No Room In Hell (Book 2): 400 Miles To Graceland

by William Schlichter

  Amie sprints toward Bruce. She wants to scream at him, but she wants to hold back on the noise. The orchestra of moan-howls lacks a unifying purpose. Once she fires it all goes to hell.

  Why hasn’t the fool drawn his own weapon? He has a pistol holstered on his belt. Fear will be the death of this idiot, not the bites he’s about to receive.

  She fires.

  A biter’s shoulder explodes in a mass of inky oil. Congealed body fluids spray surrounding biters. The wound would have incapacitated a living person and bleed out. The biter merely continues his shuffle-drag step toward its meal, unnoticing it now has only one arm.

  Clint takes aim, popping a biter in the skull. He aims again. Head shots are the most difficult, but if he remains calm and take his time accuracy is assured. Firing blindly into this growing herd does nobody any good and wastes his limited supply of ammo.

  Amie prays Combeth keeps those inside the building calm and alive. Dozens of biters now stand between her and Bruce. Worse, twice as many biters stagger between her and the rung ladder to the top of the cargo trailer. Returning to the Humvee would be a deathtrap. The other entrance doors are blocked from opening to prevent any biters from crawling through. The cab of the truck hauling the flatbed is higher and lockable. No matter what choice she makes, she must abandon Bruce to the biters.

  Amie won’t let that bother her. If she makes a command decision, it must stand. Bruce has made a choice.

  The good of the group outweighs the panic of some dumb man-child. Amie knows wasn’t from the military base so he’s managed to survive for ten months. The surge of stupidity makes no sense.

  Putrefaction of once-people fills the air. More and more undead stream into the parking lot creating a river of moaning rot. Amie bolts for the semi-truck. She scampers into the cab as flesh-peeled hands grab her legs. Together, dozens of corpses are stronger than the Private. She kicks, smashing a biter jaw. The crunching bone and torn skin would send a living man to the ER, but this creature continues to reach for her. It has no pain receptors only a hunger for living tissue. Amie holds onto the door frame for her life as dozens of hands tug her out the door.

  A shot rings out from above. Hands release her leg. Another shot. The release of pressure on her body allows Amie to grab the steering wheel and pull with every bit of fear-inspired strength she has. A third shot removes another set of hands from her legs, allowing her to heave herself inside but not before the door slams. Warm goop soaks her leg. She can tell it’s not from a bite, but the smell of fresh blood chums the wave of undead.

  Moan-howls pierce the air. They grab and paw at the door. Amie seizes the handle and slams it on the arms reaching for her before any of the undead figure out how to crawl into the cab. She slams the door again. The crunch of fingers and bones echoes around her. None of the biters flinch. She slams the door again. This time some fingers break off and sprinkle on the floormat. Her final slam smashes through an arm and the door seals. She thumps the lock and scoots away from the door, finally able to breath.

  Amie jerks a bandana from a pouch in her uniform and ties it around her leg. She hopes to staunch the bleeding with pressure avoiding tying a tourniquet. She had only days of battlefield medic training, but knows a tourniquet is the last resort. Amie doesn’t have the allotted time to reach a doctor if she does. She thinks just skin layers were torn open and prays the blood will stop soon. She pops the clip from her Glock making sure she still has plenty of loaded ammo. She now must figure out how to save her team as an endless flood of undead fill the parking lot.

  If she had time, she’d pull the cross from around her neck and kiss it thanking the Virgin Mary for not getting bit. A tapping on the passenger side glass draws her attention. None of the biters have made it to this side of the vehicle yet. She rolls down the window. A young, thin woman with chestnut hair braided into a whip-like ponytail flips inside.

  “Too many of us on that roof.” Someone hands down a rifle to her through the window. “What’s the plan?”

  “Becky, isn’t it?”

  “Good memory. Now, remember how to get us out of this,” the thin girl blasts.

  Amie draws in a breath. Calm is key. But none of her combat training has prepared her for this. She has to remain in command or this group will fall apart and they will all die.

  “We have four options.” Amie’s mind comes up with four ideas quick. “We thin the herd. We drive this truck out of here, shoot the biters from down the road and draw them away from the building allowing our people to get out and into the semi-trailer.”

