Mainly because something was up.
“What’s going on, Lieutenant?” Bulldog asked as he approached.
“Call me Greg,” Pitts answered, not looking up and trying to keep his voice steady. “I told you that a million fucking times already.”
“That isn’t protocol, Lieutenant,” said Bulldog. “Doesn’t follow the chain of command.”
Pitts sighed. That was the other thing about Bulldog that made him uneasy—the guy was a stickler for the rules, even if those rules were made up.
“Fine.”
“You didn’t answer my question though, sir.”
“Eh?”
“What’re you doing?”
Greg straightened up, threw the wet rag over his shoulder, and faced his inquisitor. “I’m just cleaning up my ride,” he said. “She got a little dirty, y’know?”
“At six-thirty in the morning?”
Shrugging, Pitts replied, “Hey, early to rise, right?”
“I never see you before ten.”
“Then you’re not paying attention.”
He’d let a whisker of derision enter his tone, and Greg took a deep breath to squash it. He didn’t want to get into a confrontation—not here, not with this man, not before he made his getaway.
He took the rag off his shoulder, tossed it through the cab’s open window, and then went about removing the apron he’d been wearing to avoid getting his clothes dirty. He didn’t pack anything, not even so much as a travel case with deodorant and a toothbrush. Doing that would make him look suspicious, and that’s the last way he wanted to appear.
“Listen, Bulldog,” he said. “Truth is I couldn’t sleep. I’ve been tossing and turning the whole fucking night. So I thought I’d get up and do something. You know, busy work, maybe take a drive, get my mind off it.”
Bulldog’s head tilted to the side. “Get your mind off of what, sir?”
“Oh, you know,” Pitts said with a chuckle and wave of his hand. “Cody…Sergeant Jackson’s big shindig tonight.”
Bulldog looked at him like he was speaking Swahili.
“You do know about the auction, right?”
“Yes,” replied Bulldog. “But why would that cause you trouble?”
“Dude, you know how long it’s been since I got laid? Half a year, at least. I got a ton of silver and a classic Winchester slide-action I’m gonna put up for bid, so I’m sure to get something. And it makes me nervous.”
“Why?”
Man, this guy’s a social retard. “Because I get scared I won’t…you know…perform as well as I could.”
“Perform?”
“In the sack. Fucking.”
“Oh.”
“You going?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
Bulldog stood there in silence, staring at him and not answering. He then blinked rapidly, shook his head, and offered a salute. “Good day to you, Lieutenant,” he said, his heels thudding together. “And good luck easing your troubles.”
“Uh, sure thing,” Pitts said. Bulldog swiveled on the balls of his feet and walked away. He moved so smoothly that the automatic weapon slung over his shoulder never once bounced. Greg shook his head and blew a puff of air out his nose. “That was fucking weird,” he muttered, and then reached up, opened the door to the plow’s cab, and climbed in. He made sure the AK-47 was hidden well enough behind the driver’s seat before putting on his seatbelt and turning the key.
As he revved the engine and started to pull away, Greg started to second-guess his decision to take this beast of a vehicle instead of something more practical, like the ’83 Ford Explorer he used to drive before the world ended. He mulled it over for a moment, then thought about how many roadblocks the plow blade had easily brushed aside as the SNF made its way north. He was sure to find more of the same on his journey to the coast, since there were always problems with obstructions after an apocalypse.
“Yeah, I’m sticking with you, darlin’,” he said, rubbing the steering wheel with his palm. “Till the end of times.”
Or at least until he found a boat in decent enough condition and got the hell out of dodge.
The streets were pretty much empty at this hour, though there were a few stragglers—soldiers and civilians alike—walking about. Some he could tell were just on their way home after a long night of drinking, their gaits wobbly, their eyes dazed. He even saw one guy puke all over the front porch of a boarded-up sandwich shop. The others were bright-eyed and determined—morning people, gyah—and they waved to him as he passed them by as if he was a one-man parade. It took him a minute to remember that Bathgate had outlawed civilian automobiles in the city proper, meaning it would be assumed that any vehicle on the road was on active duty. It made him shiver and drive just a tad faster. The last thing he needed was for an inquisitive bastard to contact command and ask what sort of business he was conducting that day. “Shit,” he muttered. Bulldog might’ve been doing just that now.
He drove even faster.
Steering the plow onto Nine Mile, he drove more cautiously, watching the sky change colors as the sun emerged from behind a thin layer of clouds. He spotted an ominous black sky in the rear view mirror, far on the horizon. Holy shit, that looks like one bastard of a storm, he thought. Good thing this baby handles like a charm in the rain.
Five minutes later he turned onto route 64. A sign reading JCT 295 THREE MILES passed by to his right. His blood started pumping. He was almost at the end of the line, the point of no return.
A string of automobiles appeared, blocking the road. There were sandbags stacked up in front of them on the side he approached, razor wire and tire spikes on the other. The Nine Mile Checkpoint.
“Showtime.”
