Threnody (Book 1) (13 page)

Approaching cautiously, Reams crouched down to pick up the breaker bar and lug wrench while attempting to keep his eyes on nearly everything around him at once.  Just as he began to stand up, an explosion of noise that sounded like the combination of the clarion cry of a banshee and an atomic bomb detonation erupted around him.  Stumbling and falling back onto his breech, Reams caught sight of a black shape as it slammed into his thigh and blurred past him.  Two empty orbits and a rat’s nest of filthy, matted hair adorned the minacious head sitting in his lap, having been dislodged by the raven taking refuge in the abandoned automobile.  Reams frantically batted the rotting head away as he scuttled backward in a sitting position.  He felt certain the walls of his chest would rupture under the immense force of his heart banging away in his chest as he collapsed back, supine on the road.  The head wobbled away like a weighted bowling ball, until it plunged into a storm access drain on the side of the road with a loud splash like a watermelon being tossed into a swimming pool.

John rounded the passenger side of the car and found the big man lying flat on his back, staring at the sky, and gasping for air as if just emerging from the choking stranglehold of a severe asthma attack.  He saw the headless corpse in the passenger side of the Buick as he walked toward Reams.  “You all right, buddy?” John asked as he glanced around noting the approximate distance of the shambling things around them.  They were still a safe distance away but were slowly encroaching on their position; the fog still made it difficult to get an accurate count.

“Yeah, thought I saw a cloud that looked like Mickey Mouse, that’s all,” he managed to choke out between ragged breaths as he struggled back to a sitting position. 

Absently, John found himself looking toward the sky before the sarcasm registered in his concussion-addled brain.  He replied, “Huh, well, probably should get a move on as it looks like everyone is coming to this party.”

Getting to his feet, and still shaking from the residual effects of the adrenaline assault triggered by the bird’s unexpected departure, Reams handed John the lug wrench.

“Hey, why do I get the little one?” asked John.  His question was met with an exasperated glare that let John know, in no uncertain terms, why he got ‘the little one.’

The two men resumed their slow procession north toward the interstate junction, where they planned to turn west toward town.  They saw several revs south of their position, as well as the one to the east, but they knew others likely lurked unseen in the morning fog.  They were glad to see they were steadily putting distance between themselves and the pursuing things as the interstate junction loomed closer in the distance.  Both men were noticeably more relaxed now that each had a weapon in hand.  The fog, which had been lifting somewhat, began to thicken once again as they grew closer to the river just beyond the interstate.

As they approached to within a hundred yards of the interstate junction, they glimpsed the jumbled mess of silent, snarled traffic that stretched beyond the horizon in both directions. Seeing the nightmarish evidence of the chaos and carnage Cedric spoke of firsthand, they decided to stick to their plan of passing the junction and shadowing the interstate on its north side as they continued west.  Reams was about to ask John what he thought about continuing a short distance farther to investigate the police barricade at the bridge, when he caught sight of something that completely robbed him of his ability to speak.

As they came to a break in the fog bank, they saw a small group of people west of their position heading in a southward direction.  Excitedly, Reams poised to call to the group when John noticed something that made him reach for Reams’ arm to stop him.  While the group of eight or ten people certainly looked fairly rough, John didn’t think they looked any worse than he and Reams, until he saw the last member of the procession.  At the end of the line was a boy, no more than eight years old, staggering along with his arms swinging as if out on a leisurely Sunday stroll.  The only difference John could see from this distance was that his left hand appeared to hang about six inches lower than the right hand, suspended only by the ropy tendons of his forearm muscles.  It swung rhythmically back and forth like a clock pendulum, bouncing at odd angles as he walked. 

“Hey!”

The loud utterance was out of Reams’ mouth before his brain registered John’s desperate grab.  One look at John’s eyes and Reams realized what he had just done.  The motley group of infected things stuttered and slowed as they changed course en mass toward the sound of Reams’ voice.