  “That’s actually a sound idea,” Becky praises.

  “You haven’t heard my other ideas.”

  “Do I need to?” Becky asks.

  Amie didn’t have any more plans. This one seems sound. “I can’t drive the semi.”

  Becky sticks her head out the window. “Kenneth, we need a driver,” she calls.

  The slender, beak-nosed man slides in. He crawls over the two girls into the driver’s seat. “Where we going?”

  None of these people question her. It makes Amie wonder why Bruce panicked. These non-military people trust the person Ethan placed in command without question. “Drive over these biters and down the road. I want to pick as many off as we can give our people a chance to evacuate from the building to the cargo trailer.”

  “Why not just use the 50 cal. on the Humvee?” Kenneth asks.

  “You dumb nut. It will cut through those biters and the tires of the cargo trailer. You want to change one of those out here? ‘Cause my road side assistance has expired,” Becky snaps at him.

  Amie doesn’t admit she hadn’t thought of that. She had considered trying to reach for the 50 cal. She must forget military tactics. They only work on the living.

  Becky pounds the roof yelling, “Hold on.”

  Kenneth grinds the truck into gear. The crunching of undead turns to splatters as the truck picks up speed.

  As they barrel down the road, loose fence sections fling from the flatbed. Rolls of woven wire bounce off and land on the undead. Arms fail and legs kick but without the weight smashing the skulls the creatures remain animated. All the racket confuses the biters. Some lumber after the truck. Others investigate the newly-splattered bodies for sources of nourishment.

  Amie’s vest pocket beeps. How could I forget? She fumbles for the radio.

  “What the hell are you doing, Private Sanchez?” screams the voice.

  She presses the button, shouting back, “Saving you asses. Don’t fire on the biters. I’m going to draw them away. When it’s clear, you get everyone in the cargo trailer and haul ass back to Acheron, Combeth.”

  “Copy.”

  Becky hangs out the window. Her rump and top of her red thong exposed to the world. She lines up each one of her shots before squeezing the trigger. Biters slumping to the ground—officially dead. Two more turn from Orscheln’s parking lot and scramble toward the flatbed.Amie orders, “Make every shot count.” She turns to Kenneth. “If we get overrun, drive further down the road. We’ll keep doing this until we draw them all away.”

  “Is this going to work?” Kenneth asks.

  Fuck if I know, Amie thinks. “They like noise. We’ll give them enough noise to follow.”

  The air horn bellows.

  Warm, coagulating blood pools in her boot. Since Amie doesn’t have access to a window to fire she has a moment to examine the wound. The door slammed on her hard. Hard enough to crush the bone, maybe, but it doesn’t feel broken. She removes the first-aid kit from the glove box.

  “Did you get bit?” Kenneth slams on the breaks grinding the gears into park.

  One of the three people on the roof topples onto the hood rolling off onto the pavement before the semi.

  Becky catches the rifles knocked from her hands from the instant jolt. Had it hit the pavement she doubts she could help whoever fell off the roof.

  “What the fuck, Kenneth?”

  “Amie’s bleeding.”

&n
bsp; Becky grabs at Amie’s Glock with her left hand. During the tussle, she demands, “Are you bit?”

  “Door crushed my foot. It’s bleeding.”

  Becky raises her hand. “Are you positive?”

  After the “everyone works or they don’t eat” rule of Acheron, the second, and unspoken, is we shot all those who are bit.

  Pounding echoes on the roof followed by panicked calls for assistance.

  “We’ve got someone on the ground. I’m not bit.”

  Becky accepts Amie’s response as gospel, crawling halfway out the passenger window.

  “Clay’s on the ground!” Jason hollers.

  Biters flood from the tree line.

  “Cut the engine. Becky, wait to fire.”

  Mark climbs from the roof to the hood peering over the front of the semi.

  Rifle reports.

  Clint fires with less accuracy at the biters cleaning the flesh from Bruce’s bones. Kalvin fires into the massing throng of undead. Those chasing the semi turn back toward the cargo trailer. Once the herd shifts toward them they both drop flat out of sight and keep their weapons ready making as little noise as possible. When the moment comes, they must destroy any straggling biters to protect those about to flee the store.

