“I’m hungry,” Twila croaked in a voice husky from singing all day.
“It looks like we have a place to sleep tonight. I’ll check it out.” Scarlett finally decided, remembering the horde she’d spied this morning. “Does it feel safe to you?” Scarlett asked, putting more faith in Twila’s abilities.
Twila nodded. “Don’t say it. Don’t let your brain see it!” Twila exclaimed.
“It’s all right. I’m on the Haunted House ride in my mind.” Living in two realities simultaneously was a bit disconcerting at times.
Willow trotted slowly toward the building while Scarlett eyed the horizon for any movements. “Stay on Willow.” Scarlett dismounted the mare.
She banged on the metal back door, alerting any possible creepers. Here goes. With her hand on the door, it creaked open. She searched the building.
“It’s safe.” Scarlett lifted Twila off the mare.
The old gas station was a dump. Squatters had definitely been living inside. A metal drum had been cut in half and used as an indoor fire pit. A stack of empty crates and a pile of empty food cans littered the floor. She jumped. Twila screamed. Just a rat. The small office looked like the best place to spend the night. It had a row of windows below the ceiling, which she could see out of if she stood on the metal desk.
“How about a can of cream corn?” Scarlett said, rummaging through the their last three cans of food.
“Okay,” Twila said in a faraway voice.
Was Twila trying to fool the Ancient Bloodlines? Scarlett settled their packs and cleared off the desk for their dinner. Twila liked eating out of the can. It was fun. And she didn’t want to bother with a fire, so she gave Twila a spoon and the corn to eat at her leisure. She opened a can of chili beans with meat and absentmindedly offered a bite to Twila.
Twila screamed, “No meat. I can never eat meat!”
“Shh, sorry. For some strange reason, I forgot,” Scarlett said, feeling an unknown force tugging on her. She pushed it back with the vision of dark matter since the Disneyland thing wasn’t working.
After the probing stopped, Scarlett went to the main room to peek through a gap in the boarded windows. She spotted movement in the dusk’s setting sun. She nearly dropped the binoculars when she saw what looked like a caravan of covered wagons traveling east near the train tracks. Mario had told her horse-drawn wagons were the best mode of transportation. They must be going to Texas. A part of her wanted to run to them and desperately beg to tag along. Her inner vision flooded over with red billowing smoke. Instead, she unsaddled the mare. It was time to bring Willow inside.
She went back outside, remembering the half-barrel by the back door. Did it have water? It had rained recently. She dragged it inside. “I hope the water is good,” she told Willow as she led her to the barrel. Willow sniffed at it and nodded with an approving snort. Scarlett stroked her mane for a while when she noticed a box overflowing with plastic bubble wrap. She had assumed it was trash. She gingerly poked at the contents. Baseball caps and wrap-around sunglasses. The generic purple-faded caps would be perfect to ward off the hot sun. The sunglasses were a godsend; she’d been taping hers together. Two caps and two pairs of glasses were all she’d take. She had learned not to overload poor Willow.
Scarlett arranged the sleeping bag in the cleanest corner of the office. Twila was in one of her reticent moods or in self-defense mode. It was going to be a long, quiet night. She sat in the peeling imitation-leather chair with half of the stuffing fluffed-out and contemplated their next move. Maybe they should only travel half days for a while. But, stopping was dangerous. It was March according to her calculations. The afternoon sun was a bit overwhelming at times. She assumed they had made it to New Mexico—she hoped anyway. The landscape was sparse, not many places to take shelter. What would they do if Willow couldn’t go any farther? When she can’t . . . It was the more logical assumption. All of these worries consumed her, interfering with restful sleep.
By morning, Scarlett knew they couldn’t stay. She hadn’t remembered any dreams, only the urgency to leave. After a quick breakfast of the second half of creamy sweet corn and chili beans, they were back on the road, or desert in their case.
Scarlett closed her eyes, willing for a message from the Silver Lady, for after last night’s probing and seeing the travelers, she worried if they should go a different route. A wavering-watery image of the rail tracks beckoned to her. She led Willow eastbound on the lower slope of the tracks in the wake of the covered wagons she had seen yesterday. It was a bit of a comfort knowing they weren’t the only ones lost in the desert.