Cursing under their breath, the two survivors quickened their pace while synchronously altering their course to the northwest in the polar opposite of the combined vectors of the three groups of revs currently pursuing them.  As the freeway on-ramp came into view, they saw a tangled mass of cars forever ensnared in a gridlock so dense it looked more akin to a parking lot than a major roadway.  “I don’t think it’s a good idea to head up there,” John said motioning to the on-ramp. “Cars mean people, and people nowadays…well…let’s just keep moving. We’ll head through the underpass to the north side of the interstate like we planned.”

As the two men were about to turn north to the underpass after crossing the westbound on-ramp, they were greeted by something that crushed what little hope they still possessed.  Pouring through the underpass, and extending several hundred yards to the east of their current location, was a horde of at least a hundred revs.  The combination of his mental and physical exhaustion, as well as the realization that revs were closing in on them from essentially all sides caused Reams to sag to one knee in defeat.

Feeling identical to Reams, John thought back to what his father had told him so many years ago and tried to ‘see’ a solution.  If there was ever an impossible situation, this was it.  The only apparent route free of the infected was north into a small ravine created by the on ramp on the left, and the very steep, raised embankment of U.S. 19 on the right.  The short ravine dead-ended into a fifteen-foot vertical retaining wall upon which the interstate was built.  To John, it seemed like a route that would herd them through a sort of fatal funnel into an inescapable kill zone.  With despair closing in – relentlessly pushed by the revs encroaching from all sides – John saw the glimmer of a reflection coming from the wall at the end of the ravine as a cone of sunlight momentarily pierced the clouds.  A grin shattered his forlorn expression when he realized the reflection came from a ladder bolted to the vertical wall leading up to the interstate fifteen feet above.  Grabbing Reams by the shoulder, he broke off at a near sprint into the small ravine. “Come on, I think I see a way out of here.”

Upon reaching the wall they found there was indeed a ladder, but its lowest rung was about seven feet from the ground.  The earth beneath was muddy from recent rain, and a long, foul-smelling drainage ditch ran nearby along the base of the wall.  With the sounds of the infected echoing all around them in the narrow ravine, Reams gestured for John to head up the ladder.  Jumping, John grabbed the bottom rung as a searing pain tore through his shoulder and arm, forcing him to let go of the rung despite his ardent attempt to hang on.  He landed hard on his side with a wet thud as all the air in his lungs was instantly and forcefully expelled.  Choking and gasping, John managed to get to his feet with a little help from Reams.  This time Reams gave John a boost up to the lowest rung, but John’s injured shoulder still made it impossible for him to hold on long enough to get established on the ladder.  After falling to the ground the second time, John frantically urged Reams to head up the ladder, fearing that if he delayed any longer they would likely both die.

Reams adamantly refused, saying he would rather die with him than leave him for those bastards.

Pleading, John said, “Listen to me, Reams, we don’t have time for this.  You
have
to go.  You understand? You
have
to go.”  Before he even finished speaking, John knew by the look on the big man’s face that his words were in vain.

As they strengthened their grips on their makeshift melee weapons and awaited the relentlessly pursuing hordes, an idea shot through John’s mind like a bolt of lightning.  Turning so abruptly that he startled Reams, John said, “Do you still have the med kit?”  Having forgotten about it, Reams looked toward the ground beneath the ladder, and said, “Yeah, over there.”

Running to the small box, John tore it open and scattered its contents on the ground before coming up victoriously with a length of paracord he noticed in the kit earlier.  As if through telepathy, the entire plan materialized in Reams’ mind as he took the length of paracord from John’s outstretched hand and jumped up to the lowest rung on the ladder.  Hoisting himself along with no more effort than if he was brushing his teeth, he pulled his feet onto the rungs of the ladder as it groaned and creaked in protest under his substantial weight.

Watching his effortless climb with no small amount of envy, John was forced to look away as small flecks of stone and mortar showered down upon him, peppering his eyes.  Before he had a chance to look back toward the ladder, the groan intensified and was followed by a wrenching, sheering sound not unlike that of a ship running aground.  Sensing the unmistakable effect of gravity that comes when that which you are standing upon suddenly gives way, Reams lunged for the lip of the concrete guardrail running along the edge of the interstate.  He pulled himself over the concrete structure, and turned to find John doggedly getting back to his feet next to the ladder lying on its side buried about six inches deep in the muddy earth.

