by Casey Lane
As the small bus climbed up the towering south entrance ramp that led onto the highway, more police cars, fire trucks, and ambulances went zooming by below us towards the mall.
T-bone said a small verse under his breath, praying for what I didn’t know—maybe not to be pulled over while driving a stolen bus, or maybe for the poor people back at that hotel. Otherwise, we were all quiet.
Traffic was light, but I closely observed the vehicles around us for any erratic driving. There were two cars on the side of the road near the Old Shakopee Road exit. Both cars had their lights on and their driver doors wide open, but I saw no people. That ominous sight gave me another chill. Fortunately, nothing else seemed out of the ordinary as we crossed the Cedar Bridge over the Minnesota River.
The quiet didn’t last long. T-bone was casting me reproachful glances in the rear view mirror. He started muttering loudly under his breath about crazy bitin’ fuckers, crazy bossy women with guns that stole buses, getting fines, and something about benches.
Holstering my gun and digging out my phone, I asked him politely to shut the fuck up because I didn’t want to hear about his arrest warrants. I had important phone calls to make and needed quiet to hear. T-bone’s mouth dropped open and his eyes bulged with affront, which I took as assent.
Anyway, I had a heavy feeling stealing the shuttle wouldn’t matter within a day or two, but refused to give into the rising panic that thought caused. In any event, I’d gladly take all the blame and pay the attorney fees if we were caught borrowing this bus and we got to live long enough to have our day in court.
Taking a deep breath, I closed my eyes, collected my thoughts, and faced facts.
Tonight I had sex in an elevator with a stranger. I also saw people turn into animals and tear other people apart. I saw them eat body parts and drink blood. I saw them wound as many people as possible. I shot a man in the head; he died. I shot a man in the back; he looked at me like I was a nuisance. I then shot him in the head, too. I saw dead people start to twitch and clench.
I wished now I had shot James Franco’s Doppelganger.
Chapter Six
“Remember when life’s path is steep to keep your mind even.” -Horace
I called my mom, Sally, in Arizona. She was terrible about checking her cell phone, but having no other options, I left her a voicemail when I remembered she was off visiting friends in Palm Springs for the week.
Next, I called Gary Knutson. Normally, I would have called the Knutson’s tomorrow to check on how Karen was doing, but now it was imperative to find out if she showed any signs of infection from her scratches. In the books and movies, people wounded by the infected could turn into zombies in anywhere from minutes to days. In real life, most viral and bacterial infections took a good couple of days to percolate inside us. The bad news was reality had been tossed out the window. Our lives could depend on mapping out these details.
Gary’s voicemail came on. Briefly and concisely as possible, I explained the bar attacks and my concern for Karen. I ended with the urgent message that he should call me back ASAP, night or day.
My third call was to my friend Jane because I knew her phone was glued to her hip.
She answered on a laugh. “Hey, honey, how’s the date going?” Her voice lowered and it was noticeably slurred. “Is he a hot, little cutie patootie?”
“Jane, this is a code 4377! Gather everyone in the kitchen.” The girls were spending the weekend at the farm for the annual Fall Festival.
Jane giggled. “We’re already here.”
“No, I mean everyone. Get Salty and the Canadian boys and Sean, everyone!”
She giggled again. “I told you, everyone is here. We’re playing cards and,” her voice lowered conspiratorially, “we ate some of Salty’s special brownies, if you catch my drift.”
I threw up my hand. Of course they did. That damn Salty and his damn weed. He adored my girlfriends and he was a terrible influence. I heard voices calling out hello in the background, and uproarious laughter. I gritted my teeth. “Put a pot of coffee on. Sober up. I said this was a code 4377.”
I held my phone away while Jane shouted out, “Okay everyone; Acadia says it’s a code 4377!” She then dissolved into laughter and said to me, “I can’t remember, is that hell spelled backwards or upside down?”
We girls had invented Code 4377 when we were young as a way to cut through any questions and any bull. If someone used the Code 4377, everyone was supposed to sit up, shut up, and listen up because things had gone to hell and something was drastically wrong. It caught on into adulthood with our families and close friends. Assuming they hadn’t eaten special brownies.
