“You can’t,” Phil says, but neither of us tries to stop Ricky as he opens the door, his hands catching the man as he almost falls out.
He pushes him back inside, laying him across the back seat, and we all see the filthy bandages wrapped around the guy’s middle with blood staining them. The smell of rot coming from the wound, or whatever it is, is unmistakable too.
“Ricky,” Phil says weakly. He grips my elbow, but I don’t stop Ricky either. If anything, I’m grateful that he’s doing what I can’t.
The man is trying to say something again, but I turn away when Ricky places his knife against the man’s temple. I don’t want to watch what he does; knowing about it is bad enough.
The sound of the knife penetrating his skull is loud, louder than the heavy beating of my heart against my ribs, and when I look back, Ricky is wiping his blade off on the side of the man’s jeans. He turns back around to face us, raising his chin when he sees the look of disgust on Phil’s face.
“It was for the best,” I say, though I’m not a hundred percent certain of that. Regardless, it’s done now and we need to keep on moving. I decide that I’m not going to look in vehicles anymore, for fear of who or what I might find.
We begin moving again, with Phil flanking the rear and Ricky taking the lead. The street is long, but after half a mile or so it looks like it’s coming to an end. The sound of deaders’ groans is ringing loudly in the air, though from exactly where, I’m not sure.
Sweat trails down between my shoulder blades, and we keep low behind some cars as we come to a junction. Between the rows of stores is a herd of deaders. They’re moving forward, slowly, and facing the opposite way, but it won’t take much for them to notice us. We need to keep moving, but moving forward isn’t an option while they’re still there, so we back up a step or two until we’re out of sight of them. And vice versa.
“Which way now?” Ricky asks breathlessly.
I shake my head and look around while still keeping down as low as I can. There are a couple of deaders on the road behind us now, so going back isn’t an option either.
I look at the store we’re standing in front of, seeing that it’s all boarded up, with a huge padlock on the main door, but it gives me an idea. It’s a candy store, the sort my gran and gramps would have loved to visit before all their teeth fell out and they could only suck on candy for fear of it getting stuck in their dentures. Ricky looks over as if reading my mind.
“We can’t go backwards,” he says.
“And we can’t go forwards,” I reply.
“So we have to go inside?” Phil adds on, and I nod. “That reminds me of a book I once read as a kid,” he says.
I shrug, having no clue what he’s talking about.
I use the corner of my hatchet on one of the padlocks on the door, and am about to pry the lock open when I realize that the padlock is a fake. Though it’s on the door, it isn’t being used. I try the handle and it presses down without even giving a little squeak of resistance, and then opens inwards. Looks like our luck is about to change for the better. It’s about time.
“No shit,” Ricky whispers in amazement.
“No shit all right,” I agree.
So far we’ve gone from too much shit to no shit. I’m well aware of the irony of that, and am ready for whatever danger lies inside this building.
The deaders are getting louder, and I have a feeling that we’ve been well and truly sniffed out. It probably doesn’t help that the temperature of the day is rising and we’re all beginning to sweat profusely. What? It’s a tense situation and it’s hot as hell—don’t judge me.
I crick my neck and step inside, deciding that it’s now or never. I don’t like walking into a situation like this without knowing what’s really going on. Clearly there are people inside. Why else would there be a fake lock? But whether they’re going to be friend or foe is a different matter, especially since we’re gatecrashing their hideout.
We all step inside, and Phil shuts the door behind us, clicking it back into place. Inside it’s quiet. Deathly so. Dark shadows cling to every corner, and cobwebs hang from the shelving. The windows have been boarded up on the outside, and covered on the inside with paper that’s aged and yellowed, giving the room a surreal yellow glow. We move around the store, stepping over broken shelving and around old candy signs. It’s a little kid’s nightmare, seeing everything gone to ruin.
