The Scattered and the Dead (Book 2)

by McBain, Tim

  At least Izzy had gotten away. But what if she hadn’t? This thought made Erin try to lift her head, but even that slight movement was enough to cause her to lose consciousness again.

  Her head bumped against something hard. There was a metallic rattle, and underneath that sound, a noise that reminded her of rollerskating on Kelly’s driveway when they were kids. Wheels on a hard surface, and every so often, the crack of a piece of gravel.

  Her eyelids parted, just barely. Enough to let in a crack of sky overhead. Clear blue, not the wisp of a cloud in sight. Tree branches rolled by overhead, leaves rustling in the breeze.

  Her eyes swept closer to her person. The smooth red surface that jostled her when it rolled over a bump was familiar. She was in a red Radio Flyer wagon.

  She felt the haze returning, knew she was going under again. She fought it, straining her neck to try to get a look at who was pulling the wagon.

  Just before her eyes fell closed again, she caught a glimpse of slender fingers, long and brown.

  Decker

  The Compound

  1 year, 37 days after

  The preacher flinched back, bloody hands flashing in front of his face as he cowered into a squat, his eyes locked on the axe in Decker’s hands. The girl sat up and scooted to the back of the table, her bloody stomach heaving in and out.

  Before anyone in the crowd could react, Decker reached under the table and pulled the plastic container of guts out. He let it plop onto the paper layered over the wood, the innards within the plastic quivering upon impact.

  “This is all bullshit. These are chicken guts. Livers and kidneys and lungs,” he said.

  No one moved. Dalton’s face looked slack. Blank. He blinked, his eyelids seeming to stick together, peeling apart slowly in a way that made him look like a confused dog. He no longer shielded himself with his hands, but he remained hunched in an odd position. It seemed strange to see him out of control like this, to see him scared.

  With no one making a move on him, Decker leaned the axe up against the back of the table, reached into the plastic tub of chicken guts and pinched a liver, easing it out into the open. He held the piece of poultry up for the crowd to see, flapping it back and forth a little.

  "No miracles here. No cancer. Just poultry. Ray Dalton is a fraud. He's duping all of you now just like he duped people out of millions before."

  He threw the liver at the feet standing in the front row of the crowd. It skipped off a patch of dirt and nestled in the grass among their legs. The people winced, leaping out of the way, shoulders jerking back. He looked into their faces, eyes shifting from person to person. Some scowled but most looked frightened.

  “I know it’s not what you want to hear. I know it hurts. But you know what? The truth is ugly. The truth hurts. Sometimes it hurts so bad, it makes you sick, makes you go a little crazy. But without the truth, life loses all meaning, doesn’t it? If you dedicate your life and time to a guy pretending to pull chicken guts out of a girl’s stomach… I mean, what kind of a bullshit life is that?”

  The crowd remained silent, eyes shifting back and forth between the preacher and the one they called Jones. He couldn’t tell what they were thinking, couldn’t get a read on how they were taking this. He knew it could be an irrational thought, but he felt like they weren’t listening, weren’t understanding the gravity of what he was saying. Maybe he wasn’t speaking in their terms, wasn’t connecting with them. His mind scrambled, looking for a new angle, a new way to demonstrate his point.

  He wiped his hand over the back of his mouth, panicking for a second before confirming that it was not the hand that touched the chicken liver. He stared down at this hand, the clean one, flexing his fingers, and then his eyes fell past his fingers to the butt of the axe leaned up against the table.

  “Look, I’ll show you what I’m talking about.”

  He gave a nod to the girl still sitting on the table, and she hopped down, the towel spilling from her lap as she scurried into the crowd. Then he turned, grabbed the preacher by the collar and yanked him toward him, the old man’s hip bone banging the edge of the table.

  “Hop up there and lie down if you would. We’re going to have a little demonstration here.”

