The Departing (The End Time Saga Book 4)

by Daniel Greene

  “Hey, everybody, listen up.” She waited until she had everyone’s attention. “Hacklebarney has a tradition where every third Friday they have a town dance. Everyone is welcome. Might be a good way to get to know some of the Hacklebarney folks. Harriet and I will take anyone interested into town. If you decide to come, don’t forget a weapon.”

  An hour later as the sun dipped in the gray sky, Gwen went back outside from her grandparent’s house, dressed in an old red dress of hers from high school. A little snug on the hips and belly, but everyone would probably think she had just put on a few pounds since leaving Hacklebarney.

  A crowd of people greeted her. She gave them a friendly smile. “It’s good to see that everyone wants to go.” She looked over at Gregor. “You want to fire up the bus and cram everybody in?”

  “Sure thing,” he said. The diesel engine fired up and her people crammed inside.

  Twenty-five minutes later, they sat in front of a brick American Legion building. The windows were blacked out and two glass doors were propped open. A flagpole stood out front with the Stars and Stripes.

  Lantern and candlelight poured outside the American Legion doors. She could hear the fast fiddle work of what had to be Jerry Jessup and the accompanying banjo of Nowlton Gebert. She turned to her group. They sat crowded in the seats and stared as if they had never heard music before. Tears appeared in a few people’s eyes.

  “Well, we can’t dance in here, so let’s get off this bus,” she shouted. Everyone filed off the bus. They crowded the front door of the American Legion building looking in, hesitant to be the first ones into a dance they weren’t invited too. They parted for Gwen and she stood in the doorway.

  The music had a fast beat. B.B. Palmer jigged with his wife, Annie. Next to them, Kenny twirled Jenny Hamlin like he was trying to spin the dress right off her. The fiddle slowed down when the band finally saw her standing in the doorway. She took a bold step inside and the music stopped. The Iowans gawked at the Michigander refugees like they were ghosts. Gwen supposed they may be ghosts of a world that had passed.

  Jake waved at her from across the room. “Gwen,” he exclaimed. He walked up to her. “I’m so glad you made it.”

  She avoided eye contact, feeling awkward about their entire situation. “Ah, me too.” Anxiety stirred inside her. The Michiganders cautiously walked inside and huddled near one another.

  Jake caught her vibe and waved at the Michiganders. “Come on in, folks.” He ushered them closer. He wrapped an arm around May Clemens, putting a hand out for the old woman’s hand.

  He turned to Ben with a gracious nod. “May I?”

  Ben nodded his head vigorously. “You may, young man.”

  May gushed, holding a hand to her cheek. “Oh, I’m so flattered. You big schmooze, you.”

  Jake led her by the hand onto the dance floor. The band watched the newcomers.

  “Well, come on, Jerry. That fiddle ain’t gonna play itself,” Jake shouted. “How about ‘Amarillo by Morning’?”

  Jerry grinned beneath his mustache. “You got it, Jake.” He wedged his fiddle under his chin. Bringing his other hand with the bow up, he sawed into the strings with a flick of his wrist.

  The rest of the band started in on the song with muted tones without speakers to magnify their sound.

  Emboldened, Gwen’s people mixed in with the Iowans. Red Newbold pulled at Gregor’s hair.

  “Damn boy, look at all that hair,” he exclaimed.

  Gregor stood silent for a moment regarding the old farmer. “You got any beer?”

  “You betcha. Whatya fancy?”

  Gregor thought for a moment. “You got PBR?”

  Red nodded. “My kind of lad. Of course, we do. Come with me.” The two went off in search of beer.

  Millie Gebert came up to Harriet. “How old is she?” Millie asked Harriet. “She is so precious.”

  “She’s twelve.” And a little softer she said, “I’m kind of a surrogate for her parents.”

  Millie nodded. “These are hard times, but God will see us through. You know my Roland is twelve. I think they would make good friends.”

  Harriet smiled. “Of course. Char, why don’t you come over here?”

  Char reluctantly placed herself next to Harriet. She folded her arms across her chest and avoided the eyes of the older women like a prisoner looking to escape.

  “Roland, get over here,” Millie shouted.

