by M. D. Massey
Silence filled the air.
Frank’s wife leaned forward. “Please, Clutch,” she said, sobbing and oblivious to her injury. “Please look after our son. He’s just a boy.”
“I’m not a boy, Mom,” the teenager replied. “I can take care of myself. I’ll be all right.”
Clutch didn’t speak for the longest time. When he did, his words sounded like they were weighted down. “Jase, how about you come on over and climb in my truck.”
Jase’s mother gasped. “Oh, thank you! Jasen’s a good boy. He’s strong and smart and you won’t be sorry. God bless you, Clutch.”
Frank’s face instantly lifted. “You’re a good man. I wish I could—”
“Don’t worry about it,” Clutch interrupted.
“I’m not leaving you guys,” Jasen broke in from the backseat.
“Jasen,” his father said, sounding exhausted. “You’ve got to go.”
“Not until you get sick. The guy on the radio said that he heard that not everyone got sick,” he replied.
“That’s just a rumor, Jase,” his father said.
“Besides, Betsy’s still at home,” Jasen said. “I’m not leaving her locked in the house to starve to death.”
“Betsy?” I asked.
“The dog,” Frank replied with a sigh.
“Your parents are going to get sick, Jase,” Clutch replied. “Soon.”
“I know,” he replied, the words barely above a whisper. “I can’t abandon them now. They need me.”
“Go with Clutch, Jasen,” his mother pleaded to her son. “You’ll be safe.”
“I’m not leaving you like this, Mom.”
Clutch sighed. “We’re burning daylight. The offer stands, Jase. You know where I live. Come on by anytime. I’ll be home in a few hours. Just be careful to not attract any attention.”
Jasen nodded before sinking back into the shadowed seat.
“No, Jasen,” his mother said. “You go with Clutch.”
Clutch rolled up the window and pulled away, and we could hear Jasen’s mother piteous cries for us to stop.
“He’s going to die, staying with them like that,” I said.
“Probably,” Clutch replied. “But it’s his choice. If he left with us, that regret of abandoning his parents would fester and eat him up inside. If he makes it through the day, maybe we’ll see him again.”
“Maybe,” I mused, wondering what it would be like to have to take in a kid. Clutch already complained about the amount of food I ate. A teenage boy could easily eat twice my share. If Clutch suspected there wasn’t enough to go around, would someone have to leave? The thought sat like a rock in my stomach, because I suspected if Clutch had to choose, he’d choose the son of a friend over an unskilled girl he didn’t even know four days ago.
“So everyone calls you Clutch?” I asked, forcing myself to change the subject. “I thought that was just your CB handle.”
“It came from a tractor incident back in grade school,” he replied.
My brows rose. “What happened?”
“Don’t ask.”
I smacked the leather and smirked. “You’re killing me here.”
“Well,” he drawled out. “When I was just learning how to drive the tractor, I hit the gas instead of the brakes, and drove into my dad’s shed.”
I burst out laughing. “I bet your dad wasn’t happy.”
“No. No, he wasn’t.”
I caught a movement that had been nearly hidden by a minivan, and I sobered. “Look,” I said, pointing at the blonde woman coming around the minivan.
Dark stains marred the front of her shirt and her mouth. Her arms, what was left of them, swung limply with each step. Then I saw the boy hobbling behind her, dragging his left leg. He couldn’t have been more than three or four. He was also covered in blood. He followed her like she was his mother, though according to the news, zeds retained minimal cognitive functions, let alone memories.
I shivered at the thought of a kid getting attacked. What kind of monster would go for a kid?
“You can’t think of them as people anymore,” Clutch said, and I found him watching me. “That kid would kill you the first chance he got. Any of them out there would. They’re the enemy. Out here, you either have to kill them or be killed.”
“I know,” I said as Clutch drove past a row of new houses. A garbage can sat at the end of each driveway waiting for a pickup that would never come, a stark reminder that civilization had just stopped. “But knowing it is easier than seeing it.”
