Redaction: Extinction Level Event (Part I) (43 page)

“What about bicycles? We don’t want to leave them behind if we can help it,” Manny offered. His chest swelled with hope. They could handle this together.

“We’ll need them if we run out of gas on the way.” Henry chewed on the eraser for a moment. “I think the Shepherds had a tandem bike, so Connie can still ride. We’ll get Mildred to steer.”

Manny glanced at Henry’s shriveled legs. The pressure in his chest returned. What were they going to do about him?

The old man caught his gaze. “Don’t worry about me. I’ve got an hand-pedal job from when I competed.”

Connie picked her way to the coffee table. Sweeping her hand back and forth, she found the bowl of shelled peas. “Check the Banks’s house, they used to hunt quite a bit, and I think they took their ATV’s deep into the mountains. It always sounded to me like there was a trailer attached.”

Manny quickly returned to the seating area to grab his own bowl. Geez, what was wrong with him? He should have cleaned up after himself.

“Good idea.” Henry jotted down words in his twisted script. “They might also have a few guns and ammunition. You know how to use one?”

“No.” Manny’s mouth dried. Guns. He’d never shot one before. Could he? He stuffed his shaking hands in his pockets. Stash’s broken body surfaced from his memory. “But I will if I need to protect everyone.”

“We’ll see if they have a rifle with a scope.” Henry bent over his pad. “That way you can use it at a distance and won’t have to get blood and guts over you.”

“Henry!” Mildred stepped into the small hallway that separated the two living areas. After untying her apron, she lifted it over her head. “I go away for a couple of minutes and you’re talking blood and guts.”

Manny set his bowl next to Connie’s on the kitchen island. “At close quarters, I could probably use it as a club.”

He could swing a bat with deadly accuracy.

Henry nodded but didn’t look up.

“I think this calls for a spot of tea.” Connie left her bowl then felt her way to the kettle on the kitchen burner. “Is everyone settled?”

Mildred shuffled into the kitchen. “Irina is sleeping with the girls. Poor things. I sure wish I knew what happened to make them so skittish.”

Having your parents die on you could do that. Manny combined his peas with Connie’s. Then again, maybe he hadn’t been the only one to come into the neighborhood. The Aspero certainly considered this area their territory. He clamped his lips together. The others didn’t need to hear that. “Tomorrow, we could finish the houses and start relocating the items we need to here.”

“It’s better than leaving them for someone else to grab.” Henry set his pen down. “Do you think little Jose and Lucia could drive an ATV? I’d feel better if we had extras in case we encounter difficulties.”

After sticking the peas in the fridge, Mildred ran her apron over the clean countertop. “So we’re leaving then? Not waiting for the soldiers?”

Henry wheeled over to his wife’s side and grasped her hand. “We may not have a choice.”

Connie raised the lid of the teapot and held it under the water dispenser. “At least we know where to go. Others won’t be as fortunate.”

“We could tell those we encounter.” With a sigh, Manny collapsed onto the dining room chair. Another home lost. Another perilous journey ahead. Sure, he wasn’t alone but that didn’t mean safety waited at the end.

Henry kissed Mildred’s hand. “You two might want to make spare masks for everyone. It’s going to take us a while to get there.”

Metal scraped ceramic as Connie set the kettle on the cooktop. “One thing for sure, we won’t want to travel the main routes. The predators will be waiting for us.”

Manny clasped his head in his hands. “I just hope the soldiers don’t up and leave before we get there.”

Chapter Thirty-Five

Day Four

Trent stared at the drop ceiling of the communal sleeping area. A coffee-colored water stain spread in concentric circles across the white tile. Tucking the saggy pillow under his head, he listened to the coughing and high-pitched whistling as the others labored to breathe. The sound was almost as annoying as the stench. He breathed through his mouth then gagged at the taste of unwashed bodies and... Was that shit?

Fucking losers.

What time was it anyway? Raising his arm, he checked his watch. In the soft light, he made out the pale patch of skin. His body twitched. In addition to car-jacking his Jag, the bitch had stolen his shoes and his watch. He pounded his fists against the cot.

Damn, he wished the gangbanger hadn’t driven his car at the Marines. He would have loved to get his hands on her. Punish her for the indignities he was suffering. Growling, he sat up and perched on the side of the cot. The wooden frame creaked under his weight.

