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

by Popovich, A. D.

  “You knew all along, and, and you didn’t tell us?” Justin panted.

  “When your time comes, there’s not a whole lot a fella can do about it,” Dean said plain and simple.

  “Dude, you can’t just freakin’ give up?”

  “Truth be known, I’ve been livin’ on borrowed time ever since the flu outbreak. Time to cash in my chips.”

  “Remember when you found me trapped on the RV? Totally surrounded by Zs. I’d been ready to call it game over. Then you saved me. And then you saved Ella. And LuLu. And Scarlett—”

  “Reckon, I’ve done enough good deeds to earn me a spot in the nosebleed section of heaven.” Dean forced a chuckle. Damn it all to Hell, now Luther’s headin’ back. Craig looked to be long gone.

  “I’ve got it!” Justin fumbled around in his pack. “Raid bug spray!”

  Luther sauntered in and sat down with them.

  Justin cleared his throat. “So, here’s the plan. Go back to the Trav and spray this all over the outside of it. Then hide inside. Dude, like, I think you can fake them out.”

  Luther’s eye’s lit up. “It just might work.”

  Justin opened the plastic pharmaceutical bottle and gave Dean a pill. “Take one now, one when you get to the Trav, and call me in the morning.” Justin smirked.

  “Haha,” Dean retorted.

  “If you haul ass, you’ll make it,” Luther speculated, looking through the Bushnells.

  “ ’Cause, like, I’m not leaving ’til you go. And if you stop, I’ll stop.” Justin threatened.

  Dean didn’t think he had it in him, but if it would get them going, he’d give it a shot. “You sure drive a hard bargain.”

  “I learned from the best.” Justin gave him a hug.

  “Nearly forgot.” Dean dug around his pocket. “Remember Sergeant Wilcox? He gave me the voucher and key to his safety deposit box in Boom Town. He said it was worth a pretty penny. Might get you into Texas.”

  “We’re splitting it four ways, you, Luther, Ella, and me.”

  “Alrighty then, reckon I’d better skedaddle.” Dean saluted Luther and started walking.

  “See you in Texas,” Justin shouted behind him.

  “If anyone can outsmart those stinking nimrods, you can. You’re about the orneriest SOB I know,” Luther ribbed.

  Dean waved in response without bothering to look back. It was even harder to say goodbye a second time. After several minutes, Dean finally turned around for one last look at Luther and Justin, watching them sprint across the desert. He decided to follow suit. Sprint one minute, walk five, sprint one minute, walk five. Hell, he had to give it a shot, since he had a refill of his meds. He didn’t particularly relish the idea of being torn apart by dead-heads. ’Course, there’s a way around that. He had a bullet with his name on it—waiting for him.

  As he sprinted westwardly, he tried focusing on the good ol’ days and avoided looking at the mile-wide dustcloud looming on the horizon. The Trav was close enough for him to think he had a chance. He needed to get inside a good ten minutes or so before the dead-heads reached it. If those damned things saw him enter the Trav, bug spray would be a moot point.

  Not feeling any chest pain, he broke out into a full run. The rest of his body was surprisingly athletic for an old geezer like himself. He pushed on, reminiscing about the time he and Mary had gone to Pismo Beach for a romantic get-away when their love was young. Kyle must have been two. Back before everything started going haywire with the economy, politics, terrorists, health insurance, the cancer . . . the pandemic. Stop it before you work yourself into a conniption fit.

  He let the image of Mary’s smile fill his inner vision, ignoring the menacing dust cloud. But for the life of him, he couldn’t block out the Hunger’s Howl. He tilted his head up just a smidgeon to see how much time he had. If he hadn’t known better, he’d have thought he was back in the Old Wild West heading smack dab into a stampede of wild buffalo. The closer he got, the more the hairs on his arms electrified. He found himself making a beeline for the Trav, hoping some miracle had blocked the horde from seeing him.

  Dean pushed his legs harder, patting down his pockets for the key with one hand while the other brandished the bug spray at the ready. Once he reached the Trav, he ducked, pausing only long enough to catch his breath. I’ve got five minutes—if I’m lucky. After unlocking the door, he doused the entire side of the vehicle. He peered over the edge of the Trav. Their mangled bodies disappeared and reappeared in the whirling dust. Had they spotted him? With any luck at all, the Trav had blocked him from their field of vision.

