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

by William Schlichter

  “You know I haven’t decided to stay and be a part of this community. Now that Levin’s dead,” Danziger says.

  “You want to eat. And we have rules.”

  “Does hitting the damn ugly cupid dolls grant me guard duty?” Danziger slides a clip into a Glock.

  “Most want guard duty over feeding cows,” Nick says, having become more the community center’s designated gofer over a clear duty.

  “What job do you want?”

  Danziger raises the weapon, drawing in a breath. “All I desired was finding the man who murdered my daughter. I’m responsible for four deaths inside this compound.”

  No one speaks.

  Danziger exhales, squeezing the trigger. Eight shots. Five biters fall.

  “How many must I hit?”

  “No question you are capable with a weapon. Finish the clip,” Simon instructs.

  After dropping five more undead, he pops the clip and places the empty weapon on the table.

  “Do you have a weapon preference?” Simon asks.

  “A Glock will do.”

  “What about a job?” Ethan asks.

  “The best way I will help is to join one of your scavenging teams for supplies. Part of me thinks you need to take over the bridge where I found you.”

  “It’s sixty miles to Hermann,” Ethan says.

  “But the military blew the fuck out of bridges over the Mississippi. If you lose the only way to cross the Missouri, you’re trapped. And the major areas to scavenge are south of the river.”

  Ethan returns to the table. “Your argument’s sound, but we don’t have the manpower to expand sixty miles south. Not yet. More pressing is hay for the winter and more cattle.” Ethan clips the ear of a biter. “Fuck.”

  “A hair over and you’d have hit him,” Simon suggests.

  “Still not the one I’m aiming for,” Ethan admits.

  “Then we do need more scavenging teams to locate cattle and fence. It’s no longer a one-man job. There are too many people here to sustain,” Danziger says.

  RUN, RUN, RUN as fast as you can you’ll never escape the gingerbread man. Mike has no idea why the cadence repeats through his brain as he pants for breath. He still runs five miles every day since his honorable discharge from the military. His only life accomplishment was to reach honorable discharge status. It’s not something he makes light of. He’s proud of it and all his training. It has so far kept him alive as the undead swarm the woods.

  Thousands of shambling corpses chase him and the other few survivors from the caravan. He’s surpassed his daily five miles and kept well ahead of anyone else who escaped the carnage. Alone with no one living or dead within sight. He checks his M16. Everything appears functional. He considers his options. No returning to the caravan. He could keep wandering south until he finds a landmark and then work his way toward Fort Wood the group was traveling to for safety.

  Mike’s breathing calms. He notices the smell of piss. Hard, stinky piss. His pants are soaked from when he lost his bladder control. In the Middle East, he was shot at and was even credited with one confirmed Iraqi kill. He knows it was confirmed he blew open the man’s chest. Chucks of lung and bits of heart spattered over the wall behind him. The man drew a gun on his platoon and Mike was quick to prevent any of his brother soldiers from being shot. Every morning before he opens his eyes he sees the bearded man. Now, if he lives until the morning, he’ll see the herd of thousands of undead scampering over cars and devouring all those people. Losing control of his bladder was acceptable. He doubts many people could handle what he witnessed and not piss themselves. He knows blood and noise attract the dead. He wonders if piss does as well.

  The rotten monsters stink of death and shit, not piss.

  He’s stuck in the pants until he finds someplace with fresh clothes. He certainly won’t find a working laundry. Nothing requiring electricity functions. He likes these camo pants. The nylon threading cannot be bitten clean through. Not without being torn first. Armor to keep him alive.

  Alive—something he questions. Why keep fighting and running from a force impossible to escape? He should just lean against a tree and kiss the end of his M16.

  “Hey, mister,” whispers from behind a tree.

  Mike jumps at the voice, forgetting for a moment DKs don’t speak. He swings the rifle around and remembers the voice has to be a live person before he jams down the trigger.

  An early aged teen steps from behind the tree. She sports a hodgepodge of tight clothes covering her upper body including what looks like a cheerleader top with the school emblem ripped off. Around her thin legs is an even thinner gingham skirt over cowboy boots.

