“Well, I know how to deal with them just fine, thank you.”
Levi regarded him across the dancing flames of the campfire. “Can I ask you a question, Captain?”
Gentry shrugged the thick shoulders. “Sure, go ahead.”
“What happened to the five men who stuck with you after the other six went their own way?”
Frank grinned. A hard edge of cruelty laced his smirk. “Let’s just say we had a bit of a misunderstanding about who was in command. They thought I was leading them down a wrong path, putting them into dangerous situations, as they put it.”
“And they just up and left?”
The soldier’s grin widened. “No, I left them. Lying in their blankets with their throats slashed.”
Kate gasped. “You’re joking, aren’t you?”
“No, ma’am. I never joke. The good Lord failed to bless me with a sense of humor. That’s why I take things to heart so much. Anyone who travels with me better understand that.”
Nell turned and looked at Levi. Did he just threaten us? her eyes asked.
Her husband shrugged slightly, but said nothing. That was one thing that irked Nell about Levi. Sometimes he was like a book with the pages glued shut—hard to read.
“I reckon we’d better get to sleep if we’re heading for Asheville tomorrow,” the grunt told them. He tossed his last crumpled can into the darkness. “I’ll take the watch until one o’clock. Are you up to taking the second one, Avery?”
The boy grinned like a possum in a landfill. “Yes, sir. Locked and loaded!”
As the others prepared their blankets and sleeping bags, Nell started toward the edge of the clearing toward the woods.
“Where are you going, babe?” Levi asked her.
“My before-bed bathroom break,” she told him. “This old bladder ain’t what it used to be.”
“Want me to come along?”
“I’ll be okay.” She took the .357 Magnum from where it lay on top of her bedroll. “I’ll tote this, just in case I come across a zombie squirrel or something.”
“Just holler if you need me,” he said as he prepared their beds for the night.
Nell made her way carefully into the dark thicket, her feet swishing through the brittle autumn leaves. She stopped about fifty feet from the glow of the campsite, dropped her drawers, and did her business. As she was getting up, she suddenly spotted a tiny, red glow from no less than twelve feet away. Startled, she cocked the big revolver and leveled it at the bud of smoldering ash.
“Little mama with a big gun,” came a familiar voice.
Nell relaxed her aim a bit, but didn’t uncock her gun. “What are you? A dad-blamed peeping tom?”
Frank Gentry inhaled, causing the end of his cigarette to flair and illuminate his broad face. “If I wanted to lay eyes on female ass, I wouldn’t pick one with stretch marks and wrinkles.”
“A real charmer, ain’t you?” Nell stood her ground, although she couldn’t help but shudder. She told herself that it was the chill of the evening, but she knew she was just lying to herself. “What do you want?”
“Just wanted to ask a question.”
“Then ask it.”
The soldier exhaled and Nell caught the strong scent of tobacco. Unfiltered Camels, like her late father used to chain-smoke. “Why do you allow it?”
“Allow what?”
“Allow that nigger to lay hose to your daughter, that’s what.”
Nell bristled. “As far as I know, he hasn’t. Besides, whatever they have together, they have my blessing. Tyrone is a good man.”
“But he’s a black man,” Frank told her flatly. “And that ain’t acceptable.”
Nell attempted to control her anger, but the emotion edged her words like a razor. “Mister, there are only two kinds of folks walking the earth today… the living and the dead. And as long as they’re living, they’re good enough for my little girl. Except maybe the likes of you.”
The grunt chuckled and took a step forward. “A little hellcat, ain’t you? Maybe it’s you who needs the hose laid to her.”
Nell’s heart pounded in her chest, but the barrel of the Magnum was unwavering. “Unless you want a hole in your belly big enough to drive that Humvee through, I suggest you step on back. You don’t want that, do you? I’m capable of obliging you. Maybe even a little eager.”
Frank laughed, but there was little humor to the sound. “I see you are. Didn’t mean any harm, Mrs. Hobbs. Just wanted to make my opinion known about who should and shouldn’t be laying hands upon your daughter.”
“I reckon that’s her business… and not mine or yours.” Nell motioned with the muzzle of her gun. “You go on ahead. I’ll follow.”
