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

by William Schlichter

  “We wish to join the other faithful in Springfield.”

  “Then start walking. Or we’ll place you under our protection.”

  “What does your protection mean?” the woman asks.

  “You have a name?” Kaleb asks.

  “Mary.”

  Fuck’n religious nuts always have Bible names. “Of course it is. He your boy?”

  “My kids have joined God. Josiah, we saved.”

  “Well, Mary, under our new order, you do the work and we keep the rotters from eating you,” Kaleb says.

  “We should just kill them and take what they have,” Garth says.

  “No. I’m full agreement with Kale and our needs. We have to consider long term. No more drugs, no more rape, no more pillaging from the living.”

  “We will pass on your protection,” the man in the straw hat proclaims.

  Kaleb twirls his index finger in the air, signaling the two trucks to drive around the van.

  “Wait,” Mary says. “You promise no ill to befall me?”

  “We will protect all in our stead from biters and anyone wishing to harm you,” Kaleb swears.

  “Then I wish to join your commune. We don’t even know if Springfield has a human population.”

  “Josiah, you want to come with me?”

  The boy nods his head.

  Kaleb lifts Mary onto the tailgate, placing her bottom on the metal. Slipping his hand up her dress to grip her smooth inner thigh. He doesn’t push too high as he massages the muscle. She smiles at his advance. She leans over to hug him in thanks. “If you want my pleasures, then I expect you to honor me. Make me your queen,” she whispers.

  “How do you know I am not married already?” Kaleb asks.

  “A man like you may keep a harem, but you have no bride.” She never raises her voice above a tone just for him to hear.

  “We have a lot of struggle ahead and my men have been able to take what they want from whoever they wish until today.”

  “Make me your queen and you’ll never want to desire another woman again. Claiming me will set an example for your men and allow you to lead and survive.”

  “I’m not much for God worshiping, Mary.”

  She moves her leg reminding him he still has her thigh in her grip. “I’ll be the only God you need to follow.”

  The trucks leave the straw-hat man and two companions next to a gasless van.

  LISTED TO ONE side, like a discarded beer can, the 7407 would have tipped completely over if not for the wing. The straight stretch of interstate made a perfect substitute runway when the plane was forced into an emergency alternative to crashing. Sprawled across the southbound lane, the plane appears to have landed intact. Fools attempted to clean the road of the behemoth, jerking free the forward landing gear, stranding the craft forever.

  “I’ve never been on a plane before,” Darcy says.

  “It could be clear of rotters.” Dave points at the tatters of inflated emergency slide dangling from the open door.

  “Walking up those aisles at such a steep angle will be murder on the calves, and if you encounter an undead you have no space to move.” Tom sounds more like a preparing father than a watchful companion.

  “I’ll take a look around,” Dusty volunteers. “May be something useful in the overhead compartments.

  “Count me out.” Danielle fumbles with a car door handle. Upon finding it locked, she smashes the window with a pry bar tool. She uses it to brush glass from the seat in order to rest comfortably. Before she climbs into the car, she smashes the side view mirror.

  Tom wishes he had a Halligan pry bar. The high carbon steel was made to destroy door, cars, anything in order to gain entry to put out a fire or perform a rescue. About twelve pounds, it would be the perfect combination tool/weapon. The spiked end allows for building entry or destroying a rotter. Next firetruck I find I’ll snag one.

  “How is your pain?”

  “Manageable. I want to see it…and I don’t,” she says.

  Tom doesn’t know how to respond. He leans against the back door. “Be careful,” he hollers after Darcy and Dusty.

  Dave drops a truck tailgate, plopping down and jerking off his shoe to rub his foot. “How far do you think the caravan is?”

  “A few miles,” Tom guesses. “So many cars. This caravan was never going to clear this mess.”

  “So, they lied to the people trying to escape?’

  “Yes.”

  “Why?” Danielle asks.

