“He probably thinks he’ll be our savior,” Jim snapped.
Michael and Angie, those pitiful “leaders” who hoarded emaciated survivors in a house in Startup, popped up in my head. They thought they were doing the right thing. They thought they were helping those people. In the end, I bet
they
were all dead. People got snide when someone who could save them came around, but underneath the belittling they wanted to be saved.
“I’m no one’s
savior
,” I said, and laid emphasis on the last word. “Thanks for explaining the situation to me, but I don’t want anything else to do with you people. If you haven’t escaped or done anything effective by now, you aren’t of any use to me.”
I felt a wave of tiredness sweep over me. The adrenaline from the fight had completely worn off, and the pain in my leg went from almost tolerable to kill-me-now levels.
“I can’t disagree,” Frizzy Hair spoke. “We do have incidents of
ineptitude.
Yet you
have
to admit that it’s hard to get a grip on yourself in our case. If the dead monsters don’t get us, the living ones will.”
She said it like it was some kind of morbid joke, but I didn’t get it. When a grin tugged at the corner of her mouth, I couldn’t help but return the look. Something about her made me think she could handle herself better than the others. She was still alive for a reason. I didn’t have any interest in saving her, or even lending her a helping hand, but mentally I wished her the best.
All conversations faded and the truck filled with murmurs of pain. I wanted to sit or lay, but the only bed was the wood floor that smelled like a sewer. I maneuvered closer to the cab of the truck and leaned against a wall. I caught Don looking at me from time to time, but couldn’t muster up the will to care.
When I lost my supplies, transportation, allies, and any control my plan spiraled. But only for a short time. I looked back at when this had happened before, reminding myself that I recovered each time. A few times it required a hard slap on the back, but I
knew
I could get my act together.
First, I had to look at the facts. Beau was in another truck. As far as I knew, he was going to the same location I was, but there was no guarantee. Since I couldn’t trust anyone’s word on the matter, I had to plan accordingly. Getting to the island would be a lot easier with Beau. He had the experience needed to get from Samish to the island he thought Blaze was on. But I didn’t
need
him. I knew the route. I could get there myself. That meant I wouldn’t go out of my way to look for him. If he happened to be at the compound and easily savable, I would save him. Otherwise…
The problem of Beau is now resolved. Find out where he is, and if it’s too hard to get him out, forget it
. With that thought, I moved on to my next setback.
I didn’t have a gun. Before, I’d never been without a weapon for more than a couple minutes. This was worst case scenario for me. Those who had the guns outnumbered me, and I was in a weak physical state. I needed to work around these disadvantages. If I could catch a crazy alone after we stopped, I could take one out and snag a weapon that way
Then there was the matter of my leg. I suffered from many cuts, bruises, and aches, but the bullet wound could end up being fatal if I didn’t treat it. Until I escaped from the convoy’s clutches, I’d have to play it by ear.
Although I’d only resolved two things—what to do about Beau and how to get a gun—it felt good to piece things together.
“It’s my fault Buford was taken,” a timid voice broke through my thoughts. “I’m sorry.”
The coating of grime on Don’s face wasn’t thick enough to hide his expression of fear and grief. He seemed genuine. I didn’t care.
Instead of having a Hallmark moment with the man, I said, “Okay.”
He was expecting more, and the look on his face showed it. The truck hit something then drove over it. Judging by the thud-thud, I guessed the driver hit a Z. Or, since they were lunatics, a living person wasn’t out of the question.
“It’s just…when my wife lost her baby and Buford was trying to get me out of there, I couldn’t move. I heard him yelling, felt him pulling me. I mean, do you know what it is like to lose someone?”
I pictured the scar on Blaze’s cheek, and the way she’d clench her jaw when she was mad. Then Frank’s scraggly beard and Southern drawl drifted into my mind. Yes, I knew what it was like to lose someone.
“Been there, done that. You have to move on.”
“She’s my wife!”
“She’s dead, Don. Beau will be too because of you.”
A young woman next to us inhaled sharply and glared at me. I rolled my eyes. Whenever I told it how it was, people acted like
I
was the monster. Living, breathing, Cyrus V. Sinclair—only slightly better than the undead themselves.
