by Mike Kraus
Jerry slipped onto a stool near the wall while he ate, swooning slightly
“Are you okay?”
“Just your average day on the road,” he quipped. “Bruises, beatings, and treats.”
“I know how you feel,” Tom said, touching his hand to his temple. “I’ve got a low-level headache that won’t quit.” He looked around, and an idea struck him. “You know what? I wonder... hang on, wait here.”
Tom went back out front to the ice cooler and threw open the top, grinning at the large mound of ice that was still frozen inside the machine. He found two clean rags and placed them on the counter before scooping out some ice and pilin it in the middle of the rags. Pulling up the ends, he formed two ice packs, then placed one on his right temple and grabbed the other, taking it into the storeroom to present to Jerry.
“Here, this should help with the swelling.”
“Good idea, Mr. McKnight.” The young man accepted the ice pack with his free hand and placed it against the back of his head, then closed his eyes and sighed with relief before taking another bite of his donut.
Tom pulled up his own stool and took a break while Sam climbed on a service table and allowed her shoulders to slump forward, the trio enjoying a sweet-tooth lunch and cool water as the sounds of chaos reigned outside.
“Is the ice helping, guys?” Sam’s eyes shifted between the pair.
“My headache is already a lot better.” Jerry was leaning against the wall with his head holding the pack in place.
“I have to admit.” Tom jiggled the ice around in the wet rag, some of it dripping down his neck. “My pain is almost gone.”
Sam smiled. “Awesome. When should we get moving again?”
“In a minute.”
“Where are we going to go?”
Tom shrugged. “West. We head west.”
“Think we’ll find another car?”
“We’re definitely not walking all the way to Bristol.” Tom lifted his eyebrows momentarily. “So, I’d say finding a vehicle is a priority. I don’t want to steal something, but I’m beyond the point of worrying about the police. I’ll get us home first and deal with the consequences later.”
“I can’t imagine they’d consider us criminals for that,” Jerry said in an agreeable tone. “Do you think we’ll--”
The coffee shop’s front doors pushed open, and feet crunched on the glass and debris inside. Tom threw his finger to his lips, ordering Sam and Jerry to keep their mouths shut and he slid from his stool, placed his ice pack down, and crept toward the swinging doors, peering through the window.
A handful of people had entered the café, and while the smears on the glass made it impossible to get a good look at them, they seemed focused on the counter and the remaining drinks in the coolers.
He turned away and motioned for Sam and Jerry to follow him to the back door, gently unbolting the lock to pull it open. It squealed as it dragged along the tile floor, Tom’s shoulders tightening in a cringe. Behind them, footsteps shifted and shuffled out on the floor as several people made their way toward the back. Tom stepped outside, looked both ways to make sure they were in the clear, and gestured for the other two to hurry through. Not bothering to hide their movements, the trio half-jogged, half-lurched along the alley as the door slammed shut.
“Take a left at the end,” Tom growled, anxiety nipping at his heels.
They reached the end of the alley and came to a sidewalk, slipping under the weight of their packs, bumping against each other, stumbling and holding themselves up to keep from falling. Soon, the trio were running as fast as they could along the sidewalk, leaving the chaos behind.
“I think we’re away,” Tom huffed and puffed, glancing back to see no signs of pursuit. He slowed down and led them across a street, getting his bearings. “Any idea which way is west?”
Jerry looked around, gasping from the run, at first seeming confused until his sense of direction kicked in. “We need to go back the other way.” He turned and led them one block south before limping west again, his spine bent sideways, arm still hanging in his sling.
“Will this get us to the hospital?” Tom asked.
“Yes. A hundred percent.”
“How far?”
“About five miles.”
“Great,” Sam sighed in dismay.
“Glad you found those donuts,” Jerry quipped, still panting as he tried to catch his breath. “Talk about a burst of energy!”
The young man wasn’t far off in his statement. Tom had gotten a massive surge from the sweet pastries, but he already felt the big crash coming on. A siren made a swooping, penetrating sound from two streets over, and more crowd noise swelled from an upcoming corner store. Distant gunfire popped off in a back-and-forth exchange in the language of violence as someone shouted and a chorus of people screamed and shrieked.
