Crusade (Eden Book 2)

by Tony Monchinski

“You okay?”

  He either didn’t hear her or ignored her.

  Gwen stood looking in the direction the four strangers had gone, one hand wrapped around the vertical grip of her M16A4, the other around the pistol grip, index finger resting on the trigger guard.

  Julie reached out and put her hands on Buddy’s shoulders, then touched his cheeks.

  “Oh, you’re so cold.” She grabbed a rolled blanket strapped to the top of Mickey’s backpack. She unfurled it and draped it over his shoulders, tucking it in around his chest.

  A few minutes later Mickey and Bear returned with the wood. They stacked most of it and fed the fire the rest. The flames rose and the circle of illumination spread further outwards.

  “You should think about getting some sleep,” Bear spoke to the group. Looking at Julie he added, “Especially you.”

  “I don’t think I can sleep after that.”

  “Me neither,” Gwen said.

  “Think about the baby,” Bear said.

  That was the problem, Julie thought. She was thinking about the baby. And so was that strange woman with those…those men.

  “I’ll keep watch. You guys try and rest.”

  “I don’t know,” Julie said.

  “It’s okay. I won’t let anyone hurt you or the baby.”

  She believed him.

  “What about you?” Mickey asked.

  “You guys sleep for a few hours. I’ll wake one of you to trade places with me.”

  Within a half hour the three of them were bedded down around the fire. Only Buddy and Bear remained awake. Buddy sat on his log and stared at his empty hands. Bear had moved beyond the glow of the fire to the shadows and stood with his back to a tree.

  He watched Buddy from his vantage point. He thought about the man and his situation, worried for him. He was just beginning to wonder if Buddy could physically relieve himself, or if they’d be forced to change him when he soiled himself, when he stood and walked away from the fire.

  He was gone for some time. After awhile Bear thought the man might have wandered off and was gone for good. He might freeze to death out there on a night like this. But Bear had no intention of leaving the dark outside the glow of the fire, of leaving his three friends alone here. He had promised Julie.

  When the sounds of footsteps plodding through the snow reached his ears, a warning immediately went off in his head. This was not Buddy returning to camp. He could not have made that much noise if he tried to, could he? Whoever was coming wasn’t taking any precautions to minimize the racket they were making.

  He moved from his position against the tree to intercept whoever it was, confident that so long as he kept himself from being backlit by the fire he would remain unseen in this moonless night. He hoped he was wrong and it was Buddy. He had the Glock with the green laser sight in one hand and wished he hadn’t left the mace back at the fire with his other possessions. If he had to fire with the pistol he would, but then, like that man John Book had said, every zombie within hearing would be on them.

  The other man was moving through the dark, his step unsteady. He slipped to one knee in the snow, righted himself, moved on.

  Bear took L.A. from behind. One mighty hand wrapped around the scrawny man’s neck, lifting him up to his tippy toes then off the ground. L.A. reached for Bear’s wrist and forearm with his one good hand and the half that was the other, gasping, blurting out, “way-wait-wuh—” before Bear’s other hand clamped around his jaw. L.A. tried to shake his head free but with a mighty twist Bear broke his neck.

  The body went limp in his hands and he let it fall to the ground. He stooped and found his Glock. He wiped the snow from it and stared out into the darkness. Nothing. He left the body and circled back around to the other side of the camp. If the four of them were coming they’d have split up and would attack the camp from opposite sides.

  Bear waited in the dark where he could see the campfire and the three people sleeping around it but no one could see him. Why would John Book have sent L.A. all by himself? Even if they had planned a coordinated attack… Bear realized there was no coordinated attack coming. He waited in the dark and watched the camp, realizing L.A.’s body was out there somewhere in the dark where he had left it.

  With the coming of dawn, Bear saw Buddy seated on his log by the fire much as he had been the night before. How had he gotten back to the fire without Bear seeing him? Satisfied they were as safe as they were going to be, he trudged over to the fire. Mickey, Gwen and Julie lay in their sleeping bags. Mickey had a troubled look in his sleep, a frown on his face.

  “Bear.”

  “Buddy.”

  He breathed out. Buddy was a mess. His hands and the blade of the bayonet he gripped were caked with dried blood. The sleeves of his leather jacket were slick with more blood. The man sat there on the log, somewhat coherent, arms resting on his knees.

  “What happened?” he asked, but he knew.

  Buddy rubbed his finger on the wheel of the Zippo lighter.

