(Book 2)What Remains (17 page)

The drill started to click loudly. Its noise
prompted a welcomed end to my story telling. Apparently, its
battery was drained to the point where it couldn’t muster the
torque to keep operating. McAllister threw it down, causing the
battery to separate altogether. All the drill components skipped
along the pavement. I jumped from the sudden burst of sound,
knocking the rifle that I balanced against a support beam to the
cement floor.

“Battery is dead. That was the only one, so the
drill is just a clunky screwdriver now.”

My eyes widened, fearing the job modification
was lost along with it. “Did you…”

“Finish? Yeah I was done a little while ago. The
drill started pulling more than usual; its torque was low so I knew
it meant the power was starting to fade. Normally I’d pop the
battery back on the charger then use another to keep going but that
one’s all we got. So I finished the primary stuff knowing
everything after that was just a bonus. You never know what is
going to be pulling on this shit. I wanted to make it as strong as
possible.”

“McAllister,” it felt like I was starting a
eulogy for him even though he was still alive, “I don’t know how to
thank you for this.”

“We’ll call it even. You’re going to keep me
from becoming one of them. That’s more than those poor bastards on
the fence got.” He wobbled and put his hand against the truck to
stabilize himself. “Quit the sappy shit for a minute and come check
out my little enhancements to our lady 522.” His chest heaved with
every word. The infection was burning him up inside.

McAllister was proud of himself and he had every
reason to be. His modifications were nothing short of
extraordinary. We circled the truck and he pointed out the various
federal offenses that had been committed to this piece of
government property. Where racks and trays of letter sorting
compartments were hours before now was an empty space that could
fit all four of us. The uppermost shelves were left in place with
three lengths of rope hooked between the roof and the shelf edge to
keep anything from flying off. Halfway between the shelf and the
floor he attached three handles to the truck walls.

“Are those to hold onto in the event the road
gets rough?” I questioned, pointing to the curiously out of place
grips. My gloved thumb ran over one of the random bolts that jutted
out of the metal walls; each one an anchor point for the additions
to the truck’s exterior.

Ian nodded, his eyes a touch glassy. “I couldn’t
exactly put seat belts in so those will have to do. The door
between the rear cabin and the driver’s section slides. Since it
normally locks from the outside, I busted the mechanism. I put a
chain lock on there so you can lock yourself in. It’s not that
strong, though, so make sure you keep the main doors locked
whenever you all are inside.”

Out of the cabin he directed my attention to the
roof. “The box is obvious. You have about twenty inches of wood for
the walls. Careful piling your shit up too high; this thing is
going to be cutting it close for any low clearance bridges already.
I put another sectioned board towards the rear of the box for gas
cans; there should be room for four or five. There are two beams
sticking out the passenger side pretty high up for your bike; might
even be room for two of them if you position it right. It won’t be
easy to get it up and down but you can still take it with you…
could come in handy.”

I was thrilled. “That is a fantastic idea! Is it
very strong? The bike isn’t that heavy but if a couple of those
fuckers grab on I don’t want it ripped off.”

He coughed wetly. “It’ll hold. Found a pair of
L-brackets to make sure it was strong enough. Each one supports
around 40 pounds. There wasn’t enough time for me to dig up rope so
I hopefully you’ve got some at home.”

“Para-cord. I bought a bunch when we were
stocking up.”

“Good. Take as much as you can to rope any gear
down in the box. You never know if a breeze comes along or
something. It would suck if one of the kids’ bags got lost. Also I
don’t want any humans out there to be able to pluck anything off
before you can get there to teach them some manners,” he said with
a chuckle.

“What are these boards on the side for?” I asked
while I looked curiously at the two-foot sections that were screwed
onto the sidewalls of the truck.

“Steps, dumb ass.” McAllister laughed loudly. He
painfully grimaced immediately after the outburst. “Unless you’re
Spiderman or something then you will need a lift to reach anything
in the damn box.”