He slowed to a crawl, stuck his hand out the window, and waved. The sentinels manning the blockade—there were twelve of them—waved back. Two jumped up and got in a pair of Euro-crap sedans. The engines started and the cars backed away from each other. Three other men began taking down the sandbag wall while another two worked on swinging open the barbed wire gate on the opposite side. Greg’s jaw dropped open and his heart pounded. That feeling of paranoia came over him again. This was too easy.
At the newly opened gate he stopped, even though every part of him wanted to slam the petal to the floor and take off as fast as he could. He rolled down his window as a young soldier he recognized approached, a kid with a shock of blonde hair and crystal blue eyes.
“Hey Lucas,” said Greg. “What’s up?”
“Nothing much,” Lucas replied. “So why you out this far, sir?”
“Oh, just going for a drive. I need some air.”
The kid’s face twitched. “There’s air in the city.”
“Yeah, I know. But I need something…cleaner.”
“Cleaner?”
Greg winked. “You know, away from people. With tonight coming up fast, I gotta…well…get myself ready.” His hand curled into a fist and he made a pumping gesture in the air.
Lucas turned red and smiled. “I get that.”
“So can I go through, or this just a formality? I mean, you already opened the gate and all.”
“Course you can go. In a minute though. Hold on, I’ll be right back.”
With that Lucas jogged away, heading for the Winnebago that served as the checkpoint office. He disappeared inside for a few short minutes, and when he reemerged, there was someone behind him.
Bathgate.
Greg had to bite his tongue to keep from screaming.
The general, wearing freshly pressed fatigues and polished boots, strolled casually up to the plow on the passenger side, opened the door, and climbed in. He bounced on the spring-loaded seat and turned to Greg. The man’s complexion looked strange. His cheeks were rosy, his nose shining. But the weirdest part of all was his mouth. It was turned up in an innocent-looking grin, a type of expression that Greg didn’t think the man was capable of. It scared him.
“Beautiful morning, is i
t not?” Bathgate asked.
Greg nodded. A lump appeared in his throat.
“How about we take that drive?”
“Oh. Okay.”
He pulled through the barricade. Lucas saluted them on their way by. Greg felt close to crying.
The cab was silent for a good hour until they arrived at Newport News. There were surprisingly few obstacles to deal with, and the ones they did come across were easily shoved aside by the massive yellow beast of a machine. The mixed scents of salt water and dead, festering sea life wafted through the open windows. Then the general cleared his throat and said, “Pull over here.” They were maybe two miles from Hampton.
Greg did as he was told, steering the plow toward the shoulder and stopping. He listened to the sea birds caw as Bathgate took a cigar from his pocket and lit it. The man took a pull then exhaled with his mouth in the shape of an O.
“You know, I’ve never been able to make smoke rings,” he said, his voice sounding unusual, almost chipper. “Even in my other life. My wife tried to teach me once, but to no avail.”
“I thought you were never married,” said Greg.
“I think the key is clicking your jaw or something,” Bathgate said. “But it takes practice, and I don’t even really like to smoke. Never have.”
He tossed the cigar out the window, then turned slowly to Pitts.
“Seriously Greg,” he said, his tone serious. “What’s going on here?”
Pitts coughed into his hand. “Whaddayou mean?” He felt like he was going to get sick.
“Don’t play dumb. You can’t hide anything from me. You might as well admit it.”
“I…um…I just…well...”
Bathgate shook his head. “Come on. What kind of monster do you think I am? You’re the best friend I have. Remember the day you saved me from that horde way back when? I owe you. You can be honest with me.”
“Okay.”
“So why are you out here?”
“I’m leaving. The city. The SNF. Everything.”
“Why?”
“I just can’t take it anymore. I wasn’t built for this shit.”
“Really? But you were a Hell’s Angel. I thought you guys were built for trouble?”
“I might’ve overstated my exploits a bit,” Greg said, cringing as he did so.
“Really? You don’t say.” With that, the general let out a guffaw.
Greg chuckled and looked at the man, amazed. “What’s gotten into you, anyway?”
Bathgate beamed. “Let’s just say I had a good night.”
“You and the redhead, eh?”
“Yes. And she is fantastic. Her smells…I’ve never smelled a woman like that before.”
“And she was willing?”
The general seemed to think about it a moment before saying, “Yes.”
Pitts stared, but didn’t say a word. His nerves prickled under his flesh, causing the hairs to rise on the nape of his neck. His fingers came up and instinctively fondled the corner of his mustache. Everything about the conversation—hell, the entire situation—was completely wrong. He couldn’t help but think any minute the guy would whip out a gun and kill him. His hand—the one not stroking his facial hair—inched backward, getting ever nearer to the hidden AK. The only question was whether he could pull it out in time…
“I know what you’re thinking,” sighed Bathgate, and Pitts froze. “You’re wondering how I could just brush off the information that you…exaggerated your history to me.”
“Um, sure.”
“Well, the truth is, I’m not everything I said I am, either.”
Greg’s head tilted to the side, his mind a swirl of conflicting thought.
“My name’s not even Alexander Bathgate,” the general continued. “It’s Terrance. Terrance Graham. I was never in the military, never mind a high-ranking officer, and I’ve never left the mainland. All those stories I told you? Made up using bits and pieces from the tales my brother-in-law used to tell me. Before everything went down, I’d never been farther north than Georgia. In fact, I was a history teacher, and that’s it. No grand adventures, no heroic gestures. Just me in a room with thirty high-school students, lecturing about the past.”
