“Just finish off her friends,” Ethan orders.
Chad uses Becky’s machete to splinter the skull of a man. All three collapsed bodies appear dragged through the meat grinder. The second he ends has dozens of little cuts like being flung through glass.
The third coughs up blood.
“He’s not dead!”
“He will be. Unless you’re a surgeon, end him and get over to hold her legs.”
Chad hovers over the dying man.
The man uses his last bit of strength to nod yes.
Chad drives the machete into the skull.
“Hold her legs,” Ethan orders.
Chad squats over the tantrum thrashing of limbs. The belly mound blues. The last of the woman’s life transforms into undead existence.
Becky wonders if at some point when Ethan delivered a baby.
Ethan knows her unspoken question. Admittedly, it was a plastic doll shot through a rubber vagina—in theory, I was certified in such action. The key was to drive the ambulance faster. In this case, none of his training works in his favor. C-sections were invasive and he never secured the certification to move to that level.
He palpates the graying tummy. The bulbous navel and—
“She’s completing the turn!” Chad panics.
Ethan calm, draws the hunting knife over the epidermis, splitting the skin. The yellowish layer of adipose tissue women collect while pregnant. Behooved to find yellow around the uterus satisfies him enough his rescue attempt is possible.
“Don’t watch.”
A warning to invite the gawking of his partners.
He interlaces all ten of his fingers into the gash. If ever an opportunity brought him to utter a prayer it would be now as he grips both sides of the uterine wall and flexes his upper body, pulling his arms apart.
Cracking bone echoes over the tears of meat.
Chad catches his lunch in his throat, preventing an exhalation.
Becky turns her face.
Ethan slips inside the cavity hallway to his elbows. He lifts them out cradling a baby filling one of his hands.
Becky doesn’t wait for his order. She drives her second machete thought the forehead of the mother.
Ethan clears away placenta. “Chad, get me the newspaper.”
“Dirty old paper.”
Ethan forgoes the expiation he picked up during his training about the sterile nature of newspapers and it works for a baby swaddling when lacking a blanket. They have several, but he’d rather save them for later until the baby’s clean.
Ethan loops some of the paracord he carries around the umbilical cord tying it off in two places. “You want to cut the cord?” he asks Becky.
She flips open a knife, slicing though the tissue between the cord.
“The baby didn’t turn.” Becky smiles.
“The mother’s last gift to her child. I read once were mothers with full blown AIDS didn’t transfer the disease to their unborn even though they shared the same blood.” As gently as possible, with giant finger he flicks clear the mucus plugging the baby’s nose.
“Shouldn’t we have boiled some water?” Chad asks, newspaper in hand. “In every movie, ever, they send someone to boil water.”
“Because it gives some Podunk stressed moron something to do who would just be in the fucking way?” Ethan speaks in his lowest resistor to the baby. “Boiling water would be too hot for baby’s soft skin.” He pinches the baby’s foot.
Pain gives way to life as the little girl cries.
Becky and Chad both give a flirtatious smile to each other.
Chad’s looses his happiness first. “Won’t she attract biters.”
Ethan bounces the baby in his arm until her cries turn to whimpers. Keeping his baby speaking tone, he says, “Then we’ll just have to kill every last one of them.” Ethan swaddles her in the newspaper and allows her to hold his index finger with her tiny hand as comfort. “She’s going to need to eat.
“Mom’s milk will have soured by now,” Chad says.
“Don’t look at me. I don’t even have tits.”
“Size of the breast isn’t important. It’s what they make and you don’t have the colostrum this baby needs,” Ethan says.
“Were do we find colostrum?” Becky asks.
“Goat’s milk,” Chad says.
Becky and Ethan both glance at him.
“Seriously. Where are we going to locate a goat?” Chad asks.
“We can’t take this baby to Memphis,” Becky protests.
“We find a new boat, drive up the river,” Chad suggests.
“You’re not serious about bringing the baby along to Memphis.”
