Storm Horizon

by Brian Switzer

  "Yeah, I'm trying to decide if I want my bedroom walls made of hubcaps or cotton balls."

  “Your dad says the selection of available construction supplies is the greatest thing since last Christmas.”

  Coy rolled his eyes. "Pops thinks suffering is an opportunity to make yourself a better person- as long as he's not the one doing the suffering."

  Terrence laughed. "Speaking of your Dad, he has a project for you and Danny." Terrence looked around the tunnel, and then back at Coy. "Where is young Daniel, anyway?"

  "I believe he's using the bathroom. He mumbled something about draining the main vein. He should be back anytime. What sort of project does Pops have for us?"

  "He needs you to take out the trash."

  "Charlie?"

  Terrence nodded.

  "Is he…?"

  "Dead? No, but your old man laid a good old-fashioned country ass-whipping on the man. It was a sight to behold."

  Coy fingered the buttons on his shirtsleeve. "Yeah, that's Pops. It takes a lot, more than it should, really, to get him swinging. But when he starts, someone's going to get hurt. Bad."

  Terrence spit on the final floor, then realized he was standing in someone's living room. He ran his boot bottom across the spit wad several times and shrugged an apology to Coy. “It was odd; I expected him to be strong. But the speed, my Lord he’s fast. He could hit a man and eat a cheeseburger before the man realized he’d been hit.”

  Coy gave him a wry smile. “Wherever it comes from he didn’t pass it on to me. I fight like a white boy.”

  Terrence peered at the boy a moment, deep in thought. “Is this just between you and me?”

  Coy nodded.

  “The beating he gave, it was just brutal. But a controlled brutality, not like a guy who lost his mind in anger. Have you ever seen that side of him?”

  Coy pulled on his ear and a discomforted look passed over his face. “I’ll tell you what. Someday ask Pops what it was like growing up my Grandad’s son. I think that will explain a lot.”

  “I see.” Terrence filed that away for future follow up. “Hey, time’s wasting. Walk with me to find Danny and I'll tell you boys what he wants you to do."

  Thirteen

  * * *

  Danny and Coy wrestled Charlie's limp form to the truck and hoisted him in the bed. He landed in a sprawl and remained there, unconscious. His breathing was slow and raspy; the damaged Will inflicted upon his nose caused his eyes to swell shut. He stunk of puke and piss and the front of his shirt was tacky with blood.

  Danny gave a low whistle. "Geezum golly, the old man put a beatin’ on him."

  Coy couldn’t take his eyes off the man’s crotch. His nuts had swelled to the point that it looked like he was smuggling a grapefruit in his pants. "What did the guy do, anyway?"

  "This time? He slapped some new gal down in The Other’s tunnel and then got lippy. Will’s put up with a lot of shit from him and his little gang of tweakers since they got here. I think this was to set an example.”

  Coy tilted his head and blinked. “Nobody knows about it but Terrence and us.”

  Danny chuckled. “I didn’t say it was an effective example.” He clapped the younger man on the back. “C’mon, let’s tie him down. I don’t want him to start feeling frisky ten miles down the road.”

  They turned right on Civil War Road and the quarry disappeared behind them.

  Danny prodded Charlie’s gut with the toe of his boot. The redneck was still unconscious when Coy pulled the truck over thirty-one miles northeast of the quarry. They'd gone over their twenty-mile goal in an effort to get Charley a respectable distance from Highway 49.

  US-49 was a wide and easy-driving four-lane that connected Kansas City and Northwest Arkansas. As the road passed through Carthage on its way to the state line, it ran parallel to the north end of the quarry less than a quarter-mile away.

  “All the guy has to do is find that highway," Coy argued. "After that, it’s just a matter of moving south until he is back at The Underground, looking for revenge."

  "If that’s your worry, it doesn't matter how far from the highway we take him," Danny said. "The man's got to know if he travels east or west far enough he'll cross 49. If he lives," he added as an afterthought. They'd stopped an hour ago to get some water down him. But they couldn’t wake him and the raspy and broken sound of his breathing was worse.

  "That's assuming he knows whether to go east or west from where we dump him to find the highway."

  Danny thought for a moment. "Good point," he conceded.

