Five Roads To Texas: A Phalanx Press Collaboration

by Lundy, W. J.

  “I’m sorry, mister. I was out of options.”

  “I get it. There’s a safe zone set up near the Georgia Tech campus in Atlanta if you can get there. Good luck,” Ian said, to the shock of the man who’d shot at them.

  “Thanks, I… I don’t know what else to say.”

  “You have women and children with you. Keep them safe and we’re square.”

  “I’ll do my best,” he said and turned to run but stopped when Jose opened his window and gave a quick whistle. The man turned and looked at Jose, who threw him a small bag.

  “Two days’ food and water; it’s all we can spare, now go!” Jose said.

  Kinsey waited to block the view of the infected until the man was behind the berm before she took off. Ian didn’t say anything to the rest of the crew. They knew the score, and if the benevolence of giving away a weapon surprised them, his crew didn’t show it.

  That was day one. It took them three more days to even get near Atlanta. Two hundred miles as the crow flies, and they barely made fifty miles a day.

  The world had become a giant vat of shit soup, and they held the wooden spoon.

  38

  Near Hope, Missouri

  March 30th

  Miguel landed the plane on a narrow country road. It wasn’t an easy landing. He’d avoided power lines and trees, paying close attention to a stalled car on the side of the road, before stopping and turning the plane at a right angle. The group quickly exited the aircraft and pushed it off the road, alongside a hedgerow, and covered the plane with dead tree limbs.

  Clay readied his rifle then moved into the center of the road. He looked north and south. There were no signs of movement. To the south was an old farmhouse with faded wood siding. He turned back to the tree line and told the others that they should wait with the plane.

  “Let me scout ahead with the dog, just to make sure it’s clear.”

  “And if it’s not clear?” Nikolai snapped back.

  Clay pursed his lips. “If it’s not clear, you should take off again. If I have to fire a shot, you know what’ll happen.” He used a finger to cut at his throat.

  “No,” Miguel said. “We aren’t taking off again. The plane was on fumes as it is. If that house isn’t clear, then we will clear it. We’ll have to make a stand there until it is safe to move again.”

  Grinning, Clay considered the man’s words. He was right; there was nowhere else to go. “Okay, let’s get the bags. We bet it all on this house.”

  Clay moved ahead. Walking alone along the roadside ditch, his bag was slung over his shoulder. He would create distance from the group, then pause and wait for the others to catch up before moving out again. A hundred yards from the house, he looked back at them. “Let me get out ahead of you here. Give me some space, in case… Well, you know.”

  Moving out again, he looked down and saw Rufous by his side. The dog panted like he did on a bird hunt. This trip didn’t remind Clay of any wars he’d seen; it should, but it didn’t. Like the dog, he felt like he was hunting, but not deer or ’yotes. Coyotes never came back and tried to kill him. Rufous was a good hunter, and Clay let him move out to lead the way. The dog’s tail was wagging, and his ears were down as he paced back and forth in front of him, sometimes slipping to the side of the road, stopping often to investigate clumps of grass or an old fence post.

  Soon, they were at the end of a long gravel driveway. Set back from the road was a collapsed barn. The doors had fallen off and bales of hay rotted in the loft. Clay moved past it, still watching the dog for signs of agitation. Just before they reached the front porch of the old farmhouse, Rufous turned back and looked at him. Clay paused and checked on the others behind him.

  Nikolai had the pistol out while Miguel and Andrew lagged further back. Clay made a clicking sound with his mouth, and the dog walked up the porch, with Clay close behind. He reached out for the door and wiggled the handle.

  It was locked.

  Looking right, Clay could see that the sidelight window was broken. “Great. This should be a fun place,” he said, shifting his stance to peer inside the house.

  The furniture was gone. The weathered floorboards, insulation dripping from the ceilings, and animal droppings told him that the local wildlife were having a good time here. Clay could tell the home had been vacant for years. He stepped through the broken window slowly and quickly moved to the door, where Rufous was outside, whining for his master. As soon as the door was open, the dog came in sniffing madly at the animal smells. Clay watched his tail wag and could see no sign of trouble.

