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

by William Schlichter

  Despite the humiliation of being stripped and inspected, the brilliance of the security measure prevents any single person with a bite from reaching the inside. Here they die in the sally port and the community remains protected.

  If Levin lived to be brought inside this compound, then they locked him up until they knew if his wounds weren’t bites. He might still be secured because the wounds won’t have healed enough in the last few days.

  This airlock gate is brilliant. Since everyone outside must strip for inspection. No one—absolutely no one—gets in who is bit or with contraband. Anyone with a suspicious bite can be observed inside the pen until deemed safe or destroyed.

  The giant Native American runs his thumb over the tomahawk blade looped through his belt as he marches toward the truck. To top off the racist stereotype, the man has war paint streaked across his cheeks.

  Danziger can’t help himself. “They let you run this place, Tonto?”

  “I am no fool, nor am I a Potawatomie. What I am is Sioux, and the current leader of this tribe.”

  “I’m lost. I thought the man in the truck was your leader.”

  “Until he regains consciousness, my word is law. As for most white people, you don’t understand the foundation of your racism. Tonto means ‘fool’ in Spanish and he was part of the Potawatomie tribes in what was once the state of Michigan.”

  “Once?”

  “I figure state lines mean little any more. As does the fact we spent thousands of years killing each other over our skin pigments. The biters don’t care if you kneel before Allah or if you have brown skin. We’re all cattle to them.”

  “I brought your leader back. A group of survivors ambushed him.” Danziger considers letting these people keep their mythos about their leader and his herculean skills. “It was a bad beating. As a cop, I’ve never seen anyone endure so much and live.”

  “If he dies. I’ll give you back your clothes and a few days’ worth of supplies and send you on your way. If he vouches for you. Stay or leave, your choice.”

  “I was helping your friend. He said to bring him to you,” Danziger reports.

  “I want to believe you.”

  “It’s the truth. He was attacked, and I saved him.”

  “There had to be a lot of them for him to succumb to a beating,” Wanikiya says.

  “When I arrived, they already had him down. I don’t know how they ambushed him. He had killed some of them already,” Danziger says.

  “What were you doing?”

  The question causes Danziger to withdraw. He’s not sure he wants to tell them of his quest to find the man that killed his daughter. “I was hunting supplies.”

  “For your group?”

  “For my wounds. I’ve been alone since—” A pause in my answer will hurt my case. These people will think I’m making up a lie. “The last caravan of people left St. Louis for Ft. Wood. We were overrun by a herd.” Not a total lie. “Can I get my clothes?”

  “Becky, are you on duty?” Wanikiya glances at the woman half hiding by the edge of the gate complex. Like most of those living in Acheron she has an undying loyalty to the man who saved her life.

  “No, just returned from a run. I want to know who he is,” she demands.

  “Get one of the garment boxes so he can pick out some fresh clothes.” He turns to Danziger. “Your others are ruined.”

  “I was a cop. Do you treat everyone that shows up at your door like this?”

  Wanikiya’s answer—a hard yes.

  “Open the gate,” calls Dr. Baker. They carry Ethan secured to a backboard to a waiting gurney. “He’s no bites!” he informs Wanikiya. “He’ll need X-rays to check for broken bones. I don’t know how anyone made it through a beating like that.”

  Danziger steps from the sally port. He doesn’t bother to count the guns on him or ready to draw on him.

  Dr. Baker continues, “It’s too early to tell, but if he has no internal bleeding it will take a long time for him to recover.” They load Ethan into the ambulance.

  Wanikiya can’t tell if that’s a lie to make them all feel better or the truth. “Get him back to the medical ward, Dr. Baker.”

  “You have an X-ray machine and run ambulances?” Danziger asks.

  “We have a society here. The man you returned to us built it all. The people living here—he rescued them,” Becky says.

  From the gather of people around the gate, Danziger understands if Ethan dies he would pass onto martyrdom—they don’t need that. They need a living hero to protect them.

  A team of people has moved into the airlock gate and inspects the truck. Becky sets a tote before Danziger allowing him to select some clean underwear.

