Dead Highways (Book 3): Discord (3 page)

We carried all the boxes of supplies to the small shipping office Ted had mentioned. The place was a mess. Papers scattered everywhere. Spilt coffee on the floor, dried into a sticky black sludge. The sun beating through the east window illuminated the fine particles of dust floating in the air. It felt dangerous to breathe. The office smelled like cardboard—or maybe that was just the box in my hands.

After stacking the boxes in a corner, we left the office and huddled in the shade outside.

“Everyone loaded and ready?” Ted asked.

I inspected each member of the group.

Everyone was armed except Naima, who had refused the gun Ted offered her. Aamod had made it clear he didn’t want her having a gun anyway. Not so much that he didn’t trust her with a weapon, as I remembered he had left her the shotgun back at the convenience store on day one; he wanted the responsibility of protecting her. He wanted the sole weight of her safety on his shoulders. Perhaps because last time he’d left her to fend for herself she’d hitched a ride with me and wound up in the hands of a sexual predator.

Without a baby to tote around anymore, Peaches could now safely pack heat. She had been complaining about wanting more responsibility, the whole
just because I have a vagina doesn’t mean I can’t be tough
thing. She’d get her chance. She was from Kentucky, after all, where gun ownership was practically required by law. Clenched in her hands was the 1911 pistol I lifted from Ted’s place weeks ago—the one Nicole had used to help free us from Ted’s garage after she had led a pack of infected to our doorstep.

Here’s a shocker. Ted was the only one of us carrying multiple guns. Three in all. Slung on his back was a fully accessorized AR-15 with thirty round mag. Strapped to his thigh, a pistol fitted with a silencer. He had another smaller pistol tucked away in his pack. I had seen it when he put the street map away.

“Okay, here’s the deal,” Ted went on. “We need to be as quiet as possible. Keep your movements soft but swift. Everyone stay behind me. Follow my lead. And don’t pull the trigger unless you have no other choice. Our guns should
only
be used as a last resort. Everyone got knives?”

I flipped my backpack around and pulled out the bowie knife Ted had given me. “I got mine.”

Robinson and Bowser had similar knives.

Ted turned to Aamod and his daughter. “What about you two?”

“Don’t need a knife,” Aamod said sternly.

“Okay, that’s fine. Just keep your finger off the trigger of that shotgun please.” Ted turned to acknowledge Peaches. “Do you have one?”

“No,” Peaches replied.

“Do you want one?”

“I guess.”

Ted headed back into the shipping office and returned a minute later with another bowie knife strapped into a brown leather sheath. He handed it to Peaches, who shoved it into her jean shorts.

“The knives are for stealth kills,” Ted said, smiling.

Stealth kills?
I felt like I was playing some virtual reality version of Tom Clancy’s Splinter Cell. I wondered who would be the first to snap somebody’s neck, Sam Fisher style. My money was on freckle face.

Peaches looked horrified, as though Ted’s comment had left her reconsidering whether she wanted the knife. “Are you serious?”

Ted shrugged. “Let’s hope we don’t have to do anything like that. But I try to prepare mentally for any possible scenario, that way nothing takes me by surprise. If we act smart, I’m sure we can get to that golf course without incident.”

We headed off, slow and careful and ready for anything. Knife in his left hand, pistol in his right, Ted led the way, with Aamod trailing at the tail end. We walked crouched down, slipping in between cars to stay hidden from the dozens of infected lumbering around. As Robinson had confirmed, the infected were still heading west, though certainly not at the same pace as in the early days of this mess. Over the weeks, they had lost more than their quick step—they had lost their lives.

Lost their lives and had been reborn.

Somehow, reborn.

Whether they were dead, alive, or simply existed somewhere in between, it didn’t much matter now, and I wouldn’t bother trying to wrap my brain around it anymore. My disbelief was suspended, and would likely remain so for a very long time. The world had been flipped on its head—the rules of nature scratched out and rewritten. Like the popularity of Kim Kardashian, it didn’t make much sense. It just was.

After crossing Leake Avenue, we stopped in a parking lot and took cover behind a blue pickup truck.

Ted pulled on the driver side door handle. “Locked,” he whispered, and then moved around to the other side of the truck to check the passenger door. “Oh well, it was worth a shot. This truck would’ve worked good. Stay close. The golf course should be right up ahead.”

After waiting on a few infected to slowly pass out of sight, we left the cover of the blue pickup and scooted north across the parking lot.

