Nerves. Stay focused, time is slipping away.
The mini-mart was a much brighter space as she moved into it through a wide archway. Tall windows ran the length of the front of this section, bright winter daylight flooding the room of shelving gondolas and glass-faced beverage cases. She used to wonder why none of that glass had been smashed in, but decided that there had been nothing the dead wanted in here; during that terrible day, their meals had likely fled the building, heading for their vehicles, and run right into the teeth. Pepper moved quickly from front to back, even peeking over the cash register counter. She was alone and quickly went to work on the depleted shelves, stuffing both the backpack and the pillow cases.
The last four cans of tuna.
The last two cans of chili. My insides will pay for these later.
A multi-pack of single serving breakfast cereals, the last one.
Two packages of beef jerky.
A travel-sized peanut butter. The last box of Ritz crackers. Six tins of Spam, leaving several more on the shelf.
Pepper sighed at what had become of her diet. She’d once been so particular, conscious of everything she put in her body; hormone and gluten-free, organics, low carbs, almost nothing with added sugar. Months of eating convenience store crap had helped ruin her complexion, and had she not rationed herself like a castaway who sees no rescue in sight, she probably would have put on weight as well.
Cheese spread. Cookies. The last two cans of baked beans. A Snapple (only one as a treat, because the pack was getting heavy.)
She moved into a new aisle and shoved feminine pads and Advil into a pillow case. Last month the cramps had nearly doubled her over, and she wasn’t going to be caught without pain relievers again. She added a plastic bottle of Tums, thinking about what the food selections were going to do to her.
A pair of I LOVE TRUCKEE T-shirts went into the bag. She thought for a moment about the complete absence of toilet paper or paper towels, and shoved in three more. There was no more beef stew or soup, no Ramen Noodles or trail mix. All the bread had gone green and hard, and the rancid dairy case was off-limits (the cheese and hot dogs were so lively they could walk on their own.)
Combos. White rice (she wasn’t sure how she’d cook it.) Sunflower seeds, three small cans of Spaghetti-O’s, pistachios, mints, a can of beets hidden at the back of a shelf (how did I miss that?) a travel-sized toothpaste, new toothbrush and a man’s roll-on deodorant (by God I’ll feel human again!) all went into the sack. She looked at the aisle, picking up the last box of candles and some wooden matches, and her heart fell.
Last August, the place had seemed packed with food and merchandise. How was it possible that she had gone through it all in less than six months? It would have been easier to let herself believe that some unseen person was also scavenging in here, but she knew she was alone, and had been since last summer.
Except for the dead, of course.
With the pack weighing down her shoulders and two pillowcases in the hand not holding Little Sticker, Pepper moved to the front of the store. She glanced at the display behind the registers, at the full racks of cigarettes.
Why not? It’ll pass the time, and it’s not like you’re going to live long enough to die of cancer. She shook her head. Because starting now would just be stupid. And it ruins your singing voice. An inside laugh. You won’t be doing much singing, but at least your screaming will be clear and true.
She looked out the front windows at the parking lot with its snow-covered cars, her tour bus beyond at the far edge. Enough time had passed that by now the trucker, Sunny and Flannel Shirt would have joined Fiddler at the glass doors. As had become her routine, with the dead occupied down at the other end of the building, she would remove the bike lock from this set of doors, slip out, secure them from outside and scoot back to her bus. They wouldn’t get close to her.
Pepper produced the key again and put her hand on the bike lock, then froze. Something wasn’t right. She held her breath and listened, then realized what it was. The distant racket of Fiddler shaking the double doors was gone. A chill crawled up her back and down her arms.
Did she lose interest and go away? Not likely.
Why weren’t the others shaking the door?
She had a sudden image of the four creatures shuffling around to the back of the building in single file, finding the open door behind Burger King and moving inside.
Inside with her.
Were they already here? Don’t be stupid, they’re single-minded things, not smart enough to strategize an alternate was in.
