Coins for Charon: Palimpsest, Book 3

by P. J. Post

  He’s way too antsy.

  The soldier is staring at Brolin, watching his head gush little fountains. And then he looks across the tent, past the exam tables and medicine trunks, ignoring the other kids and Doctors, finally coming to rest on the shooters — Emily and Jem.

  He looks confused.

  He looks shocked.

  Jem and Em just look hyper-aware — guilt free.

  That’s my girls, no hesitation.

  The Nurses near the exit start screaming again.

  What the fuck now?

  I turn to see the young Doctor who got bit attacking one of her colleagues, a shocked middle-aged man, and then her other friend, the one that dragged her away from the Marine, begins to scream in a panic. The Button Eye suddenly lets go of the dude and goes after her. Her friend manages to get to her knees, steadily pleading for help.

  None of their friends answer this time.

  The thing rips at her lab coat, claws at her legs and finally gets a hold as the Nurse gets to her feet, trying to jerk free, but the fresh Button Eye is too strong. It finds her ankle and wraps her hands around it like a goddamned turkey leg before viscously biting her, teeth grinding through flesh as she thrashes her head back and forth like a feeding shark.

  That was a fast five fucking minutes.

  I abandon Pete and walk over to the Button Eye still strapped to the table and shoot him twice in the head, ignoring the outraged protests from the remaining lab-coats.

  Jem and Emily join me near the exit and as we ready our guns, the ankle victim manages to escape, dragging her bleeding leg behind her as she whimpers and moans, hopping and limping and stumbling her way outside.

  She doesn’t look back.

  The fresh Button Eye spins, confronting us, slowing, as if she’s assessing the situation.

  Jem raises her .38, and from nearly point blank range pops the woman. The .38 kicks up, but she controls the recoil without fighting it, and then she slowly lowers the pistol again. I can barely hear her breathing as she calms her nerves.

  Her freckled face goes blank, her blue eyes flat.

  And she shoots the woman again.

  The man who tried to help her is just as fucked.

  “Help me, please,” he whimpers as he tries to hold his face together with trembling hands, blood gushing between his fingers. He looks up, alarm spreading across his face…he looks away and closes his eyes, ducking as he hides behind his hands. “For God’s sake, no, wait, please, stop…”

  The kids are watching me…

  “I will, I’ll help,” I say as soothingly as I can, and then I shoot him through his cowering hands.

  He kicks for a moment, before going still.

  And then I lean close and shoot him one more time.

  How calm is my breathing?

  How dull are my eyes?

  “Reload,” Jem’s says.

  I glance at her, but she’s not even looking at me.

  The kids stream around the tables and stack up at the rear exit; I can’t read Hawk’s expression but she seems different. She’s helping Shinji with his coat, he still doesn’t look so hot, more like he’s about to puke; but she’s watching the other kids too, like she’s taking note, where they are, how they are, what they need. Casey is standing behind Jem, nearest the exit, drying her eyes while the others circle around.

  Hawk steps up with Shinji and Casey’s coat. She helps her put it on, and then Casey hugs her. Hawk kisses the top of her head, between the pigtails, and hugs her back.

  “How…” he begins, but his voice fails him.

  It’s one of the Doctors, his white lab-coat is covered in blood. He’s holding the man I just shot. He’s staring at me with pure hatred, and confusion.

  He has no idea what’s just happened.

  None of them do.

  I smell something burning and look across the tent to see flames racing over the straw and crawling up the canvas. One of the lanterns at the far end of the tent must have been knocked over in the commotion.

  “They’re little kids…how could they?” he asks again, tears gathering in his eyes. “How could they?”

  I stop and meet his gaze. “Yeah, I’m proud of them too.”

  “For what?”

  Paul’s buddy cries, “He has a family, kids, you’re a bunch of killers, a cult, you’re all insane!”

  “It sounds kind of fucked up the when you say it like that,” I say, grinning.

  And then Pixie and I follow our flock outside and into the snow storm, ignoring the flames as they slowly devour the Red Cross welcome tent.

  §§§§§

  “Stay close,” I shout as we race across the winter grass of unfenced backyards, past sheds, forgotten gardens and swing sets. Denny’s sign is on, sticking up above the neighborhood.

  It looks so fucking weird.

  Even though the neighborhood has lights over the streets, and seems to have power, the houses remain dark as we run by. I can’t help but wonder if we’re being watched or if these homes are as deserted as they look.

  We stop at a long driveway that has a wicked big RV backed into it. We check the door, but it’s locked as we slide by next to a tall, thorny hedge. We stop at the front bumper, pausing before hitting the street.

  From up on the hill, it looked like there were more tents, but now I realize they’re only along the wider, main streets.

  There’s way more trees than I imagined.

  I’m finally getting a good look at Freemont.

  Cars have been pushed up against the curbs in nice even rows. They were trying. For what it’s worth, they were trying.

  The houses look really old, lots of siding and white trim, porches with columns holding up witchy roofs and all of those fucking trees. With the snow and the strings of lights, it looks more like Christmas than ever, but, thankfully, the town isn’t nearly as bright as it seemed from up on the hill. We keep to the shadows of the overgrown bushes lining the sidewalks, and run as fast as the littlest ones can go, which means as fast as Casey can go.

