Nodding, Charlie added, “That’s what I meant when I said strength in numbers back at the house. I wasn’t thinking just you and me. Hell, I was occupied with watching your back and it nearly got me killed.”
“Then I think we ought to keep our eyes peeled for some good folks to side with. Ones we can circle the wagons with if God forbid the need should arise.”
“What kind of people?”
Duncan gestured toward the direction the kid had taken. “Like Slugger, there … streetwise survivors who aren’t afraid to get their hands dirty, if you know what I mean.”
“And how do you know someone’s real intentions if you don’t know the person? You have a portable polygraph in that NRA bag of yours?”
“No, I don’t. We just gotta trust our guts, Charlie. Same as humans have been doing for millions of years. That sick-to-the-stomach feeling our ancestors got from a brush with a sabertooth tiger and that electric tingle you get in your gut when up against someone you think might have bad intentions—they’re one and the same. Just took us a lot of time and bad experiences to refine ‘em.”
“Hope we run into more like that young man with the bat, then.” Charlie stole another look at the corpse outside his window. “Yep, he’s one of the good ones.”
Changing the subject, Duncan gazed at the apartment and its windows and the faces peering down between parted curtains. “Goodbye, Norma Jean.” He dropped the transmission into Drive and pulled away from the curb slowly as if leaving a pair of corpses in the northbound lanes of a usually busy thoroughfare was the new norm.
Shaking his head, Charlie said. “Even in times of duress … the smartass in you always finds a way out.”
Duncan made no reply to that; instead, he jumped back into the pink mist story exactly where he’d left off. “So, while we’re waiting for the weather to break so we can fly back to base without accidentally becoming one with the side of a mountain, my co-pilot slinks off to find a hooch so he can grab some shuteye. Gotta sleep when the opportunity presents itself in Nam. Anyway, while the co-pilot’s away, Thigpen, remember him … he’s my door gunner. Thigpen’s never one to use his downtime wisely. He goes and grabs a couple of beers for him and a cup of joe for me. Then we put on ponchos and go outside. Set up a couple of ammo crates near the wire and start shooting the shit in the driving rain.”
“How close to the wire?” Charlie asked in a low voice.
“Pretty damn close,” Duncan answered soberly. “The area had a lot of enemy activity at the time. Viet Cong probing the defenses nightly. The warnings meant nothing to Pig Pen. Twenty-plus missions in and out of real hot and hairy LZs all the while hanging out of a slick and not catching a live round has a way of instilling a feeling of invincibility in a man. And Pig Pen thought he was going to make it through the war unscathed and live to be a hundred years old.” Duncan slowed and swerved right as a car shot from a side street half a block up ahead.
Taking advantage of a rare chance to pick his friend’s brain on a topic rarely broached, Charlie asked, “And you? You were the one flying the bullet magnet in and out of those LZs.”
“I felt a little of it after time and again squeezing my Huey into a tight opening in the canopy and living to tell the tale. Pig Pen, though … he was convinced he was bulletproof.”
“Pig Pen got sniped right next to you?”
Duncan cast his gaze left and then right as the last of the apartment buildings slipped by. Knuckles white on the steering wheel, he jumped back into the story he’d told only once, a decade ago, to a shrink trying to help him deal with his drinking and its root cause, PTSD, the new acronym the doctors at the VA were using that stood for Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder that Duncan chalked up to being young and seeing too much, too fast. “Ten minutes into our outdoor bull session and Pig Pen’s already got three beers down his gullet. Sadly, he’s not even close to being tipsy. He could hold his liquor then like I can now. So we’re talking as quiet as we can on the top of this muddy hilltop in the middle of the jungle. Name of the firebase escapes me now. Anyway, I stand up and turn away to piss, and out of the corner of my eye I see the flash and hear a single gunshot. Real close by, too.”
“He finds out he’s mortal, doesn’t he,” Charlie said solemnly.
