Fountain of the Dead (31 page)

“We better get inside,” Micah said.

“Everyone listen to the kid,” Frank said. “Inside, now.” Frank grabbed Pierce on his way by. “Looks like you don’t know Jack or shit about what gators will eat.”

* * * * *

Meredith stared at the glowing ashes of the burning buildings. She still felt their warmth; it helped against the cool autumn air. The fires illuminated the atrocities below her in the smoking remnants of the houses. Towards the end of the cul-de-sac, she could see Grace’s body face down on the pavement. Thankfully she couldn’t see her burnt face.

The flames had gone out on Catherine’s house; now the smoldering embers stuck up into the sky like ashen fingers. What the fire and the murder squad hadn’t killed, the zombies did. The pavement was littered with their corpses. She’d seen pictures of wounds in some of the medical books her mother kept, but nothing so horrific as this.

The dead shambled in and out of the gate looking for another living body to feast on. A few of them were gathered near the tower’s poles. They looked up through hungry dead eyes. Meredith pulled her knees tighter to her chest and bit down on her lip trying not to cry and failed.

* * * * *

Beverly reached around the Explorer and checked the locks again for the hundredth time. Williams was unconscious in the back seat. She poured water from a bottle on a cloth and blotted his forehead. He was burning with fever. She risked the headlights for a few seconds; the road was clear and there hadn’t been a peep from the radio. She turned it on to test the batteries; there was no chatter, just silence.

“I hope they’re OK.” Williams groaned from the back and she looked over the seat at him. His eyes were opened and unfocused. He reached out a hand to her.

“I’m sorry,” he licked his lips. Beverly tipped a bottle to his mouth; greedily he sucked at the water, then choked on it. “I’m sorry I lied to you all. I got your man killed, and you still protected me.”

“I won’t say it’s all right, because it’s not. Can you tell me about Crowe any?”

“Come back here, keep me company.” Beverly checked the front locks and climbed over the seat. She checked the rear locks and then maneuvered Williams so his head was in her lap. He reached up and she took his hand.

“He’s a cold son of a bitch.”

“I think we know that much.” In between patches of conversation, Beverly checked the windows. When the dead came and she knew they would, her only real chance for escape would be driving to some form of relative safety. There wasn’t enough fuel to get home, even with the extra cans in the back. No matter how dearly she missed her daughter, she would not abandon her friends and leave them stranded.

“I’ve heard stories about the shit he’s done. You won’t see him coming, again.” Williams forced a dry rasping laugh. “Is it hot in here?”

“You have a bad fever. And its Florida, in a swamp, in a mostly closed car, it’s awful. You should rest.” Beverly wiped the sweat from her face and wished she had cracked the windows a little more.

“Every time I sleep, I see Crenshaw and Crowe’s face in my dreams.”

“That could keep me awake too.” She wet the cloth again and laid it across his head. “That won’t help much; the water is warm.” A wet slap hit the window. Beverly screamed and jumped. A zombie stood at the window looking in at them. A name tag pinned to its shirt read “Benny.” The shirt was from a swamp fishing tour.

“Don’t shoot it, you’ll break the window.” Williams gasped. It slapped the window again and tried to chew on it, its bottom teeth broke against the glass, a black slime trail left by the tongue. Beverly tried not to look at it, but it was like not staring at a train wreck in a passing car. Her eyes wouldn’t leave it. It moved down the Explorer and tried again on the driver’s window.

“What’s it doing?” Williams asked.

“I think it’s trying to find a way in.” She felt Williams shaking. He’d be going into shock soon.

“That’s crazy, they can’t think.” Williams coughed and his hand slipped from Beverly’s. Another dead loomed in the darkness in front of the Explorer. It walked into the front bumper, and banged into the hood. Half its face was gone and what little hair hung in lump dirty threads.

“More are coming,” Beverly said a hint of hysteria crept into her voice. She looked down at Williams, who was dead on her lap.

