The King of Clayfield - 01

by Shane Gregory

  Tugging on her clothes on one side, Somerville and I were able to lift her up enough for Jen and Sara put the quilts under her.

  We dragged her to the landing on the quilts.

  Somerville and I went into the other room for a headboard.

  "These are all too wide to go down those stairs," he said.

  He looked around the room. Then he went over and picked up a couple of bed slats.

  "We might just have to make a stretcher and try carrying her--"

  Then he parted the curtain on the window.

  "Damn it all to hell," he said. "There are two of them out by the vehicles, and I see two more coming down the street."

  "Are they headed to the siren?"

  "Nope."

  CHAPTER 23

  "Everybody grab a corner!" Somerville said as he pushed past me onto the landing. "We have to go right now!"

  He grabbed the corner of the quilt by the woman's right foot and looked back at us until we'd all grabbed our own. It was a bumpy ride for the woman. It was a good thing she was unconscious.

  Once we had her on the first floor, Somerville reached inside his jacket, pulled out three 12 gauge shells, and started loading his gun.

  "Are you two loaded?"

  We nodded.

  "Are you ready? Here we go."

  We dragged her from the stairs to the front door. Somerville pulled the door open.

  "Sara, darlin', hold this door for us."

  Then he stepped outside and pumped off two rounds, dropping both of the close ones. The other two that were up the street came toward us in a trot. He fired again, and caught one of them in the face.

  Jen and I got the woman onto the front sidewalk, while Somerville reloaded. There was a drop from the sidewalk to the pavement.

  "We'll never be able to lift her into the car," I said. "We'll have to put her in the back of the truck."

  I ran to Somerville's pickup and backed it up to the sidewalk. Somerville shot the fourth one. Jen let down the tailgate. It was above the sidewalk about a foot, but that was doable. The shotgun fired again. I looked up and there were three more coming from the east down South Street.

  Jen, Sara, and I pulled the woman into the back of the truck.

  "Sara, hop in and drive," Jen said. "Pull us up behind city hall next to the red and white pickup."

  Somerville fired again, and I got out of the truck to help him.

  As the truck pulled away, Jen was wrapping a quilt around the woman to keep her warm.

  I put the rifle to my shoulder. I didn't like the scope; it was awkward trying to aim. I did my best to get one of the approaching figures in the crosshairs and squeezed the trigger. It wouldn't shoot. I tried again.

  "It won't shoot!" I said.

  "Get in the car," Somerville said. "We'll just leave."

  He took the rifle.

  "You never ejected the last shell," he said.

  We got in the police car and drove to city hall.

  "What now?" Jen said.

  "We need to get this woman some medical treatment," Somerville said. "I'm guessing since there are cleanup crews clearing bodies, there must be medical help, too."

  "There ain't no crews!" Jen said. "This is it, dammit! We're it! The people are getting up and walking away."

  "I know what you say," Somerville said. "But we should at least take a look over at the hospital."

  "No," Jen said. "There won't be anyone at that hospital. We might want to go out there for medicine, but there ain't no help. Ain't nobody going to save us."

  Somerville stared at her.

  "Okay," he said. "Cover her up good, and I'll take her to the doctor by myself."

  "Jen's right," I said. "It'll be a wasted trip, probably a dangerous one, too."

  "I said okay," Somerville said, angry. "I'll take her by myself."

  "Why don't you come with us? We're staying out at a friend’s place out in the county. We've got a wood stove and--"

  "No," Somerville said. "I'm going home this evening. Judy is expecting me back before dark."

  "What?" Jen said. "Your wife? Is she safe there?"

  "She'll be fine," he said. "She's got a three fifty-seven and a taser."

  "Do you have booze? You've been exposed, you know."

  "We can't stand around here shooting the shit all day," Somerville said. "They're coming down the street. Sara, are you coming with me?"

  Sara was over at the police car digging through the trunk.