Everyone jerked forward. Most of them fell onto each other, and their wails grew loud again. The truck skidded before coming to a complete stop. Brakes squealed and the roar of engines died.
“Get the children to the back!”
The truck’s occupants moved in unison as they began pushing anyone young towards the cab. Hysterical sobs grew louder once the front doors were yanked open. Daylight burned my eyes. I stumbled back, looking down until my sight adjusted.
“You ‘uckers ‘ick out ‘unone yet?”
Half his face was burned and scarred. Most of his upper lip curled into his melted nose. His scars created a labyrinth of skin. I couldn’t tell where features ended and started. When he spoke, his mouth barely moved. I wanted to laugh, but I knew doing so would draw attention towards me. The brute’s face and speech were amusing. The M16 in his hands was not. The burned insignia on the side of his head, that matched the one on my chest, was not.
“Darryl, you’re as dumb as a doornail,” another man said. He came from around the truck, a riot shotgun tossed over one shoulder. Acting smart, he clarified for us. “He said;
you fuckers pick out someone yet
. Well, did ya?”
What is this?
I thought,
casual execution hour?
Burned Face and Smarty didn’t wait for a response. They grabbed the man next to me, the guy with fine features who I’d heard someone refer to as Jim, and pulled him from the truck. The man’s screams were primal. As he thrashed around, it reminded me of animals trying to escape the jaws of their predators.
I didn’t care much about where they were taking him, but they left the doors open. My way out was right in front of me! Forest surrounded the road as far as I could see. If I barreled through the pain, I could easily make a run for it.
I stopped because Lumberjack came around the corner. Pushing back into the horde of people, I made myself scarce. I’ll admit, Lumberjack frightened me.
He scanned the people in the front before tilting his head up and bellowing, “Darryl, you see that ginger haired one we caught earlier?”
A faint shout came back. “No.”
Snow crunched near the truck and Smarty appeared by his side. I guess they hadn’t noticed me when they grabbed Jim. For once, my red hair hadn’t given me away.
“Just grab one in front, it don’t matter. Boss says we gotta get to camp, cause Jud took the other trucks up north”
“Fine.” Lumberjack huffed. “But when we get back, that pretty red haired boy is mine.”
Smarty laughed and clapped the bigger man on the shoulders. “You got a refined taste for gingers, brother! Just like Him. But you know you gonna get caught eatin’ that redhead and then you gonna get in real trouble.”
My exit plan failed when the doors slid shut. Two gunshots sounded, but those didn’t seem to kill him, since they were followed by ample screams. Ten minutes later the smell of cooking meat drifted into the truck.
“Lunchtime,” someone whispered. “Jim’s on the menu.”
Chapter 16
At least our body heat warmed the confined space. The only small silver lining I clung to. Hours passed and the dim sunlight faded, leaving us in complete darkness.
My legs ached from standing. I shifted my feet, or leaned against the truck cab for brief comfort.
The anonymity of night seemed to soothe my companions, and they started to speak. Most shared their stories. I tuned out the gloom and doom tales and listened to the interesting ones.
A seventeen year old girl named Carry was on a bus from Nevada when, somewhere near Kirkland, a toddler turned. Carry was coming up to visit her parents when hell broke loose, and the toddler began attacking anyone in sight. Since the kid was so lightweight, people threw her off, but she’d latch onto whoever she landed on. So after hovelling in multiple safe houses, Carry fell victim to crazies. They kept her as a slave before trading her to the convoy for two boxes of whiskey.
The man talking to her, Craig, was well in his 50s. He’d been in the military for his entire life and was living in Lake Stevens. When he caught wind of an unexplainable ailment bringing people back from the dead, Craig boarded over the windows of his home and loaded up on supplies before mass hysteria broke out. Like me, he was a survivalist. He’d probably still be there, had the convoy not caught him on one of his monthly food raids. Now Craig’s perfect haven gathered dust.
“Bad luck for me, but I hope someone found the place and got use out of it,” he said before their conversation ended.
