Wormwood Dawn (Episode II) (6 page)

After a couple quick showers, some canned soup, and some nice, cold beer to start the day, Dan and Drew set out to procure some gasoline. Their supply was running low, and without it, the generator would be useless; along with the pickup, of course. Thankfully, the Humvee had a
flex-fuel
engine, and could run on just about anything.

They had removed the gas tank from Steve’s piece of shit car, along with the tanks of two other abandoned vehicles on the street, and loaded them side by side in the bed of the truck. The tanks totaled fifty gallons altogether. That should get them through the rest of the month, at least.

Dan had fashioned a battery-powered siphon from a car charger and a small fountain pump from his garage. It wasn’t very powerful, and would likely go pretty slow, but that beat a mouthful of gasoline.

“I can’t believe nobody on this street has their own stash,” Drew said. “All these hermits…”

Dan grinned. “They’re not all hermits,” he said. “And not all of them were preppers, either. Some people just like peace and quiet.”

He pulled out of the driveway, heading off to the right to cross the creek. They bounced over it; every rock jolting the truck as they drove through the foot-deep water. They passed Gary and Linda’s, slowing to look at their house, and remembered the shocking events that happened there. Dan still couldn’t forget the sight of Linda’s brains rolling down the wall.

They went past Shirley’s house quickly, both of them staring as they went by. They were both fairly certain she was there in one of the windows watching them. Drew smiled and waved just in case.

After a few miles of winding, gravel road, they came upon another neighborhood. This one was more closely packed; with houses that were no more than twenty yards apart. It was very residential, as compared to the rest of the street. Most of the houses were torn apart; windows busted out, doors knocked in, and the walls crumbled and charred. Even the cars were filled with what looked like bullet holes.

“Looks like the mercs have been here,” Drew said.

Dan nodded. “No doubt they killed everybody. I don’t see any bodies, though.”

He slowed, scanning the area. Some of the cars would probably still have gas in them. None of them looked like they had even been used since the shit hit the fan. This was probably a good place to start.

Dan pulled into a driveway next to a nearly brand new, red pickup. It would, no doubt, have a large gas tank. Drew got out first, opening the fuel cover and sniffing.

“Smells like it has a little,” he said.

Dan plugged the car charger into the cigarette lighter, handing the siphon out the window. He got out as Drew stuck the intake hose into the truck’s gas tank, and Dan put the outlet in the largest of the tanks they had. In a few minutes, they had a steady stream going.

“Remember that scene from that Cheech and Chong movie?” Drew said. “Where they were stealing gas and carrying it around in a garbage can?”

Dan smiled, picturing the two hippies sloshing gas all over themselves and then firing up a joint in their car.  “Yeah,” he said. “Let’s not do that.”

He reached into the truck to grab the empty backpack, eyeing the house with caution. “I’m going inside,” he said. “They might have food.”

“And beer,” Drew finished, “and drugs.”

Slinging the backpack over his shoulder, and grabbing a SPAS-12, he approached the front door. It was ajar, with the storm door busted out, and several bullet holes in the small glass panes. Dan peered inside. It was dark, even in the morning sunlight.

He opened the storm door, leaning up against it as he slowly turned the handle of the main door and gently pushed it open. All was quiet, dusty, and seemed frozen in time. The living room was a mess. Chairs and tables were overturned, bullet holes riddled the walls, and the flat screen TV had been smashed. All of the pictures that once hung on the walls were lying on the floor, stomped and shattered by heavy boots.

Gephardt had definitely been here.

He jumped as a rat scurried across the floor and disappeared into the kitchen. “Jesus,” he mumbled. “Fucking rats.”

He approached the archway to the kitchen, holding the shotgun out in front of him. This room, too, was in shambles. The kitchen table was piled with chunks of drywall that had fallen from the ceiling. Broken plates were arranged in family dinner fashion; empty and cracked. There were more bullet holes in the walls, and what looked like a shotgun blast. Below it, the body of a merc lay there, stiff and stinking.

