sure it was right anymore. It didn’t matter, because it told me what I needed to know.
“They’ve been gone four hours,” I said. “They could be back any time,” I added, then caught myself. “Flex should be back,” I corrected. I was glad that Serena hadn’t been outside when I screwed up. She was having a hard time with Isis’ news of Tony’s death, as we all were.
“Give him time, Gem,” said Hemp. “He’s got the weather, the situation with Tony, a new companion. It’s going to slow him down.”
“I get that,” I said. “But doesn’t he have a portable Ham in that damned truck?”
“He does, but so might others,” said Hemp. “I recall a certain infant saying something about the angry. I don’t know who that might be, but she clearly named the others, so I don’t believe she was referring to abnormals.”
“They might have a radio,” I said.
“Exactly,” said Hemp.
“We done out here for now?” asked Nelson. “Wait. We’re not done yet.” He unstrapped his Daewoo and jumped off the porch, skirting by his scooter. To his left were two apparent diggers, moving rickety-slow toward the front porch. He raised his weapon and with two single shots, detached the skull caps from their heads.
Nelson then swung the barrel right. With a single shot, he knocked out the third. He turned toward us. “Where the hell are you putting all these?”
Hemp pointed. “Golf cart. We’re dumping them in the pit. Hold off for now, Nel. Let’s go have a rest.”
“You guys have been working,” said Nelson. “They look deteriorated enough. I’ll take care of them and be back inside in a few.”
“Dude, I’m not letting you do it by yourself,” said Dave. He turned to us. “You guys go inside. We’ll be there in ten.”
We obeyed. The two longhairs did the heavy lifting. We went inside, took off our wet, muddy clothes and boots and collapsed for the moment.
I checked my watch again … and every five minutes for what soon became longer than I was built to stand.
*****
Chapter Six
As he had since I’d encountered him and his friends, Punch looked behind us every few minutes, and it made me nervous. I couldn’t take any more delays. I needed to get to the goddamned hospital, get the stuff and get back.
Punch was on the gun and he’d used it a shitload already. The rotters were on parade, and the blasting wind and driving rain, while slowing them down substantially, was not dampening their spirits.
Maybe because the fuckers had no spirits.
“Here,” said Punch, pointing to a sign ahead. The sturdy wind buffeted the sign, causing it to twist in place as if it were silently screaming, “No!”
“Take the 77 north,” said Punch. “Just after this bridge make a left.”
I saw the onramp. It was wide open, and I got on it and hit the gas. I knew it was only around 40 miles from this junction, and I was ready to get there.
“Shit!” I cursed, reaching the top of the ramp and slamming on the Land Cruiser’s brakes. “Fuckin’ jammed.”
The traffic on both sides of the 77 was, at one time anyway, heading south. Nobody was trying to get to Charlotte, which told me one thing; it was ZombieWorld – the worst fuckin’ theme park ever invented by man or planet Earth.
The rain had stopped again, but the dark, swirling clouds remained. The rain that had fallen in bucketfuls from the sky was not enough to clean away the filth that had accumulated on the many vehicles over the last thirteen or so months.
Yeah, I was in a hurry. So why did I sit there, looking at the line of cars that stretched away from the Land Cruiser’s bumper as far as any creature’s eye could see? Because it was like every apocalyptic movie I’d ever seen, only this was real. That made it way more frightening and far beyond any suspension of disbelief I’d ever engaged in before.
I was fucking waxing philosophical or something. I was waxing some shit to be sure.
“Flex?”
I guess I heard Punch’s voice, but I didn’t do anything about it but continue to stare. I think Tony’s death had freaked me out more than I knew at the time. I looked at the cars, lined up in a jagged row, once chock full of wanna-be refugee survivors. Some of the men, women and children in these cars might have tried to escape the traffic jam, but if they tried, it means they got out and hoofed it, no doubt hauling all the survival possessions they owned on their backs. Without proper weapons, they would’ve been chew toys for the stinking dead before very long.
I could see by looking at the cars that the drivers had been of varying types; there were the cars that were arrow straight in their lanes. These were the determined drivers who had snatched their little spot on the highway and were goddamned happy to move that foot or so every half hour. They turned off their engines to save fuel, waiting patiently for the next inches of highway to slide beneath their cars.
These drivers had been countered by those who angled toward the lane either to the left or right of their own; the ones never content to stay where they were, always looking for that foot or two of open highway beside them, sure that lane was moving faster. Once they saw daylight, they jammed on the accelerator just enough to squeeze ahead of the car beside them.
The opaque windshields, thankfully, were so obscured by muddy filth that we were spared the horrid sight of the hundreds of squirming, flesh-hungry carcasses that no doubt remained captive atop leather, cloth and vinyl seats for more than a year now.
“Flex, man,” came Punch’s voice again. This time I turned toward him and raised my eyebrows.
“Yeah?” I said.
“I can’t look at that shit anymore, bud. Saw enough of it in the middle east.”
