Duncan watched the former firefighter cull the last of the ones that were standing; then, as nonchalantly as if he were taking a union-mandated break, sit atop one of the larger specimens and then start running his whet stone back and forth along the machete’s blade.
“That’s my boy,” Duncan said, in front of a sad-sounding chuckle. Then, having seen enough heads being chopped to last ten lifetimes, he hinged over and popped the Land Cruiser’s hood. He hauled himself out of the driver’s seat, made the long walk to the mound of gear, and returned, schlepping the tools, cables, and battery.
He connected the jumper cables between the rigs, slid onto the Cruiser’s cold leather seat, and commenced the wait necessary to determine if the battery would take a charge. Bored and cold, he opened the center console and dug around in the contents. Passing on the manual and spare bulbs and fuses, he came out with an official-looking document, unfolded it, and determined it was a dealer’s shipping and sales invoice. He perused the specs, got to the small print indicating the sales price, and took a deep breath. “You’ve gotta be effin kidding me. Seventy-nine grand for this trailer queen.” He knew it was a pricey ride, but not closer to a hundred grand than fifty. Shaking his head, he refolded the piece of paper, put it back inside the console, and closed the leather-wrapped lid. Then he leaned over and punched open the glove compartment. Trimmed in fake walnut and skinned with the same leather as the rest of the rig, the lid opened slow and quiet, revealing in all of its black and white glory a full and sealed fifth bottle of Jack Daniels.
“Fuck me running,” he whispered. He wracked his brain and couldn’t recall placing it there. But then again, as he thought back, he was always prone to finding bottles he had stashed away during a blackout.
What he did next was totally unexpected and involuntary. Causing the rig to shimmy and consequently the amber-colored liquid to ripple in the bottle’s neck, he recoiled and sat ramrod straight.
With a knot twisting in his stomach, he sat there staring straight ahead and listening to the nearby 4Runner’s V6 purr away. After another minute or two, during which he stole a couple of quick guilt-filled glances at the bottle, he worked up the courage to lean over and, as if the yawning glove box was harboring some kind of venomous snake or brimming with skittering jumbo-sized scorpions, quickly slam it shut.
With the elephant in the Land Cruiser now behind closed doors, he let out a deep breath and thanked God he wasn’t tilting Old No. 7 to his lips and making bubbles. However, in a perfect world and to another person, out of sight, out of mind would probably suffice. His first instinct after the split-second recoil should have been to crack the seal and pour it out on the snow outside—the operative words being should have. But a beat after seeing the label, he was no longer driving the bus, metaphorically speaking. And the little voice in his head, the one currently taking fares and issuing transfers, had already convinced him that shutting it from view would be adequate for now.
He drew in a deep, calming breath, reached over with his right hand, knuckles still showing through the skin from gripping the wheel tight, and once again depressed the Engine Start/Stop button. There was a different sound this time, like a starter turning. A tick after there came a promising shudder from the engine then absolute silence.
“Bastard.” Duncan slapped the wheel and flicked his eyes to the exotic wood-trimmed glove box door.
Fighting the urge to give in to the little voice in his head telling him he could get away with just one, and knowing that one always tasted like more, he muttered under his breath and stepped out into the cold.
Chapter 22
Ten minutes of playing mechanic, a couple of busted knuckles and half a book’s worth of expletives later, Duncan had the dead battery from the Cruiser swapped with the one from Daymon’s backpack.
Doubting the swap would lead to instant success, he trudged back around the open door, got in and punched the all-powerful Engine Start/Stop button.
The starter whined and the engine turned over. Victory. Hard as it was for Duncan to believe this tired-looking thing was basically new off the lot a few short weeks ago, the motor sounding as strong as it did gave him confidence that—despite its thoroughly battered exterior—the thing would make the relatively short round-trip to Huntsville and back.
As he sat in the Cruiser monitoring the voltmeter’s needle on the dash cluster and basking in the tepid air now filtering through the vents, he could feel the compulsion welling up within him and, before he knew what he was doing, the glove box door was open and his fingers were caressing the smooth glass bottle.
