Twila colored at the wicker patio set, lost in her own world. It gave Scarlett time to think about the next leg of their arduous journey. They were recovering from the trip through the Mojave Desert. They had barely survived. The Joshua trees still haunted her dreams. If it hadn’t been for the spring rains and the cool weather, they would have died. Right there. And no one would have ever known.
During those dizzy-delirious days in the desert, Twila swore Willow was her spirit guide and had led them to the tiniest of streams, which they had followed until the desert swallowed its precious gift. Then Scarlett thought she’d been the one hallucinating when they had eventually come upon another water source, turning out to be a tributary of the Colorado River. They had finally made it to the Arizona border. They had followed the river for days in search of a bridge. The problem was all the bridges had been destroyed. She had never been so relieved, the day they’d found the secluded house built on stilts near an inlet of the river.
The house had food and enough water in the hot water tank for a few very cold but wonderful showers. The toilet flushed as long as they refilled it with water from the river. Jeez, even toilet paper—a luxury! They had hot meals thanks to the Weber gas grill, complete with a tank of propane. Except for the cobwebs, no one had been there since the Super Summer flu. For a moment, sitting on the deck, one could almost believe it had never happened. She wanted to stay there forever.
“Me too!” Twila exclaimed, interrupting Scarlett’s thoughts.
It was time Scarlett found out what the girl knew. She’d been tiptoeing around the issue for far too long. She refilled Twila’s glass of homemade, iceless sweet tea. “ ‘Me too’—what?” Scarlett pressed.
“I don’t want to leave,” Twila said simply.
“What about the bad people?” Scarlett asked.
“They think we’re dead. For now. The Silver Lady said we could only stay here until March,” Twila said, holding up a brightly colored picture of Belle.
Scarlett hadn’t felt any mystical sensations since they’d been in the desert. No probing. Nothing. She’d been focusing so intently on their daily survival that all the unexplainable sensations she had experienced seemed to have withered away as if they had never existed in the first place.
“Mommy, you’re just tired.” Twila flipped through the coloring book.
“Can you read my mind?” Scarlett finally asked.
“It’s more like I feel your thoughts. But only some of the time. Like when you are sad or scared. Ooh, I wanna color this page for you and make you feel all better.” Twila held up a picture of Belle dancing with the Beast.
“I’d love that.” Scarlett smiled. Twila did have a way of making her heart burst with love.
“You said the Ancient Bloodlines think we’re dead?” Scarlett prompted, wanting more information.
“The bad people feel our energy. ’Cause we almost did die. No food. No water,” she said in exasperation. “I thank Willow every day for helping us.”
Scarlett thought about what Twila said. Hunger, the constant emptiness gnawing at the belly, boring a hole through the stomach was almost euphoric. “Why didn’t the Silver Lady help us?” Scarlett asked, suddenly annoyed.
“She has to be very, very careful. ’Cause the bad people know who she is now. Oh, and she said we’re not supposed to think about the bad people because then they can connect to our thoughts, like the connect-the-dot pictures in my coloring book. So, Mommy, please try harder.”
“How?” It was beyond Scarlett’s comprehension.
“Remember, what she told us? When your head starts hurting, they are trying to connect with us. Think of something different,” Twila said, holding up three pinkish crayons. “Which color?”
“The dark-pink one,” Scarlett said. “What do you think about when you feel them probing?”
“I used to pretend we were going to Chuck E. Cheese. It stopped working. Now it’s Disneyland. Sometimes I pretend I’m waiting in line for the Peter Pan ride. Ooh, it’s the funnest ride.”
It was one of the few times Twila had ever mentioned anything about her life before the pandemic. “When did you go to Disneyland?”
“Mommy, everybody goes to Disneyland,” Twila retorted with a goofy cross-eyed grimace.
“Did you go with your mother and father?” Scarlett continued, curious to know more.
The crayon snapped in two. Twila threw the two pieces over the deck. “You, are my mommy now. Everybody else is dead to me!” Her words raged out, making Scarlett flinch.
