Brian Keene (24 page)

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Flinging the rifle onto the bed, Jim grabbed the wheelchair, struggled to lift it off the ground, and then brought it down on the pulped remains as well. He hefted it a second time, then a third.

"Jim, it's dead!" Martin dabbed at his bleeding cheek with a corner of the bedspread.

Jim stood over the thing, breathing heavily.

"Thank you," Martin offered, then picked himself up off the floor with a groan.

"You okay?"

"Yes, I think so." He felt the knot on the back of his head, but his fingers came away bloodless. "Lucky I didn't break a hip."

"You found the keys to the van?"

"Yes, but I dropped them when that thing rushed me." He felt around on the floor. "Here they are."

"Let's go."

205 Shortly after dawn, they encountered a southbound caravan of survivors. The rag-tag group was traveling in a camper, several cars, and what appeared to be a modified dump truck. Both groups stopped, eyeing each other warily from across the wide, shrub-covered median strip. Finally, a man exited the lead vehicle, an AR-15, the civilian version of the M-16, slung over his shoulder. He held his hands palm up in a cautious greeting. Jim and Martin got out of the van and did the same.

"He looks familiar," Martin whispered as they walked closer. "Is he somebody famous?"

Jim had been wondering the same thing. The stranger had an athletic build, recognizable even though it was hidden beneath layers of ragged clothing. His face was what Carrie would have called 'ruggedly handsome'-the same thing she had referred to Jim as being.

"Hi," the man greeted them. "You guys looking to trade, maybe?"

"Maybe," Jim agreed. "What have you got?"

"We've got fresh vegetables," the man said proudly. "We came across a greenhouse yesterday."

Their mouths watered at the thought. They hadn't eaten since leaving the Clendenan house.

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"We can trade some guns and ammunition," Jim offered, "and maybe exchange some information."

The man laughed. "Well then gentlemen, allow me to invite you to lunch." They walked around to the back of the dump truck, and Jim started when he caught sight of the two figures that had been lurking atop it: a boy and a woman, both pointing rifles at them. The two relaxed and lowered their weapons, and then Jim did the same.

The dump truck had been modified. A sheet metal roof was built over the open top, forming a camper of sorts. The man ushered them inside, and they found

206 themselves staring at a group of people, comprising all ages and races.

"I'm Glen Klinger," the man offered.

"Jim Thurmond." They shook hands. This is the Reverend George Martin."

"Pleased to meet you both." Klinger then introduced the other nine people in the back of the truck.

"Say," Martin mused, "aren't you that surfer fellow who was on Extreme Sports?"

Klinger grinned sheepishly. "That I am. I'm afraid you've got me." Incredulous, Jim turned to Martin. "You watched Extreme Sports?"

"Used to love it," the preacher laughed. "This guy here was famous!" They traded weapons and ammunition for vine-ripe tomatoes, as well as cucumbers and watermelons.

"Where you heading?" Jim asked him.

"Anywhere, I guess," the man shrugged uneasily. "We don't really have a plan. Someplace better than what we've seen so far. Somewhere alive. I was in Buffalo, doing some charity work when things started happening. I would have flown back to California, but by the time I made my decision to go, the NTSB had grounded all flights because of that pilot that had the heart attack while in the air."

"I didn't hear about that," Jim said. "News was spotty in West Virginia. What happened?"

"Well, he died in mid-flight, somewhere over Arizona. I guess they have a procedure for that, but they couldn't revive him. The co-pilot took over, then the dead Captain came back to life and attacked him. The plane crashed, taking out a swath of downtown Phoenix. They
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reconstructed the events from their calls to the controllers and from the black boxes. Of course, by the time they figured everything out, things were snowballing worldwide. How about you guys? Where are you heading?"

207 "New Jersey."

"Jersey?" Klinger scoffed. "That's suicide, friend. You'd be better off letting them get to you now. Anything close to New York City is pretty much wall-to-wall zombies."

"You've been there?"

"No, but we've heard. We drove down from Buffalo, picking up survivors along the way. It doesn't sound good. New York, Philly, Washington D.C., parts of Pittsburgh and Baltimore-really bad. Lot's of people lived in those cities, and they're staying there after they die. And it's not just the zombies either."

