“Give me the piece boy,” says the soldier with a yawn. The rifle barrel is pointed right at Tracks’ gut and the soldier has his finger on the trigger.
Tracks takes a deep breath, staring at the soldier. No trace of emotion is visible but his breathing may have a more purposeful rhythm now. Hard to say.
The soldier goes pale. “Look, I’m just trying to do my job. I don’t want trouble.”
“Then mind your business and your manners boy,” says Tracks.
“You have to give me the piece.”
Tracks nods. He reaches behind his back, grabs the pachmeyr grips of his pistol and lashes out with a lightning quick punch to the soldier’s jaw. The guy’s head snaps back, connects with the concrete wall with a thud and he falls bonelessly to the ground, face down.
“We go in here, you do what I tell you Daric,” says Tracks.
Daric nods solemnly. Tracks opens the door and ushers Daric in.
A guy in a doctor’s white coat stands at the far end of a restaurant dining room beside a door that would probably lead to a kitchen. “Right this way,” says the man, holding the door for them.
Daric enters first with Tracks right behind him.
A Jersey-accented voice commands, “Strip down and no fucking comments.” Tracks sees a big Army sergeant sitting on a bar stool. The only weapons visible are an asp, the replacement for the night stick, and a holstered pistol. The sergeant has a no nonsense, better-listento-me look about him. His square-jawed face is unshaven and visibly
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pocked. Salt stains radiate out from his armpits on his brown undershirt. The only way to tell his rank is by the insignia on his ranger style cap. He has the asp out and he flicks his wrist and the thing telescopes out almost two feet.
Tracks gives an involuntary shudder.
“I only repeat myself once,” says the sergeant. “If I have to do it again, things get painful.” He clasps the asp in hand, and gives a hardeyed glare at Tracks. To Daric, Tracks’ breathing is comforting, but for the sergeant, it must be irritating.
“Quit breathing so loud, you trying to sound like a serial killer or something?”
“Something,” mutters Tracks.
The doctor picks this moment to speak. “Please sir, I need you both to strip down so I can examine you, and meanwhile I’ll ask a series of questions, okay?”
Tracks doesn’t reply, but he grasps the bottom of his t-shirt and lifts it above his head and off. Daric notices that he keeps his back away from the sergeant. Probably hiding his gun. Daric pulls off his own shirt and unbuckles his belt.
“Any bites, gentlemen?” asks the doctor, clipboard and pen in hand. He looks slightly shocked by Tracks’ massive, scarred torso. The skin is a rich chocolate brown, but marred by keloid scars. His chest is sculpted, broad shoulders and his lats are like two wings, but it looks like someone whipped his back. Only someone filled with hatred could do what’s been done to Tracks’ back. Somebody with an asp? A whip maybe?
The sergeant stands up. “Hey Doc, check out the boy! It looks like he’s got a bite on his calf… See it? The right one!”
The doctor’s face has gone pale. He quickly kneels by Daric and grabs the leg, lifting it to examine it more closely. Daric tries to shout, tries to kick his way free, but he is no match for a man’s strength.
“That’s a lie,” Tracks says. “He ain’t been bit!”
“Looks like a bite to me,” says the doctor. “Can’t take a chance. We’ll have to euthanize him.”
What does youthanize mean? Daric wonders, but can’t ask.
Tracks blusters with rage and from the look of it, his sorrow is plain to see at this news. I don’t remember being bit… “Nobody hurts Daric!” Tracks’ voice isn’t capable of shouting but he manages an outraged whisper.
“Settle down,” says the sergeant, turning back toward Tracks. Tracks ignores him and wades in, big fists flying. The sergeant ducks and comes
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up and slashes Tracks across the chest with the asp. Daric’s big friend staggers and slams into a prep table.
The sergeant laughs. “Didn’t like that I bet.”
Tracks straightens back up. The look in his eyes is murderous, but his breath is wheezing now, uneven.
“Take a look at that mark, eh Doc? No blood though.” The sergeant is pacing around Tracks, eyes alert, obviously savoring the situation.
