“Where are you going?”
“I want to come along, help out where I can.”
‘Can you use that thing?” Window said.
“I can hit anything inside eight hundred yards.”
“That’s good enough for me,” Meat said.
“Wait a minute, I forgot something,” Window said and turned back to the barn. He vanished inside. From within came the roar of his pistol. Einstein screamed and raced back to the barn. Throwing open the doors he revealed Window standing over the still body of their captor, the boys blood staining the ground beneath his head.
“I did him a favor,” Window said, slipping his pistol back into the holster slung low on his hip.
Einstein screamed and charged Window who sidestepped his attack. Einstein ran past his target, tripping over his own two feet, falling to the ground beside the body of their captive.
“Let it go,” Meat shouted as Einstein pushed himself to his feet and prepared to charge Window again.
Gregory stepped between them, holding out his hands. “It’s over,” he said, “let it go.”
Einstein dusted himself off and retrieved his gear from where he’d dropped it, glaring at Window who ignored him, a self satisfied smile on his face as he casually walked over to the group.
“Why did you do that?” Meat said.
“It had to be done,” Window said with a shrug.
“You’ll get no argument from me, but we agreed to keep the boy captive until we returned, then we would let him go.” Meat felt his control over the group slipping through his fingers, if he didn’t do something to establish control soon, they’d descend into anarchy.
But what could he do?
He had no experience with leadership. He knew if it got too out of hand the lives of the children counting on them would surely come to an end.
“Hey Gregory,” Billie-Bob said as he slung his rifle and stopped beside him, “do Zombies eat popcorn with their fingers?”
“What? I don’t know, what are you talking about? I guess.”
Window and Meat turned away as Billie-Bob draped his arm over Gregory’s shoulder.
“No, they save the fingers for last,” Billie-Bob said, “did you ever hear the one about the Zombie that went to the whorehouse?”
Gregory shook his head.
“He wanted his money back because he couldn’t get it up, he had DD, a dead dick.” Billie-Bob finished with a guffaw, “get it? Dead dick?” he said as he slapped Gregory on the shoulder and bent over with laughter. “I’ve got a hundred of em.”
Gregory shook his head as they trailed the rest of the group, Billie-Bob’s voice running a mile a minute as he entertained his new found audience.
Seven
Reaching the outskirts of the small town of Columbia Meat called a halt and they gathered on a slight rise overlooking the town, if it could be called that. Route Six ran through the middle of Columbia which was nothing more than a scattering of houses gathered around two churches and an old train station that had once been listed on the national register of historic places by the National Historical Society.
The society no longer existed, all of its members were either dead, or had become one of the walking dead that still populated parts of the world around them. Their mission had been to preserve what had survived the wrecking ball in man’s pursuit of progress. Unfortunately for them they were unable to survive man’s own inhumanity to man.
Everything was buried beneath an ever-growing mound of a mile a minute, a trailing vine that in the past had seemed to grow faster than it could be cut, earning it its nickname a mile a minute. Across from the station house stood a group of houses gathered around two old churches. One of the spires had fallen either as a result of high winds, vandalism that was still prevalent, or simple neglect.
Everything carried a neglected air. The front lawn of one house was covered by the contents of the house, the furnishings having vanished beneath a sea of that ever present a mile a minute that was threatening to consume the house itself.
“Why do Zombies eat brains with their fingers?”
“I thought they saved the fingers for last?” Gregory answered with a shrug.
“No,” Billie-Bob said with a barely restrained giggle, “they’re not coordinated enough to use utensils.” He finished with a guffaw as he slapped his thigh with his hand. “Do you get it? They don’t know how to use a fork.”
Gregory smiled patiently as Billie-Bob became quiet, resuming his whispered monologue, speaking to himself in a soft voice, the words coming at a staccato, rapid-fire rate. “They roared their terrible roars and gnashed their terrible teeth and rolled their terrible eyes and showed their terrible claws,” He chanted to himself, repeating the same phrase over and over again like a mantra that would protect him.
“Is he always like this?” Gregory said, pointing at Billie-Bob with his thumb.
“Everyday,” Window said with a smile.
Along the right shoulder, crowded close to route six stood a two-story house that looked like it had once held a business with either a rental, or the owner’s living quarters on the second floor. A balcony on the second floor covered the entire width of the front of the house and hanging from the solid railings were several corpses.
They had obviously been there awhile as all that remained was the mummified torso and head. Beneath each body lay a grisly pile of bones with some of the connecting tissue still intact. Each one had been shot in the head, ensuring that they wouldn’t return for revenge, the blood splatter on the once white wall of the building behind them having faded to a dirty brown color.
Were they one of the missing crews? Meat wondered as he walked by. Scavenging crews had managed to explore all of the points on the compass surrounding Bremo Bluff with the exception of the lands to the East. So far three crews had vanished without a trace in the wilds between the compound and the Atlantic ocean. Earning those unknown areas to the East the name, Deadlands. When Meat first approached the council about going after the children they had been reluctant to give their blessings, content it seemed to mark them off as lost for good. Yet at the same time it was important that they learn what lay to the East, and if it posed a threat to the well being of the compound. A point Meat used to hammer away at their reluctance until they relented, with one caveat. It was a stipulation that even in the present seemed overly brutal to Meat.
