Dead Highways (Book 2): Passage (29 page)

“He’s a liar!” I yelled. “Aamod, shoot him. What are you waiting for?”

Aamod didn’t turn to look at me. For once, I was glad to be ignored. Charlie was sneaky, and always deserved your full attention. He also deserved to be killed.

“You know them? Aamod … is it?”

Aamod nodded. “Yes. I was traveling with them. Until they kicked me out.”

“Why did they kick you out?”

“They didn’t trust me.”

“That’s too bad.”

“Yes. Too bad for you.” Aamod gripped the shotgun tighter. “They were right not to trust me. But I’m hoping this might change their minds.”

“No, no, stop. Please, you don’t have to kill me. I’ll do whatever you want.”

No words could describe how satisfying it was to see Charlie stripped of all his power, throwing himself at the mercy of another.

“I didn’t come here for you. There is no forgiveness for what you’ve done. I came here for them. To admit my mistakes.”

Charlie raised his hands above his head. “Just let me go. Please. I’m sorry.”

“Me too,” Aamod said. “And this is my apology.”

The slug hit Charlie with all the force of a Randy Johnson fastball, opening up a nasty red crater in his abdomen. But he didn’t die immediately. He had five more seconds to realize what happened. He stumbled forward, mumbling something unintelligible. His hands shook as he examined the bloody mess where his belly button used to be. His whole body seized up then, went stiff, as shock overtook his nervous system and consciousness quickly began to fade.

A second later, he fell backward. His head made a dull thumping sound—like a fist hitting a punching bag—as it came into contact with the concrete floor.

The room went silent. No one moved a muscle. We were all in shock.

Charlie was dead.

And hopefully en route to hell.

After a moment, I took a long satisfying breath, the realization that I wasn’t going to die—not yet, at least—coming over me like warm sunlight.

Aamod sure had a funny way of apologizing. But I’d accept it.

He could save my life anytime.

The next day.

Back at Cathy’s house.

It was around noon, and I was in the upstairs bathroom, staring into the mirror. The left side of my face was bruised, and hurt like hell when I touched it, but the swelling had already started to go down. Overall, I had been very lucky, especially when compared to many others in the group. Things could have gone much, much worse.

There was a knock at the door.

“Jimmy, you in there?” Ted asked.

“Yeah.” I opened the door. “You ready?”

Like me, Ted had also escaped Charlie and the gang’s wrath with only minor injuries. A few cuts and scrapes. Some facial swelling. Nothing a few days of rest wouldn’t fix.

Ted nodded. “Ready if you are. Aamod’s waiting for us outside.”

“Let’s go.”

The three of us headed back to the scene of the crime—or nightmare. The Walmart. I had suggested going somewhere else. There was a bunch of grocery stores in the area. But Ted wanted to gather up the guns that had been left behind, most of which would probably have to be pried—
Charlton Heston style
—from the cold dead hands of a corpse. I’d leave that gruesome task for Ted. Aamod and I could get the rest of the stuff, like food and water and clean clothing.

Last night, in a rush to get the wounded back to Cathy’s, we’d grabbed only the most essential supplies from the store. And most of those came from the pharmacy. Antibiotics. Pain medication. Bandages.

The plan was still to go to New Orleans, assuming Robinson’s condition remained stable, we just wouldn’t be leaving for at least a week. This was just the first of many supply runs.

We spent more than an hour in the store, filling three carts full of stuff, and then packed it into the SUV and headed back to Cathy’s house.

After carrying everything inside the house, I headed back upstairs. First, I checked on Peaches. She was still napping in our temporary room. Olivia lay in a portable crib Cathy had fished out of the attic. The crib was just one of many sentimental items Cathy had stored away. Items that reminded her of her daughter Gwen.

I quietly shut the door and entered the bedroom across the hall. The door was open.

The room had two twin beds. Robinson was in one of them, sitting up. He was shirtless, with large surgical pads wrapped tight around his left shoulder, held in place with tape. The wrap was so thick it looked like he had a cast on, but as long as it stopped the bleeding, that’s all that mattered. None of us were doctors. We did the best we could under the circumstances.

“How do you feel?” I asked.

“I feel like I’ve been shot in the shoulder,” Robinson said, forcing out a smile. “Other than that … just tired.”

“Well, that makes sense. You did lose a lot of blood,” I said. “But what I meant was … how do you feel having to share a room with that guy.”

Robinson looked over at the second bed where Bowser lay, asleep. “Fine right now. Ask me later when he’s back awake.”

When Ted said Bowser had been shot, I had assumed the big guy was dead. But like Robinson, Bowser had received a non-fatal wound. In fact, his was even less serious. During the battle with Charlie’s three stooges, Kyle, Mike and Brenda, a bullet had grazed Bowser’s right leg, near the kneecap. While not life threatening, it had made him instantly immobile, taking him out of the fight early. 

“I give it two days before you’re throwing things at each other.”

“Wow, really? That long?” Robinson said. “I’ll take it.”

Two days later.

I was wrong. Robinson and Bowser hadn’t killed each other yet, nor had any infection. Their condition was improving, even if their general mood remained unchanged. Bowser was especially fussy, not used to being bedridden, and only getting up for the necessary bathroom trip. The rest of us made sure they had plenty of fluids and pain medication, and once a day we would apply new bandages to their wounds.

