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

by William Schlichter

  In a world bound in constant cruelty, grant me this one desire. I promise it will be the only thing I ever ask, God, even if it means my own demise at the hands of the undead.

  Guessing he’s been on the pavement for five miles, Danziger notices displaced gravel on a county turnoff. Not enough to be the entire convoy but one truck. He sips at his remaining water, heavy with decision. I may never be able to keep up with the vehicles, a wrong choice now certainly will end my chance of finding Levin.

  The choice hinges on why one truck would leave the group.

  After a full minute of contemplation, the former St. Louis police detective bets on the full convoy. Even if by some miracle I find them, odds are the large assembly will know where the single truck is.

  No more signs of anything leaving the blacktop as the sun crests on the horizon. As much as he hates to, Danziger must find shelter, and any much longer on the road and he’ll miss valuable clues in his pursuit in blackness.

  The first rays of morning sun poke through the woodshed wall slats. Danziger flips over. Before he rubs his bloodshot eyes, he forces his fingers to cease as they dig into the bandages. The urge to rip and tear at the itching scabs drives him to his feet. His thoughts swim. Even the night I slept in the tree belted to a branch wasn’t as uncomfortable as sleeping on those woodchips. Lack of proper medical care may cost me a hand, or both. He touches the back of his arm to his forehead—fever.

  If I could just properly clean the wounds caused by the bear trap I’d improve my odds. Maybe I should locate some maggots in the wood.

  Dilapidated with age, the woodshed seemed safer than the half-collapsed barn next to it. No farmhouse in sight or any kind of water well, Danziger wheels his bike to the road. He’ll have to search the next home for some supplies.

  Three days of scavenging and guessing, the last road I recognized was parallel to Highway 50. The convoy appeared to head toward Jefferson City, but there would still be ten-thousand DKs to battle through to cross the Missouri River. Hermann, the winery town, would be the next bridge. All these country roads mean little to a native of the city and the cross-country jaunts throw me off my bearings.

  As the infection spreads, his body temperature rises and his thoughts cloud.

  Hermann seems logical now I’ve lost the trail.

  Danziger skids to a stop as the front bike tire shreds. Dismounting, he realizes that age has ruined the rubber. Grateful he noticed before he face-planted, he dumps the bike in the ditch.

  As he surveys Hermann from the top of the hillside, Danziger wishes he had the bike for the trip down. At least he could coast until he had to start back up the main street toward the bridge.

  As quaint as the town appears, it must have had a population in the hundreds, maybe thousands. Once down there if I encounter even a small herd my stick won’t last.

  Plenty of homes left unransacked—I hope. A police or fire department with medical supplies, maybe even an urgent care center, someplace to treat my arm damage. If nothing else, wine—enough wine to kill any pain. Danziger was never much for drinking beyond the celebratory glass when a case was closed. If I thought I had no shot to find Levin, I might.

  Many DKs must be in this sleepy village. Hell, if someone was smart they’d turn the bridge spanning the Missouri River into a toll route. Collect supplies to cross.

  Eventually, bridges across even small rivers will extract a price. If the military’s plan pans out, all the major bridges spanning the Mississippi River border states are now defunct. Making this place one valuable piece of real estate.

  Tom.

  Tom went south after all those people fleeing the sweeping hoard overwhelming the convoy to Fort Leonard Wood. I abandoned him. He knew. He was helping me find my daughter’s killer. I broke Tom’s arm. I had to so we could escape the family who attempted to feed them to their undead relatives. The fever must be getting worst. Tom is south. But I am betting my hand the trucks went north.

  As Danziger makes the jaunt down the hill, he decides he must get through the town quickly. The fallen population sign reads 2,431.

  Way too many undead to deal with on this side of the river.

  Pain radiates from his arms. They itch. Demanding he scratch open the cuts.

  If you don’t take care of your arms, what good does getting to the other side of the river do? You don’t even know where to go once you get across.

  Northeastern Missouri’s sparsely populated. Large farmed areas and no bustling metropolises. A lifetime of searching.

  Screams of…pleasure.