  Dean climbed into the driver’s side backseat. He needed to spray the other side of the vehicle too. Time’s up. If ever there was a time he could use an extra minute . . . He rolled down the window on the side of the approaching horde and let out a few squirts of the insecticide. He’d just have to hunker down in the backseat and wait them out. Not really the best of plans.

  Methodically, he checked his surroundings. Justin’s plastic tub of comic books, a bag of clothing, two sleeping bags, the box of MREs, and Luther’s bag of Hawaiian shirts, the ones he had lugged all the way from California. Suppose we all have our fetishes. He smiled. A wave of howling sent him shuddering to kingdom come. “There has to be some way to outwit these things,” he muttered.

  The backseat’s passenger window had been broken for a while. It didn’t roll up the last two inches. Thinking about the two-inch gap got his heart pumping. If he could just cover the windows, they might not even know he was inside. Of course, it was wishful thinking. On of whim, Dean sprayed the inside of the window with bug spray, then grabbed a stack of comic books. He ripped out the pages, slapping them to the soaked window until he had plastered the entire window with a menagerie of comics. Their monstrous faces stared back at him, haunting and taunting him of his fate while the howling engulfed the desert.

  With a new burst of energy, he covered the backseat window on the opposite side. Then he lay down on the backseat covered with a sleeping bag with bug spray in one hand and gun in the other. Their howls were so loud, it sounded like he was in the middle of a tornado. Upon first contact, the Trav lurched forward, and he toppled to the floorboard. He scrambled to replace the sleeping bag over him. The Trav lurched forward, sideways, backward, like some horrific carnival ride, overloading all his senses. He found himself praying for forgiveness, to somehow make amends for losing Mary, Kyle, Scarlett, LuLu, and Ella. His desire to live burst through his fear. He wasn’t ready to die. Not ready to be eaten alive by these flesh-eaters. Not today.

  What in tarnation are they doing now? The horde rocked the vehicle like a mob of riotous thugs. The Trav flipped on its side. He tumbled onto the door along with everything else. The driver’s side of the vehicle was smashed against the ground. A deadly sound—the crackling of the window. He peered up to the passenger’s side window, which was now above him. A knobby hand poked through the two-inch gap of the decoupage comic-covered window as if the gruesome comic scene had manifested into life.

  The gun? He lost it when everything went tumbling. He fumbled through the scattered items. The hand reached in closer. Dean scooted to the Trav’s opposite end all the while grasping around for the gun. With a fatal crackling crunch, countless hands busted through the window. Had they seen him? Dean found the edge of the sleeping bag and draped it over his body seconds before bony fingers poked at the sleeping bag. They tried climbing through the window at the same time, blocking each other. It was the only thing saving him.

  Dean felt around furtively for the gun. He knew his luck was running out. Sooner or later they’d figure out how to get inside. Hell, they could rip the door off the hinges if they thought to do it. The Trav started rocking again while fingers poked at the sleeping bag.

  The mother of all moans silenced the howling. Another window shattered. Probably the front seat, or was it the window under him. Dean peered around the corner of the sleeping bag just enough to see a deadly-dark figure pounce th
rough the front seat’s broken window like a rabid wolf, snarling and drooling. Terror engulfed his limbs. Ice shards pierced his heart; that’s what it felt like when its merciless eyes locked onto his. The front seat snapped out of place, creating a barrier between him and the dead-head. Dean realized it was only a temporary impediment. It was only a matter of time before the thing bashed its way to him.

  The dead-head thrashed and thrashed, meanwhile more blood-stained hands squeezed through the window above him, poking him. The front seat lurched sideways—just enough. Dean’s stomach curdled when its foul-smelling mouth opened for the kill-bite. He looked around one last time for the gun. There it is! Below the broken window, where the headless hands writhed.

  The dead-head leered, lusting over its feast. Dean’s hand still fumbled around for the gun he knew he couldn’t reach. What’s this? The can of spray? In one quick move, he let off a blast of bug spray right in the bastard’s open, foaming mouth, dousing it in the eyes for good measure. The dead-head went into a tizzy-fit, ramming its head against the Trav’s windshield.

  Dean sprayed several blasts at the roving hands, which instantly had them collapsing to the ground from what he could tell. That left a big gap in the broken window. The dead-head in the front seat banged around until it finally backed its way out of the Trav. The godforsaken howling resumed. Dean sat perfectly still, afraid to move. Afraid to breathe. He heard them pacing around the vehicle as if contemplating what to do next.