Duncan nodded, flashed a wan smile, then went on. “Pig Pen lit a cigarette. His Zippo lit his face up. He takes a sniper’s bullet as a result. Dead center. Devastating wound. I didn’t even get a chance to shake the dew off my lily before he’s dead in the mud and I’m wearing his brains all over my flight suit. The same brains that formulated the idea to get me a coffee and drag me outside with him. The same gray matter that harbored the last fond memories of his wife and young boy back home. Wearing Pig Pen’s pink mist changed me forever. Feeling I got then just came back to me when I gunned down that young lady back there. Changed forever.”
Sorry that he’d urged his friend to elaborate, Charlie went deathly silent, his eyes roving in search of infected and bikers, but not necessarily in that order.
Chapter 33
Two miles north of the Norma Jean, gleaming new cars sat static on lots festooned with colorful balloons and signs promising low down payments, instant financing, and all manner of favorable terms meant to get folks on the lots and submit themselves to the powers of persuasion wielded so effectively by salesmen in starched shirts and comfortable slacks and shoes.
Flapping in the early morning breeze, multicolored pennants strung above the Volkswagen lot drew Duncan’s eye. He gave them a cursory glance then dropped his gaze to the single lane running away to a metal and glass rollup door with the words Service Entrance emblazoned on it in an aristocratic shade of blue.
In front of the service door was a bulbous black convertible, presumably a VW. The driver’s side door was wide open and the rear amber flashers were strobing incessantly. Sprawled on the ground behind the car was a prone body. And kneeling in a pool of blood and greedily tugging viscera from the body were a trio of infected.
Charlie saw the long greasy ropes of intestine strung between them and could only conjure up a mournful whistle as the grisly sight slid from view.
***
A handful of blocks down 122nd they finally hit substantial traffic, most of which was moving north and east, away from the most recently established quarantine perimeters.
On the left side of the street the power was still out. Without stating his intention, Duncan slowed the pick-up and, dodging vehicles speeding about and changing lanes unexpectedly, turned left off the four-lane and into the vast parking lot of a grocery chain store known locally as the place for one-stop-shopping.
Through empty window frames they saw dark forms moving about the gloomy interior. Dozens of people in full-on loot-mode streamed in empty-handed past those coming out with arms and shopping carts brimming with all types of ill-begotten goods.
A Gresham police cruiser was nosed in against the destroyed plate windows, blue and red flashers as dark as the store’s interior.
Sunlight glittered wildly off the carpet of glass looters trampled through as they continued to shuttle bulky boxes adorned with pictures of flat screen televisions and stereo components to waiting cars. Other folks with self-preservation in mind eschewed the worthless electronics and instead were loading their rides up with bags of groceries and bottles of water, juice, and adult beverages.
Duncan made the observation that the different groups of people and handful of lone wolf opportunists seemed to be getting along.
“It may be pretty orderly out here,” Charlie countered. “But I betcha anything it’s a shit show inside.”
Duncan nodded agreeably while watching an officer exit the store through a broken window, crunch across the glass with a twenty-four-pack of bottled waters under each arm, and toss the liberated goods into the back of the Crown Vic. Close behind, a female officer exited through the same window frame carrying a pair of bulging brown paper bags.
“What do you think precipitat
es the one-eighty from to protect and serve to let’s join the looters?”
Incredulous, Duncan said, “Really? After all the shit we’ve witnessed since yesterday”—he gestured at the lady cop as she placed bags in the trunk—“that is not dereliction of duty. I’m afraid it’s all about survival of the fittest now.”
“How do you figure, Duncan? You saw the military taking ground and holding. They’re probably already working their way towards the flashpoint downtown.”
Duncan shook his head as the two officers, who were largely being ignored, returned from the store’s interior with more supplies. “Not likely,” he said soberly. In the next beat a minivan pulled broadside to the Crown Vic and disgorged a couple of men who, with no hesitation or furtive glances cast at the cruiser or cops, sprinted across the broken glass and into the store. “Nobody is going back into the city. It’s lost. Think about it, Charlie. Those two officers are privy to the most up-to-date intel available. They’ve got a radio and hear the morbid details behind every call dispatch has fielded. Staying on and toeing the line at this stage is futile. It’s akin to putting your little finger in a dike. You may be able to plug one hole, but another leak eventually pops up somewhere else. You and me saw it firsthand at Providence. They were beyond triage and I’ve come around to your way of thinking about what happened to that poor girl who got herself bit—”
“I wasn’t seeing things yesterday, was I? That sergeant … he did shoot her, didn’t he?”
