by Adair, Bobby
Yeah. I wanted to think that. At the same time, I didn’t feel lucky at all, but skillful. I was a quick, decisive thinker. I kept a cool head, most of the time. I did the things that had to be done when they had to be done, no matter how gruesome and cruel. Maybe that made me a little bit special. “I just need to kill Mark.”
“And that’s gonna make it all better?”
“Better enough.” I’d already sold myself on that lie. I wasn’t going to back away from it.
Murphy pulled another candy bar out of his bag. “I’m saving the canned soup for supper.”
I stuffed a big bite into my mouth and chewed on the stiff caramel. “It’s not all that different than Pop-Tarts. You know, when you think about it. Mostly sugar and fat.”
“Whatever it is, you need all you can get,” said Murphy. “I don’t want you turning into a skeleton again. Now let’s get down to business. Do you have a plan to kill Mark? Because what you’re doing so far isn’t working.”
“Yeah.” I laughed. “I’m kinda making it up as I go along.”
“No shit? I hadn’t guessed that.”
Ignoring the sarcasm, I said, "The Smart Ones that run the show keep mostly to the center of the horde. They post guards at night. They've probably got some loose command structure with Smart Ones scattered all through the horde. Getting to them is going to be hard.”
“You think maybe when they’re on the move, you could just sort of tag along with the horde and walk right up?” Murphy waved a hand at me. “You do look like one of them.”
“Yeah,” I agreed. “Maybe that’ll work. Maybe if I can shadow the leadership for a while, hiding in plain sight among the stupid ones, I can pick off Mark when he goes off to take a dump or something.”
“Could work.”
"The things that worry me are these." I pointed at my boots and hefted my machete. "All the Whites in the horde go naked, completely naked. I’m sure by now they’ve got the calluses on their feet to make that work for them. I don’t, so trying to keep up with them barefoot is a plan that won’t work. Eventually, my boots will give me away. Then there's the machete. They see knives as a status symbol or intelligence badge. The ones with knives tend to be in charge of the stupider ones. If I wander around shadowing the leadership with my machete in hand and don’t have a band of Whites in tow, that might look suspicious too.”
"You could gather up a posse again like you did when you filled the combine with diesel,” Murphy suggested.
“So you pretty much followed me the entire time?” I asked.
“Yup,” answered Murphy.
“Why?”
“Are you complaining?”
“No.” I was a little offended. I didn’t need a babysitter. “I guess not.”
We finished our afternoon breakfast in silence and were preparing ourselves to leave the barn when Murphy said, “I’ve got a Null Spot idea.”
“I’m listening.”
"I'm regretting telling you already, but it might help us with two of our problems simultaneously, and the more I think about it, the more I like it.”
“You’ve got my attention.”
“We’re all in agreement that the Survivor Army is probably based up at Fort Hood, right?”
Shrugging, I nodded. I turned and walked over to the door in the floor, the one the Whites had been building a pyramid of boxes to get through.
Pointing at one wall, Murphy said, “The ladder’s over there. I pulled it up behind me.”
I opened the floor door and looked around in the barn below.
Murphy fetched the ladder. He said, “How far do you think Fort Hood is from here?”
“Fifty, sixty miles I guess?”
“How far do you think the naked horde moves in a day?”
I sat down on the edge of the hole in the floor, dangling my feet. “I don't know. I suppose if they wanted to they could go fifty or sixty miles in a day, if that’s what you’re thinking. But I’d guess ten or twenty depending on what kinds of food or distractions they find along the way.”
“What if we wanted to lead the horde to Fort Hood?” Murphy asked.
Finally understanding what he was getting at, I said, “You mean, lead them there and let them fight it out with the Survivor Army? Dude, that’s a genius idea. There’s no downside. And it at least partially solves those two problems we’re going to have if our plan is to go live happily ever after in College Station.”
Murphy chuckled. “I don’t know about happily ever after, but maybe for a while.”
“Doesn’t matter I guess, but with the Survivor Army and the naked horde around, whatever is going on at College Station isn't going to last. Once one of these bunches gets there, it's all over."
“Exactly,” confirmed Murphy. “The question is, how do we lead the horde to Fort Hood?”
“Don’t know.”
“While we’re thinking about it,” he said, “I think we maybe drive for a while, get out in front of where your buddies are headed, and wait for ‘em.”
“Bad idea.”
“Maybe in the city,” Murphy disagreed. “Out here you can drive away when you see ‘em. I know where a truck is.”
“Whatever.”
Chapter 26
In the distance, along a barbed wire fence a group of stragglers nestled under some trees. Farther away, a line of them walked toward an unknown destination, not in the direction the whole horde left in. In ones and twos, others strode aimlessly as though in having become detached from the main group, they’d lost their way altogether. I wondered if those solitary stragglers were the docile, stupid ones, in need of close supervision.
We were outside, standing against the rear wall of the barn when Murphy pointed east. “That truck I told you about. It’s a couple of miles that way.”
“And it’ll start?” I asked, skeptical and looking for an excuse to unwind our tacit agreement.
