Dead Hunger | Book 10 | The Remnants

by Shelman, Eric A.

  Kneeling, he unhooked the top ladder, pushing it back to clear the upper rung. To his relief, it pivoted back easily, and even began to slide down through the guide brackets.

  There was a sheathed cable connected to the top rung, so he looped it in his hand and began to feed it out as the ladder squealed its way to the bottom.

  It was probably not as loud as it sounded to him.

  Finally, as the base of the ladder touched the cracked concrete below, Ray Dell mounted the sixth rung down, clinging to the top. As he released his left hand and took the next step, there was a snapping sound and he was falling.

  Flailing his arms, he twisted his body in the air, trying to avoid landing flat on his back and smacking his head on the ground. If he were to get knocked out, he would be prime choice for any wayward zombies.

  He put out his arms to break his fall, but that wasn’t the worst of his problems.

  The rung that had broken away had stabbed straight down toward the ground, and he was falling right behind it.

  He closed his eyes and braced himself, feeling every inch of the rusted steel, 1” square tube as it plunged into his ribcage and beyond.

  “Fuck!” he yelled as he landed hard on his right shoulder, the steel sliding all the way through him and punching through the skin on his back.

  When he came to rest, he lay there in the tall weeds, out of view of anyone – human or zombie – who might walk by on the street.

  He was thankful he landed on earth rather than asphalt or concrete, and that the weeds were so tall they served as a cushion of sorts. He lay there collecting his thoughts, taking inventory of his injuries and breathing hard. It had to have missed his right lung because he could still draw breath, but it was hard; the pain was intense as the muscle contracted around the intruding impalement.

  His eyes cast upward to get his bearings, unable to see beyond the tall weeds surrounding him. Gingerly, he extended his left arm and took a clump of the weeds into his hand, wrapping it around like a bull rider ready to give the gate man a nod.

  Pulling himself forward, Ray Dell winced, but he pushed through it. He’d been hurt worse in prison.

  His mind went back to the small figure in the window. She would still be there. He could use this injury as a way in.

  Doughty made his decision. Smiling, he knew what would really make him feel better. He’d go ask for help from some strangers.

  *****

  Denise Keef was half asleep when her daughter, Mila, turned to her and said, “Mommy, I think somebody’s on the roof over there.” She was standing at the window, looking out.

  “Gregg!” she said sharply, jolting from her semi-sleep and sitting up.

  Gregg had been sitting at a table a few feet from her, fiddling with the radio they’d tried to power from a battery bank, using some solar panels they’d pilfered from the garage of a nearby home.

  The radio never powered up, but neither Gregg nor Denise knew whether it was because of their lack of knowledge or if either the radio or the panels simply didn’t work.

  Gregg Fettin, who was 6’-5” tall and 67 years old, groaned to his feet and took two strides with his long legs, reaching Mila and scooping her into his arms. He pulled her away from the window and carried her to where Denise sat, having swung her legs from the bed to the floor.

  “Shit!” said Gregg, feeling the tweak in his lower back. He had moved too fast, pulling Mila into his arms without thinking. That was all it took. The initial twinge of pain began to throb, already radiating down into his leg.

  Biting his upper lip and trying to ignore the pain, he returned to the window to gaze in the direction Mila had been looking. Nothing. The shape, if it had ever been there, was gone.

  “See him?”

  “Nothing,” he said. “It might’ve been her imagination.”

  “She doesn’t imagine things,” said Denise, taking Mila’s chin in her hand. “You didn’t imagine it, did you, sweetie?”

  Mila shook her head. Her shoulder-length red hair was dirty and matted, swinging from side to side as she indicated in the negative. “He was there. Standing still, just looking at me.”

  “Well, there’s nobody there now.” Gregg pulled a light throw blanket from the end of the bed and hobbled over to the window, where he hung it from the bracket that once held vertical blinds, long deteriorated and piled in pieces at the base of the window.

