Nate Southard writes with the no-nonsense intensity and the confident swagger of a bare-knuckle boxer.
Chris Golden, author of
The Myth Hunters and Wildwood Road
Nate Southard’s lean prose delivers enough action for three creature features.
Norman Partridge, author of Dark Harvest
Nate Southard is one of the best new writers of his generation, and something new by him is always cause for celebration. I’m a big fan.
Brian Keene, author of Dead Sea and Ghoul
SCAVENGERS
NATE SOUTHARD
NEW ORLEANS
2011
This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed within are fictitious,
and any resemblance to real people or events is purely coincidental.
Scavengers
First printing by Creeping Hemlock Press, April 2011
ISBN-10: 0-9769217-8-2
ISBN-13: 978-0-9769217-8-3
Scavengers copyright © 2010 by Nate Southard
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof,
in any form.
Cover design & book design by Julia Sevin
All photos used with permission of the copyright-holders. Available credits: First row U.S. Navy; Roosewelt Pinheiro, Agencia Brasil; Jonathan McIntosh; Enriquillonyc second row Daniel Battiston; Win Henderson, FEMA; Guérin Nicolas; U.S. Navy; U.S. Navy third row Russianname; Tau‘olunga; uncredited public domain Fourth row Leona Lim; U.S. Navy; Mikael Marguerie Fifth row Jordogbeton, Mauricio Peñaloza; Jim Gordon; George Crux sixth row Andrew Braithwaite; Magharebia; U.S. Navy
A Print Is Dead book
Print Is Dead is a zombie-themed imprint of Creeping Hemlock Press
Editors: R.J. & Julia Sevin
Creeping Hemlock Productions, LLC
www.printisdead.com
www.creepinghemlock.com
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The first two drafts of this novel were written in just over a week. Without the incredible help of Shawna Blount and Lee Thomas, those days would have driven me mad. Thank you so much for making it better.
I owe additional thanks to those who have supported me through the years. Without them, I wouldn’t be where I am. Brian Keene, Norman Partridge, Chris Golden, Tim Lebbon, Kelli Owen, Jim Moore, Rhodi Hawk, Bob Ford, Laird Barron, Paul Tremblay, Joe McKinney, Wrath James White, Paul Goblirsch, Monica Kuebler, Larry Roberts, Tony and Kim at Camelot, and RJ Sevin.
Thank you all.
For Danny and Zan Blount and Shawn Richter.
Thanks for taking the trip with me the first time.
SCAVENGERS
ONE
“Are we ready? If everybody’ll settle down, I’ll go ahead and start. Just… Everybody calm down so we can all hear, okay?”
Blake Ellis took a deep breath and tried to do as Eric Ross asked. The nervous flutter in his stomach refused to disappear. Even when Holly slipped her hand into his and gave it a gentle squeeze, he felt the mounting electric tension surge through his body. He took another breath and detected the spoiled meat smell that was now always present. After so much time, he thought he’d grown used to it, but every now and then his nostrils felt the need to correct him.
He tried to steady his breathing, hoping it would calm him. His pulse throbbed in his ears, and he felt a bead of sweat trace a path behind his ear to his neck. He fought to convince himself this was all necessary. Millwood needed food, and Rundberg had a supermarket. Necessity didn’t ease his nerves, though.
He watched Eric look out over the assembled crowd. Everybody in town had crammed themselves into The First Baptist Church of Millwood. Now, just about all of them sat quietly in the pews or leaned against the walls, waiting for Eric to dip his hand into the stockpot and decide their fates. The man appeared uncomfortable, and Blake could understand why. A year ago, Eric Ross had been owner of a diner just outside of town. Now he was in charge of drawing names for a suicide mission that just might free Millwood from the awful grip of starvation. Who could handle that kind of pressure?
A man Blake didn’t know rubbed up against his left shoulder and then mouthed an apology.
“We ready?” Eric asked.
