The Complete Deadland Saga

by Rachel Aukes

  I continued wrapping Alan in the sheet, trying to distance myself by imagining this was anything but a human body, but my subconscious kept reminding me. Once he was fully wrapped, I tugged and dragged him to the door and had meant to lower him gently to the ground, but he was heavier than me and the position was awkward. The sheet-wrapped body slipped right out of my hands and landed on the concrete shoulder of the interstate with a solid thud.

  I stared at the body. While Alan deserved better than to be left at the side of the road to rot, I really, really didn’t want to leave the safety of the truck and risk being left behind. Biting my lip, I turned back to the trucker.

  He shifted the truck back into gear. “You’re cleaning up the rest of this mess when we get to my place.”

  I collapsed onto the seat and slammed the door shut just as the truck moved forward. I let out a breath and stared outside, focusing on nothing in particular as the trucker drove and weaved around cars. As we left the city behind, traffic shrunk to nil. Other than a couple small military convoys and state troopers, few vehicles were heading into town, and those vehicles were speeding down the interstate, as though they were in a hurry to get to Des Moines.

  No doubt they were trying to get to their families.

  While I’m abandoning mine.

  I sat in a numb trance, my head resting on the headrest. Stay safe, mom and dad. I’m coming back. I promise.

  The radio was on, but the CB radio was louder, with truckers constantly reporting in status of the interstates. All the talk was of zeds and blocked roads. Every couple minutes I found the trucker eying me.

  “I still feel okay,” I said each time I caught him looking at me.

  Seemingly assured that I wasn’t going to go zed on him, he put on a Bluetooth and reported in on the CB. “This is Clutch dead-heading at yard stick 153 on I-80 reporting in. Avoid I-80 eastbound near Des Moines. Just passed through a bad 10-50 with zeds rubber necking the area. Over.”

  “10-4, Clutch. This is Dog Man. Heading west from The Windy. How’s the big road westbound outside city limits? Over.”

  “Hammer lane for now, Dog Man. But I wouldn’t count on it staying that way. Two Rivers has been overrun. Zed city. Over.”

  Zed city. I thought of my parents, and the rock in my gut grew into a boulder, and I hugged myself. They’d be so worried right now, unable to get a hold of me.

  They were okay, safe at home. They had to be okay.

  “Same with The Windy,” the other driver said. “Also heard The Circle and The Gateway are zed city, too. Whatever this thing is, it’s spreading hard and fast. I saw a guy get nearly decapitated and he was back on his feet in two minutes joining up with the other nut jobs. Have three beavers on board, and hoping to make the Big Miss by dark. Over.”

  “Picked up a seat cover myself. Watch your six, Dog Man. Clutch over and out.”

  Clutch removed his Bluetooth, clicked off the CB, and turned the radio back up.

  He shot me a look, then returned his focus to the road. I noticed he wasn’t as old as I’d first assumed—mid-forties, maybe. And he was big and tough and scary. He’d straightened his cap, hiding more of his brown crew cut. He wore nothing fancy, just old jeans and a T-shirt, with tattoos covering his arms. His clothes were clean, whereas I looked like I’d just escaped a war zone.

  Which was too damn near the truth.

  Clutch nodded toward the red cooler at my feet. “Grab me a beer, Cash.” Then he tacked on, “Grab something for yourself if you’re thirsty.”

  I didn’t care that his last sentence came out more like a gripe than an offer. I reached in and pulled out a beer and a bottle of water from the ice. “My name’s Mia. You go by Clutch?” I asked. “Or, at least that’s your CB handle, right?”

  He didn’t reply.

  I handed him the can and opened the plastic bottle. The water was cold and oh so good. After throwing up, my throat was raw and my mouth tasted awful. The water soothed and I swooshed it around my teeth. I drank the entire bottle before opening my eyes. “So,” I said, drawing out the word. “Where are we headed?”

  “My place.”

  Three long tones beeped on the radio.

  “About time,” he said as he cranked up the volume.

  “This is the Emergency Broadcast System. This is not a test. Repeat, this is not a test.”

