I went around to the back of the wagon and lowered the tailgate. Three Styrofoam coolers sat behind the seat. A large open cardboard box sat by itself, toward the tailgate. Curious, I moved closer for a better look.
The box was crammed with hair—and strips of bloody flesh.
Scalps?
I thought of Carla and her collection of severed penises. This discovery made the hair stand up on the back of my neck.
Fields came around. “What’s wrong?”
I just shook my head.
She moved closer; her eyes grew. “My God!” She pulled back and turned away. “Those two actually were psychos.”
“Looks like it.”
“Well, at least there were only two of them.”
I didn’t want to voice my opinion that there might have been more, or that others could have gone looking for more victims. Judging by the cramped quarters in the wagon, I strongly believed there were only two of them.
“I guess we just pile them in back and leave them here,” she said.
“I have to see what’s in those coolers.”
“Are you sure about that?”
“No ...”
“Why do it, then?”
She was right. There could be something even worse than scalps floating around in them.
“You’re right. We don’t need to know.”
Fifteen minutes later, after I’d pulled the two out of the truck, dragged them back to their ride and stuffed them in back, I closed the tailgate and we went back to the open doors see what else we could find. While Fields checked beneath the driver’s seat, I opened the glove box. It was crammed with wallets. I counted seventeen. They must have taken them from their victims.
“Nothing here but a crack pipe and six or seven bottles of drugs,” she said.
“What sort of drugs?”
She read the labels. “All sorts of meds.”
“Same person?”
“Different people. Uppers. Downers. Tranquillizers. There are even some poppers here.”
I opened two wallets. The second one caught my attention. The driver’s license photo was of the man I’d shot. His name was Willis K. Simpson, he was 29, and lived in Saxonburg. I pulled out his registration, insurance card, and a few other cards. Suddenly things seemed much worse.
“What is it?” Fields asked.
“The man I shot. His name was Willis K. Simpson, and he was a doctor. He’s got a card here from Saxonburg Regional Medical Clinic.”
Fields just shrugged.
“You don’t seem surprised.”
“Nowadays I’m not surprised about anything.”
I didn’t know why this bothered me so much. Maybe it was because I didn’t want to think a doctor capable of doing such horrible things. Or maybe I just didn’t want to admit that I’d shot a doctor in the head. But I had to face facts. He might have been a doctor once, but he’d spent his last days breaking into people’s homes, robbing them, killing them, and taking their scalps as grisly souvenirs.
“It really puts a new light on things.” Fields laughed a humorless laugh. “A doctor robbing, killing, and scalping people. This plague sure has brought out the worst in everyone.”
“This keeps getting more and more difficult.” I didn’t want to know about the other guy; the fact that he was a kid was too much to handle as it was. I dropped the wallets on the seat and slammed the door shut. I wanted to get away from here, drive back to the farm and have a big glass of bourbon.
“Personally, I think...” Fields suddenly stopped.
I froze. We both heard it.
The distant sound of a moving vehicle was coming from the east, down the long hill.
If my guess was right, it would be passing us in less than a minute.
THREE
“Get the truck doors closed! Now!”
While Fields ran for the truck, I closed the doors of the station wagon and ran up to her just as she pushed the driver’s door shut. Grabbing her by the arm, I pulled her across the dirt road and through the bushes, to the six-foot ditch on the other side that ran parallel to the main road. We slid down the weed-choked slope, landing on the muddy bank just above the creek running through the culvert. The ground was damp and cold. Fields disappeared in the wild growth of the grassy slope and lay on her stomach. I stayed close to her, on my left side, my right hand tightly gripping the .357, which was aimed at the road less than ten feet away.
The sound of the approaching vehicle grew louder.
“What’s the plan?” she whispered. Although most of her was hidden in the tall grass, I could see her eyes, which had grown quite large. She was frightened, as was I.
“If the vehicle stops and someone gets out and comes over to the truck, we drop them, no questions asked.”
“Gotcha.”
Luckily, the high weeds hid us from view, but by pushing some of the heavy growth aside we could see the road surface.
The hum of the vehicle grew louder. As it came down the hill, it began slowing down. I placed the barrel of the .357 on my forearm, which lay on the ground about six inches in front of my face. Then I cocked the hammer.
The vehicle, a light-blue compact, came into view. Judging by its soft, steady whine, it was some sort of hybrid. Its darkly-tinted windows hid the driver from view. It slowed as it drew closer, easing to a crawl as it neared the turnoff, where the truck sat off the main road. When it was about thirty feet away, it stopped.
For long, agonizing minutes, it sat totally still, its engine only slightly louder than the silence. It was a two-door—one of those models manufactured years ago for optimal fuel efficiency, when America began breaking off its ties with OPEC. The back seat was tiny, used mainly to house its many batteries, the trunk much too small to accommodate anything larger than a suitcase, or a bag of groceries. However, that was not the issue. The driver could be armed. And if someone was sitting beside him, he, too, could be armed.
After what seemed an eternity, the driver’s window eased down a couple of inches.
