After the End: Survival (16 page)

I wonder if she'll want it again.

And he laughed out loud.

Larry saw Pete approaching through the glass door of the radio station and leapt to his feet, meeting Pete at the door.

"Pete! Man I'm glad to see you, here, have a seat, would you like some tea? Val, honey, get us some tea, would you? Pete, we need to talk about this new one," glancing down at some paper, "Laura Benchley. You think the same guy did it that killed the girl in Canyon?"

"Yes."

"Whoa. So we've got a serial killer, right? A guy that preys on young girls, kills, rapes and mutilates."

"I don't know if you could call two murders an actual ‘serial’," Pete said mildly. Larry's manner was a little too exuberant.

"Hey," said Larry, holding up both hands. "I've got sources at the S.O. that claim it's probably happened at least two other times in the past year. They find scattered human bones belonging to children. They get reports of kids missing. I'm just putting two and two together. What do you think?"

"That we have two girls killed within a week and they probably were killed by the same person."

Larry gave Pete a sort of "have-it-your-way" shrug of his shoulders. Valerie Coughlin wordlessly put two glasses of tea in front of the men and returned to her desk.

"So what makes these killings alike?"

"Age and sex of the victims. Bruises indicating they were beaten before they were killed. They were both raped. They were both strangled. They were both, uh, mutilated the same way after death."

"How's that?"

"Their abdomens were split open with something real sharp. I'd appreciate it if you not broadcast that."

"No problem,” Larry said dismissively. “I already knew about the belly being slit open." Apparently he didn't consider evisceration to be a ‘real’ mutilation.

"OK, here's what I'll do," Larry said. "You guys don't have any suspects, right? So I'll ask for the public's help in finding this guy, ask if they saw anything suspicious in the Westover area over the last two days and if they did to contact the S.O. Where's the body now?"

"Her home. The Frank Crenshaw residence just north of the school."

"Great. OK. A bad situation," he said, shaking his head briskly.

Pete didn't think he sounded like he meant it. He sipped enough tea to be polite, said his goodbyes, and left.

He knew anger was bad, that it could cloud his judgment. He could have left the boy lying next to the creek and nobody would have been the wiser. But it just rankled. All these pious bastards, claiming how much they loved their kids. Then letting them run loose to do as they pleased, and when someone got hurt, they'd claim it was either the kid's fault or an act of God.

"An act God!" he said out loud.

His horse jumped slightly at the unexpected sound. They were riding south in the general direction of Palo Duro Canyon. The man's favorite house was there, and he felt like he deserved a little R & R. The wind blowing at their back was not unpleasant. Things were still damp, but he made good progress. Dark gray clouds with delicate, finger-like tendrils moved swiftly overhead. The man cleared his nostrils one at a time by holding a finger against the side of his nose and exhaling sharply. Then he inhaled tentatively, searching the air for any smells that might warn or interest him.

His anger slowly melted as he reviewed the events over the past week. He'd been clever. Twice in five days, this was a personal best! He could afford the little indulgence of the boy.

Of course, he'd been cautioned about his forays into town. Told that if he didn't stop there'd be hell to pay. Well everyone had been wrong about that. Things were working out fine.

"Having-my-cake-and-eating-it-too," he said in lilting, sing-song voice.

The horse didn't respond this time, maintaining a steady pace, tail blowing forward between its legs.

For Judy Gilliam, things had settled down to a dull roar. She'd taken the boy into an exam room and done a quick assessment. He was unconscious, pupils equal and reactive. A huge hematoma on his forehead. Numerous bruises on his torso, legs and upper arms. His feet were scraped and cut. Body temperature was ninety two point three. His pulse was rapid, blood pressure was low. Listening to his lungs, she heard a crackling sound consistent with abnormal fluid. A woman walked in from the waiting room and helped Judy remove the youngster's clothes.

"That's Brandon King," she said. "He lives on a ranch three miles west of here."

"I wonder what he was doing out in this rain. Do you know the man who brought him in?"

"No. I've never seen him before."

"We need to warm this little boy up. Nothing seems to be broken, but I'm worried about that head injury."