  The preacher stood still, staring at the ground, totally docile like a grazing cow until Decker shoved him in the back. The old man struggled to get a leg up onto the flat surface, but once he did, he crawled, the paper crinkling under him. Then he lay face down, head buried between his bloody hands.

  Decker hopped up onto the table, standing to tower over the sprawled figure. He stood up above the crowd now, and he liked it. Somehow he felt like they were really listening now, even though he hadn’t said anything in a while. He pulled the axe up, letting the head rest on the table and leaning on the handle as though it were his cane.

  “Remember what this man has said to you here today. Remember his words. His lies. He said that he would protect you, that God would protect you until it was your time. He’s set up a situation where he can take credit for all of the good things and never be blamed for the bad. If you live, it’s because he saved you. If you die, it’s because it was time. I mean, think about it. His way of looking at it makes every death predestined, right? It makes every death the way things were supposed to be.”

  He looked up into the sky, into the endless blue that stretched out forever, into that vastness that made him feel small whenever he was alone. For this moment he felt like he could hold all of that in the palm of his hand. He could play with it. He could squish it between his fingers if he chose to.

  He extended his arms out to the sides and held them there as he went on, letting the handle of the axe rest against his thigh.

  “Dalton told you that God wanted him to say and do these things. Wanted him to lie to you. Wanted him to play make believe with chicken gizzards. I say nay. No way. I say God wants me to tell you the truth, as ugly as it might be, as awful as it might seem. God wants you to live life with your eyes open, wants you to experience the paradoxes of existence, of mortals trying to grasp the infinite, of the pain and pleasure our bodies cause in us, of the cycle of creation and destruction perpetually at war in our very nature. God wants you to feel all of that complexity and choose your path. That’s how you become who you are. Not all of the lies.”

  He paused for a moment and pointed down at the belly-flopped preacher at his feet.

  “And here’s the ugly truth, the awful truth we’ve been presented with today. This man is a blasphemer. A heretic. We all know the punishment for these crimes. God wants justice, and he has chosen me to administer it, can’t you see that? You need me now. Even if it hurts, you need me to do what’s right. If I were mistaken about any of this, God would intervene, wouldn’t he?”

  In one motion he wound the axe up behind his head and sent it arcing down into the back of Ray Dalton’s neck.

  A wet crack ensued. The preacher managed a few choked mews like an injured cat, followed by throaty suction sounds.

  His arms wriggled, and he shook all over, vibrating, crinkling the paper on top of the table. Blood poured out of the throat, pools rushing away from each side like spilled fruit punch, spilling over the lip of the table, gummy red drops that fell differently than water. Thicker.

  The crowd screamed and cried and flailed.

  The first couple hero types drifted out of the crowd and came at Decker — a guard and a civilian — but he bashed one in the throat with the butt of the axe handle and gave the other a similar shot to the skull, using the superior reach to out-duel the guard’s nightstick.

  Then he wound up again and took another chop at Dalton’s neck. This one seemed to still the wriggling arms, though noises still erupted from the open throat. It sounded like a vacuum cleaner sucking on flaps of wet flesh. The third stroke quieted him for good, separating the head from the body.

  Everything seemed to hold still. Frozen. The next breath stretching out into one long moment. He blinked a few times, lo
oked at that ragged red line where the tan flesh gave way to the wound, and it didn’t seem real.

  And then the whole crowd surged over the two of them all at once, rushing at him like some tidal wave. The swell of humanity displaced him, carried him off of the table, and he tumbled down among them, tangled in the limbs and torsos and all of the moving body parts that seemed to form one mindless beast in this moment — a single, agitated creature that could feel only rage and express only violence.

  Fists and elbows clubbed at his head, knocked him a little silly. A foot got him right in the mouth, and he saw a flash of white as the kick connected with his teeth. Thoughts no longer occurred to him in words, all things reduced to images and feelings.

  He sank deeper into the writhing crowd until the mass of humanity covered him totally, until human bodies blocked out all of the light.

