Torn Apart (Book 2): Dead Texas Roads

by Hoaks, C. A.

  Della laid the heat gun on the table and handed the prosthetic back to Steve. “That should do it, but I would give that pressure sore a day or two more to lose some of the tenderness.”

  “I can’t afford to be out of commission much longer.” Steve slipped the modified plastic of the prosthetic onto his right leg. He pulled himself up to stand, and his weight settled on the prosthetics. He took a tentative step and cringed at the twinge sent up his stump and upper leg.

  Della pushed the chair up behind him, and he dropped back into the seat.

  “I’m useless in this chair.”

  “Humor me,” Della retorted. “You have to give it time to heal. I’ll go over to the clinic to see if they have a topical that will ease the tenderness.”

  Steve slid both prosthetics from his legs and reached over his shoulder to drop them into a bag hanging from the back of the chair.

  “Maybe one or two days,” Steve conceded. “I’m still not sure this place is as good as it looks. I haven’t given up on heading up to the place where Randy is staying.”

  Della’s brows furrowed. “I agree that off the beaten path is a good idea, but I’m not sure I want to live around Randy Matherson. The last time I saw him, he really wasn’t stable enough to even hold a conversation without going into a tirade about the Iranians and crazy theories.”

  “Look, something scared the shit outta him on his last mission. Who knows, maybe this was it.”

  Steve ended the conversation by placing his hands on the side of the wheels and made a two-wheel one-eighty turn. The wheelchair headed across the cafeteria leaving Della to follow as he called over his shoulder, “Let’s get some breakfast before Zack leaves. I want him to go with me to look around without a guide.”

  Della and Steve made their way through a small gathering of people to a serving line and picked up trays. The breakfast choices were limited to dry cereal with powdered milk, scrambled eggs and biscuits. To go along with the biscuits they offered a steaming white sludge they called gravy without meat.

  Steve winked at Della. “It looks more like paste with fly droppings floating on top than gravy.”

  Della chuckled. “My granny would have been beside herself to see white gravy without sausage.” She suddenly grew silent. “I’m glad she didn’t live to see this world.”

  “I know,” Steve answered. “My folks died a few years back. I understand the feeling.”

  They approached the steam table, and a woman wearing a white bibbed apron looked up and smiled. “What can I get you, folks?”

  Both Della and Steve settled for eggs and biscuits, no gravy. At the end of the line, a young girl handed each of them a single serving of butter and a small dollop of jelly in a plastic container.

  “Since you didn’t get gravy, you can have butter and jelly folks. Sorry, but we have a limited supply of both.” The girl smiled. “Rationing, sorry.”

  Della laughed. “If you knew what we’ve been eating for the last week you’d realize what a luxury it is just to have a taste of butter or jelly.

  Steve dropped the condiments on his tray sitting on his lap and grinned at another young woman handing him a cup of coffee.

  “Plenty of coffee for now, so come on back for seconds,” the woman advised.

  “Sounds great, appreciate it.” He gave her a wink and reached over the sides of the chair to roll toward a table where Zack sat eating his breakfast.

  Zack looked up from his meal as Steve rolled across the floor to the edge of the table and placed his tray in front of him. He locked the wheels just as Della settled on a chair across from Zack.

  “Well, you get the sticks fixed, man?” Zack asked before taking a bite of a biscuit soaked in gravy.

  “We’re good,” Steve answered as he began buttering his biscuit. “How did you sleep last night?”

  “Not real good. I know they did right by Jimmy, burying him and all, but I keep thinking about his mom.” Zack shrugged. “Are we going to stay here for a while?”

  Steve looked to Della. “I don’t know. At least for now, it seems safer than the open road.”

  “We can’t go back to San Antonio,” Della answered, just as Sandy approached the table.

  “I’m not leaving here,” Sandy commented as she sat down at the table

  “If we stay…” Steve answered.

  Zack looked up. “You mean they might not want us to stay?”

