District: Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse (36 page)

Five miles northwest of the zombie-corpse roadblock and
burned-out wagon, Duncan began to feel small pangs of regret for a couple of
things. First, acting against a strong gut feeling, he’d shrugged off what he
saw in the field—even going so far as to only tell Daymon and Lev the true
extent of the barbarity the dead man had faced in his final moments. Second,
letting his feelings for Glenda, and to a lesser extent, Oliver, dictate his
next move, he had told the others that the man in the field had been murdered—
shot
in the head and stripped of his clothes–
to be exact. It was a half-truth at
best. Or if splitting hairs wasn’t your thing, a lie by omission.

Duncan couldn’t lie to himself on this one. Every moral
fiber in his body was telling him the latter was the truth in this matter. When
to come clean to the others was the nut that needed cracking.

Thankfully he had a few more miles before the point of no
return to gather the rest and tell them about what he had seen. What he knew
based on the sheet of paper found stuffed in the corpse’s gaping mouth. And
what he suspected they would find if and when they caught up with Oliver’s
captors, who seemed to have their hands in all kinds of trouble up and down the
Bear River Range.

On the passenger side of the Dodge, Tran had been sitting in
silence for the duration, content to watch the range level out to the north,
all the while the gray smudge of another rain band making its way south by east
towards them loomed larger by the minute.

Finally, after yet another mile had gone by with the man
driving the rig still as quiet, and seemingly inanimate as the radio on the
seat between them, Tran cleared his throat and asked Duncan what was on his
mind.

The
what
on Duncan’s mind, though it hadn’t been left
to reanimate, was far worse of a spectacle and warning than the crucified
rotter could ever be. In fact, what had been done to this man was worse than
anything he’d seen done to a man during his time in Vietnam. It was much worse
than seeing a couple of kids burn to death strapped into a Volkswagen. And
though he had no idea what could trump it, he was sure, given time, that some
madman out there in the vast wasteland America had become would do it in
spades.

How a man could bleed another man slowly and then strip the
flesh from the bones of his still-warm body was incomprehensible to Duncan.
Even the Viet Cong hadn’t been that ruthless—they usually desecrated American
soldiers after they had been shot dead. And they weren’t cannibals, that was
for damn sure.

Proof that the man had been bled slowly came in the shape of
a bloody mud angel. Wide arcing wings made by the flailing arms of a person
being forcibly held down. Two knees on the shoulders, no doubt. And mud where
the corpse’s denuded leg bones had been positioned spoke of at least one
accomplice who had helped to hold the bucking man down as the lower extremities
responsible for the disturbance were relieved of their flesh. None too
successfully, nonetheless, judging by the trenches worn into the muck by the
doomed man’s losing battle to get free.

The discarded clothes—a pair of worn blue jeans and black
microfiber long-sleeved shirt—had sopped up some of the blood. However, the
ground had failed to accept the rest, leaving a man-shaped puddle of viscous
crimson liquid an inch deep.

Speaking slowly while enunciating every syllable, the
usually demure Tran repeated his question. “What’s on your mind?”

Duncan started visibly, which caused the truck to veer the
better part of a foot toward the right shoulder.

The radio on the seat came alive with Daymon’s voice. “Looks
like you hit the rumble stripes just now. Back to hitting the Jack Daniel’s,
Old Man?”

I wish
, thought Duncan. Tightening his grip on the
wheel, he looked sidelong at Tran. “
Nothing
is on my mind,” he lied.

“You’ve been quiet,” Tran added. “Real quiet. Ten minutes of
dead silence … at least.”

“Be grateful I’m not Phillip,” Duncan shot back. Quickly
realizing how callous that sounded, he signed himself out of the respect he
held for the dead motor mouth.

Tran shook his head and returned his attention to the road.

Still wrestling with his newly created moral dilemma, Duncan
scooped up the radio and told Daymon where he could stick that kind of
discouraging talk—even if the other man did consider ribbing him about his
former propensity for the drink little more than jocular, ball-busting banter.