Frank stubbed his cigarette on the trunk of a tree and tossed the butt away. “Yes, ma’am.”
A moment later, the two stepped back into the clearing. The soldier returned to his makeshift shelter and Nell joined her husband at the far edge of the camp.
Levi’s eyes hardened. “What was he doing out there?”
“Being an asshole,” his wife told him. “We need to be shed of him, Levi. As soon as possible. He’s a dangerous man.”
“He did save our skins back yonder at that bridge,” he reminded her.
Nell nestled into the patchwork quilt Levi had laid out for them. “Yeah and a shark might save a dolphin from barracudas… until it gets mean-ass hungry.”
“Okay, this is how it works,” Frank said, talking to Billy Tauchee as though he was a four-year-old rather than a grown man. “We’re going in here and taking whatever we can find. There’s precious little left to loot these days, but anything is better than nothing. If we come across any zombies—and I know they’re around, because there’s half-a-dozen buzzards perched on the edge of the roof—we’ll try to sneak past them. No need to get them all riled up and risk the chance of getting bitten.”
The Cherokee regarded him impassively. “I know the drill. I’ve done it plenty of times before.”
The soldier smirked and spat on the sidewalk. “Oh, have you? Well, then, we won’t be having any problems, now will we?”
Billy looked down and checked the loads in his .41 Magnum. “Just open the door and let’s get this over with.”
The Winn-Dixie was located in a little strip mall in the rural town of Fletcher, twenty-five miles south of Asheville. There was a Subway, a beauty salon called A Cut Above, and a combination vintage vinyl & comic book shop called The Great Escape. The grocery store was smack dab in the middle. The others were scouting various places along the main stretch for supplies—a Rite Aid drugstore, a Dairy Queen, and a True Value hardware store.
Billy and Frank moved cautiously through the open entrance of the store, dodging abandoned shopping carts in the outer foyer. Past a roll of gumball machines and a community bulletin board, the building opened up into the sprawling expanse of the store itself. The soldier lifted the butt of his Armalite to one shoulder, sighting down the barrel, and waved for his looting partner to follow. They made their way down a narrow checkout lane, past wire racks that had once held impulse-buy items like candy bars, gum, and women’s magazines. Billy found a Kit Kat and a Snickers bar that had been overlooked by previous marauders and stuck them in his jacket pocket to take back to Jessie. Frank spotted a Slim Jim lying on the linoleum floor and scooped it up, placing it in a hip pocket for later.
Both carried flashlights, but neither put them to use. They let their eyes adjust to the gloom and made their way from left to right, checking the aisles as they went. It soon became apparent that their visit might end up being fruitless. The shelves of each aisle had been stripped of product, leaving only a few empty boxes scattered here and there.
Billy motioned toward the floor. The linoleum was covered with a thin layer of dust. The impressions of haphazard footprints showed clearly. “Fresh,” he whispered. “Someone’s in here. Biters from the way their prints shuffle and slide.”
Frank grunted softly and nodded. He cocked
his head and listened. “I hear them. A couple of aisles down. Let’s try to get past them without drawing their attention.”
Together, they made their way quietly toward the left side of the store. The soft noises of shuffling feet came from Aisle 10, which had once boasted breakfast cereal, pancake mix, and Pop-Tarts. They approached the open end of the aisle and paused. They could hear the ragged, phlegmy breathing of more than a few Biters who congregated in the narrow passageway of empty metal shelving.
Frank motioned for Billy to cross first. The Indian nodded and, gripping the Smith & Wesson in a two-fisted hold, stepped across. He turned for a moment and looked down the aisle way. The soft sounds of milling feet had been deceiving. He had expected five or six Biters to occupy the aisle. Instead, there were twelve to fifteen. Their backs were to them as some shuffled down the aisle and others stood in place, wavering unsteadily back and forth.
Billy was nearly to the empty endcap of the next aisle, when the sole of a combat boot forcefully landed in the small of his back, sending him stumbling into the cereal aisle and landing on his knees on the floor. So jolting was the unexpected blow that his revolver slipped from his grasp. It bounced on the floor once and slid amid the Biters’ milling feet.
