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

by William Schlichter

  “You’d be in confession for your sins for a month,” Karen says.

  “You guys be careful out there.” Ethan hands her a map encased in plastic.

  “You be careful, Boss. The Mississippi’s unpredictable with all those undertows,” Karen says.

  “Chad’s supposed to know boats on the river.”

  “Poker runs on the Merrimac are not the same,” Frank warns.

  “I’ll navigate ol’ Miss just fine,” Chad says.

  “Who the fuck calls it ol’ Miss?” Ethan rolls his eyes. “As long as he puts it in the water without a trailer still attached, we’ll be good.”

  ON THE LEFT corner of a black top crossroads rests a general store with gas pumps.

  “How did these places ever stay in business?” Chad asks.

  “We are just far enough outside of a major town it’s cheaper to pay a dollar more for a gallon of milk over driving another fifteen/twenty miles for a Walmart.”

  “Why don’t you scout over the hill, Chad?” Ethan’s suggestion is an order.

  The young buck jogs up the hill.

  Becky expects them to stop but Ethan marches up the road. “Doesn’t it have supplies?”

  “The last time I went this way it did. Too bad we are freshly stocked. Later when we need food we’ll find nothing,” Ethan says.

  “Are we going to stop?” Becky asks.

  “You need a break already?”

  “No. Thought you’d want to investigate if it was still stocked,” Becky says.

  “I’d rather spend those ten minutes to get closer to Cuba.”

  Chad races back from the hill crest. “Ethan!” he calls as loud as he can without yelling. “Herd.”

  He snaps his fingers at Becky. “The door was unlocked. Check inside for biters.” Ethan’s gait returns to a hobble as he run-steps toward the hill. He fails to reach it before dozens of undead shambles into view. Drawing his Berretta, Ethan laces his left hand over his right to steady his aim.

  Chad dips and zags out of the line of fire.

  The round clips the shoulder of an approaching biter. Clumps of dead flesh splatters behind the creature but does nothing to slow its advance.

  Ethan huffs with annoyance. He calms his next breath. Calm. He exhales as he squeezes the trigger.

  “Fuck.”

  The chest of a biter explodes.

  Some fifty undead shift their mindless march toward the gas station.

  “Ethan. The store’s clear,” Becky yells.

  “Ethan!” Chad reaches Ethan before turning to fire his rifle. “You’re thinking there’s only fifty—don’t. There’re more over the hill.”

  Ethan’s strides move him to the gas station parking lot. “It’s not about their numbers, kid.”

  “We’ll just wait them out,” Chad says.

  Ethan elects not to explain the emasculating factor of missing twice. “Don’t pop anymore. Maybe we’ll only lose an hour before something distracts them away from the store.”

  “Got ya,” Chad screams. A little old lady biter bounces off his Kevlar vest. “Where did she—” He doesn’t get to finish his question as the biter’s teeth sink into Ethan’s arm.

  TOM FAILS TO hold in a yip as his broken arm bangs a tree on his way to the ground. Breaking the bone was the only way to escape the survivors who were going to cut him up for their undead family members. Now the pain waters his eyes. He needs clear vision in order to locate the shooter.

  The Ds lack training in firefight tactics and must be in full-blown panic mode with their adopted leader disfigured and dead on the ground. Witnessing Dusty being shot and knowing he’s dead weighs heavily on them. The missing eye paints a horrific picture.

  As a firefighter, Tom has seen mangled bodies before the end of the world. All his experience keeps him from panic, but the new awakened pain in his arm clouds his thoughts. Get over the pain if you want to live. Where did the initial shot originate from? Some of the Ds have returned fire. This guy’s killed before. The first human kill—damn difficult.

  Tom squirrels to the next tree.

  Screams of his team to move drown in the gun fire.

  Did we free the assaulted man already? If he’s a soldier he would be valuable in this fire fight. Tom uses the tree as support to slide up to his feet. The bark scrapes his back, but he barely notices the pain over his throbbing arm.

  If I live through this, I need to find some kind of doctor. Even a vet. He could reset the bone.