“You’d better come to terms with it quick because we’re stopping up here.”
I looked out the window to see Clutch pull up to a row of old brick buildings. He stopped in front of a pharmacy, wedged between a barber shop and a clothing store. The sign overhead read Gedden’s Drug. The store was small and easy to miss. The glass window next to the door was intact. Through it, I could see decently lit aisles, and everything looked quiet and nothing appeared out of place. A Closed sign hung on the glass door, and I hoped they’d locked up before any zeds got inside.
“No telling how many are wandering around outside so we’ll have to be careful,” Clutch said, and I followed his gaze to the end of the block, where another zed limped across the street. Tires squealed, and a truck lurched around the corner, barreling right over the zed. Someone let out a whoop, and the truck tore past us.
Clutch gripped his gun. Neither of us moved until they’d turned another corner.
“Trouble?” I asked.
“Don’t know.” He drove us around the store and down an alley alongside the building to the lower-level back entrance off the street. It only had one door, and it was closed. The small parking lot backed up to the river.
I grimaced. Two cars sat in spaces marked Employee Parking. At least the door to the pharmacy was still intact. “Looks like we may have a couple helpful smiles in the aisles,” I said, nodding toward the cars. “At least it doesn’t look like anyone else has been here yet.”
“Looters think short-term. The idiots will go for things like cash, booze, and electronics. The smarter ones will go for food, drugs, and ammo first. I’m surprised no addicts have hit this store yet for pain killers, so we need to treat this run as our only shot. The more drugs we can load up on now could save our lives when winter hits.”
That’s what I respected about Clutch. He was always thinking ahead. Not just a day ahead, but months and years ahead. Being a prepper, he already had a full year’s supply of food tucked away in his basement. Well, six to eight month’s supply now that he had me hanging around. The basement was lined with shelves, and every shelf was filled with food, water, and supplies.
His need to be prepared started with something he’d seen in the military, but I was thankful for his worst-case-scenario mindset now. “So what’s the plan?”
“I go in and check it out. You keep watch out here. Keep the doors locked and stay low. If that truck comes around again, lay on the horn, and we’ll cut our losses. If everything’s good, when I give you the all-clear, follow me in. Once inside, get to the pharmacy and load up on every antibiotic and any other drug you can find for sickness and injuries. When in doubt, throw it in the cart. What we can’t use ourselves, we can barter with. We won’t be coming back. I’ll hit the aisles for painkillers, Imodium, and other supplies. If anything happens, you run straight to the truck and lock yourself inside. I got a key and can unlock it from the outside. Got it?”
I nodded, though the entire time my mind was locked on the potential for caffeine. Clutch had to be the only trucker in the world who didn’t drink coffee. My life had done a one-eighty, and while I’d fallen into a new routine more easily than I’d expected, my brain hadn’t. It still craved its daily fix, and reminded me with a headache every morning.
Clutch checked the door, and it didn’t open. With the butt of his rifle, he broke the glass, unlocked the door, and disappeared inside.
Silence put every single one of my nerves on
edge. I scanned the open lot, watched the door, and then repeated the process. After a couple minutes, my leg started to shake with nervous adrenaline. No zeds showed up in the alley or from another building. After five minutes, I was convinced we’d arrived without being noticed. After five and half minutes, I opened the door and stepped onto the pavement.
Come on, Clutch. Where are you?
I had taken four steps closer to the building, still looking out for zeds or looters, when the back door opened, and Clutch held up his hand. All-clear.
I closed the distance in a heartbeat. “Any problems?”
“Nothing I couldn’t handle.”
I followed him into the building and up the stairs. He hopped over a bundle, and I stopped cold. A body wearing a white lab coat lay crumpled on the steps. The dark gore around its head looked fresh. Even though it had only been days since the zeds came out, I was surprised how quickly I was becoming desensitized to the sight of dead bodies.
I glanced up at Clutch. “Your doing?”
