Torn Apart (Book 1): Terror In Texas (14 page)

The roar of a gunned engine on a street nearby tore Matt from his thoughts. He looked at his watch, keeping the glow of the face behind his hand. It was nearly six and the skies had begun to lighten. The sound of the racing engine grew close enough he could make out the sound of a Mazda engine straining against the abuse it was obviously taking.

The squeal of tires and a loud crash sent Matt running toward the front of the units. He stayed in the shadow as he made his way toward the entrance. Terrified screams sent chills down Matt’s spine as he slipped from the shadows to the back of the office building.

He peeked around the building and immediately saw the crumpled gate. A small low-slung sports car had slammed into the side of the wrought iron toppling it from its tracks. The car blocked the entrance. Its engine still roared as it pushed against a heavy-duty support post.

Two monsters that had once been people leaned over the driver’s side of the vehicle pulling at a young woman still trapped behind the steering wheel. While one monster chewed at her arm, the other leaned into her neck. They both jerked at her flailing arms as they tore at her flesh. Her screams pierced the night. With a final gurgle, the woman slumped against the steering wheel. The monsters pulled her free of the car and the roar of the engine settled into a placid idle.

Matt stepped back into the shadows. He was too late. He watched more infected stumble toward the sound of the racing engine. They joined the pair devouring the woman to pull at her as well.

He jogged from the office building to the corner of the storage units then between the parked SUV and the wall of units. When he got to the unit, he met by Jake at the door. Both he and Larry had armed and were ready for action. Amy sat up rubbing at her eyes. Matt hoped she had not heard the screaming.

“We gotta get moving,” Matt ordered. “Be quiet. Jake, watch the gate.”

Jake disappeared through the door with a belt of weapons and shotgun in hand. Matt walked to the baby, gently gathered her into the blanket and grabbed the diaper bag. He handed the baby to Larry.

“I’ll grab the packs, blankets and sleeping bags. You put the girls in the Humvee.”

Matt reached into the refrigerator and dumped all the water, sodas into a duffle bag then stepped to the shelf to do the same with the few remaining packaged dinners. He looked around then zipped and shouldered the bag.

“Ready,” Larry asked as he adjusted his weapons. He held out his hand. “Come on sweetie?”

Amy looked from one man to the next. “I need to go to the bathroom.” She whispered.

Larry looked to Matt.

Matt shrugged. “You get the baby in the car seat and I’ll take her. It’s close and as long as the crowd at the gate stays there, no problem.”

When they left the unit, Matt snapped the padlock back on the door. “Never can tell if we might need some of the stuff we’re leaving behind.” He shrugged.

Matt held out his hand to Amy while Larry quietly opened the Humvee doors. Larry eased the baby into the car seat and buckled her in. Larry slid his bag behind the seat. He closed the door quietly then walked around to the back of the vehicle.

“Jake?” Matt whispered. “How’s it look?”

“No change. They’re all outside the gate.” He answered.

Matt led Amy toward the restrooms. “Let’s try to be real quiet.” He took a breath and added. “No flushing.” Amy looked up and Matt answered. “It might be noisy.”

“Oh, okay,” Amy answered.

When Matt got to the restroom, he peered into gloom of morning light through the open door. “Wait here while I check it out.”

Matt pulled his machete from the scabbard and reached inside to flip on the light. The bathroom was small and had two stalls and a single wall sink. Both stalls were on the right side of the cinderblock room and the sink on the opposite wall. He eased into the bathroom, past the open stall doors to an open utility room door. He flipped the light switch but the room remained dark. He tapped his blade against the door and listened. He heard nothing. He stared into the gloom and saw nothing move. He kicked a door stop from under the door and turned around and walked back to the entrance. The room smelled really bad, but it was a public restroom. More often than not, they smelled like piss and shit.

He pointed at the first stall. “Use that one.”

Amy went into the stall and Matt heard the gentle click of the lock. He watched under the stall and saw Amy’s feet raised and dangled at the front of the porcelain. He turned away and waited. Nothing.

“We have to hurry,” Matt whispered.

“I can’t go with you standing there.” She answered. “Close the door.”

“Damn it!” Matt whispered. Against his better judgment, he pulled the door half closed.

