Only The Dead Don't Die (Book 2): The Hunger's Howl

by Popovich, A. D.

  Scarlett divided the slice of bacon in half. “You have to eat,” Scarlett said sternly.

  Twila shook her head rather adamantly.

  “Just one bite,” Scarlett urged.

  Twila’s lips jutted in an undeniable pout.

  Scarlett dangled the bacon under Twila’s nose, thinking its enticing aroma would change her mind. Twila’s eyes popped wide-open. Her jaws snapped! Startled, Scarlett jumped back. She dangled it again. Snap! Snap! Snap!

  “Fine.” Scarlett gave her the pink lollypop instead. Guess I’m not winning any Mom of the Year awards. Twila had a habit of over-dramatizing during a crisis, which was every other day. Don’t tell me she’s a creeper sympathizer? Scarlett took a bite of the salty bacon, causing her tastebuds to buzz. Her stomach growled for more, but she forced herself to stop at half. She needed to save it.

  “I have to pee,” Twila whined.

  “Sure sweetie, go on the other side of this furnace.” Thank goodness she had stopped the teeth-snapping. The incident had been rather creepy.

  Twila gave her an unsure look. “That’s what I did when you were sleeping,” Scarlett said. It was a narrow area next to a wide beam with no danger of falling.

  Scarlett scanned the horizon. “Is that Willow? A silhouette of a lone horse wavered like a mirage in the distance.

  “She’s waiting for us.” Twila’s voice went void of all emotion.

  How bizarre, Willow waited for them in the distance. “Tell her to rest. We’ll need her help soon,” Scarlett said, hoping to keep the child preoccupied. But who knows, maybe Twila and Willow really did communicate with each other. Stranger things happened these days.

  “You hurt her feelings when you don’t tell her yourself,” Twila scolded.

  “I’m too busy thinking of a plan,” Scarlett retorted.

  Would Sheena come looking for them when they didn’t return? Probably not. Besides, she hadn’t told her exactly where they had been going. By noon, the sun beat down on the hot metal roof. It was going to make for a long afternoon. And Twila was in full-fledge whining mode.

  “They know you hate them.” Twila looked over the edge.

  Scarlett grabbed the child and stole a glance below at the risk of aggravating the restless creepers rambling around the building.

  “Watch. I’ll sing them a lullaby.”

  Twila sang one song after another. It was better than her whining.

  “I’m thirsty,” Twila complained.

  Luckily the canteen was half-full. “One drink.” Scarlett handed her the canteen and stood up to massage her cramped legs. What? The creepers lay scattered on the ground. “Did you tell them to go to sleep?” Scarlett asked in disbelief.

  “I told you they like my singing. Oh, you just never listen to me.”

  Twila the Zombie Whisperer? Scarlett wanted to laugh as a moment of hysteria took over. She could sneak down the ladder, grab the gun and tire iron, and then run to Willow. Then come back in a rage. And kill a hundred creepers? Uh. Not this breed. Not even Justin, the best Z-deactivator she’d known, could kill a hundred creepers with one gun and a tire iron. Reality took hold; she didn’t have a hundred bullets. But as the afternoon approached, the idea sounded better and better.

  “Why don’t they like me?” Scarlett asked to pass the time.

  “You kill them. It’s not their fault they are sick. They are people like us—only different.”

  It was definitely a different perspective. “If I don’t kill them, they’ll kill us. Simple as that, sweetie.”

  “They wouldn’t kill me,” Twila said wistfully.

  Great, now she’s delusional again. The sun’s going to make us both delirious before it sets. Good thing it’s only an eighty-degree day and not a hundred plus day.

  “I don’t see Willow.” Scarlett had kept tabs on the mare all day.

  Twila closed her eyes and was quiet for a few minutes. “She’s hiding. She’s afraid!”

  “She’s smart,” Scarlett answered, needing Twila to understand creepers were dangerous.

  “Bad people!” Twila’s eyes fluttered open.

  A buzzing sound alerted her. Several dust clouds plumed from the ground. Emerging from the clouds, three figures rode toward them. Not on horses. “Motorcycles? Shit! Duck.”

  They lay as flat as possible, skin against the hot metal. As the figures approached, the obnoxious whine sounded more like dirt bikes than motorcycles. Surely, the bikers would leave once they spotted the horde. Then again, shouldn’t she flag them down for help?