When were the stupid ass cops supposed to get here anyway? Hadn’t the little cock-tease Goth Lolita said first thing in the morning? He glanced over the sleeping unwashed at the clock hanging high on the pocked dry wall. Eight-thirty? Fucking pigs. Sucking off the public tit. Yet when the public demanded their attention, the asswipes couldn’t even be bothered to show up.

Shoving off the cot, he pushed to his feet. The tape holding the bandage on his thigh jerked at his body hair. He winced and sucked air through his teeth. The bitch had better have suffered before the flames engulfed her. His hands traveled down borrowed clothes. Off the rack crap. God, he hoped no one in his neighborhood saw him when the lazy cops dropped him off at his Scottsdale home. The soft denim jeans and flannel shirt gave off a pathetic whiff of soap before being subsumed by the rampant body odor.

A soft mewl had him pivoting about.

Tattoo leaned over someone. His muscular bulk shifted and twisted. Thin arms reached after his closed hand. “You don’t need it anymore.” The big man’s voice was low and gritty.

Interesting. Trent stepped into his shoes. His heels burned where the stiff leather rubbed against his blisters. But really, where was the challenge in stealing off these losers? It wasn’t as if they had anything
he’d
want. As it was, he’d have to scrub for hours to get the stench off him.

Civilization never seemed so far away.

He set his boot on the cot and bent over to tie his broken laces.

“There’s cold oatmeal in the cafeteria,” Tattoo shouted across the sleeping bodies. “Be careful of the puddles. They’re slippery.”

“Thanks.” Trent dismissed the warning as hobo hazing. Cold oatmeal. How did people live like this? Wouldn’t they just kill themselves? Save everyone the misery of having to look at them and smell them? Trent removed his boot from the covers, before hoisting the next one up and setting it on the dirty covers.

Tattoo moved onto another sleeper. This one didn’t complain like the other had.

He’d probably been shaken down by the muscular Fagan before. Standing on the bare cement floor, Trent stretched. Lazy bastards. Small wonder the losers were on the street. The morning was half gone and yet most of them were still in bed. “I would have thought the pastor would have roused these guys with the sun.”

Tattoo held up a lighter to the soft glow of the emergency light before shaking it. He tucked it into his pocket. “It’d take JC’s return to roust most of these guys.”

JC? Was that the pastor’s name? Nah, that had been Goodman. Trent straightened and glanced around. It could be another ex-con. He could probably stand his own against one, but not two. Just another good reason to leave as soon as possible.

Turning around, he picked his way down the row of cots, heading toward the makeshift altar. Coughs and wheezing accompanied him. Couldn’t they breathe quieter?

A large vehicle rumbled by, the tremors shook the plain, wooden cross hanging from the drop ceiling. He slipped and his leg shot out in front of him. One knee cracked against the concrete, while his hands slammed down on the nearest cot. Pain flashed through his groin. He hissed then coughed out the foul taste.

“I warned you about the puddles.” Tattoo’s laughter boomed off the metal walls of the warehouse turned mission.

Asshole! Trent would have flipped him the bird but he’d found the pole running along the edge of the cot and used it hold up his weight while he found his footing. The sharp stench of ammonia wafted from the ground followed quickly by the scent of shit. He eyed the streaked pool of liquid and noted the stream feeding it. “What the hell?”

Tattoo wheezed before wiping his eyes. “Don’t you know nothing man?”

“I know plenty.” His IQ was well in the one-fifties, not that anyone appreciated his brilliance. Straightening, Trent stepped over the puddle. He eyed the ground as he walked by the three cots to reach the front of the church.

“Then you know that people shit and piss themselves after they croak.”

“Croak?” Trent did a fair imitation of a frog as he returned the word. He glanced at the losers sleeping in the rows of cots-ten by ten, laying end to end. All but five occupied. Only a few lumps moved in the dim lighting. He backed up until the table/altar cut across his ass. “As in dead?”

“Give the man a prize.” Tattoo clapped his hands.

Trent slammed his hands to his face. Mask. Where was his fucking mask?

“Relax.” Tattoo set his hands on his hips. “It’s the Ash Pneumonia.”

