by Thom Erb
Main Street,
Downtown Arcadia Falls, New York.
The opening lines of Hank Williams Junior's “A Country Boy Can Survive” blared out from a battered, humongous mud-covered 4X4 truck, and other vehicles sat behind it. Warren could barely make out the worn writing on the door of the truck: DeRueter Farms, Inc. Attached to the truck was a rusty cattle trailer that rocked back and forth. Warren noticed they had parked each truck and trailer strategically behind his pickup, blocking the only route of escape.
Warren still heard the laughter, but another disturbing sound washed over it. He took a few cautious steps and looked at the trailer. He gasped. Inside the trailer, moans and screams could be heard. Ungodly cries of suffering and pain filtered through the rain, and the truck shook with each baying of agony and sadness. Pale-bluish limbs thrust violently through the metal sides of the truck. Blood covered all sides of the vehicle as the zombies sought freedom from their metallic prison. Getting out of the trucks, were several other figures touting guns and hooting laughter.
A big man, as wide as he was tall, wearing yellow hip-waders and a stained wife-beater, hopped out of the passenger side of the truck, shoved the butt of his shotgun through one of the slats in the truck and sent an undead female to the floor with a thud.
“Shut the hell up,” the burly farmer yelled, followed by a pull from the Jack Daniels bottle. The hairy man laughed and walked toward Warren.
Another man stepped forward and blocked the headlights from Warren’s truck. He stood much taller and lankier than the burly guy waddling toward him. The stench of body odor and alcohol hung heavily in the air.
Warren gripped the shotgun tight as the burly farmer smashed the driver side window, yanked the door open, and fought off Maico, who snapped and barked. The redneck paid no mind, grabbed the dog's collar and pulled him out into the rain-soaked street.
“Well, well, well,” a deep, crackling voice came from the silhouetted figure before Warren. “What have we got here?” he stepped forward, and Warren saw it was the oldest of the local farming family’s sons. Wilbur DeRueter.
The common consensus of the Arcadia Falls townsfolk was that he was a first-class redneck asshole who came from a long line of assholes. But they were farmers, and with farming being the bread and butter of the entire county, nearly almost any sin could be forgiven. The DeRueters, and many other wealthy farming families, took full advantage of such a muck-slicked-golden ticket.
“Hey, Rocky, we got ourselves that fat-ass Brennan kid.” Wilbur DeRueter chuckled. He spat a brownish glob onto the soaked pavement, and it mixed with the rain.
“Oh yeah?” Rocky DeRueter walked to the driver side of Warren’s truck and snatched the keys. The burly farmer shook the keys and laughed. “Well, I reckon he must be lost er somethin’.” The voice drew closer as the much shorter and heavier figure came into view. “But I’m thinkin’ he won’t be goin’ anywhere now.” He finished with a chuckle. His double chin shook well after he stopped talking.
“Hey, guys, it’s good to see you.” Warren spoke with his voice shaking with nerves. He took a step back, shielding his eyes from the blinding headlights. He saw Maico being pinned to the ground by one of the rednecks. Their leader, Wilbur DeRueter, stood between Warren's Chevy and the rednecks’ trucks. Warren was surrounded. He cringed when he saw Maico laying on the blacktop, relieved to see his belly rise and fall.
“What ya doin’ in our town?” Wilbur spat another dark wad to the ground. His hands were on his hips, and he reached up and adjusted his worn Farm-all hat on his mulleted-head. The grease shone brightly in the flashes of lighting that now came more frequently.
“Hey, uh...I was thinkin’, this pooch could be some good eats, whaddya think?” Rocky asked, looking down at the whimpering dog, licked his thick lips, and rubbed his rotund belly.
Wilbur ignored his brother's request and said, “Well, fat boy, first off, you won’t be needin' that shotgun ya got there.” He drew closer and Warren saw the sawed-off shotgun aimed at his pounding chest. “So, ya might wanna just drop it on the ground there and step back.” His blackened, jack-o-lantern grin warned Warren as Wilbur quickly reached out for Warren’s gun.
Hank Williams Jr. continued to sing, and thunder and lightning joined the horrid song.