I tensed up, just as I’d done in the Arizona desert twenty years ago, as a sniper for Border Patrol. Back then, when I spotted a shadow moving around in my infrared scope, I did not move or even breathe until I’d squeezed the trigger.
Right now I chose not to fire the gun. I didn’t want to kill anyone unless it was absolutely necessary. The driver could be an old woman, for all I knew. Or even a kid. To survive nowadays, I had to assume everyone was a potentially dangerous threat, but that didn’t mean I should become a homicidal maniac.
So I waited, just lying there, not moving, barely breathing, the .357 aimed at the driver’s window. I caught a glint of something and decided it was most likely sunglasses. Even if I was correct in that assumption, I didn’t know if a man or woman sat behind the wheel or if he or she was armed. I knew only that I should wait.
About five long, tense minutes later, the window eased down another inch.
My heart skipped a beat. I realized only then that I’d been sweating. The ground was cold, yet my limbs were hot, my face and arm covered in sweat. Cold beads drifted down my forehead, gathering in my eyes. I forced them shut. In spite of the panic building up within me, I didn’t dare move. I guessed Fields was sweating as well, but I knew better than turn my head and risk betraying my position. I knew not to worry; Fields had good nerves.
I blinked a few times, squeezing away the sweat in my eyes. My vision finally cleared just as the car window eased back up. Moments later, the clicking of gears issued sharply from the vehicle. It eased away, abruptly increasing its pace as it ascended the hill.
The silence returned, heavy and inviting.
Fields turned to face me. “That was close.”
“Too close.” Something about that made no sense.
“What’s wrong?”
“If you’d been in that car, would you have stopped?”
“No.”
“Me neither.”
“But at least no one got out. T
hat was good, wasn’t it? We didn’t have to kill anyone else this morning.”
“They probably didn’t get out because they might have thought it could be an ambush.”
“I’m just glad they left. I really don’t care about their motives.”
“I do.”
“Does it matter?”
I couldn’t believe she’d asked me that. “The three of us passed dozens of abandoned vehicles sitting along the roads on our way here. We didn’t stop.”
“We had other things on our minds. If you recall, we were trying to get away.”
“I remember.”
“Then what’s bothering you?”
“There’s only one reason for stopping nowadays.”
“But they didn’t get out, did they?”
“That’s what I can’t figure.”
“You think they wanted to get out but didn’t because they were afraid to?”
“Yes.”
“Well, they’re gone, and I don’t hear anyone.”
“That doesn’t mean they’re gone.”
“I think you’re being paranoid.”
“Being paranoid doesn’t mean someone isn’t after you.”
Fields didn’t say anything for a little while. She seemed to be listening. “I still don’t hear anyone.”
“They could have gone up to the top of the hill, rounded the bend, and pulled over.”
“What would they be doing?”
“Waiting.”
“For what?”
“I don’t know. I think we need to stay here.”
“How long?”
“Twenty minutes. I think they’ll come back, and twenty minutes seems a good length of time to test them. If they did stop somewhere up there, they’ll probably wait five or ten minutes before circling back.”
“If they do come back, we’re gonna have to kill them, aren’t we?”
“Only if they stop, get out and walk over to the truck.”
“What if they don’t come back at all?”
“Then everything will be all right. If nothing happens in twenty minutes, we’ll get back in the truck, but I think we should head east and take another way back.”
“Why?”
“If they’re somewhere up that hill, watching, I don’t want them seeing us pulling into the drive. They’ll know where we live. We really don’t want that.”
***
We waited in the ditch, listening to the birds fussing in the trees, an occasional afternoon breeze drifting by, and the intermittent silence.
No sign of the compact. The road remained deserted.
Still, I couldn’t lower my guard. Something just wasn’t right, and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t believe the danger had passed. Even though Fields’ comment about my paranoia had me wondering, my gut continued telling me something was amiss.
“It’s twenty minutes.” Fields had pushed aside a clump of weeds to peek at her wrist watch. “Can we please get back in the truck?”
“I suppose.” I sat up and, turning, gave the road a long, cautious scan. I saw nothing, heard nothing. As far as I could tell, Fields and I were the only two people in the area.
Fields straightened and brushed herself off. Still holding the .45 at her side, she climbed the steep grade and went back to the truck.
I followed, glancing in both directions as I approached the driver’s side. Fields had already climbed in and was eyeing the hill as she buckled her seat belt. The .45 rested in her lap.
I got behind the wheel, laid the .357 on the console and buckled up. I made one last scan of the hill before firing up the ignition. Then I pulled out onto the road, pointed the truck east and climbed the hill that would take us to Saxonburg Boulevard.
I tried convincing myself that this was indeed paranoia rearing its ugly head, and that we were wasting precious gas for nothing. If I was sensible, I’d pull into the first drive we came to, turn around and head back west. We could get back to the farm and I could have my bourbon and forget about this ugly mess.
We didn’t even reach the top of the hill before I noticed the light-blue speck in my rearview, about a mile behind us.
