This close, it would have been difficult to miss the signs; tire tread in the mud to the right of the road, mud on the road proper where the vehicle regained the asphalt, some smaller pieces of black top nearly buried in the earth where the vehicle had ridden over. It was clear that the driver of the vehicle had swerved right to avoid the softened shoulder. In the dark and with the rain, he probably didn't see the dangerous slope of mud until the vehicle was nearly on top of it. All of those elements combined for the obvious signs of passage. But that wasn't all he saw.
The group had fanned out across the road. Approaching the tire tracks, the Shepherd crouched on the black top. Examining the tread, he saw something else that made his heart leap into this throat. More footprints, some of them barefoot and one of those clearly pointing to the tree line. He looked up along the road, saw the prints continue around a fairly sharp corner another ten or twelve yards ahead. Gesturing for the team to remain where they were, he quietly moved to the break point of the turn.
Stopping at the corner, he saw the broken, black asphalt scar continue on at least a mile before it dropped out of sight. Nowhere along the road or shoulder did he see a vehicle parked, crashed or otherwise stopped. Strewn across the road in thick clumps or spread thin from shoulder to shoulder, the Turned milled aimlessly. Fortunately, their attention seemed elsewhere, as they made no immediate movement toward the Shepherd when he came into view. It stands to reason they would have heard it, too, Tom thought as he turned back toward the team. That was when he heard something else: a quiet rustle in the trees, then a twig snapping.
Tom retreated back around the corner, hearing the rustle grow louder, closer. By the time he had rejoined the rest of the team, it was clear the others had heard it, as well. Seeing Dust begin to raise his pistol toward the tree line, Tom warned against using the firearm. “Don't. It's just one. We'll have bigger problems if you fire.”
Dust cocked his head to the side, but kept his pistol pointed at the ground. “Whaddya mean?”
The Shepherd freed the kukri from its sheath, pointed the curved, metal blade toward the bend in the road. “There's a horde not half a mile down the road. I'll take care of this one, but we should be going.”
“A horde?” Dust sounded genuinely confused as the creature finally shambled out from the trees.
Gritting his teeth, the Shepherd took quick steps towards the horror, closing with it before it could offer more than a rumbling growl. Arms outstretched, fingers grasping desperately, it reached for Tom with animal savagery. A final, angled step and the kukri flashed in two arcs; first up in a bright glint, then down in a darkened blur. The Turned staggered another step before pitching forward to lay on the road, it's head and left arm rolling in the sand beside the still twitching body.
Looking from the felled creature to Dust, Tom spoke. “Dozens, maybe hundreds of these. Muppets, I think you call them. And probably more stragglers than just this one.”
As if on cue, another rustling, much louder this time, issued from the trees on the opposite side of the road behind them. Two things happened, then; a group poured onto the road and gunshots sounded from the top of the hill. The near simultaneous occurrence of events gave pause to the men as they processed what was happening.
It only took a heartbeat for Tom to determine the gunshots were not linked to the Turned racing up the road towards him and the others. None of them are getting hit, so if that's Red and Summers firing, they're shooting at something else. This realization, while noteworthy, was not the one that took priority for the Shepherd. That distinction fell to the quarry of this particular pack of devils. With snapping jaws, they called forth obscene, frightening growls and grunts. Flowing fingers clawed longingly at their prey. The child ran doe-eyed to the men before him, bare more than pace ahead of the monsters that lapped like wolves at his heels.
“That's the kid-” Mike began, but the observation was cut short by his team lead.
1.10
“Take 'em out!” Dust ordered.
While the team raised weapons and lined up their shots, Tom watched the foremost figure get closer. Mike was right. It was the same boy they had encountered yesterday. Tom had many questions for the youngster and hoped the boy would survive to answer them. Another burst of gunfire erupted from the top of Hillcrest just before Dust, Mike and Eric opened fire on the pack giving chase to the child. This time, the horrors behind the boy began to fall. An asynchronous twenty-one gun salute sounded from the three man team before the creatures, six in total, were laid low.