  He took a quick walk along the first floor of the house. It wrapped around like a big U. The leg to the right was a large living room, and toward the back was a small hall bathroom. On the other leg was a dining room, stairs that led to a basement, and a farmhouse kitchen. Near the back door was a stairway that led up to the second floor. Clay put off that search for now and headed back to the porch, where he waved the others in.

  When they’d gathered in the living room, he asked them to wait while he inspected the rest of the house.

  Clay moved back to the stairs with the dog and made his way to the top. It was musty and dark. The windows were still intact but overgrown with so much dust and mildew that it was impossible to see out of them. He walked along empty rooms, finding nothing but a stained mattress and empty beer bottles. Must’ve been the hangout for kids at one time—or worse, he thought.

  In the master bathroom he found a large pile of cardboard that looked like it had been laid on the floor like a carpet. He shook his head, trying to imagine why. Clay folded the cardboard sheets and brought them downstairs. Tossing them on the floor, he explained to the others that they could cover the windows with the cardboard so they could burn a fire in the stone fireplace.

  “Are you sure?” Nikolai asked. “Won’t the smoke attract them?”

  Clay shrugged. “I don’t know. But with St. Louis and Chicago burning, and the other few dozen houses I saw that are burning, I doubt that one small campfire would attract much attention.”

  Nikolai nodded. “You’re probably right.”

  Clay dug through his bag and pulled out two cans of beef stew. “We’ll have this tonight. I’ll share mine with the boy, and you can share this one with your fiancé,” Clay said, smiling to Miguel as he tossed over the two cans.

  “Now wait,” Miguel said. “So now I’m the pilot and the cook.”

  Clay grinned. “Well, no. I don’t see a plane anymore, so I guess it just makes you the cook.”

  Miguel pretended to be offended, but took the cans and moved into the kitchen with Andrew following close behind. Clay passed into the living room and helped Nikolai hang the cardboard over the big window.

  “What’s next then?” Nikolai asked.

  “I don’t know… I guess we just keep going until we reach Texas. There’s no vehicles here, so we’ll be walking until we find one. The alternative is barricade this place and try to hide out until someone finds us.”

  Nikolai scanned the dirty house and looked back at Clay. “No, we can’t stay here,” he stated.

  “I agree. We keep moving.” Clay finished hanging the cardboard, and then he built a small fire. Miguel walked out of the kitchen, holding a pot. It was dirty, so Clay spared enough of the water to wipe it clean. Afterward, Miguel opened the cans and dumped both of them into the pot together.

  Clay lifted his rifle and moved to a corner. Finding a spot where he could see through a window, he sat down and began cleaning his rifle. Nikolai saw what he was doing and went to do the same with the 1911. Clay shook his head no. “We need at least one weapon up; wait until I finish.”

  “Oh. That’s smart,” Nikolai said.

  As nightfall approached, they started hearing noises outside. Clay went to the window covered with cardboard. He didn’t want to disturb it and risk it falling down, so he moved into the dining room and knelt down by the window, looking out. They were on the road, dark shadows moving slowly, walkin
g the blacktop surface. None of them even spared a glance toward the farmhouse.

  Clay started to second-guess the wood fire, but watching them parade past, they didn’t seem a bit concerned with it. Nikolai moved behind him and gasped at the sight. “Where are they all going?” he whispered.

  Clay shook his head. “Must be a town that way. There are probably people there, or something that attracted them.”

  “These things are sick,” Nikolai said. “They want to spread the sickness, like a parasite.”

  “What, like worms?” Clay asked.

  “My father said some sort of new parasite. And yes, it’s something like a brain worm, not a virus, but a creature’s only purpose is to spread. Like head lice, they infect the host and move on.”

  Clay shuddered at the thought of a disgusting lice-brain-worm controlling his body. “Well, I don’t want anything to do with that,” Clay whispered. “Look, I’m comfy here for a while. Why don’t you try and get some sleep. I slept a lot on the plane, anyway, so I’ll wake you in a couple hours. Let Miguel rest; and you too. Okay?”