“Are you sure?” Scott asked. He had appeared beside her, still wearing blood-soaked camos.
“No, I’m not,” she said in a small voice.
“Better assume they figured it out,” he said. Then he was gone.
Pepper bit her lip to hold back a sob. If they had gotten inside, then this place would no longer be available for scavenging; her food source would be cut off, because there was no way she could ever face four of them here in the dark. Pepper looked around. The shelves had seemed so empty a moment ago, but now she saw that there was so much more remaining, even dog food if it came to that, and the fast food places were sure to have canned goods in storage rooms. She could even eat ketchup packets if she had to. All of it could keep her alive just a bit longer, but now they were going to take it all away.
A distant crash echoed through the travel center.
Something figured it out.
Within moments she was back out in the snow, slipping the U-shaped arm of the bike lock through the door handles and snapping it shut, turning toward the parking lot.
Fiddler was on the sidewalk too, trudging toward her, halfway between these and the other set of doors. The dead woman snarled.
The doors were locked behind her. No going back now. Pepper set off into the parking lot, swinging her arms with the pillow cases and the barbecue fork, picking up her knees, eyes on the distant bus. Fiddler angled off the sidewalk and followed.
Keep moving. Keep moving.
Moaning came from her left now, and she glanced over to see Sunny surging through chest-deep snow, croaking and baring her teeth, closer to her prey than she’d ever been. The trucker was close behind her, and the limping thing in the flannel shirt was coming in from the right, having shortened the distance between them far quicker than Pepper thought he could. Left, right and behind, all closing in.
The bus is right there. I can outrun them.
The sleeper she’d seen earlier had apparently tried to follow her to the travel center, and was now even more out of position that it had been; no threat. She kept going, the moans of the dead coming faster, desperate and hungry.
Almost there.
Pepper’s right boot came down on something soft, and it moved under the snow.
Oh, God!
The corpse’s head burst from the surface, a rotting woman with gray skin, eyes almost solid white with pricks of blue for pupils. It hissed and snapped its teeth, locking a frigid hand on Pepper’s knee, pulling itself up until it was on all fours, the taut skin of its naked, gray back lined with vertebrae lumps and breaking through the white crust. Pepper screamed and tried to pull away, and thrust down with Little Sticker. The prongs ripped through wet skin, splitting its scalp but not puncturing the skull. She stabbed again, hitting it in the forehead, but the forks didn’t get through the bone.
The sleeper rose to its knees, grabbing her backpack to pull itself up. In the parking lot behind her, Fiddler and Sunny let out an enraged mix of moans and snarls. Pepper screamed again and kept pulling away, dragging the dead thing off its knees, stabbing a third time. The twin tips of the barbecue fork plunged deep into sagging neck flesh without effect.
The sleeper snapped its teeth. All color seemed to have leeched from its dead flesh, making it look wet, pale and worm-like. It used its grip on the backpack to pull itself up, while pulling Pepper into its grasp and teeth. Behind it, Fiddler was trying to gallop, close enough t
o throw her shadow on the snow beside Pepper.
Pepper shrieked and stabbed once more, one of the side-by-side prongs ripping out a marble-like eye, the other jamming tightly into the socket, but neither reaching the brain. The weapon did become wedged, however, and when the sleeper jerked again at the backpack, Little Sticker was torn from her hand. Pepper realized too late that when she’d been inside the mini-mart bagging up supplies, she’d forgotten to slip the leather strap around her wrist.
The sleeper snapped again, this time ripping one of the socks off her hand. Brief pressure on her fingers, but the teeth didn’t get through the sock to break the skin. Pepper cursed and swung the heavy pillowcases together, bashing the creature in the side of the head, knocking it aside and losing her grip at the same time. Crackers and canned goods and feminine pads spilled out across the snow.
