Brian Keene (19 page)

"What about Warner?" Blumenthal shrieked

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Their fallen comrade was a mass of quivering meat, red and raw. His uniform had been ripped to pieces as

159 had most of his skin. Zombie birds landed on him, tore away strips of flesh, and then took flight, making room for their brothers. Without a word, Lawson turned the weapon on Warner and his attackers, turning both into an inferno. As the fire engulfed everything behind them, Blumenthal climbed inside the HumVee.

"Eyes front," Ford shouted to Lawson. "More of them!" Lawson swung the flame-thrower around, gasping in astonishment when he spotted the huge eagle on the hood of the car. He sent a fiery spray arcing toward them.

"Slide the fuck over!"

Blumenthal popped his head through the opening in the roof and opened fire with the .50 cal, laughing as the enormous rounds tore through the two human zombies and their truck, scattering heads, limbs and torsos along the blacktop.

The few remaining birds lurched toward the sky.

"We've got movement in the car," Ford cautioned them. "Non-zombie. Hand me that bullhorn."

"I'm surprised it didn't catch fire too, way you were spraying everything."

"Shut up, Blumenthal," Lawson growled. "It worked, didn't it?" The driver's side door of the Hyundai swung open, and both men trained their weapons on it. A man, bleeding and singed but still very much alive, raised his hands toward them.

"Don't shoot!" Baker cried. "We're human!" He ducked back inside, hugged Worm, and convinced the quaking boy to open his eyes.

"We're safe, Worm," he mouthed. "Safe. Army men!" He pointed towards the HumVee and the box truck.

"Passenger, please exit the vehicle with your hands in the air! Driver, remain inside!"

"My companion is deaf," Baker called. "He can't hear you-" 160 "DO IT NOW!" Ford roared.

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Using hand signals, Baker urged Worm to get out. After some coaxing, the terrified boy reluctantly complied.

"Driver, now it's your turn. Keep those hands up!" Baker did as he was told, trying to ignore the fragile bodies and wings crunching softly beneath his feet. The stench of burning flesh hung heavily in the air. The zombies from the truck lay scattered over a wide area.

Two soldiers-Baker could see that they were Army National Guard-dismounted and walked slowly towards them, weapons at the ready.

"Thank you," Baker clamored. "Thank you gentlemen so much! I really thought we wereBlumenthal slammed the butt of his M-16 into Baker's abdomen, cutting him off. Clenching his stomach and gasping for air, Baker fell to the ground and curled into a ball.

"Bayhker!"

Worm squealed in fright and tried to run. Lawson flung him to the ground and placed a booted heel on his head.

Baker wheezed, unable to speak. He clawed at the road with his hands, fighting for breath.

"Put them in the truck," Michaels ordered. "Lawson, you take over driving." Kneeling, Blumenthal snapped a pair of handcuffs around Baker's wrists. Then he plucked the RHIC identification badge from his coat. He scrutinized the picture on the card, then grabbed Baker's chin and stared at his face.

"Same guy?" Lawson asked. "What's the ID say?"

"Havenbrook. Wasn't that where that Top Secret government lab was? You know, the one that was on the news just before everything went to shit?"

"Yeah," Lawson shrugged, putting cuffs on Worm as well. "So what? The President of Palestine and that transvestite supermodel were on the news too, but I don't

161 see them here."

"Hey Sarge," Blumenthal called. "I think we've got something here that might make this trip worth it after all!"

Lawson dragged Worm to his feet, watching the sky closely for any
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returning birds.

Blumenthal handed the badge to Michaels. "Wasn't this the place where they were doing those experiments?"

"Maybe. I thought it was a weapons lab or something like that."

"Well," Blumenthal cleared his throat, "I was thinking maybe Colonel Schow would like to interrogate this guy, on account that he obviously worked there. At the very least, there's probably all kinds of weapons laying around, but also-"

He faltered, unsure if he should proceed.

"Go on, Private."

"Well, if I remember correctly, most of it is underground. I'm thinking that would make a perfect place for us to move to." Michaels looked from Blumenthal to the cowering Baker and then back to the Private again.

"Blumenthal, if you're right, you may have just earned yourself a promotion."