"What do you mean?" Martin quizzed him.

"There's a lot of crazy stuff going on. Gangs, skinheads, militias-all kinds of paramilitary survivalist nutcases on the loose. Hell, we even heard that the Army or somebody was trying to take over south-central Pennsylvania. There's no government anymore, man. No leaders. It's everyone for themselves. You guys would be better off heading back the way you came. Or come with us, if you'd like! We could use the extra help. At least in a group like this you've got a chance."

"Thanks for the offer," Jim said, "but there's somebody in New Jersey who only has one chance-us. We've got to be moving on now. Thanks for the food."

"It's your funeral."

"Is it?" Jim asked.

They drove in silence, hungrily sharing a watermelon on the seat between them and spitting the seeds out the window. At one point a bird darted downward, and Jim assumed it was going after a seed-until he noticed that it had no legs and was flying towards his open window. He sped up and they quickly passed it by.

"That's one bright point about all of this," Martin said. 208 "What's that?"

"Less roadkill. The carcasses along the side of the road get up and walk away now."

Jim laughed and the sound of it filled Martin with relief. Perhaps it
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was a signal that his friend was starting to come out of the fugue that Jason's suicide had induced.

But Martin noticed that the laughter, while genuine, never reached Jim's eyes.

An hour later, crossing the border into Maryland, Jim spotted a cluster of motorcycles ahead of them.

"Friendly?" Martin asked.

"We're about to find out," Jim answered, and floored it. The van accelerated toward the six figures. The biker bringing up the rear turned as they approached. He wore no helmet, and was naked from the waist up. Most of the flesh on his chest and back were gone, exposing ribs and raw muscle. His eyes were hidden behind a pair of mirrored sunglasses hanging crookedly from his face.

"They look dead to me."

"Unfriendly then."

The motorcycles filled both northbound lanes, and Jim roared directly toward them, straddling the dotted line.

Hefting the shotgun, Martin leaned out the window. He fired, hitting the zombie's exposed chest.

"The head, Martin! Shoot for the head!"

"I'm aiming for the head! It's hard to do in a moving vehicle!" A second zombie reached into his leather vest and pulled out a small caliber pistol-a Ruger. There was a sharp crack and the bullet pinged against the passenger side of the van.

"They're shooting at us!" Martin ducked back inside. Ejecting his spent shell, he leaned out of the speeding van

209 and fired again. This time the zombie's sunglasses disappeared, along with its head. The bike collapsed, sliding into a second creature and sending them both careening towards the breakdown lane. The zombie with the pistol squeezed off another shot, and a small hole appeared in the windshield.

"Jesus!" Jim exclaimed. "Hold on!"

He swerved into the right lane, bearing down on the shooter. The other three were slowing now, letting the van pull ahead of them. The zombie
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pointed the pistol over his shoulder, his outstretched arm aiming at the windshield again.

"Get ready!" Jim called and then zoomed the van into the breakdown lane. The zombie turned in confusion, swinging the pistol towards Jim.

"Now!"

Jim leaned back into his seat as far as he could go, and Martin leaned past him, pointing the shotgun out the driver's side window. The blast ripped the creature from the bike, and Jim swung around the wreckage and back onto the highway.

The rear window exploded, spraying glass all over the interior of the van.

"Get down!" Jim ordered, and Martin flung himself beneath the seat. Jim slouched down as far as he could and pressed the gas pedal to the floor.

"Fucking four-cylinder! Why couldn't we steal a good old V-8?" Another volley of shots peppered the rear of the van. Martin cringed, waiting for it to stop, then popped up over the seat and returned fire. The zombies wheeled out of the way, and the van sped ahead of them.

"I'm empty," Martin informed him. "Can you buy me a minute?"

"Take the wheel."

"I don't think so."

"Then reload fast!"

Jim raced ahead with the zombies in pursuit and

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then, at the last minute, bounced over the grass median strip and into the southbound lanes toward an exit ramp. The motorcycles shot past him, firing wildly. The van veered down the nearest exit ramp and then screeched away.

"Did we lose them?"

"I think so," Martin panted, watching for signs of pursuit. "There's no sign of them, anyway."

"We'll stay off Eighty-One for a while, just in case."

"Where are we?"

