No Direction Home (Book 2): Eastwood

by Mike Sheridan

  Outside, Marcie stood waiting. She raised an eyebrow inquiringly. Simone shook her head, a feeling of despair descending over her. Though she’d known that the chance of finding any of her family members alive had been slim, the reality had suddenly and gruesomely been brought home to her. In the space of a couple of hours, Marcie had become the only living person she had any connection to in the entire world.

  Neither one said anything for a while. Then Marcie said, “What do you want to do, child? I can help you clean up inside if you want to stay the night while we figure things out.”

  “There’s nothing here for me except memories,” Simone said resolutely. “We need to move on.”

  “All right. But where will we go? I don’t know anywhere around here.”

  Simone composed herself. She took Marcie by the arm and started back down the side of the house. “Let’s take a look around and see if we can find some fresh food. After all, this is Chicken Town, USA.”

  ***

  Ten minutes later, the two were driving north on I-985 and out of the city. Before leaving Ridge Street, Marcie explained to Simone that there was no point in checking out Gainesville’s poultry processing plants. None of the chickens would be alive. Being a farmer herself, albeit not a poultry farmer, she knew how streamlined the production process was. It was a low-margin business that involved hatcheries, pullet, and breeder farms, all of which relied on feed such as corn and soy meal being transported to them regularly. That logistical supply chain had well and truly bitten the dust. If they wanted fresh food, they needed to find a regular farm.

  Leaving New Holland behind them, they rode past a neighborhood known as White Sulphur Springs, then after a few miles crossed the tip of Lake Lanier over Clarks Bridge Road, heading north all the time.

  Staring down at the lake, it occurred to Simone that there was another food source she hadn’t considered up until now. Nestled in the Blue Ridge Mountains, Gainesville lay along the northeast shore of Lake Lanier, which was stocked with fish all year round. There was spotted bass, bluegill, catfish, and various species of trout. She knew this because her father and uncle had been keen anglers, and though fishing as a sport had never appealed to her, to feed an empty belly was another matter entirely.

  Crossing the bridge, they rode through beautiful countryside where woodland and open pastures lay to either side of the road, and thickets of oak and juniper dotted the landscape. They passed tractors and other mechanical equipment in the fields. Also paddocks, some with horses in them, others with cows.

  “Somewhere here, there’s got to be people. I’m sure of it.” Marcie said excitedly in Simone’s ear. “Slow down, dammit. You’re driving too fast.”

  A few minutes later, shortly after passing a large manmade pond, Simone spotted movement. She brought the Honda to a halt and pointed across to an enclosed field on her left. “Look, Marcie. Over there!”

  A tall figure wearing a short-sleeved blue shirt and sunglasses walked toward a large mansion nearby where a gray station wagon sat parked outside. He walked a little awkwardly. Ahead of him on a leash was a dog, perhaps a Golden Retriever. It was hard to tell at this distance.

  Marcie shaded her eyes and squinted into the field. “My eyes ain’t so good these days. What do you see?”

  “There’s a man walking his dog over to that house. I think he might be living there.” Simone pointed up the road. “There’s a gate ahead that leads down to it. What do you think? Shall we take a look?”

  Marcie nodded. “Anything to get off this machine. We need to be careful though, especially after everything you told me about Charlotte. We don’t know how many people are inside.”

  Butterflies formed in Simone’s stomach as she slipped out the clutch and headed toward the gate. She prayed they had found somewhere safe. She really didn’t want any more trouble.

  CHAPTER 15

  Crouched behind the bed, the barrel of his Remington 870 pump-action shotgun pointed toward the bedroom door, Billy Bingham strained his ears to catch the conversation of the intruders downstairs.

  Two minutes ago, he’d heard the sound of motorcycle engines coming down the farm driveway. Alone in the house, he’d grabbed the shotgun and rushed upstairs moments before the front door burst open.

  The farmhouse was small. With his bedroom door half ajar, the intruders’ voices floated clearly up the stairs.

