The Scattered and the Dead (Book 2)

by McBain, Tim

  They’d tracked them somehow, caught up, waiting for a moment when they were separated so they could pick them off. And part of her wanted to turn and run. To save herself.

  Instead she headed straight for the trailer.

  Fiona

  Outskirts of Washington, D.C.

  337 days after

  Her footsteps echoed around her, the heels of her shoes slapping the concrete. Walking the empty street felt like being in a tunnel with the top sheared off. Apartment buildings stretched up along each side of her to form the walls. The blue sky still hung up above, but it seemed farther away than normal, like the tops of the buildings held it at arm’s length.

  It smelled like dust. The whole city retained the odor, and a layer of gray dirt crusted everything, which probably explained it. It was like a room no one had gone into for a long while. Someone needed to come along with a rag and a spray bottle of Pine-Sol, she thought, wipe down the streets themselves.

  She regretted leaving the group now, venturing off on her own. They’d had a clear game plan. Everyone broke out into groups of three, and each group had a firearm for protection. Made perfect sense in retrospect. She insisted, however, on taking half the materials allotted to her trio and wandering off solo.

  She clutched the stack of papers to her chest. Funny, she thought, how precious these sheets of paper had become. They’d had to figure out how to use a hand-operated press to print off copies, and it took a long time to get a handle on how to get what they wanted out of their primitive typeset options. Something as simple as printing off a flyer had become complex again, and pieces of paper which had been as worthless as garbage before were now precious talismans each.

  But the task here was important. They all agreed on that, her included.

  A tingle shimmied in her chest. The claustrophobia of being in the city shook her from her thoughts, the anxiety stronger than ever before. On the grounds of the compound, she could always see the horizon in all directions. Even as dense as the cabins were laid out, she could always look between them and find the place where the sky met the land.

  The cityscape provided just the opposite. Concrete and steel rose up from the ground, buildings too dense for her eyes to navigate, cluttering all lines of sight. Even the sun couldn’t find a way through, at least not where she walked now. Shade dominated this swath of the sidewalk.

  But her destination wasn’t far off now. She hugged the papers tighter to her chest, the pointed corner of the pile jabbing into her ribs on the left side.

  Movement caught her eye in the distance. A figure bobbed in the heat distortion shimmering up from the asphalt. A man, she thought. A man who looked to be walking in slow motion, though from this distance, she couldn’t tell if he was getting closer or farther away.

  And now she wasn’t anxious. She was terrified.

  Her heart thumped in her chest, not necessarily speeding up so much as banging harder and louder. Each beat jolted her torso, rattled her neck. Blood squished in her ears.

  Something in her throat wiggled, something that felt slimy and misshapen. All she could picture was a little tree frog climbing up from the depths of her digestive tract to sit on the back of her tongue.

  It felt like being back in West Virginia, trapped in an empty town with no one but Doyle. Whenever she’d heard a car go past on that highway near her house, it felt just like this. The noise of the oncoming vehicle grew closer and closer, the whir of the motor filling the air. As the noise peaked, half of her ached to run out and flag them down while the other half wanted to run and hide under the bed. She did neither, of course, merely sitting and listening to it rush by.

  Now her footsteps slowed. She didn’t stop entirely, but the rhythm of that concrete echo switched gears, going from upbeat into slow jam territory.

  The figure sported a hat, or so she thought. It could be a cowboy hat. Hard to tell from this far out, especially with the heat blurring things.

  When she realized he was moving toward her, every hair on the back of her neck stood up one by one. The corner of the paper stabbed into her ribs like the tip of a blade now, some quivering sword just on the edge of penetration.

  Without thinking, she walked a touch lighter on her feet. The echo quieted itself, the sharp slaps dulling into an indistinct patter. She couldn’t stop moving forward, though. If she stopped walking now, she was afraid she’d never be able to start again.

