The Scattered and the Dead (Book 1): A Post-Apocalyptic Series (12 page)

Bubbleguts. Instead of “butterflies in the stomach”, Izzy called them bubbleguts.

Erin had bubbleguts.

But why now?

“Rub… barb,” Izzy said. “What’s Rub-Barb?”

Erin stopped at the base of the stairs leading up to the house. “Huh?”

Izzy pointed to a white sign just barely visible above the jungle of the lawn. Erin read the big black hand-painted letters, then laughed.

“Rhubarb.”

Izzy repeated the word, overemphasizing the first syllable the way Erin had done.

“ROO-barb.”

Izzy’s head bobbed forward like a bird when she said it.

“You look like a chicken,” Erin said.

She made wings with her arms and flapped them a few times, jerking her head forward and saying, “ROObarb, ROObarb.”

Izzy swatted at her arm.

“That’s how
you
said it!” She wrinkled her nose and wiped at it with the back of her hand. “So what is it?”

The wood of the stair rail was warm from the sun under Erin’s hand. She gripped it as she made her way up the steps.

“It’s a fruit,” she said, then paused. “Actually, I guess it would really be considered a vegetable. It sort of looks like celery, except it’s bright red. And it’s really sour.”

“Why would you eat that?”

“You have to add a lot of sugar to make it taste good. My grandma used to make these mini custard tarts with rhubarb on top.”

A surge of saliva filled her mouth at the thought of the delicious little pastries. She could go for about ten of those right about now.

When she reached the door, she paused and looked back at Izzy.

“You’ve really never had rhubarb? Strawberry rhubarb pie?”

Izzy’s shoulders quirked into a shrug.

Erin placed a hand on the door knob. She gave it a twist, and it resisted.

Locked.

There was a stupid part of her brain that was glad it was locked. It hoped all the doors and windows were locked. Because, her brain said, then she wouldn’t have to go in.

But they always found a way in.

A try at the sliding window at the back of the house was more fruitful. It was sort of surprising how many people took the time to lock their doors, only to leave a window unlatched.

She peeked inside and noted the washer, dryer, and utility sink. The door of the laundry room stood open, but she could only see the blank wall of the hallway beyond.

The metal frame squealed as she slid the window all the way open. A neon green bucket she found in the breezeway between the house and the garage made a perfect stool.

She perched on the bucket, one hand on either side of the window frame. Izzy stood behind her, hand glued to her forehead to shade her eyes from the sun.

“You know the drill, right? You wait here until I tell you it’s clear-”

Izzy rolled her eyes and let her tongue loll out of her mouth.

Erin sighed.

“Fine, then you tell me the rest.”

“Stay out of sight. Be quiet. Look both ways before crossing the street. Don’t talk to strangers.” Her voice took on a mocking tone as she progressed.

“Smart ass,” Erin said, then hoisted herself through the window and into the house.

Izzy whispered from behind her.

“Language!”

Once Erin was inside, she just squatted there for a moment, letting her eyes adjust to the dimness. Listening for any sounds from inside the house.

She rose and took three silent steps to the door. At the threshold, she waited a beat and then darted her head out, glancing quickly to the left.

Before the hallway veered to the right and out of view, there was an open archway leading into a den.

Her head swung out again, this time to the right.

Two more doors. One open, which she liked. One closed, which she hated.

She cleared the den first, just stepping to the edge of the room and scanning it from left to right. So far, so good.

Next came the open door, which turned out to be a small bathroom with floral wallpaper that was certainly not of this century.

Now for the closed door, which upon further inspection wasn’t all the way closed. It stood open just a crack, not enough to see in. Erin inched forward, stopping shy of the particle board and not quite pressing her ear to it. Not breathing. Just listening.

She heard nothing.

It didn’t make her feel any better. That same nagging feeling was there, whispering doubts in her ear.

She counted to three and gave the door a little push. The hinges let out a shriek loud enough to wake any of the dead that weren’t already awake. Instinctively, she threw herself forward into a crouch, bracing herself.

Nothing happened.

She let out her breath and stood straight again.

A bar of sunlight shone through the crack between the curtains, illuminating a large four poster bed, dressing table, and a privacy screen with an Asian motif.

She sniffed the air.

That’s what it was that kept bothering her. The smell. For once, it wasn’t the reek of death. Which was… nice. But weird. Had she really become so desensitized to the grimness of it all that smelling something pleasant instead of something foul was setting off warning bells?

She breathed it in. God, it was so familiar.

This smell was something safe. Something that reminded her of childhood.

She stopped and closed her eyes. Inhaled. Let it percolate. If she tried to force the memory, it wouldn’t come. She had to let it bob to the surface on its own.

She cleared her mind, letting the smell take over.

Pipe smoke? No, that was a sweeter smell.

Shag carpet under bare feet? Close. But that was a feeling, not a smell.

Light filtering through louvered windows in the morning. Again, not a smell.

But wait.

Shag carpet, pipe smoke, wood slats over the windows? Grandma and Grandpa’s house.

Boom.

She took another breath, nodding.

Mothballs.

She couldn’t believe she hadn’t come up with it right away. It was obvious from the decor that this was an old lady’s house.

She poked her nose into the closet and behind the privacy screen- better safe than sorry- before deeming the ground floor all clear. At the dressing table, she rifled through the jewelry, picking out the stuff that looked like it would be worth something. She stacked bracelets and watches onto her wrists and rings onto her fingers. Three necklaces were big enough that she could just loop them over her head. The rest she tucked into her pocket.