“Let’s avoid that mess,” Tom suggested with a dark look in that direction.
“I couldn’t agree more.” Jerry led them north a block and then turned west yet again. The young man swallowed hard. “This city’s one big nightmare.”
“Yeah, no kidding.” Tom glanced around, eyes searching the shadows. “But I have a feeling it’s going to get a lot worse before it gets better.”
Chapter 15
Tom, Virginia Beach, Virginia
The night beat down on them, cold and relentless while the moon loomed big and bold behind the thinning clouds, casting a pallid glow across the heavens. The road stretched out long and winding through North Virginia Beach as thousands fled the hurricane ravaged area in trucks, cars, or on foot. Families rolled suitcases along the pavement, looking exhausted and weak as they trudged along in the ever deepening cold. Bodies were not uncommon, scattered mostly among the alleys, offering silent proof of the violence being meted out.
Jerry, Sam, and Tom often stumbled across abandoned luggage filled with apparel and toys, and each time they did, Tom ordered Sam and Jerry to pick through the clothing and layer up to keep warm. Vehicles by the dozens sped by, sometimes dangerously, whipping up the wind and stopping for no one. A family of four had passed them on bicycles, happily pedaling along in a perfect row. Later, they found the same family sitting on the side of the road against the guardrail, the wife dabbing at her husband’s bruised face as the kids looked on in horror.
“What happened to them?” Sam asked, her face its own mask of uncertainty and fear.
“Looks like someone robbed them,” Tom said. “Those bikes drew attention to them, and we need to avoid that.”
While he felt sorry for the family, they had to press on. Tom had to keep his wards on their feet until they reached... something. What it was, he wasn’t exactly sure, but they’d been walking for hours, and his enthusiasm was waning. He shivered and grumbled, cold even after finding an extra sweatshirt and jacket to wear from the discarded cases.
They trudged past blacked-out commercial buildings where crowds of young people gathered, Tom assuming they must be looking for easy loot the way they scoped out every passing stranger. Tom had quickly learned how to scope out the dangerous types and keep an eye on them until they passed. Some groups of travelers outpaced the trio, and Tom made sure to pull Sam and Jerry aside to let everyone pass who wanted to. There were families and couples as well, tourists based on their styles of clothing, probably trying to get home.
Jerry slogged along next to him, carrying his own weight but slowly, while Sam remained steady, lagging behind slightly so she could stay away from the street.
She called up with chattering teeth. “Do you think we’ll reach the hospital tonight?”
Tom shook his head, shuddering as a chill ran across his shoulders. “I doubt it. We’re not making good time, and Jerry mentioned earlier that we still have several miles to go. We should probably find a place to rest for the night.”
“Like in one of those,” Sam asked, pointing past him to a pair of hotels just off the road. One was a medium-scale, travel-style hotel, but the windows
were dark and roughly a dozen people milled around the parking lot as three guards in flannel shirts stood at the entrance, all with shotguns in hand.
“Who are the people with the guns?” Sam asked.
“Probably the owners,” Tom replied, tersely. “I’d bet they’re trying to keep looters out of the hotel.”
“What about the other place?”
Tom shifted his attention to a dingy motel squatting next to the nicer one. It was a single-story affair with grungy walls and busted screens on the windows. Its power was on, but the place didn’t have any customers and a half-dead neon sign stood atop a tall pole with the words, “The Château,” scrawled in fancy letters, a few of them dark and a few flickering ominously.
“It’s only forty bucks for the night,” Tom said. “I don’t have the cash, but I do have my credit cards.”
“If they still work,” Sam added.
“The power’s on.” Tom’s tone was doubtful, but he couldn’t ignore their sheer exhaustion and the ache in his shoulders. “I say we give it a try.” He started down the exit ramp, gesturing for the other two to keep up.
Sam frowned as they drew near. “It looks like something from a horror movie.”
