S.W. Tanpepper's GAMELAND: Season Two Omnibus (Episodes 9-11) (96 page)

“How is she?” Marion asked, handing the weapon through the gap between the cars. It was too tight for a person to fit into, but that didn't stop the infected from trying. They pawed at the cars, attempting to climb over to get to the open windows. Ramon cringed away from his own window, but Drew ignored the dead standing outside of his.

“She's failing fast.”

“Cassie's failing?” Ramon asked, alarmed. “What's happened? Did she wake?”

“Yes, and she's . . . .” Drew exhaled sadly. “The rabies has completely taken her mind.”

“There's still time to save her, isn't there?”

Drew didn't hesitate to nod and say yes. He hoped Marion had sensed the truth and would be there to explain when they arrived back at the house. “I'm going to get enough supplies to last us for a while.” He lifted the gun and checked the magazine. Then he laid it onto the seat next to him. “Go now. And hurry.”

He waited for Marion to pull away, watching the taillights disappear around a corner, before popping open the trunk and cautiously stepping out of the car. The infected that had gathered around the cars regarded him with their solemn eyes. They hissed and moaned, but they didn't attack.

Drew found the tire iron tucked away in the compartment for the spare. He figured he'd need it.

Walking back past his door again, he realized he'd left the engine running and the passenger window open. He paused, reached in, and turned the motor off, then pocketed the keys. It wouldn't do if someone drove off with his ride, leaving him stranded in the middle of a town full of roving bands of the living and dead alike, both intent on murder.

He turned and carefully made his way over the broken glass, avoiding the larger, sharper pieces. Last thing he needed was to injure himself. He'd discovered over the past couple of years that he tended to heal very slowly, if at all.

He didn't bother shutting the car window. Or taking the gun.

 

Lyssa stepped into the kitchen. She needed a drink of water first. God, she was so thirsty. How could she be so damn thirsty when her daughter feared the very sight of the stuff?

The boy was sitting at the table, white as a sheet, jiggling his legs nervously and picking at the knees of his jeans. He jumped up when he saw her and stammered some excuse about taking a quick rest break and going right back to checking outside for the infected.

Lyssa waved her hand tiredly. It didn't matter anymore. Let them come, she would've told him. Let them take them all. But she couldn't even make herself do that.

The boy sat back down and watched her as she went to the cabinet for a clean glass. “I'm sorry about your daughter,” he murmured.

She turned, her hand still on the cabinet knob, and stared at him. “What's your name?”

The boy shrugged.

“What should I call you? Surely, you can't be very fond of ‘boy'.”

Still, he didn't answer.

“Okay, let's try this. How old are you?”

“Eight. Almost nine.” He shifted uncomfortably and looked away.

“Where are your parents? Are they still alive?”

“My mom lives in Germany. I came to visit my dad.”

A tiny wet spot appeared on the knee of his jeans. The boy was crying.

“I'm so sorry,” Lyssa told him.

She turned, blinking back the sting in her own eyes, and retrieved her glass. She wasn't thirsty anymore, but she felt the need to follow through with what she'd started. The glass slipped in her fingers and she nearly dropped it. After reconsidering, she reached up for a second and filled them both up at the sink. She set one down in front of the boy and sat down in the chair next to him.

“It's hard to lose someone you're close to,” she said.

A sob escaped the boy's throat, and his body visibly trembled. “It's not that.”

Lyssa took a sip from her glass, but she barely even tasted the water. It did nothing to quench the dryness in her throat. Her own tears were flowing now, running unheeded down her face, down the line of her chin, dropping to wet the fabric of her shirt.

“I lost a son,” she said. “Two months ago.” Her voice cracked. God, her throat was suddenly dry again. “And now my daughter is dying. She's suffering. I can't let her.” She felt the bottle of sleeping pills in her pocket. If she could get her to drink, it would be so much easier this way. “I have to make it stop.”

She eyed the axe leaning against the wall.

The boy followed her gaze, and a look of understanding came over his face. He murmured something, then shook his head.

Lyssa leaned over and waited for him to continue.