She closed his eyes and watched him for a moment, eyes wide with fear that he’d turn. Beverly struggled from under the dead weight on her lap. She reached for the radio, leaning against the front seats.

“Hello?” She waited. “Anyone?” More bodies loomed in the darkness beyond the Explorer. She reached for the lights, hands shaking and flipped the switch. She screamed at the dead grey faces that stared back at her. As if the lights were a catalyst, more cold hands slapped the Explorer’s hood. Fingers explored the latches and glass.

“Please, help me.” She couldn’t sit back; William’s body took up most of the seat. “Williams is dead.” Tears rolled down her cheeks and she dropped the radio in the driver’s seat. Maneuvering around, she sat Williams up and dug around the back of the Explorer.

“Gas, water...” She reached down and grabbed the emergency kit and dragged it over the seat. “Reflectors, light sticks...” She plucked the flare gun and road flares out of the kit, and dropped the rest on the floor. She loaded the only flare, cracked the window and fired. She watched the red flare take off into the night sky, arc, and then fizzle out at it fell. She prayed that someone saw it. The radio hissed.

“Hello? Anyone? I need help.” She rolled the window back up and waited for a response. The front of the explorer was boxed in. The Jeep couldn’t be seen through the throngs of dead. She was too afraid to look back at the Monte, to really see how many of the dead had surrounded her. She scrambled around the back looking for the car keys. She had them just a moment ago. “I’m going to put this thing in gear and get out. If I could find the keys.” The jeep was in front; some of the extra guns and ammo were still in the back. That was another stupid mistake.  Even if she ran for the few extra weapons she doubted there’d be enough to time kill them all before they were on her. Even if she started running, and she could run, Beverly didn’t know how far or fast she could get to before they caught up.

In back was the Monte; some of the supplies were in there. Drop the Explorer into reverse smash and grind her way back until there was enough space, and traction to get moving. She saw the keys glinting in the moonlight.

“I’m going to count to three and shoot out your window.” Crackled through the radio.

“Oh God, No! Why?” They’re in the ignition, hanging; she clambered over the seat.

“One.”

She loaded the gun sitting on the passenger seat and took the safety off. Beverly cracked the window and fired wildly.

“Two. Your aim sucks.” She screamed and took hold of the keys. Her hands were slick with sweat and they fell from the ignition.

“I’m so sorry, Meredith.”

She popped the clip and slapped in a fresh one. Beverly placed the barrel in her mouth.

“Three. And you’re not getting out that easy.”

“Please, I have a daughter,” she pleaded into the radio.

The window exploded in, showering her with glass. Williams’ body slid down the seat when the bullet slammed into it. She screamed as the first icy fingers tangled in hair. She screamed again and struggled as the dead hands clamped down on her arms and shoulder and dragged her from the car. The gun slipped from her fingers and bounced off the mats; she spread her legs, latching her feet on to the inside of the Explorer, but it wasn’t enough. The hands let go and she was draped upside down against the door.

Beverly screamed again as the first zombie bit through her pants and into her thighs. The next went for the soft, warm flesh of her abdomen. Blood exploded from her mouth, and intestines slapped and steamed against the road.  Her last sound was a wet, bloody rattle. The dead moved in and feasted.

* * * * *

Crowe watched the scene through the rifle scope. He slung the rifle and changed position on the fishing shack he was on. When the feeding frenzy was over, he sat on his haunches and waited. He knew she was dead, that was certain. And the shot that took out the window, if Williams wasn’t dead before, sure as fuck he was now. The bullet in the head made sure he wasn’t coming back. He patted down his pockets; the phone was in the car. The dead were far enough away that he could get to it, but why risk it. Crenshaw could wait. He took a map from his pocket, unfolded it, and traced routes with his fingers.

