by Brian Keene
"Alright, here's the plan," Delmas told him. "I'm gonna go up on that ridge yonder, and try to flush them down this way. You put yourself over against that tree," he indicated a massive, gnarled oak, "and whichever one of us gets the first shot, the other one has to clean it."
"Fair enough," Martin agreed. He was grateful he didn't have to climb the hill. The pain from his arthritis was spider webbing its way through his legs and back.
"Let me put a dip in first."
Delmas stuffed a pinch of Kodiak between his lip and gum, and snapped the lid back on the can. Returning it to his jacket pocket, he rubbed his hands together briskly, then picked up the rifle.
"Can's just about empty. I suppose I'll have to quit soon. Don't reckon I'm gonna get anymore anytime soon."
He began to creep away, when suddenly, on the other side of the stream, a twig snapped.
Martin jumped, backing up a few steps. Another twig snapped, followed by the rustle of leaves.
Delmas spotted it immediately and froze-holding his breath. His mouth filled with tobacco juice, and he swallowed, rather than spitting and announcing his presence.
Beneath the outstretched limbs, a shape emerged. Four legs, a mid-section, then a head. And what a glorious head it was! Even enveloped in the branches, Delmas could spot the rough outline of a rack-possibly a twelve-point or more.
Fuck me, he thought to himself. His finger twitched.
The deer bent its head, as if to sniff the ground, and Delmas raised the rifle.
Two things happened at once.
Martin caught a whiff of rotting flesh, and with a blur and a whip of branches, the buck vanished into the forest. They glimpsed a fragmentary telltale flash of white as it ran.
"White-tail!"
Thumbing the safety off, Delmas sprinted after it.
"Wait!" Martin called. "I think it's a zombie!"
The roar of the big man's rifle drowned him out.
Martin ran after him. Out of breath, he tried to shout another warning, but only managed to wheeze. The deer was still standing. Carefully, Delmas raised the 30.06 to his shoulder and sighted again.
The deer snorted and turned towards him. He still couldn't see its features because of the foliage, but he was sure it was staring directly at him.
He squeezed the trigger. The rifle bucked between his armpit and shoulder. It was a good pain.
The bullet passed straight through the animal's heart, and the deer dropped in the shadows beneath the trees.
The shot's echo rolled across the hollow. Delmas grinned in anticipation. The buck would provide venison for months if they cured it right.
Leaning against a tree, Martin gasped, trying to speak.
With a whoop, Delmas dashed toward his kill. His nose crinkled in disgust as the smell hit him.
"Oh shit."
The deer had been dead before he shot it.
The zombie sprang to its feet and lowered its antlers. The foliage parted and three more deer, two bucks and a doe, stepped forward menacingly. The one that Delmas had shot made a noise, and Martin swore it sounded like laughter.
They planned this, he thought to himself. Dear God, they set us up!
Jim awoke to the distant sound of gunshots. Yawning and dazed, he took a moment to study the room more closely. It was sparse: only the bed, nightstand and a dresser to keep him company. A painting of Jesus hung on one wall, and a picture of Jason holding a stringer of trout and beaming proudly hung on the other. A framed picture of a pretty but tired-looking woman sat atop the dresser. Jim guessed it was Clendenon's wife.
A pitcher of water and a bottle of aspirin sat on the nightstand. Jim downed four pills and explored his wound, probing the bandage with his fingers. From the kitchen, he heard the sounds of pots clanging together. Stretching, he got out of bed and dressed, then went to the window.
The scene outside was idyllic; tranquil. A faded red barn leaned precariously to its left, surrounded by a chicken-house, corncrib, and several wooden utility sheds. A John Deere tractor that had seen better days sat forlornly, weeds growing up to the top of its oversized tires.
A large garden plot, now barren and empty, lay to the right. Near the garden, under a large willow, was a lone makeshift tombstone. It read simply:
BERNICE REGINA CLENDENAN
BELOVED WIPE AND MOTHER
REST IN PEACE
The property reminded Jim of where he'd grown up; the ShennandoahMountains in PocahontasCounty. He hadn't thought of his parents in a long time, and he suddenly felt ashamed. He hadn't been back to his childhood home in years; not since they died and the bank had taken the farm to settle their outstanding debts. It had always bothered Jim that Danny would never know his grandparents.
But Jim was also thankful that they hadn't been around to see what had become of the world. He'd lost too many people already; Carrie, the baby, friends like Mike and Melissa. He wouldn't have wanted to go through the anguish of losing his parents all over again.
The door opened and Jason peeked his head inside. Jim wondered why he'd thought the boy was older than Danny. He could clearly see now that they were the same age. In fact, the kid bore an uncanny resemblance to his son. Why hadn't he noticed that before?
"Didn't mean to disturb you Mr. Thurmond, but I figured you might be getting hungry."
"You didn't disturb me." Jim smiled warmly. "Please, call me Jim. You're Jason, right?"