“You want to leave her here. Why don’t you just bash her skull in with your boot, save her from growing up in this nightmare. It would be mercy, not murder.” Ethan never changes from his father voice.
“Easy, Ethan, I just meant, I—”
“The best option is we find a car and you two head back to the colony. I’ll head to Memphis.”
“By yourself.”
“I’ve been on my own plenty. It will take both of you to protect the baby. “
“She’ll need to eat.”
“Your instinct will be to search grocery stores, but you’re more likely to encounter biters. It might be emotionally more difficult, but I’d check daycares; they’ll have extra diapers and food and most people don’t search them for supplies.”
“I don’t know the way back. Not without taking the interstate, and you said to stay off the interstate,” Chad protests.
“I’ll map you out a path—don’t get in hurry,” Ethan says.
“Are you worried she’s not crying?”
“No. Not yet. She’s warm and comfortable, and has a pleasing voice to sooth her.”
Becky gathers their gear. “She was about to burst.” As she stuffs items into her backpack. “If I were an expecting mother I’d have gathered baby items.”
The baby tightens her grip on Ethan’s pinky finger, closing its eyes. Ethan rocks her.
Chad reloads his weapon. He jerks the slide.
Ethan voice remains a calm, soothing whisper, “A diaper bag’s feasible. You two track back the way they came. No more than half a mile. If they’ve been running longer you won’t find it.”
“You going to be fine?”
Ethan draws his M&P, placing on his bag inches from where he holds the baby. “Privacy will give me a chance to name this little girl.”
Becky cleans the blood from her machete, dropping her pack next to Ethan. “Leave your gear,” she orders Chad.
The boat rests on its trailer, wedged between two trees. Smoking further down the road, the SUV rests right side up. The crumpled roof bears the marks of several rollover impacts.
“She over corrected around the corner to fast while pulling the boat.” Chad slides his pistol from its holster.
“How did she live long enough to crawl from where we found her?” Chad asks.
“A mother’s will. She wanted to save her baby and so did those people.” Becky rakes chunks shattered bloody glass from the window remains. Kneeling, she cranes her neck to peek inside. “Search the road. She was heading back to the ambush town. Maybe a diaper bag flung out during one of the roll overs.”
Chad pats the back tire, full of air. He glances at the remaining three. “No blow out. Just speed caused the crash?”
Becky jerks a backpack wedged in the seats. “How is it important?”
“I don’t know, but I thought it might be, if they were avoiding an obstacle like a biter herd.”
She fishes in the pack—clothes, crunchy bars, knife—nothing useful for a newborn. “No fresh splatters on the front grill and we’d hear a herd.”
“Funny.”
“Find the diaper bag,” she orders.
Annoyed with her bossiness toward him, Chad toddles along the shoulder scanning the grass for any man-made object.
Becky huffs out her breath. The SUV appears devo
id of biters, but not of her bag lodged between seats. The only way to reach them is by crawling inside. A task she wanted to avoid.
Claustrophobia was never an issue for her until the world ended. Once halfway inside she’ll be trapped and defenseless. She draws in a deep breath as if preparing to leap in a lake. She’d never tell Ethan her aversions to him trapping them in the bedroom at night when he seals the doors with overturned dressers. Cuddling with Chad was the only way she stayed sane.
Two bags. One of prenatal vitamins—expired. A second travel bag for the weekend camper.
She scrambles out from the wreckage.
Chad greats her with two satchel bags. “Any of this useful?”
Before she’s able to pilfer, tire squelching brings her to her feet.
Spilling from the rust-red Chevy are three men in flannel, toting double barrel shotguns.
Becky considers the inferiority of the weapon against a herd. Reload time improves chances of a biter reaching you and at a distance the buckshot may not destroy enough of the brain. The weapons will, however, shred her and Chad before she kills more than one of the men. She’s hasn’t Ethan’s quick draw speed. Even if Chad missed and she got one Ethan would pick off the others before they fire. His reflexes are inhuman—his X-man skill. Becky wishes she had just half his speed.