  That vomitous feeling surged from her middle up into her throat, threatening to dislodge whatever froggy thing still clung there with great force. Nausea. That seemed to be her natural state these days. The one place she always returned to.

  She could tell now. It was a cowboy hat. A black one. She could also discern the protrusion on his right hip — a gun holster. An occupied one from the looks of it.

  Breath rushed into her lungs and held itself there, a gasp followed by a prolonged silence.

  Should she run? She thought maybe she should, but her feet just kept moving forward, like it would be embarrassing or something to stop now.

  Tempting, but no. No, she couldn’t run. Father Dalton would protect her, anyway. Not literally, of course. She would be OK because what she was doing was for him.

  He tipped the cowboy hat at her, and as his facial features came into view, she could see that he was smiling. His skin was sun-charred, that almost orange glow of a man out in direct sunlight all day, every day.

  “Good afternoon, ma’am,” he said.

  As scared as she was, part of her was disappointed that he didn’t say “howdy.”

  “Hello.”

  “You out looking for supplies?”

  “Yes and no. I’m looking for the general store over this way.”

  “Well, you’ve found it.”

  He tipped his head toward the building to their right, and she turned to see it. Poster board signs hung in the front window, one on each side of the door with black magic marker scrawled upon them that read “General Store.”

  “Enjoy your visit.”

  He tipped his hat again.

  She nodded and headed into the store, only realizing as she pushed through the door that he must work here, must have been courteous to encourage business, a cowboy version of the greeter who stands just inside the door at Wal-Mart. Or wait. Maybe he was more like one of the guys who used to stand outside of the pizza place shaking a sign to advertise their $5 Large One-Topping.

  Two more armed cowboys stood just inside the door, hands on their hips. They nodded silent greetings, which she returned on her way past.

  The store had once been a pet shop, that faint hamster smell revealing its history right away. Now a menagerie of scavenged items filled the shelves. There was something haphazard about the way it was all laid out. A few bottles of lighter fluid sat right in the middle of the canned foods. A single can of roach killer intermingled with the soaps and bottles of hand sanitizer.

  Blades and a handful of small guns filled the glass case below the front counter where the cash register sat. A smiling man leaned an elbow against it. He was black, a little skinny with big deltoids that pulled the sleeves of his dress shirt taut on each side. His smile was huge and genuine; the kind of smile she hadn’t seen outside of camp since this whole thing started. Her eyes flicked to the holster at his side and back to the smile.

  “I see you eying the weapons in my case here. Looking for some home security? I’ve got a Mossberg in the back room that’ll cut any intruder in half,” he said. “All of the guns come with a permit to conceal now, too, you know? No extra charge.”

  “Funny, but no thank you. Not today. I’m here on behalf of Father Ray Dalton,” she said.

  He tilted his head, eyes squinting for a beat.

  “The televangelist?”

  She nodded.

  “We’re putting on a tent revival outside of town. He’s going to be speaking the word, placing his hands on some people. I wanted to ask you if we could hang a flyer here and spread a few around the nei
ghborhood. We were told you were the guy to check with around here.”

  The smile surged again, his eyes going wide for a split second.

  “Hell, I wouldn’t mind seeing something like that myself. Does Dalton have a following? I mean, I know he did before on TV and all, but does he have followers these days?”

  “We’ve got a camp up in Maryland. More than three hundred strong and growing.”

  “That’s interesting. Never heard of it. So he’s the real deal?”

  “He’s a special man. You’ve gotta come out and see for yourself.”

  She handed over a couple of flyers.

  “I might do that. Anyway, I’ll hang up a flyer here. No problem. If you and the people from the camp ever need supplies, we’ve got the best of the best around here. Never hesitate to drop by. Or send ol’ Dalton himself around. We could work out some kind of bulk discount for y’all. I’m Jesse, by the way.”

  He extended his hand, and Fiona shifted the papers so she could shake it.

  “Fiona.”

