He was still weak, but with the two of us working together, we got him sitting up enough to take the mug. He took a sip and made a face.
“Drink as much as you can, and if you’re able, eat the vegetables,” I said.
“Yeah, I’ve had soup before,” he said grumpily. “I think I can manage.”
“Okay,” I grinned. “Since you can manage, I’m going to go in the kitchen and eat.”
I poured myself a mug of soup and opened a package of crackers. The soup wasn’t very good, but I’d had worse. I had some of Ellen’s port wine, too. It was pretty good; I could see why she had been so selfish about it. When I finished my meal and had a buzz going (it couldn’t have been later than 8 a.m.), I packed up everything we would need and took the bag out to the truck. It was clear out there at that time.
On my way back, I was startled to see Bern standing in the window of the apartment next door watching me. The gunshot must not have done the necessary damage. She had an expression on her face like she was trying to do math in her head. Then she leaned in and licked the window. I suddenly had a memory of her from the night before sitting next to me licking her lips, her hand on my crotch…Do you like that? I felt queasy.
“Mr. Somerville,” I said, returning to our apartment, “do you feel well enough to travel now?”
“No,” he said, “but I’ll do it anyway.”
I entered the bedroom, and he was still holding the mug.
“Do we need to go now?” he said.
“We don’t need to, but I want to,” I said. “I want to find Sara. Did you drink the soup?”
He turned the mug upside down to show me it was empty.
“Good,” I said. “Let me get the wheelchair, and we’ll be on our way.”
Chapter 37
The most difficult part for both of us was getting him up into the truck. He was so exhausted after the ordeal that he fell asleep before I had even started the engine.
I drove back toward Clayfield. I passed the dead dogs and drove under the overpass. There was still a crowd there leftover from the night before, but it had diminished. When I got into the city limits, I went to the alley between the glass shop and Plucky’s Diner. The supplies Sara and I had collected days before were still inside.
I backed the truck up to the rear of the van and climbed in. There were zombies around, and they were curious, but they hadn’t decided whether or not they wanted me. Quickly, I transferred as much as I could from one vehicle to the other. The creatures began to shuffle in. I didn’t have time to get it all—most of the alcohol was left—but I could come back for the rest later. I shut the van doors and got back into the truck before the things got too close. Somerville slept through it all.
As I drove out to the Lassiter’s Stables, I felt fluttery inside. I didn’t know if it was giddiness over seeing Sara again or anxiety over the possibility of not finding her there. They both feel the same.
I pulled up in the driveway and was surprised to see the chickens scratching around out in one of the pastures. The moving van and church van were still there, but there were no other vehicles. I parked, got out, looked and listened. I didn’t notice any danger, so I shut the door, leaving Somerville in the truck.
Someone had been in the house recently. There was a bag of garbage in the kitchen that I hadn’t remembered being there before. The tomato and pepper seedlings were still in the window, and while the soil was dry, it hadn’t been that way for long. The tiny plants were still very much alive, albeit wilted.
There was a new addition to the windowsill, too. The sweet potatoes had been sliced in half and placed in a tray of dirt to encourage them to sprout. One of them already had several little purple eyes forming on it. I emptied my little water bottle on the plants and turned to go upstairs. That’s when I saw a note stuck to the wall.
It said: “I hope you read this. I hope you are still alive. Nicholas is dead. Judy is with me, and we are with Mr. Parks. I will wait two days. I love you. –Sara”
She said she would wait two days, but two days from when? And after she’d waited, what did she plan to do? I hurried out to the truck and backed out of the driveway. Mr. Somerville stirred.
“Are we there?”
“We’re going to another place,” I said. “Sara and Judy should be there. What I wouldn’t give for a working cellphone right now.”
. I drove over to the house where Ben and Ron and the others were staying. I parked at the gate and got out. There was a vehicle at the house, but not the SUVs I’d seen Parks and the others in before. They’d also said they had a boat, and I didn’t see that either. The gate was unlocked. I swung it open and pulled up to the house.
I went up to the front door and knocked. When no one let me in, I let myself in.
“Hello? Sara? Ben?”
No one answered me, so I moved into the next room. It was a large kitchen. There was a long table in there, and on the table, a map of the region was spread. A route had been marked out with a red Sharpie. It started at my present location, traveled into Clayfield then north through Singletree and Riverton, across the Ohio River into Illinois, then west across the Mississippi River into Missouri. The route continued west to Springfield. Three big red arrows pointed to Springfield and next to them a handwritten address: 124 Harper Street.
The route didn’t make sense to me. Why would they travel north then west, forcing them to cross two large rivers? Why not just head west and cross the Mississippi River into Missouri and forget about that extra jaunt through Illinois?
Obviously, the map had been left for me to find. I grinned, imagining Sara trying to convince the others to leave it for me even though I was likely presumed dead. I needed to leave right away if I hoped to catch up with them. I didn’t want to travel with them--I still wanted to stay in Clayfield—but no matter where I ended up, I wanted to be with Sara.
