“Gate guards are never released from protecting the camp. Besides, Becky and Kenneth are available to assist in my absence,” Barlock says.
“We should be making supply runs every day. Some necessities have a shelf life,” Becky says.
Barlock admires the young girl’s spunk, but she’s a little too quick on the trigger to be outside the fence. I don’t make the rotations.
Wanikiya gives her an evaluative glance.
“We’ve a multitude of pressing matters,” Wanikiya says. He places his hand on the window frame of the truck so Danziger and the others all hear him. “Right now, you are still my guest, but get out of this truck or do anything questionable—” he shifts his gaze to Barlock “—and they are granted permission to shoot you.”
Becky wants to ask what’s going on but doesn’t question the camp’s second-in-command when his eyes reveal his intention to scalp someone.
“What doesn’t kill us makes us stronger.” Wanikiya steps through the bedroom door.
“They leave out the fact it almost kills you.” Ethan struggles to sit up. His exposed skin now a dull purple with blotches of green.
“Are you competent enough to deal with our current crisis?” Wanikiya asks, not wanting to involve his friend, but he must.
“Emily was quick to rat out Amie losing someone on a failed supply run.”
“We’ll debate your inability to travel and protect every group going outside the fence later.” Wanikiya’s face maintains a constant lack of emotion under most circumstances.
Ethan detects a facial tick giving him concern. “How bad is it?”
“The wounded man you recovered on the way back from Fort Wood, is a serial killer.”
Questions—too many—Ethan asks, “How many are dead?”
“So far one.”
Ethan swings a leg from under the covers. From mid-calf down bares few marks from the attack. Wanikiya bars him from getting up.
“We’re dealing with this. The man who found you after the attack, do you trust him?”
Ethan forgot about him. He did save me with no motivating reasons. I trusted him enough to give him directions to Acheron. However, in delouse or desperation, I accepted any bedfellow to live. “At the time, he seemed reliable.”
“He was a cop and was pursuing the killer who took his daughter.”
“Then he should be a wealth of information. Don’t spend time speaking to me, drill him,” Ethan orders.
“The killer murdered Kayla. He’s free in the camp. I’ve dispatched patrols without creating a panic, but the cop, Danziger—”
Danziger. That was his name, Ethan’s memory flashes to being placed in the truck bed. He shared a hidden stash location with this man.
“… wants me to let him loose on the compound to finish Levin.”
Ethan doesn’t need any more explanation. He understands why the man he found was cut to pieces.
“Release Danziger. Give him a gun.”
“We discovered Danziger covered in Kayla’s blood.” Wanikiya wants a complete picture painted.
Ethan gets the second leg on the floor. “Did he kill her?”
“Speculation and circumstance would point to him being framed to give Levin time to escape.”
“Give him a gun with one clip.” Ethan slides as far to the edge of the bed as he dares. “If he’s an expert in this killer, let him work.”
Emily carries a tray with steaming food into the bedroom. “Where do you think you’re going?”
“After a killer. Wanikiya, get a couple of guys to help me down the stairs.” Ethan scoops up his Beretta from the table. “Give this to the cop. If he can’t kill in ten rounds he’s no good to us.”
Wanikiya accepts the gun, pulling the slide enough to spot a shiny brass casing.
“Make sure he knows I want my gun back.” Ethan orders, “Emily, find my M&P.”
“You need to eat,” she protests.
“You stay here, Ethan. You’re unable to walk,” Wanikiya says.
“I’ll stay in the truck. We’re in a crisis and the camp needs me up and dealing with it.”
“Ethan, it’s time you allow the rest of us to help.”
Ethan staggers to the truck where Danziger remains in the passenger seat. He catches himself on the frame of the open window. He finds the cliché of every bone in his body hurts to be true.
“I’m no doctor, but I doubt you should be out of bed.” Danziger caught the end of the beating they gave this man. By every law of nature, he should be dead.