  "Look what I found," she said, holding up a large first aid kit. She bent over the trunk again and pulled out a black 12 gauge with a pistol grip.

  "Better let me have that, darlin'," Somerville said.

  Sara slid the fore stock back slowly. A shell poked out of the ejection port, and she pushed it back in. Then she clicked it back into place.

  "Nah," she said. "I think I'll keep it."

  Somerville grinned, "Okay then. You coming with me?"

  Sara nodded and climbed into the passenger side of his truck.

  He looked at us one more time.

  "We'll follow you out to the hospital," I said, "but we're not staying in town tonight."

  He grinned again and winked at us.

  I looked over to Jen. She rolled her eyes.

  Jen and I followed behind him in the old pickup. We had our water and wine from Brian's house in there, and we didn't want to leave that behind.

  "Maybe we'll get out there and find some more survivors," I said.

  "Whatever," she said, looking out her window.

  "We need to stick together," I said. "There aren’t many of us."

  "Sounds like he has a convert," she said.

  "What's the problem?"

  "The problem," she said, "is that you keep letting him call all the shots. And he's going to do it, too, because he's used to doing it."

  "What do you have against him?"

  "It's nothing personal," she said. "I just don't like getting bossed around."

  She looked over at me. From the look in her eyes, I thought she was about to apologize for being so grumpy. Instead—

  "Damn, you need a bath."

  We took a left onto the bypass, and the woman in the back of Somerville's truck sat up.

  "Whoa!" Jen said. "She's awake."

  "Did you give her enough quilts," I asked. "She's probably cold."

  She didn't look around. She just sat there staring out at us, the wind blowing her shoulder-length hair in her face.

  "I'm thinking that she ain't cold," Jen said.

  I flashed my lights at Somerville. The woman stood.

  "Oh shit," Jen said.

  I stepped on the gas and got into the passing lane.

  The truck swerved a little; Somerville had noticed her.

  Then the woman turned and faced front, with her hands on top of the cab, then hit the rear window with her fist. The truck swerved. She lost her balance a little, but recovered. She hit it again, and somehow punched through.

  The truck cut hard to the left, dropped off into the median and flipped onto the passenger side door, then over again, slinging mud and grass into the air. It came to rest on the driver's side.

  I drove past the wreck and stopped. I could hear Sara screaming and crying. I started toward it. Then, around the back end of Somerville's truck, there was the woman. She was muddy and bloody. A bone stuck out of her left arm. She crouched a little, which sort of spread her out. She snarled, howled, and charged at me like a linebacker.

  CHAPTER 24

  I wasn't armed at all. All I could do was run, and I did. I ran to my left, out into the road.

  Jen fired the .22. If it hit the woman, she didn't act like it. Jen fired again. Then the woman changed direction and came at her instead. The .22 wasn't stopping her, and all of the big guns were in Somerville's truck. Jen shot one more time, and the woman bulldozed over her.

  "Jen!"

  The woman was on top of her. Jen had her hand around the woman's throat, but that was the b
est she was able to do. The woman was too heavy for Jen to hold off.

  Jen screamed just before I got to them. I kicked the woman in the head. She rolled off, but came back. I kicked her in the face. Her head whipped back, and she fell over, stunned. I grabbed the .22, and with no thought at all, put it to her head and pulled the trigger twice.

  Jen got to her feet, holding the side of her neck, stumbled sideways and fell. She started to get up again, and I held her by the elbow so she could get her balance.

  "Let me see," I said.

  She pulled her hand away. Her palm was bloody, and there was a little chunk of flesh gone from her neck. She pulled off her bandana and pushed it against the wound.

  "I think she might have cracked one of my ribs," she said.

  I put my hand on her side, and she brushed it away.

  "I'm fine," she said.

  Sara was still crying from inside the truck. I ran around to the back window.

  "Are you hurt?"

  "Help me!" Sara yelled.

  "Mr. Somerville? Are you hurt?"

