Dead Highways (Book 3): Discord (5 page)

“No chance,” Ted said, frowning. “We don’t have enough bullets to clear them out. Remember we left most of our supplies back at the dock, and even if we hadn’t that would still be too risky.”

“I’ll clear them out,” Aamod said. “Take the carts to the grass.” He pointed to the corner where he’d just come from. “I’ll stay here and draw their attention away. If I can get enough of them to stop walking and focus on me, that should give you enough time to slip by in front of them. There is a space between the cars about twenty or thirty yards up I’m pretty sure you can get through.”

“Pretty sure?” Bowser repeated.

“If you can’t get the carts through, ditch them and go on foot.”

“I don’t like that idea,” Naima said.

“You can ride with Ted, Naima. We’ll leave our cart here.”

“It’s not the driving that I’m worried about. I just don’t want you going off on your own like that.”

“I can handle it.”

“She’s right though,” Ted said. “What are you gonna do if you get surrounded?”

“I’ll find a way.”

I thought back to the day we’d stopped off at the side of I-95 and got bum-rushed by a horde of people recently awoken from their comas. Aamod had drawn them away from his Toyota after getting it stuck in a muddy rut, all so Naima could escape. This plan sounded eerily familiar, and more dangerous.

“Well…” Aamod pressed. “Does anyone have a better idea?”

I sure didn’t, and given the rest of the groups silence, they didn’t either. Aamod was unpredictable, which often made him a liability, but if carefully utilized at the right moments, his brazen nature could also be an asset. His place in the group wasn’t without its problems. He and I certainly weren’t best friends. I hadn’t forgotten the time he threatened me just for talking with Naima. He was the one person in the group that didn’t really belong, and yet we kept him around for moments like this one. Perhaps there was something unspoken between the rest of us (minus his daughter), a sort of realization that when push came to shove Aamod could be used as the sacrificial lamb. He could save us again. He could give his life and we’d walk away satisfied—glad we kept him around for our own selfish reasons.

Glad he was there when we needed him. And when he wasn’t anymore, glad he was gone.

Ted went to the back of his golf cart and sorted through his pack, pulled out a small pistol. He offered it to Aamod. “Here. Take this.”

Aamod looked down at the pistol, but didn’t reach for it. “Why?”

“We won’t be able to back you up, and that shotgun has limited ammo,” Ted said. “In fact…tell you what.” Ted slipped the AR-15 off his back. “You can take this if you want.”

“No, no. I don’t need that. I wouldn’t know how to use it properly anyway.”

Ted slipped the AR-15 back over his shoulder and then offered the pistol to Aamod again. “At least take this. It can’t hurt.”

Aamod hesitated for a moment and then finally took the pistol. It was amazing how hard it was for him to accept help. He wanted to do everything on his own. It was as though taking that pistol meant he was admitting to not being able to take care of himself. It hurt his pride. The evidence was written all over his face.

Or, wait…

Maybe he knew this was it for him.

Maybe he knew he was the sacrificial lamb.

Maybe he was volunteering.

Maybe the extra pistol wouldn’t save him because he had no intention of being saved.

Before we headed off in the carts, Naima gave her father a long hug, told him she loved him.

Maybe she knew too.

“Do you see him?” I whispered, sandwiched between Peaches and Naima. We were hunched down in the grassy area on the corner of Carrollton and Claiborne, using one of the golf carts for cover. Robinson, Bowser, and Ted did the same, hiding behind the cart next to us.

“No,” Naima whispered back, noticeably concerned. Looking back toward the railway awning, Aamod was no longer where we’d left him. “Where did he go?”

“He must have slipped away,” I said, instantly regretting my choice of words.

One of these days, I’d say the right thing on the first try.

“I mean…slipped out of sight, when we weren’t looking.”

My second (slightly better) attempt to ease Naima’s mind didn’t appear to work. “I don’t feel good about this,” she finally said, looking around nervously, hoping to see some sign of her father—perhaps ducked down like us, hiding somewhere ready to pop out and start blasting away.

Robinson came up behind us. “Come on. We’re gonna move down…find this white van.”

Before going our separate ways, Aamod had said to look out for a white cleaning service van. He said it had a brightly colored logo painted on the side with a cartoon-looking mascot holding a mop and bucket. Behind this van was where he suspected we could sneak by, hopefully under the power of the golf carts. My cart still had more than half its charge left.

“Okay,” I said. “Lead the way.”