“Glad no one around here’s a doctor. Why did you help me out?” Ethan never takes his eyes from Danziger’s.
“It wasn’t to help. Not out of any kindness. Like your attackers, I felt you were too clean—too well equipped. I interfered in the hopes someone as well supplied as you might have seen or been a part of the military trucks helping Levin. And there was chance you had fever meds.” Danziger holds up his bandaged wrists.
Ethan opens the door using it as a crutch to step back. “Barlock, cut him loose.”
“Whatever you say, Boss.” The man jingles a janitor-sized ring of keys.
Barlock’s voice always brings the Cool Hand Luke mantra to Ethan’s thoughts.
Wanikiya and Barlock’s radio both crackle with a voice, “Wanikiya, we’ve found George at The Barn.”
The Barn, the title for the hay storage building the group commandeered when first building the compound.
“Condition?” Wanikiya asks.
“We’ve called for medics. Sam was assigned to work with him. No sign of her.”
Ethan wishes someone less panic stricken was on the radio. He raises his hand for Barlock’s radio. “Secure The Barn. And keep everyone in sight of each other. Over.”
“Ethan?” the voice questions.
“Yes. Do as I order.” That will give the camp something to talk about. He explains to Danziger, “Sam was a little blond girl. She’s been assaulted before.”
“How old is she?” Danziger wants to rub his wrists from the tight cuff restraint but doesn’t to avoid breaking open any of the healing.
“Seventeen,” Barlock answers.
“This guy like young girls?” Becky no longer keeps quiet.
“He loves them. You don’t want to know how,” Danziger says. “If I’m free to act. Then I need to get to this barn. You people might mess up a sign I’ll need to track him by.”
Wanikiya holds the Beretta by the barrel. “Ethan wants his gun back.”
Danziger takes the weapon and the separate ten-shot clip. “Point me to this barn.”
“I’ll take him,” Becky offers.
Ethan replaces Danziger in the truck. “Drive. Danziger in the back. Wanikiya, stay here and keep an eye on Emily. Barlock, secure the main sally port. Kenneth, warn those at the dam.”
Becky fires up the truck.
Ethan glances through eyes unaccustomed to the sun at the tan-skinned girl. “Did I save you?”
“How many blows to the head did you take?” She mashes the accelerator.
“Too many.” Ethan smirks.
“You’re still mostly purple. I don’t know how you got out of bed. You saved us once. You don’t have to keep being Superman.”
“I would never be Superman. Trumped up ideals and defeated by a rock. That’s about as bad as Kate Beckinsale dying in that piece of crap werewolf/vampire movie where she fell over a couch. No, girl, I’m more Captain America; at least he had super strength with a realistic view of the world. If not Cap then—” Ethan shifts his voice into a gravel guttural octave. “I’m Batman.”
Ethan doesn’t want to remain in the truck like some two-year-old while mother runs into the convenience store, but all the jarring has aggravated every bruise. Part of me is amazed I didn’t pass out from the pain. No, not in front of a girl. Got to remain manly.
He spots the blood-soaked blanket covering what must be George. We’re supposed to be safe in here. After I punished Kyle for sexual assault
no one would dare now. Minor infractions, a day of sluffing off work, are easily corrected by cutting food rations. We had such a healthy growing community. I have to keep finding people. Most out there are damaged. So many mentally sick people seem to have survived. We have to grow. The people who live here have to be better than those living out there.
Becky leans against his truck door so as not to obscure his view. “They put George down.”
Her remark, a bit too casual about the event, assures Ethan they have to be keep striving to be better than the outside world.
“He sliced him up. Left him to die,” she snaps.
“A mask.”
“What?”
“A disguise.”
“I know what a mask is,” Becky says.
“A distraction then. He wanted us to deal with a biter, but let George bleed out so Levin had time to escape with Sam, and of course the threat that if she didn’t cooperate he’d do the same to her.”
“But he will anyway.”