  “My best guess would be to give people something to do, prevent a panic and provide hope for a future,” Tom says. “If the herd hadn’t scattered everyone they’d still be clearing this mess.”

  “Will it come back?”

  Tom should lie. “I don’t know what motivates such a mass of undead.” Not a lie, but anything could swing them in any direction at any time. “Most people ran south and the herd followed.”

  Dave replaces his shoe. He digs through a cardboard box ruined by rain. He tosses aside DVDs, Christmas decorations, and a blow dryer. “Why did people pack this crap?”

  “We were obsessed with things and stuff,” Tom says. “In the wake of this disaster, we now understand what’s truly important.”

  “I don’t see the world any different. I’m still deprived of quality health care, I’m poor, but not poor enough for government assistance, and my vote still doesn’t count,” Danielle says.

  “There is no more government,” Dave says.

  “Doesn’t matter. They didn’t help before. My mom made too much money for assistance, but not enough to feed everyone,” Danielle adds.

  “Quiet, you two.” Tom raises his gun.

  Staggering among the abandoned vehicles are more and more undead. Their numbers grow, but Tom doesn’t spot where they originate from. “Where’s Dakota?”

  He scans the tops of the cars counting twelve DKs. “I don’t know. Should we get in the plane?”

  “Go,” Tom agrees. The rotters move toward him but not in a swift enough pace to acknowledge they know of the group’s presence.

  “Dakota,” Dave yells in his loudest whisper.

  Danielle climbs onto the hood of the truck under the plane door.

  Tom backs himself up against the truck.

  “Climb up,” she demands.

  “Not with my arm,” Tom says.

  “There are too many of them.” From her new vantage, she spots a small herd—maybe fifty.

  Dave joins her, picking her up in order for her to reach the bottom of the door frame.

  “Just get inside,” Tom orders.

  The undead scurry forth, moving toward the plane, but still not aware of the group.

  “Does this mean they don’t smell us?” Dave asks.

  “They like blood and noise, maybe something stronger is gravitating them this way, but not enough to excite them,” Tom speculates.

  Dakota blunders from between the cars. A short metal tube is poised between his lips. He puffs full against it. “Hey, guys. I found this whistle, but it doesn’t work.”

  “Fuck me! How old are you?” Danielle scolds him.

  “Never mind, stop blowing. It’s a dog whistle. You’re attracting them,” Tom says, wanting to slap it out of his mouth.

  “What?” Dakota seems confused.

  “I’ll shoot the dumb-nut,” Danielle offers.

  “Too much noise,” Tom says.

  The rotters shamble toward the plane. Tom fingers the gun’s safety.

  “Tom, Dakota and I will lift you into the plane. We should just wait them out inside,” Dave suggests.

  “I think you’re right.” Tom flips the safety on holstering the weapon. “Hiding is the better part of valor.”

  Rotters mill around the cars. Most seem confused—trapped—unsure how to escape and continue wandering. Many bounce off of a car or fall over a trunk only to create noise and draw a few other rotters toward them.

  Dakota aims his rifle from the plane door. “I just want
to pick a few of them off.”

  “They’ve thinned out. You ping a few and we’ll have a small herd again,” Dusty says. He has changed into fresh, slightly baggy, clothes. “We’ll give it another half hour and then make a break for it.”

  “Where to?”

  “Caravan, but I think we head south off the interstate and then come back up. Less chance of a rotter or a person hiding under a car,” Tom suggests.

  “I agree. Find anything useful besides fresh clothes?”

  “Dude, I’m digging the clean underwear,” Dusty says. “Usual carry-on items. No bodies. Wouldn’t mind checking the cargo hold. Bet those suitcases have treasure, but none of us know how to get in the plane’s belly.”

  “Even with the plane tilting to one side, this location is defendable. We locate a ladder and some tools, we could set up a base. If the caravan has all food and weapons for thousands. We could stockpile. We could remain here for months and be safe,” Dakota says.

