No Room In Hell (Book 1): The Good, The Bad and The Undead

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No Room In Hell (Book 1): The Good, The Bad and The Undead Page 12

by William Schlichter


  “Because you’re black?”

  “I felt the redneck vibe a bit,” Linzell says.

  “All the more reason to become friendly.”

  “You pulled me from a flipped car and I was cut so bad, no one else believed I wasn’t bit.”

  “I’d a car accident once. Lot of blood, no bites.”

  “Did I ever thank you, boss?” Linzell asks.

  “Just make sure these people make it to their new home safe. All the thanks I need.”

  The semi-truck backs the trailer into the loading bay of the distribution center.

  “We could’ve used Linzell,” John says.

  “Better he shows those people he understands why they took his gun. After all, I was going to shoot that farmer.”

  “You were?”

  “John, I’m ready to shoot anyone who pulls a gun on me. He had provocation: we were stealing his cattle, but we’ve lost the option of hesitation and double thinking.” He glances over John’s shoulder, past the semi to the tree line.

  “You see something, boss?”

  “We’re being watched from the trees.” He grabs John’s arm to prevent him from spinning around.

  “Watched? Biters don’t watch.” His hand shifts toward his gun.

  “Could be some group of raiders, but I think it’s scared survivors, not smart enough to find bolt cutters.”

  “What do you want to do?”

  “Load the truck with the supplies we need, and if there’s room, whatever else is useful. Maybe a baby crib or two. I’ll stand guard out here.”

  “You expecting, boss?”

  Laughter punctuates his team.

  “It will happen one day. We’ll need lots of baby stuff.”

  “There’s another semi over there. Trailers empty. We could load it. I could drive it back,” John offers.

  “Cuts our security detail down. You won’t have a shotgun rider.”

  “You’ll ride shotgun.”

  “I’m not going back this trip. I’ve got a new area to explore. Dar’s list had a few more items on it. I want to locate them quickly. Once Dartagnan calculates the new people and cattle, I’ll have a whole new list of supplies to gather.”

  “How does such a brain work inside such a…” John holds back his original word and inserts, “kid?”

  “Be glad he survived. Dar’s calculations allow us to flourish. I figure when a brain’s over powerful in one area other areas don’t function as well.”

  “I guess, boss,” John agrees. “Two trucks mean even more supplies. Get every bit of useable food cleared out.” He lowers his voice, “Besides, those survivors may break into this place once we go and leave nothing for later.”

  “If you get the second semi started, load it. Try not to bring anything expired, and if you find some more model kits, pack them, too. I’m going to make sure those aren’t raiders.” He pulls a M1903 Springfield rifle from the semi. He checks the chamber before marching off the parking lot.

  Smoke fizzles from a dying fire. He moves his hand close to the coals until he feels warmth. In every Western movie he’s ever seen the tracker’s action tells him just how long ago the fire was built. In real life, however, it gives him no real idea except that a living person used it recently, but long enough ago they let it burn down without adding more dry wood. A course of behavior spanning hours giving him no useful time frame as to when people were last here.

  He keeps the Springfield rifle ready. The smell of overcooked meat hangs around the camp. Dangling from a spit are bits of flesh. A ragged tent remains zipped up. Some tattered clothes lay strewn about the ground, and a meat cleaver rests next to the fire pit.

  He knows they are hiding in the brush. The smell of rank unwashed people hangs in the air over cooking meat odor. He tries to ignore the stench as easily as he pretends to ignore those hidden in the weeds. He has smelt cooking flesh once before, and he hopes he’s wrong this time. Civilization hadn’t fallen far enough into savagery in the past nine months for people to have turned on one another like this, at least he hopes not.

  They pitched this camp less than a half mile from the distribution center, which contained ample canned goods, and yet they didn’t even try to enter it. There weren’t any marks on the door from someone trying to beat their way inside. Even in the panic to flee the biters, had people become so stupid they forgot how to scrounge for bolt cutters to remove the locks of a building? The homes of the town on the other side of the interstate should still have some supplies. Stale potato chips have to be preferable to this.