Frank Gentry laughed behind him. “Bon Appétit, hive-heads. I brought you some red meat to chew on.”
At the clatter of the fallen gun and the sound of the soldier’s voice, the Biters turned sluggishly and regarded the kneeling man before them. At the sight of Billy, their dull, lusterless eyes flared into a rapid mixture of conflicting emotion—hunger, animosity, and the desire to attack and consume. As one, they shuffled toward him.
“Oh shit!” muttered the Cherokee. As the distance between him and the Biters diminished—fifteen feet, then ten, then eight—he resisted the urge to rise to his feet. Instead, he chose to do just the opposite. With a lurch, he pushed to the rear and fell flat on his back.
Billy had noticed for quite some time that Biters weren’t the most stable creatures when it came to equilibrium. Apparently, the tiny black parasites that brought them to such a horrid and sorry state also ravaged the canals of the inner ear system and totally trashed their sense of balance. If a Biter tried to stoop or bend down, they would lose their footing and fall nine times out of ten. And when they fell, they had a hell of a time getting back up. Some of the heavier ones were like turtles on their backs, legs and arms flailing, unable to regain a standing position.
He waited until the crowd of Biters reached him, then lashed out with his feet. Billy struck some in their brittle, calcium-deprived kneecaps, bringing them down, while others he hooked by the ankles with the crook of his insteps and swept them off their feet. One kick nailed a Biter in a county deputy’s uniform squarely in the nuts. What had once served as his testicles ruptured upon impact, darkening the crotch of his britches and running in dark rivulets down the legs of his pants.
As the zombies dropped to the floor, one at a time, Billy reached to the snap pouch on his belt and retrieved a folding knife—a six-inch Buck blade with a black rubberized handle. It had a small silver arrowhead set in the grip. He flipped onto his stomach and went to work. The blade was thick and the point wickedly sharp. It slid easily into the gelatinous pits of eye sockets and through the thin walls of temple bone as Billy worked the knife in a circular motion, scrambling the infected brains within until they grew permanently still. As he withdrew the blade, a thick gorge of dark blood and tissue teaming with tiny black parasites spurted from the wounds. Billy dodged the infected fluid the best he could and wiped the refuse from the blade on the Biter’s clothing before turning to another one.
A Biter wearing a red Winn-Dixie manager’s vest with a tag that read STAN stepped over Billy and stumbled toward Frank. His black teeth gnashed and his bloodshot eyes burnt with hunger and hatred.
“You’re going the wrong way, Stan,” the soldier said. He flipped his AR-18 and slammed the butt of the rifle into the zombie’s forehead. The Biter’s head folded inward like an over-ripened cantaloupe. “The chow line is over there.”
Billy scrambled over convulsing bodies as five Biters reached down toward him, blackened fingernails pulling at the material of his jacket. The Cherokee found his revolver and brought it up, firing until the cylinder was depleted. The interior of the store echoed with the roar of the .41 Magnum and the last five dropped in their tracks, Billy rose to his feet, stumbling backward, as a flood of ruptured brains, dark blood, and thousands of tiny black bugs burst from their ruined heads.
“You son of a bitch!” he said, turning toward Frank. His grip tightened on the handle of his folding knife.
“It was just a joke, Tonto,” the soldier said, still laughing. “But I gotta give it to you… you took care of the situation pretty damn good.”
Billy’s dark eyes narrowed. He took a step toward Frank… then stopped when Levi, Avery, and Jem rushed into the store.
“What happened?” asked Levi. “We heard gunfire.”
Frank winked at the Indian, then his face instantly transformed into a mask of indignation. “This little piece of shit nearly got us killed!” the captain exclaimed. “Lead us straight into an aisle of freaking zombies. Then he froze up and pissed his pants, leaving me to do all the dirty work. Nearly got us both killed—or worse—the little red-skinned bastard!” Then he shouldered his rifle and left the store.
Levi and his sons stared at Billy Tauchee for a long moment. “Is he right?” asked Levi. “Is that what happened?”