  Voices. Must be in my head. Full on hallucinations will be next. Maybe I’ll wake and the plague will be a dream.

  Danziger wishes he’d paid more attention to the rest of the world falling apart. Instead, he and his partner spent time doing their jobs as cops. He assisted in keeping order as St. Louis prepared for a siege. A siege no one fully understood.

  It took months for St. Louis to fall to the undead. Stories filtered in from other locations of the infection spreading swifter causing communications to be censored and nothing outside the city was reported to the masses or most of those keeping order.

  He never had time to listen.

  Levin caught a ride in the caravan fleeing St. Louis to Fort Leonard Wood. His murderous tendencies overwhelmed him and he caught a teenage girl to act out his sick fantasies.

  Danziger was careless in his pursuit and was captured by Levin who took sick pleasure in forcing Danziger to watch his unnatural acts on the teen. The perverseness extended further as Danziger knew these same transpiring events were performed on his own child.

  Danziger stumbles. In this new world, no one will ever think to stop a serial killer. No one would even notice another mutilated corpse. I’m the only one. God. I’m the only one left to stop him.

  New motivation propels him forward. Search some houses. Clean my wounds. Find something for the fever.

  The river wafts on the breeze but along with the scent of water a more manmade smell brings him pause.

  Camp fires have an aroma unlike a house or car fire—a pleasant, intentional smell.

  No melted plastic or charred electrics in the fragrance, but a peaceful relaxing bouquet. Anyone brazen enough to create a campfire also lacks fear of the undead, which means weapons or numbers. Could mean medicine. Danziger has nothing to offer any group except a dirty appearance resembling more undead than a police detective. With blood-stained bandages, they may shoot him before they care to find out if he has a pulse.

  He moves low through the tree line in the hopes not to catch a bullet. Screaming about his approach might also cost him, but he needs to know what sort of people are nearby before he reveals himself.

  The overgrown park has a two-stall restroom bunker in reach of the trees. The fecal stink might mask his blood scent. Danziger worms his way toward the structure until his picture of the group focuses. Three people wail on a man in a black duster. He spots a corpse on the ground with a lead pipe embedded into its skull.

  He eyes the group from behind the concert bunker restroom. They scatter leaving the tall man on the ground bootless and beaten as they scavenge his equipment. He wonders how such a stupid group has survived for so long. A man traveling well-armed and equipped should have his hands bound before they wandered away from him.

  The bludgeoned man on the ground sounds as if he may be a part of an organized group. Makes him valuable alive. Any well-provisioned individual might have knowledge of the military convoy. Danziger prays his thoughts are not fever induced.

  He contemplates letting them complete the litter. I can’t carry this monster-sized dude by myself, but I could drag the litter. I’ve to get the gun away from the leader.

  Danziger uses all his cop experience to size up the greasy-haired punk with tattooed arms and drooping earlobes where he once had huge gauges in them. He can’t be educated beyond high school, if he ever graduated. The scrawny man cares only for the oversized boots he tromps around in.
It’s the girl with the short, choppy hair who will be a problem. She’s smart. The real leader of the group. She lets the droopy earlobe kid think he’s running the show while she pulls his strings.

  Watch out for her.

  They drag some long branches back and the knife-cut hair girl lashes them together.

  “How do you know how to do all this?” the scrawny man asks.

  “I read a book once,” she snaps. “Just entertain yourself with Cybele.” She jerks a thumb at the concert bunker where a mousey girl staggers from the stall.

  She smooths out her kilt.

  Five.

  I missed her completely. Despite her weak appearance, I doubt she’d have lasted this long if she were helpless.

  “You’ll get her in a minute.” The kid with droopy earlobes drags the mousey girl by the arms to a picnic table, bends her over, and flips up her kilt so he has access to her.

  Disgusted, Danziger understands how the knife-cut hair girl controls the group. While engaged in lust, the droopy ear-lobed kid will be distracted.

  The knife-cut hair girl ties off the end of the triangular litter while the scrawny man lashes a rat-eaten blanket.

