(Book 2)What Remains (26 page)

A veritable kaleidoscope of the undead coated
the barren sections of the far southern bank. The dusting of white
had turned blotched in its coverage from the persistence of
shambling feet. They toppled whatever barriers had been setup on
the bridge and wandered straight to the edge. In the minute I
stared towards them I witnessed a dozen dribble off the crumbled
bridge into the rapids below. We quietly took in every possible
detail for a few silent minutes.

“I get it now,” she said.

“Get what?” My words sounded as if I fought
imposed hypnosis.

“All of this. What happened here. I understand.”
She paused to control her volume. “We’re not in the safe zone -
they
are.”

Either I was too distracted to let the pieces
fall into place or I just didn’t get it. “How do you figure?”

My jaw dropped when I saw the fattest zombie I’d
ever seen push through the crowded bridge end. Like an amorphous
globule, it stuck out from the rest giving us a clear line of
sight. It stood at the edge for a second; even from our distance I
could see that wretched jaw snapping at the air sending ripples
through its vile girth. Then I think it saw us, it spun to take a
step that sent it over the edge. Past the threshold something
hooked it, maybe a stray piece of re-bar, splitting it like a
rotting sandbag. Vomit filled the back of my throat before I looked
away.

Sarah saw the portly beast get hooked too.
“Think about the road block, the clogged road beneath the overpass,
the empty streets and that demolished bridge,” she said. “Don’t you
see how it all connects?” I raised an eyebrow indicating that I
wasn’t seeing things as clearly as she was. She rolled her eyes.
“The safe zone is across the river! We’re on the side they were
trying to get away from.”

It connected then. She was disturbingly correct.
Clues of Danville’s downfall had been abundant; I just saw them
through the wrong lens. “They must have thought it was safer to
draw the line between north and south using the river. Moving
everything to the south side of the Dan River cleared the north
side, where we are, all the while they caused it to go to hell over
there.”

She shuddered. “Can we keep driving now? No
zombies mean we can go faster, right?”

“You’d think,” I said while I rubbed her back.
“We can only go so fast with the snow on the ground though. There
isn’t much but it is enough to make for some slippery spots. Go
ahead to the back, babe. We’ll be out of Danville soon then around
Martinsville hopefully by lunch.”

We continued slowly on River Street. The
evacuated zone wasn’t free of the undead, but they were few and far
in between. Footprints, odd markings left by unsteady feet in the
thin snow, were more common than seeing the monsters themselves.
This was a ghost town on the border of Hell and I couldn’t wait to
leave it behind.

We passed more demolished bridge crossings. I
never slowed to investigate their failed stories because they all
told the same one. Before long River Street stopped its parallel
track with the Dan River as the waters gradually shifted to the
south. Activity on the road went back to the way it had been before
nearing Danville, slow weaving through abandoned cars and
maneuvering around the hungry advance of rotting bodies abandoned
by their souls.

The sign advising that Route 58 had become the
Martinsville Highway was an encouraging sight to see. It meant that
we were closer to the end. This painfully prolonged trip had a
final destination in sight at last and it was an uplifting thought
to embrace.

One thing I learned from our family journey was
how easily perception of distance could become skewed. I felt eager
once I saw the first Martinsville Highway sign, eager to get past
the anxiety-inducing region because I was terrified by what Randall
had told me of it. Several slow miles later into the renamed
stretch I grew frustrated by the required pace which felt ten times
slower than the previous day.

Every turn, hill, or bend that we passed I
looked around for signs of the school crossing that I was told
would mark the beginning of our detour. Almost an hour after
reaching the Martinsville Highway I saw that it turned back into A
L Philpott Road.

“
Really?
” Two versions of Philpott? You
gotta be shitting me.” Then I saw the dual twenty-five miles per
hour speed limit signs that marked the start of our detour.

“Hey, Hun,” I called back. “I see the school
zone. We’re about to turn on Randall’s Martinsville detour. There
won’t be any stopping near the city so if anyone has to use the
potty now is the time.”