  “You running from those things?” she asks.

  Something about her doesn’t seem quite right. If he had to bet, Mike would bet she was in the slow classes in school.

  “Yeah.” He lowers his rifle. She can’t hurt him over there.

  “Are they close?”

  “I think I outran them.”

  “You need something to drink?” she asks.

  Mike slaps his waist. His canteen’s gone. “It would be nice.”

  “I was hunting mushrooms. I’ve got water back at my camp. I’ll share. But my daddy… He won’t like that gun.”

  “I can’t give up my weapon.”

  “Then you can have a quick drink, but can’t stay.”

  “I accept that.”

  “I’m Casey.” She smiles, reaching out an emaciated hand.

  Mike shakes with her.

  She keeps a hold of his hand, skipping along and pulling him behind her.

  They reach a giant metal culvert converted into a living space. Scattered junk from homes and cars decorate the open space around the makeshift home. A few dead bodies rot at the edge of the camp. Casey seems unbothered by the smell. It’s strong. Mike’s empty stomach burbles, but his brain considers the smell might mask Casey’s odor from the walking dead.

  She lifts several canteens off a hook near the entrance and hands him a cloth-covered canteen.

  Mike drinks deeply.

  It works quick on him. So quick he can’t even threaten Casey with his M16 before it slips from his hand. He wants to ask why.

  She giggles.

  Mike gazes at the cold blue sky. Darkness washes over him. A bird flits past his line of sight. His belt buckle jerks as Casey unhitches it.

  “You pissed yourself.” She kicks him.

  Mike slips into dreamless sleep.

  Throbs of a jackhammer drive against Mike’s skull. Replacing the waking hangover is the burning sting covering his entire left side. He reaches for the stings of what stings like hundreds of angry wasps, but belts and ropes keep him hog tied to a metal pole. He gets a waft of cooked meat as he struggles to turn his head. He buries his face in the ground to muffle his own scream. From his arm pit to his thigh his skin down to the muscle has been fileted away like a fish.

  The meat smell belongs to him.

  Casey stomps into the culvert carrying Mike’s pants. “You know how hard it is to get your piss smell out of this material? I’ve been scrubbing for an hour. Now they won’t be dry by the time Daddy gets back and I wanted to surprise him.”

  “Why are you doing this?”

  “’Cause my daddy needs new pants.”

  “Why are you cutting me?”

  “We don’t have a refrigerator and no way to store meat. So, I’ll cut bits off you to eat until I can’t. I’ll bandage you, but I’m good. I cut without much blood.”

  She skips from the culvert. Mike’s amygdala wants him to twist and squirm free and run, or beg and plead to be spared from death, while frontal cortex reasons he’s not the first captive and she won’t let her lunch go free. He has nothing of value to bargain. He must find an opportunity to escape before she cuts off a leg.

  Mike’s stomach wants to taste the succulent smelling meat sautéing in a mushroom sauce while his higher brain functions compete against his lizard brain screaming it’s hi
s own flesh cooking over the fire. He struggles against his bonds. The girl knows how to tie a person up. She must have had a lot of practice over the last few months.

  Cries of “Daddy” come from behind him. He compliments her on the sweet-smelling dinner.

  Mike has no idea how to wrench free. He feels a tug on his cock and the cold edge of metal on his scrotum.

  “Look, Daddy. We’ll be well fed for a week with this one. He’s a lot of muscle. I didn’t cut too deep.”

  The metal scrapes his leg. “A runner I’d wager.”

  The knife pricks his sack.

  It takes every ounce Mike has not to move.

  “You want a treat tonight, Daddy? I know how much you love prairie oysters.”

  She grips the top of his sack stretching his balls down to the bottom.

  “Save them. I brought a treat we can both share tonight.” He holds out two tin pudding cups.

  “Been a long time since we’ve had chocolate.” Casey releases the scrotum.

  Mike breathes again.