Back at the window, she helped Izzy climb in. Hoisting under her skinny kid arms, Erin lowered her to the ground.

“Stay here until I’m done checking upstairs.”

One of the steps creaked as she put her weight on it. She paused, listening for anything stirring above, then continued up the stairway.

The upper level held two more bedrooms, another bathroom, plus the kitchen and living room. All empty.

She was just about to call out to Izzy when she got a whiff of something. And this time it wasn’t mothballs.

She took a few steps, trying to pinpoint where the smell was coming from. A pocket door, just off the kitchen. She’d missed it before.

Looping a finger through the brass latch, she closed her eyes and said a little prayer.

The door groaned as she slid it aside, and she inhaled sharply.

“Holy shit.”

Baghead

Rural Oklahoma

9 years, 126 days after

He woke, startled to feel the car seat vibrating below him, to hear its engine humming, the Focus moving somehow as he slept. He sat forward and pulled the top of the bag back so the holes lined up with his eyes, revealing Delfino in the driver’s seat of the Delta 88 instead of the Focus.

Right. He leaned back in his seat, let his neck go limp so his skull flopped against the headrest. Jesus, it felt wrong to fall asleep so quickly in the presence of a stranger like that, especially with everything that was going on. He’d known this hired driver for less than an hour, and their journey hadn’t even officially started yet. For all Bags knew, Delfino could be one of the five.

He looked out the window at the weed pocked sand all around them, watched the wind spiral up little clouds of dust and let them fall.

“Mind if I ask you something?” Delfino said.

“Go ahead.”

“This is about the Hand of Death thing, right? You needing a ride and all, I mean.”

Bags wheeled his head around, one hand scratching at his chest.

“Where’d you hear about that?”

“Hey, come on now. Assassins get sent out with instructions to kill a man by holy order? People talk about that kind of thing. Damn, man. It’s all over the place.”

Bags looked away again, his head facing the window but his eyes not focusing so they only took in a sandy colored smear.

“Hand of Death is some serious shit. Why do you think Father wants you dead?”

“Because he doesn’t like what’s in my books.”

“Not a fan?”

“He’s threatened by them.”

“Why would a bunch of letters from the old days threaten him?”

“You’d need to ask him that.”

Delfino pulled out another cigarette, lit it.

“Ol’ Father’s kind of got it made, eh?” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“The People’s Temple, you know? I’m sure you’ve heard the crazy stories. His thirteen wives. Living up in a mansion with generators, fucked out of his mind on pills most of the time, and yet thousands of people are willing to work and bleed and die for him if need be.”

“Same as any other cult leader, I’d say.”

Delfino puffed on his cigarette, smoke rolling out of his nostrils as he talked.

“I guess you’re right. It’s hard to remember some of that stuff. Here’s my question, though. Why bother with the Hand of Death? If Father wants someone dead, why not just call it the death penalty and make it happen. Why make the extra rule about five assassins and the stipulation that if the accused survives all five attempts, it’s God passing judgment the other way?”

“Well, I think people like that kind of thing. Father is an entertainer first and foremost. I think with a lot of this stuff he’s just entertaining himself. Making life and death a game, you know? I don’t know about the particular origin of the idea, though. I always assumed he saw it in a samurai movie or something.”

“Have any of them come at you yet? The assassins, I mean.”

“No.”

“Damn. Five to go. Well, the first one is usually a puss, right? They save the mega badasses for the fourth and fifth slots.”

“Sometimes. It seems pretty random other times. From what I hear, anyway.”

Delfino took a puff off of his cig and ashed it on the floor.

“So here’s the big question: If the People’s Temple is out to kill you, why are you paying me a bunch of cash to drive you straight to them?”

Baghead shrugged his shoulders, and it wrinkled up the sides of his bag, so he smoothed them out with a few strokes.

Mitch

Bethel Park, Pennsylvania

42 days before

Shock drowned everything out. He held motionless, almost catatonic. His hands and knees rested on the kitchen floor. His head hung beneath his shoulders, neck craned toward his torso so his field of vision was filled with his heaving chest, his open mouth panting for breath like a dehydrated dog. He blinked a few times, eyelids fluttering, and let his gaze fall on his wrist. Blood streaked down from the wound, two rivulets of scarlet tracing down the back of his hand like red rain running down a window.

That was it. That little scratch on his arm, skin broken just enough to draw a little blood, that was how it would all end for him. He pictured Janice’s ankle, black tendrils snaking away from the wound like smoke running beneath her skin. He knew the same would happen to him, that it wouldn’t be long.

He closed his mouth, tried to breathe through his nostrils. At first his breath was ragged, a little panicked. His head went all light and tingly, but he focused and reigned it in. Deep breaths, in and out.

His arms shook a little. Physically, he went through the motions of panic, but in a crazy way, his mind was clearer now than ever. A meandering life suddenly had an end game, a purpose, even a ticking clock with a fairly precise deadline. He had somewhere between 24 and 36 hours. His life was forfeit, yes, but a path to redemption remained open to him: he had to try to set his children up so they could make it, to give them whatever he had left to give. That was all the mattered now. It wasn’t everything. It was the only thing.

For a guy about to die, he almost felt lucky. We all have an expiration date, but most people don’t get to see it. Death sneaks up on them or the years get away from them. They miss their chance to correct their flaws, to make things right. He had that chance.