The doctor takes a step or two forward. “Please sir,” he addresses Tracks, “no more trouble. I’ll be kind to your son. He’ll just go to sleep and never wake up.”
Tracks brings his hand from behind his back. Daric has time to see a pistol, then there is a big flame and a loud boom as Tracks pulls the trigger. The doctor clutches his throat and falls down and the pistol barrel begins tracking the sergeant. Tracks takes a ragged breath, settles the sights just as the sergeant lunges forward and whips the gun right out of his hand with the asp. Tracks counters with a punch to the soldier’s head and then another punch from his still stinging gun hand.
The two men grapple and bestial grunts fill the air. Daric scrambles out of the way, and looks for Tracks’ gun. Meanwhile, the doctor lays on the floor, feet spasming while a gout of blood jets between his fingers.
Tracks gets a grip on a finger—Snaps it, then grabs another. The asp drops from the sergeant’s hand. The man screams. Tracks wrestles him to the floor. The sergeant tries to cover his face, but Tracks is straddling him and punching him in the head, alternating fists. After three or four punches there is no resistance, but Tracks is angry.
I think he lost count.
Daric reaches out, grabs his shoulder and Tracks turns and sees him. With his tortured voice he whispers: “Daric.”
Daric isn’t afraid. Tracks was gone somewhere, lost in a dark place. Tears slide down the big man’s face. He really is having trouble breathing; the sound of it uneven, rasping almost choked, but somehow he climbs to his feet. He hugs Daric very tightly.
You be okay Tracks.
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S EARS IS A MASSIVE WHITE BUILDING on the mall’s southeast side. There is a Sears automotive center separate from the main building, and a new Italian restaurant next to it. The auto center has six or so drive-in bays for tires, batteries and oil changes. When Mills was a little boy Sears seemed huge, but now compared to a Wal-Mart Supercenter, it not only appears small, but is. One of his earliest memories is of spilling a huge bag of M& M’s his mother bought him in this store. They were all over the floor.
Standing at the service entrance to Sears’ main building, Mills says, “If we see a lot of them, we just get out, okay?”
“No argument here. I don’t really want to go, even with a bat in hand.” Kathy does look a bit nauseous.
Mills grins at her and turns back to Sam. Sam is standing beside his Acura with the door open and the engine running. Natalie is sitting in the passenger seat.
“Let’s test the walkie-talkies right now,” says Mills. “Sam can you hear me?”
“Loud and clear, Adam,” replies Sam. “I can hear you on the walkie talkie also.”
Mills’ grin gets wider. “Okay smartass, you’d better keep an eye peeled for us. We could come out at any time with an army of the undead behind us.”
“Just find the keys. Okay, Mr. Fireman?” the teen replies. “And then there’s a cat that’s trapped in a tree…”
Mills snorts, waves goodbye and opens one of the double doors. Just inside is a waiting area with a long counter. A sign behind the counter says: Service Desk, Returns and Pick-Up. Another small sign says: Closed. Some chairs are bolted to the wall on the left. Sitting in one of them is a dead guy. Probably early fifties with an immense gut, narrow shoulders and long scraggly hair. He’s wearing a T-shirt that says something like: Ted’s Steak House. We want to put our meat in your… The rest is obscured by a bloody stain that dripped onto the floor.
Mills shakes his head. “You ever hear of this radio guy, Phil Hendrie, Kathy?”
“The talk radio guy? Sure, but some of the people he’d interview would make me really angry. I never listened more than a few minutes. You don’t like him, do you?”
But Kathy until now you were almost perfect… “Nevermind then. Let’s see, the entrance to the main store is to the right.”
More dead people in the aisle. Overcome by smoke or…? He and Kathy are standing in the entrance to the main store, and this particular area is the shoe department. Four corpses are visible. One face down right in front of them. Two more huddled together behind a shoe display and the leg of another person is visible behind a register kiosk. To the right are the clothing departments and eventually the entrance to the mall. Straight ahead is Jewelry, and to the right is Hardware, Paint and eventually another exit that faces the parking lot and the nearby Automotive Center.
“Where did you leave them?” Kathy whispers.
“Upstairs. There’s an escalator in the middle of the store behind Jewelry.”
