Stephanie laughed.
Derek suited himself up with a new uniform including combat pants complete with knee pads. He also fitted himself with belts, ammo pouches and other gear, minus the rucksack, as if he were leaving on a combat patrol.
“Now,” he exclaimed to the others. “I’m ready...”
John and Derek went out to secure the helicopter for the night. Amy, Jimmy and Stephanie stayed inside.
“Are you and John a couple?” Stephanie asked Amy.
“Yes I guess you could say that,” Amy said. “We’ve only known each other for a couple of weeks but it seems like years. We’ve been through a lot together. I guess because of the circumstances we’ve grown very close in a short period of time.”
“That’s understandable,” Stephanie said. “He seems like a nice guy.”
“He is,” Amy said. “Actually he saved me from being beaten and raped on the second day after all this started. We haven’t been apart since.”
“What about Derek,” Stephanie asked. “I kind of like him. He’s cute. Seems like a big teddy bear.”
“He is,” Amy said. “I trust him with my life.”
“He’s all business most of the time,” Amy said. “But I know there’s a softer side in there waiting on all this to be over so it can come back out.”
At sunset the group had a meal and settled in to get some sleep. The night passed quietly.
The next morning, John and Derek were up first, just as the sky was beginning to lighten in the East. It was overcast, a thick fog hung over the area.
“Great,” John said to Derek as they walked around the Seahawk to inspect it. “We can’t fly out of here in this.”
“It’ll burn off,” Derek said. “We just have to wait for the sun to come up.”
After breakfast they waited for the fog to clear. At 09:00 am it did. The sky was still overcast but it was calm and safe to fly.
Derek walked into the armory where everyone was seated. “Ready?” he said. “The fog is gone.”
“Excellent,” John said. “Lets load up and get out of here.”
“You go ahead,” Stephanie said. “I want to say goodbye to Specialist Mason. I can’t just disappear.”
The rest of the group boarded the helicopter while John made one more trip around the aircraft to inspect it. He was concerned about the cloud cover but was anxious to get going.
When he was satisfied all was good he entered through the cockpit door and went through the checklist.
Derek stood by the cargo cabin door waiting for Stephanie to return so he could make sure everything was secure for takeoff.
Stephanie returned to the building to check on Specialist Mason. She walked up to his desk and sat down in the chair in front of it. He looked at her and cocked his head to one side.
“I have to leave,” Stephanie told him. “I hope you understand. I can’t take you with me.”
The gomer grunted and leaned forward over the desk.
“Here,” she said placing a M9 service pistol on the desk in front of him. “You can use this if you want. Do you understand?”
The Specialist’s zombie stared back at her with a blank stare, picked up the pistol and studied it closely. He fumbled with the safety.
Stephanie reached over and flipped it off. “There,” she said. “Ready to go.”
He looked at her, grunted again and set the pistol down.
She smiled and got up to leave. He watched her closely as she left the room. She looked back at him one more time. She thought he looked sad and hurt. She felt bad for leaving him.
“How did he take you breaking up with him?” Derek said grinning when Stephanie returned.
“You know... Derek,” she said. “That’s really not funny. I left him a pistol just in case he wanted to end it.”
“Do you think he will?”
“I don’t know, maybe.”
“Hey, don’t look now,” John said, “but your gomer is heading this way.”
Stephanie and Derek walked to the front of the helicopter. The Specialist was walking, albeit a little wobbly, toward them with the gun in his hand.
Derek raised the barrel of his rifle slightly, flipped off the safety, and put his finger on the trigger.
“Don’t shoot him,” Stephanie said.
“I’m not,” Derek said. “But you never know. Better safe than sorry.”
The gomer continued past them grunting along the way. He stared them down as he passed and headed straight for the fence.
“What is he doing?” Amy said exiting the helicopter.
Stephanie shook her head. “I don’t know,” she said.
They watched the gomer walk up to the fence, grab it with one hand and shake it. The dead wandering the airfield heard the racket and moved toward the noise. Specialist Mason’s gomer waited for them to gather at the fence then opened fire.
He emptied the clip dropping five of the six zombies. He continued to pull the trigger. After three times without firing he walked back to Stephanie and stared at her.
“What’s he want?” Stephanie said.
Derek stepped forward. “He’s out of ammo,” he said.
Derek took his own M9, dropped the full clip and took the pistol from the gomer. He took the empty clip from the pistol and inserted the full one. He chambered a round and handed it back to the gomer.
“Good to go,” he said.
Specialist Mason looked at Derek and grunted, turned and headed back to the fence. He dropped the remaining zombie with two shots and put the gun to his temple and pulled the trigger. He fell over against the fence and dropped to the ground. The group stood in silence for a moment. They weren’t expecting him to turn the gun on himself.
Stephanie looked at Derek. He could see the sadness in her eyes and felt bad about what he had said.
“Well,” she said. “It’s over for him now.”
“Sorry,” Derek said looking down at the ground. “About what I said.”
Stephanie grabbed his hand. “It’s ok,” she said. “Don’t worry about it. I still like you.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah,” she said and winked at him.
