Glancing around, he noticed that women made up the bulk of the prisoners inside. None of Dave’s explanations for their kidnapping provided him comforting answers.
Things looked very bad.
Minutes later the truck abruptly halted. Peterson sat facing the rear of the truck, his back against the cab. His angry eyes glared at the captives as he gripped his rifle tightly.
Once the truck came to a stop, Peterson stood. “Don’t anybody make a fucking sound.”
No one dared speak. Minutes ticked slowly by. Then shouts erupted from out of sight, followed by a gunshot. A woman wailed.
The driver appeared holding the woman by her arm, her hands bound in front of her. Peterson met them, lowering the tailgate and lifting the woman in. She took the first step in stride, but fell with the second, landing hard on her chest, unable to catch herself. Dave rose to help her.
“Sit the fuck down!” Peterson yelled as he yanked the girl back up. Tears leaked from her red-rimmed eyes. He pointed at two women sitting on the bed of the truck. “Scoot over,” he barked. The women moved quickly to allow the new girl to sit between them.
Peterson tossed the woman down, chuckling. “Hope you don’t mind riding coach. First class was full.” Smiling at himself, he closed the tailgate and sat back down against the cab of the truck, pounding twice on the bed with the butt of his rifle.
Moments later the truck was off again, speeding away.
* * *
No one spoke as the truck drove. Peterson sat, rifle lowered, smirking. Outside, a cacophony of sounds: carriers screaming, more explosions, the chatter of gunfire, people yelling.
Annette stopped crying, but the fear still shone in her eyes. Watching her, Dave felt increasingly more helpless with each passing minute. The tie around his wrists bit into his skin as if to remind him of his inability to stop any of this from happening.
More gunshots erupted from the cab of the truck, silencing the shrieks of the infected. The truck slowed, again drifting to a halt. More voices outside the truck, the sound of a conversation.
Peterson locked eyes with Dave, his glare a warning. As much as Dave wanted to call out and warn the people walking unwittingly into a trap, he had no doubt that Peterson wouldn’t hesitate to shut him up again, this time with a bullet.
Outside, commotion erupted. Men yelled, a woman shrieked. Then a gunshot, a crackling report in the air. Another gunshot, followed by sobbing.
Minutes later more prisoners were passed off to Peterson in the same fashion as before. Gripping the bound wrists of the new prisoners, he hauled them into the truck, one by one until all the new arrivals were on board. Four women and two men. One of the women, a thin blonde with dark circles under her eyes, wept uncontrollably.
“Shut the fuck up,” Peterson snapped. “That blubbering is driving me crazy.”
The woman bawled, as if unaware he’d had spoken to her. Kneeling before her, Peterson buried a fist into the woman’s face. Her head snapped backward, cracking against the edge of the truck bed.
The crying stopped.
Then Annette stood, yelling. “Leave her alone!”
Peterson’s response was quick and merciless as he smashed Annette’s nose with the butt of the rifle. She fell hard on her side. Blood poured from her broken nose, pooling beneath her head as her body twitched.
Dave sprang up behind Peterson, wrapping his bound wrists around the man’s neck. Yanking hard, he closed off Peterson’s air supply. The gunman flailed wildly as Dave tightened his grip, his wrists bleeding as the thin, nylon ties burrowed their way into his skin. Struggling to scream, Peterson opened his mouth, producing only a sick, gurgling sound as his face turned blue.
Then a flash of movement and the butt of a rifle against his temple sent Dave into oblivion.
* * *
Darkness.
Nothing. No sounds, no pain. No awareness.
Then the sound of screaming. Distant, but growing louder.
Dave slowly opened his eyes and the world swam around him. He felt like throwing up. His head pounded with each heartbeat.
Annette. He had to make sure she was okay.
Fighting through the mounting pain, he crawled to where she lay. A small group of women gathered around her, comforting her with their bound hands. A mask of blood covered her face. Beneath it she clenched her teeth. She screamed again.