  “I don’t know,” Steve answered. “I want to check their defenses before we make any long-term decisions. Everyone seems friendly and willing to welcome us, but for now, let’s just look around and see how they’re set up.”

  Sandy waved across the room at a pair of young women settling at a table. “Well, I’m staying. Those two invited me to move in with them in a house. We have a wide-screen television, DVD player, and lots of movies to watch.” She picked up her tray and walked away.

  Della started to follow Sandy, but Steve reached out. “No. Let her be. We have no right to tell her what to do.”

  “But….” Della began then closed her mouth and sat back down.

  “She wants some semblance of normal. I don’t blame her. If she’s found it here, well, let her be,” Steve commented.

  Zack looked at Steve as he used his fork to shove the last bit of biscuit through smears of gravy on his plate. “If you’re going to look around today, do you want me to push your chair?” He wiped at his mouth with a wide grin.

  “You can go, but I got the chair covered,” Steve answered as he buttered both halves of the biscuit. He turned to Della and asked, “Want to come with us?”

  “No. I’m heading for the clinic. I might be able to help out. Besides, it might give us a better chance of staying if I offer my services,” Della answered.

  Three hours later, Zack and Steve were heading back to the motel from their tour of the town. The community was little more than a cluster of a hundred buildings. The downtown area consisted of twenty or so structures around a central park with a pavilion, park benches, and trees. The middle school and library were located on a side street north of the city building, while the motel was located on the south side of the park on a side street.

  “Well? What do you think?” Zack asked.

  “There aren't as many people as I thought there would be,” Steve answered. “The older part of town is cut off from the newer upscale construction out by the Walmart. They blocked off the road and put up barricades and a gate. It looks like they moved everyone behind the gate and then cleaned out all the homes and the new store, then finished up by bringing the additional trailers filled with goods and supplies into town.”

  “So you think we should stay?” Zack asked.

  “I’m not sure. I want to find some area maps. Let’s head to that library,” Steve answered. “I want to see how far we are from Randy’s.”

  Zack shrugged and began walking toward the small red brick building that served as the town’s library. “I got nothing better to do.”

  Once inside the library, Steve found maps of northwest Texas. He focused on areas between Utopia and the Guadalupe Mountains National Park where Randy lived. He focused his research on topographical and contour maps that included the fire and logging roads. He found what he was looking for on the pages and sat back to glance toward the front desk.

  When the woman with glasses on the end of her nose was busy with a young mother, he pulled a knife from his cargo shorts and slid the blade down the spine of several pages. He pulled the pages from the book, folded the paper into quarters, and jammed the bundle into the thigh pocket of his shorts. He closed the book and replaced it on the appropriate shelf.

  Finally, he rolled through the shelves of books to find Zack. He was sitting near a collection of gaming magazines. Zack looked up and grinned at Steve when he rolled up. “Ready to go?” Zack asked as he got to his feet.

  Steve nodded and spun the chair toward the door. “Let’s head out, I got what I wanted.” They headed for the motel at a leisurely pa
ce, but Zack slipped behind the wheelchair and grabbed the handles to push. Steve pulled the pages from his pocket and studied the maps.

  When Steve was quiet for most of the way back, Zack finally asked, “What’s going on?”

  “I think we need to move on,” Steve answered softly. “This place is bottled up pretty tight. If an infected makes it inside, it’ll be a disaster. There must be almost two hundred people in town but I’ve only seen a few dozen firearms in town in addition to the ones at the two entrances. Frankly, I’m surprised they managed to put down the first attack.”

  “When are we leaving?” Zack asked.

  Steve shrugged as Zack rolled his chair to the picnic table in front of the motel. “We need to gather supplies and put them in the back of the truck this afternoon. I think we need to leave in a couple days. I don’t believe they have guns to spare, but maybe they can give us a few boxes of ammo. I’ll talk to Ollie tonight. I don’t think they’ll have a problem with us keeping the truck and the provisions we came in with, but I’m hoping they’ll provide us with a few more supplies.”

  “What happens if we can’t keep the truck?” Zack mused.