Ted was already off, cutting a wide path west. Behind us appeared to be another park, concrete walkways zig-zagging through the grass. I started to think you couldn’t turn around in New Orleans without running into a park. Robinson got back into his cart, Bowser still stuck as his passenger. Without a moment’s hesitation, Peaches hopped into the driver’s seat of our cart. Lucky number thirteen. I was through arguing over who got to drive. If she wanted me to shoot, then I’d shoot.

“Looks like Ted forgot about you,” I said to Naima. Her cart, the one Aamod had been driving, still sat to our right on the train tracks. “No worries. You can ride with us.”

“Come on,” Peaches said. “You two are both skinny. You can squeeze in.”

“No need,” I replied, stepping up on the back bumper. I used my left hand to hold onto the upper frame. In my right hand, my dominant hand, I had Sally held down by my side. “I’ll just hang back here.”

Peaches looked at me like I had just swallowed a fistful of pharmaceuticals. “What are you doing? You’re nuts.”

“They’re leaving,” I said, pointing ahead at Robinson and Bowser now in fast pursuit of Ted. “Just go. I’m fine back here. I swear I won’t fall off.”

Peaches sighed and hit the accelerator.

I nearly fell off.

Did I mention the carts had pep to them? Once moving, I realized trying to aim and shoot one-handed was going to be a challenge I’d certainly fail miserably at, assuming I could even hold onto the gun in the process. Sally didn’t look like much, at least not compared to the cannons Ted carried around, but still she had some kick to her. It was rare that I shot her without having both hands around the grip. Thankfully, we weren’t going far.

Not fifteen seconds later, we were on the northwest side of the park, on the corner of Dublin Street and South Claiborne. Peaches stopped our cart next to Robinson and Bowser. Ted was already up and out, using a large tree for cover, scouting the highway from this end. Even from farther back, I could see the white van Aamod had said to look out for. The cleaning company mascot painted on the side looked even more ridiculous than he had described. The van sat dead in the middle of the intersection with one-half of its front end climbing the rear bumper of a four-door sedan. One of its tires hung elevated inches off the ground, flat and falling off the rim. It had most likely blown when the crash occurred.

Like before, we all hunkered down next to the carts.

Ted tiptoed over a moment later.

“You think we can make it through?” Robinson whispered.

“Gonna be a tight fit, but I think we can,” Ted replied. “It’s hard to say for certain without getting a closer look, and as you can see this is about as close as we’re gonna get. But I’d say there’s about six feet between the van and the car parked catty-corner behind it. These carts can’t be more than five feet wide.”

Robinson frowned. “That’s not much clearance.”

“No, but it’s enough. I’m more concerned about the other problem.”

Ah, yes, the
other
problem, heading west down Claiborne. They shambled by like a parade of town drunks walking home after a night of heavy drinking at the bar. I spotted many in the crowd way under the legal drinking age of twenty-one, not that there was such a thing as a legal drinking age anymore. One thing I didn’t spot, however, were any of the old infected variety. The post-coma awakened infected who could plan and scheme and communicate in some unspoken way like the group that had surrounded and stormed Robinson’s house weeks ago, after my Grandma had woken up during the night only to leave first thing in the morning. Those passing by us now were all of the post mutation period. In other words, the reanimated dead. In fact, I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen a living breathing infected person, or fast runners as I had begun thinking of them. Maybe a week ago, back at Brian and Cathy’s house. Since then it was only the slow stinking dead all day and all night.

The zombies had become like that annoying neighbor you try to avoid at all costs, but instead of killing you with their boring work stories, these tried to kill you by brute force—by putting you on the dinner menu and taking a bite out of whatever part of you they could get between their bony-fingered claws.

“How long we gotta wait here?” Bowser asked. He was carefully stretching his bandaged bad leg.

Robinson shrugged. “As long as it takes.”

I glanced back the way we had come. “You’d think he would have done something by now. Though he could have been waiting for us to get into position.”

“And here we are,” Bowser said, smirking. “Waiting…in position.”

Normally cooler and calmer than a glacier, Ted now had a look of mounting burden on his face. I could sense the pressure—the responsibility—of being the default leader of the group was starting to weigh on him. We all looked to him for answers. For guidance. For protection. We needed someone to follow, and we followed Ted as close as we could, even if it meant sometimes tripping all over his imaginary cape. No, Ted wasn’t the superhero guy we all needed him to be, nor capable of succeeding at the infallible leader position we’d selfishly assigned him. He was human, and like any human, he would eventually crack under enough pressure. Maybe not today or tomorrow, but soon, and then what would we do?

“I don’t know about this,” Ted said, shaking his head. “We might be sneaking by after all. We could keep going farther west and see if we can find a better spot. Of course we’ll have to abandon these carts.”

