Badlands Trilogy (Book 2): Beyond the Badlands (12 page)

Zach could smell the chicken noodle soup strongly now. He tried not to think about just how hungry he was, but his belly grumbled despite himself.

“I also think somebody derailed that train,” Max continued.

“Really?” Zach asked.

“Yeah. You see all those cars smashed up near the engine? Somebody pushed those things across the track.”

“Who would do that?”
 

“Thieves. Bandits. Militia. Maybe even carriers.”

“Carriers couldn’t do that.”

“Before today I would have said the same thing. But now I’m not so sure.”

“Maybe some people did it to derail the train. Bad people. The ones who blew up those bombs in the city. You know, to take the stuff on it after it crashed,” Jeremy suggested.

“Maybe, but wouldn’t they have shown up afterward?” Max asked. “The only ones to show up were the infected.”

They paused, considering the possibility.

“Dinner’s ready,” Rose called from the kitchen, breaking the silence.

Zach breathed deeply, taking in the aroma of the warm soup. He thought of his dad again, about the all the times they’d eaten lukewarm soup by the roadside.

Vowing to remain strong, he pushed the memories away. “Come on,” he said to his brother. “Let’s eat.”

* * *

They ate their soup in silence. The food was delicious, especially after having not eaten for so long. The bits of chicken were like little explosions of flavor in Zach’s mouth.

After they finished their soup, they walked back to the living room. Zach sat with his brother on the couch while Max and Rose sat in chairs facing them.

With his brother filling in sporadic details, Zach told Max and Rose about the guardsman who’d taken Trish, how he’d tied them up, and how they’d managed to escape from the ropes. He also detailed their return to the train and their unsuccessful search for their dad.

“So what’s next?” Max asked. “Where are you two planning on going?” Drawn curtains blocked the windows as they sat in the living room. They spoke in low voices to avoid being heard from the outside.

“We need to find our dad, and we need to find Trish,” Zach answered.

“How were you planning on doing that?” Rose asked.

Zach shrugged. “We’ll figure out a way.”

“You’re probably going to need a better plan than that,” Max offered.

Zach nodded, again feeling like a child. “I guess so.”

Max took a deep breath. He glanced at Rose before addressing the boys. “Rose and I are going on to Kansas City. That’s where the train was headed anyway. We’re not going back to St. Louis, not after all those bombs.”

Silence ensued. Rose glanced at Max before asking the next question. “Would you two want to come with us?”

Jeremy frowned. “But what about our dad? And Trish?”

Rose sighed, shaking her head. “Honey, it doesn’t look good for them.”

“But we can’t just leave them behind!”

Rose made a weak smile. “I know, I know.”

“That man who took Trish, he could still have her,” Zach said.

Rose and Max glanced again at each other. “Tell you what,” Max said, clapping his hands together lightly. “We’ll go back to the train tomorrow and we’ll leave a note for your dad and Trish. Something big, written on the side of that train car we found you in. We’ll leave them this address and then we’ll give it some time. A few days. If neither of them show up then we’ll have the discussion again about going to Kansas City.”

Zach opened his mouth to speak, but Rose stopped him. “In the end it’ll be your decision. We’re not going to try to make you go anywhere.”

“Look, guys,” Max said, fixing his gaze on both boys. “I know what it’s like to lose someone you love. Believe me, I do.” He paused, thoughtful, before continuing. “So we’ll go back to the train tomorrow and look for any leftover supplies. While we’re there we’ll leave word for your folks.”

Zach and Jeremy glanced each other. “Okay,” they both replied, nearly in unison.

“Good, then. It’s settled,” Max said, flashing a smile at Rose. She returned it. “Let’s get some rest tonight. We’ve got a busy day tomorrow.”

* * *

That night Zach and Jeremy slept in the same bed, doors locked and in shifts. It wasn’t so much that Zach didn’t trust Rose and Max, he just didn’t know them. He was sure his dad would have done the same thing. He’d always taught them to be cautious.