Chapter 21
Ella Vasquez awoke with a start. The wagon came to a halt. It was only two thirty in the afternoon, too soon to stop for the day. Feeling empowered since she had blatantly refused the poisoned food the nurse had been giving her, she boldly hobbled out of the wagon in need to stretch her cramped legs.
Ella did a few stretches and then walked to the front of her wagon, hoping to spot Sara. The two drivers sitting at the reins ignored her as usual. They eyed a group of men on restless horses talking to Father Jacob at the front of the caravan. It sounded like an argument, which was odd; Father Jacob never argued. He never even raised his voice. He didn’t have to. He just gave the death-stare with those insanely light-blue eyes until one backed down. It was his way, and he was used to winning.
Bored to death, Ella crept closer and closer toward the men, using the wagons to shield her. For some reason, a foreboding feeling crept over her. She ducked behind Father Jacob’s antique carriage, which was ornately carved with medieval designs inlaid with crystals and colorful stones.
Father Jacob’s death-stare wasn’t working on these people. Their voices escalated, arguing about the narrow bridge ahead. Don’t tell me we’re crossing on that? She freaked. The bridge looked like it was made from tree trunks bound together like a raft. A floating bridge?
“Rio Grande,” she overheard. “I don’t have gold!” Father Jacob bellowed. Way to go Father Jacob! She didn’t know he had it in him to yell. A freaky howling whooshed across the desert in a deadly-noxious gust. The argument stopped. The men abruptly turned toward the west, beyond her. Father Jacob saw her. Ella forced herself to meet his penetrating eyes. Flinching, she mirrored his stare. He didn’t seem angry. No. He seemed—scared.
“They’re here!” One of the men pointed to the west.
She found herself drawn toward Father Jacob in a trance-like state. He put his hands up for her to stop.
“You’ve got exactly thirty seconds! You got the gold or what, preach?”
Father Jacob shouted, “If I must.” He regained his composure and slowly adjusted his collar and smoothed down his black robe before stepping inside the carriage. To her surprise, he shoved a treasure chest out the door. The crash splintered the old wood into shards. Yellow-gold glimmered from the remnants. Father Jacob climbed out and then stood there, swaying like he might faint while the thieves ogled the gold and stuffed their packs. Father Jacob came to. He rushed Ella to the opposite side of the carriage and whisked her inside.
The pain in his eyes was undeniable. A pain so intense, Ella shivered. He closed the carriage door. “No!” she pleaded.
“Thy child must live!” He responded with unspoken words. “Remember the tea. The monoatomic etherium powder is a gift from God. Without it, thy baby will die.”
Father Jacob closed his eyes for an eternity of a second while the men wooted over the gold. His eyes flew open, startling her. Gunshots pierced the air. Then, the screaming started. He handed her a brass compass from his pocket. “Follow your destiny southwest ’til the train tracks find you no longer lost. Go ye forth and multiply my fruitful one!” The words were spoken this time.
“What about everyone—”
“I am told it is not His will. My mission is done.”
“No! Father, all your people—don’t you care?”
“Forgive me. Pride is my sin. It is thy child they seek.
’Twas never . . . me.” His words were barely audible over the howling.
Ella leaned out the carriage’s window. The horde swarmed the wagon at the end of the train. People bailed out and ran toward the bridge. The cracking of whips and bucking of horses added to the demon-Zs’ chorus.
“Yaw!” Father Jacob slapped one of the stallion’s hindquarters and shot his gun into the air. “She will be waiting for you . . .” His words trailed off.
The carriage charged forward. To her bewilderment, Father Jacob shot the men guarding the bridge. A torrent of gunshots exploded through her ears. The carriage driver fell onto the bridge, splashing into the river. Ella glanced back at Father Jacob, expecting his help. The preacher collapsed to his knees in slow motion. He crawled after the carriage. Several yards behind him, the horde swarmed the next wagon and the next one and the next one. Their horses refused to move.