The Cherokee folded his knife and slipped it back into the pouch on his belt. “I reckon you’re going to believe whatever you have a mind to,” Billy said. Then he walked past the three and left the shadowy interior of the Winn-Dixie.
Avery snorted in disgust and shook his head. “That little Indian’s sort of a pussy, ain’t he?”
Levi turned and watched through the plate-glass window as Billy walked slowly across the abandoned parking lot. “Don’t sell him short, boys. There’s something about that man we don’t know about… something he doesn’t want us to know. And we won’t know the truth until he’s good and ready to tell us.”
Chapter 22
Enolia swished the creek water around in the white Styrofoam cup five times before she was satisfied that the stream wasn’t contaminated. The tell-tale sign of tiny black specks swimming in erratic patterns was absent. Just clear, cool spring water and nothing more.
Looking back up the wooded hillside and, seeing no one is sight, she relaxed and disrobed. It had been three days since she had bathed. It was difficult to find the time and opportunity to simply keep clean when you were constantly on the move. Besides, seventy-five percent of most creeks, rivers, and wells they had come across since leaving Cherokee had proven to be contaminated by the tiny, black parasites. She was lucky that this creek, at least, hadn’t yet been infested.
She laid her clothes across a mossy log and crouched on a smooth, flat slab of stone that jutted over the trickling water. The sound of the current over the creek stones was melodic, almost musical. She closed her eyes and remembered how she and her grandmother had spent their afternoons when she was a small girl, fishing on the banks of the Oconaluftee River back home. She drove the memory quickly away though when the final image of her beloved elisi flashed through her mind, how she had died badly… then returned to life as one of them.
Enolia took a wash cloth and a bottle of body wash from a backpack. She dipped the cloth into the stream and wrung away the excess, then applied a small drop of the soap. Where such things had once been necessities, they were now luxuries. She was careful to use only enough to do the job; there was little chance of finding any more in the near future. Their last few raids of drugstores and supermarkets had produced bottles of shampoo, body wash, and other toiletry items that been full of the nasty parasites. Apparently, they had become contaminated during the manufacturing process shortly before the worldwide infestation had taken place.
She began
to wash, starting with her face and throat, and then making her way toward her shoulders and chest. When the cool cloth reached her engorged breasts, her dark nipples hardened. Her skin stippled with goosebumps and a sexual thrill shot through her, curling her toes in the cold creek. Naughty girl, she scolded herself. None of that until after the baby is born.
The cloth continued to the swell of her belly. When it touched the taut brown skin, the baby jumped. Enolia smiled. “You’re going to be a big boy, aren’t you?” she whispered. “You’ll be strong and brave, like your daddy.” Then her smile lost its gentle cheer. Let’s just hope that you don’t follow the same paths as your father once did, she thought grimly.
She was about to finish her bath, when a hand, hot and coarse, squeezed the nape of her neck, bearing her forcefully to her hands and knees on the stone slab. Lenora’s heart thundered in her chest. She knew who it was before he even spoke.
“We’re gonna do this fast and very quietly,” Frank Gentry’s voice rasped harshly in her right ear. “So put your nose to that stone, give me what I want, and you won’t get hurt.”
“Please… don’t,” she protested, trying not to whimper, but failing miserably. “I… I’m pregnant.”
The soldier laughed. “Frankly, I can’t get enough of squaws with papooses in their tepee. Makes it nice and tight in there.”
Enolia closed her eyes and shuddered as she heard the sound of a zipper disengaging. Something firm and blunt rubbed against her left buttock and she felt the fingers of his free hand probe along her opening, as though testing the waters. The man grunted with satisfaction. “Doesn’t look like I’ll have any trouble here.”
The woman recalled the sensual thoughts that had overcome her earlier and felt ashamed, as though her wetness was an invitation for what was to come.
Her grandmother’s voice came again, from an intimate talk they had when she was twelve. If a man tries to lie with you and you not wanting him to, you clench up tighter than a mussel shell. Bar the door and refuse to let him in. Enolia didn’t think that was going to work with Gentry. He was going to do what he intended to do.
The Buzzard Zone Page 16