There were to be no survivors.
At first he had balked at the requirement, killing those who had taken the children would make them no better that the people they followed, or the roving bands of survivors who took what they wanted killing anyone who got in their way. Yet at the same time he understood their reasoning, so it was with a sense of reluctance that he accepted their terms.
It was also a stipulation he had as yet to share with the others.
As a group they silently walked past the building, even Billie-Bob had grown quiet as the hollow sound of their footsteps on the crumbling pavement echoed from the stillness around them. As they each passed they glanced in the direction of the hanging corpses then cast their eyes down at their feet. Even Billie-Bob, whose ceaseless whispering had become as commonplace as the birds around them, had fallen silent as they passed.
This was real.
Every one of them had seen Zombies, they’d taken shots at them as they gathered beyond the fence at Bremo Bluff. But that fence had served to protect them from the reality of what they faced, keeping them safely encased within the security of the community.
Out here, this far from the security of the fence, the only safety they had was in their numbers, and an ever-watchful nature nurtured by a childhood spoiled by an event beyond their control. They were the children of the apocalypse, survivors hardened by an ever-present death that was no longer hidden away from view as it had been in the past. Since that fateful day in March death had become the norm, an acceptable alternative to what awaited all of them in their final moments.
Moving beyond
Columbia they entered what looked like a vast wilderness bisected by the crumbling pavement of route six. Mother Nature had nearly reclaimed what man had taken. Saplings grew from the center of the macadam, their roots cracking the once smooth surface, permitting small brush to emerge. Here and there bare spots of weathered asphalt were the only evidence of the once busy throughway that connected Western Virginia with Richmond.
The rusting hulks of automobiles sat haphazardly where they had been abandoned. The ever present a mile a minute slowly consuming them as weeds grew from their exposed interiors. They dotted the cracked macadam, the shadows beneath them offering refuge to a varied assortment of small animals.
Above them the sky had grown darker as a cool breeze stirred the leaves of the forest around them, speaking to them in its secret voice as the scent of the coming rain was carried upon its currents. Mingling with that refreshing scent was a much darker odor, an earthy fragrance that spoke of things long dead.
“We’re going to have to find shelter for the night,” Meat said.
“Why don’t we go back to Columbia?” Einstein said.
Meat shook his head as a gust of wind threatened to strip his hat from his head, “I want to keep pushing forward, we’ll find something.”
“I hope you’re right.”
With their heads bent to the wind they pushed into the approaching storm as it kicked up around them. Fat raindrops fell from the darkening sky as lightning danced in the distance, its booming voice trailing a few seconds behind. The leaves of the trees around them turned their backs to the wind, a sign that this was going to be a bad one.
Lightning streaked across the sky above their heads, filling the air with an electric tang as the crackling sound of thunder shook them to the marrow of their bones. The deluge had yet to start, but it wouldn’t be long, and Meat scanned the forest ahead for any sign of shelter.
Maybe he should have let them turn back?
Then he saw it, screened by trees on the left side of the road, a ranch style house that sat back from the highway, half hidden behind a front yard that was slowly being reclaimed by the forest around it.
“Up ahead,” he shouted into the wind as the frequency of the falling raindrops intensified. Throwing caution to the wind they ran towards the house, across the lawn where small trees sprouted, and to the front door where they gathered under the small roof that afforded them some protection from the storm. Meat forced the door open and it swung into the shadowy depths of the house as the musty scent of decay greeted them.
Eight
They fanned out across the small living room, carefully checking each room of the house until they were confident they were alone. In the back of the house they found the kitchen, and against the back wall of the screened in back porch they came upon an old wood fire cook stove that was still operational.
It was obvious someone had used the stove sometime in the recent past, as ashes were still present in the firebox. On the flat surface a cast iron skillet, its bottom coated by a thin layer of old grease, sat abandoned.
Meat sniffed the pan, noting how the grease was still relatively fresh, and as his eyes scanned the small kitchen he noticed signs that someone had recently used the kitchen as a shelter. He hoped it had been someone passing through, not someone who was using the house as a shelter and would return any moment to find them invading their space.
Situations like that had a tendency to spiral out of control rather quickly with gunplay entering the equation more often than not. Anymore it was easier to just shoot your problem than deal with it in a rational manner. Compromise had given way to a wild west attitude.
In no time they had built a small fire that provided warmth and heat for cooking. In the cast iron skillet they prepared a feast of venison stew from the deer jerky they all carried, boiling it down as best they could in rainwater. Adding potatoes and carrots from the garden they maintained year round, along with several spring onions they’d picked up along the way.
Though they were young they had been taught at an early age to fend for themselves. They gave little thought to the fact that what they were doing would have been unheard of fourteen years before, unless they belonged to a Boy Scout troop, or some other wilderness preparatory organization. Of course each of them would have been equally lost in that world of instant gratification where a fast food restaurant occupied nearly every corner.
