Brian Keene (17 page)

"I don't know if they're alive or not. I suspect not. We never heard from either of them once this all started. Anyway, after the girls made us grandparents, Bernice surprised me with the news that she was pregnant again. Let me tell you, Reverend, I was scared by that. I'd just turned fifty, and didn't have no business raising another child. But secretly, I'd always wanted a boy. Figured I was never meant to have one. So when Jason come out, I was happier than a pig in shit. I love my girls, but do you know what I mean?"

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Martin nodded.

"He's a fine boy, your son."

"Yes sir, that he is. And he's all I got now. That's why I feel for your friend. That's a hard thing. Damn hard! I can imagine what he must be going through."

"I think any father could." Martin agreed.

"Tell me something, Reverend. Between you and me, do you really think there's a chance his boy's alive?"

Before Martin could answer, the limbs above them rustled. Suddenly, shattering the stillness, a huge black crow took flight.

"My God," Martin clutched his chest. "I thought I was going to have a heart attack there for a second!"

Delmas laughed. "I told you there's some critters still alive in here!

Only folks that hunt it are Jason and me, and Old John Joe over yonder." He pointed in the direction of the cornfield.

"He's a neighbor of yours, I take it?"

"Crazy old coot is what he is, though I don't reckon it's his fault. Same thing happened to Bernice happened to his wife too. Except John Joe didn't put her in the ground like Jason and I."

"He didn't? Please don't tell me he tried to-eat her..."

"John Joe? Hell no! He wasn't crazy like them

143 cannibals you run across. He just couldn't accept the fact that she wasn't his wife no more."

"So what did he do with her?"

"Well, he put her in the chicken house. Put chains and shackles around her legs, and fixed it up just like a little cell. And he fed her."

"He fed her?"

"Yep. Chicken. Beef. Fish he caught in the Greenbrier. Cooked it up and set it in there, using a long pole with a hook on it so he wouldn't have to get within grabbing reach of her. She wouldn't touch it. Then he tried some vegetables from the garden. She didn't want anything to do with those either. So he quit cooking and fed her the meat raw. She ate that, but John Joe knew it wasn't normal for a body to be eating raw meat. Finally, he asked me to come have a look. I don't think he really grasped just what was going on with the world. John Joe wasn't one to
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watch the news."

"I went over and had myself a look. It was horrible. She'd eaten through one ankle to get free of the shackles, and she was gnawing on the other when I saw her. She got agitated, and started cursing." He blushed.

"Well, I never heard words like that coming from a lady's mouth; not even the gook hookers during the war. Terrible things. And she wasn't just speaking English either. She'd start ranting in English and then slip into some gibberish I've never heard before. Couldn't make heads or tails of it, but I'm here to tell you, it sounded ugly. There was something evil in those words."

Martin fingered his rifle.

"So what became of her?"

"Well, I told John Joe what he needed to do, but he didn't do it. I guess she nibbled off enough of her body to get loose, because a week later, John Joe come walking across the field, just as dead as she was. Had bite marks all over him and his throat was torn out. Jason put him down with one shot."

They marched down the hill to the creek. Delmas

144 stopped short and pointed at the mud. A line of hoof prints crossed the stream and headed up the hill.

"Those are fresh," he whispered. "Hell, they've just been through here!" Martin glanced around but there was no sign of the deer.

"Alright, here's the plan," Delmas told him. "I'm gonna go up on that ridge yonder, and try to flush them down this way. You put yourself over against that tree," he indicated a massive, gnarled oak, "and whichever one of us gets the first shot, the other one has to clean it."

"Fair enough," Martin agreed. He was grateful he didn't have to climb the hill. The pain from his arthritis was spider webbing its way through his legs and back.

"Let me put a dip in first."

Delmas stuffed a pinch of Kodiak between his lip and gum, and snapped the lid back on the can. Returning it to his jacket pocket, he rubbed his hands together briskly, then picked up the rifle.

"Can's just about empty. I suppose I'll have to quit soon. Don't reckon I'm gonna get anymore anytime soon."

He began to creep away, when suddenly, on the other side of the stream, a twig snapped.

