Dead Highways (Book 3): Discord (7 page)

“
That’s
your idea,” Bowser said. “Hell no, man. You’ve gotta be kidding.”

“You got a better idea,” Robinson snapped back. “Go ahead, spit it out.”

The narrow road we’d been traveling north down curved to the east and ran alongside a major highway. The last and final highway we needed to cross in order to reach Dixon looked to be the largest we had come upon yet. It was six lanes wide, all clogged with bumper-to-bumper traffic. A huge number of zombies, larger than the horde back on Claiborne, trudged westward, weaving in and out of the parked cars.

With no way to cross in the SUV, or by foot, we turned around and went back to where the narrow road had curved to the right. And it was there that we now stood on the side of the road, huddled around the outside of the SUV, looking into the drainage ditch and considering Robinson’s suggestion.

I stared into the swampy-looking water, speechless. This was not what I had expected.

Peaches grumbled. “I don’t really want to go in there.”

“Neither do I,” Robinson said, laughing. “But it can get us across safely.”

Bowser shook his head defiantly and crossed his arms. “You don’t know that. Something could be in the water. Maybe a snake…or even a gator.”

Robinson snickered. “A gator? Come on man. There’s no gators in there.”

“He’s right,” Ted chimed in. “Not likely to be gators in there.”

“Even if there
was
a gator in there, which there isn’t,” Robinson began, “I’d still rather take my chances with a gator than the hundreds, maybe thousands of people on the highway.”

Ted sighed. “We all agree we can’t cross that highway on foot, right? Can we veto that idea right now?”

I nodded in agreement, considering it vetoed. I glanced over at Aamod, expecting him to propose another hero campaign, but he remained silent, listening. Crossing that six-lane highway safely would require more than a clever diversion and a huge helping of good luck, as it had went down twenty minutes earlier, it would require a miracle of God. And given the current conditions of the earth, the big guy in the sky wasn’t handing out many miracles these days. If anything, he’d send another flood.

“We don’t even know how deep it is,” Peaches said. The hesitation to jump into the nasty water was still very apparent in her voice.

“Well, let’s go see,” Ted said, wandering off toward the ditch. He scaled a short concrete wall and disappeared on the other side. The rest of us followed him, stopping at the short barrier. We looked down at Ted below, wading through the knee-high water.

“Look at that. Not deep at all,” Robinson said.

We stayed quiet, waiting as Ted carefully stepped out of the water and climbed out of the ditch. “It’s fine,” he said. “A little cold, but I’ve been in much worse before.”

“What about his leg?” I asked, speaking of Bowser. “Is he gonna be able to walk in that?”

Ted shrugged. “The bottom is kinda slick, but I think if we take it slow, everyone should be fine. Even him. Worst case scenario someone slips and takes a cold dirty bath.”

“Might not be such a bad thing,” Naima said.

I thought about the last time I’d had a real shower, how nice it had felt. Something so simple and easily taken for granted like washing my body had become a luxury. We all carried around layers of dirt and grime, along with varying levels of body odor. Peaches had deodorant and wet wipes in her backpack, along with a cherry-scented body spray that she’d often blast me with when I wasn’t prepared. But the chemicals could only mask my stinking sweat for so long, and in no time I’d be back to smelling like a wrestler’s jockstrap. Out of everyone in the group, Naima was usually the cleanest, mostly due to her being least involved in the killing. No weapon and all that jazz. But while we all wore a little extra DNA from the incident on Claiborne today, Naima had gotten it the worst—the zombie who had nearly eaten her face had made sure of that. Stuck to her shirt were chunks of his pale flesh and thick, syrup-like blood—that which she
hadn’t
swallowed. The good news was she looked to be feeling better; she hadn’t keeled over and died on us yet. The bad news was she smelled like the inside of a closed coffin.

“Too bad we don’t have a canoe,” I said.

Ted chuckled. “We don’t need a canoe. It’s a foot and a half deep. Just try not to drop your guns in the water, or your ammo.” Ted turned to Aamod. “What about you?”

“What about me?” Aamod asked.

“You’ve been awfully quiet,” Ted continued. “Any thoughts. I know you got something to say.”

“Not this time,” Aamod replied. “If this is the only way, then fine. Let’s go.”