“Does a bear shit in the woods?”
Charlie chewed on that one for a second.
Duncan went on, “Those two cops are people just like us … they’re not doing this because they can. They’re doing this because they need to.”
“So what does it all mean?”
“That’s the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question, Charlie. I’d go all in and say that this virus is spreading faster than a two-dollar hooker. Hell, I bet they’re already discussing dropping the bridges across the Columbia and sealing up Interstate 5, 84, and 205 with Guard troops all in one coordinated effort.”
Shaking his head in stunned disbelief, Charlie said, “We gotta get going then.”
“Yes we do.”
“Are we going in for supplies?”
“I was thinking about it … until that.” Stroking his mustache nervously, Duncan pointed out his window. “One o’clock. Whole bunch of infected coming to the party.”
The female cop had just deposited her latest haul into the Vic’s trunk and was spinning right to reenter the store when the dozen or so walking stiffs Duncan was alluding to began to moan.
The hair on the back of Duncan’s neck snapped to attention.
Charlie swallowed hard and licked his dry lips. “There’s got to be twenty of those things. It’s like they’re hunting in a … pack.”
“Doubt if it’s coordinated. I’d guess the sound of breaking glass started drawing them in from blocks around. Then the voices and all the cars coming and going …” Duncan’s hand found the butt of his .45. He wrapped his fingers around the grip, feeling the reassuring crosshatching against his palm.
From the safety of the Dodge, while fully expecting to see one of the officers fetch a shotgun or AR from the front of the Crown Victoria and put down the dead things, Charlie and Duncan witnessed the corpses amble past the cops and set their sights on the activity taking place near the wide-open front doors.
Unable to not watch the unfolding drama, Charlie reached down blindly and hauled the shotgun up from the footwell.
Still shielded from the dead’s view by the cruiser, the lady cop eased the trunk shut and joined her partner, who was just scooting in behind the wheel. In the next second an amplified female voice rose above the shouts of the living and moans of the dead. Then, with shouted warnings to the people still in the store going out over the cruiser’s public address system, the black and white backed away from the store and performed a precise three-point-turn.
“That’s all the warning they get?” Charlie said.
“Better than no warning. Dontcha think?”
Public Address still emitting the female officer’s strained voice, the cruiser crawled past the Dodge.
Duncan locked eyes with the officer behind the wheel and detected a measure of shame. It was as if the man couldn’t believe what he and his partner were doing. And Duncan was right there with them. The last day had been one full of shame, disbelief, and a bit of embarrassment for him as well.
The cop broke eye contact first and the lights atop the Crown Vic came alive. Needle antenna vibrating wildly, the car bounced over the curb, turned left, and sped north down 122nd, leaving a puff of exhaust in its wake.
Chapter 34
Charlie watched the retreating cop car until its brakes flared red and it turned a hard right a few blocks distant. When he swung his gaze back around he saw Duncan staring at the looting still taking place. In the span of twenty seconds since the dead had arrived on scene, the police had driven off while warning anyone in earshot the infected had arrived, and, consequently, those that had heard the female officer’s perfectly enunciated admonitions to “leave at once” were drawn from the bowels of the store and into a life or death battle with the living dead.
Charlie exhaled sharply. He stared hard at the slow-moving train wreck occurring seventy feet away and said, “I’m so effin grateful my folks and your folks aren’t alive to see this … it’s like Hell opened up.”
“Tilly checked out just in time.” Duncan grimaced, then went silent for a moment. “Probably planned it that way … she was fond of saying ‘timing is everything.’”
“Hell, Duncan … all morning I’ve been hoping to wake up and find that all of this was just the mother of all nightmares caused by that late-night chili dog.”
