If he were in an old western, he’d expect a tumbleweed to drift past as lone flute music signified a ghost town. He pauses a moment longer. His brief glance inside gave no indication for disheveled shelves. He finds it strange so many places seem so untouched by looters. Approaching a year since the plague spread the undead across the country, he assumed every business, home and outhouse would have been plundered for supplies, yet he keeps finding so many places untouched except for gathering dust.
Confident the bell alerted nothing outside the building and anything dead inside should have crawled into view by now. He swings the door wide, keeping it propped with his foot while he draws a flashlight with his only working arm. He holds the light between his teeth, drawing his weapon. First chance he gets he’ll duct tape the light to the barrel. It’s going to be a long six to eight weeks with only one functioning arm, if he doesn’t need physical therapy to make it work again. Danziger did a number when he broke it so they could escape the new breed of Manson family.
Tom makes a mental note to search for water, food, safe place to sleep, bullets, physical therapist who specialize in limbs. He wants to laugh. There’s not much else he can do. Stale food reeks near the counter plastered in retro five-cent milkshake signs. Flare. They would call that. Tom feels teased. Not only because he has a nickel, but he’d kill for a milkshake.
His boot sticks as he lifts it to step. Ice cream or something else from the inoperable freezer has leaked across the floor in an attempt to glue him in place with dried sticky gel. It makes his rubber sole echo with each step. Some of the shelves have been raided. Blank spots exist between items. He will have to inspect each shelf for useful gear, but first he needs painkillers. Someone has been swiping items, but only what they needed. Some decent people are left in the world, Tom contemplates. At least there were. From the dust in the empty spots it’s if they haven’t been back in a long time.
He kicks open the half door of the pharmacy counter. Now, this place is more of what he expected. Completely bare shelves, ramshackle bottles, and broken glass. A pile of hypodermic needles still in plastic scattered on the floor from a ripped open box. Someone desperately needed an injection of something.
The empty shelf of narcotics doesn’t surprise Tom. He searches the shelf and finds a bottle of Elavil. He puts the gun down and pockets the antidepressant, glad he aced the limited medical medication training. So many cites wanted firemen to double and function as medics. Knowing what drugs found on-scene during an emergency saves lives. Under the pharmacy counter he snags a box of dust-soaked protein bars overlooked by everyone in a hurry to steal drugs.
Through the “staff only” door, he finds stairs leading both up and down. He won’t enter the dark and foreboding basement with only a flashlight.
Upstairs, he finds apartments. Tom checks each tiny room before shoving the couch to the entry door to block it.
He plops down and rips open a protein bar wrapper with his teeth. He’s not sure what they tasted like fresh, but shit is not a flavor he craved. He needs something in his stomach to help metabolize the antidepressant containing chemicals to help numb the pain. That’s what he needs. Hydroxyzine helps itching, maybe it will also with certain infections. He knows this to be true. What he doesn’t know is if these drugs have an interaction and by mixing them they will cause horrible side effects such as death.
He swallows the Elavil risking a chance to sleep without pain.
People.
Voices of living people jar Tom from his deep slumber. Not sure how long he slept, the stiffness of his body stabs agony into him. He knows full well he needed the safe rest with the medication. His arm throbs, but he dare not take any more pills. He doesn’t know how they will affect him and a drowsy state could be detrimental to his health.
He crawls to the window.
A half a block down the street, a group of people beat an undead with bats. Some have guns, but they appear to be going for a silent attack forgetting their war yells and screams attract just as much attention as a rifle shot.
One of them pokes the now lifeless corpse with his bat. Satisfied it’s dead, they traipse onward toward the drug store. Tom now has a life-changing decision to make. Does he let these people know he’s here or does he just hide and let them pass? They are not heavily equipped for a long journey, so they are either scavenging for a larger camp, or could be they fled the caravan and are in desperate need of supplies. They reach the optimum distance to fire upon for clean quick hits. He must decide now. Trust has vanished from the world. Time to make the effort.
