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

by William Schlichter

  Bam.

  Kalvin raises to his full height, “It’s a mile away at least.”

  Karen approaches the trees across the driveway still in caution mode. “We need to know who is shooting. We don’t want scavengers jumping us.”

  Bam. Bam.

  “Those reports are going to draw the undead,” Kalvin warns.

  Frank twirls a long-handled fire axe. “Keeps us in practice. I don’t want to get soft.”

  “You’re an EMT. You are supposed to save lives.”

  “I consider bashing in the skulls of the undead a mercy.” Frank marches from the yard.

  Karen peers through her binoculars. Across the field, a small farmhouse has three fresh undead scattered in the yard.

  “There were four shots.”

  “Doesn’t mean anything. They shot one twice.” Karen moves the lenses toward the porch. “The open front door concerns me.”

  “The distance to the house bothers me. Super easy for a sniper to pick one of us off with no cover. If we go down there,” Kalvin says.

  “We don’t have to. We have no obligation to investigate.”

  Bam. Bam. Bam.

  Three lightning flashes streak the house windows. Seconds later, a person staggers from the house. The woman stumbles some twenty feet before face planting in the grass.

  “Now you want to go,” Frank huffs. “It’s a bad idea, Karen. Unnecessary risk.”

  “The wood stacked beside the house is green. Fresh cut. People might need our help and so far, we still help people.”

  “I agree, but I’m staying here as a lookout,” Kalvin says.

  “Why do you get to stay? I’m the one who doesn’t want to go,” Frank protests.

  “People may be hurt, Frank, and you’re a medic.”

  Frank checks the pulse of the fallen woman. He pockets the pistol the man carried before driving the axe into his skull. He joins Karen poised to burst through the open door. After he draws his weapon and nods his readiness, Karen swings inside. Two bodies bleed bright red blood on an overturned table. A third now lifeless biter rots between them.

  “They let one in?” Frank drives the axe into one of the unturned bodies.

  A rattle from the next room freezes them both.

  Karen side-steps toward the back room, gun drawn. Ready to strike, Frank raises the axe and follows her.

  Karen holsters her weapon kneeling, she opens her arms wide. “Are you alone in here?”

  The pigtail little girl nods, snuggling tight against her teddy bear.

  Karen uses her comfort mom voice or the voice she thinks she’ll use if she becomes a mom. “Frank, why don’t you deal with the mess in the other room while I speak with my new friend.”

  He doesn’t agree. Betting one or more of the bodies is the girl’s parent. But he stays out of the back room.

  “Does your bear have a name?” Karen asks.

  “Teddy.” She raises the stuffed animal with her hand stuffed in a hidden pouch.

  Karen recognizes the familiar click of a pistol hammer.

  “Mother told me to shoot anyone I didn’t know.”

  “I wish you wouldn’t. When did your mother tell you this? I don’t want you to not do what your mother said, but I don’t want to be shot.”

  “You’re not a bad person like those who hurt my mom?”

  “I’m a good person. Me and my friends are out here helping people. We find people to take them back to our camp. We protect people from the undead. I won’t be able to protect them if you shoot me.”

  The little girl runs into Karen’s arms. “Bad men took my mommy.”

  Karen hugs the little girl. “Do you have a name?”

  “Grace.”

  “Grace. I’m Karen. We…need to…uncock your gun.”

  “I don’t know how. I’m not supposed to cock it unless I’m going to shoot.”

  “Do you want me to do it?”

  She shakes her head, snapping the pig tails like whips.

  “Okay, but you shouldn’t point it at people.” Karen holds the little girl. “How old are you?”

  “Five.”

  “Five is a good age. Do you have a bag?”

  “Why?”

  “You want to bring your stuff when you come with me?”

  “Are they dead?”

  Karen pauses. How much do I shield from this armed child? “Yes.”

  “They shouldn’t have let the sick man in. Mom says to stay away from sick people,” Grace declares.

  “Your mom gives good advice. Do you want to get your bag?” I’ve got to unload the gun. Karen loosens her grip.

