Wormwood Dawn (Episode II)

Copyright © 2015 Edward Crae

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

DISCLAIMER:

All brand names mentioned within are the registered trademarks of their respective copyright holders. No infringement, endorsement, or detraction is intended.

This is a work of fiction, and any resemblances to persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Place names are used respectfully and solely for the purposes of reference points for the story.

No animals were harmed in the making of this story.

There was a propane company near the small town of Paragon. It was still standing, with a few trucks scattered around its gravel parking lot, and the two giant, trailer-sized tanks that held its product appeared undamaged. The office, which was a small trailer on cinder blocks, was empty, and the door flapped in the wind. The whole thing was surrounded by a chain link fence topped with rusted barbed wire, with one gate that led to the road.

Dan and Drew scanned the scene carefully. From the looks of it, the place was deserted. But looks could be deceiving, especially when it came to survival. Both of them knew how much of a commodity propane was; not only to them, but everyone else. It was like gold, and everyone still out there in the rural areas would be after it.

If they had any brains, that is.

“What do you think?” Dan asked, shutting off the truck and rubbing his aching shoulder.

Drew pursed his lips, looking around. “Looks clear to me,” he said.

“And you know how to drive a propane truck?”

“Not specifically,” Drew said. “But it can’t be much different than what I’ve driven before. The question is; do we know how to fill the tank once we get the truck back?”

Dan grinned. “We’ll figure it out, I’m sure.”

“Alright, man,” Drew said, opening the door and hopping out. “Let’s roll.”

Dan got out, checking his Glock to make sure there was a round in the chamber. Drew cocked his gun, stuffing it in his pants. They made their way toward the nearest truck, eyeing it cautiously. On the left side of the tank, near the frame, there was a gauge, a fuel port, and some buttons.

Dan looked at the gauge, smiling. “Well,” he said. “Looks like it’s almost full.”

Drew eyed the gauge, nodding. “Cool. Should we fill it up the rest of the way or will that do it?”

“Hmm,” Dan said, “Ninety-five percent. That might do it. I guess we just need to find the keys.”

Drew went to the door, cracking it open and hopping onto the seat. He reached over to the glove compartment, finding it empty, and then flipped down the visor.

No keys.

“That’s a lot of fucking gears,” he said, eyeing the gear shift.

“You said you—“

“Relax, man,” Drew said, hopping out. “I’ll get it home. Let’s check the office. Maybe the keys are in there.”

Dan followed him, gripping his Glock and scanning the area around them. He felt unusually nervous for some reason, as if he was in danger of being arrested. But, that wouldn’t happen. He was more likely to get shot.

The office was ransacked. Papers and other clutter were scattered around, and the desk and chair had been overturned. A metal lockbox was mounted on the wall near the door, and Drew knocked on it, smiling.

“I bet they’re in here,” he said.

Dan shrugged. “Okay, then how do we get it open?”

“Stand back,” Drew said, drawing his gun.

“Fuck,” Dan said, hopping out the door again.

He turned his head to the side, squinting. Drew fired, and the gunshot was followed by the breaking of glass, and the whizzing sound of a bullet flying by.

“
Holy shit!”
Drew shouted. “That ricocheted right past my fucking head.”

“Dumbfuck,” Dan muttered, hopping back up into the door.

“It worked, though,” Drew said, pulling the demolished door open.

There was a row of hooks inside, with a set of keys hanging on each one. Four sets. Drew grabbed all four, nodding to Dan to exit again.

“One of these should work,” he said, jingling them in his hand.

“I fucking hope so,” Dan said.

“One of ‘em’s gotta work. Otherwise, we’re fucked, right?”

Drew hopped back up into the driver’s seat, sticking a key in the ignition. Nothing. He frowned, sticking another key in. The truck started up.

“Sweeeeeeet,” Dan said. “Right on, man. Let’s get this fucker home.”

“Meet ya there,” Drew said, pulling the door closed.

The windshield spider-webbed as a gunshot sounded in the distance.

“Fuck!”
Dan shouted, ducking down and searching the area for the shooter. “Drew, you alright?”

“Yeah,” Drew replied, whispering. “I think I shit my pants, though.”