  Steve answered with a shrug, “Solve the problem, I guess. But these folks don’t seem the type to stop us from taking the truck after all we did take care of the Bakers. Now, how much help with supplies they’ll provide is another matter.”

  Lunch was a light affair leaving both Steve and Zack wanting, but they walked from the cafeteria thanking the staff. Della caught up with them after a brief conversation with Darlene and followed them to the motel. They settled around the picnic table to visit.

  “Well?” Della asked.

  Steve answered, “We’re okay for now, but when the supplies run low, they’ll be in trouble with being so remote. They’re not even thinking about becoming self-sustaining. No gardens are being planted, and there has been no effort made to gather livestock or store up firewood for winter.”

  Della sighed. “Meaning, there is a finite amount of supplies, and no one is planning ahead.”

  Steve answered. “I can mention it to Ollie, but I really don’t think it’ll matter. Everyone here thinks the government will resolve the problem and things will get back to normal in a month, or two. They don’t want to even imagine differently.”

  “Well, I’m turning in. I’m going to the clinic to help tomorrow. Keep me in the loop.” Della announced.

  “We’ll take care of supplies. See what you can scavenge in medicine.”

  The next day Steve met with the sheriff, mayor, and city council. He spent nearly an hour talking to the gathering of men and women. They listened politely, then dismissed him. Outside the door, Steve stopped to eavesdrop to the aftermath of his visit.

  “I’m not tearing up my yard. The government will have this fixed and then what? Do you know how much a pallet of St. Augustine grass cost? It would take at least six pallets to resod my yard.” I female voice complained.

  “But Gladys, what if they don’t?” Ollie answered.

  “Don’t be ridiculous! We took care of our own infected in less than six hours,” a gruff male protested.

  Tony cleared his throat. “At a high fucking price, too.”

  “That young man makes a strong argument for preparing for the worst and hoping for the best. I think we need to consider we might be on our own a lot longer than we initially thought. We should be prepared,” Ollie commented.

  Another voice interrupted, “we don’t have enough able bodied people to do what you’re asking.”

  Steve sighed and spun the wheelchair around to roll away from the city council office. He met Zack at the door. With a shrug, he headed for the motel.

  “Well, what did they say?” Zack asked.

  “Let’s start gathering supplies,” Steve answered.

  Two days later, the sound of heavy vehicles rolling past the motel woke Steve from a sound sleep. He sat up in bed, slipped on his walking prosthetics and pants before crossing the room to the window.

  Chapter 15

  One Last Drink

  Matt slowed the Humvee and revved the engine to ensure the infected focused on his vehicle while the big rig trucks with trailers loaded with the shipping containers picked up speed and rumbled ahead. Nearly a quarter mile down the road, they turned off the blacktop and disappeared from sight behind a stand of trees. At the next intersection, Matt turned on a farm-to-market road and stopped about a hundred yards from the intersection. The fingers of his right hand caressed the neck of the bottle wedged between the seats for five long minutes before he pulled the bottle free and spun off the cap. He took a long pull at the fiery liquid. He relished the familiar burn and sighed. With the cap replaced, he stared at his hands until the trembling stopped. He let his mind wander as he imagined a reunion with Amy and Claire. He had to get going. He laid on the horn, and the ghouls quickened their steps.

  The girls were waiting at the camp for him, and he needed to get back to them. He knew they all depended on him, soldiers and civilians alike. That scared the shit out of him. Despite not having kids of his own, his attachment to the children of the camp had grown. He imagined a smile on Amy’s face, and Claire cuddled up against his neck. Without thinking about it, he grabbed the bottle, unscrewed the cap and gulped down a shot. He took a second pull before replacing the Jack Daniel into its place.

  Amid the warm developing haze of the alcohol flowing through him, Matt wondered about the mother who sacrificed herself for those kids. He imagined Amy must be a lot like Liz Jameson. Amy had found a place to hide for her sister and herself. Then, Amy had known enough to silence his drunken rambling to protect the three of them until Larry and Jake had come back. If not for the little voice calming his drunken mumbling, they would have all died that night.