The carriage wavered across the floating bridge. Ella thought for sure she’d go tumbling off into the river, horses and all. She turned back to Father Jacob—waiting for a miracle from the Knower of All Things. A brilliant flash ignited inside her mind. The second the carriage reached solid ground, a wave of energy rippled over the bridge. Time froze for an instant and then fast-forwarded in a fury of fire when the bridge exploded into a fireball.
“Archangel Michael, I beg you—protect my son!” She bounced around in the carriage and fell backward onto a narrow mattress. The stallions galloped even faster. She was at their mercy.
The two stallions finally slowed to a halt. Dazed, she grabbed a pair of binoculars hanging from a hook and then stepped out of the carriage. She spotted a small creek to the north. Apparently, the horses smelled it too, for they hurried toward it. They must be dying of thirst. She had no clue how to remove the harness, or how to drive the carriage. And so, she let the horses drink and graze on the grasses growing along the edge of the creek while she checked out the carriage’s supplies.
Ella gasped with excitement when she found an entire shelf of tins. The special tea! It was more like a silvery-metallic powder. No hot tea tonight. She didn’t have the energy to make a fire and boil water. Besides, it would be dark soon; she wasn’t about to be outside when the darkness came. Not with demons lurking around. She mixed a spoonful of the powdery substance into a tin cup. She sat on the flimsy mattress at one end of the carriage and sipped at the tea, ready for the euphoric feeling that always followed: embraced in angel wings.
By sunrise, the horses pranced restlessly. Ella felt the urgency to move on. The horde couldn’t cross the river. Or could they? Justin had never mentioned anything about Zs and water with his mostly made-up Z-COS, Zombie Code of Survival rules. Justin—I need you . . . She twirled the lone pearl earring in her ear while her other hand went to her belly, feeling the weight. She stuffed a tote bag with a few pemmican bars, a canteen, compass, and binoculars. She tossed it into the driver’s seat and then lumbered up to the seat.
There were no train tracks in her field of vision. So, she’d go southwest as Father Jacob had said. She flapped the reins in the air. The horses snorted. She flapped the reins a little harder. One of the stallions turned around and gave her a look like “Really, you think you can drive this thing?”
“Go,” she encouraged. Ella snapped the reins with force. The stallions kicked up their hooves and finally started. It took a while to get them going in the right direction. She got the hang of it, and they trotted across the desert.
She constantly tugged the reins, making them go slower. The baby didn’t like going fast. By mid-morning, her lower belly cramped with severe intensity. She’d forgotten the tea. Too exhausted, she didn’t have the energy to climb down. Instead, she nibbled a pemmican bar. Father Jacob’s supply didn’t have the sweet-metallic aftertaste, which meant it wasn’t laced with arsenic. And that was another thing. Why had the nurse poisoned her? She didn’t understand.
By Noon, Ella could hardly hold onto the reins. Sharp pains shot through her uterus. OMG, don’t tell me the baby’s coming. Mijo, not now! She pulled back on the reins, stopping the horses. The tea seemed to call to her or was she hallucinating. She hobbled into the carriage as quickly as possible. She used two spoonfuls of the powdery tea, waiting for it to dissolve into a silvery glow. After relishing it, she lay on the mattress and prayed, drifting into a dreamy-foggy sleep where a mystical woman sang to her and held her hand.
***
Ella woke up with a pounding heart. How long had she been sleeping? “OMG!” It was past three in the afternoon, according to Father Jacob’s gaudy -gold clock. She had wasted valuable daylight. But she didn’t feel queasy, not at all. She felt wonderful. All this time the special tea had been saving her, saving the baby. It wasn’t Father Jacob. She grabbed a few honey-coated bars, refilled the canteen from the water jug, and climbed back into the driver’s seat. Checking the compass, she urged the stallions forward while she searched for train tracks.
She couldn’t stop thinking about Father Jacob. The afterimage of him consumed by the fireball still tormented her. Father Jacob had sacrificed all their lives, so she and her baby could cross the bridge before the horde. Why? It made her think of all the people who had helped her since the Super Summer flu had transformed the world into a demonic playground.
