Hellifax (45 page)

By force of will alone, Tenner pushed away from the mass flowing over his legs, until his back pressed up against the stone slab behind him. The rats rose up over his legs, crowding his crotch , then his midsection. Their teeth gnawed at him in a frenzy. He slammed his head back one last time and glared in wild agony at the two survivors dangling just above him.

“HEEELLLL––”

A rat, perhaps the size of a well-fed puppy, with half of the flesh covering its skull sheared away as if it had been scraped off with a rock, rushed up Tenner’s chest and bit down hard on the fat guitar string that was his jugular. Several more rats lashed into his face.

Tenner’s world went red.

Scott and Amy saw the rats swallow Tenner’s form, his throat exploding in red ink which showered the backs of the undead, making their hair gleam. Tenner’s struggling weakened, but his body continued to shiver, jig, and jerk. He slipped downward, the sea of vermin claiming him, and disappeared into the undulating depths. The last thing Scott saw of Tenner was the top of his head.

And the rat burrowing under a flap of scalp.

Then he was gone, lost under that ravenous tide.

“Scott!”

He looked up.

“
Climb!
”

He blinked and started doing just that. Using the vertical bars of the pedway like a ladder, both of them climbed, well away from the gruesome display. They reached the open doorway and climbed inside, collapsing when they did.

Scott placed his shoulder to the doorframe and looked back down, but there was nothing to see besides the dead. They continued watching in silence, the sound of the feast below in their ears.

Amy laid a hand on his shoulder and pulled him away.

Sometime during the night, when the rats finished feeding and moved off in search of more prey, Scott and Amy got up and retreated inside the dormitory. They entered a room three doors down, went inside, and closed the door. Vick was either alive or dead, and finding him would take time and push them beyond their physical limits, having exhausted themselves in their confrontation with Tenner and the rats. As much as she hated to do it, Amy decided to sleep on it. Maybe, just maybe, things would take care of themselves in the morning.

They placed their packs to one side. There was a bare, single-person mattress in the room, but neither had any problem sharing it, and both were secretly grateful to do so. Amy took off her padded vest and helmet, and Scott removed his ruined motorcycle helmet, running his fingers over the lightning bolts. They lay down in their remaining protective wear and got comfortable. Sleep found them lying innocently next to each other.

Scott woke once, listening and imagining that something was scratching at the door. There wasn’t, however, and he eventually went back to sleep, if only for a short time. He woke twice more in the dark. Once because the grinning , bleeding face of Tenner had found him in his dreams, just before the rats swelled up around the killer’s face and sucked him down, chewing out the man’s eyes before he disappeared under their teeming, hairy bodies.

The other time he woke when he felt an arm wrap around him and discovered Amy’s sleeping, drooling face tucked into his shoulder.

That time he settled back and simply studied her features. Her face was the last thing he saw before he eventually closed his eyes and fell asleep.

And in sleep, as in life, she protected him from nightmares.

Morning found them in a sleepy tangle of limbs.

“Morning, pumpkin,” Scott said as Amy opened her eyes and regarded him sleepily for a moment.

“Morning, squash,” she replied. And they smiled.

They got up and sat next to each other on the bed.

“We better get moving,” Amy said.

“Let’s go, then.”

They pulled on their headgear and outerwear. Moments later, they made their way through the corridor and down the nearest stairwell. They eventually emerged from the dormitory without incident and saw the skyline, pink with morning light. They wandered around to the edge of the building. Scott paused and peered around the corner, making certain the coast was clear.

“Nothing.”

“They’re all gone,” Amy said, peeking out at the trampled snow.

“With the daylight,” Scott said. “We better get moving.”

But he hesitated.

“What is it?” she asked.

“I have to check on something.”

He walked to the fallen pedway, stopping for a moment to marvel at the devastation Tenner’s grenade had wrought. Amy came up behind him.

“I want to find my tonfas,” Amy said softly, and Scott nodded. They searched the area, finding, of all things, Tenner’s Glocks, several untouched spare magazines, as well as a tattered vest filled with six eggs that they both realized were grenades.