The window sticks as he raises it with only one hand. The group freezes at the rattling for the sash. They unsling their rifles. No undead would open a window.
Tom gets it high enough to stick his head out. “Hold up. Hold up,” he calls. He beats on the drooping side of the window to get it to move.
Of the five people, one dashes for cover behind a blue mailbox.
Tom sticks his head out. “Are you from the caravan?”
Direct question—he hopes it will lead to a dialogue.
The group hangs silent for a moment. They could fire and hit him before he could go back inside and operate a weapon. Maybe there are others in other windows ready to ambush them. They have nothing but guns and a few rounds but still, that’s enough. Maybe they won’t shoot everyone. Maybe just the three males. Women have become a commodity all to themselves.
“I’m Dusty,” the tallest man says. “We barely escaped the hoard.”
“Tom.” How much do I say? “I was one of the guards holding the ending point of the caravan. I was helping search the caravan for…” What do I call Levin? “A friend who knew the person he was looking for was on his way to Fort Wood when the swarm hit.” Not completely the truth.
“Do you have water?” Dusty asks.
“Look, kid, I’m just going to trust you. I’ve a broken arm. I found this place yesterday and needed to rest. I’ve not looked for a thing but some pain meds.” Tom takes the risk; after all, they could shoot him before he gets back inside.
“There are still drugs,” the ginger-haired girl retorts.
“Calm down, Danielle,” Dusty snaps.
Tom wonders about her. She had some face piercing at one point and could have done some illegal drugs. “It’s been picked over, but there are some meds and some other supplies.”
The man leans over the mailbox. He holds his weapon at his side ready to bring it to a firing position. “How do you want to handle this old man?”
Tom knows he’s older than these twenty-somethings, but despite the arm pain, he’s far from old.
“I say we find some backpacks, load them with supplies, and pick a direction. We try for the military base or go back to St. Louis.”
“No going back,” the second girl shouts. She’s got brown hair and couldn’t be out of her teens. Her doe eyes calmer with the fear of what she’s seen. Tom knows she doesn’t need a handgun with that trigger-happy fear covering her face.
“Forgive Darcy. She watched a lot of people not escape the hoard,” Dusty explains. “Tom, if we partner up with you, you’ll mess up our group.” He pats the third man on the shoulder. “This is Dakota. And the fool behind the mailbox is Dave. We’ve been calling ourselves the ‘Ds’.”
Humor’s good, kid. It will help keep you going, Tom considers. “Not much I can do about being a Tom.”
Tom steps outside the drugstore entrance unarmed. He hopes to build trust with these people.
“Where’s your weapon?”
“Upstairs, along with a box of the most cardboard tasting food bars. I can’t search for supplies and hold a gun with only one arm.” He gentlemanly holds the door. “This floor and the apartment I stayed in are clear. I don’t know about the other apartment or the basement.”
“Watch out for undead,” Dustin orders.
“If you find a map, we need it.”
“What town are we in?” Dakota places his rifle on the food bar count
er searching for anything edible.
“When we are ready to move, we need to figure out so we know what direction to head.”
“We continue on to the military base. That’s the safest place.”
“What about the DKs?” Panic fills Darcy’s voice.
“We’ll avoid them. That swarm headed south. We must go west,” Dustin assures her.
Danielle examines bottle after bottle of pills. When she finds one she likes, she stuffs it into a plastic bag. “They fuckin’ cleaned out the good meds.”
“Take what’s useful.”
“Tradable, you mean. We use this shit for currency, but it has to be useful for something.”
“Take the antidepressants,” Tom offers.
“I admit this world’s a banquet of depressive shit but—”
“Some have other uses, like pain suppressants,” Tom interrupts.
“How?” she asks him. “All the good pain meds are gone.”
“I was a fireman with some medical training.”
“I was in pharmacy school. The world ended. Do you see a PDR? There should be a few back here,” Danielle says.
“I didn’t look for a Physician’s Desk Reference. I had too much pain,” Tom admits.
