The Dark Roads

by Lemmons, Wayne

  "Get that kid down here!" Richie yelled up at them, "We need to get locked up!"

  They lay the man onto a blanket, knowing that they wouldn't be able to use the thing now that it was covered in blood. It couldn't be helped. The man had bites all over him, including his upper back and shoulders, and the blanket would actually help to stop the bleeding from those.

  Elvis ran back up the stairs as soon as they laid their passenger down. Richie stayed with him, waiting for his friends to join them. Soon Amanda was coming down with the girl in her arms. Richie tried to figure out how old she was and could only guess that she was between eight and twelve.

  "We've got company!" Buddy shouted from upstairs, his voice straining.

  "Stay with them," Richie told Amanda, before running to the top of the steps.

  He flipped open the pocket watch, the lines of his drawing showing above the face of the clock, and saw that it was close to sunrise. Surely even these crazies wouldn't risk being caught out in the sun, but he couldn't know for sure how insane they really were. The sound of a pistol firing burst through the room above just as he reached the landing. Once outside of the basement, Richie slammed the door shut and ran to where he thought Buddy and Elvis would be.

  They were there, shooting out into the shadows at running forms through the broken window. Without hesitation, Richie picked the coach gun up off of the floor where Buddy had set it before opening fire. Their targets were too far away to hit with the coach, so Richie fled to the door through which they'd entered. The entrance was still closed, but not locked, and he saw the doorknob turning just as he got to it.

  Richie posted himself with the shotgun aimed at the doorway, both hammers cocked and ready. He hoped that there were shells in the breech, but didn't have time to check. When the door swung open Richie fired one barrel into the center of the opening without consideration, shoving a man back through it. A second man filled the doorway, his form thick from eating too well on his fellow man. Richie emptied the second shell into his midsection.

  With the door cleared, Richie kicked it closed and ran the bolt. He turned to look for his friends, still hearing pistol fire, and ran to them. He was out of ammo because he hadn't been the one carrying the coach. Buddy would have more shells in his pockets.

  He wiped sweat away from his brow, trying to protect his good eye, as he came upon them. Their pistols fired, one after the other, scattering bullets among the six or seven runners coming at them. Richie counted fallen bodies and saw that they'd taken out six men, so far. They were more than halfway through this if the assault was limited to those they'd already seen.

  "Shells!" Richie yelled, noticing the temperature rise in the room.

  "Right cargo!" Buddy directed, taking a bead on one of their assailants and shooting him down.

  Richie pulled a handful of the twelve-gauge shells from the big pocket on Buddy's shorts and put two into the coach. The others he shoved into his own pockets as he moved. He cocked the hammers on the weapon and turned back to the entrance, the barrels propped on his left forearm. No one seemed to be coming from that direction, possibly weary of what'd happened to the last two that had, so Richie went back to the window.

  It was getting warmer by the second and they would have to get down cellar as soon as possible. Richie wasn't eager to get another dose of daylight.

  "Downstairs!" Richie shouted, taking a position at the window, "I'll cover!"

  Buddy began to back away from the portal, firing the last few shots in his clip into the scattered group of runners, as did Elvis. The cannibals were running straight for them now, not bothering to dodge fire. Richie took aim on the closest as he began backing toward their sanctuary, and squeezed the trigger, taking the man down with a chest shot. Another came at him, almost at the window now, and he fired again. Another body fell, bleeding, to the ground.

  "We're in!" Elvis yelled, holding the door halfway open for Richie, who backed into the doorway as he reloaded.

  A shirtless man leaped through the window just as Richie closed the breech on his weapon and ran at them. Richie pointed the shotgun at his face one handed, and took off most of the man's head with both barrels, the weapon almost jumping over his shoulder. They closed the door, sliding the bolt on their side just as the sun was beginning to take the world again.

  ***

  Day became their guardian. The sunlight was all that kept them from another confrontation with the feeders. This was a difficult concept for them, but they took advantage of it just the same.