A short, stocky cowboy with a bandaged hand moved a crib into the waiting room near the wood stove. Judy moved the boy to the crib, covering him with several blankets and started an IV. Using her radio, she briefly told Latesha Williams about the child and that she'd be bringing him to the hospital. Determining none of the remaining patients had anything life threatening, she asked that they return in the afternoon. The woman offered to get word to the child's parents about his condition and whereabouts. Judy thanked her and turned to the cowboy and glanced at his hand. The knuckle of his little finger was grotesquely swollen. He had cut a thin strip of metal to act as a splint and wrapped it with a dirty bandage.

"What did you do to your hand?"

"Roping."

"How long has it been since you hurt it?"

"Week. You need a driver?"

"Actually, I do. Can you manage?"

He looked at her a little disgustedly. Walking over to the boy, he took the IV bag off its nail on the wall and jammed it between his teeth. Quickly, but with surprising gentleness, he picked up the boy. Judy ran to open the door to the SUV. In a few minutes they were on their way to Amarillo.

She stayed in back with the child, wrapping him blankets in an effort to retain body heat. She kept his head elevated and immobilized.

Her cowboy driver stopped at the mud slide that had confounded her earlier. A few horse drawn vehicles had been through it already, using the depressions her tires had made through the gunk as a guide. He went to the back of the vehicle and retrieved the shovel, using it to lower spots that might cause the car to high-center. He handled the tool easily, his injured finger jutting delicately away from the handle, like a dilettante would hold a wine glass. Fifteen minutes later they bounced and slid their way through the mud, Judy doing her best to stabilize the boy's head.

Arriving at the hospital, the cowboy carried the child inside, Judy opening the doors.

"Right here," said Latesha, pointing to a bed a few feet from her desk.

There were other patients in the large, open ward and several observed the proceedings with interest. One man, his leg in traction with a broken femur, recognized the cowboy.

"Hey Shorty! What the hell are you doing here?"

The cowboy merely nodded once as he lowered the boy to the bed. His taciturn demeanor played no favorites. Latesha looked at his bandage and pointed to a sink.

"Take that nasty thing off and wash your hands. Then sit down in that chair."

"Do what she says, Shorty," said the man from his bed. "That woman’s flat mean.”

While Shorty washed his hands, Dr. Flood came out of his office and began examining the boy. A few minutes later, he removed the stethoscope from his ears and clicked a ball point pen a few times.

"OK. His temp's coming up, so I think the hypothermia's resolved. We can't do much with the head injury right now except keep him quiet and watch for signs of a subdural hematoma, vitals every fifteen minutes, Latesha. I'm worried about the fluid in his lungs. He must've sucked in some of that creek water. Kid's gonna end up with a royal case of pneumonia." Jay Flood stared pensively at the child for a few seconds, clicking his pen some more, then turned to the cowboy.

"I'm Jay Flood. Ms. Williams here says I need to look at your hand. Let's see what you've got." After a fifteen second examination, he said, "We need an x-ray. Follow me."

The hospitals x-ray machine was a portable flouroscopic unit with a television monitor. Mounted on a large, swinging ‘C’ arm, the machine was used in operating rooms before the Change.

After seating Shorty next to the unit, Jay flipped a wall switch and walked out a side door. Those inside heard a sound like someone trying to start a balky lawn mower and then an engine roared into life. Dr. Flood walked back inside. Turning on the x-ray device, he donned a lead apron and positioned the injured hand on the machine. Using a foot switch to activate the flouroscopy, he took three views of the extremity, peering at the TV monitor.

"Looks like you've got a tiny chip fracture, but that's no big deal. The real problem is your finger’s dislocated. We just need to slip it back into place. You may find this to be a little uncomfortable. Latesha?"

The nurse had walked up behind Shorty. She grasped his wrist tightly with both hands. Jay grabbed Shorty's finger and pulled hard and steady. The cowboy grunted and arched his head backward, his hat falling to the floor. His face turned beet red. Jay and Latesha continued their tug-of-war, with the doctor manipulating the finger back into place.

"OK. Let's take a peek," he said, again viewing the hand on the flouroscopic unit. "Looking good." He walked over to the wall switch and turned off the generator. Shorty's face had become very pale. He was covered in sweat.

"How are you doing?" Jay asked.