The soldier grinned. Forcing Baker to his feet, they loaded the captives into the back of the truck, then rolled the door down, padlocking it. It was pitch black inside the truck. Worm sobbed uncontrollably as the engine roared to life. Baker slid toward the sound of his voice and the frightened boy cowered against him. Baker wished he could murmur words of assurance, but Worm wouldn't be able to see his lips moving in the dark. The intense pain in his stomach and chest had drowned out much of the soldier's conversation, but he gathered they wanted information on Havenbrook. That meant they would keep him alive.

In the darkness, Baker wondered how he and Worm

162 would remain that way after he'd given them what they wanted. Brian Keene 162

163

Jason grabbed a rifle from the gun cabinet and dashed out the door before Jim could stop him.

"Jason, wait! We don't know what's out there!" Unheeding, the boy jumped off the porch and ran across the front yard.
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Weaponless, Jim ran after him.

Martin limped across the field, carrying Delmas with him. The elderly preacher looked pale and haggard, and his mouth hung open. His unseeing eyes stared past them. His pants were torn and blood streamed down his leg. His feet shuffled along automatically. From his belt loop, a length of baling twine had been tied around the trigger guards of the rifles. He dragged the guns along behind them, the stocks and barrels digging furrows in the dirt.

Delmas was in worse shape. Chunks of flesh were missing from his arms, legs, and face, and his body was covered in bite marks. He was coated in blood, and his eyes were shut.

"Pop!"

Jim caught them both as Martin stumbled, and gently eased them to the ground. Martin blinked, gazing up at him, and licked his lips.

"What happened? Are you alright?"

"Ambushed," the elderly minister coughed. "They were waiting for us in the hollow. They set a trap!"

"How many?" Jim demanded.

164 "More than-more than I could count. First it was just deer, but then there were squirrels, birds, and a couple of humans. Working together. We managed to destroy a bunch of them. I don't know how many are left."

"Are you okay?"

"A dead groundhog bit me on the leg, but I'm alright. Thought I was going to have a heart attack getting us back here. Just let me rest a minute."

Jim checked him over. His skin was hot and flushed, and he had an ugly gash on his leg. The cut had started to clot already though. Otherwise, he seemed okay.

Jason cradled Delmas' head in his arms. His father wasn't moving.

"Let me see him," Jim said gently, and Jason looked up at him, tears streaming down his face.

"Please don't let him die."

At the sound of his son's voice, Delmas opened his eyes.

"Jason..."

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"I'm here, Pop. You're gonna be alright. I'm gonna take care of you."

"Delmas," Jim asked, "can you walk?"

"My leg's busted."

"Then I'm going to have to carry you. Jason, can you help Reverend Martin? Maybe carry the guns?"

The boy stood up, wiping his nose with his sleeve.

Delmas wrapped his arms around Jim's neck and bit his lip in anticipation.

"Ready?"

He whimpered in the affirmative. Jim lifted him off the ground and the wounded man screamed in anguish as his leg banged against Jim's thigh. The gunshot wound in Jim's shoulder flared to life in response. Struggling with the effort, Jim got him into the house and laid Delmas in the same bed that he had occupied only hours before. Martin stumbled in behind them, followed by Jason. Wide-eyed, the boy put the rifles on 165 the floor and slammed the door shut.

"There's more coming!"

Jim ran to the window. Three shadowy figures stepped out of the twilight; two humans and a doe. The zombies lurched toward the house. Getting his second wind, Martin grabbed shells from the gun cabinet and began reloading the rifles.

"See to your father," Jim told Jason. "We'll handle this."

"How many are there?" Martin asked.

"Three that I can see. Maybe more that I can't. I don't know. You ready?"

"No, but let's do it anyway."

Jim flung the door open and leaped onto the porch, firing as he went. The shots were wild, but they deterred the zombies long enough for him to take position, eject his shells, aim, and fire again. He drew a bead on the doe and quickly squeezed the trigger. The gun jumped in his hands and the bullet tore into her neck. The next shot dropped her. Martin targeted the closest human, an obese hillbilly who had swollen to hideous proportions in death. His first shot shattered the creature's kneecap. He readjusted and the second plowed into the prodigious stomach. The stench spilling from the monster's intestines clouded the
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porch. He aimed higher and the next two shots separated the zombie's head from its body. It dangled on a few thin scraps of sinew and flesh, before falling off the shoulders and rolling across the ground. The body dropped beside it.