  He smiled as he realized he really wanted to get back to the camp full of kids. It was his job to protect and provide for them. He realized life had gotten complicated for a man who had once prided himself on staying unattached but was happier for it.

  A slap on the back window of the Humvee startled Matt from his drunken musing. He looked in the rearview mirror and was stunned. The group of infected had grown into a hoard of over a hundred bodies. More slaps against the windows sent him into action.

  Matt stepped on the brake, slipped the Humvee into gear. The vehicle fishtailed when he stepped on the accelerator with more force than he intended. An infected man alongside the Humvee fell under the back tire. The crunch of bones could be heard inside the cab. Through the side mirror, Matt watched another infected in a flannel shirt and jeans disappear under the mass of bodies as the vehicle lurched forward.

  Still annoyed at his carelessness, he eased up on the gas and steered the Humvee down the single lane road. The narrow blacktop wound through acres of fallow ground covered in scrub grass and brush. He maintained a speed slow enough to ensure the infected followed as he checked the GPS. According to the unit, there should be a side road heading north in another mile right after a tight curve. He could turn off then leave them in the dust. He would leave the infected in the brush and scrub grass to cook in the Texas sun where they could do no harm.

  As he mused about the possibility of baking brains, he rounded the curve in the road and slammed on the breaks. There was a road block. Before he could even consider what he was seeing, men manning the roadblock began shooting at him. The windshield was hit and shattered on the passenger side as bullets pinged off the metal of the hood and grill.

  Matt jerked the wheel to the right, and the Humvee shot over a shallow ditch and into a dilapidated fence at the side of the road. The barbed wire stretched, then snapped, and he stomped on the accelerator. The Humvee barreled through scrub grass and onto the rocky ground beyond. He kept his foot pressed down and maneuvered around mesquite bushes and scrub grass. The shooting behind him continued but seemed to have redirected their attention to the hoard of the infected he had delivered on their doorstep.

  “Fuck!” he cursed
, as he white-knuckled the steering wheel in frustration.

  He had led the infected right to someone’s front door. The road block apparently protected the community he could see in the distance. Matt sobered as he hoped the guards had enough ammunition to take care of the horde of infected but knew he couldn’t go back. Judging by the initial reception, no amount of talking would convince them he had not led the pack of infected to their doorstep intentionally.

  He eased up on the gas and slowed the Humvee to twenty miles an hour. He expanded the map screen on the GPS. The arrow, symbolizing his vehicle, moved across open terrain. He was further from the main roads than he had ever intended to be.

  He studied the expanded mapping for a moment and realized his only option was to drive through the open range toward an asphalt road several miles away. He scrolled across the GPS screen and saw a road number he recognized and aimed the Humvee in the general direction.

  Matt made his way around gullies and dry streambeds. He fought against the rough terrain all the while with his speed becoming slower and slower. With the first wafting cloud of steam, from under the hood, he realized the Humvee was damaged. Matt glanced down at the gauges. He could see the needle on the temperature gauge climb. The hissing noise coming from the front end grew louder, and he knew repairing the Humvee out in the field was way beyond his expertise.

  His only option was to drive as far as he could, then do whatever he needed to get back to Camp Verde, even if it meant walking. Using the online GPS, he realized he was at least thirty miles from the camp. It was not going to be a good afternoon when the Humvee died. And it would die.

  He activated the mic on the radio. “Home Camp, Monroe here. Over.”

  He released the talk button and waited. Static crackled from the speaker but didn’t include words of response. He used the mic a second time, but again the only sound was the crackle of static gradually being overpowered by the struggling engine.

  While Matt aimed the Humvee toward the general direction of the railroad tracks, the needle of the temperature gauge pegged out. He estimated the distance to be at least five miles from his current location. Steam hissed around the hood in billowing clouds of white. Matt eased up on the gas, and the vehicle coasted to a stop. He slammed the shift into park and stepped from the Humvee.