No Room In Hell (Book 2): 400 Miles To Graceland

by William Schlichter

  He points to the model with all the tiny trees knocked over and crashed buildings.

  Earthquake damage, she considers. Nothing unrepairable but to a child with his condition—Mom never recorded what his actual diagnosis was—it is devastating.

  Blubbering, Dartagnan explains, “They destroyed the table carrying sleepy Ethan upstairs. Sleeping like his mother did when Ethan found me.”

  Emily’s eyes flame. She’ll howl herself if Ethan’s hurt. “Who knocked over the table?”

  “Victor,” Wanikiya answers.

  Even with his extra-long arms, he’s unable to restrain her as Emily bolts up the stairs.

  She pushes through the remaining medical staff about to berate them for upsetting Dartagnan when she spots Dr. Baker palpating a contusion on Ethan’s chest. Full tunnel vision consumes her as all she knows in the world becomes the purpling body of the man who broke her heart when he declined her advances.

  “You don’t need to be up here, Emily.” Dr. Baker’s words restore her to reality.

  Despite her tiny frame, she grabs Victor with enough force to knock him off balance when she grabs his arm.

  “What the fuck!”

  “Listen here, Victor. Go downstairs right now and apologize to Dartagnan.”

  “I never said a word to the boy,” Victor says.

  “Your ass bumped the table. You damaged his model. You go tell him how sorry you are,” Emily demands with the ferocity of a mother bulldog.

  “Are you serious, girl?”

  “The one thing he has stable in this world is his model work. Now march down there and apologize to him.” Emily, surprised at her own burst of authority, thanks her stars she didn’t say “March, mister.” She knows she would have lost all credibility with these men.

  Dr. Baker nods.

  Wanikiya speaks having followed her, “Emily’s correct, Victor. The boy needs it. And she needs to go back downstairs as well.”

  “Is he going to die?” She jerks her shoulder from Wanikiya’s hand.

  “Not if I have any say in it.” Dr. Baker confidently adds, “He’s the strongest person I know. Some of these marks would mean broken bones for anyone else and Ethan took the hits. I need to complete my examination and you seem to be the one with a handle on Dartagnan.”

  Once Emily’s last footfall leaves the stairs, Wanikiya asks the doctor, “Are we able to speak with him?”

  “He’s out. I’d let him sleep. Without x-rays, we’ll need to handle him carefully. Any discoloration in the urine or blood and I will have to move him. Now we need to find an unbruised vein for an IV.”

  Emily waits for Victor next to Dartagnan’s chair.

  Victor kneels before the boy. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to damage your model.”

  Dartagnan halts his bellowing.

  Emily gives Victor a shooing nod; much more explaining might set Dartagnan to screaming again.

  The EMT heads for the door.

  Wanikiya ducks down the stairs again. “Stay here, Emily. Keep an eye on Dartagnan. I’ll send relief. I’m sure medical staff will be in and out, but let’s not speak of his condition.”

  She knows he doesn’t mean Dartagnan.

  HANNAH RAISES THE pistol. Holding her breath, she peers down the sights.

  Exhale.

  Pop.

  The coagulated spatter explodes out the chest of a biter, painting more of the creatures in a tarry goop. The bullet stops in an arm of the creature behind the one she hit.

  “I’m no good with this thing.” Hannah lowers the gun, releasing the clip before racking the slide to unload the chambered round. She places them on the table.

  “One shot is not enough to assess your capabilities,” Simon says.

  “I’m no good with a pistol.” She picks up the Mossberg 464 Lever Action rifle loading 30-30 rounds. Raising the weapon with the recoil pad tight into her shoulder, she moves the lever with the smoothness of a pro. The shell slides into the breach and she takes aim.

  Bam.

  Smooth hands move the lever action, ejecting a spent casing with a half second, she blows open the skull of a second biter, then a third.

  Five rounds.

  Five shots all in the center forehead of the undead.

  “Fuck me, Annie Oakley.” Nick is aghast. The girl he likes shoots better than him a trained US Soldier.

