Only The Dead Don't Die (Book 2): The Hunger's Howl

by Popovich, A. D.

  “Dude, we’re serious,” Justin was pissed with their careless attitudes.

  “What mode of transportation?” the bearded man inquired.

  “Wagon train, the last I heard. Bible thumpers,” Luther said.

  “Ye-ah, they wear these crazy black robes and stuff,” Justin said.

  “They got a preacher?” the other man asked. He looked like he hadn’t bathed in years.

  “Yes,” Justin, Luther, and Dean all said in unison.

  “We passed a wagon train fitting the description back in Utah. Last month,” the bearded man stated. “One of them was sick, so they stopped back at one of them trading posts along the way.”

  “Was Ella with them?” Justin interrupted. Dean’s hand patted his shoulder.

  “We left them alone. They were none too friendly. Hell, they shot one of our people.”

  “You didn’t shoot back did you?” Justin gaped.

  “ ’Course we did.” The man laughed.

  Wilcox coughed. The conversation stopped. They stared at Wilcox, guns cocked, waiting for him to turn.

  “Woah, don’t shoot me yet,” Wilcox rasped.

  “How you doing?” Dean asked, his face paler than Wilcox’s.

  “Better than you from the looks of it.” Wilcox offered a fake laugh.

  “I’ve seen better days myself, my friend,” Dean replied.

  “Meyers?” Wilcox asked.

  “Afraid he didn’t make it,” Dean said softly.

  “You all mind helping us lift the wagon?” Luther asked.

  Dean tried to stand and then plopped to the sand again. “Think I’ll sit this one out.”

  The four men positioned themselves around each of the wagon wheels. “Ready on three,” Luther said. “One, two, three—”

  Wilcox let out a harrowing scream. “Stop! It’s no use. If you did free me, I’d bleed-out before we reached Check Point Charlie.” Wilcox spoke the dying truth no one else dared to say.

  “You want, I put you out of your misery now?” the fuzzy bearded man said.

  “Not so fast.” Wilcox’s scathing gaze made Justin flinch.

  “Come sundown you’ll wish I had.” The man shrugged and holstered his gun.

  “We’ll take it from here.” Dean found his voice again. “Whereabouts you two headin’?” Dean asked, taking control of a situation—before it became a situation, something Dean was super good at.

  “We got business in Boom Town. Then it’s back to Idaho for another payload,” the filthy man said.

  “You only have one wagon and one horse left,” Luther pointed out.

  The filthy man spat into the blood-soaked sand next to the de-activated Z. “It’s shit city. Started off with ten wagons and forty people, and this is all we’ve got to show for it.”

  “What happened?” Justin puzzled; these men were rugged and weren’t afraid to get their hands dirty.

  “People got sick. Then we got robbed—” the bearded man started.

  “Yeah, we took care of that real quick like.” The filthy man sneered.

  “Anything we should know about headin’ west?” Dean asked.

  “The thieves are the least of your trouble. It’s the roving herds you got to watch for.”

  “Roving herds?” Justin didn’t like the sound of it.

  “It’s like the rotters are making a mass exodus.”

  “To where?” Luther said.

  “Hell, if I know. If you find them in your zoom, you’d better get the hell out before they catch a whiff of your scent.”

  “We’ve been known to handle a horde on occasion,” Luther advised.

  “Ha! Hordes ain’t nothing but target practice. This is something new. Think ZZ Top concert-goers on meth. These rotters are frickin’ fast.”

  Luther shot a knowing glance at Justin and Dean. Last year Luther had told them the military had sprayed the Zs in the Oakland Bay Area with a chemical concoction, hoping to neutralize them. Apparently, it had backfired and had mutated them into Super-Zs.

  “So, if you don’t mind, we’d better hook up our only-est horse to our only-est wagon and get on out of here before they sniff out the fresh blood. Thanks for helpin’ us out,” the bearded man said.

  “We sh-should c-caravan,” the other man stuttered. “It’s safer. This is my third trip from Idaho. I’ve never seen this many rotters on the northern routes.”

  “Dude, why do you keep coming back?” Justin didn’t get it.

  “Got my eye on some oceanfront property in Texas. Guides get paid the big bucks,” the bearded man bragged.

  “Don’t see any surviving customers,” Luther jeered.

