He’d kicked the woman in the head, slamming his foot into her skull even as he stared in awe at the blood oozing from her torn throat. She’d held on, so he kicked again. She growled like a wild animal, and it wasn’t until he’d kicked her a third and fourth time-until something crunched beneath his foot-that she let go of Danielle.
So now he had to get his daughter to a hospital. Not that he had the slightest idea where the hell he might find the nearest medical center. The ranger station at Shawnee Lake had been abandoned. He’d grabbed some sterile wipes and bandages, did what he could. That woman had been bitten by something, though. He hated to think what she’d given Danielle.
He clicked on the radio to the one station he’d found that didn’t play pop or hillbilly music. He hoped some good old rock and roll might calm his nerves, but instead an announcer spoke with a nervous voice.
“-thought to be rioting at first, but closer inspection by news networks and eye witnesses has revealed the attackers to be infected with some sort of disease. Others reports claim the rioters appear to be-”
Infected. He didn’t like the word. It gave him thoughts he couldn’t stand, images of Danielle falling prey to some disease he’d never even heard of before. What the fuck had that bitch given his daughter?
He searched the county road for some kind of sign advertising a hospital or highway, anything that might help. A growl appeared in his throat. He could drive around the goddamn roads for days before he even stumbled upon a hint of the nearest emergency room. Goddammit! Why had he decided camping was such a great fucking idea? If they’d stayed at his place in Columbus, he could have Danielle in the emergency room within ten minutes. But no, he’d agreed on Indiana, all because he wanted to get into the country so his bitch of an ex couldn’t reach him, couldn’t call every hour saying she was just worried when she was really trying to keep him from spending time with their daughter.
“How’s that arm feel, honey?”
“It still itches.”
“Hasn’t been five minutes yet.”
“It’s getting worse!”
“Let me see it.”
She shoved the arm toward him. He took his eyes off the road to inspect it. The area around the bite was pink and inflamed, but he didn’t know if it was infection or just the result of her scratches. He felt stupid and useless, and that only angered him.
He looked closer at the bite. A clear fluid wept from the wound. He didn’t know what that meant, but he didn’t think it was any good. Jesus, what was he going to do?
The bellow of a blaring horn snapped his eyes back to the road. An SUV was charging directly at him. He let out a sharp cry and jerked the wheel hard to the right. His Honda Accord swerved back into its lane, and the SUV whipped past a few inches to the left, its horn receding into the distance.
He slumped in his seat, breathing hard. His heart galloped. He could hear his pulse hammering in his ears. After a few seconds, the sound dissipated. Danielle replaced it.
She was crying.
He found the house a half-mile down the road. A red, white, and blue mailbox stood along the side of County Road 325 West, and he saw the gravel road beside it. He realized the road must be somebody’s driveway, and he jumped on the brake. The Accord’s speedometer plunged, and he swung the wheel right.
The driveway traveled two hundred yards under a canopy of interlocked tree branches. If he’d come this way in late September or early October, he might find himself dumbstruck by the beauty of the gold and red leaves. But now he was too frightened to do anything but scan the woods ahead and look for something that might be a house.
He found it when the trees parted to reveal the log home. He had a quick thought that you couldn’t possibly call such a place a cabin. The thing stood two stories tall and featured a deck that wrapped around both the upper and lower stories. Stone chimneys stood at both ends of the structure, and a satellite dish aimed toward the sky from the corner of the roof.
“Wow, Daddy!” It appeared the home impressed Danielle, as well. He gave her a look and saw her staring at the house in wonder, the tears on her cheeks forgotten and drying. “Why are we stopping here?”
“We gotta get something for that arm,” he said.
“But you already cleaned it.”
“We need something better, honey.”
“They’ll have something better?”
“I hope so. I guess we’ll find out.”
He spotted a pickup truck in the drive, a monster of a Toyota that had been washed and waxed within an inch of its life. Even through the shade it sparkled. Chris didn’t like that. It gave him pessimistic thoughts. Clean people didn’t generally like others just wandering in and disrupting their lives.
Then he saw two more vehicles beyond it, a Blazer and a Chrysler from the eighties. Both of them looked like they’d been through a dust storm. For some reason, they didn’t comfort him any, either.
Don’t panic, he told himself. People are good. When they see what’s going on, they’ll help.
He brought the Accord to a halt, spraying gravel as the car slid. He shut off the engine and threw open the door.
“C’mon, honey. Let’s go.”
He almost gasped when he felt how warm she’d become. She felt like a hot water bottle in his grip, and when she pressed her forehead to his cheek it was sopping wet.
“You okay?” he asked.
“I feel a little dizzy.”
Oh, Jesus Christ!
He ran for the house, holding Danielle as tight as he dared. He didn’t let go until he’d sprinted up the steps to the front door, and then he only used one hand to knock, pounding like a psychopath.
“Hello!”
He waited, hopping from one foot to another. Silence descended on the home. He tried to count to ten, but by the time he reached four he’d started slamming his fist against the door again.
“Hello! We need help! Hello!”
He reached out again, curling his hand into a fist, and the door opened a few inches. A man’s face stared out at him.