"Didn't feel a thing," the cowboy whispered.

"Well, good. I must be improving. Last guy I did this to passed out. Ms. Williams will wrap it and we'll even give you a brand new splint. After three weeks you can take it off, but go real easy on that finger for a while, OK?"

Shorty nodded.

"Judy," Jay said to the Claude nurse, "you did a good job with that little boy. We’ll just have to wait and see. I understand you and Pete attended the dead girl over by Westover."

Judy nodded and gave him the details. Latesha listened while she wrapped Shorty's hand, occasionally clucking her tongue.

"That man's got to be stopped," Jay said when Judy finished speaking. "It just really bothers me to see kids die." He turned, looking at the small pale figure lying on the hospital bed.

Pete had gone home, exhausted. Removing his shoes, he had lain down on the living room rug and immediately fell asleep.

He was awakened by the sound of his name coming over the radio.

"Pete, this is the S.O. Do you copy, Pete."

Bleary eyed, he reached over and keyed his radio. "What!" he snapped.

"Pete," said Patty White, nonplused, "you're needed at 200 South East Third. STAT."

Patty never abused the term STAT.

"I'm at my twenty, Patty. It'll take me maybe twelve, fifteen minutes to get there. What have you got."

"Officer down, deceased," she said flatly. "You're asked to be part of the investigation."

"Ten-four. Are there any injured?"

"Negative."

"I'm on my way. Clear."

Pete arrived at the Probation and Parole building fourteen minutes after he'd received the call. There were four vehicles there, all law enforcement. Walking inside, he heard voices from the end of the hall. His footsteps had a hollow sound. The air here was musty, but with an edge. A kind of rusty iron smell that you taste near the back of your throat.

It was the smell of blood. There's nothing else quite like it.

The River Road deputy that Pete had seen at the dinner the night before came out of a doorway and squatted down, leaning back against the wall. He stared straight at the floor and did not acknowledge Pete as he walked past.

Entering the doorway the deputy had just exited the first thing Pete saw was a man, slouched over a desk. Only his back was visible. The desk was covered with files, neatly stacked in a semi-circle around the man's shoulders. The exposed tops and edges of the files nearest the man were splattered with blood and a stringy, gelatinous gray and white material. Pete leaned over to look at the dead man's face.

It was David Rodriguez.

"Oh, shit."

David's arms hung limply at his sides. A revolver lay on the floor next to the chair. Automatically, Pete felt David's neck for a pulse.

"I think you'll find he's pretty dead," said Sheriff Westlake.

"Just going through the motions, Sheriff. What can I do to help here?"

"We need an official cause of death. Everything points to suicide. Dammit, David was my friend. You saw him at the dinner, how did he seem then?"

"He was fine. Good spirits, joking with his wife, enjoying himself. It doesn't add up. What about fingerprints?"

“That's next on the agenda. Plus, we’ll need to interview everyone David came in contact with over the last couple of days, and locate anyone who may have seen him come into the building this morning."

There were two other deputies in the room. Pete knew that most people surviving the Change had the ability to cope with the sudden loss of family and friends. Not everyone had this ability. Suicide, though less frequent now, was not unusual. Some survivors of the virus were engulfed by feelings of unfathomable emptiness and loneliness. Pete searched for some analogy, and the closest he could come up with was being adrift in a calm sea. No wind, no waves, no clouds, no . . . nothing. It was an overwhelming sense of isolation without hope of relief.

Thus, every survivor developed a coping mechanism, or died. The children were the most remarkable. Pete envied them as they played, running and laughing, as though they had a duty to the deceased to enjoy life.

And women were mostly strong, focusing their energy on the living. The nurturing, mothering instinct most women are born with enveloped all life: plants, animals, children, especially children, other women and men.

And without the women, the men would be lost. Because it’s through the eyes of a loving, caring woman that a man sees himself. Without that, a man might succeed and prosper, he might grow strong and powerful, but in time life loses its luster and meaning. The daily victories become hollow and insignificant. As each day begins, the man sees not the challenges, but only futile exercises. He may become cruel and bitter, or weak and vulnerable. And his mind comes to the edge, and he looks into the darkness. And if the Earth's pull is not strong enough he will step into the abyss.