  Grace runs for a box at the foot of the bed, removing a pink pony backpack. “Escape gear. Clothes, food bars, and two bottles of water.”

  “You might want a coat. Some nights are still chilly.” No, but it sounds momish.

  Grace slips on her pack before retrieving a coat from a dresser drawer.

  “Are you sure you don’t want me to uncock your gun? I promise to give it back and your bear.”

  Grace places her bear on the bed and backs away. “Fix.”

  Karen reaches into the back of the bear where a battery pack used to be housed. She holds the hammer as she depresses the trigger of a two-shot derringer. She slips it back into the bear, leaving it on the bed before backing away. Wow. I just gave a loaded gun to a five-year-old.

  Grace grabs her bear.

  They hop past the pools of blood as if it were a twisted hop scotch board.

  How many dead has Grace seen to act like this is normal? Karen ponders as she steps on the porch. Tied to the rail are four saddled horses.

  “Sadie!” Grace races to the painted horse and rubs on its nose as it nuzzles against the little girl. “Are you going to take my horses?”

  “If we don’t there won’t be anybody to care for them,” Kalvin says as he packs his gear on the saddle.

  “We’re going to take you with us. So nothing happens to you,” Karen says.

  “Don’t say that. Mommy said that. These people said that. The stinky ones that bite—” she drops her head and pouts “—they take everyone away.”

  CHAD EXAMINES THE building through binoculars. “It’s got to be a trap. Who puts a gun store in the middle of nowhere?”

  Across the field, a dilapidated former farmhouse once painted white now has barred windows and a giant sign with red letters screaming GUNS.

  “It’s Missouri. I’ve run across convenience stores, barns, and even gun shops in the middle of fields before the apocalypse. I’ve found even more in my travels. People open a business outside of a town’s city limits to avoid taxes or some of the spit in the road towns have gun and bait shops that sell food. With all the gun and survivalist camping stores in this state, I don’t know how the undead weren’t eradicated before their population exploded,” Ethan says.

  “People won’t shoot their moms,” Becky says. Or their daughters.

  “I can’t imagine staring down a barrel at my dad or sister,” Chad says.

  Becky punches Chad in the arm and shifts the subject. “How long are you going to watch this place?”

  “You in a hurry?” Ethan asks

  “Even you don’t like to be out here—exposed,” Becky says.

  “Keep you on your toes, kiddos,” Ethan flips open the cylinder on his .357. All eight rounds are live.

  As they march across the unmowed field, Ethan gives orders. “Chad, swing around to my left and ease up under the side window. Becky, to my right. Stay off the porch and be prepared to shoot anything coming out the door.” Ethan draws his Beretta. Normally, he’d opt to quick draw as his opponent stares at his Taurus but his shoulder remains swollen, dampening his speed.

  As they inch closer, nothing seems alive at the structure.

  “Remember the old adage about gifts being too good?” Ethan inspects the door. “What bothers me is what’s missing.” He raises his gun. “A Visa logo and a sheriff’s star sticker signal it’s a legit bus
iness. Never been in a gun store that doesn’t take American Express.”

  “Someone could have peeled it off.” Becky assumes her assigned spot.

  Chad slips from around the side to join them. “Now that’s silly. It’s the end of world and you take time to peel door stickers.”

  “I say we leave it. We’ve got more supplies than we can carry right now. More guns would slow us down,” Ethan says.

  “If this place hasn’t been cleaned out already, it sure as hell would be if we do need supplies,” Becky says.

  Ethan reaches with his left hand for the door knob. “Stay alert.”

  His vision swims as he flashes in and out of reality.

  Becky’s screams penetrate the air.

  The mushing of punched flesh reaches Ethan’s ears, and the stick of a Taser stings.

  Men laugh.

  They zap Becky.

  Ethan slumps into unconsciousness.

  Ethan wakes to the low whine of girly whimpers. Bed springs squeak. He fights with his own desire to sleep. The barrage of shocks keeps him unbalanced. Sex. Bed springs squawk like someone in the throes of forced passion. Opening his eyes enough to have a thin line of vision, Ethan sums up his situation. Bound to a metal pole by zip ties, he works his wrist down and uses the metal band to saw through the plastic.

