Dredging Up Memories (17 page)

I set Humphrey in the van, checked my gun. A full clip.

Slowly, I walked toward her, keeping plenty of distance between us.

“Sherri,” I whispered.

She continued to trundle along.

I followed behind her. How did I miss her? Was she alive when I went inside her house but hiding somewhere I didn’t look? Did she think I was one of the dead that managed to get inside and was looking for a fresh meal? Was that why she didn’t come out when I was there?

“Sherri,” I said a little louder.

How many times had she and her family eaten dinner with us? How many times had Jeanette confided in her about life’s little problems? How many times had we laughed together? She was the maid of honor in our wedding, the godmother to Bobby. She was everything to Jeanette.

“Sherri,” I yelled.

She stopped. Her head lifted slightly as if she were listening for something.

“Sherri, it’s Hank.”

She groaned. I imagine she was trying to say my name. 

“Sherri, turn around.”

And she did so. My stomach flipped, and the skin on my arms and neck bubbled with cold chills. I should have just put a bullet in her brain and not said anything, but I didn’t do that. When she turned to me, I saw the torn lip, the caked white eyes, the sallow skin. My breath hitched, and I stared hard at her.

“Sherri, are you in there?”

Another groan, then a step. She lifted a hand toward me. Her fingernails were long—they hadn’t stopped growing. 

“Sherri, stop right there.”

Sherri took another step. Her other arm extended out. She was missing her thumb.

Jeanette had known her since third grade. They graduated from high school together. They both went to the university over in Columbia. They had been inseparable even after they both got married.

A growl tore from her throat, and she stumbled along a little faster, her arms outstretched, something akin to brown sludge coming from her mouth—the drool of the dead, I reckon.

“Sherri…” I shook my head, my breath held tight in my lungs. “I’m sorry.”

The pistol recoiled. The boom somehow silenced in my ears. Sherri fell backwards, landed on the ground with a soft thud. Her head hit the blacktop, and reddish/black blood made a crown beneath it.

I stood staring at the body of my wife’s oldest friend for several minutes before making my way back to the shop around back of the house. There was a shovel hanging on its peg on the wall. It had been a while since I had dug any graves, but I spent the next couple of hours doing just that. I couldn’t leave her on the street to rot. When I was done, I drove the shovel into the soft mound of dirt to mark her grave just in case…just in case I came back. I didn’t think I would, but I had thought that before, and look where I ended up.

“Time to go,” I said as I slid behind the wheel.

Where to now?
There was a hint of frustration in her voice.

“Saluda maybe?”

Where’s that?

“Sixty miles along 378, just before you get to Newberry. It’s pretty country. Not so close to the city. Lake Murray is out that way. We could find one of the houses out there and make it our own if nobody is in it. And we can start over.”

What about your son?

It took a while for me to answer, but when I finally did, I realized why I had chosen Saluda. “The Batesburg armory is out there, about twenty minutes or so from the County Line Store. I figure we could check it out first. Maybe Bobby and Jake will be there.”

And if they aren’t?

I took a deep breath. “Then my search is over.”

Twelve Weeks After It All Started…

In the old world, there were crazies everywhere. Corrupt officials. Corrupt cops. Corrupt teachers. Corrupt sports figures. Kids killing kids. The world was on the verge of killing itself when the dead began to rise. The difference between then and now? The crazies aren’t arrested for the things they do now, and there is no media circus to follow them around, reporting on their every move.

It took longer than I thought it would to get from my home down I-20 toward Saluda. Roads had been blocked by accidents or stalled out cars or bodies, so many bodies. I moved what vehicles I could and detoured where I couldn’t. I ended up on Old Batesburg Road where the houses looked worn and the yards were mostly unkempt. Occasionally, I would stop and take out a couple of the dead, but for the most part, Old Batesburg Road was abandoned, much like I guessed most of the world was.

That two-lane blacktop would lead me close to the Batesburg Armory. I hoped to find my baby brother and my son there. If not…

If not wasn’t something I wanted to think about.

I slowed down when I saw the vehicle up ahead—a truck that was bigger than mine—sitting in the middle of the road. I saw people, but I couldn’t make out if they were living or dead. One of them had to be alive. It looked like a struggle taking place, and someone needed help.

What’s wrong?
Humphrey asked.

“I’m not sure, but there’s something going on up there.”

Are we going to check it out?

“That’s the plan.”

We drove forward until we were about thirty yards from the other truck. It was high off the ground, the wheels lifting it up taller than the top of the van. It was a rust bucket color, and it definitely belonged to a couple of country boys. I put my window down enough so I could hear the commotion at the front of the vehicle.

Someone was laughing—it was a taunt if I’ve ever heard one. Someone else was speaking, his voice deep.

