Anyway, from there, we were able to work our way farther south to the 201, which was a four-lane, divided highway that was mostly deserted. We drove that all the way back to the 80, which put us back on our intended route.
Along the way, on rare occasions, we saw single cars or trucks moving off in the distance, but we never encountered any living people outside of our own group.
All this told me was there were lots and lots of dead people. The hairballs told the story. The tumbleweaves.
By the time the road began turning north, the temperature dropped even more as the sky thickened and the light snow continued to fall, more of it sticking to the ground now.
We drove over 140 miles in that segment, finding clear roadways after getting clear of Salt Lake City. About 22 miles after we passed the simple white reflective sign with blue letters that read, WELCOME TO NEVADA – THE SILVER STATE, we drove right on by the exit for the town of Shafter, which was nowhere in sight.
We didn’t need to be driving a 40-mile round trip to top off our tanks.
Instead, a place called Oasis seemed to hold more promise. As we all veered onto the onramp, with the clock just ticking past 3:00 PM, the ham radio between Lilly’s knees came to life.
“Lilly Baxter?” the voice said.
“Is this Tala?” she said, pressing the transmit button.
“Yes. We are checking on your status. Are you making your way here?”
“We are,” said Lilly. “Around 460 miles to go.”
“You must hurry,” said the voice. It wasn’t an order; it was a fact.
“We’re doing the best we can,” said my sister. “We plan to drive straight through. No more stops.”
“So you will be here within eight hours?”
“We’ll need another fill-up between where we are and where you are, but we’ll top off the cans in our vehicles. That should get us there. Are you waiting at the reservation?”
“That is why I am reaching out to you. If you have a map, find the intersection of Wolverine Lane and Rattlesnake Creek Road. It is north of Alturas, and they are unpaved roads. When you reach the fork, go north on Rattlesnake Creek. We will meet you where it ends.”
“Lilly,” I sang. “Sounds remote and dangerous. How do we know we can trust her?”
“Because I’m a good judge of character even over the radio,” she quipped. “If what she told us is true, we don’t have much of a choice but to turn around and go home. Then nothing changes.”
I heard a little sizzle in my brain as I tried to formulate an argument, but then Georgie spoke up.
“She’s right. If we turn around, all this was for nothing. I’m willing, but let’s try to reach Lebanon soon. I need to know if they were able to slow that horde or divert them.”
“Fair enough,” I said. I knew in my heart that whatever was happening back at our encampment, there wasn’t a damned thing we could do about it. We were days out with a lot of meanness between us and them. Even if we turned around now, we could arrive to a zombie smorgasbord.
“Is the road in good shape?” asked Lilly.
“I have not been there in years,” said Tala. “But there was a substantial ranch nearby long ago, and if it still exists, they would have kept the road leading to Rattlesnake Creek maintained. Even with the months of neglect since the black rain, it should still be passable.”
“Why would they maintain the road?” asked Lilly.
Tala answered immediately. “I saw pumping equipment there when my father and I set out in our boat. It is their water source.”
“We’ll hope to see you before midnight,” said Lilly. “Radio back if there’s no way through.”
“Please hurry,” she said. “I do not know where my father is. He knows I am gone by now, and he will have his people count the bodies of the Henomawi he killed. He knew exactly how many of them came to our reservation, so he will realize I have escaped with two of them.”
“She sure gives her dad a lot of credit. Thought he was 200 years old,” I said. “Shouldn’t a little dementia set in by now?”
Lilly didn’t repeat my concerns. I didn’t blame her.
“We’re coming,” said Lilly. “Wait for us.”
Ω
Qaletaqa walked in the center of the dirt road, his army of the living and the dead over 3,000 strong behind him. The skin paste the young chief had created was the final piece to his domination of the continent.
The ancient Hintoka chief – once from the now almost-extinct Henomawi Tribe – wore a long, feathered headdress he had made himself over seventy-five years before, using eagle and hawk feathers died red and white, green and blue. It draped down to his middle back, over his leather tunic.
He wore moccasins he had made from deer hide, and the wool lining cushioned his feet as he walked.
Behind him, his people were smeared with the paste made of skinwalkers and earth. Many of them rode horses, also covered with the paste, and behind them were thousands of the undead army he had always intended to lead alone.
He did not need any such coating to avoid the skinwalkers. The transformation he had undergone so many years before had changed far more than just his metabolism; he was strong, tireless … and now, most importantly, he could walk alongside the dead men and women without attracting their attention.
While he never planned to bring his warriors with him, that was only because something had happened that now troubled him; some of the text within the book did not even look familiar.
He had copied all of it from the walls of the deep cavern north of the Henomawi Reservation. True, some of the words were in languages from other ancient tribes, but his recollection was that he had deciphered all of it.
When the young chief, Magi Silver Bolt, brought the book to him and he had taken it in his hands, it was as though an electrical charge ran through him.
Hours before he ordered his guests’ sleeping quarters set ablaze, he recalled turning the brittle, yellowed pages of the old text, and being surprised at how much was written there – in his own hand – that he did not recall.