Immediately a gentle trickle echoed from the concrete grotto. Matt smiled. They would be out of the storage units and on their way within minutes. The dribble stopped and then huffing breaths and a whimper echoed from the bathroom.

“Amy?” Matt whispered. “Time to go, sweetie.”

The child screamed.

Matt jerked the door open and heard a moan. He suddenly realized the smell was more than typical bathroom aroma. He rushed into the gloom to see a prone figure sprawling on the floor in front of the stall where Amy was trapped behind the locked door.

Matt grabbed the corpse by the leg and pulled the dead woman from under the door. He stepped over the body and seized a handful of hair and slammed the face against the cinderblock wall. The bloodied woman jerked her head around to latch on to Matt’s arm, but he raised her head again and slammed it into the concrete floor.

He threw the body to the back of the room and slammed the machete into the head. When the walking corpse didn’t move he wiped the blade on her clothes then walked back to the stall.

“Amy? Honey, it’s alright. Unlock the door, sweetie.” His voice hitched with concern.

The door remained locked and Amy whimpered. “I’m scared.”

“The monster is gone. You can come out.” Matt implored.

The door lock clicked and the stall door opened a couple inches. Matt slowly pushed the door to see Amy standing on the toilet seat, her back pressed against the wall. Her eyes were wide with terror. When she recognized Matt, she launched herself into his arms.

He stumbled back wrapping his arms around the little girl. “I’ve got you.” He held her close as he walked out of the bathroom. “I am so sorry. I won’t let anything like that ever happen again.”

Tate sat up, flung her feet over the edge of the thin mattress of the sleeper, and slid into the driver’s seat. She’d fallen asleep listening to the radio. She leaned her head out the window.

She heard the distant pop again. It was gunfire. She reached behind the seat to grab her handgun and laid it on the passenger seat. She studied the shadows in the woods behind the house. More shots rang out and this time they sounded closer.

Charlie said the edge of town was only a quarter mile from the roadblock. She decided the second set of shots came from the roadblock itself. He was right, parking behind the house hid the light of a truck doors opening from the roadblock, but it also obstructed her view of them. If she wanted to see what was going on, she had to get inside the house. She reached for her canvas bag, pulled out a holster on a canvas belt and buckled it on her waist. She picked up the handgun and jammed it in the holster. She picked up the rifle and opened the truck door.

Standing on the top step, she took one last look through the windshield and side windows before she jumped to the ground. She scanned the yard toward the out-buildings, the woods and small cemetery at the back of the property. Seeing nothing, she ran to the house and stepped through the kitchen door into the darkening house.

She heard two gunshots, then another three, this time much closer. Once inside the house, she took the stairs two at a time. At the head of the stairs, she went into the front bedroom facing the roadway. She tore back the curtain from the window and scanned the yard and beyond.

She could see the lights around the roadblock had been turned on. She opened the window and leaned out to listen. She could hear excited shouts, but the words were lost with the distance. Then she heard more gunfire and a long, pained scream of terror.

Being less than half a mile from the roadblock than she realized an open field separated her from the blacktop road where she had left Charlie. Tate stepped onto the sloping roof of the front porch. She tested her footing on the brittle wooden shingles before side-stepping to the corner of the roof. Each step solicited creaks and groans of protest. She prayed she wouldn’t break through.

Once she got to the corner of the roof and could feel rafters underfoot, she squatted down to study the people hurrying around the road block under the bright utility lights. The grader had been pulled to the side leaving the access open. Tate knew that couldn’t be good.

Using binoculars, Tate could see several vehicles coming across the bridge. The lead vehicle slowed, and the driver spoke briefly to one of the guards then sped away. The guard waved to the other guards then shouting and everyone seem to take up a defensive stance. The men patted pockets, checked loads and aimed rifles toward the town.

Gunfire began again. It was slow and deliberate. Bang...bang...Bang. Tate realized two of the guards were firing. Then it ended and there was only silence.

Just as Tate thought the excitement was over, another pair of headlights raced through the breach. In the glare of another pair of headlight, Tate could see silhouettes of people shambling across the bridge ahead of the vehicle. Tate realized the people were infected and stumbling toward the road block. The guards climbed the heavy equipment then focused gunfire toward the bridge as more and more infected stumbled toward them.

