She spotted a large truck stop just off the highway. Hoping to find something to eat there, she jogged through more slush and biting wind. Hector stayed on her heels.
She slowed down just past the strip of bushes under the tall sign and carefully scanned her surroundings. Two tractor trailer trucks and a few other little cars rotted in place with weeds growing around them. Stray pieces of trash rocked on the ground, trying to fly with the wind yet weighed down by the fresh powder. And, like every other place in this town, not a body in sight.
She cautiously approached the convenience store door and peered into the glass. Just her luck, the whole place had been picked clean; not even a tool to use for a weapon. Still, it had to be warmer than standing out here.
She reached for the door, but El Retardo stopped her. She shoved him away. “Back the fuck off, you dirty wetback!”
The lamebrain pointed at himself, at his eyes, and into the store, all telling her in a rudimentary way that he was volunteering to look around for her.
She glared at him like he was fitting her for a diaper, rolled her eyes with a heavy sigh, and waved him on.
He smiled wide and eagerly ran in. Hey, if he wanted to get himself killed to help a poor, defenseless little girl—insulting as that opinion was—why should she stop him?
She shivered fiercely while she waited, suffering the wind throwing every damn flurry in the sky at her. She couldn’t see the town or the base across the Interstate; just the distant peaks. If these Mountain Men were real, she hoped they didn’t stray this far from it.
An engine faded into the distance. She couldn’t see anything coming, but the thrumming grew louder, closer. Not wanting to find out who or what was behind that wheel—and tired of the icy wind cutting into her—she went inside.
The still air felt warmer by comparison, but the place offered nothing else. Every shelf and cooler was as bare as her chilblained face, and no sign of the idiot, who was probably in the bathroom or something. Whatever.
The engine grew closer, and the skeletal shelves provided no cover. She didn’t want to take a chance on any back offices holding a zombie or two, so she rounded the counter in hopes of finding a leftover weapon. Again, nothing.
Something rattled somewhere inside, forcing her to duck behind the register and wait. “Hector?” she whispered, just in case. “Say something.”
Nothing but the wind outside. The grinding of the engine out there had ceased. She peeked over the counter, but the only movement she saw was a lot more falling snow outside.
She huffed. “Where the fuck are you, you dirty—”
A pair of hands suddenly seized her, covering her mouth and squeezing her waist. She struggled, but the mysterious attacker was strong. She tried to scream, but the hand muffled too much of it. She flailed about until she cracked her injured hand against the counter. Her pained cry got lost in the glove as the phantom out of her view muscled her into the open.
The hands threw her to the tiled floor, barely giving her time to shield her face from the impact. To her left, Hector stared blankly at nothing in the last aisle with blood seeping out of his nose, his head canted in an impossible direction. Oh, my—
The hands returned, one crushing the back of her neck; the other roughly squeezing her ass.
“Let me go, you bastard,” she grunted.
The phantom chuckled before its hands flipped her and slammed her onto her back. There, she watched the Angel of Death sit squarely on her chest, depriving her of much-needed air. The skull garbed in burlap robes gazed at her without moving.
“You’re pretty,” said a muffled baritone voice. A gloved hand pulled the death mask away, revealing a youngish man with a rat nose and a gleam in his dirty green eyes. “I think I’ll keep you.”
She spit in the bastard’s eye and tried to jerk herself free, but his ass kept her well in place, and as soon as he got done wiping his eye he slapped her full force.
Her head swam as her cheek swelled, her left eye throbbing like it wanted out of its socket.
His hand seized her throat; not crushing but by no means gentle. His legs scooted down while the fullness of his interest pressed hard into her body. “Relax, sweetheart,” he said with a condescending voice—just like before—as he unzipped her pants. “I’ll make it all better.”
Her weakened hands couldn’t push him off of her. Her freezing body couldn’t wriggle free. She could barely even breathe, helpless as before.
He fumbled under his robes, getting ready to punish her with his interest … just like before.