  I can see people a few blocks down, lots of people, but they’re all running across the street we’re on, headed for what — the river?

  We stop at the end of the block, hiding in the shadow of a minivan.

  Pixie lopes up to Jem and sits at her feet, never taking her eyes off of either of us for long.

  Emily and Casey stop next to me, hands on their knees as they try to catch their breath.

  The church steeple is visible through the snow and trees, above the rooftops.

  It looks so peaceful…

  “That’s where we meet, remember if we get split up, go there,” I say, looking from scared face to scared face, while I try not to think about the plague.

  It’s loose.

  Behind us.

  In front of us.

  Shit.

  Everywhere.

  I stare at Emily and Jem. “The Elepunts and the Button Eyes, they’re out there, lots of them. Stay frosty.”

  Jem nods, grimacing in response as she stares down the road with Clint Eastwood eyes. I can imagine her as a freckle-faced teenager, that single scar running across her face like war paint, squinty eyes and a casual, confident tone. “Fuckin’ A,” she’d say.

  I turn back to the steeple, the canopy of trees is frosting over, everything’s covered in snow, the sidewalks, the streets, the roofs and the street lights — even the snowflakes themselves twinkle and shimmer against the lights strung from block to block, it’s like living inside a snow-globe.

  I wipe the snow from my face, bracing myself against the gathering wind.

  I fucking hate winter.

  The gunfire across town is more sporadic now, and I haven’t heard any explosions since the tent, but what we do hear echoes down every alley and street, making it nearly impossible to tell which direction the fighting is coming from.

  The steeple’s our guide — Sam’s meeting us there.

  “Hold hands, we’re not losing anyone, you
hear me, no one…”

  I notice my hand is shaking, like a tremor.

  Fucking great.

  I make a fist over and over, trying to get it under control as a scream cries out somewhere in the night, and then another joins it.

  I’m getting a weird sensation, it’s creepy…like someone’s watching me; I think they’re behind us, the Button Eyes.

  A siren begins to spool up. It sounds like it’s coming from downtown, but I can’t be sure.

  Everyone has known about the fighting since yesterday afternoon, what does the siren mean now?

  “Hold hands and stay close,” I remind them as we run from shadow to shadow, following the line of abandoned cars, heading for downtown, trying not to think about the screams surrounding us.

  Casey rushes up to me and then slips her hand into mine and flashes me a brave smile, but she’s nearing her limit — we all are.

  As we cross over onto the next block, doors begin opening, and family upon family upon family, wrapped in warm coats, carrying luggage and bloated backpacks, step out into the night. Are they answering the siren? Is it signaling something worse than the attack — like time to go?

  Is that it?

  Soccer moms, desperate fathers, young parents carrying their kids, older people and a few teenagers pass us by, some walking quickly, others jogging. As we get to the next street, I realize that they’re not running downtown; they’re heading for the river like the people before.

  Boats?

  Escape boats?

  Is that where they’re going?

  I stop at the crosswalk and nearly collide with a small group of refugees.

  They stare at me and my ragtag family.

  Mom is fortyish, Dad’s a little older and clean shaven. They’re terrified, faces sallow. They’ve probably been hiding inside, too afraid to risk surviving. The son is staring at us, apprehensive.

  The daughter is about my age, my height, but I bet she doesn’t weigh a whole bunch more than Jem. She’s probably been hiding with her parents, slowly wasting away, but I see something in her.

  They recoil from us.

  I can’t help but take a step forward, lowering my .45.

  “Please, let us go,” Dad whispers, his voice hoarse.

  “Lovely evening, Ma’am, Sir,” I say politely. I wonder how much blood is on my face.

  The daughter stares at me and then at her parents. She reaches out, like she’s not sure if we are real or not, but her mother yanks her hand away.

  “Kim, don’t, let’s go!” Mom shouts at her.

  They move past us, heads down.

  “Hey, Kim?” I shout.

  She turns, eyes wide.

  “I’m sorry,” I say.

  And I am — I can’t save her.

  Her dad jerks her back around and I watch her as they disappear into the swirling mob of people heading for the river.

  I squint past the crowd and get my first look at the old brick warehouses skirting downtown and the riverfront.

  Casey squeezes my hand hard, she’s panting. I look back to see my tribe is a broken line, fractured and scattered half-way down the block. I have no choice but to wait for them to catch up.

  The others are holding their knees; Carlton looks like he’s about to pass out.

  Jem’s looking at me with cold blue eyes, her back straight, her ponytail catching the winter breeze, loose tendrils dancing around her face. She looks like a Disney princess, if Disney princesses carried .38s.

  “We won’t lose anyone,” she says evenly, “I’m watching.”

  I nod as an answer.

  Another scream rings out.

  And then another.

  Really fucking close.

  It’s starting.

  The townspeople are now running past us in a panic, some dropping their bags, other’s clutching at bundles pulled tight to their chests, like they’re protecting a child. Most of them are frantically looking over their shoulders for the source of the screams.