“What the hell?”
The man wore wire frames and a graying beard. His hair looked like it had been shaved a week or so back, but was now growing into a nice Bozo the Clown cut. Chris looked down and saw a good section of an Anthrax shirt covering a modest paunch.
“Look,” the guy said, “Speak up or get the fuck away from my home.” Chris heard a click he recognized as the hammer of a pistol being cocked.
“My daughter’s hurt. I don’t know where a hospital is, and she needs attention. Please.”
The man’s eyes flicked to Danielle. Chris tried to read them, but he couldn’t. Maybe his panic robbed him of the ability, or maybe this guy was just that good. The man’s eyes looked flat, uninterested in anything but the most basic facts. Yes, that was a girl. Yes, she appeared to be hurt. Interesting.
“Please.”
The man’s eyes flicked back to look at him. Sunlight reflected off his glasses, destroying any chance Chris had of reading his eyes.
“She bit?”
He thought about lying, but how could he hide something like the weeping teeth marks on his little girl’s arm?
“Yeah. About twenty minutes ago.”
“Shit.”
Yeah, Chris thought. Fucking exactly.
He waited as the man just stood there, unmoving. Danielle wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled herself in tight. He could feel the heat throbbing off her wound. It pressed against his cheek.
He begged the man with a look.
“Come in,” the man said.
Chris heard another click just before the door opened. It didn’t make him feel much safer, but he wasn’t exactly swimming in options. He carried his daughter through the door.
He gave the log home’s interior a glance, enough to realize it was pretty damn impressive. Two more men sat at a table at the back of the room: a husky blond with glasses and a white-haired man with a bright red rummy nose. An arsenal co
vered the table between them.
“This way,” Bozo said. “I’ve got a guest bed.”
He followed the man through the home’s living room and down a hall, past a pair of doors and into a bedroom. He looked down at the queen that filled most of the room. It was unmade, sheets bunched at the foot. Bozo pulled them up hurriedly, and then Chris laid Danielle down, resting her head on a rumpled pillow.
“Am I going to be okay?” she asked.
“Yeah, honey. You’ll be fine. We just have to wash your arm again.”
“Daddy?”
“What is it?”
“My arm hasn’t stopped itching.”
————————————
“Mother of fuck,” Chris said as he stepped into the guestroom. If he’d needed a cigarette before, he’d slaughter an entire country for one now.
He checked the top of the nightstand. Nothing but a lamp there, but he tried to tell himself all was not lost. Still a lot of places left to check. He opened the drawer.
“Yes!”
The pack of Newports still had its cellophane wrapper intact. The brand aside, it felt like the luckiest day of his life.
A pack of matches sat in the drawer, as well. It was better than Christmas.
“This is what I was fucking talking about!” he said as his fingers scrambled to get inside the pack. The plastic tore and fell to the carpet. He slapped the pack into his palm a dozen times and then opened it and withdrew a single cigarette.
“Beautiful.” He ran the smoke under his nose, breathing the leafy smell in deep. “Where you been all my life? Seriously, where have you been, you dirty bitches?” He screwed the butt into his lips and struck a match. It took three tries, his fingers shook so bad. Finally, he held the flame to the cigarette and breathed deep.
Heaven. He sighed with pleasure once the first drag crept into his lungs. Bliss washed over him as he took another and another. He enjoyed it so much he forgot about the match until the flame licked his fingertips.
“Fuck!” He dropped the match to the carpet and started stomping, grinding it down and down. He caught the scent of smoldering fibers and stomped some more. Once he was sure the blackened smudge on the carpet wouldn’t ignite and burn the place to cinders, he returned to enjoying his smoke.
“Fine, I’ll be more careful next time.” The room didn’t respond, and he didn’t care. The nicotine rushed to his brain, and suddenly the world felt all right again. He breathed deeply, letting the taste stick to his tongue and throat. If nothing else, finding the pack of cigarettes made the day a little better. He’d never thought he could love a goddamn Newport so much.
He wondered how long he’d been up in the room. It felt like a good few minutes. He knew he should get back down to the truck. The others probably wanted to get moving, and he echoed their desire.
He stood from his crouch and stepped past the room’s sole window. Something caught his eye, some flicker of motion, and he turned to look outside.
The cigarette dropped from his suddenly numb lips. He staggered back from the window, his eyes riveted on the backyard, the field beyond.
“Oh, fucking shit.”
Dozens of them, charging like mad beasts. They raced across the field toward the house. He could almost see the crazed hunger in their eyes. They’d round the house in less than a minute.
He turned from the window and ran.
FOURTEEN
“Why don’t we go ahead and try it?”
“You sure?” Eric asked.
Morris tossed him a nod. “If it doesn’t want to start now, it’s not going to start anytime soon. Not without a good mechanic, at least.”
Eric climbed into the cab and positioned himself behind the wheel. Morris watched as the man gave him a weak, hopeful smile and reached for the ignition.
He held his breath. If this big bastard didn’t turn over, he didn’t know what the hell they’d do.