“I told you, man,” Murphy shook his head, “I got inside, the keys were in there, the back seat was loaded up with stuff like the dude was going to go somewhere but never left.”
“You said you turned it on.”
“No.” Murphy frowned. “I said I turned the key, and the dash lights came on, and the fuel gauge said the tank was full. I didn't start the engine.”
“So the battery could be nearly dead,” I said. “It might not have enough of a charge to crank the starter.”
“Is that what happened when you started up the engine on the harvester?” Murphy shot back.
I shook my head.
“You got a better idea, then?” Murphy stepped away from the corner of the barn and looked around. “You see another combine sitting around, maybe?”
“Be cool, dude.” One of us needed to say it. We were both tense and grouchy from not enough sleep. “I’m just trying to understand what we’re dealing with.”
“It doesn’t matter,” said Murphy with a sudden grin. “Just because we’re planning on going over to find that truck doesn’t mean something won’t go wrong along the way. Hell, the truck probably won’t even be there anymore.”
That was the irony of the little tiff we were cultivating. I laughed darkly.
“You know what I’m talkin’ about, right?”
I nodded. I did indeed. The virus had a way of finding its way into every plan and ruining it.
“It’s cold as your mama’s titties out here.” Murphy exaggerated a shiver.
“And?” I asked, trying to recall how much I’d told Murphy about The Harpy.
“And we need to get you some clothes,” said Murphy. “I’m tired of seeing your dong hanging out every time I look at you.” Murphy took off at a jog toward a line of trees and bushes across a trampled field behind the house.
I followed.
He looked over his shoulder at me. “You’re gonna get frostbite if it gets any colder.”
We were maybe halfway across the field when the clack of wood on wood startled me. I turned to see a screen door on the farmho
use swinging open. Whites were shouldering their way through. One was already off the porch and running across the muddy ground toward us. Or, toward Murphy since he was dressed and carrying a rifle, clearly a human of the tasty variety.
I swung my machete through the air as though I was chasing Murphy. Sometimes plans come together just that quickly. “Make for the trees,” I said. “I’ll lag back.”
“What?”
“Do it,” I ordered. I cocked my head at the coming Whites. “I’ll handle these guys when they run past me. When you get to the trees, get ready to shoot, just in case.”
Murphy sprinted away as I slowed, growing a gap between us. That was needed. The Whites had likely already seen us in close proximity. Some of them might already have made the connection between Murphy and me.
I needed to change that. My little plan depended on me selling my identity as a member of the naked horde.
I exaggerated my machete swings and grunted an angry monkey sound. Hopefully, that would do it.
I swung my machete a few more times as I looked over my shoulder. Maybe ten or eleven Whites were out of the house and coming our way.
I changed course a tad, wanting to be out of the direct line of the Whites chasing Murphy, just to be safe. If they were focused on him, my hastily conceived plan would work. If they were after me, then I needed some extra space and a whole lot of luck. As fast as they were coming, I couldn’t kill all ten before they overwhelmed me.
I slowed a bit more and looked around, knowing from experience I was focused too keenly on the most prominent threat. Too often, other dangers lurked unseen, ready to kill.
Other Whites were pretty far away, but none was coming toward us. Yet. If any of those coming out of the house started their screaming as they often did when they were on the chase, every infected golf ball head within earshot would come.
Everybody knows what the dinner bell sounds like.
The first of the Whites passed to my right with only a glance in my direction.
Good.
Two more Whites ran by, and I picked up my pace.
Timing it just right, I fell in at the end of the group of running Whites spaced out over thirty or so yards. The female in the rear shot a glance over her shoulder. I was of no interest to her. We were both infected and naked, obviously the slow ones.
I hacked her across the back of her knee, not at all interested in expending the effort to attempt a cut through her leg. That wasn’t going to happen anyway. I was a skinny, infected monster awkwardly swinging a nicked up machete, not a samurai with a razor-edged katana.
Her knee bent in a painful direction and she tumbled, hollering something.
A female White just ahead of us looked back at her fallen sister, slowing as she did. Maybe she was going through the mental process of deciding if the menu had just expanded. To her misfortune, she wasn’t paying me any attention. I ran by, cutting across the back of her knee as well.
She fell, far from dead, but not getting up.
Two down, with ease.
I was learning to take pride in the simple pleasures.
Two big guys were running side-by-side ahead of me, oblivious to what was going on behind them.
I sped up to get within machete range.
Our target, Murphy, disappeared into the bushes at the edge of the field, and the Whites ahead of me wailed a familiar, frustrated scream.
Damn.
Without looking, I knew that noise caught the attention of any Whites still around.
I swung my machete and caught one of the big guys on the calf. He stumbled.
His buddy slowed and glared at me with bared teeth as I ran by.
The uninjured White knew who to blame for what had just happened. He lunged toward me while raising his hands to attack.
I dug my heels into the soft ground, trying to stop in the shortest space of feet and seconds. I raised my machete and aimed it at the guy’s throat.
The White didn’t react fast enough. It probably never occurred to him I’d do anything but keep running. The White’s momentum drove my machete through his neck. He went limp, and I rolled to my right as his dead weight tumbled through the spot of dirt I’d just vacated.