“This is bullshit!” somebody said. Blake didn’t have to look to know it was Chris Stevenson. He’d know the prick’s voice anywhere. Stevenson was a refugee, one of nearly thirty survivors Millwood had taken in over the previous months. Far as Blake knew, nobody liked the guy. He’d been a problem since day one, refusing to work and constantly demanding more food and better accommodations. Blake knew the jerk used to live in some big city or another, had wound up stranded in Southeast Indiana when the end came. Nobody knew much else, though.
“I’m not even from this shithole. Why the hell does my name go in the pot?”
“We’ve covered this,” Eric said.
“Well, maybe I don’t give a shit. I’m not from here. Why should I die for you people?”
Morris Dawes stepped forward to take a position at Eric’s side. The man looked like a giant, standing at least six inches over the man who would draw names. His place on the pulpit only added to the image. He crossed his thick arms over his barrel chest and gave Chris a look that promised violence if ignored.
“You live here now,” the big man said. “That’s all that matters.”
“Easy for you to say. You volunteered for this shit. Fucking psycho.”
“You live here now.” The entire sentence sounded like a period, ending the discussion.
Blake heard a grumble from the back of the church. If he wasn’t so frightened, he might have smiled.
Eric gripped the stockpot’s lip and gave Morris a nod. The man returned to his previous spot at the rear of the pulpit.
“Okay. Anything else? Last call.”
Blake felt Holly’s body jerk as her hand shot into the air. He turned to look at her, and he could guess her question just by seeing the mixture of determination and annoyance on her face.
“Yes?”
“I want my name in the pot,” she said.
“We’ve gone over this. It was decided-”
“Not by me, it wasn’t. I know I’m not the only one who wants in, either.”
Blake looked around as several other women nodded. A few stood, and still others clapped.
“We can help,” Holly said. “Hell, I’ve nabbed more deer than most of the men in town. Gonna say I’m not a good enough shot?”
“Nobody’s saying that.”
“Because everybody knows better.”
Holly’s best friend, Marisa, stood abruptly. “She’s right. It’s ridiculous that we’re not in the drawing. You’re treating us like we’re second class.”
“Shut up and sit down!”
Blake didn’t recognize the voice, and when he jumped to his feet and whirled toward the sound he saw nobody who looked guilty. He glared at everybody who met his eyes, determined to find the offending party.
Holly’s hand touched his shoulder.
“It’s okay.”
“Like hell,” he replied.
“It is. I don’t give a damn.”
“Anybody has a problem can talk to me,” he said to the entire town. “I’m not hard to find.”
A few murmurs floated out of the crowd, but no real offers.
“Thanks for the thought, baby,” Holly whispered in his ear. “You’re kind of undermining my whole point, though.”
“All right.” He sat down and stared up at Eric. The man didn’t appear to notice. Instead he was motioning for everybody to sit down.
“I’m sorry,” Eric said. “We voted on this, though. Everybody did.”
“Most of everybody is male,” Holly said.
�
�That’s more reason we shouldn’t have any women going.”
“What?”
Blake smiled. He sensed Holly’s anger, and he couldn’t wait to watch her tear Eric apart. Sure, the guy was friendly and everything, but he was in over his head. You didn’t even insinuate something like that to Holly unless you wanted to carry your dick home in a basket.
“Um… I don’t think-”
“We’re not brood mares, asshole. Sorry if anybody thought otherwise.”
“Nobody’s saying that.”
“Not from where I’m standing.”
“Majority rules!” a male voice said.
“He’s right,” Eric said. He looked tired. “I’m sorry. Seriously. I’d be glad to have you on the trip. We’ve had a vote, though. We’ve got to stick to that.”
“Fucking chauvinists,” Holly said as she sat down.
“Sorry,” Blake whispered.
“They’ll wish they had a shot like me.”
“I know.”
She gave him a smile. “So how embarrassing was that?”
