by Bobby Adair
With all of the individual communicating done, the leathery woman waved her arm and wrangled all of the free men over to her as she got up off of the porch and went over toward the gaunt man at the head of the chain gang.
All of us in the gang were on our feet at that point. The leathery woman started jingling through a set of keys on a wire bracelet she wore around her wrist. On the lock that attached the lead man’s collar to the long chain, she tried each key in turn until the hasp sprung open.
Hands were immediately on the gaunt man, pushing and guiding him out into the center of the lawn. His backpack came off and fell to the grass. His shopping bag dropped as well.
Still tethered to the post, the rest of us on the chain gang watched.
The obese woman on the porch started to giggle and play with her fingers.
The free men surrounded the gaunt man in a tight huddle.
By some silent cue, the free Whites started beating the gaunt man with their fists and tearing at him with their teeth. His scream ripped the morning air and he fell under the assault, his brilliant red blood splattering into the air. His last shriek stopped abruptly as the free men fell to the ground to bury their faces in his entrails. It was time to feast.
The chain gang surged toward the warm flesh. They wanted to join but the chain looped around the porch post held fast.
A week before, I was Null Spot the Destroyer, rider of the storm, slayer of Whites, living on the edge of my luck. But the luck was gone and I’d become a pack mule and feedstock.
It took nearly an hour for the Whites to fill their bellies, and the rule I derived from the al fresco brunch was that those of us on the chain gang were going to get worked until near death, and then we’d be eaten. The alternative, that I hoped wasn’t true, was that they ate whomever was on an end of the chain, which meant my chances were just fifty-fifty at the next mealtime.
When brunch was over, the Whites each emptied their bowels nearby in the grass. Three of the men had diarrhea. Two of those were bloody. Either their bodies weren’t adjusting well to their new diet or the unsanitary conditions under which they were eating and drinking were taking a toll. I suspected that diseases could be transmitted through the consumption of raw human flesh, especially viruses like HIV and herpes. I wondered about more immediately deadly diseases, though never having paid much attention in my biology class, I couldn’t think of one.
I did know that deadly disease could spread through unsanitary drinking water, and I wondered how the infected were handling the acquisition of that. The drought had left most sources of groundwater dry. There were few running creeks and I’d heard news stories over the previous summer about many Texas springs drying up.
Where could an infected mind be smart enough to find water? Perhaps in a toilet tank. A freshwater aquarium. I didn’t think they’d be smart enough to drain a water heater. They might figure out how to open plastic bottles. But sodas and sports drinks on convenience store shelves were a finite supply. That left the rivers, lakes, and larger springs.
I’m sure Jeff Aubrey’s math didn’t take water into account. How many infected would just die of dehydration? Maybe most of them in Texas would. At least all of the ones either too far from a river to find one, or too dumb to remember where the closest river was, would die. That of course led to the conclusion that the infected would tend to be much more numerous near the natural water sources. So the further that normal people could find a defensible place away from a natural water source, the lower their chance of coming into contact with the Whites…eventually.
That led to another possibility, a way to kill them off en masse. Perhaps dumping bodies in the river would lead to polluting the water with so many diseases that the Whites who drank from it would die. But dead bodies contaminating a water source was a truism I’d learned from watching movies. Best not to put too much stock in that solution until I talked it over with Steph.
The sated Whites found comfortable spots to squat in the shade or lie on the porch. Some napped. We empty-stomached pack mules squatted where we were, in the dappled sunlight, and grew thirsty. With the shredded remains of the gaunt man buzzing with a black layer of flies, hunger didn’t cross my mind.
At some point, boredom and my own lack of sleep over the past weeks took its toll and I nodded off. When I woke again it was late in the afternoon, my stomach was rumbling, and the chain around my neck was being yanked. The free Whites were loitering and the leathery woman—Nancy, or so I unfairly labeled her—was wrangling her mules.
Once we were all on our feet, Nancy came around behind me with the gaunt man’s backpack and, in very much the same way I dealt with Russell, she dressed me in it, leaving forty pounds of weight on my shoulders. She next retrieved the dead man’s canvas bag, which she placed in my right hand. It weighed twenty or thirty pounds and was filled with every shiny-looking piece of jewelry that could be imagined. Most of it was costume junk, but it was weighty, nonetheless.
There was more whispering in ears between Nancy and the obese one—Bubbles was her new name—before anything else happened. But once we were organized, Nancy took hold of the long length of chain left where the gaunt man had been and led us across the street and down toward the river. We pack mules followed, of course. Obese Bubbles pranced along beside leathery Nancy. The free Whites who filled out the entourage came along.
We crossed over the front yard of one of the houses that I’d checked for a boat the night before. We weaved our way around the landscaping and then out across the backyard. Once at the river, all either squatted or lay on the bank and drank. I was more than reluctant at first but I knew I wouldn’t last through a blazing hot day under a burden of seventy pounds without water. So contaminated or not, I dropped to the grass and put my face to the river’s surface, sucking in as much water as my empty belly would hold.
