Fountain of the Dead

by Scott T. Goudsward

  Sharon stepped forward, raised her gun, and fired twice directly into its skull; on the third shot the chamber clicked. She slapped in a fresh clip and fired off two more times. Frank came over and took her hands.

  “It’s ok, Sharon. It was really dead three shots ago.”

  “I got spooked.”

  “Happens to us all,” Frank said.

  Danny waved from the doors, Frank and Sharon looked over in time to see him get knocked to the ground as they swung open. Sharon raised her gun but it was too late. There were five of the dead on him. He screamed and fired blindly hitting some but not fatally. He tried to crawl out through grabbing hands and shaking legs. They bit into his arms and chest, dug through the soft flesh of his belly for the food within. Danny gurgled out his last breath when his abdomen was torn into. The dead slurped and chewed in a mad frenzy. The afternoon echoed with groans and greedy wet bites. Frank opened fire with both pistols until they were empty. Sharon took out her rifle and lined up each one and squeezed the trigger, watched them fall through the scope in a fountain of black and red blood. Dead hands grasped at the air one last time.

  Sharon lowered the rifle as Frank ran over to the carnage. He kicked the bodies away from Danny and looked down at him. His mouth open in a silent scream, blood damp on his chin, dead eyes stared up at the sun. Frank shook his head and holstered one of his guns; in the other he put a fresh clip. Danny’s head moved a hair; his mouth opened and closed in a mock breath the remaining hand twitched. Frank chambered a round and put it through his skull.

  “I’m sorry, Frank,” Sharon started.

  “It’s okay, I’ve put down people closer to me than he was.” Frank sighed still looking at Danny’s body. “God, he was so young.”

  Catherine stepped out from behind of the Monte followed by Beverly; they walked to Frank and Sharon. Beverly covered her mouth and looked away. Catherine closed her eyes for a moment in silent prayer.

  “Were you two close?” Catherine asked.

  “No, not really,” Beverly answered, “It’s difficult seeing someone you know like that.”

  “What’s the plan, Frank?” Gerry asked.

  “We put a bullet through Pierce and go home?” Frank said.

  “The pumps are locked out. The controls are in the store in back of the registers,” Sharon said and shouldered the rifle. Catherine turned to look at her. “I used to buy a lot of fuel. Assuming there’s power in the store, we can try to get the pumps unlocked. Get some road food if there’s anything left edible so we don’t kill our stores.”

  “That means going in the store?” Beverly asked.

  Sharon nodded and glanced at Danny’s body. Gore was splayed across the walkway and a small stream of blood drizzled away from them.

  “We have enough fuel to get us where we’re going.” Catherine said. “Let’s get out of here.”

  “Shouldn’t we say something or bury him?” Beverly started. Beverly rolled her shirt tail in her hands.

  “What can we do?” Frank asked. “We can’t bury him. We don’t have the tools and we have no priest for a blessing.”

  “We have to leave him,” Catherine said.

  “Something else is wrong here,” Sam said. “It doesn’t make any damn sense. There’s got to be survivors here.”

  “Not anymore,” Frank said and then headed back to their vehicles. Sam looked around the lot; his dog was in the front seat of the Explorer. If there were more dead, they’d be coming out. Anyone living would have heard the commotion and maybe come out to investigate.

  “I’m going to check this out on the way home,” he muttered.

  * * * * *

  “What do you thinks’ going on?” Pierce asked and craned his neck around looking to see what was going down.

  “None of our concern,” Williams said.

  “Something happened I know it.” Pierce jostled around on the seat for a better vantage point.

  “Sit still, psycho,” Williams said. Pierce continued pushing and moving; Williams went to grab him, that’s when his radio hissed. Pierce turned to him and Williams had a hand around his throat. He held a finger to his lips. “Not a word, freak. Or you won’t have to worry about seeing the swamp again.”

  * * * * *

  Micah did his best to stretch in the trunk of the car; everything was cramped up. He pushed off the blankets and changed positions, and hoped that no one noticed. He heard and felt the engine start, then the car began moving. When he thought the car was going fast enough, he hummed to himself, the sound drowned out by the engine and road noise.

