Fountain of the Dead (22 page)

When Sam was in the building, Williams went for his radio and noticed it was gone. He looked over at the Jeep with the tarp stretched across the top and dug around for it. There was nothing there. But sitting on the front seat of the Explorer was the caravan’s radio. He changed frequency.

“You there, Crowe?” He waited for a moment and then switched it off, and tossed it back in the Explorer. He took out his gun and sat near the fire and waited. Gerry came outside to see Williams near the fire. Williams waved and stood up, stretching his back.

“Anything exciting?”

“Watching paint dry is more exciting.”

* * * * *

Crenshaw tossed the framed picture across the office; the glass shattered and rained down on the tiled floor. He watched the picture flit to the ground, torn from the violence. The door burst open Waters stood there, guns ready. Crenshaw glared at him.

“Did I call you?”

“I heard something break,” Waters said, his eyes darting around the room looking for a target.

“Okay, you’ve been there all afternoon?” Crenshaw drummed his fingers the desktop.

“Except when I was in the garage.” Seeing no threat in the office, Waters lowered his guns.

“And?” Crenshaw felt his blood pressure rising and IQ dropping talking to the stooge.

“And no one else was here?”

“So how could anyone,” Crenshaw held up his hands. “Or anything get in here, with someone outside the office door?” Waters paused for a moment trying to think. “If you say window washer’s rig or human flies, I will throw you off the roof myself.” Waters shrugged and slid the guns back into the shoulder holsters. Crenshaw looked over at the shattered glass on the floor.

“Moron, have someone clean that up.” Crenshaw dropped back down in his desk chair, his mouth drawn tight. The photo of Catherine and him lay framed in sunlight from the window. He drank whiskey from the bottle. Slamming it down hard on the desk, the dark amber liquid sloshed out the top.

“Boss?” Waters paused at the door. The phone on the desk rang, an antiquated cell phone ran on the fumes from far off towers and one of the few remaining functioning satellites. Crenshaw wiped the whiskey off it and motioned Waters towards the door.

“What is it?” Crenshaw said into the phone.

“Williams’ lost the radio. I found fragments all over the road.”

“You’re sure it was his?”

“Yes sir. It’s the one I gave him.”

Crenshaw gripped the phone in a fist, his hands shook with rage. “Why is this little recon adventure turning into a cluster-fuck?”

“They met a murder squad in Pennsylvania.”

“Anymore of them die?”

“Just the two so far.”

“I think I need to step up the body count, Crowe. Keep that fucking phone charged and get your ass to Florida.” Crenshaw dropped the phone on the desk. He wanted to throw it against the wall and watch it shatter like the picture frame. He took another long drink from the bottle, setting it down easier this time.

“Moron outside my office, step in and close the door.” Crenshaw wiped his mouth on the back of his wrist. He took off his suit jacket and hung it neatly on the chair. The door opened. Crenshaw motioned the man over. “Have you ever flown?”

“Sir?” Waters stepped into the office. He was getting confused coming and going every few seconds.

“In the air, in the sky, in a plane?” Crenshaw flapped his arms like a bird, mocking him.

“Just once when I was a kid.” Waters kicked at a piece of broken glass on the floor. It skittered across the room.

“Did you like it?”

“I barely remember it.”

Crenshaw sighed, his rage ebbing away, draining from his skull through his toes. He sat down, took another drink and then tightened the cap on the bottle.

“I’m going to make some calls and in the mean time, have my plane readied. We’re going for a trip.”

* * * * *

Crowe put the phone on the car charger. The chargers were getting harder to find; every time he “lost” one, Crenshaw showed up with another. It’s not like they were in such big demand anymore. He turned on the radio and listened to the static. He wasn’t expecting to hear anything but it was better than Crenshaw’s voice. As he drove, he twirled the piece of shattered plastic in his hand from Williams’ radio. After a few miles he dropped it out the window as West Virginia disappeared in his rearview. He glanced at the fuel gauge then his watch and stomped on the accelerator.

* * * * *

Catherine stood on the porch of the lodge watching the others pack up the vehicles. Micah doused the fire remnants with what was left in the pot of lake water.

“Should we fish some more before we leave?” Frank asked. He stuffed one of the plastic totes into the Explorer.

“We could do some southern fishing, drop some dynamite in the lake. We’d have more fish than we needed.” Every one stopped what they were doing to look at Sam; he blushed and closed the tailgate on the SUV. Micah made another quick sketch of the lodge, with Catherine on the porch and notated it with the previous day’s story. Beverly read over his shoulder until he glared at her.

“Sorry,” she said.

“Do you think they’re OK?” he asked.

“Who?”

“The village, home.” Guilt surged through Beverly. She’d thought about Meredith and their home, often enough, but not of the village as a whole.

“We haven’t been gone that long, Micah. I’m sure they’re fine.” She sat on a stump next to him as he stuffed the journal into his bag. “Can I ask you something?” Micah nodded at her. “Why did you hide away in the car?”

“Someone had to keep the history of this.”

“That’s Catherine’s job.”

“She’s not writing anything down.”

“She has an amazing memory.”

Micah sighed and looked Beverly in the eyes. “I have grandparents in Florida. I wanted to see if they were still alive.”

“Why didn’t you tell me that?” Sharon asked walking over. “We could have gotten a vehicle and gone on a trip.”

“We wouldn’t have made it, Mom, not the two of us.” Sharon’s lips trembled at the words.

“What’s wrong?”

“Still getting used to you calling me Mom.”

“My grandparents were in Kissme, Florida.”

“Kissimmee,” Beverly corrected.

“Whatever. We went to see them once in Florida and then we went to Disney.”

“I took Meredith there once too, right before the storm.”

