Slow Burn Box Set: The Complete Post Apocalyptic Series (Books 1-9)

by Bobby Adair

  Murphy stopped talking after that. He gave me a long, appraising look before he said, “I told the old man it was my fault and my responsibility to make it right.”

  I wasn’t expecting that.

  “A few days later, I found those three motherfuckers that did it. They were hangin’ out behind a 7-Eleven, not two blocks from where that party was. They were selling rocks to little kids and toothless welfare hags. I went back there and I didn’t say nuthin’ about nuthin’. I told ‘em I wanted a rock and I held out my money. They figured I was just another crackhead customer. I mean, they kinda knew me and I kinda knew them. So one of them sticks his hand in his pocket to get my rock, while another one is stickin’ my money in his pocket. And I pulled that gun out and shot ‘em. I shot one right in the face and he never had time to do anything but look surprised. The second one started to back up and beg and I shot him twice in the chest. The third one was starting to run away and I shot him in the back. They all died at the scene. At least that’s what the newspaper said. They said it was gang related or drug related or something like that. I threw the gun in the river. After that, I joined the Army and got the fuck out of town. I didn’t come back for four years. By then, Rachel was already at Rice. And you know what she shows me the first time I see her after four years?”

  I shrugged. I was out of guesses on that story.

  “Rice’s mascot is an owl. She had a tattoo of that on her ankle.”

  “And when you saw the tattoos, you thought hers might be here.” It was a stupidly obvious thing to say, but I felt like I needed to say something.

  Murphy shook his head. “Not really. Maybe. I don’t know. I had to look.”

  “I’m guessing you didn’t find hers.”

  Murphy shook his head and went over to the front window. He started lifting and looking at each flap of skin taped to the glass. “For a long time after it happened, I felt bad about it.”

  “Keisha?” I asked.

  “Mostly the killing.” Murphy put on a smile that was little more than a mask. “You and me, we’ve done a lot of shit since the virus hit.”

  “Yep.”

  “I don’t know how I feel about all of it.”

  I was continually troubled by it. “The things we did were necessary.”

  “Do you think me killing those boys was necessary, Zed? Do you think I did the right thing?”

  “Murphy, I don’t know if it was right or wrong, but I’m proud of you for doing it.”

  “Proud?” Murphy didn’t turn away from his work, clearly thinking about how that word applied to his choices. “It bothered me for a long time. Matter of fact, my first couple of years in the Army, I was kind of a dick, like you.”

  “A dick like me?” In spite of everything, I almost laughed.

  “You know what I mean.” Murphy gave me one of his big smiles. “I was full of anger and always looking for a fight. That shit haunted me that way. It took me a long time to think it all out.”

  “I guess.”

  “I came to realize those three dumbasses made their choices. They didn’t know what the consequences would be, but they had to know consequences might come. You just don’t go ‘round beating the shit out of fifteen-year-old girls and not expect somebody to get mad as hell about it. They made their choice and I made my choice. I figured I had to live with it.”

  Murphy took a moment to look for the right words. “I thought for a long time what I did was bad. Society says murder is bad. I guess I agree. As bad as I felt for killing those boys, I couldn’t get past the feeling I’d done the right thing. I came to think killing those boys was justice, the only kind of justice Keisha and her dad were ever going to get. I realized by my moral code, Murphy’s moral code, I’d done the right thing. The reason I felt bad was because my moral code didn’t exactly align with society’s moral code.”

  “Murphy, are you sure you never took any philosophy courses?”

  Murphy laughed. “I barely got out of high school. I just spent a lot of time thinking about this stuff.”

  “And you’re cool with it all now, I guess.”

  “I made my peace. I made my peace with lots of stuff. That’s when I came to realize we’re all where we are in life because of our choices. Sure, shit happens we can’t control, but that’s exactly what it is: shit you can’t control. You can’t control what it is, or sometimes what it does to you. But like I’ve told you before, you can control how you feel about it, how you deal with it. I figured all this out when I was in the Army. I get to choose how I feel. I’m happy now.”

  “Now?” I asked, in disbelief.

  Murphy turned and looked around the grotesquery. “Yeah. The world is fucked up. Bad shit has happened. Hell, I’m looking at tattoo skins from dead people that might be my sister’s. How fucked up is that?” Murphy laughed at that, so I did too. “But I can’t do anything to change the past. I can only change today. I’ve got a cute, short girl back on the boat who loves me. I’ve got good people to spend my time with and I’ve got a dickhead of a best friend who would do anything for me.”

  “If you keep calling me a dick, you might have to re-evaluate that.”

  Murphy went back to work. “I don’t think so. So, yeah, I’m happy. I’m doin’ all right with this.”

  “One day, when the world is back to being something like normal, I’m going to write a book and call it The World According to Murphy.”

  Chapter 29

  It took several hours to make our way through town following the meandering path of Waller Creek. We were careful, hiding or taking detours when we saw Whites. We took shelter when the lightning got too close.