* * * * *

The dead chewed and ripped at Beverly’s destroyed body. Dead lips smacked on bloody scraps of flesh; teeth tore and gnawed what meat they could.  Limbs were broken. When the wet chewing finally ended, what was left of Beverly was far from recognizable. They rose from the feast and continued moving, trying to find their next meal. In the front seat the radio hissed.

“Beverly, you there?”

* * * * *

Crowe gave up on the map rolled over onto his back and stared into the night sky. He knew the next stop; soon as the road was clear the rifle lay next to him. After checking his pockets, he pulled out a granola bar, ignored the expiration date on the wrapper and bit into it. The two room shack below was empty. Crowe imagined there to be several dead in there now. A simple wooden ladder led to the roof from the main room. The back served as an office with a rickety desk, worn couch, and old TV. The main room of the shack had a counter with brochures still on it, posters of the local swamp fauna, and a side door that opened to the small dock attached. The boat was gone.

Finished with the granola, Crowe dropped the wrapper off the roof. He ran his fingertips along the barrel of the rifle like a lost lover and listened to the noise of the swamp.

“So far it’s been a good day. Tomorrow, I’ll kill the rest of them.” He closed his eyes, took out a pistol and held it on his chest and let sleep claim him.

* * * * *

“Beverly, you there?” Catherine said into the radio. She waited a moment. “Bev, come in. Please.” Catherine laid the radio on the floor; Micah snatched it from in front of her. He changed channels.

“Beverly?” Micah said and switched channels again. “Beverly?”

Outside the thin walls and door of the building low growls filled the night. Frank and Sam barricaded the door, best they could, with the table, chairs, and foosball table. Pierce sat cross legged in the far corner of the lounge, his back pressed into the wall.

“Any suggestions?” Frank asked. Sweat rolled down his head and neck, his shirt soaked through

“Can we wait them out?” Sam looked to Pierce. Pierce clutched a flashlight to his chest. His eyes darted all around the building.  The V of the roof wasn’t very high, or steep. A small exhaust vent plate was off to the side.

“There’s no way that roof is going to hold all us if those things get through,” Frank said. “Besides, with the angle, we’ll just slide off.”

“One of us might be able to get up there,” Catherine said.

“I’ll go,” Sharon said. “I can shoot at them from the roof.”

“No way, Mom,” Micah said. He set the radio down and slid it back to Catherine. Without thinking he took out his journal, and started sketching the shed and the undead alligators outside.

“There’s no hatch, Sharon.” Catherine said. “But thank you.”

“If we had a ladder, I could get up there. I’d have to go outside though.”

“Mom, I said no.” Sharon forced a laugh at Micah whose sketching became more frenzied.

“Normally it’s me saying no to you.” She reached out and squeezed his shoulder and ran her hand through his hair. He moved back from her, focusing more on the sketching. The first scratch of a clawed foot against the door rippled through the shed.

“Won’t be long,” Sam said. He looked around for anything useful that could be used as a weapon. “Maybe if we pull the bars out of the foosball table we can stab them?”

“We have no way to sharpen the ends. Might work against ‘normal’ zombies,” Sharon said. “The hides on those things are too thick.”

“The kid might be able to fit through the exhaust plate,” Pierce said. “He’s lighter than the rest of us.” Sharon rushed over and backhanded Pierce across the face; his lip split open, blood dribbled down his chin.

“Another suggestion like that and Frank will have to fight me, to kill you,” she spat.

“I have first dibs,” Sam said.

“Well tell me what you think lady,” Pierce almost shouted, spraying Sharon’s shirt with his blood. “It’s not like we can tranq them and drag them back out into the swamp. Or tranq them and then skip our way out up the path.”

“What about predators? Does anything hunt alligators?” Sam asked.

“Poachers hunt gators, poachers and environmentalists. The difference is we take care of them. We don’t kill and skin them and leave the corpses behind. We don’t raise them on farms for meat or shoes,” Pierce said. The radio crackled with static.