(Book 2)What Remains (13 page)

Gradually my weight shifted from the second to
the last aluminum rung onto the fence. Clinks let out by the
shifting supports came across as a sigh of relief as I eased my
midsection atop the wooden rail. After a few long seconds of
wiggling myself into position I dropped to the bare ground of the
other yard. I was desperately out of breath. Through the cracks in
the fence I could see Maddox standing there for a moment before he
ran back to the house as ordered.

The new area was terrifyingly unknown to me.
Although the ‘redneck’ family had lived behind us for the better
part of a decade, we weren’t exactly social with them. A car-sized
fence gate was positioned fifteen feet up and to the left. An old
pickup truck sat like an abandoned relic next to a shed made from
metal siding on the far opposite side of the yard. I froze for a
minute, scrutinizing every detail of the house in search of any
indication that an unhappy neighbor, alive or otherwise, would make
an appearance. There wasn’t a hint of movement in any direction; I
was alone there.

I pried the bike from its hooked perch, lowered
it to the dirt, and walked it over to the exit. The gate was held
closed with a long sliding bolt that, once undone, would allow the
two halves to open from the center point. With the bike leaning
against my right side I wiggled the bolt loose. It squealed and
screeched from the years it had gone unopened then scraped against
the driveway. I pushed it open a few inches to check the front. The
driveway leading up to the fence was completely abandoned, and what
I could see of the cul-de-sac looked just as empty. Far away
gunfire again echoed from the distance.

There was a soiled welcome mat a few feet away
that I snatched up and draped over the handlebars. After sneaking
through the gate opening I pushed it closed then used the mat to
keep the doors closed without using the slide bolt on the driveway
side. My plan was to again be at that very spot a few hours later,
except with four wheels rather than two. I doubted I’d have time to
fiddle with a rusty slide bolt on my return. Also, if the doors
were open on my return trip it would be a clue that something had
gotten into the yard.

Coasting down the driveway brought about the
same taboo glee that a kid sledding down a hill on private property
might experience; it was all as frightening as it was exciting. My
face instantly felt numb from the chilled air, assisted by my
newfound speed. It was relieving to see that side of the
neighborhood was far less occupied than our side. Something
brightly colored grabbed my attention on my right side. It was
enough to break the intense focus on the turn I had to make a few
hundred feet away. A mailbox at the end of another driveway had a
vine of artificial magenta-colored flowers that immediately set it
apart from the gloom I’d become so accustomed to.

The tires wobbled, a reminder that my focus
needed to be on the matter at hand. I made the turn and remembered
the dreadful hill that the coming part of the street sported. Thus
far the stretch was free of any undead predators. It made me feel
uneasy to
not
see them because I was quite sure some of them
saw
me
. If I kept up the pace, I knew that I would be long
gone before any of them would even make it to the street.

Control your breathing. Breathe in. Breathe
out
.

I was exhausted already. My thoughts chanted
encouragement. Knowing Sarah and the kids counted every minute of
my absence pushed me harder. Lactic acid turned my legs into molten
fire. Perspiration lathered my skin beneath my armored layers.

Fuck your legs! You will not wear yourself
out five minutes into this damn ride.

The hillcrest was half a block away yet it felt
like I was staring miles upward at the summit of Mt. Everest.

My pedaling slowed as the ground leveled. I
wobbled to a stop and stopped for a moment to catch my breath. The
second I did, fog coated the clear safety glasses I had put on to
keep the wind and any infected splatter out of my eyes. I pulled
them off and another splash of unusual color grabbed my attention.
Just to my left the concrete was marred with a rust-colored puddle.
It was then that I became acutely aware of the metallic stink.
Every inch of the road between the puddle and the shoulder had some
kind of indicator that atrocities had occurred here in the weeks
prior: handprints, drag marks, gore globs with strands of hair and
even a tooth. That spot was a masterful tapestry of blood spatter I
hadn’t seen the likes of since I’d left Richmond city limits.

