Dead World (Book 1): Dead Come Home (6 page)

Much to Mike’s happiness, the flight itself was rather short. They landed on a small and ill-maintained strip Mike doubted was even legal. He unbuckled his seatbelt and grabbed his sea-bag from the back of the small, one-prop plane as Jimbo removed his headphones.

He probably feels a lot safer in the sky.

Out of the corner of his eye, Mike caught the outline of a person. He turned and saw a young man, probably in his late teens, staring into the sky with wide eyes at the ascending airplane. His mouth was agape, reminding Mike of a kid watching a fireworks display on the Fourth of July. At first, he suspected that the kid might be mentally retarded, judging by the blank expression on his face. All in all, the guy didn’t look like much of a threat and seemed more interested in the plane anyway.

Mike opened up the back hatch of the black Blazer and tossed his sea-bag inside before heading to the driver’s seat. The keys were in the ignition, just like Jimbo said they’d be, and he turned them. The engine roared to life … and the young man who’d been ogling the plane turned his head in Mike’s direction. He began to walk over in a stumbling fashion that further confirmed Mike’s initial suspicion that the boy was mentally retarded.

Kid must have a thing for engines. Wonder whether I should drop him off in town on my way out? Somebody might be looking for him. I doubt a town this small would have more than one “special needs” kid.

Mike pondered this for a moment before stepping out of the vehicle to ask the young man if he needed help.

“Hey, kid. You lost?” Mike asked as the boy continued to stagger towards him. His only reply was a gurgle. His steps were still awkward, but began to quicken.

“Look, if you need me to, I don’t mind dropping you off in town on my way out. There must be someone looking … for …” Mike dropped his jaw along with the end of his sentence when he realized that the boy was missing his right hand. In its place was nothing more than a bloody stump.

“JEEZus, kid, are you all right?” Mike called out as he rushed to unbuckle the black leather belt around his waist, planning to make a tourniquet. “What in the hell happened to you?”

He approached the boy with the belt.

Must’ve been screwin’ around with an engine and got his hand caught up. Shit, I wonder how long he’s been standin’ out here?

“We gotta get you to a hospital right now! Let me get this thing around your arm before you bleed to—.” Without warning, the boy lunged at Mike’s shoulders with a savage wail. The bloody stump bumped against Mike’s chest.

The former Marine reacted, snatching the one good wrist in a loop with the belt. He put some torque on the arm by dropping his shoulders, locking out his elbows, and stepping back. He was trying to take the boy to the ground easily, before he could hurt Mike or himself.

Mike had done this maneuver plenty of times, and usually a person felt the pain in their joints and followed the pressure down without putting up much of a fight. Well … that didn’t happen this time. The boy stood his ground as though the pain wasn’t registering. Mike heard a bone in the kid’s remaining good arm SNAP. This took Mike aback. In shock, Mike released his grip on the belt and took a few steps away. The boy kept on coming at him, gnashing his teeth and gurgling. Saliva dribbled down his chin. Mike kept his distance and tried his best to talk the kid down.

This boy must be loony with shock.

“Look, kid. You’ve gotta listen to me. You’re hurt real bad, and I may have just made it a lot worse. You’ve got a hand off, and I think I just broke your other arm. Coming at me like this is not gonna make things any better, so just sit the fuck down and let me take care of you before you bleed out. You’re going into shock, and I know you must be scared, but attacking me is not helping.”

Just then, Mike heard the voice of his good friend Hansel Hanse ring out in his head.

I’m telling ya, Mikey. Somethin’ out there is turning people wacky. I’m not sayin’ it’s zombies. What I am sayin’ is that the shit is feelin’
really
fuckin’ familiar.

The boy would not be dissuaded, and he lunged at Mike again. This time he gave his attacker a knife-hand strike straight to the throat. It didn’t even faze him.

What the hell? I’ve seen guys who were drunk as piss drop to the floor from that! Okay …. Time for the last resort.

The “last resort” Mike spoke of was a kick in the nuts … toe first. He buried the steel toe of his hiking boot square into the kid’s crotch. The boy didn’t even seem to notice. Instead, he took the opportunity to grab onto Mike’s leg. He dropped to his knees and opened his mouth as though about to bite down. Mike grabbed a fistful of the young man’s hair with his right hand and snatched his head back. He placed his left palm tight against the bottom of the chin, forcing the boy’s mouth shut as he dragged him up. The boy let go of the leg.

That’s when he saw the young man’s eyes.

They were milky … bloodshot … unevenly dilated. Mike had seen those eyes before, on more occasions than he ever cared to remember. He’d seen those eyes on
corpses
… on the
dead
. He held the head secure and the boy began to flail his arms, still trying to get hold of Mike.

Only one thing left to do. Forgive me, God. I said never again … but you leave me no choice.

“Sorry kid,” Mike said with a very sincere tone of apology. “Time to send you home.”

Mike pulled down hard on the fistful of hair he had in his right hand and shoved his left palm skyward. The muscles in the boy’s neck resisted the extreme pressure for only a moment before the vertebrae finally gave way with a crunch-and-snap. The young man’s entire frame went limp. Mike released the now awkwardly turned head and the body hit the ground … lifeless.