She looked over at Specialist Mason’s body one more time and climbed into the cabin. Amy climbed back in and took her seat beside Jimmy.
Derek handed them headsets. He helped Stephanie put hers on, looked at her and smiled, and slid the door shut. Amy looked at Stephanie and winked.
Derek took his place in the copilots seat, strapped in and gave John a thumbs up. “Do it,” he said.
John started the Seahawk’s engines and in a few minutes engaged the rotors.
They looked over at the six zombies the specialist had put down.
“There were eight yesterday,” Derek said.
“Right,” John said. “Two went down overnight.”
“Make that one,” Derek said pointing to a zombie approaching the fence.
“You know,” Derek said. “I don’t even have the urge to shoot the bastard.”
“You’re getting soft,” Amy said.
“Take a nap Amy,” Derek said laughing.
When the rotors were at full speed John lifted the helicopter into the air.
“Here we go,” Derek said.
“Amy and I encountered some survivors not far from here on our way down to Columbia,” John said. “I’m going to fly by to see if there is any sign of them. With this overcast we have to stay low anyway.”
“Ok,” Derek said.
Amy looked over at Stephanie.
“He’s talking about two couples, Dean and Beth and Jim and Tracy. They had three kids with them. Two boys and a girl,” she said. “We think they may have been, or at least one of the kids, may have been a carrier.”
“A carrier?” Stephanie said. “You mean like contagious.”
“Right,” John interrupted. “One of their kids had all the symptoms.”
“A rash on the stomach, sore throat, fever...” Amy said. “I
hope it was something else but it didn’t look good.”
They were soon over the area John and Amy had covered just nine days ago. John flew over the intersection where they encountered the school bus. It was still there. Little zombie children still wandering around inside.
Once over the neighborhood, John descended until he was just over the tree tops. He strained to see Dean’s house. Finally he spotted their truck. It was parked behind a house beside a dirt mound.
John got Derek’s attention and pointed down. “That must be the house,” he said.
Amy leaned over to look out the window.
“John look on top of the mound,” she said.
John maneuvered the helicopter closer. Sitting on top of the mound, in a canvas camping chair and holding a half empty bottle of bourbon, sat Dean. Lined up neatly in the yard ten feet away were six bodies. Three adults and three children. Amy recognized Jim and Beth’s bodies immediately.
“Oh no...” she said.
“One of them was definitely a carrier,” John said.
Dean stood, held up the bottle of bourbon and waved them off. John waved back. Dean waved at them away again. They could see him shouting something but could not make out what it was.
John moved the Seahawk closer.
Dean walked to the edge of the mound, raised the bottle again and made a throat slashing gesture with his free hand.
“He’s drunk,” Derek said. “and he wants us to leave. Why?”
Dean raised his shirt exposing his stomach and pointed at it. His chest and stomach were covered with a bright red rash.
“That’s why,” John said.
Dean put his shirt down and went back to his seat. He took a long drink from the bottle and picked up a shotgun that was lying on the ground beside the chair. He placed it in his lap, looked up, and waved them off again.
“I think that’s our cue to leave...” John said.
John waved and pulled back on the collective. The memory of his first meeting with Dean replaying in his mind.
The Seahawk lifted higher into the air. John tilted the nose forward and headed them again toward what they hoped would be their new home for a while.
He couldn’t get the sight of the six bodies and Dean, alone, out of his mind. He wondered what happened after their first meeting. He remembered looking back at them in the rear view mirror as he and Amy drove away. He could still see the look on Dean’s face as he watched John and Amy leave. He wondered what Dean was thinking at that moment.
15
Wild Turkey
-------------------------------------------悪魔死--------------------------“They’ll never make it,” Dean said shaking his head. “Not in a million years.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” Beth said turning to get back in the truck.
Dean stood for a moment longer watching John and Amy drive away.
“Good luck guys,” he said almost in a whisper.
He was convinced he was watching two people drive off to their deaths. He turned, walked back to the truck and climbed in. Jim tapped on the roof.
Beth performed a three point turn and headed back in the direction they had come. They covered the quarter mile home quickly. Beth parked the truck beside the fallout shelter and climbed out. Dean and Jim made a quick security check around the house.
“I’ll go help Tracy,” she told Jim.
Beth entered the shelter to find Tracy bent over her young daughter wiping her forehead with a wet cloth. She looked up at Beth when she walked in.
“She’s burning up,” she said. “I can’t get her temperature down. It came on so suddenly...”
Beth leaned down and felt the girl’s cheek.
“What is her temperature,” she asked.
“One hundred and four,” Tracy said. “It’s gone up two degrees in the last thirty minutes.”
“Did you give her Tylenol?” Beth asked.
“Yes it hasn’t helped,” Tracy answered.
“Mom,” Beth’s eight year old son said tugging at her shirt. “I don’t feel so good.”
She reached out and felt her son’s forehead. “You’re hot as a firecracker,” she said. “Come and lie down.”
