Badlands Trilogy (Book 3): Out of the Badlands

by Brian J. Jarrett

  “Maybe they were afraid they didn’t have enough.”

  Red Beard scowled. “Don’t give ‘em the right to steal from us.”

  “Agreed. But people do crazy shit when they’re afraid.”

  Red Beard nodded. “At least they closed the fucking gate behind ‘em, if nothing else.” He grumbled to himself, his attention drifting away. “Rather than leave us for the carriers to eat.”

  Ed shrugged. “Well, there’s that, I suppose. Thanks for the info.”

  Red Beard snapped back into attention, pulled from his revenge fantasy. “Oh, yeah. Sure. See you on the truck.”

  “Which one are you on?” Ed asked.

  “John.”

  “Us too.”

  “Well I’ll be goddamned. I’m Terry, by the way.”

  Ed introduced himself.

  “You’re Dave Porter’s friend, right?”

  Ed nodded.

  “Well, why didn’t you tell me?” Terry said, a smile lighting up his face. “Glad to finally meet you. He had nothing but good things to say about you.”

  “Dave’s a good guy,” Ed said. A moment of silence passed between them. “I’ll see you on the truck then.”

  “Oh, sure,” Terry replied. He shook his head. “Dirty sons of bitches,” he mumbled as he walked away.

  Ed ducked back into the room.

  “Who was that?” Trish asked.

  “Terry.”

  “Who’s Terry?”

  “One of our new truck mates,” Ed replied. He recounted the story about the Canada truck and the stolen supplies.

  “Maybe you were right,” Trish said. “Maybe it is going to get worse before it gets better.”

  Ed shrugged. “Let’s hope I’m wrong.”

  * * *

  The sun peeked over the horizon as Ed Brady and his family stepped into the courtyard of the residence hall. Already folks had gathered, their meager belongings packed into shoddy suitcases, unraveling bags and—in some cases—old trash bags. They split into two groups, each filing in behind their respective truck. Ed caught a glimpse of Terry in the crowd. The red-headed man waved and Ed returned it, though he wasn’t entirely sure how he felt about his new “friend”. Of course, he wasn’t sure how he felt about any of them.

  As they filed in, the courtyard filled with the echoes of conversation. People clustered into smaller groups; couples, families and friends. After nearly twenty minutes all heads had been accounted for. A handful of people stood nearby, members of the group planning to stay behind. They watched while keeping their distance.

  Ed felt uncomfortable in the large group. So many people he didn’t know. He’d seen some of them around over the past few weeks, but he knew almost none of them by name. He wondered if maybe he should have spent more time getting to know them. Maybe it would have helped him anticipate their behavior, or to know if they could be trusted. Either way, he’d find out soon enough, once they got on the road.

  A whistle sounded, echoing through the courtyard. Ed turned his attention toward the sound. Alice, leader of truck number two, stood on the back of the loaded flatbed, facing the crowd. Behind her, sixteen hundred miles of unknown terrain awaited them.

  “Today we embark upon a journey like none we’ve ever seen,” Alice began. “There will be challenges, for sure. It won’t be easy. But with my leadership we’ll rise to these challenges and overcome them and we’ll thrive.”

  “Jesus,” Ed muttered. He’d heard many a politician vomit out the same rhetoric.

  “We’ve already experienced a setback,” Alice continued, “a criminal act perpetrated by the Canada-bound crew. Well, the cowards may have stolen our supplies, but they can never steal our drive and determination.”

  Ed sighed. “Who talks like this?” he whispered to Trish.

  Trish grinned. “Be nice.”

  Ed rolled his eyes.

  “Shush,” a woman with a rough face and a noticeable lip mole barked. Clad in a faded, green army jacket, the woman’s thinning hair draped over her wide back like scraggly vines.

  “Shush yourself,” Ed said, glaring.

  She frowned and turned back around again.

  Trish punched him in the arm. “Ed!” she said, but she was smiling.

  “So thank you all,” Alice continued from the truck. “I look forward to leading you to California and safety!” she said, ending with exaggerated inflection. A few stragglers clapped with the enthusiasm of a flaccid penis.

