Matt continued to stare at the sealed doors as the last of the dead shambled by. But it wasn’t the withered outside that had his attention now—it was Sean. His once lifeless body twitched and convulsed. His jaws chattered, and his teeth clanked with restless anticipation for food. The rage had begun its work. Sean was one of the dead now, and he needed to feed.
Tara was the closest to Sean on the right. She lay on the floor with her rifle aimed forward in a prone shooting position. But she wasn’t looking at Sean; she followed the last of the horde with her sights just in case one of them had a change of heart and attempted to enter. She didn’t see him spasm into an upright position then lunge at her. She had clearly been focused on the dead outside. Matt saw Sean lock onto her and make the dive with outstretched arms and a deep, animal-like growl. He couldn’t react fast enough.
“No,” Matt squeaked at the same time a loud blast sounded off in his left ear.
He flinched. The noise was deafening. When he opened his eyes, Chris stood next to him, holding someone’s rifle—Matt’s rifle. A single shell casing rolled on the ground near Matt’s foot. Sean’s body ceased to move any longer.
And the withered kept on shambling.
9
Names Carved into Granite
Matt held the curved, maple burlwood handle of his knife and etched the names of the dead into the granite countertops of the coffeeshop. Sean and Tim, brothers till the death, the words read.
He brushed away the dust particles with the edge of his palm before deciding to carve them deeper. Deep as the wounds themselves.
The blade was well crafted, forged by hand with tiny dragon-scale imprints along the sides. His father had given it to him before he left on his last mission. He had told him the scales represented the tough, impenetrable nature of both the knife and the owner. Matt questioned the logic of that ideology. Sure, the blade was sturdy, but what about the man behind the edge? He pondered that, momentarily questioning his own integrity and moral discipline. Was he impenetrable? He had survived so far, but others hadn’t. Others had died because of him. Because of his decisions, he felt weak, untrustworthy of leadership. He might have been physically tough, but the deaths of the twins cut through him deeply. He was going to have to live with that.
He looked down at the counter and read the names out loud. “Sean and Tim, brothers till the death.” He smiled sullenly.
“You done, son?” Greg asked as he lingered by the doorway.
“Yeah, almost.”
“Everybody’s waiting on ya. We need to get going.”
Matt didn’t respond. He blew the last bit of debris from the etching, touched his work gently with his palm, then grabbed his AR by the grip and walked out. His sling hung loosely to the side and threatened to wrap up his feet as he walked away.
“What did you do with the twins’ bodies?” Matt asked.
“Well, we couldn’t bury them, so we let them rest together out yonder by a patch of trees. Tara said she seen ’em out by them trees when we all first got here. Figured it appropriate.”
Matt slung his rifle on his shoulder and let the warm breeze wash over his body. Half-hung tarps connected to light posts blew in the breeze like lost kites, flapping with each long breath of Earth’s hot air. Empty food boxes and faded, red plastic cups mingled with plastic grocery bags as they spun in circles before getting shot across the parking lot, then falling to rest on the shattered windshields of the few cars that remained.
“Did you cover them up with anything? The fucking birds will get them before nightfall.”
“Yeah, son, we did.” Greg paused and let out a heavy sigh. “You know, what’s done is done, so stop beating yourself up over it. They’re gone, and there ain’t hell you can do it about it.”
Matt’s face twisted up with anger. He sucked in his lower lip and bit down on it. The pain was enough to sidetrack his emotions and prevent him from snapping.
“I suppose you’re right, old man. What’s done…is done.”
Matt grabbed his pack, lying at Greg’s feet, by the hood strap, then shouldered it as he walked off to the freeway. He kept his distance from the group, only stopping to get them back in his line of sight before setting off again. He needed the space. He needed to distance himself from everyone to get his mind right. Their voices only agitated him further. It wasn’t their fault, but the silence was necessary.
