by AJ Powers
Nothing.
He placed his hands on her chest and started compressions. He didn’t know if he was doing it the same way he learned over a decade ago, but anything was better than nothing. “Stay with me, Tess,” he pleaded between the puffs of air that left his mouth with each push on her ribcage.
Tessa’s body jostled with each compression, but Malcom knew there wasn’t any life left to bring back. His efforts started to slow… and then he stopped. Trembling, he fell over her and sobbed. “I’m sorry, Tess… I’m so sorry.”
“Mom!” Naomi’s voice cracked as she ran over with TJ in her arms. She nearly dropped the toddler onto the muddy ground before shoving Malcom out of the way. “Move!” she yelped as she immediately started CPR.
TJ shuffled toward Tessa’s body, longing for his mother’s comforting embrace, but Malcom scooped the boy up and carried him a few steps away, hoping he wouldn’t see her ghostly appearance. “It’s okay, buddy,” Malcom said with a waver in his voice.
“Come on, Mom. Wake up,” Naomi pleaded. Her pumps increased in speed and her breaths became labored.
“Naomi…” Malcom said softly.
“No!” she bit back without breaking her stride. “I can save her.”
“Is my mommy okay, Mr. Malcom?” TJ asked through a series of sniffles as he still recovered from his near-death experience.
Unable to put the toddler’s worries at ease, Malcom turned away and looked out at the river, praying for a miracle.
But none came.
“Please, God…” Naomi squeaked as her efforts diminished. “No…” she bemoaned. “I’m sorry, Mom. I take it all back. I didn’t mean any of it. Just please… please wake up… Don’t leave us,” she cried, her hoarse voice filled with loss and regret.
As Naomi collapsed onto her mother’s body, howling her laments into Tessa’s chest, an ominous crack of thunder ushered in the finality of her death.
Distant wails of the infected filled the air around them, competing with the cries of the mourning teenager.
Malcom quietly cleared his throat. “Naomi, we need to—”
“Fuck you, Malcom!” Naomi hissed as she looked back at the dejected man holding her brother.
“Mommy,” TJ whimpered, reaching his hand out toward Tessa.
Malcom crouched down and released his grip on the toddler, giving him a chance to properly grieve over the loss of his mother. The loss of his best friend.
Naomi clutched onto TJ and held him close as they wept together, solemnly rocking back and forth as they consoled each other. Malcom protectively towered over them, drawing his Glock as the first shadowy figure lurking in the woods came into view. He stepped in front of the children, placing himself between them and the prowling threats closing in. He would watch over them until they finished saying their goodbyes to their mother. Even if it meant staying all night. Even if it meant killing every last demon with his bare hands.
“Goodbye, Tessa,” Malcom whispered under his breath as he leveled his gun on the tree line ahead of him.
Chapter Twenty-Six
26 – Tiptonville, Tennessee – June 4th
As soon as Malcom cleared the apartment, Naomi sequestered herself and TJ to the only bedroom in the back. She released her anger on the bedroom door, causing the entire apartment to tremble with her rage. Malcom didn’t pursue her. He wasn’t going to ask her to share her feelings. He wasn’t going to offer her his shoulder to cry on. Not that he wouldn’t be there for them when they were ready, but Malcom was no stranger to the bitter taste of loss, and the last thing he wanted to do was to talk about it.
Malcom got a towel from the closet next to the bathroom and made a feeble attempt to dry himself. Since the former occupant of the home was a woman—a petite woman, judging by the clothes in the bathroom—he resigned himself to sleep in his wet clothes.
He sat down on the couch, a distressed sigh parting his lips as he pressed his back into the cushion. He tried to block out Naomi’s and TJ’s sobs from the other room, but it was a useless endeavor. His head pounded furiously, and his stomach churned with a nauseating wrath. His heart filled with penitence as he considered what he could have done differently to prevent Tessa’s death.