At first I didn’t know what he meant. I turned back and lowered my eyes to the ground around the cars.
Skeletons. Everywhere. Scraps of clothing caught under flat car tires. Some doors were open on the cars and bodies draped out of them, their mouths forever opened in silent screams.
I hadn’t seen the decaying trees for the rusting, steel forest.
I shook my head. “Shit,” I said, putting the gearshift in reverse. “Sorry, man. It’s a lot.” I turned my head and started backing down the onramp.
I drove east on the road we’d come in on. “Check that map, Punch. See if you can find another way to the city.”
“You got some balls on you, man,” said Punch, serious. “All those cars jamming out of the city and you’re still going in? They were running from something.”
“And we know what they were runnin’ from, but I don’t have a choice, Punch. My son needs the antitoxin for sure, but he also needs any other vaccines I can grab. Kid’s wide open. Polio, the fuckin’ Dipht
heria that’s already showed up, smallpox, all sorts of shit just waitin’ to kill him.”
“You never think of that crap, do you?” asked Punch. “Civilization, man. We take a lot of things for granted.” He shook his head. “Right here, Flex. Turn left on Edgeland.”
“This road will get us there?”
“It looks like we’ll be going around Robin Hood’s barn to do it,” said Punch, “but yeah, I’m pretty sure. It’s clear, anyway.”
“You’re using the term loosely,” I said.
“Clear means we can get through or winch our way.”
I drove on. Whenever Punch saw a walker, he blew him off the road unless the pilot was in position to sweep them aside, breaking their legs. I figured even the most industrious abnormal couldn’t get all the way to Whitmire with a pair of broken sticks to walk on.
The ride was bumpy and parts of the road required full 4-wheel drive to get through. The Land Cruiser had been the perfect vehicle, though. Before we knew it we’d knocked out twenty miles.
I checked my watch. It was almost six o’clock in the evening, and the sun was working its way down. I hadn’t wanted to get into the city at night, but choices weren’t plentiful now.
“Buddy, can you reach back there and see if you can grab that big, green duffle?”
“Sure,” he said. He crawled back over the seat and extended his long arm, snatching the bag and dragging it into the back seat.
“What do you need?” he asked.
“There’s a portable Ham radio in there,” I said. “It’s a Yaesu.”
“Good radio,” he said. “Familiar with them.”
“Then get on a frequency and start broadcasting. Just say Flex Sheridan over and over. Our guys scan, so if they hear you, they’ll answer.”
Punch kept it up for so long that I got sick of hearing my own name.
“Give it up for now,” I said. “Thanks.”
“No problem.”
At some point, Edgeland Road had changed to Mt. Holly Road.
“Shit,” I said. “That sign said I-77’s up ahead. It’s gonna dump us back on there.”
Punch scanned the map. “No, Flex. Just stay on here. It’s the 31, and it looks like you can snake your way to the hospital from here on side roads.”
“You sure?”
“Looks like it,” said Punch.
The area was getting more populated, and we were seeing a lot more abnormals, both diggers and other varieties, staggering in the streets. The good news was that they weren’t all working their way south, toward Isis.
Or, for that matter, my wife, my son and a ton of other people I love.
A sign said I was now on the 31. “I want to stop and have a bite to eat before we head into the big, bad city,” I said. “I got a funny feeling we’re gonna need our strength.”
“Hey,” said Punch. “There’s a convenience store up there. Maybe they got some beef jerky. Nice protein.”
“I could use a break,” I said. “Got plenty of food, but Tony only snagged a couple of pieces of jerky. Got a baby back home that hoards the stuff.”
“A baby?” asked Punch, a smile on his face. “Eating jerky?”
“Long story,” I said. “Help me do this, and I’ll take you back with us. That might not seem like such a great offer right now, but once you meet everyone, you’ll change your mind.”
“Any place is better than Buckfield, Flex,” he said. “Thanks.”
*****
We all sat in the living room looking like zombies ourselves. Ordinarily we might have been on the front porch, but things had changed in a hurry. More walking dead; storms that could blow your pants off; rain that blew sideways so hard it sounded like someone was outside sandblasting the siding.
If the rotters could push their way through that shit to get to little Isis, we could very well be in a world of hurt.
None of us heard him coming because of the melee outside, but suddenly the door flew open and Jim Scofield came in, slamming it behind him.
“Another storm band’s coming through,” he said, wiping the rain from his hair and face. He shrugged out of the raincoat he wore and dropped it by the front door. “Other than that, I have worse news.”
I would have thrown out a snarky “No shit, Sherlock!” at his comment about another band coming through, but his last statement overrode my normal sarcasm.
“What is it?” asked Hemp, beating me to the punch. Hemp looked like he really needed a nap himself. I checked my watch yet again. It was now almost 7:30 PM and the sun had disappeared. The sky, already shadowed by the storm clouds, lingered between the light and the darkness.