  Tom jams the pistol barrel into the mouth of the staggering rotter. Distracted by all the shooting, he forgot the reverberating noise attracts them. The removal of its brain only adds to the noise.

  Time to be Rambo.

  Tom marches into the center of the camp. As soon as his group spots him they cease firing. The partner of the unconscious girl fires wild, caught off guard by anyone stupid enough to parade straight into gunfire.

  Tom empties the gun. Bullets whiz past the attacker, but not all.

  Two slugs splatter his stomach open. A third splinters the radial bone. Tom kicks the rifle from the man’s hand. Pointing the steaming pistol at his face with the chamber wide open.

  Dave crashes through the underbrush to reach Tom, “Did you get…” Seeing the bleeding, but an alive man, he forgoes his question.

  “You want to finish him?” Tom asks with no malice in his tone. A simple request like “clean your plate” or “turn off your cell phone at the movies”.

  “He’s still alive. He’s unarmed. Isn’t that murder?”

  Tom presses his empty gun into Dave’s hand. “Reload it.”

  Dave fumbles to eject the clip. Tom hands him a full one.

  “This man just shot your friend. He shot at the rest of your friends. He was going to kill each of us. Yes, he is unarmed now, but his intent was clear.” Tom takes the gun back, releasing the slide to pop into place, jerking a bullet into the chamber. “Worst of all, this bastard and his whore were eating people.”

  “Passing judgment is not—”

  Tom puts a bullet into the attacker’s face.

  “From now on I shoot cannibals on sight,” Tom says.

  Before he reaches the comatose girl, Darcy drives the blade of her hunting knife into her skull. “I am in full agreement.”

  “Darcy. You just murdered—”

  “A killer and human flesh eater.” She waves the bloody point at Dave. “And I’ll kill anyone who puts us in danger from now on.”

  “Including him?” Tom points at Mike.

  “Let him go. If I ever see him again I’ll just kill him.” Darcy flicks the blood from her knife. Before she sheathes the blade, undead crash through the trees. Tom pops two. Dakota smashes the butt of his rifle into a rotter’s face.

  Tom pops a rotter approaching Danielle. “Get over here, girl! Everyone, circle up.” With Dusty dead, Tom assumes command. If the group wants a different leader, voting will transpire if they survive the few dozen monsters lumbering toward them.

  Mike scrambles for his M16. For a moment, he seems to forget how to remove the clip as pain burns from his side. He fumbles the tool he was trained to strip and rebuild blindfolded. He gets the magazines secure, arming the weapon. The skittering burst unleashed twenty rounds in twelve seconds. The burst of rapid pops brings down ten Vectors. Missing legs and arms, they continue to crawl toward the group, but with a reduced rate of speed, knives shatter brain pans with little threat.

  Mike reloads. Any healing his wound experienced now wets with fresh blood.

  “Machine guns are pointless, go semi-auto and make each shot count,” Tom orders.

  Grateful the threat has thinned, he has yet to determine how to deal with the soldier. Tom holsters his weapon to draw his knife, finishing off the last undead to lumber into the camp.

  “What do we do with this motherfucker?” Dave asks.

  “You said you have a plane. We fly out of here. Plenty of island where defense is possible better than Missouri,” Mike suggests. H
oping this group will allow him to join them.

  “I don’t want you part of my family.” Darcy wipes her blade again on the shirt of an undead corpse. “Take your gear and go.”

  “There is safety in numbers. We were all a part of the caravan,” Mike pleads. “No one will survive alone out there.”

  “Sorry, this group has spoken.” Tom places his hand on the top of his holstered pistol.

  Mike slinks to the tent and grabs his gear.

  Part of Tom wants to ask the man to stay. We need numbers. It may be harder to feed but more people, more protection. We’re down a man. Hell, this group has popped their cherry. They have fought and lived. Their trust is damaged. We will swing back to building a group.

  “Take anything useful,” Tom orders. “We need to reach the caravan.”

  TRAPPED IN THE barn since her brutal assaults, Lindsey is prevented from gaining any of her strength back. Remaining on nimble toes, she takes each stair step one at a time into the room hidden under the barn.