  “No! Bad men,” Twila mouthed, her golden eyes shrouded with terror.

  Once again the Silver Lady was communicating with Twila and not her. She found it infuriating. How can I protect her if I don’t know what’s going on? Twila went into one of her freaky meditative states, staring with eyes rolled-back and mouth gaped open. At least she’d be quiet unless she woke up screaming. Scarlett peered over the ledge for a quick look. The three dirt bikes circled the gas station and yelled obscenities at the horde. Are they insane? After several minutes, engines faded north. But an idling engine below warned it still wasn’t safe. What in the world were they doing? Herding creepers?

  A squawking sound from below. “Mad Dog, here.” Scratchy static. “Found them.”

  She risked another peek over the edge of the roof. The man’s arms and legs were sheathed in a sort of gothic skinned-leather armor. He unlatched his arm sheaths and pulled his shirt over his bald head. Scarlett shuddered at the shirtless man’s back, inked with disturbing tattoos of creepers. A creeper orgy? He poured a bottle of water over his head and shoulders and shook his head.

  Squawk.

  “A hundred head or more. Yeah baby, definitely X-strains.”

  Scratchy static. She couldn’t tell what the person on the other side of the two-way radio said.

  “ETA six days.” A pause as the radio squawked back. “One K a head, or I go to my other handler.” A long pause in the conversation. Squawk. “Yeah, tell that to the six men I lost. They’re the ones who got screwed.”

  Squawk, squawk.

  “One of these thinkers is worth a hundred of those lamebrains. Take it or leave it.” The man put the radio away and kicked the sand with his boot.

  Shit! The barrel of her 9mm gleamed in the sunlight. He picked it up, glancing from side to side. She jerked down. Had he seen the skeletal hands, or had they been trampled into the sand by the horde? With any luck, he’d assume her gun had been discarded after the gun owner had been overtaken by the horde. She hoped. Prayed. And willed him to think it.

  A crashing sound from inside the building startled her. The bike coasted to the back door. The metal door squeaked opened, followed by groans and gurgles. A series of gunshots—Twila cringed at each shot.

  The dirt bike sped off. She stared in bewilderment. You’re kidding me. They’re herding creepers. Why on earth would anyone in their right mind do something so crazy?

  Chapter 24

  Dean Wormer stomped on the Trav’s brakes.

  “Dude, what happened over there?” Justin scanned the horizon with the binoculars.

  “I’ll be dern. A train,” Dean said, stepping outside. He’d been following the train tracks for a while. They were bound to come across a train sooner or later. This one only had five boxcars, an engine, and a caboose.

  The Trav’s rear door swung open. “Did I ever tell you, you drive like my crazy Aunt Matilda,” Luther moaned.

  “Sorry ’bout that,” Dean said. “Spotted something interesting. A train, albeit a short one. You up to checkin’ it out?” Dean asked, eyeing Luther’s bandaged arm.

  “Count me in. My arm’s better. The tea tree oil seems to be knocking out the infection. Any people?” Luther asked.

  “It looks deserted. But there’s stuff all over the place.” Justin handed the binoculars to Dean.

  Something gnawed away at Dean’s gut when he zoomed in on the landscape. Pieces of what looked to be old tarps littered the ground. Or
, the thought suddenly occurred, It’s a mess of shredded tents.

  “Yep, it’s definitely worth a look-see. Weapons check,” Dean announced. He was making damn sure they were good and ready for action after their last fiasco.

  “I’m good,” Luther confirmed, stuffing extra mags into his pockets.

  “Ready.” Justin nodded.

  “Hop in. I’ll get us closer.” Dean wasn’t looking forward to another ambush. He drove over the track-ridden sand and then parked the Trav a few yards from the engine’s nose. He tapped the horn a few times.

  “Dude, are you intentionally calling out the Zs?” Justin said testily.

  “Better now, than when we're outside,” Dean said.

  “Look at that.” Luther pointed. “Shell casings. A helluva lot.”

  “Did we stumble onto a war zone of sorts?” Dean pondered aloud.

  “There’d be bodies with that many casings,” Luther said.

  “Maybe they’re just super bad shots,” Justin quipped.

  Dean got out of the truck. “No bodies. No dead-heads. What’d you reckon happened here?” Dean was befuddled. “Hold on. Wagon wheel tracks. Headed due north.”