I heard her quietly gauge the need with the
kids. Then she replied, “Not a bad idea. We can all use a
stretch.”

By now we’d perfected the rapid bathroom break.
This time could have been a family record, however, I insisted we
not rush. The snow thinned in spots but it was enough to have been
obvious if something had shuffled into the place we’d stopped. With
an untouched sheen of white around us I knew we were safe to do
what was needed. The girls went first. I waited next to the
driver’s side door with Maddox pointlessly scanning the empty area
for threats. When Sarah and Calise returned Maddox and I took our
turn.

Maddox cracked himself up with jokes about
yellow snow and zombies. I took him off guard by writing “EAT ME”
in the snow using the tool unique to our reason for stopping. We
both laughed louder than we had in weeks, easily since before the
pandemic. Moments like that reminded me that even after nightmarish
sights and actions, we really were still alive. There wasn’t any
point to being quiet. Whatever ghouls were attracted to our raucous
enjoyment would only find tire tracks and a crude yellow message in
the snow.

Axton Road was the start of Randall’s detour. It
was a narrow road compared to the multi-lane route we had travelled
on up to then. One lane in each direction with limited shoulders
wouldn’t provide much room for maneuvering. I took solace in the
fact that the area was practically dead, no pun intended. It didn’t
strike me as having been the busiest area prior to the virus. The
resident undead hopefully had moved towards the resident infected
hot spot in Martinsville.

The cylinder of a water tower rose above the
plain landscape. It was a dinky little thing compared to other
water towers I’d seen. If it wasn’t for the stark contrast between
melting snow and the rusty red paint on the elevated object then I
might have missed it altogether. The small town atmosphere was a
nice change in the trip, especially after driving through the
tragedy of Danville.

Following Randall’s highlighted trail took us
off Axton onto Barker Road. Barker might as well have been a carbon
copy of Axton. My mind started to explore the possibility that the
rest of our trip would be like that. In contrast to the miles we’d
covered, this was boring. Then we’d pass a house with a breached
door and I’d remember that this wasn’t some pleasant country drive.
One door had crimson smeared on it like twisted finger paint.
Another house had a silver Toyota sticking out of its side. Much of
the outer wall around it had collapsed, and the colors inside were
so bright and cheery that it must have been a nursery.

I lost all desire to pay attention to anything
other than the road ahead.

The pink highlight took us on more twists and
turns, each one with its own horrific charms to offer. I blindly
trusted that it would deliver us to the right place. If I only
allowed myself to focus on where the route led next then I wouldn’t
pay attention to the places we passed. When it came down to it,
knowing that the road in front of us was clear was all that
mattered.

Hints of sunlight made it through breaks in the
ever-present clouds. There hadn’t been much sun to speak of since
before the infection hit. I was especially thankful for it then
because it ate away at the snow on the roads. Pavement gradually
overtook spots enough to up our average speed by a few miles per
hour.

Shortly before a shift in the detour path I saw
a sign on the right with a reanimated woman seated against its
base. It was a skinny thing in a fancy sleeveless dress that looked
to be three sizes too big with no jacket. She must have seen our
truck approach because she tried to hoist herself up only to have
the fabric of her dress catch the metal signpost. Now tethered, the
fancily dressed creature angrily thrashed at her bindings to try to
free herself for the attack. Her eyes were so wide that even from
the road I couldn’t help but stare them. Black veins reticulated up
the pale skin of her wild naked arms as she reached towards our
slowly passing vehicle.

I looked above the pathetic spectacle to the
sign that held her in place. There were three arrows: one to the
left for Greensboro and two to the right for Martinsville and
Roanoke. Our path took us to the right, towards Martinsville. It
was the only time in a detour that I willingly turned towards the
area we were going around and it made my stomach bubble. I waved
farewell to the fancy zombie then turned right onto Route 220
towards the infected city.