  None of them notice Danziger until he slams the Beretta scooped from the grass into the droopy-eared kid’s face.

  The gun has enough weight to have rounds in the clip—one in the chamber?

  Danziger smacks the hilt of the gun into the kid’s face again.

  The mousy girl slumps under the table without a sound, her lower body uncovered as her lover collapses. Danziger keeps the gun on the knife-cut haired girl and one eye on the fallen man with the pipe through his face. At the moment, no one seems to care if he’s dead—his brain intact.

  “Who the fuck!” she demands.

  Blood squirts from the fountain replacing the droopy eared kid’s nose.

  Danziger fights his natural urge to answer police. I haven’t been a cop in months.

  “Just walk away, lady. I need to question this guy.” He nods the gun at the beaten man.

  “You want his hideout. You fucking want his hideout!” she screams.

  “I need him.” The cop in him—the person who seeks revenge for his daughter—keeps him from pulling the trigger in cold blood.

  “We share his hideout. We can share all we’ve got. Take a turn on Cybele and help us carry him,” the scrawny man offers.

  There’s nothing to consider. The choppy haired girl will kill me the first chance she gets. No hesitation. I spotted it in her eyes. She’s hoping I’ll want to pump the mousey Cybele and gut me while I’m distracted. I’d bet she stabbed dozens of men while they raped the poor girl.

  The knife-cut hair girl takes a second option when she notes Danziger doesn’t even glance toward Cybele. He hasn’t even reflected on the girl’s exposed ass.

  The shiny .357 magnum is too heavy for her to swing quickly. Danziger puts one bullet in her chest before her arm fully rotates. A second bullet in the scanty booted man and a third kills the ear-lobe kid. Knife-cut hair girl gurgles a bloody breath. He puts a round in her forehead. Before he gives death to the scrawny man, shots ring out.

  Danziger swivels on his heels and crouches low. Cybele bleeds on the grass, a lead pipe in her hand. The man he intended to rescue holds a smoking .22 pistol nearly hidden by his large hand.

  Danziger’s police training reminds him why they pat down suspects. This guy probably has another gun or two on him. How did they get the jump on such a well-prepared individual? He wonders, Maybe the naked girl’s ass distracted his eye? He rolls Cybele over to put a bullet in her skull and spots the tiny red dot exactly in the center of her forehead. The badly beaten man with a swollen eye has deadly aim. If he had wanted me dead, I would be. Danziger ends any chance of the ear-lobed boy raising from the dead.

  Trust might be too much to ask for from the beaten warrior. His gun and canteen are military issue. He could have taken them off a dead soldier. Danziger assumes the man came from a well-stocked camp. He’s recently shaved and lacks body odor.

  Ethan drops his arm still clinching the .22. He coughs. His body spasms. Pain finally escapes him in a whimper.

  Danziger’s certain this man never cries in pain. Not so much as a single moan emanated from him from the seconds of the beating he witnessed.

  Ethan coughs up sputum.

  Danziger forces himself to glance at the mucus pile. No red means no internal bleeding has manifested, yet.

  Something makes Danziger ask, “Do you want your pack?”

  The beaten man whispers, “What did you do before…before the biters?”

  Of all the things to ask. “I was a cop. Detective. Worked homicides.” Puzzled, he asks, “Do you need me to help you?”

  “There are rules at my camp.”

  “You’re concerned about this now? I’m offering to help. I could’ve slit your throat and be on my way.” Danziger scoops up an unopened water bottle from the grass.

  The beaten man clinks the barrel of the tiny gun against something metal in his pocket. “I’ve access to supplies.”

  A trade. “I’ll get you back to your friends. You stock me with gear. Then I’m on my own. I’ve got to find someone.”

  “I’ll make sure you’re well supplied. Whatever you can carry. Or you stay…and work.” Ethan’s breathing labors.

  Danziger takes a drink, letting some of the water splash from his mouth onto his face and neck. “Water?” he offers.

  “Your arms?”

  “I’m not bit. I escaped a human attack. The wounds are infected.” Danziger swallows some Tylenol.

