The Scattered and the Dead (Book 1): A Post-Apocalyptic Series (33 page)

They climbed out of the sedan, stepping out of the shade of the car and into the glare of the direct sunlight. Bags squinted, fighting to keep his eyes open in the brightness.

The leader waved his hand, and the child soldiers closed on them. They sprinted forward, their footsteps pounding out a heavy clatter on the pavement.

Two kids moved in on Bags, walling him off from the car, their rifles raised at him. Their lips curled back, foreheads creased, eyebrows clenched up. One of the kids was barely five feet tall with the deadest eyes of the bunch. Bags stared straight into the boy’s face without thinking about it, trying to figure him out and finding only hatred there.

Looking over, he saw the same scenario playing out for Delfino on the other side of the car. He noticed that Delfino stared straight down at the ground. Perhaps that was the proper etiquette.

The other two soldiers climbed into the car, one in the front and one in the back. They moved quickly, reaching under seats and rooting their hands around.

Finally, the one in the back peeled the blanket off of the back seat. Bags held his breath. The kid wadded the blanket up, tossed it back down to the seat.

“Back is clear. I’ll check the trunk.”

The kid in the front worked on, fidgeting in the glove box a while, and then running his hand all around underneath the dash. Something clicked.

“Got something,” he said.

“What is it?” the leader said.

He held up a wad of money and a silver chain.

“Some old world cash and a piece of jewelry tucked in a little compartment under the dash.”

The leader smirked at Delfino.

“Hiding the valuables?”

“Hey, a guy has to try to make a living out here. You know how it is.”

The leader nodded, placing the cash and jewelry in his breast pocket.

“Trunk is clear. A few blankets if we want them.”

“No need.”

The smallest one with the dead eyes spoke up. Based on the timbre of his voice, Baghead realized he was older than he looked -- probably 14, at least. Just small for his age.

“What’s with the bag on this one’s head?”

“Ain’t no business of ours,” the leader said.

“The hell it ain’t. What if he’s hiding something under there? Why else wear it?”

“You blind? Can’t you see his eye? The radiation got ‘im, man. Just let it go. They’ve paid the toll just fine, and they’ll be on their way.”

Everyone hesitated for a second, and Bags stared into the hateful eyes again. He didn’t want to, but he somehow couldn’t look away.

“Open the gate,” the leader said, and then he waved Bags and Delfino back to their car. “Enjoy your trip.”

A couple of the kids ran over to wheel the gate out of the way, but the little one hung back. He rammed a shoulder into Baghead’s chest as he moved toward the car. It got Bags just right to make it feel like his lungs had imploded, no longer capable of inhaling.

The kid didn’t say anything. He walked away like nothing happened, not even looking back to gloat.

Mitch

Bethel Park, Pennsylvania

42 days before

As they moved into the graying tones toward the dark half of the store, they found an abandoned cart in the pet department. They removed two bags of kitty litter and loaded their things into it. Though the shelves had been ravaged, they’d landed some pouches of tuna, a few pounds of oatmeal and quite a bit of rice as Kevin had gone back for another haul.

“What do we need from over here?” Kevin said, his head gesturing toward the darkening department store around them.

“Buckets or rain barrels,” Mitch said. “If the water goes out, you can catch rain water from the downspouts. You can use it to flush the toilet. If you boil it first, you can even drink it.”

“That’s smart. Do you think they’re sold out already, though?”

“I’m not sure, but I don’t think people are thinking that far ahead just yet. Anyway, be on the lookout for other useful items.”

By the time they got to the hardware department, it was hard to see. A little light glinted its way across the store, but it felt like walking around in a cave, Mitch thought. They walked past cans of spray paint, and another group of shoppers were suddenly on top of them, appearing as though from nowhere, flitting by like a colony of bats headed toward the light.

Mitch’s heart hammered away, picking up speed. Sweat slicked his palms and forehead. He left his hand on the butt of the gun, couldn’t quite bring himself to remove it. He didn’t want the boys to know how much this had spooked him, so he talked.

“You guys see any hatchets? That might be something worth having. A multi-tasker.”

“Maybe two hatchets, right?” Matt said. “I’d like my own.”

“Sure. Two hatchets, if we can find them.”

The cart’s wheels squeaked as they turned a corner, moving into an aisle of nails and screws and nuts and bolts. Shopping proved to be difficult in the half light, Mitch thought. They couldn’t glance down rows, their eyes perusing wares from a distance. Walking within a couple feet of things served as the only way to see what they were looking at.

They glided past spools of chain to the farthest back corner of the store, and a dark figure took shape at the end of the aisle. Silent. Unmoving. Mitch’s tongue jerked, seeming to stick in the back of his throat like a starfish clinging to the reef. He didn’t like this.

“What about an ax, though?” Matt said. “Maybe an ax is better than a hatchet, right?”

“Be quiet, Matt,” Mitch said, his voice all hushed and gritty like sandpaper.

The figure moved. It was hard to tell at first, but it walked toward them. Something about the silhouette seemed to move in an inhuman way, the footsteps somehow too fluid, the set of its shoulders almost demonic. Mitch drew the gun.

The thing swooped at them, a lunge quick enough that Mitch lost sight of the figure, seeing only movement among the shades of black that he couldn’t make much sense of. Things moved near him, ceiling hooks and fixtures clattering to the floor. Total confusion. He kept the gun aimed at the ground, feet sliding him forward toward the commotion.