  “Thank you, Clay,” Nikolai whispered. “We wouldn’t have made it here without you.”

  “Nahh,” Clay said, looking out the window. “I’d be floating on Lake Michigan in a bass boat without you boys. We’re a team now.”

  39

  Near Cooper Hill, Missouri

  March 31st

  Morning came fast. Unfortunately, it didn’t come warm. Clay woke stiff and sore. He’d been cramped into a corner with his green army jacket pulled over his shoulders all night. He pushed himself up and took the rifle. The other men stood near the fire that had gone out during the night, but the coals still radiated heat.

  Andrew had found a ball and bounced it on the floor in the kitchen with the dog. Clay got to his feet and peeked out the window. The road was clear. Whatever the things were outside the night before, they were gone now. He walked into the living room and saw that Miguel had cooked some meat over the remaining hot coals. It looked like canned ham. He didn’t remember packing any, so it must’ve been from the guys’ packs. Miguel cut off a chunk and handed it to Clay on the end of a fork.

  Clay nodded his head, smiling. “Thank you for that.”

  Together, they walked out of the room and into the kitchen. A window over the sink looked out across a field. Clay scratched the stubble on his chin that was quickly turning into a beard. “I think we should just go south. We’ll follow the road and stay on the shoulder. If something comes up behind us or we see one of the infected ahead of us, we jump into the ditch and make for the trees.”

  Nikolai shrugged. “So that’s it; we just move south?”

  “What else is there?” Clay responded.

  They gathered their things. There was no water for bathing or a toilet in the old farmhouse, so they relieved themselves in the backyard, before meeting again in the front. The way was clear, so once again, Clay stepped off with Rufous at his side. They moved onto the road, walking slowly, and Clay let his rifle hang from the sling over his shoulder. They spaced out naturally and moved quietly. Just behind him were Miguel and Nikolai, with Andrew farther in the rear.

  Walking slowly and keeping the sun to their left, they followed the shoulder southward all morning and into the afternoon. They went over rises and back down. For a while they followed an old faded fencerow. Eventually, Clay saw powerlines and knew they had to be nearing a house. They turned a corner and crossed a low, narrow bridge over stream, where they filled their empty containers. It probably wasn’t safe to drink the untreated water, but they could boil it later.

  After another hour, they spotted a pair of houses. The smaller of the two houses was a white single-story with blue shutters. Across the road from it sat a longer two-story brown house with a double-car garage door. Neither home showed signs of life.

  The larger home had broken windows and a knocked over mailbox. The front door was open, but there was nothing else showing. Clay put his hand out to hold the men back as he approached the structure. He moved in quietly. Unlike the last house, which was old and worn down, this house had been lived in recently. He stepped up to the front door. A bloodied handprint decorated the knob. He carefully eased the door open and stepped into the living room.

  The furniture had been overturned, and the television lay on the floor where it had gotten knocked off an old TV stand. In the kitchen, a blood-crusted knife was on the floor. The back door was broken inward; the screen lay across the kitchen floor.

  Clay carried his rifle close. Rufous came into the room, sniffing, his tail wagging. The dog ran back and forth and then looked up at the stairs, growling.

  “Oh boy,” Clay whispered checking the slide of his M1 Carbine and ensuring that the attached bayonet was secure on the lug. He didn’t want to fire a shot if he could help it. He slowly moved up the stairs, looking left and right, pausing at the top in a wide-open space. There was a door to his front and one to each side.

  All were closed.

  He turned right to open the first door. Inside was a child’s bedroom with pink carpet and a softer shade of pink on the walls. The room was empty. He turned and went quickly to the door directly at the top of the stairs. Opening the door quietly, he saw that it was a small bathroom. Stepping in, then crouching low, he saw a dead woman in the tub. Her hands were tied, and her mouth gagged. Clay could see visible bite wounds on her neck and arms. He backed out of the room quickly and closed the door.

