No Room In Hell (Book 2): 400 Miles To Graceland Page 12

  “Did Mother never read to you?” Kale inquires.

  “Like she had time to read shitting out five kids.”

  “I’ll get you a copy of the allegory The Ant and the Grasshopper,” Kale says.

  “Bro, does it have pictures?”

  “Seven months gives us plenty of time to stock supplies. Canned food only lasts so long. Most of the boxed stuff will be reaching its expiration dates by now. Gasoline will sour and rust out car tanks. We have to prepare.”

  “I say we beat that Lindsey girl ‘til she tells us where the other FEMA trucks are.”

  “We could. She might know, but food will expire and there’s no guarantee someone else hasn’t raided the trucks already. We must establish ourselves.”

  “We just raid for supplies.”

  “I just explained to you how that will only work for a little while longer.”

  “You want to turn us all into farmers?” Kaleb spits.

  “I’ve calculated without a gas supply in two years we’ll be plowing the field with oxen.”

  “These men won’t go for that. They’ll leave.”

  “I realize they would rather face death in the unknown than perform manual labor.”

  “Then who’s going to work it, slaves?” Kaleb asks.

  “I know your redneck IQ demands you believe in the South rising again, but a slave system won’t work. If you paid more attention in history class you’d understand slavery brought the end to the South. I propose we use feudalism.”

  Kaleb’s eyes go blank.

  “Don’t stop to think, you won’t start again. You, Kaleb, will function as the lord of the manor. We won’t use the term ‘king’, but you, as our Lord and Protector, will do just that. These men we have now will become your vassals. They will bring in survivors and we will make them—”

  Kaleb interrupts, “Slaves.”

  “Serfs. We’ll make use of Serfdom.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You did complete the eighth grade. You studied manorialism, the cornerstone of feudal society in the high middle ages.”

  Kaleb retains his deer-in-the-headlights stare.

  “I’ll keep it simple. You find people. You bring them back here. They agree to farm the land and you and your men protect them. No rape. No beatings. No abuse.”

  “What if they don’t want to farm?”

  “Then when you go out on your next supply run you drop them off. They’ll stay and work to feed their protectors.”

  “That sounds like a pretty good system. Why’d they stop doing it?”

  “Democracy.”

  “We won’t have none of that.”

  “No. You’re the Lord and your word is law, but, Kaleb, you can’t abuse the serfs. We need them as much as they need us. And we need to find a doctor or we’ll have to employ the horse-has-a-broken-leg method.”

  “Execute our wounded.”

  “From now on, anyone hurt badly enough to die will return and we can’t have them attacking anyone. Now, put together a crew and take two trucks. I need the map, and find a feed store.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Determine which fields are best to plow for planting.”

  Maybe some Latin painted above the farm gate—Survival First. Not that I remember much Latin. The motto will serve as a reminder. I’ll keep this camp secure and my brother under control. Infected shouldn’t be a major issue. Swarms of the undead have no reason to travel this far from the interstate and steadier food supplies. A cattle herd may attract attention. We will have to build a stock yard and pen them up at night. Once my survival projects are underway, I’ll focus Kaleb on my true agenda, Kale plots.

  Finding and personally killing the unnamed man who murdered Kade and Kani. He won’t let his brothers’ deaths go unavenged. Reports have the military convoy going west after Fort Wood exploded. An irrational vengeance should send him scouring to the west and even raid the military base. Foolish actions, and he understands that. No, the man killing Kade was smart. Not as smart as him, but smart. He faked going west. At some point, he doubles back and his camp is somewhere in the east. He will send Kaleb on a county-by-county search until they find him. It will take time but a brother never forgets.

  Kale decided to add motivation to his brother’s mission.

  Kale leads Kaleb to a small white utility shed behind the farmhouse. The hum of the generator permeates the air.

  “Once food supplies and security has been established, you have one final task to perform as the head of our family.”