Before I could feel the full effect of nausea, I
heard something shuffling. I pulled my stare away from the horror
collage on the street towards the yard on the far side of it.
Fist-sized pebbles lined a barrier around a center island of cacti.
A cactus seemed even more out of place in this environment than the
bright garland of flowers I passed minutes before. The tallest
plant shook from something moving behind it. Two fingers were
missing from the hand that pulled up on the spiky wall. I winced
seeing the two-inch spines vanish inside the flesh. It hobbled out
using the piercing plant as a crutch, looking like it had been
grated across this porcupine surface.

“Jesus Christ…” I said aloud and the shredded
creature instantly recognized how close it was to its favorite
food.

I’d seen them in bad shape before, but it had
been weeks since I was forced out in the open with one like that.
Part of the healing process was willing my brain to recall the
infected as a featureless evil. Sleep was much easier to find when
the zombies were reduced to being ‘
monsters
’ rather than the
horrid caricatures of the people that they were before the Reaper
virus ravaged their bodies. Every one that I’ve encountered was
unique in their own tragic way like rotting snowflakes.

The dead man close to where I stood was no
exception; his leg closest to the cactus was mostly exposed to the
elements after the pant leg had been torn off up to the pocket
dangling past the fray. Mottled black veins ceased in abrupt
patches where it was missing large portions of flesh on the thigh.
A slab of its calf hung down exposing white underneath. It bared
its teeth with an excited sound that came out as a mixture of a
gurgle and a growl. Fortunately, none of his undead brethren were
close enough to hear. He excitedly grunted as if I would accept his
invitation to brunch.

“Sorry, Mr. Cactus,” I said to the beast while
tipping my helmet in a mocking way. “You can’t eat me today. I have
something to take care of at the post office. My house is that way,
though, so I can’t have you hobbling down the hill. If I see you
head that way once I ride off then I’ll come back to mount your
fucking head on that spiky branch.”

A wet slurp could be heard over his growling
when he pried his hand from the crucifying spines. He waved both
arms towards me to fulfill his side of the morbid banter.

“Calm down, Ugly! Feel free to follow me and we
can talk about it later.” I was wasting time and I knew it. I
dreaded the mission at hand so intensely that I was willing to
stand here mocking a corpse wiggling atop a random cactus patch. At
least it provided enough of a break to catch my breath. I tipped my
helmet again then rode off. Mr. Cactus wailed until the hillcrest
was behind me.

Half a block after the path leveled I made a
right turn at a four-way stop, then the main road that leads down
to Hull Street was within eyeshot. A mental overview of the path I
needed to take looped through my mind. The rush of thoughts
increased right along with my ground speed. My arm pulsed
underneath the gauntlets as my blood pressure raised to dangerous
highs.

I took the turn as fast I could without becoming
a victim of centrifugal force. Had I performed such a maneuver
before the world ended onto a busy street it would have certainly
been suicidal. The thought caused me to snicker knowing that
everything I did could be viewed as teasing suicide in the past and
partially in the present. The long stretch of a downhill that lead
to Hull Street was still. A few cars were parked irregularly on
opposite shoulders with several more lined up motionless at the
intersecting stoplight for Hull Street. Finally. I was due for a
fucking break.

The jagged off-road patterned tread of my front
tire fit perfectly within the double yellow line. It was oddly
hypnotizing to see the edges of the tire blurred through consistent
motion also bordered by yellow bars. Bitter winds viciously nipped
at the exposed portions of my face, making the urge to turn away
hard to resist. The paranoid fear of losing my focus was nearly as
painful as the cold on my face. I turned my head slightly seeking
reprieve; it made a navy blue ahead become my new focus as the bike
continued to barrel towards my primary objective.

It was pulled over slightly askew on the right
shoulder with its rear tire on a jack; the donut spare was propped
against the bumper. Silently coasting on approach I imagined the
van in the normal hustle-and-bustle routine it must have constantly
been an integral part of, before the collapse. I pictured the
family driving along when they got a flat; shit happens, we’ve all
been there. It almost looked like the world had paused for a stock
photo to be taken.
Everyone say ‘cheeeese’ while dad changes the
tire.

