“Where is everyone?”
Ari removed the binoculars from her eyes and pointed straight ahead. “There.”
Natalie reached for the binoculars and used them to scan the highway. Her stomach churned. Thousands of rotters stumbled around the stalled traffic and along the parallel bike trail, staggering into vehicles, bumping into each other, and wandering mindlessly. Even from this distance, she could see that the sun had baked these rotters, blistering the skin and drying it out until they resembled mummified skeletons. Their lips had pulled back to reveal jaws and decaying teeth, and the lids had shrunk to reveal sockets in which the eyes had long since shriveled from the intense heat. That explained their movement. They were blind. She almost pitied them.
After a few minutes, a female rotter in a sun-bleached summer dress heard the yacht’s engines. Its head shifted up and down and to the sides, trying to determine where the noise came from. Eventually it turned its head in the yacht’s direction and moaned. Those rotters closest to it joined in and gazed around. It spread like a wildfire through the horde, making its way along the highway until every rotter within sight thrashed about. Soon the moaning reached the Angels aboard the yacht, the loudest and most ungodly chorus any of them had ever heard. It sent a shiver down Natalie’s spine.
Then the feeding frenzy began. One rotter stumbled into another. Maybe it was frustration over not being able to see the food, or fear generated by its blindness, but the first rotter lashed out at the one it stumbled into. It tore at its face, ripping away dried-out chunks of flesh, and lunged. Sinking its teeth into the second rotter’s face, it ripped out most of the latter’s cheek. Others exhibited the same behavior and attacked those nearby, while others attempted to avoid the conflict, which became difficult as more and more battles broke out along the highway.
“Holy fuck,” Ari mumbled.
Natalie lowered the binoculars. Each of her Angels stared at the melee, most with an expression of horror.
She moved closer to Emily. “If we cut the engines, would we be able to coast under the highway?”
“We should. The current isn’t strong here. Why?”
“I don’t want to draw attention to ourselves.”
Emily aimed between the two closest islands, throttled forward to give the ship momentum, and shut down the engines. The only sound now came from the water slapping against the side of the hull and the ungodly moaning. Five tense minutes passed as the yacht coasted along and passed underneath the highway. The sound became more eerie with the noise from thousands of rotters scraping along the cement echoing off the underside of the highway and walking trail. Everyone stared up, half expecting the battle above them to spill over onto the deck. Thankfully, nothing happened and the yacht emerged from the under the highway. Once it had coasted a hundred feet away, Natalie nodded to Emily.
“Let’s get out of here.”
“With pleasure.” Emily started the engines and throttled them forward. The sound excited the rotters, increasing the intensity of the battles. Within a few minutes, the yacht left the horror of the highway behind them.
“I’ll steer us back toward shore.”
“That’ll take too much time,” Natalie said. “Do we have enough gas to cut across the Gulf toward Louisiana?”
Emily checked the fuel gauge. “We should.”
“Are your navigational skills good enough to get us to New Orleans?”
“I’ll get you to within five miles of the Mississippi River.”
“How long will it take?”
“If everything goes well, we should reach the coast late tomorrow afternoon.”
“Good.” Natalie leaned closer so the others couldn’t hear. “The less time we spend out here the better.”
“Next stop, Bourbon Street.”
“Angels, when did you ladies clean your weapons last?”
The women exchanged glances, embarrassed. Sandy said, “Not since we left Maine.”
“Then what are you waiting for?” Natalie barked the order, although the grin on her face betrayed her feelings. The Angels responded with good-natured complaints and sauntered below deck to gather their weapons. Natalie wanted to keep their morale up and build on their newfound cohesion. The drill to check and clean their weapons was much more than that.
Natalie realized that as of this time tomorrow, they would be entering a rotter nation.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Removing his last bottle of Jack Daniels from the desk drawer, Price poured the whiskey into a tumbler, filling it halfway. He had gone through a whole case in their first few months here, and had saved this bottle to celebrate a special occasion. At the time, he had thought it would be to toast the end of the deader outbreak and the rise of a new world order in which strength prevailed over so-called justice. That dream died along with the rest of the world. He still kept the bottle hidden away, hoping that something positive might happen that he could celebrate. It never did. He broke out the bottle this morning because he needed a stiff drink.
Price walked over to his office window and took a swig, staring out into the storage facility. The sight of it burned in his stomach worse than the whiskey. Everyone except himself lived in unheated and unventilated storage units. Their bathrooms consisted of portable toilets and makeshift showers rigged from hoses siphoning water brought in from the Suncock River. Their kitchen was primitive, and their food stocks were running low. Plus they had limited medical supplies and even less in the way of health care expertise. He had already lost more than half a dozen of his men to illness and serious wounds. To put it bluntly, this compound was a shithole. He always knew it and, up until a few days ago, it had not bothered him. For Christ’s sake, it was the fucking apocalypse. Nobody expected to be living in luxury. They were lucky to be alive. Now he couldn’t stand the sight of the place.