  Inside, a hospital bed contains a man shackled to the rails. Medical monitors chirp and beep with the patient’s vitals. Charred and burnt chunks of skin cover exposed chest, arms and bald head. Regulating his breathing through oxygen tubes taped over the hole where the nose once was. Intravenous fluids and other medical devices monitor his vitals.

  “You’re concerned with dwindling resources and my meth parties and you keep this…thing alive.”

  “Take a closer look at the thing in the bed,” Kale orders

  “Looks like a charcoal briquette.”

  “It’s Hale. Kade’s wingman.”

  “He failed my brother and you’re keeping him alive. What the fuck for?” He flicks open his knife blade.

  “He’s been in and out of a coma. My intention was not to waste needed medicine, but to learn Kade’s fate.”

  “He has tubes down his throat, and I didn’t think coma patients could talk.”

  “I will explain this for your fifth-grade education.”

  “I’m not stupid, just not book smart.”

  “After we abandoned Fort Leonard Wood, I waited for people to flee the Infected drawn to the base by the explosions. I took a team back to scavenge. I found Hale in a smoldering building. He had crawled there bleeding from multiple bullet wounds. He used the fire to cauterize the bleeding. The pain overwhelms him and he passed out still on fire,” Kale explains.

  “Put a bullet in him and end his pain. He’s earned sleep and not returning.”

  “His brain still functions unlike yours. It has taken me all week, but with the work of a sketch artist I have a composite of the man who killed our brother.” Kale takes a plastic-covered paper from the table next to the bed. “This man left the base with a caravan of military supplies and people with specific skills needed to survive in this new world.”

  “In a month, they would all be used up.”

  “Not if they have a compound and ration the supplies. Only a fool parties away a year’s worth of emergency rations in a week. This man will have a colony and have more than just these supplies. He went north. After we secure our camp, we hunt him and take what he loves.” Kale flips a light switch, cutting power to the medical equipment before handing Kaleb a sketch of Ethan.

  STATUESQUE IN A prone position, Levin lies across the barn rafters. None of those who enter the open framed structure bother to glance up—until he pounces.

  Levin tackles George.

  The attack hinders Sam from escaping. She finds herself unable to scream. Her brain, powerless to handle another attack, relives the moment when Kyle grabbed her. He forced himself on top of her and then into her. Equally horrifying was Ethan’s interrogation of her about the assault. As much as she wanted Kyle punished, she understood why so many women never reported rape. Telling about it was worse. Nearly worse than the original brutalization. Ethan’s punishment was beyond the Old Testament from Sunday school. Or was it? Kyle took something from her, and as retribution, Ethan removed something of Kyle’s.

  She trusted the doctors when they said she had to go back into the barn in order to deal with her assault. She backs up against the wall. Her eyes widen as Levin’s blade slashes into the cowering George.

  The dark-headed George annoyed her, but he never made her insecure about being alone with him. He lacked an imposing demeanor being shorter than her. Best he could do in a fight was bite someone in the kneecap.

  The scalpe
l dulls with each slash. Levin makes no wide arching swings; all his cuts are precision. When he ceases, blood splatters cover him and decorate the hay like a child’s first finger painting. Dealt dozens of cuts, George moans on the ground. As Levin steps toward her, George finds one last bit of strength to grab Levin’s ankle. Levin merely kicks the man in the ribs, sending concussive coughs through him.

  Somewhere in Sam’s mind she wonders why this crazed lunatic leaves George to bleed out. She should be figuring out a way to escape. George moans a puppy whimper. He reaches out his arm and digs his finger through the straw, pushing into the dirt. With a firm grip, he drags himself toward the door. Inching forward, he only moves about the length of his hand before Levin slashes off his pinky finger. George whines.

  Nothing Sam does prevents the flood of her emotions. The terror of her previous assault melts her knees. Her mind overlaps this attack with what Kyle did to her. Her mixing thoughts of both events makes it impossible for her to know what reality she sinks into. Something inside Sam demands she screams. Another part remembers what Kyle said, She’d live if she just let it happen. If she screamed he’d snap her neck. She’ll return as a biter. He’d shoot her and no one would ever know. They’d assume she fell in the barn.

