Heartland Junk_Part 3_Vitala Rising

by Eli Nixon

  If this truck grew wings and carried me through the atmosphere of Earth, into space, beyond the galaxy and into the wonders of the distant stars, if I could rocket away from the chains of this Earthbound civilization, death would still follow, a shadow, parasitic, latched to me with the same glue that binds the universe.

  And just like that, the living beast in which I soared coughed and died. The dial of its heartrate monitor read empty. We were out of gas.

  Rivet would have noticed an hour ago.

  But Rivet's dead, shithead. You killed him. Or don't you remember? Are you that much of a monster that you already forgot killing your best friend?

  He was already dead, I told myself. He was already gone.

  Was he, though? He's been gone before, but you always brought him back. A jab of a needle, a forced mouthful of pills. Are you so callous that you couldn't even try?

  There were a thousand zombies there. It wouldn't have worked.

  Tell yourself anything you want, but you know Rivet would have fought through ten thousand, a hundred thousand, to save you. That's what friends do.

  "Shut up...just shut the fuck up," I shouted to the empty truck. Titan started and stared at me curiously, yellow eyes wider than the full moon.

  I leaned my head against the steering wheel, felt the cool rubber on my forehead. I was coming apart. Fighting myself. It felt like my mind had been split into two pieces, one half the normal me, the other half something new, something cold. A soldier, right? Hadn't I convinced myself this was a war? Well, I'd finally joined it. I'd killed my first enemy.

  Was that what I wanted to become?

  "Come on, Titan," I said to the cat. "Looks like we're walking."

  I grabbed the backpack and the pistol from the truck seat. Like a faithful dog, Titan leaped out the open door and stood at my heels, looked up at me, cooed. Didn't anything behave like normal in this new world?

  The truck had stalled in a heavily wooded stretch of road. Trees loomed on either side of the two-lane blacktop and curved overhead into a canopy. It was probably, three, four o'clock in the afternoon, but under the trees it felt more like evening. Ahead and behind me, the road danced with shadows and highlights, two-dimensional light shows that flickered from an unfelt breeze sweeping high above in the treetops. Titan sat on the road and waited, half in and half out of shadow, yellow eyes gleaming patiently.

  All around us, the shadows deepened in the thick, forested undergrowth. Every now and then, an unseen creature moved through the forest floor, rustling on the dead leaves, but other than those quick, furtive movements the road lay in a dead hush.

  I shouldered the backpack, holstered the pistol, and began walking away from the truck. Titan yawned and trotted to catch up, walking beside me with that lithe, innate grace of felines both large and small. A miniature black panther. My familiar.

  In silence we walked, side by side, beast and man. The map Abby had given me directed us, led us inexorably toward Jennie and Theo. Something inside, perhaps an awakening of my own, told me that they were still alive.

  It was an imperfect premonition. As it turned out, I was only half right.

  Chapter 6

  By evening, Titan and I had finally reached the end of the forest. It ended abruptly in a small, roadside pitstop, just a few buildings huddled beside the road as if drawn together for warmth. A service station, a greasy looking diner, a biker bar complete with a flaming skull on a Harley in the center of a dead neon sign. A few houses and sheds behind each abandoned building, presumably where the owners lived when they weren't tending to the needs of infrequent motorists passing through.

  It had grown dark under the trees, but a sideways shaft of sunlight still cut across the road at the end of the treeline. It looked as if someone had sawed the day in half—the tree-cast shadows became orange daylight in a razor edge that ran straight across the road. The sun was low now, sinking on our right. It wouldn't last much longer.

  The place had the air of a ghosttown. It screamed abandonment, from the dirt blowing in tiny eddies in the dusty parking lot in front of the diner to a slow, rhythmic scrape of a metal weathervane atop one of the houses set back from the road.

  It was here that I found my first sign of Jennie and Theo. Although I'd been following Abby's directions to the letter ever since leaving River House, there'd been nothing to assure me that I was on the right track. I'd been assuming this whole time that they'd gone back the same way they'd come. Why wouldn't they? The psycho methheads who'd tortured Abby and Theo had a safe haven of their own. Over the past day and a half, I'd begun to doubt my course.