"Yes sir, I mean Jim."
"Are Martin and your father back yet?"
The boy shook his head. "No, but I reckon it shouldn't be too much longer. I heard some shooting a few minutes ago."
"Yeah, that's what woke me. Wonder what they managed to bag?"
"Oh, there's all kinds of critters in the hollow! Why, I've killed me rabbits, pheasants, groundhogs, squirrels, deer, even a turkey or two. I missed a bear last year though."
"Well, that's pretty good shooting for a little guy like yourself," Jim exclaimed. "Your Dad must be proud."
"I'm no little guy," the boy said, puffing out his chest. "I'll be twelve in December."
"Twelve?" Jim studied him and could see it now. Jason looked nothing like Danny. What the hell was wrong with him? Was he losing his mind?
Jason had asked him something while he pondered this, and now the boy was staring at him in puzzlement.
"I'm sorry," Jim apologized. "I'm still a bit woozy. What did you say?"
"I said there's tomato soup if you want some. It'll hold you over till they get back. Then we'll have some meat and potatoes."
"I think a bowl of tomato soup would be just fine."
He followed the boy through the living room and into the kitchen.
Bernice's presence could still be felt
throughout the house, but it was strongest here; everything from the embroidered potholders to the matching toaster cover bore her distinct feminine touch.
"You miss your mother, I guess." Jim regretted saying it the moment the words left his mouth, but it was too late.
"Yeah," Jason replied, his voice grown sullen. He retrieved a bowl from the cupboard and ladled soup from a black iron pot bubbling softly on the wood-burning stove.
"When Mamma died, Pop said we had to burn her. That's just like cremation, so I figured it wouldn't be so bad. But Pop wasn't sure burning would be enough. Before he did it, he told me to go inside.
Instead, I snuck around the house and hid behind the corncrib, and I saw what Pop did. He had this big machete that he uses to cut weeds down around the pond. He-he cut Mamma's head off with it. Then he burned her."
Jim wasn't sure how to respond, so he said nothing. Jason handed him the bowl and he sat down at the table, waiting patiently to see if the boy would continue.
"I was mad at Pop after that, but I guess I understand why he did it. He was crying, so I know it hurt him as bad as it did me."
"I'm sure that was a very hard thing for your Pop to do," Jim agreed.
"But he did it because he loves you and wants t
o keep you safe, I suspect."
"Yeah, I reckon so," Jason sniffed.
"I have a son too," Jim said around mouthfuls of soup. "His name is Danny. He's a little younger than you are, but I think you guys would get along. He lives in New Jersey with his mother and step-father, and Reverend Martin and I are on our way to get him."
"Does he know you're coming?"
Jim considered this.
"Yeah, I think he does. He knows I wouldn't let anything happen to him.
Wouldn't you feel the same about your Pop?"
Jason shrugged. "I guess so. But New Jersey is a long ways away."
Jim's stomach growled, the hot soup reawakening his appetite.
"It's tough for a father when you can't be there every day," he told Jason. "I wanted to be there for my son, but I couldn't. I wasn't allowed. My ex-wife got an expensive lawyer and I couldn't afford one. I wish I could have been there every time he fell off his bike and skinned his knee, or tucked him in when he had a bad dream. But it didn't turn out that way. The important thing is that Danny knows I wanted to be there. And pretty soon, we'll be together again."
Jim finished off the soup and thanked Jason, and their conversation turned to other things. Jim asked him about life on the farm. Jason wanted to know more about what he and Martin had seen on their journey, and Jim told him, editing out the grislier details. Jim learned that the boy had no concept of the outside world, other than what he'd seen on television.
"What's the farthest you've ever been?"
"To my big sister's house in Richmond. Mamma and Pop were going to take me to BuschGardens next summer, but I don't guess there'd be much to see there now."
He grinned. Surprised, Jim laughed along with him.
"You're a pretty tough kid, you know that Jason?"
"That's what Pop tells me."
That was when the screaming started outside.
Coasting along the turnpike, Baker considered their options.
There was a shopping mall just off the next exit, a few miles down the turnpike. They could probably find supplies there: food, clothing, weapons-but after further consideration, he finally decided against it.
The shopping mall was located on the edge of a suburban area, and was bound to be heavily populated. The farther they could get away from towns, the better off they would be.
Still, the wilds presented a problem as well. While remote areas had less humans, there were more undead animals to worry about.
In the passenger seat, Worm cooed happily to himself, engrossed in a children's book that he'd found lying in the backseat. Baker gave him a sidelong glance and smiled, then turned his attention back to the road.
It would be easier without Worm, of course. Baker hated himself for thinking that, but the analytical portion of his brain kept reminding him of it. Besides, what if something happened to Baker? What would become of his young charge then? Cold, rational thought dictated that it would be an act of kindness to kill him while he slept. Better than leaving him alone to face the terrors of this new world.
