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

by William Schlichter

The moan-howl cadence loudens.

  “Many small forces have defeated grand armies. During the battle of Cannae Hannibal surrounded and destroyed the Romans. The grandest army in the known world had them outnumbered two to one,” Wanikiya recalls.

  “Great, but you got something a little more in the lines of twenty to one?” Merida asks.

  “Some one-hundred-eight Australians fended off over two-thousand Vietcong defending their base at Nui Dat in the 1960s.”

  “How many Aussies died?” Austin asks.

  “Seventeen.”

  Barlock seems impressed. “Our attackers don’t shoot back. We’ll clean up.”

  Austin pops another biter. “They’re in range now, Wanikiya.”

  The Sioux nods. He looms over the two-hundred survivors gathering around the sally port. “Great battle speeches are remembered because their delivery inspires the men before being lead into battle. I have no such speech. I make only a promise.” He raises his tomahawk in the air. Twisting it so the sun catches it just right. “I won’t leave this battlefield until we are safe.”

  Guns and rifles of every denomination rise into air and the crowd howls in defiance, pumping the weapons,

  “Ready.” Wanikiya stuffs the disposable orange foam earplugs into his ears.

  Acheron citizens line up along the fence. Those on the inside of the dog run section take aim with rifles. Where the dog run ends, those people have sharpened crowbars and metal poles to poke through the chain length. A second group of survivors hang back behind the first row ready to fill in any holes while someone reloads or replaces a weapon. Everyone knows the undead will be relentless.

  Wanikiya draws his pistol.

  Biters shamble onto the road.

  He picks a target.

  The head explodes.

  It takes ten seconds before a gunpowder clouds hangs in the air strong enough for Wanikiya to taste it. Bodies stack along the center road line. A tactical maneuver providing sandbag like cover if the enemy cared about avoiding bullets.

  Low trumping moan-howl echoes over the constant ring of gun fire.

  Wanikiya drops the clips as he empties them. Once Merida expends the last of her arrows, she reloads empty clips.

  Hot brass pings everywhere.

  The wave of moan-howls grows over the thunder of reports.

  Simon reloads clips. He hands off rifle and pistol ammo until his truck empties.

  Nick stabs a biter thought the fence then steps back. Hannah pops one in the face. Nick bounds in to stabs another. They, with dozens of others, repeat this pattern until the undead stack so high they must scale the corpses to reach at the living.

  “What happens if they reach the top of the fence?”

  Nick reads her lips. Between the ear plugs and the expenditure of ammo he has no hearing. The answer beats in his head. “People die.” He knows the area with the dog run provides more space to fill, but the single fence area they defend must not allow undead over or panic will cause catastrophic failure.

  As the tower of undead against the fence reaches high enough, biters claw at the concertina wire protecting the top of the fence those citizens in the dog run are called to evacuate. They escape the severed limbs and a few dismembered heads raining inside. Despite the lack of military discipline, they reform the defense line along the inner fence line and stab at biters surviving the fall inside the dog run.

  Finally out of ammo or to cool weapons too hot to reload, people retreat from the chain-link. Biter corpses carpet the road from the fence line all the way to opposite the tree line.

  Simon dumps another box of ammo onto the table. Hands blackened from gun powder, blistered, and some bleeding from the repetitive shoving of bullets against the springs of the clips. The people tired, hot, and arm muscles tired from holding weapons are not ready to give up, but their persistence is trumped by the reduction in ammo reserves. All the Chief’s combat experience demands he buy these people time.

  More biters claw to the top of the pile of extinguished undead. This wave will make it over while everyone reloads what remains of his arsenal.

  Simon slams the Humvee into park slipping into the 50-cal nest. He swings the weapon around unloading into the climbing wall of biters. He doesn’t bother with head shots but without arms, legs, and torsos, the creatures lose the ability to scale the wall of fallen biters.

  “Damn, Chief!” Nick scrapes out his ear plugs.

  The 50-cal rounds incinerate so many undead. The armor puncturing rounds single-handedly drove back a wave of rotten flesh.