“Sure seems like it,” Ted said. “I could check the map one more time—”

“No,” Robinson growled. “We don’t need to check the map. Is there another way around? Sure there is. There’s always another way. But we almost died a mile south. We’ve been through some serious shit already. Who knows what we’ll come across backtracking. No, I’m not going back and I’m not going out of my way.”

“Settle down, bro,” Bowser said.

“Don’t tell me to settle down. We’re almost there. I’m tired of debating. You all can stay here and wait for me to return if you want, but I’m going with or without you.”

“Chill the fuck out, we’re going.”

Robinson relaxed his posture. “We can help you walk through if you need it.”

“I don’t,” Bowser replied. “Let’s just get this over with.”

One by one, we climbed over the short concrete barrier and slowly dipped our legs into the dirty ditch water. Once we were all in, we stood in a circle for a moment staring at one another.

“You weren’t kidding,” Peaches said, standing in the knee-high water. “It’s cold. Why is it so cold?”

“Don’t know,” Robinson said, starting to head off in the direction of the highway. “Not gonna get any warmer standing here.”

We walked along slow and careful, cautiously measuring each step. Ted was right, the bottom of the ditch was slippery, covered in an inch of slimy muck. Taking our time, however, had the added benefit of reducing noise as the water rolled along at our knees, especially the closer we got to the highway. We had to cross under two arches, short concrete bridges for train tracks, before we reached the tunnel that led under the major highway. We stopped and stared into the dark tunnel—all of us except Bowser, who was more interested in his legs.

“You know, I hope these cuts don’t get infected,” he said.

Peaches turned to him and said the most amazing thing I’d ever heard come out of her mouth. “She swallowed some infected dude’s blood,” Peaches said, pointing at Naima. “If she’s fine, I think you’ll live.”

“Burn,” Robinson said, cracking an uneven smile. “Look who’s tougher now.”

Bowser shook his head and sighed. “Still, if I die, it’s your fault, asshole.”

“Sue me.”

“You swallowed infected blood?” Aamod asked his daughter, suddenly concerned.

Naima nodded. “It was disgusting.”

“Why am I just now hearing about this?”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t want you to worry.”

“Well, I’m worried.”

“So am I,” Naima said, hanging her head a bit. “But I feel okay. I’m sorry, daddy. I’d rather not talk about it right now.”

“We need to keep it down anyway,” Ted said, pointing upward.

From where we stood in the shade of the second set of train tracks, at the edge of the entrance to the tunnel, we couldn’t see the highway or the dead things walking along it thirty feet or so ahead. But we could hear them. The dragging of their feet. The dull grunting sounds they made. I prayed they couldn’t smell us. It would only take one to locate us, and then they’d all know.

Ted motioned for us to continue forward, and then led us into the tunnel.

The enclosure was encased in concrete, with plenty of clearance overhead (enough to drive a car through if it weren’t for the foot and a half of slimy water), and wide enough for us to walk side by side. Eyeballing it, I’d say the tunnel was roughly fifty yards in length.

We were barely inside before losing much of the sunlight. With each slow step forward into the increasing darkness, I found myself wanting to reach for my knife, expecting something to pop out of the water—a zombie fish perhaps—and latch onto me. Once we were a good ways inside, I could barely see the water anymore. I could only feel it and hear it splashing up my pant legs. If there were something lurking in the water, it would certainly know I was there first.

Peaches was breathing heavy next to me. I hoped she wasn’t having a panic attack. I reached out and took her hand in mine.

“You okay?” I whispered. Even at a low pitch, my voice still echoed in the dark tunnel. “You’re not claustrophobic, are you?”

“No,” she said back. “Just want to get through here without falling.”

“Just take your time.”

One foot in front of the other.

Left, right, left.

And take our time we did, staying mostly quiet, never taking our eyes off the light opening at the end—the goal post—and aside from a few minor slips, no one took a full-on face dive in the water. We exited the tunnel on the other side of the highway a few minutes later, glad to be able to get out of the cold green water and back on solid ground.

Peaches made a beeline for the grass.

“No,” Ted whispered. “Stay down here for now. Let us get a little farther down…farther from the highway, before we get out.”

Made sense.

Not what any of us wanted to hear. My legs were cold and wet as the bottoms of my pants flapped and stuck against my skin, making my calves feel itchy.

But it made sense.

