Fountain of the Dead (15 page)

* * * * *

“Are we there yet?” Pierce asked. Frank gripped the wheel tighter and pulled the Jeep over into the shoulder. He stepped out and walked around the front of the Jeep. The other cars slowed to a stop behind him.

“What’s the issue?” Gerry asked through the window.

“I’m going to kill him. I just want to put a bullet or six through his brain pan and paint the street red and grey with his brains.”

“You’ve thought about this a lot?”

“Since Cambridge. Normally I’d listen to the Red Sox or Patriots on road trips. I used to keep the glove box packed with books on CD. I need to keep myself amused somehow.” Frank grabbed the walkie from the dash. “Catherine, would you mind bringing the maps out here?” She stepped from the car with a handful of papers. Sharon trailed behind her, pistols at the ready.

“If we keep stopping every ten minutes we’re never going to get there,” Pierce yelled.

Frank took the maps and spread them on the hood of the Monte. He traced a finger down 84. “If I remember correctly we have some weird ass bridges and merges outside Hartford.”

“I’ll have Sam scan the AM stations, and maybe he can pick up some pirate radio. We have no idea what Hartford is like. It might be totally barren, or like Boston with a few buildings holding the survivors.”

“I don’t know, Catherine,” Frank said. “I haven’t been down these parts in a long time. We haven’t had to come down this far to forage yet.” Frank looked up from the maps. “That house we stack the dead things in? It’s full. We’re going to need another one.”

“Focus Frank. Let’s be careful, and keep alert.” She walked to the explorer and knocked on the window. She grimaced at Danny’s empty seat. Sam’s dog jumped over and stuck his cold nose in her face. She laughed and scratched his muzzle. “Sam, please scan the AM stations, see if you get any broadcasts.”

* * * * *

Frank eased the Jeep around an overturned tanker trunk, the contents long since stolen or dried up. A bloody baseball cap was on the floor; it read ‘Eatin’ ain’t Cheatin’. Pierce tapped him on the shoulder.

“How long until Danbury?” Pierce’s breath washed over Frank’s cheek.

“Three maybe four hours. It depends on Hartford,” Gerry said and folded up the map.

“What’s in Hartford?” Williams asked.

“We have no idea.  Route 84 will bring us from one corner of the state to the other. But Hartford is a big city and they have bridges more fucked up than Boston.”

“How long til’ Hartford?” Pierce asked.

“Maybe 90 minutes. There’s no speed limit, no cops, and no radar detectors. But we can’t move too fast. We get too comfortable and we stop being careful.” Frank pointed to side at a pack of zombies shambling down the shoulder. “Drive too fast, we blow a tire, people get bitten.”

“I say speed up and worry about careful when we’re in the Everglades,” Pierce said.

“And I say shut up, Pierce, and let the man drive.” Williams said and turned towards the window. He pressed himself back into the seat to get more room; the bag of weapons and ammo heavy on his feet and ankles.

Frank continued down 84 doing his best to look everywhere for threats. Next to him Gerry kept an eye out the side window and watched the mirrors, keeping the other vehicles in view. Instead of deer carcasses littering the side of the road, there were burnt out car husks and desiccated corpses that had been chewed on and abandoned when the victims were done flailing and screaming.

“I remember when the only things you saw on the side of this road was road kill and trucker bombs,” Gerry said.

“What’s a trucker bomb?” Pierce asked. Gerry opened his mouth like he was going to explain it, and then thought better.

“A trucker bomb,” Frank started. “Is when a trucker doesn’t want to stop for a piss and fills an empty milk container with urine and drops it off someplace.”

The road led them past Manchester, Windsor, and Avon. The road signs changed from Hartford next three exits to “Turn away Now!” “Welcome to Hell!” Frank shook his head and slowed down again. The bridges and ramps combined like a mass of writhing snakes. Once across the river they’d be set, depending on what Hartford was like. Frank maneuvered the twisting roads, remembering this at rush hour and cringed.

He stomped on the brakes coming to the bridge over the Connecticut River. The bridge was totally blocked off East and West sides. Barricades made of old cars and logs interlaced with barbed wire. Tire shredders crossed the road ahead. They had one spare tire per car; they couldn’t afford to lose any.

“What’s going on?” Catherine asked over the radio.

“Break out the scope, see what you can see.” Frank said. Gerry slid out of the Jeep and slipped underneath the vehicle. The Jeep would give him some cover in case someone started shooting or something tried biting. The fit was tight and the heat of the engine felt like being cooked. He looked through the scope at the bridge.

“Bridge is blocked off, road has two or three rows of tire shredders. Gerry is scoping out the scene,” Frank said into the radio as Gerry eased back into the Jeep.

“There’s something or someone up in the girder work on the bridge. Looks like a forward watch, can’t tell if it’s living or dead. I could put a shot through it. Aside from attracting the undead, it could bring out every murder squad that might be in the area.” Gerry covered the scope lenses and rested the stock on the floor between his legs. He glanced in the mirror to see Williams’ hand in his coat and Pierce hugging the pack.
Gun or something else?
With a quick flick of his thumb, Gerry took the safety off his sidearm.

“Someone may be watching us, Catherine,” Frank said into the radio. Williams looked out the back window at the other cars. Pierce stared blankly at the back of Frank’s head, his mind obviously not in the now.

“What do you suggest?” Catherine asked.

“If we move the shredders, then we’re targets especially if someone is watching us. Once those are cleared then we have to get through the barricades and that looks mighty tricky.”

“Let’s have a chat,” Catherine said through the radio. “Meet at the Monte please.”

* * * * *

“Let me out,” Williams said. He pushed the seat forward and stepped out, grabbed his lower back and twisted. He looked at the bridge and the 1/4 mile of road that separated them from Hartford and walked up to the Monte and the “meeting.”