He kept up that routine for several days. Always walking ahead, not waiting for anyone, not talking. He would signal them when he found a suitable place to camp, usually a few yards off the freeway under a canopy of small, isolated trees. He avoided rest stops and shopping outlets, letting his anxiety deter him.
With each night that passed, Matt moved closer to his mother and the past he’d worked so hard to escape so many years ago. It was easier to forget than to forgive her. After all, it had been so easy for her to rid herself of him, the problem child. The teen who rebelled against her by refusing to accept the doctor’s order to take pills to correct his chemical imbalances. Had she only listened to him instead of waiting for her turn to speak, she would have had a better understanding of her child. There was nothing wrong with him. He needed a parent who listened, not shrinks and their sponsored drugs of choice. But she hadn’t listened. She pushed him away to make her life easier to cope with. Out of sight, out of mind.
They trekked north up the 15 Freeway through Murrieta, past Lake Elsinore, the Cajon Junction, and eventually into Victorville, moving silently and avoiding the withered when possible. Occasional stragglers roaming alone or in small groups of a few were a common sight. An easy task for any solo member of the group to handle on their own, except Chris, although the boy had begun to show progress as their journey continued on.
The team hadn’t seen another walking, breathing, living human being since Tony and his family. Matt wondered what had happened to them after he’d fled, injured, with his family in tow. A wife and two children to look after with their well-being in his hands.
Who was he to turn away another human out of fear? Matt questioned his ethics now. Should he have helped them? It was a man and his family, after all, not some band of cannibals or thieves. Just an injured man and his family. Had he sentenced them to death?
Matt stopped walking, letting go of his thoughts, and looked up at a pair of large, green freeway signs. One directed them to continue north on the 15. The other directed them east on the 40. They had already reached Barstow, which meant they weren’t dragging as slowly as he had once thought. He considered his options, then pulled out his map and placed it on the trunk of a gold Toyota Camry with Virginia plates.
Virginia, Matt thought. Back home.
An old memory of him and Michael playing in a shallow creek surrounded by poison ivy and oaks looking for crawdads interrupted his thoughts. It was a welcome memory, one he cherished dearly. He missed those days with his brother.
He smiled as he fingered the map, tracing the roads to and around Denver while his mind clung to the memory. Neither the 40 West nor the 15 North were direct. Each option came with its own set of concerns and circumstances. It was a matter of which would be the safest option. One tripped through Las Vegas, while the other tripped through Albuquerque and several other potential hubs for massive hordes. Vegas, though—Vegas could be bad. So many people, unless they’d evacuated in time. In which case, it was going to be heavily clogged streets and random withered.
The memory of Michael faded, along with Matt’s concentration on the map, at the sound of heavy footsteps. He turned away from the map and found Chris navigating between several cars abandoned on the freeway.
“Hey, buddy,” Matt said.
“Hey, Matt.” Chris smiled. “Whatcha doing?”
“Trying to figure out which way to take us. Where’s everyone else?”
“Not far. I just wanted to run ahead and catch you.”
Matt looked up and found Steve and Tara walking side by side. They appeared to be holding hands. That
was a welcome sight. Jody and Greg sauntered behind them.
“Which way?” Chris asked.
“Honestly, I’m not sure, little buddy. But I’ll figure it out.”
Chris smiled.
“Nice of you to wait for us, son,” Greg said sarcastically as he slowly made his approach. “Reckoned you’d be a few miles up ahead, setting up camp or something.” He grunted as he stepped over a motorcycle laying on its rusted frame, then dropped his pack and leaned against the rim of a lifted blue Ford Excursion. “Dammit if I ain’t tired.”
His boots came off immediately, and the pungent odor of salt and vinegar punched Matt and anyone within a fifteen-yard radius straight in the sinuses.
“Wow!” Tara scowled. “Please put those back on.”
Greg looked at her, offended. “No, darlin’, I will not. You don’t see me complaining when any y’all talk to me with shit for breath, now, do you?”