Despite his substantial pain, John almost let out a morbid chuckle as he thought of the absurdity of all that had gone wrong.  In that instant, another bit of his father’s wisdom came to mind: ‘No plan ever survives contact with the enemy.’ 

John was abruptly pulled back into the moment, kicking and screaming, as the sounds of the approaching infected mass registered in his near-delirious brain.  Feeling frantic and trapped, John implored Reams to run saying, “There is nothing you can do!”

Reams pulled the length of paracord from his pocket and began making a large loop that he secured with a double bowline before sending the looped end sailing over the edge.

John’s outstretched hand, slick with mud, grasped at the rope, but before he could secure the precious lifeline in his grip he found himself slipping in the quagmire beneath his feet.  The ladder that only moments ago seemed like his salvation now betrayed him, as his ankle slammed into it sending him falling onto his back.  For what seemed like the hundredth time that day, John wearily climbed back to his aching feet as his eyes locked onto Reams.

Reams, however, was not looking toward John, but rather stared mouth agape at the bottleneck leading into the ravine.  The first infected monster was now less than thirty feet away, with what seemed like a whole army only twenty yards behind.

John grasped the lug wrench and assumed an aggressive, slightly crouched stance. 

“John, what the hell are you doing
?
Grab the rope!” exclaimed Reams.

Without taking his eyes off the mess that was once someone’s father or brother, John replied with surprising calm in his voice, “Reams, get out of here.  There’s nothing you can do.”

The first shambling body was short and stocky, probably 5’ 5” and about 185 pounds.  It wore a tank top and athletic shorts as if it just came from the gym.  Thick, ropy muscles protruded from everywhere except the left shoulder, where its trapezius muscle had been savagely torn out.  The stringy residual muscle fascicles hanging around the wound made John think of what happens when you get a sweater caught on a nail or a coat pocket snagged on a doorknob.

Voicing adamant objections, Reams began to climb back over the guardrail, but John’s sharp protest stopped him instantly.  With his gaze still fixed on the ever-approaching rev, John yelled, “STOP!  We’ll both die if you do that.  Just promise me you’ll get to my house and look after my wife and kid if you find them.”

Reams did not move as he perched with one leg over the concrete form.  He felt a lump in his throat so large, he doubted he would be able to breathe, much less speak. 

Taking a planned step back to attain a better fighting position, John continued with a measured coolness in his voice, “My address is 1-4-0-6 Hood Street.”

Reams stared down wordlessly as he heard the first swooshing sound of the wrench.  It violently sliced through the air before contacting the monster’s temple with a bone-rattling thud. A fine crimson spray erupted from the now ventilated skull as the thing crumpled into a heap at John’s feet.  He slid slightly with the residual momentum of the blow but recovered with the broad-based stance of a seasoned drunk. 

John turned toward Reams, his head upturned to fix eyes on the big man once again.  “1406 Hood Street! Dammit, Reams!” exclaimed John, his previous calm now replaced by a tumultuous storm of frustration.

Reams could not bring himself to meet John’s penetrating stare, as he stood transfixed – helpless and relatively safe – on the road above.  The remaining revs continued to advance, but their lack of organization and communication led them to pour into the narrow space all at once, resulting in a veritable human traffic jam.  This bottleneck afforded John a few extra moments with which to continue his plea to Reams.

The gut-wrenching despair that flooded through Reams on the wings of the realization that John was right made him feel as though he was going to pass out. With so many emotions vying for attention, they seemed to have a negating effect on one another, leaving him with an emotionless mask as if suddenly stricken with Parkinson’s disease.  Feeling numb, overwhelmed, and torn, he slowly turned and looked away as if he were an automaton.  Despite having known John for less than two days, the sense of loss Reams felt was every bit as great as that which he felt when he last spoke to his brother.