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Martin jumped, backing up a few steps. Another twig snapped, followed by the rustle of leaves.

Delmas spotted it immediately and froze-holding his breath. His mouth filled with tobacco juice, and he swallowed, rather than spitting and announcing his presence.

Beneath the outstretched limbs, a shape emerged. Four legs, a mid-section, then a head. And what a glorious head it was! Even enveloped in the branches, Delmas could spot the rough outline of a rack-possibly a twelve-point or more.

Fuck me, he thought to himself. His finger twitched.

The deer bent its head, as if to sniff the ground, and Delmas raised the rifle.

145 Two things happened at once.

Martin caught a whiff of rotting flesh, and with a blur and a whip of branches, the buck vanished into the forest. They glimpsed a fragmentary telltale flash of white as it ran.

"White-tail!"

Thumbing the safety off, Delmas sprinted after it.

"Wait!" Martin called. "I think it's a zombie!" The roar of the big man's rifle drowned him out.

Martin ran after him. Out of breath, he tried to shout another warning, but only managed to wheeze. The deer was still standing. Carefully, Delmas raised the 30.06 to his shoulder and sighted again. The deer snorted and turned towards him. He still couldn't see its features because of the foliage, but he was sure it was staring directly at him.

He squeezed the trigger. The rifle bucked between his armpit and shoulder. It was a good pain.

The bullet passed straight through the animal's heart, and the deer dropped in the shadows beneath the trees.

The shot's echo rolled across the hollow. Delmas grinned in anticipation. The buck would provide venison for months if they cured it right.

Leaning against a tree, Martin gasped, trying to speak.
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With a whoop, Delmas dashed toward his kill. His nose crinkled in disgust as the smell hit him.

"Oh shit."

The deer had been dead before he shot it.

The zombie sprang to its feet and lowered its antlers. The foliage parted and three more deer, two bucks and a doe, stepped forward menacingly. The one that Delmas had shot made a noise, and Martin swore it sounded like laughter.

They planned this, he thought to himself. Dear God, they set us up!

146 Jim awoke to the distant sound of gunshots. Yawning and dazed, he took a moment to study the room more closely. It was sparse: only the bed, nightstand and a dresser to keep him company. A painting of Jesus hung on one wall, and a picture of Jason holding a stringer of trout and beaming proudly hung on the other. A framed picture of a pretty but tired-looking woman sat atop the dresser. Jim guessed it was Clendenon's wife.

A pitcher of water and a bottle of aspirin sat on the nightstand. Jim downed four pills and explored his wound, probing the bandage with his fingers. From the kitchen, he heard the sounds of pots clanging together. Stretching, he got out of bed and dressed, then went to the window.

The scene outside was idyllic; tranquil. A faded red barn leaned precariously to its left, surrounded by a chicken-house, corncrib, and several wooden utility sheds. A John Deere tractor that had seen better days sat forlornly, weeds growing up to the top of its oversized tires. A large garden plot, now barren and empty, lay to the right. Near the garden, under a large willow, was a lone makeshift tombstone. It read simply:

BELOVED WIPE AND MOTHER

The property reminded Jim of where he'd grown up; the Shennandoah Mountains in Pocahontas County. He hadn't thought of his parents in a long time, and he suddenly felt ashamed. He hadn't been back to his childhood home in years; not since they died and the bank had taken the farm to settle their outstanding debts. It had always bothered Jim that Danny would never know his grandparents.

But Jim was also thankful that they hadn't been around to see what had
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become of the world. He'd lost too many people already; Carrie, the baby, friends like Mike and Melissa. He wouldn't have wanted to go 147 through the anguish of losing his parents all over again. The door opened and Jason peeked his head inside. Jim wondered why he'd thought the boy was older than Danny. He could clearly see now that they were the same age. In fact, the kid bore an uncanny resemblance to his son. Why hadn't he noticed that before?

"Didn't mean to disturb you Mr. Thurmond, but I figured you might be getting hungry."

"You didn't disturb me." Jim smiled warmly. "Please, call me Jim. You're Jason, right?"

"Yes sir, I mean Jim."

"Are Martin and your father back yet?"

The boy shook his head. "No, but I reckon it shouldn't be too much longer. I heard some shooting a few minutes ago."

