Convergence: The Far Side of Hell (A Five Roads to Texas Novel Book 4)

by AJ Powers

  As he climbed into the truck, Malcom heard the shrieks of an angry infected running at him from down the road. He stopped to briefly contemplate the decision before hopping back out of the truck, saying, “Oh, what the hell.”

  He picked up one of the scoped rifles in the back, feeding two cartridges in from above before slamming the bolt shut. A gun was only as good as its accuracy, and Malcom didn’t want to wait for a do-or-die situation to find out whether the Russian relic was zeroed in.

  Resting the barrel on the bed of the truck, Malcom did a quick check of his surroundings before taking off the leather caps on the scope. Peering through the dated optics, he located the bloodied target charging his way and rested his finger on the trigger. He patiently waited until it got to within a hundred yards or so, then he pulled the trigger.

  The boom was deafening. Louder than anything he could remember shooting in recent times, and the echo went on for days. But once his eyes regained focus in the scope, all he saw on the other side of the convex glass was a body enveloped by an expanding pool of blood in the middle of the street.

  A vengeful grin crept across his face as he replaced the scope caps and put the rifle back into the truck. With his ears ringing mercilessly, there could have been infected five feet behind him and he wouldn’t have heard them coming. Rather than waiting around to be ambushed, Malcom threw the truck into drive and sped off back to the apartment.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  28 – Tiptonville, Tennessee – June 12th

  They were headed to Texas.

  After voluntarily forfeiting her vote on the matter, Naomi put the decision entirely in Malcom’s hands. She had hardly spoken to him since Tessa’s death, which he fully expected. Malcom kept his distance over the past few days to make sure he was giving her the space she needed to mourn. However, he grew antsy to get back on the road, regardless of where they were headed. He was ready to put the tragic events behind him and staying just a few miles from Tessa’s grave made that impossible. He needed something to look forward to—an end goal to keep his mind distracted—and that meant finally coming up with a game plan for their next steps.

  It was a tough call between the short trek back up to Carrollton and the still-long journey to El Paso. To Malcom, Carrollton sounded a whole lot nicer than his perception of El Paso. From what little information he squeezed out of Shepherd during their trip to the store, it was a tight-knit community filled with folks who looked out for one another, equally contributing to the safety and wellbeing of the people within. Shepherd said they were located in an easily defensible neighborhood with more houses than people. They hadn’t lost a single person to the infected since banding together two weeks after the outbreak, and the worst “crime” that was committed was a small brouhaha between a few men while having some drinks at the town’s watering hole. It sounded about as perfect as you could get nowadays.

  The FEMA camp, on the other hand, would be nothing like that. Malcom assumed he’d have to hand over his weapons before he would even be allowed to step into the safe zone, stripping him of his God-given right to defend himself and those in his care. And inside a popup town with both nobility and convicts mingling in the same common areas, it made him hate the idea of choosing El Paso even more. Especially with the added risks that came to Naomi, just for being a pretty teenaged girl. However, in spite of the dangers, he had to go with the odds on this one. Riding out this storm in one piece was the goal, and Texas was the best answer for that. At least, for now.

  Malcom laced his boots then slung the scoped Mosin-Nagant over his shoulder, wincing as the edge of the cracking leather sling dug into his neck. Grabbing his pack, he crossed the living room to where Naomi and TJ were silently waiting. “You two ready?” he asked, trying to sound more excited than he felt.

  Naomi shrugged with indifference and TJ, still waking up, didn’t flinch.

  “All right, well, at least there aren’t any objections,” he said, reaching for the door handle.

  Down at the truck, Naomi climbed into the back, plopping down directly behind the driver’s seat. The food and supplies on the floor made finding a comfortable position challenging since her feet were almost level with her knees. Malcom packed the floor space with goods that he didn’t want to leave in the bed for the duration of their stay but also didn’t want to lug up to the fifth floor of the apartment. Naomi sighed with frustration as she shifted her legs multiple times before finally twisting her body and propping her feet onto the back of the center console.