It didn’t take long being hunched over for my back to start aching. Being the second youngest, I’m sure it was worse for many of the others in the group; Robinson and Bowser especially, given they were still recovering from some pretty serious injuries like—
I don’t know
—getting shot. However, if they were in any pain at all, they didn’t show it. I guess what I had always secretly suspected was true. Black people are tougher. That and the backpack I had on weighed almost as much as me. It was such a drag.

We left the parking lot, traversed a large patch of ankle high grass, and then quickly crossed a narrow road that ran along the southern end of the golf course. We took shelter under a large tree and looked out at the open stretch of green where people had once practiced their best Tiger Woods impersonation. I mean golfing, of course, not infidelity.

Robinson was next to me, sweating and breathing heavy. He could handle pain better than most, confirmed by the beating he took from Charlie the racist. But physical activity…not so much.

“Are you having a heart attack?” I asked.

He shook his head. “Just gotta...catch my breath...is all.”

“Take a moment. We can rest here for a sec,” Ted said, glancing around. “Let me know when you’re ready.”

Except Bowser, everyone else in the group knelt down and took a knee like a bunch of football players. I stuck my knife into the grass and slipped off my backpack. It had only been fifteen minutes or so since we left the dock, yet my shoulders were already sore, the skin red and chafed, as the straps from the backpack had been rubbing me raw. It felt good to give my muscles a quick break.

“Good news is I’ll probably lose some weight with all this exercise,” Robinson said. “It’s been on my list of things to do for some time.”

Bowser chuckled. “Yeah, we can tell.”

“Fuck you. I used to be skinny, remember?”

“I remember. That was a long time ago,” Bowser said. “Before you became a cop.”

“No offense, but why is it that so many cops are fat anyway?” Ted asked. “Just seen quite a few over the years.”

“I don’t know,” Robinson said. “Why do most people get fatter as they age? You just get into a routine, I guess. Or a rut. Plus the nature of the work fucks with your head. It really does. I’ve seen a lot of guys lose it on the job. Plenty of suicides too. With the shit we have to go through, if you don’t become depressed or a total psychopath, then there’s cause for concern.”

“Which are you?” Aamod asked.

“Psychopath, of course. Same as you,” Robinson said, smiling. “I’m only kidding. It’s just...not easy. The job wears on you. People don’t see that. I’ve seen things no one should have to see. Things that stick with you, keep you up at night. Things that…” Robinson swallowed hard and bowed his head. “Don’t go away.”

A prolonged moment of silence filled the air as we all stared at Robinson, wondering if he was going to continue the train of thought.

“What is the worst thing?” I asked.

Robinson looked up. “Huh?”

Thank God, he hadn’t heard the question, and I certainly wasn’t about to repeat myself. It was a mistake. I shouldn’t have asked that. The words had seeped from my mouth without a second of thoughtful consideration. It’s a problem I had sometimes—runny diarrhea mouth.

“Never mind,” I said. “It’s not important.”

Ted continued to scope out our surroundings. “It’s a hot damn day, that’s for sure.”

Good going, Ted. Change the subject. Make small talk. Mention the weather.

When no one responded, Ted stood up and gazed back out at the golf course. “Don’t see a lot of infected. A few over there.” He pointed at a building to our right, roughly two hundred yards away. “And another there,” he said, indicating the large pond straight north of our position.

On the other side of the pond—or as golfers might call it, the water hazard—was a single zombie stumbling west across the green, probably looking for someone to eat. No worries. By the time we’d be passing by, he’d be long gone.

“Y’all about ready to get moving?” Ted asked.

Everyone answered by standing up. I grabbed my bowie knife out of the ground, stuck it back into the leather sheath connected to my belt, and then slung my bag back over my aching shoulders.

Peaches stood beside me, quiet and unusually stoic.

“You feeling okay?” I asked.

She looked over at me and nodded, but didn’t say a peep. I might not have been an expert on women. Hell, I was barely amateur status, despite having my first sexual encounter (like something you have with a lion on a safari—dangerous, yet exciting, and full of surprises) only a few nights ago. Still, I knew what that look meant. Roger that. Her silence came through loud and clear.

She wasn’t feeling okay.

She wasn’t ready to tell me why.

But she wasn’t feeling okay, and I knew it was my fault.

As we left the shade of the trees and wandered out into the bright sunny golf course, I tried to force the thought from my mind. I needed to stay focused, clear-headed, lest I become zombie food.

No matter, the feeling stuck with me like bad acne on a teenager.

Peaches was upset.

And baby Olivia was the reason.