  “Until winter. No way to heat this thing.”

  “We pack the best car and gear. Clear a road path and when summer ends we head to Florida.”

  “Nice plan, boys,” Tom says.

  “You approve, Tom?”

  “I agree it’s safe here. Still thousands of undead in the city. If we get trapped or cut off from the plane. It could be bad.”

  “No place is safe. But I’d get a good night’s sleep up here.”

  “I like the idea of using the plane as base as we scavenge as much as possible from the caravan,” Tom says. “Even if it’s for a few days.”

  “Then we need to reach the caravan.”

  SAM’S NEVER FELT a lover’s gentle touch against her skin, as the fingers push her shirt over her head to expose her back. Fear shudders over her as her blubbers are captured in the gag.

  “I don’t like to gag my girls. It distorts your beautiful faces. You already damaged your perfect skin when you forced me to injure you with the gravel.” He tugs at the gag. “I don’t want interruptions. I know you understand. I know you desire the transformation I’m giving you.”

  His push against her skin sends a ripple of goose flesh. She’s peed enough to wet her underwear. The cold metal of his blade lies across her neck, and with the flick of surgical control he—

  “Women should not have the burden of body hair. The skin must be smooth.”

  His warm breath blows away any hairs sheared by the blade. The pressure of each swipe brings fear of a cut, but his skill leaves no marks. The heat from lungs causes her a shudder, then a tickle. Warm air on her neck and the gentle fingers on her shoulders frighten her as her body betrays her. Never would she think she’d be aroused by a man going to murder her.

  “If I were you, this—” his fingers tug, giving her notice of where he fondles “—mole needs checked out by a doctor. It’s the wrong color for a girl of your mild complexions. I know they’ve worked you outside. A girl as lovely as you was never meant to be a workhorse.”

  The blade edges against the mole. He takes the razor edge around it.

  “You will end in perfection.”

  Her left eye flows with a constant stream of tears. Part of her cries because no one has ever taken such interest in her—to handle her with such delicacy, as if she were a newborn. Yet she knows this man prepares her with the intent to kill.

  Could she talk her way out of it if he removed the gag? Promise him anything—do anything to find reprieve. No. He’s too practiced for the pleadings of a damaged girl to win her freedom. He has heard all these promises of complete submissiveness before.

  His breath tickles her spine. No man has ever touched her like this. Why does it have to be her executioner? Why does it have to be like this?

  “I need my makeup kit.” He traces the line of her skin where the sun has darkened pigment and her tank top have protected the white. “You have three shirts you wear to sweat in.”

  She does. The skin tones must show three different levels of tan before he kisses what must be her white skin.

  The wet of his lips sends her into shudders. The erotic touch might have stimulated her, but the kiss churns her stomach. Kyle kissed her. Pinning her down, he kissed and kissed. Maybe he thought it would change her mind before he—

  She convulses from the pain her body remembers of the assault.

  Levin rolls her shirt back down. Helping her to her feet, he brushes the dirt from the back of her legs and bottom as a parent does to a small child. “You’ve rested enough.” Consideration in his tone, as if he hasn’t bound her wrists and drags her through the woods to end her.

  He loosens the gag, leaving the balled knot in her mouth. “Scream and I won’t be able to finish turning you into a perfection. You’ve already damaged the palette when you fell in the gravel.” He touches the dried blood on her cheek.

  Tipping a canteen, he lets water splash into her mouth. Just enough to wet her lips.

  Before he seals her mouth again, she asks, “Why do you do this?”

  He takes her by the arm. She marches, no longer resisting.