With their bellies full they sat around the stove as night descended and the rain continued to tap against the roof in a steady rhythm that served to lull them into a false sense of security. Without posting a guard they soon nodded off to sleep.
Einstein was the first to stir, it had become colder, and he awakened to find the fire out. As he was starting another, the rest of the group sleeping around him, he heard the sound of movement coming from beneath their feet. Window stirred on his right as he turned his ear to the house, straining to hear more.
A distinct thump came from below them.
“What was that?” Window said, struggling to sit up, “whose on guard?”
“Ssshhh.” Einstein put his finger to his lips to quiet him. To Window’s right Meat and Billie Bob slept soundly, their breathing coming in that steady rhythm indicative of deep sleep. Beyond them, curled up next to the wall, lost in his dreams of what once was, Gregory lay wrapped in a dirty blanket.
The thump came again and Window pushed himself up from his seat. He leaned over to wake Meat but Einstein stopped him. “It’s probably nothing, I’ll go check it out.”
“I’ll come with you,” Window said as he strapped on his holster and checked the chambers of his revolver.
Lighting a candle from the fire he’d started, Einstein led the way, holding the candle high, his hand cupped to protect the flame as they cautiously crossed the kitchen floor. The sound of movement came from beneath their feet.
“It’s in the basement,” Einstein said. He reached a door and opened it to reveal a small pantry, its shelves bare. Moving to the next door he opened it to reveal a yawning black pit. From the inky well of darkness came the sound of movement and Einstein knelt down on the top step to try and shed some light into the basement. At the very edge of that faint pool of illumination they saw a couch sitting against the wall. The basement was finished, and what they were looking at had once served as a family room for those who had occupied the house in the past.
Followed closely by Window, Einstein carefully moved down the steps. Reaching the bottom they saw the entire room in the fain glow of the candle. Two easy chairs occupied the wall next to the couch, across from it stood a massive flat panel television and on the rack next to it were several pieces of recording equipment along with two game consoles. A thick layer of dust covered everything, and the wires connecting it all together had been chewed clean through leaving nubs protruding from the rear of the components.
To the left of the easy chairs a narrow hallway vanished into the emptiness that was crowding around the small pool of light provided by the candle. The sound of movement came from those shadowy depths and Einstein glanced back at Window with a worried expression on his face.
“What’s wrong?” Window said.
“I don’t think I want to go down there.”
“I’m right behind you.”
“That’s what worries me.”
“Go on, you’ve brought us this far, we might as well finish.”
“You’re right,” Einstein said before turning back to the hallway. As he moved forward the leading edge of the faint light cast by the candle illuminated the floor. Just inside the hallway a pair of bare feet was exposed, the soles flat against the floor, the nails cracked and jagged, the flesh gray with death.
Einstein stopped, his heart climbing into his throat as he lifted the candle higher to expose more of the person standing there. Her dress was filthy and torn, the front stained with a large swath of dried blood that was black in the candlelight.
She lurched forward, drawn by the light, her hands stre
tched out before her as she stumbled forward. With a moan of fear Einstein stumbled back into Window, knocking him back against the couch, forcing Window to sit down as Einstein plopped down beside him.
“Shoot her, dammit,” Einstein shouted.
Window clawed his pistol from its holster and lifted the muzzle, aiming at the woman’s head.
“Shoot her,” Einstein screamed as he struggled to back away from the woman, clawing his way up the back of the sofa, the flame of the candle fluttering in response to his movement, sending shadows dancing across the walls as shouts and pounding footsteps came from the stairs. Footsteps pounded across the floor above them, Einstein’s yell had obviously awakened the others.
Window sat unmoving next to Einstein’s squirming figure, the pistol forgotten in his hand, his eyes fixed on the woman’s face as a single word formed on his lips.
“Mom.”
Nine
Drops of rain clung to the windows, chilling the glass and forming a frame of condensation around the perimeter of each pane. Beyond the window the sky was full of dark clouds churning in a volatile way, almost touching the ground, as rain pelted the roof above their heads with a steady drone. He knew this place, had learned to read within its walls, it was the classroom at Bremo Bluff.
What am I doing here?
The children had left for the day and he was alone with Anna who was two years his senior, helping her clean up. It was odd that he had been assigned to help out in the school instead of with one of the scavenging crews embarking on their varied searches beyond the fence.
But he wasn’t complaining.
It was warm and he had the added pleasure of working with Anna who had caught his eye several weeks earlier, emerging from her bulky winter clothing like a beautiful butterfly after a long harsh winter. Being inside with her was better than being out there in the cold rain. Here he was warm and dry, the warmth enveloping him in a comforting embrace that lulled him into a sense of security he’d never really known. It was so warm in fact that Anna was wearing a pair of shorts and a halter-top.
All Roads Lead To Terror: Coming of age in a post apocalyptic world (Dreadland Chronicles Book 1) Page 4