  Amanda and the little girl, who'd introduced herself as Abby, were in the business of disinfecting and bandaging wounds. The man's name was Dylan, but that was as much as Abby could tell them about him past the fact that they'd both been imprisoned by the group of feeders. Richie and Buddy tried to come up with some type of strategy, some way of circumventing the cannibals, but were coming up short. Elvis, who could be counted on for fresh ideas, had nothing to add.

  "We don't know where they are. We don't know how many there are. We're fucked if we go at them head on. We're fucked if we run. Can you think of any other scenarios?" Buddy asked.

  "Not until he wakes up," Richie answered, pointing at Dylan.

  "If he wakes up."

  "Abby can't tell us much about where they were being held. If she could, we might be able to plan," Richie said, circling the edge of the pocket watch with one finger before opening it to check the time, "And we have to sleep."

  "You can sleep right now?" Buddy asked rhetorically, "Go ahead. Be my guest."

  "All I'm saying, Buddy, is that if we don't sleep, then we'll be useless no matter what happens."

  "Richie's right," Elvis said.

  The three of them sat quietly, all trying to think of something. Elvis looked as if he might fall over and sleep whether he wanted to or not, soon. Richie wasn't far behind him. The wealth of possibilities was staggering, but they all ended in basically the same way. They were probably outnumbered and would all die no matter what they did.

  "At least it isn't a surprise," Buddy said, "At least we know we’re walking into a shit-show."

  "Understanding is still understanding," Richie added, "Even if it's vague understanding."

  "Fucking Confucius," Buddy remarked, shaking his head.

  "We could try charging them. Use the element of surprise. That's worked for us in the past," Richie suggested.

  "That won't work," an unfamiliar voice declared with a grating rasp.

  They all looked over to the man they'd rescued, but said nothing. It was obvious that he wasn't finished. They hadn't even realized that he was awake.

  "There are too many of them to run at head on," Dylan said, "Have to be at least twenty of the fuckers."

  "We put down quite a few before we could get down here," Buddy told him, "Maybe we evened the odds out a little."

  The man shook his head, tried a laugh but lost it, and began to speak.

  "I could only get Abby and myself out of there because they were getting ready to come after you from behind the trailer. Their camp isn't too far from there. They don't know how many of you there are, yet, but that doesn't matter. Even one live man is a meal for the whole group of them.

  "They also know you have a woman with you, which makes it that much better. You get what I'm saying here?"

  Richie nodded, seeing the problem with a head on charge. Buddy just looked on, his face tense with thought.

  "What if we just fight like we did before?" Elvis asked, suddenly.

  "The King has spoken," Buddy said.

  "Wait. Give him a chance. What do you mean, Elvis?"

  "We use the cars."

  Richie's eye widened. He smiled at Elvis, patted him on the shoulder. Buddy looked perplexed.

  "He means flanking, like when those people tried to steal our gear. It's actually not a bad idea."

  "You don't think that's a bad idea? If they have anybody watching, we're dead anyway."

  "I don't mean what we did," Richie
said with a grin, "I mean what they did. The feeders have to be underground somewhere, or they'd all be dead and we wouldn't have anything to worry about. That means they'll have to wait for things to cool off after sunset, just like we will."

  Buddy nodded, starting to see where Richie was headed with all of this. He saved a grin for Elvis, too, the King, who might've just saved their asses.

  "Hope you three know what you're doing," Dylan offered, before drifting back to sleep.

  Chapter 7

  DeBolt, AB

  May 12, 2021

  8:27 PM 102*F

  They were out earlier than they usually would have been, the heat much more intense than they were used to. They took their designated positions near the tractor trailer.

  Buddy was getting ready on the left side of the road, counting his ammunition and loading the two spare clips he kept for the nine-millimeter. Elvis was doing the same with the revolver on the right side. Richie knelt in the space where the truck and its trailer were connected, readying the rifle that had been involved in a similar operation not so long ago. Richie counted out spare shells for the coach, knowing that some close work would be in his near future.