  “Hey, they know the risks. Anyhow, we don’t need repeat customers. We’ve got plenty of customers waiting for us in Idaho,” the bearded man rattled off.

  Justin’s stomach turned. From out of nowhere, he knew why their passengers hadn’t survived. A 3D scene played in his mind like a preview of coming attractions. The two guides had run into a Super-Z hybrid-horde. Instead of protecting their passengers, they had abandoned them and left them for bait while they had escaped. Justin had a compelling urge to kill the men right then and there. But he wasn’t a killer, he was just a super geek, who happened to be super awesome at de-activating Zs. He paced in a circle, walking off his disgust. He hadn’t felt that much rage since the time Paxton and Nate had wanted Ella and Scarlett as sex slaves. Waves of revulsion rippled over him.

  “Enough of the chit-chat. You comin’ or what?” the bearded man prodded.

  Everyone eyed each other for a tense moment.

  The bearded man spat into the bloody sand again, smudging it with his bloodied boot. “Guess that’s that. We’ll see you all soon enough with your tail wagging between your legs. If it’s after sunset, better give us a shoutout, or you just might catch a .45 caliber in the head.” The two guides walked to the covered wagon, laughing it off. “Dumber than shit. You wouldn’t catch me holding hands with some loser waiting for him to turn.”

  “You should go,” Wilcox wheezed between gasps. His face had turned a weird waxy-gray.

  Dean shook his head. “Not leaving a friend behind. If we all put our heads together, we’ll figure something out.”

  “Go!” It came out as a hoarse whimper, followed by a coughing spell.

  “I’m hellbent on staying,” Dean said with a canteen to Wilcox’s lips.

  “What if we hooked the Trav’s pully to the wagon?” Justin said.

  “It would kill the man,” Luther mumbled. Dean nodded in agreement.

  “I don’t know about the rest of you. Ol’ Luther has worked up an appetite. I’ll get us some food,” Luther said.

  “Wait.” Wilcox motioned to them. We need to secure the perimeter before nightfall—before I pass out again. Cut the rucksack from my back. I’ll walk you through a tripwire setup,” Wilcox managed to say.

  A creepy feeling shrouded Justin when he realized they had to stay the night there. Maybe it was the guides’ warning freaking him out. Dread strangled his torso. They couldn’t leave Wilcox, just because he was losing his nerve. A bizarre voice in the back of his mind warned, “Leave now . . .” Or were his ears ringing from the gunfire?

  “Don’t just stand around feeling sorry for me. We need several small fires around the perimeter to hold off the coyotes and—” Wilcox went into a coughing fit.

  “Coyotes are the least of my worries,” Justin mumbled under his breath.

  Dean pulled the Trav next to the wagon and then worked on the tripwire while Luther and Justin collected firewood along the tree-lined creek. After they dug four fire pits around the wagon and Trav, they hung out around the fire, attempting to cheer Wilcox when he wasn’t unconscious. In reality, Justin knew they waited for something else. They enjoyed a hot dinner of corn beef hash and fire-baked biscuits, which seemed to energize Wilcox. But as the night descended Wilcox’s voice faded like the stars in the sky. The wind picked up. Justin’s arms broke out in a red rash of goosebumps.
<
br />   “A storm’s brewing. Feel it in my bones,” Dean uttered, looking up into the darkness.

  Justin jumped to his feet. “What was that?”

  “Looks like we’re in for a humdinger of a storm. I’ll grab some tarps and set up a makeshift tent around the sides of the wagon for Wilcox,” Dean said hurriedly.

  The hairs on Justin’s arms tingled. He jumped to his feet again. “Guys, guys—what is that?”

  “Son, what’s got you all spooked? It’s just the wind soughing through the cottonwoods along the river.”

  “Dean?” a weak voice called.

  Justin reached Wilcox’s side first. I think my night vision goggles are under my legs.” Wilcox mumbled.

  “Got it,” Justin announced.

  This time it was unmistakable. Howling.

  “Uh, Dean—” Justin freaked.

  “Never heard no coyotes like that,” Luther grumbled, the whites of his eyes illuminated by the firelight.

  “The Hunger’s Howl—” Wilcox’s voice took on a forlorn tone.

  “You’ve heard it before?” Dean asked.

  “Heard stories.” Wilcox stopped for a spluttering coughing fit. “Wasn’t sure it was true—’til now. They say if you’re close enough to hear it, you’d better start running.”