“Correct, Pandora, but people want to believe.”
“Pandora?” Becky asks.
“A Greek—”
“I know. She released all the evils into the world. Why did you call me Pandora?” she asks.
“Because she prevented Hope from escaping, but Hope is a cruel mistress. Sam hopes if she does what this Levin says she’ll live. Hope suppresses the brain from knowing he’s going to kill her no matter what. Hope is what people cling to even when they see Death swing his scythe.”
“Were you always this pragmatic?” she asks.
“It keeps me alive.”
Danziger marches to the truck.
“How do we organize this man hunt?” Ethan asks.
Danziger cranes his arm to demonstrate. “Bring your people in an arcing formation, tell them to stay in sight of one another as they swing in driving him toward the dam. I heard someone say tanks were there.”
“Lot of forest, too; it was a National Park area.”
“It’ll force him to keep moving,” Danziger says.
“He could still cut through the fence and escape.”
“He’d be outside. The rest of your people would be safe. You send scavenging teams out under guard. You just have to watch for him.” Danziger considers. “No, he’ll stay here.”
“People could still climb over the fence.”
“What about Sam?” Becky asks.
“I’m going to follow his trail. I’ll do what’s necessary,” Danziger says.
“What does that mean?” Becky demands.
“Once cornered, he’ll kill Sam,” Ethan says, cold as ice.
“There has to be some way to stop—” Becky protests.
“Not without risking more lives,” Ethan says.
“If I get to him I might be able to stop him. This Sam sounds like the girls he performs his ritual on. I was forced to witness. Nothing in the woods will provide him the opportunity to live out his fantasy with her.”
“Just save her, Danziger.” Ethan holds out his radio. “Take this and take Keanu. He’s a good shot and has been through this area to check the deer population.”
“I’m going to kill Levin,” Danziger says.
“I ain’t sending the kid to prevent you, I’m sending him to assure it.”
DAVE SHOVES ALL the boxes out of the back seat of the car. Personal household items spill over the blacktop. Placing Danielle on the inside, he slides in next to her and clamps a towel over her bleeding nose. Careful not to smother her, he applies pressure.
“How bad is she?” Tom calls out. He sweeps his gun combat style toward the tree line, prepared for an attack. Ignoring the pain, the jerk radiates through his bound arm.
“Lot of blood. I don’t know how to stop it. A piece of her nose is gone,” Dave hollers.
Dusty keeps his rifle ready, “Maybe he thought we were a threat and just wanted to get away.”
“Maybe. No one behaves rationally anymore.” Tom keeps scanning the trees.
“Should we go after him?” Dakota asks.
Tom issues a resounding, “No. Re-sweep the cars around us. Then we stay around Danielle. We move once we have her bleeding under control.”
Darcy digs through the scattered family items. Dave spills out into the road. She shreds clothes to make bandages.
“The bleeding won’t stop!” Panic hangs in Dave’s voice.
Tom holsters his weapon. He takes a loose round from his pocket and fishes out a Leatherman multi-tool. “Dusty, remove the bullet from the brass without spilling any of the powder.”
“You going to perform some Rambo shit?” Dusty asks.
“We’re too exposed here. We may be surrounded and a herd went through here days ago. Dozens, if not hundreds, of undead are still around, and we’re making enough racket. I want to move.”
Dusty crimps the bullet, twisting the wrench until he breaks free the copper hollow point. Pocketing the round.
“How do I do this?”
“Sprinkle about half of the tube on the wound. You got any cigarettes?”
“Search the cars,” Dusty orders. “Find some smokes.”
Darcy smashes a truck window, reaches in, and flips down the visor. She gives the generic brand of cigars to Dusty.
“I’m not much of a smoker.”
Tom takes one and fumbles with the plastic wrapper. “I enjoy a good cigar once in a while. Light me.”
Dusty flicks a lighter.
Tom puffs the cigar until the tip cherries.