  I got my face near the hole in the window that the woman had put her fist through. Somerville was against the driver's door. I didn't see any blood, but all of the guns, the first aid kit, and other smaller items were on top of him. Sara was hanging from her seatbelt.

  I still had that pistol in my jeans, so I pulled it out and used it like a hammer to break the glass. When I had beaten out a big enough hole, I removed the guns and other items from off him. Then I took the .30-06 and used the stock to beat out the rest of the glass. I grabbed one of the old quilts out of the mud and put it over the opening to guard against any shards sticking up. Then I crawled halfway into the cab.

  I didn't see any injuries at all on Mr. Somerville, yet he was unconscious. He wasn't wearing his seatbelt, so I started trying to pull him out. I couldn't get him to budge.

  "Let's try turning the truck over," Jen said. She was standing behind me, a little wobbly.

  "Push it with the other truck."

  I didn't want to do it, but I didn't see how I would get them out.

  "Sara, you hang on," I said. "I'm going to try to turn the truck over on its wheels."

  I pulled our truck around so that the front it was perpendicular to the top of Somerville's truck. I eased in slowly, and bumped it. Sara screamed. Slowly, I applied more gas. I could hear my tires spinning. Then Somerville's truck started over. The passenger side tires landed, and the vehicle bounced. It was righted.

  Somerville's door was crushed and wouldn't open. Sara's door didn't look any better than the driver's door, but I managed to pull it open halfway. Other than a big knot on her forehead and the beginnings of a black eye, she seemed okay.

  When I got in to pull Somerville out, I still couldn't move him. Then I saw that his left forearm and hand were pinned between the door and the seat.

  "I can't get him out," I said, crawling out of the truck. "I can't even get to his arm to pry it loose. We'll have to pry the door open from the outside."

  "With what?"

  "Jen?" Sara said.

  Jen and I looked at her. She was staring far down the road toward the hospital.

  They stretched across the two right lanes of highway and out into the median. It was the biggest group I'd seen so far. There were several hundred at least. The sound of so many arms and legs and bodies moving was like a thousand whispers. Their occasional howls reminded me of the lowing of cattle.

  I ran back to Mr. Somerville, grabbed his sleeve and pulled, but his arm wouldn’t pull free. Jen and Sara were on the other side trying to open his door.

  Somerville stirred.

  "Mr. Somerville!"

  He opened his eyes, but his head was lolling.

  "You've got to pull your arm out!" I said.

  He looked over at me, then past me. His eyes widened. He tried to pull his arm out, wincing in pain. He looked past me again.

  "You've got to go," he said, shaking his head. "I can't get it loose."

  I looked back over my shoulder. They were too close.

  "You've got to go," he said again.

  I climbed out and shut the passenger door as well as I could.

  "Come on!" I said. "We're leaving. Grab these guns and stuff and get them into the truck."

  "Work on it some more, dammit!" Jen said. She picked up the .30-06, braced herself on the side of the truck, and fired into the crowd.

  She'd never do any good; we all knew it.

  I picked up the shotgun Sara had found in the police car and fed it through the back window to Somerville. He continued to stare out at the approaching horde, but he took the weapon.

  "I appreciate it," he said.

  I grabbed Jen by the arm. She jerked away. I grabbed her again and yanked her back. She looked over at Somerville, jerked away from me again, and got in the truck. Sara seemed unsure what to do.

  "Get in the truck, Sara. We're leaving."

  She stared out at the mob for a moment longer, and then joined us in the truck.

  I put the vehicle in reverse and backed away a good distance, then put it in drive and headed the opposite direction. Sara turned in her seat.

  "Don't look," Jen said.

  Sara faced front, but I looked back in the mirror.

  The black truck was swallowed up in the throng.

  CHAPTER 25

  I headed back toward Blaine's place. I'd had more than I could take for one day. Jen and Sara both had the thousand-mile stare. Jen still held the bandana to her neck, and Sara's eye was swollen and bruised. My eye had swollen a little, too, where Somerville had hit me earlier in the day. There'd been so much excitement that I hadn't even noticed the pain. I probably would later, but that would be deadened by the alcohol.