“Let’s wait a bit longer,” Robinson said.

“Maybe we should go back and look for my dad,” Naima suggested.

No one rushed to respond to her request. I think we were all thinking the same thing. If her father were alive, something would have happened by now. Aamod wasn’t the quiet type, meaning the silence could mean only one thing.

“I didn’t like this plan from the beginning,” Ted said. “We shouldn’t have left him, no matter how much he insisted. We should’ve stuck together. We could have figured out another way around.” He looked directly at Naima and relayed the exact thought circling through my head. “I’m sorry Naima, but it seems like your father went on a suicide mission, far as I can tell.”

I don’t believe Naima was surprised by this idea, as I suspected deep down she knew this herself the minute her father suggested the diversion strategy. But hearing someone else confirm her worst fear was more than she could handle. She began to break down, tears running from her eyes. Peaches comforted her by softly rubbing her back.

Ted, always the brave one, or perhaps a bit sorry for being so blunt, started to stand up. “I’ll go back on foot and see if I can find him.”

Before any of us could respond, Ted was back on the ground, this time flat on his stomach. “Get down now,” he whispered with a dreadful sense of urgency.

As usual, we did exactly as he said. We hit the deck, lay face first in the grass next to the golf carts. I slowly turned my head and glanced down Dublin Street. Coming our way, walking north toward Claiborne were three zombies, all full-grown adults. The first of the pack was roughly fifty yards away. The other two tagged not far behind.

Everyone saw, but no one spoke a word. We all knew the plan as if by pure instinct.

We’d play dead. Hope they pass without noticing us.

Moments later, the leader of the pack dragged itself by our spot on the grass near the sidewalk. He didn’t see us. He didn’t smell us. We were invisible to him. Two more to go and we’d be in the clear, at least for a time. I didn’t see any more coming up Dublin behind them.

It might sound strange, but lying there in the grass was the most relaxed I’d felt all day. I didn’t even care that I had likely invaded some poor insect’s space and he’d probably soon explore his way up my pant leg and into my nether regions. It was just nice to lie still for a moment—to stop and breathe slow and not be in a hurry to get somewhere.

I felt almost as if I were floating.

I took it in. I embraced it.

My eyes gently fell closed.

They popped back open when I heard the first gunshot.

The shotgun blast was supposed to be our sign to get moving, yet none of us moved a muscle. We stayed still against the ground, heads resting in the damp late morning grass, keeping quiet. We had to be smart. Careful. We’d only have one shot at this, only one chance to cross Claiborne without turning into food for the large hungry horde heading west.

Patience, grasshopper.

Two more gunshots, fired off in quick succession. I cursed myself for flinching a bit with each shot, though our dead friends nearby didn’t seem to notice.

The first of the displaced zombies stood five yards in front of us. Drawn by the loud sound, he turned on wobbly legs and began walking east through the park. The second, following his lead, passed mere inches in front of us, not looking down, groaning with anxious excitement to find out what was going on east of our location. I think all of us were a little curious about that too. If anyone could handle himself under stress—and by handle himself, I mean go fucking nuts with pent-up rage—it was Aamod. But this time the odds were stacked sky-high against him, and I was sure soon enough the sound of gunfire would cease and Aamod would be gone. It was one man versus an army of undead, after all. However, for the moment—somehow, someway—the crazy bastard held his own.

Another shot. Then two more.

The third infected, a twenty-something black man wearing a crooked New Orleans Saints cap and a white shirt stained red by the constant drooling of blood from his mouth, seemed just as excited to pinpoint the source of the strange noise. He turned from the sidewalk and began shuffling toward us, his hazy gray eyes looking somewhere beyond, not noticing the six warm-fleshed beings lying directly in his path, flat against the green earth like a bunch of new age, fully-clothed sunbathers.

I’m not sure anyone else in the group but me realized what was about to happen next, certainly not Naima, who was shielding her face with her hands. Once the zombie stumbled over her legs and fell down on top of her a second later, she took instant notice of him. And, oh yes, he noticed her too, going for her throat like a rabid vampire.

Never had I ever heard someone scream so damn loud before in my life.

Poor Naima, of all people. Aamod’s precious offspring. The Indian princess. The one person in the group without any sort of weapon. No way to defend herself.

I should have at least attempted to warn her, but it had all happened so fast. Another few seconds of quiet and this guy would have passed us by. We’d have been in the clear. Instead, he was right next to us—right next to
Naima
—when the first shotgun blast sounded off, causing him to turn on a dime and change course. Aamod didn’t know it, but his timing sucked, and it could have led to the death of his daughter.