The sleeper didn’t let go of the backpack, despite the blow and Pepper’s desperate twisting. It tugged hard. Pepper felt her footing start to slip from beneath her; if she went down she was finished. With a panicked cry, she moved her shoulders and twisted, letting the pack’s straps slide down her arms. The creature fell onto its back in the snow, biting at the pack, and Pepper ran for the side of the bus, knees pumping high.
The others moved past the thrashing sleeper and pursued, Fiddler only two arm’s-lengths away.
Pepper reached the open luggage compartment and scrambled inside, not pausing to check if something else might have climbed in while she was gone. Panting like a dog on a hot day, she pulled the door down fast, shoving until she heard the lock catch. Then she was climbing up through the floor hatch, slamming it shut and throwing her diminished body weight on top of it.
Fists beat at the metal sides of the bus, a hungry hammering she thought might never let up.
Go up on the roof with Big Sticker and clear them off.
She couldn’t. Her heart was running so fast she thought she might be in cardiac arrest, hyperventilating and on the verge of passing out, and she was so very cold.
Lost all of it. The pack, the food, Little Sticker, even the flashlight.
Pepper lay on the carpeting between the leather recliners and curled into a fetal position, hiding her face and sobbing. Hungry and alone, she cried without even her brother’s ghost for comfort.
Outside, the dead pounded and did not stop.
ELEVEN
“Look at that,” PFC Rooker said. “You ever seen anything like that in your life?”
Cole Burke spat into the snow, resting his SAW on one knee. “Nope. Heard about it. Used to happen sometimes back home, but never seen it.”
The two soldiers were kneeling in the snow, white powder rising almost to their chests in this position. Interstate-80 stretched out ahead and behind, flat, twin ribbons of white with pines sweeping up and away on both sides. They were in the east-bound lane, the rest of the squad stretched out in single-file behind them at twenty foot intervals. Tracks from where they had been disappeared west to their rear.
Ahead of them, the sound of breaking glass came again, followed by a deep, bellowing sound.
“Think he’ll rip the door open?” asked Rooker.
Burke spat again. “Don’t need to,” came the Wyoming drawl. “He’ll go in through the window.” They watched in fascination as the scene unfolded. Behind them, the squad had stopped and knelt as soon as Rooker, walking point, held up a closed fist and sank into the snow. Burke, walking backup with the squad automatic weapon, had immediately moved up to cover the point man, looking for the threat. He hadn’t expected this.
Another bellowing sounded across the distance, followed by a roar.
“That is one dead freak,” Rooker said.
Burke nodded but added, “You know what you said don’t make a bit of sense, right?”
“Like the way you talk, shit-kicker?”
“What was that, Tennessee?”
Behind the two men, third in line, Skye rose from the snow and moved forward.
“Spacing,” growled Oscar from behind her. She ignored him and joined the two men, kneeling on Rooker’s other side. “What’s going on?”
Rooker pointed. “He came out of the trees on the right. That’s why I stopped.”
Skye looked up the highway. Less than a hundred yards away, what had to be a four hundred pound male black bear was standing on its hind legs beside a Subaru station wagon that was buried in the snow up to its doors. The animal had smashed the driver’s side window, and was now batting its big paws at a moving corpse still belted into the front seat. Claws tore at decomposing flesh, and the zombie flailed its arms, craning its neck as it tried to bite back at the bear.
“Break in,” said Burke. “Bears get hungry enough, sometimes they break into cars looking for food. Especially if no one’s around to chase ‘em off.”
“Food?” said Rooker. “You mean its gonna eat the zombie?”
Burke bobbed his head. “Bears will eat anything. They love chowing down on dead stuff.”
Skye watched as the massive animal bellowed and sank its claws into the corpse’s chest, ripping it open and pulling apart the ribcage. Only the seatbelt kept the thing from being dragged out of the car. The zombie raked its fingers harmlessly at the animal’s thick fur.
A raspy voice came over their individual radios. “You better unfuck yourselves, grenade bait.”