“Sorry, but, what he—” Warren stepped forward, and the tall redneck thrust the barrel of the shotgun into Warren's chest. Warren stopped, ignoring the pain.
“Sorry don't feed the bulldog, son. Ya see, me and Rocky here, well, we own this here town now. Hell, maybe even all of Wayne County, and we can't be having your chubby ass ramming the roads with all these sick chompin' bastards out here, now can we?” Wilbur's one good tooth seemed to glow in the stormy night.
“Your town?” Warren fought to keep his words from coming out in a whimper.
Wilbur leaned down into Warren’s face, and the rotting dead smelled better that the foul stench of the big redneck's mouth. Warren turned his head, holding his breath.
“Yes, fat ass. It's our town now.” Wilbur purposefully added extra breath into the last syllable and smiled. “After the cops hightailed it, and most of the town folk left, it was left to me and Rocky here. We're out here riskin' our hides to clean up this town. Hell knows, lazy pussies like you ain't gonna go out and kill the meat chompers.”
“We're some bad ass zombie hunters.” Rocky looked straight into Warren's eyes, running his sausage-like grimy fingers through Maico's fur. Warren felt the rage slowly rising and he clenched tightly around his shotgun.
“Hey, I'm sure you guys are doin' a bang-up job. We'll be going now if y—”Warren felt the metal of the barrel gouge deeper into his chest. Wilbur leaned harder, with all his weight and leverage.
“Nah, Nah. That ain't the way it's gonna go down, peckerhead. See, we're gonna take you and all your shit here back to the compound where you will be safe as a chunky bug in a rug. Ya, follow me?” The man was close enough for Warren to tell what the redneck had for lunch. He fought it, but finally had to turn his face away from the septic tank-like breath.
“What about the dog?” Rocky asked again.
Warren knew they had to get the hell out of there, and seeing that hairy, woodchuck's strong grip around Maico's neck was just about all he could bear. Something must be done.
“What's with the fleshies in the trailer?” Warren nodded toward the rocking rust-bucket, trying to change the subject and distract the brothers. He paused and thought about not speaking his next thought, but the sight of the muck-covered farmer pulling a knife from his belt sent him pin wheeling over the edge. He heard the words he said but wasn't sure he was cognizant.
“...your family reunion?” Warren saw the big man's eyes widen to the size of dinner plates at his words. Then his face exploded in a nightmare of pain.
27.
Stand Up and Shout
Arcadia Falls Elementary School.
Art Room-Second Floor.
Arcadia Falls, New York.
“Holy crow. Did you hear that?” Dexter Lee peered through the small space between the wall of stacked desks and shelving in front of the windows. He brushed aside his long brown hair and scoured the parking lot. “I swear I heard some music.”
“Maybe it's Jack. You know how he's always singing stupid crap,” Arnie VanLaken said, rushing to the window.
“Nah. Give it up, guys, He ain't coming back. He's been gone too long.” Frank Tyler grunted while doing push-ups.
Dexter turned back to the dark room. Many hard weeks were spent in the art room since everything went to hell, and he and Barry escaped their apartment and found themselves at the school. They were all beat as hell and running out of food.
“Hey, man, you don't know that. For all we know, that slick bastard could have sneaked home, grabbed his dad's RV and all his hunting gear, and headed back here for us,” Arnie said, all the while nodding and looking hopefully out a small slit in the window.
Dex joined Arnie and said, �
�He's right, guys. Jack's pretty damn resourceful. Hell, he did save us from those DeRueter clowns, after all. He knows this town better than all of us. So, let's try and keep positive, okay.” Deep down, he knew their friend had been gone a long time, and the odds weren't in Jack's favor. But Dex believed in keeping up a good front. It was all they had left.
“Screw `em.” A voice came from the shadows.
Dex shook his shaggy-haired head. “Hell, no, man. We can't think that way.” He heard his words, and even he knew they came out more as a pep-talk than a pragmatic statement.
“Jack could be coming back any minute. If he does, we can boogie the hell out of this Romero-flick from Hell and head to the Adirondacks and find us a mountain to party on.” Dex smiled and looked back through the spot in front of the windows.