Route 220 was a treat compared to the narrow
neighborhood roads comprising most of the detour. It was a delight
to have the maneuverability of multiple travel lanes to scoot past
the intermittent gatherings of reapers. On approach I saw groups
that stood dormant with their heads crooked oddly to the side,
their jaws snapping at the air. The group reaction was always the
same; first the closest lurched towards the sound of our advance
then the rest would follow. They never reacted fast enough to
shamble into our way so the truck zipped by without a need to
slow.

The highway was wide enough to expose snow for
melting. Patches of white stubbornly fought the thaw in shadows of
pine or holly trees. I took to swerving around the un-melted strips
just as I did with stalled cars or the infected. On average, our
speed was twenty miles per hour faster on Route 220 than it had
been the entire day. It may have been my imagination, but I could
have sworn that I saw tire tracks through a few of the covered
lanes on the southbound side. Although I was curious as hell, I
couldn’t risk the delay that could come from investigating.
Whomever the tire tracks belonged to, I wished them well.

Elevation gradually increased from a slow uphill
climb, so by the time our short stint on this section was over we
had a fair view of the north. That, combined with lessened tree
cover on both sides as our turn neared, provided a distant
impression of the area where the Martinsville Speedway sat.
Curiosity pried my eyes off of the road immediately ahead to look
beyond for any signs of the city’s fate. I wanted some reassurance
that this detour taken wasn’t in vain.

I saw smoke billowing to the sky above from what
must have been the speedway itself. Smaller plumes rose from the
landscape in the distance like pillars of a monument built to mourn
the conquered city. It had been weeks since the thirty-third
mutation of the Reaper virus pushed the pandemic beyond control,
weeks since hell became commonplace.
Weeks
had passed and
Martinsville still smoldered.

My curiosity left me despondent, as it typically
did. The pink line took us on a left-hand turn onto Soapstone Road.
I was thankful to have a small road to focus on once again.

An entirely uneventful last leg of the detour
ended with us back on Route 58. I called back to the Sarah, “That
was it for the detour. We’re on the home stretch!”

The three of them cheered then Calise announced
she was hungry. Sarah tried to tell her that it wasn’t time for
lunch yet. Since my stomach no longer bubbled from anxiety it
occurred to me that I too was hungry. “It’s alright babe. Why don’t
we eat? We’ll be at the farm before dinner so we might as well have
an early lunch.” Maddox also chimed in his vote for an early lunch
after I suggested it.

Sarah made a long raspberry sound in response to
being outvoted. “Fine. You guys win. But Calise and Maddox get to
make the sandwiches this time - I’m enjoying my book too much to be
the chef.”

Both kids thoroughly enjoyed the confidence in
their culinary abilities. It was refreshing to have us all joking
like a family once again rather than wallowing quietly like
victims. “Hmm…I’m not sure that making PB&J’s qualifies you as
a chef, dear wife.”

“Shut your face!” she retorted to the delight of
the young ones.

We all laughed for a few minutes. I could hear
them careful crafting our meal with bossy banter over who was doing
what. It never ceased to amaze me how headstrong Maddox and Calise
could be at such a young age. I was proud to have children that
possessed that spark; an internal fire like that will keep them
alive in this new world long after I was gone.

Sarah poked through the blanket wall. “Are we
going to stop at the pharmacy Randall told you about?”

I’d all but forgotten his suggestion to stop at
the mom and pop store. “Hadn’t really planned on it.”

“You said we were doing alright on time,
right?”

“We’re in good shape, yes. But I didn’t care for
the idea of doing a supply run alone. Both of us can’t go because
someone has to be with the kids.”

She hesitated. I could practically sense the
wheels turning in her mind. “Maddox could back you up.” My jaw
dropped. After the guilt trip she’d given me before for involving
our son in anything zombie-related, this was the last thing I
anticipated her saying. “I mean, we can check the place out,” she
said. “If it doesn’t look too bad then the two of you can see what
happens. Not sure if you’ve heard him, but he’s bugged the crap out
of me with claims that he’s ready to do more.”