Dead Highways (Book 2): Passage

by Richard Brown

“I lied,” Charlie said. “I never planned on making your death painless. Maybe theirs, but definitely not yours.” Now free of the restraints, Robinson fell to the ground in front of Charlie. He grabbed at his left shoulder. Blood poured out into his hands, seeped between his fingers. Charlie put the knife back on to his belt and then kicked Robinson in the stomach. “Time to get up.”

  Robinson attempted to reach up with one hand and grab a hold of Charlie’s legs.

  “That’s more like it,” Charlie said. And kicked him again. Then he grabbed Robinson by the back of his jacket and dragged him out into the open space in front of the truck bays. “Come on. Get up. I thought you were gonna take me out.”

  Robinson rolled over on to his back. “You … shot me.”

  Charlie smirked. “I guess I didn’t play fair. Oh well.” He kicked Robinson in the face and then got down on top of him, punching him to the body and head.

  Now that Charlie was preoccupied with killing Robinson, I made my best attempt at escape. I yanked at the zip ties as hard as I could, hoping that with enough pressure, they would snap and I’d be free. But hell if that plastic wasn’t strong. Stronger than me, at least. It dug into my wrists, slicing me open. My best attempt was going nowhere, and the left side of my face still felt like it had grown two sizes.

  I glanced over at the combatants, wrestling on the concrete floor. Charlie had Robinson pinned down, but Robinson was trying desperately to push him off. When that didn’t work, he made a move for Charlie’s gun.

  “Is this what you want?” Charlie asked, pulling the gun out and holding it up where Robinson couldn’t reach it. “Here. You can have it.” He brought the gun down once, and then a second time, hammering Robinson in the face. Robinson struggled to block the attack, and finally rolled back over on to his stomach in retreat.

  BANG! BANG!

  Gunshots. Loud. Real close.

  Brett jogged back into the receiving area. “One of them made it back here. He’s hiding.”

  Charlie froze on top of Robinson, who lay face down on the concrete, not moving. “Well, what are you waiting for, you idiot. Go get him.”

  Just as the words left his mouth, the overhead lights began to shut off. One section at a time, moving down the back hall. We all watched in silence—the only sound the buzz of the electric current dying in the lamps above. Darkness quickly swept in to fill the space left by the light.

  But it only remained pitch black for maybe ten seconds. Then I saw a flash of light in the far off distance down the entrance to the left—the entrance we had come down with butch Brenda.

  A second later, the first of two road flares sailed into the receiving area, spinning to a stop in the middle of the floor, casting everything in a sparkling red glow.

  Brett quickly shouldered his rifle and sent more than a dozen rounds into the black space down the hall. A total waste of bullets, but Brett clearly wasn’t too smart. I felt even worse about being tricked by his little brother Kyle, as stupid was clearly the dominant gene in their family.

  Charlie, being slightly smarter, immediately stopped his assault on Robinson and hurried out of sight. Even with Charlie now off him, Robinson still laid face down, squirming, but making no real attempt to get up. There was blood splatter on the floor around him. Some from his face. More from the gunshot wound.

  Charlie whistled at Brett to get his attention, but Brett either didn’t hear over the sound of the rifle, or just didn’t care to look over. He continued his useless attack on the black void from which the flares had come—round after round—pulling the trigger as fast as he could. He sprayed wildly, like Al Pacino at the end of Scarface, praying that he’d get lucky and hit something. He wasn’t at all concerned that one of the flares sat only a few feet in front of him, making him an easy target. Charlie tried one more time to get his attention, and then gave up. He knelt down behind a pallet of soda, and like the rest of us, waited for what we all knew was going to happen next.

  A moment later Brett ran out of bullets. Just like that, thirty or so rounds, gone. And it all lasted no more than ten seconds. He looked to his left, saw Charlie, and made a move toward him.

  His last move.

  There was a single gunshot—likely the last thing Brett would ever hear, as the bullet ripped through the side of his neck. A spurt of blood left with the bullet. Brett dropped the rifle and grasped both of his hands around his neck. He tottered in place, making choking sounds, unable to prevent the blood from pouring out of his neck and down his chest and back. Finally, he fell forward, landing directly on top of one of the flares. Half the red glow instantly left the room.