  She lowers the weapon. “The Colonel had a Navy SEAL sniper instruct me a few summers ago. I still can’t hit shit with a pistol.”

  “With your skill, you’ll be useful on scavenging patrols.” Simon adds, “I’ll inform Wanikiya of your skill.”

  “I want one of these rifles. If not this one.” She caresses her palm over the hand grip. “The recoil wasn’t bad and my short fingers reach the trigger without effort.”

  “I will assign it to you after you complete the pistol test.”

  “I said I don’t shoot them well.”

  “Rifles aren’t usually carried,” Simon says. “But I’ll arrange it, due only to your level of skill. But my duty requires you shoot the pistol even if you miss.”

  Dr. Sterling holds up an X-ray of Amie’s leg. “Nothing’s broken.”

  Kayla uncuffs Amie’s left hand from the medical bed.

  “I’m not sure how the truck door cut you open this bad through your boot. I made the stitches as small as I could but I had to use a few staples, and without a plastic surgeon I won’t prevent all the scarring.”

  “And my dancing career?”

  “It will take a while before you can perform the Jarabe dance.” Dr. Sterling adds, “You’ll need to keep weight off it for a few days. Until the wound has healed, not traveling outside the fence. We may not know much about the vectors, but we do know blood attracts them.”

  “I’ve never seen anything like it except the time I went deep sea fishing and they chummed the water. I didn’t think they were able to maintain smell,” Amie says.

  “We know so little about how they function.”

  “I wouldn’t want one in here even to study,” Kayla says.

  “Valuable information and insight are needed in our understanding of the creature,” Dr. Sterling says.

  “Our camp remains safe and not ready to have a lab full of biters,” Wanikiya says as he ducks to enter the examination room. “One day, maybe, but we are far from ready.” He lowers his eyes to look at Amie’s stitched leg. “Will you be okay, Private?”

  “Am I still in the military, sir?” she asks.

  “Respectfully, we all serve now.”

  “She’ll be ready for duty in a week and back outside the fence in two. They smell blood,”

  Wanikiya nods. “Dr. Sterling, Dr. Baker examined Ethan at the farm house. Prepare a medical rotation to keep vigil over our leader.”

  “Ethan’s hurt?” Amie knew of the commotion at the gate but not how Ethan was involved. She met Ethan when he blasted his way off Fort Wood killing the eldest Bowlin brother—a man needing permanent death after his abuses of so many women. Ethan’s skill with a gun amazed her as if John Wayne stepped from the movies and drew. “How bad is it?”

  “I think we should discuss this in the office,” Dr. Sterling suggests. “Unless we’ve negated patient privacy?”

  “Our rules on dealing with the biters does hinder people having a right to privacy,” Kayla adds.

  “Beyond bites, individual treatment should remain personal between the patient and the doctor,” Dr. Sterling says.

  “Since resources are limited, some treatments may involve a group decision on how we spend what medical supplies we have. And once some drugs are no longer salvageable, hard choices will be before us,” Wanikiya says.

  “Hey! Not that figuring out how to vaccinate future babies isn’t important, what about Ethan?” Amie demands.

  “Calm yourself, honey, you’ll tear your stitches,” Kayla warns.

  “Scavengers beat him. We’ll maintain a constant watch.”

  “He should be here,” Dr. Ste
rling stresses. “Along with Clay and Levin.”

  “You see the reaction Sanchez just had to the news. I don’t want anyone outside the medical staff around him,” Wanikiya says.

  “I’ll consult Dr. Baker and prepare the medical staff to stay with him,” Dr. Sterling says.

  “Does it have to be a trained medic?” Amie asks.

  “I would say tonight. The first twenty-four are crucial to ensure he’s healthy,” Dr. Sterling explains, having not examined Ethan in person.

  “Get me some crutches and I’ll take a shift. Unless there is a reason I shouldn’t sit in a chair and watch him breath. I can’t work the fences until I heal and I want to earn my keep,” Amie says.

  “You rest in here tonight,” Kayla says.

  “Add her to the rotation after Ethan’s stable. Lack of round-the-clock medical care would assure the camp he’s just resting,” Wanikiya says.

