His last memory was leaving the house with Daltry to go and speak with Tyler and his clan. Where Yen fit into that story was beyond his recollection.
“How is it feeling?” Linda asked, interrupting his thoughts.
“Stomach hurts,” was all he could muster, the simple act of carrying on his part in a conversation was almost too much pain for him to handle.
“Your leg Tar, I'm talking about your leg.”
“Can't feel it over the pain in my stomach,” Tar answered honestly, suddenly very concerned about his leg.
“Probably better that way, Tar. You got shot in the thigh, nicked your artery. You almost died of blood loss on the way over here. We managed to get you patched up, but we couldn't save your leg, Tar. I'm sorry.”
Tar struggled to sit again and once he could see the end of the bed in front of him he could see the noticeable absence of a lump under the blanket where his lower left leg should have been. He struggled to hold himself up on one arm in order to pull back the blanket and see for himself. His leg ended just below his knee, the remains of his leg was wrapped in sterile gauze, cotton wadding and surgical tape. He flopped himself back down painfully and fought to contain the groan the effort had elicited from him.
“Get Yen,” he barked at the doctor after a moment, sweat covering his brow.
Linda let her gaze linger on Tar for a moment before she turned to leave the room and do as he bade.
“Wait, you said a couple months?” Tar barked at her back. “Where is Daltry?”
“He didn't make it, Tar. He was shot in the head.”
Tar quieted immediately, doing his best to try and recall the trip to the Peterson ranch.
*
Will looked to Laura and Tim briefly before he slid the shifter slowly past reverse and neutral, settling it in drive. He hesitantly hit the accelerator and started moving forward, albeit at a crawl. A mile further down the road another similar sign also warned against intrusion, it stated: Trespassers will be killed, dead or alive. No Stopping. As tensions in the Yukon were reaching a boiling point, an intersection appeared ahead. The dead traffic light that hung over the street swung gently in the chill breeze. A half-dozen burn barrels scattered about the area shot flames and sparks skyward, casting an eerie light in the overcast afternoon. It was only a few moments before they spotted the very real sight of numerous people moving about, getting into position all about the area. All four of them held their breath and clutched their weapons tightly.
A single figure moved out into the road, holding what appeared to be an assault rifle. The person was dressed in full green military fatigues. In addition to the normal dress, he wore a gas mask and body armor. The person held the weapon barrel upright with one hand and pointed further down the road with his other hand. Will couldn't help but slow as they pulled through the intersection. It was so rare that they saw living people and although he knew how dangerous the situation was, he couldn't help but make eye contact with the person as they drove past. The eyes recessed in the gas mask flicked about wildly with fear. The look in those eyes made Will feel even less comfortable with the scenario.
Tim was less fixated on the person in the middle of the road, directing them onward. Instead, his eyes were focused on the great many gun barrels bristling out of every window and rooftop in view. His whole body tensed to the point he needed to force his muscles to relax once they passed through. To a person, everyone inside the Yukon held their breath until they were well past the intersection. As a group they exhaled noisily. Their tensions returned anew as two vehicles pulled out behind them and followed them at a distance. Their escort followed for nearly two hours before, as if in well practiced unison they peeled off in opposite directions and headed back towards the town of Pierre.
“My fucking nerves are shot,” Will said, breaking the silence while forcibly relaxing his grip on the steering wheel. “Someone else needs to drive.”
“I'll drive,” Tim stated absently. “Not like I'd be getting back to sleep after that anyways.”
Will eased the Yukon to a stop and slipped through the pass-through into the back. Tim moved quickly into the driver's seat. He wanted to get the vehicle moving once again, uncomfortable with the windowless vehicle lingering on the side of the road. Laura and Jen swapped spots and the vehicle continued on in silence.
Some time just after dawn, Jen heard Christine start to moan softly in her sleep. Dream peacefully, she thought, as she turned her attention back to her duties of scouring the area ahead for undead. Except Christine didn't sleep peacefully. The moans gradually intensified over the next twenty minutes, until Christine finally verbalized the moans into a loud pained sigh.