  “Let’s check out the train,” Luther said uneasily. “Then we’ll know if we’re alone.”

  “Eyes sharp,” Dean said as they approached the train’s engine.

  Justin saluted with his gun. “I got this.” The nimble, young man jumped onto the engine’s side-railing. He returned several seconds later. “Clear.”

  “Notice the boxcars. They’re chained and padlocked. Could be chock-full of dead-heads.” Dean worried.

  “I can usually sniff out those stinking nimrods.” Luther sniffed at the door of the first boxcar they came to. “Don’t smell a thing. Justin, you want to grab the bolt cutters?”

  “Crack open the door just a pinch. See if you smell anything,” Dean said.

  After snipping the first chain, Luther cracked the first boxcar door open a mere two inches. “Nothing,” Luther said.

  Justin shined a flashlight inside while Dean aimed his Glock. Then Luther slid the cargo door open. “Military ammo cans—”

  “Tons of them.” Justin’s voice hit a high note.

  “We might have to stock up,” Dean decided.

  They checked each boxcar down the line. Besides the ammo, one was stacked with hay bales, another one was half full with wagon wheels, harnesses, and whatnot, one looked to be a bakery set-up, and one was a general store of sorts.

  “Wilcox was telling me about—what did he call them?” Dean mulled.

  “Pop-ups,” Justin reminded.

  “Looks to me, they had a little pop-up flea market,” Dean said.

  “Last Chance,” Luther announced, uncovering a hand-painted sign half-buried in the sand.

  “Last Chance ran into some trouble.” Dean looked around uneasily.

  “Guys, the wagon tracks might belong to Father Jacob’s people. We need to follow the tracks before it’s too dark,” Justin rambled.

  “Let’s get the hell out of here before someone returns,” Luther grumbled, eyeballing the area. “Something about this I don’t like.”

  “I’m with you,” Justin said.

  “Hold on. Our food supply is pretty low. Let’s take five minutes and grab what we use on a daily basis, especially food and ammo,” Dean decided, trying to think logically.

  “First sign of trouble, haul ass to the Trav,” Luther shouted half-way to the caboose.

  Dean started with the first boxcar, and Justin jumped inside the adjacent one. Dean climbed out with two ammo cans when Luther hollered, “Dean, pull up the Trav.”

  Dean checked his watch. They were down to one minute when he stopped the Trav in front of the caboose. Justin lugged a large canvas bag.

  “What did you find?” Luther shouted, poking his head out of the caboose.

  “Fresh potatoes and canned goods,” Justin chimed.

  “Ammo,” Dean replied.

  “While you two were nickel-and-diming it. Look what ol’ Luther found,” Luther said with a gleaming smile, “a shitload of gasoline.”

  “Awe-some,” Justin sing-songed.

  “Folks, we’re on borrowed time,” Dean said, topping off the tank while Luther secured the plastic gas tanks to the Trav’s iron-caged roof rack. The fuel was a great find. They were down to a three- to four-day supply, enough to get them to Gallup, where they’d have to siphon the deserted vehicles on the dead-head-infested highways in the hopes of more petrol.

  Justin sprinted to the north end of the camp. “Guys, c’mon. We have to follow the wagon tracks,” he said with exasperation.

  No one argued. Justin scurried behind the wheel, and they headed due north toward the base of the Sangre De Cristos, following what looked to be wagon tracks in the trampled sand. As the mountain range grew closer, Dean spotted greenery ahead, most likely one of the many tributaries flowing to the Rio Grande.

  “Water means—people. Everyone look sharp,” Dean said. The good thing was, folks weren’t too fond of vehicles, due to the lack of fuel. So, if they were going to get ambushed, it wouldn’t be for the vehicle.

  “A horse!” Justin elated.

  “Justin, I’d stop here. Don’t want to invade someone’s territory, or we’re liable to get shot at again,” Dean warned.

  Justin stopped in front of a grove of trees. Five men with rifles made their presence known, aiming at the windshield.

  Dean waved. “Good afternoon, fellas,” Dean offered in his friendliest don’t-want-to-get-shot voice.

  “What kind of jalopy is that?” one of the men shouted.

  “It's a Harvester,” Dean said proudly as if the world was normal, and things weren’t crazy as all get out.

  “What do you want?” Another man said, scowling.

