The Scattered and the Dead (Book 1)

by McBain, Tim

  He looked up to find the world unchanged, unmoved. Heat distortion shimmered above the blacktop. The air was still.

  Erin

  Presto, Pennsylvania

  29 days after

  There was something different about this house. She could feel it.

  Erin’s shoes scuffed across the sidewalk as they made their way up to the front door. Golden fronds of overgrown grass reached over the path, brushing her knees as she passed.

  A small white butterfly fluttered near her face, and she batted it away. If only she could get rid of the ones in her stomach that way.

  What did Izzy call them again?

  Her eyes drifted over to Izzy, brown curls bobbing up and down with each step. The kid lifted a dirty sleeve and swiped it across her face, wiping at her nose.

  What the hell was she gonna do with this kid? The booger-smearing was the least of her concerns. She was sixteen. Not old enough to take care of some eight-year-old kid.

  Bubbleguts. Instead of “butterflies in the stomach”, Izzy called them bubbleguts.

  Erin had bubbleguts.

  But why now?

  “Rub… barb,” Izzy said. “What’s Rub-Barb?”

  Erin stopped at the base of the stairs leading up to the house. “Huh?”

  Izzy pointed to a white sign just barely visible above the jungle of the lawn. Erin read the big black hand-painted letters, then laughed.

  “Rhubarb.”

  Izzy repeated the word, overemphasizing the first syllable the way Erin had done.

  “ROO-barb.”

  Izzy’s head bobbed forward like a bird when she said it.

  “You look like a chicken,” Erin said.

  She made wings with her arms and flapped them a few times, jerking her head forward and saying, “ROObarb, ROObarb.”

  Izzy swatted at her arm.

  “That’s how you said it!” She wrinkled her nose and wiped at it with the back of her hand. “So what is it?”

  The wood of the stair rail was warm from the sun under Erin’s hand. She gripped it as she made her way up the steps.

  “It’s a fruit,” she said, then paused. “Actually, I guess it would really be considered a vegetable. It sort of looks like celery, except it’s bright red. And it’s really sour.”

  “Why would you eat that?”

  “You have to add a lot of sugar to make it taste good. My grandma used to make these mini custard tarts with rhubarb on top.”

  A surge of saliva filled her mouth at the thought of the delicious little pastries. She could go for about ten of those right about now.

  When she reached the door, she paused and looked back at Izzy.

  “You’ve really never had rhubarb? Strawberry rhubarb pie?”

  Izzy’s shoulders quirked into a shrug.

  Erin placed a hand on the door knob. She gave it a twist, and it resisted.

  Locked.

  There was a stupid part of her brain that was glad it was locked. It hoped all the doors and windows were locked. Because, her brain said, then she wouldn’t have to go in.

  But they always found a way in.

  A try at the sliding window at the back of the house was more fruitful. It was sort of surprising how many people took the time to lock their doors, only to leave a window unlatched.

  She peeked inside and noted the washer, dryer, and utility sink. The door of the laundry room stood open, but she could only see the blank wall of the hallway beyond.

  The metal frame squealed as she slid the window all the way open. A neon green bucket she found in the breezeway between the house and the garage made a perfect stool.

  She perched on the bucket, one hand on either side of the window frame. Izzy stood behind her, hand glued to her forehead to shade her eyes from the sun.

  “You know the drill, right? You wait here until I tell you it’s clear-”

  Izzy rolled her eyes and let her tongue loll out of her mouth.

  Erin sighed.

  “Fine, then you tell me the rest.”

  “Stay out of sight. Be quiet. Look both ways before crossing the street. Don’t talk to strangers.” Her voice took on a mocking tone as she progressed.

  “Smart ass,” Erin said, then hoisted herself through the window and into the house.

  Izzy whispered from behind her.

  “Language!”

  Once Erin was inside, she just squatted there for a moment, letting her eyes adjust to the dimness. Listening for any sounds from inside the house.