  Malcom kept his head on swivel as he turned his back to his surroundings and strapped TJ into his booster seat, struggling to slink the seatbelt through all the right slots. TJ seemed happy to graduate from the car seat to a booster seat, smiling faintly for the first time since before he got sick on the boat. Malcom didn’t suspect the boy was fully ready for the upgrade since he couldn’t have been more than thirty pounds, but the booster seat was a strategic balance between speed and safety. Ideally, he’d never need to put either to the test.

  With both kids clicked in, Malcom hopped into the driver’s seat and started the truck. “All right, let’s get this show on the road,” he said, looking in the rearview mirror to see TJ give a subtle nod. Naomi seemed to go out of her way to avoid eye contact with Malcom and gave no reply. “Here we go,” Malcom said to himself, tossing the truck into drive. He pulled out of the apartment complex onto Lake Drive for a few blocks before turning south onto 78, punching down on the gas as a few curious infected moved their way.

  They drove on 78 for about ten miles before cutting west on 79 and then curving back to the south onto 181 a short time later. Malcom considered following 78 all the way down to Dyersburg to see if a scavenging opportunity presented itself along the way, but he thought better of it. Dyersburg was a fairly large town, all things considered, and he expected there would be a lot more infected roaming the area than the country highways. If it was just him, he probably would have chanced it to find some more weapons or ammo, but, as much as he could avoid it, he wouldn’t leave Naomi and TJ alone in the car.

  The 412 junction was a bit more crowded than Malcom expected, but given the fact that the next closest bridge across the Mississippi was in Memphis, and the next closest after that was all the way back in Wickliffe, Kentucky, he shouldn’t have been surprised. Rather than waste time and fuel trying to ram other cars out of the way, he guided the truck off the road and into the grass, bypassing the gridlock on the ramp. About halfway through, the truck lost traction in a pocket of mud, stopping them dead in the grass. However, the delay was only temporary as Malcom kicked in the truck’s four-by-four, and soon they climbed back onto the road without incident.

  Malcom cut across the median, utilizing both directions of traffic to work his way to the bridge. He was able to nudge a few cars out of his way, while others required a bit more persuasion. The latter coerced a few giggles from the toddler in the back seat.

  Malcom smiled warmly with the laughter. He wondered what was going through the child’s mind. Did he fully comprehend that his mother was gone forever? Was the laughter a result of impulse? Or was it due to childhood virtue that he was able to laugh at something silly to him, regardless of the pain and grief he was experiencing? Malcom was by no means a child psychologist, but he decided on the latter. Joy and laughter were the best things to help him move forward. And no matter the reason, the boy’s sweet laughter temporarily removed the twist in Malcom’s stomach…

  Until they reached the bridge.

  Despite anticipating what was up ahead, the sight of the river sucked the air from Malcom’s lungs. It felt as if he was just kicked by a mule as the chilling images from that night replayed for the millionth time in his head—a poignant reminder why he wanted to move away from the river as quickly as he could. And the whimpers and sniffles from the back told him he wasn’t alone.

  Malcom opened his mouth to offer some encouraging words to Naomi, but they never reached his lips. He knew th
at time was just going to have to do its thing, and forcing the issue wouldn’t do either of them any good. He already offered his condolences and gave her the open invitation to talk about it whenever she was ready, but beyond that, there wasn’t much he could do. The ball was in her court; she just had to pick it up.

  Malcom didn’t realize just how tense he was during the painfully slow trek over the bridge until they reached Missouri on the other side. But it would still be a while before the Mississippi was out of sight, out of mind, since Malcom planned to stay off the main highways as much as possible—at least until they reached West Memphis.

  A few hundred yards into Missouri, a small access road followed the river. The road was just barely noted on his map, and he had to drive down a grassy embankment to reach it from the highway, but it would take them all the way to West Memphis without going through any major cities. In fact, with the exception of a few small towns, and what Malcom suspected were large industrial complexes, there was almost nothing marked on the map the entire way down to I-40.