  Micah thought of the house and the village. How maybe this had been a bad idea. But someone had to keep notes. Someone had to take the history. This was history, maybe world history. Micah thought about his grandparents, rubbed his calves, and shifted position again.

  “Mom,” he whispered to the darkness of the trunk.

  * * * * *

  “What will it be?” Jack stuck his head out of the window of the canteen truck. He rested his hands on the metal shelves that were packed with cookies, corn chips and other snacks. Below the shelves was a compartment filled with ice and drinks. The man looked at Jack, then the whiteboard menu and back.

  “Steak and pepper sub.”

  “What’s on that?” Jack asked.

  “Steak and Peppers?”

  Jack sighed; “Onions, garlic, sprouts, mustard, cheese?” Sharon smiled hearing the irritation in his voice. She knew it all too well. All window people get it after awhile.

  “Just steak and peppers please.” Jack nodded and ripped the order tag from the book.

  Sharon worked the flat top grill. She reached into the cooler with a gloved hand and grabbed a fistful of shaved beef. She dropped it on the grill next to a pile of onions and peppers. She smiled at the hiss of the meat cooking and flipped on the small vent to suck the steam out. Nathan, Sharon’s four year old played in the front driver’s seat. While the meat browned, she sliced into a grinder roll and squirted olive oil from a squeeze bottle into it.

  “Can I get fries too?” Sharon nodded and took the bag of frozen fries from the freezer and dropped them in the deep fryer bin. She had planned for having fresh fries one day, but the back of the truck was already crowded with equipment.

  “Be about three or four minutes.” The man nodded and stepped back; he let the next person order. Jack scribbled orders on the notepad, tearing off the pages and handing them back to Sharon. She cut into the meat with dual spatulas and mixed in a bunch of vegetables and covered the pile with a metal pot lid. She read the orders and slapped a half dozen hamburgers on the grill. She chopped lettuce and sliced tomatoes. After a few seconds, she popped the fryer tray and dropped the fries into a metal bowl and sprinkled in the seasonings. She slid the steak and peppers into the sub roll and handed it to Jack. She tossed the fries and slid them into a foam box and handed them off.

  “How you doin’ Nathan?” Sharon asked. He looked up and smiled, holding Avatar: The Last Airbender action figures. He went back to the mock fight between Aang and Prince Zuko. Sharon turned her attention back to the grill and dropped another basket of fries on one side of the fryer and breaded fish into the other. She ran a sleeved arm across her forehead and listened to Jack taking orders faster than she could cook. Sharon re-ran the interviews from the other day through her head. Jack was a good window man and was great with the orders and money but couldn’t cook for shit. The truck was getting too much for her to work alone. She started up at the squeal of brakes and then darted to the front seat, where Nathan had been playing; the action figures lying on the floor.

  “Nathan?” she called out quietly. The alarm on the fryer went off and she took the basket out of the hot oil instinctively. She dropped the fries into the spice bowl and looked out the front window for her son.

  “Nathan!” She took a shaky step towards the door. Outside the truck someone screamed and started crying. Shouts rose up, “Someone call 911!” “Shit it’s a kid!” She ran
from the truck, pulling off her apron and latex gloves. Nathan was under the tire of an SUV, his little legs twitching. Sharon turned, threw up, and started screaming.

  * * * * *

  Sharon woke up screaming. Tony slammed on the brakes of the car, making them squeal to a stop. The other cars slowed ahead of them. “Nathan!” She yelled and dove out of the car oblivious to where she was. Something was on fire, the world, the tires, the engine, she didn’t care. Fat tears rolled down her face as the car doors opened and someone draped their arm over her shoulder as she sobbed.

  “It’s ok,” Catherine said and squeezed her shoulders. Sharon shook her head, her face buried in her hands. Sharon wiped at her eyes and blushed, embarrassed by the outburst.

