Jackson could probably take the man with a fast punch to the face, but he might not be the only one in the house. That would prove to be a problem. He had to look at the situation from as many angles as possible.
Plus, the man’s definite bias toward Mexicans let Jackson know he had dropped his guard with him, thinking Jackson was white. This was a common misperception throughout his life, one Jackson had used to his advantage more than once.
Wiping under his eyes and sniffing, the man took a deep breath, nodding slowly. “I’ll take her head and shoulders, if you’ll grab her feet?” The man moved to the other end of the couch, his eyes filled with a great sadness.
“Is it just you now in here?” Jackson shook his head as he stooped to grab under the body’s ankles. In other words, what was he up against?
“My wife…” The man stood and looked over his shoulder. “She’s sick, but I know she’ll make it. I can’t tell her about…” He bent and looked down, unable to touch his daughter yet.
Releasing his hold on the body, Jackson settled onto the other couch and motioned to the man. “Take a minute. We don’t have to do this right this second. Let’s not rush it. We’ve got time.”
Relieved, the man moved to sit beside Jackson. He turned and held out his hand. “I’m Norman.” His gaze didn’t focus entirely on Jackson as he watched the shape under the sheet as if he hoped or expected his daughter to sit up and say she was fine.
Jackson reached behind him with his left hand while stretching out his right to return the shake. His fingers closed around the butt of the weapon and he pulled it into his grasp. “Nice to meet you.” He pointed a finger at the TV to get him an extra second of time to grip the gun more fully. “Did the news or anyone say anything before the power went out? I was sick.” Dealing with the Cure had been worse than dealing with the virus, but he didn’t want to share that much. Plus, why hadn’t Norman and his family used the ointment?
Norman turned toward the TV with painstaking slowness as if he were trying to react, but was generally too tired to do much on a normal pace. “No. A lot of the channels were just showing the colored lines. I hadn’t seen those in years.” He spoke slowly.
Jackson moved the gun into his right hand and glanced down to see a bullet chambered. The man must be sick, if his guard was dropped that much.
Turning back to face Jackson, Norman motioned toward his visitor. “You didn’t tell me your name.”
“It’s Juan.” Jackson waited for that to sink in, for Norman’s eyes to widen with realization that he had welcomed in a Mexican for assistance. Then Jackson pulled the trigger.
The resounding blast carried a portent of doom. Jackson didn’t do more to aim than point in the man’s general direction. He hit him above the navel.
Norman grimaced and grabbed at his stomach, sinking to his knees from his sitting position on the couch.
Jackson shot him again in the chest for good measure, but didn’t waste any more bullets. He tucked the gun into his waistband, unworried about the mentioned wife. If she was sick, she wouldn’t be able to do anything.
That didn’t stop her from reaching out. “Norman? Are you okay?” A weak woman’s voice reached Jackson in the resounding silence of the shots. He ignored her plaintive pleas for her husband.
Norman slumped backward, falling against the entertainment center and making the TV shudder. His eyes were wide, but he wasn’t dead as he blinked slowly.
Turning back to the nightstand, Jackson flipped the tissues off the top, searching for more ammunition. An almost full box of hollow points hid behind the base of a lamp. Jackson grinned, shrugging off his backpack and tucking the box into the top. Extra ammo was always a boon to gather.
Jackson stood and stepped over Norman’s legs to get around the coffee table. He had to step wide as Norman flopped his hand out to the side as if trying to stop Jackson, but his gurgled as he tried to breathe.
Rolling his eyes, Jackson carefully walked into the kitchen. His feet hadn’t stopped hurting, but that would be alright for the time being. He was about to get some food and get into the van. He called back to the man on the ground. “Don’t fight it, Norman. You don’t have anything to worry about. I’m not interested in your wife. She’ll die soon and you’ll be dead and everything will be fine. I’m just here for food and the van.” Jackson glanced over his shoulder as he stood by the pantry.
Norman’s eyes were trained on him and Jackson kind of liked the attention. He opened the doors, still speaking to his dying audience. “You know, when I made this virus, I considered only taking out certain races, but that’s hard to differentiate on a viral level. They just want a healthy host. Once I made that decision – you know, the one to destroy the world – everything else was easy.”
Peanut butter jars, plastic bears of honey, canned soup with pop-up lids that didn’t need can openers, pasta dishes in cans with the same type of lids, and more made Jackson turn in appreciation toward Norman whose breathing had slowed erratically. He probably wasn’t alive anymore, but Jackson spoke to him like he was just in case. “You really are prepared. I can relate. Well done.”
Looking under the sink and then in a couple drawers, Jackson finally found a stockpile of grocery bags. He loaded the food into the bags, filling as many as he wanted which was a lot. Letting this food go to waste wouldn’t be smart. He had the entire van to fill up. All he had to do was get the bags to the door and then he could load up the vehicle.
He had all the time in the world and wasn’t worried about being on his feet much longer. The only thing he worried about was anyone hearing the shots. If anyone was out there, it would be a sure sign that something was happening.
Survivors would start being healthy enough to start raiding the dead’s homes. Wasn’t he proof of that?