  Three more tones sounded before a man’s voice came on. “This is Doctor Jon Meriden, managing director of the Center for the Disease Control. A state of emergency has been declared for the continental United States. An epidemic is now affecting the Midwest and quickly spreading. Houston and Kansas City are considered the worst locations and should be avoided. Cases of the virus have been reported in all major cities in the United States, southern Canada, and all of South and Central America. Any borders that remained opened as of this morning have now been closed. Cases are also being reported at Hong Kong International Airport.

  The virus has been confirmed to be a member of the Marburgvirus family. Scientists are working hard to identify the new virus, and it is believed to have originated in South America. However, due to its symptoms and the mannerisms of the infected, we’ve assigned the layman term zombiism to the superbug.

  Symptoms include slow and awkward movement, jaundice, and severe violent propensities. We strongly urge you to distance yourself from anyone displaying these symptoms. If you come into contact with someone displaying any of these symptoms, the CDC recommends quarantining yourself. If you are infected, symptoms will begin to appear anywhere from minutes up to an hour, depending on severity of initial infection. The more severe the initial infection, the quicker you will succumb to the virus. Treatment is not available at this time.

  We have traced the entry of the virus into the United States to several dozen contaminated shipments of produce from Mexico. At this time, we recommend you do not eat any fresh produce imported within the past three days.

  The superbug is transmitted through contact with bodily fluid of an infected person. The slang term ‘zed’ is trending across the Internet and radio. Should you hear this term, it simply refers to an infected person or persons.

  Due to the ease of the virus’ transmission, all public transportation and air travel have been suspended until further notice. Travel is not advisable and is considered unsafe. If you must leave your current location, expect delays and likely increases in lawlessness. Emergency responders may be overwhelmed. Please be patient and remain where you are. Gather emergency supplies should you need to evacuate to a temporary location. Do not panic.

  All military units have been assigned to contain the spread. All inactive and retired military personnel have been reactivated and should immediately report to the nearest base for assignment. Martial law is now in effect. Stay inside, stay safe, and help will be on the way.

  We will report on all channels every thirty minutes. For more information, go to www.emergency.cdc.gov online.”

  Three tones sounded once more, and the radio resumed to what sounded like a national talk show sharing more information about the “zombie outbreak” and how to protect against zeds.

  “How are you feeling?”

  I glanced over at the man next to me. His hands were tight on the wheel as he watched me.

  “Fine.” I realized he was asking about symptoms rather than my emotional well-being. “Really, I’m still okay.” Terror had long since given way to hopelessness. “The world’s seriously fucked, isn’t it,” I stated quietly.

  “Yeah.” He spit into the soda can. “We’re all fucked.”

  Chapter III

  When we pulled into Clutch’s driveway, I wouldn’t have been surprised to see a sign that read: Abandon all hope, all ye who enter here.

  Not that the farm wasn’t lovely. Fields and woodlands went on for miles and miles. Just above a valley, a long gravel lane led us through several acres of woods, with flowers blooming along both sides. The lane opened up to a classic farm setup: a two-story white farmho
use standing boldly alone with three sheds as backdrop. A tabby cat lounged under a tree, watching me.

  Clutch pulled up along the largest shed and cut the engine. The whole scene was idyllic…and very, very isolated. I was alone with a stranger who’d killed Alan and run down several zeds like they were nothing.

  Sure, I’d killed Melanie, so I guess I wasn’t any different. But, what if he changed his mind about letting me stay for the night and killed me? Almost as bad, what if he wanted “favors” in exchange for shelter? I’d been terrified of being alone in this mess, but I suddenly wondered if being alone wasn’t the safer option.

  “What’s up, Cash? You’re looking at me like I’m about to dismember you.”

  Startled, I realized Clutch had taken off his sunglasses and was now watching me. His piercing hazel eyes seemed to see too far into me.

  I blinked a few times. “Just feeling like a fish out of water. That’s all,” I replied in a rush, opening the door and jumping outside. In the fresh air, I stretched my tight muscles as I stood before the sun dipping low in the sky. The weather was beautiful, a spring evening with a gentle breeze.