  “You’re going to spend the next month doing reloads, son,” Simon says.

  “How many were there?” Hannah asks.

  “I doled out some five-thousand rounds.”

  Dripping with her own sweat, Sanchez holds her blistering palms open to the air.

  Combeth slides down the wall of the cargo trail next to her. “You better report to medical.”

  “Gun got too hot. I just couldn’t stop firing.”

  “It’s a bad burn maybe enough to get you out of cleanup duty,” Combeth jokes.

  “In a minute. Have to be others worse than me.” Sanchez pats him on the shoulder with the back of her hand. “Once we’re dismissed, you want to go back to my room and fuck?”

  “What?”

  “We just lived through the worst shit I’ve ever seen. I want to be with someone. I want to be alive in the arms of man.”

  “You don’t have to ask twice.” Combeth gets to his feet, helping her up. “Let’s get you to medical.”

  “I need a shower.”

  “We start in the shower.” He smiles.

  Wanikiya remains stoic.

  The 50-cal ringing in his skull as the ear plugs offered no protection against the repeating explosions. He stands at attention and raises his right arm to salute the Chief Petty Officer. Now he must feed his people.

  Merida reloads the last of the ammo she has and hands him a full clip.

  “I might have to pray,” Barlock says. “We lost no one.”

  “The Great Spirit watched over us.” Wanikiya slides the clip into the pistol. He holds it out to let the air cool the heat radiating off it. “Ethan brought back small quantities of liquor to be used as medicine. I think I will get Dr. Baker to prescribe everyone a drink.”

  “Everyone?” Austin asks.

  “Everyone.”

  Before anyone discovers energy to celebrate the victory, the second wave of biters pours through the trees.

  “HOW LONG WILL gas last?” Becky asks.

  “I didn’t think this long. It stales.” Ethan repacks his jumpstart.

  Chad flips up the tarpaulin covering the boat. “Jackpot.”

  Six duct taped shut coolers are crammed into the floor area.

  Becky raises up on her toe tips to peer inside. “You don’t even know what’s in those coolers.”

  “They taped them closed. They hold treasure.” Chad smiles.

  Ethan steps over the trailer hitch, sweeping the other side of the boat. “You don’t know what those people thought were priceless—could be family wedding photos. A better question to ask yourself right now is where are the owners. These people prepped for an escape. This SUV’s packed.”

  “They’re dead, or there wouldn’t be a boat.”

  “You haven’t been paying attention, Chad. If they’re dead, then we need to know they aren’t going to crawl out from under the truck and bite us. Second, we don’t need to be shot because they’re hiding. They may have a safe place to go, but some people wait until other loved ones show up first before heading out.”

  “One thing for sure, people lose all reason in a crisis.”

  “Not you.” Becky smiles. She admires Ethan’s Clint Eastwood demeanor. She tosses her machete into the boat and climbs in.

  “Don’t be in a rush.”

  “I’ll open it carefully.” She slices the tape. “I remember you saying about the freezer full of unabashed heads.”

 
“Seriously?”

  “Guy was collecting them. The way he protected it I thought it was food,” says Ethan.

  Becky turns her head as she opens the lid. Rotten vegetable fumes burn her eyes.

  “We know they had an escape plan.

  “And been dead for a while.” Becky turns her nose from the stench.

  “Double check for bodies.”

  “I still don’t get it?” Chad admits.

  “They expected to eat perishables quickly. Something prevented them from leaving. I haven’t lived this long by not being careful,” Ethan lies. He takes plenty of risks, logic dictates something happened to the owner of this truck and with the supplies still in the boat he’d guess not marauders.

  The next cooler holds canned and dry goods. “We eat well tonight.”

  “We take what we need and leave the rest.”

  “So some scavengers take it? I’m just talking about an extra tin of something.”

  “Eat what you want. We’re not coming back this way,” says Ethan.

  “We’re not?”

  “We’ll take a boat across the river and north to Hannibal and hike the twenty miles to the dam.”