  “Let go of me!” Becky demands.

  Ethan recognizes sounds of a struggle. Preoccupied with her, they ignore him. The volts they shot through him would have rendered a normal-sized person dead. But his mass and the years of therapy on his left leg involved small amounts of electric shock to constrict the muscles to build up a mild immunity.

  “Got him,” the unknown voice says. “Fucker.”

  “Leave him alone.” Becky now advocates for Chad.

  A burly, “I’m next” cuts Becky off.

  Must be at least four of them. Two on her and two to bring Chad to the bed. The zip tie snaps.

  “Get his other hand.”

  “Just zap him again.”

  “No.” The gruff voice says, “I like them awake.”

  Ethan slips his right arm as slow as possible to avoid detection over his empty magnum holster. He expected it to be vacant. He knows the Beretta was in his hand when they electrocuted him. Even if they foolishly left his M&P, it is under him and they might spot him flipping over. They stripped off his boots so they found four guns.

  Punches, slaps, and more wrestling grunts haunt his ears. The jingle of loosening belts and pant zippers gnaw at the pit of his stomach. It signals Chad is secure to the bed.

  “I don’t know why you always get to go first. You’ll kill the boy with your horse dong.”

  Ankle holsters are a given. People disarm three of his guns and never pat down right behind the Beretta holster. Ethan’s Taurus .22 designed mostly for a woman to carry in purses sports nine shots and no slide or hammer to snag as its draw. His index finger loops through the trigger guard.

  “Slap that ass.”

  Chad’s screams turn into whimpers as stinging blows echo from his backside. The spanking assault continues. The men laugh.

  Becky cries. Helpless, knowing what is about to occur and she is next. In a normal world, this assault would take years of therapy to recover from—if ever.

  Dumb ass. The lack of the licensing sticker should have signaled a trap. You ignored a blatant clue. You’re behind on your time table. You’re failing Chad. You’ve failed those little girls. You should have never left Acheron.

  “You better make it last and grope that boy’s titties. They’re bigger than this girly’s.” Ethan hears more slaps. The man must have grabbed Becky and she’s got enough spunk to fight. More distraction, girl.

  “How does such a sweet ass not have no tits?”

  Ethan images the unwashed man pinching Becky’s chin or her flat chest.

  “Don’t touch me!” Becky stomps.

  “This one’s got a nice ass.”

  Another stinging flesh slap.

  “Just use him up. I want to spend my nights with her.”

  Taurus locked in his hand, Ethan waits until Chad banshee wails. He knew. He must live with allowing the boy to be penetrated—violated. Scarred forever with the assault, but he needs to know the click of the safety wouldn’t be noticed. If there are more than four—

  Burly voiced dude.

  Molesting Becky dude.

  Helper to hold Chad down dude.

  And one more voice. Likely also touching Becky.

  He ends the humping man first.

  Fuck I missed.

  The slug embeds in a shoulder tattoo of a wolf. It freezes all men.

  Every joint in Ethan’s body pops as he leaps to his feet. “Don’t move.”

  “You don’t have enough rounds in your pee shooter to stop us.”

  Ethan never negotiates, but with off-aim he can’t risk hitting Becky. “Maybe, but who wants to be the one to die before you reach me?” The idiots should rush. The alternative is all four die over one.

  Blood dribbles from the wolf tattoo. He halts his thrust inside Chad.

  Ethan fires two rounds into the next biggest man. He collapses, leaving Becky to deal with only one. “Your attention. I’ve got six more shots.”

  Becky doesn’t need an order, she breaks free of her captors and retrieves a gun for herself before slipping Ethan’s M&P into his left hand.

  Good thing they don’t know I can’t shoot for shit before the beating with my left.

  “We’re going to kill—”

  Ethan pops another round into the guy with the wolf tattoo, hitting his thigh. The muscular man has more fading blue ink on his body signifying time in prison. He falls off Chad.