  “Sheet, ain’t there nothing to eat in this damned place?” a man said in a surly tone. “What kind of farm is this anyway?”

  A second voice chuckled. “I told you, Josh. The sign outside says ‘Willow Spring Organics.’ This must have been one of those hippy dippy farms where the owners ate nothing but carrots and greens. You know how those tree huggers were.”

  “All that save the planet shit didn’t stop them from dying off like flies, now did it?” the first man replied. “There are no safe spaces from vPox, especially if all you eat is rabbit food.” There was the sound of kitchen drawers being thrown open. “Lookit, not even as much as goddamned egg in the house,” the man said in disgust. “Maybe they kept a cellar here or something. What do you think?”

  Billy’s breath tightened. If the men found the pantry at the back of the kitchen, they’d find a lot more than just eggs, and he’d have to do something about that.

  “Nah, come on, we’re wasting time,” the second man said impatiently. “There’s plenty more places to check out around here. Somewhere they keep real food.”

  “I guess you’re right.” There was the sound of something crashing to the floor. “Damn tree huggers!”

  “Quit bitching, Josh. They’re dead, and a couple of no good drifters like us got the whole world to ourselves. Bet they never saw that coming.”

  The two men trudged back through the hall and the front door opened with a loud bang. Swiveling around to the window, Billy risked a peek outside.

  Below in the yard, two men dressed in black leather jackets put their helmets on and climbed onto their machines. The engines came to life and they roared up the driveway. Passing through the gates, they turned onto the main road and disappeared from sight.

  After the sound of their engines receded, Billy headed out of the room and down the stairs. He walked over to the front door and inspected it. The wood around the latch had been splintered off, but the hinges remained undamaged. With super glue and the screws his father kept in the work shed, he was sure he could fix it.

  He closed the door and went down the hall into the kitchen. Strewn across the floor were half a dozen cheap plastic cups that had been used to plant herbs. Billy had been in the process of watering them when he’d heard the intruders arrive.

  Squatting on his haunches, he cupped a hand on the floor and scooped the moist earth back into the cups, then replanted the basil, rosemary, and chive plants and placed them by the sink again. His mother had tended these plants, nurturing them until two days before she died. Billy had no intention of throwing them away.

  He stared over at the pantry door on the far side of the room, thankful that he’d left a mop and bucket leaning against it. Perhaps that had been the reason the intruders hadn’t bothered to check it out, mistaking it for a wall. Inside, stacked three deep, the shelves were laden with homemade canned meats, jars of various jams and pickled fruits, and at the back, sausages and hams hung from hooks on the ceiling, a treasure trove of culinary delights that would have made the intruders lick their lips.

  If they had discovered the pantry, Billy would have had no choice but to come downstairs and confront them, and there was no way of knowing how that might have gone. Given that both men had pistols hanging from their waists, perhaps not very well.

  He was grateful too that the men had been too lazy or disinterested to wander out the back door and into the farm itself. There they would have found plenty of livestock to get their hungry hands on. Willow Spring was a certified organic farm of fifteen acres. As well as chickens, the farm reared rabbits, duck, goats, and pigs, all fed on organic
farm-grown material and GMO-free feeds.

  Since the time he could walk, Billy’s parents had involved him in the farm work, and he’d spent just about every day helping them out. He’d fed animals, built pens, planted seeds, and harvested vegetables that grew all year round, both in hoop houses and in the field.

  Now his parents were dead, taken away a week ago by the terrible disease that had killed everyone he knew. In the space of just a few days, the longest days of his life, his idyllic world had been destroyed. Billy was only twelve years old.

  ***

  For the first few days, no one in the neighborhood had been too concerned about the reports on TV and the Internet regarding the severe “flu” affecting the nation. In the remote hinterland of northern Georgia, people got on with their business. Chicken farms continued to breed broilers for the processing plants in Gainesville, and in the fields, farmers tended their crops.