  “Happen to see any wagon trains as of late?” Dean drawled.

  The man let out a cackle of obnoxious laughter. “Hear that? Hoss here is looking for a wagon train.”

  Dean dressed like a cowboy as part of his everyday life, so it hadn’t occurred to him how ridiculous his archaic statement had sounded until they tried to rattle his cage with it. If it weren't for the whole pandemic, it would be worth a laugh. But things were what they were—food scarce and people none too friendly. The pointed rifles brought him back to reality in a hurry. Sure hope these fellas aren’t trigger happy.

  “So, what goodies you all got?” Two men approached.

  “Luther, Justin, ready for this?” Dean uttered under his breath. Dean reached for his Glock.

  When the two men reached their windows, Luther shoved the barrel of his gun into the visitor's face. Justin and Dean followed suit. “It’s not worth the trouble,” Luther warned.

  “Backoff!” A man in the background shouted, busy saddling up the horses. “We were just leaving.”

  The men looked at Luther’s gun and then west where the tarnished-yellow sun hung low, scorching the earth in what looked like a scene from a post-apocalyptic wasteland panorama.

  “They got nothing but shit.” The men backed their way toward the man saddling the horses.

  The man by the horses yelled, “We’ll be out of here in twenty minutes. Need to make it to Boom Town before nightfall.”

  Dean yelled, “Hate to be the one to break it to you. Boom Town’s about three hundred miles east as the crow flies.”

  “You jerkin’ us off?” The man looked at Dean in disbelief and then back at his cronies. “Hey Johnson, you said we’d make it there by nightfall.”

  Dean swore he saw sheer terror on the men’s faces. Johnson dropped the saddle and strode toward the Trav. “Are you serious?”

  “Yep, been there,” Dean said.

  “Dude, have you seen any covered wagons?” Justin blurted.

  “I was getting to that,” Dean muttered.

  “Three hundred miles?” Johnson questioned again with a smidgen of disbelief and terror quavering his lips.

  “What’s got you all s
pooked?” Dean asked.

  “It’s not safe here. We only came here to rest and water the horses. We must have miscalculated.”

  “Say, we ran into a train just south of here. A place called Last Chance. Happen to know anything about it?” Dean inquired, hoping for information. Something was rotten in Denmark, but he didn’t know what. The men seemed decent enough, despite their skittish behavior. Hell, who isn’t skittish with bloomin’ hordes ramblin’ the desert.

  “They were everywhere, hundreds of the Dead,” Johnson said in a trembling tormented tone.

  “Told you we should’ve taken I-80,” one of the other men shouted.

  “Have you seen any covered wagons?” Justin jabbered again.

  The man gave Justin a funny look. “That’s like a BMW in L.A. They’re everywhere.”

  “What happened at Last Chance?” Dean asked, getting the gut feeling it had been a massacre.

  “We arrived at the trading post ’round midnight.”

  “They said it was a safe place to rest our horses,” the other man interrupted and finally holstered his gun.

  “We were sleeping in our tents. The next thing we knew, it was total chaos. A horde plowed through the place. People ran for their lives. Shit, man, we jumped on our horses and got the hell out of there,” Johnson’s voice quivered.

  “Any other survivors?” Dean asked.

  The two men looked at each other and shrugged. “Doubt it.” Johnson shook his head in obvious grief. The men headed for their horses.

  Tears welled around the corners of Justin’s eyes. He felt bad for the kid. From out of the blue, Ella’s face flashed in his mind. She was in what looked to be an antique carriage. Odd, he thought. Usually, he imagined her jostling around in the back of a covered wagon. An intense pain jabbed his forehead, causing him to shake-off the blurry image. Must be a side-effect of my heart medication.

  “Now, don’t you worry none. Got a feeling Ella wasn’t at Last Chance,” Dean told Justin, before realizing how ridiculous he had sounded.

  Chapter 25

  Justin sat on a boulder, staring into a narrow stream. He was super pissed, feeling betrayed after overhearing Dean and Luther’s conversation. They were giving up on Ella. Sure, going west was dangerous. Sure, it was freaking impossible. But deep in his heart, he knew he’d find her. His obsessiveness reminded him of Scarlett’s never-ending drive to find her sister. Only Scarlett hadn’t found her. He had to find Ella . . . It was the only thing keeping him from calling it game over.