  I was actually looking forward to a drink.

  I barely knew Mr. Somerville. Before that day, I'd met him only once at a museum fundraiser. It was campaign time, and he was there schmoozing. I was okay with it, because when government officials show up to those things it lends credibility, and it helps people feel better about making donations. I don't know why it would, but it does. I'm not sure that he even remembered me when he saw me that morning in the mayor's office.

  It didn't matter. Almost everything that was before didn't seem to matter anymore.

  I kept thinking about Mrs. Somerville. She'd be waiting for him to come home, and he wouldn't be. After a day or so, she'd probably go out looking for him and wind up dead or sick, too. I couldn't allow that.

  I was about three miles from Blaine's, and I pulled into the driveway of the first house I saw.

  "What are you doing?" Jen said.

  "Sorry," I said. "I've got to tell Mrs. Somerville. It wouldn't be right not to. I'm going in here to find a phone book. Maybe it'll have his address. If you want, I can drive you and Sara out to Blaine's, and I can go--"

  "No," she said.

  I got out, grabbed Somerville's shotgun, and went up to the porch of the little yellow brick house. Jen and Sara stayed in the truck.

  I knocked on the metal storm door. I didn't get an answer, but I never expected to. There was a little, open shed off to the side of the house. There was a riding mower parked in there and some firewood stacked along the wall. The yard was small for a country house--not more than a quarter acre--and ended abruptly with woods on every side but the street side.

  I looked around for a spare key in all of the obvious places a person might keep one--under the mat, on the fixture of the porch light, under flowerpots. I finally found it under one of the planters that flanked the entrance to the porch.

  I went in. I was standing in the living room; the dining room and kitchen were off to my left. I didn't take a lot of time to investigate right then. I made a quick sweep of the house to make sure there were no surprises waiting for me. It was empty.

  I went back to the porch and waved at Jen to get out.

  "What?" she said.

  "You and Sara come in and check the place for food an
d water while I find Somerville's address," I said. I didn't see any reason why we should pass up an opportunity to get supplies. I was getting over my aversion to scavenging, as Jen called it.

  Jen seemed reluctant, and even a little angry, when she came in the door. Sara was quiet.

  "Can't we just do this food and water thing later?" Jen said. "I'd like to take care my neck, and my side really hurts."

  I looked up from the phone book. I felt a little like an ass for being so insensitive.

  "Yeah," I said. "Sorry. We can do it later. Why don't I drive you two out to--"

  "I've already said no to that," she said. "Let's just find his address and take care of this."

  Then I heard something so familiar that it didn't register at first--water running in the sink.

  Jen and I both got surprised expressions on our faces when it sank in what we were hearing. We went into the kitchen. Sara was standing at the sink with a glass of water. When we came in, she turned around.

  "What?" she said.

  "The water is working?" Jen said. "How?"

  Sara turned it on again.

  I tried the light switch, but nothing happened.

  "No electricity," I said. "How is there water?"

  Jen went to the sink and looked out the window.

  "There is a big tank out back," she said. "Maybe it's a cistern."

  "That's good to know," I said. "We'll come back."

  Sara opened the cabinets, and pulled down a box of Pop Tarts. I went back into the living room to search the phone book.

  I found his name and address.

  "His house is on Depot Street," I said. "He and I are practically neighbors."

  Jen came in and sat on the couch, but she didn't say anything. I picked up the telephone to see if it worked. There was a dial tone, but I got a busy signal when I dialed Somerville’s number.

  "Phone works," I said. "Do you want to try your brother?"

  Jen shook her head.

  "Sara? Do you want to try to call your family?"

  Sara stepped into the living room.

  "I tried at the church. No one ever answers."

  I stared at the two of them for a moment. They looked so beat up and defeated.

  "Why don't the two of you stay here until I get back--"