Covered in smears of mud and leaves, I bounced back to my feet and ran to catch up with the next of my victims.
Three muzzle flashes from the hedge along the fence told me exactly where Murphy was. The three Whites farthest ahead of me fell—one wounded, two dead or getting that way pretty quickly from wounds to their heads. Damn, Murphy was a good shot.
The other Whites slowed. The taste of blood was in the air. Warm meat had just fallen at their feet. While they were thinking about what to do, I killed two of them. Murphy shot the other two.
Wearing a grin, I ran on toward the trees. As gruesome as it was, we’d just won another round.
“Hurry,” Murphy shouted. He wasn’t feeling the victory at all and that changed my mood instantly.
I looked back and heard the sound of stampeding feet. A quarter mile away, coming over a rise, three or four hundred Whites were running. They were coming right at us.
Chapter 27
“What the hell?” The words fell out of Murphy’s mouth as he stood beside a tree, watching.
I bulled through the thick bushes, grabbed a fence post, and vaulted over the barbed wire. I looked back at the bunch of Whites coming our way. I pointed at the Whites we’d just killed, “I don’t know if it was their yapping or what, but that bunch is coming this way, and you can bet your ass there're a couple of Smart Ones in there.”
Climbing quickly over to my side of the fence, Murphy asked, “What makes you think that? Because—”
“Because that’s the worst-case scenario.” I looked over my shoulder to make sure another mob wasn’t coming from behind us. That would have been really worst case. Still, a sorghum field stretched off for… for… Christ! It was a long-ass way.
Out here in the country with seemingly endless fields, the distances—I was learning—were deceptive.
That tree line way over there on the other side of the field wasn't a couple hundred yards away, though that's what my city-born intuition told me, because nothing I was used to seeing in the city was ever very far. The tree line was a quarter or a half or even three-quarters of a mile distant. It was plenty far that if Murphy and I sprinted for the other side, it would be a damn near-wasted effort because Whites would be coming through these trees and over this fence a long time before we got to the other side of the field. They’d see us out there in the knee-high stalks of cut sorghum, and they'd chase us—Murphy specifically, because he was dressed and armed like a normal human.
And everybody with virus-bleached skin knew normal humans tasted best of all.
I pointed down the fence we were standing beside. It cut a line perpendicular to the path the mob of Whites was taking toward us. “Let’s go that way. We need to stay close to the bushes and trees so that once the Whites get here, we can jump back in and hide. If they see us in the open…”
Murphy was already running. “C’mon Professor. I don’t need the explanation. This isn’t my first day on the job.”
I ran after him. Full speed and not sustainable but we didn’t care. We’d be able to catch our breaths in a moment when we were sneaking along at a much slower speed through the bushes and trees. Right now, we needed distance.
We’d gone maybe a few hundred yards when Murphy jumped off the dirt path we'd been following at the edge of the cultivated field and dove into the bushes. I was right behind him.
Before I got myself turned around he’d already put a boot onto a low tree branch and pulled himself up for a better view.
“What do you see?” I whispered as I leaned out from the bushes to look down our side of the hedgerow.
Whites were pouring over the fence in the spot we’d left seconds before and were fanning out into the sorghum field. A gust of wind rustled the dry, brown leaves and startled me as my brain told me
it was the sound of Whites coming through the crops behind me.
It wasn’t. But God, I was jumpy.
I was in adrenaline-junkie-haul-ass-shoot-some-motherfuckers mode.
“C’mon,” said Murphy, letting himself down from the tree. “Stay close. Don’t let ‘em see you.”
“Yes, Professor.” I grinned as I followed.
He smiled widely, and his eyes looked a little bit crazy. His adrenaline was running hot too.
Junkies for the thrill.
Staying in the bushes and behind the trees that grew thickly on both sides of the fence made for slow going. It took us an unsettlingly long while to get to the corner of the field, our momentary salvation. That gave us three directions to move in while staying close enough to a hedgerow to use it for cover.
When we stopped, Murphy and I both climbed a tree just high enough to get a view over the scrubby bushes and between the mostly bare branches of the other trees along the fence.
The Whites who’d gone into the sorghum field were still spreading out, regularly spaced, staring at the dirt and shuffling slowly. Two Whites among them stood out for the fact that they didn’t appear to be searching but cajoling the others to work in certain patterns. Those two were Smart Ones. Not only that, but they weren’t casually trying to find a meal. Their search had more purpose—maybe a guess—and they were employing a process.
On the other side of the fence, a Smart One was busy kicking, punching, and herding other Whites who’d taken an interest in feeding on the infected Murphy and I had slain. Whites liked an easy meal. A second Smart One on that side of the fence was working more Whites along the hedgerow, searching for us there.
“This doesn’t look right to me,” said Murphy.
“No.” I was past understatement, past process, and was on to motive. “I think they’re looking for me.”
“For you?” Murphy laughed and sarcastically added, “You are the special one.”
“That’s not what I mean.” I climbed down from the tree. “Obviously that’s not the whole naked horde.”
Murphy jumped to the ground, turning to look at an empty field behind us. “And?”