  “I was only down here once.” Lindsey crosses a motion sensor.

  Startled, Mary’s hand jerks her gun hand as the lights flicker on.

  Behind sealed glass walls are plastic crates marked with the caduceus emblem. Other sections have rifle racks full of automatic weapons. Black drums marked “flammable” fill another storage area.

  “This was a backup for what was to be brought in and stored in the barn,” Lindsey explains.

  Each glass partition has a key card slot to gain entry.

  “Where are the keys?” Mary demands with her sweet demeanor.

  “I don’t know. I was never issued a security card.”

  Mary flings Lindsey against a glass partition. “I’m not like those men and what they did to you—was physical.” Mary digs her nails into Lindsey’s arm. The gun barrel into her neck. The carotid artery thumps against the Ruger’s metal. “Your little holes will heal, but if you lie to me, I’ll keep you alive. I’ll get in your head. You’ll beg for dead and it will never be granted.”

  She pushes against Mary’s arms to free her grip but fails. She has no strength to squirm during the attack. “I don’t have the passkey,” Lindsey pleads.

  “Then I don’t let you leave.” She backs away; the gun barrel imprint on Lindsay’s neck already darkening.

  Lindsey slides down the glass into a fetal heap. “I don’t know. I want out of here.” Her tear ducts remain dry. “I wasn’t in command. Gibbs was the lead agent. Check his pockets.”

  “I think you know they burnt the bodies of those agents when they took over this place.”

  Excitement replaces Lindsey’s need to cry. “Did they use an accelerant?”

  “I wasn’t here then.”

  “It’s a metal card. It wouldn’t burn. It would take a strong fuel to melt the card. Unless soaked in gasoline,” Lindsey says.

  “And if there’s no card?”

  “It would have been against policy to leave it in the farmhouse.”

  Mary flicks the hidden switch in a hole behind a barn pole. The hatch in the floor closes.

  “I wouldn’t use it too many times. It has an emergency battery if the farm loses power. I don’t think it was meant to be opened and closed more than once without recharging,” Lindsey says.

  “What about entering through the ceiling? Just dig up the rooms.”

  “Any attempt to tamper with the rooms will release a gas.”

  “You FEMA people are all heart.” Mary marches Lindsey past the farm house. “Run and I’ll plug you.”

  “What are you going to do to me?”

  “They piled those agent bodies near the end of the land. They don’t burn well. Still too juicy to turn to ash.” She points to the tree line.

  Soot blackens Lindsey’s arms. Cooked flesh and bone still covered by melted cloth fragments and nylon gun holsters. Her friends. Some of them. All of them she knew. Her only reprieve is the bodies are charred enough she’s unable to recognize which body is who. She knows it would destroy her if she figures out whose bodies she defiles. “What if they see us?”

  “I will keep my word, as long as you deliver.” Mary’s confidence frightens Lindsey.

  Never having been covered in ash before, Lindsey’s not sure how, but the disgusting material paints her skin. Rubbing it seems to stain the cells. She scrubs her forearms but it only darkens the paste.

  It will never wash off.

  “Keep searching,” Mary commands.

  “Maybe knowing which body was which I might find the card faster.” She grabs an arm and the cooked meaty muscle falls off into shreds of chewy pink meat. The raw rotten smell removes her first solid meal in weeks from her stomach.

  Mary steps back. The acidy fumes are worse than the cooked undead bouquet.

  Lindsey dumps a body from the top of the pile. She tosses a second away. The sun beats down, festering the unburnt flesh. As she must touch more of the skin, she notices it doesn’t crumble as a body did before the apocalypse. At this point in the decomposition process, maggots should consume the remains. In fact, not a single insect swarms the body.

  As her pile of unsearched cooked human bodies equals the pile of rummaged bodies, Lindsey clasps a crisp, cold metal card.

  Mary jerks it from her with a red bandana. She wipes it clean. With the grime gone, she holds it into the light. “Appears undamaged.”

  “We had a deal.”