  George groans.

  Pain means he lives, but Sam has no chance of rescue from him. She wishes he’d die. As a biter, he might be able to help her. Near death offers no hope. Sam needs George to die. If he’s dead she might be able to run while the new biter distracts her assailant. Run. She forgot how to run. His hot breath radiates goose flesh down her back as he breathes on her neck.

  “You’re almost too old.”

  Seventeen.

  She’s only seventeen. Ripe for plucking in the old world even if she’s still built like a scarecrow. He’s even more sick than she realized if he wants younger girls. Sam’s thoughts betray her desire to escape.

  Memories of Kyle’s assault overshadows the touch of this man’s cupping her left breast. Her nipple stiffens then falls, collapsing in. The impact on the ground forces all the air from her lungs. She has no fight in her.

  “Please don’t cut me,” she whimpers.

  He yanks her to her shaking legs by her dirty blonde hair. Marching her from the barn, she gets five feet before her legs give out. Levin drags her like a caveman’s trophy wife.

  Pain.

  Needles puncture her skullcap as all the hair follicles fight being torn loose. Sam opens her mouth. She must scream. She believed resisting Kyle’s violation of her womanhood meant death. She realizes this maniac intends to kill her whether she cooperates or if she struggles. Some new fire flickers in her soul. Better in her last few moments to live standing than to be the frightened girl forced to endure a second assault.

  Stepping closer toward him reduces the pull he maintains on her hair. His firm grip doesn’t relax, but Levin didn’t expect her to move toward him. Giving Sam a moment—half a second at best—to execute a plan of resistance. She swings. The last few weeks of farm work added to her musculature. The battering ram punch bends the bulge in Levin’s pants. Enough to cause instant flaccidness and a whimper. He folds onto his butt.

  Success, but Levin never released the grip on her hair. Sam finds her face raked over the gravel. Wet scrapes burn.

  HANNAH SLIDES THE rifle into the leather scabbard secured to the saddle. She checks her synch strap before flipping down the stirrup.

  “I didn’t know you could ride,” Nick says.

  “Privileged white girl syndrome I don’t have. Maybe you thought I needed an English saddle.”

  “No. Military bases no longer have a cavalry.”

  “Shouldn’t you be working?” she asks.

  “Give you a gun and you’re a different girl.”

  She slips her foot from the stirrup. “Maybe so, but you know they wanted to put me in the kitchen. Besides the woman’s place bullshit, my father wants me protected.” She puts her arm around his waist. “I get to do inside fence patrols and I plan to keep this job. Prove I don’t need a nursemaid.” She kisses his cheek. The stubble scrapes her lips. She wishes for Chapstick. “You need a shave.”

  Nick rubs his bewhiskered chin. “I thought I’d grow a beard. I don’t have to answer to military protocol anymore.”

  “If I don’t like it, you’ll have to shave it.” She grabs the saddle horn.

  “I don’t answer to you.”

  Hannah whispers next to his ear, “If you want to do more than kiss me, you’ll be smooth faced.” She pulls herself onto the saddle.

  “You be careful out there.” Nick pats the horse’s rump. “I’ll see you at dinner.”

  “Clean shaven?” she calls after him as he returns to his vehicle.

  Hannah adjusts herself in the saddle before choking up on the reins. She gives her mount a kiss-click with her tongue in order to trot it forward. She forces herself not to glance back at Nick. She wants to but enjoys making him sweat when it comes to their fledgling relationship.

  “How does this work?” she asks the redhead on the painted mare.

  “Jessica, and not Rabbit.” She offers Hannah sunblock. “You might want this.”

  Hannah takes the tube.

  Before she asks, the taller man says, “Forgive the ginger. She thinks everyone watched Who Framed Roger Rabbit. I’m Bert, by the way.”

  “I missed that film,” Hannah admits.

  “It’s a classic.”

  “What do we do?” Hannah asks again.

  “The fence stretches for miles and every few weeks expands. Giving us a nice protected territory,” Bert says.