Once full, I sat back and observed the others. I was a captive, but determined not to let despair eke its way in and make my situation anything but temporary. I was going to free myself. Of that, there was no doubt. I also decided that it was not captivation that I was suffering, rather tuition that I was paying. It was a chance to learn not only what I needed to know to get myself free, but to learn about my…enemy. And that’s what the Whites were, my enemy. They were not sick people, nor were they unfortunate people. What they were in the past had little to do with what they were now. They were semi-brain-dead, infected white monsters who would feed on my innards at the first chance. They did not deserve my empathy, nor my mercy. But the more I knew about them, the longer I was likely to live.
The Whites around me were all still nervously drinking. For them, it was a slow, difficult process. They’d each inch down to the water’s edge. Lips would touch the surface. Or, a single hand would reach in and scoop out handfuls while the other gripped the sod in white-knuckled fear. No feet, not even toes, ever touched the water. They were all afraid of it. At least it seemed so. That was good information to have, or at least good information to confirm. The girls on the riverboat had said as much to Murphy and me a few days before.
And what of Murphy? Was he still alive? Had the bullet bruised his brain, swelling it into bodily paralysis? Or was he awake and joking with Mandi? Thoughts for another hour, perhaps.
Once communal refreshment time was over, Nancy led us back across the lawn and over to the house’s wide, and thankfully shaded, back porch. Bubbles bounced along with us with her big white pet—Bluto—close behind. We came to a stop at the back of the house and Bubbles pulled Bluto close and whispered instructions into his ear. After, he stood up straight and looked at her with his blank face and dead eyes. Was he choosing to obey, or trying to interpret the instructions with his weak brain? Either way, after a few moments, he turned his attention to the back door, then ran toward it and slammed it with his massive shoulder. The door flew off of its hinges.
Bluto stepped back from the open doorway and Nancy pointed one of her long crab-leg fingers into the house. Without
hesitation, the free Whites ran inside and the sounds of rummaging and breaking echoed out. We pack mules stood in the shade and waited. None in the train seemed the least bit curious about what was going on in the house, or even curious about anything going on anywhere around them. They all stood and stared, awaiting instructions with empty eyes and closed mouths. Mimicking them, I tried to appear just as mentally passive and disinterested.
The first of the free Whites to come back out of the house was the one that I’d seen Nancy beating the night before for bringing back handfuls of silverware. He dropped to his knees in front of her, and unfortunately for him, raised two more handfuls of silverware. Oops.
Bubbles giggled like a warbling turkey.
Nancy’s furious bony hands slapped at the silverware and sent it clinking across the patio before going to work at slapping the White in the face five or six times. Once her anger was vented, she leaned over, spent a good while whispering through cupped hands into White’s ear before pointing back into the house. He hurried inside. For a moment of personal entertainment, I speculated about what he might come back with next.
While the Whites rummaged for no reason that I could see, Bubbles started to prance around the patio floor on her toes. Unfazed by the dancing, Nancy glared through the back door and into the dimness inside. Bluto watched Bubbles.
As discreetly as I could, I looked over the scattered flatware: forks, spoons, butter knives, standard dinner sets, nothing that would serve as a practical weapon. Still, anything was better than nothing, or so I told myself, not considering what consequences might attach themselves to a weapon found on my person. The nearest butter knife was eight or nine feet away. I’d likely not get a chance to sneak it into my bag, but patience could work in my favor.
Another White came out of the house. This one had handfuls of blue glass beads, the kind that might be at the bottom of clear glass vase with fake flowers. Nancy recognized the shiny beads for what they were and was none too shy to express her displeasure in the usual way.
After his beating, the White hurried back into the house.
The third White came out with the good stuff. Nancy made a frighteningly joyous shriek. Bubbles giggled her way over and the two of them squatted on the patio with animated fingers. The White dropped the booty at their feet and Nancy pulled his head close to her mouth and whispered into his ear. He hustled back inside.
Nancy and Bubbles set themselves to work, sorting with meticulous attention through the necklaces, earrings, watches, and rings, tossing some aside, trying on others, but building a little pile of keepers between them.
After the free Whites had ransacked the house to Nancy’s satisfaction, they squatted near the back wall of the patio and squabbled over a box of baking powder, a half can of Crisco, and some saltines, all of which was disappearing bite by bite into their mouths.
When it was all done, Nancy took her time in distributing the pieces between the backpacks and shopping bags that we pack mules carried.
When it was all done, we moved to the next house down the street and repeated the process. And that was the whole of my existence for the coming days as my energy level drained away in the incessant heat and my body withered from lack of food. I struggled each day to carry my growing load. I daydreamed about a chance to eat. I glared hatred at Nancy and Bubbles when they weren’t looking. Once, as I was glaring, I got caught. My reward for that was few a bony-handed slaps from Nancy.
No matter what I observed, no matter what I imagined, I couldn’t find a way to escape. The hopelessness of slavery started to leech away my resolve to be free.
Chapter 12
It was late in the afternoon on some day that I’d lost count of. The tuition that I was paying to learn about the infected had surpassed what I could afford. Having successfully dehumanized my captors in my mind, I was having a little trouble accepting that the brain-dead bunch of them still had me in their control. I was slipping into dark anger at myself, a state of mind that wouldn’t help me get free.