  Unexpectedly, the Hunger’s Howl faded. Most of them had gone, but he still had maybe twenty to contend with. He reached for the gun. The Travelall shifted again, starting a new wave of groans. He didn’t dare chance a glance out the broken window.

  The remaining hordesmen whined and whimpered, ramming the Travelall in what seemed more like frustration than hunger. Justin was right; these things definitely had an aversion to insecticide. The stench was getting to him as well, but with all the adrenalin pumping through his veins, he could suffer through it. While they scuttered about like wild chickens, Dean checked his pockets to see how many rounds he had on him. One mag. The last he’d seen, the ammo cans were on the top rack.

  Dean waited as the sun’s light dimmed, streaking orange across the sky. He certainly didn’t want to spend the night in the Trav with only a sleeping bag between him and the dead-heads. The scuttering and whimpering were replaced with an unfamiliar humming sound. Are they leaving? A shadow hovered outside. A light flashed inside the Travelall. For some reason, the beam of light scared him more than the horde. He ducked under the sleeping bag. A series of flashes followed. What in tarnation is a drone doing out here? He recalled Justin saying something about drones. He had chalked it off to the kid’s over-active imagination.

  Dean waited, hoping the drone wasn’t armed and getting ready to blow the Trav to Kingdom Come. The thing was, shouldn’t the drone offer assistance. No, it definitely wasn’t the feeling creeping up his torso. Suddenly, he knew, plain as day. The drone was herding the horde. Then he remembered hearing something else earlier. Had it been the whining engines of dirt bikes?

  Dean waited it out. He’d been trapped for over two hours. Funny thing, how time seemed to have no relevance when one transcended into that god-awful state of fear. He started worrying about Justin and Luther. Could they outrun the horde? Thinking about it, how could the horde run in their debilitated state? It was inhumanly possible. Then again, those things weren’t human. Anymore.

  Hold on a minute. Had he inadvertently saved Justin and Luther by waylaying the horde? He thought of Last Chance and the hailstorm of fury about to be unleashed. Were the drones intentionally herding the horde to Last Chance? It was the unthinkable. And even though he didn’t believe in telepathy and all that mumbo jumbo, he had to know. He focused hard on the upper frontal lobes of his brain, concentrating on Last Chance.

  A foggy image appeared in the depths of his eyelids. Justin and Luther were inside a boxcar. They made it! Deep down he knew it was merely his consciousness easing his feeble mind. Nevertheless, a wave of relief poured over him, giving him a wonderful sensation of accomplishment. Peace.

  And then an excruciating pain bolted through his chest. Where’s that bottle . . .

  Chapter 35

  A two-wagon caravan arrived mid-morning. They were a haggard lot. It looked like they had ridden all night the way their horses hobbled into the camp. Scarlett had re-opened just for them. They had bought the rest of her fish much to her relief. She never wanted to touch another fillet of raw fish. They were a tight-lipped bunch; the only news she’d managed to obtain was that they had started with a hundred head of cattle and had ended up with only one cow.

  The big caravan Sheena had been waiting for was due any hour. Sheena had sent several guards to escort them to Last Chance, ensuring the final payday she needed to install the bakery equipment. Sheena’s fuel runners were due this afternoon, and the plan was to leave quietly at four a.m. The anticipation was driving her mad.

  Meanwhile, Scarlett and Twila hung out at the back of her boxcar, telling Sheena and Ella they needed to sort out a few things before leaving. It was only an excuse to get away from baby Miguel’s non-stop screaming. The baby had screamed and moaned all night. Ella promised he’d be all right after a bottle of the mysterious tea she always made him. He hadn’t.

  Scarlett was mentally planning their drive in the Loomis armored truck when Twila threw the box of nearly-gone crayons onto the boxcar’s floor. “Twila?” Scarlett dashed to her. She picked up a drawing from the floor. Very disturbing. Twila had scribbled over her brightly colored fairytale castle with the letters Z-O-A-T written in black and red. A foreboding feeling crept over her. “Are you ready for lunch?” Scarlett said cheerfully, hoping to avoid a full-blown tantrum. Scarlett gathered the crayons. She turned around to find Twila staring blankly at the boxcar’s ceiling. “Twila?”