  “Being new here and not one of the few Ethan personally saved, I know my attachment to him is not as strong, but hanging your camp stability on one man…” Dr. Sterling says.

  “He’s our leader,” Wanikiya’s tone speaks finality.

  Smashed between the two guards in the cab of the truck, Danziger’s police training reminds him he should educate these people in proper transport of a prisoner. It concerns him. It means Levin could be running around free.

  He had doubts the man he rescued will die. He could still hemorrhage from internal bleeding, but a day after the beating he has no blood in his urine—a positive sign. Then again, my medical training doesn’t extend past the mandatory police CPR class.

  “You guys have names?” Danziger asks.

  “Hal. I was a copy clerk at the office supply store before,” says the driver.

  “Wade, something the fucking III. I hated that III shit. When you have a name that ends in The III you shouldn’t be cleaning the grease traps at the Chicken Wing Barn. Thirty-seven delicious flavors of wings and that doesn’t include our variety of mild through nine-alarm hot wings.”

  “That kind of makes me want some wings,” Danziger says.

  “I skip chicken night. Can’t stand it. Wanikiya will serve me up a peanut butter sandwich.”

  “You get a lot of chicken for dinner.”

  “More eggs.” Hal explains, “We’re trying to build up our poultry population, before we butcher many. Chicken will be a nice change of pace when we get it. You better like beef. We eat a lot.”

  “Steak sounds delightful.”

  “Cattle roam the countryside and we’ve brought in a lot of them. One steer feeds a lot.”

  “They use a lot of the animal parts, too,” Wade adds. “You don’t know how to tan hides, do you? We need someone who can turn the cow skin into leather.”

  “Sorry, I was a cop. Never tanned animal hides before. There are no deer hunters in your group?”

  “Lots, but like most people they turned the hides over to someone else.”

  “Stop the car!” Danziger orders.

  Hal slams on the breaks. All three of them brace themselves to prevent impacting on the dashboard.

  Danziger wants out, but he can’t get past the two men.

  “What’s wrong, mister?”

  In the parking lot before the school, functioning as the survivor’s community center, are military trucks including a personnel carrier, ambulance, and tow truck.

  “I spotted a convoy with vehicles just like those.” Danziger swallows hard. Speaking of Levin will make me sound crazy. The odds of it being the same group seem astronomical. But the odds must increase since I did chase an identical group north. I need to warn them. Will they believe me? Will I cause a panic? Will they exile me for being mental? How do I warn these people about Levin without seeming like a stark raving mad lunatic? “I need to speak to Wanikiya.”

  “He’ll check on you later.”

  “It’s important. It pertains to those vehicles. He’ll want to know immediately,” Danziger says.

  “We’ve got to lock you in the holding room and we’ll call him,” Hal says.

  “Yeah. We’ve got to lock you up. I won’t miss dinner because we didn’t,” Wade says.

  “I won’t cause you to miss dinner,” Danziger assures.

  “Not locking you up will. They told you the rules?”

  “Yes.”

  “You work or you don’t eat. It’s a real punishment,” Hal says as if he were a five-year-old avoiding punishment.

  “There’s no Mac Arches to get a burger if you aren’t fed. Not many break rules more than once.”

  “Number one disciplinary action for failure to comply with camp rules or orders is a meal dock.” Hal presses the accelerator.

  SO MANY WOMEN. None of them are the correct age. And mostly brunette. Levin has no idea how to quell his mind. His thoughts. His passion—perversion, according to society. Now only a perverse society exists. I should be ruler of this new world. These people should bring me the blonde girl, Emily, as tribute. He rubs his hand over the top of the blanket. The thoughts of Emily stiffen his member. He sniffs at the book she brought him. Mostly paper musk but a trace of her scent hangs on the pages. It will linger in his mind long enough.

  Commotion in the corridor makes him shift his hips so that anyone entering the room doesn’t notice the mound at his waist. The concrete brick wall has empty screw holes where a blackboard used to be attached. Faded tape patches in the shape of the alphabet inform him the building was once full of happy children. Children who would have grown into teens. Teens like—

  When it happened.