  Ed kept his hands by his side.

  Ignoring (or unaware of) the tepid response, Alice handed things off to her fellow truck leader. “John has something to say as well,” she said, segueing to her counterpart with soft clapping.

  “Um…yeah,” John Davies began. “I just, uh, wanted to say that I’ll do the best job I can do. There’s a lot of ground to cover out there, but we’ll make it. We just gotta work together.”

  Another pause occurred and Alice took the opportunity to grab the reigns again. “Thanks for that, John,” she replied.

  Ed could hear the condescension in her voice. This was going to be a very long trip.

  “So without further ado, let’s get this show on the road!” Alice said, pumping a fist in the air. Ed rolled his eyes. The shushing lady in front of him turned and he caught her eye. She glared. He returned it and after a second or two she broke eye contact, slinging a heavy duffel bag over her shoulder and walking like a linebacker toward the waiting truck.

  John’s truck.

  “Goddammit,” Ed muttered, sighing.

  “What?” Trish asked. She followed Ed’s gaze, noticing the green army jacket. “Oh. Bummer.”

  “That’s an understatement,” Ed said.

  “It’ll be fine,” Trish said, reassuring him. She grinned. “Maybe you’ll become friends.”

  Ed arched his eyebrows. “Don’t hold your breath.”

  Chapter Seven

  All that remained of the residents of Jonathan’s refugee camp were piles of torn, bloody clothing and scattered bones. The white creatures had eaten the bodies almost entirely, gnawing the meat off the bones, leaving jagged teeth marks behind on the hard, calcified surfaces. Brown, dried blood covered the beige walls in violent spatter patterns while thick, congealing pools of the stuff collected on the floor, turning rancid as the day’s heat ratcheted up.

  Chloe was glad to find no intact bodies. The bone remnants almost didn’t look human. She’d been in the camp for a few months before last night, when the tree fell and took down the fence that had been keeping them safe. She knew Jonathan well. Arkady too. All had been good people who cared about others before themselves.

  She’d been expecting something like this ever since she first arrived, though she had thought it more likely the camp would be raided and destroyed by the uninfected monsters of the world. The same type of people who’d killed her mother two years ago. The kind of men (and they were always men) that laws had been made for, the kind of monsters already roaming the world before the virus. At least then they’d been kept on short leashes. Before the virus there were consequences. Now, nothing stopped them from doing whatever they wanted to whomever they pleased.

  Sam wasn’t like most men. Sam was good. Kind. Thoughtful. Sam had loved his mother and he had watched her die in front of him, same as Chloe had with her own mom. They’d already been seeing each other in the camp for a couple of weeks, but now…now it was more than that. Now they were bonded, bound by shared experience that only they could understand.

  Although she was almost fourteen, she felt she’d seen more death and destruction in her short life than many war vets triple her age. Sam had seen his fair share as well. But the death of a parent affected everyone differently and watching it happen made something terrible into something even worse. He hadn’t spoken a word all night or morning. Going back to the place where it all happened could be a terrible idea. It might cause Sam to shut down for good. He might lose his shit altogether and simply go bonkers.

  But
they needed supplies and weapons if they were going to survive more than a week back out in the wild. Jonathan had had food and guns; according to him a small stockpile to feed and arm the survivors of the virus. It was worth the risk going back, provided they didn’t linger. Definitely out before nightfall. Those pale and hideous creatures might come back to finish the job and Chloe didn’t want to be there when they did. She only had to look around at the blood-smeared walls as a reminder.

  She turned to Sam. “You all right?”

  Sam looked at her, his eyes still red from crying throughout the night. “They won’t be back, not in the day,” he replied, the first words he’d spoken since the prior night.

  “How do you know?”

  “Too bright.”

  Remembering how effective the camera flash had been at blinding the creatures, Chloe nodded. “Makes sense.”

  “Jonathan kept the guns in the library,” Sam added.

  “How do you know?”

  “He told my mom.”