  A boy with red hair and freckles walked over with his head low. Any interaction with the opposite sex was the most awkward and terrifying experience he could imagine.

  “Roland, tell Ms. Char she looks pretty,” Millie commanded down at him.

  “You look pretty,” he peeped out. His eyes drifted toward the floor, embarrassed by the forced communication.

  Char cracked a tiny smile. “Thanks,” she whispered.

  “You should ask her to dance,” Millie said down at Roland.

  Roland stood dumbfounded. He shuffled his feet. “I. Um.” His mom nudged him closer. “You wanna dance?”

  Char nodded shyly, and he took her by the hand. The two young people hustled onto the dance floor. Jake spun by with a beaming May Clemens. His eyes searched for Gwen, and when he found her, he gave her a wide smile.

  Gwen watched the people as they swirled and swayed to the music. People danced in the night as if the world wasn’t ending around them. Maybe for the Iowans, it hadn’t really hit home, or maybe they were just carrying on with what they knew best.

  Even the Michiganders seemed to be forgetting their problems. Hank danced with widower Bonita Perkins. Gregor drank beers with Red and his buddies. Kenny Hamlin twirled Joey around in circles and she smiled for the first time since Gwen had known her.

  The music took a distinctly slower beat and the dim lights finally felt appropriate for the tune.

  Jerry’s voice washed over the crowd. “Ah folks, we’re gonna slow it down now for some belly rubbin’ music. Find yourself somebody to hold on to and don’t let go.” He tucked the fiddle back under his chin and began a slow tune.

  Couples rejoined with one another. Jake made his appearance in front of Gwen. She knew this would happen sooner or later, but dreaded it nonetheless. He offered her a hand. “My lady, may I have this dance?”

  She gave him an irritated look.

  “Come on, for old times’ sake.” He looked nervously over his shoulder. “If you don’t, Mrs. Wilkins is going to, and I can’t handle her bad breath. So think of it as saving me from a fate worse than death.” His eyes pleaded. “Please?”

  She rolled her eyes and smiled. She placed her hand in his and he gently pulled her onto the dance floor.

  His hand was warm holding hers, and his other hand drifted to her lower back. “You’re even beautiful when you’re upset,” he said. She twisted her face away, not looking at him. He took her hand and spun her in a circle. She let herself be led around the dance floor by his hand that was dangerously low on her back.

  “Come on, Gwen. Why do you look so downtrodden? I can’t be that terrible of a dancer,” he said.

  She looked over his shoulder at the other dancers. “You know it’s not you.”

  “Then what’s got your goat?”

  She gave him her best you-should-know face. “You’re kidding me, right?”

  He spun her again. Her dress picked up. She couldn’t help but give up a tiny smile. “There it is,” he said with a grin.

  “Dancing with me isn’t going to change what’s happening outside.”

  He smirked. “But it sure helps.” He dipped her low toward the floor and scooped her back up.

  “Jake, I’m serious. Don’t you get it?” She grew angry, her brow creasing.

  He tilted his head back. “Sure. I do.”

  She put a hand on his chest and pushed him away. “No, you don’t. You can’t pretend this away.”

  She spun and looked at all the people. “You hear me.” Jerry’s fiddle emitted a few more notes and then the mus
ic died down. Everyone stared at her.

  “Death marches this way and all you people can do is have a town dance? You have no clue what’s coming, but I’m here to tell you.” She turned in a circle and marched up on the stage.

  Her voice boomed. “I’ll tell you what’s coming, Hacklebarney. Hundreds of thousands of the infected dead march their way across the land toward here. They consume everything in their path like a swarm of locusts. They leave nothing alive in their wake.” She pointed at B.B. “They will bite you and tear you to pieces alive if they get the chance, and all you’ll be able to do is watch yourself be ripped apart.” She slapped her forehead as if she almost forgot. “Oh, and the men that come this way are even worse. They’re led by a madman who will stop at nothing until he exacts some kind of vengeance upon us.”

  A child in the crowd started to cry. Millie looked angry. “Gwen, you’re scaring the kids.”

  “That’s good. They should be scared. You know why? Because it’s the truth. Death is coming this way, and we don’t have time to pretend it’s not real.”