  Barlock reports to Wanikiya, “It’s clean. We found all the boss’s weapons and usual supplies. Nothing explosive on the truck and not enough gas for it to function as a bomb.”

  “What the fuck? You think I was a suicide bomber?” Danziger protests.

  “We don’t know who you are. But we have rebuilt society complete with electricity. Not for one moment do I think some group wouldn’t try to take that from us,” Wanikiya says.

  “You don’t let people in?”

  “We bring in survivors as we find them, as long as they agree to adhere to our rules.”

  “I appreciate the medical attention and fresh clothes, but I’ve got a mission to continue,” Danziger doesn’t want to be here if their leader dies.

  “He hasn’t worked to earn any food,” Becky squeals.

  “He brought back Ethan. That has earned him a meal or two, young lady,” Wanikiya says.

  “I take that’s a rule,” Danziger says. I do need to feed this fever. I need to cure this fever.

  “Our biggest. You don’t work you don’t eat. But I will feed you, until the boss tells us his side of the events.”

  Even if I am welcome they aren’t ready to accept me yet. “It could take days for him to wake,” Danziger says. I realize they don’t trust me yet. If it turns out I hurt their leader they’ll end me. I need to heal. I need to see if Levin is here.

  “Wanikiya, we don’t have a holding cell. You know how the boss handles criminals,” Becky protests.

  “This man’s not a criminal. He’s a guest. He needs medical attention. Put him in one of the empty classrooms and place a guard detail on him.”

  “I’ll pull my weight for a meal,” Danziger volunteers.

  Dr. Sterling secures his gear. “Not today. We need to heal your arms first. He may have to sleep with an ankle cuff.”

  “This man is a guest until I say otherwise. If he ends up with one bruise or mark on him, I will personally strip and exile the individual responsible. We don’t know what happened. All we know is he brought Ethan back to us,” Wanikiya speaks so all the milling people understand. Even without Twitter he knows his words will spread on the wind.

  The guards escort Danziger to a truck.

  Becky waits until Danziger is out of earshot before saying, “As much as I want to beat the truth out of him, he did bring back—”

  Wanikiya cuts her off, “No need. The facts are he brought back Ethan. The truth is there are still decent people outside the fence. We need to find them and bring them in here before they turn into those who beat, steal, and kill.”

  “I want to confess something,” Becky says. “Orscheln’s was a complete cluster fuck, and I blamed Amie, but her quick thinking saved us. A herd. No one could have done any better. Not with a herd that size. It had to have moved through after Karen scouted the location.”

  “Would you go outside the fence under her command again?” he asks.

  “I would. Until I get my own team to lead.”

  Dr. Baker slips the nasal cannula over Ethan’s ears before guiding the prongs in his nose.

  Victor adjusts the airflow. Ethan raises his arm to jerk at the tubes.

  Dr. Baker and Victor both grab Ethan’s hand to prevent him from removing the tines.

  “We need to leave that in
, Sir. No charge for the oxygen,” Victor jokes as Ethan wraps his fingers like a vice grip smashing his digits together, threatening to break them.

  “Take me to my house,” Ethan orders.

  “You need medical treatment. X-rays,” protests Dr. Baker.

  “I’m awake and competent. I refuse transport.”

  “Someone knows the rules,” says Victor. Catching a disapproving glance from Dr. Baker, who fumes at Ethan, trashing old world rules at every turn.

  “Take me home.” Ethan pushes up on one elbow in an attempt to get off the gurney.

  “Just take it easy. Let me speak to Wanikiya,” Dr. Baker crawls out of the side door of the bus.

  Ethan waits until the doctor’s out of his view to collapse. Glad his bluff wasn’t called.

  “I’d rather keep him in the medical unit,” Dr. Baker hates craning up to speak to the Sioux.

  “How bad is it?”

  “I’ve performed a cursory examination. I don’t know how any man, even one in Kevlar, withstood such a beating. No way his chest was fully healed from the bullet impacts. He needs all the care our limited medical supplies will provide.”

