Aftermath (31 page)

Doc sat lazily, apparently unconcerned with whatever Lee had planned. And that was fine. If Doc did this one thing and then keeled over and died, Lee wouldn’t shed a tear. But he needed him right here, right now. With Doc sitting up, Lee turned his back on him and pushed his bound wrists towards Doc. “Now start chewing through that tape.”

With nothing further to say, Doc began chewing.

***

Trevor Schlitz was mentally unstable.

Or “bat-shit crazy,” if you were his father.

Whatever the terminology for it was, Trevor didn’t view it as a weakness, or a problem to be overcome. He hurt people, so they had to slap him with a label, qualify and quantify him, and attempt to “cure” him in their various ways, both through the court system and through mental evaluations that ended with him attending hours of counseling and having all kinds of weird medications shoved down his throat. Uppers, downers, all arounders. He had to admit, the drug cocktail was the most fun part of being “cured,” because it got pretty trippy sometimes. Sadly, his medications were no more, because pharmacies and pharmaceutical companies were no more.

What a shame.

But at the end of the day, there wasn’t a cure for what Trevor had. Simply put, he loved knives. All the talking and the blah blah blah psychiatrists tried to make it sound like more than it was, tried to make it sound like he had “anger issues” and told him he was “paranoid schizophrenic” and displayed “sociopathic tendencies.” But he just loved knives. It wasn’t that he was angry at the people he hurt, but he just enjoyed the feeling of skin parting under a blade. Clearly, it wasn’t that he disliked his victims, because he’d cut his own skin just as much as he cut them. He rarely wore a shirt, because he liked to display the strange cross-hatch pattern of scars that marred his chest. He liked to show it off. Like a masterpiece.

But it was okay now because the world was ending and nothing really mattered anymore. Court dates and probation violations and involuntary commitment paperwork—all things of the past. Frankly, Trevor loved this new world and all of its freedoms. With all the dead bodies he could cut to his heart’s content and no one would ever say shit to him. Even the living were fair game, though sometimes they moved around too much and spoiled the moment. Why, just the other day he’d shot an old man in the chest and then spent hours working his body over. Then, for no other reason than the whim popped into his head, he poured gasoline on the body and made it into a stinking bonfire, and he danced around in the glow, laughing and hollering like a Wild Injun. Just because he could.

He loved knives, and he loved this new world.

Gone were all the people of old that judged him with their shifting stares and chose never to even attempt to understand the machinations of his mind. All of that was wiped out and replaced with this amazing new playground where you could never get in trouble for anything and you were surrounded by people that—though they might not be considered “bat-shit crazy”—still accepted you for the person that you were.

They even started calling him Slitz, which he found delightful.

For the first time in his life, Trevor Schlitz was happy.

The smooth-faced black man that they called Roc (it was the only name he answered to) passed him what was left of their last cigarette they’d cobbled together from the leftover tobacco they’d found at the bottom of cigarette boxes and butts. It had been a collaborative effort on their part, and had resulted in three horrid tasting cigarettes. They agreed to each take one, and split the third.

Trevor nodded his thanks, and Roc hocked and spit on the ground.

The two of them never said much, but that was why they preferred each other’s company. And to be honest, Trevor thought that Milo and Big G were a bit creeped out by them. Maybe that was why they had been told to stay outside and watch the trucks while everyone else got to go inside and look at the trim.

Trevor shrugged, keeping his own counsel.

That was fine with him. He had no qualms with standing atop the upper level of the parking garage adjacent to the hospital and enjoying the view. Most other people would find the view cold and disturbing, as it was mostly battered barricades, concertina wire, and dead bodies. But to Trevor it was just another reminder that he was free to be himself, liberated from the constraints of a suffocating society that refused to give him room to breathe.

No, he had no problem with it at all.

“
Hey,” Roc nudged his arm and motioned to the western side of the parking garage, where it overlooked the old decontamination domes. They were all aware that this was the only way past the barricades erected around the hospital, and watching it was part of their job when they were hanging around Smithfield.

Navigating the domes and cement barriers was a red sedan that struck Trevor as being kind of familiar. He was never good with cars and couldn’t name the make or model, but was pretty certain he’d seen it around here before. It navigated the barricades deftly, as though it had done it a thousand times.

“
I think that’s one of their guys,” Trevor murmured, speaking of the Smithfield survivors.

Roc grabbed his shotgun. “You never know.”

Regretfully, he set the little remainder of his cigarette in a crack in the cement and hoped it wouldn’t be burned out by the time he got done dealing with these folks. He still had a few good lungfuls of acrid, nicotine-laced smoke that he could coax from it.

The sedan drew closer and they could see that there were three people in the car. It was quickly out of sight underneath them and they could hear the faint squeal of the tires as it took the corners just a little too quick and rose up the levels. The growling of the engine grew louder and louder until it finally crested that top level.

Trevor and Roc stepped out, brandishing their weapons at the car, and it slowed down to a stop on the other side of the parking deck from them. Through the reflective surface of the glass, they could barely make out the three faces staring at them.

A little thrill worked its way up Trevor’s spine.

Maybe he would get to shoot them, and then maybe he could cut them up.

“
Who the fuck are you?” Roc yelled at them.

No response but the engine idling.

Trevor and Roc exchanged a suspicious glance.

This was exciting!

When it was clear that the occupants of the vehicle were not going to continue forward, Trevor and Roc began to approach. Though they were approaching from the front, neither of them were dumb enough to walk directly in the path of the vehicle. They both walked in line with the sides of the vehicle—Roc on the driver’s side and Trevor on the passenger’s side—so that they could dive out of the way if the crazy bastard inside decided to run them over.