  She rose and took three silent steps to the door. At the threshold, she waited a beat and then darted her head out, glancing quickly to the left.

  Before the hallway veered to the right and out of view, there was an open archway leading into a den.

  Her head swung out again, this time to the right.

  Two more doors. One open, which she liked. One closed, which she hated.

  She cleared the den first, just stepping to the edge of the room and scanning it from left to right. So far, so good.

  Next came the open door, which turned out to be a small bathroom with floral wallpaper that was certainly not of this century.

  Now for the closed door, which upon further inspection wasn’t all the way closed. It stood open just a crack, not enough to see in. Erin inched forward, stopping shy of the particle board and not quite pressing her ear to it. Not breathing. Just listening.

  She heard nothing.

  It didn’t make her feel any better. That same nagging feeling was there, whispering doubts in her ear.

  She counted to three and gave the door a little push. The hinges let out a shriek loud enough to wake any of the dead that weren’t already awake. Instinctively, she threw herself forward into a crouch, bracing herself.

  Nothing happened.

  She let out her breath and stood straight again.

  A bar of sunlight shone through the crack between the curtains, illuminating a large four poster bed, dressing table, and a privacy screen with an Asian motif.

  She sniffed the air.

  That’s what it was that kept bothering her. The smell. For once, it wasn’t the reek of death. Which was… nice. But weird. Had she really become so desensitized to the grimness of it all that smelling something pleasant instead of something foul was setting off warning bells?

  She breathed it in. God, it was so familiar.

  This smell was something safe. Something that reminded her of childhood.

  She stopped and closed her eyes. Inhaled. Let it percolate. If she tried to force the memory, it wouldn’t come. She had to let it bob to the surface on its own.

  She cleared her mind, letting the smell take over.

  Pipe smoke? No, that was a sweeter smell.

  Shag carpet under bare feet? Close. But that was a feeling, not a smell.

  Light filtering through louvered windows in the morning. Again, not a smell.

  But wait.

  Shag carpet, pipe smoke, wood slats over the windows? Grandma and Grandpa’s house.

  Boom.

  She took another breath, nodding.

  Mothballs.

  She couldn’t believe she hadn’t come up with it right away. It was obvious from the decor that this was an old lady’s house.

  She poked her nose into the closet and behind the privacy screen- better safe than sorry- before deeming the ground floor all clear. At the dressing table, she rifled through the jewelry, picking out the stuff that looked like it would be worth something. She stacked bracelets and watches onto her wrists and rings onto her fingers. Three necklaces were big enough that she could just loop them over her head. The rest she tucked into her pocket.

  Back at the window, she helped Izzy climb in. Hoisting under her skinny kid arms, Erin lowered her to the ground.

  “Stay here until I’m done checking upstairs.”

  One of the steps creaked as she put her weight on it. She paused, listening for anything stirring above, then continued up the stairway.

  The
upper level held two more bedrooms, another bathroom, plus the kitchen and living room. All empty.

  She was just about to call out to Izzy when she got a whiff of something. And this time it wasn’t mothballs.

  She took a few steps, trying to pinpoint where the smell was coming from. A pocket door, just off the kitchen. She’d missed it before.

  Looping a finger through the brass latch, she closed her eyes and said a little prayer.

  The door groaned as she slid it aside, and she inhaled sharply.

  “Holy shit.”

  Baghead

  Rural Oklahoma

  9 years, 126 days after

  He woke, startled to feel the car seat vibrating below him, to hear its engine humming, the Focus moving somehow as he slept. He sat forward and pulled the top of the bag back so the holes lined up with his eyes, revealing Delfino in the driver’s seat of the Delta 88 instead of the Focus.

  Right. He leaned back in his seat, let his neck go limp so his skull flopped against the headrest. Jesus, it felt wrong to fall asleep so quickly in the presence of a stranger like that, especially with everything that was going on. He’d known this hired driver for less than an hour, and their journey hadn’t even officially started yet. For all Bags knew, Delfino could be one of the five.