The catalyst for all this was the discovery of the other group’s compound along the coast of Maine. He had fooled himself into thinking he had done a good job caring for his men until he heard about their set-up. Adequately-furnished container boxes, a well-stocked mess hall, agriculture and livestock, a medical facility. It had everything he had failed to provide for his people, which pissed him off. Those assholes were no better or smarter than him. They sure as hell weren’t stronger judging by the way they allowed his search party to take over their compound without a fight. Yet they had ridden out the deader outbreak a lot better than his group had. Though he would never admit it to any of his people, not even Carter, what really pissed him off was his own failure of leadership. The other group had done well for itself because their leaders focused on the correct priorities, while he had dropped the ball. Sure, his reasons for choosing the storage facility seemed sound at the time. It had been the most secure location they had found in weeks, with concrete buildings closed off by metal doors and surrounded by a brick wall with a security gate, ideal for keeping away deaders and humans. Besides, no one could have foreseen that the outbreak would last this long, so he hadn’t seen the need to make the compound more amenable. At some point, he should have realized that the world had permanently gone to shit, and should have concentrated on either fixing up their own compound or finding a better location. Instead, he focused on keeping his men happy rather than protected. So the blame for their current situation rested squarely on him.
Hell, even he had enjoyed those first few days after the outbreak. It got him off getting revenge on the prison guards, especially those three that took turns holding him down while another raped him. They used to taunt him that they would show him how it felt to be an abused bitch. He had handcuffed them to the fence outside the prison and left them to be deader food. If they were lucky, the deaders completely devoured them, although a part of him hoped they did come back to spend forever chained to that fence, starving. Carter had joined him because he had wanted to get back at the guard who had been fucking his wife while he sat in jail. And Kingston… Kingston was just a psycho who enjoyed killing.
He knew he should have put an end to the violence after they left the prison. Now he couldn’t remember why he didn’t. He didn’t necessarily enjoy it. He hadn’t been with a woman since the outbreak began, except for Tina. She had given herself to him willingly until a deader bit her, forcing him to shoot her in the head. He rarely killed anyone unless he needed to cull out those who posed a threat to his authority. While in prison, he had read a magazine article about mob mentalities and how groups of people will follow the strongest wills or their basest instincts. When your group consists of murderers and rapists, those instincts are pretty base.
Price took another long sip, letting the whiskey settle in the back of his throat for several seconds before swallowing. It burned going down, causing him to cough. Truth be known, now he was just making up excuses. Price could have reined them in at any time because he had the strongest will in the group. He should have reined them in. Instead, he had allowed his people to do a Mickey and Mallory across New Hampshire, and he condoned it just so he could keep the group loyal to him. In that he had succeeded. They stuck by him as long as he provided women to rape and people to kill. By focusing on that, he had placed his group in a precarious situation. Winter would soon be here, and their food supplies would run out long before then, especially with so many camp whores and those on the Line to feed. Even with ample food, he doubted they would survive another winter in this place.
He had royally fucked up the entire situation.
Price drained the tumbler and swallowed hard. His old man would get a kick out of knowing how bad a fuck up his son had become. Thank God he kept him isolated and restricted his contact with others. He should have gotten rid of his father months ago. The bastard let deaders get his mother, and later turned on him, along with the other conspirators. The old man didn’t deserve to live, and for the life of him Price couldn’t remember why he allowed it. He wanted to take a baseball bat, go into the old man’s unit, and bash in his skull.
He decided he would settle for another drink.
Going back to his desk, Price picked up the bottle of Jack Daniels when someone knocked. “Come in,” he barked.
Carter stepped inside. He held a map in his hand. “Sorry to bother you. One of the scouting parties you sent out yesterday came across something you might be interested in.”
“Let me see.” Price placed the bottle and tumbler back in the drawer.
Stepping over to the desk, Carter spread out a map of the local area. He traced his finger along the surface. “One of our teams was scouting twenty-five miles northwest of here when they found a gated community….” He paused until he found the site. “Here. A few miles east of Andover.”
“So? We’ve run into a lot of gated communities. Right now we’re in no position for another fight.”
“That’s the thing.” Carter smiled. “This is an unfinished community. The gates were still closed and locked, so our guys broke in and checked it out. About three quarters of the houses have been built, and none of them were occupied. A brick wall surrounds the entire community. And there’s more than enough construction supplies left behind for us to fortify it.”
“What are you suggesting?”
Carter leaned forward and spoke softly. “That we get the hell out of here. Set ourselves up in a place where we can be comfortable for a change. We could steal furniture from that community we trashed just east of here. Make a few runs into Andover to stockpile food. Hell, we can even start growing our own like those assholes in Maine.”
Price walked past Carter and stared out the window again. This was his chance to redeem himself. He could finally get his men some decent living quarters, and give them a chance to survive the upcoming winter. It would also give him a chance to clean house and put things in order. He could dispose of those who had become a burden and then concentrate on rebuilding their lives.
“What do you think?” Carter asked.
“I think it’s a great idea.”
Carter gave a fist pump.
Stepping back over to his desk, Price slid into the chair. “How long would it take to prepare for the move?”
