Brian Keene (13 page)

"Even if that's so, why does God allow it to happen? The Devil may rule the planet, but are you telling me God couldn't lift a finger and stop all of this?"

"Believe me, I know. It would seem that way. But it doesn't work like that, Jim."

"He works in mysterious ways and all that?"

Martin smiled grimly. "Something like that."

"Well, that's bullshit, Martin. He can leave my son out of it! He's got a son of his own, and he let him get murdered! He doesn't need to kill mine too!"

The preacher didn't reply. Instead, he sat staring out the window and watching the trees rush by them.

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"I'm sorry, Martin" Jim exhaled. "I didn't mean to offend you. I really didn't. It's just..." He trailed off.

Martin placed a hand on his shoulder.

"It's alright Jim. I understand. I just wish I had an answer for you, something that would give you comfort. But I do know this and I believe it with all of my heart. Our meeting wasn't coincidence. It was planned by God. And I think Danny is alive, Jim, and I think we're going to find him! I feel this in my heart."

"I hope so," Jim said. "God, I hope so." Turning, Martin fished around in the backseat and produced a bottle of water for each of them, and a bag of potato chips. They ate hungrily.

"Have you given any thought of what well do once we rescue Danny?"

"I have, actually. There's a couple of things we could do."

"Let's hear the choices," Martin said, and never 109 finished. Instead, he gripped the dashboard. "Lookout!" They squealed around a curve, and the twisted carcass of a brightly colored Volkswagen Beetle was spread across the road. The car lay on its collapsed roof, and the tires, one flattened and another off the rim, pointed up in the air like the legs of some dead animal. The passenger side was smashed in, and shards of shattered glass dotted the blacktop like crystalline snow.

Four motorcycles (not Harley's, Jim noticed, but those damn rice burners) stood propped up on their kickstands in the middle of the highway-one directly in front of them.

Jim's foot reflexively slammed the brake, and as the SUV skidded toward the motorcycle, he saw two things, as if in slow motion. Two zombies were crouched in the grass of the median strip, feasting on the innards of a teenage girl, and two more were pulling the driver, a young male, out of the driver's side by his hair. Even as the zombies turned in surprise, one of them sliced the boy's throat before jumping clear of the onrushing vehicle.

Martin's prayer and Jim's shout were both cut off as the Suburban crashed into the bike. Metal shrieked and glass shattered. The air bags exploded from the dashboard, pummeling them both.

Jim felt the front tires go flat, and he fought for control. Anti-lock breaks didn't help against a punctured tire. The Suburban careened right, then crashed through the guardrail, slamming against the thick
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trunk of a gnarled oak tree.

"Mother-fucker," the zombie with the knife snarled. "They trashed my fucking bike!" He hauled the teen out of the Volkswagen's wreckage, and dropped the body. The carcass slumped to the ground. Then he advanced on the Suburban.

His companion ripped open the young man's shirt, and bit down on a hairy nipple, shaking his head until it ripped free.

110 "Hey," it rasped. "You better eat some now. The soul's departing and I feel the impatience on the other side."

"Let our brothers have that vessel now. There's more meat over there." Jim shoved the airbag out of his way and fumbled with the ignition. The dashboard looked like a Christmas tree with all the blinking lights. The engine light, the oil light, the battery light; nothing was working. Frantic, he looked back at the highway to see where the zombies were. All four stalked towards the truck.

"Shit!"

"Huzzat?" Martin stirred next to him. Blood trickled from his nose, and there were dark circles under his eyes.

"Martin, we've got to go!" Jim hissed. "Can you make a run for it?"

"I tol' you we shzould wear our sheatbeltz," the old man slurred. Then he closed his eyes and slipped from consciousness.

Jim reached down for his pistol, only to find it gone.

"Fuck!"

Unfastening his seatbelt, he felt around beneath the seat for the missing gun. The skid and the impact had tossed around the contents in the backseat. He found a pack of instant coffee, a roadmap, and a rifle shell, but no gun.

"Hey buddy," said a voice from his left, and he smelled the creature the same instant it spoke. "Having some car trouble?" Two leathery arms reached through the open driver's side window. Cold fingers wrapped around his neck and squeezed. Jim grabbed the bony wrists and his nails burrowed into the decaying flesh. The skin sloughed away and the zombie laughed, squeezing harder.