  “I’ll scrounge some more tomorrow. A new group got stuck on the interstate and was eaten by rotters. They left all kinds of supplies.”

  “That’s good, Daddy. I’ll cook you something special tomorrow night. Too bad cooking his liver would kill him. I’d love that.”

  He pats her on her head.

  “Before he’s useless, I’ll cut it out and cook in wild mushroom sauce you love, Daddy.”

  Mike wishes he could regurgitate whatever’s in his churning stomach despite needing whatever nourishment he has in order to escape. Unless he finds something sharp, he stands no chance of getting free of his bonds. Maybe without Daddy around he can convince Casey to untie him or at least an arm. He could do the rest himself. He closes his eyes, setting his mind to work on escape.

  The culvert darkens as the sun sets. Casey’s boots ring on the poorly nailed wooden planks placed for a floor. She leans over the table, flipping her dress up, presenting her white rump like a dog in heat. Her daddy follows her and unbuttons his pants.

  Daddy thrusts into her splashing wetness. The table thumps violently, harder with each pounding he gives her. Mike wonders why the noise doesn’t attract attention especially with Casey’s pleasure hoots of “Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!” When he finishes, Mike can see gobs of his seed dribble down Casey’s thighs.

  “Will that give me a baby, Daddy? I want a baby.”

  “We’ll do this until it does.” He buttons his pants, stepping from the culvert.

  Casey stays in her assumed position until he leaves. She either doesn’t know or doesn’t understand he pulls out of her before he climaxes.

  Disgusted, Mike contemplates how to use this information in his escape. Mike wonders if they are going to cut on him for the breakfast meal or if he’s safe until supper.

  MARY STRETCHES HER leg straight into the air, flexing her toes. Water and bubbles splash back into the tub. She admires her clean body. Her nostrils sucking her own scent lacking any rank order. Smooth from shaving only enhances her flexed muscles when she points her toes. She doesn’t care so much about having a razor, but to ensure her control over Kaleb she must be a woman. Removing all the hair hides the age she’s accumulated in the past few months. She rolls her foot down then points back into the air. The water has loosened so much tension. Being safe enough to relax in bath, not just sponge off in a creek, keeps her pointing and flexing her toes. The index toe sticks out further than even her big toe. She wiggles it. So thankful to be safe in a tub of warm water. The lavish fragrance of shampoo burns away the death smell hanging around her.

  She extends her leg to twist the hot water on.

  I won’t go back to scavenging. When the last burst of warm water turns cold, she slips from the tub.

  How long has it been since I could just stand naked exposed to the world and not be afraid? Mary understands she won’t leave the room naked to entice any of the men. It’s been so long since I wasn’t in fear for life. Now once I secure Kaleb I’ll never fear anything again. She sifts through the towels. Clean laundry will be a priority after Kaleb. She takes care not to rub, as she pats her skin dry not sure where the sun-red pigments meets the lobster boil of flesh from the hot water. The sun has darkened her already naturally light tanned skin.

  Considering what a lack of personal care products and weather exposure has done to her body she has a new understanding why the average life expectancy was age thirty-five for so long throughout history.

  The bedroom carpet may be outdated shag, but she curls her toes in the scrunchy fibers nevertheless. She recalls life before the end. Never again will she be without comfort.

  Kaleb enters the bedroom, startled to find her out of the tub. She chooses not to cover herself. Instead, she keeps herself bare for him. “Hello, my love.”

  “Did you enjoy your bath?” he asks, not expecting a woman in her thirties to be so physically gorgeous under her clothes. Her natural breasts hover perky despite saying she had once had children. He would never have guessed with a tummy lacking a single stretch mark.

  “I brought you some clothes.”

  “Thank you.” She flutters an eyelash.

  He tosses the garments onto the bed so his hand is free to clamp on her breast. She grabs his wrist firmly but does not remove his fingers. “Have you never touched a woman, Kaleb?”

  “I’ve fucked lots of women. I never counted.” His eyes hunger.