  These people learned not to move with living around, but they must not realize they stink and not to hide downwind of prey. Freezing in place is no defense against the biters, so he wonders what other groups they’ve had to cloak themselves from. They’ve nothing of value and he wouldn’t take from them if they did. This group of three isn’t brash enough to attack his team. He figures leaving them alone is his best option. Part of him wants to kill them, put them out of their misery before they decide to feast again. Better to take the supplies and leave without attacking other living people. Part of him wants to fire into the brush just to startle them, but why attract the dead with a rifle shot? The semi-trucks make enough noise.

  He backs from the camp not wanting to tempt them with his backside as a target.

  “Abe, is there still food inside?”

  Abe answers, “Quite a bit. We could fill another couple of trailers if we had someone to drive them.”

  “I’m sure our two semis will attract enough attention, but I’ll scout this place again.”

  He packs a duffle bag full of food cans.

  “We’re ready to move out, boss.”

  “I’m not going back with you. I’ve a new area to scout.”

  “A lot of cans to carry,” Abe points out.

  “I’m leaving this for the people who were watching us from the trees. I don’t know how they are surviving or why they haven’t figured out how to find bolt cutters, but from the look of their camp they need food.”

  “Generous.”

  “Well, our group comes first, but since there’s so much, let’s share the wealth and help others.” He adds, “If it’s feasible to our own existence.”

  “It sort of destroys the charity of it.”

  “Charity no longer exists.” He slings the bag of cans over his shoulder. “Put my rifle back in the truck, and have a safe journey home, Abe.”

  He drops the duffle bag next to the fire pit. The smell of the hidden people remains strong. He backs away from the camp with his hand on his magnum. Housing for a community of four thousand residents offers a plethora of supplies. Even if people took all the food with them they won’t have packed every tool. These people hidden in the grass have taken on strange behavior or maybe they just couldn’t handle losing their iPhones.

  Smash.

  The decorative pane of glass shatters. He reaches inside and twists open the dead bolt.

  Funny how people remembered to lock their doors when the evacuation orders were given. Even after Katrina people have trust in the government organizing rescues. It seemed everyone forgot about the New Orleans disaster fuckup at the Superdome. And the government knew Katrina was coming, they had time to prepare. This diseased carnage of carnivorous corpses was over night. No time, no warning, and people marched to their deaths in the name of rescue. People packed too much or not enough. And what they did pack wasn’t necessities.

  A kid in his twenties mills around the mailbox. He’s been dead for a while. Shooting him would attract attention and he’s not worth a blade right now. Besides, his stench masks other smells. For good or bad, the kid exists for the moment.

  The glass breaking draws the teen biter’s attention. Now he should just end the biter. Save him the time later. Or the possibility that this creature could attempt to jump him at the wrong moment. Kill them all should be a rule he implements back at his camp. He finds no guilt in it, but others may not be as cold, especiall
y when a biter reminds them of a loved one.

  Kershunk.

  The bowie knife severs the brain from the spinal column. This thing was one of the dumber ones. He unzips the kid’s backpack. Compact discs spill out. Not only did he pack useless items, he took out-of-date tech. An MP3 would have given him more room to carry food, and the batteries last longer. Nothing useful. A can of tuna. Tuna turns his stomach. He pockets the tin. Someone will eat it. It won’t be wasted, but he’d have to be near death desperate before it’s him.

  Luckily, his compound and scavenging skills afford him the option to be a smidge picky. Finicky won’t last. There’ll come a day when grasshoppers will taste good and he’ll be thankful for them, but not today.

  He locks the dead bolt behind him just in case. The house has no dead fragrance. The living room has collected some dust, but the home was immaculate before the apocalypse. The cabinets have canned goods. He munches on stale Krispy Rice. It’s palatable. He knows better than to open the fridge. Regular kitchen utensils fill the drawers. He pockets the matches. The garage has what he was hoping for—a car. Simple sedan. Nothing special, economical. The garage also has an assortment of tools but again, nothing special. He pops the car trunk. Clean, looks unused. Tossing in a couple of extension cords, a tree saw, and hand axe, he sees nothing else worth looting.