  “Take him to his house,” Wanikiya insists. “There’ll be enough talk from the guards about how bad he was beaten. I don’t want him seen just yet. It will disturb the hope he gives our people.”

  “He needs to be in the hospital. I’ll need to X-ray his entire body.”

  “We can’t have everyone see their leader like this. Rumors would cause enough despair. Take him to his house,” Wanikiya orders.

  “I implore you. My ability to care for him at the hospital.”

  “What care will he get at the hospital you can’t give him in his own bed?”

  The smell of freshly-cooked eggs permeates the living room.

  Even with Wanikiya on the end of the gurney, it takes five men to move their leader into the farmhouse. Wanikiya ducks under the door frame as he shuffle-steps to cross the threshold.

  The noise brings the young Dartagnan from the kitchen. Confusion melts into his face. He howls, spotting Ethan strapped to the board.

  Maneuvering the stretcher toward the staircase involves a catty-corner shift, causing one of the EMTs to bump the living room tables displaying the miniature model Dartagnan constructed of the compound.

  The ear-splitting burst of a guttural squeal punctures all eardrums like a primate’s defensive warning. Dartagnan drops to his butt, hugs his knees, and rocks back-and-forth, never ceasing the howling.

  As miniature figurines and trees fall over—one crashing onto the floor—the young boy increases the wail to its maximum pitch.

  Struggling to get the gurney up the narrow stairs only compounds the child’s frustration as the men bang against the wall with no room to maneuver as they climb the stairs.

  The rattling, heavy thumping, and boot stomps on the second floor send a waterfall of dust from the ceiling.

  Dartagnan rocks faster.

  Wanikiya tromps down the stairs having to slouch the entire trip.

  “Ethan’s going to be okay. You’ve seen him in action. He’s a tough cookie.” The man’s comfort does nothing to cease the screams.

  Wanikiya contemplates how the boy survived outside the fence before Ethan found him. Once the kid’s mother passed he was left to fend for himself. One outburst like this would attract biters. The kid may be able to cook eggs, build realistic models, and complete complicated math in his head, but he lacks the fortitude to defend against the undead.

  “Dartagnan. I need you to lower your voice. The medics need quiet to fix Ethan.” Even keeping his voice low and soft, Wanikiya’s demeanor fails to calm the boy.

  Voices carry from upstairs even over the screaming.

  “He’s stable.”

  “I’ve never seen skin purple like this.”

  “Do we ice the swelling?”

  “It’s impossible for a person to live through a beating like this.”

  “You’re all trained medical personnel. Do your jobs,” Dr. Baker snaps.

  Two of the EMTs bound down the stairs with the empty gurney.

  “Do you want to sedate him?” asks the EMT.

  “Absolutely not. I’m no child specialist, but in this new world he’s going to have to deal,” Wanikiya says.

  “He’ll scream himself hoarse,” Victor says.

  “I’m worried he’ll damage his vocal cords,” the second EMT adds. “And if Ethan wakes he’ll try to get out of bed to check on the kid.”

  “When,” Wanikiya corrects. He marches into the kitchen, flipping on the CB radio placed on top of the refrigerator. He clicks the mic button. “Chief Petty Officer Simon.” No other Simon lives at the camp, but the retired gentlemen responds to his rank—the kind of soldier who never retires until forced. The end of the world provided him the outlet he needed to continue being Chief.

  BLINDFOLDED, CHIEF PETTY Officer Simon snaps the barrel back into the weapon he reassembled before snagging the radio from its cradle. “Simon—”

  “Are you at HQ?”

  Simon slides off the blindfold. Not a single leftover gun part rests on the table. He locks the weapon in the drawer of his station.

  If not on the range, where else would I be? he considers answering in his best jarhead tone, but relents to respecting those above in command even if they aren’t military. “Affirmative.” My twenty. He should have asked. Civvies never want to learn proper code.

  “Bring Emily to the corner farm,” Wanikiya’s voice crackles.

