Chet retreats.
“Fuck, Ethan. It took me forever to find it. Now it’s gone.” Disappointed, Serena storms from the room, not bothering to dress.
“I see you found the infirmary.”
She flips him off as she storms away.
“How much food do you have, Chet?”
“I-I-I…”
“I’m going to cut your left nut off.” Ethan drops the gun barrel, smashing the tip against the shrunken sack, preventing its retreat inside Chet. “I thought you weren’t afraid of me.”
“You’ve got a gun against my dick.”
“I don’t much care for rapists. At my camp, we castrate them.”
“I don’t rape no women here.”
“Don’t spilt hairs. They may come willing, but they do so not by choice. And it doesn’t matter, I still want to castrate you for hoarding all this food.”
“If I give you all I got, will you leave my junk alone?”
“I want the location of the store you get it from, too.”
“Sure.”
“You gave up your meal ticket awful quick.”
“It’s depleted. My last few trips, I was trying to find another source.”
“Then get me a semi-truck with a flatbed trailer.”
“I know where there are a few, but they don’t have much gas.”
“Between them, get all the gas possible.”
“Do I get to tagalong?” Chet begs.
“Yes. I’ve got just the job at camp for you. Grayson will enjoy working your ass.”
“IS IT JUST going to be you and Aiden out here?” Simon removes the cooler from the back of his Jeep. As he places it on the ground, the undead inside the cargo trailers bounce against the walls, unable to follow the noise of the aftershocks.
“Wanikiya has to evaluate my team, but they proved themselves in the defense of Acheron.” Grayson, dark as midnight, arms covered in prison gang tattoos, towers over Simon.
“They did for a bunch of escaped cons. Wanikiya will make a wise determination about their entry. If he allows them to remain inside the fence, you’ll be more than a man short with Tony gone with Danziger.”
“You don’t like me much, do you, Chief?”
“Ethan put his faith in you. And I’ve mine in him. What you do out here’s important.”
“Beats prison,” Grayson says.
Aiden’s mouth gapes.
“Shut it, kid, you’re letting flies in.”
“What are we guarding?” Aiden asks.
“We do more than guard. We wrangle the undead who approach the east side,” Grayson says.
“Wrangle?”
“Each of those cargo trailers are packed with undead,” Grayson says.
Aiden probes the area. Twenty cargo trailers all point toward Acheron. One has a ramp that leads to the roof. Coordinated banging thrums from the south side of each. “Why bother to collect them?”
“You’d have to ask Ethan. It will be a while, as you have to earn your way back inside, and I would venture he wouldn’t gander too favorably on your actions,” Simon says.
“He sent Kyle out here,” Aiden says.
“The white boy with no dick. He’s in that container.” Grayson points. “I may have killed people, but I never raped no women.”
Simon wondered what sent Grayson to prison.
“You put Kyle in there. Wasn’t castration enough punishment? Is that what you’re going to do to me? Trixie? Drop us in a container of biters?”
“No. Trixie’s been exiled. I drove her away before bringing out the daily rations. Mr. Grayson has decided to remain out here and teach you the ropes. So we don’t have to put you in that container.”
“Consider this purgatory for those unable to obey the rules inside. You don’t obey my rules, and you end up in the box,” Grayson says.
“What if I change my mind?”
“Exile? March your happy ass east, you get no gear. You leave whenever you desire.”
“Ironic that under this new world order, people want to be behind the fence. And I, the criminal, won’t live behind a fence again,” Grayson says.
Across from the main Acheron sally port, the goop that was once blood now blackens the ground from the undead buried underneath. The scarred land acts as a dry moat extending along the road with chevaux-de-frise marking the end of no man’s land. Strings of flesh and tattered cloth dangle from the hurricane fence and dog run.
Simon parks before the entrance. He waves at Austin to wait at the opening of the gate.
The young man complies. Chief Petty Officer Simon has the run of the camp and outside the fence without question. Austin never asked, but the grizzled old man must have been in The Shit at some point during his military career.