“Keep hope alive,” Duncan said in front of a sad little laugh. As he let off the brake and the truck began rolling away from the store toward 122nd, a woman’s shrill scream pierced the air. No longer were they witness to a rather orderly grab for supplies. In fact, with the introduction of the walking corpses that most of the looters had probably only seen on television, the parking lot was becoming the shit show Charlie had predicted the inside of the store to be.
A gunshot rang out.
Which was all the motivation Duncan needed to mat the pedal and put some distance and sheet metal between them and the store. As a couple of cars also angling for the nearby exit pulled even with the Dodge, Duncan glanced quickly at Charlie and saw the shotgun clutched in the man’s meaty hands.
To avoid the cars as they pulled in front of him, Duncan swerved left and, in the face of a cacophony of loud angry honks, drove off the curb and into oncoming traffic. Gripping the steering wheel for dear life, he jinked the less-than-nimble rig between two approaching cars and drifted into the proper lane unscathed and once again heading north toward I-84.
Breathing hard from the adrenaline spike, Duncan nudged the box of shells across the seat to Charlie who, without prompting extracted a pair, flipped the stubby shotgun over and started shoving them one at a time into its tubular magazine.
Righting the pump gun, Charlie said, “What do ya think, Bo Duke … can you get us to 84 in one piece?”
Keeping his eyes locked down 122nd, Duncan let loose with a cackle. The cackle devolved into a belly laugh. Wiping a tear from his eye, Duncan said, “I always kind of related to old Roscoe P. Coltrane more so than those starry-eyed Duke boys. But I think you’ll be surprised when you see what this old dog is aiming to do.”
“OK,” Charlie said in a sing-song voice. “Make it so, Roscoe.”
***
In total, from Foster at the south end of 122nd to where it began a shallow downhill run toward the now visible east/west stripe of Interstate 84, they’d travelled five miles north on the four-lane and along the way experienced a lifetime’s worth of hard-to-fathom sights and sounds.
Seeing the sun and snippets of bluebird sky reflected in the Columbia river off in
the distance, Charlie said, “Hard to believe the big guy upstairs decided to let the shit hit the fan on such a beautiful day.”
“I bet that’s what they were thinking in Hiroshima, Nagasaki, Chernobyl—”
“I get your drift,” Charlie said. “But those were man-made disasters.”
Duncan moved over to the slow lane and motored around a Mercedes, catching a look of disdain from the bleached blonde woman in the passenger seat. Sliding the Dodge over again, he took his eyes off the road to look at Charlie. “And this wasn’t man-made?”
“God is responsible for all of the disease and pestilence that brings about misery and suffering. Says so in the Book.”
“Sure God tests us. He goes about it in many different ways. Just not like this. Hell … I didn’t think you were that naïve, Charlie.”
Charlie shot Duncan a sour look, held it there as his friend drove and talked.
“The Spanish Flu in the early 1900s killed fifty million. The War and all it brought with it … dirty field hospitals, to be specific, helped that little bugger spread exponentially. I hear the CDC eggheads were attempting to resurrect that efficient killing machine from preserved tissue samples.” Duncan clucked his tongue, then went on. “There are too many man-caused famines to count. Either due to poor farming practices, complacency among the citizenry brought on by promises that they’d be taken care of by their leaders, or just those same leaders being greedy. China, India, and the Soviet Union lost seventy-five to a hundred million citizens to famine just since the turn of the last century. Man caused the Bhopal chemical leaks. Also the Kurds, wherever they were, Saddam gassed thousands of ‘em. What I’m saying is God’s got no kind of a monopoly on pain and suffering, much less death on a grand scale.”
Charlie had no answer to that. His friend, as always, was a thousand percent correct. He only hoped God would be there if and when either one of them needed him most. Which to his horror—upon swinging his gaze forward and seeing the I-84 overpass as big as day, and the eastbound ramp on the right just a dozen yards off the truck’s right front fender and closing very fast—was right here and now.
ocalypse (Book 10): Drawl (Duncan's Story) Page 19