Blood. Lots of blood. Everywhere.
“Sit down, hero.” Peterson glared, his eyes like cold, black stones.
Snake eyes.
“What did you do to her?”
Peterson grinned. “Shut up before I knock you out myself this time.”
Dave searched for help, but found only downturned faces surrounding him. Beaten animals without the will the fight.
He was on his own.
Helpless, he tended to Annette. There was so much blood. The nausea seized him and he dry heaved, drooling onto the filthy truck bed. He rolled on his side as dark spots clouded his vision, multiplying until they became the only thing he could see.
Then, nothing.
Chapter Eleven
Jasper Carter sped along the narrow side street that ran beside the railroad tracks, the motorcycle’s engine buzzing like a chainsaw. Despite some occasional sputtering, the bike ran like a dream. So far it had never let him down. He could only imagine just how fucked he’d be if it ever did.
Before the world had gone to hell, he’d read an interview with Chuck Yeager, the first man to break the sound barrier. Speaking of his early days as a test pilot, Yeager had said that a good test pilot couldn’t be afraid to die. Jasper figured that once a man lost the fear of death, he could achieve damn near anything he set his mind to.
Jasper no longer feared dying. He didn’t have a death wish, but he accepted that death lurked around every corner, crouching, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.
Eventually death would come for him. Strangely enough, his acceptance of this fact had been what finally allowed him to truly live.
On his back Jasper wore a sturdy pack, filled with emergency supplies should he have to ditch the bike and remain fortunate enough to stay a step ahead of the deadheads. In a custom-made sleeve along the side of the backpack he carried a baseball bat, the fat end stained brown with dried carrier blood.
Behind the seat of the motorcycle, an old milk crate held the few supplies he’d scavenged earlier in the day. Today he’d had a piss-poor run, but he didn’t worry about it. He already had enough food to make it through another winter, so anything else was gravy. Besides, he always seemed to find a way. He was lucky like that.
Gearing down, Jasper slowed the bike as he approached a small house, its windows and doors still intact. Four years after the Walking Death decimated the planet, many of the houses had fallen victim to neglect, torn apart piece by piece by wind and rain.
He often wondered how long the houses could remain sealed, even without any humans left to raid them. In the end he figured they would last as long as they did and that would be that.
Once the food and supplies vanished he’d simply move on to something else. Maybe find a cave in the woods, learn to hunt, become a true mountain man. For now, scavenging was working well enough, and with help of the motorcycle he had no problem staying out of the deadheads’ reach.
Before the virus, Jasper had enjoyed his alone time. But years of living alone got boring, even for a natural-born recluse. Lately he’d been considering that maybe he didn’t want to be by himself anymore. On particularly lonely days, he’d sometimes take the bike out just to run circles around the deadheads for a while. They weren’t great conversationalists, but it was better than nothing.
He parked the bike outside the squat little house, killing the engine before dropping the kickstand. Using the crowbar he kept strapped to the milk crate behind his seat, he pried open the door to the house with little effort. His father had told him once that locks were designed to keep honest people honest. With the way the door came o
pen so easily, he figured his old man had probably been right.
Once inside he took a deep breath. The house smelled like a cave. Pale sunlight filtered through dirty windows, casting a muddy hue over the interior. A thick layer of dust covered everything.
Despite the door being locked, Jasper knew damn good and well that closed up didn’t necessarily mean empty, so he gripped the crowbar tightly and called out. “Anybody order a pizza?” he asked, giggling at himself. The phrase was both ridiculous and pathetic at the same time. If the deadheads had made this house one of their own, then they’d surely come running…and not for pizza.
A full minute passed.
Nothing.
Time to collect whatever spoils awaited.
* * *
The house didn’t give up much. A few cans of tuna well beyond their expiration date and a sleeve of saltine crackers so stale and soft they felt like bread. He did, however, recover some sturdy, wooden kitchen matches (the kind Jasper liked) and some mint-flavored toothpaste. The absence of a woman in his life didn’t absolve him of maintaining good hygiene.
