She picked up speed again and ran through another aisle, also empty. Brittle screeching surrounded her now, growing louder, as if the deadwalkers were gaining on her. She could imagine them tracking her through the darkness, their bodies twitching and jerking as they pulled themselves along, cornering her before tearing her to bits.
Another darkened intersection loomed ahead. She slowed, shining the flashlight, finger still poised on the trigger...
The carrier seemed to appear from nowhere. It screamed as the light struck its face, its eyes glowing. It snarled, recoiling from the unexpected blast of light. Reflexively, she raised the pistol and pulled the trigger.
Nothing happened.
Panic tore through her. The carrier shook off the blinding effect of the flashlight, taking a deep breath and belting out a ferocious screech. Its black eyes pierced her as its body tensed, ready to leap.
She squeezed the trigger again. Nothing. Glancing at the gun again she quickly found the problem.
The safety.
The carrier leapt just as Trish released the safety. She aimed and pulled the trigger. The muzzle flashed and then the carrier was on her. She pulled the trigger again, point-blank, punching a softball-sized hole in the carrier’s back as the bullet exited its body.
Trish and the carrier landed together in a pile on the concrete. Warm blood leaked onto her shirt, the thing’s matted, stinking hair fanning out over her face, falling into her open mouth. It reeked of sweat and filth. The smell overwhelmed her and she vomited bile onto the floor.
Summoning up her strength, she shoved the dead carrier aside and stood. Wailing and moaning erupted from the Stygian shadows, more intense than before. Stunned and running on adrenaline, she kept moving. She no longer slowed at the dark intersections between the aisles. The flashlight bobbed as it cut through the murky darkness, the sound of her own breathing filling up her ears like the repetition of a ticking clock.
She nearly hit the wall when she reached it. She skidded to a quick stop and frantically searched for an exit. Seeing none, she found herself at a crossroads. If she chose wrong it could be the last decision of her life.
Without the luxury of time, she chose a direction. Around her the shrieking seemed to multiply, blending into a horrific chorus. She could almost see the infected taking shape in the shadows around her.
Moments later, another flick of the flashlight revealed the red reflection of an EXIT sign, beckoning to her from above a heavy metal door. She slammed into the door’s panic bar with all her weight.
It didn’t budge.
Her shoulder and hip sang with pain. No, she thought. It can’t be locked. Not when I’m this close.
Desperate, she reared back and slammed her body harder into the door, her hip again triggering the panic bar. The jammed door groaned on rusty hinges as it gave way, popping free so quickly that she lost her balance and tumbled forward onto her hands and knees. Rough pavement shredded the skin from her palms and tore small holes in the knees of her jeans.
Ignoring the pain, she pulled herself to her feet again. She glanced back at the door, sure that a stream of deadwalkers would immediately emerge into the dark night, right on her heels. The doorway remained empty, only wild moaning and manic screeching funneled through.
A half moon hung in the sky, covered mostly by clouds, casting the palest of light. It wasn’t much, but it was enough by which to navigate. She turned off the flashlight and ran. Behind her the carriers’ screams intensified. Her legs burned as a stitch formed in her side, threatening to slow her down to only a walk.
Then she caught sight of a dumpster, no more than thirty yards away. A dumpster had saved her life once before and she hoped could again. Without looking back, she bolted toward the giant trash bin, taking deep breaths, hoping to mitigate the crippling pain in her side. She closed the distance quickly, keeping her attention focused. All that mattered was getting to that dumpster.
She ran into the thing when she got to it. Frantically she lifted the lid, tossing the flashlight and the pistol into the dark interior. She placed a foot on the square outcropping welded to the side of the metal box and dove in headfirst, striking her already bruised hip on a rough wooden pallet. She eventually came to rest upon bags of old, desiccated trash.
She sat as still as possible inside the dumpster, cloaked in darkness, trying desperately to quiet her panting. Her side ached and her head still hurt from whatever drug Ryder had used on her.