Once Jackson loaded up the van, he’d find the keys to car and get going. Since he had food and a way to travel, his next goal would be to find a map and get to Cady’s. He knew he had to get to Athol, but the smaller details would be harder to find.
The woman’s voice called again from the back, fear strengthening her volume. “Norman, are you there?”
Jackson answered in a sing-song voice as he loaded another bag. “Lady, if you want to be shot, keep talking. Otherwise, shut up.” Humming, Jackson popped open the lid to a can of peaches and drank the juice before slurping a smooth peach slice into his mouth.
Yeah, he’d hit the motherload and he’d only had to kill one person. Another spark of evidence that he was doing exactly what he was supposed to be doing.
“Thanks, Norman. Stopping here helped me. I can’t wait to get going.” Jackson wiggled his fingers at Norman whose eyes stared blankly at him. He doubled checked the cupboards to make sure he hadn’t missed anything and swung the bags to stack by the door.
Jackson started the search for the keys. Things were back on track and he couldn’t wait to get to Cady. She’d be a welcome oasis and he could vent about the mistakes he’d made and she could reassure him about how terrific he was. “Cady, here I come.”
Chapter 5
Hollywood
Buck Stranton
Buck Stranton hated watching the movies he’d been in. At the same time, he hated watching others in other movies even more because he usually wished he’d gotten the part or he was jealous at how good the actor had done in a specific role.
The worst thing Buck hated about himself was that he was a victim of comparison. He always had been. The one question he continually asked himself was why was Tom Hanks the highest paid actor when Buck had more muscles and stronger features?
His third wife had said it was because Hanks could play an average guy in any situation. He was believable. He was a nice guy. Hanks was believable as any role out there. Her response was probably why there’d been a fourth wife.
Buck played the jerk in most parts. He’d been typecast back in the day during the zombie explosion. He got great parts and lots of money, but only about half what Hanks
got. He’d once been offered a role opposite Hanks, but he knew the comparing would be out of control and he’d probably ruin his career. He’d turned it down for his sanity.
At least Buck was higher paid than Pitt. He’d never forgive himself if Pitt was paid higher than him.
Pitt was his fourth wife’s favorite. She’d died of the sickness a couple days before the power went out for the general population. Even Buck’s generators had to give out eventually. He only had so much fuel and he had a feeling some of it had been stolen during the week he’d been sick.
Somehow he’d gotten better when a lot of his friends and neighbors hadn’t. Some were still sick and Buck was glad the phones were down because he was better off not knowing who was sick and who was dead. If they were able to contact him, then they’d ask for help and he would have to watch them die. Watching them die was the only option. He had no idea how to help anyone, let alone himself.
Lost in his train of thought, he moved as if out of habit, climbing from the soft cushions of his couch and trudging across the expanse of white carpet his first wife had put in and he’d never had the heart to change.
His first wife had been the love of his life. Buck had given over to his mounting fame and he’d cheated on Lucy with his second wife. The one true regret of his life. Everything since had just been one downhill roll after another.
The wall of movies didn’t entice him. How many days would they entertain him? He’d only been stuck in his home a week or so. He reached for a DVD then paused. It didn’t matter if he was sick of them or not, his generator wasn’t running. He didn’t have anything to do while he was so bored.
That’s right. He’d started out thinking that he hated watching his movies, but he actually would give anything to be able to watch one right then.
Something shattered through his front window, a thud as it fell to the ground faintly carried on the stagnant air. Buck lurched to the side, stumbling from his living room and rushing across the hallway, the foyer, the mini-lobby, and into the front living room he’d decorated with reds and golds during one of his between-wife periods. He had sworn he’d never get married again. How many had there been? He would have been much richer, if he’d stopped getting divorced.
He slowed at the doorway, watching as shadows moved around outside his stained-glass windows. On the far side of the trio of long glass rectangles a window had been broken. A small circle with a web of cracks spread out from the center.
Angry voices wafted through the hole in the window, reaching Buck in the utter silence of his home. Buck backed from the room. He had to get out of there, but he wasn’t prepared. He wasn’t even wearing jeans.
What was he going to do? He’d thought he was the only one left, but now… Now, he wished he was the only one. He dug his toes into the plush carpet. Why had they picked his home? What were they after? Money? Drugs? He didn’t have anything worth stealing.
Another rock broke through a nearby window. Catching his breath, Buck turned to run up the stairs. He didn’t have a lot of time, but he had to get some things together and then get out.
As he reached his room, Buck ignored the nagging thoughts in the back of his mind. He had to get out, but where would he go? How would he get there?
Chapter 6
Manson
Manson groaned as he looked at the fuel gauge of the Volvo. Phil had been one conscientious man, but he could have put more in the tank before coming to work that last day. A half a tank wasn’t going to get Manson past Ritzville, if he got there at all.
Barreling up the highway as fast as the family car would take him, which wasn’t as fast as he would like to go, Manson judged he had about a hundred more miles to go to get to Ritzville. He could make it. Too bad there weren’t any hills he could coast down to conserve fuel. No, it was flat, if not even a little bit uphill.