  Well, I finally got my wish, and the discovery left a cold feeling in the pit of my stomach.

  The service station was the first building I came to after leaving the trees. It was on the right side of the road so the front of the building was in shadow with the sun sinking behind it. It was one of those old gas stations with pumps that had never heard of credit cards. You went inside to pay before pumping. It had probably been standing since the days when an attendant would come out and pump the gas for you.

  Two gas pumps were installed beneath a square awning that was really an extension of the main building's roof. A multitude of tire tracks cut serpentine lines in the dusty concrete under the awning. That should have been my first sign that I wasn't the first visitor in this little waystation, but it wasn't until later that I made the connection. The public entrance to the building was your standard single glass swinging door, and farther past that were two rolling garage doors that led into the auto service bays.

  Titan scooted past my feet into the dark building, reassuring me slightly that there was nothing inside waiting for me. The place had been ransacked. Three rows of low shelves were toppled over, various foodstuffs spilling away from them and caught under the metal shelving. Bags of chips, candy bars, pickle jars, some of them broken and sitting in puddles of rancid juice. Gas station fare. A small, glass-doored refrigerator near the cash register acted as a containment center for a leviathan of white mold. The huddled shapes of pre-packaged sandwiches and hot dogs rose through the mold like tombstones overtaken by moss in a forgotten cemetery.

  At the rear of the store, a row of glass doors, some shattered, protected bottles of soda, Gatorade, and Red Bull. Most of them were missing, but a few lucky survivors still perched on the shelves inside. I picked out an energy drink and sipped the warm, sweet liquid while I picked through the refuse on the floor for edible food. I stuffed my backpack, then walked to the counter with a fist-full of jerky bags and a few cans of tuna, one of which I pried open and set on the checkout counter. Titan jumped up and attacked the can. I sat up beside him and chewed strips of jerky, washing them down with swigs of Red Bull.

  Titan finished the tuna and meowed at me until I opened another one. While he gulped down his second helping, I rinsed out the first can and filled it with water for him.

  Mirroring all the fortune bestowed upon me by the universe so far, the cigarette shelves behind the counter had been picked clean. Whoever had been here before me had gone through the food with the precision of a hurricane, but then meticulously ferreted out every last cigarette pack and dip can. The only things left were the brand signs, mocking me in front of empty shelves. All the beer and wine had been taken, too.

  "Assholes," I muttered.

  Titan finished his tuna, licked the water can dry, and nuzzled up to my hip. I scratched his ears and finished my own meal with the last gulp of codeine cough syrup, then tossed the empty bottle across the room. I had three Percocets left and about half a gram of weed, and then I was dry. If I never took another drug in my life, I'd be happy.

  "Come on, let's check the restaurant," I told Titan. He yawned and gave me a look that accused me of interrupting an imminent nap, but then dutifully followed me out of the gas station. The bell above the door gave a cheery ding that faded into mournful echoes out in the dusty street.

  The diner was directly across from the gas station.
Its windows burned orange from the low sun, hiding its interior until we crossed the threshhold. The Red Bull's caffeine was now working on me, putting a little more spring in my step. I was grateful for the extra energy. As before, Titan scurried ahead of me as soon as I opened the door of the diner.

  It was one of those greasy spoons, the kind you see in old movies. Faded red faux-leather booths lined the front wall in front of the windows, and parallel to them was a long serving counter with bar stools for the folks who needed to get their food in a hurry and get back on the road. A big steel coffee urn stood at one end of the counter, the carafes dry and crusted dark brown.

  The smell wasn't terrible at first, but it gradually became the only thing you noticed. It was a rotten scent, like old eggs and milk, that grew stronger the farther you went down the bar. At the far end, where the bar became a hallway leading to the restrooms, the stink was pungent enough to make my eyes water. I thought it was leftover food in the refrigerators until I rounded the corner and nearly tripped over the body.