Nearly rocketing out of his skin as a result of three sharp raps on the glass to his left, Duncan slammed the door shut and turned that way, no doubt wearing a kid-caught-with-his-hand-in-the-cookie-jar kind of look on his face.
“Cade Grayson … you trying to give a fella a heart attack?” he drawled, punching the power window the rest of the way down.
“If Glenda hasn’t killed you yet,” Cade said, wearing a grin. “Nothing I do is going to hasten your trip to the grave.”
Hoping Cade hadn’t seen the bottle, Duncan changed the subject. “Well, the 4Runner started right up. This princess ... not so much.” He thrust both hands out the window, displaying his knuckles. “I put the new battery in. Good call bringing it.”
“Looks more like you got into a street fight,” Cade said. He took hold of Duncan’s hand. “Are the shakes back?”
Duncan made a face. Pulled his hands in through the window and folded them in his lap. “No … why do you ask?”
Cade said nothing. He studied his friend’s face and deduced that if the two of them were standing nose-to-nose the older man would have probably crossed his arms defensively and most likely shifted his gaze away and up prior to spewing that last line of bullshit.
“How long have you been standing there?” Duncan asked, his voice barely a whisper.
“Long enough, Old Man,” Cade answered.
Duncan sighed. It was a remorseful from-the-gut kind of sound. “I was just about to pour it out,” he lied.
Cade leaned forward and placed his crossed forearms on the Cruiser’s roof. “Looked to me like you were giving it a hand-job.”
Duncan removed his glasses. Tossed them on the dash where the air from the vents gave them a quick fog. When he turned back, in a serious tone he asked, “Did I ever tell you how much I loathe that nickname?”
Cade turned his head and looked at the rest of the crew, who were now sitting on the road and passing around MREs. He started drumming his fingers against the roof. “Did I ever tell you how I loathe being called by my full name? My mother did it ... and when she did, I knew my ass was grass.”
Duncan chuckled. “Brook does it too. Doesn’t she?”
Cade nodded. He said, “Look at it on the bright side, Old Man. Every time someone calls you by the nickname your brother coined, he’s being remembered in a small way.”
Duncan said nothing. Unconsciously he broke eye contact with Cade, passed his gaze over the other survivors who were now standing in a loose circle in the center of the road, and then fixed a hard stare on the glove box containing the fifth of booze.
Seeing this, Cade said, “I’ll leave you two alone to talk things through.” He pushed off the vehicle, turned, and walked away.
Duncan wanted to say something. Anything. But his innate ability to conjure up a witty quip or think of a prescient observation to get the conversation moving in another direction failed him. The proverbial cat had his tongue and was swallowing it whole.
All he could do was stare at Cade, who had already covered about a dozen paces. Saw him shift his carbine to his right hand and glance at the ever-present black Suunto on his left. Then, saving him from doing something he would regret, the former Delta operator said in a booming voice, “We’re Oscar Mike in five.”
Still watching Cade close the distance with the other five survivors, who were now policing up their gear, Duncan leaned over and
snatched up the bottle of Jack. He closed the glove box door and, muttering under his breath, twisted the cap ever so slowly. The paper tax-label tore; then, with a practiced chop of the palm, he spun the cap off and caught it one-handed mid-flight. Instantly the scent of sour mash, heavy with charcoaled oak, hit his nose and froze him in a moment of indecision that lasted all of two seconds.
“God grant me …” he stuck his arm out the window and, finishing the prayer in his head, turned the bottle upside down.
Chapter 23
The bailiff, if you could call him that, was a skinny little runt of a man with a prominent forehead made all the more noticeable by the thin ring of gray hair riding up high on his misshapen skull. Why Pomeroy hadn’t scrounged up an official-looking hat and uniform for the guy had Dregan wondering how serious the self-important prick was taking his new approach to justice.