He also collected a few Playboy magazines that had been surreptitiously occupying a corner of the bedroom closet. Between the cosmetic surgery and the photo retouching, the women barely looked real, but beggars really couldn’t be choosers. Besides, he had the articles to fall back on if he got really bored.
After collecting what little supplies he’d been able to find inside the house, Jasper decided to move on. He hopped on the bike and gave the kick-starter a whirl.
No luck.
He tried again.
Still nothing.
His concern mounted; maybe today would be the day he’d get to face that grim reaper.
On the third attempt the bike’s engine roared to life after a cough and sputter before simmering down to its familiar low purr.
Jasper smiled. Another day, Mr. Death, he thought to himself. And when that day comes, you and me, we’ll be well-met. For now I have some living still to do.
Cranking back the throttle and releasing the clutch, Jasper peeled out, kicking up a cloud of dust and gravel. He shouted over the loud buzz of the bike’s engine, basking in his continued good luck.
He rode on, the empty railroad track zipping past on his right. Only a week ago he’d been awakened by what could only have been the sound of a freight train traveling on these tracks. At first he suspected it was a dream, or maybe some partially dredged memory surfacing during the strange and beguiling hours of the early morning. But after sitting up and listening closely he was pretty damn sure of what he’d heard.
It was in those dreaming hours that he and his older brother Robbie were together again, back in high school, two years apart. Robbie’s hair was still blonde and close-cropped, his eyes blue and wide. Before the virus came and took his sanity, turning him into a monster. In those early hours of the morning, between sleep and waking, Jasper was still a kid and Robbie was still his big brother.
But then Jasper would awaken to the harsh and brutal morning sun spilling over the wastelands, bringing with it another day without his brother. Another day full of ruin and decay. Those kinds of days made it hard to get out of bed.
Sometimes he wondered if maybe he was already dead, at least in a sense. With everyone else around him dead, was he truly living? Was living defined by having someone around who would mourn your passing? Someone to care? When living and dying went completely unnoticed, did it make a difference anymore? Maybe it was like the tree falling in the forest with no one around to hear the sound. Maybe appreciation of life was its only true meaning.
This morning, however, Jasper’s sleep had been dreamless. And he couldn’t have been gladder for that. Today he had the ride. Today he had purpose. Sometimes riding was all his life was about.
A few more houses and then he’d head back to the gas station to refuel. A while back he’d figured out how to access the main tanks there and had poured in all the fuel stabilizer he could find. It probably wasn’t enough to properly preserve the gasoline, but as long as the bike ran he planned to keep using it.
Ahead and off to the right, he caught movement out of the corner of his eye. Deadheads. How those fuckers survived after four years he couldn’t imagine. They were like cockroaches. The small group of walkers staggered along in the same direction, obviously interested in something.
Glancing further ahead, Jasper saw what had caught their interest. His mystery had finally been revealed, but he hadn’t been expecting what he found. Seeing the carnage, he wondered how anyone could have survived a train wreck so violent.
Most likely no one had survived. Much like hyenas, the deadheads would be sniffing around for corpses, picking off what they could. And the last thing Jasper wanted to see was another dead body. He’d seen more than his fair share already.
But as much as he knew he should probably turn around, curiosity had already gotten the best of him. Jasper Carter could resist many things, but a mystery was not among them. Who knew, maybe a fair maiden in distress needed rescuing by a dashing young man on a motorcycle. Stranger things had happened.
Smiling, Jasper took off, spraying gravel and dirt in his wake as he sped toward the curious scene.
Chapter Twelve
Trish opened her eyes slowly. The cold concrete beneath her sapped the heat from her body as waning sunlight filtered in through wire-reinforced windows, illuminating shelves stacked with small boxes and other unidentifiable objects.