“The night of the storm, my parents took me to see The Wiggles,” Micah dug through his bag and pulled out the worn, ragged program. “I rode on my Dad’s shoulders and we were drinking hot chocolate when it started. I thought the meteors were beautiful.”

“The skies were beautiful,” Sharon said. “It’s what happened after. His parents bought hot drinks from my canteen truck. That’s how I saw him in the road.” Over at the vehicles, Sam scrubbed some more of his dog’s blood from the seat that Tony missed. Frank took a drink from a bottle of water, draining half of it.

“Some fish might be good for breakfast,” Frank said.

“We have some fruit that I ‘borrowed’ from back home, and some cold critter stew,” Catherine said and bit into an apple. “I wouldn’t trust that stew for much longer though, not like we have a fridge in the cars.”

“Yeah but it’s not the same. I’d kill for some roast duck. Nice dark meat, crispy skin…” Frank wiped some spittle from the corner of his mouth.

“How about an apple? We have a basket of those.” The juice from the apple ran down her wrist as she half-chewed, half talked.

“How about Sharon, sniper us a couple ducks instead?”

“If you think I’m spending the morning gutting and plucking a duck, you’re insane,” Sharon said. A loud groan followed by cracking branches cut through the morning tranquility.

“Something had to ruin the mood,” Frank said. The groan was followed by more. “They must have walked around the lake.”

“Or through it,” Micah said. “Like the ones from Cape Cod, that the lady on the recording was talking about.”

“We have a long ass haul today. We’re not stopping again until Savannah,” Catherine said and lobbed an apple to Frank as he ran for the Jeep.

* * * * *

“Little pigs, little pigs let us in.”

Frank stood at the fence’s gate, guns drawn pointed down, prepared to fire. Catherine stood on the porch to her house. In back of the Frank, a dozen men and women gathered carrying anything they could use as weapons.

“Why don’t you and your crew back off?” Frank growled. It was more a threat than a request or a question. There were five of them, standing in front of the outside gate. Two fences and a 3 foot walkway separated them from the cul-de-sac. One of Frank’s guns was empty, but they didn’t know that.

When they showed up for their parlay, Frank hadn’t seen any obvious weapons. They came on foot, with backpacks and tents, dressed in whatever they found or stole. Theft wasn’t crime, murder wasn’t a crime and there were no cops to enforce the law. Looking closer at them, Frank saw the blades around their waists; knives and swords. He had let them know he was armed and made no attempts at hiding his guns, empty or not.

“All we want is a place to sleep. And those houses look sweet.” Frank looked over at Catherine, but he was sure he knew the answer. She shook her head. “You have to ask your mother for permission?”

“Move along. Boston is twenty miles that way.” Frank answered.

“How much for your women? Just give us one. We’ll treat her right tilll we’re finished and then we’ll send her back.” The others in his group laughed a little. “Do you really think your little fences are going to stop us if we want to get in there?”

“No. But I think I have 18 bullets that can move faster than you can climb,” Frank said.

“You can’t kill us all.” He took a step closer and looked at the gates, assessing their strengths, looking for weakness in their armor. “That’ll make you no better than the murder squads.”

“I think you guys are a murder squad, looking for a new home. And this is not going to be your new home,” Catherine said and came down the stairs. Frank signaled her to stop and stay where she was but she kept on walking. The threat had become too much. She stood next to Frank and took one of the guns from his hand. She got the empty one and pointed it at the men in the road.

“Back up. Get out.” She took a step forward. “Pack up your men and hit the road.”

“You talk tough holding a gun behind two fences.” He swiped dirty brown hair off his forehead.

“I talk tough.” She motioned down the road with her head. “When the dead are coming down the road.” Down the road a shambling mass was coming, slow. There were well over a dozen, weaving through cars, stumbling over debris and getting closer. “What I suggest, Mr. Man, is you get to stepping. They’ll get here and they’ll feed and you’ll still be outside my fences.”

He reached out grabbed the fence and shook it. The chains rattled and echoed hollowly through the cul-de-sac. “You keep an eye out for us.” He let go of the fence and started off with his men.

“We’ll keep both eyes open.” They watched them hurry off down the road towards the highway. Catherine sighed and handed the gun back to Frank.

“Is now a good time to tell you that gun was empty?” She punched him in the shoulder. The others gathered went back to their houses.

“We need towers, Frank. Some kind of lookout.”

“And some sweet, sweet rifles.”

“Why don’t you take some people tomorrow and check out some of our ‘neighbors’? See what you can find around here. Don’t go too far in case those men are loitering.” Frank tucked the loaded gun under his belt and twirled the empty on his finger.

“We can take care of five men, even if only with one gun.” He handed Catherine the empty one. “Well go after them with pitchforks and torches. If we had any.” They stopped talking as the dead went past the gates. No one moved, no one breathed. When the pack was gone Frank took a deep breath.

“You know what you’re looking for?”

“Lot’s of spare lumber, some ladders and hopefully a home improvement fanatic’s house with a shitload of tools.” Catherine patted him on the shoulder and walked towards her house. “And bracing for the fence.”

* * * * *

Crenshaw stared out of the small window of the plane, wishing for a blanket, a neat scotch, and a foot massage. There was no pretty stewardess, no crappy in-flight movie, and no snacks. He sighed and looked over at Waters who was sound asleep, coat draped over him like a comforter. The twin prop plane was making good time. In the pilot’s compartment was another one of his thugs. The co-pilot’s seat was empty.

“God really is my co-pilot,” he chuckled. And it was a strange noise, dry and raspy, something he hadn’t done in a while and was out of practice at. Waters snored from the aisle seat. “That’s why you don’t remember the flights you putz.” Crenshaw stood up and paced the main aisle. Waters snorted and thrashed in his seat for a moment. Crenshaw thought for a moment about kicking him or slapping him for fun.