  “Pleasure to meet you, Fiona. Beautiful name, too. You tell your people about my store. For real, now.”

  She agreed and passed between the cowboys again on her way out. It occurred to her that all of that fear she’d felt on the way here had drained from her the moment she walked through the door. Funny, she thought.

  Maybe one thing about the world hadn’t changed. People could still be courteous, even charming, when they had something to sell you.

  Marcus

  Rural West Virginia

  265 days after

  The zombie swayed as it advanced, a gurgling sound emanating from its throat when it breathed… or whatever it was zombies did instead of breathing. The sound reminded him of a humidifier Nina used to plug in next to his bed once when he was sick. The thought of Nina warmed him a little, as it always did. He wanted to crawl into the memory like it was a security blanket. Nestle in it. Pretend this wasn’t happening.

  He blinked hard. It was a few paces closer, a flurry of shadows in the hallway facing him. No, this was happening whether he liked it or not.

  Marcus abandoned the window, sliding the gun from his waistband. He glanced behind him at Izzy and nodded toward a set of metal bookshelves bolted to the wall.

  “Climb up there and don’t come back down for anything,” he said.

  “What about you?”

  “Just do it,” he said.

  It had seemed slow before, as it stumbled down the hallway. Perhaps their voices had awakened some animal hunting instinct, but it darted forward now. Marcus stumbled back, tripping over a shattered computer monitor.

  He held the gun out, intending to shoot, but as the zombie advanced, he froze. It was like everything went in slow motion, and he could still barely keep track of what was happening. Izzy was screaming, and the zombie was so close he could smell it. And then it lurched at him, grappling at the arm that held the gun. Marcus knew it was now or never, but it was already too late. The thing crashed into him, slamming him against the side of the trailer with more force than he would have thought possible. He went to pull the trigger then, but when his grip tightened, there was only air. That was when he saw the gun, tumbling end over end in open space, arcing away from him. And then it was gone, lost in a dark puddle somewhere near his feet.

  All of this numbed him, made him feel like it wasn’t him in the trailer. It was someone else. A character in a movie he was watching. Because if it were really him, he would feel something. Do something.

  The thing was clawing at him, teeth snapping, and Marcus kicked and shoved, anything he could do to keep the thing out of reach. But it was strong. So much stronger than something dead should be.

  Marcus got a handful of the thing’s hair and pulled, trying to drag it off him. There was a sickening sound and then wetness as a large patch of scalp and skin came sloughing off of its skull.

  Izzy was above him somewhere, still screaming for him to shoot it. She must not have seen him drop the gun.

  And suddenly Marcus was reminded of what happened with Jeremy. How it all ended.

  They were in the hall between classes, and one of Jeremy’s minions shoved Marcus into Jeremy. Jeremy saw him do it, but it didn’t matter. For Jeremy, it was the perfect excuse to escalate things to a physical level. He grabbed Marcus’ collar, swung him around, slamming him against a locker. Jeremy was in his face, taunting, so close that Marcus’ senses were dominated by Jeremy.

  The pubescent crack in Jeremy’s voice when he said he was going to skullfuck him. The feel of Jeremy’s spittle hitting his cheek. The glint of a filling in the back of Jeremy’s mouth. The smell of the Dorito’s Jeremy had eaten for lunch.

  Marcus could see Grisha over his shoulder, standing off to the side. And he remembered what he had said, about hitting Jeremy back. And he knew Grisha was right, that if he backed down now, it would seal his fate forever. Marcus would be Jeremy’s punching bag until someone handed him his diploma.

  He knew he had to do it. He stood up a little taller, and he balled up his fist, and he took a deep breath. He thought about how it should be easy. He probably didn’t even need to hit him that hard. Just enough to show that he wouldn’t go down without a fight.

  But he just couldn’t do it.

  Jeremy beat the crap out of him, and Marcus never lifted a finger.