  Clutch walked toward the house, and I followed. “I wouldn’t have guessed you for living on a farm,” I said.

  “Why?”

  “With you being a truck driver—”

  “I’m from a fourth-generation farming family on this land. I just drive truck in the off season for extra income.”

  He unlocked the porch door, but instead of opening it, he turned around and studied me for several long moments.

  Any confidence I’d built bled away under his scrutiny.

  “Stay here,” he ordered. He didn’t wait for an answer before disappearing inside, leaving me to wait. The peaceful chirping of crickets was the only sound besides the ringing in my ears, and I realized that the same isolation I feared about this place was the key quality that made it all the safer. The farm was in the middle of nowhere, far from any city. The yard was big enough to see zeds coming from the woods on any side, and the trees concealed us from the roads.

  Clutch returned with an armful of rags, some rubber gloves, a garbage bag, and a couple spray bottles. “There better not be a spot left in the cab when I check it out.”

  I nodded dutifully, taking the supplies.

  “There’s a light in the cab. Just be sure to turn it off when you’re finished. I want to keep everything fully charged in this cluster fuck.”

  “Light off when I’m done,” I replied with a robot-like tone.

  He grunted before turning back into the house.

  With a sigh, I headed back to the truck and started scrubbing away every last drop and bit of Alan.

  ****

  Four hours later, I peeled off the yellow gloves covered in brown goo and chemicals. With a sigh, I dropped them into the garbage bag and tied it shut. Even with the industrial-strength stain remover, Alan’s blood had been a bitch to scrub away, and I wouldn’t know if I got everything until daylight. I’d been desperately motivated to do a good job. I only hoped it was good enough that Clutch wouldn’t make me leave before the National Guard got the whole zed thing under control and I could return home.

  I sprayed every surface in the cab with one more round of disinfectant before turning off the light and stepping outside and groaned. I was flat-out exhausted. My arms were numb. My lower back hurt. My thigh muscles ached. Every inch of my body throbbed.

  Despite the stench, I’d kept the truck doors closed while I cleaned in case any zeds showed up. After taking several deep breaths of fresh night air, I sprayed my grimy body with disinfectant, knowing it probably didn’t do any good, but figured it also couldn’t hurt.

  The half-moon was fully overhead now, sharing just enough of its light for me to hurry to the house without tripping over anything. I was half surprised to find the porch door unlocked. Looking down at my Doc Martens, I suspected the black leather was as grimy as I felt. But, there was no way in hell I could scrub them until tomorrow when—hopefully—I could feel my fingertips again. Stepping inside, I took off my boots and left them on the unlit porch.

  A savory, meaty smell wafted forth, and my stomach growled. It was late, and I’d lost whatever had been left of my lunch after Alan died. I hustled forward, only to be blocked at the mudroom by a towering Clutch. He was wearing different clothes, and his hair was still wet. Gray peppered his stubble. Lines marked skin that had seen a lot of the outdoors.

  He was handsome in a hard way. Maybe it was his eyes. There was an intensity in his gaze. Even without his tattoos, he would’ve had an aura of power.

  Or, maybe it was because he had a pistol leveled on me.

  My eyes widened as I met his gaze.

  He grimaced. “Relax. If I was going to kill you, I would’ve done it outside where you wouldn’t make a mess.”

  I chortled. Like that made me feel any better.

  It was then I noticed that he was also holding a rag and a small bottle of gun oil. “You were cleaning your gun.”

  He looked me up and down before narrowing his eyes. “Take off your clothes.”

  I pulled together the collar of my utterly destroyed shirt. “What?”

  “I don’t mean it that way. Jesus.” He ran the back of his hand over his face. He laid his weapon on the washer, reached behind him, and pulled out a garbage bag. “You’re covered in zed sludge, and I don’t know how contagious that shit is. Everything’s got to go. I’ll burn it tomorrow.”

  He held open the garbage bag. I shot him a hard glare while I unbuttoned what was left of my shirt.