  Mary nods. She marches Lindsey past the growing wall of crucified undead at the lane entrance. Her retching has no food in her stomach to bring up. The dry heave bothers Mary more than the reek of rotten flesh. One of the undead lashed to a pole reaches for the women. Its spine snaps just above the small of its back. Intestine and internal organs splatter to the ground in a wet, gushy mass.

  Across the road, Mary tosses a backpack over a barbed wire fence. “I would go south. The boys are scavenging north. There’s nothing for some fifty miles south of here worth sending out groups. Homes are scattered around so you’ll find supplies. Don’t ever come back. If they find you out there. I’ll not have any authority to protect you.”

  Lindsey climbs the fence. She wants to wash off her blackened arms and use Scope, but escaping is more important. She shoulders the heavy pack. She must trust Mary actually gave her useful gear. It will be miles before she risks inspecting it. “Thank you.”

  “Go. I didn’t do it for you.” Mary holds up the metal card. “I did it for me.”

  Mary waits alongside Kale for the trucks to park. Kaleb’s men unload gear and bedraggled people.

  Kaleb—rougher than he should handle—brings a man before his brother and betrothed.

  “Mary, this is the good Pastor John Milton. No relation to the writer dude. He has his Bible and would gladly marry us.”

  John stammers. Only Mary catches his off-kilter glance. “You understand it would not be legal without a certificate.”

  “People married long before a courthouse. We’ll be married in the eyes of God,” Mary says.

  “Yes, you will,” Pastor Milton says. “When will we have this happy occasion?”

  “Right now,” Kaleb says.

  “Now?” Pastor Milton fails to hide his surprise. “I will entreat you both, but I need a few minutes to confer in private. I have to know this is what you want. Partnering together in this new world is even more important.”

  “Agreed,” Kale says. “I’ll gather some witnesses.”

  “Where may I meet with each of you in turn?” Pastor Milton asks.

  “Use the truck cab.” Kaleb points.

  Mary climbs into the passenger seat, and as soon as Pastor Milton closes his door, she blasts him. “Minister? What kind of scam are you pulling?”

  “Mary, wow. You are no virgin,” he says.

  “I’m pulling the same swindle as you—staying alive,” she says.

  “I’ll call you Mary.”

  “Milton. Figuring on the country rubes not being familiar with Paradise Lost?” she as
ks.

  “It was fitting.”

  “We are stuck again dealing with each other. Kaleb runs the show. As his wife, I will be his queen.”

  “Always knew you wanted to be royalty.” He smirks.

  “You keep quiet, and I’ll make sure they don’t put you out in the fields.”

  “Slave labor?”

  “Serfdom,” she corrects.

  “Not any difference. You just make sure I’m well taken care of.” Milton notes, “The brother-in-law was not thrilled about my arrival.”

  “No. I’m assuming his place as the power behind his brother. An honor he was bucking for. He’s going to be a problem.”

  “Kill him,” Milton says.

  “No. He is super smart. And this new world needs super smart people. You just keep your mouth shut.” Mary jumps from the cab and races to Kaleb.

  “She certainly has no dissension in her marriage choice. You are lucky to find a valued partner after the rapture,” Pastor Milton says.

  He scoops her up into his arms. “I don’t need a minute, I want her.”

  “It’s customary for the pastor to counsel the couple.” Milton works his pastor role.

  “The world’s no longer customary, and with so many undead it’s even shorter. I want to marry this woman. Wed us,” Kaleb orders.

  “You may kiss—”

  Before Milton completes his decree, Kaleb rams his tongue into Mary’s mouth and picks her up into the air with both hands clamped on her butt cheeks.

  When he finally releases her, he says, “I want no disturbances.”

  His men cheer.

  Kale scowls. He has no trust from his sister-in-law.

  Mary places her hand on his jowl as gentle as a mother touching a babe. “I have a gift for you first, my husband.”

  She takes his hand and kisses the back of it—leading him toward the barn.

  “I want to fuck you in the bedroom.”

  “We will, but want to show you how much I love you,” Mary says.

  “I’m going to show you every way I love you.” He slaps her ass cheek, resonating a pop.