She shut her eyes and braced herself, trying hard to be anywhere but here. She wanted to think of Kenny when the torture happened, even if to enjoy something before this bastard killed her to cover his crime, which would’ve at least freed her of this agony … unlike before. Sadly, the cold ground and that crushing hand kept her where she lay while the bastard yanked open her—
His weight suddenly vanished.
She looked up in time to see the bastard crash into a magazine stand across the room, spilling weakly onto the ground with barely a conscious look on his rat face. But what—
The Death Doll grabbed her and yanked her to her feet. How perfect! First a violation of her body and now she was going to be eaten by the self-righteous cadaver. Her life was truly over.
“How far did he get?” it asked her, which made her frown in confusion, like it cared or something. It shook her shoulder, startling a gasp from her lips. “Are you hurt?”
Hurt? Why did it care? Why wasn’t it eating her? No one was watching.
It shook her arm again. “Is anyone else here with you?”
She couldn’t answer. She couldn’t even find the words to spit into its face.
It assessed her cheek, which spewed fire with its touch.
“What’s up here?” Isaac asked as he ran in and stopped just behind his dead boss.
“Attempted rape,” the Death Doll answered as it finally loosened its death grip on her shoulder.
“That’s what you get, then,” the big black dick proclaimed, pointing at Cynthia from on high like he was God or something.
The Death Doll slowly turned and glowered at Isaac. “Nobody deserves that.”
The thug recoiled and took a step back. “A’ight, then,” he said meekly.
“Find Hector,” it ordered.
The thug awkwardly walked out.
“He’s dead,” Cynthia said numbly while pointing out the body in the aisle, a poor guy who gave his life to help her while she shit on him. “Nick and the twins went to the base.”
The Death Doll faced her again. “Yeah, we found them right after we lost some unwanted company. Aaron said you went psycho and broke his nose, but Alan admitted the asshat groped you. He got his as far as I’m concerned.”
She frowned at the zombie.
“They also said you were all banished because two of the kids went missing. Did you see which way the convoy went?”
Cynthia numbly shook her head.
“Are you okay? Do you need anything?”
That just did it. She couldn’t take anymore of this thing killing her with kindness. “Why do you care?”
The Death Doll regarded her again like it was stumped, then shook its head and went to the door. It grabbed the rapist’s collar and hoisted it out the door. “Let’s go, hound dog.”
The bastard feebly struggled while the corpse dragged him out, demanding to be released.
Not knowing what else to do, Cynthia went outside and watched the corpse toss her rapist between the Ford and a small white pickup under the pump awning, the latter bed holding the Arab and the Asshole Twins. In the Ford sat the Death Doll’s pet medic and the old bag.
The perv locked eyes with Cynthia and held his swollen nose. She was too stunned to take any pleasure in that.
“Nobody else here,” the thug said as he joined the Death Doll with the Hispanic brat and some black chick in Marine fatigues. The thug grinned down at the bastard almos
t eagerly. “What we got here? Another Mountain Man?”
Another? Cynthia thought with dread, making the nightmare real.
The bastard looked up at them each. “Who are you people?”
The cadaver smirked. “They call me the Death Doll, and that’s all you need to know about us. Now, soldier,” it spat disgustedly, “who are you and who are you with?”
Cynthia regarded the son of a bitch with shock as he glanced at each person. “Oneil, Jason, First Lieutenant. Name and rank, Marine,” he demanded of the black chick.
The Marine awkwardly glanced around at everyone else before answering, “Corporal Higgins.”
“And I’m Staff Sergeant Montgomery, sir,” the medic hollered from his open window. “What outfit are you with?”
Rat Face scampered to his feet. “You’re all under arrest. You two,” pointing at the medic and the Marine, “will help me take these people into custody or you’ll face legal action.”
The medic and the Marine flinched like the so-called Lieutenant was dancing naked in front of them. “You’ve got to be kidding,” the medic said.