Her fingers brush over Chad’s wrist, putting pressures to keep him from drawing his weapon. Talking’s the only way out of this.
She raises her arms in the air, gunless, before the rednecks demand it.
“Where’s the person who belongs to that bag?” demands the older one.
Becky points at the trail the traveled to reach the SVU. Her mind races. How much does she say to these men? What if the pregnant woman was running from them? What is the best response to keep her face free of buckshot? “The pregnant woman sent us for her baby supplies.” Not a complete lie.
The younger man lowers his weapon racing for the path. “Sandra! Is she okay?”
Chad has the good sense to keep his mouth shut and let her speak. “She was hurt,”
This halts the younger man and causes the others to keep their raise weapons.
“She went into labor. The baby’s with our friend.”
“Two fingers, one at a time you place your weapons on the ground,” the older man commands.
“Fuck you. The baby needs formula. Not you holding your dick while we disarm. Chad will walk the path. You follow to keep our friend from blowing his head off and I’ll stay here with you pointing your guns on me until you know the baby’s all right.”
“Who do you think you are, little girl?”
“Someone who wants that baby girl to live.” Becky never wanted so much for her words to be true. For the first time, she wants someone besides herself to make to tomorrow. The positive emotion overwhelms her and she knows now why Ethan does what he does.
Ethan unfolds his map. “Don’t travel the major interstaters and avoid the cities. There are also clans of people killing, if you’re lucky, for whatever you have.”
“I don’t know people were capable of some of the shit I’ve seen,” the old man adds, “and I was in ‘Nam.”
“I knew. I just didn’t think I’d ever see it.” Ethan taps the map. “Head to Cuba, Missouri. Take the scenic route as much as possible. Follow Highway 19 North after Cuba.”
“For how long?” he asks
“Becky and Chad will accompany you back.”
“The hell I will. We’ve got get to Memphis,” Becky protests.
“Keep your voice down; you’ll wake the baby,” Ethan scolds.
“I’m going with you,” she says.
“It’s not like you were going to get to tour Graceland. I’ll get the Major’s brother and catch up with you.”
“Ethan, you need us.”
“I need you to protect this baby no matter what. She’s the future of the next generation.”
“How safe is your camp?” asks the old man.
“We have walls and doctors,” Ethan says. “People willing to help. We’ve strict rules. You don’t work—you don’t eat.”
“The way it should be,” says the old man.
“We’ll all go to Memphis. Leave them on the boat with the baby,” Becky’s protest falls on deaf ears.
“Get the baby home. We won’t find formula on the river and we have same issue any town big enough to have supplies will be full of undead.”
“We have a few supplies at our camp, the truck, and a well,” says the old man.
“Healthy drinking water for a few days will be a welcome change,” Becky says.
The old man kicks at a pebble with his boot. “Why are you all doing all this?”
“To stay human. I’m on a path to enlightenment.” Ethan smiles.
“You’ll make it, son. My granddaughter did you wrong and you did all you could for her and my great-grandbaby. One decent person left. Not like those people who cleared out our town.”
“I doubt when Anubis weighs my heart against the feather I’ll be found worthy. But maybe those survivors in the compound and your great-grandbaby won’t ever have to worry or witness what I have witnessed.” Ethan folds his map, sliding it into the waterproof sleeve. He hands it to Becky.
She throws her arms around him. “You better catch up, old man.” She kisses him on the lips.
“You protect the baby. No matter what. Steer clear of the New Madrid area. Remember, no matter what.”
ETHAN CRANKS THE release on the trailer, dropping the Monterey 186 MS motorboat into the water. Momentum carries it into the swift current, sending it floating away from the launch. Realizing the craft will soon be out his reach he dives for the edge catching the tie rope.
Not I wasn’t much of a sailor. Good thing no one was here to witness. I’d lose my reputation for knowing it all.