Danielle shoves all the antidepressants into the plastic bag. “Dusty, find me a backpack. We have a lot we can take and trade with other survivors.”
“You want this cutie’s pink water bottle that reads ‘You go, Gurl’?”
“Fuck you, Dakota.”
Tom theories Danielle might just be one of the boys after all. “I’m going to get my gun and those food bars.”
“I’ll go with you,” Dusty volunteers. “Maybe whoever lived in that apartment had a gym bag or suit case. We can’t carry this stuff in plastic bags.”
Can’t blame the kid for not trusting me. But this group seems decent.
“Tom and the D’s,” Tom climbs the stairs.
“What?” Dusty follows, hanging back a few steps out of Tom’s reach.
“What you can call yourself.”
“Sounds like a bad fifties rock band.”
“Guess it does,” Tom says.
“You always bring people so easily into your circle?” Dusty asks.
“Kid, I’m in too much pain. You want to kill me—go for it.”
“I need to know my group’s safe.”
Danziger, my new friend. You may be on your own. Then again what purpose do we have in this new world other than survival? A worthy goal might be what we need. Tom keeps a 9mm Glock in his right hand. His left arm now properly set and secured in a shoulder sling to rest immovable against his chest. Danielle doctored him.
The six move between the cars, inspecting for any useful supplies.
“Your two best buddies ran off with a military incursion team designated to destroy bridges over the river,” Dusty says.
“About the gist of it,” Tom says.
“We’ve all lost friends. Would you know this serial killer if you saw him again?” Darcy questions.
“Danziger had a photo. I’d know the guy if I saw him,” Tom says.
“We’ve barely been able to stay alive and this guy still hunts teen girls.”
“His survival depends on filling whatever void the killing satisfies inside him,” Dave adds. He opens a car door, removing a bottle of water. He examines the seal.
“When did you become an expert?”
“A few semesters of psychology and ten seasons of Criminal Minds doesn’t mean you understand the mind of a killer,” Dusty adds.
“I thought about profiling as a career.”
“Not a promising choice now.” Danielle dumps a beach bag, scooping up a tube of sunscreen. She squirts a handful before offering, “Anyone else need tanning lotion?”
Dusty’s skin’s already dark from the sun. “You need the entire tube to protect your ginger skin.”
“Keep it up. Each freckle is a soul I stole,” she hisses at him.
“You let this cop break your arm?”
“Once away from the caravan, people have done whatever to survive,” Tom says.
“It wasn’t survival those people couldn’t accept but the death of their loved ones from what you told us about.”
“We just need to find someplace safe,” Darcy says.
“You vote for the military base?” Dusty asks.
“St. Louis is overrun and there are no bridges to cross the river. I vote the military base.”
A garden rake brains Danielle, cleaving open her face and snagging on her nose ring and extracting it.
Prepared for undead, the group never expected to encounter the living mixed in among the abandoned cars of the caravan.
Dakota has his rifle butt to his shoulder the fastest.
Tom raises the 9mm Glock.
Danielle’s ginger hair deepens its natural red with spraying blood from her nose and scalp.
Dusty, shocked more than anyone, fumbles with his holstered weapon.
Danielle gets a second blow to the back before shoved toward her friends. The attacker bolts, ducking between cars.
None of the Ds act. They revert to being lost in a crisis.
The attacker races from the breakdown lane to the tree line.
Tom with his firefighter training knows to remain calm and assess the situation. Keeping his cool, he waits until Dusty’s face requests his guidance.
“Draw your weapons. There could be more.”
Unsettled, they all brandish their weapons.
“Dave, work your way to Danielle. Dakota, keep him covered,” Tom orders. “Dusty, move toward Danielle and sweep the cars for rotters or the living. Darcy, move toward me. We need to find a first-aid kit.”
“What do we do until you find a kit?”
“Get a towel or blanket. Support her head and put pressure on the head wound.”
