The King of Clayfield - 01

by Shane Gregory

  THE KING OF CLAYFIELD

  By

  SHANE GREGORY

  © Shane Gregory

  www.BrainOfShane.com

  CHAPTER 1

  I harvested sweet potatoes today. The first frost was this morning, and you’re supposed to dig sweets on the morning of the first frost. I’m glad I know stuff like that. It’s a bad time to have to learn about important things like when to dig your sweets. I got two wheelbarrows full (I’ve only got one wheelbarrow, but I filled it up twice). I don’t know if it will be enough.

  I took them to the little greenhouse, and put them all out on the rack and covered them with wet towels to cure. They’ve got to stay warm and moist for a few days to cure properly. I’m glad I know that, too.

  Sometimes I get to thinking about the people out there that don’t know this stuff and how they have to learn it the hard way and how they might die because of it, or how they might kill me for mine because they didn’t learn how to take care of themselves before everything happened.

  It’s now been eight months since Canton B took people’s minds away. It was quick, too. In less than 24 hours, it had spread through my hometown of Clayfield, Kentucky, population twelve thousand and something. It didn’t originate in Clayfield, but that doesn’t matter.

  I remember scanning over a story online a few days before everything happened about an epidemic in Europe, something that affected the brain. I didn’t pay much attention to it, because the media was always trying to scare us with some new thing that was going around. It wasn’t until after everything happened that I learned about it…not that there was much to learn.

  I don’t think they ever got a handle on Canton B, because it spread so quickly. It was airborne, and the infected could be contagious as much as 36 hours before exhibiting symptoms. That was how it spread so fast. By the time they knew someone was infected, it was too late to quarantine them.

  A couple of days after that news story, the headline on the front page of The Clayfield Chronicle said, “Canton B Suspected in U.S. Patients.” There was a picture of a woman being held down by men wearing surgical masks. I still didn’t think much of it.

  Less than a week later all hell broke loose in town.

  I am…well, I was…a museum director. It was the only museum in the whole county. In the permanent collection, we had artifacts from Clayfield’s past like Civil War cannon balls and a replica of a Prohibition-era moonshine still. There were some much older items, too, like arrowheads and fossils of prehistoric sea creatures. Every three months, we hosted traveling exhibits in our gallery space.

  The museum was a non-profit, relying on donations; otherwise it would have never made it. Some days I was there by myself with nothing to do; other days, I’d have a house full of school kids on a field trip. It was a great job. Now, my only job is staying alive.

  I remember exactly what I was doing when I became aware of Canton B’s arrival in Clayfield. It was a Thursday around 11:00 a.m. I was supposed to have a Senior Citizens group coming for a tour after lunch, and I was in the gallery sweeping. The traveling show in the gallery was about the history of tobacco in Kentucky. That exhibit is still up and will be until the building falls in or the artifacts turn to dust.

  The local oldies radio station was tuned in, and they were playing Marty Robbins’ classic “El Paso.” I used to love that song, but now I just associate it with that day. I suppose it doesn’t matter since I’ll probably never hear it again.

  Somebody crashed a car on North 8th Street. I didn’t know what it was at first because there wasn’t the sound of screeching tires with it; it was just a loud boom! It kind of sounded like a garbage truck emptying a dumpster. The building shook a little. It startled me, and I ran to the door to see the source of the noise.

  The Grace County Museum sits on the corner of North 8th Street and North Street, with the front of the building and parking lot facing North 8th. Directly across the street is an empty building with a “For Sale” sign in the window. Jay’s Transmission Repair is across the street to the left, and across the street to the right are the offices of The Clayfield Chronicle.

  I stepped out the front door still holding my broom. It was a cloudy February day, and there was some leftover dirty snow lining both sides of the street. The temperature was just below freezing, and I was uncomfortable in only my shirt sleeves.

  Off to my left, in the corner of the lot, a red Chevy S-10 was ramped up onto the museum’s sign. The sign was splintered in half horizontally. I feel bad saying this, but the first thing I thought about was how it was going to be a hassle to get it replaced. The second thing I thought was to check on the driver of the vehicle.

  I ran out to the truck. The driver must have had their foot on the accelerator, because the engine was roaring and starting to smoke, and white exhaust was pumping out of the tailpipe. I guess it was in park or neutral, or the wreck had messed up the transmission, because the tires weren’t spinning. A young woman was behind the wheel, sitting up with her head resting on the back of the seat. The deflated airbag was in her lap.

  Smoke from the engine was coming into the cab through the vents. I tried to open her door, but it was locked. I ran around to the other side. But it was locked, too. I could see her stirring, so I pounded on the passenger side window.

  “Wake up!” I shouted. “Get out of the truck!”

  Another car pulled into the parking lot. An older man, I guessed in his late 60s, got out.

  “Break the window!” he said, his breath fogging out of his mouth.

