by Jason Offutt
“Well,” Lacy said. “How about that baseball stadium?”
Terry pulled a brochure from his back pocket and unfolded it. “This was once the spring training facility for the Pittsburgh Pirates.” He flipped a fillet with a wooden handled spatula. “The original stadium was destroyed in a flood in the 1930s. Hall of Fame shortstop Honus Wagner used to play here and fish right in that river.”
“That’s what I’m going to name my first baby,” Jenna said. “Honus.”
Terry started scooping grilled fish onto paper plates and passed them around the circle. “The brochure said Babe Ruth played here once, too.”
“There’s another name for you,” Nikki said. “Babe.”
“Totally.”
Doug opened a beer, his seventh this afternoon. His head floated on a bed of alcohol, just like at a family cookout back home. He hadn’t thought of his dad or his sister for months; they were probably all dead anyway. “What do you guys think of this town?” he asked through a slight slur.
Jenna dropped a spoonful of potato salad on her paper plate next to the fish; she shook the spoon to break off a potato stuck to the plastic silverware. “I don’t think there are many zombies.”
“We don’t know that yet.” It was Lacy, sitting on the tailgate, a beer between her knees. “They could be everywhere for all we know.”
“But there aren’t any birds,” Nikki said. “Those big black ones. I think that’s a good sign.”
Yes, it was. Where ever they’d seen zombies since they’d escaped the Community, they’d seen those fat black crows, clouds of them. Doug took a long drink of Budweiser. They were close enough to St. Louis for Anheuser-Busch products to dominate the shelves of the Tobacco Shack. He pulled down the beer and smiled; this was it. Home.
“I’m ready to stay here,” he said. “At least until next spring. Maybe if we ride out the winter here, whoever’s still in charge will have fixed things by then.”
Terry eased himself into the open camp chair, a small piece of fish on his plate. His stomach hurt. The news reports leading up to the Falling were a bit light on early symptoms, just the ones right before their chests exploded. Bloody nose and screaming pain. It’s just nerves. It’s Tom Murphy’s fault. It’s all his fault. Of course, the news probably did tell most people. Terry knew he was probably just too busy playing video games.
“I’m good here,” he said, Tom Murphy’s slack face stared at him; it stared right at him and didn’t react. “If we can find a couple of generators we won’t even have to move out of the motel.” He glanced down at his plate; he didn’t want his fish anymore.
Doug turned to the pickup. “We just want to be together,” Lacy said, wrapping her arms around Walter’s shoulder. Jesus Christ, what is she? In high school?
He finished his beer and dropped the empty can to the ground. It rattled against gravel the park’s grass had already started to reclaim. “Excellent.” He blinked hard. Probably one more will put me down for the night. He plucked another from what was left of the six-pack at his feet and cracked it open. “So it’s agreed. We’re new residents of Dawson’s Creek.”
“Springs, dude,” Terry said. “Dawson Springs.”
Yeah, he’s right. “Ha. Dawson Springs.” Doug raised his beer, his smile fading from his stubbly face. What he had to say next wasn’t going to go over well. “I’m going to Dyersburg,” he said. “Tomorrow. All by myself.”
“What?” Jenna snapped, her voice sharp and loud.
“Whoa.” Terry sat his plate on the ground, hoping no one noticed he didn’t touch his food. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, boss.”
“Damn straight.” Jenna got out of her chair and stood in front of Doug. “I don’t know what’s going through your head, but whatever it is needs to stop. We’re safe here, you’re not going off on some half-assed, half-assed.” She stopped, words fumbling in her mouth. “Half-assed man-stupid dangerquest. I need you here.”
Doug raised his hands, palm first, to Jenna. “Honey, honey, everything’s okay. I looked at a roadmap. It’s two hours from here. I’ll get up, eat breakfast and be home by lunch.”
“Why Dyersburg?” Walter asked. “What’s there?”
“A fence,” Terry said. “The government built a fence across the southern United States and it goes through Dyersburg. We met a Canadian soldier who told us there were people there, some kind of a stronghold.”