  When they found a clearing alongside the road that seemed far enough, they pulled in. Danny hoisted Charlie out of the truck bed, pulled him across the clearing, and leaned him against the trunk of an oak tree. He pulled the bag off the redneck’s head and whistled at the severity of the damage to his face. He left the man’s hands bound behind his back and let his chin lolled against his chest.

  Danny kneeled in front of him and slapped his cheek. He peered at him, sighed, and slapped him a half-dozen more times.

  Danny sighed at Charlie’s lack of a response. "This guy ain't waking up for nothing," he grumbled.

  "Maybe he's in a coma."

  "Great diagnosis," Danny said, his voice dripping with sarcasm "where did you get your M.D.?"

  "I'm just saying."

  "I'm just saying," Danny repeated in a mocking falsetto. "Hand me one of those water bottles."

  "What are you going to do with it?"

  "I'm going to jam it up your ass sideways if you don't quit asking me questions."

  Coy fished one out of the cooler in the truck bed and handed it over.

  Danny took the cap off and tilted the bottle so that a trickle poured over Charlie's head and down the back of his neck. He poured out the contents of the water bottle to no discernible effect. "Well, this ain't working," Danny mumbled. He snapped his fingers at Coy. "Get me another one."

  He took a different tack with the second bottle. Tilting Charlie's head back until his crown was parallel to the ground and his swollen and bloody nostrils turned upward he poured again, this time splashing the water in Charlie's upturned nose and open mouth. He was rewarded about halfway through the bottle when the man muttered and jerked away.

  "Oh shit, oh Jesus that hurts," Charlie said, scrunching his head into his shoulders and grimacing in pain.

  Danny put the cap back on the bottle and observed Charlie in silence. He gasped for breath and turned to and fro, trying in vain to catch a glimpse of something through his swollen-shut eyes.

  Danny leaned close. “Hold still, Charlie.”

  Charlie shrunk back at the sound. "Who's there? Who is that?" he asked in a tremulous tone.

  "It doesn't matter who I am. What matters is what I'm about to say. Sit there, listen, and don't say a word. You do what I tell you to do. And you just might live through this."

  Charlie nodded.

  "I'm about to cut a slit above and below both of your eyes."

  Charlie trembled and cried, pulling away from the sound of Danny's voice. Don't hurt me no more. You win, I'm sorry, you guys win. Please don't hurt me no more."

  Danny sneered at him. "I'm doing it to help you, moron. The slits will relieve the swelling around your eyes, allow you to see sooner. But I'll tell you, Charley- if you don't quit your sniveling, I'll walk away and leave you like you are. You get no pity from me. I'm sure you've done much worse to people way more helpless than you. If you got a taste of your own medicine, so be it. But shut up about it."

  He drew his knife, a wicked looking thing with a straight edge on one side and a serrated edge on the other. With one hand on the hilt to steady it and the other an inch from the tip of the knife to guide it, he cut a straight line a half-inch long in both eyelids and right below the bottom lashes. Dark red blood flowed from each incision and the swelling lessened at once.

  Danny caught Coy’s eye. "Roll him over so I can cut that zip tie."

  Coy’s face bore the distr
essed expression of a constipated junior high assistant principal reading himself to face a pair of angry parents, the same look he got whenever Will and Danny gave him conflicting instructions. "But Dad said to leave his hands tied."

  Danny whapped him in the stomach with a backhand and glared at him with a pained expression.

  "Coy? Coy is that you?" Charlie rasped, panting. "Yeah, it’s you, because you mentioned your Dad. I know you're a good guy, Coy. All the hunting and fishing you do to help the people eat, all the work you do. You are not the kind of person who would leave me here to die all alone."

  Danny gave him a brisk kick in the thigh. "I told you not to speak," he snarled. He looked at Coy with a kind expression. "I can take care of rest of this."

  Coy had gazed at Charlie, expressionless and looked up with a start when Danny spoke. “No, I'll be okay.”

  "Then roll him over, like I said." Coy did; Danny bent and clipped the tie that bound Charlie's wrists. He stood straight and glowered at the redneck, giving him a few moments to recuperate.