“You’re hilarious.” I rolled my eyes at him.
“The fencing over the windows and windshield is a hell of a good
idea! I’ll still be able to see through them while the infected
will have a hard time getting through even if the glass
breaks.”

He leaned against the truck breathing heavily.
“Thanks. Got the idea joking with the guys in central after a truck
got trashed in the ghetto.”

My excitement that came from seeing all of Ian’s
work kept me from recognizing how quickly his condition had
deteriorated. “Do you have any spray paint? It might be a good idea
to cover up the reflective strips on the sides to keep from drawing
attention more than we have to.”

“In the shop.”

“Want me to go grab it? Just tell me where. You
take a break and let me do something for once.”

“No.”

I stopped. His short, uncharacteristic response
threw me off. “Whatever you need me to do, man. I want to
help.”

“No.” He wheezed. “No. Brother. I think…” Every
word was slurred like he was seconds from passing out drunk. “It’s
ha… happening.”

Panic set in. The man didn’t deserve to die. I
certainly didn’t want to kill him. For hours I knew that I was
going to have to kill my new friend, yet I hadn’t allowed myself to
think about what to do when the moment actually arrived. I looked
around somewhat frantically, wondering how I would dispose of him
or, for that matter, how I was going to bury him.

He smacked the side of 522 to get my attention.
“No. Don’t even think about that. You don’t have time. They need
you to get back home.”

“I’m not going to just stab you and leave you to
rot!”

“In the w…” he gasped for air, “warehouse. I
want my last sight to be… to be of them.”

Ian wobbled so much that it looked like he would
fall over. I jumped to help before his legs gave way. We walked
away from the mail truck masterpiece as a pair with his arm over my
shoulder. Convulsions came in waves that nearly took us both to the
ground. The heat that radiated off of his body was intense. I
glanced over to see if he was still conscious; he was, but the
veins on his face had begun the wretched darkening that came near
the end.

We hobbled into the warehouse. The candle that
still burned in the office lit the way enough to locate the bed of
spilled letters. McAllister collapsed to his knees in front of the
two pictures taped to the wall. I sprinted through the room to
retrieve the candle on the far side and set it a few feet behind
us. When I returned I saw him smiling with his arm reached out to
the pictures. Tears fell uncontrollably from my eyes.

“If you ever ss…” he shook with more heaving
breaths, “ssee themm... tell them what I did.”

“I will. I promise.”

His shaking stopped, and seemed almost calm.
“Keys are in the truck. Lock the door after… don’t want to be a
snack. I’m glad we met, brother.” Every word grew quieter than the
one before it.

My hand found the handle of the Kukri and began
to slide it out of its scabbard.

“
No
! You d… don’t have to use that,” he
rasped then tipped his head towards the crowbar tucked on my other
side. “Nice and clean. One hit.”

I was grateful to keep the blade out of this
one. Ian knew I dreaded using the life-saving tool to end a life.
He looked forward again, his breaths shallower. The virus was so
close to taking him. I tried to steady myself, both hands shaking
terribly. Anxiety from the gravity of the task made the crowbar as
heavy as a steel building girder. I wanted to cave under its weight
instead of wielding it against my friend. If I did, however, it
could have cost me everything. Its claw pointed out like a hook
when I swung at the back of his head.

A clap echoed off the warehouse walls, jolting
from my arm to my spine like my arm had collided with a speeding
train. McAllister lurched forward from the motion. The yellow teeth
of the crowbar’s claw had completely vanished within his skull. I
jerked the bar in a quick clockwise turn then yanked it out. Its
exit slurped like a boot stuck in mud. Ian slumped to the wall
beneath the pictures of his children.

Bile bubbled in my throat and my body shook,
tears streaming from my eyes. A darkened halo of glistening crimson
on the letters pooled beneath McAllister’s head. I turned away then
kicked the candle to snuff out the light illuminating my crimes.
When I turned on the little flashlight in my pocket to find my way
to the office I never once turned the beam towards the bed of
letters.

It got progressively colder as the afternoon
passed. Virginia temperatures could be unpredictable that time of
the year. One day it could be nearly sixty degrees then the next it
could be a high of thirty. I felt a shift in the air that brought
about a certain crisp bite to it.