“And if I don’t go, it will make me crazy.” Doug held his beer in both hands, looking up at Jenna with watery eyes.
She frowned. “You’re drunk.”
He nodded. “I know, but I came up with this plan when I was sober. I’m going, honey. I have to. I really have to.” He patted her hand. “I’ll be okay.”
“But,” Jenna started, but Terry interrupted.
“He’ll be okay because I’m going with him.”
“No,” Nikki spat. “Have you two lost your goddamned minds? We have to stick together.”
“We will, babe,” Terry said. “As soon as we get home tomorrow at noon.”
“Count me in,” Walter said. “I can help. I’ve been to Dyersburg. My aunt lives there. Well, she lived there.”
Lacy threw her arms around his shoulders, tears already starting.
“So you three men are just going to leave us here by ourselves?” Nikki was standing now, her arms crossed tightly across her chest.
“You forget,” Doug said. “We all saw you swing that baseball bat. You girls can take care of yourselves.”
“You are all fucking idiots,” Jenna screamed and turned away from Doug. He didn’t see her face, but Terry did. Doug probably thought she was crying and turned to wipe tears from her eyes, but it wasn’t her eyes that leaked. She pulled at her nose with the index finger and thumb of her right hand. It was bleeding.
August 3: Dyersburg, Tennessee
Chapter 21
They drove in silence. Calvert City, Benton and Mayfield, all dead, at least from the highway as the Prius drove by; no movement at all. Doug wanted to honk, just to see if there was life anywhere other than in the cab of this Japanese hybrid car, but he kept his hands at ten and two. The Prius used hardly any gas, but if he woke something evil – something living – this car wasn’t going to outrun anyone. The highway ran through green, gently sloping hills, farmland showing in patches between stretches of forest. Few abandoned vehicles dotted the highways of Western Kentucky. The people here were either better prepared than they were in Missouri and Nebraska, or they all died at home. A green highway sign riddled with bullet holes read “Fulton – Twenty-two miles; Dyersburg, TN – 74 miles.” It disappeared behind them as fast as it came.
“We’re halfway there, dude,” Terry said. Doug thought his friend had been asleep in the passenger seat; maybe he had been. “You still sure about this?”
Sure? Hell, no. I’m not sure. “I’m not sure about anything anymore. I just know I have to see if the government is still around. If anybody’s found a cure for this thing, that’s where we’ll find it.”
“You mean a cure for me and Jenna?”
My best friend and my girlfriend. I killed both of you. I’m sorry, Terry. I’m so sorry. I can’t stop looking. I just can’t. “Yes.”
Terry stared out the window; cumulus clouds dotted the bright, blue sky like cotton balls glued to a kindergarten art project. “It’s not your fault, Doug. You need to stop pretending like it was.”
“But I–”
“Cut the shit. You didn’t make any of us go with you, we all chose to. We’re all grownups and could have bailed on you at any time, but–” Terry turned back toward Doug. “But we didn’t. You didn’t give us the Ophiocordon, some asshole did. Now get your shit together. Don’t bail on us.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean this. We go back now and everybody will be happy.”
Abandoning Dyersburg meant abandoning hope. Doug shook his head. “I can’t, Terry.”
“Then put your foot i
nto it. I miss Nikki already.”
***
Walter leaned into the front, his chin almost resting on the back of the bucket seats. “I miss French fries. Greasy French fries pulled out of a stainless-steel fryer by a kid with pimples, then covered in salt and served in a cardboard bucket.”
Terry grunted. “Oh, God, what I wouldn’t give for a basket of Sonic fries. But me, I guess I miss my Xbox the most.” He popped Doug on his bicep. “How ‘bout you, boss?”
What did I miss? Mowing the lawn? Opening my muffler shop in the morning? Watching “Archer”? Running water? “Baseball on the radio. I miss turning on the radio and listening to the Royals lose.”
“Boss, that may be the most boring thing you could have said.”
Walter sat back and laughed.
The road never changed, just asphalt, trees and weeds. The last sign read, “Dyersburg – Five miles.” If this town was a haven, a hub of activity, Doug figured they should have seen something different, something busy. Military Humvees, helicopters, caravans of civilians looking for shelter, anything; but the stillness of U.S. 51 remained a constant.