Another zombie pounced onto the crumpled hood and grabbed through the shattered windshield at Martin. The others busied themselves with prying
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open the

111 passenger-side door.

Jim tried to scream, tried to breathe, and found he couldn't. His throat burned, and his pounding head felt like it was going to explode. The pain was so intense that he didn't hear the gunshot until after his attacker's brains sprayed across his face, blinding him. The dead arms immediately loosened as the zombie fell to the ground. A second shot ripped through the creature on the hood and burrowed into the seat, inches away from Jim's chest. Shouting, he ducked down. Forgetting about Martin, the other zombies turned to face the forest. Six more shots rang out in quick succession. Then there was silence.

"Hey in there!" a voice called out. "You alive?" Martin was stirring again, and he looked at Jim in confusion.

"What's going on?" he whispered.

The voice shouted again. "Ya'll come on out with your hands up where we can see 'em!"

"I don't know," Jim admitted, "but it doesn't sound any better than the zombies."

"Maybe you done killed them, Tom." hollered another voice.

"Shut up, Luke!" the first voice snapped. "I wasn't about to ask them zombies if they'd share."

"Hello out there," Martin called, his voice wavering. "We don't want any trouble."

"And you won't get none as long as you do what yer told! Now c'mon out and keep your hands high."

They did as they were instructed, crawling from the wreckage with their arms above their heads. A burly, bearded man in camouflage stepped out from the foliage, clutching a shotgun. A moment later, another man, this one skinny and balding, also rustled forward. He pointed a hunting rifle on them.

The big man sized them up, then spat brown tobacco juice in the dirt. The other grinned and Jim noticed a thin ribbon of drool leaking down the side of his chin.

112 "Thanks for saving us," Jim began. "Is there some way I can repay you?"
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"You can repay us by shutting your pie-hole," the first man snapped, then spoke to his companion. "Whaddya' think, Luke?"

"The nigger ain't nuthin but skin and bones. He looks a little gnarly. But t'other one looks mighty fine."

Martin shuffled nervously, and visions of Ned Beatty getting raped in Deliverance swam through Jim's mind.

"Now look-"

"You can have the nigger," Tom said, ignoring Jim. "Might as well do them here. I reckon we can field dress them, take them back to the hollow, then come back for their gear."

Luke's growling stomach indicated his agreement.

My God, Jim thought, they're cannibals!

"Alright, you boys turn around and get on your knees." Jim considered lunging for the Suburban and finding one of the guns, and immediately decided against it. He'd be dead before he could even reach it.

"Look," he stammered, "we've got food-enough for both of you. We'll gladly give it up if you'll let us go. I've got to rescue my boy." Tom answered by jacking the shotgun's pump.

"Didn't you hear me? My son lives in New Jersey and we've got to save him?"

"Mister, I don't care if your Grandma lives in Bumfuck, Egypt. We got no time to waste. We got families to feed and you boys were in the wrong place at the wrong time. That's all. If it's any consolation, I can promise you that you won't end up like them things we just killed. I can shoot you in the face or the back of the head. If you don't want to see it comin', I suggest you turn around and get on your fucking knees-now!

Makes no difference to me."

He pointed the shotgun at Jim's head, but Jim stood his ground. 113 "You're no better than the zombies, you son of a bitch!"

"That may be. But we sure as hell ain't gonna starve to death while we wait for the government to come in and fix things. They've been planning for a bio-attack like this for years, but I don't think they knew China had something like this chemical that would make dead folks get up and run around."

Martin began to pray.

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"Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name."

"torn, heads up!"

Luke jabbed a finger over Jim's shoulder.

"Thy kingdom come, thy will be done on Earth as it is in Heaven."

"Those prayers cannot help you now. He has departed from His throne and your kind belongs to us!"

Jim turned, dropped, and rolled, dragging Martin with him. The young couple from the wreckage, who minutes ago been spread out along the highway, were now stalking towards them. Their cruel smiles dripped with malice.

"Get ready," Jim mouthed at Martin. The old man nodded in agreement.

"I got 'em," Luke called. Sighting through his rifle, he clacked the bolt and squeezed the trigger.

Nothing happened.