Tara responded with a sneer of disapproval, then cupped her hand in front of her mouth. She huffed a deep breath into it, then smelled the air for good measure.
“What’s the plan, son?” Greg asked as he closed his eyes.
The air had begun to grow stagnant and the heat had tapered down to a more tolerable temperature. But with the cooling days came cooler nights, which eventually led into colder seasons. Fall on the roads wouldn’t be an issue, not up north and not down south. But winter would be nearly impossible, especially in the north. Which, if all went as planned, was where they would be when winter unveiled itself.
“Trying to figure out if we should keep the course on the 15 or take the 40 and cut up the 25 in Albuquerque.”
Jody stepped up and took a look at the map. “If we take the 40, we have to deal with Flagstaff. From what I remember, Flagstaff was one of the many cities heavily overrun by ragers when the outbreak first went down. Same with Albuquerque. Had to do with their positioning to Denver.”
“How is that any different from Vegas or Grand Junction, or anywhere, really?” Matt asked.
“Vegas was practically abandoned overnight. It was a tourist city. Anyone who didn’t live there took off to go home. Those who lived there hunkered down and probably died or moved on. I mean, it’s possible there are still small groups living there. Those casinos would make one hell of a home for the survivors. But overall, Vegas had a fairly small population, much smaller than Flagstaff or Albuquerque. Our chances are better with Vegas.”
Matt nodded. “Okay, then, 15 North it is.”
“Hey, Matt?” Chris called out. “Can I walk with you?”
“Sure, buddy. Just have to keep up. Okay?”
Chris responded with a smile that lifted his cheeks and caused his eyes to practically close. The top row of his teeth peeked out. They were stained light brown along the edges where each tooth pressed against another. It appeared they were all in need of a thorough cleaning.
It wasn’t but another day before Matt was out in the front, alone and sullen, isolating himself from the group. He was lost in a whirlwind of nightmares and what-ifs. He had left Chris behind with Tara and Steve as the young boy grew anxious and tired of Matt’s accelerated pace.
Matt’s mind filled with the cries of the dead as they muttered for mercy. He heard their pleas as if they were standing next to him on the street. A woman’s voice and a child’s scream. He closed his eyes and tried to breathe through the nervousness their voices were creating in his body. But when the voices didn’t stop and the cries continued, he realized that the pleas weren’t in his head.
In the distance, a voice cried out and whimpered like an injured puppy. Between the fallen tractor trailers and rummaged pickups, Matt wasn’t able to see anyone or anything. He could only hear the sorrow as it spewed out and polluted the air with its toxicity. He slowed his pace and turned his attention toward the noise in attempt to isolate it. The sounds echoed off the concrete barriers that split the freeway from north to south. It filled the void that surrounded him. He crept forward with his rifle low but ready, scanning and waiting. It wasn’t long before he found the source ahead.
A woman on her knees held a young boy with shaggy blond hair. Her body was covered in blood and other filth. He brought his rifle up and looked through his magnifier and optic.
She was also covered in bite marks.
“Fuck me,” he muttered.
He lowered the rifle and slowly approached, attempting to remain as quiet as possible and continue toward her undetected. He lifted each foot with caution and placed it down gently, ensuring not to misplace his step and trip. But that failed when his pant leg caught a piece of rebar sticking out of the asphalt. He tripped and slammed shoulder-first into the fender of a rusted, tan Toyota pickup. The bang of his body as it dented the truck was like banging a drum in an empty room. The woman started and turned to face her intruder.
“You,” she shrieked. “You.”
Matt immediately recognized her. It was Tony’s wife Julie. The boy she held was one of her two sons. The sight of the boy in her arms and the bite marks all over her body made him want to retch. He had sentenced them to death after all. But how had she recognized him? She had never seen him. She hadn’t seen any of them.
“This is your fault. Your fault! They’re dead,” Julie cried out.
Matt said nothing as she continued to assault him with a tirade of agonizing blame, her voice filled with both anger and sadness.