  “Oh….” Bear sighed. He went to his backpack and opened it, digging around inside until he found the container of handi-wipes.

  “Gotta clean you up,” he squatted down next to Buddy, “before the others wake up. We don’t want them to see this.”

  He took one of his blood stained hands in his own, removed the bayonet from it, and started rubbing his fingers and palm with the wipes.

  “Bear,” he said. “Thanks.”

  His one good eye looked into Buddy’s and he was sure the man was there today, unlike yesterday.

  “Yeah. You’re welcome.”

  He was apparently “with it” enough that when he volunteered to walk point no one protested. The day was cold and grey and the landscape around them was stark and dead.

  “Did we do the right thing?” Gwen asked the question Julie was thinking.

  “What do you mean?” Mickey asked.

  “I mean, we were freaked out by those people last night, by—”

  “You’re talking about the other day?” Mickey said. “That compound or whatever it was?”

  “Yeah.”

  “They had people crucified outside their gate,” Mickey said it gently. He wasn’t looking for an argument.

  “Maybe they were zombies?” Julie asked and Gwen looked at her gratefully.

  Bear shook his head. “They weren’t zombies. Zombies were gathered around the crosses. That meant those people on those crosses were human beings. That guy on that cross, he was alive. He was human. Like us.”

  “Maybe they were bad men,” Julie said.

  “Bad men.” Mickey mulled it over. “Like Graham. Like Markowski.” He would have added like Diaz but didn’t out of respect to Julie.

  “Yeah,” Julie said. “Maybe they were.”

  “Well, look what happened to them,” Mickey said. “They’re dead.”

  “Because Buddy killed them,” as she said it, Gwen looked ahead at the big man with the saddle bags plowing his way through the snow.

  “Because they were evil men,” Bear said. “I would have done the same. I should have done the same. The point is, Buddy killed them, but he didn’t crucify them.”

  “We blew their gate,” Julie said. “We let all those zombies in there.”

  “Buddy blew the gate,” Gwen whispered.

  “Listen,” Mickey said. “If we plan on ‘repopulating’ the earth or whatever, what kind of people do you want on it? I don’t mean you, Julie or Gwen. I mean you in general. Do we want assholes? Assholes that crucify their own kind?”

  “What did Buddy do to those people last night?” Gwen asked Bear. “When we woke up you were cleaning him off.”

  “I don’t know and I don’t want to know.” Mickey looked away.

  “They were going to hurt Julie.”

  “Do we really know that for sure?” Gwen said. “No offense Julie.”

  She nodded. “That woman…”

  “Gwen, come on. You can’t doubt that now, do you?” Mickey as
ked.

  “I’m just saying I think maybe we acted too hastily, blowing the gate back there. Those people…”

  “That fucker John Book got into your head, Gwen!”

  “No he hasn’t.”

  “Yes he has.”

  “I know you are,” Julie said, “but what am I” and they all had to laugh, even Bear.

  She licked her upper lip. “That guy with one hand, he was kind of quiet. He wasn’t like the others…”

  “We’ll never know,” Mickey said.

  Gwen spoke, “What the hell is going on with Buddy?”

  “He’s sick,” Julie said.

  Mickey thought of himself, of the plague, the scabs spreading across his torso, across his body.

  “He’s dangerous,” Gwen said.

  “Not to us,” Julie said.

  “We don’t know that.”

  “He almost killed you, Mickey,” Gwen said.

  He had nothing to say to that.

  “Don’t worry about Buddy,” Bear said. “I’ll take care of him.”

  “He looks okay today,” Julie said.

  “I bet if we just stopped he’d keep walking,” Gwen said. “I bet he wouldn’t even miss us.”

  “Buddy came back for us. He came back for you and Bobby and Harris and me and the baby—”

  “Yeah, I know that, but…”

  “No, Gwen. No buts. And please don’t get me all excited. You know, early labor and all that?”

  “He doesn’t look so good right now,” Mickey said, grateful to get his mind off the disease eating away at his body.

  Buddy had stopped ahead of them and was sitting in the snow.

  “Oh great,” Gwen said.

  The four men and women reached him and stood around him.

  “Buddy?” Bear asked.

  His eyes were open but they had no idea what he was seeing.

  “Well?” Gwen asked.

  “He looked good this morning,” Mickey said.

  Bear thought about what Buddy had told him back in that house a few days ago.

  “Mickey, grab his bags. Gwen, take his rifle.”

  “What are you going to do? Carry him?”