  Justin didn’t know what to think. He was messing around with the nifty night vision goggles when the rain started. So much for the fires.

  “Think we should get in the Trav,” Luther said, obviously trying to get Dean to leave Wilcox’s side. “You’ll catch pneumonia. Then I’ll have to do your share of the driving,” Luther ribbed.

  “Give me a moment.” Dean sounded irritated, obviously torn over leaving Wilcox in the rain.

  The howling frayed at Justin’s failing nerves. He sat in the front seat next to Luther and jumped at every little sound. The rain slammed at the windows and pounded the roof and hood like a gazillion pellets sandblasting the Trav. Finally, Dean scrambled into the backseat, letting in a torrent of rain along with an obnoxious odor. One of the tarps from the wagon blew against the Trav’s windshield, starling them. The tarp stuck there.

  Justin shivered in the passenger's front seat, staring at the fogged over windows. The whole Hunger’s Howl thing had probably been the Enforcer’s imagination. Or a cray-cray urban legend. After all, Wilcox had been babbling inaudible words for the last hour. He didn’t expect Wilcox to survive the night, not after staked in the chest. Everyone knew it—no one wanted to say it.

  Luther fidgeted behind the wheel. “I’m getting claustrophobic with that tarp flapping in my face.” Luther flipped on the wipers. The blades jammed in the tarp. “Bad idea.” Luther rolled down his window and then yanked off the tarp.

  The Trav was slammed from all sides.

  Luther let out a yelp. He struggled with his arm—something was pulling on Luther’s arm! Luther jerked the door open, ramming whatever was on the other side of the door and then slammed the door. “The hell—” Luther bellowed, holding his arm.

  “Dude!” Justin stared at the streak of blood oozing down Luther’s forearm.

  Luther hit the headlights. “Good God Almighty!”

  Hundreds of Zs were evidently surprised by the beams of the headlights. Their scuzzy heads bobbled in delight. “Holy shit!” Justin shouted.

  The rest of the horde charged the Trav. They jumped on top of the vehicle like a bunch of deranged apes, bouncing up and down on the roof while others hand-smacked the windows as if the knew the windows would break.

  “Wilcox!” Dean gasped.

  “Take a pill!” Justin shouted to the backseat while flipping the lock to his door.

  Luther stomped on the gas pedal. The Trav stalled. “Come on baby,” Luther implored. The engine finally caught, and they peeled off into the desert. Justin couldn’t stop staring at Luther’s arm. Blood dripped onto Luther’s pants in black oily spurts. Was it a scratch, or a bite? If Luther was infected with the Z-virus, he’d be branded a Class-Z citizen, forever banned from Texas. And far worse, he remembered the startling promise Luther had made them all swear back in California. To kill him on the spot—before he turned into a Super-Z. They were nearly impossible to de-activate.

  Dean handed him a first-aid kit from the backseat. Justin turned around to make eye contact with Dean. Their eyes locked for a millisecond. That one second told him Dean was worried too. Justin scoured the kit. A tiny bottle of tea tree oil caught his attention. His mom swore by this stuff. It was like the super-duper cure for all maladies. Could it neutralize the Z-virus? He ripped open a package of cotton pads and soaked several pads in the oil; its intense odor overwhelmed his nostrils.

  “Luther, I should drive,” Justin said in his most authoritative voice.

  Luther swerved the vehicle around and shined the lights to see if the horde was on their tail. Justin focused. The lightly fogged windows made it hard to see much. He closed his eyes half-way. In his peripheral, a large mass approached. It was like he sensed it more than saw it.

  “Guys, you gotta listen to me. Let’s do a three-second Chinese fire drill,” Justin said.

  “Say whut?”Luther gave him a crazed look.

  “My friend, it look’s serious as all get out. Wouldn’t mess around,” Dean confirmed.

  “Yup, it do look nasty.” Luther almost gagged at the zizzling ooze bubbling on his arm.

  “Quick,” Justin yelped. “Dean, stay there. Luther, in the back!”

  Luther opened the door and then faltered like he was about to faint. Justin stood on the sidestep railing, gauging how much time they had. Seconds. The first wave of the Zs started lunging for Luther. Justin let off several rounds cracking into the night. It must have scared the shit out of Luther because he’d never seen him move so fast. Luther hustled into the backseat next to Dean. Justin scrambled back inside and scooted over to the driver’s side.

