Fountain of the Dead (25 page)

“We led them right to us,” Catherine muttered.

“Anyone touches that, you deal with me.” Frank took up a spot on the truckers’ side. “There’s only a few over here, easily cleared. Worse case we get the hell out of here and hunker down in some of the big rigs over there. Might be just as bad as this though.”

“There’s plenty over here, Frank.” Beverly looked out through the doors; the outside barely visible through the press of bodies. Blue, black lips pressed against the glass, revealing rotted teeth that tried to gnaw through the doors. The lips popped and oozed fluids down the clear glass. The dead kept coming. Frank stood on the bench to look over the top of them. That’s when the first crack in the glass appeared.

“I agree, Catherine, this was a fucking bad plan,” Frank mumbled. “Sorry about the swearing, kid.”

“I’ve heard worse from you,” Micah said.

* * * * *

Williams moved around in the trunk. It was too confining. He curled into a ball and pulled his arms down over his legs so they were in the front. He worked on the knots around his feet until his legs were free. He ground his wrists together trying to loosen the ropes, but they held tight.

“Fuck, I wish I kept my knife.” He felt along the floors looking for anything that might be used to cut with. They took the med kit with them. Williams pulled at the mat until chunks tore off. Underneath was the spare and the jack. He started rubbing the ropes against the edge of the jack and hoped it was enough.

Through the metal walls of the car, Williams heard shuffling feet and groans. He worked the ropes a little faster.

* * * * *

Crenshaw walked down the stairs of the airplane for the hundredth time. The runway was pitted with holes; fire scoring marked the buildings. He sat on the top stair and waited. Crenshaw clutched at his stomach as it growled.

“I should have thought this through better,” he mumbled. Waters went outside the plane and put a mini bottle of water and handful of pretzel packages down. Crenshaw looked at the fare. “Is this stuff ok to eat?”

“It hasn’t killed me yet,” Waters answered.

Crenshaw tore into a packet of pretzels. They were stale and salty; he finished four of them and drained the small bottle with two mouthfuls. He dropped the wrappers over the side of the stairs. The runway lit up with incoming headlights. Crenshaw banged on the side of the plane and Waters and the pilot, a man he only knew as Frost, came out weapons ready. Crenshaw took out his own pistol and chambered a round.

It’d been a rough landing. One of the runways was in “decent” shape. The others were all laden with wreckage and cavernous holes.

“Don’t kill anyone until I say.”

* * * * *

Crowe stopped the car in front of the plane, blocking it from taking off. He knew Crenshaw wouldn’t come alone. The question was how many men did he bring? What Crenshaw didn’t know was that Crowe had been a licensed pilot back before the storm. Crowe took the safeties off his guns and made sure the boot knives were still in place. He killed the engine and stepped out. Beyond their small area, a line of parked planes dotted the runways, all nose to tail. On some, the doors were opened and inflatable slides deployed. Others were all sealed up tight. Some of the jets were marked with large HAZMAT symbols. Doors to hangers were open. Bodies and cargo loaders were equally as abundant. Whatever wasn’t useful from the scattered luggage lay on the tarmac.

Crowe nodded at the man coming down the stairs. “Boss.”

“You’re late, Crowe.” Crenshaw took a step down the stairs. His footsteps echoed. The inside light of the plane backlit Crenshaw and his goons. His shadow stretched across the tarmac. Crowe stepped over broken glass and walked closer to the plane.

“If I didn’t take the detour, I’d still be on the road.”

“Any sign of the villagers?” Crowe shook his head once. “Anything from Williams?”

“No.” Crowe walked to the base of the stairs. “You going to kill me now, or wait?”

“I haven’t decided yet,” Crenshaw answered.

“They’re not good enough,” he said pointing to Waters and Frost. “Besides, do you want me killing your pilot and trapping you here?”

“Again, I didn’t think this thing through. So for the moment you’re still useful.”

“You make me feel so wanted.”