Tim's head snapped around violently.
“That's not . . ?” he asked, nervously looking back to a bleary eyed Laura who had just woken.
“Huh?” Laura asked, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.
Before Tim could answer, another moan escaped Chris' lips, deep and pained. Laura's eyes bulged at the sound and the exhaustion disappeared from her features as she spun about to attend to the girl.
“Laura, please tell me that's not happening right now,” Tim called from the front.
“I don't know, Tim. It's early for sure, but it sure as shit sounds like it,” she called back.
Jen just stared wide-eyed and mouth agape back into the Yukon, unable to digest the fact that the teenager was in labor.
“Where is the pain, honey?” Laura asked the girl.
“My fucking ovaries feel like they are getting twisted into knots!” Chris growled.
Laura popped her head up over the back of the seat and met eyes with Tim.
“We need to get some supplies, Tim,” she said with her voice even.
Her eyes showed Tim the grave concern she was feeling.
“Fuck,” he replied, more of a mumble than a word.
“Where? What do we need?” Jen barked from the passenger seat.
Laura popped her head back up and made a face that indicated to all that she had no idea.
“Just find a fucking pharmacy, somewhere where we can at least get some clean stuff that isn't covered in shattered glass.”
*
Mark couldn't fathom the burden of leadership that Grayson bore. Whatever his thoughts and feelings were about the man, Mark knew that he was a survivor. Grayson was as tough as nails and he was very persuasive. His trustees followed him without question, as did the 'flock' which was made up of people like Mark and Amber. People that had survived only due to sheer luck or the help of others. He and Amber had melded easily into the subservient, quiet role they had played throughout the winter with Jack and Esme.
Over the next week, Grayson led the ever-growing band of survivors southward towards Salida, Colorado. After a week of transient camps, they finally set up a more permanent camp a few hours north of Chester M. Tilman Air Force Base. Mark and Amber, along with the rest of the flock had no idea of their course or purpose, only the trustees were given any real information. For the flock, they were just happy to be under the protective wing of a group of able protectors. The morning after they set up the camp, one of the trustees approached Mark. As his nature dictated, Mark tried to step out of the man's way. To his surprise, Terry pulled up, standing face to face with him.
“Grayson needs you, Mark. You're coming along with us today,” he stated simply, flatly, before turning and walking away.
“You can't leave me, Mark,” Amber said, her voice quivering in fear.
“He must be mistaken, Amber. Don't freak out, let me go talk to him,” Mark reassured her, moving off towards Grayson's tent.
Mark made his way through the ramshackle camp until he spotted the large canopy tent he recognized as Grayson's. He slowed his approach, nervous about how the talk and his inevitable pleading would be taken by the trustees gathered about. He was well aware that Grayson knew he was a coward, but he didn't know if he could bear the shame of the rest of the camp knowing. After the winter at
Jack's, he didn't know if his already fragile ego could handle the laughter and looks of contempt from the rest of the camp. He was still getting used to the new order of things and couldn't help but view most of the trustees as uncouth philistines. He was very cautious to hide his contempt, knowing that if he were to let it slip it might mean a physical confrontation. As he closed the final gap to the tent, the guards looked him up and down, disinterestedly. The larger of the two, sporting a handlebar mustache and a submachine gun leaned his head in the tent.
“Mark is here, boss.”
“Send him in,” came the response after an audible sigh.
“Mark, before you embarrass yourself, please allow me to be frank with you. You have benefited greatly from our arrangement here,” Grayson started before Mark's eyes could adjust to the dim light inside the tent.
A slight smirk touched the corners of Grayson's mouth as he indicated for Mark to have a seat on a log on the opposite side of the table he sat at.
“You have survived, eaten well of food that was given freely, and slept soundly with the knowledge that under my care, you are safe.”