I didn’t know what to do about Somerville. He didn’t feel up to traveling, but I didn’t want to leave him behind by himself. I took the map and went outside. After waking him, I explained the situation.
“I’m going,” he said. “If you leave, it might be days before you come back, if at all. I can’t sit around wondering what’s going on. Let’s find a vehicle where I can stretch out—a van or something.”
I drove back over to the stables and unloaded most of the supplies from the pickup, leaving the wheelchair and just enough supplies to fit in two duffle bags for travelling. I gave the seedlings and sweet potatoes a good soaking and turned them in the window. Then we headed into Clayfield to look for a suitable vehicle where Somerville could lie down.
It was frustrating, because even though there were plenty of vans around, it was difficult to find one with keys or gas or a charged battery. I couldn’t get it out of my head that every minute that passed could be another mile or more that Sara and Judy were travelling away from us. Mr. Somerville was awake the whole time, and even though he could see my impatience and hear my cursing each time I stopped, he did not let it bother him or even speak one word of apology for coming along.
I was about to try my luck at one of the car dealerships, when he spoke.
“That should do,” he said.
I looked out his window. We were about to pass a little Baptist church. In the parking lot was a small RV. I say it was small, but even a small RV is big compared to other vehicles. I pulled in anyway.
“It’s going to be like driving that moving van,” I said. “Hard to maneuver.”
“It ought to have a bed in it,” he said. “Might have supplies in it, too. Park by the door, and we won’t even have to mess with the wheelchair.”
I sighed, “Fine.”
“I know it is,” he said. “Stop being such a whiny ass.”
I didn’t try to get him right away. I went inside to check it out first. There was no one in there, but it did look lived in. How recently it had been lived in was difficult to say, but I figured no one had been in there since Canton B arrived in Clayfi
eld. I found boxes of bookmarks printed with a picture of a young couple and two small children. Underneath their picture it said: Pray for the Wachowski Family—Missionaries to Alaska. At the bottom of the bookmark it said, “’How shall they believe unless they hear? And how shall they hear without a preacher?’—Romans 10:14”
The rest of the stuff in there was what you might expect a young family to have—clothing, toys, diapers…there was even some food in the tiny cupboard. The keys were in the ignition, and there was gas in the tank. I tried it, and it started right up.
I went out and helped Somerville get transferred over.
“Don’t forget to unhook it,” he said. “I noticed it was still plugged in.”
I went outside, and found a cord running from the RV to a receptacle on the outside of the church. There was also a water hose running from the church’s outside faucet. I unhooked all of that and noticed the vehicle had Michigan plates. The thing looked a whole lot smaller when I imagined this family of four travelling around the country in it.
Once I’d moved the supplies from the truck, I did a quick check on Somerville who was making himself comfortable on the bed in the back. From the time I found the map until I finally got on the road on my way to the Ohio River, it was more than an hour. At steady, even travelling on their part, that might have been another 60 tacked on to the space we had to close.
We made good time on the highway, going north through Grace County. I had made this trip a few times in the past week. We crossed into southern McCullen County, and the highway was still fairly clear, being a rural area. As we neared Singletree, the road was a bit more congested, but passable.
It became obvious as we entered the Singletree city limits that vehicles had been moved to allow passage—about the space of one lane. It looked like it had been done with something large, like a bulldozer. Some of the cars were even turned over on their side. This was an impressive feat, considering the distance between there and the river and the amount of traffic on the road. I had never seen this many cars in Singletree at one time. The town was smaller than Clayfield, but because of its proximity to Riverton, a city more than five times its size, it usually had more traffic than Clayfield, just never this much. I attributed it to evacuees headed to the river, or possibly the sick trying to get to Singletree’s hospital.
I didn’t deviate from the path provided, because I couldn’t. I just hoped it led to the riverfront. Of course, if Ben Parks, Sara, and the others came this way, they would have encountered the same path and been forced to follow it to its end.
The undead were there too. They were between the cars and in the cars. They watched us and followed us as we passed through this miles-long gauntlet of abandoned vehicles.
Chapter 38
Even though there were dozens of places where we could have accessed the Ohio River in and around Riverton, the corridor led us right up to the floodwall and the main scenic access in the downtown arts district. This was always an inevitable and popular stop for tourists. Visitors could enjoy the masterfully painted murals that adorned the floodwall and depicted Riverton’s history, they could buy one-of-a-kind items made by local artisans, they could have a meal in one of the restaurants, or they could have a picnic on the riverfront and watch the towboats and barges.
The floodwall is a fifteen-foot tall concrete wall that protects Riverton’s entire downtown. Once the concrete ends, the protection is provided by earthen levees. The whole system stretches for more than twelve miles. In the concrete wall section, there are several gates that can allow access to the river most of the year, but that can be closed to seal the wall when the river rises. I was surprised to find the gates closed.