My imagined scenario turned tragic once I
noticed the blood smears around the pavement towards the front
bumper. The corpse that all of the stains led to was so desiccated
that I couldn’t tell who, or what, it was. Ravages of time and
beastly hunger concealed who the body was in life. I was honestly
thankful for it. A mosaic of footprints through the dried up
spilled life told me how the story ended.

I zipped through the intersection with Hull
Street feeling very vulnerable in the open space. It would have
been useful to survey the drug store or gas station across the
street since either could have been a source for supplies, but the
area was too exposed. We inevitably would have to do a supply run
in the future. I’d make sure that I had another set of eyes to
watch my back when that time arrived.

The main entrance to the post office was three
quarters of a mile from the intersection. A ‘smash-and-grab’ style
break in at the main entrance would have been risky
and
noisy, so I took a chance in trying to find a place in the border
fence to sneak in. Just west of the postal property was an old
bowling alley. As an early Hull Street fixture, the alley pre-dated
most everything else in the area. It was designed to have an
entrance road then a parking lot that was far removed from road
traffic. I took the gamble that the parking lot would border the
rear of the post office. Assuming a fence separated them it would
be easy enough to make a stealthy entrance to the property. Even if
I had to make some noise to get in I would have time to assess the
surroundings for my next move.

Random car clusters dotted both sides of the
road. A few corpses gathered towards the turn lane to the main
entrance of my final target. The infected seem to go into standby,
of sorts, while there wasn’t something around that was worthy of
their attention. I saw it before in the city; they sort of froze
with their heads cocked at irregular positions while their putrid
mouths opened and closed, snapping at the air. The group ahead
wasn’t idle. In fact, they looked almost excited. Something else
had them stirred up. I flew across the median into the bowling
alley lot with an uneasy feeling that the plan wouldn’t go exactly
as I had hoped.

A steady grinding sound of bike tread on asphalt
was the only sound in the immediate vicinity. All that moved in and
around the bowling alley was an orange cat that ran from the side
of the building to the woods on the opposite side. It was the first
time I had seen an animal since the pandemic started. In the trip
from the city to the house I’m sure there were animals that could
see me. Anything shaped like a human wasn’t exactly the hospitable
master it once was. With dwindling food supplies the pets should
fear all humans, dead
or
alive.

“Good luck, kitty.” It looked back for a split
second before disappearing into the tree line to the west.

Chain-link fence was visible through the
sparsely filled tree line to the east. The trees thinned some at
the very back of the lot, enabling me to make out the barbed wire
topper of the barrier. My guess that the properties directly shared
a border was spot on. I rode as far back as the pavement covered
before dismounting the bike. The postal fence was at least twenty
feet past the curb. Richly green-colored holly trees made a natural
fence between where I stood and the border. I was thankful for the
multiple layers and improvised armor as I powered through the
thorny branches to the chain-link. A few times I felt the tug of a
branch catching the barrel of the rifle protruding from between my
back and the tightly strapped pack. The filling of trees was so
thick that I barely got the bike through.

Once my gloves gripped the wire I had only
inches of clearance to prop the bicycle. Spiny leaves raked across
my exposed cheek when I turned to pull the bolt cutters out of my
pack. What little exposed skin I had was numb from the chilly air.
My hands shook; the experience was nerve-wracking. Apocalypse or
not, I’d never broken into a government facility before. I was also
terrified that the noisy path I took through the branches would
draw attention to my entrance. Fortunately, there didn’t seem to be
anything moving on the other side of the fence.

Each metallic snap made by the bolt cutters as
they clipped through the chain-link sounded as loud as gunshots to
my paranoid ears. At first, I glanced around frantically to make
sure I was still alone. Then I knew paranoia wasted my time. If
anything had followed me into the lot, I was better off crossing
the fence. Crawling back through the tree line would have cost me
any lead that I might have on a pursuer. I refocused the energy to
cut faster until the slit was large enough to squeeze the bike
through. It went through first to avoid any loud entanglement. I
succeeded in slipping it past only to have it nearly topple over on
the other side. My wrist ached as I gripped the back wheel
desperately trying to keep the bike quietly balanced until I passed
through.