As the bailiff’s bugged eyes trolled the room, first scrutinizing the gallery where Dregan sat among a half-dozen other Bear River citizens, then passing over the jury of twelve, he couldn’t help but think how much the guy, who had to be pushing sixty, reminded him of the late actor Don Knotts. Not the younger Barney Fife version, even though, like the Shakiest Gun in the West in Andy Griffith’s Mayberry, the bailiff’s Colt Python revolver also wore him. But more so like the older, shifty-eyed, Ralph Furley character of Three’s Company notoriety.
Though a trio of propane-powered heaters worked hard to heat the converted bookstore, Dregan couldn’t get warm. Shivering on the folding chair, he passed the time waiting for the show to get on the road by watching his own breath roil from his open mouth.
At 11:59, a murmur rose from the jury seated left of the judge’s large wooden desk and a shadowy form eclipsed the frosted glass of the storeroom door immediately behind it.
Furley’s body went rigid when the doorknob rattled. Then, as the door swung inward on well-oiled hinges, a little more enthusiastically than need be—in Dregan’s opinion—the Don Knotts lookalike put a cupped hand to his mouth and called out, “All rise for the honorable Judge Lucius Pomeroy.”
The rustle of fabric mingled with the steady hissing of the heaters as nineteen people rose, and though Dregan’s arthritic knees were suffering horribly from the sudden change in weather, he followed suit.
The judge entered first, followed closely by an African American bailiff who was almost twice the size of the first, yet still gave up a hundred pounds and a couple of inches to the judge. The bailiff wore a tag that read: Mason. He pulled a chair from the kneehole and stood rigid and silent while the rotund judge plopped some papers on the desk, looked up over the top of his square-framed glasses, and gave the room a cursory glance. Finally, as the first bailiff closed the door, the judge adjusted his black tent-sized robe and sat down with an audible grunt.
As the chair’s springs groaned in protest to the three hundred pounds settling on it, Mason stepped forward and said, “You may all be seated.”
The Don Knotts look-alike bailiff remained standing, left hand perched on the Colt, while Mason walked the aisle between the folding chairs and exited through the papered-over front door, closing it quietly behind him.
Dregan sat back in his seat with an audible groan, the pain seemingly going in equal opposition in real time to the falling mercury. For a long minute, the judge didn’t look up. Maybe he was praying, thought Dregan as he tried massaging the blood back into his knees.
Finally, Judge Pomeroy scooped a manila envelope off the desktop, opened it, licked one sausage-like finger and began flicking through a dozen sheets of what looked to Dregan like ordinary printer paper.
***
A few minutes went by before the judge finally looked up to address the jury and give instructions. Fighting the urge to nod off, Dregan listened half-heartedly as the judge went over the evidence and testimony that would be admissible in the case.
The oration was short; once the judge finished, the front door opened and Mason was back, leading the accused in with the help of another of Pomeroy’s recruits—a younger man Dregan recognized but didn’t know by name.
What was wrong with the way they’d been doing this? Dregan had asked anybody who would listen, in the days prior to the court system being brought back by popular vote. Busy work, he decided, after seeing that first trial drag on for two days and end exactly as it should have, with the thief losing a hand and then immediately being taken kicking-and-screaming to the State Route and exiled as a reminder to all of what would happen if one of the Ten Commandments was broken.
One less mouth to feed, Dregan supposed as the bug-eyed bailiff called the plaintiff’s name and read off the charges.
Dregan winced as each horrendous offense read aloud created a visual he couldn’t purge. Towards the end of the long list he was seeing Lena’s face transposed on the shocking images in his mind, and it took every ounce of self-control in his body to keep from walking forward ten feet and throttling the cannibal baby raper himself.
The prosecutor, who supposedly had been a real honest-to-goodness lawyer at a big firm housed in a mirrored tower in Dallas, Texas, before everything fell to pieces, rose and adjusted her rumpled navy pantsuit. One at a time, she called two credible witnesses, let them say their piece, asked a couple of questions and then rested her case.
Next, the witnesses were cross-examined by a reluctant-looking town member acting as defense counsel. For fuck’s sake, get on with it, thought Dregan, as the man droned on, not totally into it, but still going through the motions.