  “Wait. If we hadn’t had an earthquake we’d still be walking?”

  “Does it matter, Chad?” she asks.

  “I didn’t sign on to walk four hundred miles and not even get to visit Graceland,” Chad attempts to be funny.

  Becky flashes Ethan a ‘what the fuck’ glare.

  “Don’t look at me. You the one riding him.”

  “There’re limited choices.”

  “What the fuck does that mean?” Chad asks.

  “It means, Chad, if it weren’t for the fucking undead, you’d have to work harder to get in my pants.”

  “You mean like bring you chocolates.”

  “I don’t like chocolate. I kind of like the shiny items.”

  “Don’t complain, Chad, she sounds expensive.” Ethan removes an unopened cooler from the boat.

  “We’re not going to find out what’s inside?”

  “Leave it.”

  “It could be guns.”

  “It could be a map to the lost city of Atlantis, but I don’t want to know,” Ethan says.

  “I’d hate to leave something behind we know we needed.”

  “Won’t you feel that way now?”

  “No. We pass a lot of houses we don’t search. I don’t regret not going into them. Let’s find a boat ramp and get across the Mississippi. We’ve got a doctor to locate.”

  Rounding the curve of the road, the truck enters the city limits of a village. Ethan slows as quick as possible with the boat trailer in tow.

  “Wasn’t expecting a town.”

  “Just keep driving,” Chad suggests.

  Ethan flips the gear into park, shutting down the engine, and leaving the keys. “Time to stretch the legs.”

  “I don’t know why we don’t just keep driving past this one-horse burg?”

  Ethan makes a few limp-steps before he kneels. His face wrinkles as he holds back the scream from the bending left joint. A good orthopedic surgeon would be more valuable to him than a plague cure.

  Chad who has been the observant scout when traveling on the tar loses all sensibilities in this Podunk berg. He blocks Chad’s path with his arm.

  “Hey, dude. It’s just another abandoned town. I don’t even see any biters. Most of these buildings appear to be still on their foundations.”

  “Lack of biters doesn’t concern me. They’re always around. Take a better look at this place.”

  “It’s too clean.” Becky draws her sidearm.

  “Exactamundo. Rolla was the only town I’ve been in that was evacuated and left unscathed, but this place.” Ethan points to a row of storefronts. “Many of those windows are smashed. And some have been boarded up with no glass fragments on the ground.”

  “Glass falls in when you smash a window.” Chad, proud of his observation, laces his thumb behind his gun belt buckle.

  “Don’t get cocky, kid.”

  “Not a dead body or abandoned car on the street, either.” Becky seeks confirmation, “Trap?”

  “The world fell apart ten months ago, and everyone reduced to clubbing each other in the head for a few cans of dog food.” Ethan rises not having to exaggerate his stiffness. “Becky, take the right. Chad, left.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Ever see City Heat with Clint Eastwood.”

  “No,” they answer in unison.

  “I’ll add it to my list of items to scavenge.” Ethan marches down the center, flipping his duster coat behind the gleaming .357.

  Becky hangs under a shop window sliding up enough to peek inside.

  Chad tugs at a board over broken glass pans. He shakes his head signaling Ethan he’s unable to spot any people.

  Kid’s going to get me shot. He better hope they do me in, or he gets my first bullet.

  Three buildings down, extending from a second-story window, a rifle barrel appears.

  Ethan snaps his finger.

  Becky halts.

  Ethan flicks his head as a signal.

  Chad panics, diving behind a concrete flower pot.

  Ethan would return fire, but the bullet smashing into the building high above Chad’s position was the worst shot ever or just to scare the stupid kid. If was a scare, maybe we can chat. “We’re just passing through. We don’t want anything you have. We just—”

  “We want what you got!” a voice from above calls out.

  Ethan mumbles, “Of course you do. I didn’t want to kill anybody today.” A bullet splinters the asphalt at his feet. He remains statuesque.

  “You’re the only one going to die if you don’t drop your weapons and supplies and run away.”