Skye looked over her shoulder to see the master sergeant glaring at them. “Who’s throwing grenades?” she asked the two men.
“It’s only an expression,” Burke said, rising and moving to the right side of the highway before sinking back into the snow, this time keeping his eyes and his machine gun pointed at the woods.
“We’re too bunched up,” Rooker said, moving left. “You should get back in line.”
Skye didn’t. She stayed where she was, watching the bear. Before long it tired of batting at the corpse and thrust its enormous head into the Subaru. There was a muffled roar as the animal planted both front paws on the car door, then pulled back. The zombie’s crushed head was in its jaws, the body still in the driver’s seat. Skye could swear she heard the wet ripping sound as the head came free, but realized that would have been impossible at this distance and she was only imagining it. She watched as the great ursine shook its head, sending the rotting ball flying. Then it shoved itself back into the car up to its shoulders and fed.
Skye and the Ranger remained kneeling and waited, watching the road in front and the trees to either side. There was nothing else to do but stay here until the bear was finished. No one acted as if they were going to shoot the big animal, and Skye certainly wasn’t going to do it. The bear was just being a bear (though she didn’t know they broke into cars, and that surprised her) and it had just destroyed a zombie. That made the bear A-Okay with her.
She shifted from one knee to the other, her SCAR cradled in her arms. Maybe it was because she wasn’t moving anymore, but she was certain that it was getting colder. The gray light of a stormy, afternoon sky suggested that weather might be on the way, and as if to confirm this, the pine trees began to sway slowly in a rising breeze, shedding curtains of white powder. Flakes and crystals puffed across the flat, white surface before them, and Skye tucked her face down into the neck of her coat. Perhaps she’d pull on the gruesome death’s head ski mask Rooker had given her.
The bear continued to feed.
Emigrant Gap was behind them to the west, about five miles back as best Skye could guess, though it was difficult to tell given their slow pace. She wished she had checked a mile marker in town; then she could make periodic checks along the way to track their progress. She decided it was a bad idea, though. Seeing how little distance they had actually traveled would probably be demoralizing.
We’ll get there when we get there.
This morning they had loaded up in the Titan and orange highway department truck and driven up onto the highway, through Emigrant Gap and maybe a mile more east of town. Tires began to bog down, the trucks started
to slide and that was that. Captain Sallinger ordered everyone to gear up and head out on foot.
It was slow work, trudging through knee-deep snow with heavy packs. Skye was glad she had maintained her fitness level, and although it was hard work, she didn’t complain, wouldn’t complain, especially around Master Sergeant Cribbs. The other Rangers griped plenty (except for Cribbs and the captain, who also did nothing to stop it) and Skye wondered if that was part of the incomprehensible soldier’s culture; bitching, complaining but doing the job anyway. All of them carried their loads and kept pace without needing to be barked at by their top sergeant.
On foot and out in the open like this made Skye nervous, and she frequently looked behind her even though there were three Rangers back there. She’d heard the Hobgoblin howling out in the forest last night, though she hadn’t seen it and neither had anyone else.
But it’s still out there.
She’d been waiting for it all day, expecting to see a blur of red against the snow, darting among the trees. She’d seen nothing but an owl coasting above the tips of the pines, and then this hungry black bear. No Hobgoblin.
But it’s still out there.
The bear was still at it, and Skye sighed, wishing it would finish up. The longer she knelt in the snow, the colder she was getting, her body heat causing her pants legs to grow damp, in turn drawing away more heat. She longed to be moving again, and not just because it would keep her warm.
Movement is life, a voice said from her past. Skye didn’t argue.
She thought about that voice, a National Guardsman about her age named Taylor. He and Sergeant Postman had saved her from the swarming campus of U.C. Berkley, had taught her the basics of shooting, and had given their lives so that Skye could escape death on a Berkley rooftop. She could hear their voices well enough, but realized she couldn’t remember their faces.
Omega Days (Book 5): The Feral Road Page 10