The bastard glared at them. “Are you refusing a lawful order, Sergeant? Do you know what a court-martial looks like now?”
The Marine stuffed the barrel of an M-4 in his rat face with a defiant smirk. “Been there, done that. Sir,” she added defiantly.
“Last time I checked, Lieutenant,” the medic said almost breathlessly, “attempted rape was also a court-martial offense. An officer is supposed to be a gentleman, you know.”
Lieutenant Fuckface slowly raised his hands while he glared back at Cody. “You’re making a big mistake, Sergeant. My men will take you shortly.”
Didi pulled one of its pistols and shot the son of a bitch’s leg, making him collapse. The bastard yowled in agony, which became music to Cynthia’s ears.
“We’ll ask you again, sir,” the corpse said calmly. “What outfit are you with?”
The bastard grunted through the pain, but a second gunshot to the other leg loosened his shit-eating grin. He screamed, forced himself to compose, and grunted, “Special protection detail.”
“Whose detail?” the medic barked.
The son of a bitch grimaced. “The President of the United States, and you’re all in deep shit.”
The color left both the medic’s and Marine’s faces. Everyone else glanced between each other in shock. Cynthia just quivered, renewing fears she had since she saw the light in the sky.
CHAPTER 20
MOMENTS OF TRUTH
Another flurry of gunshots sparked like firecrackers off Bob’s window, but all he could do was drive on while the rest of the remaining Panel did their jobs in back. Only thirty souls remained on the bus, and the other twenty nine counted on him to keep his head under pressure.
What the Gamesman’s men wanted was a mystery, their attack patterns so erratic. The lazy gunfire at the bus, the firebombs set off near the back tires, the whooping and name-calling—it all felt like whoever led these goons didn’t really teach them how to chase a fleeing enemy.
Blake, Otis, and Max sprayed the gnarled-looking trucks and low-riders with their big guns while most of the other adults fired out their gun slits with the smaller weapons. Several leather-clad nightmares flew off their vehicles after every other shot. Jerri stayed with her babies, she and Clarissa keeping the other kids on the floor nearby. Everyone was either employed or covered, and they all did their parts well.
A loud crash rocked the bus under Bob. He fought to keep the motor coach on the highway, his wheels becoming less responsive with the slush on the road. A glance up at the interior mirror revealed a few people in the back being helped to their feet before returning to the fight. No one was hurt … yet.
In his side mirror, Bob watched a flatbed truck swerved into his hind quarters. He braced himself on the wheel to absorb the second impact, again fighting to keep the bus moving straight. No one else fell this time, but he heard several leather-clad gunmen laughing and cursing as they sprayed the bus with all they had.
A gunshot cracked his windshield. He swerved left to avoid the pickup riding ahead with a lone gunman shooting his way, crashing into the flatbed that reached the bus’ midpoint.
Bob wiped sweat from his brow and called out to Max. “Mind taking care of this guy up here for me?”
Max’ gun thumped heavily over him and blasted the pickup to bits. What remained swerved off the road and crashed into a light post with a morbidly satisfying crunch.
Bob gave his overtaxed engine a little more power, but the flatbed kept inching up on him. He again tried to run the flatbed off the road, but it hit back and forced him to stay in his lane.
Despite losing a few more of their brethren, the Gamesman’s lackeys kept on as if they were behind an invisible shield. Crazy!
Glancing up at his interior mirror, he saw Chuck helping Otis back into his turret while Pepe worked to patch Blake on the floor, the latter with another gunshot in the same arm.
Regardless, the M2 gun fired again, with Jerri raining bullets on the rear vehicles. The rearview revealed at least four vehicles crashing into the side of the road.
“Nice job,” Bob called back.
“Was that it?” she hollered.
Bob checked his rearview again and saw all the remaining vehicles stopping on the road. They had given up …
… or did their jobs, he thought grimly when he saw the road-block ahead. Having just enough room before reaching it, he slowed the vehicle, careful not to brake too fast in this slush. When he finally stopped, he stared at the horror.