This is my fault. This is all my fault. More names carved into granite. More death. More pain. Why did I cause this? Why do I create so much harm to the world and the people around me?
He drifted off into a haze of stress. The world that surrounded him became dark and blurred. His skin grew clammy and sweat beaded up all over as Julie continued to cry. How long before she turned? And the boy, was he dead or in transition?
When her cries shifted from shrills of human remorse and hatred into the ear-splitting wail of a mother in agony, he got his answered. The blur that was the world came back into focus as adrenaline replaced the cortisol in his brain.
Matt watched the child protest to be freed and feed. His small, blueish-grey arms flailed and he clawed at his mother’s body as she held him in her own dying grasps. His mouth chomped at her hair, his baby teeth hoping to feed for the first time. Matt wasn’t sure why but the zombie child entranced him. It felt wrong, but yet, he couldn’t pull his attention away from the boy.
Julie cried and pleaded, “Why my babies…why?”
Her attention turned from Matt and back toward her zombie son. It made his heart sink with pity for her and hatred toward himself. He had to do something to right his wrong, to make up for his grave error in judgement. He picked himself up off the side of the truck, blinked a few times to bring the world into view, and cleared his throat. He walked over to Julie and put a single round through the back of her head.
The gunshot echoed like thunder in the sky.
A small sliver of brain matter squirted out the front of her head and hung limply down her face like a loose strand of hair. Then she collapsed over the boy. Matt wanted to vomit but choked it back.
Her son wiggled and squirmed underneath the weight of her dead body, chomping at any exposed flesh his mouth could reach. As the tiny dead thing chewed on its mother, Matt stared.
The others approached quickly, their feet kicking up rocks. Their bodies and kits clanked noisily off the cars as they ran toward him. In just a matter of seconds they would reach him and the mess he created. And he didn’t need them to bear witness to another child being murdered. He had to right his wrongs. He had to carry this burden alone.
Matt looked over his shoulder and saw Steve running. He turned back to the child and frowned.
“I’m sorry, little buddy,” he whispered, then fired a single shot into the child’s skull.
“What the hell was that?” Steve asked as he came to stop. He looked panicked and breathed heavily.
Matt didn’t want to answer. He wanted to linger in the pity he
felt for Tony’s family.
“Tony’s family is dead,” he choked out.
“Yeah, I see that, Matt. You okay?” Steve’s tone was now more frustrated than concerned.
Matt forced a grim-looking smile. “Okay enough.” He cleared his throat before speaking again. “Let’s check his RV. It’s just ahead. Maybe he has something of use inside. We could also put his wife and son in there.”
Tara ran up behind Steve and stopped. “Everything okay?” she asked through winded breaths.
“According to Matt, yes,” Steve said.
“And…the gunshot?” she asked.
Before Steve could respond, Matt spoke up. “Julie, Tony’s wife. She turned. So, I killed her.” His voice was sharp with defensive guilt he immediately regretted.
Tara took a step forward and placed herself between Steve and Julie. She looked down at the woman’s body slumped over, then grabbed her by the hair to pull her upright. When she saw the child covered in blood with the blacked-out eyes of the dead, she looked at Matt disapprovingly.
“Everything’s fine, huh?” She let go of Julie’s hair.
“Just help me get them inside,” Matt growled.
Tara slung her rifle and grabbed Julie underneath her arms. “Just waiting on you.”
Inside, the mobile home was small. It wasn’t anything more than a camping trailer with enough space for one person to walk around and dodge anyone else who lingered. A family of four was a tight fit: one bed, a small table and bench for eating, a tiny bathroom, and a set of cabinets over the counter that had been turned into a bed. Personal effects littered the floor. Blood stained the walls in massive spurts. Tony’s body lay facedown on the floor between the bed and the interior wall of the camper. A steak knife stuck out of his temple.
A Thousand Miles to Nowhere Page 9