The damn horse ain’t even the right color for any sort of cowboy, either.
The stakes, though; that was what mattered most. Dale was about to lose the bet, and Clyde would have their last six-pack of beer all to himself. Once that came to fruition, they would celebrate Clyde-style. No more of this Doors crap. Clyde would fire up some good old eighties music and go on a drunken hunting spree. That was all either of them really wanted: alcohol, guns, and batteries to power their music. Finding new ways to test each other’s bravery was just gravy.
The moment came and Dale ditched the chair, pressing himself flat against the ground. It happened so fast Clyde found himself unprepared. A flash preceded the thunderous roar of explosives. One of their horses whinnied, kicking up its front legs and although Clyde wanted to check on their cargo, he found himself unable to draw his eyes from the real action.
Warm heat rushed over his body, making it difficult to see the aftermath once the explosion subsided. Chunks of meat that had been thrown in the air by the explosion now struck the surrounding ground, reminding Clyde of the old saying about it raining cats & dogs. A rather large piece of flesh slapped against Clyde’s mid-section, knocking the wind right out of him. Struggling for breath, the reality of what had happened finally settled in, and Clyde couldn’t help but worry about his brother’s well-being.
The smoke cleared and the mystery of his brother unfolded. Charred earth splayed out in a wide circle exactly as they had planned. Panning out around that ring of gutted ground was a slew of guts, everywhere he looked. With Dale waiting so long, some of that viscera ended up inside the circle, which had not been part of the plan. Still, all this destruction was beautiful. Whether Dale lost the bet or not, he had done it.
At the core of the circle laid Dale, stirring beneath a pile of flesh that had painted his back a gooey dark red. Clyde scanned the horizon and sure enough, that last little guy was still there. Only his entire lower half had disappeared. He was still on the move, though, coming for Dale.
Dale lifted himself to all fours and saw the little guy coming. When he stood, chunks of dead flesh rolled off his back. “That counts!”
Clyde ran to his brother, not offering any help. He had to make his point. “Nuh uh.”
“The deal was that I had to get them all.” He pointed at the one crawling toward them, its jaws snapping wildly. “I got that fucker, too.”
Clyde hated to admit it, but there was some truth to his brother’s words. This didn’t mean he was going to concede anything. Only that after some arguing he would agree to split the six-pack, three beers each. He suspected his brother would settle for that compromise.
“Whatever,” Clyde huffed. “Fine, it’s a draw.”
“A draw? Are you friggin’ kidding me?” Dale stomped about, as if unsure of how to display his emotions. Clyde thought he was doing a pretty good job. Then Dale lifted his gun and shot the crawling guy among the rubbish. “I hope yer joking.”
“It’s a draw, damn it.”
“Hell it is.” Dale found the stranger on the horse. “If it hadn’t been for Prince Valiant over there, I would’ve kilt them all.”
Clyde stiffened, standing his ground. “A draw!”
Dale regarded the man on the horse. “Dang it all to hell. Who the fuck are ya, anyway?”
The man on the horse looked too stunned by the explosion to say anything. Judging from his ride, the horse appeared equally shocked. That’s what he deserved, though, for interfering where he shouldn’t.
“You heard him.” Clyde lowered the barrel of his gun at the man. “Who the hell are ya, mister?”
The man on the horse didn’t answer right away. His focus was still on the circle of death. Clyde thought seeing all this, the way it must look, made the two of them look like rock stars. That was how they rolled, though, so the Cisco Kid here had better get his scrawny ass ready for the party soon or continue on his way.
“What the—” Clyde prompted him to answer. “Cat got yer tongue, son?”
“Sorry.” The man shook his head. “I’ve never seen anything quite like that before.”
Clyde kept his gun centered on the man. “What? Killin’ those bastards?”
“No. Using yourself as bait.”
“Bait? Is that what ya thought?”