  Chloe almost asked how she knew, but stopped short. Of course Jonathan had told her. They were basically boyfriend and girlfriend.

  An early morning breeze blew through the hallway, bringing with it the smell of spoiling blood and rotting meat. The air would only get warmer throughout the day and by tomorrow the entire place would smell like a rendering plant.

  “The food’s in the teachers’ lounge,” Chloe said.

  Sam nodded. “I know.”

  A pause followed. “You don’t have to go back in, you know,” Chloe offered. “I can do it by myself if I need to.”

  Sam’s lip quivered slightly, but he forced himself to keep his composure. “It’s okay.”

  “No, really.”

  “Really. I’m okay.”

  More silence followed, deep and profound. Chloe shivered; the entire building had begun to feel like a giant tomb.

  “My mom was killed two years ago,” Chloe said, beginning slowly. She kept her focus on the wall in from of her, avoiding Sam’s eyes. “They killed her in front of me. I was eleven.”

  “I didn’t know,” Sam said.

  “I never told you. She hid me away before they found us. They did awful things to her before they killed her. I saw it all.” She paused. “I can still hear her screaming when I close my eyes at night.”

  This time it was Sam’s turn to sit in silence. “I’m sorry.”

  “Nothing to be sorry about,” Chloe said. “But I appreciate it.”

  “My mom died because of me,” he said.

  “That’s not true.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  Chloe placed a finger on Sam’s chin and turned his face toward hers. “Listen to me very closely. It’s not your fault. Just like it’s not my fault that my mom died. I blamed myself for a long time, but it never got me anywhere. Those creatures…whatever they are; that’s what killed your mom. Not you.”

  Sam looked into Chloe’s eyes for several very long seconds before a single tear streamed down his cheek. He wiped it away quickly before turning away from her. “We’d better get going before night comes,” he said, heading deeper into the dimly-lit hallway. “Those things might come back.”

  Chloe sighed. Getting through to him was proving more difficult than she’d expected. She headed after him down the hall, trying not to look at the carnage that surrounded them.

  * * *

  They took all they could carry from the teachers’ lounge, stuffing Chloe’s pack with smaller items like Slim Jims, pretzels, stale potato chips and cans of Vienna Sausage two years past the recommended consumption date. The meat was fine, but they left the canned fruits behind. Experience had taught them that much of the canned fruit’s high acid content compromised the integrity of the packaging, causing the contents to spoil. When her pack had been filled, they found four pillow cases and stuffed those full of canned and other packaged food, like boxed Mac and Cheese, various pastas and some MREs that Jonathan had stashed in a corner.

  They sawed the straw end off of two brooms from the supply closet then tied a pillow case to each end of the staff with some short lengths of rope they found with the rest of the supplies. The broom stick could then be balanced behind their heads with their shoulders bearing the weight. It wasn’t comfortable, but it was tolerable and worth the effort. Finding food in the wild had become increasingly more difficult with so many years passed since the virus broke out.

  With their provisions on their backs, they made one more stop. Sam needed his pack. It contained too many specialty items to leave behind: fishing line and hooks, plastic bags, tablets for making the water potable (and coffee filters for getting rid of the grit), a saucepan, a multi-tool, a hunting knife, flints and more.

  Chloe volunteered to retrieve his pack from the room. Sam didn’t argue. While he waited further down the hallway by the library door, Chloe entered the room that had once housed Denise Treiber and her only son. All Chloe found of Denise was a wad of bloody, shredded clothing and a congealed pool of rust-red blood. Could have been worse, but still something she didn’t want Sam to have to witness. Better that he stayed away.

  “How bad was she?” Sam asked after Chloe had retrieved the backpack. He stood in the door frame, the pillow cases of food piled up around him.

  “It wasn’t bad,” she replied. He didn’t ask for details.