  Twila jerked back to life. “Mommy!” Twila shrieked.

  “It’s all right, sweetie.”

  “Not safe. Not safe!” The poor child muttered.

  “Shh, were leaving in the morning. Why don’t I pack us a fun lunch, and we’ll have a picnic in here,” Scarlett said cheerfully.

  “No!” Twila’s golden-flecked eyes flashed.

  Great. She supposed it was time. Twila hadn’t had one of her tantrums since they’d been trapped on the gas station’s roof. She had hoped the tantrums were a thing of the past. Scarlett bent down to hug the girl. “Let’s go.”

  “Willow hates you. You never see her anymore!” Twila whined.

  Uh, where did that come from? “I’ve been very busy,” Scarlett said patiently, letting the girl act out her issues.

  Twila gave her the silent treatment as they walked to the caboose, no longer hiding Twila’s presence at the camp. Scarlett was relieved to find the caboose empty. It wasn’t fair for Ella and the baby to deal with Twila’s mood swings. Sheena must have taken Ella and the baby to the nurse who had just signed for the rights to one of the boxcars. Hopefully, the nurse could diagnose the baby’s illness. That reminded her, Scarlett still needed to box up her pharmaceuticals and donate them to the nurse. After all, she had inherited Billy Bob’s canned goods. She might as well spread a little good karma and pay it forward.

  “I wanna go fishing. Right now!” Twila demanded.

  Scarlett put her foot down. “Young lady, calm down this instant!” It broke her heart to get angry at her.

  Twila broke into sobs, ranting incoherently. Scarlett held her until the sobs stopped. “You’ll feel better after lunch,” Scarlett said. It was going to be a long, hot, trying day, waiting for four a.m. She stepped outside on the caboose rail to take a deep breath, glad she had defused the situation.

  “I’ll never eat again!” Twila screamed.

  A crowd gathered at Rick’s boxcar. A cow bellowed. Don’t tell me he bought the cow?

  “I’ll be back,” Scarlett said, about to give Rick a piece of her mind. Couldn’t they wait until tomorrow to b
utcher it? She could pay him to wait. Twila ran past her, screaming like a banshee. Scarlett caught up with her at the corral.

  Twila shouted to the attendant on duty, “I want Willow’s saddle!”

  “Young lady, what do you think you’re doing?” The cow’s bellowing drowned Scarlett’s voice. The attendant looked at her questionably.

  “Make them stop. Don’t you know I’m a veggie-terry-n?”

  So that’s what the tantrum was about. Scarlett didn’t particularly want to be in the vicinity of the slaughtering either. “I’m sorry, sweetie. I’ll go pack a lunch, and we’ll have a picnic at the river.”

  “It will be too late.”

  Scarlett hugged the despondent child. “We have all day.” She nodded to the attendant. “Do you mind getting my saddle?”

  “Will do,” he said.

  Scarlett packed a lunch and left a note for Ella and Sheena, advising they’d be back in a few hours. Fifteen minutes later, they raced off toward the smaller tributary. It was exhilarating, riding like the wind and leaving the camp, no longer bombarded by the refugees’ barrage of thoughts.

  It was true; she had neglected Willow since she had outsourced the fishing to the immigrants. Which added a new dilemma to what should have been a great day. What was she going to do with Willow? There wasn’t room in the armored truck. How could she leave Willow at Last Chance? It seemed heartless to sell her. Faithful Willow had given her all to get them there safely, despite her age. “Willow, I’ll hire someone to ride you to Immigrant Station,” Scarlett promised silently, wondering if the mare really interpreted her thoughts as Twila had said.

  It was a forty-five-minute ride to the cottonwood-lined tributary. After they arrived, Scarlett scouted the area for safety. She recognized the group of refugees camping at the south end, so she figured it was safe. They must be enjoying a day away from the camp as well.

  “All right, ready to have some fun? You can search for magical rocks in the river.” One of Twila’s favorite pastimes. Scarlett slipped off the mare and then reached up to help Twila down. Scarlett stopped. Twila stared blankly. Had the butchering really disturbed her so much? Sometimes she forgot how sensitive the girl was. Scarlett couldn’t wait to have a battery of tests run. She worried Twila suffered from neurological damage. Or, it was all the emotional and mental trauma of surviving the pandemic.