Martin approached the head. The eyes followed him and the lips moved, forming words but now lacking the lungs and vocal chords to express them. He knelt down next to it and the teeth snapped at him soundlessly. Rising, he thrust the barrel into its mouth. The eyes grew wide. He fired. The third zombie turned to run. Leading it for a moment with the barrel, Jim drew a bead on it, fired, and

166 watched its brains exit through the back of its skull. Breathing hard, the two men smiled at each other grimly. The echoes of the last shot rebounded off the hills. Finally Martin spoke.

"Clendenon's in bad shape." It wasn't a question.

"Yeah, I'm afraid so."

"Jim," he paused before continuing. "You realize we can't leave them like this."

"I know."

He stared into the setting sun. New Jersey-and Danny-had never seemed farther away at that moment.

They used two bottles of peroxide and several boxes of cotton balls on the bites. Martin gave him a liberal dose of aspirin and a bottle of Jim Beam to kill the pain while they bandaged his wounds. Delmas had lost a lot of blood, and his skin was chalk-white. His leg was swollen to almost twice its normal size, and Jim had to cut the pants leg off around it. They elevated it with pillows, and when Jim touched his thigh, the flesh was hot and tight.

Mercifully, Delmas finally passed out, moaning himself to sleep.

"We've got to do something about that leg," Jim said, "but I don't know how."

"We could try to set it," Martin said. He looked at Jason. "Did your Pop ever teach you how to do anything like that?"

"No. Mamma taught me how to make a poultice, but we don't have the stuff to do it."

"Are there any neighbors who would be able to help?"
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"No. torn and Luke and old John Joe were the last." Jim paced the floor while Martin cared for his own wounds and washed up in the sink.

"Try to get some sleep," the minister coaxed Jason.

"Can't, sir. I'm not sleepy."

"Well then, why don't you go sit with your father a 167 spell. Mr. Thurmond and I will try to figure out what to do next." After the door closed behind him, Martin sighed, loosening his collar.

"So what do we do?" Jim stopped pacing.

"I don't know. I've been thinking about that. Best case scenario; we fight off any infection and the man is a cripple for the rest of his life. How long do you think they'll last if he can't walk?" Jim didn't reply.

"We could take them with us," Martin suggested. "Find a van or something. Sooner or later we'll have to run into a doctor or at least somebody with medical knowledge."

"He's in no shape to travel, Martin. A few hours ago, you weren't even sure that I was."

"You certainly act like you're feeling better."

"I am better, but driving him is out. We can't move him with that busted leg."

"So we wait."

"And Danny-" He choked, unable to finish.

"I'm sorry, Jim."

Martin sank into the sofa and propped his feet up. Jim began to pace again.

"Maybe this is how it's supposed to be, Jim. I could stay here with them while you went on."

Jim considered this.

"No, Martin, I can't leave you here. You came with me, offered your friendship and support. It wouldn't be right."

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"It may not be right, but that doesn't mean it's not God's plan. Maybe the Lord needs me here."

"Let me think about it. We're not going to be able to do anything until it's light outside anyway."

In the darkness, a whippoorwill sang its lonely song to the accompaniment of chirping crickets. Martin went to the window.

"My Mama used to say that when you heard a

168 whippoorwill at sunset, it meant that somebody close to you was going to die."

"My folks used to say the same thing," Jim responded. "If it's true, they must be singing an awful lot these days."

Jason woke in the middle of the night, slumped in the chair next to his father's bed. He stretched his legs, yawned, and went to his father's side. Delmas lay utterly still, and Jason felt a momentary twinge of panic. He placed his ear next to the sleeping man's mouth, and sighed with relief when he heard him breathing quietly.

Jason's bladder let him know with a sense of urgency that he needed to pee. He tiptoed to the door and peeked out into the living room. Pastor Martin lay on the couch, mumbling and thrashing fitfully in his sleep. Jim sat facing the window, silhouetted in moonlight. He was staring at something in his hands.