  There was a final gurgle, and then Brett lay silent. Still. Dead. I didn’t want to think about what the flare underneath him, still burning, was doing to the skin of his exposed chest.

  Charlie seemed unfazed by Brett’s death. He remained knelt down, quiet, hidden behind the pallet of soda.

  I kept my focus on the dark hall, looking for any sign of movement. I was ninety-nine percent sure I knew who had killed Brett. Only one person in our group could have pulled off that shot so effortlessly. The man who had taught me how to shoot.

  Ted emerged out of the darkness, walking slowly, cautiously. He had a black rifle similar to the one Brett was using before his neck started gushing like Old Faithful.

  Ted stopped when he saw me, looked around.

  I thought about yelling for him to stay back. I didn’t want him to walk into Charlie’s trap. But I also didn’t want to draw Charlie’s attention over to me. So I waited until Ted looked at me again, and then motioned with my head in Charlie’s direction.

  Ted nodded.

  He understood.

  Problem was, Ted wasn’t the only one who saw what I did. Charlie spun on his knees and fired two shots in my direction. Neither hit me, but one came too close for comfort, ricocheting off the metal bar behind my head.

  Ted, now armed with the knowledge of where Charlie was hiding, rushed into the receiving area and started blasting rounds through the pallet of soda. The carbonated liquid sprayed out in all directions. Small puddles began to gather around the base of the wooden pallet. To avoid being hit, Charlie shifted left and right around the large stack of soda, keeping out of Ted’s line of sight. Occasionally he’d fire a blind shot around the corner. It was a game of cat and mouse—with guns—and fortunately for us good guys, Ted had more bullets to play with. Once Charlie was out, he set the gun down and waited with his back against the pallet—waited for Ted to get close enough. Then he turned the corner and leapt out.

  The struggle quickly went to the ground as they slipped on the soda, wrestling for control over the rifle. Charlie was the larger man, the stronger man, and quickly gained control, ending up on top. He swung the rifle down and across Ted’s face, and it was then that I started to panic.

  Again I pulled at the zip ties, harder than before. My wrists bled and screamed in pain, but the ties still wouldn’t budge. I couldn’t believe it. A fucking quarter inch of plastic was going to get me killed. I had never felt so helpless. I couldn’t do anything to save Robinson from the beating he took, nor could I save Ted from the beating he was now taking. I kept my eyes on the dark hall behind them, hoping to see Bowser appear any moment to help turn the tide.

  Charlie stood up and looked down at Ted groaning in pain on the ground. “Well, look at you,” he said, breathing hard. Sweat was soaked into his white shirt. “How does it feel to be a hero, huh?” He kicked Ted in the stomach, much like he’d kicked Robinson minutes earlier. “Does it feel good?”

  Ted slowly rolled over and stared up at Charlie. “Please … stop.”

  Charlie smirked. “I don’t know how to stop.” He backed off, brought the rifle up. “Now where’s the rest of my crew?”

  “Who?” Ted asked. He looked exhausted. Defeated. I couldn’t blame him for feeling that way.

  “There was three more,” Charlie said. “Kyle, Mike, and Brenda. Did you kill them too?”

 
“I killed two of them,” Ted replied. “Bowser killed the other one.”

  Charlie huffed in anger and then pointed to the wall behind Robinson. “Get over there. Both of you. Now!”

  Ted crawled on his knees over to where Robinson lay near the truck bays. He glanced over at me and said, “I’m sorry.”

  “Where’s Bowser?” I asked.

  “He got shot.”

  What? No.

  What do you mean he got shot? I thought.

  “I’m sorry,” Ted said again.

  “Did I say you two could have a talk?” Charlie yelled.

  Just imagining Bowser lying somewhere in the store, motionless, life having vacated his eyes, was enough to make my heart sink. I was surprised it didn’t stop beating altogether, as any remaining hope that I had all but died.

  It was over.

  We had reached the end—the last act.