“You want some of this?” he said. “I know you do.”

The alarms went off in my head. They had a woman, and they were going to rape her. That’s the only thing I could think. I couldn’t quite see them, but hearing was enough.

I grabbed my pistol, checked to make sure it was fully loaded, and then stood from the truck.

Hank?

“Stay here, Humphrey. This could be bad.”

She let out a low whine as I closed the door gently.

With their truck being high off the ground, I thought they would have seen me or at least the van. But they were too preoccupied with their taunting and teasing, and I could only imagine the poor woman they were terrorizing. I rounded the front end of the truck, pistol drawn. I aimed before I saw.

There were two men, one scrawny and dirty, his hair greasy and his clothes just as filthy. He held a rope in one hand and a knife in the other. The other end of his rope led to a woman’s neck. The second guy was bigger and taller. It looked like all the meals Scrawny missed, Fat Boy made up for. He held a rope as well, and like his buddy, the other end of it ran to the woman, this one at her waist. Her top was ripped, and she only had panties covering her privates.

The woman was dead. She had probably been very attractive when she was alive. A brunette, tall and petite. She had been someone’s wife—the ring on her left hand told me as much.

I stood, watching in disbelief as they tugged on their ropes each time she got close to one of them. If she grew close enough to bite Fat Boy, Scrawny yanked his end of the rope. If she were too close to Scrawny, Fat Boy gave a hearty tug on his end. They bounced her around as they reached for clothing. Fat Boy held a torn cloth in his hand.  It was her skirt.

I couldn’t move. I couldn’t lower my pistol or pull the trigger. I was in disbelief of what I was seeing. They were going to rape a dead woman.

Scrawny reached for her shirt, grabbed the front of it, and pulled hard. The cloth stretched then ripped part of the way down, exposing a yellow bra.

Fat Boy cheered and gave a yank of his end of the rope, knocking the woman off balance and teetering backward.

I stepped from around the edge of the truck.

“What are you doing?” I asked, my voice surprisingly calm.

Both men looked at me then back at each other. Fat Boy spoke up first. “None of your business, boy.” He held that pissed off, “go away” look I had seen before on other men’s faces when they were caught doing something they shouldn’t and didn’t think the person catching them was worth their time.

He was wrong. It was every bit my business. The woman inside of the body was probably scared enough with the monster she had become. She was probably wishing herself dead again, this time for good, even before she had her little run-in with those two punks. My mind whispered Jeanette's name, and it posted pictures on the bulletin board of my psyche, images of Jeanette terrified of two rednecks about to rape her, but not after she was dead, but while she was still alive. I could see the fear on her face, feel her heart’s steady thumping, and hear her voice as she screamed for them to stop.

It was my business. It always had been, hadn’t it?

“Again, what are you doing?”

Fat Boy rubbed his scraggly beard. His eyes narrowed.

“I said, none of your business.”

In the Before, I had run into several people like those two guys. There was no reasoning with them. They were going to do what they wanted, and no one was going to stop them.

“Let her go,” I said.

They both laughed at me.

“Or what?” Scrawny asked. “You gonna shoot us if we don’t?”

“Yes.”

They both grew quiet, exchanged looks again. Fat Boy tugged the woman back toward him when she got a little too close to his buddy. She stumbled and almost fell to the ground.

Jeanette entered my thoughts again. My jaw clenched. I felt my muscles flex several times.

“You ain’t gonna shoot no one,” Scrawny said. “You ain’t noth—”

The bullet went through his forehead, blowing out the back of his skull. He fell, pulling the rope and the girl in his direction. Fat Boy jerked forward, stunned from what had just happened. He let go of the rope and put his hands in the air.

“Look, mister, we was just having some fun. That’s all.”

“You call that fun?”

“Where’s the harm in playing around with her? She’s dead.”

“The body might be dead, but there’s a person still trapped inside of it.”

“That’s crap. There ain’t nothing in there. That’s a monster and—”

I pulled the trigger again. His right knee disappeared, and he collapsed to the ground, releasing the rope and clutching his leg. He screamed much like I thought the woman rotter had been doing inside. Blood spilled onto the road.

“What’s wrong with you?” he yelled.

The female turned toward Fat Boy.

“Nothing,” I said and turned to leave.

“Wait. Wait. What are you doing? You can’t just leave me here like this.”

He was right.

I turned around, took several steps toward him. The female was drawing closer, her lips pulled back and a growl in her throat. She looked angry. I took aim at her head but didn’t pull the trigger.

Again, my thoughts turned back to Jeanette. What if that woman had been my wife? What if she had been alive and these men had done that? They would have taken great joy with what they did to her. Who knows; they might have killed her when they were done. Probably just like they were going to do to the dead woman. Have some sick, disgusting fun and then crush her skull. All the while, that woman would be inside screaming and begging for them to stop.