Brian’s condition had also vastly improved. Rest being the key ingredient. That and perhaps a giant dose of love. Cathy rarely left his side in the master bedroom. Similar to how Jax looked after Olivia, laying at the foot of her crib.

Two days later.

We made a second supply run. Peaches and Naima both came along this time, not happy with the clothing Aamod and I had picked out last time.

Well, sorry.

How was I supposed to know Peaches wouldn’t fit into a size six? It looked right on the rack. At least I didn’t get her a size too big. She probably would have slapped me harder than Charlie, and the left side of my face was still a little tender. I must say following her around the bra and panties section left me more confused than a David Lynch film. She grabbed the largest bras and the smallest panties. Such a contrast. It made no sense.

Then again, maybe having a half inch of lace tickling your ass crack felt nice.

Two days later.

Around lunch time.

I huddled over Ted as he siphoned gasoline from a minivan three houses down from Cathy’s place. “Do you need my help?”

“No, just keep an eye out,” Ted said.

I looked both ways down the block, one hand on Sally. Nothing. No infected. “Haven’t seen anybody down this way all week long. No reason for them to leave the main road.”

“I know. But it only takes one stray.”

“To ruin our day.”

“Exactly.”

Once the minivan was dry, we carried the two five gallon canisters back to the house. Set them into the garage. Ted picked up two more red cans, both empty, and handed one to me. I thought about how hard it had been to find a gas can over a week earlier when I wanted to make Molotov cocktails. Now it was easy. Brian had four or five just laying around in the garage collecting dust and spider webs.

We headed off down the street again, filled the two cans, and then went back to the garage.

Brian was waiting for us this time.

“Thanks for doing that,” he said. “Hopefully we won’t need it, but it’ll be good to have just as a precaution.”

“It was no problem,” Ted said. “You ready to go to Tony’s?”

“Yep. I’ll drive.”

Earlier that morning, before Ted and I left on our little gas run, Brian had thrown us a curve ball. Cathy, in her desperate struggle to convince us to help locate Brian, had significantly oversold the capabilities of their boat. She had done this unknowingly, of course, but done it still. Brian’s boat was only twenty-five feet long, not nearly large enough to fit all eleven of us and our supplies. Thankfully, Brian had a friend—Tony—who up until a few weeks ago lived on the next block over. Like most people who buy property on a canal, Tony owned a boat—a much larger boat capable of safely and comfortably taking us where we needed to go. Louisiana. Only question was whether or not the boat had enough gas in the tank.

We broke into Tony’s house and searched for the boat keys. After ten minutes, I found them nestled inside a catchall drawer in the kitchen. Connected to the key chain was a white piece of foam cut into the shape of a fish, designed to keep the keys afloat should they accidentally fall into the water.

Out on the back dock, Ted and I helped remove the boat cover so Brian could climb inside. A moment later, the boat’s duel engines roared to life. Brian looked down at us and nodded. Then he cut the engines off and climbed back out.

“How big is this boat?” Ted asked.

“It’s a forty-foot cabin cruiser,” Brian replied. “The tank is sitting at about ninety percent.”

“Will that work?”

“Yeah, that should work just fine. It has two one hundred gallon tanks.”

“Wow, that’s insane,” I said.

Brian shrugged. “It won’t get us as far as you think. Boats aren’t cars. They don’t get close to the same gas mileage. Even with almost two hundred gallons, we’ll still have to stop somewhere about halfway and refuel. That is, if we can find a marina with a fuel pump that’s still operational.”

Ted nodded. “We’re gonna have to.”

“You still want to leave in a few days?” Brian asked.

“That’s the plan, far as I know. Why … is that a problem?”

“No, no problem. Just wanted to be sure. You should start to gather together all the stuff you’re taking in one of the cars, and I’ll help you put it in the boat tomorrow. That way we’ll be ready to go at sunrise the following day.”

“Yeah, that’s a good idea. I’ll let everyone know when we get back.” Ted clapped Brian on the shoulder. “Thanks for doing this by the way. We really appreciate it.”

“You guys saved my life. It’s the least I can do.”

Technically, Aamod saved his life. The rest of us just got shot or punched in the face. But I wasn’t about to bring up that sad story again.

The next day.

We made our third and final run to the Walmart. This time the girls stayed back at the house, along with Bowser, who could only walk so long on his leg before needing to rest. Every day, it got a little easier on him, but it was going to take some time before he was back to one hundred percent. If such a goal was even achievable.

We left the store with more medication, batteries, canned food (dry food for Jax), water, diapers and formula for Olivia, an arm sling for Robinson, a knee brace for Bowser, beer and wine to honor our last night at Cathy and Brian’s, a carton of cigarettes for Peaches, and my personal favorite vice. Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups.

Then, with Brian’s help, we hauled most of our supplies over to Tony’s and transferred them into the boat. The forty-foot cruiser had more than enough storage space.

A few hours later, after sitting together for a nice dinner, we moved out on to the porch to enjoy the sunset.

“Nothing quite like a warm beer,” Ted remarked.

“It’s not warm,” Robinson said. “It’s room temperature.”

Ted smiled. “Hey, I’m not complaining.”

Peaches sat on one side of me, Naima on the other. It was a Jimmy sandwich. Naima sipped at a glass of wine. I was surprised her father allowed her even the one glass, given his usual adherence to super strict parenting. Maybe Aamod was lightening up a bit. We could all only hope. Peaches, however, as in all aspects of her life, did whatever the hell she wanted. No wine for her. She chugged beer better than the guys.