Moments later, she heard the first sounds of the infected; feet striking pavement, grunts and moans, growling and shrieking. The dumpster shook and she nearly screamed. The minutes passed slowly as the infected kept up their search outside the confines of the dumpster.
Eventually exhaustion overtook her. She drifted off to a fitful sleep, still clutching the pistol in her hand as the carriers ambled about the warehouse’s parking lot, unaware their prey was right under their noses.
Chapter Twenty-Four
“Are you boys hungry?” Rose asked once inside the house. She sifted through her backpack and pulled out a few cans. “We have some soup in here. And some Sterno we can use to heat it up for you.”
“That’s okay,” Zach replied. He sat beside his brother on a couch in the living room. “We have some food in our bags.”
Max waved away Zach’s objections. “It’s okay. Seriously. We’ll share.”
“It’ll only take a few minutes,” Rose said. “It’s no trouble at all.”
“Well, I guess so.”
“How does chicken noodle sound?”
Both Jeremy and Zach nodded. Rose smiled in return.
Max placed both backpacks on the floor next to the boys. “Here you go. Told you we’d take good care of them.”
“Thanks,” Zach said, pulling the packs closer. Having them back again made him feel a little less anxious.
“Those are pretty heavy. You guys are stocked up, eh?”
“We’ve spent a lot of time on the road.”
“Us too, before we ended up in St. Louis.” Max turned toward Rose, who was now removing the lid from a can of chicken noodle soup. “How long have we been on the road now?”
“Ever since-” Rose began, stopping as quickly as she’d begun. “A few years now.”
She and Max exchanged a furtive glance, so quick that Zach wasn’t sure he’d seen it.
“It’s good to cook for someone again,” Rose said, looking up from the warming pan.
Max went to her and wrapped an arm around her waist. “How long was your family in St. Louis?”
“About a year.”
“Are you from there?”
“No. We walked there from the east coast.”
“Geez. Just how long were you guys on the road?”
“About three years.”
“You weren’t kidding about being on the road a long time. You guys were lucky.”
“Yeah.” Zach paused. “How long were you and Rose in St. Louis? I don’t remember seeing you guys there.”
“Not long. Only a couple of months.”
“What do you think happened? You know, with all the explosions?”
Max shrugged. “Don’t know for sure. Hard to believe it was an accident though.”
“You think somebody did it on purpose?”
“Seems that way.”
Jeremy frowned. “Why would somebody do that?”
“Hard to say. You know how crazy people can get.”
Zach could smell the chicken noodle soup strongly now. He tried not to think about just how hungry he was, but his belly grumbled despite himself.
“I also think somebody derailed that train,” Max continued.
“Really?” Zach asked.
“Yeah. You see all those cars smashed up near the engine? Somebody pushed those things across the track.”
“Who would do that?”
“Thieves. Bandits. Militia. Maybe even carriers.”
“Carriers couldn’t do that.”
“Before
today I would have said the same thing. But now I’m not so sure.”
“Maybe some people did it to derail the train. Bad people. The ones who blew up those bombs in the city. You know, to take the stuff on it after it crashed,” Jeremy suggested.
“Maybe, but wouldn’t they have shown up afterward?” Max asked. “The only ones to show up were the infected.”
They paused, considering the possibility.
“Dinner’s ready,” Rose called from the kitchen, breaking the silence.
Zach breathed deeply, taking in the aroma of the warm soup. He thought of his dad again, about the all the times they’d eaten lukewarm soup by the roadside.
Vowing to remain strong, he pushed the memories away. “Come on,” he said to his brother. “Let’s eat.”
* * *
They ate their soup in silence. The food was delicious, especially after having not eaten for so long. The bits of chicken were like little explosions of flavor in Zach’s mouth.
After they finished their soup, they walked back to the living room. Zach sat with his brother on the couch while Max and Rose sat in chairs facing them.
