Hellifax (46 page)

After a while, he drove closer to the gates, stopped the vehicle, and got out. Buckle limped after him. The air was fresh and a light breeze blew, making the treetops rustle softly.

“Well… shit.” Scott exhaled, standing at the ruined mouth of the gate and taking in the black wreck of the house. Structural beams, black in the summer sun, rose up only halfway. The rest of the charred woodwork had collapsed on itself, but several pieces of wood lay all over the property, as if sprayed from the house.

Or exploded.

There were a lot of little black forms around the ground as well, scattered all over the place and cooked by the sun, looking like streaks of black leather. Scott stooped to inspect the stains, grimacing when he identified little bones and claws. Scott straightened up and lifted his twelve gauge. He studied the tree line for a moment, then the cars, marveling at the sheer number of rat stains there around the property. Buckle did the same, his face slowly hitching up in distaste.

Scott in the lead, they walked through the gate and approached the house. Every step made Scott’s heart break a little more. The place had been devastated by fire. Even the garage was little more than a black stain ringed by an equally charred concrete foundation. He saw what he knew to be the shredded husk of the Beast, the roof of the van blown off, as if it had been caught in a blast of incinerating heat. Another vehicle was beside it, twisted and burnt, and Scott had to think for a moment. Gus must’ve found a second truck or van. He wouldn’t have left his dear old Beast if he could help it. He loved that machine.

Scott walked right up to the front of the house and peered down into what had been the rec room, where he and Gus had sat in drunken stupors and watched horror movies from the ’70s and ’80s. The area was a murky pit filled with chunks and pieces of debris and covered in dried slivers of tar—an unearthed grave. Scott’s shoulders slumped.

“You okay?” Buckle asked.

“Let’s go around,” Scott finally said, his throat tight, not okay in the least.

The pool was filled with burnt pieces of wood that bobbled idly. The deck appeared as if something had shelled it from above, and Scott figured whatever had destroyed the house had flung fire far enough to ignite it. The furniture Gus had kept out there was also gone. The lawn chairs had burnt down to the metal bones.

He stopped at the edge of the cliff and stared at the expanse of Annapolis, stretched out toward a mountain range like a sleeve of mottled skin. The city was just as black as the house in places, ravaged as if by some great fire.

“Jesus, Jesus,” Buckle said, taking it all in.

Scott looked over the edge and spotted the charred bones far below, piled up right at the base of the cliff.

“And Jesus,” Buckle muttered.

Scott swallowed and hunkered down. Skulls grinned back up at him, keeping their secrets.

What happened here?
Perhaps the rats were here as well and they had somehow made it to the house. Perhaps Gus had burned the house down or accidentally started a fire. It was clear that a small war had happened on the property, and that losses were heavy on both sides. He wondered who the people were at the base of the cliff and if Gus was amongst them. Looking back out over the city, a feeling of despair and loss burned in Scott’s chest.

Annapolis was gutted. The house was razed to the ground. And Gus was gone, probably dead.

“Well, Christ,” Scott muttered.

“Sorry, man,” Buckle offered.

“Yeah.”

“You want to stick around?”

Scott thought about it. He gazed at the property, remembering the many times Gus and he had survived the city below and gotten epically wasted. Somehow, no matter how sad he felt, if Gus had indeed died on the side of this rock…

He’d probably taken an army with him.

“Nah. Let’s… let’s go on back.”

Scott turned around, feeling his throat constrict and his eyes moisten, and quietly made his way back to the waiting SUV. As he passed the black crater of the house, he tried very hard not to look at it. Very hard, but he sneaked a peek anyway. Just as he turned his back on the now-dead sanctuary from an undead world, he heard, in the deep places of his mind, a mountain man’s haunting laughter, distant and merry and probably drunk, tinged with a touch of madness.

Even though it was only a memory, Scott smiled feebly all the same.

And was ever so grateful for it.

They’d parked the Durango in a garage, along with some other vehicles that were still operational. The day was almost at an end, so they camped out in one of the deserted houses near the water, locked the doors—even though they believed the area was safe from Moe—and went to bed early. In the morning, they’d make the crossing.