I stepped on the rope, and the woman stopped. Her hands stretched out, but she couldn’t quite reach him.

I pulled the trigger.

Fat Boy’s left shoulder exploded and dropped him onto his back. He screamed again.

“You better pray you’re right,” I said. “You better hope that when the dead come back, there’s nothing inside, that the body is just a husk.”

His eyes grew wide with recognition.

“Please,” he said. “Please, don’t do this.”

“I’m sure you’ve heard those words before, haven’t you?”

“No, no, no—I’ve never—”

“Don’t lie; you’ve done a lot worse. You don’t think I know what you and your buddy were going to do here?”

His jaw went slack. Understanding covered his face, the truth of what he meant to do and what he would have done if I hadn’t come upon them.

“You’re a sick person,” I said. “You deserve what you get.”

I lifted my foot off the rope. The woman fell forward, her arms still outstretched.

Fat Boy screamed as she sank her teeth into the gap where his knee used to be. She pulled her head from side to side, ripping off a piece of meat. Fat Boy punched the back of her head. When he did this, I stepped forward, shot him in the other arm. Again, he howled.

The woman worked her way up, found his stomach with her scabrous hands.

I turned away, walked back to my truck as Fat Boy screamed and cried and the woman ate. I crawled in, closed the door, and put the window up. I don’t know how long I sat there. Two minutes or two hours. I don’t know.

Hank, what happened?

“Nothing good, Humphrey. Nothing good.”

Are there any survivors?

I thought on this a moment. There had been two. One of them was dead. The other one would be soon enough if he wasn’t already.

“No.”

Are we going soon?

“In a little bit.”

What are we waiting for?

“I need to check out the truck.”

Oh.

Another few minutes passed. I stood from the van and closed the door quietly. From the back of it, I pulled out a baseball bat and made my way back around Fat Boy’s vehicle. Flies buzzed around Scrawny’s head, landed for a taste of blood, and then flew away. 

The woman sat on the ground. She was no longer eating Fat Boy’s insides. She stared blankly at him.

“Miss,” I said. 

She turned her head, but there was no hunger in those filmy eyes. There was shame.

“It’s over,” I said and shot her. She slumped to the ground, hopefully at peace.

Fat Boy was dead. He was missing a couple of fingers on his right hand. I guess he tried to push her away and she bit them off. She had taken more than a couple of bites at his stomach and chest and throat. Too bad she missed one vital area. He stared an empty stare at the sky, his eyes seeing nothing, his chest not moving. 

It was an hour later when his hand twitched, then his bottom lip. His head moved, and he lifted it off the ground with a groan that I like to believe was full with pain.

“Hey there, Fat Boy,” I said and knelt down a few feet from him, placing the bat’s head on the ground in front of me. “Are you in there?”

He tried to reach for me, but his arms wouldn’t lift high enough.

“Come on, Fat Boy. I asked you a question. Are you in there?”

He grunted and growled, and his teeth gnashed at me, but he couldn’t get up. I had made sure of that earlier. Now, it was time to see if he was right. I knew the answer, but Fat Boy didn’t.

I stood, nudged one of his shoes with one of my own. He didn’t seem to notice.

“Did you feel that?”

Nothing.

“No? Okay.”

A little closer and I straddled his legs. I lifted the bat over my head and brought it down as hard as I could on the kneecap that I hadn’t shot out. It cracked and popped, and Fat Boy groaned. It wasn’t as loud as his screams had been, but it was long.

“Hey, Fat Boy. Still think there’s nothing inside? Still think they are just monsters?”

He snapped his mouth at me.

“You do? Okay.”

I smashed the leg again and then stepped up to his side and brought the bat down on one of his hips. Like before, there was a sickening thud and crack, and this time, Fat Boy’s groans were more like his screams from earlier.

“Did you feel that in there? Does it hurt?”

I brought the bat across his outstretched hand, striking it hard enough to slam it into his bloodied midsection. And Fat Boy moaned, his mouth open in a wide grimace. He wasn’t hungry, and if he was, there was no meal for him there. No, he was in pain. Pure pain. And somewhere in that newly rotting corpse was his soul, all black and stinking of the foulest crap.

“You need to answer me, Fat Boy. If you don’t, I’m going to keep hitting you. Does this hurt?” The bat struck his elbow. It popped and bent awkwardly in the wrong direction.

There was another scream.

I bent down, pulled the gun from my waistband, and shoved the barrel in his mouth as far back as it would go, pinning his head to the ground.

“You have one chance to answer me. If you’re in there, I want you to try and lift your pointer finger on your left hand. If you don’t move that finger, I’m going to continue to beat you until I feel better about the last several months.”