Time to go, Tom thought as the last of the Turned crumpled onto the road. The Shepherd sprinted straight to the boy, bending low to scoop up the terrified child. His own ears ringing from the cacophonous thunder of the gunfire, Tom knew there would be no talking for a while. Instead, he acted and trusted the others would follow suit. If they don't, I'll be no worse off. He spared a glance over his shoulder and found the others behind him, reloading as they ran.
The next few minutes proved eerily similar to the previous afternoon. Running through unfamiliar territory with a group of strangers, a mob of horrors somewhere behind them. Though there were more Turned and fewer people, Tom had a better feel for the odds. Not only was he unbound, but he had a few of his own tools and a clear understanding of where he stood with the others in his group. Whatever personal misgivings they might have with each other, he hoped they shared one goal for the immediate future: survive.
With that purpose in mind, the Shepherd left the road and turned into the tree line. Only a few yards inside it, he slowed, then stopped. He again bent low, this time to deposit the boy on the soft, green earth. Wiping the kukri against his pant leg, Tom turned to the three men coming up behind him.
Dust and Eric were breathing heavily while Mike fairly collapsed. The Shepherd himself was more winded than he would have liked, but he'd had a passenger. Mike and Eric both had rifles, but those objects weighed substantially less than the child Tom had carried. He frowned as a thought crossed his mind. They might be older than me, but they shouldn't be so affected by a short run on level ground with no real burdens. They also seemed to lack co-ordination or accuracy with their firing. Their community has very different expectations for its warriors. If these men are even considered warriors.
“Thank you,” Tom offered while sheathing his blade.
“For what?” Dust gasped.
“Not shooting me in the back when I picked up the child and led us away.” The Shepherd kept a wary eye on Dust. The man was pitched forward, hands on his knees and drinking in air as though he'd just been pulled from the water.
Shaking his head in an exaggerated manner, the team leader looked up at Tom and replied. “No problem.” Breath. “I mean,” another breath, “you were still on point.” Big breath. “Tactical regrouping was in order.” He smiled weakly.
Aware they had only moments before the first runners from the horde appeared at the far end of the road, Tom gave Dust as many breaths as possible before posing a question. “What's the plan?”
Dust pointed further down the road, in the direction they had been running. “That turnaround where we found those tracks,” he drew in air and continued, “should be just ahead.”
Eric, on one knee and leaning on his rifle, faced his team leader. “Thinkin' 'bout holin' up in the place across from it?”
“You know it.” Dust seemed to have recovered most of his wind. “Should be able to keep an eye out for Summers and Red, not attract a lot of unwanted attention in the process.”
“Shame about the brass,” Eric said. “Stuff's already in short supply.”
While Eric lamented the loss of the spent casings, Tom squatted beside the boy. Other than fright and fatigue, the child seemed unharmed. Seated against a rock, he had his knees pulled close to his chest and seemed to be rocking back and forth. Gently placing a hand on the boys shoulder, Tom asked, “What's your name, little man?”
“Ben.” The answer came in a near whisper.
“Alright, Ben. You're okay, now. How long ago did those things start chasing you?” The Shepherd spoke quietly.
“Far,” the child said in the same oh-so-quiet voice.
When another minute or so passed and Ben volunteered no further information, Tom moved over to Dust. “He won't make it far on his own and none of us should be carrying him. Not with so many of them out there. You're sure there's a place close by where we can rest a bit?”
Dust looked at the boy and seemed to want to say something. When he finally did, it was to Eric. “Lead the way, man.”
Eric nodded and moved back to the road, but Tom grabbed his arm. When Eric looked over his shoulder at Tom, the Shepherd shook his head. Putting a finger to his lips, Tom pointed back the way they had come. When Eric looked in that direction, he saw the first wave of the mob coming around the corner.
“Better get a move on,” Tom said quietly.