“Fuck … FUCK!” Mike yelled out, tears welling up in his eyes as he kicked the lifeless corpse and turned his eyes to the heavens. “You sonuvabitch! I said never again! NEVER! And now look what you’ve done! When will it be enough?! Now?! Is it enough now?”

Mike sat down hard, slumping over as his tears fell to the ground.

“You fucking sonuvabitch! I said I didn’t want to do this anymore! I was supposed to find peace! HOW CAN I FIND PEACE NOW?!”

Mike wiped the tears from his eyes, got to his feet, and went back to the vehicle. He looked over at the bag in the passenger seat, hesitating briefly before pulling the zipper open. Inside he found a .44 Magnum Desert Eagle with 3 full clips, two emergency traffic flares, a road atlas,
Maglight
, and cell phone. He flipped the phone open and the screen came to light, saying that there was one unanswered text message. He pushed
view
and the message came up.

Now you got a cell phone. Just don’t forget to fucking use it. See you at my place soon enough. –HH.

“All this shit,” Mike chuckled, sniffling, as he hit the
reply
button. “And he’s still a fuckin’ smartass.” He typed in his reply message.

Thanks for the wheels, smartass. Ma and I will see you soon. Try not to get dead. Also … DB at UMAS … mea culpa … send fixer if able.

Hanse knew enough of Mike’s personal code language to understand the last bit—“
Also … Dead Body at Unmanned Airstrip ... and I killed him … so send someone to deal with the body if you can.
”

* * *

Decatur was all flashing lights. Joseph stopped on the shoulder of 380 about a quarter a mile before the exit for Highway 287. He opened the door and stood up to get a little better view. Highway patrol and fire department vehicles and ambulances had blocked off all four lanes of traffic just south of the on ramp from 380. Nothing was going to get past the six-car pile-up they were working on anytime soon.

From the looks of things, a tractor-trailer tried to stop when somebody cut it off. The truck jack-knifed and a car or three slammed into the broad side of the trailer. Somehow or another one of the cars crossed the median into southbound traffic. A car and a small Nisan pickup plowed into the black car, reducing it to a cracker sized hunk of mangled metal.

Paramedics worked desperately to save the people in the recognizable cars in the southbound lanes. Highway Patrol officers draped sheets over the occupants of the two cars in the North bound and the cube that was once a car. The truck driver was sitting up on a gurney waiting to go to the hospital for a routine check.

Joseph got back into his car and strapped himself in. Most of the officers weren’t looking in Joseph’s direction. The accident was actually about 20 yards south of where 380 joined up with 287. Joseph dropped the car into gear. He eased up the sharp triple-curved exit from 380, pointed his car north, and gunned it.

The officers looked up but had no interest in attempting to chase Joseph. Joseph watched them go back to working the accident in his rearview mirror. There was nothing but a straight shot between him and Wichita Falls, where he would have to come up with a new plan. He didn’t really have enough money for a hotel and he didn’t know anyone in Wichita Falls, but it would give him half a chance to assess the situation.

Christ, I hope I didn’t panic over nothing. Fuck, I killed Ryan.

* * *

An ache of concern swelled in Mike’s chest with increasing intensity. With every passing moment, the minor worry for Ma’s safety with which he’d left DFW Airport had now grown into a blinding panic to get to her. The red tinge of blood on Mike’s olive green T-shirt constantly reminded him of those dead eyes, those gnashing teeth, and that bloody stump of an arm.

My god, I can’t believe I didn’t see it at first! His hand was torn completely off … and it wasn’t even spurting blood!

This had led him to consider his earlier conversation with Hanse.

…
we got drunk on cheap beer and about a gallon of Cuervo and watched all those zombie movies. They were made by some guy that G-Love just couldn’t shut the fuck up about … do you remember?

Yeah … George Romero.

This brought to mind something that Ma had said to him.

…
these two odd fellows showed up out back a couple of hours ago. I’ve been wonderin’ if they’re from the hospital because the two of ‘ems just been standin’ out there like a couple half-wits for quite a while now.

“Ma … please be all right,” Mike whispered to the steering wheel.

Traffic had not been light, and Mike was certain he’d managed to violate just about every traffic law in existence by now. He ran several stop signs in Bowie, had failed to yield, passed a number of cars on the right, accidentally dinged the rear of a VW Bug, left the scene of that accident, and had driven about 90 to 100 miles an hour the entire time. He honestly wondered if there wasn’t a warrant out for his arrest by now.

Wouldn’t surprise me. But I’m not stopping for anything or anyone until I know Ma is safe. That includes cops.

The cell phone wailed and vibrated, shaking around in its place in the cup holder like a giant, electronic Mexican jumping bean. Mike reached for it and flipped the thing open.

“You better fuckin’ believe it. Hanse sent me the number. Said he had to give you a cell phone because you showed up at DFW
without
one, you thick-headed moron!”

Both men knew better than to speak literally of certain things over an unsecured cell phone connection. Mike was now communicating in Bennett’s personal code language. The “music” Bennett spoke of meant “weapon,” and the “live band” Mike mentioned told Bennett that he had not used one.