  Erin

  Moundsville, West Virginia

  266 days after

  She’d come around a little by the time they reached the apartment building, enough that she could hold on to Marcus’ shoulders while he carried her piggyback-style. It was easier than carrying her limp, she was sure, but it was still seven stories to the top. He had to stop on the fourth and sixth floor landings to catch his breath.

  She was worried they’d run into more zombies, but so far the building seemed to be empty. The top floor was, at least.

  Several of the apartments had been broken into already, so it wasn’t hard to find one with an open door.

  Marcus lowered her gingerly onto a bed with a pink floral quilt on top. How long had it been since she laid on a mattress? It could only have been a few days, but it felt like longer. The mattress was soft, and she just wanted to sleep. Instead, she yelped when Marcus gripped her leg to get a look at the wound there.

  “Sorry. But I need to see it.”

  Izzy took Erin’s fingers in her hand.

  “You can squeeze my hand when it hurts.”

  Erin gave a trial squeeze.

  “Thanks.”

  Marcus unzipped the bag Izzy had carried up the stairs for him and rooted around in the supplies until he found the baggie with the first aid kit and medicine in it. He handed her two pills. She recognized one by the bright pink and purple capsule. She’d packed the bag herself, all those days ago. But her eyes wouldn’t focus enough to read the small white pill.

  “Amoxicillin and what?”

  “Oxycontin,” he said, passing her a water bottle.

  “Ahh,” Erin said. “The good shit.”

  When Izzy didn’t correct her, Erin gave her a nudge.

  “Oh, right.”

  Izzy tried to smile but really just looked scared.

  “Language.”

  Erin threw the pills toward the back of her throat and took a slug of water. They scraped over her esophagus, rough and raw from smoke and repeated strangulation. It was an effort not to gag and cough them back up.

  She took another sip of water and lay back down.

  Marcus left then, telling Izzy to stay put and keep the door shut. Izzy just nodded, no argument. Erin dozed, not quite sleeping, but also not fully awake. And then Marcus was telling her to wake up.

  Things were fuzzy. It was hard to keep her eyes open. She just wanted to close them again and go back to sleep.

  Marcus nudged her shoulder again.

  “I’m going to move you into the bathroom. I need to clean up your leg.”

  He bent close to her, sliding one arm under her neck and another behind the crook of her knees. She looped her hands behind his head, and he lifted her.

  She barely noticed the pain in her hand now. Her leg she felt more. It was still there, but further away. This Oxycontin really was the good shit.

  “What?”

  She didn’t realize she’d been talking out loud.

  “This Oxy is good stuff, I said.”

  “Yep. Hillbilly Heroin.”

  Marcus set her onto the lip of the bathtub. There was a grab bar on the side of the shower, and she gripped it to keep from sliding into the tub.

  Izzy lingered in the doorway, clutching the first aid kit. The squirrel hunched on her shoulder, rubbing its hands together, pawing at its face. Erin knew it was just grooming itself, but under the circumstances, it was hard to not interpret it as worry.

  “Scissors?” Marcus said, and Izzy handed them over. He began cutting off the leg of Erin’s jeans, just above her wound. The entire portion of fabric from her knee down was dark with blood. That it had ever been blue was hard to believe. She was glad the fabric was dark enough to hide the color of her blood.

  Erin’s gaze flicked from the bloodstained cloth to Izzy. The kid didn’t need to see what was underneath.

  “Hey, Iz,” Erin said. “See if you can find me some clean clothes.”

  Izzy nodded, set the kit on the vanity, and backed out of the room.

  Marcus glanced away from the cutting for a moment.

  “I don’t want her to see how bad it is.”

  He bobbed his head once. He maneuvered the scissors around the back of her leg now, leaning around her knee to see what he was doing.

  “You might as well cut them all the way off.”

  “I am.”

  “Not just the leg, I mean. You need to take my pants all the way off.”

  He froze.

  “Come on, what’s a girl gotta do to get you to take her pants off? Beg?”