“Where are the villagers?”

“If they stick to their plan, then they’re near Atlanta.”

“Atlanta is a hot zone.”

“If they improvised, they could be anywhere.” Crowe spun as gravel crunched out past the car. His guns were out before Crenshaw could react. He stared into the darkness, but nothing came out. Crowe turned back to Crenshaw, guns still at the ready.

“You going to investigate?”

“No. What do you want me to do?”

“Go into the swamp, wait for them, kill them all, except for the women and the scientist.”

* * * * *

“Give me options, people.” Catherine said.

“That crack in the door is getting bigger,” Micah said sketching wildly.

“We run through the back door, kill anything in the way and then get to the vehicles and drive off,” Gerry said.

“I don’t think I like that plan,” Beverly said.

“I think we’re out of options and time.” They stared at the door as the crack stretched further up the pane. “I love safety glass,” Frank said. Frank ran to the opposite doors and looked outside, the way was clear; a few stragglers roamed the truckers’ lot. There were a few trailers in the lot, no trucks to pull them. The trailers would make a good hiding space assuming they were empty. At least until the dead moved off for better pastures. Williams would be safe in the trunk which was more than he deserved. The crack spread into a spider web across the door

“Ok, everyone after me.” Frank reached for the locks and slid them free. He turned to see the others bunched around him as the first door exploded inwards covering the floor in glass. The dead poured in like flood waters, blocking the way, causing a pile-up, the slow ones in the front crushed by the weight of bodies struggling to get in.

“If we’re lucky they’ll kill each other.” The first one rolled down the ramp of writhing dead and slid across the floor. Broken glass ground into its dead skin. “We are so not that lucky,” Sam said.

“Let’s get out of Dodge,” Frank said and took off at a jog. Gerry and Sam carried the supplies and the med kit. Sharon took up the rear. The group skirted the side of the building, Frank stepped out to check the corner; he waved the others on. Beyond them in the secondary lot came groans and shuffled steps. They heard the second front door shatter and fall inwards.

The front of the building, looked like a mob scene, bodies pressed in ten deep trying to get into a Black Friday Christmas sale or reporters and lawyers that hovered over accident scenes. In the parking lot, a few wandered among the three parked cars looking for signs of life. Frank pressed a finger to his lips and hushed the others. He could hear Williams rolling around in the trunk.

“Stupid shit is going to attract them back to the cars.”

Catherine looked around the corner.

“There’s a dozen if even,” Catherine said. “We have to take them out and get to the cars. Frank has to get out of the lot first since the top to his jeep is in Connecticut.”

“Fuck.” Frank swore silently. “I left my can of cola in the building. The first soda in years and I forgot it.”

“You’ll have to deal, Frank,” Catherine said. Beverly took the keys from her pocket.

“I’m going to get to the car; I’m a fast runner. I get in the Monte and lay on the horn. I’ll draw them away and circle around and I’ll pick up Sharon and Catherine. That will give you time to get to the cars. You’ll need to watch out until I get back around.”

“They can come in the Explorer until you’re around. I got the room,” Sam said. Frank picked up some rocks and threw them across the lot; a few of the dead moved towards the sound. Beverly took a deep breath and took off at a run, keys in hand. She reached the Monte, pounded on the side a few times hoping Williams would shut it, engaged the auto-locks, and started the engine. It roared to life. She laid on the horn and switched on the brights, flashing them and rolled backwards then shifted into drive and slowly drew them away. She drove painfully slow to lead the dead away from the other vehicles.

Frank was the first to the Jeep; he started the engine and rolled over the sidewalk to get to Gerry and Pierce. The others jogged behind the side of the Jeep as a shield getting to the Explorer; everyone else piled in. Sam started the engine and dropped it into four wheel drive. He started up the walk way and ran a few over, crushing them beneath the tires.

