Dez put a hand on the gun handle. “What if I shoot you for trying to eat me yesterday?”
Jim opened his mouth, closed it. “That wasn’t my fault. I was grieving over my—”
“Don’t start in on that again, all right? I have no desire to watch you go all David Naughton on me.”
Iris smiled. “I love that movie.”
The boy frowned. “What movie—”
“You can all go to hell,” Jim said, flapping a hand at them. He moved toward the bike.
“Wait,” Dez said. “We need that truck.”
Jim tapped himself hard on the chest with a forefinger. “My truck. My goddamned truck.”
“Hold on,” Dez said, starting forward.
Jim slung a leg over the bike and glared at Dez. “You really want to go another round with me?”
Dez stopped. “Not particularly.”
“My truck,” Jim said. He walked the bike in an ungainly loop.
“You’re just gonna let him go?” a voice asked.
They all looked down, saw Michael scowling after Jim the Werewolf, who was already pedaling back up the lane.
“It is his truck,” Dez allowed.
Michael made a disgusted sound. “You all are too damned nice.”
“First time I’ve been accused of that today,” Dez said.
“Can you stand?” Iris asked Michael.
“Probably not,” he answered. Still, he leaned over, braced an arm on the ground, and painstakingly made it to his feet. The boy reached out to help him, but Michael grunted, “Hands off, Spider-Man.”
Dez glanced at the boy and thought, Son of a bitch. He does look like Spider-Man. He sought the actor’s name, thought it might be Tom something….
Iris shrugged. “I guess we’re walking.”
They glanced up the lane. Jim’s bike and trailer were already growing tiny as they rolled toward the forest.
“He could’ve left us the bike,” the boy said.
“Sure,” Michael answered. “Iris could ride it, and the rest of us could’ve piled into that wagon.”
“Take it easy, Smile,” Iris said.
The boy frowned at Michael. “Your name is Smile?”
Chapter Thirty-Two
Parting
They gave the Four Winds Bar a wide berth. They had to, lest the inferno singe their eyebrows off. And though the gruesome sight of the cannibals transforming the bar top into a smorgasbord was still freshly emblazoned in his mind, Dez’s greater fear was vampires. This wasn’t vampire country, but it wasn’t far from it, as was evidenced by the incursion Dez witnessed earlier.
Limping past the Four Winds, perhaps forty yards from the blaze, Dez recalled the way the male and female vampire had simply strolled into the bar, surveyed for potential victims, and then selected the patrons they wanted and either feasted on them or dragged them away thrashing and screaming.
No one, it seemed, was willing to stand up to vampires. Not even Keaton. Keaton had been one of their suppliers, hadn’t he? Another cog in their sanguinary machine?
And now Dez and his companions were venturing nearer their realm.
Blood Country, Dez had sometimes heard it called.
A moan from his left made him stop, swing his head around. It was Michael, dropped to one knee, apparently not able to walk on his own. The boy rushed over to Michael, and with a glance in Dez’s direction – to make sure he wasn’t about to pitch forward too, Dez supposed – Iris went to Michael and hunkered down beside him.
“Can you make it a little farther?” she asked. “We’re exposed out here, we need—”
“I know we need cover,” Michael said, his face scrunched in pain. “Just give me a minute. I think I’m gonna….”
Iris shuffled back just in time to avoid being vomited on.
“It’s the concussion,” the boy explained. “He’s having waves of nausea.”
Michael puked again, down on all fours now.
“I got two concussions playing soccer,” the boy explained. “I wasn’t very good but my parents made me. More my mom than my dad. She played in college and she wanted me—”
“Would it be possible,” Michael said, “for you to shut the fuck up?”
The boy did.
Dez stood there, his vision gauzy. Part of that was because of the smoke billowing out of the Four Winds. But he was also growing lightheaded, and dammit, now was not the time to faint. He thought of vampires and shook his head briskly in an attempt to shake loose the cobwebs.