“Beggars can’t be choosers,” Tom replied over his shoulder. “You good with this, Jerry?”
“Only if it has Free HBO,” he quipped tiredly. “Seriously, I’m more than fine with it. I could pass out right where I’m standing.”
Tom chuckled but moved faster down the ramp and soon he and Sam had left the young man behind and had to stop and wait for him.
“I’m not a huge horror movie fan,” Tom mumbled, “but I’ve seen zombies move faster than you.”
“That’s a good one.” Jerry chuckled, his grin sluggish.
“You’re definitely not winning the Zombie Olympics,” Sam snorted.
“Oh, great. You guys are teaming up on me now.”
“Just kidding.” Tom leaned down, offering his shoulder.
“I know, me too.” Jerry threw his arm around Tom’s neck, and they made faster time to the end of the ramp. At the intersection, he looked both ways out of habit before crossing diagonally to the other corner, trudging warily past the folks in the commercial hotel lot who appeared to be setting up camp. They sat on suitcases and the pavement with light blankets thrown over them, seeming more tired than threatening, so the trio continued down the sidewalk, angling into the Château Motel toward its front desk.
Beneath a bent and dripping awning, Tom allowed Jerry to stand on his own while he peered in through the glass. While the lights remained on, no one stood at the front desk. He knocked on the glass door and waited, but no one came, then he tried pushing it open, but it was locked.
“This isn’t good,” he mumbled.
“Maybe it’s an omen,” Jerry said. “Fate is telling us not to stay here.”
“Or maybe they just don’t want zombies,” Sam fired back.
“Very funny.”
Tom ignored the two and pulled out his cell phone. He dialed the number written below the address on the door, but the phone didn’t ring inside the office. He stuck the device back in his pocket when he realized service was down, anyway.
“Why don’t we just break in?” Jerry asked.
“Because I don’t want to destroy their property.” Tom shook his head as he turned to the young man. “Plus, I don’t want to get arrested.”
“You’re right,” the young man replied. “But is it okay if I sit here for a minute?” He didn’t wait for Tom’s answer but put his back against the glass and slid down.
Tom took a good look at the pair beneath the awning lights. Sam’s shoulders slumped as she bore the burden of her backpack and Jerry’s bag, dirt smudged her face, and her clothes were soggy and dingy, her tennis shoes looking like they had a hole developing on top. And, while they’d been making zombie jokes all night, the young man really did appear dead where he sat on the concrete, his back against the lobby glass and his head in his arms. For his part, Tom’s feet throbbed, and his back felt strained and weak on the lower left side, stretched thin like beaten leather.
“You know what?” He shook his head. “Breaking in isn’t such a bad idea. I’ll leave the owners a note on how to get hold of me for payment, and I’ll cover any damage we do.”
“You don’t have to explain to us, Dad.” Sam’s greenish eyes looked drained in the dirty yellow light. “I mean, look at us. We all need to rest. We know you’ll make good.”
“Okay.” Tom nodded and gestured. “Let’s walk around and see if there’s an easy way in… and one that’s a bit less out in the open for folks to see us if we end up having to break something to get in. Jerry, do you want to stay here?”
“As much as that appeals to me, I’d rather stick with you guys.” Leveraging himself against the glass, he wiggled upward until he was standing once more. “Oh man, I have blisters on my blisters.”
“We all do,” Tom acknowledged, glancing at his dirty shoes.
With the decision made, he stepped away from the entrance and walked along the row of rooms while Sam and Jerry dragged their feet behind him. He tried a few of the door handles and found them all locked, and the curtains drawn. Two cars sat in front of a pair of rooms, and Tom didn’t try those for fear of disturbing someone. As they went, he glanced out toward the street, on guard for anyone who might try to challenge them, and when they reached the end of the row with no clear way in, Tom guided them around to the back where they stepped into a mushy yard of soaked grass.
“What are we looking for?” Jerry asked as they splashed through the wetness.