  The first thing Billy knew about the problem was when he arrived home from school one day to see his father in the kitchen, pale-faced and distraught. Normally at that time of year, it was his mother who was there to greet him while his father worked outdoors. Lately he’d been busy harvesting fava beans and asparagus that he grew in two large polytunnels.

  “Dad, what’s wrong?” he asked, observing his father’s grim countenance. He looked out the kitchen window and into the garden where his mother often worked when he got back from school. “Where’s Mom?”

  “Your mother’s not well. She upstairs in bed.”

  The previous day, when Billy returned from school, his mother had complained of a headache. Her eyes had been watery and her face blotchy. By early evening, she’d gone to bed and he hadn’t seen her that morning.

  “Does she have the same thing as my classmates?” he asked. “Some of them came to school today with rashes on their faces. Mr. Glendon sent them all home.”

  “Yes, the same thing.” His father hesitated a moment. “I’m sure she’ll be fine in a couple of days, but until this thing blows over, maybe its best you stay at home. That okay with you?”

  Billy grinned, delighted with the news. Though he didn’t hate school, like any other kid he jumped at any excuse not to attend. Besides, his closest friend, Jimmy Cartwright hadn’t been in class for the previous two days, another good reason not to go.

  “Sure. You want me to help you in the hoop house after lunch?”

  His father wiped his brow. “Thanks, Billy, I could do with some help. I’ve been feeling a little under the weather myself lately.”

  Billy dumped his schoolbag on a chair and headed out of the room.

  “Where are you going?” his father asked sharply.

  Billy wheeled around. “To see Mom.”

  “Not now, son, she’s sleeping. Maybe you can see her later tonight.” He gestured to Billy. “Help me make lunch. You have any idea where the mayo is? I have no idea where your mother keeps anything around here.”

  That evening Billy got to see his mother. After dinner, while his father was in the living room, he crept up the stairs and into his parents’ bedroom. Crossing over to the bed, he looked down at her.

  Barely able to believe his eyes, he jerked his head back. His mother’s normally thick brown hair had thinned dramatically, and her face was covered in ugly, pus-filled blisters. Blood oozed out of her nose, and though asleep, her mouth was twisted in a painful grimace.

  “Mom!” he gasped. He reached down and shook her shoulder.

  His mother stirred, struggling to crack open her eyes. In horror, Billy saw they were completely bloodshot, and a gluey pink liquid leaked out of both corners. She didn’t appear to recognize him, and closed them again.

  “Mom, wake up!”

  His mother tried one more time, this time managing to stay awake a moment. “Billy…” she croaked. “Stay away.”

  Tears welled up in his eyes. “Mom…please.”

  Despite his urgings, his mother closed her eyes and didn’t open them again. In a state of shock, Billy ran downstairs and into the living room to see his father lying on the sofa shivering uncontrollably. On his face were the beginnings of the raised lumps he’d first seen on his mother a day ago.

  “Dad!” he cried out. “What’s going on?”

  “Billy, not now. I need to sleep,” his father wheezed. “Go fetch me a blanket, I’m cold.”

  Billy couldn’t understand it. It was mid-June, early evening on what had been a sweltering summer’s day. Nonetheless, he fetched his father a blanket. By the time he returned, his father was asleep. Covering him, Billy sat down on the armchair next to him and started to cry. Something deep inside told him that his world was unraveling, that it would never be put back together again.

  The following morning, he hadn’t dared go in see his mother, and had hurried downstairs and into the living room.

  His father’s condition had deteriorated. The raised lumps had become pus-filled, and his eyes were glassy and unfocused. “Billy, come here,” he gasped, raising his head off the cushion.

  Billy walked over to the sofa. His father stared him up and down. “Are you feeling okay?” he asked. “Do you have a headache, chills? Tell me the truth now.”

  “No,” Billy answered.

  His father lowered his head. “Thank God. You must be one of the few that’s immune to this thing.” He leaned forward again, his brow glistening with sweat. “Listen to me good, Billy. This fever everyone is coming down with, it’s real bad. I’ve been reading about it on the Internet. Before it’s done, it’s going to kill a lot of people.”