  I closed my eyes as the tears began seeping out. I wanted to be strong, but there was no holding back anymore. I thought of Peaches back at Cathy’s house, sitting there nervous, waiting for me to return. And I cried some more. I prayed she’d find a way to go on without me—find another group—find some way to survive. I heard her voice in my head, repeating the same line. It was the last thing she’d said to me before I left, as we embraced.

  You better come back, you hear me?

  Don’t you leave us.

  Leave her. Leave Olivia.

  Leave them alone in this new world. This terrible world. I had promised I wouldn’t. I had promised I’d come back—that I’d do whatever I had to do.

  But that was a promise I would have to break.

  I could do nothing. I was helpless.

  And all the tears in the world couldn’t save me.

  I opened my eyes and looked back to my left. Through wet eyes, I could see Charlie standing in front of Ted and Robinson, who now sat with their backs against the outer wall. Ted had his hands down at his sides, while Robinson kept both hands pressed on his left shoulder where he’d been shot.

  Charlie pointed the gun down at them and started yelling again. What he said didn’t matter. I didn’t hear words. It was just background noise to the images that circled in my head. My life flashing before my eyes. I just wanted it to be over. I was ready.

  No more tears.

  I closed my eyes again to squeeze out the teary blur, and when I opened them back up a chill suddenly ran down my body.

  While Charlie continued to yell and fire out intimidation tactics, someone slowly emerged from the shadows and entered the receiving area. It was someone I never thought I’d see again. Someone I had never wanted to see again. Someone I figured would be long gone by now.

  Someone named Aamod.

  He stopped ten yards behind Charlie. He held his shotgun down at his waist, racked the pump to get Charlie’s attention.

  It worked.

  Charlie stopped yelling. Froze.

  “Put down the gun,” Aamod said.

  Charlie cocked his head slightly to the left, trying to look behind him. “Who are you?”

  “I’m the guy that’s going to kill you if you don’t put that gun down now.”

  Charlie made no motion to drop the gun. I half expected him to do a quick 180 and try his luck, given how full of himself he was, but he stayed frozen solid. Perhaps he could hear in Aamod’s voice the same thing we had always heard. Here was a guy who always said exactly what he meant. Aamod wasn’t playing around.

  “You have three seconds,” Aamod continued. “One … two—”

  “Okay,” Charlie said. “You win. I’ll put it down.” He bent over and set the rifle down like it was a piece of fine china.

  “Good. Now turn around.”

  As Charlie slowly turned around, he used his feet to sweep the rifle back out in front of him, proving that while he was a lot of things—an evil racist prick, for example—he was also quite the improviser. Of course, with Aamod’s snappy trigger finger, there was no way Charlie could reach down and grab the rifle without taking a slug in the chest. But with the rifle now between him and Aamod, he at least he wouldn’t have to worry about Ted or Robinson sneaking up and grabbing it from behind.

  “Easy, man,” Charlie said. “No need to do anything crazy.”

  “Crazy,” Aamod repeated. “You mean like locking people up … torturing them?”

  “I did what I had to do,” Charlie replied. “They didn’t leave me any choice. They came in here. They killed my friends.” One of his friends lay on the floor between them, still bleeding out of his neck. Behind him, Robinson and Ted shimmied against the wall until they were out of the firing zone. “And then they were going to kill me.”

  “He’s a liar!” I yelled. “Aamod, shoot him. What are you waiting for?”

  Aamod didn’t turn to look at me. For once, I was glad to be ignored. Charlie was sneaky, and always deserved your full attention. He also deserved to be killed.

  “You know them? Aamod … is it?”

  Aamod nodded. “Yes. I was traveling with them. Until they kicked me out.”

  “Why did they kick you out?”

  “They didn’t trust me.”

  “That’s too bad.”

  “Yes. Too bad for you.” Aamod gripped the shotgun tighter. “They were right not to trust me. But I’m hoping this might change their minds.”

  “No, no, stop. Please, you don’t have to kill me. I’ll do whatever you want.”

  No words could describe how satisfying it was to see Charlie stripped of all his power, throwing himself at the mercy of another.