Dakota sweeps his rifle, making sure no other attackers are near Danielle. Dave tears a bed sheet holding the shreds against the gash. He gulps back down the bile jutting into his throat from the missing half of Danielle’s nose.
“YOU KNEW OF this killer?” Dr. Baker says.
“We should kill him for not telling us,” Wade demands.
Major Ellsberg scowls. “Exile’s not enough. Not when one of us has been murdered. He’s just as responsible for Kayla’s death.”
Wanikiya raises a hand, calling for silence. “A proper judicial recourse will follow, after we have facts and Kayla’s murderer stands for punishment.”
“I was tracking Levin. I suspected he was in your camp.” Danziger carefully selects his recollection of the past events. “I was a homicide cop and was assigned to his case. The newspapers called him the Blonde Teen Slasher.”
He allows the information to sink in. People in this state would have seen news reports daily for months during Levin’s prime hunting even if the end of the world made them forget. “Levin kidnapped and murdered my daughter. I was removed from the case.”
“You knew what a threat he was to us and you said nothing,” Wanikiya says.
“I had a fever and wasn’t sure my story would even be accepted. I said nothing because after St. Louis fell to the biters I pursued Levin out of the city. I found him and did to him what he did to the little girls. He escaped before I could end him. He was wounded and my story makes me the crazed killer, not him. People don’t understand; these killers, they are not hideous demons under the bed. They are the nicest, sometimes handsome, but charismatic people you’ll meet. You’d trust them with your baby and you might even forgive them after they eat it because they are so charming.”
None of them speak. Wanikiya accepts the argument. They would have sided with the wounded Levin. An angry father spews crazy talk and they might have thrown him out leaving Levin to murder in secret. “Logic dictates I keep you locked up and once we find Levin we exile you,” Wanikiya says.
“Once he’s dead. You do what you want with me—after Levin’s dead. Right now, you’re gi
ving him what he wants. Time. While you interrogate me, he hunts a fresh victim. One who meets his needs. Kayla was a distraction. In no way was she killed by his ritual.”
“You think he’ll take one of us hostage?”
“He doesn’t take hostages. He takes mementos. You’re a small enough community and most of you eat together. How many fifteen-year-old blonde girls are in this camp?” Danziger asks.
“Hal. Find Simon. Send him to stay with Hannah.” Wanikiya’s priority must keep Ethan’s oath to protect her. “Wade, get Sam. Dr. Baker. Emily—if she’s in the library, and any other teenage girls, bring them to the gym. Keep them there under guard.”
Wade races from the room.
“Try and do it without creating a panic,” Wanikiya calls after him.
“I’ll find him.” Danziger raises his cuffed hand. “Then you exile me or execute me. But I will see Levin dead first.”
“Emily was at Ethan’s farm house last,” Dr. Baker says.
“Once she is safe, I’ll consider your assistance,” Wanikiya says. The radio on his hip crackles.
“Wanikiya, come in.”
He raises the CB mic to his mouth, “Wanikiya here.”
“Ethan requests your presence,” Emily says.
He’s awake. Alive. At least she didn’t scream he’s finally awake. I’ve been able to quell most rumors about Ethan’s condition to level peoples’ concern. Even Victor felt he would be fine after a nap. The beast of a man has taken bullets to chest armor, airbags to the face, and a beating bad enough to drop a rhino. No telling what other dangers he’s stared down since the undead devastated society and strolled away.
“I’m on my way, over.” I need to remember to follow the radio protocol. Even with the Levin issue I must meet with Ethan. Witness for myself my friend’s alive. With the power his resurrection will have over the group I’m going to have to convince Ethan to remain here and lead. The group has grown enough; there are plenty of others to scavenge outside the fence.
“Sorry, Barlock, I know it was your off time,” Wanikiya says. He misses his kitchen. He’s made more trips from the school-turned-community-building to the gate and Ethan’s farm in the last few days than he has his entire time at Acheron. We’re growing too big for one man to rule this place. And when gas goes, communication dwindles.
No Room In Hell (Book 2): 400 Miles To Graceland Page 13