Just after dawn, with the sun making the water shine, they got into one of the boats, started up the little outboard motor, and puttered away from shore. Seagulls sang as they glided over the boat, looking for handouts the two men didn’t have.

They cut across the dead calm of the sea, approaching Big Tancook and its government-built wharf. Buckle steered, humming a maritime song about privateers. Newfoundlanders, he informed Scott in between verses and without a shred of arrogance, were born on the water and were the best when it came to boating and working the sea. The man from Saint John didn’t dispute it. Over the past six months, Buckle and Vick both had grown fond of the young man, and they considered him an integral part of the group. Buckle liked him not because of his skills or his considerable work ethic, but because of his level head. In the new world, a calm head and common sense were gold. He could be withdrawn at times, like now, but given the circumstances, it was understandable. Vick liked the man for other reasons.

The Newfoundlander’s arms and shoulders ached, and he knew he’d feel an arthritic burn well into the day and night, but he hummed away as he steered. The little outboard motor puttered away in the morning stillness, pushing the bow of the boat across the sunny turquoise glass of the water. It took a little over an hour to reach the grey shores of the island, and in time, its rocky shape slowly solidified, no longer indistinct on the horizon.

Buckle kept on humming tunes of the sea, filling the silence. Scott hadn’t spoken much since Annapolis, and Buckle left the man to mourning his friend. He didn’t have the entire story, but he’d heard enough about Gus and how the two men had taken turns saving the other’s life. The thought that he might have succumbed to rats was a terrible one, but Scott didn’t want to sign off on the man just yet. Perhaps Gus had survived the terrible blaze on his mountain. Maybe he still lived somewhere. And if he did, perhaps their paths would cross once more. In time, the little community might leave the island to live on the mainland again, after the virus that had taken so many lives finally burned itself out.

Looking over his shoulder, Buckle steered the boat to the wharf. There was a forty-foot yacht there, a home in itself, but far too harsh on fuel. The tall masts of sailboats were on the opposite side, as well as three smaller rowboats. Whoever had drawn watch to keep vigil over the deep waters had spotted them already, and a small crowd had gathered on the wharf under a bright sun.

When he caught a glimpse of Scott’s profile, Buckle saw that the sadness the bearded man carried on his shoulders seemed to have sloughed off. On a whim, Buckle aimed the boat past the wharf, before cutting the motor and allowing them to drift to shore.

The figures on the wharf followed them in. One smaller figure, carrying a little bit more in the midsection these days, broke into a small run, leaving the others behind.

That made Buckle smile like a privateer. If only he had some rum—Captain Morgan, perhaps.

The salty smell of brine perfumed the air and made it smell good. A rock struck the bottom of their small craft, and Scott grunted a warning. Buckle just kept on humming, until the boat ran aground on a sandy beach.

“Home again, home again, jiggity jig,” the Newfoundlander said in a weary voice. He checked the outboard motor and heard a splash. Scott plodded ashore, leaving wet tracks in the sand.

Wearing cargo shorts, a T-shirt, and a thankful smile, Amy met him halfway. They hugged as if they’d been separated for years instead of days. Buckle didn’t overly care for public displays of affection, but there was something
right
about seeing those two embrace. He wouldn’t pass that thought on to Vick. Buckle glimpsed him walking up the shore, his one arm swinging, a smile on his face. The six other people from the wharf approached the couple from behind.

Buckle decided to take his time hauling the boat ashore. He stole peeks at the pair every now and again and felt his own stony heart soften, if only just a bit.

On the beach, like a picturesque scene for a painter, Scott held Amy for a long time, kissing her forehead and lips. Just before the others joined them, he reached down and placed a careful hand on Amy’s belly.

And felt the new life there.

And that’s that. You’re probably wondering why I didn’t reunite Gus and Scott––I liked this ending better.

You might be wondering if there’ll be a Mountain Man 4 (if you liked this offering). Well, the short answer is maybe. If there’s interest. I do have a story in mind, but it’s going to take a bit of research and, truthfully, I need a break from writing about zombies. Also, I don’t want to be accused of milking the series if I don’t have a decent story.

So we’ll see.

Keith lives in the wild hills of Canada, on a piece of rock, set adrift in the Atlantic.