Terry pointed to an exit ahead. “Take Business 51.”
“What good’s that going to do?”
Walter leaned back into the front seat. “It takes you right downtown. The railroad tracks are close to there.”
The railroad. Lying in the grass with a zombie clawing its way toward his chest, the Canadian soldier Oliver told them the train was going to Dyersburg. “People are gathering there.” Like hell they were.
The town looked deserted. Blank houses and storefronts stared at the Prius as it cruised slowly through town, windows down. The streets were silent as they were vacant.
“How big’s this town?” Terry asked, his hand out the window, making an airplane.
“About 17,000 people,” Walter said.
“You think there’d be somebody here, right? I mean, somebody probably lived.”
Maybe they were smart and got out. Doug stopped the car and listened, the electric motor of the Prius silent in the morning. “I don’t hear a thing. Maybe that Canadian soldier was messing with us.” But he wasn’t. People gathered here, but they were gone now. “Which way are the railroad tracks?”
Walter pointed south on Main Avenue. “Just go down to East Court Street. It goes right to them.”
They never made it that far.
Military vehicles, Humvees and Bradley fighting vehicles were scattered over downtown Dyersburg. Bodies of soldiers, hundreds of them, lay strewn across the blood-streaked pavement, the remains of thousands of zombies were piled high. Crows covered the bodies like flies, pecking, tearing flesh off humans and zombies alike. Dear God. A tank with a red maple leaf painted on the side had crashed into the wall of a bank. The train made it here. Fat fucking lot of good that did.
Doug drove through the bodies, the path a maze. “They were here,” he said, his voice trailing. “But they lost.” He tried to swallow, but it caught in his dry throat. “We lost.” The Fence Andi had told them about, the Fence that split the country in two, lay on East Court Street in twisted wreckage. The monsters had come through. They were here, but where are they? Where the fuck are they?
“Stop the car, boss.” Terry’s voice was urgent. He grabbed the steering wheel. “Stop the goddamned car.”
Doug pushed the brake pedal and slipped the transmission into park. “What’s going on?”
“Oh, shit,” Walter whispered, but Terry was already out of the car. Doug and Walter followed. They’d found the residents of Dyersburg.
Animate rotting corpses stood swaying in a factory parking lot on the south side of the Fence. A thousand human monsters, maybe 2,000, maybe 5,000, filled the lot; their cumulative moan the soundtrack to madness. A blanket of those damnable black birds roosted on the factory roof, the roof of the Citgo Food Mart that sat at the edge of the parking lot and on a tanker truck parked next to the pumps. The hoses were still in place; the driver dead; he never got a chance to unload.
“This is bad,” Walter said. “This is real bad.”
No shit.
“There are so many of them,” Doug said. “It looks like the Fields of Asphodel.”
Walter turned toward Doug. “What’s that?”
“In Greek mythology,” Doug spoke absently. “It was a place in the underworld where the souls of normal people went, people who didn’t do bad things, but didn’t do great things. They just stood forever in mediocrity, waiting.”
“Sounds boring,” Walter said.
“Boring as shit.” Terry slapped Walter’s back. “Doug, turn this car around and get ready to book it.” He took a step toward the fence.
“What are you doing?”
Terry stopped and looked back. “Something stupid.”
***
He couldn’t believe Doug let him go that easily. That wasn’t like him. When Terry told Doug he was going to travel the Midwest with these migrant workers he got drunk with, Doug offered him a job and stability. Doug always bailed out Terry’s ass, but Doug wasn’t Doug anymore. He was beaten. It was Terry’s turn.
Terry stepped over the destroyed chain-link fence, wincing at a slight jingle, but the hoard of waving bodies didn’t move. They didn’t even notice him. Tom Murphy wasn’t blind and neither were they. I’m not a threat. I’m not dinner. I’m just part of the big old happy family. He broke into a jog and stopped at the Citgo tanker. Doug had already turned the Prius around. Good. Terry turned to the tanker and tried to remember back to high school.