Ethan tosses in his gear bag and a baseball bat before flopping into the boat. He lands with less elegance than a fish flopping on the bank. His left leg doesn’t allow for grace.
Taking a seat at the pilot station he wonders why the steering wheel is on the right side opposite American-made cars.
Great. Bluetooth and an interface for my iPad.
Caught in the swift current of the Mississippi River, the boat now floats far enough away from the bank to make it impossible for Ethan to safely swim back.
“You better start.” Not thinking to grab an oar, Ethan cranks the engine. It turns over.
Ethan flips the accelerator. The boat jerks and had he been standing he’d have tumbled end over end to the back of the boat. He backs off the accelerator, not ready to drive at full speed. Not quite like a car. Nothing like a motorcycle. He turns the wheel. Even heading downstream, the boat moves against currents. Confident with his ability not to drive right up onto the bank Ethan points the boat downstream.
I know you’re not supposed to swim in this river due to the hidden undertows. The quake has stirred it up worse. I had no idea this was so rough a ride. At least the river isn’t running backward.
Keeping to the center of the river. Ethan never expected the current to be as curvy as backwater creek on the way to school.
He slows the boat. The skeletal remains of the Caruthersville Bridge rests shattered in the water. Between the stories of the military destroying bridges and the blackened remains of the guiders, Ethan knows this wasn’t caused by the earthquake. Danziger’s story was true. He brings the boat close to pylon hoping not to snag on some metal beam hidden under the water’s surface.
Ethan breaths. Not sure how long he held his breath. Once at distance there should be no hidden bridge sections. He guns the motor. I wonder how many mph this thing gets. Do boats measure gas usage in mph? I’m going down stream has to use less gas than when I fight against to get back to Hannibal. I know nothing about boats. The fuel gauge has not moved.
Maybe I should have thought this through better.
Ethan doesn’t have view the city skyline to know he’s close. The
rot is worse than any biter. Digging inside his armor vest he slips from a hidden pocket a hard case. Cracking open the waterproof seal to protect a cell phone Ethan removes a military pocket GPS. Major Ellsberg said it would lead him right to Dr. Ellsberg. Emily would never believe I’d have such a device. Or how much it terrifies me. For this GPS to operate someone somewhere must be in control of military satellites.
It takes the device minutes to acquire a signal. A red dot flashes on the LED screen. Ethan hooks it to his Kevlar vest before accelerating down the river.
Reaching the shore some twenty miles above Memphis, he expected the dot to be closer to the city. He drives the boat onto the muddy shore. He debates a second about leaving the keys. He kicks them under the seat.
Ethan tosses the baseball bat from the boat. He again must undignifiedly flop off the bow to reach ground. Only a few hours on the water has left his knee unusable. He limps to the trees with the end of the tow line.
Retrieving the bat, he takes a few practice swings defeating air. What he notices is the stiffness in his arms has left him. He rolls his shoulder—no pain. Occupied with the trip he hasn’t paid much attention to his recovery from the beating.
He switches the bat to his left hand and shifts into his gunfighter stance. Before a quick draw practice, the ground rumbles. He jabs the bat into the ground as tripod to keep him on his feet.
When the shaking subsides, Ethan accepts there’s nothing to do about it now but focus on the mission to find Dr. Ellsberg.
Consulting the GPS, he hobbles through the trees until his knee loosens enough to march forward. The tiny screen on the GPS doesn’t convey distance. As he moves closer, toward his target, Ethan notes how it must be approximately twenty miles above Memphis. So much for seeing Elvis.
I actually miss Chad’s bumbling.
Ethan tracks north of the city. The GPS flashes a dot. Ethan fiddles with the buttons on the side and the dot grows. Puzzled, he wonders why the tracker Major Ellsberg said his brother injected into himself is some eighteen miles North of Memphis. If he’s a biter. He covered a good distance. All this distance and I didn’t succeed. If he is dead, I will do right by him.
No Room In Hell (Book 2): 400 Miles To Graceland Page 33