He looked over his shoulder and shot me a quick nod before continuing on. With my teeth clenched tight, I took a cautious step over the body, part of me afraid that it would twist around and bite me in the ankle, just like Alan had been. As soon as I cleared the body, I rushed up the remaining steps to meet up with Clutch at the top.
“I took out two zeds, so the place should be cleared, but be careful. They’re slow, which makes them quiet.” He motioned to the left. “Pharmacy’s that way.”
I nodded and watched Clutch head off in the opposite direction. I nervously edged toward the counter with PHARMACY written in all caps above it. Clutch was counting on me. This was my first chance to show him I could help him in the field. When I approached the pharmacy, another fear hit me as I stared at the rows and rows of drugs. How the hell would I know what to take?
I grabbed two red shopping baskets and jumped over the counter. Nearest to the counter, I recognized a few of the names, such as Prednisone and Amoxicillin, so I assumed that this was where the most common stuff was kept and used my arm to slide everything into the cart. From there, everything looked to be arranged alphabetically, so I just grabbed anything that sounded or looked remotely useful, leaving little behind for the next looters.
When two baskets were overfilled, I climbed back over the counter to track down Clutch. I heard him rustle off to my side. I smiled, turned, and lifted my baskets. “Look what—”
A zed tumbled from the top shelf of the aisle and landed in a heap in front of me. It clumsily climbed to its feet. It still wore a smock with the name LAURA on a pin. A chunk was missing from its neck, but it looked otherwise uninjured. Except for the jaundice and hungry stare fixed on me.
“Clutch!” I dropped the baskets. The zed staggered toward me, and I reached for the knife, but it didn’t budge. I realized it was still snapped into its sheath, and I fidgeted with getting the tanto free. The zed was almost upon me. I instinctively shoved it back. Its mouth snapped at me. I finally pulled the blade free. The tip of another blade suddenly protruded from its mouth, and I stumbled back.
The blade disappeared. The zed collapsed, revealing the man behind it glaring at me.
“You bit?” Clutch asked.
I shook my head.
He picked up at least a dozen shopping bags, sliding them up his arms and shoulders, watching me. “Let’s go.”
Still holding onto the knife, I grabbed the baskets and hustled around the zed.
Clutch moved fast. He was back to the stairs and down the steps by the time I reached him. I’d expected him to head straight to the truck and half expected him to leave me behind. But he stood at the door, waiting for me.
Outside, he checked around and under the truck. He didn’t speak, just opened my door and then climbed in on his side. I dropped the baskets in the backseat and was in the front seat by the time he revved the engine. He tore out of the parking lot and turned in the direction of the farm.
The tension was palpable in the cab.
“She dropped down from the top shelf. She must’ve hidden up there to get away when she was attacked, and stayed until I walked by—”
The steering wheel creaked under Clutch’s grip. I didn’t speak another word the rest of the way back to the farm. Unease roiled through me as he pulled up to the house and slammed on the brakes. I grabbed the baskets, tossing in bottles and boxes that had spilled out on the rough ride back. Once outside, I closed the door and stood for a moment. When I turned and looked at Clutch, he was looking straight ahead, both hands on the wheel.
I knocked on the window.
He moved, and the window rolled down.
“I messed up,” I said. “You told me to be careful and I wasn’t. You told me to run, and I didn’t. I should’ve been ready.”
“No, Cash,” Clutch graveled out. “I was the one who messed up. I knew you weren’t ready, but I let you come along. You’re not ready, and you’ll never be ready.”
And then he drove off, leaving me standing under quiet, gray clouds.
LUST
The Second Circle of Hell
5
Clutch didn’t return to the farm.
I paced the yard for over an hour, checking traps and alarms, waiting for him. At first, I’d been afraid that he’d send me packing and I’d be on my own. But then my fear morphed into something much more useful.
Anger.
I wasn’t mad at Clutch.
He’d been right all along.
I was mad at myself for not being stronger, for not being prepared. Even if he let me stay, I had to be able to depend on myself to get out of trouble, and right now I couldn’t.