  They entered the library, the musty-smelling interior illuminated by the mid-day sun shining through hazy windows. Aside from some stained ceiling tiles and a thick layer of dust, the contents of the room remained pristine. Jonathan had arranged the few weapons they had in neat rows. Two Glock .380 pistols and two more pistols she didn’t recognize. Several boxes of ammunition sat alongside each gun, neat and orderly, just the way Jonathan liked things. She didn’t see her hand gun—the one Jonathan had taken from her upon her arrival—anywhere. After searching the entire room, they found no more guns, pistols or otherwise.

  “I thought he had an arsenal in here,” Sam said, eyeing the pistols. “Four guns? That ain’t much.”

  “I know.”

  “He lied,” Sam said, his voice taking on a harsh tone.

  “He wanted us to feel safe,” Chloe said. “A white lie.”

  “I suppose,” Sam shrugged. “Well, so much for that.”

  Chloe didn’t disagree. She packed the ammunition and the two unidentified pistols into Sam’s backpack. She loaded both of the .380s’ magazines with six rounds before handing it to Sam. “Be careful with this,” she said.

  Sam took the pistol. “Kinda small, isn’t it?”

  “We could be stuck with nothing.”

  “Good point.” He stuffed the pistol into his waistband. “We ready?”

  “Almost,” Chloe replied. Placing the .380 into her own waistband, she made her way to the fiction section of the library. A few moments of searching turned up what she’d been looking for: Swan Song, by Robert R. McCammon. She placed the book into her backpack.

  “What’s the book for?” Sam asked.

  “Reading, dummy.”

  “You’re funny.”

  “You never read?” Chloe asked.

  “My mom read. Lots of Stephen King and Dean Koontz.”

  Chloe gave a weak smile. “Swan Song is my favorite book.”

  “What’s it about?”

  “The end of the world.”

  “Seems like a weird choice. I mean, have you looked around lately? We’re living it.”

  “Different apocalypse. Nuclear war. I guess it makes me feel better. At least we didn’t get bombed.”

  “Was the virus really any better?”

  “It’s still my favorite book,” Chloe said. “I’ll tell you something my mom always said: never argue matters of taste.”

  “She sounded smart.”

  Chloe smiled. “She was.”

  They lifted the bags of food onto their shoulders, the broomsticks bending under the weight, and exited the library. The bloody walls stared back at them, reminding Chloe of her
dead companions. She’d become friendly with Jonathan’s group over the past few months. It hurt to know they didn’t survive.

  “The creatures that did this, what do you think they are?” she asked, looking away from a bloody handprint on the wall.

  “I’m not sure.”

  “They’re not human, are they? Not even carrier. They can’t be. That thing that I saw, it was a whole new type of monster.”

  “Not human, no,” Sam said. “Carrier? Maybe.”

  “They don’t look like it.”

  “What else could they be? They’re definitely not people and they’re not wild animals. I mean, they’re human-like. So if you rule out people and carriers, then they’re something else.”

  “But something like that can’t just suddenly exist,” Chloe said.

  “The virus turned people into carriers in a couple of days,” Sam said. “Who’s to say it’s not doing it again?”

  Chloe turned to Sam. “You might be on to something.”

  “Maybe.”

  “You’re pretty smart too, you know,” Chloe said, grinning.

  Sam shrugged.

  They exited the school and stepped into the parking lot. They stopped. Sam turned back and looked at the school for a long time. Chloe waited for him.

  He turned to her. “I read, you know,” he said. “Edgar Allen Poe, stuff like that.”

  Chloe grinned. “You’re twelve and you read Poe?”

  “Almost thirteen,” he said, grinning.

  They left the school behind them. It occurred to Chloe just how alone they were in a world that seemed preoccupied with killing them. But now they had each other and that was better than being alone.

  Much better, actually.

  Chapter Eight

  Lester Delaney had been called genius many times. He’d never once been called murderer.

  In reality, he was both.

  It started with animals, a common genesis amongst sociopathic serial killers. Lester would know, because before the virus he’d been known as Dr. Lester Delaney, practicing psychiatrist. At seven he was pulling the wings off of flies trapped on fly paper he would hang from the ceiling of his parents’ garage. At nine he was breaking the legs of field mice he’d catch in homemade traps.