Tate stood up to watch the mass of bodies stumble across the dark bridge and gather amid the glaring floodlights. They clustered around the grader with arms reaching up toward the men on top of the cab. The guards were firing into the crowd. Bodies piled up at the side of the grader while more and more of the infected climbed toward the guards.

Suddenly a vehicle roared through the horde of attackers. It struck two bodies tossing them head over heels. The sound of the engine changed dramatically after the impact. The engine began knocking so loud Tate could hear it from where she stood.

“What the?” Tate whispered.

She looked back toward the window, debating about jumping into her truck and leaving but decided to wait. Charlie expected to find her at the house and if something went wrong, she might be able to help him by being at the house when he came.

Tate watched a work light teeter then make a slow arc to the ground exploding in a light show of sparks. The vehicle raced away from the road block with the engine sputtering and coughing. One of the headlights blinked out as the vehicle disappeared over the hill.

Tate followed the vehicle’s journey by the growl of the engine and the roar of the missing muffler. The truck slowed and turned at the crossroad, accelerated then made the second turn toward the farm house. The remaining headlight blinked once when it turned on the lane leading to the house.

Tate hurried to the window, climbed back inside the house and made her way down the stairs. She ran out the back door and around the house just as the vehicle skidded to a stop a few feet from the orange rig.

She walked out of the shadows as Charlie opened the door and stepped out of the vehicle. He waved Tate to his truck.

“The town is overrun! The dead came in from the freeway a few miles south of town.” He walked to the back of the truck and pulled out several bags. “We got things to do.”

“What do you mean?”

Charlie handed Tate two bags of supplies.

“I gathered a few things for you. There’s a map in that first bag. I marked back roads that will get you out of here.” Tate stowed the bags and Charlie continued. “My wife was fixing fried chicken when I came. I told her about Jackson, but she just kept cooking that damned fried chicken just like the boy was gonna walk through the door any minute.

I finally gave up and sat down at the table. She just kept talking about when Jackson was a boy. I guess I nodded off and didn’t hear when she went to the door.” He took a deep breath. “I woke up to her screaming.”

Tate accepted two more bags. “I’m sorry.” She set the bags in the storage compartment in the sleeper.

Charlie handed her another bag. “Bastard ripped out her throat before I could get outta my chair. I pulled him off her and drove a knife in the side of his head. She died on the kitchen floor while I threw the bastard out the back door. I gave her peace, cleaned her up and put her in the truck.” Charlie set a basket to the side of the pickup. “I could hear them out in the street.”

“You can’t stay here. You can come with me. I have a cousin out west and we’ll go there.” Tate announced.

Charlie answered. “Afraid not.”

He rolled up his sleeve to expose a white bandage on his forearm. “The bastard got me before I put him down.”

My folks are buried out back. I plan on laying Emma to rest.” Charlie shrugged and picked up the basket covered by a checkered cloth and passed it to Tate.

She glanced in the truck bed and saw tarp wrapped body. “I’ll help you.”

“You can’t stay.” Charlie answered. “It’s too dangerous.”

“And you can’t stop me,” Tate answered. “Let’s take care of your wife. Where can we find shovels?”

An hour later, Tate and Charlie stood at the side of a shallow grave, just wide enough for two bodies. They had dug a single hole big enough to hold both Charlie and his wife.

“I feel bad leaving you to finish this.” Charlie chuckled as he dragged his arm across his moist forehead. He drove the end of the shovel into the pile of dirt.

Tate shrugged. “No problem. I owe you.”

After carrying a bucket of water in from the pump, and washing up they sat at the kitchen table with a single candle between them. Tate watched Charlie slump in a chair.

He had grown pale, his lips cyanotic and eyes bloodshot. His breathing came in short gasps. “Sorry, I think it’s getting pretty bad. My head feels like its exploding. I don’t think I’m going to be able to eat. He pointed at the basket of chicken on the table. “Eat while I show you this map.”

“It smells really good.”

Charlie forced a laugh. “My Emma was a good cook, that’s for damn sure.” He leaned over the map and pointed at a red line he had drawn on the back roads. “It’s no more than three miles. If you go past the church you’ve gone too far.”

“I got it.” Tate answered as she grabbed a chicken leg and took a big bite while Charlie looked on with a sad smile on his face.

“You’re an interesting woman, Tate Hamilton.” He commented.