After what I’d witnessed tonight, I wanted to reach through the phone and wring Jane’s neck. I curbed my temper and focused. Jane was the only one of us with a kid, an eighteen-year-old daughter named Quinn. “Where’s Quinn tonight?”
“Geesh, how many times do I have to tell you, everyone is right here!”
“Quinn is at my house, too?” I repeated blankly, surprised but hopeful I had understood her correctly.
“Yes! Yes! Yes!” Jane cried out in exasperation. “Here, Salty wants to talk to you.” I heard her laugh as she passed the phone and say, “I think she’s drunk or something, see if you can make her listen!”
“What’s wrong, Acadia? Are you hurt?”
I didn’t bother asking Salty if he was high or straight. Nobody could tell the difference in his personality because he always appeared mellow. I should probably talk to Deb, but Salty was easier. “No, I’m fine. Please, please listen to me. First, you know I’m not drunk, right?”
The smile was evident in Salty’s voice. “Well, that’s too bad, but yes, I believe you.”
Salty had been my husband’s best friend and he was my farm manager. I’d known him forever.
“I know, I know, I’m too uptight,” I responded tartly. “I’ll be home in a little bit and I’m bringing four people. Put Rex in the barn, okay?”
I didn’t know if this craziness crossed to animals, but I’d never forgive myself if Rex went Cujo on me from licking infected blood. I shook my head. I had Stephen King on the brain tonight, but that was apropos considering my life was turning into a horror show.
“Okay, four people and Rex in the barn. Anything else?”
“Yes. Ask Deb to call Kate’s Cleaning and get a cleaning team over immediately. I’ll pay whatever premium it takes. Have her ask Kate to bring clothes for two men that are as huge as Kate’s husband.” Salty whistled and I smiled, but went on quickly, “Sweats are fine, and I’ll pay her for those, too. Let Kate know the cleaning job requires sanitizing blood. Stress it’s a wipe down cleaning of some rooms in King House and a small bus, not buckets of blood.”
I didn’t survive the attacks in the bar to get accidentally infected later. I had no idea how long germs lived in the blood or fluids outside of the host, so I planned on bathing in bleach.
His legendary calm in place, Salty replied, “I’m real glad to hear it’s not buckets of blood, Acadia, but what in the Sam Hill is going on?”
I snorted. “Something incredibly bad is happening, Salty. Get everyone sobered up. Call Robert and get him over, and ask Bobby, too. Oh, and Uncle Coop, if you can find him. Tell everybody I’ll explain when I get there. It’s too much to get into over the phone. Will you do me another favor though, until I get home?”
“Name it.”
I squeezed my eyes closed, grateful to be talking to someone sane and practical, even if he was an old stoner. “I need to make calls the rest of the ride home. Will you all listen to every local news station and look online for any reports of people getting sick, going crazy, and attacking others, particularly at the Mall of America or the airports? For now, I’m mainly interested in Minnesota but,” I added thoughtfully, “search all the U.S., Haiti, and the Dominican Republic to see if anything strange is going on anywhere else.”
Salty whistled again, but repeated back what I wanted h
im to do verbatim--no questions asked. Impressed, I complimented him that he wasn’t the burnout everyone called him. After chuckling, there was a companionable silence for a moment. Aware I needed to hurry and get more accomplished; I still put off hanging up. I didn’t want to let go that feeling of peacefulness I always derived from Salty’s centered presence, even if it was only his scratchy, deep voice.
“Hurry up home. This must be the end of the world bad if you’re asking me to drag Robert over here.”
I laughed quietly at Salty’s humorous, truthful statement before saying goodbye.
Robert Winters is my husband’s stepbrother, and Bobby is Robert’s son. Bobby is cool and we’re good friends, I consider him family. On the other hand, it is no secret Robert despises me for existing. That’s okay because I think Robert’s the biggest weasel prick on two legs, but that’s all beside the point tonight. For now, I need Robert’s help.
Ending the call, I met T-bone’s eyes in the rear view mirror. He nodded slowly, solemn-faced. I nodded back. I think we bonded.