  He’ll have to set up a new travel truck since he didn’t return one to his last hidden location when he was with Emily. He doesn’t even want his own people to know his routes. Trust’s not an issue, or maybe it is. But he hasn’t lasted nine months by being reckless. Homes contain so much useless material items and yet a plethora of goods to maintain life. He finds blankets and a quilt in a closet and what he hoped for—.22 ammo, a box of five hundred and fifty rounds, unopened. Everyone wants high-powered rifles to kill biters, but a .22 gets the job done and is the most common American weapon. The ammo’s cheap and sold in large volumes. A round will take care of a corpse and he now has a lot of rounds. He chucks the clothes, shoes and linen into a pile on the floor. No gun. At least not hidden in the usual places.

  They must have taken it with them.

  The dresser has nothing but undershorts. The nightstand, the most logical place to hide a gun, is next on his list to be rummaged. The drawer has a few cheap romance novels and some lube about as kinky as this lady got. He reaches into the drawer, fishes round and a CLICK releases the top. He slides it over and reveals a hidden drawer. Rings, a diamond pendant and a .22 Ruger rest there. He pops the clip. Ten shots. It will do. He bags the rings.

  Sadly, some people still find the metal valuable. He has traded gold for food. Wondering what the fool trading thought he was going to buy with it. Maybe one day the world will be restored to some order and gold will retain purchasing power, but for now it is useless weight. Unless he encounters another fool who wants something shiny. He’d trade all those rings for another clip of ammo if he could.

  More blankets and a Ziploc bag of pills drop into the car trunk. He tosses in some more baggies. They do keep everything fresh and, more importantly, dry. Fresh is good. Dry is better. He slams the trunk shut.

  The key turns.

  Nothing.

  Even being secure in the garage the battery died. He pops the hood and attaches the portable jumpstart he carries to the positive and negative connectors on the battery. He cranks the starter. The engine whines. He makes a pass through the garage again. So many tools, but none useful enough to lug the some hundred miles back to his camp or the forty he must go first and then back. He’ll cut some of those down by going across country, making this trip a kind of triangle and throwing off anyone who might attempt to follow. A well provisioned loner invites attack.

  The car roars. He lets it run, repacking his jumpstart. It’s worth lugging around, and even if it’s not good for quick escapes, it certainly saves on some shoe leather. He plugs the charging cable into the cigarette lighter. A little over half a tank; even by taking side roads he will have gas to spare.

  He finds it hard to imagine traveling between thirty and forty miles an hour may actually be too fast even on this empty two-lane blacktop. It beats walking and should be enough time to stop if someone has abandoned a car on the road. But he knows this sort of third back road into what was once the city of Rolla. From Rolla it’s a mere twenty miles to the military base. Only he’s not sure of any third roads leading from Rolla and the interstate remains clogged with abandoned cars. The service roads aren’t much better. He’ll get to Rolla, and find a place to examine his map. At least he’ll have covered the last eight miles in fifteen minutes whereas the next twenty could take two days.

  The airbag slaps him in the face.

  “FATTY!”

  “Fatty!”

  “God you’re so fat.”

  “How’d you ever outrun the zombies? You heifer.”

  “Fatty. Fatty.”

  The five men constantly berate Sarah.

  In tears, she tries to run from them, but they surround and block her from getting away.

  “God, you smell. Can’t you fit into the showers?”

  “The biters smell better than her.”

  The men keep tormenting the heavy girl.

  Their words bring pain. One grabs the MRE in her hands. “She don’t need this. There’re starving children in here.”

  “She can live off her blubber.” He slaps her stomach.

  They laugh at her jiggling flesh. More tears burst from Sarah’s eyes. Snot bubbles form in her nose as her face reddens.