  I gather everyone together and make them hold hands again.

  Pixie leaps to the front, leading us across the intersection and the stream of refugees, barking and growling and snapping at loose hands and feet, staring down the crowd, challenging anyone that gets too close. The townspeople part, flowing around us like water.

  As we near the end of the next block I see another warehouse on the far side of the intersection. This street is nearly deserted.

  I pick up Casey, and turn back to the others. “Run for that brick building, the one with the Thornhill Sack Company sign.”

  They all look at me like I’m stupid. “Which one?” Jem asks in frustration.

  I laugh hollowly, realizing they can’t all read that well yet. “The blue sign, that one, go, I’ll be right behind you, go! Jem, show them.”

  She salutes and then she’s off, running faster than I thought she could, Pixie matching her step for step.

  The others are doing their best to keep up, some still holding hands.

  Lights begin to go out behind us as more screams fill the growing darkness.

  And then the ground shakes so violently we barely keep from falling. Our shadows stretch down the street toward the warehouse as a giant fireball explodes behind us.

  I stop and turn to see it rise, mushrooming into the sky. I hitch Casey up higher on my hip as she leans back to look as well. She lays her face against mine. I glance over to see the fire reflecting in her eyes.

  Jesus, I can feel the heat on my face, and for a moment the breeze changes direction.

  The families of Freemont are screaming now and running in every direction.

  It’s only been fifteen minutes since the tent, less, more?

  There should only be a handful of Button Eyes, certainly not enough to account for all of the screams following us, not all of this carnage.

  Casey looks around at the twisting shadows, and then buries her face against my neck, her fear is finally winning.

  I get to running again as I see Jem finally reach the door up ahead. It’s locked. She doesn’t even look back; she hops off the stairs and races around the side with Pixie in tow.

  Shit.

  The other kids stop at the stairs, some walking up to the landing, and double over as they try to catch their breath.

  Emily stands tall at the curb, pulling her .38 and covering the slower kids.

  I hear footsteps gaining on us and just like that we’re in a crowd of pushing and shoving, stumbling idiots.

  I hold Casey tighter, her face buried against my neck. I can feel her heart beating, faster and faster. I can feel her tears on my skin, her little whimpers.

  Someone screams close by, and then something jumps out of the shadows, clutching at a middle-aged woman hobbling along as fast as she can. She throws her arms out and I see her face slam into the concrete as a Button Eye drives her into the street, teeth fly from her ruined mouth, stringy crimson trails marking where they disappear into the snow.

  I glance back as I get to the cross street in front of the warehouse.

  I can see them now, Button Eyes, running and leaping, closing in and taking out the slowest of the townspeople, old and young, one by one, and then two by two, and then…

  We need to find someplace to hide…we need to get off the fucking street!

  Casey slides out of my arms as I stop at the stairs. Hawk grabs her by the hand and pulls her up the steps and onto the landing, behind the railing. She gives me a grim look of reassurance.

  I open my backpack, and shove my last four magazines into the side pockets of my coat.

  Where the fuck is Jem and Pixie?

  “Stay behind me,” I call out, pushing Carlton back from the railing with one arm. “Up on the stairs.”

  How close do I let the Button Eyes get before…shit, before I have to start shooting the kids?

  Fuck me, Jesus Christ, fuck me!

  Families are rushing every which way through the square now, it’s chaos, some toward downtown,
others toward the riverfront, others back the way they came.

  The Button Eyes are coming from both directions along Main Street, the street we’ve been following, but I see them coming toward the river along the cross street too.

  The sign says it’s Half-Day Road.

  There are way more of them than could have come from what went down at the Red Cross tent. It just hasn’t been long enough, we’re not responsible for all this.

  “Jem!” I shout again, trying not to lose it.

  I hear a big, throaty engine revving from somewhere out in the neighborhood.

  The creatures don’t even turn as headlights climb the hill, carving tunnels of light through the snow, first pointing to the sky and then they fall back to Half-Day Road, creating hundreds of running silhouettes and ghoulish shadows. A truck rumbles over the hill, following the headlights, rocking from side to side. It’s a match for the army transport that was parked at the gate we came through, except the canvas cover is gone from the back. Surviving townspeople are fleeing before it, some trying to outrun it, but most giving it space, racing for lawns and cover, but the Button Eyes are going down in bunches, crushed by the big all terrain tires.

  After the truck spits them out, they squirm and twitch, continuing to crawl toward us.

  The truck is loaded with more refugees, men and women hanging on to the side rails and the back of the cab as it bounces and slides over the slick road, throwing snowy rooster tails behind it.

  They’re headed for the river too.

  They’re scared, but they look familiar.

  And then I see someone I know for sure — two someones: Paco and Tammy.

  I meet Paco’s eyes, but he doesn’t seem to recognize me.

  He looks empty, used up — a husk of the man I knew just four short days ago.

  §§§§§

  The truck leaves a wake of busted up and bleeding Button Eyes lying in the snow. But few of them stay down. There must be close to a hundred of them, run-shuffling down Main Street and Half-Day Road.

  The kids are exhausted.

  This is our last stand.