Scarlett was too tired to deal with one of her tantrums. It happened every time she tried to find out about Twila’s prior life. No doubt the poor girl needed countless hours of therapy to work out her deep-seeded anger, fear, and pain.
“Hmm, what soup do you want for dinner?” The pantry was full of soon-to-expire canned goods. They might as well consume what they could. Twila was lean, all muscle and bone and her cheekbones gaunt. She needed to gain ten pounds.
“I love the creamy kind,” was all she said.
“I’ll check on Willow. Then I’ll make dinner.” Scarlett walked to the side of the garage where Willow was tied next to a barrel filled with river water. The wild grasses provided plenty for grazing. It was time to lock her in the garage for the night. Willow was haggard; her mane had lost its luster, her gait lumbersome. The mare didn’t have much life left in her. It was cruel, pushing her so hard. Scarlett stroked her mane. “Willow, I’m so sorry. What would we do without you?” The words slipped out before she realized she had said it aloud.
Scarlett had been working on a plan. She had just been too exhausted to do much about it while they recuperated and gorged, rebuilding their broken, malnourished bodies. It was time she started fishing and smoking as much food as they could carry. And, she should probably take advantage of this precious time to teach Twila to fish. The school teacher in her wanted to teach English and math and history. “Survival comes first.” The words came silently. Had it been the Silver Lady? “Be careful, if I can connect with you, so can the Ancient Bloodlines.”
Scarlett heeded the warning and tried singing a No Doubt song; only she couldn’t remember the words. She strung together a bunch of words and sang to herself and thought of Disneyland as well just to be safe. Further back in the inner workings of her mind, she thought out the details.
She had found the key to the long flatbed truck with wooden side-railings parked in the back. Hmm, the garage had a workshop with spare tires and batteries. I’ve got to get the truck running. Dean had taught her how to siphon gasoline, change a tire, jump-start a car, and disconnect and replace a battery.
Oh, Dean and Luther. They had gone to Travis Air Force Base in search for help two winters ago. They were probably dead. A memory of Dean flashed. She missed his sincere eyes; the way they crinkled at the corners when he smiled. He had always feigned grumpiness, but it was merely a mask he wore to hide his anguish after his beloved wife’s death. Scarlett had grown to know and love Dean like a dear uncle. As for Luther, she hadn’t known him long. She had nearly killed him with a dose of antibiotics, unaware he’d been allergic. You’ll see them again! Was it wishful thinking or a message? The two always confused her. Since her talk with Twila, she was starting to feel and hear again. Be careful.
She focused on the plan. With a safe place for Twila to stay during the day, Scarlett was determined. She’d get that truck running somehow, and siphon all the gas she could find from the discarded vehicles, dangerous as it might be. Then Willow could ride in the flatbed until they ran out of gas. Every day in the vehicle would increase their chances of making it to Texas. The hard part was finding a bridge to cross over to the Arizona side of the great Colorado River.
Scarlett laid out the map on the table. “Disneyland, Disneyland,” she muttered, looking at the map. Texas was still a lifetime away. They would have been there by now if they hadn’t taken such a circuitous route through California. She supposed it had been necessary to
lose the Ancient Bloodlines. Here I go again. One minute I believe in the Silver Lady, the next minute I think it’s my imagination.
A dull throbbing started. She hummed a string of Christmas carols while studying the map. The highways and interstates were a definite no. She needed a bridge. Tracing her finger north along the Colorado River, she stopped on the railroad track symbol. That’s it! If they followed the tracks, eventually, they’d make it to Texas. They could skirt the edges of any towns along the way, camp inside rural homes, and restock or fish when possible. A jolt nearly knocked her off her feet. She hummed louder.
Chapter 18
Dean kept the Trav at a steady ten miles per hour, pacing the Hummer. Luther sat beside him, riding shotgun while Justin slept in the sleeper. It was day six following the two Enforcers, Seargent Wilcox and Seargent Meyers, through the vast emptiness of New Mexico.