“What can we do for you?” Frank asked.

“Just needed to stretch and to get away from Pierce for a few minutes.” Frank nodded and turned his attention back down the road. “What are the options?”

“Any insight is appreciated,” Catherine said.

“Can I see a rifle?” Sharon held up her rifle and showed it to him. “Thanks. I need the scope more than the rifle.” Sharon disengaged the bolts and handed it to Williams. He peered through it at the bridge.

“Top, left in the metal work, there’s something up there.” Tony pointed at the object, but Williams didn’t pay attention. Williams moved the scope looking down the road and the bridge.

“Tire shredders,” he muttered. “Police grade.” He pointed down the road. “Whatever is in the bridge frame is dead. It’s definitely a person.” Williams changed the magnification and took a step forward. The car moved a little. Everyone turned to look at the trunk. Gerry drew his sidearm.

“What’s in the trunk?” Frank stepped back, lowering a pistol at the door; the sun reflected off the green enamel paint. Catherine stepped back feeling very exposed looking between her friends and the short length of road to the bridge.

“Medical supplies, blankets, some extra food,” Beverly said.

“Did you check the trunk before we left?” Beverly shook her head. Frank took off the safety.

“Wait,” Williams said. Everyone turned to look at him. “You shoot it and you’re going to kill the medical supplies, if the bullet goes through.” Frank nodded and stepped to the side. “Gas tank, bullet could pass through, in theory, hit the pipe that leads to the tank, any fumes in there will ignite.”

“Well what the fuck are we supposed to do?” Tony asked.

“Pop the trunk, see what runs out at us and fill it with lots of holes,” Williams said.

“We’ll lose the food and the blankets if anyone misses,” Beverly said.

“Williams can open it and step to the side,” Frank said. Williams nodded. “Sam can bait it out of the trunk.”

“Hey now, how did I get volunteered for this?” Sam asked.

“Two weeks ago, I saw you outside the fence, checking out cars on the road. You out ran and lapped a group of zombies twice. You’re faster than us.” Sam nodded. “When it’s away from the car, I shoot it in the head, rinse and repeat.” Frank said.

* * * * *

Micah rolled over in the trunk, kicking the wall. He tried sitting up and banged his head on the trunk lid then unwrapped himself from the blankets. Sweat rolled across his forehead, the picture he’d been holding stuck to his damp palms. He groaned and grabbed his crotch, the pressure was dam-busting painful.

“Move some more and knock and get out? Or piss all over the blankets?” He thought. Muted voices from outside. He squeezed his crotch tighter and banged on the trunk lid. Something outside knocked back.

* * * * *

“Did you hear that?” Beverly said and knocked on the trunk.

“To hell with this. Everyone get back,” Williams said reaching for the lock, the trunk key in his hand. He silently counted down from three, looking at the others for approval.
Three, two, one.
Sam moved in close, Williams popped the trunk and stepped to the side. Micah leapt from the trunk as Sharon hit Frank’s hand. The shot went wild, hit the pavement in the breakdown lane.

Micah ran for the side of the road after getting his bearings and all but got his zipper down before his bladder exploded. A wide smile spread across his face as the pressure lifted. He shook and zipped up. Micah turned not sure what to expect.

“You people sort this out.”  Williams said. “I’m going to the bridge.”

“What if there are people up there, people with guns?” Beverly asked.

“I’ll take the risk.” Williams tossed the scope back to Sharon, who nearly caught it in the temple, still dumbfounded by the appearance of her pseudo-son. Sam snatched it from the air and handed it to her. Frank tossed Williams a pistol. “You keep that scope trained on me,” Williams said. Williams turned up the collar on his coat and headed down the road. He reached into his coat and switched on the radio.

Sharon followed him in the scope, her attention half trained on Micah who walked back slowly. Micah came over and stood next to her; he looked at the road and then stuffed the photo in his pocket.

“I’ll deal with you later,” Sharon growled. Beverly put her hands on his shoulders and pulled him backwards a few steps. Williams stopped at the tire shredders and squatted down to inspect them. He ran his finger tip across one of the barbs and pulled back a bloody finger. He stuck in his mouth quick, before the scent got out. He stood, reaching into his coat.

“You there, Crowe?” Soft static for a reply. “We’re on the bridge to Hartford.”
Hissss
“That Pierce guy is crazy, but mumbles in his sleep. Something about the cure.”

“I’m here.”

“Where are you?”
static
“I’ll contact you again when we’re through.” Williams silenced the radio. He took the gun in his hand and took the clip out, keeping a round chambered. He held both hands in the air and approached the bridge. “I’m friendly,” he called. “Please don’t shoot me in the face or any other part.” Williams walked to the barricade, there were no persons hiding behind or next to it. He looked up to the figure in the structure. It was a corpse, unmoving and long dead. Was it a warning or something else?

“That’s Jenkins up there. Who the hell are you?” Williams turned to see the silenced rifle barrel pointed at his nose.

* * * * *

“He’s talking to someone,” Sharon said.

“You have a shot?” Catherine asked.

“No, he’s clever. Williams is blocking it.”

“Did he come down the super structure?” Sharon looked the bridge over.

“There’s a painter’s rig over the side we missed.” Sharon panned over the bridge again so there’d be no more surprises.

“And they’re chatting?” Beverly asked. Sharon nodded and watched the cross hair bob up and down.

* * * * *

“My name is Williams, I’m from Boston.”

“Crenshaw send you?”

“Sort of. Look I’m escorting a crazy man and some villagers to the Everglades. I’d appreciate you lowering that rifle.” Williams lowered his hands as the rifle no longer pointed at his face he slapped the clip back into the pistol. “I had a bullet in the chamber just in case.”

“I got a sniper across the bridge, just in case. What do you want?”