“Any of y’all ever been golfing before?” Ted asked, as he led us up the center of the green, over small hills and past the occasional sand trap.

“A few times,” Robinson replied. “Went with some guys from work. Didn’t do so well.”

“Yeah, me too,” Ted said. “Not really my thing. Much prefer the gun range.”

I had never been golfing. I figured the same was true for the others in the group, given their unwillingness to answer the question. The thought of Aamod golfing brought a momentary smile to my face. My gut told me sports weren’t something Aamod found appealing, golf especially. It was a gentlemen’s game. It was supposed to be relaxing. I could see him getting angry and throwing his putter like Happy Gilmore.

We no longer kept to a single file line. Out on the open green of the Audubon Golf Course, the threat seemed minimal. If there were any infected around, they’d likely spot us, with only the occasional tree to hide under. But we’d also see any threat coming slow and unsteady from a hundred yards away, giving us plenty of time to react (run for our lives), and even Robinson could outrun a zombie.

I’d done my homework. I knew the rules. When dealing with zombies you must always try to avoid being trapped, cornered, surrounded. One at a time, they could be easily dispatched. In large numbers, however, they could quickly overwhelm you if you weren’t careful, especially in tight areas, like inside buildings or alleyways. Always have an escape route, and be willing to adjust at a moment’s notice. And for the love of God, don’t be distracted by the emotional ups and downs of a pretty woman with blue eyes and big breasts.

Keep your cool.

Don’t ask her.

Let it go.

Pay attention.

Stay focused.

Don’t ask her.

She’ll tell you when she’s ready.

Keep your cool.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” I whispered to Peaches.

Way to keep your cool.

I wanted to punch myself in the face.

“It doesn’t matter,” Peaches said, and sighed loudly, indicating my nagging was starting to bother her. “Just stop.”

“It matters to me.”

I waited, but she had nothing further to say on the subject. She shut off and ignored my desperate stares—my pathetic pleas for answers. She should have punched me in the face.

Ted, not briefed on my woman problems, kept up the friendly chit-chat—the question and answer session.

He wanted to know everyone’s favorite movie.

Favorite sport.

Favorite food.

Favorite Johnny Cash song.

I kept to myself, much like Peaches, and let the others play along.

Once we reached the clubhouse, the chatter came to a screeching halt.

We stayed to the east of the large pond and quietly passed by the building. Not quiet enough, however, as the two zombies Ted had spotted earlier under the tree line suddenly appeared from around the back of the building and began shambling after us. For a moment, we all sort of stopped and stared at Ted, looking for guidance. Naima, unarmed and quick of foot, ran to the front of the line, furthest away from the approaching dead.

“Should we keep going and ignore them?” Robinson asked.

I had my bowie knife out and ready. Sally was on my hip, if needed.

“Better take them down now,” Ted replied. “But quietly.”

Quietly.

That meant with the knives.

“Everyone branch out,” Ted said. “Draw their attention away. Let’s give ‘em some space.”

The two zombies, one male, one female, teetered on their feet trying to follow us as we made a wide circle around them. Given their advanced state of decomposition, and their desire to make us their breakfast, it was easy to forget that these two decaying monsters before us were once human beings. Not so long ago they breathed the same air as we did. They loved people and had people who loved them. Maybe they were even a married couple, or engaged to be married, or had only just begun to get to know each other before everything changed. These thoughts didn’t make killing them any easier, that’s for sure, but if killing them would bring them peace, allow them to finally move on to some other world, or at least be spared of this undead existence, then I would do what I had to do.

This time, I didn’t have to
do
anything. Ted was already on it like a fly on poop.

The female, with hair long and dark and matted with blood, lurched, arms extended, toward Aamod.

“Dad, watch out!” Naima cried out, hiding behind her father.

The Indian man, not appearing the slightest bit concerned, raised his shotgun with glowing delight in his eyes.

“No!” Ted shouted.

Aamod lowered the shotgun and took a few steps back. The female wobbled toward him, her jaw open abnormally wide, moans escaping from her throat.

Just as Aamod started to raise the shotgun back up, Ted slipped behind the female and jabbed his bowie knife through the back of her skull. The sharp pointed end made a second hole in her forehead. After Ted reclaimed his knife, the female collapsed face first to the green grass. Her male friend, tall and skinny, wearing tattered jeans and a flannel button-up shirt covered in dark red bloodstains, wanted to take a bite out of crime and went straight for Bowser.