Doug was the reason he got his second job, but Debbie Pimberton was the reason he got his first. Sweet Debbie Pimberton who wore her long blond hair in a ponytail when she worked at Casey’s General Store making pizzas, a piece of chewing gum in her mouth, always Extra wintergreen. Terry wanted to taste that gum on her breath, but he couldn’t talk around her. Every time was like–
“You going to buy something, or what?” Casey’s manager Maude Stapleton asked, snapping Terry out of a Debbie-tight-shirt trance. Maude was a big woman who filled the space behind the cash register like Jabba the Hutt.
No, I’m not going to buy anything. “I’m here to–” Fuck if I know what I’m here to do. Debbie looked at teenaged Terry from behind the pizza counter and smiled. She smiled.
“You’re here to what?” Maude didn’t lean across the counter, she couldn’t. That would take physics that hadn’t been invented yet. But to Terry she loomed like a Sasquatch. He hated Sasquatch.
Terry smiled back at Debbie. It was simple math. Debbie worked at Casey’s. If I worked at Casey’s, I’d see Debbie more and, and, and what, dumbass?
“Well?” Maude bellowed.
I don’t know.
“I’d like to fill out an application.”
Maude shrugged and pulled one out of a folder next to the cash register. “Here,” she said, shoving it at him. “And spell your name right.”
Debbie’s family moved a week later, but Terry got the job and watched the gas guy fill the underground tanks every time.
He looked at the parking lot of zombies Doug had called something fancy. The Fields of Ass Models or something. The zombies hadn’t noticed Doug and Walter either, maybe the Prius was too far for their cataract-glazed eyes to see. Just stay put, guys. Terry fumbled with the vapor recovery line, but got it open. He wasn’t sure if he needed it open, but he was sure he didn’t give a rat’s ass if gasoline fumes escaped into the atmosphere. There were so many more things to worry about, like feeding the hungry and balancing the federal budget. Ha. Something scraped. Terry’s head jerked forward; a zombie had taken a step from the pack. It stood about twenty feet away, looking at him, its head cocked like a curious dog.
“Move along, nothing to see here, pal,” Terry whispered as he worked.
The thing shifted its weight back and forth as it stared in Terry’s direction. But is it looking at me? He unlatched the hose from the tanker and pulled. It dropped onto the parking lot. T
he zombie moved forward another step; a crow atop the tanker cawed. Terry slowly dragged the hose as far from the truck as he could before laying it on the ground about ten feet from the monster, his hands shaking. The brass valve fitting slipped from his weak grip and dinged off the parking lot. Terry winced at the noise and froze. The zombie didn’t move.
The parking lot sloped downward, toward the mass of swaying bodies. Thank God for the Tennessee hills. He lay the hose on the asphalt, slowly walked back to the truck and reached toward the delivery valve. The first zombie was ten feet away, the next thousand were twenty, a tanker full of fuel was right behind him and a fistful of motel matchbooks made a bulge in his front pocket. His hands began to shake as he stared at the dead that had ripped apart an army from two countries. How am I going to light this without killing myself? He looked back at the truck, the tanker, a silver bomb shining in the morning light, loomed large over him. Terry boy, you didn’t think this through. The zombie in front of Terry moaned. Fuck it.
He released the valve. Gravity pushed and 1,100 gallons of 93-octane premium gushed from the hose, the gurgling liquid spread out quickly, rushing downhill toward those dead fuckers. Terry took a few steps back and watched the gasoline spread. It would reach them in–
Something bumped into his shoulder, sending him off balance. Crows squawked and took flight, their black, greasy wings beating the air over his head. Terry caught the side of the tanker and turned. His bladder let go, the warm liquid streamed down his right leg. A zombie had bumped him, its flesh hanging off its arms in strings, the thing more bone than meat. It didn’t see me. Another walked by. Terry turned; a line of them came from behind the Citgo station and crowded past him. Where the hell are they going? But he saw, first toward the noise from the metal valve hitting the pavement, now toward the rushing liquid. Terry smiled. This is going to work. The gasoline reached the first zombie, then began to soak over the feet of thousands beyond.