Iris seemed to be on a similar wavelength. She looked around, her expression less steely than usual. “We’ve got to get to the trees. There’s a neighborhood a mile to the east. We can use one of the houses for the night.”
“Willow Lakes,” Michael said and nodded ruefully. “There aren’t any willows, and the only lake is a small retention pond with turquoise scum floating on it. And the vampires have been raiding those houses for the past month, dragging out anyone dumb enough to take shelter there and bleeding them white on the lawns.”
Iris bared her teeth in frustration.
“I know where we can go,” the boy said. When they all looked at him, a quick, eager smile flitted over his face.
Either he’s a great actor, Dez thought, or he’s the nicest person left on Earth.
“How far?” Iris asked.
“Mile and a half. Two, tops.”
“What is it, a cave?” Michael asked.
“An old garage.”
At Michael’s hopeful expression, the boy shook his head. “Everything’s gone. At least everything useful. There are a couple tools, but not the sort you’d want to carry around. There’s an engine or two, but no cars to put them in.”
“A garage,” Dez said, turning to face the boy, “would be situated in a town.”
The boy shrugged. “The edge of it. A tiny place called Buck Creek.”
“I know Buck Creek,” Michael said. “The cannibals run it.”
“That’s why no one goes there,” the boy conceded. “But it’s the first building after the woods. The cannibals all use the houses. You know, the residential district. They’re like, five blocks away.”
Michael glanced at Dez. “Now that’s reassuring.”
Iris looked like she was about to shoot the idea down when they heard someone begin to shriek from deep in the forest.
Michael looked at Iris. “The cannibals?”
“Or the vampires,” she answered. “We’ve gotta move.”
Michael nodded. The boy and Iris helped Michael to his feet. They started toward the woods, moving southeast.
“What’s your name, kid?” Michael asked.
“Hunter Martin,” the boy said.
Michael shook his head. “I can’t call you that.”
The boy frowned. “Why not?”
“’Cuz you’re not a hunter.” Michael eyed him. “More like a hider.”
For the first time, the boy’s affable demeanor went away, in its place a sulky expression that made him look like an adolescent. “You don’t exactly look like a Smile, either.”
“I’m not,” Michael said. “Least not to you.”
“What should I call you then?” the boy asked.
They reached the edge of the forest, ambled alongside it, probing for a trail.
“Sir,” Michael said. “You can call me Sir.”
“Up here,” Iris said, her steps quickening. Dez hastened to keep up. It was a good fifteen seconds before he spotted the trail to which she was referring. Man, his eyes ached. He wondered if the corneas had been baked by the heat, and if they had, if the damage was irreparable.
Starting up the trail, the shadows immediately swallowing them, Iris glanced over her shoulder at the boy and said, “Well, what should we call you?”
“H
unter,” the boy said.
“Opie,” Michael said.
The boy stopped, nearly causing Dez to slam into him. “Why Opie?”
Michael didn’t turn around. “Because you look like one. Kind of remind me of the old Andy Griffith Show.”
The boy gestured, though Dez could barely see his arms in the shadow-steeped forest. “Andy Griffith was a sheriff, right? He was a big guy, and older.”
“No, dipshit. Not the sheriff,” Michael said. “His son.”
“But…” the boy started. “That doesn’t seem very flattering. I mean, what did Opie do? He fished and got taught lessons by his dad.”
“Sounds about right to me,” Michael said.
“What’s your middle name?” Dez asked.
The boy shrugged. “Levi.”
Iris nodded. “I like that name.”
“But it’s not my first name.”
Michael seemed to consider. “I can live with Levi.”
The boy fluttered a hand in frustration. “Can’t you call me—”
“Look,” Michael said, stopping and facing the boy. “We’re not calling you Opie, we’re calling you Levi. Be grateful for that.” He started moving again, the trail slowly rising. “Besides, Levi’s a good name. I had an Uncle Levi, was a hell of a man. Used to own a farm down in southern Indiana. Let me sit on his lap and drive the combine.”