We kept wading through the water for another fifty feet or so before Ted gave us the okay to finally get out of the ditch.

For a good minute, the whole group sat in the grass on the water’s edge and looked back at the highway. Hundreds of infected walked west, heads down, shoulders slumped forward, oblivious to the fact that the less than magnificent seven just slipped by them—
underneath
them.

“Well, lookie there,” Ted said, “We made it to the other side in one piece. No big deal.” He clapped Bowser on the shoulder, gave him a toothy smile. “And not a single gator.”

A short walk east from the ditch brought us into Dixon. Being the only one in the group familiar with the neighborhood, Robinson took the lead. The rest of us followed behind him, strolling leisurely down the empty streets like a well-armed neighborhood watch team out on patrol. Bowser’s bad leg prevented us from walking fast, and that was okay with us. We were tired, and there was no need to rush. The long journey that began weeks ago on the east coast of Florida was almost complete. We had said we’d help Robinson, and we did. We made the passage from Florida mostly in one piece, dodging a number of near death experiences along the way. But even though reaching Robinson’s ex’s house was a great accomplishment given all we’d been through, a question still lingered in the back of my mind. No matter what we would find or not find at this house, I wondered what was next for us. What would tomorrow hold? Would we just turn around and go back home?

While the rest of us bullshitted at a low volume, Robinson said nothing—keeping his thoughts to himself. I couldn’t imagine what was going through his head, knowing we were so close now. Was he excited, nervous, fearful? All of the above? He had to expect the worst, we all did, but still he never gave up hope. No matter how small the chance that good news lay moments away, he never stopped believing. And if the worst was true, if his son was dead and gone, then at least he’d know the truth—he could begin the healing process, learning to live with only the memories of his son and the times they’d shared.

Ten minutes after entering Dixon, Robinson stopped in front of a light green, two-story house near the end of a long street named Hollygrove. Father time had not been good to this house. Like many of the homes in the neighborhood, this house sat on a narrow lot, twice as long as it was wide. The foundation was made of concrete, but wood siding covered most of the exterior. Many of the panels were rotted out and hanging loose from the frame, in desperate need of being replaced. All four windows, two downstairs and two upstairs, had black security bars on them. The front porch was small and quaint, with a chair and a side table resting near the front door.

Robinson stood at the edge of the driveway quietly examining the house with the rest of us. He appeared unsteady on his feet, like he might lose his balance and fall over. After a moment, he closed his eyes and sucked in a few deep breaths. Then he whispered something that I couldn’t make out and reopened his eyes.

“Shit,” Ted mumbled, peering east down Hollygrove. “We have company.”

Passing under the overhanging branches of a large tree about two hundred yards away were three infected. Not far behind them were another four, all heading in our direction.

“What should we do?” Bowser asked. “Should we take them out?”

“Not yet. Too far away,” Ted replied. “But we need to get off the street.”

“Robbie,” Bowser said. “We going inside or what? Robbie…?”

Robinson either didn’t hear his old buddies question or completely ignored it. He shut his eyes again, continuing to breathe hard and heavy, while the rest of us traded worrisome stares, feeling uneasy, gripping our weapons tighter.

“Robinson,” Ted said. “We’re waiting on you. It’s your move, man. Let us know what we’re doing.”

Again, Robinson didn’t respond. In the meantime, the seven zombies down the street moved closer, with a dozen more beginning to gather behind them.

Feeling it was my turn, I approached Robinson carefully, like he was a ticking time bomb I had to disarm. I stopped beside him, leaving a couple of feet between us so he’d have plenty of space.

“Hey,” I said softly. “Are we going inside?”

Robinson didn’t turn to look over at me. He kept his focus squarely on the house. “My son. He’s not here, Jimmy,” he said, on the verge of tears. “I know it.”

Damn, what was I supposed to say to that? I suddenly wished I had stayed back and let someone else try.

“We can still go in if you want,” I said. “Have a look around.”

Robinson produced a sad smile and said, “What’s the point?” He finally glanced over at the growing pack of infected inching ever closer to the house. “What’s the point of any of this?”

“I don’t know. I’m trying to figure that out myself. But I know how you feel. I think we all do.” I lowered my head, trying to gather my thoughts. “We all support you. If you want to turn around and go back home, back to Florida, that’s okay. But I think you should at least go inside the house. We came all this way.”