  “This has gone cluster.” Becky flings open the cab door. “Mark, you have thirty seconds to get Clay.” She raises her rifle. “Count to thirty,” she orders Amie.

  Amie accepts Becky’s order. I should not allow an underling to have control in this situation.

  Kenneth leans out the window waiting to pop any biters reaching the flatbed.

  Biters scramble, surrounding the flatbed, attracted to the blood from Clay’s road-rashed body. Mark struggles to drag his companion to the flatbed.

  To staunch the bleeding, Amie cuts her pants along the seam. I hope I can repair them. The combat fatigues are functional and comfortable, and I won’t get another trip to the PX to replace them.

  Her handheld walkie chirps with Combeth’s voice, “The biters have moved away from the door.”

  “Wait,” Amie barks back into the radio. She reaches twenty-nine in her head. “Thirty.”

  Becky drops a biter. “Get your ass on the truck.”

  “Kenneth, get us moving.” Amie clicks her radio. “We’re going to pull further down the road. When the parking lot clears, get those people into the cargo trailer and haul ass home, understand?”

  “Understood,” crackles back.

  She taps Kenneth on the shoulder. “Pull us down the road. Blare the horn.”

  “Wait!” Becky protests.

  Mark flips Clay’s legs onto the flatbed. He leaps up, avoiding a biter.

  “There’re on.” Becky empties her rifle.

  “Go.”

  The young man does as he’s instructed. Blaring the foghorn sound until it deafens all of them.

  Amie slaps pressure pads on the wound. She was afraid to examine it too close, but it looks like part of the door cut her deep. And blood loss has lightened her bronze skin.

  Kenneth allows the truck to roll forward at a speed the biters keep pace with.

  The repeating thundering boom of a .50 cal rattle through them. Combeth fires away, incinerating mostly chest cavities of the undead, sending streams of bloody confetti. Frank pulls the Humvee between the building and the cargo truck. Combeth uses suppressive fire to prevent the biters from getting at the people escaping into the cargo truck. Many of them carry the last tote they packed.

  Amie clicks the radio mic, but screaming at Combeth about the waste of ammo won’t be heard. She needs to salvage this mission.

  Despite the metal shield constructed to deflect the empty brass ejecting from the cannon back into a metal box wielded to the Humvee, only about seventy percent of the smoking hot empty cartridges land in the box. Someone will reload them. Combeth lowers the barrel, decimating legs of the dead—slowing their attack.

  The cargo trailer doors snap shut.

  The road is besieged now with the beleaguered and tormented bodies of still functioning undead. Many have lost limbs, but with intact brain stems they keeps crawling toward the loudest noise source.

  The semi pulling the cargo trailer roars to life. Speeding from the lot, rushing dozens of the fallen undead. The Humvee follows through the goop. This location will be a draw for more biters for days as the massive amounts of noise will have attracted every biter in the county. Combeth doubts anything else will distract them from that path. He pops a biter in the head as they speed away.

  DANZIGER YANKS THE kitchen drawer open. He fishes through the junk finding nothing of use. He clicks the front stove burner on. Blue flames pop into existence. Taking a pot from under the sink, he shoves it under the tap before flipping it open. Water trickles out. Filling half the vessel before the pressure ceases, he places the pot onto the crackling flame.

  No sense in watching water boil. He locates a bathroom. He swipes a bottle of Tylenol, some feminine hygiene pads, along with cotton towels. Why don’t people have medical kits? Even the stupid miniature ones from the dollar store? So damned unprepared.

  Using a serrated steak knife, he shreds the cotton towels into strips. He drops two washcloths into the boiling water—using salad tongs, he retrieves one rag, dangling the dripping cloth over the pot. He has little water to waste. Danziger holds out his left forearm. The heat stings—cooking the flesh and he hopes the infection.

  The scalding water flushes away the dirt and caked blood from the lacerations induced by the modified bear trap Levin used to secure him. Slices of flesh if laid open would reveal bone. The damaged tissue swells red, but any further contagion should be forestalled. He picks a large flake of rust from the cuts with tweezers. Once clean, he staunches any fresh blood flow with a feminine hygiene pad and ties it down with the cloth strips.