“It’s not gonna happen,” Duncan declared. “Me and Jack
aren’t lovers no more.” He chuckled at his clunky choice of words. “Hell, we’re
not even friends,” he finished, all of it half-truth. The reality though, as of
late he’d been thinking more and more about how sweet the few hours of oblivion
one square, clear bottle of Old No. 7 could afford him. But that thought was
fleeting. Because as Glenda had taught him to do when euphoric recall began to
morph into what sounded like a good idea to a garden variety drunk like him, he
played the tape forward
. And nothing that came up on that movie reel in
his mind when he did so ever ended well. Not. One. Single. Time.

“I’ve been thinking,” Duncan finally admitted after another
half-mile of silent contemplation, “that I need to come clean with you and the
others … right now.” He tapped his brakes to warn Daymon, who’d been running
the Chevy tight to his bumper ever since leaving behind the burned-out car and
dirt knoll that they all suspected would be the perfect place to spring the
ambush that, thankfully, had never materialized.

Parked on the shoulder, warning flashers blinking a cadence,
Duncan spoke slowly and clearly into the two-way radio and came clean about the
corpse in the field.

“What do you mean he had been rendered clean to the bone?”
Taryn asked over the open channel.

“Butchered for his meat. We’re not only dealing with
murderers … I’d be willing to bet the farm that they’re cannibals, too.”

This time it was Daymon doing the questioning. “You sure of
that?” he said. “How do you know the birds didn’t pick him clean? I’ve seen
what they can do to a corpse if you give them a few days.”

“They were still working on the meat between the joints.
Even had most of his hands and feet taken apart. Lots of little bones go into
making those work,” Duncan said. “But last I checked, birds don’t use tools.”

“What are you trying to tell us?” Jamie asked from her perch
in the F-650 three vehicles back.

“There were marks on the bones made by something sharp and
serrated.”

In the Dodge, no stranger to field dressing a deer, Tran
leaned forward to get Duncan’s attention. “Like traces a boning knife would
leave behind?”

“That’s more engaged in conversation than I’ve seen you in
two months … combined.”

Under Tran’s watchful eye, Duncan pulled the crumpled sheet
of lined paper from his pocket. He carefully unfolded it, being mindful not to
tear it where it was still damp and creased. Keying the radio, he announced to
everyone listening what he was about to do. Stressing where he had found the
note, lest some of the gang hadn’t heard him the first time, and making clear
the words were not his, he read the thing verbatim, never pausing along the
way.

“We stole and drove and ended up caught. It seemed smart at
first, but in the end it was not. And for your sins, nobody ever wins, and Nancy
paid the ultimate price. Most of it naughty, none of it nice. In the end, Sid,
you failed us as a friend.” Finished and feeling uncomfortable in more ways
than one, he sighed audibly.

“Far from Rudyard Kipling,” Jamie commented.

“It was signed ‘The sisterhood of CB4,’” Duncan said, before
quickly insisting on forging ahead before anybody read into the words any
further. And much to his surprise, Daymon was on board at once, which had the
effect of instantly bringing the others into the
go ahead
column. But
there was one catch: Lev insisted they radio the compound and see if Brook
could get on the satellite phone and ask Dregan to bring some backup north
before they moved on.

“I propose a compromise,” Duncan said. “If Dregan agrees to
Brook’s overture”—which Duncan was certain he would, blood oath and all—“I want
to move as close to the lake as possible without giving ourselves away. Looks
like that storm is heading right for us. Figure it’ll mask our approach. Let us
get close enough to see what side of the lake they’ve put down roots.”

“Why not wait here until we know for sure what we’re working
with?” Jamie asked.

Duncan thumbed the Talk button. “Because I want to have a
plan in place when we do meet up with Dregan and his men,” he explained. “It’s
what Cade would advocate. If we get close enough, we can watch them and study
their movements.”

“
If
their AO really is Bear Lake,” Lev stated over
the open channel.

In the Dodge, brow arched, Tran mouthed, “AO?”

“We only have the bleeder’s matchbook to go on. Better than
nothing. However, if Bear Lake isn’t their”—he matched Tran’s gaze—“area of
operation … we’ll know almost immediately and can call Dregan off.”

Tran nodded and broke eye contact.

“Good call,” Daymon said. “That way we won’t have to share
any of the food and supplies we find with them.”