“There.” Tom pulled out his flashlight, flipped it on, and pointed it at a rectangular window about eye level. “The glass is opaque, so it’s probably for the bathroom. I figure someone might have left one open. If so, maybe Sam can crawl through. That way, we don’t have to break any doors or windows.”
Jerry nodded. “Good thinking.”
Tom walked along the building’s rear, stepping around trash, small branches, and other garbage left by the storm, the water squelching in his shoes, pouring into the shoestring eyelets, chilling his feet to the bone. As they went, he reached out and pushed against all the windows, but none opened. He tried a back door that likely led to a storage room, but found it locked and when they reached the back of the lobby, Tom saw the back door standing open. His eyes traced the doorframe and pavement, his chest clenching, arm thrown out to keep Sam and Jerry from moving any farther.
Sam bristled at her father’s sudden caution, her eyes settling on the open door, searching the area to see what he saw. “What’s wrong?”
He shushed her softly and crept forward with the pair sticking close behind him. Light poured out of the open doorway to illuminate the pried frame, a short, round-nosed shovel leaning off to the side. Shining his flashlight at the ground, bright red splashes leapt out in the blossoming beam.
“That’s blood,” he hissed, immediately gesturing for the pair to move away. “Stay back.”
Sam took hold of Jerry’s arm and guided him backwards. Tom tossed his daughter his flashlight and bent to snatch the shovel off the ground, leveling the blade like a spear, moving cautiously toward the door, head ticking sideways as he listened. He stepped inside an office storeroom with an old desk backed into the corner and several chairs stacked three high next to it, file cabinets lining the right-hand wall and messily folded linens sitting on the left.
The door on the room’s opposite side hung open, and light poured through as Tom snuck across the floor and stepped into a short hallway that smelled of dust and mildew. The main office and lobby lay off to the right, but the blood trail continued to a second door opposite him. It hung open a foot. Nothing stirred, nothing made a sound, yet the hairs on the back of Tom’s neck lifted on their own, followed by a chill running down his spine. He shook off the fearful cold feeling and crept across the hall to listen at the threshold. When no sound reached him, he put his lef
t hand against the door and gave it a gentle shove, quickly re-gripping the shovel, holding the pointed end forward in case someone came at him.
It was a quiet hotel office with a metal desk sitting near the opposite wall, papers scattered across its surface and on the floor. A pair of chairs had toppled over, and the air was heavy with the coppery smell of blood. Tom stepped farther into the room, crouched with a white-knuckled grip on his weapon, ready to thrust it at the first sign of a threat. Something tickled his stomach, instincts kicking up and he wheeled and slammed the door shut, bringing the shovel up to strike.
No one was there and he sidestepped to the right, peering around the desk, instantly wincing at the scene of carnage in the back corner of the room. A man and woman wearing staff uniforms lay next to a partially opened safe. The man rested with his back against the wall, slumped over a lap full of blood while the woman lay face down on the other side of the safe, one arm thrown up, a wicked gash at on the back of her skull.
Bile rose in Tom’s throat as he placed the shovel on the desk and knelt next to the man, touching his cold arm before squatting and twisting, moving to the woman and putting his fingers on her bloody neck. Like the man, her skin was as frigid as the weather outside, and he felt no pulse.
Standing up, Tom retreated two steps and placed his hands on his hips, shaking his head in revulsion and sadness. His eyes slid to the safe, noting the door was cracked. Whoever had hurt the poor souls had gotten what they wanted, and a version of the probable events formed in his mind like a movie reel.
He imagined the criminals breaking in through the back door, using the shovel to wedge the door open. He pictured the frightened employees cowering in the office as they intruder rifled through the place. In the process of searching the premises, the intruder had found their safe and the two hiding there. They’d commanded the employees to open the safe before the deadly scuffle broke out, and then managed to open it anyway, with or without the employees’ help. Tom imagined a hundred similar robberies all around the city - maybe even thousands of them along the coast. The storm was like Christmas for opportunistic criminals everywhere, and when mixed with the other, more serious threats, it was a wonder things weren’t worse than they already were.