Malcom wished someone could look at the situation and ask, “How could you have known?” Or someone to tell him, “It was completely unavoidable.” But the fact was, the accident was a completely avoidable situation. Malcom decided to push on as far as they could, plotting a course to a doubled-up tributary just west of a town called Ridgely. The location would have kept them far out of the main river’s current and afforded him a chance at a supply run in the morning. Tessa voiced her concerns given how choppy the waves were getting and how fast the storm was rolling in. But Malcom downplayed her worries and said if things got too bad, he would find a place to dock until the weather calmed down. He hadn’t expected to hit something in the middle of the river, though. He still had no idea what the hell they hit, as if it made any difference. As if it would bring Tessa back from the shallow grave he buried her in on the shores of the Mississippi River.
Malcom hadn’t killed Tessa, but her death was his fault, weighing him down with deep regret and a severe sense of loss. He hadn’t asked for this family to come into his life, but once they did, he accepted them as his responsibility. He was supposed to keep them safe during the journey.
And he failed.
Now, Malcom needed to determine where they would go next. There was no way in hell he was going to bail on Naomi and TJ, but he questioned if El Paso was still the right call. If not El Paso, then where? Where would he and these two orphans go to peacefully rest their head at night? He wasn’t confident such a place existed anymore.
As much as he wanted an immediate answer, they had time to decide. Together. Unless forced to do so, Malcom wasn’t even considering moving out for at least three days. Besides giving Naomi and TJ some proper time to grieve, he needed to find transportation and supplies for the rest of the journey, wherever the path might lead them. His FAL was at the bottom of the Mississippi, along with most of his ammunition. He still had a magazine of 7.62x51 that had been on his body at the time of the crash, but no rifle to shoot it.
Malcom thanked God that he had tightened the retention on both pistols’ holsters before he left his house. The seemingly minor adjustment was the difference between life and death after leaving the river. However, he only had twenty-two rounds of 9mm left, and the only .45 ACP remaining was what was currently loaded inside the Scorpion: eight-plus-one. It was better than nothing, but nowhere near good enough to practically reach Mexico with two children. Improving his arsenal was as essential as finding a good vehicle. Perhaps even more so. But that would be tomorrow’s problem.
Malcom’s stomach pleaded for food, but there was none. And all he wanted to do was find a way to get comfortable enough to sleep on a lumpy couch. But with a pounding headache rivaled by immense heartache and nothing but wet clothes, Malcom had low expectations. Even if he had been wearing pajamas straight out of the dryer while lying on a cloud, sleep would still evade him. His mind was too geared up from the night’s events to just simply crash.
Malcom’s eyes remained open as the hours ticked by. The whimpering cries coming from the bedroom finally waned a little after midnight, improving the possibility for sleep, but not enough for Malcom to find it. In an attempt to distract himself from the day, and with little else to do, Malcom tried to come up with a short list of alternatives to El Paso. The top two contenders were an old friend’s hunting cabin in the Smokies, or to head back to Carrollton to try to join up with Shepherd’s group. If it was just him, he would have already picked out a route to the cabin, but now that he had to think like a father again—in a manner of speaking—the pros of El Paso were outweighing the cons.
The storm outside gradually faded, and soon after, the living room was filled with the sound of birds singing about dawn’s arrival. With his arm draped over his face, Malcom’s mind fl
ickered between images of Cameron and Tessa. He blamed himself for both of their deaths. And rightfully so. If he hadn’t been so vocal about having some alone time, Cameron might not have taken the kids out to California. And if he had just been more patient with getting to Memphis, he would have tied the boat up once the heavy rain came in. Neither decision seemed like a big deal at the time, yet they were the two greatest mistakes of his life. Thus far.
Malcom was determined not to make a hat trick of it. He was going to play things overly safe from here on out. He wasn’t going to let Naomi and TJ suffer the same fate as their mother—as his family—just because he wasn’t capable of thinking through a decision. When Malcom agreed to go on this journey, he assumed the role of protector for the family, and he would do everything in his power to keep them safe.