She led him to one of the bunk beds in the corner. She was terrified. His face was pale and dark circles had formed under his eyes.
Dean and Jim joined them in the shelter.
“How are they?” Dean said.
Beth looked at him and shook her head. “It’s not good,” she said. “Not good at all.”
“James how do you feel?” he asked his oldest son.
“I feel sick to my stomach,” he answered.
They nursed them as best they could for the rest of the day. Soon after dark the two families went to bed wondering what the next day would bring.
At two in the morning Beth was wakened by her oldest son.
“Mom?” he said weakly. “I’m sick.”
He leaned over and threw up. Black and red vomit splattered Beth’s shirt and face. She jumped up and grabbed a towel. The boy fell to the floor. He squirmed around for a few seconds and stopped moving.
“Dean,” Beth screamed from the floor beside her son. “He’s not breathing.”
Dean rushed to her side, knelt down and put his finger to his sons neck. He didn’t feel a pulse. He looked at his wife. The shock evident on his face.
“He’s dead.”
Beth started CPR. Blood ran from his mouth and nose as she pushed on his chest.
“Beth stop it,” Dean said pulling her off of him. “He’s gone. There’s nothing we can do...”
She fell to the floor and sobbed.
Dean called to his youngest son Matt. There was no response. He rushed to Matt’s side and tried to shake him awake. He forced the boy’s eyelids open. The eyes were rolled back in his head.
“I can’t wake him up,” Dean said.
Beth was still on the floor beside James sobbing.
“What can we do?” Jim asked.
“Nothing,” Dean answered. “Absolutely nothing.”
Dean reached down and picked James up, carried him up the steps and out of the shelter.
Beth followed screaming for him to stop and beating him on the back with her fists.
“No!” she shouted. “You’re not going to do it.”
Dean laid James’s down and grabbed his wife by the shoulders. “He’s dead for God’s sake,” he said sternly. “Go back inside. There’s nothing we can do for him now.”
Beth fell against the wall of the shelter distraught. She went back inside and sat down on the floor beside Matt’s bunk. He was breathing heavily and still unconscious. She jumped when she heard the gunshot and wept uncontrollably.
Dean returned to the shelter and sat down heavily in a chair at the dining table. He buried his face in his hands and cried. Jim sat beside him in silence.
By sunrise the other two children were dead. Dean took each one out and laid them beside James. He put one bullet in each of their temples.
The rest of the day was passed in silence. Each grieving in their own way.
After the sunset, Beth, Tracy and Jim all fell ill. By the next morning all three were dead. Dean laid them neatly beside the children and methodically shot each once in the head.
Afterwards he lost himself in a bottle of whiskey and passed out.
The next morning he woke with a sore throat and a rash on his stomach.
He examined the red splotches. “This is it...” he said sadly.
He had resigned himself to death but was still stunned when the symptoms hit.
He passed the next seven days sitting on top of the shelter watching the bodies lying before him become bloated and black. He waited patiently for his turn to die.
He didn’t feel well but was only mildly sick so far. He had no energy, no appetite and constant nausea.
He stared at the shotgun thinking seriously about ending it now, but decided to wait.
On the eighth day
after the adults died he woke with a high temperature and chills. He walked outside and threw up. Black and red vomit covered his shoes. He didn’t care. He wouldn’t need them much longer.
He decided the time had come. Loading the shotgun he took his seat atop the shelter mound and sat down. He said a prayer, placed the barrel of the gun under his chin and made peace with what he had to do. Just before he had applied almost enough pressure to the trigger to fire, he heard the sound of an approaching helicopter.
He laid the shotgun down beside the chair, picked up the bottle of Wild Turkey and stood up. Soon a battle ship gray helicopter came into view. It drew closer and hovered over the yard next door.
He stood holding the bottle of Wild Turkey in his hand and waved them off. He could see two figures in the cockpit but couldn’t make out their faces.
“You’re too fucking late!” he shouted waving them off again.
Dean walked to the edge of the mound and pulled up his shirt exposing his rash covered stomach and pointed at it. He looked up at the helicopter and made a throat slashing gesture.
He returned to his seat, took a long pull of the Wild Turkey, picked up the shotgun and turned to face the hovering aircraft.
He held up the bottle and the shotgun and shook them. “This is all I need now!” he screamed at the helicopter.
Glaring at them he waved them off again.
“Get the fuck out of here.” Dean slurred. “Leave us alone...”
The helicopter rose and disappeared behind the trees. Dean listened until the sound faded away.
From the top of the mound, he stared down at the bodies of his family. Taking the shotgun he walked down to where the bodies lie and stood over them.
He placed the barrel of the shotgun under his chin, took a deep breath, and pushed down on the trigger.
The blast echoed off nearby houses as Dean’s body fell across the other six. Steam rose from the mangled mess of what was left of his head.
A cloud of Blackbirds scattered from a nearby oak tree. A raven called from a nearby fence. A light rain began fall and all was quiet again.
16
Glassy Mountain
-------------------------------------------悪魔死--------------------------
The Demon Dead (Book 2): Troubled Waters Page 16