Badlands Trilogy (Book 2): Beyond the Badlands (23 page)

“I’d like to find out what’s so important about the stuff we unloaded,” Dave said. “I have some suspicions I’d like to confirm.”

“Don’t look now, but Whipple hasn’t moved for the past ten minutes,” Johnny said. “I’m not saying he’s sleeping on the job or anything, but…”

Ignoring Johnny’s advice, Dave glanced at Whipple sitting motionless the chair. “You gotta be kidding me.”

“He could be faking,” Gary said.

“Did Whipple ever strike you as that type of guy? He’s about as stealthy as a rock.”

Gary shrugged.

Dave stared at Whipple for a few more moments. “He’s really asleep. That rat bastard.”

“Well, new guy, looks like you’ve been handed an opportunity. If you really want to see what they’re storing in those rooms across the way, now’s your chance.”

“Somebody might see him,” Gary said.

“Or maybe they won’t. If I was you, I’d head into the building and snake my way in through the inside.”

“Won’t that be guarded too?”

“Can’t say for sure. No guts, no glory my friend.”

Dave considered for a moment. “If he wakes up, tell him I had to go piss.”

Johnny smiled. “Will do.”

“You’re going to get yourself shot,” Gary said.

“I might have a get out of jail free card up my sleeve.”

“What does that mean?”

“Never mind, it’s not important,” Dave said before dropping his shovel and walking away.

* * *

Dave figured that ultimately it didn’t matter whether or not they caught him. They’d either shoot him or they wouldn’t. Not giving a damn either way turned out to be the upside to having lost everything.

He walked across the courtyard. No one fired a shot. No one yelled, no one pointed him out. Whipple didn’t rise from his chair in the shade to shoot him dead.

The walk seemed to take forever. He took it steady, one step at a time. Once at the building, he pulled open one of the doors and entered the residence hall a safe distance away from the area guarded by the sole sentry.

The door closed behind him, shutting out most of the daylight. He made his way down hallways and through doors, guided mostly by his gut and a very general sense of direction as his eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness.

Along the way it occurred to him that Johnny might be lying to him, sending him to his death.

Nothing to be done about that now.

He walked carefully down a long hallway, heart pounding. Now the threat of getting caught became more palpable. He cared less about the consequences and more about potentially not knowing what was being stored in those guarded rooms.

Because if he was right, it could mean bringing them all down.

He exited through a door to the outside. Now he found himself on the back side of the guarded rooms. To his right a tall, razor-wire fence had been erected, likely by the St. Louis guard, after they reclaimed the residence hall and set up their base of operations. Between the back of the building to his left and the fence to his right lay a grassy yard, a hundred feet wide and fifty feet deep. Near the fence a small utility building sat alone, its windows dark.

He wasted no time getting started, though it hadn’t occurred to him exactly what he planned to do. He chose the oldest method of surveillance he knew: looking in through the windows.
 

He selected the closest window and peered inside. Nothing, save for rows of dust-covered desks that looked untouched for years. He left the first window behind and trotted to the second. Inside, random cardboard boxes lined the floor.

Not what he was looking for.

He moved on to the next window, knelt below it and peeked inside the window. Movement caught his eye and he ducked out of sight.

People inside.

Glenn’s people.

He raised his head again, slower this time. Inside, two guards dressed in black looked over machine guns lying in wooden crates sitting on the floor. One of the guards picked up a rifle and examined it in the dim light streaming in from the window. The other guard picked up a can of black spray paint and scrawled “M16” on the crate.

Dave ducked back down.

Just as he’d expected.

Weapons.

Realizing he’d been gone for some time now, Dave crawled out from beneath the window and turned to leave. As he did, he noticed a smell carried along on the breeze.

The smell of death.

Following his nose, Dave made his way across the grassy yard and toward the utility building near the fence. With each step he took the smell intensified.

Alarms rang in his head. He knew he should stop, that he should turn around. That Whipple was probably already looking for him. That they’d probably kill him if they found out what he’d seen.

But he couldn’t deny the curiosity; the need to know the things Glenn had done here.