Being the closest to Naima, I quickly sat up on my knees and tried to pull the infected man off her. The dead man snapped at me, nearly caught one of my fingers between his rotting teeth. I recoiled, saw the other two zombies a short distance away start to head back toward us. Peaches, watching me almost get bit, scurried back on her butt.

“Don’t shoot, Jimmy!” Robinson shouted.

Being quiet didn’t much matter at this point, given Naima’s constant repeating chorus of screams.

I appreciated Robinson’s timely words of advice, but even I knew not to pull out Sally. Too dangerous. Too many other people in close proximity, right in the line of fire.

I would use the bowie knife Ted gave me, if I could only get the stupid thing out of its sheath. The little snap holding it in place gave me a horrible headache. It didn’t help that I was nervous, overwhelmed, knowing someone’s fate was likely in my hands. I had to do
something
. The zombie straddling Naima was now inches from her face, dripping dark, thick red blood down on her.

“Help!” she screamed, her voice breaking into a cry. “Please! Help!” Tears pooled in her eyes. She had her hands around its slimy neck trying to push it away. But the dead thing was relentless, determined to get her—to pass the infection on, keep the chain letter of death going strong. All it took was one bite. That was all.

It failed.

Having finally coerced my knife out of its sheath, I sent it into the side of the infected man’s head. The sharp blade went in fast and easy. The zombie’s lights went out even faster. When I pulled the knife back out, he fell forward onto Naima like the dead weight he was. Naima squirmed and rolled out from underneath him in a hurry, crying and coughing violently.

Robinson and Ted took care of the other two zombies nearby and then ran back over to us attending to Naima.

“Hey, are you okay?” I asked.

“Oh God. Oh God. I think…” she trailed off, coughing.

“She didn’t get bit, did she?” Bowser asked.

I tried to examine her, but she kept moving, bent over, heaving for air amid the coughing fits.

“I don’t think so,” I said.

After taking a brief pause, the gunshots began again. A different, less powerful sound this time. Aamod must have switched to the pistol Ted had given him. Good. At least he wasn’t dead yet.

“Guys, if we’re gonna go, we need to do it now,” Ted said. “They’re coming.” A small herd of infected shambled our way, having broke off from the crowd now walking east down Claiborne toward the sound of gunfire. “Get back into the carts. I’ll try to draw these away.”

Peaches and I ushered a trembling Naima to cart number thirteen. The coughing had finally stopped. The crying had not.

Once seated inside the cart, Naima said, “I think I might have swallowed his blood.”

“Oh my God,” Peaches gasped. “Are you serious?”

Naima nodded, bowed her head and began crying even harder.

Peaches shot me a disturbed look. I knew instantly what she wanted to know. I wanted to know the same thing.

Naima inhaled zombie blood.

Ugh.

Besides the obvious nausea-inducing revulsion the thought of swallowing infected blood produced in my gut, what would this mean for Naima? Would she get sick? Would she become one of them? I had lots of questions but no answers, and no time to consider different scenarios. Ted was slowly crossing Dublin Street, downing zombies with his AR-15, drawing much of the small pack away from us.

“Jimmy, you taking a seat this time?” Peaches asked. “Jimmy…hello?”

I heard her in the same way you hear music in the background while shopping at a mall or grocery store. It’s there, it’s noise, you hear it, sort of, but not really.

Ted had me distracted. He floored the undead one after the other, rarely missing. It was unreal, like he had a super computer for a brain helping him aim. I swear he was the Michael Jordan of killing. In the world as it was before, such a contentious skill would either get you sent to war or prison. In this new post-apocalyptic world, it would get you through the day. Through the night. Even if living these days was more overrated than The Beatles.

Still.
Fuck me.

The man was good. He was damn good.

Forget everything I said earlier, Ted was a superhero.

“Jimmy, wake up for God’s sake!” Peaches yelled. “I’m driving! Get in or get on!”

Even with Peaches spitting fire at me, it took an extra second or two for my brain to return to earth and give her my full attention. I finally looked over at the two women waiting for me in the golf cart.

Get in or get on?

Shit, no way I was gonna get
on
again. It had seemed like a much better idea than it had turned out to be.

“Okay, okay,” I said, hopping into the cart.

“What the fuck was that about?” Peaches yelled.

“I zoned out. I’m sorry,” I yelled back.

We had to yell in order to hear each other over the gunfire. I couldn’t tell if Aamod was still alive and shooting, Ted’s rifle took center stage. Bowser also cracked a few shots from his pistol before squeezing in next to Robinson in the cart just ahead of us. I got ready, removing Sally from her holster. Two hands around the grip. Finger on the trigger. I knew my turn would cometh right soon.