Another gunshot sounded, and the windshield spider-webbed again. This time, Dan heard the direction of the shooter. The sound came from beyond the office trailer, near the row of small residential tanks. Dan peeked around the truck’s bumper, wishing he had brought his rifle.

“I shit my pants again,” Drew said, opening the door and sliding out.

“I can’t see anything,” Dan said. “But it’s coming from those tanks over there.”

“They must have heard me shoot the lockbox.”

They hugged the side of the truck, staring off into the distance, waiting for the shooter to appear. If they could get off one good shot…

But, no. Handguns were for close encounters.

“I’m going to the office,” Dan said.

“Right behind you.”

With one last look, Dan sprinted ahead, keeping crouched with both hands on his Glock. An explosion of dust and gravel erupted near him, and he dove at an angle instinctively, rolling to his feet near the side of the office. Drew slammed against it right beside him.

“Jesus, that was close,” Drew said.

Dan cursed their luck. “I knew we should have brought rifles,” he said. “Or shotguns, at least.”

“It doesn’t make any difference,” Drew said. “We’d never get a shot off anyway. Besides, a lot full of propane tanks isn’t the greatest place to have a shootout.”

Well, Drew was right about that. One good hit and any one of the propane tanks could rupture, blowing them to pieces in a mini Hiroshima explosion. Sort of.

“Maybe we cou—“

Dan was cut short by a hail of gunfire. The shooter erupted into a shooting spree, firing off two more rifle rounds. Then, rapid shots from a pistol sounded, followed by a scream that caused the two men to turn to each other in terror.

“Holy fuck,” Dan whispered. “What happened?”

He leaned out from behind the office to gaze out toward the shooter’s location. There was nothing there that he could see. He held out his hand, waving it up and down in a
bad idea
fashion to draw gunfire. Nothing.

“Uh oh,” he said. “Not good.”

Drew stood, hugging the corner. “Fuck it,” he said. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

Dan stood, ready to sprint back to the truck. “Follow me through town,” he said. “I wanna stop at the convenience store and see if there’s anything left.”

He took off, heading for the pickup as Drew hopped back into the propane truck. There were no shots this time, which worried him. Whoever was shooting at them must have been mobbed. He or she went down in a blaze of glory, emptying a rifle and a handgun before losing out to an unknown attacker.

Dan hopped in the pickup, starting it up and putting it in drive. He waited for Drew to pull the propane truck around and approach the gate, and then slowly started back down the road toward Paragon, keeping his eyes on the tree line on either side. Behind him, he heard the grinding of gears, leading him to believe that Drew’s truck driving skills had been slightly exaggerated.

“Come on, dude,” he said. “Get that fucking thing moving.”

He reached the intersection going to town. It was only a short drive, and the convenience store—if it still stood—was one of the only commercial businesses there. It shouldn’t be hard to spot.

Dan turned right, watching in the rear-view mirror as Drew turned with him. It was only a few short blocks before the rows of houses appeared on either side. Everything was run down, which was to be expected. None of the houses were boarded up; most of them had their doors flapping open and their windows were busted out. There were a few cars in the middle of the street—their doors open, too.

There were bodies scattered in a few places, half eaten and ripped apart by ravenous creatures, presumably. The largest concentration of them was near the front of a burnt out house. It was crumbled and black, and the roof had collapsed. The house next door was damaged and crumbled on one side; probably collateral damage from the fire.

There was a small dog sitting on the porch.

Dan glared at it as he drove by. The little dog glared back; it was neither aggressive nor friendly, just watching.

Weird.

Ahead, the houses gave way to a block with one gas station, an auto repair shop, and an empty parking lot with three abandoned cars parked randomly. The gas station doubled as the town’s grocery store. It was still in good repair, but the glass door had been busted out and one of the large windows in front had a spider-webbed bullet hole in it.

Dan pulled into the store’s lot, waiting while Drew parked the propane truck on the street. Then, he got out and scanned the neighborhood around him, listening for anything unusual. There were no birds or anything; just the silent white noise of the wind.

Drew ran up from across the street, grinning as he approached. “Did you see that dog back there?”