The following day the group left the house and headed back toward the crash site. They carried with them a can of black spray paint retrieved from the garage behind the small house to leave the message on the train car for Ed and Trish. Along with the paint, they brought empty pillow cases to be filled with scavenged supplies from the crash site.

The four of them stepped quickly and carefully through the side streets, alert and aware. Using the spray paint, Max placed an “X” on various street signs along the way to act as bread crumbs, allowing them to find their way back to the house again.

Once back at the scene of the crash they gathered up what few supplies they could find. They stuffed the pillowcases full of MREs, a few TV dinners that could be stored without refrigeration, several cans of Spam and Vienna Sausages and a couple dozen packages of ramen noodles. All of it had been thrown from the train when it crashed the day before.

As he scavenged, Zach stumbled upon another discovery that made his heart sink.

A can of creamed corn.

He picked up the can, stuffing it inside the pillowcase before it brought back any more memories of his father.

Before they left, Max spray-painted the address of the house in which they were staying. Below the address Max wrote a simple message:

Zach and Jeremy are here
.

With the message written, they followed the spray-painted markings on the roads signs back to their temporary house. Once back inside, they unloaded the pillowcases, inspecting the food to ensure it was still edible.

While Rose prepared lunch, Zach stood by the window, peering out into the empty street. Thoughts of his dad and Trish ate away at him, threatening to destroy what hope he had left. As each hour passed without a knock at the door, Zach felt more and more certain that he’d never see them. Then he and Jeremy would be alone, forever. Orphans.

A tear threatened to blur his vision. He wiped it away, pushing the torrent back. It was so hard being strong. He wondered how his dad had done it all those years, especially after Mom died.

“He’s okay,” Jeremy said from behind.

Startled, Zach turned to face his brother. He tried to think of something to say, something reassuring, but he couldn’t. All he could do was nod, hiding his concern behind a weak smile.

“It’s okay to cry, too,” Jeremy said.

Unable to hold them back any longer, Zach finally let the tears flow.

Trish awoke the following morning inside the dumpster, the pistol still clutched in her hand. She blinked in the darkness, trying to focus. A thread of light outlining the gap between the dumpster and its lid stared back at her.

Somehow, against the odds, she’d survived. The realization threatened to overwhelm her. Trish thought of the poor woman who’d helped her escape, the woman who’d given her life to help a stranger. Trish didn’t even know her name.

Ryder was finally dead. They were all dead, all the men who took her a lifetime ago and did terrible things to her.

But then a thought occurred to her; what if he wasn’t really dead? She’d heard his screams, but she hadn’t actually watched him die.

She needed to see, with her own eyes. Only then would she be able to live without constantly looking over her shoulder. Without certainty, she’d never be free. Going back into the warehouse again would be dangerous. More than dangerous; possibly suicidal.

She heard Ryder’s voice in her head.
You don’t have the guts to do it
.

I don’t have the guts not to,
she thought.

Her headache, which had been nearly constant since the train wreck before being worsened by Ryder’s drugs, was gone now. Getting to her knees, she lifted the lid of the dumpster only slightly, peering through the inch or so of clearance, squinting in the bright sunlight. She saw no carriers in the parking lot.

She waited, listening, allowing her eyes to adjust to the bright light. A few minutes later she stood, lifting the dumpster’s lid completely open. The fresh air smelled much better than the dumpster’s stuffy interior.

She tucked the pistol in her back pocket, retrieving the knife and the flashlight from amidst the trash before climbing out of the dumpster. Once on the ground, she felt thankful for the solidity beneath her feet. With her eyes now adjusted to the daylight, she took another look around. Behind her sat the warehouse, its paint-chipped, cinder block façade glaring down at her. Random cars littered the parking lot, most with windows smashed and tires flattened.

She waited a few more moments, listening. She heard no grunting, no limbs dragged over the course asphalt. No voices and no screaming. Just eerie quiet covering the landscape like a thick blanket.

She took a step forward, her muscles sore. Ignoring the stiffness, she kept moving, hoping she didn’t lose her nerve.