  Buddy had balked earlier at the idea of Richie packing guns during all of this. Yes, he'd done well when they were under attack, but what if they were in the middle of a major fight when he fell into one of his lapses in reality? Amanda had actually been the one to speak for Richie, which surprised everyone, including Richie.

  "He fought one off while you were upstairs, Buddy," she'd persisted, "I watched him will himself through an attack before he came to help you."

  "How do you know he won't lose the next one?" Buddy had asked her, his face reddening as he spoke of Richie like someone who wasn't there, "I don't want the risk."

  "Well, let me put it this way, then," Amanda started, "If you don't let him help, we're all going to die. How's that?"

  Buddy had nothing to say in return.

  "Then it's settled," Amanda declared, going back to Dylan’s side.

  Richie ran all of this through his mind, trying to pick what he wanted from it. He hadn't known that Amanda was paying attention as he fought for his lucidity, but was glad she had. Otherwise he would be the one staying back in their shelter to care for Dylan and Abby as all of this went on. He was thankful for the fact that the man and child would be safe from danger, but wished all of them could just hide out.

  Maybe the feeders wouldn't even show. It was a possibility, but not a likely one. They'd be back and it would be soon. He and his friends would have to deal with that.

  No one spoke. No one moved. It was up to Richie to give them a signal and he wouldn't give it until he saw a target. That's what these people were to them now. Targets.

  "The night is real," he told himself, as if he were trying out some kind of preventative maintenance to keep the attacks at bay, “The night is real.”

  Richie watched the horizon while the others watched the open land to their right and left. Something told Richie that the feeders would stay to the road, just as he, Elvis, and Buddy always did.

  Being off the road, no matter how far, invited hazards that didn't exist on the pavement and hazards were something to avoid in the days where medical care was a thing of the past. Even the freaks had to know that. They were once normal people before they'd let themselves be driven to do things unimaginable in order to survive. Richie made a headband out of his bandana to keep the sweat from running into his eye.

  The sound of running feet echoed through the world. Richie looked around, frantically for the source, but couldn't see it. There had to be someone close, or else the thudding would've sounded less concrete.

  He saw it, the person that was no longer a real person, coming down the road in a sprint. Behind him there were eighteen more sets of feet. Some had guns, but the rest were armed with blunt instruments, mostly baseball bats. The ones with guns seemed to stay back while their counterparts ran dead toward them. It was time.

  Richie let out a whistle, just loud enough for his friends to hear, and fired the first rifle shot into the shoulder of the lead runner. Another round hit the man beside him in the stomach. A third went down. Then a forth was in Richie's sights. Down he went, a spray of blood coming from his neck. Richie fired again, missing one of the club bearers and shattering the windshield of a Chevrolet pickup that wouldn't ever be used again. He took deep, calm, breaths firing with each exhale and willed himself not to get excited. That was the key to staying in control right now.

  One of the gunmen had taken aim at the area he was in and fired a three shot burst into the trailer beside him. All of them would probably be bad shots due to the tremors associated with eating human flesh. He didn't really understand the sickness side of it, but he hoped to take advantage. Richie fired back at him, hitting a man to his left instead, before taking aim at another runner.

  By now, he knew, Buddy and Elvis would be getting close to where the gunmen were. If everything worked out and he was able to keep all of them busy, his friends would be able to get close enough to complete what they'd planned.

  Richie kept firing, hitting more bodies than he missed, but the charging feeders were getting close now. They'd started ducking behind the dead vehicles to avoid gunfire. There were six gunmen left, all of them firing on Richie's hide, but none of the shots had gotten close to him.

  He paid attention to the front runners, trying to count them as they appeared between the cars on the road. He guessed that there were still five of them out there, creeping toward him. He sent a few rounds toward the gun carriers and dropped one of them. Soon, the gunners were firing his way out of pure frustration, hampering their own people.