“Calling Brook now,” Duncan said. “Back in a moment.”

Already one step ahead, Tran handed over the long range
radio. Giving voice to the look that accompanied the radio, Duncan said, “I
hope we’re not out of range.”

“I’ve been keeping track of the miles,” Tran said. “I think
as the crow flies we may be by a dozen miles or more.”

“Damn it all,” Duncan spat. “And I don’t have a satellite
phone. Better add one to my shopping list.” Shaking his head, he rolled up the
volume and thumbed Talk.

Nothing.

He tried again and released the Talk key, listening hard for
anything coming through the static.

Five seconds passed.

Another sign, the first three feet of its white-painted post
hidden from view by a mound of corpses, blipped by on the right. As if the
corpses weren’t warning enough, TURN BACK NOW was spray-painted over the
UDOT-supplied information.

Another ten seconds ticked into the past and still no reply
came from the Eden compound.

Just as Duncan was about to give up and curse Cade’s nemesis
Mr. Murphy up one wall and down the other, a wizened voice usurped the white
noise. “Ray Thagon here.”

Hearing the familiar gravelly intonation spring from the
tiny speaker instantly started the wheels in Duncan’s mind to grind out a
workaround to their lack-of-satellite-phone dilemma. He took a moment to lay
out his plan to Ray and then waited for an answer.

More white noise.

Conferring with the boss
, thought Duncan, as a grin
parted his lips. Lately, Glenda had taken to wearing the pants on occasion, and
that wasn’t all bad.

“You there?”

“I hear ya loud and clear, Ray.”

“Helen says her Con Edison operator days are over, but she’s
agreed to go ahead and help out with this party line idea of yours.”

***

Ten minutes after setting in motion the series of
back-and-forth satellite phone and long range CB radio calls, Duncan scooped up
the two-way radio and informed the rest of the group following in the three
vehicles the location of the agreed-upon rendezvous point. In his side mirror he
saw the headlights on all three trucks flash in acknowledgement. A moment later
Daymon’s strained voice broke the silence in the cab. “How is Brook?”

“I didn’t talk directly to her, Ray and Dregan did,”
answered Duncan.

“Did they mention her?”

“Neither one of them said a thing. So I assume she didn’t
tell them about her
condition
.”

“And you didn’t?” shot Daymon.

“Not my place,” Duncan replied. “And I doubt if
she
did. Hard to see Dregan honoring his lifetime pledge of allegiance to her if
there was an outside chance the Omega antiserum might turn on his son’s immune
system and finish what that roaming rotter’s bite started.”

The interior of the Dodge was morgue silent for a full
minute.

“I see your point,” Daymon finally admitted. “When we get to
the rendezvous, I’m the one going forward on foot to recon the situation.”

“I’m coming, too,” Lev said over the open channel. “Be just
like old times. You and me and a lake.”

“I’m going, too,” Tran said, his voice rising over the
banter coming from the radio.

“You’re both big boys, suit yourselves,” Duncan said,
acknowledging Lev and Daymon simultaneously. He set the radio aside and looked
sidelong at Tran, an unspoken question lingering on his lips.

“I’m a big boy, too,” Tran said. “It’s about time I started
to learn what it’s really like out here. So I can do more than just garden and
cook and occasionally ride shotgun feeling like a trapped mime.”

A shield-shaped State Route sign with
ADRIAN
spray-painted on it in red passed by outside Tran’s window.

Duncan drew a deep breath and swung his eyes forward, fixing
his gaze on the angry horizontal scar passing for sky. The distant Wasatch were
obscured, as was most everything above treetop level for as far as he could
see.

Finally, as he began to brake and pull onto the gravel lot
surrounding a rundown drive-in called
Merlin’s
, he asked Tran in a
funereal voice, “Have you killed a man?”

“Two,” Tran admitted. “Burned one of them alive, I think.
The other I killed indirectly by letting the demons into a house the two human animals
had broken into.”

Gravel crunched under the tires as Duncan applied the
brakes.

“These the guys who did the stuff to Heidi?” he asked,
wheeling around the sign post and aiming the Dodge for the drive-in’s covered
parking.