“Yeah,” Dan said. “Poor little guy.”

“Nah,” Drew laughed. “He’s got it made. He’s all alone in a little shit town with plenty of corpses to munch on.”

Dan cringed, drawing his Glock. “Let’s go shopping.”

The store was in shambles. Broken bottles, crushed cans, and other trash littered the floor. The displays had been knocked off their mounts, and were empty and dented. The glass cooler doors were shattered, and the coffee and soda fountain stations were completely destroyed. The cash register was gone, presumably robbed for some reason, and the cigarette displays had been broken into.

There were still cigarettes left, though.

Drew went around the counter, grabbing some plastic bags and filling them with tobacco products. Dan went to the back to look at the coolers. Most of the good beer was gone, but there were still twelve-packs of lower quality piss left. Dan grinned, regardless. Beer was beer. He stuffed his Glock into his belt, grabbing two twelves in each hand, and went out to the truck to load them up in the bed.

As he was returning, he saw the little dog trotting down the street toward him. It was a pug, or some other kind of ankle biter. It was black, with a cropped tail, and that
I’m an angry ogre
underbite and bulging eyes.

He shook his head and went back inside. Drew was on his way out carrying four plastic bags stuffed with tobacco products, grinning.

“We’re set for a while,” he said.

“I got beer,” Dan replied.

He went back to the coolers to search some more. There were bottles of water, some energy drinks, and a few spoiled cartons of milk; all bloated and ready to explode. He heard the dog yapping outside, and grinned when Drew shouted, “
Shut up, ya fuckin’ flea bag!”

He grabbed the remaining beer, loaded it up, and came back for the other drinks. Drew was back behind the counter, shuffling through the items in another display case.

“Hey, man,” Drew said. “There’s a liquor display, but it’s locked.”

“Bust it out,” Dan called back.

He turned back to sort through the beverages, stuffing the energy drinks and water into a plastic bag. A gunshot startled him, and he shot straight up to see Drew stuffing his gun back into his belt.

“Jesus Christ, dude,” he said. “Remember what happened last time you shot something open?”

“You said bust it out.”

Dan shook his head in disbelief. “I meant with your elbow or something, dipshit.”

He continued stuffing his bag, hearing the clinking of bottles as Drew loaded up his own bag.

“There’s some good stuff in here,” Drew said. “All pints and half pints, but good stuff nonetheless. Oh shit, check this out.”

Dan looked up just as Drew cocked a shotgun. “Mr. Hooper was packin’,” Drew said, referring to the grocer on
Sesame Street.

The dog started barking again, and Dan stood to move closer to the window. He could see the little thing yipping and trembling as it barked toward the opposite street corner. He looked in that direction, seeing nothing, but pulled out his gun anyway.

“He sees something,” Drew said, emerging from the counter with two bags full of liquor bottles. “I’ll get these into the truck. Grab that shotgun.”

Dan kept staring out as he went to the counter. Then, he looked down to grab the shotgun, seeing a baseball bat lying on the floor. He grabbed that, too, retrieved his bags of beverages, and followed Drew out.

“I think that’s enough,” Dan said. “We have a bunch of shit to last a while.”

The dog stopped barking, but turned to them whining.

“Should we take him with us?” Dan asked.

Drew gritted his teeth. “I don’t know, man. That cat…”

“That was days ago,” Dan reminded him. “I would think if the dog was infected, he would have cocooned by now.”

Drew sighed, opening the door. “Come on, buddy,” he said. The dog stared at him, and then turned to face the street again.

“Well, fuck you,” he said, shutting the door.

Dan put his bags into the bed, arranging them all so they wouldn’t slide around as he drove. The dog suddenly began barking again, and Drew grabbed him by the arm.

“
Fuck dude!”
he shouted.

Dan turned to see a horde of stumblers rushing across the street, growling and gagging as they shot straight toward them. Dan’s heart jumped in his chest, and he tossed Drew the shotgun, running around to the driver’s side of the pickup.

“Let’s get the fuck out of here,” he growled.