  Becky cuts Chad’s right hand free. It flies back, grabbing his ass too late to protect it. Freeing his second hand sends the boy into a blubbering fit. He curls about halfway fetal.

  “You just going to let me bleed?” the burly man asks.

  Becky raises her gun, “We’re going to fucking shoot you.”

  Ethan trades guns. With his M&P in his right hand, he marches the men from the back of the store. The two help the bleeding man. Keeping himself between them and the front room, Ethan spots a rack of shotguns. He sends them out a side door into the yard.

  “Move,” he orders. Once they are further from the building, Ethan steps down a step. He takes each stair one at a time. Becky follows him, ready to fire on any one of the three tempted to rush them.

  “Find a shovel,” Ethan instructs her.

  “What are you going to do—”

  Ethan puts a round in the grass between the two unwounded men. It wasn’t the spot he wanted to hit but effective nonetheless.

  “I’ve encountered about every kind of abusive bastard alive in this world.” Ethan plops onto the top step.

  Becky returns with two shoves. She tosses them at their feet.

  “Make sure the one I popped never turns. Check on Chad. Get him dressed.” Ethan waves the gun at the trio. In his best Clint Eastwood, low, gravely masculine tone, he says. “You see, in this world there’s two kinds of people, my friend: Those with loaded guns and those who dig. You dig.”

  Becky cracks a smile as she heads back inside. It fades as she hears a blubbering Chad.

  “I’m bleeding,” the wolf tattooed man protests. His hands clamped over two bleeding bullet holes.

  “Your chance to live through this is to dig.”

  As the hole reaches a two-foot depth, a naked Chad bursts from the building, new shotgun in hand. He jerks the pump mechanism, racking a shell into the chamber and reducing the wolf tattooed guy’s crotch to a fine red mist. He rolls around on the ground, howling in pain.

  His next shot blows over the heads of the other two as Ethan knocks the barrel up. “Unless you want to dig, go back inside.” He tugs the gun free.

  In the passing second, the other two men drop their shovels and race from the building. Ethan fires his M&P. None of his three shots strike either man. The fo
ols believe he intended to warn them. Ethan knows he missed.

  “Fuck. I may have to start using this thing.” He speaks about the shotgun so only Chad hears. “Back to work!”

  Chad huffs, his anger prevents any words.

  “No. I’ve no idea what it was like to go through what you just did. You want to finish the fucker or just let him bleed?”

  “No, I’m better than them.” Chad marches across the overgrown yard, jabs the smoking barrel into wolf tattoo man’s mouth, smashing through his teeth before firing.

  Ethan has no words.

  Chad hands him the shotgun, slinking back to the door. “Don’t think less of me.”

  “Never.”

  Becky drops Ethan’s boots behind him, “What do we do with all these guns?”

  Her question halts the two diggers.

  Ethan points the shotgun. “Don’t worry, the grave’s not for you two.”

  Ethan drives a make-shift cross into the grave.

  The swelling has overtaken Becky’s face. “Do you think he’ll travel?”

  “He has to. This road must get some human traffic or else the trap was pointless.”

  Becky wonders, “Won’t someone dig up this grave. They might have friends.”

  Ethan kicks the dead wolf tattoo man in the gut. “I’ll leave him to decompose.”

  “You told the other two you wouldn’t kill them.”

  “I didn’t want to dig a hole.” Ethan flings a shove as far as he possible into the grassy field. “Let someone dig. At three feet, down they find two bodies. Motivation to stop digging. Three feet under them and the guns are hidden.”

  Becky throws the second shovel in the crawl space under the building. “You just shot them.”

  “You do understand after they finished with Chad and me they would have used you for weeks.”

  “But the two who dug the hole—you shot them in cold blood,” says Becky.

  “Not when intent is evident. Would you have wanted me to wait until each of them put their dick in Chad before I determined if they were harmful to us? Fuck. I’ll sleep just fine tonight knowing I kept us alive and once back from Memphis I’ll have a whole cache of weapons to recover.”