Matt screamed. No words, just terror torn from his throat. The sound rang out small and pathetic like a lamb being slaughtered, a series of high pitched bleats that reverberated in the silence around them, the echoes somehow otherworldly in the darkness, a filtered ringing quality hanging in the air long after the sound of his voice faded out.

And Mitch closed in, the gun pointed ahead of him now. He crashed into the dark figure, knocking it flat and falling on top of it. A scramble of limbs ensued. Moving body parts bashing into each other. He found himself on top of the being, and he sat up, glancing for a split second over his shoulder to ensure his children were behind him.

And he squeezed the trigger, and the muzzle flashed, lighting everything up. The world went into slow motion. In that instant of light, he found no demon beneath him, no zombie or mutant or beastly creature at all. Just a small man with a haggard look about him. Purple bags beneath the eyes. Pit stains darkening his t-shirt. Stubble giving way to a scraggly blond beard. And then time resumed, and the muzzle popped, and the bullet tore open the guy’s gut, and that filtered ring hung in the air again. It was so fast. Just a flash and a bang and the guy was opened up, blood seeping out of him, the dark spot of the puddle spreading around him on the white floor.

This seemed a lot more permanent now that it was done, Mitch realized. A split decision that would change lives forever. What had even happened here? He didn’t know, and he knew he never would.

The man howled once, and Mitch put one in his head.

“Let’s go,” he said, getting to his feet. “People will come looking this way because of the gun shots. Just act natural and keep moving.”

Nobody spoke. They rounded the corner, and he put a rain barrel into the cart, and they wheeled back toward the light.

He didn’t know what happened, but it didn’t matter anymore. Keeping these boys safe was the only thing that mattered now. It was the only thing.

Erin

Presto, Pennsylvania

38 days after

After standing next to the heat of the fire, the air rushing past as they sped down the road on their bikes felt extra refreshing. Every few seconds, Erin heard the click of Izzy’s gears. The novelty hadn’t worn off yet, apparently.

When the driveway came in sight, she pedaled a little harder. If she got the fire going quickly, she was pretty sure she could squeeze in a bath before it got dark.

She coasted through the barn door, parking her bike just inside. Izzy buzzed around the yard, still tinkering with the gears.

The galvanized tub clunked over the uneven ground as she towed it along beside her. Where to build the fire? That was the question. Remembering the way the trees dispersed the smoke, she considered building it at the edge of the yard, where the shaggy grass gave away to the oaks, hickories, and pines.

Then again, that was a long walk from the well pump. How many buckets would it take to fill the tub? Her best guess was a shitload.

The only tree anywhere near the pump was a lone scraggly pine. It cast a patchy shadow over the grass, needles twitching in the breeze.

Good enough.

She left the tub near the tree and skipped back to the barn, where she loaded cement blocks into the wheelbarrow she found amongst the junk. The tire on it was flat, but it still worked. Just took a little more elbow grease. And it beat lugging the bricks one by one.

She laid out two squat towers of blocks, three wide by two tall. She left a space between the towers for the fire, and laid the tub on top, like a bridge.

Erin paused to admire the setup. Her fingers itched to slide her phone from her pocket, to snap a photo of her creation with the pink sunset in the background, to slap an ironic hashtag on it before posting it for the world to see.

#SpaDay #pampered

Instead she gathered wood and kindling and some paper for the fire.

Izzy glided by on her bike.

“This is a lot of work for a bath.”

Erin cracked a twig in half.

“It’s going to be worth it. Besides, once we get the generator, we won’t have to go to all this trouble. We can just hook up the water heater.”

With the fire crackling away, she started to haul the water from the well pump, one bucket at a time. The first bucketful hissed when it hit the hot metal and produced a cloud of steam. She poured in five buckets and then stopped to add more wood to the fire.

She dipped her fingers in. The water was still cold around the edges, but she swore the water in the center was a little warmer.

She continued the back and forth of toting water, pausing now and then to add more wood or test the temperature. She filled the tub about half way, and left an extra bucket full of water nearby. Then she went inside and gathered soap, a washcloth, shampoo, and two towels.

When she came back out of the house, Izzy and her bike were nowhere in sight. Erin set her bath gear in the grass next to the tub, added another log to the fire, and moseyed up to the barn. Izzy’s bike leaned on its kickstand next to Erin’s bike.

“Izzy?”

No answer.

Back at the door, she surveyed the property. Could she have gone in the house after Erin, and she hadn’t noticed?

She headed toward the house, trailing her fingers along the surface of the bath water as she passed. It was definitely getting warm. Slowly but surely.

Erin crossed under the pine tree and something brushed her shoulder. She whirled around, thinking Izzy had sneaked up behind her from somewhere. But the only thing behind her was her own shadow.

A piece of bark struck the top of her head. The sound came from above: the high-pitched cackle of a tiny witch.

Erin peered up into the branches of the tree and found Izzy sprawled on her belly over a large bough.

“You won’t be grinning when I climb up there and hang you from a branch by your underwear.”

Izzy slithered down from her perch.

“Can’t get me now.”

“I can still give you an atomic wedgie.”

Izzy chuckled, then stopped abruptly.

“What’s an
atomic
wedgie?”

“It’s where I hike your underwear so high, I stretch it up over your head. And then you’re just stuck like that. For eternity.”

“Nuh uh!”

“Yep.”

Erin lurched at her, and Izzy took off running for the house, squealing the whole way.

From inside, she pressed her hands and face to the screen, distorting her features. She smeared her face down, catching her nose on the screen so it squashed upwards like a pig.

Erin’s shoes thudded up the porch steps.

“Do you want to take the first bath?”

Izzy moved her head side to side, dragging her nose along the screen.