* * *

She found a door leading into the warehouse, climbed the few steps leading to it and pulled it open. It screeched on rusty hinges, protesting as it gave way. She peeked her head inside. Sunlight streamed into the warehouse from squat windows set near the ceiling, filling the interior with a dingy hue. She waited, standing perfectly still while she listened.

Minutes passed with no sign of the infected. Taking a deep breath, she gathered up her courage and walked into the building. Inside she felt the claustrophobic walls surrounding her, towering above like angry sentinels. The hair on the back of her neck stood at attention as gooseflesh spread across her skin. The smell of carrier lingered in the thick and stagnant air.

She kept moving, pistol in hand as she searched for something, anything at all, to prove to herself that Ryder was dead. Inside her mind alarms wailed, screaming at her, telling her to get out, to run and keep going. It was crazy coming back, a part of her knew that, but she had to be certain.

She walked slowly, eyes wide. Then something ahead caught her eye. Blood smears on the concrete floor surrounding a mess of strewn clothes and bones. She hurried toward the scene, stepping as quietly as she could. She covered the distance quickly, glancing nervously from side to side.

When she made it to the scene she got her first good look at the mess that had been Ryder. His black uniform had been torn to pieces, tossed carelessly about. The woman who’d saved Trish received the same fate, what little remained of her scattered across the dirty warehouse floor.

Inspecting the remains, Trish noticed something lying along with the bloody clothing. She recognized it immediately; the gold crucifix Ryder had been wearing. A trophy taken from another victim, one not lucky enough to have survived him. It glittered in the dim sunlight, mocking in its twinkle.

She reached down into the mess and picked it up, examining the jewelry in the pale light. It felt foul in her hand. She drew her arm back, ready to toss the thing into the dusty recesses of the warehouse when a thought stopped her. If Ryder had kept the crucifix as a trophy then that meant that he might be carrying other trophies.

The chances were slim, but maybe, just maybe…

She dropped to her knees and began searching frantically through the bloody mess of clothing and bones. The smell worsened the closer she got. She had to fight the urge to vomit as she picked over the remains. She searched frantically, turning over scraps of bloody clothing, tossing them to the side.

Then she found it.

Tim’s ring.

The ring he’d given her after the virus, when they’d been high school sweethearts. The ring Ryder and his band of monsters stole from her when they kidnapped and raped her.

Ryder had threaded a gold chain through the band, wearing it around his neck as he had the crucifix. Grasping the chain, Trish held up the ring. It dangled freely in the murky light, staring back at her like a ghost from her past. Blood marred the ring’s surface, but otherwise it looked just as she remembered it. She’d never expected to ever see it again.

Overcome, she looked away. Tears blurred her eyes; she wiped them away with the back of her hand. She noticed a backpack lying overturned on the floor. Trish recognized it as the woman’s pack, the woman who’d saved her life.
I’m sorry
, she thought to herself.

Clutching Tim’s ring tightly in the palm of her hand, Trish picked up the dead woman’s pack and slung it over her shoulder before charging back through the door and out into the bright sunlight.

* * *

Despite searching for hours, Trish couldn’t find the house where Ryder had taken her and the boys. As she searched through various neighborhoods, all the houses seemed to blend together into a homogenous collection of multicolored, square structures. Whatever drug Ryder had given her had knocked her unconscious, so she had no memory of how she’d gotten from the house to the warehouse, making it next to impossible to find her way back again.

Finally she stopped. She sat down on a curb amongst the vacant houses, overgrown grass tickling the back of her neck. Fighting a growing sense of despair, she decided to make a new plan. While she might not be able to find her way back to the house from where she now was, it might be possible to find it from the scene of the train wreck. And to find the tracks, she needed a map. Before the virus, any convenience store would have carried them.

Trish stood again, energized with her new plan. She began walking, making her way through defunct subdivisions, filled with the kind of small and unassuming houses that typically sprung up next to a busy railway. Modest homes with modest prices, for people who could stand listening to train whistles and didn’t mind their houses rocking as the big engines passed.