Simon marches along the moat, inspecting the embankment and the rows of wooden spikes originally designed to discourage charging cavalry. Maybe installing some claymores. Not that such weapons kill the vectors, but it would slow them down. New war, new rules, but blowing shit up never loses its effectiveness.
Simon locks his hand on his M&P .45.
A biter staggers onto the road. Snarling, it lumbers toward the Chief.
“Don’t shoot!” Barlock shouts. “Simon, take its head, intact.”
I didn’t agree with the useless discussion the self-appointed counsel had about the vectors in winter. No matter if they’re slow or not, we’ll have to deal with the danger. Vectors aren’t going anywhere. And even if they clear out of this area of the country, when one of the community members dies, they’ll be another undead. Future ceremonies of the dead will conclude with the stabbing of the skull and a burning. They don’t rot like normal corpses, and the less ground tainted, the better. To the next generation, head stabbing will be a normal event. I wanted to do the old soldier bit and fade away, but now bring me a gun and leave if I turn invalid.
Now.
Now it’ll end with a bullet to everyone’s skull. I’ve a special one hidden. Even if they shoot all my stores, and I can do no more reloads, I’ll keep the one. The round with my name on it.
He slides free the machete latched to the seat of his Jeep for quickdraw when needed.
“Fuck it. I’m too old for risks.” He draws his gun, ignoring protesting shouts from the gate. Simon puts a slug in each of the vector’s kneecaps. Putrid coffee grounds shower the asphalt, breaking apart on impact into globs of dead blood. The bone structure of the creature degenerates and breaks. Sinew and tendons shred, and its legs buckle, and the creature collapses.
Simon holsters his weapon. He plants his boot in the vector’s back, holding the jittering mass in place, takes hold of the stringy hair, pulls the head to the side to expose the neck. Driving the blade deep, it takes a few chopping whacks to get through the scapula to the spine. He jerks the head opposite and repeats the process until a still chomping trophy struggles to eat him. He tosses the decapitation onto the hood of his Jeep. He pulls his vehicle into the sally port.
As the outer gate closes, Simon shoves the head into the next cage.
“Take it. I must be inspected.”
Barlock grabs the stringy hair, holding the bodiless monster at arm’s length, marching to the inside of the compound. He tosses the head into a freezer set up inside the fence.
Simon drops trou. “How long do we keep it?”
“Dr. Baker said to regulate the temp inside to twenty degrees, and the test time is forty-eight hours. In real winter, it won’t be constant twenty, but if it gets below freezing for a few days in a row this winter, we’ll have an idea.”
“What are we going to do with it while it thaws?”
“It won’t.”
“I thought that was the question. The undead will freeze in the winter, but will they thaw and still move?” Simon pirouettes his body, allowing Austin to inspect his liver spotted skin.
“You freeze it for four days and then take it out all frozen-dead. And in the heat, will it wake up?” Simon asks.
�
��We take it back outside and hang it by its hair from a tree. If it chomps again, blow it apart,” Barlock says. He closes the freezer door, securing a padlock. “None of those biters should be inside this fence.”
“Why is any of this important? It’s the end of May. And any snow storm powerful enough to freeze vectors traps us, too. I’d be more than happy to brain a bunch of frozen biters, but we won’t function in that cold. You worry about anything, it should be insulating and heating our containers, or you’ll have a lot of sick guards.”
“We’ll add it to the list,” Barlock says.
Simon buttons his shirt. “Add more people. Everything you wish to accomplish requires more warm bodies. And ammo.”
“We keep having this discussion. Where do we get them?” Barlock asks.
“The undead are thin right now. Pull some of the fence guards, at least until their numbers show gains. Even ten of them will provide more help.”
“Suggest it to Wanikiya.”
The inner gate swings open. Simon marches to the refrigerator and inspects the padlock. “Or put those on shift to work. These containers need insulation for winter.”