Lowering his hands, Trent made out the black crescents under his manicured nails. His heart battered his sternum. Good God, he’d just touched his face! “Ash Pneumonia?”

“Like the soldiers.” Tattoo batted away the protesting hands of his next victim. “You know, from those fires in China. These guys spent most of the day outside and even the nights. They inhaled.”

Despite a chill snaking down his spine, sweat stung Trent’s eyes. He’d spent the night before last outside, breathing the air. “How much exposure does it take?”

“Shh, now. You don’t need this anymore.” Tattoo soothed, while patting down the sick person’s chest. The muscular guy held what looked like a tiny stuffed alligator up to the light, before tucking it in his pocket. “Oh, you’re not liable to get it being outside only a few days. At least I don’t
think
so.”

Fucking bastard! Trent shoved away from the table and stormed into the cafeteria. His footsteps echoed around the empty space and resonated along the tables. Grabbing a towel from the stack, he stomped to the serving area. Flies buzzed over the skin forming atop the lumpy blobs of oatmeal. Ignoring it, he hitched a leg over the sink and turned on the tap. Fuck. No water.

He needed to get out of there. Get cleaned up. With his Jag and murder kit now reduced to ash, he could go home. He just needed a ride.

And cops were damn well going to provide it.

He slammed the bowl onto the silver rails. The cheap ceramic cracked and shattered, raining shards onto his boots.

“Give me the fucking money!” Tattoo’s shout drifted into the cafeteria and swirled around Trent.

Well, fuck! Trent’s boots crunched on the broken ceramic. He skirted the serving area and headed into the kitchen proper. Weapon. He needed a weapon. His fingers caressed the large pots on the counter before he dismissed them. They would be too bulky to wield effectively. Eying the drawer stack, he strode closer. Metal jingled when he tugged open the top drawer.

Knives of every shape and size lay in the compartmentalized drawer.

Reaching inside, he picked up a medium-sized blade. The handle felt cool against his palm. He thrust it forward, stabbing toward a tile. Yes. That felt good. Not too big. Clutching the knife, he headed toward the common room. He’d just passed the prep counter when he noticed another door.

He glanced at the fake wooden plank then the knife.

“Do you want me to snap your neck?” Tattoo shouted. “Or do you want to spend your last hours lying comfortably in bed?”

Trent didn’t wait for the reply. He reached for the handle then twisted. The door eased silently open onto a hallway. In the quiet, he heard a radio and smelled bleach. After slipping through, he pushed the door closed then locked it. Not that the flimsy lock would keep Tattoo out, but it might slow him down long enough for Trent to escape.

His boots made little sound on the worn carpeting as he picked his way down the hall. Gaping holes marked missing doors. He peered inside the first one. Rats chewed on the sacks of flour and rice. The next one contained rows of folding chairs. The third had broken cots and extra blankets on a baker’s rack.

The next didn’t lead to another room but another hallway.

Pausing, he mulled over his choices. Straight or turn? He glanced over his shoulder. No one filled the hallway. Tattoo probably hadn’t finished collecting his booty off the dead. He had to find a phone and call the cops. Get the hell out of here. An exit sign hung over the door straight ahead but the soft strains of Brahms drifted down the new hallway.

Trent turned left.

The pastor was bound to have a phone in his office. Closed doors lined this hallway. He tried a knob. Locked. Interesting. Did that mean there was something of value inside? He eyed the last door on the right. It alone was open. Holding the knife behind his back, he approached.

No point in scaring the pastor needlessly.

A muffled sob filled the interlude. Trent paused by the doorway. That didn’t sound like a man. He peered around the doorway.

Goth Lolita leaned over the desk. Her dark hair cascaded over the marked-up calendar on the battered surface. The dead man sprawled over the desk. “What am I going to do, Papa?”

Papa? The pastor was her father? Trent filled the doorway. So she wasn’t homeless. That explained why she smelled clean. He eyed the hand near the phone. Blue tinged the fingers. Trent smiled.

Papa was dead.

He tightened his grip on the knife. Perfect. And he wouldn’t need to waste time earning the little cock-tease’s trust. He cleared his throat. “Did he succumb to the Ash Pneumonia, too?”

Goth Lolita’s head whipped up. Without the smear of black under her eyes and the white powder, she looked younger than yesterday. “How did you get in here?”