  “They're everywhere.” Justin stomped on the gas. He rammed the Trav forward. They came to a lurching halt.

  “Go around ’em!” Dean shouted.

  “Dude, I’m trying,” Justin shouted back. The wheels spun in what Justin visualized were globs and globs of e-mash-i-ated Z guts.

  “Back it up. Nice and easy does it,” Dean ordered in a low, steady voice.

  Justin struggled with his paranoia—visions of the horde swarming them, trapping them inside until they starved to death, or until the Zs bashed in the windows. He took a deep breath and put the Trav in reverse. He whipped the wheel hard, forcing the vehicle in the opposite direction of the horde.

  “By George, you got us out of that one, son,” Dean said, finally finding his voice after a few minutes of I-can’t-believe-that-just-happened silence.

  Justin remembered the tea tree oil. The soaked pads were on the floorboard, grungy. With a shaking hand, he handed the first-aid kit back to Dean. “Soak some pads with the tea tree oil. My mom swears by this stuff.” Used too. Sometimes he forgot his parents were actually dead. Since the Super Summer flu, the timeline of events gave him the sensation of living in an alternate reality. A part of him expected to wake up any day to find the world normal. Until that day, only Ella made this never-ending nightmare worth living.

  Wait a minute. Zs were usually sluggish in the rain. The rules were changing. Again. Justin flashed the high beams. Blinded by the rain, he kept the vehicle pointed west according to the compass on the dashboard, all the while hoping they wouldn’t end up in an arroyo or crash into a tree or something. According to Wilcox, the next hundred miles past The Zone was mainly desert. He slowed down to five miles per hour. The fuel gauge was down to a quarter tank. Sure, they had more gas on the top rack, but he didn’t have the nerve to refuel with all those Zs out there. Was the horde tracking them? He tried his peripheral vision thing again. Sometimes he saw images. These days, if he wasn’t dreaming about Ella, he only saw Zs. Having a vivid imagination super sucks.

  No one had spoken in the past hour. Luther leaned against the door, sleeping. Justin tried
to catch a glimpse of Dean’s expression in the rearview mirror. Dean didn’t look at him. Or wouldn’t. Dean stared out the side window into the black rain. That was another thing. Why is the rain black?

  Poor Wilcox. Then he remembered the gunshot. Did he shoot himself in the brains—before they ate him alive? Random thoughts kept popping into Justin’s head. Luther’s oozing and bubbling arm. Thoughts of Luther growling. Attacking Dean. And Dean and Luther lunging over the front seat. Attacking him. Shit, shit, shit! It was his silent mantra for help.

  Chapter 20

  Disneyland was all Twila talked about when she wasn’t lost in her nearly meditative-comatose state or singing the same Disney song for the zillionth time. Three days after running out of gas in the desert, poor Willow was already hobbling along. She probably needed horseshoes. Scarlett didn’t know a thing about that.

  During their much-needed extended stay at the vacation house near the Colorado River, Scarlett had finally managed to get the flatbed truck operating. She had switched out the battery with a spare from the garage and then jumpstarted it with another vehicle she had changed batteries with. Once she had a working vehicle, she had spent several days siphoning gasoline, over two-hundred gallons, from the abandoned-car-cluttered highway near Lake Havasu while Twila hid in the walk-in closet, which Scarlett had turned into a playroom.

  How Scarlett missed those seven glorious days of luxury, riding in the truck, which had also provided shelter for the nights and from the hordes. It was rather odd. She’d seen more hordes rambling the desert than on the California roadways. Using the railroad tracks as a distant guide had been a great idea, for even if the Ancient Bloodlines saw the tracks in her mind, there were tracks all over the countryside. They could be anywhere. However, major road intersections made her nervous, and they bypassed them when possible, even if it meant going an hour out of their way. For intersections were one way the Ancient Bloodlines could pinpoint their exact location.

  Unfortunately, they were approaching a rural intersection. She quickly blurred her thoughts, embedding them with nonsensical notions. The intersection didn’t have much to offer, only one building. A vacant gas station from years ago, based on its graffiti-covered walls. It was probably their last opportunity for shelter the low-hanging sun seemed to warn.