“They were cold last year, and it was mild. I agree they need heat,” Barlock says.
“Everyone on guard duty can use a hammer. Frame them out on the inside, and lay insulation while on shift. After you’ve winterized the sally ports, and if the vector numbers remain low, then assign some people. We need hay crews.” And to scavenge for ammo.
“At any given movement, a new herd may still be heading south,” Barlock says.
Simon climbs into his Jeep. Learn to fix bayonets, because we don’t have the ammo to fend off another throng.
“Trixie?” Wanikiya asks.
“I left her. No vectors in the vicinity, giving her time to cut her bonds and assemble her gun. She has enough daylight to find shelter. And if she’s smart, she’ll travel north and live,” Simon says.
“Worst part of this job.”
“You going to let those three men stay inside the fence?”
“Grayson’s team? Yes. They’ve earned it,” Wanikiya says.
“I want to protest this vector head inside my compound.” Simon scolds the warrior towering two feet over him.
“We need to understand how winter will affect the undead.”
“A good snow should slow them down and freeze their blood.”
“Will that kill them?” Wanikiya asks the experienced warrior.
“They move while on fire. Until the brain cooks.”
“Cooking destroys the brain.”
“So does freezing,” Simon adds.
“No. People recover after subzero conditions. The brain doesn’t completely freeze,” Wanikiya says.
“They’re slower, but it never got cold enough to freeze them for long. I don’t believe this fridge test is worth the risk.”
“Many scientific signs forecast a harsh winner. We’re stockpiling hay and have enough to feed the livestock. How the undead behave is the only variable we can’t prepare for.”
“The sanctity of the wall concerns me. No experiment with those creatures is worth any knowledge gained if the living are in danger.”
“If we know they move slow, that gives us an advantage.” Wanikiya uses a hoe to chop a weed growing in his herb garden.
“If it gets that cold, or we’ve that much snow, it will hinder us as well. No road crews.”
“Chief, your valid point brings up other parts of civilization we’ve forgotten. There are snow plows, and none of the stockpiled salt would have been used. We should retrieve some to use behind the fence,” Wanikiya says.
“We spend a lot of time talking about what we plan to do. I plan to reload more rounds, but you sent my trained assistant on a mission.”
“People professionally trained in the proper expenditure of ammo. We don’t have enough to repel chipmunks. I work my shift in the kitchen and settle camp disputes. By the end of the day, I don’t desire to check out a movie. I plan on what we need.”
“We need another workout gym. There’s never any room in the one.”
“We’ll add it to the list.” Wanikiya smiles at the Chief Petty Officer. “A few months ago, people were running from the undead and now make requests for weight equipment.”
“People are safe, and they work hard. They need stuff to do. I don’t like how this earthquake has changed our routines. It’s dangerous.”
“We have plenty of DVDs and some Blu-ray, Chief. Why don’t you enjoy one? You’re wound tight, and we ask a lot of you.”
“Keeping people safe is how I relax. Entertainment’s not a priority until we have ammo.”
“I’m empathetic. Let’s encourage people to garden. We have yarn. We’ll need winter blankets.”
“You could offer extra food for more hours,” Simon suggests.
“No.”
“Agreed. It’s why we didn’t get cash pay in Nam. Food is a currency. You’ve extra food floating around, and people will trade or steal.”
“What would they trade for?” Wanikiya asks.
“Sex.”
“Plenty of that happening right now.”
“All consensual,” Simon says.
“After Ethan passed judgment on that Kyle kid, there wasn’t any other kind,” Wanikiya says.
“Extra supplies might promote prostitution. We don’t need to encourage sex for items. Food’s our one control. It’s the one variable that keeps us from falling apart. Our people eat.”
“Nothing needing to be done should be done after dark, and people should read.”
“I’ve got another bucket of brass to inspect and clean. I’ll train a new reloader tomorrow.”