  “You want the story of my life? You want insight as to why I kill? You’re not educated enough in psychology to hope I will reveal something you can use to convince me to allow you to escape. You know, if I were to guess, you’re the kind of girl who never escapes the trailer park. Pretty—maybe even selected as a homecoming queen candidate—but you came by your dress third hand. You started off with a handsome boyfriend, but he strayed. Not because you wouldn’t open your legs, but you always choose men who use you. Gaining you the reputation as easy. You got no substance in your relationships.” His grip on her arm keeps her in step. “I’d bet you got accepted to the school of your choice, even if you knew there was no money to attend. Instead, you got a job at the local quickie-mart and didn’t even take classes at the area community college. You smoke to cover up your weekend use of Mary Jane. The greatest moment is your life will be stolen from you by the end of the world. Being a victim of the Blonde Teen Slasher, you’d live forever, but no one’s left to record or care anymore. Even I won’t be a footnote in history.”

  He jerks her against an oak. Beyond the tree line, across a field, construction teams dig with backhoes earthen fortifications against cargo containers placed as if medieval castle walls. Beyond the wall a cave entrance hollowed enough for a Caterpillar haul truck to fit. The bottom layer of cargo trailers have been driven long end into the ground and are filled with the granite from the haul trucks.

  Four guards, all with scoped rifles, protect the workers. Mostly the noise attracts biters, but they never make it past the outer fence, but even with the gate security a few could be inside. And Levin did create a new biter this morning.

  Valuable fuel and manpower resources are going in and out of the cave. Considered what Levin has seen of this compound and how smooth they operate, these people are wasting themselves on such a secure area.

  He drags the girl along, staying in the shadows. The backhoe noise allows him to shuffle her faster through the underbrush, drowning out their movement.

  Danziger rolls the powder from the wet earth in between his thumb and forefinger. It is clear two people sat here recently.

  Small blonde nubs of hair scatter among the white powder.

  “What is that?” Asks the kid with the rifle.

  “Dead skin,” Danziger stands.

  “No blood?”

  “None.”

  “What does it mean?” Keanu asks.

  Danziger flicks his finger to shake loose the dust. “Serial killers establish a ritualistic ceremony when they kill. It’s part of what makes them serial killers instead of just mass murderers. Levin’s ritual—he shaves the woman of all hair except on the head.”

  “That’s a lot of dead skin with no blood. I can’t shave my face without getting a cut.”

  “Don’t allow him to get close with a blade, kid. He knows how to use it.”

  “I see him, he won’t even get a chance to turn.” He
pats the rifle stock.

  Danziger fights the urge to scratch his forearm. They have healed under a doctor’s care, but he’ll always sport off-colored flesh and scars from being suspended in a bear trap. He’ll accept his entire body being permanently scarred if it means killing the man who murdered his daughter. He clicks the walky-talky on.

  “Danziger to base, over.”

  “Report, over.”

  “Located recent indication of Levin with girl, over.”

  “Acknowledged.”

  Danziger twists off the radio. Levin could be in earshot and he doesn’t want him to know the outer search parties will close in on this position. He should forego the reports. It was a foolish thought. Others might find Levin first, but no reporting might allow his escape. If he reaches an outer fence and cuts through…

  Danziger will end the chase of his daughter’s killer here.

  He follows the disturbed ground. “How long you been in this compound, kid?”

  “Last November. It had snowed. I was with a group who decided to head south to get away from the cold. Even if you found an unlooted store, they had summer gear, nothing winter.”

  Keanu tenses at Danziger drawing his pistol at the diesel engine noise.

  “Ethan found us. The biters move slower in the snow, but so did we. He brought us food and blankets. Some still went south. Five of us left with him. He had a van and drove us here.”

  “Did the group split off know he had a running car?” Danziger peeks through the trees at the Caterpillar haul truck.

  “It never came up. We assumed we’d have to hoof it. He made no promises other than if we went with him and worked, we’d eat.”

  “What’s going on there?” Danziger points to the construction.

  “It’s a fall back point kind of a Helm’s Deep if the walls fell in. Still a real chance biters could overrun us.”

  “It’s guarded.” Danziger scans the ground for signs. “I doubt Levin would risk heading across the open field.” He finds some broken branches on a bush. “So why keep working if the fences are secure?”