  The sound of pistols firing seemed to double for a moment, telling Richie that his companions had rounded upon the enemy. He dropped backward with the rifle, laying below the line of the rig and began firing low along the asphalt. He didn't aim at any one area, spreading the ground level projectiles evenly across the road, mostly looking to kick up asphalt and shrapnel. He didn't see much movement, but wasn't really expecting a great deal. He was, after all, playing as a distraction while trying not to get himself killed.

  Richie lay on his left side, hoping to keep his good eye safe from intrusions. Firing the rifle like this wasn't easy. It was, in fact, quite painful. The recoil of the thing, though minimal, was trying to turn him over on his back. All he could do to counter it was to keep his right foot partially planted behind his laying form. He stopped firing for a moment to listen.

  ***

  Elvis was out of breath, possibly due to not being ready for the increased heat in this earlier darkness, but kept running in spite of his condition. When Richie's shooting had dropped, the rounds no longer whizzing above the vehicles he was hiding near, he and Buddy were supposed to round on the enemy and face their backs.

  He could see them, now, twenty feet or so from him and knelt behind a Ford Tempo that reminded him of the one his mother had been so fond of. He smiled a little at that, before he began firing on his targets.

  There were twelve men back here, quite a few more than Richie had seen, and they were taking turns pot shooting at the tanker truck. Elvis didn't take the time to count runners, because they would be Buddy and Richie's problem. He just had to take as many of these enemies out as he could, before joining his friends.

  Elvis took his time, using the sound of Richie's rifle to cover his own shots. Three were down, so far, and he'd only used four of the loaded bullets. He kept firing on the feeders that had guns, the men not even noticing that their comrades were falling beside them. It was a great stroke of luck for Elvis, but he didn't get overconfident. He would fire off a round, then hide for a few seconds behind the engine block of the Tempo.

  On his sixth shot, the revolver clicked rather than roaring, and he looked at it for a moment. Hadn't he loaded all eight chambers? He pulled back behind the vehicle again, flicked the carousel out to check the loads and found that there
were, indeed, two more cartridges in the gun. He whipped the thing closed, aimed the pistol at the nearest man, and squeezed the trigger eight times without it firing. Something was badly wrong with either the ammunition or his weapon. He was still safe, still undetected, so he took the time to drop the unused shells into his palm, reload the gun, and try firing again. Nothing.

  Elvis looked down at the weapon, cursing it for being so dependable up until now, and thought about bolting back to where Richie was while he still had a chance. He was turning to do that very thing when he saw a discarded handgun on the pavement, laying not six feet from where he was crouched. He'd have to come out of hiding if he wanted the thing and that would be dangerous and scary as hell to boot, but his friends were counting on him.

  Buddy would be getting ready to start firing on the middle range of their attackers once the last one ran past him, but he wouldn't be able to do that if Elvis couldn't clear the shooters from the equation. He decided to go for the weapon, decided that being able to help was worth the risk.

  He ran, still crouched, to where the weapon lay on the ground, too far out in the open to be grabbed without being spotted. He counted his steps, a habit he'd gotten into during their long journey, and figured he was three steps away when something struck him high on his left leg, driving him to his knees. He didn't stop moving toward the gun that he'd decided was his now. He reached for it, grabbed the thing, and turned toward the grouping of men that had been shooting toward the truck and, in turn, his friend.

  Elvis fired the weapon at two men, one of them had actually been the one to shoot him, and dropped both of them. He crawled to cover, unable to stand with his new injury, let alone run. He put his back against the passenger side wheel and tried to catch his breath.

  He reached down with his free hand to check the wound and it came away wet and warm. The blood was really pumping out of the hole in his thigh, but he hoped that it wasn't as bad as it seemed at the moment. Elvis fought his way into a crouch, the pain taking over his senses for a moment, and turned to fire on whoever he could see.