When they were within about 25 yards of the vehicle, Trevor noticed what he thought was a weird, green license plate, strapped to the grill of the car. As he got a little closer he realized that it must be some type of style plate, because it was too thick to be a regular state-issued license plate, and had a slightly convex shape. He could see some sort of writing embossed on the front, but it was the same olive green color and difficult to read.

Trevor loved to read vanity plates and style plates. He laughed, even at the air-brushed ones that said “I LOVE JESUS” and “R.I.P. SHAWN” because it was hilarious to him what people thought was important enough to display on their car for total strangers to read.

Distracted and curious, with a small smile on his lips, Trevor couldn’t help but lean forward and get a little closer. He just had to read what this idiot put on his car.

“
Don’t rush up,” Roc said from several yards behind him.

Trevor hadn’t realized he’d gone that far in front.

He wasn’t worried. He was pretty sure these guys were with the Smithfield group.

He was about fifteen yards away from it when he finally made out the lettering. As he did, he barely noticed out of the corner of his eyes that all three individuals in the car had ducked down behind the engine block. Trevor Schlitz’s brows narrowed in confusion as he read the words aloud: “Front toward enemy?”

And just before dozens of 1/8-inch steel balls ripped through his body, he thought,
I don’t get it…

***

LaRouche and Harper stared at each other, cringing as the whole vehicle rocked with the detonation of the M18 Claymore mine they’d strapped to the grill. Admittedly, LaRouche wasn’t sure that it would work or if they would even be safe behind the engine block, as he had never been so close to a Claymore mine upon detonation. They all hoped that any shockwave or bouncing shrapnel would be soaked up by the hood of the Chevrolet Lumina.

When the vehicle stopped rocking back and forth, LaRouche straightened in his seat, still holding the “clacker” in his hand, attached to the conspicuous wire that trailed out of the driver’s side window and into the engine compartment. He had imagined that the windows in the Lumina would have shattered, simply based on the proximity to the blast, but whoever had invented the Claymore mine knew what they were doing, and the convex design of the explosive had projected all that energy outwards at their attackers.

Front toward enemy...

Harper sounded half excited and half disgusted when he spoke. “Holy shitfire...”

Looking through the unmarred windshield, LaRouche didn’t even recognize the bodies on the ground. He knew there had only been two men approaching the vehicle, but there were three mounds of bloody flesh on the ground. One of the men had been torn in half.

The back passenger door opened up and Miller got out, clutching his rifle. “Come on guys, we gotta move.”

The other two men quickly exited the vehicle. LaRouche snatched up Lee’s rifle as he left and Harper didn’t mention anything. This was a fight now, no time to squabble about what weapon belonged to who. The blast from that Claymore mine was pretty attention-getting, and they would have company rushing through that door any minute now.

As they sprinted towards the four vehicles that made up Milo’s convoy—the big green Humvee, the two pickup trucks, and now the truck full of Camp Ryder’s supplies—the air was choked with gasoline fumes. Not of exhaust, or the old lawnmower smell of spilled and dried gasoline, but the fresh sweet stench of it. As Harper ran he searched for the source of the smell and it didn’t take him long to find it.

The closest enemy truck to them was full of gas cans, and the blast from the Claymore mine had peppered the bed and the cans inside with those little steel balls, punching holes through the thin plastic gas cans and letting that precious fluid spill out onto the ground, like another wounded casualty, spilling his blood.

Harper swore when he saw it. “Woulda been nice to have some of that gas!”

“
Fuckin’ leave it,” Miller huffed. “Let’s get our truck and get out!”

The two man from Camp Ryder split for the Dodge Ram 2500, still stocked and strapped with white food pails and boxes of dehydrated fruits and vegetables. The sight of the truck within their grasp was hopeful and tantalizing, but Harper couldn’t ignore the black dread inside of him that this would never work, they would never manage to get this thing out of here alive. They weren’t soldiers, they weren’t heroes. They were just an old business person and a young kid.

LaRouche rushed for the Humvee. He yanked open the door and jumped in, thanking God that the keys were dangling from the ignition. Apparently Milo had assumed their posted guard would be enough to defend the vehicles. His hubris irritated LaRouche and exhilarated him at the same time. It always tasted sweet to pull one over on the person you hated most in the world.

LaRouche cranked the truck up and slammed it in gear. He nudged the gas pedal with his foot and the diesel monster leapt forward, smashing its ram-bar into the side of the concrete wall of the stairwell, jamming the door to the hospital closed. Then LaRouche put it in park and hopped out.

No one would be coming through that door.

Harper had already positioned their pickup, facing away from the hospital and ready to roll. The big V8 engine rumbled mightily and Miller looked at him through the open passenger side window and waved his hand.

“
Let’s go!”

LaRouche slung into Captain Harden’s M4 and shook his head. “I can’t leave these people, man.”

“
Are you fucking kidding me?” Miller nearly screamed.

LaRouche waved at him. “I have one of your radios. If you don’t hear from me by tonight, things haven’t gone well. Now get the fuck out of here!”

Harper tossed him a salute and slammed on the gas, not waiting for further argument, but Miller stared at him through the window, even as the truck pulled off. LaRouche watched it for a brief moment as it dipped down into the parking garage and began making its swift descent to the ground level, and from there, away from Smithfield and back to Camp Ryder where it belonged.

LaRouche began jogging towards the ramp to the lower level. He popped the magazine out of the M4 and checked the chamber. The mag was full, plus one in the chamber.

It was time to find Captain Harden.

Behind LaRouche, the punctured gas cans continued to slop the pickup bed with gasoline. That gasoline pooled and began to dribble at first, and then to flow through the tailgate and down the bumpers, splashing on the ground in little pools. Those little pools quickly turned into big pools with tiny streams that meandered away from the back of the pickup truck, following the slight downslope of the concrete. Like a half-dozen dark snakes meandering away from the tailgate of the truck.