I headed straight back to the house, grabbed the kitchen shears, and walked upstairs. I put the garbage can in the bathroom sink. I stared in the mirror for a long second. Then I sucked in a deep breath, lifted the shears, and chopped off a twenty-four-inch chunk of hair.
Then, I cut a second chunk.
I cut until there was nothing left to cut.
It had taken me years to grow my hair to the length it’d been. I’d always considered it my best feature. Yet, now, without all that hair, my head felt light and free. Empowering. After running a hand through the dark stubble, I nodded to myself and headed back outside.
I marched to the smallest tin shed for supplies before picking out a solid tree in the middle of the open backyard and sprayed the outline of a zed on its trunk. Then I hammered the sandbag I’d stuffed with rags about where a head would go.
I took out my knife and put everything I had in my swing, completely missing the bag and impaling the tree instead.
“Damn it,” I muttered, examining the tanto blade to make sure I hadn’t damaged it. Taking a deep breath, I focused on the bag and swung very slowly, this time hitting the bag nearly dead center.
I’d never had any kind of training with weapons except for pepper spray, so it was improv based on what I’d seen on TV and what I knew about zeds. Slashing would be a waste of energy since to kill a zed its brain had to be destroyed. I knew better than to throw the knife because, if I threw my knife, I’d no longer have it to take down the next zed lurking around the corner. I had neither the strength nor the weapon to decapitate. And so I focused on stabbing.
I spent the next five hours trying to figure out how to kill a zed using nothing but my knife. I grunted as I thrust and stabbed at the bag, the entire time Clutch’s words you’re not ready echoed in my ears. But he was wrong about one thing.
“I will be ready.” I said out loud before every strike.
The poor tree suffered. I missed the bag as often as I hit it. I almost sliced myself wide open once. After that, I became more conscious of every movement. With short breaks to rehydrate, another two hours of stabbing, with sweat drenching my skin, I finally discovered my rhythm. Stabbing became a semi-natural extension of my body, though I knew I’d be foolish to assume I was an expert yet. The tree didn’t move or bite.
Zeds were a differ
ent story.
An engine rumbled in the distance. I sheathed my blade, grabbed the canteen, and took a long drink of water before setting off toward the house to meet Clutch at the driveway. As the engine noise grew louder, I slowed. Whatever was coming down the drive wasn’t nearly as hearty sounding as Clutch’s throaty truck.
Setting down the canteen, I pulled out my pistol and moved cautiously toward the drive. A familiar red SUV emerged from the tree line. Several boxes were still on top, and it looked like the back was piled full of clothes and bags. The SUV stopped abruptly in front of the house, and two boxes tumbled onto the ground. I warily holstered the .22 when I saw the driver.
He didn’t look so good.
Frank’s teenage son sat, shoulders slumped, with both hands gripping the wheel. The kid stared at the house. He was covered in blood, though most of it was crimson, not thick and brown like that of zeds. The painful realization hit me that, with Clutch gone, the responsibility fell on me to prevent the kid from turning.
I waited. After a moment, he wiped his eyes and then opened the door and stepped out. He was a tall kid for his age, about the same height as Clutch. But, where Clutch was filled out with muscle, Frank’s lanky son was still very much a boy.
“You’re Jase, right?” I asked. “Call me….” I’d first thought to give him my real name but realized that Mia Ryan no longer existed. Who I’d been died four days ago during the outbreak. “Call me Cash.”
He held out his bloodied hand, noticed it, and pulled it back. He simply nodded instead. “Where’s Clutch?” he asked.
“He’ll be back later.” I took in a deep breath before speaking my next words. “I hate to ask this, but I have to.” I paused. “Are you bit?”
He looked down and shook his head. “No,” he croaked, and he cleared his throat. “I’m not bit.”
“That’s a lot of blood for not being bit,” I countered.
He shook his head harder this time. “It’s Betsy’s.” His voice cracked again, and he glanced back in the truck, running a filthy hand through already mussed sandy blond hair.