  By the time we got to Twelfth Street, the rushing water in Waller Creek was lapping at the undersides of the eastbound and westbound bridges. Waterloo Park, across the street from us and adjacent to the Brackenridge Hospital complex, was a deserted battlefield cradling the bones of the dead.

  “Murphy,” I whispered, “can you keep an eye out for a minute? I’ve got something in my foot.” I sat on the sidewalk and leaned against the side of a car. Blood leaked across my hand as I pulled my right foot up to examine it.

  Crap.

  At least a dozen pieces of glass were stuck in the sole of my shoe. I huffed and indulged a moment of frustration by looking out at the rain. Dangers large and small lurked around every corner, behind every bush, in every dark room and apparently under each footstep. I pulled each piece of glass from the shoe bottom taking care to slowly remove the bloody culprit that made it all the way through to bury itself in my foot. I removed the shoe and examined its ridiculously thin sole. I needed to get some real shoes.

  I checked my other foot for any cuts I failed to feel. That foot was good. “When we pass through the park, keep your eyes peeled for any dead soldiers. If we see anything I can use, I need to gear up.”

  Murphy shook his head. “When we find the guys with the suppressors, we can use their stuff.”

  I looked down at my bloody shoe and Murphy followed my gaze. “I don’t know what we’ll find when we get there. But I really need a pair of boots.”

  Murphy nodded. “You know they’ll be disgusting, right?”

  “Unless we come across a military surplus store, whatever I find will be disgusting. I can wash it all off in the creek.”

  “Okay. But this is taking a lot longer than I thought it would. It’s a long, long way back to the boat. I really didn’t want to have to find a place to hole up out here tonight.”

  “That’s cool. I have an idea.”

  “Oh, shit.”

  “Don’t be that way.”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “Do you remember that story I told you about the parking garage by the hospital?”

  “Yeah.”

  I pointed at a multi-story parking garage up at the north end of Waterloo Park. “That’s the one.”

  Murphy gave it a look. “I thought for sure you made up the part about sliding down that banner, but th
ere it is, hanging on the side of that garage.”

  “It probably still has some of my skin stuck to it.”

  Murphy grinned.

  “You know what else?” I asked.

  Murphy shook his head and took a moment to check our flanks. The habit was ingrained in us both.

  “There’s one of those armored Humvees up there. One with a machine gun on top.”

  Murphy nodded wickedly.

  “I’m thinking we get our silencers, stroll back down here and drive that Humvee back over to the river. We’ll be home for dinner.”

  “And if all the Whites are chasing us when we get there?”

  “We just drive it into the river, like we did the last one.”

  “That’s what I thought you’d say.”

  “It worked.”

  Murphy shook his head. “I’m driving.”

  “Whatever. You ready to get going?” I stood up and scanned the area for movement.

  We’d just crossed Twelfth Street and weren’t ten steps into the park when I found a MOLLE vest with five full magazines. I pulled one out. “Will these fit my rifle?”

  Murphy nodded.

  After taking the vest over to the rushing creek to rinse off all of the gnarly bits, I was inspired to put some effort into a search for the pants and boots. Pants would be easy. I was way skinnier than the average American and baggy pants could be cinched up with a belt. Boots pretty much had to fit just right.

  With insufficiently masked impatience, Murphy stood watch as I worked my way through the park, picking through the remains of bodies. A few Whites timidly crept out into the rain to root through the bones and clothing for scraps of anything that might ease the rumbling in their bellies. They were as intent on keeping some distance between us as we were them.

  After spending a half-hour on the endeavor, I had a pair of pants, but no boots. I led Murphy across Red River Street and onto the hospital campus. The closer we got to the main hospital building, the more thickly the ground was scattered with the remains of the dead.

  Murphy whispered, “There’s lots of shoes. Do you really need boots?”

  I looked around. None of the Whites I could see were paying us any attention. “Give me ten more minutes. If I don’t find some boots, we’ll go.”

  Murphy checked his watch. “Ten.”

  I gave him a nod and went back to walking among the gnawed bones, kicking over pieces of clothing, looking underneath for the prize.

  The main hospital building loomed large on my right. The remains of the dead were still piled thick around the bottom of the glass stairwell I’d shot up with that fifty-caliber machine gun. No dismembered and scavenged remains of soldiers lay among them. Of that, I was sure. Bypassing that trove, I headed toward the far northwest corner of the complex and walked toward a large, collapsed military tent.

  “Do you remember that tent?” I asked.

  “No.” Murphy wasn’t liking the heavy rain. He kept looking at the sky when it rumbled thunder. He was nervous about the creeping Whites and didn’t have any patience for memory lane.

  “That’s where we went when we first got to the hospital.”

  Murphy looked around. “The Army doesn’t even use those old-ass canvas tents anymore.”

  “Maybe it’s a Red Cross tent.”

  Murphy shrugged.

  The heavy green canvas didn’t lay flat on the ground. Beneath it were lumps, some roughly rectangular in shape, cots most likely. Some I could only guess were bodies. Others had to be medical equipment. The body shaped lumps looked intact. The bodies of the dead underneath must have been protected from the scavenging Whites by the heavy canvas. That meant if any were soldiers, all of their equipment would be on the body rather than scattered to who knew where.