Ella thought back to the horrible day when she knew her life would never be the same. The dreadful look of agony in Mama and Papa’s eyes—that brief flicker of recognition seconds after they had been infected. Turned. Yet, they had saved her from her two-year-old brother. If Miguel had bitten her, would she have turned instantly, or would she have endured a slow-dying death, disappearing bite by bite until only a shiny pile of her bones remained? She trembled at the thought. Her parents had stopped Miguel from ripping out her throat while struggling to maintain their parental instinct right to the very last second of their waning humanity. How hard it must have been for them—knowing they were turning into demons.
Then LuLu had come into her life. She had comforted Ella until Dean had saved them from the demon-covered van. Dean, LuLu, and Justin had taken care of her at the hotel in Vacaville. And then there had been Scarlett. How could she ever forget her? Scarlett, the headstrong woman, who had helped Justin and her escape the evil Stockton Boys. Later, Luther and Dean had saved Justin and her after Justin had nearly been killed by a Super-Z. All these dear friends were either dead or—gone. And she was pregnant, all alone in the middle of the crappy desert. Was she cursed or blessed? There was no other way to explain how she had survived this wicked world.
Chapter 22
Scarlett scanned the horizon through the binoculars. They were gaining on the covered wagon caravan they’d been following for two days. She had decided following the caravan from a distance might be a good idea, thinking they knew where they were going, more than she did. The caravan wasn’t making good time at all. They only traveled four to five hours a day. At least it gave Willow plenty of time to rest, graze, and drink from the various tributaries flowing with snowmelt from the sprawling mountain ranges in the distance.
By afternoon it was rather warm in the high desert, even though it was only March. She couldn’t imagine attempting a horseback journey in the summer. The snowmelt would certainly dry up by then. Sometimes she wondered if they’d ever make it to their impossible destination. She found herself slipping into a daydream, living a normal life in Texas with hot water, fresh fruits and vegetables, hamburgers and fries, margaritas, showers and toilets, soap and toilet paper. And not worrying every flippin’ second of the day and night about creepers. Were they closer to Texas than she thought?
“Mommy,” Twila interrupted her daydream, “when we get there, will you buy me a new coloring book and crayons?”
Twila was chatty this morning. Scarlett smiled. Despite their grueling lifestyle, Twila only wanted a new coloring book. “Sure, sweetie,” Scarlett said absentmindedly. Twila must be in the same daydream mood.
Great! They were catching up to the wagon train again.
Scarlett grabbed the binoculars hanging from her neck. “What is that?”
“It’s a train, silly,” Twila commented as if Scarlett were a nincompoop.
“Uh, that’s obvious.” It was the people, a hundred or more, milling about that shocked her. Creepers? She almost panicked. She zoomed in. Definitely not. They stood in several orderly lines in front of the train’s open boxcars.
Had they stumbled upon a FEMA camp? She zoomed in again. A radius of Humvees with mounted machine guns pointed toward the desert, not toward the inner circle of people. No uniforms. No insignias.
Scarlett dismounted and spied the caravan’s approach. Several men in desert camouflage fatigues rushed the caravan and forced everyone out of the wagons. She wasn’t getting any negative vibes or warnings of danger. After what appeared to be a rather brief discussion, the wagon train headed toward an area of parked covered wagons. She waited to make sure the caravan stopped. And when it did, it was the sign she needed. The camp was an apparent rest stop for travelers.
Scarlett was anxious to find out what was going on. She had no idea there were so many survivors. At times, she felt like she and Twila were the only people left on the planet. Then again, they’d had gone out of their way to avoid people. Looking at all those people, an unexpected wave of agoraphobia swept over her. Is it safe? She tried her inner vision.
“It’s safe!” Twila shouted with unmistakable glee.
Jeez Louise. It was unnerving when Twila answered her silent questions. Scarlett stuffed her long, wavy, black hair under the ballcap and then double checked Twila’s cap, which was a bit too big over her boyish haircut. She sprinkled a handful of sandy dirt with water, smudging their faces with the muddy paste in an attempt to disguise their female appearances. She slipped on a large button-up shirt over her T-shirt and bulky overalls, concealing her small waist and her not so small breasts. With any luck, people would assume they were males.
Only The Dead Don't Die (Book 2): The Hunger's Howl Page 20