Dan bent down to look. The guy had a huge hole in his chest, obviously a shotgun blast at close range. The Kevlar vest he wore was torn and burnt. Apparently, the blast was literally point-blank. He was dressed in black, as they all were, with the truncated triangle symbol on his sleeve. He wore a Kevlar helmet, and a gas mask.

Dan reached out to remove the mask, stuffing it in his backpack. He would have to remember to wash it. He stood and turned to the L-shaped kitchen behind him. The counters were bare, and the refrigerator door was open. Nothing inside. He went through the cabinets, ignoring the spices and boxed pasta helper meals.

The corner cabinet was stuffed with canned vegetables, tuna, beans, and even a couple cans of chili. He quickly loaded them in his backpack. The next cabinet was a pharmacy. He grinned and stared like a kid who had just discovered the doorway to Narnia.

“Holy shit,” he said.

There were vitamins of all types, some OTC painkillers, and an entire shelf full of prescription meds; including Viagra. “Of course,” he mouthed.

Without looking, he swept the entire cabinet’s contents into his pack, turning to face the refrigerator again. A case of light beer, mostly full, sat beside it, along with a twelve pack of diet cola. He slung his shotgun and backpack over his shoulder, grabbing them, and headed for the front door.

Drew was still pumping gas, leaning against their pickup, smoking a cigarette.

“Are you fucking nuts?” Dan asked him, throwing the cola and beer in the back of the bed.

“Fumes, man,” Drew said. “It’s all fumes, and cigarettes don’t get hot enough to ignite them.”

Dan shook his head, throwing the backpack on the passenger-side floor. “Good score in the kitchen,” he said. “There was a dead merc in there, too. Looks like Daddy got one. I’m going back in to check the bedrooms.”

He went back in, heading to the left this time. The hallway floor was covered with fallen pictures, and the three doors were open. The first room was a child’s bedroom, complete with crayon drawings on the walls, toys scattered on the floor, and a messy bed. The child himself lay there on his side, filled with bullet holes.

Dan sighed.
Poor kid.

The next door led to the bathroom. It was fairly clean, but the medicine cabinet was open and empty. Nothing in there. The bathtub was filthy, coated in grime and soap scum. Also empty.

He went back out into the hallway, peering into the last room. A man and woman about his age lay face down on the floor, with pools of dried blood surrounding their shattered skulls. They had been killed execution style; one bullet in the back of the head. They had been murdered in cold blood by wannabe soldiers.

“Fucking animals,” Dan said.

Daddy’s shotgun lay near him. It was an old Ithaca; dusty and corroded. It probably jammed after Daddy blasted the merc in the kitchen.

There was nothing useful in here, either.

He turned, jumping as he saw Drew standing in the doorway.

“
Fuck dude!”
he shouted as Drew grinned. “You scared the shit out of me.”

“Tank’s empty now,” Drew said. “We probably got about twelve gallons. Anything good?”

Dan stepped to the side, showing Drew the two bodies. Drew frowned when he saw them.

“Damn,” he said. “This was like a Gestapo raid.”

“You don’t wanna look in the other bedroom.”

Drew nodded. “I’ll take your word for it. Let’s move on.”

The next house over was in pretty much the same shape. Though there were very few useful items, they managed to score a small solar charger. It would work with Dan’s laptop. The only other item was a .44 caliber revolver. That would be useful, too.

Across the street, a decrepit shack-like house was nestled back in the trees. It was sided with corrugated metal in a few places, and the roof had patches of blue tarpaulin covering what were probably rot holes. The chimney was collapsing, and the windows were mostly boarded up or covered in milky white plastic.

“What a shit hole,” Drew said.

Dan pulled in the driveway next to the rusted Pinto. Drew got out and checked the gas tank.

“It’s full,” he said. “Do your thing and I’ll do mine.”