He could never do that, though. He felt responsible for Worm. Who was he kidding? He wasn't an assassin- some ruthless, emotionless killer.
Sure you are, said the voice in his head. You killed the world, Baker.
You're a murderer. The greatest mass-murderer in history!
He mentally shrugged the voice away, and focused on their current dilemma. Towns were out. The wilderness was out. What did that leave? An island perhaps? There were islands scattered along the Susquehanna River, but they presented the same problem as the mountains or forests, only on a smaller scale. A rural farmhouse, removed from the rest of civilization? No, that didn't provide any more security than the wilderness. A small plane or a helicopter might be nice, like in that zombie movie he'd seen years ago on video. But even if he knew how to pilot one (which he didn't), where would they go after they went up? In the movie, the survivors had gone to a shopping mall.
Which brought him back to square one.
A billboard caught his attention.
INDIAN ECHO CAVERNS-EXIT 27-TEN MILES
He arched his eyebrows. A cave! He'd taken his visiting niece and nephew to the attraction several years before. He mulled over the possibilities; a deep, underground location, hidden from prowling eyes.
Only one entrance and exit, so it was easily guarded. Perhaps most importantly, it was completely devoid of life; a tourist trap without the bats and other cave-dwelling creatures.
It could work. At least for now. At this point, anything was better than driving down the wide-open Pennsylvania Turnpike in a bright red Hyundai.
He tapped Worm on the shoulder, gaining his attention away from the adventures of Self the Kitty.
"Do you suffer from claustrophobia?"
The young man blinked, uncomprehending.
"Are you afraid of caverns or being underground?" Baker tried again, but still his companion didn't understand. He tried a different tact.
"Are you afraid of the dark?"
"Dawk?" This got a reaction. Worm considered the question and then touched Baker's arm. "Goht Bayker. No dawk."
"As long as you're with me, you won't mind the dark," Baker translated, and was touched. He felt a balloon of emotions welling up inside his chest, and remembered the promise that he'd made.
"Kihtee fuhnee," Worm told him, returning his attention to the book.
His mind made up on their destination, Baker edged the speedometer to forty-five. He still wanted to be cautious, in case they came upon a wrecked vehicle, but at the same time, he was anxious to get there.
He wondered how long their supplies would last them, but decided that it would be enough for the interim. Once they'd safely established shelter in the caverns, Baker could make a trip to replenish their stores. He also considered the possibility that the caverns weren't totally deserted. What if an employee or a tourist had turned into one of the undead and was holed up there? Even worse, what if somebody else, another survivor or a group of them, had already had the same idea and laid sole claim to it?
There were too many variables. They would just have to deal with the consequences when they arrived there.
The exit for the shopping mall flashed by, and Baker studied the landscape. Far below the exit ramp, scattered zombies could be seen shambling around the parking lot and fields. Incredibly, as he passed by them, two of the creatures turned their heads and pointed at the speeding Hyundai. Then, they flung open the doors of a nearby pickup truck, and hauled themselves into the cab.
He saw the truck's reverse lights in his rear-view mirror, and then the mall passed from sight. He stomped on the gas pedal and shot a reassuring glance at Worm, but the boy was oblivious to their pursuit.
Nervously, Baker appraised the situation. He had a head start; one that was broadening as the speedometer inched past seventy-five. It would take the zombies in the truck at least a couple minutes to maneuver out of the mall, up the ramp, and onto the Turnpike. If he could reach the next exit, the one for the caverns, before they regained sight of the car, they might be alright.
He decided against parking the car in close proximity to the caverns. It would announce their location on the off-chance that the zombies took the exit and drove around in search of them.
"Buherdz," Worm said suddenly, bouncing in his seat.
"What?"
"Buherdz!" He shouted now, clearly agitated, and pointed upward.
The sky was black with clouds of undead birds. Crows and finches.
Sparrows and robins. Cardinals and turkey buzzards. Thousands of them blotted out the sun, swooping downward in one massive flock.
Soaring towards the car.
Gripping the wheel, Baker pressed the accelerator to the floor. The Hyundai protested, then the automatic transmission caught up with his urging and the car shot forward. As it did so, he heard a horn honking behind them, loud and persistent.
The truck was coming up behind them, and the birds swept in
for the kill.
Watching the airborne zombies out of the windshield of the cab, Private Warner was glad he was driving the truck. The HumVee sat five interior passengers, with a sling seat for the gunner topside. In Warner's case, he would have occupied that seat. But while he loved handling the .50 caliber machine gun, and even the occasional Mach 19 grenade launcher or TOW missile launcher, a series of botched missions had taught the unit
that when mobile, it was best to keep all hands and legs inside the vehicle at all times.
This was one of those times. Had he been manning the machine gun, he'd be easy prey for the swarming flock. The enormous round wouldn't do much good against so many small targets, and at six feet long and one hundred and fifty pounds, he couldn't exactly carry it around with him.