“Correct me if I’m wrong, but I got the impression back at the hotel bar that you three men are single?”
Eyes back on the road, T-bone’s lips turned up. “Why, uppity white woman, you finally smartenin’ up and reconsiderin’ you choice?”
“Yeah, Ray Dean’s starting to look real good.”
T-bone’s shoulders shook.
Every sound T-bone emitted seemed to start out as a growling rumble from somewhere deep in his broad chest. Only the tonal inflections differentiated between a laugh, an appreciative male noise in response to an attractive woman, or a pissed off snarl. But from what I’d seen, his immense shoulders shook only when he laughed.
“You guys got anybody you want to call and warn about tonight, T? Any local family or close friends that grew up as big and mean as you maybe? They’d be welcome at my farm.”
I expected to be accused of wanting to imprison his family as field slaves, when without the usual attitude, he said quietly, “Thanks, Acadia. I don’t have a wife or no kids, but I do have family back in Georgia, near Atlanta. You think I need to be callin’ them and warnin’ them about tonight? You don’t think the police are gonna handle all that crazy shit back there?”
“You were there, T-bone, what do you think?” I blew out a breath. “Call me Chicken Little, but I’m a big fan of better safe than sorry. My advice is tell anyone you care about to keep an ear to the ground while they pack up their food, guns, and ammo. They should hunker down somewhere safe or head for the hills. If I’m right, they’ll be alive. If I’m not,” I shrugged and smiled thinly, “they can throw darts at your picture.”
He smirked at that. Glancing back, I saw Barbara sleeping with her head resting on Ray Dean’s arm. The big red-head grinned at me and pointed happily toward Rod. I couldn’t see him, but I heard Rod’s intermittent soft groans.
“Tell Ray Dean what I said, okay?”
T-bone was nodding contemplatively. “Ray Dean’s divorced. He’s got a lot of relatives and all in Kentucky, but he considers his family the Minnesota…”
My phone buzzed, and I held up a hand to interrupt T-bone. “I’m sorry, but I’ve got to answer this and then make some calls while I can.”
I answered Deb’s questions in her text. After that, I started through my phone contacts, diligently making lists on the back of an envelope found in the depths of my purse. I stayed calm, but my mind reeled with everything that needed to be done. I made call after call, looking up only to give an occasional driving instruction to the thankfully silent T-bone.
Thirty minutes later, we were twenty-five miles south of the Twin Cities on Hwy 52. The turn off for the farm was at 180th Street, a strange name for a graveled country road. I own the land on either side of the road for the next nine miles due east. After a few miles, I had T-bone stop. He peered out his side window to the north while I used a remote to open the metal gates barring access to the private road partially bisecting this southern half of my land.
“What’s that lit up way over there across those fields? It looks like the dark side of the moon.”
“Close. That’s King Quarry.”
He hummed speculatively. “Like Acadia King Quarry? Like the whistle blowin’ Flintstone’s quarry?”
I chuckled. “Yep. My husband’s family started the quarry in the late 1800s. It’s like the Flintstones, although we quarry Sioux quartzite and not gravel.”
He turned partially around, brows drawn. “Husband?”
“He’s dead.” I met his eyes levelly.
He relaxed and nodded sympathetically, but then asked curiously, “Why you got a gate across this road and a little guard house? It seems there’s nothin’ around here but this here road and fields.”
“I host big events on my property throughout the year. The gate helps with crowd control and parking. That’s not a guard house, but an admissions booth.”
We drove quietly again until a quarter mile later when we stopped at a crossroads and another gate barred the way further south. This was a taller, much fancier wrought iron gate with a scrolling K monogram. The high boulder walls on either side of the gate were lit with spotlights and so was the sign reading, “King Farm, est.1862.”
T-bone whistled and Ray Dean called from the back, “Hey, Acadia King, you some kind of queen or somethin’?”
I twirled a hand beauty-pageant style. “Please, Your Uppity Bitch Majesty works just fine for me.”
We all chuckled while I opened the iron gates and T-bone steered the bus up the wide, paved drive. The drive was bordered on either side with boulder walls, too, but they were lower than the walls fronting the road. The shuttle’s headlights flashed on tall, arched branches of trees that overhung the road from high above.