The deaders have arrived, and their shadows pass in front of the front window. The sounds of their strange, garbled growls echo to us from outside. Phil clicked the door shut, so there’s no way they’re getting inside unless they learn to use handles. I turn away from the window and then my eyes go wide and I dive for the door, slapping the latch in place. The noise is loud—too loud—and a couple of the deaders are attracted to it and begin banging on the boarded-up front. I step backwards, praying that they’ll get bored and wander off. All right, all right, maybe not get bored, because they don’t ever do that. But if they get distracted, they’ll forget about the noise they heard.
We make our way to the back of the store as quietly as we can, avoiding the broken glass and metal shelves. The deaders are still outside, but they aren’t in a frenzy, which is a good sign. They’ve likely forgotten what they’re even banging on the window for, and will continue to do it until they get sidetracked on to something else.
“Did you leave the car door open?” Ricky whispers to me, his gaze still focused intently on the front of the store and the shadows moving beyond.
“Car?” I ask.
“The guy I put out of his misery, did you leave the door open?” he emphasizes.
“Oh, yeah,” I reply, thinking about that poor bastard once more. “You think he’ll grab their attention?”
“His smell will soon enough,” Ricky says. “Fresh meat, right?”
We back up another step, and I choose not to answer him. It doesn’t feel right to. Yeah, the guy is dead now, and I sincerely hope that the deaders will be attracted to the smell of his dead body. It’d definitely get us out of this current jam. But saying it out loud—agreeing that the mutilation and devouring of that guy’s body would be the best thing for us—feels dirty.
Phil taps me on the shoulder and I turn to look at him. “What?”
“Door,” he whispers.
I nod, seeing the door too. But what’s more important than the door is the light shining from underneath it. I nudge Ricky, who scowls at me until I jerk my head toward the door behind us and he sees the light too.
We head to the door, pulling out our handguns so we’re fully armed for whatever is going to greet us on the other side of it. Humans—shoot them in the face. Deaders—stab them in the face. It’s a pretty simple tactic, you just have to choose your weapon effectively. And it’s always good to be fully prepared for any outcome in unknown territory.
I flex my shoulders as Phil grips the handle of the door, and I say a silent prayer that we aren’t walking into an even more hostile environment. This really does seem to be the town that keeps on giving, I think sarcastically.
Phil pulls the door open and I swing my gun around, aiming it at everything and nothing. Because there’s nothing and no one in there, except for a dusty old sofa and an old kerosene lamp. We head through the room, me taking the lead and Ricky flanking me, and Phil somewhere in between, looking jittery as hell. Something has spooked him, but I’m not sure what—other than the town overrun with deaders, our now-dead friend, the emaciated dude that we just put out of his misery, and the fact that this old candy store is creepy as shit. Other than that, I have no clue why he’s so jittery.
At the other side of this room is another door, but unlike all the others, it isn’t closed. It’s wide open, and when we peer around the doorframe we see a woman sitting in a wheelchair and watching an old black-and-white movie on a small television set.
“Tim? Is that you?” she calls out, her voice soft. She turns her face away from the television set, her gaze final
ly landing on us. Her smile falls as she takes us all in, but it rises back up just as quickly. “Well hello there, friends.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
“Hi!” Phil calls cheerfully.
It’s overly cheerful if the truth be known, but I decide that it isn’t because he’s a total idiot and just that he’s so damned relieved that we’ve met a woman in a wheelchair and not some crazy psychopath or a room full of deaders for a change.
She spins the chair around so she can see us without craning her neck. The banging outside has gotten louder, but she doesn’t seem too concerned by it.
“Sounds like you made it inside just in time.” She smiles wider, the corners of her eyes crinkling as she does. She grabs a small remote control from her lap and pauses the movie she was watching before looking back at us. “I just love this part,” she sighs. “So what brings you fine men to this neck of the woods? Can’t be my famous candy—not had that for a long time. And as you can see from outside, we’re pretty cut off from everything here.”
She taps a finger against her chin thoughtfully, her gaze moving slowly from Ricky to me and then to Phil.
“Just trying to stay alive, lady,” Ricky finally says.