“We don’t have much to move. Two, maybe three days.”
“Then we’ll leave in three days.”
“Roger that.” Carter hesitated. “What about those on the Line?”
“Leave them. We won’t need them where we’re going.”
“Do you want me to untie them after we’re gone?”
Price shrugged. “Either way. Your choice.”
“What about the women?”
“Bring them with us. We can’t expect the boys to behave all the time.”
“What about that bitch Meat has hooked up with, and the little girl?”
“Bring them along. Just make sure they go missing on the way to Andover.”
“Understood.” Carter turned and walked out.
Price waited until Carter had left, and then withdrew the bottle of Jack Daniels and the tumbler from his drawer. He poured himself another two inches of whiskey and swigged. Now he celebrated the change in their luck.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Another string of expletives came from the school bus, which made Robson chuckle. It had been like this for the past hour. Being the most entertainment he had in months, he sat down on the plastic chair in front of the garage and nursed along his morning cup of coffee.
Jennifer exited a few minutes later. Upon seeing him, her eyes lit up. “Good morning.”
He raised his mug as a greeting. “Morning.”
“How’d you sleep?”
“Pretty good. Everything is falling into place.”
From inside the bus, Caslow yelled, “Son of a bitch!”
Jennifer stared at the bus and back to Robson, confusion in her eyes.
“That’s Caslow. I woke him up this morning and told him he had to clean up the school bus before we modify it.”
“What did he do with the bodies?”
“I drove him up the road a few miles and had him throw them in a drainage ditch. Now he’s cleaning up the gore.” Robson chuckled again. “He’s thrown up twice already.”
“Good.”
“You really hate that guy.”
“Do you blame me? The coward let a rape gang kidnap his wife and daughter because he was too afraid to stand up for them. I hope he chokes on his own puke.”
“Don’t be too hard on him.”
“Please tell me you don’t feel sorry for that little prick?”
“Not at all. What he did was a disgrace. As a cop, I ran into a lot of guys like him, guys who, at a critical moment, panicked and allowed a loved one to get hurt because of their inaction. Every one of them regretted that decision. Caslow knows what he did, and what is happening to his wife and daughter, and it’s eating him up inside. He’s going to have to deal with the guilt and shame for the rest of his life, which is worse than anything you can do to him.” Robson didn’t add that he knew the feeling well. A mental image of his fiancée Susan flashed through his mind.
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be. He’s a useless piece of shit. He knows that, he doesn’t need us reminding him of it.”
Caslow emerged from the school bus carrying a pail full of gore. He stumbled down the steps and dropped to his hands and knees, nearly spilling the contents, and vomited again. This time he had nothing left to spew, so he dry heaved onto the pavement. Jennifer glared at him. Robson noted that her expression still showed contempt, although not as intense as previously. He stood up and tenderly rubbed her shoulder, eliciting a smile. She reached up, patted his hand, and went back inside.
Robson stepped over to Caslow and crouched beside him. “You okay?”
Caslow hacked and shook his head.
“Here.” Robson reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small plastic bottle of water, handing it to Caslow. “Rinse your mouth.”
Twisting off the cap, Caslow poured some of the water into his mouth, swished it around, and spa
t it onto the cement, gagging in the process. He wiped his sleeve across his mouth. “The bus is clean. Are you done punishing me for what I did to my family?”
“You’ll do a better job of that than I ever could.” Robson offered his hand. “I made you clean the bus because it’s time you started pulling your weight around here.”
Caslow took the hand and raised himself off the ground. “Good, because I want to do more. I want to go with you guys when you raid the compound.”
“No.”
“Why not?” Caslow demanded.
Bastard is finally showing a little backbone, Robson thought. He still didn’t want him along. “I already have enough people.”
“Bullshit. It’s because you don’t trust me.”
“It has nothing to do with trust. You don’t know how to handle yourself. You’ll get yourself killed.”
“That’s my decision, not yours.”
“It is my decision because you might wind up getting one of us killed in the process. End of discussion.”
Robson turned and headed back to the garage. Caslow raced ahead and cut him off. All the defiance had drained from him. “Please, listen to me for just a minute. You have to let me go. You have to give me a chance to redeem myself. I know what I did was selfish and fucked up. The only chance I have of ever winning back my family’s trust is if I go with you. If you get them out while I’m waiting safely back here, I’ve lost them forever.”
What Caslow said made sense, although Robson felt that redeeming himself was not Caslow’s only reason for asking to go along. A part of him thought Caslow might be hoping for death by suicide mission. Not that it mattered. He had asked for a chance for recover his dignity with his loved ones, a chance Robson would never get, and as such he couldn’t deny Caslow’s request.
“Okay. You’ll go in with me.”
A sense of relief washed over Caslow. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me. You have no idea what type of a shit storm you’ve just volunteered for. Now come with me.” Robson placed an arm around Caslow’s shoulder and led him into the garage. “I’m going to teach you how to use your weapon.”
Rotter World (Book 2): Rotter Nation Page 19