That included the formulation for the protective skin paste. If he had known what the words said so many years ago, he had forgotten it.
Forgotten. Qaletaqa had memories from 150 years ago; for him to forget anything was worrisome. It meant the passing years would eventually take him.
This raised a great concern; even when the young man had excitedly told him about the skinwalker paste, it still did not ring familiar.
Then he saw it in the book, and now he was able to read and understand the words; the instructions.
So now his warriors were able to accompany him; that was good. He had Silver Bolt to thank. Without the paste, Qaletaqa would have left his people safely behind the walls of the Hintoka Reservation while he led his army of skinwalkers out to dominate the remaining land.
It would be easier with guns as well as the dead army.
Comply and join us, or die at the hands and teeth of my undead army, or by the swords, spears and guns of my warriors.
When it was all over, and the only living, breathing people who remained were a part of the new Hintoka Tribe, he would use his knowledge – knowledge that only he had – to destroy the dead.
They marched forward, only pausing to rest long enough for his people to regain their strength. Stopping for no more than two hours at a time, they grew accustomed to sleeping almost on command. Some of the dead milled about, but with gunfire from the front of the caravan of living and dead, they would fall in line.
With every mile and each encounter with more of the dead, they, too, would fall in behind them, joining their army. The living, if unable to identify themselves as the pure, would perish and become yet another member of his forces.
It would be their fate, living or dead.
Tala’s absence troubled him. She went missing after he had burned the teepees with the Henomawi people inside, and it was not coincidence, he knew. Shortly after, he had disco
vered the ancient book was also gone.
Besides the young chief, only Tala knew of its significance, of its history. If it was Magi Silver Bolt who asked her to find it, Qaletaqa might still have the advantage.
But if Tala was the one who thought to take the text, she would have only one hope; one destination in mind.
That is where she will go.
The wind blew toward the east, and as the sky grew darker in the settling dusk, tufts of hair danced at his feet, rolling ahead of them as a harbinger of their impending arrival.
Qaletaqa smiled.
His army grew by the mile.
Ω
CHAPTER TWENTY-0NE
Lebanon, Kansas
The many explosions and reports of automatic and semi-automatic gunfire echoing in the far distance gave Roxy hope, but at the same time, it terrified her.
Liam lay between her and Terry, eyes closed, saying nothing. He seemed to sense that things were not looking good, and like everybody else, he also appeared aware that the refugees of Lebanon were more at risk with their best fighters on the road.
Terry sat up while the other two pretended to sleep.
Roxy could occasionally hear a click here and a snap here as Terry double-checked his weapon again and again to make sure he was ready in case evil presented itself at their door.
She had taken first shift, but many others were awake and armed, too. The remaining kids of the Nacogdoche were out there, and the explosives experts that had gone out well beyond where they now patrolled – the last line of defense into Lebanon.
The idiots who’d blown the explosives they’d found and were largely responsible for drawing the enormous horde so near – fled the camp as soon as they’d realized what they’d done, further proving their cowardice and lack of intelligence.
Unfortunately, Ken and Sarge were doing their best to divert them away from Lebanon and their paltry defenses with the rest of the confiscated munitions, but the horde was much bigger than anyone had anticipated at first.
The doors of the auditorium would not hold long if thousands were to press against them. There would be no escaping the onslaught of the dead.
The more distant the heavy explosions sounded, the better Roxy felt, but that was the problem; they weren’t getting farther away. They seemed to be getting closer. A low rumbling sound had begun to settle in her ears, like a distant stampede.
It could be anything, she said to herself. This made sense, and you could tell yourself anything for a while if it made you feel better.
In a world without the noises of industry, it really could be a distant diesel truck, its low, vibrating engine traveling for miles through a now silent land.
But the truck’s engine would not have sounded for so long. Roxy stood.
“What are you doing?” asked Terry, his voice a harsh whisper.
“What’s going on?” Liam’s voice came.
“Just stay together, stay right here and be alert,” said Roxy. “You hear that?”
Terry shook his head. “Hear what? I’m going bonkers. I wish Cole and your mom were back.”
“You may not be going bonkers,” she said. “That’s my point. There’s this low resonance that’s starting to get me worried.”
“Is it … them?” asked Liam. “The monsters?”
“It could be, sweetie,” said Roxy.
“So what are you going to do about it?” asked Terry.
“Just … I don’t know!” said Roxy, exasperated. “I just feel like we need to do something! I’ll be right back.”
She stormed off, feeling irritated. The floors were lined with people, but they’d begun to use some small orange cones they’d found as lane dividers so people could get in and out if they needed to relieve themselves or get supplies.
Everyone in the camp had chosen to move back to the auditorium once news of the horde’s trajectory had made its way around. It would be safer to have all of the community in one defensible location.
Roxy made her way to the wall, then looked up. She pulled the powerful LED flashlight out of her pocket and aimed it toward the ceiling.