  Charlie tried to wipe the blood from around his eyes but only smeared it, making it worse. He rubbed his wrists where the ties were, trying to get the circulation flowing again.

  After a bit, Danny spoke. "Listen up. And that's all I want you to do, is listen. This isn't a negotiation."

  Charley bent double, holding both hands over a spot on his right side. "Jesus this hurts. That’s gotta be a sprung rib. It’s killing me."

  Danny pulled a Beretta from the holster on his left side and jacked a round.

  Charlie's mouth snapped shut and he froze.

  "One more word and you die right here. Nod if you understand me."

  Charley nodded with enthusiasm.

  "I thought you would. You're in a meadow in a public access area. There is a box three feet away on your right side. It has bottled water and a few protein bars in it. You have a decent little camping knife, plus a jacket and a blanket. There is a barn about 500 yards straight east of here. Your vision will start to clear in about a half an hour. You can stay here and see if you live or die, or you can make the barn. It makes no difference to me."

  Charlie raised his hand like the world's largest third grader, trying to get the teacher's attention.

  Danny’s voice was gruff. “What?”

  “Where’s my stuff?”

  “What stuff?”

  “My gun and knives, ammo, my clothes… where is my property?

  Danny caught sight of Coy. The younger man blew out his cheeks and held up his palms, wide-eyed. He turned back to Charlie. “You forfeited all that when you beat up a woman and mouthed off to Will about it. Besides, out here you don’t want to carry a couple of boxes of crap around with you out here.”

  Charlie sniffed and then winced, holding a hand to his nose. “That don’t seem fair.” He blew out a deep breath and rubbed his arms. “Are there any biters around here?"

  "Probably. They seem to be everywhere these days."

  Charlie raised his hand again.

  "What?" Danny barked, exasperated.

  "Can you leave me a weapon?" Danny's jaw dropped and Charlie went on, talking fast. "It doesn't have to be a nice one. It can be a little six-shooter, something I can use to find food."

  “Dream on,” Danny said in a flat voice. He gave Coy a let’s go motion and spoke to Charlie for the last time. “Well, my work here is done. I’m sure Will told you what will happen if we see you anywhere near camp. Your punishment will be biblical and end in a certain and painful death. So don’t go back there.”

  They headed back to the truck to the sound of Charley begging.

  “Wait! Please, don’t go. Don’t leave me here. I’m sorry. Please!”

  They shut the doors, bringing the pleading to an abrupt end.

  As Coy pulled out of the parking lot, Danny took a last look at Charlie through the window. “Man, he broke down at the end, didn’t he? I thought he was a bad ass.”

  “He’s a bully. Bullies always turn into pussies when the going turns bad for them.” Coy swerved to miss a pair of squirrels playing tag in the middle of the road.

  “They do, don’t they.” Danny yawned and stretched his muscles. “All right, Jeeves. Get us home.”

  Fourteen

  * * *

  "Stop!"

  Coy reacted with admirable reflexes to the urgent tone in Danny's voice. He barely got the word out before Coy stomped on the brake, throwing Danny forward; only the seatbelt saved him from smashing his nose against the dashboard. The brakes squealed in protest then locked up and sent a cloud of white smoke pouring out from under the rear end. The truck fishtailed and Coy failed to turn into the skid, so they came to a stop sitting sideways in the road.

  "Dude, what the fuck?" Coy gaped about in a frenzy, trying to judge the source of the threat.

  They were traveling west on D highway, a blacktop ribbon that ran over undulating hills from mid-Missouri to the Kansas border. Overgrown fields and empty pastures bordered this stretch of the highway on both sides. A tree line ran parallel to the highway a quarter-mile away.

  "That bike wasn't there when we passed by here before." Danny pointed to a bicycle lying on its side in the grass five feet off the road.

  "Are you sure?"

  "Yeah, I would've noticed it."

  Coy glanced at the bike and swept his eyes across the empty field beyond it. "So there's a bike. The guy riding it went off into the woods back there."

  "No, that's a twenty-eight-inch Huffy." Danny checked the magazine in his handgun, re-holstered the weapon, and exited the truck. "I had the same bike when I was ten years old. That's a kid's bike."

  Something about the riderless bicycle made the hairs on the back of Danny's neck stand at attention; it took him a minute to figure out what.