  I started driving the end of my broom handle into the window, but it wouldn’t break. Then I turned it, and swung it like a baseball bat. The other man opened his trunk and came out with a tire iron and started working on the driver’s side window. After several swings, the broom handle hit the window and broke in half. Then I saw the driver’s side window shatter. I ran around to the other side, and he was already opening the door and trying to unbuckle her seat belt.

  “Call nine-one-one!” he yelled at me.

  I dropped my broken broom, and took my cell phone from my pocket and dialed the number. It rang, but no one answered.

  Another crash. Farther up North 8th, a white delivery van had driven up onto the sidewalk in front of The Chronicle and hit the front of the building. Just as I looked, the van was tipping over on its side. The only thing I could think of was that there must have been ice on the road.

  I started to run toward the van when I heard a scream to my left. The older man was on his back in the parking lot next to the wrecked truck, and the woman he had been trying to rescue was straddling him, and it looked like she was kissing him. I stepped toward her, and she looked up at me.

  Her mouth was bloody; her eyes were wild. I looked down at the man, and blood was dribbling from his neck and beginning to pool around his head and shoulders. She stood and stared at me. She had light brown hair pulled back in a ponytail. No coat, just jeans and a flannel shirt, which were soaking wet. I could see heat in the form of steam coming from her wet clothes. Panting like an animal, she took a wobbly step toward me and fell.

  My brain wasn’t making sense of any of it. It was surreal. I just stood there watching her crawl toward me, that man’s blood smeared on her chin. Then another crash snapped me out of it. It was farther away, but it was definitely a car wreck. Then, a siren.

  “What is happening?” I whispered to myself.

  The young woman was attempting to stand again. I picked up my broken broom handle and backed toward the front door of the museum, keeping my eyes on her. I detected movement across the street. A man was staggering around in front of the transmission shop in his boxers.

  Something was very wr
ong.

  When I got to the door, I went inside, and locked it behind me. Through the glass, I watched her. She got to her feet and looked around with an expression of bewilderment, like she forgot what she was doing, then turned and limped across the parking lot and into the street. Another crash--this time from the direction of North Street. Someone screaming outside. Three gunshots.

  I ran into my office in the back of the building to see what I could see. The Everly Brothers were on the radio singing “Cathy’s Clown.” I switched it off. My office window looks out onto the rear parking lot of Kentucky Regional Bank. I can see across that lot to North 7th Street, and then past that is another empty lot, then North 6th. City Hall and a fire station are on North 6th. There was a lot of activity going on between the fire station and City Hall. I could see four police officers in their black uniforms shooting at something out of my field of vision. The gunfire from this distance sounded like little pops.

  Closer, two nicely-dressed women sprinted around the corner of the bank. The second one had on a dust mask. They were both wearing heels, but it didn’t slow them down. Not far behind them was another nicely-dressed woman. The third woman was barefoot and was moving like she was drunk. One of the front women skidded to a stop next to a black car that was parked near the drive-thru ATM, she said something to the second woman and began digging in her purse. The second woman stopped beside the first woman’s car. The third woman was coming at them in a limping jog that reminded me of the movement of an ape on hind legs. The first woman found her keys and unlocked the doors. The woman in the mask took off a shoe and threw it at Woman Three. It was a move that cost her time. Woman Three tackled her. The two of them fell down out of view on the passenger side of the car. The first woman screamed, but didn’t help. She got in the car, tore out of the lot, and headed up North Street toward the fire station.

  The two remaining women wrestled around on the asphalt for a few seconds. The masked woman finally broke free, and stumbled over to another car—I presumed her own vehicle. Leaning against it, she started crying. Unlike the other woman, she didn’t have her purse or keys.

  CHAPTER 2

  The woman in the mask recovered quickly from her breakdown, and went around her car feeling under the fender wells and behind the bumpers. I figured she was looking for spare keys. The whole time, she kept an eye on Woman Three, who was now seated next to the ATM watching her.

  The masked woman finished her sweep for keys with no luck then leaned on the car again in frustration. It was hard to tell exactly with the mask, but she looked like she was in her late 40s to early 50s. She was wearing a knee-length brown coat, black dress slacks, a red hat and matching red scarf.

  I could hear a siren approaching, and she turned to look in the direction of the bank. An ambulance sailed past on North 7th. She waved both arms trying to attract their attention, but they didn’t slow down.

  Woman Three jumped to her feet again, seemingly agitated either by the noise or by the masked woman’s movements, and began to shuffle toward her. The masked woman was still looking toward North 7th Street, and didn’t see Woman Three approaching.

  This whole time, I had been watching through the window like it was a television program. I was still trying to process whether or not what I’d been watching was even real. A blue pickup truck came down North 7th going the wrong way, and the masked woman waved to them, too. Woman Three was getting closer. I don’t know why it took so long, but it suddenly hit me that I had to help her.

  I ran out of the office, through the gallery, and out the back door of the building. I wasn’t really thinking at all, and I didn’t even feel the cold. I know I was yelling, but I don’t think I was saying any words. Both women looked my direction. The masked woman screamed, seeing how close Woman Three was to her, and now seeing this newcomer coming at her with a broken broom handle. She ran around the car, putting it between her and us.