  Simon was fully aware of the scrambled medical teams. When he’s not certifying Acheron residence to carry or assist in the armory duties, he keeps a watchful eye on the camp. Including daily runs outside the fence. So, why do I need to play chauffeur to a fifteen-year-old girl whose only skill is guarding books? Simon’s thoughts shift to practicality. Never a good idea to leave such a special kid alone. I don’t care how he survived outside, he needs constant looking after.

  Emily leaps from the truck before Simon slams it into park. She knows the howls from inside the farmhouse are Dartagnan’s. She skips every other step as she races up the stoop.

  Simon parks, allowing the two ambulances—one military and one civilian—access to leave the scene with ease. A few of the scheduled main gate guards gather outside.

  He almost screams ‘attention’ but none of them survived basic. A bulldog snap should suffice. “Why aren’t you at your posts?”

  “Someone brought the boss back.”

  It takes Simon a second to remember Noah’s name. Another late teen kid Ethan rescued. A lot of near twenty-something kids survived being eaten. Most likely they could run.

  Upset, this kid tells more with his shaking than his words.

  “Barlock, get these people back to their posts.” Even with no authority to bark orders, the camp respects the veteran warrior.

  “Someone beat him near to death.”

  Simon holds his best poker face. “Who?”

  “A lone stranger. Says he found Ethan.”

  “He may have. Where is this man?” Simon asks.

  “We have him under guard at the sally port.”

  “Then get back there. Best way to breach our defenses is to draw guards away from the main gate.” Half true. Any one group could just cut a hole in the fence and get in, but Simon leaves off his tactical assessment. “Get back to your stations where you’ll be the most helpful.” He adds, “Keep the boss’s condition to yourself.” I won’t panic the camp the way Dartagnan’s panicked. From the high-pitched wails, he knows the boy’s upset by what he’s witnessed.

  “In fact, we should all return to our duties. I have another resident to certify. If you aren’t directly involved here, return to work.”

  Emily knows Simon will worm information out of the gate guards milling about the farmhouse porch. She would remain to understand what’s transpired but Dartagnan’s howls of discontent echo loud enough to attract biters. Ethan explained how he found th
e special boy. He survived where so many normal people didn’t, including the kid’s mother. She operated through painstaking patients to train the kid to function as normal children do. Mom kept a journal of major disturbances and how she could control and teach Dartagnan to handle them. Emily read a few pages and knows about the chair.

  Dartagnan rocks on his buttocks. His arms hugging his knees. He touches each of the five watches on his left arm. Rocks five times and touches each watch, repeating the pattern. Opera singer lungs howl a constant, painful-pitched note. Never ceasing to take in gulps of air keep his face a bright red.

  “Who did this to the model?” she asks.

  “He’s been screaming for twenty minutes.”

  “No wonder he’s so upset,” Emily blasts with disgust. “You destroyed the model.” She scoops up a tree from the floor. “This is his whole world.” His screaming wears on her equally young ears. She snaps, “Dartagnan, you want to sit in the chair? Dartagnan!” It worked for Ethan.

  He doesn’t recognize her authority.

  She bulls up, sucking in as much air as her lungs will allow and belts in what will become her best Mom tone. “Dartagnan, you stop and go sit in your chair. Right now!”

  The boy’s head snaps at the high back chair in the corner. Fear consumes his face. The one place he doesn’t want to be sentenced to is the chair. From the notes, Emily knows it’s a simple time out location, but somehow it’s devastating to his socially inadequate mind.

  Dartagnan freezes. Emily sucks in another full breath. “I said the chair.” Stern but not mean. She can’t back down from the contest.

  Dartagnan hops to his quivering legs.

  “Now.”

  Each baby step he inches toward the chair pains Emily. None of this is his fault. Even if she’s in the wrong about punishing him she’s on a path she must follow or he’ll never listen to her again.

  Once he places his bottom in the chair, Emily forces back her own tears at the sight of Dartagnan’s.

  In a sweet-as-she-can-sound voice, she asks, “What happened?”