“You're an idiot, brother. He's dead. Jack's dead. They're all dead. It's only a matter of time before you're all dead, too, and I sure as shit ain't going to let you get me killed. So, just sit fucking tight and let the adults figure this shit out.” Barry Lee stepped from the shadows, his skin taught and pale. A pistol hung loosely in his thin hand at his side, with another in the waistband of his jeans. It was Frank’s pistol. The one the paranoid elder-Lee brother took from him when they got to the art room.
Dex turned to look at Arnie and Frank. Arnie turned his gaze back out the window, and Frank's knuckles turned white as the big kid glared at Dex's older brother.
“Chill, man. Just chill. I say we wait a bit before we do anything. I swear I heard something out there in the parking lot. It could be Jack, and hell, even if it's not, it still might be someone who can help us get out of here. Right?” Dex offered, doing all he could to calm his brother's itchy trigger finger.
Dex had spent his entire life trying to keep his brother together, and he knew the rope was about to slip out from his control.
The sound of shouting and music blared from the parking lot below.
Dex smiled and prayed for a single snippet of hope.
28.
Hair of the Dog
The Store-
Main Street.
Downtown Arcadia Falls, New York.
Warren heard himself scream. The familiar wave of heat overtook him, and he took advantage of the opportunity. He smashed the walnut stock of his shotgun into Wilbur DeRueter's unsuspecting hairy chin. The farmer fell to the ground and grabbed his bleeding face, and slammed against the truck’s snowplow blade. The jolting blow knocked the shotgun from his shaking hands and Warren didn’t want to leave it behind, but knew he didn’t have time to catch it, so he fled. The sky above them lit up, and the thunder shook the street.
Warren looked northward down Main Street, whistled, pointed, and started running. Maico rose in response, shaking his head, and raced after his master, who now headed toward the intersection of Main and Buffalo. The rain came down harder, and mud puddles littered their way as they ran hell bent toward the Arcadia Falls Elementary School. When they reached the enormous maple tree that marked the beginning of the school property, Warren stopped, fighting to catch his breath. Warren looked back to see the DeRueter brothers pointing at him. The older brother shouted orders filled with a multitude of colorful expletives. Shortly after that, the roar of eight cylinders pounded through the vacant town. One of them was Warrens' Dad's truck.
He ran northward, down the soaking wet street and the cold winds from Lake Ontario, fighting them every step of the way. The headlights from the enormous mud runners swiftly turned up Main Street and shone on them.
Warren didn’t know where he was going. His lungs burned and his shins felt aflame with pain that raced into his thighs. His heart felt like it would burst, but he knew he had to keep going. Maico outpaced him and raced toward the doors of the brick school that lay silently on his left. He knew the school well, but the rain smeared his glasses, and he could hardly breathe his mind a blur.
Running out of breath, Warren reached the first white double door of the school.
It was locked and refused entry. Cursing into the cold night, he ran to the next doorway, and it, too, was locked.
The shimmering headlights spotlighted him as the whining engines raced down the street.
Some country song blasted from the lead truck as it gained on Warren. The blinding light was gone but the intensity of the storm only grew worse. Hoots and hollers filled the rain-soaked air, and laughter mixed with the crashing of thunder.
Warren forced himself down the sidewalk, splashing cold rain followed, and the soaking wet dog was not far behind. Forcing himself to move, his extra weight did him no favors but he didn’t stop. He realized that dying from a heart attack would be a better end than what those dirty rednecks had to offer.
“Try the doors...in the back parking lot, dumb ass,” Warren chastised himself and held his side in pain, finally reaching the end of the building and turning left toward the large parking lot. The rain grew colder, and the mustard tint filled the air. He ran as fast as he could manage.
At the corner, Warren spotted a set of green double doors across the way, and he hoped that they were open. If not, they were done for.
He pushed on. Every part of his body ached. He pumped his fleshy arms as he ran. Searing pain filled every inch of his three hundred pound body. The music blared through the parking lot of the school, and the downpour pulsed along with the music. The trucks spun toward the green doors and took aim at Warren. An easy target assumption on his part, only tauntingly accentuated as George Jones played over the tape deck.
