The Broken and the Dead (Book 1) (19 page)

“Tell me one more thing, why won’t you call me Amy? It’s my name you know.”

He didn’t look at her, he kept his vigil, but he answered her;

“It has been a long time since I called a woman by her first name, and to do that to you might be misunderstood.” She laughed softly under her breath.

“You can have friends Mr. Tucker, you won’t be betraying her.”

He did not answer and I took the opportunity to scamper down the stairs and into my room, I didn’t shut it all the way and I waited peeking through the crack as she exited the stairwell and started down the hall, without looking left or right she stopped outside my door. Mrs. Driscol spoke

“I hope you learned something tonight young John. Things are not always as they seem.” 

Then she walked on down the hall to the room she was sharing with Janey.  After she closed her door I shut mine and proceed to lay on my bed, many conflicting thoughts in a worried mind but eventually I fell asleep.

DAY 10, Frank’s Family Lodge

             
The next morning, I rose early and got my own breakfast. I waited until everyone else was up and OMT was getting ready to go. As I watched him it became apparent that in spite of his recent weight loss, the Acura was NOT going to work. He discussed things with Mrs. Driscol and they decided he should just go ahead and take Rock-3, our SUV. He used a siphon to drain the tank of the VW Golf to replace some of what we had used in our long journey here.  Elaine loaded a dozen MREs and a case of water into the back seat and handed him a couple of spare batteries for the handheld radio, Lucy helped by carrying three cans of chili, apparently remembering how much OMT liked it.  OMT spoke to Elaine and asked about her plans for the private road and she said that she and Kyle had a couple of good ideas and that he should definitely call them before attempting to drive up the road upon his return. He actually had the nerve to kiss Lucy on the top of her head before he placed the Moisan in back seat he shoved the antique double barrel 10 gauge between the front seats and checked his colt revolvers. Then he got in and started the engine, when he did that I opened the passenger door and got it. I placed my back pack on the floor boards at my feet, my M16 between my knees and my M9 in its shoulder holster like any well-dressed 12 year old. I stared at him, daring him to say something. He just sat there a moment then ‘harrumphed’ then looked over at Elaine who just shrugged and tilted her head in her patented ‘
what are you going to do
?’ manner. He put the car into gear and we slowly made the turn around the flag pole and started down the road towards the highway.

              There was complete silence until we actually got onto the highway. He reached into the pocket of his flannel shirt and handed me the spare batteries.

“Would you please put these in the glove box?” he asked.

His voice still damaged from his fight with ‘muscles’. I took them and put them inside but before I closed it I reached in my back pack and took out 2 of my 3 spare magazines for the Beretta. I put them in as well.  We drove on, only the road noise to keep us amused but eventually he spoke again,

“We don’t have enough gas to get to Morgantown so we will have to keep an eye open for any abandoned vehicles or gas stations.”

              We passed several vehicles but they didn’t seem to be in very good shape and I think that neither of us felt the locale was safe enough. After about an hour I saw a little ‘mom and pop’ on the service road ahead of us and I spoke for the first time

“What about there?”

He nodded, “yeah, looks like it might be worth checking out.”

He slowed and then pulled across the median, down a slight slope and onto the service road. We drove slowly both of us kept looking this way and that but it still looked safe. We pulled up to the gas pump, I say pump because that is exactly how many there were, one. There was a sign mounted along the roof line and the letters, painted in an arch said

“Livingston’s Esso” and below that “Cold Soda, Ice Cream, Snacks”

We both exited the SUV and I held the M16 ready and flipped the safety off. OMT was carrying the shotgun and while it was made in the 19
th
century, those twin 10 gauge barrels looked menacing in his hands. He nodded at the door and I stepped up to it but it was not only locked it was boarded from the inside. I looked over at him and shook my head ‘
negative
’.

              I could see he was weighing his options when I heard a man’s voice from inside

“Don’t shoot!”

And I saw the 2x6’s that had been mounted crossways inside the door being removed. OMT looked around but still not seeing anything else he rested the big gun on his shoulder and waited. Finally the door opened and an older black man held the door open for us.

“Come on in!” he said with genuine happiness.

We walked inside and soon were having a nice conversation with Mr. Livingston. He and his wife had a small house just up the hill from their gas station. He looked to be perhaps 70 but from a photo he showed us his wife looked younger, maybe 60. He wanted to know what we had heard or seen. OMT and I took turns explaining to him just how bad things had become. Mr. Livingston said he had two sons and a daughter. One son was in the Army and was stationed in Germany. The other lived in St. Louis but they hadn’t heard from them in over a week. His daughter, well he didn’t know exactly where she was, she was a wild spirit and traveled with her friends most of the time. Much to my surprise OMT told him about the lodge, he said that we were on a mission but we would be coming back in a day or two at the most, assuming all went well.

He said that Mr. Livingston should talk to his wife and if they wanted to they could travel with us back to the lodge and join the group. He seemed thrilled with the idea and promised to discuss it with his wife. I was wondering what he was up to when OMT brought up the issue of gasoline. Mr. Livingston said he had over 5000 gallons in the ground but didn’t have any power so the only option was a hand pump he had. OMT said that would be fine and that maybe they could trade for it, we had food and water, maybe some ammo but Mr. Livingston said

“Forget it, what I am going to do with a bunch of gas that will probably just go bad in 3 or 4 months anyway.”