We were working our way up a gently sloping street away from the river. Wrinkly Nancy was leading us across an intersection with a four-way stop when the sound of a nearby gunshot to our left locked all of us in our tracks and turned every head. All sounds were stifled in our throats. Ever-busy fingers froze in anticipation. All eyes were wide. All faces pointed in one direction.
These infected knew exactly what food sounded like.
A second gunshot sent two of the free Whites running up the street and started a third’s feet to shuffling like a toddler’s pee pee dance. Only Bluto and the stupid one with the silverware fixation stayed put, eyes on Nancy and Bubbles, waiting for instructions.
Bubbles pranced up to Nancy and leaned her ear close to Nancy’s mouth. Nancy cupped her hands and whispered. Bubbles whispered back. Nancy told her one more thing and then threw a bony finger into the direction from which the gunshots had echoed. Bluto, the dumb one, and the pee pee dancer bolted up the street. Big, round Bubbles bounded in deer leaps after them.
Nancy yanked our chain and we followed at a fast walk.
We’d passed a dozen or so widely spaced houses, set back in the trees, when Nancy turned off of the asphalt and guided us toward a house where a dozen Whites were dragging their hands across the brick walls, pressing their faces to the windows, tripping over the shrubs, and stomping down the dead flowers.
Bluto and the dumb White were standing near the curb, looking around at the other houses, but mostly following the movement of Whites around this particular house.
Nancy took only a moment to assess the situation. She led us across the yard and found a suitable tree at a corner of the garage, looped the length of chain around it, and padlocked our tether in place.
I was stuck. Again.
If the Whites’ instincts were right, there were normal people inside with at least one gun, a gun they shouldn’t have fired. Outside, there were more than a dozen Whites, two of those were Smart Ones, and four could follow verbal commands.
While the feral Whites continued their futile activity around the house, Nancy gathered up her pets and took her time in getting in the ear of each to provide instructions. She had formulated a plan of attack and she was capable of conveying that plan, or so it appeared.
That was not good.
It was so not good.
I racked my brain for a way to warn the people inside the house. They were in more trouble than they knew. I couldn’t yell a warning; to do so would be certain death for me with no guarantee that those inside would hear it, let alone heed it.
Crap!
I shuffled my feet and urged my chain gang buddies around to the side of the house, out of sight of Nancy, Bubbles, and the other Whites who were starting to gather in a group near the front door. I looked for a window that I could tap on, but there was nothing. We were on the outer wall of the garage, but not far from a privacy fence made of vertical cedar boards, and not far from the gate in that fence.
With my free hand, I gripped the chain and pulled hard, trying to take out all of the slack. The Whites connected to me didn’t protest. They let me have my way, apparently willing to accept anyone’s rule. But in the end, the three- and four-foot lengths of chain between each of us didn’t add up to enough chain for me to lay a hand on the latch that opened the gate into the backyard.
I deflated, but immediately chastised myself. Could I just quit when normal people’s lives were at stake?
Giving them a warning was something that couldn’t be done. Pushing the limit of my imagination in that moment produced only unworkable ideas.
I turned my thoughts to escape. I put my bag down, knowing that Nancy would beat me if she saw that I had. But she was preoccupied. I put my effort back into tugging at the loop of chain around my neck and tried vainly to pull it up over my head. It was just too damned tight.
I knelt down and started rummaging through my shopping bag, looking for anything that might be used to pick the lock, not tha
t I had any experience with that. In fact, it was likely an endeavor borne from the desperation of having no other ideas.
A crash at the front of the house alerted me that Bluto had busted open the front door.
The Whites howled.
Time was up.
Escape was still on the table, but helping those folks in the house was not. That option had just expired.
There was a muffled scream from inside.
Lots of noise.
More gunfire. One shot. Two shots. Three.
More yelling, words I couldn’t make out.
A sound from the back of the house caught my attention.
More gunfire from inside.
Without warning, the cedar gate swung open. A girl and boy, late teens or early twenties rushed out, eyes wide with the surprise of seeing my surprised white face right in front of them.
The girl swerved to her right as she passed, keeping out of my arms’ reach. The guy, slow to react, lost his balance, teetered through a few running steps as he passed me, and tripped over his own feet, landing on his face. The girl was immediately bent over beside him, tugging his shirt to get him back to his feet. With the boy suddenly lying so close, the chain gang froze, as virus-slowed brains processed the good fortune that landed so very suddenly within reach. Before they could surge toward the boy, the girl’s eyes went wide with terror. Movement just past me inside the gate caught her attention.
I interpreted the fear as a warning and snapped my head around to look. A White with arms swimming in the air and mouth agape was running through.
Without a thought, I stuck a foot in front of the crazed White. He tripped and tumbled into a disoriented pile. While he was trying to figure out which way was up, I charged toward him. Too bad for him, he looked up just in time to catch my boot, in a full kick, right under his jaw. Bone cracked, blood gushed, and the White’s face dropped to the dirt.