“I’m sure we’ll all live.”
“We can hope.”
He returned her smile, but the fluttering anxiety had leapt back into his stomach and started tap-dancing there. Shame strutted in on its heels. Holly ached to go to Rundberg, and here he sat, scared to death, hoping against hope they didn’t pull his name.
Eric held up his hands for quiet, and the last few whispering voices gave it to him. Blake thought the guy looked worried, and he could understand it. Eric and Morris were going to Rundberg no matter what, and drawing three bad names would only hurt their chances of survival. The odds said at least one draw would be a stinker. The town had decided to throw in every male thirteen and up, and that meant more than fifty kids were in the stockpot, as well as eighteen men over the age of sixty. With five hundred or so names to draw from, it didn’t look too great.
“I’m pulling the first name,” Eric said.
Blake felt Holly squeeze his hand again, and he sucked in a great breath. He held it as Eric reached into the metal container and churned its contents. The man drew out a single slip of paper. It was folded in half. Eric opened it, and Blake saw him cock an eyebrow before he spoke.
“Chris Stevenson.”
“Bullshit!”
Blake released his breath as Chris stormed down the church’s aisle. A few hints of laughter lifted from the pews, but most of the town remained silent. Even an asshole like Stevenson deserved a little compassion now and then.
“This is bullshit and you know it, Eric!” Chris pointed at the man who would lead the expedition into Rundberg. “You’re pissed off at me, so you’re making me go.”
Eric waved the paper at him. “I’m not making it up. It’s the name I drew.”
“I want to see it.” Chris stormed the pulpit, the black leather jacket he always wore creaking with each movement. Morris moved to intercept him, but Eric held out a hand, telling him to back off.
“Here.” He handed Chris the paper.
“Bullshit,” Chris said as he glanced at the slip. “You had it up your sleeve or something. Don’t even try to convince me otherwise, you skinny shit.”
Blake felt the thrum of potential violence move through the church. It picked up speed as it neared the pulpit, only adding to his fear as it rushed past his seat.
“Luck of the draw,” Eric said.
Chris turned to address the crowd. His index finger moved over most of the congregation.
“Fuck you. Hear that? Fuck every last one of you rednecks. You’re crazy if you think I’m doing this for you. Three thousand of those things? Is that what you all said? Fuck you. I wouldn’t face a single walking corpse for any of you. No way am I doing three thousand.”
Blake shook his head. Other than Morris, nobody wanted to make the trip to Rundberg. No reason for Chris to feel so special. As terrifying as the idea of the trip was, it had to be done before Millwood starved.
Morris placed a meaty hand on Chris’s shoulder. The big man leaned down and whispered something into his ear. Chris gave no reaction but a sudden shrugging away of the paw.
“Fine. I’ll be at my place. See you assholes tomorrow.” Chris stepped down from the pulpit and started toward the back of the church. He froze when a quartet of men fell in around him. “What the fuck?”
“Watch,” Eric said. “Everybody drawn gets one. You know that.”
“Right. Hope you boys like watching me piss on your shoes.” He stomped up the aisle, and the population sat in silence until they heard the church doors bang open and slam shut again.
Blake worked on his breathing again. Two names left. That much closer to relative safety. He turned to Holly and gave her a weak smile.
“You’ll be fine,” she whispered.
“Next name,” Eric said. His arm went back into the pot, swirling the papers. He shook his hand as he drew out another folded slip of paper.
Blake ground his teeth together. He must have been doing it awhile without realizing it, because his jaw ached.
“Jeremy Motts.”
Blake felt the tiniest wave of relief before fear came bounding back into his gut and his heart. One name left. The chance Eric might pull his name still existed, but it was a small chance.
The question evaporated as a new one took its place. Who was Jeremy Motts?
A wail from the third row told him Jeremy was a child. Only a mother could scream like that. He followed the cry with his eyes and saw a woman holding a boy tight against her chest. Tears had already washed her cheeks. All he could see of the boy was a beat up Cincinnati Reds ballcap.