“Oh, my God,” Clarissa said as she gawked ahead.
“Who are they?” Paula asked from her seat.
Bob gaped at the long row of tanned, armored vehicles with guns aimed at the bus, flanked by two huge tanks. What manned them wore brown robes like European monks, their faces covered by the visages of skulls under their hoods. Grim Reapers, many called such creatures, wielding artillery rather than scythes.
“The Mountain Men,” he said in defeat.
*****
Cynthia knew solitude better than anyone. She once hoped the Pride of Life would change that, but Kenny had peopled it with the same simpleminded rednecks she had grown up with before the plague hit Arkansas. He was the only one she had related to, but he had kept her at bay, priming her only for raiding. Her entire life had built her to be used, ultimately alone.
Yet, for the first time in her memory, she felt as if that was no longer the case. Some pudgy asshole had groped her, the rest of her captors would’ve lynched her if they hadn’t been forced to banish her, and an asshat claiming to be a soldier almost raped her, but the main reason none of it happened was a dead woman. Why? That shit about mercy? Didn’t the Righteous Dead have better things to do than teach her outdated notions in a world full of shit and death?
She was startled by a black leather jacket draped over her shoulders. She looked up to find the Death Doll rounding her in a yellow t-shirt that hugged its slender body and flat chest like an eight year old, the skin of its arms as gray as metal between its short sleeves and black gloves.
It placed a bottle of water before her and sat on the rosewood table, docking its boots on the seat next to Cynthia without that perpetual grin. “You okay?” it softly asked.
She flinched. “You always care this much about your prisoners?”
It shrugged. “I don’t know. You’re my first. How am I doing?”
A brief laugh escaped her, but she curbed the rest. “Where’d you get that shirt?”
It glanced down at the shirt. “Craig stuffed a few clothes for us in the truck. I think this goes pretty well with the black leather. What do you think?”
She shook her head at its sad attempt to bond with her when the warmth of the jacket started to reach her. She dared to take a whiff. It actually smelled like leather and … lilac?
“Expected Eau du Landfill?” it quipped, looking amused.
�
��Yeah,” she had to admit.
It nodded. “We stress cleanliness. That goes double for me. I don’t want to infect anyone.”
“Why do you care?” she had to know.
“Because someone showed me how,” it said softly, “with mercy and respect.”
“Your medic?” she clarified, which drew a surprised look from the Death Doll. “I’ve seen the way you look at him.”
Its grin twisted sideways like it was impressed. “He gave me a decent chance, taught me about God, and gave me a purpose. If not, I would’ve eaten you the minute I saw you.”
Instead of snapping at it again, she took a drink of water. The chill made it difficult to drink with any speed, but it refreshed her mouth perfectly. She sipped at it.
“That wasn’t your first rape, was it?” the zombie asked out of nowhere.
She glared at it, but those brown contact lenses seemed to bore deep down into her truth. As there was no point in denying it now, she shook her head.
It nodded again. “I was fourteen. He was a serious crush. I had all those schoolgirl dreams of holding hands and big, sloppy kisses at a Valentine’s Day dance or whatever.”
She regarded the dried husk with great surprise.
“His idea of romance was behind a tree at a party,” it continued. “It felt wrong, so I asked him to stop. Then I told him. Then I screamed through his hand.”
Despite everything, Cynthia cringed.
“He threatened to hurt me if I didn’t keep quiet, and he never spoke to me again. I was too scared and confused to say anything, and the bastard had just taken my friggin’ virginity.”
Cynthia had no idea what to think. This dead woman told the story of its—of her—forced loss of innocence like it was a foot-note. Why would she ever admit something like that to an enemy?
“Was your first rape your first time, too?” the dead woman asked.
A tear fell and Cynthia couldn’t stop it. For some reason beyond reason, she nodded.
“Someone you knew?”
Her lip quivered as more tears welled up in her eyes. “My father,” she squeaked.
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