Jim searched his memory for the trips he'd used to take to see Danny.
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"If I remember correctly, this runs over the Pennsylvania border and right into Gettysburg on Route Thirty. We can get back on Eighty-One there, by either doubling back to Chambersburg or going through York and taking Eighty-Three to Harrisburg. Either way, in Harrisburg we'll want to jump over to Seventy-Eight and that will run us into New Jersey."

"How long, do you think?"

"Six or seven hours," Jim answered. "A little more if we stop to piss or screw around with more of these things. If not, we'll be there by nightfall."

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Baker cried out in horror when he saw the bodies.

They were suspended on X-shaped crosses, lining both sides of the road. Most of them were dead. Some of the dead were still moving, struggling uselessly against their bonds and the heavy railroad spikes that had been used to secure them.

The stench was overwhelming, and Baker pulled away from the small hole in the truck's side that he'd been peering through. He'd recognized the landscape and monuments as they drove by them as being Gettysburg, and he guessed correctly that the downtown district was their destination. He briefly checked on Worm, and found the boy still curled up and sleeping soundly in the corner. What little light the holes in the truck allowed to filter through, made him look pale and drawn. Baker reached out with bound hands and gently brushed the boy's brow with his fingertips. Worm stirred in his sleep, and the worried creases in his forehead smoothed and vanished.

Holding his breath, Baker returned to the hole and peeked outside again. The truck was passing through some type of checkpoint, built from sandbags and barbed wire. Armed guards were posted every few feet, watching the direction they'd come from.

The truck rolled to a halt, and Baker heard muffled voices and laughter. Then they started forward again,

212 into the group's stronghold.

Baker was reminded of footage he'd seen of the Warsaw ghetto during World War Two. Pitiful, filthy civilians slaved over their labors as the truck passed by; filling and piling sandbags, stretching thin but sturdy survival netting between the rooftops in an attempt to keep the birds and other airborne zombies out, hauling heavy furnishings from abandoned buildings, repairing the buildings that were still being used, pulling burned-out cars with harnesses strapped to their backs, cleaning the
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gutters along the streets-all done with a uniform look of hopelessness on their grimy faces. He noted the puzzling absence of women among the laborers; save for a few elderly crones here and there. Bodies, not living dead but just plain old dead, dangled from the traffic lights, the poles having been turned into makeshift gallows. Baker wondered if they were there to serve as a warning to the workers, but then he noticed that a few of the hanging corpses wore military uniforms.

The truck halted again and Baker heard the motor cough, then cease. He moved away from the hole, kneeling on the floor next to Worm. The deaf-mute woke with a start and struggled in the darkness. Baker motioned for him to remain still.

Booted footsteps crunched along the side of the truck and then the back door rolled open, flooding the compartment with light. They blinked, momentarily blinded, and the soldiers pulled them out, forcing them to stand. Baker bent his knees, trying to work out the kinks in his legs. An unkempt man in a soiled uniform strode toward them. His hair hung well past his collar and several days' growth of beard clung to his face. Baker noticed two silver vertical bars on his shoulder.

"Second Lieutenant Torres," Staff Sergeant Michaels saluted, "we completed our reconnaissance and have a full report. We lost Warner, I'm afraid, but we also

213 captured two prisoners of remarkable interest." Torres brusquely returned the salute and eyed Baker and Worm.

"They don't look that remarkable to me, Sergeant." Michaels handed him Baker's credentials, and the officer studied them with interest.

"Hellertown, huh? Havenbrook-that was a weapons lab, wasn't it?" He clapped Michaels on the shoulder. "Well done, all of you. Colonel Schow will be very interested in talking to these gentlemen." He turned to Baker.

"Welcome to Gettysburg, Professor Baker. I'm afraid your accommodations will be more rustic than you're used to, but perhaps if you cooperate, something better can be arranged."

"Cooperate how?" Baker asked.

"Well, we'll let the Colonel decide that."

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He turned, addressing the rest of them. "Good job, men. Shame about Warner. Still, I think twenty-four hours leave is warranted for each of you. Staff Sergeant Miller's squad is on their way back as well, Michaels, and once they return we'll expect a full report from both of you. Their ETA is about another hour. You have time to grab a shower, if you'd like."