No matter the cost.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
27 – Near Ridgely, Tennessee – June 6th
The F-150 wrenched to a stop and Malcom killed the engine. He helped himself to the pickup yesterday morning at a used-car lot a few blocks from the apartment. He wanted a big vehicle with a lot of torque, but the options were slim. Ultimately, it was between the Ford and a Chevy 3500HD. His first inclination was to grab the big dually with the fifth-wheel hitch in the bed. Any truck with one of those had a hell of a lot of muscle under the hood. But it usually came with a hell of a lot of noise, too, which was a pretty big drawback for the truck in this case.
The noise and power of the truck canceled each other out, but it was the diesel engine that convinced Malcom to grab the keys to the F-150. He didn’t think finding diesel along the way would be much of a problem, especially considering the part of the country they were driving through, but he decided it was an unnecessary risk. And he was done taking those. And the beefy ram bar installed on the front of the F-150 helped compensate for the smaller engine.
The blessing—and curse—of the particular truck he took was its gas tank. Thirty-six gallons would take a while to burn through, but it would also take ages to fill up, five siphoned-gallons at a time. And of course, the truck only had an eighth of a tank to start with, which determined his plans for the afternoon. That was fine by him, though. He needed to get out of the apartment. He needed to take his mind off of Tessa, which was impossible to do with the soft whimpers continuing from the locked bedroom.
After commandeering the truck, Malcom took it down the road to an all-in-one store like the one in Carrollton. He packed a cartful of groceries, including a variety of canned goods, protein shakes, candy, potato chips, and soda—all junk food that was too heavy to carry with him the last time he did a food run. But with the pickup truck, he was able to do a second cartful. And then a third, because, why not? He was there, and the infected weren’t, so he took his time combing over the store.
In addition to the groceries, he’d grabbed plenty of water, a booster seat for TJ, several changes of clothes for him and the kids, and a myriad of over-the-counter medicines, since the pharmacy had the all-too-familiar sight of ransacked shelves.
He visited the camping section to try to replace the gear he lost in the shipwreck. It was mostly the basics: flashlights, batteries, survival blankets, some freeze-dried food, first aid kits, and a few other odds and ends that every prepared person would have on them before heading out on a long, unpredictable trip. And then, finally, a high-quality backpack to carry the bare essentials. Even with a truckload of food and supplies, Malcom knew they might be forced to abandon it on a moment’s notice, leaving them to survive with only what he could carry in the bag. He then grabbed an extra bag for Naomi before moving on.
Unsurprisingly, the gun counter was a train wreck. The glass doors to the cabinet were shattered, as were a few of the panes on the counter itself. The shelves were, of course, emptied, as Malcom expected, even if he was a little hopeful.
After grabbing another atlas, some more siphoning supplies, and a few quarts of oil from the automotive department, Malcom brought his shopping spree to a close. He spent the rest of the day transferring gasoline from the abandoned cars in the parking lot. Miraculously, he only had to slay one infected the entire day. And, admittedly, it wasn’t a necessary kill, but he really wanted to test out the ram bar on the truck.
The satisfying metallic thunk replayed in his head as his eyes gazed out the windshield at the dried blood on the hood.
Tearing his gaze away from the head-sized dent in the hood, Malcom got out of the truck and approached the gun shop. The windows were shattered, but the security bars covering them remained intact, giving him hope that maybe there was something worth taking inside. But the metal door hanging wide open on the backside of the building squashed his hope.
With his expectations only slightly above zero, Malcom walked through the rear door, his Austrian pistol leading the way. The back room was a disaster. It would take a while to pick through the mess of boxes, paper, and less desirable products, so Malcom decided to try his luck up front first.
The gun rack was bare save a couple of GI-issued stocks for an M1 Garand. The hunk of shaped birch would have no doubt drummed up some attention three months back, but now it was little more than an awkward-shaped club. And if Malcom was going to go that route, he’d reach for something a little more aluminum.