Clyde supposed his brother hadn’t really thought of it that way. In the background, Morrison had begun singing another song. Clyde couldn’t make out what the song was because he was lost in his curiosity over this man’s thoughts. He knew the truth and responded to the notion for his brother. “Well, sure. He was bait.”
Dale shot him a glance.
“How the hell else would ya go and get so many to come after you?”
Dale agreed with a reluctant nod. The man on the horse seemed more taken by this than Clyde’s explanation, his head going back and forth between the brothers, perhaps unsure of what to think. To Clyde, their reasoning was nothing more than fact.
The man’s eyes left Dale, peering at Clyde. He looked tough for such an undernourished guy. “Are there others?”
CHAPTER 4
Above all else, against any odds, the most important thing in Sydney’s life was her son, Orson. She had given all of her life to him before the war and would give everything she had left to ensure he would continue living, even long after she was gone. If she had been a composer, he would be her symphony.
Kneeling before Orson, she remembered her pregnancy and how active he was inside her. Then his birth, it was hard not to picture him as that same baby, holding him in her arms for the very first time. Although it felt like yesterday, the boy was almost eleven. Because of his smarts and quick wit, she was inclined to be truthful and not make promises that she would make it home because she couldn’t predict that future. And she didn’t want to lie to him, not now, not ever. Besides, even if she did tell him everything would be okay, she didn’t think Orson would buy it. Despite this knowledge, she did lie.
“Mom, I know.”
“I know, Orson, but—”
“Mom, seriously?”
He shook the hair out of his eyes, reminding her so much of his father. It amazed her to bear witness to her son’s maturation process year after year. She blamed video games for his disregard to what she was about to do. In those games, if you lost a life, you just started with a new one. Plus, you always picked up right where you left off, as though nothing had happened. It was the nature of those games Orson had only glimpsed in his brief years of innocent childhood she worried had desensitized him to what was going on. That he might not fully understand what was at stake.
While Orson may not have fully grasped the truth, Sydney knew it well. Life wasn’t at all like video games. It was more like the games from her youth; when you lost your life, the game ended. Sure, you could always pump another quarter into the coin slot and start over, but you never got to continue where you left off, no matter how badly you wished you could. Back then, reaching a million points had meant something, hard work and dedication. Nowadays, a million points was something awarded after nailing a single trick in a skateboarding game.
Seeing Orson could never comprehend these thoughts, she nodded and kissed his cheek. “Mind Mrs. Egerton.”
Again, Orson agreed, obviously bothered by his mother’s attention.
Sydney leaned to one side and met the old woman eye to eye. She wanted Mrs. Egerton to know her demands, no mistakes about it. She trusted the ex-teacher because they had worked together for a long time. But try as she might, Sydney could not let go without making sure every loose end was tied. She supposed she would never trust anyone as much as she had Orson’s father and look where that faith had gotten her: Orson and her among a group of survivors, hiding out in a school.
Truth was, Sydney wasn’t so afraid for herself. She thought she had a pretty good chance of making it back to the school, unscathed or otherwise. If she didn’t, they could always lock the school up if they had to, and continue on with their lives, as
if nothing ever happened.
On every provision run so far one thing had always been certain; they hadn’t all made it back. As they drained supplies, each run required them to venture farther from the school, closer and closer to the major cities of Southern Illinois and eventually within their limits. The greater the distance, the more the odds were stacked against them. Larger towns seemed to attract packs, which also increased the odds someone would die. Among those she had doubts about on this trip was Christopher Miles.
He was a nice man, younger than she, but sweet. He had taken well to Orson, offered him friendship when there were few acquaintances. She was pretty sure she knew the real reason behind the young man’s kindness, though, especially by the way he looked her up and down. This was a detail she kept carefully hidden from Orson as she didn’t want the boy to end up jaded by his friend’s false persona. Besides, she had this growing certainty that Chris wouldn’t be around for much longer. That alone would be difficult enough for the boy to accept, let alone a man using a boy to get in his mother’s pants.