Once he stood next to the building the odor surrounded him, clawing to get inside his nose. He cupped his hands around his eyes to block the glare and peered in through the window.

Inside, bodies lay together, stacked on the floor of the building and covered in plastic. They still wore the uniform of the St. Louis guard.

Dave staggered backward, the cloying, putrid odor of the rotting bodies threatening to overwhelm him.

He ran.

Away from the bodies, past the windows and back into the building. His footsteps echoed through the darkened hallways, his heart racing, his mouth dry.

The door appeared at the end of the last hallway. How long had he been gone? Could he get back before they found out he’d wandered away?

He arrived at the door, forcing himself to slow down before crashing through it. He slowly pushed on the door’s panic bar. The latch disengaged and the door swung open. Sunlight streamed inside. He stepped through.

Outside, Whipple stood.

“Well, well, well,” he said, smirking. “Looks like I found my lost puppy.”

“Are the ropes too tight?” Max asked.

Zach and Jeremy sat, silent.

Max huffed. “Suit yourself. Don’t say I didn’t ask.”

He walked a few yards away, leaving the boys sitting against a tree in the woods just off from the tracks. He felt bad about tying them up, but he knew they’d run if he didn’t. They were resourceful kids.

The problem was that they simply didn’t understand the situation.

As he sat on the track he could feel the kids’ eyes boring through him. If looks could kill, he’d be dead. But kids would be kids. And as an adult he had to make the tough choices, choices they simply couldn’t comprehend.

Before the virus Max had worn a
What Would Jesus Do?
bracelet. They gave them out at his church, Christian bracelets manufactured in China (which he’d always found ironic). He had tried to ask himself the question on his bracelet when a moral dilemma presented itself. Back then it seemed so easy, but the virus brought with it the toughest questions Max had ever faced.

Given the circumstances, would Jesus have turned over Trish to those psychopaths? Had that really been the only choice? How would he explain himself to God on Judgement Day? Could he look his Maker in the eye and say he’d made the right decision? That he’d honestly attempted to emulate God’s only son?

Tough questions with elusive answers.

But what other choice did he have? If it wasn’t the psycho and his girlfriend it would be others. Trish simply couldn’t protect the boys from monsters like that. Eventually they’d fall prey to the myriad predators out there, infected or not.

He couldn’t let that happen. No matter what.

What he’d done to Trish was wrong. He knew that. But it was a necessary sacrifice. If things had played out otherwise, if they’d been able to get out of it all without that standoff, things could’ve gone differently.
Would’ve
gone differently. He would never have willingly given her up if it hadn’t been absolutely necessary.

Abraham had been willing to sacrifice his own son for a higher purpose. Sacrifice was difficult, but it was necessary.

Watching the tree tops blow in the wind, Max wished more than ever for that cigarette.

“Wake up,” a voice whispered.

Trish groaned.

“Hey. Wake Up.”

Someone shook her shoulder.

The sleep fell away as Trish swam to the surface of consciousness. “Huh?

“Shhhh. Don’t talk.”

Trish lay still on her side. She moved her hands and feet. Still bound.

Beth leaned over her. “Don’t move. I’m not gonna hurt you.”

Trish nodded.

“Don’t wake him up, whatever you do, or you’re dead. Maybe both of us.”

Trish nodded again.

“I didn’t want things to go down like this. I like you. But that guy you’re with… Is he your husband? Boyfriend?”

Trish shook her head.

“Well, he’s a dead man. I’ll tell you that much. Ryan’s not gonna let this go, you know. He’s gonna find him.”

“You can’t let either of them hurt the kids,” Trish whispered.

Beth sighed. “I’ll do what I can. Things are pretty fucked right now. Ryan’s pissed beyond belief. It’s been a long time since I seen him like this. And it wasn’t good.”

“Please…”

“I’ll do what I can.”

“Thank you.”

“Go back to sleep. Follow my lead. And we never talked. Got it?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Go back to sleep. He’ll be up soon.”

* * *

After spending the night beside the tracks, Max awoke to the sound of birds. Morning dew blanketed everything, including his clothes. Zach and Jeremy slept. He couldn’t help but notice they’d moved as far away from him as their ropes would allow. They hated him now, but he could live with that. Lots of kids thought they hated their fathers. They didn’t call it tough love for nothing.