The zombies jeered at him and advanced, their steps never faltering.

"You dumb fuck," Tom spat, raising the shotgun. "You forgot to reload." He squeezed the trigger and the shotgun jerked against his shoulder. The young male zombie's ear and cheek vanished, revealing teeth and gristle. A permanent sneer now frozen on its face, it continued toward them as the roar of the shotgun echoed across the hills.

"Shit!" torn jacked the pump again.

"Yam gohgna kill eww." The zombie's tongue rolled 114 out of its ruined mouth.

"He says he's going to kill you," the girl informed them.

"Go!" Jim hissed. Pushing Martin, they scurried past the cannibalistic rednecks and half-limped, half-dashed towards the forest.

"Luke, would you shoot them cocksuckers already?" Tom shouted in exasperation. The boom of his shotgun followed, and the first zombie dropped to the ground, the top of its head now obliterated. The sharp crack of Luke's rifle rang out behind them as Jim and Martin pushed through the brush. Thorns tore at their skin and branches whipped their faces but they didn't slow. They heard Tom berating Luke.
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"You dumb shit! You couldn't hit the broadside of a barn if it was painted orange!"

Two more shots followed. They slid down the embankment of a dry creek bed, hobbled across the stones, and then panted up the other side.

"GET BACK HERE YOU FUCKS!"

Their pursuers plunged into the forest, snapping branches and curses indicating their location.

At the top of the next hill, Martin collapsed, gasping for breath and clutching his side with one hand and his back with the other.

"Come on, Martin!"

"You go ahead," he winced. "I can't make it." Jim glanced down the hill. He could hear them but could not see them yet. "Martin, let me carry you."

"No, Jim. I'm too old to be running through these woods playing hide and seek from the good ol' boys. I'll draw them off until you can get away."

"Bullshit!"

"No, it's not bullshit! Think about Danny, Jim!"

"I'm not leaving you here."

"God will protect me."

"Well he's done a bang-up job of it so far, Martin!" Jim stomped away, eyes searching the ground. He picked

115 up a tree limb; heavy, solid and about three inches thick, and swung it like a bat.

"These redneck sons-of-bitches are holding us up and jeopardizing my son's life. Every moment we spend out here leaves us open to attack by a zombie squirrel or bird or what-have-you!"

He stalked away.

"What are you going to do?" Martin called softly.

"Call them," Jim told him. "I'll be close by." Martin closed his eyes and fought to get his breathing under control. His chest ached, his limbs were cold, and his back was in agony. He opened his eyes and looked around, hoping for some reassurance from Jim,
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but Jim was gone. He was alone now. Alone in the forest. Then he heard footsteps rustling toward him through the leaves.

"Oh Lord," he wailed. "Help me Jesus. I can't take no more of this!" The footsteps rushed toward him, and both hunters emerged from the thicket of brambles.

"Howdy nigger," Luke grinned. "Looks like your friend got away. That's a shame. I suspect gnawing on you would be like gnawing on a chicken wing." Tom shot his companion a stern look, then carefully approached Martin till he was within ten feet of the preacher.

"Where's your friend, old man?"

"He-he ran off and left me."

The big man glanced around warily, then raised the shotgun.

"Oh well. I reckon you'll have to do."

He set the shotgun in the crook of his shoulder and arm, and wrapped his finger around the trigger.

Jim lunged out from behind the tree and swung his makeshift club. The branch connected with Luke's mouth. The hunter let out a muffled scream, then dropped his rifle and fell to his knees, cupping his ruined lips and teeth with his hands.

116 Snarling, Jim brought the limb down on his head. Luke's scalp split open, and he went limp.

"Drop it you fucker!" Jim warned Tom.

The shotgun bucked in Tom's hands. Jim felt a moment of pain, as if dozens of bees had just stung his shoulder, and then he grew cold. His legs betrayed him, and he collapsed, squirming amidst the dead leaves. Tom ejected the spent shell, and jacked another one in place. Squinting, he drew a bead on Jim. "I'll come back to you in a second, Blackie."

There was a second blast, and a crimson flower bloomed on Tom's chest. Still clutching the shotgun, he looked down in surprise. He turned in a semi-circle, and Martin could see a gaping exit wound, about the size of a coffee cup, in his back.