  “Yeah.”

  Bear adjusted his packs and gear to free up some room.

  “Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me,” Gwen said. “Come on.”

  “I am.” Bear knelt on one knee in front of the man. “Buddy? Buddy. I’m going to help you man.”

  He mumbled something unintelligible.

  “I can’t leave you here, brother.”

  He grabbed him by the front of his leather jacket and pulled him up, leaning his shoulder into Buddy’s waist, standing up with him.

  “How far do you really think you can get with him like that?” Gwen said.

  “Let’s walk,” Julie said.

  “Suit yourselves.” Gwen sounded disgusted but slung Buddy’s AK over her shoulder and raised her own M16A4, moving past Mickey and Julie to the front.

  The Man from Nantucket

  The digital watch he wore beeped and Steve woke up in the RV. He fumbled with the tiny buttons on the side of the watch and groaned but the watch kept beeping. Finally he slammed his wrist against the mattress three or four times and the watch went quiet.

  “Shit,” he muttered. Steve reached up and parted the shades with a finger. Sunlight peeked in at him and he groaned. A half empty bottle of whisky lay on the pillow next to him. “Hello darlin’.”

  There were flies on the window, which meant there were dead people probably pressed up against the side of their RV. Always the fuckin’ flies.

  Steve sat up. He scratched the back of his neck then reached inside his boxer shorts and rummaged around behind his balls. He yawned. He could hear a few faint engines outside already.

  Farrah smiled down on him from the wall above the bed.

  “Wake up,” Brent called from up front. “I’m going over to Bob’s for a few.”

  “Hey, yeah, look man, Mason gave me back your DVDs. He wants to borrow some more.”

  “Hook him up,” called Brent.

  “He wants some Asian shit. We got anything good?”

  “What’s he like? We got some bukkake vids, some schoolgirl shit. Hey, you know what? Give him that Japanese enema video.”

  “Give it to him?”

  “Yeah, I been meanin’ to get rid of it. That shit’s nasty, no pun intended. See you later. Hey, wake Chris up why don’t you? He’s gotta drive today.”

  After a few minutes Steve got out of bed and pulled his jeans and socks on and his boots over his socks. He took off his Cookie Monster t-shirt and pulled on another shirt that said “What happens at Grandmas Stays at Grandmas.” He shrugged into his shoulder rig and secured his Beretta Model 93-R under his arm.

  Steve walked up to the front of the trailer. Chris was passed out on the couch. He shook his head. Brent had made a pot of coffee so he filled a Styrofoam cup.

  “Hey, Chris. Wake up.”

  Chris snored louder.

  “Wake the fuck up, man.”

  He muttered something in his sleep and rolled over.

  Steve put a booted foot on his shoulder and shoved him a couple of times until the man stirred. “All right-all right-all right. What the fuck?”

  “Wake up. You driving.”

  “I’m driving.”

  “Right. Wake up and crank this bitch up.”

  “Yeah-yeah-yeah.”

  “Yeah.” Steve took an M-16 down off the gun rack near the door. He popped the magazine, inspected it, slid it back home and pulled the bolt back. He checked the safety. It was on.

  “Hey, Chris, you like rap music, right?”

  “Some.”

  “You remember that song, I’m not a playa I just fuck a lot?”

  “You mean by Big Punisher?”

  “Shit.”

  He sipped his coffee and opened the door to the outside.

  It was early morning. There was activity around the camp as people went about their business, securing their rides, preparing for the day’s convoy.

  “Steve!” one of the three little kids—he couldn’t be sure if it was Stymie, Buckwheat or Farina—called out to him, passing by holding his mother’s hand.

  “Morning,” he called back loud enough for the kid and his mother to hear, then under his breath, “you little pecker head.”

  He squinted and put on his shades.

  “Nice shirt.” Harold, a guy Steve knew from the convoy, walked by. Harold was wearing a t-shirt that said I am the man from Nantucket.

  “Likewise.”

  “You white boys sleeping late again, biatch?” Damar came past.

  “Waited all night for you to come and tuck me in, D,” Steve shot back.

  “Kalimera, Stavors, esai malakas!” One of the Greeks strolled by, a backpack slung over his shoulder next to a rifle. “You see my cousin tell him we couldn’t wait for him, okay?”

  “Yeah, you too.” Steve climbed up onto the roof of the RV. He didn’t speak Greek but he recognized Stavros or Stratos, his name, and figured the Greek was probably fucking with him, calling him an asshole or something.