  “Murphy, I’m going to crawl under the canvas and see what I can find.”

  “That’s a stupid idea.”

  “I know.”

  “You know, and you’re going to do it anyway?”

  “I was just agreeing with you so I wouldn’t have to argue with you about it.”

  “It’s like you want me to punch you in the face.”

  All this talk of punching me in the face was getting worrisome. “Keep an eye out, okay? Give me a few minutes.”

  “And if a bunch of those naked fuckers come along while you’re underneath?”

  “Warn me and then go hide. I’ll just pretend I’m dead until they leave.”

  “And how will you know when they’re gone?”

  “You’ll tell me.” I didn’t wait for a response but dropped to my hands and knees and proceeded to burrow beneath the edge of the canvas, leaving my scavenged booty on the ground in the rain.

  Like just about every other thing I’d attempted since the virus hit, crawling beneath the canvas was so much more difficult than I’d have guessed. With no breeze, it was hot, wet and muddy. The abrasive weight of the canvas worked against me for every inch of progress, leaving me with only one speed: slow.

  Once I’d made my way about ten feet in from the edge, a sturdy cot supported the canvas. The weight on my head and shoulders eased and I crawled along the path of waning resistance, hoping to catch my breath. Just about the time I was able to see into the inky shadow beneath the cot, the familiar howl of a hungry White startled me and I slipped down onto my belly as I tried to push myself back the way I’d come.

  A blur of gray with snapping teeth and greedy yowls exploded toward me out of the dark.

  I tried to get away. I tried vainly to wrestle my rifle around under the heavy canvas.

  I should have gone for my knife instead.

  A handful of bony fingers grasped my wrist and pulled. I yanked back as teeth brushed my skin and I fell onto my belly again, trying my best to swing a fist.

  The emaciated creature screamed in premature victory. Retreat wasn’t working. I steeled my nerves to make the best of a charge.

  Just then, the sound of bone crunching under steel cut the monster’s voice. The crunch was followed quickly by two more wet crunches, and the White’s grasp on my wrist went limp.

  Still tense, I looked for more threats from the darkness under the cot.

  “You okay, man?” It was Murphy.

  “Yeah,” I said.

  A blade poked through the canvas a few feet from my head. Dim light and rainwater poured through.

  The air from the outside felt relatively cool as it rushed in on me. I saw Murphy through the split in the canvas, kneeling down and cutting his way through. “I swear to God, Zed. Sometimes it’s like you don’t have one damn bit of common sense. It’s like you want to do everything the hard way.”

  I deflected. “How did you know you weren’t chopping my skull with the hatchet?” It was a crappy question, but it was the quickest one I could come up with.

  Murphy let me know just how crappy it was. “Because I’m not retarded. I saw your dumb green lump ass crawling along the whole way.”

  I huffed with as much dignity as I could in such a situation and wormed my way through the gap in the canvas. “Thanks,” I muttered.

  Murphy stood up and looked around. “No biggie.”

  Sitting down to collect myself, I looked back at the emaciated dead White through the tear in the tent. “I wonder how long he was stuck under there.”

  Murphy looked down and grinned. “He’s not much skinnier than you.”

  I noticed then the White was wearing a military uniform. I got up on my knees and grabbed him by the shoulder and tugged. His body came a few inches out of the hole. I pulled again and again.

  Perhaps bored of seeing me struggling to pull the corpse out, Murphy reluctantly knelt down and gave me a hand. It only took a few more seconds to pull the body out into the rain.

  “See?” I said. “He’s got a full kit.”

  After a glance at the infected soldier, Murphy looked around for anything that might show an interest in us. I did too. It amazed me how natural it was to build that particular habit. I guess
humans weren’t too far removed from a time in the past when fast critters with big teeth chased us around the savannah. No Whites anywhere in view seemed to care about us. One guy caught my attention. Over by the hospital wall, he was zigzagging through the shrubs while watching his feet. He seemed familiar.

  Hmm.

  I turned to Murphy, who was checking the magazines in the MOLLE vest of the dead White. I went for the boots. In a turn of fortune that made my under-canvas escapade worth it, the boots were my size. As a bonus, most of the magazines in the vest were full.

  Chapter 30

  By the time I finished washing my newly acquired kit in the creek, the rain was coming down heavier than it had all morning.

  Murphy was patient and uncharacteristically silent as I put on the pants and boots and arranged my gear. I looked up with a start when he said, “That shuffler is coming this way.”

  The familiar-looking White who’d been dragging his feet in circuits around the shrubs by the hospital wall wasn’t more than twenty feet from us. I drew my knife from its sheath. Murphy had his hatchet ready.

  But the closer he came, the more familiar he looked. I’d come into contact with plenty of people, both infected and not, on my previous visit to the hospital and they were all dead. Well, except for Steph and Dalhover.

  I glanced at Murphy. “I’m ready when you are.”