  Malcom took it slow and steady on the empty road, which was just barely asphalt at points. Instead of dodging stalled cars and jackknifed semis, Malcom snaked his way around potholes large enough to swallow his tires. Though he made sure there was a spare tire underneath the truck before he boosted it from the dealership, it was his only get-out-of-jail-free card. And on a road like this, it wasn’t inconceivable that he could gash at least two tires by the end of the day. He had to fight against his nature and keep the speedometer half as high as he wanted to.

  Three hours passed, and the only noteworthy accomplishment of the trip was that they crossed into Arkansas. Well, that, and they had yet to see a single infected since getting on the road, validating his decision to take the scenic tour. Nevertheless, the snail’s pace was wearing a bit thin. Malcom kept expecting to see the first checkpoint come into view for over thirty minutes, but it was still nothing but farmland on one side and the river on the other. The checkpoint, a small city named Luxora, was about a third of the way to West Memphis, which helped Malcom track their progress for the day. And based on their current trajectory, it was unlikely they would reach I-40 by nightfall.

  Malcom was finally hit with a splash of hope when he saw an enormous steel mill in the distance. He glanced down at the map and found a spot on the route that fit the bill, giving him the first clue at where they were since getting off the highway.

  “Malcom,” Naomi whispered from behind, being careful not to wake her little brother.

  Surprised by her voice, Malcom smiled as he looked into the rearview mirror. “What is it?”

  “I need to go to the bathroom.”

  “Okay, we should be coming up on a little town here soon. I’ll find us a safe spot to take a break.”

  “Thanks,” Naomi said before allowing the truck to fall silent again.

  Malcom let out a sigh. Man, I need to find some CDs or something, he thought, realizing just how long of a trip it was going to be. Especially in absolute silence.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  29 – Near Wilson, Arkansas – June 12th

  Malcom finished bringing in the supplies they would need to last them the night and set them down on the dining room table. The small ranch house they commandeered for the night was not much to look at, but it was the nicest-looking one in the neighborhood, even though it was a time capsule from the Seventies. The pea-green carpet, orange-and-brown linoleum tile, and the hideous wallpaper throughout gave Malcom a warm feeling of nostalgia as he thought about his grandmother’s house on Ridge Avenue back in Cincinnati. Other than the absence of a second floor and a basement, the house felt identical. It was gaudy but inviting.

  As the kids munched on dinner, Malcom loaded five rounds into the M44 Carbine and stuffed a spare box of bullets into his pocket. Naomi gave him a scolding look of disapproval. “You’re not going out, are you?”

  “I just wanted to check the other houses on the street while there’s daylight left. I won’t be gone long.”

  Naomi huffed out a sigh.

  “You guys’ll be okay. I won’t leave the street, and the door has a good deadbolt on it. Just don’t unlock it for anyone but me, and you won’t have anything to worry about.”

  Naomi wasn’t convinced by his plan. Signaling her over, Malcom pulled out his Glock and showed it to Naomi. “You ever shoot one before?”

  Naomi shook her head.

  “Okay, well… this one is loaded and ready to fire. Just in case someone does try to get in, just point this at them and squeeze the trigger,” Malcom said as he put the 9mm pistol on top of the fridge, out of reach from curious toddlers. Naomi’s face was wrought with apprehension. “Look, I’m not worried about it. We haven’t seen a single person, infected or otherwise, since we left this morning. I’m not expecting it to be any different here,” he added.

  Naomi gave a slight nod. “Yeah… oh, okay.”

  “Listen,” Malcom said as he opened the front door. “The keys are on the counter next to the fridge. If for some reason I don’t com—”

  “Don’t even say it, Malcom,” Naomi chided, “Don’t you dare finish that sentence.”

  “Well, uhm, I was going to say if you decide to pick up some pizza or go to the movies, the keys are over there,” he chuckled, nodding over at the counter.

  Naomi smiled before groaning with envy. She sighed with contentment as her mind left the bleak world for a moment and transported to the Little Lundy’s Pizza next to her school. “What I wouldn’t give for a slice of Hawaiian right now.”