“No! You can’t take my son! He’s only thirteen! For God’s sake, he’s just a boy. He won’t stand a chance!”
Blake looked to Eric and Morris, and he wasn’t surprised to see a deep sadness on their faces. They didn’t want to do these things, separate children from their mothers. In a better time, they would have made terrible Army recruiters.
“Sorry,” Eric said.
“Mom?” The Motts kid looked up to meet his mother’s eyes, and Blake saw pure terror in the boy’s expression. He wondered if the boy felt more frightened than he did, decided that was probably the case.
Another quartet of men approached the end of the pew. They waited while the woman stood, still holding Jeremy Motts close against her body. The boy stiffened in her grip, but Blake could tell it was a reflex, that all he wanted in that world was to be held by his mother.
“You’re murdering my son. You bastards are murdering him!”
“I’ll be okay, Mom. I promise!” Jeremy’s voice came close to telling a different story.
Blake didn’t watch as the men followed Jeremy and his mother out of the church. He didn’t think anybody else did, either. Most likely, nobody wanted to admit the woman had probably been right.
The church door banged shut again. Blake squeezed Holly’s hand, feeling the frightened sweat in his palm. He placed his other hand on his belly and tried to calm the fluttering inside him. He looked to the pulpit, where Eric stared into the stockpot and Morris shook his head.
Eric looked up. “Um… I’m just going to draw the last name. I’m sure everybody wants to get this over with.”
Blake closed his eyes and held his breath again. He bit back a nervous scream he felt rocketing toward his lips. Moment of truth. He’d know his fate in a matter of seconds.
He thought of the past year, remembering the first news reports and what he’d been doing when he saw them. When that memory passed, he remembered how Holly had saved his life, how they’d saved each other’s sanity. He looked back on how he’d helped build the barricades that surrounded Millwood, how the town had defended itself from the few dead that found it. He remembered a form of stability and happiness returning, slowly but surely. Finally, he thought about Eric standing before the town, telling them their food supplies had dwindled and their crops had died, how game was scarce and they needed to raid Rundberg’s gro
cery if they wanted to survive.
He opened his eyes and looked at Holly. She was so beautiful. He wanted to marry this girl.
“Blake Ellis.”
He released his breath.
TWO
“Zombie!”
Blake raised his eyes from his open backpack and looked over the pickup truck’s cab. The cold April wind lashed at his face, blowing his dark hair every which way.
“Where?”
“Ten o’clock,” Morris answered. The burly man placed the butt of his shotgun against his shoulder. “Still a ways off.”
Blake shifted his gaze and found it. The zombie was still nearly four hundred yards away, but it was closing fast. It charged them in a way that was both running and stumbling. All the zombies moved that way, like they couldn’t quite remember how their muscles worked. The rotting thing lacked most of its left arm, and it dragged its intestines in ropey loops.
“Must have heard us moving the cars,” Eric said. The thin man’s face didn’t register the concern Blake had seen the previous night. Now he was all business. His jaw tightened with disgust. “You’d think it would trip or something.”
“How close is it?” Jeremy Motts spoke in a shaking voice high enough to almost be keening. He stood next to the truck, the wall of wrecked cars blocking his vision. He bounced on the balls of his feet and clapped his hands together. Something close to a grin covered the lower half of his face, but his eyes told a different story.
Blake hopped out of the old Dodge and gave the kid’s shoulder a squeeze. “It’s just one. I got it.” He stepped past the boy and around the barricade, drawing the pistol from his waistband.
“Blake?” Morris said.
He waved the big man off. “Just one. I can handle it.” He stood in the opening they’d created in Millwood’s outer wall, squaring his feet and raising the gun in both hands. The .45 had a lot of kick, but it rarely affected his aim. The way his hands shook was a different matter.
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