During the day, the ride along the lane through the forest of colorful ash, maples, quaking aspen, birch, and evergreens was cool and beautiful. At night, even moonbeams couldn’t penetrate the thick canopy overhead. It made the dark night even darker and was a little spooky when you walked or drove it alone.
After traveling up the dark road, it was startling to drive abruptly out of the woods and see King House squatting front and center on a gentle rise beyond the wrought iron fence and an acre of open grass.
Slowly driving on the lane alongside the tall fence, the men and Barbara gawked at the house. Then T-bone and Ray-Dean really started in with the royalty jokes.
“That is one evil-lookin’ pad. Who was your dead husband again? King Dracula?”
Aesthetically, I agreed with T-bone’s last exclamation on the exterior of King House. Even a multitude of windows cheerfully glowing with lamplight didn’t prevent the house from looking oppressively foreboding. I still flicked his cheek, hard, for being an insensitive ass about my husband, and smiled when he yelled, “Ow!”
I also agreed with Babs that the three-storied tower on the corner was awesome. I always thought it looked just like a giant rook chess piece stuck onto the house, complete with the crenellated wall circling the tower’s roof.
“I don’t know ‘bout that, looks like a big Lego to me!” Ray Dean called out.
We were still laughing when T-bone drove around to the rear of the house to park the bus out of sight in the large garage not too far from the back entrance of the kitchen wing.
Rod Ramaldi nixed our light moment when he groggily demanded, “Where the hell are we? What happened to my head?”
That was my cue. I jumped up and exited the bus first while calling over my shoulder, “Come on in, everybody!”
Ray Dean’s joyful voice could be heard for miles through the open bus door. “Ram, my man, you’re awake! Yo, we’re at Queen Acadia King’s farm! Hey, sorry about the head. I guess I nailed you a good one when we were beatin’ on that pusbag zombie that ate little Betsy.”
“What the…? Who? Where am I?”
“You know, Acadia, that blondie chick from the bar…”
“Aca…you mean Mary?”
> “Mary? Sheeit, Ram’s brains are all scrambled; he’s got his dang women mixed up. I told you we were gonna get in trouble, T-bone!”
The last I heard before dashing into the welcoming warmth of the kitchen at King House was Ray Dean, Barbara, and T-bone all talking at once to their groaning friend Ram.
Salty was as good as his word. Rex was in the barn. My girlfriends, Quinn, the three Canadian brothers, my cousin Sean, Robert, and Bobby all were busy around the long kitchen table. Only my Uncle Coop was still missing. The brothers had a laptop and their phones out. The TV was blaring. Steaming coffee cups sat on the table in front of them, along with 2-liter bottles of Coke and family-sized bags of cheesy puffs.
“Nothing yet, Acadia…” Salty’s voice trailed off when he glanced over from the TV.
As everyone stared at me in stupefaction, I noticed most of their eyes were bloodshot. “My God, somebody pass around the Visine!”
Quinn was the first to speak, her eyes incredulous. “Is that really you, Aunt Acadia?”
I had actually forgotten about how I was dressed up. “Hi, Quinn. Yes, it’s me alright.
My cousin Sean looked me over even as his grin grew. “Tell me you did not go out looking like that tonight.”
“Oh, didn’t Jane tell you that bloody gore is the new fashion?” I shot back, and chuckled when his smile turned to horror.
They all stood up at once and came over exclaiming, and even Robert’s shifty eyes were curious. The Canadian boys were gazing at me like they’d never seen me before. I felt my face getting hot at all the attention, realizing what a disgusting, slutty mess I must look like.
Deb’s hazel eyes were clear. She would imbibe in a glass of wine or two, but was too straight to ever eat pot brownies. Deb has always been that way while I, on the other hand, used to be much more fun. I’ve been wound progressively tighter since Law’s death. I couldn’t remember the last time I had a good time. Seeing the frown lines of worry wrinkle Deb’s forehead, it hit me that it could do us both a world of good to get rip roaring, falling down drunk.