  He was no older than his victim.

  She wasn’t a victim—she was his canvas. A living work of art. He prepared her body and her screams—

  Maybe in this new world he’ll allow these people to witness his work. It was satisfying to perform for Danziger. Only he lacked all his tools. He will have all he needs. These people will understand when they grow to desire what he has—the way he did—only they won’t be forced.

  Cocking his head in order to peek at the door without moving his body, he spots men escorting a prisoner with bandaged forearms.

  Danziger.

  The cop never glanced in the room.

  One thing’s for sure, he hasn’t said anything about me. Fool. He must want to finish what he started in the barn. I should have taken his hands. No. He might have bled out. I wanted—needed him to witness. They all must witness my art. If not, they will never know.

  Emily carries a paperback book in each hand as she enters the medical ward room.

  Levin sits up to greet her better.

  “I hope these two are more to your liking,” she says.

  “Have you not read Gone with the Wind?” Levin asks.

  “I wasn’t much into books before. I have found a few I like.”

  “What have you read?” Levin’s eyes follow her blonde hair to the roots, which are corn in color not brown like so many blondes he’s investigated.

  “It’s a little childish.”

  “Don’t be shy. I won’t judge.”

  She cocks her head to hide embarrassment, “The Fault in our Stars.”

  “I haven’t read it, but I was afraid you were going to say Twilight.”

  “With all the dead returning to walk the earth, sparkling vampires are still the craziest thing I’ve ever heard of,” Emily says.

  “At least you have taste.”

  “So, I think I watched like a part of the movie,” she touches the book.

  Levin explains, “Scarlet was a rather timid girl in the ways of the world, but she was a free thinker and passionate. She would go after what wanted in life. She desired a certain boy and when he was to marry another her passion incensed until she could no longer stand it. As the war between the states encroaches she is forced to develop into a strong woman and do whatever she must in order to survive.”

  “Did she ever win the man she loves?”

  “You will need to read the book.”

 
“Why do adults always say that?” Emily ponders.

  “Not much point if I only tell you the ending. You must discover the journey for yourself,” Levin says.

  “I should get back to the library.”

  “Do you have a lot of books to check out?”

  “No. During the day it’s pretty slow. Most people work a day shift. Evening before dinner rush I get a few. Most people want DVDs over books,” she says.

  “For a culture to move forward they must inscribe their works in tomes.”

  “I don’t get it,” she says.

  Levin moves his hand, causing his handcuffed wrist to clink metal against metal.

  “They still have you secure?” she asks. “Why?”

  “Not because I’m dangerous.” He flips the sheet off his abdomen. Hints of blood emerge on a large bandage. “This wound concerns them.”

  “Is it gross?” she asks.

  “Want to see?” Levin edges his thumbnail under the corner of the bandage tape.

  Emily steps closer in order to get a clear view.

  Levin pulls slow at the tape.

  Emily eases within arm’s reach.

  Levin flips his wrist releasing the handcuff to grab Emily. His hand clamps around her neck. He pulls her toward him clasping her mouth with his other hand. He slides off the bed backing her toward the door.

  Too in shock to resist, he controls her movements like a dog catcher with a catch-pole. He peeks into the hall before closing the door. She had one full second to scream but her brain never focuses long enough to allow her mouth to open. He drags her back to the bed, cuffing her face down. He presses gauze against her lips, but she refuses to open her mouth. He pinches the loose skin on the back of her arm until she screams, allowing him to shove her cheeks full of cotton. Before she spits it all out, he tears a sheet and tightens a gag around her head. Ripping more cloth, he binds her other hand and then her ankles to the bed frame.

  “You disappoint. Most girls struggle. I like it when you struggle. And scream. Can’t have you screaming in here, so your muffled noises will have to do.”

  He opens a cabinet door.

  She hears the clank of metal on the counter.

  “Such tools. Even when I operated in my own home I never got some of these of such quality,” Levin lies. He had the finest of surgical tools to perform his task, but mental torment stimulates their trauma and enhances his pleasure.