  Her chest heaves with each breath. “But have you touched a woman? Not groped as if you were moving a feed sack.” She takes his hand placing the palm between her breast. Her beating heart quickens.

  He attempts to move his hand.

  “No,” she commands, soft, but firm.

  “I want you.”

  “Then take me, but it will be only once. Trust me…and you’ll have me forever.” She slides his hand up her chest away from her breasts. “I’m going to teach you how to make love to a woman.” She sucks the tip of his middle finger. “What do you want to do?”

  “I want to fuck you.”

  She falls back onto the bed lifting her legs into the air before spreading them. “Take it.”

  Kaleb strips his shirt off. He interrupts his own pounce. “What do you mean I’ll only have you once?”

  She lowers her legs propping herself up on her elbows. “I told you—make me your queen. I won’t be a whore.”

  “How do I make you my queen?’

  “First, marry me. Find a reverend and marry me. Once you do—” she reaches down with her right hand, covering her mons Venus “—You can have this whenever you desire.”

  “I take what I want,” he sneers.

  “What do you want?”

  “You.”

  “Beyond me, Kaleb?” she asks.

  “To party and fuck. Shoot the rotten ones.”

  “You don’t need me for any of that.”

  “You sound like my younger brother. He wants me to rule these people.”

  I’ll have to meet this brother. “Then marry me and we will rule. Trust me. Sex is so much better when the woman desires you.”

  Despite the farm being a facade for a FEMA warehouse, the agents maintained the property as if it were a functioning farm. Kale’s discovery of brand new tractors are a godsend to his plans. He will keep his older brother as the muscle people follow while he plots his dominion.

  Kale motions his fingers for the truck to back the camping trailer into the spot before a second trailer. Men standing by with steel posts drive them into the ground. Sledge hammers ring with each tap to create a spike trap in the gaps between campers. The wall of camp trailers extends the defensive perimeter of the farmhouse.

  “Why does Kaleb want all these trailers?”

  “Besides a second line of defense to protect the farmhouse…” Kale considers his answer. He knows explaining to the functionaries will cement his plans to secure a livable location. “We need a place for the working women.”

  “Whores
?”

  History was built on women. Seattle funded their city by taxing prostitution. “Everyone must work for this compound to flourish. People need sex and this will prevent unwanted physical attacks. If we are to build, we have maintained order.”

  Two men jump from the backed truck and unhook the trailer hitch.

  Across the field lumbers a snarling undead. Kale pulls a bowie knife. The axe-like blade shatters most of the skull. “Another one for the entrance.”

  At the end of the lane, men string up rotting undead in some twisted form of Roman crucifixion.

  “All those Vectors will stink.”

  “I hope so,” Kale says. “Let me show you something, Deshaun.” He marches into a riding pen.

  “You going to want to call your boss, Boss?”

  “No.” Kale loops his leg over the top fence rail to support himself as he watches the inside of the corral. Men shove Brenton into the center. The man staggers unrecovered from his drug-induced hangover.

  “We are going to have to cut back on the drug use,” Kale says. He snaps his fingers.

  Two men drag in an undead clamped to the end of fully extended dog catcher poles. A third man knocks Brenton to the ground. The two men drag the Vector over Brenton.

  It snaps and snarls in failed attempts to bite. The third man guts the creature, spilling coagulated blood and half-digested organs over Brenton. Covered now in the undead entrails, the three men abandon the arena. They race for the fence and scale to the top, wanting to witness the test.

  A panel truck backs up to the gate. A man hanging on the top pulls free the gate so a half dozen vectors escape. They stumble toward the blood-soaked Brenton. Heads bob as they smell him only to ignore him.

  Brenton’s jeans soak with piss as he leaps to his feet and bolts for the fence. The undead shamble to the fence after the clean men.

  “End them,” Kale orders.

  “What about Brenton?”

  Kale considers before answering, “Have him drag these bodies to the end of the lane.” Kale explains if speaking to five-year-olds. “Bash the undead in the head and stake them on poles to create a windbreak to mask the smell of the living.”