"Yeah, that's what woke me. Wonder what they managed to bag?"

"Oh, there's all kinds of critters in the hollow! Why, I've killed me rabbits, pheasants, groundhogs, squirrels, deer, even a turkey or two. I missed a bear last year though."

"Well, that's pretty good shooting for a little guy like yourself," Jim exclaimed. "Your Dad must be proud."

"I'm no little guy," the boy said, puffing out his chest. "I'll be twelve in December."

"Twelve?" Jim studied him and could see it now. Jason looked nothing like Danny. What the hell was wrong with him? Was he losing his mind?

Jason had asked him something while he pondered this, and now the boy was staring at him in puzzlement.

"I'm sorry," Jim apologized. "I'm still a bit woozy. What did you say?"

"I said there's tomato soup if you want some. It'll hold you over till they get back. Then we'll have some meat and potatoes."

"I think a bowl of tomato soup would be just fine." He followed the boy through the living room and into the kitchen. Bernice's presence could still be felt

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148 throughout the house, but it was strongest here; everything from the embroidered potholders to the matching toaster cover bore her distinct feminine touch.

"You miss your mother, I guess." Jim regretted saying it the moment the words left his mouth, but it was too late.

"Yeah," Jason replied, his voice grown sullen. He retrieved a bowl from the cupboard and ladled soup from a black iron pot bubbling softly on the wood-burning stove.

"When Mamma died, Pop said we had to burn her. That's just like cremation, so I figured it wouldn't be so bad. But Pop wasn't sure burning would be enough. Before he did it, he told me to go inside. Instead, I snuck around the house and hid behind the corncrib, and I saw what Pop did. He had this big machete that he uses to cut weeds down around the pond. He-he cut Mamma's head off with it. Then he burned her." Jim wasn't sure how to respond, so he said nothing. Jason handed him the bowl and he sat down at the table, waiting patiently to see if the boy would continue.

"I was mad at Pop after that, but I guess I understand why he did it. He was crying, so I know it hurt him as bad as it did me."

"I'm sure that was a very hard thing for your Pop to do," Jim agreed.

"But he did it because he loves you and wants to keep you safe, I suspect."

"Yeah, I reckon so," Jason sniffed.

"I have a son too," Jim said around mouthfuls of soup. "His name is Danny. He's a little younger than you are, but I think you guys would get along. He lives in New Jersey with his mother and step-father, and Reverend Martin and I are on our way to get him."

"Does he know you're coming?"

Jim considered this.

"Yeah, I think he does. He knows I wouldn't let anything happen to him. Wouldn't you feel the same about your Pop?"

149 Jason shrugged. "I guess so. But New Jersey is a long ways away." Jim's stomach growled, the hot soup reawakening his appetite.

"It's tough for a father when you can't be there every day," he told Jason. "I wanted to be there for my son, but I couldn't. I wasn't allowed. My ex-wife got an expensive lawyer and I couldn't afford one. I wish I could have been there every time he fell off his bike and skinned his knee, or tucked him in when he had a bad dream. But it didn't turn
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out that way. The important thing is that Danny knows I wanted to be there. And pretty soon, we'll be together again."

Jim finished off the soup and thanked Jason, and their conversation turned to other things. Jim asked him about life on the farm. Jason wanted to know more about what he and Martin had seen on their journey, and Jim told him, editing out the grislier details. Jim learned that the boy had no concept of the outside world, other than what he'd seen on television.

"What's the farthest you've ever been?"

"To my big sister's house in Richmond. Mamma and Pop were going to take me to Busch Gardens next summer, but I don't guess there'd be much to see there now."

He grinned. Surprised, Jim laughed along with him.

"You're a pretty tough kid, you know that Jason?"

"That's what Pop tells me."

That was when the screaming started outside.

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Coasting along the turnpike, Baker considered their options. There was a shopping mall just off the next exit, a few miles down the turnpike. They could probably find supplies there: food, clothing, weapons-but after further consideration, he finally decided against it. The shopping mall was located on the edge of a suburban area, and was bound to be heavily populated. The farther they could get away from towns, the better off they would be.