I hoped like hell that Flex and the man named Punch had reached the hospital, gotten what we needed, and were on the way back. I also hoped Isis was wrong about Tony. I held onto that hope.
“Gina’s taken a turn for the worse,” Scofield said. “She’s having a lot of trouble getting even a small breath.”
Serena, who had plopped down on the couch half an hour earlier and fallen asleep in under thirty seconds, sat up, rubbing her eyes. “Oh, my God,” she said, fighting a yawn. “Is she going to be okay?”
“Not without help,” said Hemp. “That means it’s advanced. The other symptoms, while unpleasant, won’t necessarily kill you, but she needs a respirator, and I have one in the lab.”
He went to the door and looked out. It was pouring rain, and visibility was almost nil.
“Can this kill her?” I asked. “That fast?” While I thought of Gina first, my mind went to Raylene a split-second later. A mother’s worst nightmare had to be watching her child suffer and being helpless to stop it.
“We can’t know for certain how long she’s had the disease,” said Hemp. “But the advanced symptoms of Diphtheria can paralyze the muscles that control respiration. She may not have much time at all without assistance breathing.”
Doc Scofield was at the door, grabbing his coat and throwing it on. “C’mon, Hemp. You know where the stuff is.”
“It’s in the mobile lab,” said Hemp. He didn’t bother with a coat. He was out the door and on the porch. Before Jim closed the door, Hemp said, “It’s very bad out here, Gem. Start the small generator on the back porch and get that Ham radio on. Flex might try to reach us.”
I kicked myself for not thinking of it earlier. There I was, worried as hell about Flex, and he didn’t even have a way to get in touch with us.
Hemp wasn’t finished. “I might need to get hold of you when we’re at Jim’s, too, so keep the other walkies on.”
“Go!” I said, and ran to the back door.
“Need help, Gem?” asked Dave, following.
We went to the back porch and I lifted the panel and hit the start button. The little generator fired up instantly.
“I’m good,” I said, and ran past him back inside. I powered up the Ham and saw Hemp’s MP5 leaning against the wall.
“Shit!” I shouted. “Hemp didn’t take his weapon!”
“Is he on WAT-5?” asked Charlie.
“No,” I said. “Damnit!”
Charlie ran to the kitchen drawer and pulled out a baggie. She took out four wafers and ran them to Dave. “Take these, Dave. They’re probably still in the lab. Hurry!”
Dave took them, grabbed Hemp’s gun, and ran to the door.
“One of them is for you,” said Charlie.
“I can’t eat it now,” he said. “I’ll pass out.”
“Shit,” said Charlie.
I grabbed two pistols from the counter and hurried to the door as Charlie pulled it open, the roar of the storm filling the stillness of the room. She gave him the wafers and he stuffed them in his pockets.
I gave him the guns. “No time for holsters, buddy,” I said. “Just tuck these in your pants and go. Careful, they’re ready to fire.”
Dave took the guns, following my suggestion, sticking them in his pants for the moment.
“Okay,” said Charlie. “Be fucking careful!”
&nbs
p; “Got it,” he said, opening the door and hitting the porch full stride.
I saw the taillights of Scofield’s car, already too far away to hear him, even if Dave screamed.
I ran back into the kitchen and unhooked the keys to the Crown Vic from the rack on the wall. I threw them to Dave. “Take the Ford and go, Dave.”
Dave was out the door and at the Crown Vic in seconds. He fired the engine and we watched him spin the tires in the wet mud and gravel as he pulled out of the drive and hit the pavement.
Charlie and I watched as one of our rotting nemeses staggered toward the house, fell, struggled back to its feet, and continued.
“Come on, Charlie,” I said. “I want everyone on WAT-5 tonight. Go get the girls, would you?”
Bug was in our room with Isis again. A thought crossed my mind. “Will it work on her I wonder?” I said.
“What, Gem?” asked Charlie.
“She’s talking about Isis and WAT-5,” said Serena.
“She only eats meat,” said Charlie. “I wonder if she’d even try it.”
“Meat eater or not,” I said. “It’s medicine, and you take that shit whether you want it or not. That’s the rules of childhood, and they’re not negotiable.”
“Good luck with that,” said Charlie.
After the boarding up of the house was completed and there was another break in the storm, Nelson had taken Rachel on his scooter back to his place. I suppose I should say their place. Lola was in with Trina and Taylor, who were playing with an old Spirograph game that I hadn’t seen since I was a little girl, and thank goodness the directions were still there. Right after they’d started playing with it, every once in a while Trina would run in and show me what an amazing new picture she’d drawn with it. She knew I liked to draw, too.
“I’m going to tell Lola what’s happening and bring them their wafers,” I said. I liked Lola. She reminded me a little of me and a little of Charlie.
“We’ll dose,” said Charlie. “Wake us up when you come back.”
“Gotcha,” I said, walking down the hallway.
Dead Hunger VI_The Gathering Storm Page 12