  "He didn't stop and wander into the woods, either. Look at how shiny that thing is- the kid just got it. A normal kid would walk a new bike along with him if he left the road. Or at least stand up on its kickstand." The front wheel was turned sideways and stuck up into the air. "No, he left this thing in a hurry."

  They walked past the Huffy, into the soybean field beyond it. Danny looked around at the clumps of dirt and long-dead soybean plants. "Do you think you could track him?"

  "Are you kidding me? Helen Keller could track this kid." He pointed at various spots on the ground in front of them. "See that broken bean plant, and the one behind it that's sort of pushed over, and that place in the dirt right there where his foot landed?" Danny nodded each time, though the ground looked the same to him in each spot.

  He followed Coy deeper into the bean field. The trail zigged here and zagged there; at one point, it ran perpendicular to the highway for about thirty yards.

  "The kid sure wasn't running a bee-line," Danny commented.

  Coy glanced at him with a strained expression. "You're not seeing this trail at all, are you?"

  "Not a bit."

  "It's not just a kid. Something chased him. Something big."

  Danny’s stomach rolled. His heart pounded in his chest, and his mouth was dry. Sweat ran down his back like the basting on a Thanksgiving turkey.

  They crested a small rise in the furrowed ground and Coy saw it first. "Oh. Oh, damn." His shoulders drooped and his voice dripped with sorrow. He looked away and stared off into the distance.

  Danny didn't want to see but his feet had a mind of their own- they kept picking themselves up and putting themselves down until he was standing next to Coy atop the ridge.

  The remains of deer ran over on the highways were a common sight in Danny's neck of the woods before the outbreak. Most times all you saw was a dead deer sprawled across the pavement. But now and then you’d see a vast splash of dried blood, as if someone had poured buckets of the stuff on the road- more blood than you could conceive one deer of having. This scene reminded him of those.

  On the other side of the ridge, a large, matted-down swath of bean plants made a rough circle. Splashes of blood pa
inted the circle red and the almost unrecognizable remains of a small boy lay in its center.

  The creeper had savaged him. Bits of gore were strewn about; ropey chunks of intestine laid around like forgotten links of bright-red sausage. The boy’s face was a featureless crimson mask. A dirty pair of Chuck Taylor All-Stars pointing up at the sky was the only thing identifiable in the mess.

  The coppery smell of blood filled Danny's nose; his heart beat hard and fast, like a roll on a snare drum. More matted bean plants extended out in a path from the killing field. Bloody globules hung from them for a short distance; after that, the crop looked normal again.

  Danny pointed at the path. "That's where it walked out."

  Coy nodded his head.

  Without another word they circled around the savaged remains and picked up the path. They followed it out of the field and into a copse of hardwoods. A short distance in they found it, sitting with its back against an oak tree.

  The creeper had worked these fields, or ones similar, when it was alive. It wore a flannel shirt over a pair of Carhartts and a pair of work boots on its feet. A jagged, brackish-yellow divot creased the side of its head. It had just fed and was sated. Fresh blood soaked the front of its flannel shirt. A crimson ring around its mouth reminded Danny of pictures of toddlers playing with their mother's makeup. Its distended stomach strained against its shirt buttons; pink flecks of gore peppered its cheeks and chin. A child-sized forearm laid next to it like a pork chop bone the family dog saved for later.

  In a first for Danny, the creeper didn’t have the appetite to respond to their presence. It didn't get up; instead, it pawed at them like a bear waving away a pesky horsefly.

  “How ya doin', fuckstick?” Danny asked in a convivial voice. “What’s the matter? You full?” He prodded the creeper’s stomach with the toe of his boot; it grunted, pulled back its lips, and gave an unconvincing growl. He squatted like a catcher behind home plate, taking care to keep out of grabbing range, tilted his head, and peered at it. “You know, I really don’t mind you meat-puppets roaming around and killing folks.” He pulled his knife while he spoke. It glittered in his hand then flew forward; its deep, slashing cut laid open the creepers cheek. A flap of skin hanged down, exposing its jaw muscles underneath. The creature belched an angry snarl and pulled away, but otherwise didn’t react.