  Billy’s eyes widened. “What do you mean? Are you and Mom going to…?”

  His father hesitated. “You’ve been to see your mother, haven’t you?”

  Billy nodded.

  “Then you know how bad this is. It’s happening all across the nation. Emergency services are failing everywhere. I took your mother to the hospital in Gainesville yesterday, that’s how I know. I couldn’t even get her in the door.”

  “Dad, Mom looks terrible. Are you going to get like that too?”

  His father averted his eyes. “Maybe. Look, Billy, if we don’t make it, you’re going to have to take care of things by yourself for a while, you understand? There’ll be no one to help you.”

  Billy’s lower lip trembled. He had never felt such utter terror his entire life.

  His father reached out and shook his shoulder gently. “When we’re gone, you have to take our bodies outside. It’s not good to keep them in the house. Put us in the cart and take us up to the new ditch. The one I built the oth—”

  “Dad!” Billy screamed, putting his hands over his ears. “Stop!”

  The other week, his father had rented an excavator and built a drainage ditch alongside an unused field at the back of the farm, one that tended to flood each winter. Previously it had been used only for grazing, and his father wanted to put it to better use.

  “Fetch the diesel can from the shed, then burn our bodies.”

  By this stage, Billy was sobbing wildly, his head resting on his father’s chest.

  His father stroked his hair. “Billy, leaving us in the house will only cause disease. You have to do this.”

  “I can’t!” Billy wailed. “Why can’t I just go to Jimmy’s house?”

  The Cartwrights lived seven miles from the Binghams. Billy’s parents often dropped him over to their house on the weekends and vice versa.

  “They’re going through the same thing as us.”

  “Is Jimmy okay?”

  “No.” His father turned away with a tired sigh. “You better let me sleep. We’ll talk again later.”

  Numb inside, Billy stood up and left the room. When he reached the door, his father called out to him. “Billy, you’re going to have to grow up fast. Just remember everything I’ve taught you and you’ll do fine.”

  It was the last coherent conversation he had with his father. Two days later, following his instructions, he dragged his parents’ bodies out of the house
, then one at a time, hauled them in a cart up to the ditch, doused them with diesel fuel, and set their carcasses alight. Sobbing, he’d turned away and ran back to the house.

  His father had been right. Billy was growing up fast. It wasn’t like he had a lot of choice.

  CHAPTER 16

  Outside the mansion, Simone stood beside Marcie at the top of the porch steps where above the door, a wooden sign spelled: Zephyr House. To one side of the building, a ground floor window had been smashed. Simone guessed it was how the man in the blue shirt had first gotten inside.

  The Honda stood parked in the driveway, facing in the direction of the gates in case they needed to cut and run in a hurry. Simone wondered exactly how fast that would be for Marcie at seventy-three years of age. She hoped she didn’t need to find out anytime soon.

  She rapped the door knocker a couple of times in quick succession, firmly, though not so hard that it would appear aggressive. Moments later, there was the sound of footsteps in the hall and some muffled talking.

  “There’s at least two of them,” Marcie whispered, clutching her shotgun tightly. “Careful.”

  The footsteps got closer, and a gruff voice called out from behind the door, “Who’s there? And what do you want?”

  Marcie gestured to Simone to speak. “Sorry to disturb you, mister,” she said in her most polite voice. “It’s just we were passing by and saw you in the field.”

  “And?”

  “And?” Marcie spluttered indignantly beside her. “Seeing as there’s practically no one left in the whole damned world, we thought we’d drop by and say hello. But if you’re not feeling sociable, we’ll go and make friends elsewhere. No skin off our noses.” She turned to leave. “Come on, Simone. No point in wasting time here.”

  “Wait!” a second voice called out. It was that of a younger man. Simone guessed it was the one she’d seen in the field earlier. There was the sound of shuffling feet. A bolt slid across, the latch unlocked, and the door opened a couple of inches.