  It was so far gone I couldn't tell if it had been human or zombie when it died. The front of its face was caved in, and something had torn a hole in its side that stretched from the hip bone up to the armpit. The only identifying feature was a white serving apron, stained black with week-old blood. One of the waitresses.

  I gagged and felt beef jerky and sickly sweet fizz rising up in my throat. I clamped my hand over my mouth and turned away, taking slow, steady breaths until the bile sank back into my stomach. I couldn't afford to vomit up my last remaining buzz. If I puked up the codeine now, I'd lose half the effect.

  Finally, on butterfly wings, my stomach settled. I turned away from the corpse and went back down the counter far enough for the stench to dissipate some before clambering over the counter to check out the kitchen area.

  I wanted to get out of there more than anything, but the survival pull was too strong. I had to check every corner for possible supplies before moving on. Even then I understood how important that was.

  Unfortunately, the kitchen didn't yield much. The warm refrigerators were filled with rotting food, mold clinging to the putrid meats and vegetables in fuzzy green and white. The only canned items were huge, industrial cans that would be too impractical to carry on foot. I could always return for those if I found a vehicle at one of the houses. I did pick up a half-full bottle of cooking sherry and then got out as soon as I could. Titan was waiting for me at the front door, and together we stepped back out into the gathering shadows and headed toward the biker bar a little farther up on the same side of the street.

  As we stepped into the parking lot verging the forlorn biker bar, Titan hung back and hissed. I knelt beside him and scratched him behind the ears, feeling the hair bristling on his neck.

  "What's wrong, buddy?"

  The scrawny little cat just snarled and laid his ears back over his head. He was staring at the bar, eyes wide, claws working the dust beneath his paws.

  "Is somebody in there?"

  At this point, I half expected the cat to answer me. That's how close I was to losing it. But he simply continued hissing at the yawning black doorway of the tavern. Nervously, I slipped the small black crowbar from the toolbelt cinched around my waist. It was only as wide as my thumb, the kind you'd find in the tire well of a sedan's trunk.

  After a moment of thought, I slid the claw hammer out, too, hefted it in my left hand, and slowly stood up.

  In ten more minutes, it would be completely dark. Without a flashlight, I'd be fucked in an ambush. Might be fucked regardless.

  I took a step forward. Titan stopped hissing and mewed pitifully. Looking back, I saw that he was watching me with questions on his tiny feline face. Why are you leaving me?

  Nothing had moved inside the bar, at least nothing audible. Besides our two figures, there had been no motion at all in the grimy little waypoint since we'd arrived. I thought of the line of figures staked to the field outside Joshuah Hill. The single zombie that had waited patiently for my arrival. Laying the bait. Setting the trap.

  Was I going to be the fucking idiot that walked into another one?

  Even while I hesitated, the long shadows slid further toward each other, easing the road into night in vertical slats cast by the low houses beyond the tavern.

  I breathed. Shuddered the air from my lungs. Inhaled again. The ghosttown echoed my trepidation, mirrored my fears of unknown creatures lurking inside the implacable front of this pathetic backwoods pitstop.

  I rationalized: I had three Percs, some bud, and half a bottle of old sherry. It would get me through the night, but by morning someone else could have come through and ransacked the remaining liquor from behind the bar. And I knew, because of Abby I knew, the next town was another fifteen miles up the road.

  What was I more afraid of? A dark building or the dead fingers of Vitala clawing away chunks of my brain?

  Titan began to hiss again.

  I strode across the parking lot, crowbar in one hand and hammer in the other. Just a peek inside. Then a few steps. I'd take it slow. Get what I needed and get out.

  The glass door of the bar hung lopsided from one hinge, smeared with dirt so dark it looked like blood in the fading light. I hooked the handle with the crowbar and pulled it toward me.

  A cracking squeal rent from the tortured remaining hinge, making me jump.

  Now my blood was pounding, adrenaline streaks igniting my veins to fire. My hands shook as I wrenched the obstinate door all the way, pushed it back against the leading wall. I didn't want to slip through a crack. I wanted a vault to step through, something I could sprint away from in a hurry.