  It didn’t end up the way he thought it would though. With him being Jeremy’s bitch.

  Nina was sick by then. They just didn’t know it yet. He would be gone before the next year of school started.

  He heard Izzy whimper his name again, and he snapped back to the present. To the dank and musty trailer and the thing attacking him. And he had one final thought before it got a hand on his throat, before the thing started to squeeze, and Marcus’ vision pulsed and blurred.

  His final thought was, I’m sorry.

  Ray

  Outskirts of Washington D.C.

  342 days after

  The murmur of the crowd swelled in the big tent. Voices grated. They chirped. He had a good feel for crowds, and this one was primed for a good night, he thought. He could feel their excitement like a wave in the air. Some nights that wave had a twinge of hostility to it, but not tonight.

  The preacher sat in a smaller tent behind the big one, waiting to make his big appearance. One of the most underrated parts of show business, Ray knew, was making the audience wait. You had to let the anticipation build a bit. Like at the movie theater, they made you watch those fifteen minutes of trailers before the movie for reasons beyond advertisement. It was to build up anticipation. By the time the movie started, the audience brimmed with stimulation, shoving popcorn into their maws. Same thing with bands and opening acts. The audience watched two bands they’d never heard of before the headliner came out. Then the audience waited again, going nuts most often, before the encore.

  Waiting was part of the deal. Tension had to build up and up and up so that by the time relief came, it delivered a visceral sense of triumph. Before the performance even started, the crowd would be feeling good in that moment that they realized their wait was over.

  Who knew why it worked that way? He thought it had something to do with mob mentality. Feelings were infectious in big crowds like this, somehow heightened. If you could get everyone a little antsy and then quell that anxiety all at once, the shared sense of it was profound. It was a controlled version of whatever made people go apeshit during riots.

  His tent flap popped open and Lorraine appeared in the wedge of light cut out of the canvas.

  “You ready to go on?”

  “Soon.”

  She blinked a couple of times.

  “OK. It’s just that Louis finished with the Bible verses you told him to read about twenty minutes ago.”

  “I know.”

  “And he said you’d be right out.”

  “I know. Just try to relax. I’ll let you know when it’s time.”

  “OK. Just… OK.”

>   She disappeared, and the flap collapsed once more to its draped state. Funny how she was more nervous than him, he thought. But then she did set all of this up. On an emotional level, she probably had more riding on it than him or anyone else. He was the front man, sure, the one risking immediate humiliation if anything went wrong, but she was the one that suffered the long term pain in that scenario. Not that Ray was too worried about something going wrong. This was playing pretend, not exactly rocket science.

  The crowd was around 450 people according to Louis’s estimation. This was less impressive, Ray thought, when you considered that over 300 of them were current members of their community. Still, it was enough to get people talking. Word would spread. The next show would be bigger, perhaps by quite a bit.

  Someone shouted “let’s go, already,” and the crowd seemed to boil over a little after that, the excitement giving way to agitation. That was the sign he was waiting for, like the shriek of the tea kettle or the slowing of the popcorn’s rattling in the microwave.

  He stood, his knees popping as they extended to lift his body from the canvas camping chair. His arms reached out to the sides, and the muscles tightened and released. He rolled his neck from shoulder to shoulder.

  Showtime.

  Teddy

  Moundsville, West Virginia

  262 days after

  Never again. He’d done a bad thing. More than one of them. But he would never do it again. He knew that now.

  A fever had come over him as he trekked out to the spot and tumbled the body down the wooded slope into the ditch. His forehead and cheeks went all hot and splotchy. A clamminess seemed to exude from his torso. Sweat dampened everything and refused to evaporate, leaving him sloppy and miserable with wet. His chest quivered at the apex of each inward breath.

  But more than the physical symptoms, he felt like he was no longer choosing his actions. It felt like some part of him was setting the course and pushing him toward the next goal, some searing hot impulse in his brain that moved him compulsively along as it wished.