Light waned along with the falling temperature.
I needed to get home before the hordes gained their nighttime
advantage. Past experience showed me that the reapers started their
feisty state the moment the daylight faded. By then I must be
inside the fence and safely in the house. Our gear would have to be
loaded into 522 in the morning before we departed.

I poured one of my water bottles over the
crowbar. Ian had a dirty rag near his tools that I used to rub off
the remaining traces of the man I had just killed. It was hard to
even look at the weapon afterwards. If I knew I’d never require its
services again then it would have thrown it into the retaining pond
near the fence. Instead, I tossed it into the empty space next to
the driver’s seat that previously had a large letter tray. My bag
was placed on top of it with the rifle propped against the
dashboard. The Kukri remained at my side as always.

Fumes from the spray paint felt like sand
sprinkling on my eyes, which were already irritated from my tears.
I found two full cans of black spray paint in the maintenance
office. Sloppy black stripes quickly replaced the trademark blue
and red reflective strips that were there before. 522 looked like a
black and white striped monstrosity; McAllister would have loved
the final product.

The bike fit nicely over the side beams. I was
glad to have the option to take it with us. If there was time I
planned to try to get Sarah or Maddox’s bike on there too.

While I was lifting the jugs of gasoline into
the rooftop cage I noticed the multitude of lights bordering the
rear of the truck. Mail trucks were such a normal sight before the
world went to hell that it was easy to overlook the aspects that
set them apart from your average ride. Riding through a zombie
wasteland with yellow flashing lights trailing seemed potentially
hazardous. I grabbed the hammer from Ian’s toolbox then
methodically smashed each brake light. After the lights were broken
I gave them a quick spray of paint to ensure nothing reflective was
left over. The only lights I wanted to work were those on the
inside of the truck and the headlights.

I took a moment to marvel at the ingenuity Ian
had used to secure the windshield. He attached the fencing to a
raised frame that allowed enough clearance for the windshield
wipers to work, and then it sloped down past the wipers to another
elevated frame bolted into the hood of the truck. It would
certainly be a bitch of a task to change the wiper blades or get
under the hood. However, if we were ever in a situation where I had
the luxury to do those things then I’d gladly be up for the
task.

Then I saw something under the line of chain
link near the wiper blades. I hoisted myself up on the bumper for a
closer inspection. McAllister had written something there with a
permanent marker:
For Audrey and Grant - my best
creations
.

No ghouls where visible near the loading ramp.
Even with the clear road ahead, my heart drummed intensely while I
cut the chain keeping the ramp area secure. It jingled as I rolled
the gate to the side with enough clearance to drive the truck out
of. I jogged back to the truck with dizzying anxiety knowing that
the safety of this fenced area had been compromised. The keys
turned in the ignition and 522 hummed to life. For a minute it
loudly rattled while the modifications settled into place. I had a
last minute idea to hopefully clear the path before driving out.
522 kept warming up as I grabbed the rifle then sprinted to the
line of fence where I had retrieved the roll of chain link.

There were more infected jammed up against the
wall than there had been hours before, no doubt drawn by the noise
Ian and I made while we prepared the truck. As a rule, I tried to
avoid using any guns since bullets were more precious than gold in
this godforsaken new way of things. Silence was also part of that
new order, since firing a gun could end the pursuit of one monster
while inviting doom from others. Moments before departing, I
counted on sending such an invitation to that section of fence
specifically.

Fifteen rounds of .22 caliber rounds, full
capacity for the unmodified long rifle, were loaded in the weapon.
I planned to use every one of them on the over-populated wall. I
paced along as an executioner firing point blank, one vengeful shot
at a time, pecking away at the front line. Bullets bored into
skulls, dropping the targeted creatures like cutting the strings on
a marionette puppet. Half were held upright from the ones behind
before finally dropping to cause the second line to lurch forward
into the newly created void. Each fallen monster created a ripple
in the rotting swell that bowed the fence inward.