Badlands Trilogy (Book 2): Beyond the Badlands (5 page)

Tall Guard turned to her, his back to the door. A smile split his face. “Oh, he’s dead, Trish.”

Confused, Trish’s mind raced. “Wait..how do you know my name?”

“You don’t remember me?” Tall Guard asked.
 

Trish shook her head.

“You will.” He grabbed her by the hair, yanking her to her feet. Retrieving a syringe from his coat pocket, he pulled the cap off with his teeth and plunged the needle into her neck. Her eyes fluttered and her body went limp as he depressed the plunger.

Zach sprang forward, but Tall Guard had his pistol pointed at the boy before he’d taken two steps.

“Bad idea, little man,” Tall Guard said, the smile still on his lips. “You sit your ass down. I’m just getting started here.”

The last time Dave Porter felt so utterly helpless, he’d been standing on a bridge over the Mississippi River with hundreds of carriers bearing down upon him.

Now, tied up in the back of a truck, those feelings of helplessness returned. A dozen other prisoners sat around him, their hands also bound. A third gunman, who the two men in the cab of the truck had called Peterson, sat in the back with the prisoners.

Sitting across from Dave, Annette’s eyes implored him. He could only return her stares with his own equally helpless gaze. He didn’t speak; he’d tried that earlier and the back of Peterson’s hand had been lesson enough for keeping his mouth shut.

The truck bumped and bucked as it swerved through the city streets. With the back covered, Dave could only see through the open space above the tailgate. Outside, gunshots peppered the air. He could only imagine what was going on.

Glancing around, he noticed that women made up the bulk of the prisoners inside. None of Dave’s explanations for their kidnapping provided him comforting answers.

Things looked very bad.

Minutes later the truck abruptly halted. Peterson sat facing the rear of the truck, his back against the cab. His angry eyes glared at the captives as he gripped his rifle tightly.

Once the truck came to a stop, Peterson stood. “Don’t anybody make a fucking sound.”

No one dared speak. Minutes ticked slowly by. Then shouts erupted from out of sight, followed by a gunshot. A woman wailed.

The driver appeared holding the woman by her arm, her hands bound in front of her. Peterson met them, lowering the tailgate and lifting the woman in. She took the first step in stride, but fell with the second, landing hard on her chest, unable to catch herself. Dave rose to help her.

“Sit the fuck down!” Peterson yelled as he yanked the girl back up. Tears leaked from her red-rimmed eyes. He pointed at two women sitting on the bed of the truck. “Scoot over,” he barked. The women moved quickly to allow the new girl to sit between them.

Peterson tossed the woman down, chuckling. “Hope you don’t mind riding coach. First class was full.” Smiling at himself, he closed the tailgate and sat back down against the cab of the truck, pounding twice on the bed with the butt of his rifle.

Moments later the truck was off again, speeding away.

* * *

No one spoke as the truck drove. Peterson sat, rifle lowered, smirking. Outside, a cacophony of sounds: carriers screaming, more explosions, the chatter of gunfire, people yelling.

Annette stopped crying, but the fear still shone in her eyes. Watching her, Dave felt increasingly more helpless with each passing minute. The tie around his wrists bit into his skin as if to remind him of his inability to stop any of this from happening.

More gunshots erupted from the cab of the truck, silencing the shrieks of the infected. The truck slowed, again drifting to a halt. More voices outside the truck, the sound of a conversation.

Peterson locked eyes with Dave, his glare a warning. As much as Dave wanted to call out and warn the people walking unwittingly into a trap, he had no doubt that Peterson wouldn’t hesitate to shut him up again, this time with a bullet.

Outside, commotion erupted. Men yelled, a woman shrieked. Then a gunshot, a crackling report in the air. Another gunshot, followed by sobbing.

Minutes later more prisoners were passed off to Peterson in the same fashion as before. Gripping the bound wrists of the new prisoners, he hauled them into the truck, one by one until all the new arrivals were on board. Four women and two men. One of the women, a thin blonde with dark circles under her eyes, wept uncontrollably.

“Shut the fuck up,” Peterson snapped. “That blubbering is driving me crazy.”

The woman bawled, as if unaware he’d had spoken to her. Kneeling before her, Peterson buried a fist into the woman’s face. Her head snapped backward, cracking against the edge of the truck bed.

The crying stopped.

Then Annette stood, yelling. “Leave her alone!”

Peterson’s response was quick and merciless as he smashed Annette’s nose with the butt of the rifle. She fell hard on her side. Blood poured from her broken nose, pooling beneath her head as her body twitched.

Dave sprang up behind Peterson, wrapping his bound wrists around the man’s neck. Yanking hard, he closed off Peterson’s air supply. The gunman flailed wildly as Dave tightened his grip, his wrists bleeding as the thin, nylon ties burrowed their way into his skin. Struggling to scream, Peterson opened his mouth, producing only a sick, gurgling sound as his face turned blue.

Then a flash of movement and the butt of a rifle against his temple sent Dave into oblivion.

* * *

Darkness.

Nothing. No sounds, no pain. No awareness.

Then the sound of screaming. Distant, but growing louder.

Dave slowly opened his eyes and the world swam around him. He felt like throwing up. His head pounded with each heartbeat.

Annette. He had to make sure she was okay.

Fighting through the mounting pain, he crawled to where she lay. A small group of women gathered around her, comforting her with their bound hands. A mask of blood covered her face. Beneath it she clenched her teeth. She screamed again.

Blood. Lots of blood. Everywhere.

“Sit down, hero.” Peterson glared, his eyes like cold, black stones.

Snake eyes.

“What did you do to her?”

Peterson grinned. “Shut up before I knock you out myself this time.”

Dave searched for help, but found only downturned faces surrounding him. Beaten animals without the will the fight.