The front room did offer up a few treats, though. Nothing that would go 2,700 feet per second, but some useful items nonetheless. The first thing he picked up was the after-market Glock magazines hanging from the wall. Of course, without some more 9mm, they were just as useful as the Garand stock on the other side of the store. But it was highly unlikely that he wouldn’t stumble across one of the most abundant calibers in the world while scavenging the nation with the highest percentage of guns per capita. He would find some more ammo eventually and was happy to have the six spare magazines—including a pair of thirty-three rounders—for when he did.
He also found a box of 12-gauge birdshot that was kicked underneath one of the shelves. The ammunition would be useless without a shotgun, and only slightly less than useless once he acquired one, but he grabbed it anyway. Birdshot was not nearly as lethal as double-aught buck or one-ounce slugs, but anyone—or anything—within five to seven yards of the blast would have a pretty bad day. Though, he wasn’t keen on willingly letting anything get that close to him.
Beyond that, most of the ammunition was either uncommon hunting calibers, such as .303 Savage and .35 Remington, or far more niche calibers such as 10-gauge buckshot, .223 WSSM, and even .50-90 Sharps. The more common calibers, like everywhere else, were snatched wholesale.
Moving to the back of the store, Malcom took his time picking through the trashed room, finding a few more accessories for the only two pistols he had. He lucked out when he discovered a 1911 magazine that worked with his Scorpion. He learned years ago that not all 1911 mags were alike, and on multiple occasions, purchased some that weren’t compatible with his Sig. But the one he just found clicked into place with ease, which was another win.
An hour passed and, besides the 1911 magazine and a set of tritium night-sights for his Glock, Malcom had nothing to show for it. He had all but run out of places to search when he realized what he thought was just a low-sitting bench was actually a piece of pressed wood sitting on top of a crate with Cyrillic letters stenciled on the side. Keeping a lukewarm outlook, Malcom swiped away the fast food bags and soda cans sitting on top of the board before lifting it from the crate. Stapled to the top of the crate was a sheet of paper with names and addresses and other numbers printed on it. Handwritten at the bottom it read:
FFL X-Fer – Hold for Huffman. Pickup on 4/9
Unless the note was referring to the year before, and they just converted the crate into a makeshift table, Malcom was certain there was a gun inside.
“Please be an AK,” he said aloud as he used his knife to pop the lid. “Hell, I’d even settle for an SKS,” he added. Both rifles shot the Soviet 7.62x39, for which he had no ammo, but again, it wasn’t a terrib
ly uncommon round to find in the States. Southern boys loved their AKs, even if it was the iconic rifle for Commies.
Malcom removed the lid, immediately hit with a wave of disappointment when he realized the five rifles inside weren’t AK-47s. But then excitement returned when he remembered seeing several boxes of 7.62x54R sitting on the shelves in the front.
He reached into the straw padding inside the crate and removed one of the M91/30s inside. The Mosin-Nagant was designed in the late Nineteenth Century and was the standard issue rifle for the Russian army until Mikhail Kalashnikov shook things up in the late Forties with the introduction of the AK-47. The 91/30 was an absurdly long—and heavy—rifle that was known for its punch on both ends of the gun. Malcom never owned one before, but he’d shot a few. He didn’t much care for the black-and-blue kisses it left on his shoulder, so he never had a desire to spend his money on one. Even though it wasn’t what he hoped for, the rifles extended his range of effectiveness easily by a factor of ten. And once Malcom realized that two of them were scoped variants, his it’s-better-than-nothing attitude elevated to genuine excitement.
Back in the retail space, Malcom grabbed the eight boxes of 7.62x54R and stuffed them into his bag. He then decided to do the same with the rest of the ammo on the shelves. He wasn’t carrying them himself. His fuel efficiency—at worst—might drop one-fiftieth of a mile-per-gallon, making it worth the tradeoff, and as he learned with the 91/30, there was no way to know what guns he may stumble across.
He grabbed the pair of scoped Mosins and carried them out to the truck, dumping them and his backpack into the back seat. He then retrieved the other three, one of which was the shorter, lighter M44 carbine, and brought them out as well.