  Fixing the sides to cover the cracks, he said, “Keep prying eyes out.” Pressing a hand to his lower back as he returned to the chair, he eased into it, eyes closed against the pain.

  Gregg wasn’t a member of their family; he was a man she had encountered in a JC Penny store while she was searching through a pile of mostly moldy clothes for warm outfits for her and her daughter, about seven months before. Gregg was lanky and far older than her, but a good partner in this world. Not in the intimate sense; they were just fellow survivors who took care of one another. Gregg would sometimes start singing out of the blue, silly songs she was sure he made up on the fly.

  Mila loved him.

  When they had first met, they had no way of knowing the gas coming from the earth was diminishing and would soon weaken or kill the creatures that preyed on humankind.

  They worked as a team from that time until it was no longer necessary, then they settled into a small town in Missouri.

  That lasted until the night zombies came back. Denise told Gregg she was leaving, heading someplace where she could make her own way. She firmly believed the clustering with other people is what drew the walking dead, and she had no intention of living squarely in the middle of a variety pack of humanity, a virtual BBQ joint whose wafting scents drew the hungry.

  Mila was thirteen years old, born into the world of zombies in 2016. She had red hair as brilliant as autumn leaves, and her eyes were the green of emeralds; all from her father’s Irish lineage. She was expert with a blade, having been taught to respect and handle knives since she could walk in a world where silent killing was best.

  Denise’s husband, Tom, survived for seven-and-a-half years after the strange gas began leaking from the earth. He remained alive long enough to impregnate her with a child he would not live to meet. His daughter, Mila Keef, introduced into a post-apocalyptic world.

  Her menstrual cycle had been anything but regular since the zombie apocalypse had begun; she didn’t really know when to expect it at all, much less it being any kind of cycle.

  That’s why her pregnancy surprised her. She was in her fourth month before she figured out she was with child. Once she did accept it, she cried. They had been tears of joy and tears of terror, her fears the child would die and change inside her so great.

  The next five months were agony, but she tried to remain upbeat and calm for her growing baby.

  “I think whatever or whoever it was is gone,” said Gregg. “We can relax, try to get some sleep.”

  A light knock came on the door. It was followed by a moan.

  Neither Denise nor Gregg said a word. They knew the drill. Silence.

  “Hey … help. I … fell, and I need … help.”

  She mouthed the words, “Not a zombie.”

  Gregg rolled his eyes and walked over to the door, not worrying about being quiet. “What do you want?” He put his head against the door.

  The voice was muffled, weak. Gregg stood right against the door and said again, “Just go away.”

  The gunshot blew lead and wood splinters into Gregg Fettin’s chest and out his back. The blood spatter made it all the way across the room to spray the blanket over the window at which Mila had been standing earlier.

  Gregg staggered backward, his legs buckling as his limp body crashed to the floor and lay still. The gunshot had been instantly deadly.

  The tears for her companion came to her eyes immediately as Denise got to her feet, her hands dropping for her sidearm – her old 9mm she had kept since leaving the Buffalo Police Department. As she got her hand on it, the door burst open and a b
loodied man aimed a cannon right at her face.

  She recognized it as a .44 Magnum. It was a Smith & Wesson model 29, just like the one Clint Eastwood used in Magnum Force.

  Her gun was still in its holster. She knew she should have had her gun in hand at the first blast, but she’d panicked. Denise also knew she was dead before he fired.

  She had time to call out, “Mila, dive!” before the bullet blew her frontal lobe through her cerebellum, decorating the bed and the floor behind her.

  Her last breath aspirated blood onto her chin and chest as she fell back and lay still.

  Mila was already out of sight. She had known the drill since she was five.

  *****

  Ray Dell Doughty, had pulled the ladder rung out of his side before braving the trip over to investigate the glow in the window where he’d seen the silhouette of the girl. It hadn’t been easy. He’d felt along the 1” square tube and tried to find the end with the least damage, to prevent it from tearing him worse when he pulled it out.