Her gaze moves back to him. “Aren’t we all?”
Silence falls between us again, and this time it’s me who feels the fluttering of something in my stomach, the feeling that something just isn’t right. Perhaps it’s the calm manner in which she’s talking to us—three big-assed dudes that just turned up in her home—or the fact that she doesn’t seem concerned by the banging deaders at her front door, but something is amiss.
“Who’s Tim?” Ricky asks, his voice full of hard steel.
“Tim’s my husband,” she says, her expression friendly. “He went out to scavenge some supplies.” She goes silent, a small smile on her lips before she adds, “We don’t have much, but we’re happy to share whatever we do have.”
“And why would you do that?” Ricky asks through gritted teeth. He’d be better snarling at her for extra effect, the way he’s going at it.
The woman looks confused, but her smile stays in place. “Because you’re human, and so am I. And there aren’t many of us left.”
She makes a good case, and I relax my grip on my gun, lowering it slowly.
“Not everyone is good out here,” I say. “Sometimes humans can be worse than the deaders.”
She frowns. But her smile stays. “Deaders?”
“Those walking sacks of rot outside your front door,” I clarify.
She gives a little laugh. “Oh, those, yes. And you’re right, sometimes humans can be just as bad as them, but other times they’re good. I like to believe in the good.” She looks away shyly. “Call me naïve, but there’s not enough good in the world, and once we go around thinking that everyone is bad or evil, well, that just about kills the rest of the good. At least for me.” She looks back up to us. “Tell me something: are you good?”
I swallow, not knowing how to answer that question. Am I good? I have no idea anymore. I’ve done bad things. Really bad things. I’ve gotten so many people killed, and I’ve killed so many people. I can’t deny that some of them deserved it, but I also can’t hide behind the lie that all of them did. Some of those kills were just for me, for my survival. So am I good? What is good anymore? Is there really any purity left in this world? Any innocence? I highly doubt it.
“Are you?” Ricky intervenes. “Are you good?” He still has his gun raised, his aim still on her.
“I like to think so,” she replies calmly, either not noticing or choosing to ignore Ricky’s hostility. “I never turn away people, and I help when and where I can. I’m just a woman in a wheelchair at the end of the world,” she coos.
She rests her hands on her lap, her thumb stroking over the soft blanket that covers her legs. I recognize the logo on the blanket and I can’t stop the smile from my face. She notices and looks down at the blanket.
“Never could resist the idea of Jax Teller draped across my knee,” she laughs. “Did you watch the show?”
I shake my head no. “My girlfriend did,” I reply.
“I always loved Sons of Anarchy. What I’d give for one ride on his bike. My name’s Clare.” She holds out her hand for me to shake, even though we’re across the room from her.
I look across at Ricky, who has finally lowering his gun, and then I step forward and take her hand in mine. Her hands are cold, her fingers like ice, and I resist the urge to pull away. “I’m Mikey. This is Ricky and Phil. You can trust us. We’re not here to hurt you, I promise.”
“Well, I’m very glad to hear that. My husband Tim will be back real soon. He and our dogs went to get a few supplies. You’re lucky he didn’t leave one of them with me like he usually does. Candy is a vicious little thing and would have gone for the jugular the moment you stepped inside.” Clare laughs like this is the funniest shit she’s ever heard.
I let go of her hand and step away.
“Should we—” run is what I want to say, but of course I don’t. But I also don’t want to be savaged by another dog.
“Just take a seat. They’ll find it less threatening when they come in,” she replies, as if reading my mind. Clare points to another small sofa on the right, and all three of us make our way over to it and sit down.
The banging from outside has died down to almost nothing, so either they’ve discovered that dead dude’s body or something else has distracted them. I don’t care which option at this point, I’m just glad they’ve quit banging. The last thing I want is for them to break in here and kill this poor woman in her chair. That would be another death because of me, more blood on my hands, and I already have too much of that on them.