Michael fell silent. Dez didn’t ask about Michael’s Uncle Levi, figuring – as did the others, he was sure – that the farmer had died along with most everyone else after the missiles flew.
Or maybe he’d been changed. Like Keaton, like Michael, like Tom Chaney….
At the thought of Tom, Dez’s stomach clenched. He’d forgotten all about Chaney after escaping the bar, but now he remembered how much Chaney had been through, how he’d saved them from Keaton. Dez owed his life to Tom Chaney, and now Chaney was out there somewhere, likely naked and shivering, his wounds not fully healed from his battle with the minotaur.
You abandoned him, a voice whispered.
No, I didn’t.
Like Joey…
No.
…like your dad…Susan….
No.
Like your son. Like Will.
Goddammit, NO!
Dez imagined Chaney out there in the woods, his flesh striped with unhealed wounds, his energy sapped from the fight. His body grown frail from being chained in that fucking basement, without sunlight, without decent food, branded an animal, tortured, nearly executed in public….
Dez stopped.
Levi was the first to notice. “You okay?”
“I have to find him,” Dez said.
Levi and Michael only frowned, but Iris came toward him, her jaw set. A ghostly sliver of moonlight fell on her face, giving her the look of some mythological temptress. An especially voluptuous one.
“You’re not going to find him,” she said.
“I have to.”
“So we’re down to three,” Michael said. “Shit.”
Levi ventured a smile. “There were only two of you before.”
Michael leveled a finger at Levi’s face. “Don’t talk about Joe. That’s none of your goddamned business.”
Iris was staring at Dez. “It’s suicide to stay in the forest.”
“Most of the countryside is forest,” Dez answered without heat. “I’ll meet up with you tomorrow. Just name the place.”
Michael tilted his head. “You’re gonna die out there.”
“Beyond Buck Creek,” Levi said, gesturing southward, “there’s an old hog farm. A house, a barn, two long farrowing houses.”
“Farrowing houses?” Iris asked.
“Where they kept pigs,” Michael said.
“Is there any cover?” Iris asked.
“Not really,” Levi said. “That’s why it’ll be easy for Dez to find.”
“Easy for everyone to find,” Michael said. He grunted. “Let’s just stroll across an open field in broad daylight and wear signs saying ‘Eat us.’”
“I’ve stayed there before,” Levi said. “It’s safe.” At Michael’s arched eyebrow, Levi added, “Okay, relatively safe.”
“Relatively safe, huh?” Michael said. “Then why not go tonight?”
“You said yourself. Too many open fields around it. The vampires will see us.”
Iris nodded. “The garage tonight, the hog farm tomorrow.”
“Now wait,” Michael said. “I’m hurting, goddammit. I’m in no condition to run the Iditarod.”
“A mile and a half to the garage,” Iris said.
“Or two,” Michael amended.
“Then how long from the garage to the hog farm?” she asked Levi.
“Two miles,” Levi said. “No more than that.”
Michael glared at him.
Levi put his palms up. “I promise!”
“I’ll be there by midday tomorrow,” Dez said, starting away.
“Wait a second,” Michael growled. “You barely have weapons.” He nodded at the crossbow. “How many arrows you got left for that thing?”
Dez glanced at Iris.
She held his gaze for a long moment, then seemed to deflate. She stared down at the trail. “I hid your pack in a hollowed-out oak behind the bar. You’ve got a lot of stuff.”
Dez looked at her. “You went through my things?”
She folded her arms. “Of course I did.”
Dez wondered if she’d glanced at his journals. Then he wondered if that changed anything.
“Midday,” Dez said.
With an effort, he tore his eyes away from Iris and started off through the forest.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Guys Like Us
The backpack was where she’d said it would be. The oak tree with the decayed base was a bit moldy. Yellow and black slime smeared his fingers as he reached inside for the pack, but it had been an effective hiding place. No one had poached his stuff.