  He looked out the window at the weed pocked sand all around them, watched the wind spiral up little clouds of dust and let them fall.

  “Mind if I ask you something?” Delfino said.

  “Go ahead.”

  “This is about the Hand of Death thing, right? You needing a ride and all, I mean.”

  Bags wheeled his head around, one hand scratching at his chest.

  “Where’d you hear about that?”

  “Hey, come on now. Assassins get sent out with instructions to kill a man by holy order? People talk about that kind of thing. Damn, man. It’s all over the place.”

  Bags looked away again, his head facing the window but his eyes not focusing so they only took in a sandy colored smear.

  “Hand of Death is some serious shit. Why do you think Father wants you dead?”

  “Because he doesn’t like what’s in my books.”

  “Not a fan?”

  “He’s threatened by them.”

  “Why would a bunch of letters from the old days threaten him?”

  “You’d need to ask him that.”

  Delfino pulled out another cigarette, lit it.

  “Ol’ Father’s kind of got it made, eh?” he said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “The People’s Temple, you know? I’m sure you’ve heard the crazy stories. His thirteen wives. Living up in a mansion with generators, fucked out of his mind on pills most of the time, and yet thousands of people are willing to work and bleed and die for him if need be.”

  “Same as any other cult leader, I’d say.”

  Delfino puffed on his cigarette, smoke rolling out of his nostrils as he talked.

  “I guess you’re right. It’s hard to remember some of that stuff. Here’s my question, though. Why bother with the Hand of Death? If Father wants someone dead, why not just call it the death penalty and make it happen. Why make the extra rule about five assassins and the stipulation that if the accused survives all five attempts, it’s God passing judgment the other way?”

  “Well, I think people like that kind of thing. Father is an entertainer first and foremost. I think with a lot of this stuff he’s just entertaining himself. Making life and death a game, you know? I don’t know about the particular origin of the idea, though. I always assumed he saw it in a samurai movie or something.”

  “Have any of them come at you yet? The assassins, I mean.”

  “No.”

  “Damn. Five to go. Well, the first one is usually a puss, right? They save the mega badasses for the fourth and fifth slots.”

  “Sometimes. It seems pretty random other times. From what I hear, anyway.”

  Delfino took a puff off of his cig and ashed it on the floor.

  “So here’s the big question: If the People’s Temple is out to kill you, why are you paying me a bunch of cash to drive you straight to them?”

  Baghead shrugged his shoulders, and it wrinkled up the sides of his bag, so he smoothed them out with a few strokes.

  Mitch

  Bethel Park, Pennsylvania

  42 days before

  Shock drowned everything out. He held motionless, almost catatonic. His hands and knees rested on the kitchen floor. His head hung beneath his shoulders, neck craned toward his torso so his field of vision was filled with his heaving chest, his open mouth panting for breath like a dehydrated dog. He blinked a few times, eyelids fluttering, and let his gaze fall on his wrist. Blood streaked down from the wound, two rivulets of scarlet tracing down the back of his hand like red rain running down a window.

  That was it. That little scratch on his arm, skin broken just enough to draw a little blood, that was how it would all end for him. He pictured Janice’s ankle, black tendrils snaking away from the wound like smoke running beneath her skin. He knew the same would happen to him, that it wouldn’t be long.

  He closed his mouth, tried to breathe through his nostrils. At first his breath was ragged, a little panicked. His head went all light and tingly, but he focused and reigned it in. Deep breaths, in and out.

  His arms shook a little. Physically, he went through the motions of panic, but in a crazy way, his mind was clearer now than ever. A meandering life suddenly had an end game, a purpose, even a ticking clock with a fairly precise deadline. He had somewhere between 24 and 36 hours. His life was forfeit, yes, but a path to redemption remained open to him: he had to try to set his children up so they could make it, to give them whatever he had left to give. That was all the mattered now. It wasn’t everything. It was the only thing.