  The drugs were making her punchy.

  Marcus frowned, gripping the scissors in his fist. She took them from him.

  “For Christ’s sake, I’ll do it.”

  She managed to slice an inch past her waistband when she made the mistake of glancing down at her foot. Her sock, formerly white, was bright red. Completely sodden with her own blood. A wave of dizziness overtook her. She slumped forward, catching her elbows on her thighs. Marcus caught her shoulders, and her head lolled between them.

  “Gimme a minute. Just a little woozy.”

  Marcus sighed.

  “Give me those.”

  He plucked the scissors from her hand and guided her fingers back to the grip on the shower. He took up where she left off, snipping the blades through the denim. The cold metal edge of the scissors tickled against her skin.

  She started feeling guilty for embarrassing him on purpose. She blamed the drugs a little, but she suspected she also did it because it made her feel more in control. Gave her some power in a situation where she felt she had very little.

  “If it makes you feel better, I pissed myself.”

  His brow wrinkled.

  “Just now?”

  Laughter hissed between Erin’s teeth. God, she really was high as a kite.

  “No! When that freak had me chained up.”

  The sound of the scissors chewing their way through fabric resumed.

  “You did what you had to do.”

  “Yeah well, I’m just saying. This whole pants-removal scenario isn’t as sexy as I made it out to be.”

  She registered the tiniest flinch at the word “sexy.” She swayed a little, smiling to herself. Beautiful, sweet Marcus. Such a prude.

  When he had the first leg free, he helped her swing around and rest it in the tub.

  He’d found two buckets and half a dozen gallon jugs which he’d filled with water at the pump in a cemetery across the street. When the first stream hit her leg, it was ice cold and stung in the open wounds. She jumped and shivered, clutching her handhold until her knuckles turned white.

  “Sorry,” he said.

  “S’okay,” she managed through gritted teeth.

  She tried not to think of the blood running down her leg and into the tub. The way the red would lighten in the water, a swirl of pink spiraling around the drain. She focused on Marcus’ face. The long curled eyelashes and the scar on his hairline that turned the spot of hair white.

  His eyes were fixed on her leg, concentrating so hard that he barely blinked at all.

  “It’s bad, huh?”


  His gaze flicked to her then back to the leg.

  “It’s not so bad.”

  “Just a scratch?”

  “Right.”

  “Don’t bullshit me, Marcus.”

  “OK. It’s pretty bad. Not as bad as I thought when I first saw all the blood on your pants. What kind of trap was it?”

  “There was a hole in the ground with a bunch of sharpened sticks arranged around the circumference.”

  He nodded.

  “That’s good, at least. When Izzy told me it was a trap, the first thing I imagined was one of those steel jaw bear traps. That would have got you all the way around the leg, maybe snapped the bones even.”

  Erin shuddered.

  “Sorry. Anyway, you have some bad cuts, but only this one deep puncture wound. That’s the one that concerns me.” He started to wrap her leg with a bandage. “Do you remember if you had a tetanus shot when you were about ten?”

  “I think so. What about my ankle? And my hand?”

  “The ankle looks okay, but the hand is probably broken. Not much we can do other than splint it for a while. Even if it heals bad, it won’t kill you.”

  She laughed, because he was only half-joking.

  “How do you know all this?”

  “My-” He stopped himself. She saw him wrestle with something, then decide. “My foster mom was a nurse.”

  “Oh,” Erin said, then remembered a name. “Nina?”

  “Yeah.”

  With a moistened washcloth, he wiped the grime and soot and blood from her face. He was very gentle. The kind of gentle, she supposed, that could nurse an injured baby squirrel back to health.

  Izzy had been right all along. Erin had been wrong not to trust him. There were a lot of bad guys out there, but Marcus wasn’t one of them.

  By the time he had her cleaned up and dressed in a fluffy robe Izzy snatched from the apartment next door, she was shaking with more than just cold. The pain had finally broken through the pills.