Naima sat between me and Peaches, still crying and recovering from her near death experience. I didn’t consider her a threat yet, though I’d sure keep a close eye on her. If ingesting zombie blood would ultimately kill her—
turn
her—we’d all have to be careful. It didn’t take long for Nicole to die and then reanimate once bitten back at our camp in the Florida woods. This was a different situation, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t one hundred percent sure Naima was a goner—much like her father. I’d also be lying if I said I’d miss him as much as her. So far, Naima appeared hysterical, but not ill.

The gunfire ceased for a moment. Ted stood on the front white deck of a home on the other side of Dublin, reloading. Having silenced at least a dozen of the infected, he popped a new magazine into his rifle and then made a motion for us to go. He’d cover us. Now was our chance.

Robinson glanced back. “You ready?” he shouted to me and the girls. “Follow us. We’re gonna slip the gap behind the van.”

Ted had already begun shooting again, so I simply nodded in response.

And off we went.

Ted quickly fired off a dozen shots ahead of us, trying to clear the field as much as possible. The bumper-to-bumper traffic of abandoned cars made it difficult for the infected to pack in close to one another. I imagine the sensory overload worked to our advantage as well. Many of the dead seemed uncertain where to look, where to go, constantly drawn different directions. Gunfire to the east. Gunfire to the west. And us, plowing through the middle of it all like lunatics.

In the cart ahead, Bowser did an admirable job slowing down some of the dead closing in on us. Not a Ted quality job, but as good as could be expected, given the unusual conditions. It took a head shot to kill them, but from the passenger seat of a moving golf cart, headshots weren’t easy to come by. Shots to the knees were normally one of the best ways to take down a zombie. Hobble them. Then once they’re immobile, finish the job. However, this wasn’t a normal situation. We needed them out of the way, not
blocking
our way. The goal was to slow them down long enough for us to slip by. I aimed for the center of the chest, just as Ted had originally taught me months ago. The force of each blast temporarily halted the larger of the undead while often causing the smaller ones to stumble backward a foot or two.

Reloading was the last thing I wanted to worry about while shooting Sally from the passenger seat of a golf cart. For one thing, my extra magazines were in my backpack, and my backpack was in the rear compartment. So I made a mental note. Fifteen shots. That’s what I had at my disposal. I’d try my best to use all fifteen wisely. Once the final bullet exited the chamber, should it get to that point, I’d re-holster Sally and make do with the knife.

I glanced behind me and saw Ted running back across Dublin to his cart waiting in the grass on the other side. A handful of zombies stumbled after him.

I turned back, parted with three more rounds. I had eight shots left when we approached the rear of the white cleaning service van.

“Why is he stopping now?” Peaches asked.

Robinson had slowed to a crawl in front of us.

“He’s probably making sure the cart will fit through the gap,” I replied.

Measuring the distance from behind, it looked like we could make it. Tight fit. Not much clearance. But we could squeeze through as long as we took our time and didn’t go full speed. Even Robinson, who for the most part shouldn’t be trusted behind the wheel of any vehicle, knew to proceed with caution. If we got stuck, we’d be surrounded in no time, and being surrounded would mean certain death.

“Come on, go faster,” Peaches pleaded, as dozens of infected lumbered closer and closer with each second. I squeezed off two more shots. Only six left.

With the path clear behind the van, Robinson floored the accelerator. Peaches, scared and itching to get moving again, did the same. A moment later, we crashed into the back of Robinson’s cart, throwing us forward in our seats. It wasn’t enough force to cause whiplash, but in trying to brace myself, I’d nearly dropped Sally.

Robinson stopped because a brave zombie that had once probably been an attractive woman had stepped into his path a few feet in front of his cart, forcing him to slam on the brakes.

Peaches groaned while Naima looked on nervously. Dozens of zombies dragged themselves closer. Ted sped up behind us in his cart, stopped, swung his rifle around and began blasting down some of the approaching infected. I stepped off the cart and began doing the same, now taking careful aim at the heads. I had less than six shots left. Wasting ammo now could mean the difference between living and dying.

Ahead, Bowser leaned out of the lead cart and fired a bunch of rounds at the dead woman blocking the way through, moaning and staggering forward. Two of the shots plugged her in the neck, tearing off strips of skin and gray flesh. One of the shots shattered her jaw. Another shot missed entirely. None of the shots put her down. She continued forward, more determined than ever. Bowser lowered his pistol, began examining the magazine. Out of ammo. That or the gun had jammed.