He thought he saw movement in one of the second-floor windows but pushed himself onward, something standing in the doorway, but just a black outline in the glare of the truck's headlights. Maico ran back and forth in the doorway, and his bark bounced off the bricks of the school.
Warren sucked in the damp air, forced his lungs to work, and willed his legs to keep moving as he splashed his way across the empty parking lot. Lightning lit the brick facade of the school as Warren smashed into the doors with a loud clang, his hands frantically seeking purchase on the cold handles.
Thanking God or anyone who was left out there, the doors clunked open freely, and he tumbled into the dark entryway. Maico let out a happy bark, went to his master, and proceeded to welcome him. Warren collapsed on the cold tile and the heavy metal doors slammed shut behind him. The only sound in the hallway was Warren who sought for life-giving air, sucked in loudly, and the ceramic tiles resounded with his lungs’ calls.
29.
Lightning Strikes Again
Town of Arcadia Falls Cemetery
Housel Mausoleum.
Arcadia Falls, New York.
Lightning flashed and searing pain filled Elton Habersham’s body as he landed with a thud on the muddy ground. A solemn, intricately-carved concrete angel observed him impassively, with its cherub-like face illuminated by the harsh light of the raging maelstrom walloping Arcadia Falls Cemetery. Its moss-covered wings cast a bleak shadow upon the shivering keeper, who lay in a fetal position. Thick mud and soggy clumps did little to cushion the concussive brunt of the landing, and his soaked body shook with chills.
“Well, that was a doozy, it was.” Elton groaned, leaned against the large mausoleum, and prayed for the bone-aching pain to fade. Darkness and cold rain surrounded him on all sides. That and the sea of gravestones and mausoleums.
The teleportation spell, while convenient, had its drawbacks. He could feel his soul-essence weakened, and it would take some time before he could use such magic again. Hopefully, he wouldn’t have to. When using a nexus point, a keeper can teleport without much mana expenditure, but in a pinch, any holy ground will act as a satellite nexus.
Elton pulled himself up from the soggy earth, every bone in his body splintered with a slow, burning agony. Shaking savagely from the dampness, he took refuge under a huge oak tree and reconnoitered the darkened graveyard
“Let's see, what we see, shall we?” he said to the old oak. From his vantage point, he saw a
n all white building with a sign that read Arcadia Falls Cold Storage. Next to it was another large building that seemed to be a garage. Several long yellow school buses sat woefully in darkness next to the building. Off to his right lay a vast green field, once used for soccer and baseball, now left for nature and the roaming undead to recapture. Waist high weeds, wildflowers, and zombies now held dominion over chalk lines and finely-cropped ball diamonds. Beyond the fields lay the Arcadia Falls Elementary School. A tall, C-shaped, three-story, red brick building. A playground sat at the bottom of the driveway, waited impatiently for young children to come and play among its array of treasures: swing sets, see-saws, monkey bars, a caterpillar that was meant for crawling upon, and a sandbox. They emptiness marked the end of all that was normal in Arcadia Falls.
The entirety of loss washed over the middle-aged Keeper and climbed deep inside him, and Elton knew the cruel monster certainly would demand attention at a later date.
He sipped from the flask and watched the yellow haze roll and twist with the wind across the fields and schoolyard.
Looking up at the large letters carved into the marble lintel, of the mausoleum beside him, Elton read the name and bowed, saying a quick prayer.
“I thank you for your service and magical guidance, Keeper Housel. May you rest peacefully in the golden Aether.” Elton gently touched the wrought iron gates and a small bluish-white glow emanated through the old stained-glass windows.
Elton smiled, pulled his wide hat down over his eyes, and fled the cover of the cemetery, then slid down a steep hill into a chain-link fence. When he reached the edge of the rain-drenched soccer field, he sensed he wasn’t alone. This wasn't an unfamiliar feeling for the keeper, but it always unnerved him, nonetheless.
The fence ran the entire perimeter of the soccer field in both directions, and Elton huffed and kicked at the fence.
“Well, good sir, looks like there's no getting out of this one, you lucky sod, you.” Elton blew out a lungful of air as he estimated the top of the fence to be roughly eight feet off of the ground. He shook his head. “I knew I should have paid closer attention in ‘Climbing Bloody Fences class.’”