Another stumbler suddenly came around the corner on Dan’s side, its arms out and its teeth bared. Dan instinctively brought up the bat, bashing the thing in the head. There was a crack as the bat connected, and the thing spun on its feet, collapsing to the pavement in a puddle of blood and brains.

Drew fired the shotgun repeatedly, moving toward the store’s front door. “
Back inside,”
he shouted.

Dan raced back to the door as the horde reached the parking lot. He glared at them in horror as he entered, locking the door as quickly as he could.

There was no glass!

“
Fuck!”
he cursed, turning to Drew.

“The shelves!” Drew suggested; running back around the corner.

The two of them pushed one of the displays to the door, going back to move another as the horde hit the first one. They pushed forward with all of their strength, groaning and growling as their feet slid on the cheap tile floor.

“Goddamnit,” Dan said. “Floor’s too fucking slippery. We’ll never keep them out of here.”

He turned around, pushing with his back and slapping another magazine in his Glock. That’s when he noticed the door to the back area of the gas station; probably the garage.

“Let’s go out the back,” he said.

Drew nodded. “Alright. On three.”

Dan pushed back as Drew counted. On three, they rushed the door, and Drew turned to blast a round into the shelving. Dan grabbed the knob.

The door was locked.

“
Fuck!”
he shouted.

He turned around just as the horde knocked the shelving unit over. It went crashing to the floor, and the ragged, ravenous sickies stumbled over it, their eyes crazy-wide and burning with hunger. Dan leveled his Glock at the closest face he saw, putting a bullet right in the center of its forehead. The stumbler jerked upright, falling face down on the floor.

Dan heard the blast of the shotgun, and turned as Drew kicked the weakened door open.

“Let’s go,” Drew said.

They ran into the garage, slamming the door behind them and bracing it with a metal desk. The horde banged against the door, pushing it farther open with each impact. Their growls and sickening moans were almost deafening.

Dan’s eyes darted around the garage as they ran for the large door at the other end. He saw two barrels of 10W-40 oil beside a lift that was centered in front of the door. Oil was slippery.

“The oil,” he said, pointing to the barrels.

The two of them each grabbed a barrel, uncapping it and knocking it over. The sticky amber liquid glopped onto the floor, pooling around the lift and running toward the barricaded door. Drew grabbed a can of paint thinner from a nearby shelf, flinging its contents on the oil while they backed away. Dan grabbed another, doing the same.

Then, the desk was knocked away as the writhing stumblers burst through the door. They immediately slid and tumbled to the floor as their feet hit the slippery oil. They writhed and flailed as they struggled to get to their feet. Dan created a line of paint thinner as he shuffled backward, pulling out his lighter and throwing the empty can at their helpless pursuers.

“Say goodnight, motherfuckers,” he said as he lit the liquid fuse.

The giant pool of oil ignited like napalm, engulfing the stumblers in a hellish fireball. Drew howled, clapping Dan on the back as they lifted the garage door and ducked under.

“Good idea, man,” Drew yelled. “That was awesome!”

“MacGuyver was my hero,” Dan joked.

They turned back to look at their handiwork. Smoke was billowing from the back of the station, filling the air with the stink of petroleum and burning flesh. Through the broken windows, the two of them could hear the dying screams of the stumblers echoing from the garage.

“Meet ya at home,” Drew said.

Dan howled in triumph as they rounded the gas station back to the parking lot. Drew passed the pickup to return to the propane truck. As he reached the street, a stumbler emerged from behind another car. Drew lifted the shotgun, still running, and blasted the creature away without a second of hesitation. He yelled like a cowboy and leaped up into the driver’s seat.

Dan opened the pickup’s door and slid in. Before he could close it, a high pitched whine caught his attention. The pug was there, looking up at him with pleading eyes. Dan’s heart sank; both in pity and a
goddamnit
sensation.

“Goddamnit,” he said, sighing. “Come on, buddy.”

The dog hopped up on his lap, jumping off onto the passenger seat. Dan shook his head, starting the truck and pulling out as Drew took off.

“Well,” he said. “Looks like you’re coming home with us. Better not turn into anything weird.”

The dog wagged its tail, rising up to look out the windshield, its tiny little tongue hanging out with glee.

“Little fucker.”