  “Who’s Nathan?” Catherine asked softly.

  “Nathan was my son.”

  “He is no longer with us?” Sharon shook her head and at her eyes and nose with her sleeve.

  “I lost him the summer before Night Storm. I’m sorry I’ve never talked about him.” She thought for a moment about showing Catherine the picture in her pocket.

  “I’m so sorry, Sharon.” Sharon forced a fake smile at Catherine’s sincere words.

  “How long was I asleep?” She looked to Tony.

  “Maybe twenty minutes, maybe less. We were chatting about cheeseburgers and when I looked over you were snoozing.”

  “I’m sorry I fell asleep. Are we even in Connecticut yet?”

  Tony shook his head.

  “No worries, Sharon. Asleep or awake, there’s no one else I’d want watching our backs.” Tony walked back to the driver’s side and sat down, pulling the Monte’s door shut and drummed his fingers on the outside of the door. Catherine gave Sharon a quick squeeze again and climbed back in the car, Beverly looked concerned from the back. Sharon took a moment to collect herself and looked around the barren stretch of 84. Off in the distance she saw a sign, and reached into the car for the rifle. She looked at the sign through the scope, giant, green and reflective.

  “Welcome To Connecticut.” Sharon switched off the safety, lined up the cross hairs and dotted the “I” with a bullet hole. She sat back in the car, engaged the safety and put the scope covers back on.

  “What was that about?” Tony asked. He ran a hand through his dark hair and peeked in the mirror real quick.

  “Just marking the territory.” They continued down the road; Sharon smiled at her handiwork when they passed the sign. In the side mirror she spied an old State Police car and an even older dead cop slumped halfway out the window, the door stained with long dried blood.

  * * * * *

  Micah jumped at the gunshot; he curled his fingers into a fist and moved his arm to knock on the trunk and slowly pulled it back. He relaxed his grip and massaged aching legs and arms. His photo album clutched tight in his other hand, Micah curled into a ball and closed his eyes. It was hot in the enclosed space; sweat ran down his neck and back. He dreamt of apples and bottled water.

  * * * * *

  “Are we there yet?” Pierce asked. Frank gripped the wheel tighter and pulled the Jeep over into the shoulder. He stepped out and walked around the front of the Jeep. The other cars slowed to a stop behind him.

  “What’s the issue?” Gerry asked through the window.

  “I’m going to kill him. I just want to put a bullet or six through his brain pan and paint the street red and grey with his brains.”

  “You’ve thought about this a lot?”

  “Since Cambridge. Normally I’d listen to the Red Sox or Patriots on road trips. I used to keep the glove box packed with books on CD. I need to keep myself amused somehow.” Frank grabbed the walkie from the dash. “Catherine, would you mind bringing the maps out here?” She stepped from the car with a handful of papers. Sharon trailed behind her, pistols at the ready.

  “If we keep stopping every ten minutes we’re never going to get there,” Pierce yelled.

  Frank took the maps and spread them on the hood of the Monte. He traced a finger down 84. “If I remember correctly we have some weird ass bridges and merges outside Hartford.”

  “I’ll have Sam scan the AM stations, and maybe he can pick up some pirate radio. We have no idea what Hartford is like. It might be totally barren, or like Boston with a few buildings holding the survivors.”

  “I don’t know, Catherine,” Frank said. “I haven’t been down these parts in a long time. We haven’t had to come down this far to forage yet.” Frank looked up from the maps. “That house we stack the dead things in? It’s full. We’re going to need another one.”

  “Focus Frank. Let’s be careful, and keep alert.” She walked to the explorer and knocked on the window. She grimaced at Danny’s empty seat. Sam’s dog jumped over and stuck his cold nose in her face. She laughed and scratched his muzzle. “Sam, please scan the AM stations, see if you get any broadcasts.”

  * * * * *

  Frank eased the Jeep around an overturned tanker trunk, the contents long since stolen or dried up. A bloody baseball cap was on the floor; it read ‘Eatin’ ain’t Cheatin’. Pierce tapped him on the shoulder.