I stopped the RV, but I left the engine running. I hadn’t been paying attention before, because I’d been so distracted by the closed gate, but the cars on either side of me were literally bumper-to-bumper. They were pressed up against each other allowing no space between. I got out and looked down the cleared path, and there were no zombies coming through. The vehicles had been pushed together to prevent, or at least deter, the creatures from entering the corridor. I don’t know how far back this closed car barrier started, but it must have been for several blocks, because I saw no one in the road at all. However, on the other side of those cars on both sides of me, there were thousands of them moaning and lowing. It was loud.
I felt trapped. I couldn’t go forward, and I couldn’t turn around. If I wanted to get out of there, I would have to make the trip in reverse. But I didn’t want to get out of there; I needed to get on the other side of the wall.
I climbed into the RV, killed the engine, and went into the back.
“The floodgates are closed,” I said, waking Somerville. “If they came through Riverton, then they came through here. There was no other way.”
“If the gates are closed, somebody closed them,” he replied. “Did you try knocking?”
I imagined myself knocking on that massive metal gate and a hunched gatekeeper scurrying out to ask me a riddle before he let me through.
“Even if there was someone on the other side to let me in, they’d never hear me banging on that gate. It is crazy loud out there.”
“This thing’s got a horn doesn’t it?”
I grinned sheepishly, “Yeah. I’ll give that a try.”
I went up front and got on the horn for a good ten seconds. Then I went outside and waited. I saw no movement on the gate and all I could hear was the undead. I decided to climb up on top of the RV for a look. I was too far away from the wall, because of the front of the truck, to climb up on the wall itself, but standing on top of the back of the RV, I could see over. What I saw took my breath for a second.
As many creatures as there were on my side of the wall, it was nothing compared to the other side. They were tightly packed on the dry land for as far as I could see (about the distance of two city blocks either way). Then they continued down into the water, first ankle deep, then knee deep, chest deep, then floating around like bugs in a swimming pool. On the river, a chain of barges, two of them loaded with coal, stretched across in an uneven line forming a floating bridge.
On the upriver side of the barges was the beautiful Chickasaw Queen, a steamboat just like the kind you might find in a Mark Twain novel. It had been a big tourist attraction, offering short day cruises, meals and dinner theater. Now it was anchored and empty. My ex and I had gone out to dinner there back when we were dating. I was kind of glad to see that it was free of the undead. For a couple of seconds, I had a fleeting thought of commandeering it, and traveling up and down the river. But who was I kidding? I didn’t know how to drive the thing.
On the downriver side of the barges, preventing them from going with the flow of the river, were three towboats. The barges were loaded with undead. Some of them attempted to climb up the mounds of coal, but none ever made it to the top. I looked across the river into Illinois. The banks on the Illinois side were just as crowded, and they were coming across the barge bridge. There was an exodus taking place, but it wasn’t from the south; it was from the north. In the far distance in Illinois, there were columns of smoke rising in five different places. It was so loud out there, I could barely think.
“Don’t open that gate!” I heard someone yell out. I looked around for the source, and I saw a man dressed in red coming toward me, walking across the top of the floodwall. He was carrying a megaphone and a rifle. I pulled the pistol, just in case.
He put the megaphone to his mouth, “Replace the weapon, or you will be shot!”
I looked around to see if there was someone else around.
“Building on the corner,” the man said. “The Riverman’s Pub.”
I scanned the buildings. I saw a sign with those words. On the third floor, I spotted an open window and someone pointing a rifle at me with a huge scope. I put my gun back in my pants and raised my hands. The man walked up until he was close enough to get a good look at me and me at him.
He was shor
t, in his early 30s, and except for the gun, he looked like he might have been dressed to go see a ballgame. He was completely decked out in official Cincinnati Reds gear—jersey, pants, cap (turned backwards), even a fanny pack with the Reds logo.
“We’ve closed the gate to keep them from coming in,” he said.
“How long?”
“Please repeat.”
“How long!?” I yelled.
“Three days.”
“They made the bridge and the dead came over,” he said. “We had to hold them off. You should back out of here. There is no way through.”
“Who made the bridge!?”
He stared at me, trying to figure out what I said.
“Who!?”
“We didn’t know them. Not from here,” he said, shaking his head.
“There is nothing for you here,” he said. “You should leave.”
I had a lot I wanted to ask him, but there would be no way to have a conversation in this noise. I motioned to him trying to ask how I could get up there with him.
“Please back out the way you came, and do not attempt to open the gate,” he said in the megaphone.
I didn’t know why he kept telling me not to open the gate. For one thing, I didn’t know how. For another, I’d be a complete idiot to open it. I didn’t think it would even be possible to open it from my side.
I looked over at The Riverman’s Pub, and they still had a bead on me. I waved at them, because…well, what else was I going to do? They gave me a wave in return but didn’t turn their rifle away.
I climbed down and went inside.
“What are we doing?” Somerville called out when he heard me come in. I went to the rear of the vehicle and sat on the bed.
“We don’t want to open the gate,” I said. “It is like a horror movie on the other side. There are some uninfected people out there, but I’m not going to be able to get much information out of them in this noise. We’re going to have to back out of here.”
All That I See - 02 Page 22