Finally, the defendant, a twenty-five-year-old malcontent who had allegedly grown up in a boy’s home and escaped from a correctional boot camp after the dead began to walk, threw his hands up and said, “Let’s just get this fucking joke of a trial over with so you can banish me and I’ll be on my merry way.”
“What are you trying to say?” asked the judge, steepling his fingers, a gleam in his eye.
“I did it. It was done to me and therefore I do it to others.” He laughed. A kind of high-pitched squeaking that went on until the judge struck the desk with the square-headed meat-mallet acting as a gavel.
“Order,” the judge said.
“I guess that settles that,” said counsel, nervously adjusting his loosely knotted tie.
“I have nothing to add,” stated the lady lawyer.
Thank God. Dregan sat up and his chair creaked, drawing nervous glances from the jury and a woman on his right who had been knitting an infant-sized jumper.
Judge Pomeroy raised his makeshift gavel and again pounded the desk with it. “The prosecution rests. Defense?”
The man in the tie nodded and organized the papers in front of him without regard to the slack-jawed defendant to his right. “Defense rests,” he finally said, and took his seat.
Out of his side vision, Dregan saw Bailiff Mason move forward from near a carousel filled with used paperbacks and take up position behind the self-confessed cannibal and habitual child rapist.
“Having been found guilty by your own admission, I, Judge Lucius Pomeroy, on behalf of the good people of Bear River, do hereby pronounce you, Dewey Ford, guilty of coveting, thereby breaking the Tenth Commandment. I hereby sentence you to death—”
Ford bristled when the judge said ‘coveting’ and then rocketed from his chair when he heard the severity of the sentence. In a flash, Mason had drawn a bright orange gun-shaped item from the holster on his hip. Before Ford could shove his chair back, the smaller bailiff was rushing to protect the judge from the front and fifty thousand volts were coursing through Ford from the rear, the charge being delivered through a thin filament stretched a dozen feet between the TASER in Mason’s hand to the metal barbs lodged firmly between the condemned man’s shoulder blades.
As the defendant’s limp form lay on the floor, pants soiled in front, Judge Pomeroy finished the sentencing spiel. “Dewey Ford, I hereby sentence you to death by biter. And I hope they start on your privates.”
“They’re not active rig
ht now,” said Mason, still holding the TASER.
The judge rose and looked a question at Dregan.
Dregan nodded, corroborating what the bailiff said.
“Bailiffs ... I want him held in custody until such time as the sentence can be properly administered.”
As if he was trying to make a second break for the door, Ford started to twitch. Then the soles of his shoes made a cringeworthy squeaking noise against the floor tiles as his legs spasmed uncontrollably.
Staring daggers across the desk, the judge motioned Dregan forward.
Dregan nodded, then rose on legs half-asleep and shot through with pins and needles.
“My chambers,” said the judge.
The back room of Armchair Family Books, corrected Dregan in his thoughts. Pretty far removed from the United States District Court for the District of Utah.
Chapter 24
The fallen tree roadblock and patch of discolored snow where Duncan had emptied the fifth of Jack Daniels on the roadside was four miles behind the Land Cruiser when he stabbed its brakes and pulled over to the shoulder.
“What do you want to do?”
Cade craned around and watched the 4Runner pull up even and stop. “I say we push on and tackle the root of the problem. That was hard work back there. I can only imagine how longshoremen feel after a day’s work.”
“I’ve done some of that kind of work ... in my youth.” Duncan smiled at the memory. “We mostly hit the bars after shift. Closed the place down. Rinse and repeat after a bowl of Wheaties.”
Daymon poked his head between the seats. Looked at Duncan. “You didn’t do much if any of the heavy lifting back there, Old Man.”
“Yeah ... but against all odds I got this here demolition derby victim running.”
“True dat,” said Daymon, offering a fist bump, which Duncan regarded for a second before leaving it hanging in the air over the center console.
Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse (Book 9): Frayed Page 14