Her eyes fell upon the sleeve tattoo she had gotten inked back when she was a younger woman. The intention of the ornate koi fish depicted in the tattoo had once been a representation of her singularity. Seeing it now reminded her of something entirely different. Like the water surrounding those fish, keeping them safe, the tattoo held her to the responsibility of keeping her only son secure. She was the water to wet his gills, the current to bring him food, a body of water surrounding him and always keeping harm at bay. She would sacrifice anything for his safety and happiness.
She glanced at Chris. Concern filled her as to how far that responsibility might push her. What it might demand of her. She sheathed her sword over her right shoulder and holstered the two sawed-off shotguns at her hips. Strapping on weapons like these made her feel like such a badass. For that reason, she had to be careful, as one could get too conceited, thinking themselves impervious to the horrors in this new America. Truth told, she was the closest thing this diversified group of people had to badass. Even the men looked to her for instruction. That responsibility could be a burden, with Sydney realizing she was fast becoming the water to wet every gill in the pond.
The school was a good place for their small group to reside. There was plenty of reading material, a gymnasium to practice with their weapons, generators, a weight room to keep in shape, and more classrooms than necessary so that each family had their own to bunk in. It was almost like a tiny community trapped inside of the school. In total, they had only taken up most of the east wing. Chris had his own room, although he had often tried to upgrade to a room with a view, that of Sydney. She wouldn’t allow it, though. Couldn’t if she wanted to. Not even with her knowing how much Orson liked the man.
She hadn’t fully recovered from the problems between she and her husband. The thought he might still be out there further complicated matters. Until this detail that affected both her mind and heart found resolve, she could never think of loving another man.
Sydney refocused herself on the task at hand. They would be entering a nearby city where they would likely run into at least one pack. Some people—those who had seen all the movies and read all the books—referred to these monstrosities as zombies. But the infected were far from anything she had seen in any movie or read about in a book. Yes, they had died and come back to life. They would eat any creature they could; tear them limb from limb. But something else had happened to these monsters after their true human form died. Sydney likened it to a transformation of sorts, though she wasn’t sure how any of it was possible. The technical aspects of how the anatomy had changed was beyond her comprehension. Whatever had poisoned the water supply affected the human body in ways she never thought possible. The infection didn’t so much make their legs more muscular as it made them more powerful, so the infected became faster. They could jump long distances. It didn’t matter whether they stuck the landing or not, either, because they no longer seemed to feel any pain. She had seen several leap far enough into the air that landing the way they had, face first, their limbs splayed, would have hospitalized a regular human. But not these creatures. No, they took it all in stride, barely slowing them down.
The disheartening part was they had been in the middle of a Civil War within the United States. Many of these creatures still wore the tattered remains of the red or blue attire either force once required. Death never chooses sides. Who knew? If it hadn’t been for the tainted water, maybe the country could have made it through this intact. But things were never that easy.
Whoever found a way to contaminate the water must have had one goal in mind, to kill everyone. She had no idea if it had been one of the two sides, maybe someone who had come to the conclusion that if their party couldn’t win, no one would. Or maybe it had been terrorists, perhaps one of the neighboring countries taking advantage of the distraction. Several had already done just that, securing land masses and fencing them off from the rest of the world.
Lucky for Sydney, she always kept a good supply of bottled water at home. Whatever horror had been released into the water, whether it be a virus or agent of death, she had made it through okay. So had Orson. That was all that mattered.
Sydney observed the others ready to depart —Chris, an old man named Craig, the teenager Gavin. It was a rag-tag crew she would need to protect, so she quickly established a priority in case she needed to make a difficult choice. For some reason, no matter how things spun out, Chris always ended up at the bottom of that list. With this knowledge, she scuffed the dirty blonde mop of hair atop Orson’s head, and the group set out for Springfield.