Dean didn’t have the heart to tell Justin. Sometimes he thought this whole business of finding Ella was nothing more than a wild goose chase they pursued to clear their consciences. Too many dad-blast-it routes to monitor. The strange thing was, his gut told him that Father Jacob’s wagon train would end up on The Santa Fe Trail. Even Sergeant Wilcox had stated most of the western caravans funneled through the Santa Fe corridor since the word was out the southern routes were inundated with hordes.
According to Wilcox, the entire eastern border of Texas had been on lockdown since the second pandemic wave had hit. The second outbreak had been more virulent than the first. Everyone east of Last State was considered an Infected and was liable to get shot on the spot. Enforcers had gone so far as to obliterate all eastern routes into Texas. Last State’s officials must have grossly underestimated man’s will to survive. For it was common knowledge amongst Enforcers that eastern immigrants traveled northwest and then south to the Santa Fe Trail, even if they had to go all the way to Idaho to make it look legit. And since most of the nation’s computerized records had been lost when the power grid had crashed, it was nearly impossible to prove where people were from.
Driving through the desert brought back unresolved issues for Dean, who was born and raised in Las Cruces, New Mexico. Things he had most likely forgotten intentionally, like never knowing whom his father was, or the mother’s love he’d never had, which in turn had him grieving over Mary. Old regrets of losing contact with his son continued plaguing him. He hadn’t heard from Kyle for months before the world had gone batshit. Then there was his granddaddy; he was the one who’d made Dean the man he was today. At times, Dean swore he heard his grandaddy warning him about this or that. With all of these troubling thoughts and regrets stewing in the pit of his stomach, Dean found the journey gloomy and monotonous.
The Hummer’s brake lights flashed. Seargent Wilcox motioned the rally point signal out the window. They stopped every so often to investigate signs of activity such as deserted camp-out areas, vehicles, and wagons.
“Looks like we're stopping,” Dean announced back to Justin. “You awake?”
“Sure,” Justin mumbled.
Justin had been exceptionally quiet since yesterday afternoon. They had come across two burnt-out wagons. The immigrants had been shot in the head, men and women alike. It had been a gruesome sight. Luther had been the one to go over the remnants and had informed them Ella wasn’t one of the victims. Dean turned off the engine, and stepped onto the sandy desert, ready to stretch his legs.
“What up?” Luther said, getting out of the Trav.
“We’re stopping here for the night. See the sign? We’ve reached the end of The Zone.”
Dean saw the crude sign, a mere stake wedged into the ground with 200 MILES TO BOOM TOWN & IMMIGRANT STATION painted in red.
“Last State doesn’t patrol beyond this marker. Too f’in dangerous,” Meyers said.
“That’s it?” Justin reacted quickly. “You’re calling off the search?”
“Meyers and I talked it over. Tomorrow, we’re willing to travel west until noon,” Wilcox offered.
“Only half a day?” Justin rebuffed.
“Half-day there and half-day to get the hell out of there before dark,” Meyers said. “According to the reports—strange things happen beyond the Two-Hundred-Mile Marker.”
“Dude, strange things have been happening ever since the zombie outbreak. I’m not stopping just because you guys are wimps,” Justin spouted off.
“You’ve got to understand where we’re coming from. I’m willing to break the rules to a certain extent. If Last State finds out we went beyond The Zone, they’ll assign us to shit detail for the next thirty days.” Wilcox turned to Dean. “It’s extremely dangerous beyond this point.”
“Hey, we knew it was dangerous when we signed up for the job,” Luther reminded.
Meyers pointed to the meandering mountain range to the north. “If there’s gonna be any trouble, it will be over there. Dead Snake Canyon.”
“Immigrants, the ones who escape, say that’s where they get ambushed,” Wilcox said.
“So, if everyone knows where the bad guys hang, why doesn’t Last State do something about it?” Justin badgered.
“Too dangerous. The canyon provides plenty of cover,” Wilcox said.
“Why do people go there in the first place?” Justin asked.
“Water. There are several year-round tributaries leading down to the canyons and valleys.”
“Ye-ah, but you guys have bigger guns. Why would they mess with you?” Justin pressed.
“They know Last State vehicles carry weapons and food,” Wilcox said patiently, lighting a smoke.
“Why rob us? They can walk into practically any house or store and take what they want.” Justin wasn’t convinced.