Craig’s buddy Jerry was on a weeklong sailing trip with his wife, unaware of what waited for him on the shores of Washington. They sailed up and down the coast for months after they heard the news, but they were forced to go ashore for supplies. The convoy caught them. Jerry’s wife committed suicide just two days before I met them. Suicide was easy here. Just offer to be the next meal.
Another woman, a porn actress, told a grotesque story. The third member of a ménage a trois had been bitten, and they turned during the filming of their porno flick. “It became a snuff film after that. I hid in a sound equipment crate in storage,” she said. “I’m not sure how many hours passed until the screams stopped and I left.”
Hushed voices filled our small prison, until everyone had their fill of storytelling. The sound of engines and muddled speech were all I heard until the truck slowed.
A rectangular sliding door I hadn’t noticed opened beside me. Yellow light illuminated Lumberjack’s grinning face. I looked beyond him out the windshield, desperately gauging our location for any escape opportunities. A metal gate slid to the right, pushed by three men. Though riddled with bullets, I made out
Richardson’s Private Airfield
in blocky red letters.
“There ya are!” He waggled his eyebrows while he peered at the group. He spotted me and his eyes widened in evil delight.”Home sweet home, ya skinny fuckers!”
Beyond the fence, a mucky road ran straight through forest, leading into an expansive open space. Raging fires billowed from metal trashcans, illuminating at least five shacks built from wood and sheets of tin. Firelight glinted off two massive metal buildings. They were reminiscent of aircraft hangers left over from WWII, but were obviously slapped together recently by the crazies.
We drove towards an unfinished three story building. Its exterior wasn’t sided yet, and half the uppermost level still showed skeletal bars of metal and plastic sheets waving in the wind. Fire and synthetic light lit the rooms inside, but ratty sheets blocked my view of anything more. Outside, two guards were posted at the front doors. Maybe this structure was intended to serve as offices or a base of operations, pre-apocalypse. Six snowmobiles were lined up ten yards away from the side of the building.
One dangerously huge bonfire burned between the office building and the tin and wood structures. Men milled about with guns, dressed heavily against the cold. There were less outside than I expected, but I hadn’t seen inside the building yet.
Smaller trucks and military vehicles broke away, driving towards the metal storage buildings. We came to a gradual stop. I shook out my arms and legs, limbering up in case a chance for escape opened.
Lumberjack and Darryl, the driver, exited the truck. The survivors grew antsy when they pushed up the rolling door. Bodies pressed against me, away from the crazies. Didn’t anyone realize that wouldn’t do any good? Did they think if they tried hard enough, they’d fall backwards into nothingness and escape their fates? I choked on the pungent scent of weakness trailing off them.
Three more men came into view, pointing their guns and yelling the usual threats until the people climbed out. They jerked Craig out of the truck and pushed him flat onto his face in the snow. My fists tightened as I thought how Craig reminded me a lot of Frank.
But there wasn’t anything I could do, unless I wanted to fist fight five men with guns. So far Craig had taken care of himself. When I escaped this place, I’d try to cause enough ruckus for him to get out, too.
I moved forward with everyone else, keeping my head tilted down. Lumberjack had it out for me, and now he knew I was in the truck. The less he noticed me, the longer I’d live.
He was preoccupied, talking to a guy about “last night’s lay” when I slipped past him, following the line of captives towards the big building.
Don snuck up to my side. “Do you have a plan?”
Who the hell was this guy? Hadn’t I made it clear I wasn’t interested?
“No,” I said, voice low. “If you haven’t noticed, we’re fucked right now. Do
you
have a plan?”
Crazies catcalled at the women, provoking new sobs. One crazy plucked a woman I didn’t recognize out of the line and dragged her towards the shacks behind us. Anxiety escalated among the survivors. Some darted off the path in attempts to escape. They met the butt of guns. These guys were good at what they did, and soon the outburst was over. Dead and the dying were shot once in the head before the crazies piled them up near the bonfire.
The living were pushed through the doors to the building, as though nothing happened. We first came into a room that would’ve been a reception area. Two hallways split to the right and left. A gaping hole in the wall should’ve housed an elevator.