  Did she spot Becky? Ethan shifts his weight to his right leg to remove pressure from the left.

  “Don’t move, fuckwad!” the voice from the window screams.

  Profanity used in an attempt to appear tough informs Ethan about his assailant. Now how much assistance does this Sure Shot have? I hope Becky doesn’t just rush the room in case she had two or three friends.

  “I’m not giving you my gear.” Ethan’s defiance brings pause to the voice.

  “Nothing you have’s worth dying for.”

  Ethan raises his voice to answer, “Funny. I was thinking the same thing.”

  Chad freaks behind the elongated flowerpot giving Ethan the ‘what the fuck’ face.

  How many friends? No one person cleaned this street.

  The rifle discharges as it falls from the window. The bullet kicks up roof tiles from the awning below the window.

  Ethan draws the magnum at the scuffling sounds from inside. He catches a glimpse of Becky tangling with a woman.

  “Move, Chad!” he orders.

  The nineteen-year-old lags. Ethan beats him to the door of the shop below the window. Chad pushes past him, flying past resale clothing.

  Too many good places to hide in here.

  Ethan scopes out blind spots as he follows Chad to the door leading to the back.

  Smashing glass quickens his pace. Ethan half wonders why Becky didn’t just shoot the woman. Reaching the top of the stairs, he understands why.

  Becky holds the top of her machete against the round belly of a pregnant woman. Her distraught face reveals to him she would never hurt the unborn he just hopes the mom doesn’t figure it out.

  “Chad?”

  “Scoping out the other rooms.”

  Becky pants. Blood trickles from fingernail scratches across her forehead. “You know how hard it is to punch a pregnant woman?”

  Ethan waves his hand, ordering Becky to back away. “Don’t try anything, lady.”

  “You’d harm a pregnant woman?” the woman asks.

  Becky never expected Ethan capable, but she believes from his face he will.

  “Lady, I shot my own mother,” Ethan lies, but with no doubt his tone’s believable beca
use it was close to the truth.

  “She has no bag or suitcase just the rifle. Not even a bottle of water,” Becky huffs.

  “Where’s the rest of your group?”

  “I’m alone.”

  “Then you just got alone. You’re too hydrated for a pregnant woman to have gone long without water.” Ethan gropes the round belly. His fingers palpate real flesh.

  “You a doctor?”

  “I know enough.”

  “Then don’t fucking touch me.” She kicks Ethan in the knee.

  He goes down swifter than Girl Scout cookies at a Weight Watchers meeting.

  Before Becky reacts, the woman reaches the shop door, snagging two bags she has strategically placed for a quick escape. Becky has the speed to catch her but her concern for Ethan slows her.

  “Don’t!” Ethan calls after Becky. “Trap.”

  “She’s stealing the truck.”

  “Let it go.” Ethan slides against the wall. “I smell a trap.”

  Truck door slams. The engine roars to life and tires squeal as it speeds off.

  “She must have friends.” Becky glances out the window. The boat disappears.

  “I just wonder why they keep the town clean. If they were into trapping and stealing for passersby a dirty street would lure a false sense of abandonment.”

  Chad bounds down the stairs, “You okay, Ethan? Where’s preggo?”

  “Do me a favor, kid, and don’t have children.” Ethan forces himself to get up.

  “Is it bad?” Becky asks.

  “It will bruise and stiffen and hurt like fuck. Much like every other day of my life.” He limps toward the door. “I’ve had worse.”

  GLOOPY, BLACKING BLOOD sprays from the arm Becky pins. “She’s turned!” Slamming the woman’s arm to the grass frenzies her struggle.

  Information apparent to Ethan, he ignores the proper Captain Obvious retort while restraining the other arm with his leg to free his hands. His leg burns from where the pregnant woman kicked it.

  “Shouldn’t we just bash in her brains?” Chad asks. He fails to hide panic over being so close to chomping teeth without driving a machete through them.

  “No!” Ethan and Becky scream simultaneously. Neither of them knowing how this will play out, they both must possess the same speculator theory.