They kept the road to their left and just barely in view, using it as a kind of guide. Only a couple minutes later, Tom recognized where the road began it's curve around the southern slope of Hillcrest. It was here that Eric turned sharply right and led them further into the trees. Not two dozen yards later, the group was within arms reach of a small house completely surrounded by trees and waist-high grass. It appeared before them so quickly it seemed almost dreamlike. Tom could scarcely believe it was there.
“Back door,” Dust hissed to Eric.
The group made its way to a small, rickety porch at the rear of the structure. It was here that Tom got a sense of the age of the place. The porch had shrub growing from between its loosened boards and the windows along the back wall were completely without glass or curtains. What had once been a screen door was now an empty, rusty frame sealed to the doorway, an orange and brown outline of the rotten, split wood that made up the remains door proper.
Once on the porch, Eric opened the door quietly and swung into the house, rifle at the ready. Dust followed, then Mike, with Ben and the Shepherd last inside. Tom closed the door but didn't latch it, not trusting the old, rain-swollen wood to keep their presence quiet if pushed too far. With the door closed, the Shepherd found there was no room for him to move further into the building. The others, having stopped to wait for him, occupied nearly all of the small room.
“We can't stay here,” Tom pointed out in a low voice. Even with the room devoid of everything except counters and walls, there was too little room for any of them to maneuver.
Tom saw Mike beginning to move toward an open doorway. “Where does that go?”
The other man stopped. “Basement,” he called back wearily.
The Shepherd shook his head. To Eric and Dust, he directed a different question. “This house has another level. Are the stairs to it accessible?”
Eric responded first, nodding and motioning for Tom to follow him around Mike. Eric had to leave the kitchen before Tom had space enough to navigate the press of crouching bodies. Having done so, the men found themselves in another empty room at the front of the house. Ducking beneath the tree branches that thrust themselves through the missing windows, Eric indicated the stairwell to the second floor.
The stairs made the porch outside seem newly renovated. Bent with age, cracked from use and exceptionally narrow, Tom winced when he saw them. They'll probably collapse when the Turned run up them, Tom thought. If they don't fall out from under us, first. Since there was nothing to barricade the front door or create an obstacle on those dangerous stairs, Tom nodded to Eric. Two steps brought him back to the kitchen.
“Are we headed upstairs?” Tom asked Dust.
“Yeah.”
With Dusts blessing, the group entered the front room and ascended the stairs one at a time. Tom lead the way, moving slowly to find the surest, safest steps on the way up. By the time a very tired Mike finally joined them on the second floor, the Shepherd thought the horde would be only yards away. His suspicions were confirmed a few moments later, when he and Dust were peering down at the road through an open window. Even through the trees, dozens of person-shaped creatures continued on down the road. Some shambled, some lurched, some ran with a drifting lope. While one and all seemed to move with waning interest, they pressed on nevertheless. South, in the direction Tom and the others must travel if they were to return to the school.
The two men watched for some few minutes as the Turned flowed past in an inconsistent but unending stream. Eventually, their numbers dwindled until some few minutes passed since either man had seen one. They were aware Ben had joined them by the window at some point during their observation, but neither said anything. The child had yet to speak since they had resumed their journey to the house.
“How long do you figure before the Muppet Parade is over?” Dust spoke in the conspiratorial tone he'd used earlier that morning.
“Long enough. We'll want to wait an hour or more, just to be sure.”
Finally, Dust turned away from the window. He leaned against the wall and sighed, removed his ball cap. Placing the hat on his knee, he reached behind his head and untied the kerchief, pulled it from his face. For a moment, before he used the worn material to wipe his face and brow, Dust's visage was exposed. The sight of it caused Ben to gasp and scoot away from the older man. Even though it was but an instant, both Tom and Ben saw the great, jagged scars and discolored, rippled splotches of skin that made up Dust's face below the nose.
The boys reaction reminded Dust he wasn't alone. “Sorry,” he mumbled quietly and quickly retied the kerchief, mercifully shielding his disfigured countenance from the others. “Forgot it wasn't just me and the fellas.”
“What happened?” Tom asked quietly and not without sympathy.