  Malcom stared at her for several long moments, his expression becoming more disgusted by the second. “You are weird, girl,” he joked.

  “Whatever,” she retorted before turning around to go back to the table.

  Malcom looked over at TJ. “Be good for your sister. If you eat your dinner, there may or may not be some dessert later tonight,” Malcom said, nodding toward the boy’s crackers and deviled ham. “Anyway, I’ll be back in a little bit. Lock up behind me,” he said, shutting the door.

  Malcom stood on the porch, scrutinizing the area for several minutes as his eyes scanned his environment. Several times. Chirping crickets and singing birds provided a soothing atmosphere that made the muscles in Malcom’s body slightly relax. If he didn’t know any better, he wouldn’t have thought that the apocalypse had come to America. The country neighborhood was peaceful for the moment, even though it looked as if that wasn’t the case prior to the outbreak. Despite the quaint little house they were calling home for the night, the other houses on the block were not well-maintained. One of them was especially run down with iron bars over the windows and doors and surveillance cameras on the porch. Malcom suspected the telltale signs of a drug house weren’t there for the curb appeal, which was why it was his first stop. Besides narcotics, drug dealers were guaranteed to have one other thing with them at all times: guns. If someone was living there when the outbreak started, there would almost certainly be guns inside. At the very least, maybe some ammo. But that was a big if. Crack dens were not exactly known for their extravagant upgrades and manicured lawns, but this place looked extraordinarily crappy, even for a crack den.

  The front was sealed up tight, and he wouldn’t be able to get the security door open without making too much noise, so he went around to the back.

  “Holy shit!” Malcom said as he snapped his M44 up, his mind processing the scene in front of him. Two men lay dead just off the back porch, a third, a few yards away from them. Malcom spotted a fourth man slumped over in the driver’s seat of a bright-yellow Dodge Ram in the middle of the yard, the shattered windshield painted with blood and bullet holes. The winch on the front of the pickup truck was still attached to the steel security door that was nearly torn off its hinges, allowing Malcom to see the standard wooden door on the other side. A mixture of steel and brass shell casings littered the dirt lawn, remnants from a bloody shootout with whoever had been in the house.

&
nbsp; Malcom kept his Russian carbine trained on the house, expecting someone to take a potshot at him from one of the windows. He slowly made his way over to the truck, looking for a dropped gun but came up emptyhanded. The same was true for the other three. Since there were a whole lot of shell casings for four unarmed men, Malcom concluded that the guns must have been taken by the surviving shooter—or shooters—inside.

  Red flags waved incessantly in Malcom’s head as he stepped up to the back door, deciding to proceed as planned, though a little more cautiously than before. The security door was twisted and contorted in a way that allowed Malcom to crawl inside after he managed to unlock the deadbolt through the broken window. The air in the house was the same stale, musty smell as the one they were staying in. But the stale air carried with it a terrible stench.

  The kitchen was a gag-worthy sight of flies and other insects scurrying away as a stranger invaded their territory. Rotting fragments of food crusted to plates and bowls sat on the countertops, and mouse scat was visible in every direction Malcom looked. The fridge door hung ajar, exposing a bloated jug of milk that was about half full. Malcom had no desire to be within fifty miles of that thing when the plastic finally gave way to the growing pressure inside. He fought against the agitation in his stomach and moved over to the door on the other side of the kitchen.

  A large, suede sectional sofa took up most of the small living room, allowing just enough space for a small coffee table to separate the couch from the TV. The couch was riddled with rips, stains, and cigarette burns, and was missing two of the cushions, while the coffee table’s faux-wood finish had started to curl up near the edges. And the TV, which was an old tube style, had a cracked screen and several buttons missing from the front panel.

  So far, the house was a bust, but Malcom still had the second floor to clear before writing the place off. He ascended the wooden staircase as quietly as he could, but each stair moaned with protest under his weight, no matter how light his steps were. The sound was irritating, but when it did not draw out paranoid drug dealers high on crank, Malcom considered it a good sign.