Greg grabbed the steering wheel and squeezed it until his knuckles hurt. “That the truth?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Why’re you telling me this?”
Bathgate shrugged. “Just wanted to get it off my chest, and since you’re leaving, I figure you’re the safest person to tell. It’s been bugging me for a while now.”
“Well, I’m glad I could help.”
“So am I.” He shifted in his seat and gazed at him beneath his bushy eyebrows. His tone did a complete one-eighty. “But despite this little bonding moment, you can’t take the plow.”
“Huh?”
“You can’t take the plow, Greg. This is SNF property now. As is the assault rifle you hid behind the seat.”
Pitts swallowed. Hard.
“Oh, don’t go getting all dramatic on me,” the man whose name used to be Terrance Graham said with a roll of his eyes. “You’re going to be fine. I didn’t waste all this time coming out here to end the life of my best friend.”
“Then why did you come out here?”
“To see you off. And make sure you didn’t leave with my property.”
“Oh.”
The sound of the distant ocean filled the silence between them as they sat there, looking at each other, for an uncomfortably long time. Finally the general rubbed his eyes with his fingers.
“All right Greg, time to go.”
“Go where?”
“Wherever you want to. The ocean’s only an hour walk from here, maybe less. I assume that’s where you were headed.”
“Can I get a gun? For protection?”
“No.”
“But what if there’s more fucking zombies out there? What if they didn’t all die off?”
Bathgate shrugged. “Then you make do. Remember, Greg, this is your decision. You have to deal with the consequences.”
That last line made Pitts grin. The man was going to let him go. The knot in his stomach gradually unfurled, and he felt his heartbeat start lowering. He stuck out his hand, and the general grabbed it and shook.
“Thank you, Terrance,” he said, and the man across from him winced. “I hope you do well with…whatever it is you’re gonna do next.”
“I’m sure I will,” said Bathgate. “I’m sure I will.”
Pitts opened the door and hopped out of the cab. He landed with both feet on the sandy shoulder. The morning sun shone down on him, which made him smile wider. Then it faltered when he gazed into the distance, watching the dark clouds he’d seen earlier double in size, become like lingering blobs of disease on the horizon. He’d need shelter when the storm hit. On either side of him were small constructions with peeling white paint. A barber shop, a surf store, a jewelry seller, a convenience store, a post office. All dark, all empty, all waiting for him to occupy. He might even find supplies in there, if he was lucky. His faltering smile regained its radiance. At least maybe that could make him forget about losing his wheels.
“Oh, one more thing,” said the man behind him.
Greg turned around to see Bathgate hanging out the driver’s window, his hand pressed against the door. His eyes were serious, even though the corners of his mouth were uplifted.
“What’s up?” asked Greg.
“That last job I had for you. Was that the one that did it? Did killing that kid put you over the edge?”
Pitts laughed. “In the spirit of honesty, yeah it was. But I never killed him.”
“No?” The general’s smile didn’t waver.
“Nope. Let him go. But he’s a moron. Probably still hanging out in the city as we speak.”
“That so?”
“Probs.”
“Okay then. Thank you for being honest. Take care, Lieutenant.”
Greg snapped his feet together and
offered the man a half-hearted salute. “You too, sir!”
With that, Greg Pitts spun around and began walking down the boulevard. He was deep in thought, trying to decide which building would offer the most comfort, the book store or the dentist’s office. So entrenched were his fantasies about his future life sailing the open ocean that the pop he heard sounded like distant thunder. The pain that pierced the back of his eye became a byproduct of the intense sunlight he was walking into. And then his mind went blank, and he lost control of his extremities, and he fell over. The pavement rushed up to meet his face, and he thought it preposterous that the ground could do such a thing.
Finally, Greg Pitts thought nothing at all.
* * *
Bathgate held the smoking AK-47 and watched Pitts collapse. He stared at the body until it stopped twitching, then removed the banana clip and set the weapon down beside him. He sighed. He hadn’t wanted to kill the man, but Pitts left him no choice. He couldn’t accept a deserter, especially one so close to him. And besides, the lieutenant’s work had been lagging of late, so getting him out of the way might be an improvement. Maybe he’d have a crew come back and retrieve the body, parade it around the city as an example. That would work. As a bonus he could elevate Jackson, who was better suited to be his right-hand-man anyway. With a nod he cranked the engine, turned the plow around, and headed back the way they’d come.
A realization came to him as he rumbled down the road, and his brow furrowed. Since the information given had been correct, he now owed the Steinberg guy, as well as the people he represented. Bathgate hated owing anyone a thing. But at least he’d gotten his answer. The kid, the father of his love’s child, was still alive. He didn’t think it likely, but that could’ve been who the former House Speaker had been talking about. Even though it pissed him off that Pitts had disobeyed his orders, the violation might have worked out for the best. Better to give the man the wrong person than no one at all. Perhaps whatever army was approaching would turn around and leave them alone as a show of solidarity.
Death Springs Eternal Page 31