  He sighed. “Don’t worry. I won’t look. You’re not my type, anyway. Too scrawny.”

  “Scrawny?” I asked but received no response.

  Clutch kept his word, looking over my head while I stripped out of my disgusting clothes. I stopped at my bra and underwear. “Nothing soaked through.”

  He glanced down and grimaced, like he wasn’t enjoying himself. I scowled. I wasn’t that hard on the eyes, and I was petite, most certainly not scrawny.

  “Turn around,” he ordered. “I have to check.”

  I gingerly spun and felt his eyes on my back. I shivered, more self-conscious than I’d ever been in my life. If I’d known how this day was going to turn out, I wouldn’t have worn a thong. Then again, I would’ve done many things differently.

  “I think they’re savable,” Clutch drawled out in a rough voice. “Throw both in the wash when you’re done with your shower.”

  Turning back to face him, I covered my chest as best I could with my arms, though thankfully Clutch was busy looking anywhere but at me.

  “The shower’s upstairs. Second door on your left. I set out something you can wear for tonight. Dinner will be ready by the time you’re done.”

  “Got it,” I said and hustled past him.

  “Oh, and Cash…”

  I paused.

  “Be sure to scrub good and hard,” he called out behind me. “You’ve got bits of your boyfriend’s brain in your hair.”

  Bile rose in my throat, and I bolted up the stairs, taking them two at a time. Once in the bathroom, I took deep breaths, refusing to look in the mirror. When I had control of myself again, I pulled off my remaining clothes in a rush, cranked on the shower, and hopped in before it was warm.

  The cold water that ran down the drain was brown at first, with little flecks of things I didn’t want to think about. I set the water as hot as I could stand, grabbed the washcloth, and started scrubbing. Clutch clearly wasn’t married, because the shower/tub combo only had a bar of soap and a bottle of generic shampoo.

  I washed my hair three times before I felt relatively confident that it was clean. And, I scrubbed at my skin until it was red, standing under the spray until it was lukewarm.

  Stepping out, I grabbed the towel left out on top of a thin stack of clothes, and dried myself off. I caught my breath when I looked into the mirror. Dark circles underlined my bloodshot eyes. Fresh bruises marred my c
hest courtesy of Melanie. I looked like shit, plain and simple.

  Picking up the clothes he’d left, I found a pair of white long john bottoms and a gray T-shirt with ARMY across the front. Both were huge on me. The shirt nearly went to my knees, and the bottoms slid down every time I moved. Sifting through the well-stocked medicine cabinet, I found a couple large safety pins and tightened the long johns around my waist.

  I couldn’t find a brush, so it took ten painful minutes to finger-comb through my snarled, unconditioned mess. Finally, my strands began to resemble hair again, with its bold red streaks interlaced with the black. Reaching for the dental floss, I pulled out a long strand and used it to tie my hair back before it snarled all over again.

  Glancing down at the discarded pile of underwear, I grimaced. I really didn’t want to touch anything that I’d worn today. I probably should’ve tossed it, but I went ahead and wrapped the towel around the tiny pile of undergarments and carried everything down to the washer in the mudroom.

  I walked past the kitchen on my way to the mudroom, and saw Clutch pulling plates from a cabinet. His back was to me, though I had no doubt he knew I was there. His back was broad, like he worked out every day. He was well over twice my size. Part of me felt safer, part of me worried how easily he could overpower me.

  My stomach growled loudly, and I hustled to the mudroom. After stuffing my dirty clothes in the washer along with Clutch’s clothes that were already in the tub, I went double-duty with the detergent, and started it up.

  When I returned to the kitchen, he handed me a cold beer, silverware, and a plate covered with a huge steak, a baked potato, and steak sauce poured over the entire thing. He motioned to the living room. “I eat in there.” He grabbed his own beer and dinner, and I followed him, taking the couch when he claimed the recliner.

  I dug in before opening the beer. I was thirsty, but I was even hungrier. With the plate on my lap, I sawed at the T-bone, cutting off the next piece while chewing on a piece twice the size I should’ve cut. “This is really good.”