They shook hands and Mr. Livingston produced a strange, clear plastic hose, about 10 feet from one end there was a hard plastic tube with a crank on it. We all went outside together, Mr. Livingston showed us where a blue colored fill cap was, it had a white cross on it. It wasn’t locked and he spun it off, then he shoved one end of the hose into the underground tank then how to work the crank and after a few moments golden colored gasoline began to flow through the hose and into Rock-3’s gas tank. OMT took over and I kept watch, Mr. Livingston went inside then reappeared with a 12-pack of diet Dr. Pepper. OMT looked thrilled and actually I wasn’t too upset either. We all had one but as soon as we finished filling the tank Mr. Livingston appeared a second time with two red plastic 5-gallon gas cans. We filled those too. We started to put things away but he said that not to worry that he would take care of things.

Once we got into the SUV Mr. Livingston went around to the driver’s side window and taking out his wallet he showed something to OMT. They spoke quietly then shook hands again. “See you in a day or so” OMT said. The smiling Mr. Livingston said he would keep an eye out for us.

              We drove down the service road but this time just took the entrance ramp to the highway since it was in the direction we were going anyway. After a few minutes I finished my Dr. Pepper. OMT had not said anything so I asked

“What did he show you back there?”

OMT didn’t take his eyes off the road,

“He asked if we would keep an eye out for his daughter, Janae, and to bring her home if we could. He showed me a picture.”

I asked him “do you think you would recognize her?”

He nodded, “already did Johnny, I killed her day before yesterday.”

I felt my stomach plummet and I thought I would vomit. I looked at him and he was looking at me. Misery painted on his face, pain burned in his eyes, despair carved on his heart.

              Neither of us spoke for a long time but I eventually broke the silence and offered a new subject.

“Just what kind of weapons will be looking for?” I asked.

OMT said “hi powered hunting rifles, semi-automatic if possible. Ruger makes a .44 magnum carbine. Henry, Winchester, and Marlin all make big bore lever guns; we will try to get some in .44 mag, .444 Marlin or .45-70 government if possible. They even make some pretty good replica single shots in .45-70 and someone makes a double rifle too I think. We will try to get some new revolvers, Smith and Wesson makes one in .500 and in .460 but failing that we will look for Ruger, Colt, or Smith and Wesson revolvers in .454 Casull or .44 magnum. I think Taurus and Freedom Arms make some as well.”

OMT was on a roll now, so I let him go on;

“We can also look for some safari grade guns, the really fancy stuff, super high powered rifles that they use on rhinos or elephants or Chevy pickups but even if we find them I doubt there will be much ammo for them. Not too many people want to spend $70.00 a bullet for .700 caliber nitro express. No, the best option we can actually hope for is a British Royal or better yet a Barrett .50 BMG. I don’t care how much scaly armor the dammed crazies grow, those puppies will punch a hole in it.” 

I let him drone on about the muzzle velocity and 200 yard absolute energy advantages of 7.62 NATO and God knows what else.

              I looked at him, this was not the same guy as 20 minutes ago, he seemed actually happy, just talking about stupid guns. I shook my head and thought to myself “
pathetic
.” I said no more and left the Old Man to his escape dreams of high powered rifles and death. I decided to let him have his moment free of guilt, free of the realization the he had strangled to death the daughter of a kind and articulate black man we had left behind; a generous man who just helped his daughter’s killer drive away with a tank full of gas. I thought I might cry.

              I was half listening, half dozing as OMT droned on and on about some crappy stuff when I thought I saw something far off in the distance, far down the highway.

“Slow down” I said.

He asked “What?”

“I said slow down and look!” I said with more urgency.

“WHERE?” he barked.

He was looking around, searching this way and that.

“Right there!” I was practically screaming and pointing down the highway in front of us. I looked over at OMT and he was squinting over the steering wheel. Clearly he wasn’t seeing what I was, but he did as I asked anyway, he slowed the SUV until it was barely moving. Finally the black shapes came into focus.

“Zs.” I whispered.

“SHIT!” OMT spat under his breath.

              There were 6 of them, it was getting harder to tell which had been male, which female, even young and old were indistinguishable the only attribute that made them so were their size. Some were smaller than others, but none were fat, their skin was turning black, like the shell of a beetle. They were moving at a good clip, maybe not Olympic level but certainly NFL. There were heading right towards us in two rows of three but not right behind the other, they were staggered as if they had started in a straight line before every other one started off before the others, a military formation. They had seen us long before I had seen them. They were closing the gap fast so I asked OMT,

“What are we going to do?”

They were close enough now that he could see them too; I could see the panic in his face, the gears spinning in his head. Suddenly he reached down and drew his two colts from his holsters and handed them to me. With his left hand he pressed a button on the armrest and the moon roof started to slide open,

“UP THERE JOHN!”

I nodded and stood up as soon as I could, OMT started to rev the engine, it was a game of nerves. I held the Colts out in front of me, one in each hand. At 50 yards the SUV jumped forward and the tires squealed as we raced towards the Zs. I pointed with the revolver in my right hand and squeezed a round at the one directly in front of us. I hit it in the upper left chest and it spun to one side, I raised the pistol I had just fired and pointed with the left one. I fired at the one most center but missed. We were moving too fast, and then we hit the Zs. The one on the left was thrown off to one side, but the one directly in the middle first hit the grill, was almost drug beneath the SUV but it managed to right itself and it started to climb up onto the hood. I heard OMT yelling at me,

“Take your time son, but not too much time.”

I dropped the revolver from my left hand and pointed the other as carefully as I could at the Z. Its eyes were bright white, two black slits made a cross in each. The creature blinked and the slits opened and closed like the shutters of a camera. I fired and the round glanced off of its forehead, it didn’t kill him but it certainly got his attention and he released his hold on the hood, his claw like fingers tearing gouges in the sheet metal beneath them. The SUV bumped high into the air as we drove over the creature. OMT nearly lost control and we served from side to side several times but he eventually he straightened it out.