  Luckily, one end – the one sticking out behind him – had a smooth end. Using both hands, weakened by the intensity of the pain, he took three deep breaths, his hands wrapped around it pressing against his skin, and pulled fast and hard.

  When it slid out, he dropped it and pressed his hands against the entry and exit wounds, holding it as tight as he could as he walked toward his destination.

  Inside the apartment downstairs from the unit in which he now stood, he had found a small washrag. It was filthy, but he tore it in half and stuffed it into the holes, quelling the flow of blood. He had almost abandoned his plans to investigate the young girl he’d seen, but he couldn’t do that.

  It wasn’t in him. Maybe it was in Steven Smith, but it was not in Ray Dell Doughty.

  Ray Dell knew where the girl was; his eyes were drawn to her the moment the door opened, even as he aimed at the woman.

  The petite woman with the short blonde hair and quite pronounced cheekbones, now lying on her back, the rest of her brain leaking onto the blood-soaked sheets, must’ve been her mother. They had a similar look.

  It was in the cheekbones.

  “Hey, darlin’,” he said, trying to make his voice sound soft. “I’m Ray Dell. Saw you in the window from the old movie house over there.”

  No sound. No whimpering and no movement.

  He sat down on the edge of the bed, shoving the girl’s mother’s body back to give him more room.

  “Sorry I had to kill the old man and your mom. He your grandpa?”

  Still nothing.

  “C’mon, sweetheart. You’re on your own now. You’re gonna need me.”

  He placed the big revolver on the bed, crossed his ankles and reached into his shirt pocket, relieved to still find the pack of Marlboros and his lighter. He pulled one out and lit it, watching the flames dance from the Zippo lighter, anticipating what was to come.

  The sting came as he drew in his first raspy hit, still staring into the flame. As he coughed out the smoke, a second sting came, and he looked dumbly down at his feet.

  Blood was pouring from both of them. He stared at the flowing crimson, cigarette hanging from his lips.

  Fuckin’ kids.

  Ray Dell went to stand, but instead, he fell forward, his ankles no longer supporting his body weight. As the warm blood flowed down into his socks and shoes, his body grew colder from the blood loss.

  He grunted as he struggled to roll over against the pain in his ankles, but finally managed to get onto his back.

  He looked at the bed. There she was, under the bed, her face peering out at him. Mila. He had heard her name. Names were important when abducting kids. If you knew their names, you were somebody they could trust.

  Mila stared at him, her beautiful green eyes intense, her mouth set in a grim line, a bloody knife in her right hand.

  Oh, those freckles. He wanted to reach out and touch them. Instead, Ray Dell looked down at his feet.

  “Fuck. You cut my Achilles tendons.”

  “Mama taught me that,” she said.

  A sharp odor of burning material stung his nostrils, and he looked over to see the Zippo, still burning, had dropped onto an old sheer curtain that had fallen from the window a decade or two ago.

  It went up like a tissue. The gun was on the bed. He couldn’t get to it.

  He could try. He rolled over and got onto his knees. This position really killed the hole in his midsection, and he realized the entire floor was slick with his blood – and the fire was growing.

  *****

  Mila slid out from under the bed. Standing there, her eyes met those of the man who had killed Uncle Gregg and her mother.

  The 13-year-old kept her eyes on the man, the gun on the bed and the climbing flames, now beginning to catch the lower part of the bed upon which her mother lay, eyes blood red as they stared at the ceiling. Mila leaned forward and pulled the revolver into her hand just before the man got close enough to reach for it.

  It was heavy; heavier than any she had used before. Taking it in two hands, the man started laughing.

  “This is bullshit, you bitch.”

  “I’ll show you bullshit.” Her small voice was cold.

  She held the gun out in front of her. It was a struggle. She put both fingers on the trigger, like her mommy had told her to do if she couldn’t pull it with one.

  “You wanna come to Georgia with me –”

  The bullet struck his neck with such force it tore it in half.

  Mila flew backward at the discharge of the powerful Smith & Wesson, and she landed on the floor in a daze.