They heard the Monte’s horn before seeing it and headed for the highway. There were no streetlights to light the way out of the parking lot, just the moon. Frank flipped on his blinker out of reflex and sped up seeing the yield sign. There was no oncoming traffic to worry about, just packs of wandering dead. Frank picked up the radio.

“Let’s try Charleston, its two hours minimum from where we are. Check for fuel, get some rest.”

“I hate the south,” Gerry said.

“Right now, I do to.”

“Want to know what I hate?” Pierce asked.

“No one cares, Pierce,” Frank said, sounding exhausted. Pierce reached over the seat and dropped the can of cola in Frank’s lap. “I hate warm soda. Warm soda and zombies. I miss my swamp.”

“We’ll be back there soon enough, Pierce.” Frank glanced at his arm in the moonlight, something about his arm, wasn’t right. “Is that a fresh bite?” Frank asked.  Gerry turned in the seat and pointed a pistol at him.

“No, nothing touched me.” Pierce held up his arms, there was no blood or broken skin.

“Why is it shiny?”

“I wiped my forehead with my arm.” Frank turned back to the road, giving the dark lanes his full attention.

“You want me to shoot him, Frank? No one will question it.”

“Not until Catherine says to. Besides, I told Sam he could end him if I didn’t.” Gerry sat back in the seat and looked through the windshield. In the back, Pierce slipped his hand in his pack and thumbed the pages of his secret book. “We should have cuffed him to something.”

“We don’t have cuffs.”

“You know what I mean, Gerry. Tie him to a support or the front of the jeep like a dead deer.”

* * * * *

Micah squirmed in the seat; the supply chest dug into his ribs. Catherine watched the dotted lines in the road pass by. He took out a book and quickly took notes; Catherine looked over at him.

“I wish you stayed back at the village, Micah.”

“I wanted to know if my grandparents are still alive.”

“Do you even know their address?” He dug through the bag and took out a photo and handed to Catherine. The address, though faded, was written neatly on the back. “I can’t guarantee we can stop.”

“Then I can’t guarantee I’ll stay in the car.”

Sharon’s head whipped around. “Don’t talk like that, Micah. We’ll swing by on the way back.” Catherine nodded and closed her eyes. “On the way back, if we’re all still alive. Our priority is getting in and out of the swamps.”

* * * * *

Crowe pushed the car to its limits. The tank was full but the engine strained. He drank from a water bottle, spilling more than he swallowed and then ripped into a piece of jerked meat. He glanced in the rearview to see if there was a tail, but the road behind was dark and the road ahead long and pitted. He half expected Waters to be in the back seat waiting to jump out and slit his throat before he took off, and to slowly choke to death on his own blood as life ebbed away. But Waters had gotten back on the plane, followed Crenshaw back in.

“Next time, I kill your pilot, Crenshaw. Then I kill your thug, and then I kill you.” Crowe drove for hours into the night, trying to devise a way to kill the villagers, get the cure, and then kill Crenshaw, but not in that order. He didn’t know exactly where they were going, to get to the glades and they’d be damned stupid, like he almost was, to go to Orlando.

Crowe followed I-95 past St. Augustine and Daytona Beach. He smiled at the road signs and a random memory. He pulled the car over on to a stretch of beach, ransacked markets and kiosks marked the strip. Bullet holes and scorch marks covered the buildings.

“Man at his finest, looters and murderers galore,” Crowe mumbled. He switched on the new cell phone Crenshaw gave him; there was no signal. He pulled the car into a side street facing the road. Crowe watched the road until his eyes got too heavy. “This is the path they will have to take.” His eyes eased shut and a soft snore escaped.

* * * * *

“
Hit him with the bat.
”
Crowe looked at Crenshaw across the office. The nameless man knelt on the floor weeping, stopping only to cast tearful eyes at Crenshaw or wipe snot from his nose. His expensive business suit wrinkled on his heaving frame. Crowe took a step forward, with the bat raised high over his head. The man held up his hand, with a wallet clutched in it.