Grayson paused, fixing his steely gaze on Mark, waiting for the acknowledging nod. Mark was powerless to argue the man's point. He averted his eyes from Grayson and looked around the tent instead. Grayson sat at a table made from a tree stump with a glass of whiskey and a chess board atop it. There was a curtain behind him that Mark assumed was his sleeping quarters. Mark realized that the silence was lengthening and that Grayson was waiting for a response. He slipped his eyes back to the man who stared, dead-eyed, back at him. Mark simply nodded his acquiescence. Grayson finished tapping out his pipe, packed it and brought it to his mouth, lighting it. He stared long into Mark's eyes, making him shift uncomfortably on the log he was seated upon.
“In return for all of that, you have cooked and cleaned game, poorly, I might add. Oh, and you have helped set up and break down the camp. Duties that a child or meek woman would normally be assigned.”
Mark was left speechless, the blood rushed into his face in shame and his eyes dropped to his lap.
“Look, Mark, I'm not trying to demean you here, even if it seems that way.” Grayson's tone shifted to sound more fatherly, once he made this point. “What I am merely pointing out is that we have an arrangement that is particularly beneficial to one side, yours. What I am asking . . . what I am requiring of you will not put you in danger. Nor would I allow your wife to be put in danger by your absence. We will be leaving guards at camp, able men who will ensure that no harm comes to any who remain whist we are absent. If you prefer, I can leave you with a weapon and take all the able men with me. Would you prefer that Mark?”
Through the haze of shame, Mark shook his head to indicate that would not be preferable. He couldn't fathom being left as the sole protector of the fifteen or so women and children in camp. Grayson was shining a very bright light on just what a useless excuse of a man Mark was. In that moment, he wasn't sure whether he hated himself or Grayson more.
“Okay, the reason you are coming, that we are going as a group is to make a reasonable show of strength. If the base is occupied by men, military men, they will need to see that we are not to be trifled with. Twenty men may not seem much to you and I, Mark, but to men that have been sitting behind barbed wire fences, eating MREs for the past six months . . . men that haven't the slightest idea of what it is to survive out here. Well, I'm hoping they will overestimate our prowess and be in awe. If the base is empty or filled with the infected we will retreat and devise a strategy for acquiring that which we need.”
Grayson drummed his fingers absently on the small camp table in front of him before speaking again.
“So do we understand each other regarding our duties for the day or shall we renegotiate the terms of our current arrangement?”
Mark stood and nodded, still refusing to meet eyes with the man and moved away as fast as he could without running.
“We leave in one hour, Mark,” Grayson called after him.
*
“They cut and ran?” Tar asked weakly from his bed.
“Yep. The Petersons took their herd of cattle and drove them down south a ways,” Yen responded.
“You tracked them?”
“Yeah, they got in a few skirmishes with the undead before they found a plot outside Carbondale to winter at. We had to put our scouting trips on hold during the coldest months but we tracked them down a few weeks ago.”
“Are they still there?” Tar asked, his interest fully piqued.
He winced heavily as he tried sitting upright.
“No, spring thaw got them moving again, probably knew that we were waiting for the trails to clear to continue pursuit. They were headed southwest last word we got. Harold has a team out that's been following them for a while now. After the thoughts of swift vengeance mellowed out, we were kinda hoping you would wake up and tell us how you want it handled.”
Tar settled back into his bed and fell deep in thought. Linda had briefed him on the details of his condition. He had lost his leg from the knee down. He had been gut-shot and even though the wound was healed, the pain was still wretched. To cap it all off, he had suffered a stroke that had caused edema. He had been sedated intravenously, in a virtual coma for the entire winter while the swelling on his brain went down. Linda told him that walking would be a gradual thing, three months of atrophy would assure that he wouldn't be good on his feet for a few days. She also told him that it would likely take a few weeks for him to build up the strength to walk any significant distance. He forced himself to sit up, eliciting a wicked pain from his stomach, so he could feel the stump where his leg had been. He ran his hand lightly over the gauze bandages. Well shit, he thought.