  Gwen stormed off the stage. Jake tried to reach for her and she blew past him. She went outside, breathing rapidly in sharp movements. Her breath misted in the cold night air. She put her hands on her hips for a moment then crossed her arms over her chest. The Mississippi River burbled as it flowed, lapping the mud banks as it passed by.

  She felt warmth as a coat and arm were draped around her shoulders. The jacket protected her from the nipping night air. Jake squeezed her shoulders as he pulled her in tight, his bicep pushing her into his chest.

  “That party sure died,” he said.

  She swatted him with her hand on his chest.

  “These people don’t understand. Those people from Michigan have only seen the tip of the iceberg. Jake, if you would have seen them pouring over that wall in Pittsburgh or those fences in Virginia. No one could stop them. There’s just too many. And that’s not to mention the threat of Colonel Jackson’s army. U.S. Army, Jake, and they are hunting us.”

  She let herself fall onto his chest as if he were Mark, but he wasn’t. It still made her feel safe and took her back to simpler times.

  “I’ll help ya.” He looked over his shoulder back at the hall. “Even if they don’t, you can count on me.”

  She looked up at him, straight into his eyes. “Truly?”

  “You have my word and a man is only as good as his word.”

  He leaned down to kiss her again and she turned her head away, simultaneously putting a hand on her small rounded belly. He kissed the top of her head.

  “Thank you,” she whispered. Soft tears filled her eyes as she stared out at the black river.

  GAT

  Northern Michigan

  Gat swerved his black-metal Victory Gunner around a rotting brown carcass in the road. Torch veered his Harley Davidson Street Glide the other way, avoiding the remains. They rejoined in the middle of the road behind a white 15’ box truck, one that was probably used to deliver newspapers before the outbreak. Torch glanced back over his shoulder. His long red goatee blew in the wind, floating to the side of his neck.

  “They’re still behind us,” Torch shouted.

  Gat chanced a look back. The tan Humvee followed about forty yards behind the convoy. The bastards had followed them for almost ten miles, hanging back and pointing the .50 caliber machine gun but not firing.

  The box trucks were slow, and no matter how much Gat pushed them, they couldn’t put any distance between them and the single Humvee. Soon he would have to do something, but he had to dismantle the .50 cal or it would literally annihilate his club in seconds.

  He gripped harder on his left handlebar and lifted his gloved right hand off the other side. He felt on his hip for his holstered Glock 18 9mm automatic pistol. He cross drew the pistol and pointed it over his shoulder. He used his legs to keep his 600-pound motorcycle upright. He bent close to the engine and flipped his Glock to the side, his arm outstretched behind him.

  Bang. Bang. Bang. The handgun recoiled as he shot and shell casings disappeared in the direction of the ground, eaten up by the road.

  He nodded at Torch.

  “Tea-bag the fuckers.”

  Torch gave him an evil smile. He shifted his motorcycle and sped up the side of the convoy. A moment later, Siren and Goat drifted off to the side and turned down a forested side road with Torch.

  The trees were naked, only a few dying leaves still clinging to their branches.

  Gat watched them ride away. He looked back to see what the soldiers in the Humvee were going to do now. The gunner in the turret turned toward his bikers speeding away.

  “Fuckers,” Gat growled. Without looking, he twisted his arm back and fired off another six rounds. He didn’t care where they hit. Killing wasn’t the point, but if he caught one or two of them, he wouldn’t have been upset.

  “Over here,” he shouted behind him. He needed the soldiers to follow him so his other men could get behind the Humvee and take it out. The Humvee continued to trail the biker gang. The turret swirled back in Gat’s direction.

  “Fucking retards,” he said to himself.

  He turned his bike a bit to the side and it shifted to the left. He edged the throttle and raced up alongside one of the trucks.

  The trucks held only the motorcycles of the Eighters driving them, not the piles of food and ammunition like they had been designed to convey. They were similar to the convoys led by the Geminis and the Grave Guards fleeing east and north of Eighters.

  Gat took his motorcycle near the door of the truck. Spook looked down through an open window at him. He was ugly with a fat nose and a scraggily brown and white beard running off his chin.