He was on his own.

Helpless, he tended to Annette. There was so much blood. The nausea seized him and he dry heaved, drooling onto the filthy truck bed. He rolled on his side as dark spots clouded his vision, multiplying until they became the only thing he could see.

Then, nothing.

Jasper Carter sped along the narrow side street that ran beside the railroad tracks, the motorcycle’s engine buzzing like a chainsaw. Despite some occasional sputtering, the bike ran like a dream. So far it had never let him down. He could only imagine just how fucked he’d be if it ever did.

Before the world had gone to hell, he’d read an interview with Chuck Yeager, the first man to break the sound barrier. Speaking of his early days as a test pilot, Yeager had said that a good test pilot couldn’t be afraid to die. Jasper figured that once a man lost the fear of death, he could achieve damn near anything he set his mind to.

Jasper no longer feared dying. He didn’t have a death wish, but he accepted that death lurked around every corner, crouching, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

Eventually death would come for him. Strangely enough, his acceptance of this fact had been what finally allowed him to truly live.

On his back Jasper wore a sturdy pack, filled with emergency supplies should he have to ditch the bike and remain fortunate enough to stay a step ahead of the deadheads. In a custom-made sleeve along the side of the backpack he carried a baseball bat, the fat end stained brown with dried carrier blood.

Behind the seat of the motorcycle, an old milk crate held the few supplies he’d scavenged earlier in the day. Today he’d had a piss-poor run, but he didn’t worry about it. He already had enough food to make it through another winter, so anything else was gravy. Besides, he always seemed to find a way. He was lucky like that.

Gearing down, Jasper slowed the bike as he approached a small house, its windows and doors still intact. Four years after the Walking Death decimated the planet, many of the houses had fallen victim to neglect, torn apart piece by piece by wind and rain.

He often wondered how long the houses could remain sealed, even without any humans left to raid them. In the end he figured they would last as long as they did and that would be that.

Once the food and supplies vanished he’d simply move on to something else. Maybe find a cave in the woods, learn to hunt, become a true mountain man. For now, scavenging was working well enough, and with help of the motorcycle he had no problem staying out of the deadheads’ reach.

Before the virus, Jasper had enjoyed his alone time. But years of living alone got boring, even for a natural-born recluse. Lately he’d been considering that maybe he didn’t want to be by himself anymore. On particularly lonely days, he’d sometimes take the bike out just to run circles around the deadheads for a while. They weren’t great conversationalists, but it was better than nothing.

He parked the bike outside the squat little house, killing the engine before dropping the kickstand. Using the crowbar he kept strapped to the milk crate behind his seat, he pried open the door to the house with little effort. His father had told him once that locks were designed to keep honest people honest. With the way the door came open so easily, he figured his old man had probably been right.

Once inside he took a deep breath. The house smelled like a cave. Pale sunlight filtered through dirty windows, casting a muddy hue over the interior. A thick layer of dust covered everything.

Despite the door being locked, Jasper knew damn good and well that
closed up
didn’t necessarily mean
empty
, so he gripped the crowbar tightly and called out. “Anybody order a pizza?” he asked, giggling at himself. The phrase was both ridiculous and pathetic at the same time. If the deadheads had made this house one of their own, then they’d surely come running…and not for pizza.

A full minute passed.

Nothing.

Time to collect whatever spoils awaited.

* * *

The house didn’t give up much. A few cans of tuna well beyond their expiration date and a sleeve of saltine crackers so stale and soft they felt like bread. He did, however, recover some sturdy, wooden kitchen matches (the kind Jasper liked) and some mint-flavored toothpaste. The absence of a woman in his life didn’t absolve him of maintaining good hygiene.

He also collected a few Playboy magazines that had been surreptitiously occupying a corner of the bedroom closet. Between the cosmetic surgery and the photo retouching, the women barely looked real, but beggars really couldn’t be choosers. Besides, he had the articles to fall back on if he got really bored.

After collecting what little supplies he’d been able to find inside the house, Jasper decided to move on. He hopped on the bike and gave the kick-starter a whirl.

No luck.

He tried again.

Still nothing.

His concern mounted; maybe today would be the day he’d get to face that grim reaper.

On the third attempt the bike’s engine roared to life after a cough and sputter before simmering down to its familiar low purr.

Jasper smiled.
Another day, Mr. Death
, he thought to himself.
And when that day comes, you and me, we’ll be well-met. For now I have some living still to do.

Cranking back the throttle and releasing the clutch, Jasper peeled out, kicking up a cloud of dust and gravel. He shouted over the loud buzz of the bike’s engine, basking in his continued good luck.

He rode on, the empty railroad track zipping past on his right. Only a week ago he’d been awakened by what could only have been the sound of a freight train traveling on these tracks. At first he suspected it was a dream, or maybe some partially dredged memory surfacing during the strange and beguiling hours of the early morning. But after sitting up and listening closely he was pretty damn sure of what he’d heard.

It was in those dreaming hours that he and his older brother Robbie were together again, back in high school, two years apart. Robbie’s hair was still blonde and close-cropped, his eyes blue and wide. Before the virus came and took his sanity, turning him into a monster. In those early hours of the morning, between sleep and waking, Jasper was still a kid and Robbie was still his big brother.

But then Jasper would awaken to the harsh and brutal morning sun spilling over the wastelands, bringing with it another day without his brother. Another day full of ruin and decay. Those kinds of days made it hard to get out of bed.

Sometimes he wondered if maybe he was already dead, at least in a sense. With everyone else around him dead, was he truly living? Was living defined by having someone around who would mourn your passing? Someone to care? When living and dying went completely unnoticed, did it make a difference anymore? Maybe it was like the tree falling in the forest with no one around to hear the sound. Maybe appreciation of life was its only true meaning.