  Those undead bastards love the smell of blood.

  Flipping the flames off, he pulls out another rag. It’s harder to work his left hand to flip the cloth onto his right forearm. He manages to clean most of the wound, scalding it to kill the infection. He presses on the large cut, pushing the pad against the gash. I nearly severed my hands to reach Levin only to have the bastard escape in a military convoy. It traveled away from Fort Leonard Wood. Where would they go? Why would it go? The man who seemed to lead them wasn’t military. I should have ran to them. Fuck, they’d have shot me as a crazy mother.

  Danziger secures the pads using his teeth to tie the strips. He takes a pitcher with a plastic lid from the dishwasher. It will take time for the water to cool to drink but it’s sterile.

  If they only knew what kind of man they rescued.

  Danziger would start with the love for his daughter and how that bastard stole her. It wasn’t just his little girl it was other teens. He ended them first. Danziger was so close to identifying the serial murdering rapist. Then his girl went missing. Fucking law. His own daughter and he had to cease police work on the case. Conflict of interest. Nothing would allow him to work his daughter’s disappearance short of quitting the police force. He needed to be a cop. Nothing prepared him for when they found her body.

  He takes a scrap of towel to wipe away the bubbling snot from his nose.

  He dry swallows some Tylenol. He glances around the kitchen one last time, spotting a broom with a wooden handle. He snatches it up. Danziger swallows some of the lukewarm water to unstick the pill lodged in his throat.

  Once outside, he slams the broom end against the porch, snapping off the straw end. The bristles flip over and over down the porch slamming against the tire of a bicycle. He admires the splintered point and then stares at the bike.

  Dragging the bike down the steps before straddling the seat, he attempts to figure out how to hold the lance and ride. He fills the squeeze bottle attached to the frame. Danziger wheels the bike down the gravel lane.

  His first few pedals are shaky, but within ten feet on the blacktop he steadies. Keeping the broom handle as if he were a jousting knight,
he gains speed.

  I’m healthy. Able to ride some fifty miles in a day—in a fantasy. Those vehicles had a tow truck, so even stopping to clear the highway they will disappear long before I catch up. And the undead and a safe place to change the bandages. Infection may take my hands. As he sweats, his arms itch under the pads.

  Foolish. Danziger debates with himself over his course of actions. Yesterday, I was willing to lop off one of my own hands to kill the man who murdered my daughter. It took the end of the world for me to find Levin. Now he’s escaped in those trucks and my actions will kill me.

  Focus on the road.

  Besides possible DK attacks or pot holes, some living person may want my bike. Steal what I stole. Half a jug of clean drinking water is all I own. People have killed over less. He doesn’t count the stick.

  Danziger brakes. Had he been on any vehicle other than a pedal bike he’d miss the broken tree branches. The torn green bark dangles from splintered limbs. A truck turned from the road to dirt farm field cutting ruts in the grass and ripping limbs from a tree hanging too low.

  Lacking other evidence, the cracks were caused by the military convoy. Danziger decides the risk is justified. How many trucks large enough to cause this damage are on the road? All the armored vehicles, including an army tow truck, attracts more attention than the undead. Cutting cross country provides cover, less living to avoid, and masks the noise.

  Tracking the truck’s possible with the ruts in the field. Without anyone to cut hay, the growing stalks remained massed and bent from recent wheeled travelers. Rough on a bike designed for blacktop, Danziger hops off and pushes it through the grass following the smashed stalks.

  Western or easterly direction, I’m not sure which way this group will end up, but whichever way they zig-zag to conceal their destination, the convoy’s heading north, and they’ll have to return to the road if they plan to cross the Missouri River.

  Danziger jerks at the new lock on the chain before lifting the bike over the gate. Even if they wanted to conceal their trip across country by padlocking the chain, the muddy ditch has fresh Grand Canyon-sized ruts leading to the blacktop which gives them away. He straddles the bike. His forearms blaze. Little needles peck at the gashes. Never one for praying even when his little girl was stolen by the Blonde Teen Slasher. Even when Levin taunted him with envelopes full of his little girl’s body hair was he ever completed. God, just allow me enough life left to eliminate a child slayer.