  He looked down at Rufous, who stared at the last door, growling, his tail rigid. Clay put his hand on the doorknob, steadying the rifle with his right hand. Ready to pull the door shut again in an instant, he slowly opened it. Inside, he came face-to-face with the infected man, but he didn’t scream in rage at the old vet. The man’s face was blue as his body swung from a rope.

  He’d tried to hang himself and die before he turned, but it didn’t work. He was still alive, even though his neck was broken and tied to a rafter. Clay reeled back, choking on the bile in his mouth as he tried not to vomit. He steadied the bayonet and lunged forward, stabbing the man through the eye. Then he pushed against the body and pulled the blade free. As the corpse swung away noiselessly, Clay identified similar bites and scratch wounds on the man, although the ones around his legs and ankles looked much smaller than those on his upper body.

  Clay cleaned the blade on a bedspread and left the room. He walked downstairs to find the men already there. “Don’t go upstairs,” he said. “There’s nothing but death up there.” The younger men looked at him, and all nodded in agreement.

  Miguel and Andrew set their bags on the counter to search the kitchen. Clay moved back to the doorway with Nikolai and said, “I’m going to check the other house.”

  “I should go with, you know,” Nikoali replied.

  “I have Rufous. You need to protect and cover them while they search.”

  Clay didn’t wait for an answer. He lifted his rifle, checked the street again, and moved outside. Standing on the stoop, he knelt down and patted his dog’s side before moving across the street.

  Peering inside, he could see that this home was just like the one across the street with clear signs of a struggle. The furniture was tossed over, and the dining table’s legs were broken off. Most of the chairs were destroyed as well. Clay walked past them to a small kitchen, where a body on the floor greeted him. It had one leg twisted to the side and a knife sticking from its back. Clay didn’t check it; he just didn’t have the stomach for it anymore.

  He turned around and walked down a narrow hallway with three doors. He assumed there would be a bathroom and two bedrooms. Each door was open. In the one at the end, there was a deep, bloodied gouge through the wood. Clay moved closer and looked at a body on the toilet with a massive gunshot wound to its stomach. A shotgun lay on the tile floor, where it had fallen after delivering the deadly blow. In the first bedroom, a middle-aged man lay on the floor, his neck shot open. Clay saw blood on the carpet and a child’s ha
nd at the foot of the bed. He backed out of the room and closed the door.

  He moved past the bathroom and thought better of it. Returning, he retrieved the Mossberg pump shotgun from the floor. He didn’t want anything else from this place. He turned around and walked out, closing the door behind him.

  Back across the street, he found the men had loaded their bags. He handed Miguel the shotgun. The man looked at it like it was some kind of mythical object. “If you’re confused, Andrew will show you how to use it,” Clay said.

  Nikolai came from a hallway and held up a set of car keys, shaking them.

  “What did you find?” Clay asked.

  “There’s an SUV in the garage,” he said.

  They moved to the garage. While it wasn’t much to look at, Clay could tell that the old, rusted Jeep Cherokee they found was a daily driver. He wasn’t sure how far the small SUV would make it, but anything was better and faster than walking. Nikolai walked around to the other side and opened the driver’s door. He sat in the seat and turned the key. The Jeep came to life. Quickly, they loaded up their gear and got onboard.

  “Where to?” Nikolai asked.

  “Go south… We aren’t staying in this house.”

  Nikolai backed the Jeep out of the driveway and into the street. The way was clear, so he put the vehicle in gear and continued their journey south toward Texas.

  40

  Atlanta, Georgia

  March 31st

  “Take the 400, you said. It’ll be less traveled, you said.” Kinsey sneered as they scanned over the sea of cars that completely blocked the expressway. Ian looked back at the Perimeter Center, where the 285 intersected the 19, and the 19 turned into the 400. Both were nothing but vehicles end-to-end with a few scared people staring at them; he kept his eye on them. It wouldn’t be the first time the uninfected tried to swarm them, thinking they could help because of the desert-camo, military-style Humvee.