  I wasn’t thinking. I don’t know why I did what I did or how I even managed to make myself do it, but when Woman Three noticed me, she came at me, and I hit her in the face with the broom handle. I kept hitting her. It was fear that was driving me, and I didn’t stop hitting her until the handle broke again, and she was in a heap at my feet.

  I stood staring down at her, suddenly overcome with guilt for what I did. I dropped what was left of the broom next to her body. I caught movement out of the corner of my eye. The woman in the mask had discarded her other shoe and was running away, headed toward the fire station.

  “No!” I shouted, “Stop! I was trying to help you!”

  She kept going. I started to run after her, but I noticed a group of people coming across the empty lot between North 6th and North 7th from the direction of City Hall. There was about ten of them, and they were moving funny.

  The woman in the mask noticed them, too. She immediately turned and headed toward the back of the bank. I stood by the ATM wondering what I should do. The group noticed her and four of them broke away, picked up their pace and moved in her direction.

  “No!” I yelled at her, “You can hide over here! In the museum!”

  That attracted their attention, and they came toward me. Two more of the original group perked up when they heard me and came also.

  There was no rear entrance to the bank. She stopped by the building and looked at me. I could tell she wasn’t sure about me.

  “I’m not one of them!” I said. “Please!”

  The group had just crossed North 7th Street. One of them tripped and fell over the curb, but the others didn’t stop.

  She made up her mind that she’d rather deal with me than with them.

  By the time we got inside the museum the group was at the ATM. She ran in first, and then I backed in, slammed the door shut and turned the deadbolt. The was no window in the back door, so I couldn’t see if they were still coming or, like the woman from the wreck, had moved on once the door was shut.

  When I turned toward the woman in the mask, she was already on the opposite side of the room. She had picked up a tobacco stake from one of the displays.

  “Stay the hell away,” she said.

  “It’s okay,” I said, hands raised, “I won’t hurt you.”

  “No,” she said, “It ain’t okay. You could have it.”

  Just then, there was a heavy thump against the door. The woman yelped a little then backed farther away from me and the door.

  At the time, I was still oblivious.

  “Have what?” I said. “What is going on?”

  “You know, Canton B.”

  I thought for a moment, and remembered the news reports to which I’d only given cursory attention.

  “That flu that’s going around?” I asked.

  “Ain’t no flu,” she said. “Haven’t you been watching CNN at all?”

  “No.”

  “It’s bad,” she said, maintaining her defensive posture with the tobacco stick. “I need to use your phone. Where’s your phone?”

  I pulled out my cell phone and offered it to her.

  “You got some Lysol or something?” she said.

  “Yeah, in the supply closet.”

  “Spray the phone first,” she said.

  “What?”

  “Spray the damn phone! I need to use it.”

  Up to that point, I was addled, but now I was pissed.

  I put the phone back in my pocket.

  “Go bum a phone from one of your friends outside, lady.”

  I expected her to soften, but she didn’t.

  “I don’t have time for this shit! In case you haven’t noticed, it’s the end of the world, asshole!”

  There was scratching on the back door.

  “Where’s the damn supply closet?” she said.

  I stared at her a moment thinking how much she reminded me of my ex wife. They didn’t look alike and this woman was older, but they had the same personality. I seem to bring out the best in women.

  “In the other room,” I said, “behi
nd the agricultural display.”

  She eased into the room housing our permanent collection without turning her back to me. I continued to stand there pondering what she said.

  The end of the world?

  She came out of the supply closet with a can of generic disinfectant and a rag. She sprayed the rag and pitched it toward me. It made it half the distance between us.

  “I’m not trying to be rude,” she said, “Please just come get the rag, then put it over your nose and mouth.”

  She seemed to know more about what was happening than I, so I did it. The rag was damp with disinfectant, and the concentration of the fragrance was sickening.

  “Here,” she said and tossed me the can. “Please, spray your phone. I need to call for help.”

  “I already tried nine-one-one,” I said taking my phone from my pocket and spraying it.

  ”Not the cops,” she said. “They’re never any help. No, I’m calling my brother.

  I stepped toward her with the phone, but she held up her stick.

  “Just put it on the floor, if you don’t mind. You and I need to keep our distance…just in case.”

  I shrugged, “Fine. Make your call; I’ll be in my office.”

  I walked around her, staying as far from her as possible to make her feel at ease and went into the office. I put the rag on my desk, and picked up the office phone. I dialed my mother’s number, but there was no answer.

  Out the window, I could see the group that had chased us into the building were in the parking lot. Some were shuffling around, some were fighting. It reminded me of those animal programs on TV showing activity in a pack of wolves. All ten were there–seven men and three women. Of the men, one was a city police officer. Three of the men were dressed like me in long-sleeved shirts and ties. The rest of the men were dressed casually. I recognized one of the casually-dressed men to be Stuart Wall, one of the city council members. Of the women, I knew two of them to be employees at the mayor’s office. None of them were wearing coats.