Dave sprinkles the whole tube of gun powder onto Danielle’s chunk of missing nose. Tom hands him the cigar.
Her howl, strong enough to shatter glass, ends as she succumbs to the burn. Dave dribbles water onto a rag and dabs at the blood to clean her face. “I never thought I’d ever burn a wound closed.”
“Cauterizing it should staunch all blood and kill any infection.” Tom takes back the cigar.
“Those things will kill you.”
“It’s a slow death. A lot faster ways to die today.” Tom puffs.
“Poor girl. She had such a pretty face,” Darcy says.
“She’s alive. Let her sleep for a while,” Tom suggests. “Where to now, Dusty?”
“I don’t know where we are. These cars all have family possessions. Your caravan was loaded with useful gear. I still want to find it.”
“Come, Darcy, we’ll scout east until we find a mile marker. Figure out where we are.” Tom crushes out the cigar before drawing his pistol. Hating being one handed.
“Don’t be gone too far.”
“Two tenths of a mile at most. One thing Missouri does well is mark all the highways every tenth of a mile or so. Gave the inmates something to make in prison, I assume.”
“We have to be close to the Merrimac River,” Darcy says.
“The caravan never made it that far. It was around Exit 266. A Route 66 Museum is located there.”
“So, we are going to have to head toward the city and the hoard?”
“The trucks had guns, fuel, and food. I don’t know where we’re going, but we’d have more than we can carry.”
“Why didn’t the caravan get further?” she asks.
“I was planning on staying in the city. Kept hearing about problems clearing the road. Cars were twenty wide in places, took weeks to clear. Every time they’d inch forward they’d halt again.”
Tom glances up at the mile marker. “265. A mile or less to the river and then more than a few to the caravan’s lead.”
“Too bad they are still boxed in; we could just take a car full of gear.”
“I hear ya. Walking is killing my arm.” Tom heads back toward the group.
“Why’d you ask me to come along?” she asks.
“You were turning green after seeing Danielle’s nose. Thought you should get some air.”
“There’s no way to fix her nose anymore?”
“A good plastic surgeon might be busy fixing more basic damage.”
“I’m
glad you knew how to save her.” She smiles.
“I wouldn’t want to break up Tom and the Ds.”
Dakota jogs toward them. “How long do we let her sleep? I killed two rotters.”
“The bridge is this direction and then a few miles through the maze of cars to the caravan. I don’t think we should carry her. We need to be able to avoid any undead under a car.”
“STOP THE TRUCK.” Kaleb flings open the door before the pickup still rolls. “Hold your fire,” he orders the men in the bed. They all point rifles at a minivan parked angular in the lane.
“Please, Brothers.” The man in the straw hat raises his arms. “We travel under God’s protection.”
“I see he took real good care of your tires.” Kaleb sneers, “You God will light your way types are all same.”
“He did bring us you, Brother.”
One of the men in the truck swings his rifle to the trees. “Movement, Kaleb.”
“Easy, Garth.” He flicks the safety on his own rifle. “You got friends, mister?”
“I have many brothers and sisters.”
“If they are hiding in the woods—” he raises his voice “—they need to come on out!”
Four people stumble from the trees. A middle-aged woman—Kaleb would consider her a MILF once she cleaned up—stumbles out. Her ripped dress shows dark hairs sprouting on her shapely legs. She tows a boy about nine behind her. Two more men in tattered suits carrying golf clubs follow her.
“That it?”
“Yes, we are traveling to Springfield. We understand God protects his worthy children there.”
“And you decided to try the back roads to reach there?” Kale hates his brother’s words. They need serfs.
“We didn’t realize finding more gas would be so difficult.”
“Guess God doesn’t provide the worth with fuel.”
“Why are we messing with these people?” Garth asks.
“Kale wants to build our population with workers.” He keeps his finger on the trigger. “We have a camp and food.”
No Room In Hell (Book 2): 400 Miles To Graceland Page 14