The object that had piqued her interest was about twenty or so feet up. There was a catwalk up there that Roxy had noticed earlier, but she hadn’t seen the way to access it. The entire wall area was a coned-off walkway, and it was still clear. She moved to the south end of the building, stepping around the sleeping, post-apocalyptic refugees of the United States, and peered up.
The catwalk was in the dead center, but it branched off in 90-degree walkways that extended east and west in three different places; each extension was designed to access the metal halide light fixtures that once lit the place up like daylight.
While the dark lights were no longer in danger of burning out – there was no power and nobody would care if they did – the catwalks were interesting. They were high above floor level, and they looked solid. A whole lot of people could get up there if things went south.
Now at the south wall, Roxy shone the flashlight high up, looking for some way to access the catwalk.
Nothing.
Hmm. Maybe they used a little boom truck or something, she thought.
Not willing to give up yet, she walked around the building and continued down on the east side, heading north. Her tennis-shoed feet chirped on the hardwood as she walked, and she looked over at Terry who was following her every move with his eyes. He scrunched his face up and shrugged, as if to ask, “What are you doing? Are you a hall-walker now?”
That’s what they used to call crazy people.
In private company.
She shrugged back, then pointed subtly up at the catwalk. Terry’s eyes followed, but when he looked back at her, his eyes did not register her discovery.
When she reached the north wall, she saw some definition there; about two feet up was a white rectangular box with a latch. It was not locked, but there was a metal tag made of thin wire running through a hasp.
It has to be a ladder, she thought. She followed it up the wall with her eyes, but it became a chute of sorts when it got higher. That made sense. A safety precaution if you were to fall backward while climbing.
Thank you, OSHA. If not for the cover over the ladder and that chute, everyone would have noticed it by now, and several people would be sleeping up there.
It didn’t hurt that while Micky had been there, he kept people focused and treated the room like it was his house.
But Micky was gone, and this damned house belonged to her now. At least until he got back.
She approached the tag in the hasp; it was tiny. A six-inch long screwdriver would snap the wire.
“Excuse me,” came a droll voice.
She looked down. A woman was trying to tug the corner of a blanket from under her foot. She said, “Oh, I’m sorry.” Lifting her foot, she started to return to her bedroll.
“What you lookin’ at?” the woman said. She had greasy, dark hair and sunken bags beneath her eyes. Her skin was pale – so gaunt she looked like death warmed over – and she looked up with her eyes only, as if too exhausted to lift her head.
“Nothing,” said Roxy. “I was just bored.”
“I been lookin’ at that, too,” the lady said. “What is it?”
“It’s locked off, so probably something we’re not supposed to get into. Learned that as a little girl.”
“Yeah, but we still got into it, huh?” she said, her mouth turning into a smile.
“Yeah,” said Roxy, taking the chance and turning her flashlight on again, pointing it up to where she could now see the tunnel ladder connected with the center catwalk. “We sure did what we wanted. No matter how great our parents were.”
With a nod, the woman lowered her head again, and that was when she peered beneath the blanket beside her. There was a child there; Roxy hadn’t recognized her, which meant she was one of the newer arrivals.
It was funny in a way, because the call was for fighters to come and join Micky Rode and others wh
o intended to find the Indian Wattana. The majority of those who showed up didn’t have a fighting skill in them, or the desire to learn. They were seeking refuge and protection.
The child was maybe four years old, a little boy. “What’s your son’s name?” asked Roxy.
“Gabriel,” she said. “Gabe. He’s a brave boy.”
“He’s a tired boy,” said Roxy. “And he’s lucky he has you to protect him.”
Rather than respond, the woman nuzzled into her child and pulled the covers back over her. It was cold inside the big building, only the body heat of the many others providing warmth.
Satisfied she could access the stairs fast with a screwdriver or a narrow knife blade, Roxy hurried back along one of the center walkways and plopped down beside Terry and Liam.
“Finally!” Terry huffed. “You’re my only bff now, so I’d appreciate it if you’d check out before you leave.”
“What about me?” asked Liam.
“You, too,” said Terry.
Roxy said, “I said goodbye before I went.”
“I hear it now,” Liam said.
“I know,” whispered Roxy. “Guys, it can only be them. It’s their feet. Thousands of them, moving.”
“Towards us?” asked Liam.
“I don’t know. I think so. Does anyone else seem worried?”
Terry shrugged. “Everyone seems worried to me all the time. Hell, I’m worried all the time.”
“If more people were asleep, I know where we’d go,” Roxy said. “As it is, I think we need to quietly gather supplies.”
“Are we leaving?” asked Liam.
“No. Did you see where I was inspecting over there?” She pointed.
Terry and Liam both stretched their necks to get a look over the crowd. “That thing running up the wall?” asked Terry.
“Yes,” she said. “And see that catwalk up there?” She flicked on her flashlight and shone it up.
“Yes … ” they said together.
“Why do they call it a catwalk?” asked Liam. “Do cats walk up there?”
Judgement Page 20