“Tar?” Yen asked. “The camps outside the barricades have swelled up quite a bit since the thaw set in. Probably got two-thousand total divided among the four camps.”
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! They all trying to get in?”
“Most, well, some at least. Nala is working to create a militia among them, to help keep them safe from the undead, and each other. We shuffled our feet and waited a bit too long to do it. Y'know, out of nerves about having an armed force outside our walls. In the end though, the whole thing kind of works in our favor. A lot like paying them in food for ears did at the start. They'll also act as our first line of defense.”
“Smart. Any issues popping up with the camps?”
“A few . . . we had to set some rules. Obviously, not everyone can have weapons, and drugs are forbidden. Banning alcohol and gambling came after a few incidents. There have been a number of deaths, both from the weather as well as the undead. Generally speaking, though, it's been running pretty smooth.”
“What about the undead?”
“Everywhere, near as we can tell. Survivors came in from as far south as Arizona and east to Alabama. They all tell the same story.”
Tar nodded grimly. He had suspected since early on that this was a big deal, Linda helped him see that. The verification from other survivors just made him thankful he listened to her all those months ago.
“Many more attacks from other survivors?”
“Nothing really to speak of. Since the barricades were constructed high enough and reinforced with enough firepower, we haven't heard a peep. I'd guess most of the shitheads that would have been inclined to attack moved on to find easier prey.”
“Good. Now leave me alone for a bit, Yen. You did good. Come see me tomorrow.”
Yen put his hand on Tar's and patted it before turning to leave.
“Oh, and, Yen,” Tar added. “Tell Harold to leave Tyler to it, if he ran off let him be. He's not our problem anymore.”
Yen looked at Tar oddly for a moment then shrugged his shoulders.
“As you wish. See you tomorrow.” As Yen turned to move towards the door, he spun back abruptly. “Oh! I almost forgot.”
Yen unslung the rucksack from his shoulder. He reached in, producing T
ar's gun belt with pistol and a box of ammo. He moved to the end table and placed them in the drawer, within arm's reach for Tar.
“Figure you'd feel naked without this by your side, even if you're laid up. And more so without these.” He finished holding a pair of jeans and a shirt out before tucking those atop the gun belt.
“Thanks, Yen,” Tar croaked out at him, sincerely touched that the man had been so thoughtful.
*
Jen moved into the back to help Laura attend to Christine. Tim couldn't help as the panic welled in him. The tension of passing through Pierre coupled with Christine's apparent early labor kicked his panic into overdrive. His foot grew heavier on the pedal, drifting well above the thirty to thirty-five they designated as safe travel speed. He didn't see the undead stagger out in front of the Yukon until it was too late. The Yukon impacted with the walking corpse at close to sixty miles an hour.
Tim felt his head bounce off the steering wheel and then connect with the back of the seat. He nearly lost consciousness and it was his panicked state alone that kept him from doing so. He forced his leaden foot onto the brake pedal and brought the heavy SUV to a screeching halt in the middle of the highway.
“What the fuck was that?” Will shouted with the grogginess of sleep still present in his voice.
“Fuck!” Tim blurted. “I'm sorry guys. I didn't see it 'til it was too late. Everyone okay back there?”
Will met eyes with everyone but Christine who was writhing in agony on the back row of seats before responding.
“Looks like we are all good back here, the car still good to run?”
“Motor seems fine, it’s still running. Can't see for shit out of the windshield, though,” Tim replied.
Before Jen could issue a word to stop him, Will was already out of the vehicle. He cautiously moved to do a walk-around. Jen sighed and slid out behind him. The front windshield, which had already been shattered into spider-webbed chunks of glass, held together by the plastic coating, was now covered in fresh black and crimson gore from the body they had struck. It was nearly impossible to see out of. Will was inspecting the damage while Jen secured their perimeter in the growing gloom of late afternoon. Tim opened the door to join the two outside of the vehicle.
Harvest of Ruin (Book 3): A Spring of Sorrow Page 15