  Ethan’s body tightens as he reaches into his coat pocket. He produces a plastic-covered map. “Find Highway 19. Follow it north.” He gives into the pain, passing out.

  Danziger grabs the map.

  “Follow 19.”

  He doesn’t bother to correct the wounded man about Hermann being on Highway 19. “Not quite the same as follow the yellow brick road.”

  Eating a protein bar pilfered from the man’s gear gives Danziger the energy to complete the litter. He rolls the fallen warrior onto the nasty blanket. Collapsing next to him, he drinks deep from the canteen. “You’re one big dude. Not much of a talker. I wish you were. You’ve got folds in this map not along the factory ones. They reveal a planned route only you understand. I need you to get you back.”

  He splashes a small amount of water onto his neck. “If those bandits had killed you the map would have meant nothing to them. It would keep your friends safe. I figure you’ve got a few. You do supply runs for them. You’re too clean not to have a safe haven close by. I hope they have meds for my fever.” God, let the convoy have gone there.

  Underbrush rustles.

  Danziger grips the .357 now holstered on his hip. A rabbit darts across the road. “Glad I don’t have to fire this hand cannon of yours. It will attract the entire neighborhood of those undead bastards. Why aren’t there more staggering around?”

  He grabs the ends of the litter poles and marches on. “You could wake up long enough to make sure I’m heading where you want me to go. I could use help. I’m sweating from this infection. I’ll follow 19 north like you said. Your people better be there.”

  EMILY PULLS CLUMPS of her blonde hair away from her head in order to glare at the brittle strands. She’ll dump the expensive conditioner she liberated from the canteen on some unsuspecting girl. Back to dollar store cheap stuff to liven her hair again. Maybe she’ll trade it for some fingernail polish. Her toes are in desperate need of color. She’ll have to remember not to wear her sandals when Ethan returns. He’ll berate her again for using her free time to beauty herself.

  At fifteen her entrusted responsibly at Acheron leaves her feeling less important than those securing the gate. Some surely consider hers a cushy job especially if they knew she had time to consider painting her toe nails. But dispensing books, movies, and working electronic devices allowing people during their down time to relax keeps people sane. R
emoving a few hours of worry from each day about the millions of undead wandering outside the compound was lacking in the military refugee camp.

  Others in the camp might be qualified to operate a lender library. She knows of two teachers, but one was a crack shot. Emily qualified to carry the .22 on her hip, but not accurately enough to guard the fences. Her failure with the posthole digger was epic since she lacked the muscle tone to carry the tool. Days of lugging it around might pack on some meat to her arms, but the work quota expected would cost her meals defeating the purpose of the hard labor.

  Given time allowed for reshelving and checking out DVDs, she contemplates why she was given this job at fifteen. Her best answer—not many viable fifteen-year-olds are left in world. Everything in this camp must work as the mantra states, ‘You don’t work you don’t eat.’ Even the well-fed cattle serve as meals. Eventually, her value as a mother will take precedence over librarian if humanity continues. She’s old enough to become a mother, so why wouldn’t Ethan make her a woman when she offered herself to him. He balks at her age. A poor excuse when living people are needed to make this camp work and those born into their world will learn to survive its dangers quicker than those forced into it.

  Maybe at fifteen she only crushes on the man who rescued her from certain mutilating rape instead of being in love with him. A good reason to love someone. Her entrustment to merely track and rent out books and DVDs for entertainment has spiraled into whispers she was given the task for an exchange of personal favors to the boss. The most popular and her favorite rumor by the plethora of women who attempted to win his affection but got nowhere. Uninterested in any romantic entanglements with women inside the fence, people figure he visits Emily secretly. She wishes. She offered herself to him fresh from the shower in naked unspoiled glory. Despite clear interest from the bulge in his pants, he refused her. She doesn’t understand how not bedding her keeps him noble in a world when the old rules no longer apply. He’s older; no one seems to know exactly how old, and she’s fifteen. None of which should matter anymore. She’s bled for over a year now and when people’s life expectancy was age thirty-five it qualified a girl to be married off.