Dust's eyes rested at a point on the floor between Tom and Ben. After a long pause, he spoke briefly and in a near-whisper that did nothing to hide the shame in his voice. “Chemical burn, just after the End. Not everyone was as accepting or forgiving as these folks've been.” Focus returned to his eyes. “That was a long time ago.”
“Old stories are some of the best,” the Shepherd offered, prompting Dust to continue. “We still have a wait ahead of us.”
The other man was quiet another moment, then pushed himself up along the wall to stand. “Let's check on Eric and Mike.”
1.11
Tom, Dust and Ben found Mike in the hall, at the top of the stairs. He looked pale and uncomfortable, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Even though his rifle was pointed down the stairs, he seemed distracted. Seeing the others now in the hall, Mike called over to them. Dust looked back at Mike.
“Gotta cop a squat,” the man at the top of the stairs hissed.
“Take care of it, then. Be quiet and be quick.” Dust turned back to the room, but stopped again when Tom spoke.
“You're letting him go out there alone?”
Beneath the visor of his cap, Dust arched an eyebrow. “Did you want to keep him company?”
The Shepherd frowned. “Not particularly. Since we have the manpower for it, seemed safer to send someone with him. We know there are Turned present, and he'll be... vulnerable while doing his necessary. Not to mention his state of fatigue, which-”
Mike cut them off, incredulity in his voice. “You think I'm too tired to shit properly? Or is it a group activity where you come from?” To his team lead, he asked, “Seriously, man; who is this guy and why are we putting up with him?”
Seeing Tom at a loss for words, Dust called back to Mike. “Someone the Old Man wanted out here with us. Let's all remember that. Take care of business and get back here.”
Dust and Tom saw Mike scowl, then disappear down the rickety stairs. When the Shepherd moved to take up Mike's recently vacated post, Dust stopped him. “He won't be long.”
Tom nodded slowly. “Alright. The stairs are another potential exit for us and entrance for them. Shouldn't we have someone watching it?”
“Don't see the need,” the team lead replied. “We know the house, there probably aren't
any Muppets around and Mike'll be right back.” Seeing Tom wasn't entirely convinced, Dust shrugged. “Stay out here if you like. The kid and I will be in with Eric.”
Hearing this, Ben took a quick step away from the ball-capped man. Dust reached for him then and Ben ran down the hall, hid behind the Shepherd. Though the child remained silent, there was no need for him to give voice to his desire. The two men watched each other unblinkingly for several long heartbeats, the short hallway filling with palpable tension. At last, Dust looked away and entered the small room that housed his other team mate.
Only thing missing there was the tumbleweed, Tom thought wryly. Looking down at Ben, he saw the boy seemed relieved but not relaxed and that struck the Shepherd as a good thing. Some fleeting part of him thought there should be a feeling other than approval for the child's apparent state, but that thought came and went in less than a second. Perhaps it was the part of Tom that missed the bulk of his own childhood that made pity so unrecognizable to him. When the moment of emotional turmoil passed, the Shepherd returned his attention to the stairwell.
A handful of minutes passed in quiet, which Tom used to consider the conduct of the men he traveled with. They work in a group, but not as a group. Their camaraderie seems born of familiarity and less esprit-de-corps. They rest on the laurels of old knowledge instead of scouting when new information is needed. They lack the patience to wait out a safe period before relieving themselves, even in the face of vastly superior numbers in close proximity. If they possess discipline, it is of a very different nature than what I have seen in most fighting men. It could be understandable, in part. Some of those things might not be obvious and if they lacked someone to train them properly... But most of it should seem common knowledge to survivors who have been on their own all these years.
When Tom thought he heard something outside, he stopped his train of thought and listened carefully. Only silence followed for several seconds. He was ready to dismiss the noise as an imaging when he heard a thump from the deck at the rear of the house. The back door slammed open so hard it could be felt through the floor on the second story. That was followed closely by the unmistakable report of a rifle directly beneath him, which renewed the ringing in his ears.
What Comes After (Book 1): A Shepherd Cometh Page 7