  The rusty echoes faded as if smothered in the soft shadows beyond the door.

  With the door flung wide came a rush of putrid air, so powerful I gagged on a blob of phlegm in my throat. Involuntarily, I took a step back and covered my mouth with my arm.

  It didn't mean anything, I told myself. Corpses couldn't kill. The one in the diner had smelled at least this bad. Someone had died in here, that was all. I could still grab the liquor and go.

  Standing in the opening, my eyes began to adjust to the darkness inside. Huddled shapes melted out of obscurity, taking on shades of gray and indigo against the flat black deeper in. A long wooden bar stretched away from the door, hugging the wall to my left. To the right, a small alcove led to two restrooms. The colored circle of a splintered dart board rested against the foot of the door to the ladies' room.

  Directly ahead, a chest-high, slat-paneled dividing wall separated the bar stools from an open alleyway straight to the back wall, and then a line of maroon booths were built into the right wall where the restroom alcove ended. The wall space above the booths was decorated with several tapestries, bundled, clothy looking pieces that I couldn't quite make out. The stench was overwhelming, forcing me to breathe open-mouthed. Barely audible, the buzz of black flies carried from the darker portions at the rear of the room.

  Most importantly, the wall behind the wooden bar held shelves of bottles in muddy shades of tarnished brass and silver. Jackpot.

  I stood stock still for several more seconds, letting my vision rest in the middle space halfway down the line of booths so that any furtive movements would jump out from the stillness, but the place was quiet as the grave.

  With shuffling sidesteps, ignoring the stench as best I could, I entered the tavern and angled left, to the bar. I looked for the lifting flap that allowed bartenders and hostesses to go behind the barrier separating the drunken rabble from the heaven which provided their inebriation but, finding nothing, I turned my back to the bar and hefted myself to a sitting position on top of the wooden surface, watching the room the whole time. No motions broke the stifling shadows. I swung my legs over the edge, scooted sideways, and dropped to the floor behind the bar with a crunch of broken glass.

  Whoever had cleaned out the service station had taken a swipe at this place, too, but the general beauty of a pub is that there's more than
enough booze to go around.

  With one last visual sweep of the mausoleum that had once been a tavern, I turned to the shelves of liquor, knelt to look closer. It was too dark to read the labels. What the fuck did I care anyway? I grabbed bottles at random and jammed them clinking into the open top of my backpack, wedging them in among the pile of gas station food, crushing bags of chips and smushing half-melted chocolate bars.

  I got six bottles before nothing else would fit inside the bulging bag, so I zipped closed the top as best I could—leaving a wide gap where the zippers wouldn't come together—holstered the claw hammer, and grabbed another bottle by the neck to carry by hand. Before standing up, I cracked the seal and took a sip, savoring the unique burn of bottom-shelf vodka. As I turned back, I spotted a narrow green cylinder on one of the hidden shelves set into the bar's backside. Beside it was a crumpled pack of cigarettes.

  A flashlight and smokes. God bless Jim Beam and his whole crew.

  I snatched up the flashlight and pressed the button. Snick. Nothing.

  "Come on..." I muttered. I slapped the plastic tube in the palm of my hand and a beam of light erupted across the tavern.

  My eyes followed the light and...

  "Fuck!" I jerked back, smacking my back against the row of liquor shelves. Some of the bottles teetered off the edge and shattered on the ground. Liquid and glass shards peppered the legs of my jeans.

  The yellow circle had come to rest on one of the tapestries tacked above the dining booths. Only it wasn't a tapestry at all. The light had gone wild in my knee-jerk flinch, but I took a deep, putrid breath through my mouth and steadied the light on the wall. The flashlight's narrow beam revealed revealed only pieces at a time of the entire tapestry of carnage. A bloody hand emerging from a white shirt, nailed through the wrist. Feet dangling like a hanging victim, some with shoes, some without. Some chopped off at the ankle, the knee, missing toes in black gnarled masses.