CHAPTER 5
Both of the men’s expressions questioned him. There was no mistaking it as a pleasantry toward meeting another living, non-infected human, either. If nothing else, at least they were laughing. Well, it wasn’t exactly laughing, but more a playful snigger. That was when Allen first realized they were brothers, seeing the similarity in their teasing.
Through their dirt-streaked faces and the rags of clothing covered in filth ranging from dirt to fresh blood and guts, he could see the same shaped face, eyes and lips, how their ears stuck out just a little too far. They were twins. Each wore a red baseball cap with block patch letters that spelled out their names. It reminded Allen of the apparel a factory worker might wear in a large company. Neither of them wore a war uniform, which brought relief. That meant they likely didn’t care which party Allen once aligned himself with, should they ever discover his secret, as they didn’t seem like the voting types.
“Why would we need others?” Clyde asked.
The response floored Allen. Were they so content with each other’s companionship they needed nothing more? Allen was the complete opposite. He liked having company, even if they were a bit rough around the edges. It reminded him of the old days, before things got really bad. All the same, he supposed having a brother to suffer through this together counted for something. It wasn’t as if they had to worry about being clean cut anymore. There were no aspirations of picking up a woman and getting lucky anymore. Not now. And judging by their appearance, Allen suspected women hadn’t been part of the picture for some time now. These men were just a pair of good ol’ boys, looking to stir up trouble any time and any place they could, just like a couple of teenagers.
“Clyde?” the brother with ‘Dale’ written on his cap asked. He was the shorter of the two. “You think he’s talkin’ ‘bout Gollum?”
Clyde winced. Then, for a fraction of a second, his face brightened. “Shit yeah, I do!” His smile stretched from ear to ear, but Allen detected something uneasy in his eyes. “You wanna see Gollum, don’t ya?”
Allen wasn’t sure how to respond. He didn’t know what or who Gollum was, and it was hard to trust just anyone these days. Especially someone you just met. They hadn’t exactly made the best impression on him with what they had just done. Allen only knew of one Gollum the one from the Tolkien books he read as a teenager.
That didn’t make any more sense, so he dismissed it instantly. He pondered the word, the slang they used and sounded it out in his head.
Perhaps some mispronunciation of a foreign name.
Somehow, he doubted it. With a strong urge to relieve his curiosity, doing nothing to ease his apprehension, he said, “Sure.”
They led him around to the back of the small shack. There, nestled in a pile of loose brush, was an old traveling carnival carriage. The kind they used to tote the lions around in. Between the chipped red paint of the top and bottom of the cart, thick black bars ran the length of all sides. Overall, the carriage was in pretty good shape. Hand painted, recently applied gold lettering stretched across the top—likely the brothers’ doing—and read ‘Gollum.’ Allen identified a young man sitting inside, his back turned to them as one tended to be when they were caged like this.
“What the—” Allen approached with caution.
“Go on,” Dale said.
Allen felt his meaty hand on his back, urging him onward. Both he and Clyde chuckled quietly, poking him in the back to the point it became bothersome.
Allen didn’t feel so easy about any of this. He didn’t like the idea of caging someone, let alone forcing someone else to go check things out. Or poking his back, and all the laughter. It reminded Allen of his childhood, back when his friends dared him to ask a girl out, and they kept giggling and poking him into submission. Yes, that had turned out all right, but if Allen knew anything, it was there were no guarantees in life. He didn’t know either of these men from anyone else, so why should he trust them? And this scene, what he was experiencing, all of it felt so…surreal.
Still, Allen moved closer, trying to remind himself these were the sort of men that didn’t know better. He could smell the intoxication on their breath, which confirmed this notion. If there was someone else in their group, perhaps someone with more sensibility, Allen wanted to meet them. Maybe they could join forces, as Allen hadn’t slept well in this latest long stretch that he had been alone.
Pack Animals [An Undead Post-Apocalypse Thriller] Page 2