The starter cranked, and his nerves jangled. It bogged down a little, and he felt his hopes crumble. The battery was beyond resuscitation, had to be. They were stranded, trapped in a small town nightmare, left to hike back to Millwood through God only knew how many dead cannibals.
And then it happened. He heard the engine catch, shudder, and turn over. The truck roared to life. Its engine backfired once with a sound like a starter pistol, and a small cloud of dust and black smoke puffed from the exhaust pipe and churned into the air.
“Yes!” He pumped a fist and winced as his wounded shoulder let him have it. Blake cocked an eyebrow at him, but then the guy smiled before any embarrassment could take hold. He could see the relief in Blake’s eyes.
“There we go!” Eric said as he climbed out of the cab. “Give it a sec, and we’ll get out of here.”
“Run!”
Morris barely heard Stevenson over the growling engine, but he caught the note of terror in the man’s voice. Something bad was coming, something terrible. He turned to the house and saw Stevenson nearly leap down the stairs.
“Killbillies,” the man screamed. “A fucking gang of ’em!”
He let out a jangling breath as his mind picked up speed. No, no, no! Couldn’t they make it another few minutes before everything went to shit again?
Dumb question. Morris knew the answer even as he ran to the driver’s side door.
“Get over, Eric.”
“What?”
“I’m driving.”
“Your shoulder-”
“You’ll need to run. I’ll be fine, okay? Just get the fuck over.”
Eric nodded and started scooting. His jerking, frightened movements almost looked comical.
Stevenson barreled across the front lawn like he had a bull racing after him. All the color had drained out of his face. In a way, Morris found it comforting to see the smug prick thrown off his game. At the same time, it told him whatever the man had seen was serious.
“They’re coming!”
He grabbed hold of the steering wheel as the first pair of dead men sprinted around the corner of the house. Jesus, they were fast. Their legs pumped like pistons, making up for their limp arms. He’d never seen a living man move so fast.
A crack split the sky, and one of the zombies went down in a tumble of blood and brains. Blake had started shooting from the truck’s bed, working Stevenson’s hunting rifle. A second shot hit the other dead man square in the chest and tore out his back.
Morris hit the driver’s seat and turned his eyes to the windshield.
“Fuck!” Panic had hit him so hard he’d forgotten the battery cables or hood. “Dammit!”
“Liked the first one better,” Eric said as he racked the slide on his automatic. The man shouldered open his door and fired at something Morris couldn’t see.
Another door opened and Stevenson appeared in the backseat. He slammed the door hard enough to rock the truck on its wheels. Another shot rang out from the bed.
“Stevenson, get the cables and shut the hood.”
“Fuck you, chief.”
A spike of pain stabbed through his shoulder and stopped him before he could whirl on the prick. He groaned through the jolt and then climbed back down to the driveway. He’d do it himself.
Snarls and screeches filled the air, and he looked up to see almost a dozen of the rotting killers charging around the house. More shots rang out, and a few of the damn things dropped, but not nearly enough.
Trying to ignore the electric panic that ran through his body, he turned to the task at hand. He darted to the engine and gave the battery a look. Taking the cables off in any order but the right one risked an explosion, but he didn’t have the time. Screams and growls and gunshots surrounded him, and all of it would do nothing but bring more goddamn zombies.
He grabbed the cables and squeezed his eyes shut. Gritting his teeth, he yanked with everything he had. Sparks crackled as the cables popped free, but the truck kept running. Some miracle kept the battery from cracking open and spraying him with acid. He jerked th
e cables from the spare battery, knowing they might need them later.
“Morris!”
He turned around as a dead woman with most of her scalp missing closed to within ten feet of him. He didn’t have a weapon, so he swung the cables. They whipped through the air and lashed across the zombie’s face. If she felt it, she gave no indication. She just kept charging, her jaw dropping open as she prepared to bite.
The truck’s door burst open and Chris jumped out. Morris saw him approach, cocking back an arm to swing something, but then the female was too close. Morris spun to his right, bringing his left arm and the cables around with him. His momentum caught the female off guard as she leaped at him. She swung through the air at the end of his arm and crashed into the truck’s grill. The stinking cannibal folded in half, her upper body splaying across the pickup’s massive engine. She went limp and rolled onto the driveway, floundering like a fish.
He stomped on her head. Her skull cracked with a sound like dry sticks, and she fell still at once. He felt something mash between his boot heel and the concrete, and a terrible smell hit him like a right hook. His knees told him they wanted to give out, and he grabbed hold of the truck for support.
He heard Stevenson let out an angry cry, and he then heard something solid strike bone. A body fell to the lawn, and he hoped like hell it belonged to a zombie.
He grabbed the hood and pulled it shut. He started to run for the door again, and his foot slipped. Somehow, he caught himself and didn’t land on the dead mess beneath his feet, but it still slowed him down plenty.
More gunfire sent a few zombies to their knees or prone in the grass. Those behind tripped over the fallen and scrambled back to their feet. Stevenson took out a few of them, swinging a tire iron like it was a battle-axe.
Morris scrambled around the truck as carefully as he could manage. “We’re going!”
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Scavengers Page 11