  “Hey! Who’s in there? Don’t shoot! We’re comin’ to help!”

  It sounded like Gregg – older. Mila immediately felt safer. A moment later, she saw two figures through the smoke, joined by a third a moment later.

  “There’s a girl there!” That was a woman’s voice.

  “She killed Steven,” said another man’s voice.

  “Don’t shoot, baby,” said Eileen. “We’re friendly. Not going to hurt you. Doc Scofield is going to come over and pick you up now, okay?”

  “Okay,” she whimpered. “He said he was Ray Dell.”

  Footsteps. Then: “I’m afraid you’re bigger’n I anticipated. Kiddo, you hurt? Can you stand?”

  “Hurry!” called the other man. “The fire’s spreading fast.”

  It had crawled to the wall and now engulfed the old wallpaper somebody had put up. The girl got to her feet.

  “Take my hand, darlin’,” said Doc Scofield. “I’ll get you out of here.”

  “Is Uncle Gregg okay?”

  A second passed. “I’m afraid not, sweetheart.”

  She took his hand and followed, and Jim didn’t stop until they went down the stairs and out into the yard. A moment later, Jim Cole came out carrying the limp body of a woman. He rested her on the ground. “Hold on,” he said.

  “Where you going?” asked Eileen, hurrying to the girl.

  Cole didn’t answer. In another two minutes, he came out with the old man’s body over his shoulder, hunched over against the weight.

  “Is he alive?” the girl asked, her voice hopeful.

  “Nah, I’m sorry. I just figured if you called him Uncle Gregg, he was important to you.”

  She broke down into tears.

  Doc Scofield let Eileen tend to her, and he went over to Jim to help him lower the man’s body to the ground.

  In a low voice, Scofield said, “She said he told her his name was Ray Dell. I know that motherfucker.”

  “You know him?”

  “No, no. Not personally. From the news. Big story. Huge, as a matter of fact. Ray Dell Doughty. Killed a bunch of girls. Bad serial killer. He must’ve got out when the shit hit the fan.”

  “How’d that come back to you?”

  “You know how Nel has that mind like a steel trap?”

  “Yeah,” panted Jim.

  “I’m where he gets it. Most of it.”

  “
So we’re lucky we’re not his type.”

  “She’s his type, Jim. The kid.”

  “Sick fucker. Good thing we heard the gunshots.”

  “We need to bury these bodies,” said Doc Scofield. “For the kid. We can have a quick funeral, end it for her rather than let her think what might’ve happened to their remains.”

  “Okay,” said Jim Cole. “In the morning though. Let’s tell her we’re staying at the theater and get back in there. Before a horde comes through town or something.”

  “Put a blade through the old guy’s head first, though,” whispered Doc Scofield. “Didn’t look like he got a head shot.”

  Looking over at the young redheaded girl, Jim nodded. “You guys start taking her inside. I got this.”

  *****

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Isis and Max had secreted away Beauty and Travis, waiting until nobody was looking before darting behind a building and making their way through an uninhabited part of town.

  Beauty had actually chosen the location, and while it didn’t make much sense to Max and Isis, the home was at least semi-clean and it was unlocked.

  They now sat in a circle in the middle of the living room floor, inside the small, two-bedroom, 1-bath house.

  The plan to fortify the town and whatever else they were doing was fine; it wouldn’t keep the monsters at bay though, and Max and Isis knew it.

  There were other things these four special humans needed to discuss. Isis began.

  “Beauty, thank you for bringing Travis here. Travis, I realize you’re the youngest among us, but as the son of a Hybrid, you are one of a kind, at least as far as we know.”

  “I get that,” he said. “Mommy says I can help, though. I feel them. The Mothers. I hear them.”

  “That’s why you’re here,” said Isis. “Travis, do you know how old you are?”

  “I have been alive for 3-1/2 years,” he said.

  Max shook his head. “Wow.”

  “I am lucky he did not begin accelerated growth in my womb,” said Beauty. “I would have probably died.”