***
Fields glanced at her side mirror. “Why can’t you be wrong once in a while?”
“How can you say something like that? Look what happened this morning.”
Winding and treacherous in spots, Bakerstown–Culmerville Road snaked through the Pennsylvania hills for five or six miles before Saxonburg Boulevard cut through it, where a country store and filling station sat for as long as I could remember. Fields and I had gone there just a few weeks ago, looking for gas. The pumps still worked and the store still carried some supplies that hadn’t yet been taken by the few survivors in the area.
The two-lane country road was lined with trees and heavy brush. Most of the houses sat far off from the road, with only portions of rooftops visible from the highway. Grass and weeds had grown wild during the last few months, hiding much of the land and properties from view. If I could gain a little distance, I could pull into a drive and use the cover of the overgrown brush to hide, then wait until I was sure we were no longer being followed.
Once again I wondered what this was all about. I sincerely hoped I could put this down as an innocent action. For all I knew, the driver might have gone up the hill and driven another five or ten minutes before remembering that he might have forgotten something. A map, perhaps, or bottle of water. Or maybe he hadn’t brought along enough cigarettes for his trip.
Or maybe he was driving simply to keep his vehicle in working condition. Nowadays, this sort of thing made perfect sense. There were no more jobs, no more services. The only reasons to leave the house were for food and supplies. For that, you needed reliable wheels. Abandoned vehicles sat everywhere nowadays, but you couldn’t be sure if they would start. And you ran the risk of being hunted down if you ventured out of the house on foot.
Although not exactly the perfect vehicle for heavy shopping, the compact could be used for other purposes. It was economical and thus perfect for looking for supplies or abandoned houses to ransack. Once the driver found something interesting, he could return home, switch to the truck or van, drive back to the target site and load up.
I wanted to believe that the driver of the compact was not a killer, but I just couldn’t toss the possibility aside. Each time I considered the errand theory, I had to dismiss it. It didn’t make sense that someone looking for food or other supplies would stop on the road and stare at a parked truck for five minutes, drive away and turn back around twenty minutes later. It made more sense that the driver had wanted to investigate, but didn’t like the odds. Something about the setup had caused him to drive away. It felt like a possible ambush. Someone could be hiding in the truck, the station wagon, or even in the trees or ditch. Too much of a risk. Best leave and wait for a few minutes, come back and see if the truck was still there.
Then what? Follow the truck? Find out where it’s going, drive on by, sneak back a little later and try to steal it? Or hide in the bushes and shoot the driver when he returned, then rob the body and take the truck?
As I drove, I kept glancing in my rearview, trying very hard to pull vibes from the tiny light-blue object nearly a mile behind us. I had gut instinct and a sixth sense, but as hard as I struggled, I just couldn’t pull other people’s thoughts or intentions out of the air.
“He doesn’t seem to be in a hurry.” Her long brown hair flying next to the open window, Fields kept a watchful eye on her side mirror.
“We’re the only other vehicle on this road. He’d have to be a moron to lose sight of us.”
Fields sat back in her seat and pushed hair out of her face. “He could be just an innocent guy driving around, for all we know.”
“We can’t assume anyone’s innocent anymore. Now that we know they’re coming up the driveway, we have to suspect everyone we see.”
Fields didn’t reply. I could tell she didn’t like what I just said.
I couldn’t blame her; I hadn’t liked it, either.
“If all he wants is to rob people, why didn’t he stop and check out the station wagon?” she asked.
“It looked ratty.”
“So? You can pile a bunch of things in that wagon.”
“I think he’s more interested in the truck.”
“Why? Because it’s in good condition, has balls and can carry a ton of stuff?”
“Maybe.”
“Too bad we don’t have Reed with us anymore. His friend could...”
“I know.” I was thinking the same thing. Reed’s invisible friend could have told us what was going on in the compact. But I didn’t want to think of Reed right now. I missed him and wished he was here, but he was dead and Fields and I were still alive, and we had to do what we could to stay that way.
“I miss him, too.” Fields touched my arm.
I considered our options. We had to lose the compact. If its driver didn’t have any murderous intentions, he would have just driven on by. But he’d turned around and was now following us. Because of this, I no longer felt the need to rationalize this any further.
“Got anything in mind?”
“I’m gonna speed up around the next bend and look for a place to turn off. There’s enough foliage around here to conceal us. If I can pull off quickly enough, I might be able to find enough trees to hide the truck from the road. Then we can wait until he drives on by.”
“And if he pulls the same thing he did before?”
She was right. We couldn’t spend the morning dodging some anonymous driver with unknown motives. The time would come when I’d had enough and decided to call his bluff. I didn’t want to kill anyone else today, but if he forced my hand, I’d have to deal with it.
“We’ll see what happens. If we spot him again, we’ll just pull over and find out what he wants.”
Fields said nothing. I knew what she was thinking. I was probably thinking along the same lines. Even though there weren’t many people left in the world, monsters still existed. I found the concept aggravating as well as frightening.
After Darkness Fell Page 3