With his brother filling in sporadic details, Zach told Max and Rose about the guardsman who’d taken Trish, how he’d tied them up, and how they’d managed to escape from the ropes. He also detailed their return to the train and their unsuccessful search for their dad.
“So what’s next?” Max asked. “Where are you two planning on going?” Drawn curtains blocked the windows as they sat in the living room. They spoke in low voices to avoid being heard from the outside.
“We need to find our dad, and we need to find Trish,” Zach answered.
“How were you planning on doing that?” Rose asked.
Zach shrugged. “We’ll figure out a way.”
“You’re probably going to need a better plan than that,” Max offered.
Zach nodded, again feeling like a child. “I guess so.”
Max took a deep breath. He glanced at Rose before addressing the boys. “Rose and I are going on to Kansas City. That’s where the train was headed anyway. We’re not going back to St. Louis, not after all those bombs.”
Silence ensued. Rose glanced at Max before asking the next question. “Would you two want to come with us?”
Jeremy frowned. “But what about our dad? And Trish?”
Rose sighed, shaking her head. “Honey, it doesn’t look good for them.”
“But we can’t just leave them behind!”
Rose made a weak smile. “I know, I know.”
“That man who took Trish, he could still have her,” Zach said.
Rose and Max glanced again at each other. “Tell you what,” Max said, clapping his hands together lightly. “We’ll go back to the train tomorrow and we’ll leave a note for your dad and Trish. Something big, written on the side of that train car we found you in. We’ll leave them this address and then we’ll give it some time. A few days. If neither of them show up then we’ll have the discussion again about going to Kansas City.”
Zach opened his mouth to speak, but Rose stopped him. “In the end it’ll be your decision. We’re not going to try to make you go anywhere.”
“Look, guys,” Max said, fixing his gaze on both boys. “I know what it’s like to lose someone you love. Believe me, I do.” He paused, thoughtful, before continuing. “So we’ll go back to the train tomorrow and look for any leftover supplies. While we’re there we’ll leave word for your folks.”
Zach and Jeremy glanced each other. “Okay,” they both replied, nearly in unison.
“Good, then. It’s settled,” Max said, flashing a smile at Rose. She returned it. “Let’s get some rest tonight. We’ve got a busy day tomorrow.”
* * *
That night Zach and Jeremy slept in the same bed, doors locked and in shifts. It wasn’t so much that Zach didn’t trust Rose and Max, he just didn’t know them. He was sure his dad would have done the same thing. He’d always taught them to be cautious.
The following day the group left the house and headed back toward the crash site. They carried with them a can of black spray paint retrieved from the garage behind the small house to leave the message on the train car for Ed and Trish. Along with the paint, they brought empty pillow cases to be filled with scavenged supplies from the crash site.
The four of them stepped quickly and carefully through the side streets, alert and aware. Using the spray paint, Max placed an “X” on various street signs along the way to act as bread crumbs, allowing them to find their way back to the house again.
Once back at the scene of the crash they gathered up what few supplies they could find. They stuffed the pillowcases full of MREs, a few TV dinners that could be stored without refrigeration, several cans of Spam and Vienna Sausages and a couple dozen packages of ramen noodles. All of it had been thrown from the train when it crashed the day before.
As he scavenged, Zach stumbled upon another discovery that made his heart sink.
A can of creamed corn.
He picked up the can, stuffing it inside the pillowcase before it brought back any more memories of his father.
Before they left, Max spray-painted the address of the house in which they were staying. Below the address Max wrote a simple message:
Zach and Jeremy are here.
With the message written, they followed the spray-painted markings on the roads signs back to their temporary house. Once back inside, they unloaded the pillowcases, inspecting the food to ensure it was still edible.