So we sit, and we wait. Clare turns her film back on, and we all sit in silence and watch it with her. And truth be told, it’s the most relaxing twenty minutes I’ve had in a long time. For this twenty minutes I’m lost in a movie, swallowed up by a make-believe world where deaders don’t roam and people don’t kill for sport. The film is an old black-and-white romance, with actors that had been dead way before the apocalypse. It’s comforting somehow, knowing that they’re trapped in this movie, in their time forever untouched by the dead and the horrors of this world.
The door finally goes, but not the front door, but one from somewhere else in the building. Clare turns to look at us and smiles.
“That’ll be Tim now.” She sees Ricky gripping his gun and shakes her head. “I wouldn’t advise that unless you want both Candy and Cane to attack you. Stay calm, keep your hands in your lap, and stay seated until I’ve introduced you and they are settled. You’ll be fine, you can trust me.”
And I believe her. There’s something very calming and soothing about this woman. She’s soft-spoken, her features kind, and really how threatening can a woman in a wheelchair be to three grown men? We could also shoot both of her dogs before they even had a chance to attack us, but what would be the point? She hasn’t threatened us; she wants to help. And right now, we need all the help we can get.
A man walks into the room, flanked by what look like two wolves, and I feel both Ricky and Phil tense up next to me. The man’s gaze falls on us and the dogs stalk toward us, their teeth bared and their ears back.
“It’s okay, Tim.” She holds up her hands. “Candy, Cane, heel. Be good girls.” Clare lowers her hands, showing the dogs her palms, and the two dogs go to stand by her side.
“Sir?” I stand up and Candy and Cane snarl and snap their jaws so I sit back down abruptly. “Easy, easy, sorry. Sir, we’re not here to harm you or your wife. We didn’t know anyone was in here, we were just hiding out from the deaders.”
“Ain’t that just the cutest name, Tim? Deaders!” Clare claps her hands together and the two dogs startle and bark. “Oh hush now, girls.” She taps them on their noses and both dogs turn to her and rest their heads on her lap.
“I’m pleased to hear that,” Tim says, looking at me. “I’d hate fo
r anything to happen to Clare. She has a pure heart and has never hurt a fly.”
He’s a big guy—tall, thin, but broad-shouldered and with intensely dark eyes. In his hand is a hammer, and even from my place on the sofa I can see the dark stains on it.
“Deaders,” Tim says, looking at Clare.
She laughs. “I know, right?” She turns her gaze back to me. “We just call them the things. I don’t like naming my nightmares. Who wants to know the name of the thing that frightens you? It doesn’t make it any easier, but harder somehow—but I could be persuaded.”
“I call them zeds,” Phil pipes up. It’s the first he’s spoken since coming into the room. I think it’s the dogs that are putting him at ease. He always seems so much more calm when there are animals around. “Can I pet them?” he asks, pointing to the dogs.
“Of course!” Clare says, pushing the dogs’ faces from her lap. “Go on, girls, go get some loving from the happy hippy. He’s a friendly one.”
I choke on my laugh, but she doesn’t seem to notice. The two dogs come forward, warily at first, sniffing me and Ricky as they pass. They seem happier once Phil begins stroking them behind the ears.
“Did you find any lunch?” Clare asks Tim, her face hopeful.
He nods and smiles. “I did. Found a couple of possums for meat. We’re set for a while, baby, don’t you worry ’bout nothing.” Tim turns to look at us. “Take it you boys will be staying for dinner?”
“We should probably get going,” I say, looking from Tim to Ricky.
“Yeah, we need to get on the road, but if we could trouble you for some water, that would be great,” Ricky replies.
“Nonsense, you need to eat. I can hear your stomach growling from over here, and the streets are filled with those things so you won’t be getting far on foot. I’m guessing you’ve done something to disturb them. One of you boys hurt yourself? Or did you lose someone? Fresh blood always brings them out.”
“We lost a good friend of ours last night,” Ricky says.
The Dead Saga (Book 4): Odium IV Page 23