  Gat gestured with his chin and yelled, “Turn this thing sideways when you reach the bend in the road. Make a run for the trees. Those Army boys are gonna prolly start shooting once we stop.”

  Spook grinned. His mouth was filled with brown teeth. “You got it,” he shouted over the sounds of the road.

  Gat moved his motorcycle up to the center of his gang. Forty-six bikers made up the Eighters. The playing card eight of spades was emblazoned on their leathers as the gang’s colors.

  He pulled up alongside his enforcer, Bodey, and gave him a nasty look. “We kill them at the turn ahead.”

  Bodey had a burn scar running down the center of his forehead down and along his nose, giving him a pink and red top-heavy T down the center of his face. It was a permanent warning from the Hell Hounds to stay off their turf. A Hell Hound hadn’t been seen in Michigan since the Eighters went to war with them three years back. Gat had organized their extermination. He’d had their clubhouses burnt down. Their shipments of guns intercepted. Members shot in their homes and in the streets. No mercy was asked and no quarter given. Once the Eighters went to war, it was either Gat and his club or death for them all.

  His club got ready to take the bend in the road. The Humvee behind them slowed down leaving them more distance. Gat zipped to the front. He nodded to his Road Captain, Sphinx. The grizzled man nodded back in return. He was a true “Yooper,” hailing from the Upper Peninsula of Michigan and knew Northern Michigan well. Not the first time they were in a tight spot and it wouldn’t be their last. That man knew all the roads and had adjusted their route when the military had picked up the chase.

  Gat had expected the military to catch up eventually. That was the plan. Now it was time to scrub the bastards off the planet’s surface. He adjusted himself as he bent to the side to act as a counterbalance to the motorcycle. He blinked. A boxy vehicle filled his eyes. Not more than one hundred yards away sat a Humvee sideways across the road. In a fraction of a second, smoke bursts pushed from the end of the turret gunner’s .50 caliber machine gun.

  “Fu—,” Gat shouted. He threw himself to the side and the bike crashed on top of him, but he didn’t stop. When you put your bike down, there were over a hundred and one ways that one could be ripped apart. There was road rash, the remo
val of the upper layer of skin that came from sliding at high speeds across the pavement. There was any kind of head and neck trauma that came from banging one’s skull off the concrete. The mangling of limbs resulting from high impacts with the ground. Then there was sliding into trees, walls, guardrails, and other vehicles. Gat had laid his bike down a few times in his day and that’s what made riding leathers essential. It blocked the elements—wind, rain, sun, and bugs—but more importantly, gave the rider a chance to slide on the pavement without needing a skin transplant.

  Gat’s body hit the ground hard and the bike continued to rocket forward ahead of him. He covered his head with his arms trying to keep his head from acting like a brake. It would only take a couple of seconds for the pavement to rub away the skin of the skull to the white bone underneath. He instinctually picked his feet and legs up. The sliding of his leathers buffeted his ears but was overpowered by the fast-paced booming du-du-du-du of the M2 .50 caliber machine gun. His body drifted to the side of the road and cement turned into gravel. In a fraction of a second, he was slammed into a dead-leaf filled ditch.

  He flipped himself over onto his belly, adrenaline driving every muscle in his body. If he had busted anything, he wouldn’t know it for the next few seconds. His formed a nasty snarl as member after member of the club were putting down their bikes. A few had driven into the ditches and crashed before being thrown over handlebars. As they impacted the trees, their bodies and limbs mangled and splintered with sickening thuds only overpowered by the machine gun fire.

  Gat watched, the event frozen in slow motion, as another motorcycle glided over the pavement in his direction. He rolled to his right over and over, and the beautiful Harley flew past him, bending itself around a pine tree. Gat pushed himself to his knees and stood up. He squeezed his eyes together tightly for a moment, his mind still disoriented from the crash. Did I fucking crack my skull?

  The Humvee held its ground in the middle of the two-lane road. The .50 cal was obliterating his club with deadly efficiency, scattering his gang across the pavement and into the trees. A new member, Junior, tried to stand up and the .50 popped his shaved head clean off his neck. Davey crawled over Granados trying to reach the forest. The machine gun twisted him sideways into the air as if a fire hose filled with bullets drove him down the pavement.