While Rose prepared lunch, Zach stood by the window, peering out into the empty street. Thoughts of his dad and Trish ate away at him, threatening to destroy what hope he had left. As each hour passed without a knock at the door, Zach felt more and more certain that he’d never see them. Then he and Jeremy would be alone, forever. Orphans.
A tear threatened to blur his vision. He wiped it away, pushing the torrent back. It was so hard being strong. He wondered how his dad had done it all those years, especially after Mom died.
“He’s okay,” Jeremy said from behind.
Startled, Zach turned to face his brother. He tried to think of something to say, something reassuring, but he couldn’t. All he could do was nod, hiding his concern behind a weak smile.
“It’s okay to cry, too,” Jeremy said.
Unable to hold them back any longer, Zach finally let the tears flow.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Trish awoke the following morning inside the dumpster, the pistol still clutched in her hand. She blinked in the darkness, trying to focus. A thread of light outlining the gap between the dumpster and its lid stared back at her.
Somehow, against the odds, she’d survived. The realization threatened to overwhelm her. Trish thought of the poor woman who’d helped her escape, the woman who’d given her life to help a stranger. Trish didn’t even know her name.
Ryder was finally dead. They were all dead, all the men who took her a lifetime ago and did terrible things to her.
But then a thought occurred to her; what if he wasn’t really dead? She’d heard his screams, but she hadn’t actually watched him die.
She needed to see, with her own eyes. Only then would she be able to live without constantly looking over her shoulder. Without certainty, she’d never be free. Going back into the warehouse again would be dangerous. More than dangerous; possibly suicidal.
She heard Ryder’s voice in her head. You don’t have the guts to do it.
I don’t have the guts not to, she thought.
Her headache, which had been nearly constant since the train wreck before being worsened by Ryder’s drugs, was gone now. Getting to her knees, she lifted the lid of the dumpster only slightly, peering through the inch or so of clearance, squinting in the bright sunlight. She saw no carriers in the parking lot.
She waited, listening, allowing her eyes to adjust to the bright light. A few minutes later she stood, lifting the dumpster’s lid completely open. The fresh ai
r smelled much better than the dumpster’s stuffy interior.
She tucked the pistol in her back pocket, retrieving the knife and the flashlight from amidst the trash before climbing out of the dumpster. Once on the ground, she felt thankful for the solidity beneath her feet. With her eyes now adjusted to the daylight, she took another look around. Behind her sat the warehouse, its paint-chipped, cinder block façade glaring down at her. Random cars littered the parking lot, most with windows smashed and tires flattened.
She waited a few more moments, listening. She heard no grunting, no limbs dragged over the course asphalt. No voices and no screaming. Just eerie quiet covering the landscape like a thick blanket.
She took a step forward, her muscles sore. Ignoring the stiffness, she kept moving, hoping she didn’t lose her nerve.
* * *
She found a door leading into the warehouse, climbed the few steps leading to it and pulled it open. It screeched on rusty hinges, protesting as it gave way. She peeked her head inside. Sunlight streamed into the warehouse from squat windows set near the ceiling, filling the interior with a dingy hue. She waited, standing perfectly still while she listened.
Minutes passed with no sign of the infected. Taking a deep breath, she gathered up her courage and walked into the building. Inside she felt the claustrophobic walls surrounding her, towering above like angry sentinels. The hair on the back of her neck stood at attention as gooseflesh spread across her skin. The smell of carrier lingered in the thick and stagnant air.
She kept moving, pistol in hand as she searched for something, anything at all, to prove to herself that Ryder was dead. Inside her mind alarms wailed, screaming at her, telling her to get out, to run and keep going. It was crazy coming back, a part of her knew that, but she had to be certain.
She walked slowly, eyes wide. Then something ahead caught her eye. Blood smears on the concrete floor surrounding a mess of strewn clothes and bones. She hurried toward the scene, stepping as quietly as she could. She covered the distance quickly, glancing nervously from side to side.
Badlands Trilogy (Book 2): Beyond the Badlands Page 9