“Twenty-four hours and no aftershock.” Wanikiya places a soup pot on the stove.
“I haven’t felt one in days,” Nina says.
“There’ve been slight tremors in the force. The Indian in me notices.” Wanikiya’s war-painted face reveals no emotion.
“I feel like what you said should be offensive. But you’re a Native American. I’m confused,” Nina says.
“Even after the end of the world, you suffer from white guilt.” Wanikiya takes a wet washcloth to the inside of the pot. “And I am Sioux.”
“Without seismic equipment, your detection of the ground shifts makes you useful.”
“Makes you miss all the science, doesn’t it?”
“I miss a lot of useless crap we had before the apocalypse. Mudslinging politicians, intermittent Wi-Fi service and telemarketing scam artists.” Nina smiles.
Wanikiya rinses the pot. “Who knew we’d trade it all in for living like Pioneer Days in my hometown.”
“You had a Pioneer Days on the reservation?”
“And you don’t believe your assumption of my childhood is offensive?” Wanikiya’s face never breaks its hard, warrior grimace. “I grew up in suburbia.” He adds, “I did spend many summers with my grandmother on the res.”
“We had Ole Country Time Festival. Lots of handcrafts, fire-cooked foods. Watched a blacksmith, once.”
“I’d love to find him. His skills are now marketable again instead of novelty. All those old-time skills are now marketable again,” Wanikiya says.
“Ethan did scour around my town. Not much there. People ran.”
“The evacuation calls and then centers filling and directing people to new locations scattered everyone. None of the people with me the day the world ended made to Acheron.” Wanikiya washes his hands in the stainless-steel sink.
“It didn’t help that refugee centers were quickly overrun, and new people still flooded to those locations. The plague spread fast when people scattered.”
“Is this what FEMA prepared for—disasters? How is it in a real emergency, they saved no one?” Wanikiya places a case of tomato soup cans on the counter.
“No one was prepared for the dead to return,” Nina says.
“I agree it was an unplanned scenario, but they could’ve treated the u
ndead like major flooding to evacuate people. The growing number of undead were like the rising waters during spring rains.” Wanikiya uses a hand-crank can opener. “Are you too young to remember Hurricane Katrina? Government did a bang-up job then.”
“We did all right holding this place together. We must have slaughtered every biter north of the Missouri River. And with no government help.”
“It depleted our reserves of ammo. Even with recovering most of the brass, Simon doesn’t have the material to reload it all.” Wanikiya dumps each can into a cook pot. He places each tin on the counter next to the sink.
“I bet we find reload material easier than new bullets. In their haste, scavenging people wouldn’t take bullet making supplies, they would want ready to use bullets,” Nina says.
“Granted.”
“Wasn’t there a fireworks making facility in Creve Coeur?”
“What are you going to do, lure them away with rockets’ red glare?” Wanikiya’s face cracks a thin smile.
“You make fireworks with gunpowder,” Nina says.
“You might be brilliant, but Creve Coeur is somewhat central in the mess of undead that is now St. Louis. I don’t think we’ve the kind of ammo needed to get in there to retrieve the materials.” Wanikiya fills each can with water, swirls it around and dumps the reddish water in the pot. He tosses each can into a collection bin to be recycled.
“I’m sure what you said was a paradox, but it’s got to be worth investigating.”
“Karen and her team are still somewhere, hopefully near Springfield. Danziger and his group are checking on the caravan from St. Louis to Fort Wood and might have an idea if infiltrating the city is possible, and Ethan’s weeks from returning from Memphis,” Wanikiya says.
“He was close to the quake’s epicenter.” Nina chews her bottom lip.
“The best route to Memphis would have brought him close to New Madrid.” Wanikiya remains emotionless.
“I bet the aftershocks are still detectable there.”
“In all fairness, the earth rumbles in that small town every day, or so I read once.” Wanikiya adds, “I miss reading the daily news.”
No Room In Hell (Book 3): Aftershocks Page 30