“Everything within a two-hundred-mile radius has been looted out,” Wilcox remarked. “Making this quadrant a smorgasbord for marauders. They steal from the weary immigrants, then sell the stolen goods at pop-up trading posts along the trails since it’s a known fact Enforcers no longer patrol past the Two-Hundred-Mile Marker.”
“The more immigrants they slaughter—means more hordes. Only these ones are hungrier,” Meyers sniped.
Justin moped to the back of the Trav. Dean shook his head. The kid wasn’t taking it too well.
“Where you think you’re going? No freeloaders. Gather all the down juniper and pinyon. Need to get a fire going,” Meyers ordered.
“Aren’t you afraid the bad guys will see the fire?” Justin yelled sarcastically from the Trav.
“Got night vision goggles.” Meyers smiled. “The fire keeps the coyotes away. Besides, I’m not eating another shitty MRE. I want me some hot, spicy beans and flatbread,” Meyers said.
Dean gave Wilcox a look of concern. Wilcox responded, “Marauders won’t try anything out in the open. They’ll want the cover of the canyon.”
“Ye-ah, what about the people we found yesterday?” Justin ranted.
“Those dumb-asses probably didn’t have armed guides,” Meyers said, laughing his ass off.
“I don’t get it. Why do guides risk going back if it’s so freakin’ dangerous?” Justin continued.
“Money. Everyone’s dying to get into Last State. Most do. Die, that is.” Meyers laughed at the expense of the deceased immigrants.
“Texas should protect the immigrants,” Luther said in a bout of obvious disgust.
“They call it Last State, boy.” Meyers sneered.
Meyers sounded like a good ol’ boy. Dean hoped Luther could keep his cool. Luther ignored Meyers and helped Justin collect firewood. Dean certainly didn’t appreciate Meyers’ jaded point of view. “Seems to me, Last State,” Dean emphasized, “should extend its perimeters.”
“Tried that a few months ago. Now, most of our Enforcers are needed on the Eastern and Mexican borders,” Wilcox explained.
“I say, send in the drones and blow the hordes to shit,” Meyers said carelessly.
“You’ve got drones?” Justin perked up.
“Last State does. Don’t get ideas.
They won’t be wasting any drones just so you can get laid,” Meyers snarked.
Justin’s nostril flared, and his jaw pulsed. Dean knew Justin was about to lose it. To change the subject, Dean asked a question he’d been pondering for months. “Say, whatever happened to our Department of Defense and Homeland Security?”
“They were the first ones to bite the dust. Suckers!” Meyers hissed.
“What about the President and White House staff?” Dean asked.
“Wiped off the map. Last State sent reconnaissance flights,” Wilcox said in a sorrowful tone.
“Who’d do that?” Dean gasped.
“Who knows. The U.S. had plenty of enemies. They caught us with our pants down,” Wilcox said.
“Still, some of our militaries must have survived. All those bases on foreign soils. NORAD?” Dean wondered aloud. He couldn’t fathom the notion the entire military had collapsed.
“Any surviving military personnel outside of The Zone are trying to survive just like the rest of the immigrants. Every now and then we hear of a top-ranking official who was somehow smuggled in and are now part of the Elite,” Wilcox said.
“Some things never change,” Luther commented and dropped a stack of limbs next to the firepit Wilcox had started.
“What are you standing around for?” Meyers glared at Luther. “Make yourself useful and fix us supper.”
The mounting tension between the Seargent Meyers and Luther escalated. Dean gave Luther a silent man-to-man look, telling him to keep his cool. It looked like Luther was about to cold-cock the bastard. The cold-hearted nature of Meyers reminded him of Paxton. Dean knew one thing, he’d be sleeping with one eye open for the rest of their trip.
“I got this,” Justin piped, surprisingly cheerful.
Sergeant Wilcox sat by the fire, scanning Dead Snake Canyon with a peculiar set of high-tech binoculars. “Bogey alert. Can’t tell what, but there’s definitely movement in the canyon.”
Only The Dead Don't Die (Book 2): The Hunger's Howl Page 17