No Moe. No rats. Certainly no Tenner.

“I keep thinking the fucker’s alive,” Scott muttered and inspected the V of the crumpled pedway. Not much remained. They found his shotgun, as well as shreds of cloth and white armor plating surrounded by tatters of material—but no body. Scott hadn’t expected one.

Amy found her tonfas in the snow, and they both located the tattered remains of what looked to be a vest of body armor, the bare, cream-colored plates exposed, and a few spare magazines for a larger, undiscovered gun.

“These will come in handy,” Amy said, gathering up the extra munitions.

Scott looked at her for a moment, then took half of what she’d grabbed. His thoughts were reflective, relaxed. Tenner was gone. What else was there to do? Return to Gus? He looked at Amy. She felt his eyes and returned the look.

“What?”

“Nothing,” Scott said. “Let’s get looking for Vick and Buckle.”

“Been thinking about that,” she said. “Let’s go.”

They set out for the van. Along the way, resting atop of a pile of debris, was a ferocious assault rifle that matched the spare magazines they had just found.

This welcomed find was darkened by a much grimmer discovery in the rear of the parked van, something they hadn’t taken the time to search during the night. Seats filled the rear, as well as meat hooks. Scott figured they’d be from a butcher’s shop. A rack of cleavers and axes lined one section. An open milk crate of loose red shotgun shells was jammed behind the driver’s seat.

“Thing looks like a battle wagon,” Amy remarked.

“Gives me the creeps.”

“I’m starting to think anything gives you the creeps.”

“Well…” Scott said, but didn’t protest. He was too glad to have her around. They got settled in the van and drove onto the street. Amy drove, watching the road through the bullet-battered windshield. The bodies that had been left in the road were gone, but neither of them said anything about it. The rats were almost all-consuming, it seemed. Along Oxford Street, nothing moved.

Sometime later Amy steered onto Robie, and they finally spotted Moe. The dead prowled streets in a half-frozen malaise. Only a few dozen of the creatures, however, and they looked wretched. The van drove through them slowly, knocking them aside or running over them. Some of the corpses turned around, as if they were surprised to see the big machine pushing through, but they didn’t attack. Scott noticed that they didn’t pursue them, either. He settled back into his seat and quietly appreciated the rumble of the van as it motored forward. The snow banks had been trampled, and they rumbled through it all with few problems.

It wasn’t until they reached the 102 that they started hitting heavier drifts.

At one point, Amy stopped the van and got out. As always, the dead lingered nearby, but not in the immediate area. She returned to the van seconds later, paying greater attention to the road.

“Anything up?” Scott asked.

Amy regarded him. “Tire tracks.”

Scott was glad Amy was at the wheel. Halifax was her city, and she drove around for the next couple of hours, searching for where the tracks might lead. Eventually she lost the trail, and Scott could tell it bothered her. She finally resolved to get them both to Scott’s safe house, abandoning the search for her companions.

The roads were in better condition than what Scott remembered, and he attributed it to Amy. This was her city. She got them by clumps of deadheads and evaded larger clusters altogether. When one road was impassable, she got the van moving down another, getting as close to the house on School Avenue as possible. Zombies lurked all around, but any road or side street with large numbers were bypassed entirely. They stuck to the 102 and headed over deserted overpasses, but they were about to abandon the van when the snow became too deep for even the chained tires.

Scott was looking out the window when he spotted another black cargo van in the opposite lane. It appeared like a black beacon amongst the other half-stranded cars covered in snow.

“Amy?”

“I see it.”

They drove over the snow slowly and got as close to the stopped van as they could. The front of the vehicle was squished inward, as if the thing had been driven into a tree or pole.

“Better check it out.”

Amy was already out the door. Scott hauled up his shotgun and loaded it with the loose shells from the milk crate. He left the assault rifle, preferring the familiarity of the twelve gauge. He exited from the rear; Amy was already at the other vehicle. She had her tonfas out and ready.

Without asking, she rapped on one of the rear doors.

“Anyone in there?” she called. When there was no response, she rapped on the rear door once more. “Hey. You in there, Vick? Buckle?”