Dan grabbed a few empty bags from the floor of the truck, doubling them up for strength, and walked up the cracked sidewalk. The porch slab was cracked and crumbling, with small piles of gravel and lime scattered around it. The smell of garbage—and possibly shit—hung in the air like a dense fog.

“Oh man,” he whispered as he opened the screen door with his shotgun.

A cat banged against the door, prompting a trigger pull, and disappeared around the corner. The door jamb exploded with the shotgun blast.

“Fuck dude!” he heard Drew say behind him.

Dan shook his head, stepping into the shithole house. The carpet was filthy, caked with cat shit, spilled food, and something white and sticky-looking. It seemed to be pooled in the center of the room. The pool rippled as something dripped into it from above. Dan looked up, seeing a dark stain on the ceiling. White fluid dripped slowly from its center, down into the pool below. Dan swallowed, fearing whatever could be in the attic.

The fluid looked similar to what he saw spewing from the cat’s cocoon once it exploded in the fire. But with the volume of the disgusting stuff that was here on the floor, this was no cat cocoon. It was probably something bigger; the owner perhaps.

He quickly exited, running up to Drew as he pulled the hose form the gas tank. “There’s a cocoon in the attic,” Dan said. “Probably a big one.”

“Did you go up there?” Drew asked.

“No. But there’s a giant puddle of goo on the living room floor, and the whole place smells like ass.”

“It probably smelled like ass before,” Drew said. “So what do we do? Burn it down?”

Dan looked back at the house. It was probably a good idea. Whoever lived here was unlikely to have anything of value. He was obviously dirt poor, and a hermit. But, he could have something. “Maybe if we’re quiet, we can scope it out for a minute.”

“Quiet?” Drew laughed. “You blasted a hole in the door jamb.”

Dan nodded. “True,” he said. “But let’s both go in and look real quick.”

Drew threw the pump back into the truck and grabbed his shotgun. They quietly returned to the house, looking out for asshole cats, and stepped inside. Drew stared at the pool of goo, a disgusted look spreading across his face.

“Fuckin’ gross,” he said, looking up. “Yeah, there’s definitely something nasty in the attic.”

Dan crept through the mess, looking around the living room for anything useful. There was very little in the way of modern technology; a CRT TV, a remote, a gaming console he didn’t recognize, and a large ashtray full of unfiltered cigarette butts.

There was also a tray of weed.

“There you go,” Dan said, pointing at it.

Drew cringed. “I don’t know, man,” he said. “If there’s a baggy lying around, I’ll grab it, but I’m not smokin’ that.”

Dan shrugged, turning the corner to peer into the hallway. The carpet was ripped in places, showing the plywood floor underneath. The walls were punctured—probably
punch holes—
and filth ran down them in a surprising quantity. There looked to be dried vomit, handprints, and mold. Dan held his breath as he walked, keeping the shotgun held out with one hand.

“I’m checking out the kitchen,” Drew said.

There were two doors in the hallway, both of them missing their actual doors. One was a bathroom with its door covered with a hanging curtain with weird paisley designs on it. Dan didn’t really want to go in; it smelled horrible.

The second door, also covered with a curtain, led to a bedroom. From the hallway, Dan could tell that it was going to be filthy. Even the first few feet of the floor showed grime, dried cat shit, and piles of caked in vomit.

He stuck his shotgun through the curtain, moving it aside as he stepped in front of the door. There was a dresser with the drawers open and piled with clothing, and a single bed—with an occupant sitting on the edge, staring out the window. He was a fat man, with a filthy white wife-beater, and striped boxers. He was unmoving, but breathing heavily and wheezing.

“Hey, buddy,” Dan whispered.

The man sulked, teetering from side to side. He burped, lifting a half full bottle of whiskey to his lips and taking a swig.

“Hey, man,” Dan said.

The man slowly turned, dropping the whiskey bottle and staring at Dan with oddly shifting eyes. He was missing teeth, and his hair was frizzy and sticking out.