  Kani Bowlin munches on her ration as one of the men grabs her ass and shakes the cheek, forcing the flab to bounce. The men laugh.

  “She ain’t so bad. Look at this cushion. You could bounce on her pretty good and never touch the bed.”

  “Just don’t let her roll over on you. She’d crush you,” Kani says. They laugh.

  “Bet no man’s ever tried to ride this heifer.”

  Sarah pukes the little bit of her ration she was able to eat.

  “Gag a little more and maybe a man will want to hump you.” Kani hands off the MRE to another of the abusers.

  “I’ve got something to make her gag.” Her abuser fumbles with his crotch. More abuses bombard her. They pass the MRE among themselves.

  Sarah feels abdominal pain tear at her. Hunger grips her. She hasn’t eaten in twenty hours. The abuse, the depth of the pain of the new world is no better than the old. Ostracized, she runs to the new fence. Panting, she shoves her finger through the wire mesh, inviting the few Infected not yet picked off by the soldiers to bite her. She’ll show those boys. She’ll end it. She’ll bring them into the hell she has been driven to her whole life.

  “Don’t. Don’t do it.”

  Sarah turns to the young voice.

  Hannah pleads with her. A soldier poised behind her keeps a hand on the top of his sidearm. If she’s bitten, he’d shoot her and she’d never get a chance to have revenge on those boys.

  “I don’t know how bad it is for you, but ending this way...”

  Sarah chokes on the thought of choosing to become a walking corpse. “You just don’t know. You just don’t know how bad it is in here.”

  “I know I can help. I know I want to help.” This may be it for Hannah, someone her father won’t protest her protecting.

  Hannah takes Sarah’s other hand. She feels the warm touch of someone who still cares. Someone with love. Someone who has yet to fully understand the cruelty of the world touches Sarah, giving her hope.

  Hannah pulls Sarah’s fingers back from the fence.

  “Come back with me and let’s get you cleaned up.”

  Uncomfortable, Sarah sits on a real bed wrapped in nothing but a small towel with the top of her buxom chest about to burst out of it. She has seen this building from a distance. It was built to house unmarried troops, allowing some of the base housing to become quarters for the refugees. Sarah doubts anyone was prepared for the number of people who would flee here. The original co
mpound design was a few buildings with minimal amenities. None of the refugees, even the five Bowlin brothers, have hot showers like the soldiers are accommodated. They seem well fed. But then again, they have to stay sharp to protect them.

  Hannah brings in a shirt.

  “This’s as large as I could find. I’m having your clothes washed. Didn’t you have a change?”

  “No.” Sarah forces herself to make small talk with the teen girl. “I barely escaped when my family turned,” she cries.

  “I’m sorry. I forget so many have lost people close to them. I still have my dad.” Forbidden to help the woman she wanted, Hannah decides to help Sarah by getting her away from Bowlin abuses.

  “You’re lucky. And lucky to be so thin. The emergency supplies don’t cater to heavy people.”

  “My father’s been transferring some of the more sick and infirmed people out of the base. I could see if they need help taking care of them.”

  “I’m not a nurse.”

  “No, but you don’t need medical training to help feed and change these people.”

  “Kinda gross, but I’ll do it.”

  “I’ll talk to my dad. Maybe he’ll see how bad the Bowlin brothers are if he hears it from you.”

  “You left the safety of Headquarters again. Damn it, Hannah! After I flog your escort… Do I need to put you in the brig?”

  “No, Dad. I just want to help people.”

  “You need to stay safe.” Travis balls his right hand.

  “Is my safety more important than all these other people?”

  “Yes, damn it. You’re my daughter and your safety comes first.”

  Hannah appreciates how much her father cares about her. Travis wishes to tell her he will take care of this. He wants to, but there’s a larger picture. Protecting her is spiraling out of his control as his orders reveal how the government has nearly collapsed and each helicopter in supply drop may be their last. He can’t explain to her that the next parade of refugees banging at the gate should be turned away.

 

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