Robinson nodded lightly, and said, “Trissa’s car isn’t here.” Then he slowly began walking up the driveway toward the house.

I stayed back, as the rest of the group huddled around me, keeping a close eye on the pack of zombies coming down the street. In just a minute or two, they had quadrupled in number.

“He okay?” Bowser asked.

“He will be,” I said.

“Are we all going in?” Peaches asked.

I shrugged. “I think he needs some time alone.”

“That’s all fine and dandy,” Ted said. “But we don’t have much time to give him. Least not
here
.”

Robinson stood on the front steps for a brief moment looking down at a bicycle kicked over in the yard. The bike had probably once belonged to his son. He went to the front door and tried the handle. Locked. He reached into the pocket of his pants and produced a set of keys. One of the keys unlocked the door, and Robinson disappeared inside the dark house.

“How long you think we got?”

“Until they reach us?” Ted asked.

“Yeah.”

He sighed. “Maybe five minutes.”

“If that,” Bowser said.

“We’ll give him two minutes then,” Aamod muttered. “No more.”

None of us argued the point. Two minutes seemed a reasonable amount of time. We didn’t want to wait until the horde reached us. We needed to leave beforehand. Give us plenty of time to get a good head start, maybe find a vehicle so Bowser wouldn’t have to limp along in pain. Still, I felt terrible for Robinson. He had two minutes to say goodbye. It wasn’t fair.

“Where you think they’re coming from?” Bowser asked.

“Good question,” Ted said, flipping his bag around. He unzipped it and pulled out the map.

“I bet it’s the interstate,” I remarked.

“I sure hope not,” Peaches said.

“He showed me the location of the house on the map when we were in the car, and the interstate was close.”

“That would be really bad. You remember what it looked like this morning when we cruised under in the boat?”

Ted refolded the map and stuffed it back in the bag. “You nailed it, Jimmy. They’re coming from I-10. It’s right at the end of this street actually. That’s why there’s so many.”

“Might have another problem,” Bowser said.

“What’s that?” Ted asked.

“Looks like storm clouds moving in.” Everyone glanced up at the sky. Dark gray clouds sat northwest of our location. “Good thing we’re not in that water anymore.”

“Rain could be a blessing,” Ted said. “Might help slow down the herd.”

“And slow us down too,” Aamod added, always the positive one. “We need to leave now.”

Ted nodded. “I think we ought to. Look at them. Getting bigger by the second.”

The number of dead had easily quadrupled again, though they were packed in so close, it was impossible to get an accurate head count. They shambled forward, shoulder-to-shoulder filling the entire width of the street and went back the length of a football field. If I had to guess, I’d say they numbered in the thousands.

“I’ll go get him,” I said, and jogged up toward the house. I threw open the front door and stepped inside cautiously, not knowing what I’d find once I got inside. We were so concerned about the zombies outside the house, none of us had considered the possibility that there could be zombies inside the house. What a bad idea it was letting Robinson go in by himself. I’d have to take full blame if something happened to him. But first, I’d need to find him. I took out Sally and began looking around.

The house was quite the mess, and smelled like an old couch left outside to grow mold. The mid-afternoon sunlight seeped in through the barred windows, casting the house in a soft orange glow. The air felt hot and humid. I started to sweat almost immediately. Laundry lay spread out all over the floor and furniture. Mixed in with the clothing were kid’s toys. I tripped on a few as I roamed through the living room and into a kitchen on the far side of the first floor.

No sign of Robinson.

The kitchen was empty, as was a small laundry room. I headed back toward the front of the house and stopped at the stairs, glanced upward at the second floor landing.

“Robinson!” I yelled out. “You up there?”

Silence.

“Hey, I’m sorry but we gotta get going.”

Silence.

Even though time was in very short supply, I ascended the stairs slowly, afraid of what I might find waiting for me at the top. I didn’t hear anything moving around up there, not living or dead. The silence was the most unnerving part. The only sound I heard was the creaking and cracking of the old wooden staircase as I put my full weight down on each step.

I was almost to the top, when a horrible chill suddenly fell over me like the icy cold breath of a ghost. If something had attacked Robinson, surely he would have used his gun on it—right?—and we would have all heard the gunshot.

Unless…

Oh God.

Unless the something that attacked him was his eight-year-old son.