Ted spun around to go for his second stealth attack, but Bowser had this one covered. The burly black man side-stepped away from the infected man’s reaching claw-like hands, and with gruesome power, buried his knife up though the zombie’s jaw. It was an uppercut from hell. Bowser pulled the knife out with the same powerful force he had put it in. The zombie hit the ground a second later and lay there unmoving in a sad heap.

The entire group took a collective sigh of relief. We all looked around, making sure there were no other infected coming our way, having heard our little scuffle.

“Don’t see any others,” Robinson said. “Looks like that was it.”

“Yeah,” Ted agreed.

I expected to see more undead souls lurking about in the shadow of the clubhouse, but there was only the two, and once they were put to sleep, all was quiet again. Peaceful. The park grounds surrounding the course were clean and empty.

“Aamod, you remember what I said?” Ted asked.

“What?”

“You have to trust me. Trust all of us,” Ted said. “I know that’s not easy for you. But we’re trying to go as unnoticed as possible, and that shotgun of yours could get us all killed.”

Aamod scowled. “This shotgun saved your life, if I remember correctly.”

He had a point there. His shotgun had taken down the biggest threat we’d faced thus far.

Charlie.

“There was only two of them,” Ted said. “We come upon a large crowd...you have my permission to do your thing.”

“I don’t need your permission,” Aamod fired back.

“You know what he means,” Robinson interjected. “We’re trying to blend in. One blast from that shotgun and you’re gonna draw them out. You’re gonna draw them to
us
.”

“We’re not moving fast enough. This will take all day.”

“If we could get to Dixon by car we would. But we can’t,” Robinson replied. “The roads are clogged. We’re in a big city now. It’s only gonna get worse the farther in we get.”

“I think we’ve barely scratched the surface,” Bowser said. “These right here are nothing.” He pointed at the two recently quieted dead in the center of the circle.

“Here’s an idea,” Peaches said. “Why don’t we stop arguing and start moving?”

Leave it to Peaches to kick our asses into gear.

“You all stay here. I’ll be right back,” Ted said, and wandered off toward the clubhouse. A moment later, he disappeared around the side of the building, out of sight.

“What’s he up to?” Bowser asked.

No one answered. We had no clue. We always seemed about two steps behind Ted, stumbling along pitifully in his shadow trying to keep up. He’d probably played out scenarios like these a million times in his head. I swear this new world was tailor-made for him.

Robinson paced around nervously, unconvinced of Ted’s apocalyptic skills. “I’m gonna go check on him.”

“But he said to wait here,” I replied.

“Yeah, he also said he’d be right back. It’s been a few minutes. Why don’t you come with me, Jimmy? Let’s go check it out.”

“Sure, I guess.” I looked back at Peaches as I walked away with Robinson. She stared at the ground, lost in space.

“Get your gun ready,” Robinson whispered, pulling his nine-millimeter out.

Shit yeah! Time to get into character. It was deputy time.

I carefully removed Sally from her holster, making sure not to put my finger on the trigger. I flipped the safety off and pointed the gun down in front of me. We walked slow and light-footed, took a wide bend around the building in case something (most likely dead and dangerous) was waiting for us around the corner.

Nothing.

A second larger building was around the bend, but no sign of Ted. We continued forward. A line of golf carts, maybe a dozen in total, were lined up nicely against the building to our right.

Robinson stopped. “Hmm,” he mumbled. “I wonder…”

Suddenly a door swung open right beside us, scaring the crap out of me and Robinson.

We both raised our guns.

Ted stepped out, lucky we didn’t fill him with a belly full of lead. He jumped back, surprised to see us standing outside the door. “Son of a bitch. You guy’s scared me.”

“Likewise,” I said, and lowered Sally.

“What were you doing in there?” Robinson asked.

Ted held up a bunch of keys with white key tags attached to them. “Getting these.”

A sly smile bloomed on Robinson’s face. “Are those what I think they are?”

“Keys to the golf carts,” Ted replied.

“Hell yeah,” I said.

“Maybe these will help us make better time,” Ted said. “They’re electric too, so they should be relatively quiet, assuming nobody flips one trying to take a corner too fast.”

That brought a big smile to my face.

Robbie.

Road rash.

Robinson.

He drove like a cop, because he was one. Yes, yes, yes. My prayers had been answered. There were few things I wanted more (maybe another hummer from Peaches) than to see Robinson drive a golf cart, so as long as I didn’t have to ride in the seat next to him.

“Brilliant idea,” Robinson said.

I nodded. “The absolute best.”

“I know,” Ted said, grinning like a kid in a grown man’s body. “Fuckin’ A.”