Once there, he could siphon gas or hijack a different car. He just had to get to Ritzville. It wouldn’t be smart to stop in any of the smaller towns. If there were survivors, they would be banding together, blocking outsiders. Manson had no doubt that a smaller community would be much harder to infiltrate than the business section of a larger city. People tended to stick to their neighborhoods when there was a disaster. The pseudo-safety often gave them peace of mind.
Manson’s stomach growled – not for the first time. He shifted on the seat, sucking in his stomach and then pushing it out as hard as he could. The ache needed to go away. Taking time to search out food wasn’t an option, at least right then. He had to stay on task.
He refused to stop. Not until Ritzville. When he got to the town along I-90, he’d take time to get gas and scavenge up some food. He had a very strong sense that if he stopped before he was forced to, his path would be altered and he wasn’t interested in that at all.
The miles blurred together, time passing quickly and with a little bit of tension as the fuel gauge dropped closer and closer to E and its red line.
Passing a green sign stating how many miles remained until he reached the junction and town, Manson grimaced as the engine spluttered, fought to go more, then just died and coasted to a stop. Manson didn’t even bother pulling to the side of the road. There wasn’t any traffic to watch out for and the small car wasn’t likely to cause a road block no matter where he left it.
Leaning forward, he rested his head on the curve of the steering wheel and slapped his hand on the dash. Only two miles and he would have made it. Two miles. He was starving and tired. Why did freedom have such a high cost? Before prison, he would have taken his anger out on his next victim. While he wanted to do that very thing, he had no one around to torture.
He gathered his breath and let it all out on a whoosh. Okay, he’d made it out of prison and he’d escaped the cannibalism that was happening. He could do anything. Reaching to the side, he grabbed ahold of the crow bar sitting on the passenger seat, the only thing he’d been able to carry with him. No way was he leaving it behind.
Opening the door, Manson climbed from the car. The afternoon sun wasn’t fast to fade. Not with the plains stretching out far and wide with tumbleweed rolling in the wind. Hooking the bar in the corner of his pocket, he set off, whistling to take the sting off being alone in such an open space.
He hadn’t faced that much openness in years, always surrounded by fences, concrete walls, and even the car itself. He was always hobbled someway and right then, as he shuffled down the blacktop, his stride grew longer and more certain. He was a free man. No one was coming after him. He could make his own future, his own past. He could be anyone he wanted.
That meant more to him than any morsel of food he could find. And he would find food. He would find a new car to replace the one he’d just lost on the highway.
Manson had come too far to stop now, to accept defeat.
A couple miles was nothing to hike into town. He’d probably be there in the next twenty minutes or so. Maybe he could be there before he passed out from hunger and thirst. With the cool breeze, he wasn’t in danger of sweating, so he wouldn’t get dehydrated that way.
Once he got another car, some food, and a backup stash of gas, he needed to hide somewhere and get some sleep. The sleepless nights in the prison were catching up to him. Even just an hour would be nice. He glanced back at the car. He should have taken a nap before leaving, but in all honesty, if there were people out there, he would be an open target sitting there on the freeway.
Would he find safety so that he could get some rest? Or would he have to be on the run for a while longer? A single man in the end times was just asking for trouble.
Good thing he wasn’t a woman. That’d be more danger than he could fathom.
Chapter 7
Beth
Some kind of connection between Scott and Cady kept Beth’s attention on them as she rode in the backseat of Scott’s Bronco. The ride was rough, but sturdy and the four-wheel rumble gave Beth a sense of security her compact car never had. She was lulled by the constant growling shudd
er of the vehicle. Maybe she could sleep soon.
Not for the first time, Beth caught Cady side-eying Scott and his imperceptible reaction to it. She couldn’t figure out what they were saying to each other without words, but Cady glanced back at Beth and smiled tightly every few minutes.
They picked up speed and Beth narrowed her eyes. Leaning back, Beth folded her arms to think. Why would they stay quiet about what was going on? Did they think Beth was frail or something? What was going on?
There was an hour or two of light left before evening fell upon them, so the woods along the highway seemed friendly and large. She could almost pretend nothing had happened. She could almost believe as they passed the trees with their tops lit up with the afternoon light and the dark bark from the damp air, that there hadn’t been a world-altering virus that had wiped out more people than it had left behind.
She could almost… but then an image of her children would pop into back into her mind and her grief would threaten her sanity and she’d push it away, back under the numbness.
Dealing with the deaths wasn’t an option. If she could help it, facing their loss would never be an option.
Beth licked her lips, noticing for the first time how chapped they felt. When one was wrapped up in watching their husband die, they forgot to care about things like chapped lips and deodorant. Her bug out bag behind her. Beth turned, reaching for the bag and glancing out the back window. A van followed them, its lights flashing on and off as it tried to keep pace with the fast moving Bronco.
How long had they been followed? Beth flipped around and leaned forward, gripping the edge of Cady’s seat. She thrust her jaw to the side. “You guys are really pretending not to notice this van?” Beth turned again, hoping to see the van had pulled off the road or taken a different turn. “What are we going to do?”
Try Hard: a post-apocalyptic thriller (180 Days and Counting... Series Book 7) Page 3