Something inside moved.

Amy regarded Scott, who had just arrived at her side, his shotgun ready.

“Amy?” a muffled voice asked from within.

The doors opened.

And Amy hugged the one-armed Vick, who was beaming weakly at her.

The house was a thirty-minute march away. Scott returned to the house, located a sled, and brought it back to the van. When he got back to Amy and the others, it was quarter to four. They talked about it for a minute, and none of them wanted to stay with the vans overnight. They loaded Buckle onto the sled, and Scott pulled it behind him. Vick marched with slow, deliberate steps, his one arm wrapped around Amy’s shoulders for support.

They walked in the dark for about an hour until they found the house.

The trees along the highway blushed vibrant green, declaring that all was right with the world. All manner of vehicles dotted the shoulders and sometimes the road itself, and Scott had to take care driving around them all. Anything could jump out in front of the SUV. It hadn’t happened yet, but one never knew in the real world. He drove the Durango along the highway, making the final approach to Gus’s manor. The last month had been the hardest, he thought. Ever since he’d gotten up in the morning, emerging from the white house with satin green shutters that needed a new coat of paint, every hour was a challenge to control himself from stomping on the gas pedal.

“We there yet?” Buckle asked from the passenger seat.

“Almost.”

“That why you’re stomping on the gas?”

Scott felt an embarrassed heat creep into his face. “Sorry, man.”

Buckle didn’t answer. He pulled up the AR-20, locked, loaded, and ready to split undead hairs if need be. His ankle hadn’t healed completely right, and he walked with an aching limp. “But,” he would remark with a thankful expression every once in a while, “I still got everything.”

“Look for a gate on your side,” Scott told him.

“A gate?”

“Yeah, with leaves on…” Scott trailed off and shut his mouth, remembering how Gus had camouflaged the thing. “Don’t worry. I’ll see it.”

“Nice area, the Valley. Always liked it,” Buckle commented, becoming reflective.

Of the group, he was the only one who’d volunteered to come here with Scott, and for that, the New Brunswick native was thankful. Six months ago, they had taken what they could from the downtown and historical section of the city, transferring the MREs from the van that Tenner had booby-trapped to the SUV and the remaining van. These they drove down the highway, to the little town of Blandford, which would serve as a push-off point to Big Tancook. They linked up with the rest of the waiting group, a little more than a dozen men, women, and children. It took longer to transport everything, included the wounded, to the little island off the coast. Gas was spared for motorboats and, if the weather wasn’t fair, they waited until the next day.

In the end, it was worth it.

Big Tancook was the undead-free refuge they had hunted for and, over the next few months, Scott actually felt much better about the survivors’ chances. But despite the food, and the planting of Amy’s seeds, Scott would look through the kitchen window of the deserted house he and Amy had taken as their own and stare out at the dark, shifting waters of the Atlantic and wonder.

Gus was still out there.

And he’d vowed, when he had the chance, he would return to the mainland and retrieve his friend.

“Hey, that it?” Buckle said and pointed, pulling Scott out of his thoughts. He slowed the SUV and felt his heart go cold.

The gate was flung wide open.

That wasn’t like Gus—unless the man was shitfaced. Still, it wasn’t like Gus to leave it open like that.

“Yeah,” Scott muttered. “That’s it.”

“Something wrong?” Buckle said, fixing on the scattered cars and trucks littering the highway.

“Don’t know.”

The SUV turned off the highway and climbed the slope, passing under a full green canopy where sunlight dappled the crushed stone of the road. The machine bounced in places, and at one point Buckle had to place his hand against the dashboard. Scott drove on, forcing the vehicle to climb.

They went up the last bit of slope, and the stone walls came into view.

Scott’s heart sank.

Cars and trucks lay before the gate. Some were burnt out, but others appeared fine—lifeless, but fine. Beyond the vehicles, the gate had been destroyed, its timbers burnt to black cinders. What was worse, the usual heights of the house, seen so easily from this point, simply did not exist anymore. Scott braked and brought the SUV to a rumbling stop. He stared, and not even Buckle dared to break that somber silence.