He turned once more to the axe. He would only regard Lyssa out of the corners of his eyes. A bubble of snot clung to the tip of his nose. He wiped it angrily away. “She doesn't have to,” he said, louder this time.

Lyssa frowned. “Excuse me?”

He pushed himself straight and turned to her. He wiped his sleeve across his face again and said, “She doesn't have to die.”

“I'm sorry. But what she has, honey, it's . . . . It's too late. There's no cure for it. We thought there might be a way, but she's too far gone, even if we wanted to try. I can't put her through that. She's in too much pain.”

Finally he turned to face her directly. The tears had stopped and were replaced with something else, a look of fierce determination. He reached for the water and emptied it. And when he was done, after he'd wiped his lips on his sleeve and gently set the glass down again, he said, “There's a way.” He swallowed and the immature lump in his throat bobbed. But as young as he was, the look on his face spoke of thoughts much older. “I know how you can save her.”

Lyssa leaned forward. She didn't know what the boy was getting at. How could he possibly know something that she, a scientist with medical training, hadn't already considered? But she was desperate to cling onto hope, even if it was the false hope of a child's naïveté. She'd already lost one child. She'd do anything not to lose another. “How?” she asked.

“Let her get infected. Let her get bitten.”

And even before he finished that last word, she knew she would do it.

 

“What makes him think he'll be able to get those supplies?” Ramon asked. “He's a dead man walking if he goes in there.”

Marion turned his gaze to the side, but all he did was nod.

Ramon pulled out his phone and tried to call Lyssa, but he was unable to connect.

“The cellular towers are down,” Marion stated matter-of-factly.

“I have an iLINK.”

“But your wife doesn't.”

“But your phone isn't—”

“It's satellite. Chinese. But even I can't get a hold of your house.”

“Shit. Fuck.” Ramon stamped his foot and swore again. “Can't you go any faster?”

Marion pressed down on the accelerator. “We hit anything going too fast and we're screwed. Even just a flat tire would be a disaster right now.”

“My daughter is dying,” Ramon growled. “I could run faster than this.”

Marion glanced down at the speedometer. They were going nearly forty on a road marked for twenty-five. He pushed the pedal a little harder and watched the dial edge up a bit.

They approached a burning liquor store, the windows broken out, fingers of flame curling toward the eaves. Two men stood outside and turned as Marion and Ramon passed. The fire was attracting infected, who lurched out of the darkness all around. The men shouldered rifles and shot at them, blasting holes into their chests, taking off arms. Ramon flinched with each report.

“Assholes,” Marion said. “Shoot for the head. One shot. Two, if you want to be sure.”

Vomit rolled up Ramon's throat, gagging him.

“If you feel like getting sick,” Marion warned, “keep it inside the car.”

Ramon coughed, and placed his head beneath his knees. “Never thought I'd ever be invited to do that,” he said.

“Yeah, well, we want to keep the windows rolled up.”

Another gunshot rang out and the back window shattered. The car jerked and came to an abrupt stop. Marion slumped over the steering wheel. He groaned and started gulping for air.

“Jesus Christ!” Ramon shouted. He spun around in his seat and looked out through the fist-sized hole. The rest of the window was frosted. He could see the two men silhouetted in the flames. One raised his gun and shot at another infected, sending a spray of bright red blood arcing through the air. The dead man stumbled, then resumed his slow march toward the burning liquor store.

He must really need a drink
, Ramon thought madly.

Another blast, and there was a ping off the side of the car.

“Drive!” he cried, reaching out to Marion. “Get us out of here!”

Marion grunted and pushed himself away from the steering wheel. There was a large red stain on his shirt below his right collar. He was gasping, gurgling. A red bubble rose from his lips, expanded, popped. The car leapt forward, toward the highway onramp. It began to list perilously close to the guardrail.

Ramon reached over and helped steer. He stole a quick glance back and saw the two men disappear behind a rising curtain of black. He thought it was smoke at first, before realizing what it really was.

“That's karma for you,” he muttered, before turning back. “That'll teach you,” he added, his voice rising until he was screaming. “You fucking assholes!”