  “How long until Danbury?” Pierce’s breath washed over Frank’s cheek.

  “Three maybe four hours. It depends on Hartford,” Gerry said and folded up the map.

  “What’s in Hartford?” Williams asked.

  “We have no idea. Route 84 will bring us from one corner of the state to the other. But Hartford is a big city and they have bridges more fucked up than Boston.”

  “How long til’ Hartford?” Pierce asked.

  “Maybe 90 minutes. There’s no speed limit, no cops, and no radar detectors. But we can’t move too fast. We get too comfortable and we stop being careful.” Frank pointed to side at a pack of zombies shambling down the shoulder. “Drive too fast, we blow a tire, people get bitten.”

  “I say speed up and worry about careful when we’re in the Everglades,” Pierce said.

  “And I say shut up, Pierce, and let the man drive.” Williams said and turned towards the window. He pressed himself back into the seat to get more room; the bag of weapons and ammo heavy on his feet and ankles.

  Frank continued down 84 doing his best to look everywhere for threats. Next to him Gerry kept an eye out the side window and watched the mirrors, keeping the other vehicles in view. Instead of deer carcasses littering the side of the road, there were burnt out car husks and desiccated corpses that had been chewed on and abandoned when the victims were done flailing and screaming.

  “I remember when the only things you saw on the side of this road was road kill and trucker bombs,” Gerry said.

  “What’s a trucker bomb?” Pierce asked. Gerry opened his mouth like he was going to explain it, and then thought better.

  “A trucker bomb,” Frank started. “Is when a trucker doesn’t want to stop for a piss and fills an empty milk container with urine and drops it off someplace.”

  The road led them past Manchester, Windsor, and Avon. The road signs changed from Hartford next three exits to “Turn away Now!” “Welcome to Hell!” Frank shook his head and slowed down again. The bridges and ramps combined like a mass of writhing snakes. Once across the river they’d be set, depending on what Hartford was like. Frank maneuvered the twisting roads, remembering this at rush hour and cringed.

  He stomped on the brakes coming to the bridge over the Connecticut River. The bridge was totally blocked off East and West sides. Barricades made of old cars and logs interlaced with barbed wire. Tire shredders crossed the road ahead. They had one spare tire per car; they couldn’t afford to lose any.

  “What’s going on?” Catherine asked over the radio.

  “Break out the scope, see what you can see.” Frank said. Gerry slid out of the Jeep and slipped underneath the vehicle. The Jeep would give him some cover in case someone started shooting or something tried biting. The fit was tight and the heat of the engine felt like being cooked. He looked through the scope at the bridge.

  “Bridge i
s blocked off, road has two or three rows of tire shredders. Gerry is scoping out the scene,” Frank said into the radio as Gerry eased back into the Jeep.

  “There’s something or someone up in the girder work on the bridge. Looks like a forward watch, can’t tell if it’s living or dead. I could put a shot through it. Aside from attracting the undead, it could bring out every murder squad that might be in the area.” Gerry covered the scope lenses and rested the stock on the floor between his legs. He glanced in the mirror to see Williams’ hand in his coat and Pierce hugging the pack. Gun or something else? With a quick flick of his thumb, Gerry took the safety off his sidearm.

  “Someone may be watching us, Catherine,” Frank said into the radio. Williams looked out the back window at the other cars. Pierce stared blankly at the back of Frank’s head, his mind obviously not in the now.

  “What do you suggest?” Catherine asked.

  “If we move the shredders, then we’re targets especially if someone is watching us. Once those are cleared then we have to get through the barricades and that looks mighty tricky.”

  “Let’s have a chat,” Catherine said through the radio. “Meet at the Monte please.”

  * * * * *

  “Let me out,” Williams said. He pushed the seat forward and stepped out, grabbed his lower back and twisted. He looked at the bridge and the 1/4 mile of road that separated them from Hartford and walked up to the Monte and the “meeting.”

  “What can we do for you?” Frank asked.