“God, this is creeping me out. Let’s hurry, okay?”
“Sure.”
Beyond some blood stains and dropped personal items, he sees no further sign of other people. The air is bad and there seems to be a haze in the air. He thinks about this place having a paint department—What if the fire were to spread there? He shrugs the thought aside. Nothing he can do about it.
He pauses at a main aisle. Looks both ways. Just a few feet away is Jewelry. Costume jewelry, both bracelets and rings are featured on little tables with revolving display cases. Someone is standing near another cashier station or whatever they are about ten feet away. Guy in a suit with a crew cut. He looks normal, but Mills can’t see his face.
Do we try to sneak around him?
Kathy steps up alongside him, her lovely face mere inches away. Mills is so tired of ugliness and ugly death. For a moment he forgets where he is and looks at her profile, the long straight nose, the full slightly pouty lips.
The guy turns around. Kathy stiffens next to him, shocked into immobility. He sees the motion out of the corner of his eye and turns back. They stare at each other. The other guy, middle-aged, eyes a bright steely blue but his mouth is twisted into a snarl. One eye has a tick.
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The voice is full of regret, “All I wanted to do was buy an engagement ring. No one would help me.”
His hands are bloody, like two red gloves up to his elbows. He smiles almost apologetically. “You see, I tried asking nice at first. I’m in a hurry and I deserve good service as much as the next guy. Only these bitches,” he says, waving dismissively behind the counter, “wanted to help the British guy first.”
“British guy?” says Mills, wondering what the best course to get out of this will be.
“Yeah, some playboy with a deep tan and a fat wallet. He cut me in line. I sure ruined his day. I went right over to Hardware and found a nice hatchet…”
“Listen ah, sir,” says Mills. “What did you say your name was?”
“I didn’t say my name, but it’s Sid.”
“Well Sid, I’m a fireman, and I’ve got a report of a possible blaze upstairs. We’re going to go up and check it out.”
“Yeah, you guys were here earlier. A couple of your pals gave me some trouble, but I fixed them too. Stick that in your report, or your girlfriend, or… stick it up your own ass.” The guy actually cackles, and Mills notices something that stops him cold. The keyring to the fire engine is snapped to the crazy guy’s belt buckle.
“I’m not trying to hassle you sir, just doing my job.”
The guy winks. “I know what you mean, I’ve never had a suit like this before. My taste in clothes is very different. I usually go in for a less civilized appearance.”
Kathy clutches his arm, and whispers, “Don’t ask. Let’s just get away.”
“You telling secrets, slut? Whispering’s for the bedroom. In public it’s insulting.” The guy’s lips have drawn back, and there’s a line of drool. He reaches back behind the counter and comes back with a hatchet.
Kathy shrieks, long and loud. Mills holds up a hand, palm out, and says, “I’m done humoring you.” He brandishes the bat, settles both hands on the haft, and takes a couple swings.
“Humoring me?!” shouts Sid. “I crucify myself everyday for a bitch just like her.”
“I doubt that,” says Mills.
This brings Sid up short. He was starting toward them, but now he cocks his head as if it will enable him to hear well.
Mills continues, voice level, pitched just above a whisper, “You don’t have anyone. You are a lonely, pathetic little man who thinks carving up a few shopgirls makes him tough. Fear me, the piece of shit you scrape off your shoe!”
Sid’s eyes glitter with tears, and something savage, probably hate. His upper body is trembling. There is a chunk of something lodged on the hatchet blade vibrating in time but seemingly stuck. Mills keeps waiting for it to shake loose.
“Get behind me,” Mills says out of the corner of his mouth.
Kathy nods and steps behind him, wraps her fingers around his right arm.
“I told you, I’m buying an engagement ring.”
“Doesn’t mean anybody wants it from you. It’s probably some woman you annoy at work. This was going to end badly for you no matter what, I’m guessing. The woman, if there is one, doesn’t have a clue that you are anything more than some sexually defective creep.”