Her head pounded worse than ever. Images flooded her mind; the train crash and the guardsman leading her and the boys away from the wreckage.
But he was no guardsman.
The boys…
She felt sick.
“Hello, Trish,” Tall Guard said from behind her.
Adrenaline flooded her system. She tried sitting up, but quickly discovered her hands and feet were bound. Panicked, she struggled to break free of her bindings.
“You can’t get loose. I made sure of that.”
“Who are you?”
Tall Guard walked around in front of her. He pulled her up into a sitting position. “You really don’t remember me, do you? Maybe another name will ring a bell. You remember Darnell, don’t you? Big, black guy with a beret? Scar on his head? Or maybe you remember Trey? You did murder him, after all.”
Of course she remembered those names. She’d never be able to forget them. Darnell and Trey had kidnapped and raped her for days.
“Coming back to you now?” Ryder said, raising his eyebrows. His grin never faltered. “You know it took almost three days for Darnell to die?”
Trish didn’t answer.
“Darnell might have been a brother from a different mother,” Ryder continued, “but Trey, he was my real brother.”
Now it all made sense. “You. You’re the man in the shadows. The one I never saw.”
Ryder smiled. “Well, that explains why you didn’t recognize me. Fortunate for me, eh?”
Trish shook her head. “How?”
Ryder clapped his hands together as his smile widened. “Oh, I was hoping you’d ask. Finding you was tough, let me tell you that much. But you killed my brother, you fucking whore. I’d follow you to the goddamn moon if I had to.” He absentmindedly held up a finger into the air as he spoke. “You see, I figured you’d travel by the interstate. After all, that’s where we found you the first time. I’m not too proud to admit that I did lose your trail for a while, and I’m not gonna say the trip was easy, but I knew if I kept following that road it would lead me right to you.”
Ryder pulled up his sleeve, displaying a long, pink scar on his forearm. “Razor-wire got me pretty good climbing that fence into St. Louis, but I made it over before the deadwalkers got me. After I was in I found you again. Took a while though. I watched you after that, waiting. I had the whole thing planned out. Then BAM! Off went those fucking bombs and on the train we went.”
“This can’t be happening,” Trish said.
�
�Oh, it’s happening. And if you thought what the three of us did to you was bad, you ain’t seen nothing yet. I’m gonna have a field day with you.”
Trish steeled herself. “The kids…did you kill them?”
An incredulous look swept over Ryder’s face. “What? I don’t kill kids.”
“What did you do with them then?”
“That’s neither here nor there.” He flashed Trish another grin, his canines sharp like a wolf’s. “As much as I want to get this party started, I’m afraid I’m without my tools. The pistol wouldn’t be sporting, would it?” He leaned in, grinning wide, a large, gold crucifix swinging from his neck.
He rose to his feet. “I’ll be back in a flash. Don’t you go anywhere while I’m gone.”
Then he was up, walking away, disappearing behind the shelves lining the aisles. Moments later a door opened and closed, echoing in the empty warehouse.
Then silence followed, hard and cold.
Chapter Thirteen
“Stop crying,” Zach said to his brother as they sat, tied together, on the kitchen floor of the house where Ryder had brought them.
“But he took Trish,” Jeremy said between sniffles.
“I know.”
“Why would he do that?”
“I don’t know. He wasn’t really a guardsman, I think.”
“Is he going to hurt her?”
Yes, he is, Zach thought. “No.”
A pause. “I think Daddy is dead.”
“Don’t say that.”
“But it’s true, Zach.”
“We don’t know it’s true.”
“Well, what are we gonna do then?”
Zach closed his eyes. “I don’t know.”
“What do you mean you don’t know? You have to know. You’re the big brother. Without Dad and Trish, you’re in charge.”
Zach gritted his teeth in order to keep his composure. No tears. His brother was right. He had to be strong, for the both of them. He knew his father would agree.
Badlands Trilogy (Book 2): Beyond the Badlands Page 4