  “I didn’t come here for you. There is no forgiveness for what you’ve done. I came here for them. To admit my mistakes.”

  Charlie raised his hands above his head. “Just let me go. Please. I’m sorry.”

  “Me too,” Aamod said. “And this is my apology.”

  The slug hit Charlie with all the force of a Randy Johnson fastball, opening up a nasty red crater in his abdomen. But he didn’t die immediately. He had five more seconds to realize what happened. He stumbled forward, mumbling something unintelligible. His hands shook as he examined the bloody mess where his belly button used to be. His whole body seized up then, went stiff, as shock overtook his nervous system and consciousness quickly began to fade.

  A second later, he fell backward. His head made a dull thumping sound—like a fist hitting a punching bag—as it came into contact with the concrete floor.

  The room went silent. No one moved a muscle. We were all in shock.

  Charlie was dead.

  And hopefully en route to hell.

  After a moment, I took a long satisfying breath, the realization that I wasn’t going to die—not yet, at least—coming over me like warm sunlight.

  Aamod sure had a funny way of apologizing. But I’d accept it.

  He could save my life anytime.

  The next day.

  Back at Cathy’s house.

  It was around noon, and I was in the upstairs bathroom, staring into the mirror. The left side of my face was bruised, and hurt like hell when I touched it, but the swelling had already started to go down. Overall, I had been very lucky, especially when compared to many others in the group. Things could have gone much, much worse.

  There was a knock at the door.

  “Jimmy, you in there?” Ted asked.

  “Yeah.” I opened the door. “You ready?”

  Like me, Ted had also escaped Charlie and the gang’s wrath with only minor injuries. A few cuts and scrapes. Some facial swelling. Nothing a few days of rest wouldn’t fix.

  Ted nodded. “Ready if you are. Aamod’s waiting for us outside.”

  “Let’s go.”

  The three of us headed back to the scene of the crime—or nightmare. The Walmart. I had suggested going somewhere else. There was a bunch of grocery stores in the area. But Ted wanted to gather up the guns that had been left behind, most of which would probably have to be pried—Charlton Heston style—from the cold dead h
ands of a corpse. I’d leave that gruesome task for Ted. Aamod and I could get the rest of the stuff, like food and water and clean clothing.

  Last night, in a rush to get the wounded back to Cathy’s, we’d grabbed only the most essential supplies from the store. And most of those came from the pharmacy. Antibiotics. Pain medication. Bandages.

  The plan was still to go to New Orleans, assuming Robinson’s condition remained stable, we just wouldn’t be leaving for at least a week. This was just the first of many supply runs.

  We spent more than an hour in the store, filling three carts full of stuff, and then packed it into the SUV and headed back to Cathy’s house.

  After carrying everything inside the house, I headed back upstairs. First, I checked on Peaches. She was still napping in our temporary room. Olivia lay in a portable crib Cathy had fished out of the attic. The crib was just one of many sentimental items Cathy had stored away. Items that reminded her of her daughter Gwen.

  I quietly shut the door and entered the bedroom across the hall. The door was open.

  The room had two twin beds. Robinson was in one of them, sitting up. He was shirtless, with large surgical pads wrapped tight around his left shoulder, held in place with tape. The wrap was so thick it looked like he had a cast on, but as long as it stopped the bleeding, that’s all that mattered. None of us were doctors. We did the best we could under the circumstances.

  “How do you feel?” I asked.

  “I feel like I’ve been shot in the shoulder,” Robinson said, forcing out a smile. “Other than that … just tired.”

  “Well, that makes sense. You did lose a lot of blood,” I said. “But what I meant was … how do you feel having to share a room with that guy.”

  Robinson looked over at the second bed where Bowser lay, asleep. “Fine right now. Ask me later when he’s back awake.”

  When Ted said Bowser had been shot, I had assumed the big guy was dead. But like Robinson, Bowser had received a non-fatal wound. In fact, his was even less serious. During the battle with Charlie’s three stooges, Kyle, Mike and Brenda, a bullet had grazed Bowser’s right leg, near the kneecap. While not life threatening, it had made him instantly immobile, taking him out of the fight early.