Eventually they’d come around. Once they realized that he’d done it all for them. Eventually he could be the father figure they so desperately needed.

He sat up and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. Grogginess tugged at him, calling him back to sleep. He couldn’t do that. It had been dangerous enough to sleep as long as he had with that psycho still running around out there. People like Ryan didn’t simply give up. Twelve years on the force had taught him that.

But Max still had the pistol and he had a head start. He’d have to push the boys hard today, harder than they were used to, but they had to put some distance between them and the crazies behind them.

Or did they? Maybe going to Kansas City didn’t make sense anymore. Back when Rose still lived there’d been a reason. And even after that, while traveling with Trish. But now, did it matter where they went? Maybe they’d be better off going another direction, away from Ryan and Beth. Maybe head north or south. They could use their head start to their advantage.

Chipmunks scurried through the underbrush behind him. A woodpecker pounded away at a tree somewhere in the woods.
Maybe a cabin deep in the woods
, Max thought.
That’s where we could go. With three of us to build it-

Footsteps behind him.

Max turned.

Ryan sprinted out of the woods, a heavy stick in his hands like a baseball bat.

Stars exploded as the wood connected with Max’s face. His nose broke with a sickening pop.

Max fell to the ground, his nose gushing blood. The boys yelled from a million miles away.

Another thud as the wood connected with the back of Max’s head. Pain exploded.

“Got you, motherfucker!” Ryan screamed.

On his knees, Max turned to face his attacker.

Ryan swung again. Max ducked. The momentum of the swing carried Ryan too far forward. His balance compromised, he fell, the stick flying out of his hands.

Shaking off the blows to his head, Max sprung. He launched himself toward Ryan. A second later he landed clumsily on top. Gripping Ryan by the throat with his left hand, Max drove his right fist into Ryan’s face. The impact resonated with a dull thud as Ryan’s head rolled to the side.

Max drew back again. Hot pain seared his left arm. He looked down to see the flesh split open, blood pouring. A knife’s blade glinted in Ryan’s hand.

Instinctively Max released his grip on Ryan’s throat, clutching the wound. Blood poured through his fingers.

Ryan sat up, knife in hand. Blood dripped from a cut below his eye. He drew back the knife.

Releasing his gaping wound, Max swung, smacking Ryan’s face with a backhand slap, knocking him off balance. Stumbling, Max rose to his feet.

Lying on the ground, Ryan swept Max’s legs, knocking the bigger man to the ground. On his hands and knees, he scrambled on top of Max like a spider on a fly. He let two punches fly, smashing Max’s already broken nose to a pulp.

Now straddling Max, Ryan lifted the knife.

Max slammed a meaty fist into Ryan’s temple, dazing him. Another blow knocked him off and onto his back.

A second later Max towered above. He dropped a fist like a bomb. Agony exploded in Ryan’s face as the blow cracked his eye socket. Ryan went limp. Max slammed another fist into Ryan’s jaw.

Drawing the last of his strength, Ryan lifted the knife hard. It sank into Max’s stomach.

The big man roared. Ryan withdrew the blade and scooted away.

Max clutched the wound, blood running between his already-coated fingers.

“You son of a bitch!” Max bellowed. He sprung forward.

Ryan rolled, just escaping being pinned beneath Max’s body. Max landed on his stomach, then rolled onto his back. Ryan jumped on top of Max again, slamming his knee into Max’s crotch.

Max’s face went pale as he grunted loudly.

Rising to his knees, Ryan lifted the knife and brought it down hard. Max gripped Ryan’s wrist, stopping the knife two inches from his face.

Nearly exhausted now, Ryan threw all his weight onto the knife, using gravity and his own body’s weight to drive the knife toward Max’s face.

Max struggled, both hands wrapped around Ryan’s wrist. The knife descended slowly, inching closer and closer to Max’s face. Ryan shifted all his weight toward the knife, pushing hard. Max pushed back, his arms shaking as his muscles were pushed beyond their limits.

Gathering all the strength he had left, Ryan fell on the knife.