  “The undead keep us on a reservation,” Jessica says.

  “We ride the fence line checking for breaches. Enough undead are capable of making holes. Simple holes, I have wire to fix. I have ribbon to tie as a marker for large issues we report and send a team back to repair,” Bert says.

  “If there’s a danger. A biter got in or will. We’ll stay and secure the problem,” Jessica says.

  “So, we just ride the fence line?” Hannah asks.

  “We change our pattern, just in case.”

  “In case of what?” Hannah asks.

  “We’ve got a great home here. Eventually, someone will want to take it from us,” Bert adds.

  “It’s not like you don’t take people in.”

  “We do. The military group was the largest. We just have to be careful our growth matches our food supply,” Jessica says.

  “Where do we patrol today?”

  “Newbie’s choice,” Bert says.

  “How about the lake?” Hannah asks.

  “We do sweep the shoreline. A biter corpse washed up once, and someone could paddle over from the side of the lake we don’t control.”

  “It will change our routine,” Jessica says. “We never start there.”

  Emily stomps up the stairs until she realizes she rattles the house. She wants Ethan awake but not at the expense of the rest he needs. She takes the next step almost at a tiptoe. Reaching the bedroom, she slips inside wanting to slide into the bed next to him the way she caught Amie.

  Ethan rolls to his side. Her lips draw into a smile. It’s the first time he’s moved under his own power since he was brought here. She creeps closer as not to startle him.

  “Genoveva,” tumbles from his lips. Upon realizing he spoke as if revealing his most guarded secret, Ethan wakes. He grunts from the stiffened pain of movement. Between atrophy and healing bruises, his entire body twinges.

  Has to be what a bed of nails feels like. Little pricks decorate his skin. Jabbing him in waves.

  He lifts his arm, but the weight of the cover sends it back to the bed. Every move hurts but every move releases the tension built from days of sleep. “Did someone get the number of that bus?”

  “Do you feel like eating?” What the fuck kind of question is that? He just woke. Dumb girl. “I’m so glad you’re alive.”

  “Me, too,” he grunts.

 
“I don’t know where to start. After three days, you must need food. More than the IV gives you.”

  “I hate needles,” The dark purple marks on his arm have dimmed, turning a green-gray around the edges.

  “What do you need, Ethan?” she asks. It’s all she has not to ask who Genoveva is.

  “I need you to be calm. I need to get up—move.” He shifts to his elbows, but falls back. “Maybe not.”

  “You have no reason to get up. I’ll get whatever you need. Just heal.” Uncontrollable tears race down her cheeks. “Just don’t die.”

  “I’m not going to die.” He moves half an inch with pain-grunts. “Okay. I’ll eat. How about some bacon?”

  “I’ve got some bacon and chicken. Protein. You need it. To heal.”

  “In between painting your toenails and missing your iPod, did you learn to cook?”

  She has socks on and he’s not moved his head enough to even glance at her feet. So she knows he’s guessing she has on a fresh coat of polish. “Private Sanchez isn’t bad in front of the stove.” Plus, bacon will force her to keep her shirt on.

  “Sounds good. When I don’t move, the pain I have may be hunger. Better get Dr. Baker and Wanikiya. They need to know I’ve returned to the living.”

  TOM’S NOT SURE what one-horse town he stumbled into, but it’s at least large enough to have a corner drug store. His stomach flip-flops as it notes it’s one of those ole-timey places with the soda fountains. The kind of place operating as a general store, but now is filled with useless crafts and novelties, cheap ice cream, and with any luck, an unraided drug counter. More important, he needs pain meds for his broken left arm and maybe some antibiotics to sway any infection growing.

  His fireman experience reminds him that normally these buildings have apartments on the floors above the stores, so he could find a safe place to secure and sleep.

  Exploring the outside of the building, he discovers the front door opens with the ringing of a bell. He snags the bobbing metal above him and jerks, breaking the bell from its hanger. Tom spins around letting the door close behind him. He glances up and down the street.