  For a guy about to die, he almost felt lucky. We all have an expiration date, but most people don’t get to see it. Death sneaks up on them or the years get away from them. They miss their chance to correct their flaws, to make things right. He had that chance.

  He leaned back, his hands peeling free from the linoleum with a sound like a cellophane wrapper being peeled open. He sat back in an upright position. His breathing was under control now.

  He felt alive.

  His mission was clear. That thing still roamed in the basement, however, his blood on its breath. He would need to take care of that first. Enough screwing around, though. No more old fashioned tools. He was going to handle this the Ted Nugent way: shoot it in the face.

  The gun felt right in his fingers. They both did, but for now he was handling the Berretta M9. It was all black, had a classy look to it, he thought. Something about the Glock, on the other hand, made it look a little like a toy to him. But it didn’t feel like a toy in his hand. It felt right, too. They both had a nice heft to them.

  The light turned green, so he flopped the firearm back onto the passenger seat and drove. The guns clattered into each other as the car lurched forward, a little metallic sound that reminded him of a sound effect in one of those video games where you stalk from room to room, laying waste to every human being you come across. Maybe it was like the sound of reloading. He wasn’t sure.

  He drummed on the wheel at another stoplight, willing himself to keep his hands away from the metal in the seat next to him. The sun had raised itself higher than when he’d last looked upon it. It must be creeping up on noon already. Time flies when you’re getting bit by a goddamn zombie, right?

  Shopping for guns was an odd experience since he didn’t know anything about them. On the ride over, he had planned to get a shotgun, had pictured himself wielding it in the basement, disintegrating the thing’s face with a load of buckshot. But as he got within a few blocks of the pawn shop, it occurred to him that maybe the kids wouldn’t be able to handle the recoil.

  He was thinking handguns after that, but he didn’t know where to start. The guy at the pawn shop told him these would be the easie
st guns to get ammo for, no matter what might happen. He told him they were reliable, sturdy, durable. He told him he could use them to hammer nails all day, and they’d still shoot straight. That sounded good enough to him. The guy had a gun holstered at his side as he imparted these nuggets, so he must know something.

  Another stoplight. It seemed like there were a ton of pedestrians out, all streaming in the opposite direction of his car. He watched the swells of humanity flowing on both sides of the street. It reminded him of disaster footage on TV, of flash flood water gushing down city streets, picking up cars and taking them along for the journey.

  He wondered what the zombie was doing right now, what it was thinking. Did it even think? Did it have any notion that he’d be back? He pictured it in the basement, stumbling from one corner to the next, waiting for some sign of life to pounce upon.

  I’ve got your sign of life right here, he thought, petting the gun. Then he realized that this didn’t really make sense and laughed.

  And then he remembered that he wouldn’t actually have any signs of life for much longer... but there was no time to think about that now.

  He took a left onto Vine Street and noticed smoke a few blocks in the distance, thick black clouds rolling into the sky. As he drove up on the source, he found an apartment building fully engulfed in flames, fire reaching out of the windows on most every floor. A group of people watched it from across the street, hands cupped around their eye sockets to shield them from the light. It had to have been burning for some time to get this big, but there were no police or firemen around. He knew things were starting to break down, but he didn’t realize it was this bad.

  He accelerated out of instinct. Just as he began to wonder why he was doing so, he watched a teenage kid throw a brick through the front window of a stereo shop. The glass spider webbed, white lines spreading out from the hole at the point of impact. It hesitated like that just long enough to remind him of a cartoon featuring breaking ice under some doomed character’s feet, and then the whole thing collapsed. People streamed out of the door with arms full of amplifiers, tweeters, and subwoofers. Mitch realized it was already being looted before the window dropped, realized that all of the stores around him were under siege, that he’d driven into a riot.