Iris had augmented the pack, he realized as he rummaged through it. In addition to the items he’d collected, he found a newer, sharper knife, another canteen, and more ammunition for both his Ruger and his crossbow.
Evidently, her job as barkeeper had allowed Iris to amass valuable possessions in this new world. He thought of the voluminous pack she carried on her shoulders and wondered what treasures she’d kept for herself. Whatever they were, Dez decided, she’d earned them. She’d managed to stay alive under Keaton’s tyrannical rule for nearly a year, and in the end, she’d gotten the information she needed and ultimately been the one to murder the son of a bitch.
He hoped he’d see her again.
Dez stood, made off through the woods. He didn’t feel good, but the weight of the backpack, far from encumbering him, kindled in him a fresh surge of hope.
Dez trudged forward, along a trail that was narrow but distinct. For a time, he willingly followed it, but soon he feared he was heading too far west, and for reasons he couldn’t explain, he felt that Chaney would have headed due south.
At least there was no more smoke, or only occasional tinges of it. He knew that most people who died in fires actually expired because of smoke inhalation, and he knew he’d inhaled a good damned bit of it. He took liberal draws from the canteens as he went, reasoning that a loud coughing fit was a greater peril than running out of water. Besides, he was terribly dehydrated, and the water was a balm for his itching, irritated throat.
After a couple minutes’ debate, Dez peeled off the trail and moved south. Without a blazed path, the going was slower. The October ground was scrimmed with a layer of hoarfrost, and the piled leaves and mounded humus made the going arduous. Even more bothersome were the snarls of thorn bushes and downed trees littering the forest. Navigating the numerous pitfalls made Dez feel like he was a contestant in some ru
stic reality show competition. He felt like utter dogshit, but it was either curl into a ball and try to sleep or persist in his attempts to locate Tom Chaney. Dez persisted.
It was after he’d bulled through the rugged undergrowth for nearly an hour that the idea first occurred to him. His plan all along had been to move in relative silence and hope to locate Chaney by sight. Calling out to him would have been beyond foolhardy – it would have been a death sentence. Dawn was creeping closer, but it was still full dark, and that meant the predators were out, scouring the countryside for fresh prey. Wildlife was abundant, and for the most part, the vampires could sate their bloodlust on rabbits, squirrels, deer, and other smaller mammals. Yet there was no question about their preferred quarry.
Dez leaned against a hickory tree and considered the possibility that Chaney had returned to Keaton’s house.
“Why would he do that?” Dez muttered aloud.
But he knew.
Knew and didn’t want to think about it.
Remember Keaton’s mistress?
No, he thought. You don’t know the whole story.
Yes, you do. You know it better than you want to.
Dez turned and gazed toward where he thought Iris and the others had gone. How close to the Buck Creek garage were they? Or had they been taken?
No, don’t think like that. Nothing took them. Nothing will attack them. And if something does, Iris will fight it off. She’s too clever to be ambushed, too tough to be overwhelmed by brute force.
And, he thought, starting through the forest again, she was too shrewd to be duped by some sort of fabricated story. If Chaney really had done something awful to Keaton’s mistress, Chaney had done so because he hadn’t been himself. The incident with Jim the Werewolf had proven it. In human form, Jim no more wanted to hurt Dez than he wanted to die himself. Even after Dez had taken Jim’s truck and compelled the old man to ride a bike over many miles of cracked asphalt, Jim had not taken it out on Dez with violence. Had merely reprimanded him and claimed what was rightfully his.
Chaney would not have gone back to Keaton’s house.
Still, without a definite path before him, Dez found himself trending toward where he thought Keaton’s land might be. It was difficult to tell for sure this deep in the forest, but Dez’s sense of direction had sharpened considerably in the past two years, and he suspected he was getting close.
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