Sid’s face crumples, but he doesn’t give up. “There is too! She loves me! You don’t know anything!” He appears to be grasping at shreds now, anything…
Mills glares at him, allowing all the contempt he feels for this killer to come through. “So, you are good? Is that what you’re telling me, Sid? I’ve got you all wrong?”
“What are you doing here, fireman?”
“You are avoiding the question, Sid.”
“And I’ve been doing all the talking. There is no fire here. Just two dead firemen. They were walking around trying to eat people, but I fixed them. I fixed them like I fixed the salesgirls and the store manager. Customer service is going to improve around here!”
“Want me to go away Sid?”
Sid falls silent, shrugs. “Sooner or later, I’ll kill you if you don’t go away.”
“Will you help me, if we promise to go away?”
Sid’s eyes widen. “Don’t know. Depends.”
“Those keys you have clipped to your belt loop—I need them. If you’ll give them to me, we will go away.”
“I’m not a psycho you know.”
“I never said you were Sid.”
“You don’t have to. Think about your posture right now. Look at yourself. Your body language is shouting, I’m ready to defend myself and my girlfriend. And don’t even bring her up. Look at her peeking over your shoulder. You’d think I was a serial killer or something.”
Mills takes a slow, deep breath, lets it out. “So what do you want Sid? We need those keys.”
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Sid doesn’t hesitate. “Take me with you.” Behind him, he feels Kathy tighten her grip on his arm. Too easy to just pull the pistol and shoot him. I save people.
Just that quick, he decides.
“Okay Sid, let’s go.”
“BEEN A LONG DAY. Want to stop somewhere and you can take a nap?” Keller asks. Talaski has his back against the house’s wall. His eyes close and he can feel the sun baking him, dragging him down. It would be very easy to just crash somewhere and sleep around the clock. “Sounds good, but we’re only a few miles from the Pier. Don’t you think we should keep going?”
“It might be worse there Nick. If we find a place around here, we can each get a few hours rest.”
Talaski opens his eyes. Looks up at the cloudy sky just in time to see the first drops fall. “Okay, you convinced me. What about this place?”
He joins Keller in looking around the corner at the front of the house. It is a three story, and the paint job looks new; more modern than most of the neighboring houses. White s
tuccoed walls, massive wooden beams and large windows give it a sturdy appearance. The power appears to still be on here. Talaski can hear the rattle of an air conditioner somewhere nearby.
“Looks like a place I would have loved to live in,” murmurs Keller.
“Yeah.”
Keller draws his .40 pistol and goes to stand to the left of the front door. Talaski follows and steps to the right. To either side are wide windows with security shutters rolled up in metal housings mounted above. A large living room is to the left and maybe a study to the right. They are under a covered porch now and the rain is really coming down.
“I hate to just break in,” says Keller.
“What, you want to knock?” asks Talaski, voice full of sarcasm.
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“No, but let’s check the porch out first. Maybe they hid a key in a pot or something…”
“Or we could do this first,” says Talaski and he grabs the door handle and turns.
The door opens.
“W HICH WAY DID THAT SOLDIER SAY TO GO?” asks Bronte, stepping up his pace. He and Janicea walk together, arms brushing, away from the soldiers. They turn a corner and she looks around. “Alone at last.” Janicea smiles up at him. “It would be great if we could find something to do to take our minds off—” she says, voice low.
“There’s nothing I’d like better, but we need to find Daric and Tracks.”
Janicea looks crestfallen. “That building straight ahead, the restaurant.”
Bronte notices a body near the entrance. He starts running.
“Wait Bronte!” shouts Janicea, but he keeps running.
Something is wrong.
Bronte stops, kneels down, fingers at the throat of the soldier sprawled outside the restaurant. “Still alive.” He rolls the guy over on his back. This guy escorted Tracks and Daric here.
The unconscious man mutters something. Bronte unsnaps the guy’s pistol belt and suspenders. Load bearing equipment, his LBE. The ammo pouches are all full. Janicea rushes up while he is slinging the suspenders over his shoulders then cinching and fastening the belt. There are also two canteens, a big knife and a compass all hooked or stored on the belt. He picks up the man’s M-4, flicks the selector switch from safety to single shot, and pulls back the charging handle to chamber a round.
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