“How so?” Tate asked around a mouthful of chicken. She swallowed and took a bite of biscuit. She reached for the second chicken leg.

“The orange hair and the tattoo. You drive a truck that matches your hair.” He chuckled as he massaged his temple.

“Actually, it’s the other way around. The hair matches the truck.” Tate answered. You’re right Charlie. Your wife was a hell of a good cook.”

Charlie announced. “She was. You know, without her and our son I don’t regret leaving this life. I’m just sorry you’ll be alone in such a fucked up world.”

“I’ll manage,” Tate answered.

Charlie pushed back from the table. “Don’t stay. Get in your truck and get the hell outta here. Where ever you stop, sleep in your truck and remember when you get out in the morning, there could be an infected at the door.” He rose and walked to the kitchen door and turned back to Tate. “Sorry. I need some air.” He stepped outside into the dark.

After a full minute of concentration on her meal and Charlie didn’t return, Tate put down the chicken leg. She turned toward the open door and called out. “Charlie? Are you alright?”

A shot shattered the silence. She jumped to her feet, raced through the door, and stood on the edge of the back porch. She studied the shadows in the fading light and saw no movement then her eyes were drawn toward the small family cemetery and she saw a dim glow.

“Charlie? Come on Charlie, don’t do this to me.” Tate called out as she ran toward the light.

When she got to the edge of the cemetery, she stopped running and made her way with halting steps to the hole in the ground. She looked into the grave and gasped.

Charlie had opened the tarp and pointed a small light toward Emma’s face. Her round, pleasant features looked as if she were merely sleeping. Charlie had lain down next to her body then put the small caliber gun under his chin and pulled the trigger.

“Oh, Charlie.” Tate squatted down and stared into the hole.

She didn’t know how long she spent squatting there staring at Charlie and Emma before she stood up with aching knees. She stepped into the hole and retrieved the flashlight and laid it at the head of the grave. She pulled the end of the tarp over both their faces and climbed out of the hole. She grabbed a shovel and began shoveling dirt into the opening.

“Damn it, Charlie. You didn’t have to do it like this.” She shoveled spade-f after spade-f of dirt into the hole. It took nearly an hour before the excavated earth was piled into a mound over the final resting place of Charlie and his wife.

When she finished, Tate walked back to the house, washed up and repacked the basket with the chicken and rolls. She used the toilet one last time, grabbed the map and the basket then walked back to the truck.  She climbed inside, cranked the engine and put the truck in gear.

She drove for three hours down back roads barely wide enough to accommodate the rig. It was well past midnight when she pulled out onto a two-lane blacktop. She was exhausted and she could barely keep her eyes open. She saw a break in the fencing alongside the road and after slowing realized it was a gravel lane. In the distance she could see the remains of a burned out structure. Only remnants of three walls could be seen in the moon light. She pulled into the barn yard, deciding the scrub grass down the middle of the rutted road should ensure the property being deserted.

She parked the rig and rolled down the windows. The light evening breeze filled the cab with the aroma of fresh mowed hay. She crawled into the sleeper and pulled the handmade quilt close. Her head barely hit the pillow and she was fast asleep.

The sleeper was stifling when the morning sun glared through the windshield and down on the metal roof overhead. Tate was covered in a glistening mist of perspiration. The quilt was kicked to the foot of her bed. The air was suffocating.

When the sun rose the next morning she raised her head then flopped back on the pillow. She was exhausted and despite the bright blue sky she could see through the glass at the top of the sleeper she didn’t want to face the day. Slowly the events of the evening before came back to her and she buried her face into the quilt. As she lay there, she slowly realized she was hearing moans. Or maybe sobs of people in pain. She sniffed at the air and realized a terrible smell had begun invading the cab.

She threw the quilt back as the fog of sleep cleared. Slowly, she realized the groans and moans were not her imagination but coming from the open window along with the overpowering stench of decay and shit.

Tate sat up with a start and peeked through the curtain at the side of the metal compartment. She gasped at the sight of dozens of infected roaming the yard and around the burned out structure. She also saw a major highway behind the destroyed building with dozens of vehicles parked one behind the next.

Dozens of bloodied and gore-covered dead people were focused on the
Orange Bitch
. Each looked expectantly at the windows of the cab. Their noses raised and sniffed as if they could smell her. She could even hear snorting above the moans from time to time.