The car careened across the lanes, zigzagging and narrowly missing the vehicles that had been abandoned. Marion's body swayed with the movement, his reaction times slowed by the gunshot and lack of oxygen. His lips were turning blue. His head tilted forward, then jerked abruptly back as he tried to stay conscious. Another bloody bubble formed, this one from a nostril.

“You stay with me,” Ramon growled, slapping him. “Stay with me! We'll get you fixed right up, buddy. As soon as we get back to the house. Come on! Don't give up on me now.”

Marion opened his eyes. “
Currrrg waaayahk
,” he sputtered, and pushed Ramon's hand away. He coughed, ejecting a bloody clot onto the gauges.

“This is the exit, Marion. Turn the whee—
TURN!
”

They sideswiped a car, shearing off the door and sending it crashing to the road ahead before rolling over it. It caught beneath them, sending out a shrill scrape as it dragged along the concrete. Ramon glanced back, puzzling over the flurry of sparks and the growing, glowing trail before realizing they were leaking fuel. The flames leapt up and filled the back window. The heat and light was so intense that he had to close his eyes against it.

“Pull over!” he shouted. “Marion! Stop the car!”

Ropes of fire snapped at the back seat, curling in by the turbulence of their passage. In an instant, the back seat was in flames.

Ramon grabbed the wheel and jerked it. The front bumper hit the stop sign at the end of the ramp. The post bent and snapped, sending the sign crashing to the hood. Across the intersection the car rolled. Down the other side. The right front tire caught on something, wrenching them to the side. The next moment they were airborne, spinning. Ramon was flung against his door. His head impacted the window and he saw stars.

They finally came to rest upside down, half-skidding, half-spinning at the bottom of the onramp.

Blood dripped down Ramon's face. His right cheek hurt terribly. The bone above his eye felt bruised. Both eyelids were swelling shut.

“Marion,” he croaked. He released himself from his seatbelt and tumbled to the floor. He reached over and grabbed a fistful of the giant man's shirt. Marion hadn't been belted in. His body was twisted and folded in a heap on the car's ceiling.

Ramon kicked his door open and began to pull him out. He didn't think he'd be able to do it. Marion was just too big. But the car was burning. It was going to explode.

And then they were out and he was dragging the giant across the slick grass. He kept slipping, falling. Tug by agonizing tug, inch by inch away from the inferno.

Smoke rose from Marion's shoes. Flames licked higher, closer, towering into the sky. The hem of Marion's pants burst into flame.

Ramon lunged backward, pulling harder and yelling from the effort. He slipped and fell back, landing hard. A bolt of pain shot up his back and he almost let go. Another lunge back, feet slipping, cursing.

Marion groaned and opened his eyes.

“Come on, man!” Ramon cried.

Tension seemed to leak back into the man's face. He reached out and began to pull himself away, heaving and coughing and spitting up blood. He didn't seem to notice that he was burning.

Ramon spun around and slapped at the flames, burning the bandage on his hand. Marion's lower leg was charred. His arm was bloody. And half his scalp had been scraped away.

He's going to die.

The explosion hit him square in the back and thrust him forward, propelling him to the ground beside Marion. The night lit up from the fireball. But Ramon saw none of it. Like the night, his consciousness had been shattered into a trillion tiny pieces.

 

Lyssa hadn't expected it to be so easy. There were difficulties, to be sure, and more than a couple surprises. But all-in-all, the whole thing — the fetching part, anyway — went a lot smoother than she had hoped.

The girl was easy to find. She was still locked inside her room, exactly where Lyssa had found her earlier that evening while searching for Cassie. The child had been locked away inside her house, the one on the corner a block away.

The blood spray in the living room by the front door and the trail of it coming up the stairs told a horror story Lyssa dared only imagine in fleeting terms. The girl had been infected first, perhaps by a playmate or a sibling. She'd died and come back. She'd attacked her parents. In their final moments in this life, bleeding from wounds their child had inflicted on them, they managed to get the toddler upstairs and into her own room.