Mountain Man - 01 (18 page)

“You think so?”

“Maybe.” Gus shrugged and stroked his beard. “They’re like storm systems, y’know? Sometimes they’re thicker in areas than others. Like where I ran over you. That area was thick with ’em.”

“Were you shooting them?”

“I was. Yeah. Maybe that’s it… But there’s something else.”

“Spit it out.”

“That same area where I found you, well, I shot up a few of them. Left them in the streets to rot. But when I went back, they were gone.”

Scott’s face became drawn and pensive in the shaded light.

“Not a fuckin’ trace of anything. And I looked. I mean, I left them out in the streets, and they don’t decompose that fast. They were completely gone. Like the might have got up and walked away.”

“Oh, shit.”

“Yeah.”

“So you think we can’t shoot them anymore?”

“I don’t know what to think. All I know is that I shot some deadheads, and they weren’t there a few days later.”

“Christ,” Scott said quietly.

“All will be revealed in the days ahead, I figure.”

“All will be revealed,” Scott repeated, nodding. “Jesus, though, that’s a creepy thought.”

Gus shook his head. “Let’s not worry about that, then. Let’s just focus on the rest of the month and gettin’ things done before the snow comes.”

“And it’s coming.”

“Yeah. It’s comin’. But we’ll be okay. We’ll be ready.”

“What’s on the schedule for tomorrow?”

“You should be worried about what happens tonight.” Gus held up his bottle. “I wanna see yours half empty.”

Scott winced. “We’re goin’ back into the city?”

“If we get up in time. And depends on how hung over you are.”

“You don’t get hangovers?”

As an answer, Gus chugged about a quarter of the bottle. He lowered it with a gasp. “I do, but I’m learnin’ to not give a shit. Now then, I saw you lug in a game of Scrabble. I’m here to tell you, there ain’t nothin’ more amusin’ than tryin’ to spell big words when you’re fuckin’ sloshed.”

Fall had almost spent the days of November, and the trees of the valley shrugged off the remainder of their foliage, letting it fall to the ground. Tall, wild grass completed turning yellow, and frost glazed it in the mornings. The air became crisp, fresh, and seemingly free of the smell of decaying flesh. One of the nicer things about winter in the new world.

The van backed up to the fire station in a growl of exhaust. The streets were clear of zombies, and Scott let Gus know that it had been two days since they were last in Annapolis. The drinking had been bad, quite bad for Scott, Gus knew, as the man informed him the day after their drunken Scrabble marathon. Gus also knew there was no sense in worrying about winter when one was hung over, so he declared they’d take some time off and rest up. Annapolis wasn’t going anywhere. They had spent it playing both Scrabble and Monopoly, drinking lightly, but still drinking, and watching old episodes of
Breaking Bad
. The recovery days were over, however, and Gus had gotten up that morning feeling as though there was a mission in his bones.

Scott remained in the driver’s seat with his lightning bolt helmet on, keeping an eye on the street, while Gus readied his shotgun and made his way to the rear. Flipping down his visor, he unlocked the doors and threw them open. The heels of his boots hit the pavement, and he hurried for the open door of the office. Gus stopped at the threshold and peered inside the area. Shadows clung to the walls like spiders webs. Sometimes, the dead wandered back into a previously cleared building, so he entered with caution.

And gagged. The smell of the putrefying dead halted him in his tracks, and Gus realized that the cold had probably dampened the smell. If it were summer, he’d have been puking in the doorway from the stench. Holding his breath in intervals, he continued and quickly established the fire station was empty. He went back to the van and got Scott to enter the station’s bay with him.

“Find two of everything that fits you,” Gus said.

“We got room at the house for all of this?”

“We’ll make room if we have to. Just get two of everything.”

They took off their jackets and tried on the black-and-yellow striped coats until finding their sizes. They took four of the ninja masks, as well as two sets of fire-retardant Nomex pants, gloves, and steel-toed boots, which reminded Gus of old science fiction movies. They loaded up three fire extinguishers and two crowbars, as well as a pair of first-aid kits. They left what they didn’t need or understand how to use and were back at the van within twenty minutes.

“Stuff’s heavy,” Scott muttered as he loaded.

“Damn right it’s heavy. And think of the shit we ain’t takin’. They carry around a lot of gear.”

He paused at the rear doors and looked back at the station.

“What’s up?” Scott asked.

“Forgot something. Start up the beast.”

Dumping his shotgun in the back, Gus drew his aluminum bat from the scabbard and returned to the station’s common area. He faced the map that outlined all of the streets of Annapolis behind a thin sheen of glass. Whoever had hung the thing had nailed its wooden frame in place. Gus tsked and took a samurai pose before smashing the glass with two quick swings of his bat.

A few nails weren’t going to stop vandals if they
really
wanted it.

After a few moments of wrestling it loose, Gus rolled up the map and retreated to the van with it. He stopped once and peered in at the great fire machines filling the apparatus bay, and wished he could drive one of them away. It wasn’t practical, however, and gave them one last lingering look before leaving.

They rumbled away in the van, seeking to continue their house picking from the other day.

“You know, we should be checking garages, too,” Scott said. “There might be another van or something in one of them.”

“A brother to the beast? Existing in this town?” Gus’s helmet cocked to one side. “Is such a thing possible?”

“One never–– Oh… shit…”

Gus saw what had made Scott cuss and leaned forward in his seat.

Just ahead, filling the entire breadth of the road, stood a wall of corpses. Bodies of all sizes and heights shambled along on bare feet and broken ankles. Some crawled like filthy fat carpets. Gray-faced children missing limbs wore summer clothing. Undead that appeared almost skeletal, with bare heads bearing the brunt of the sun’s glare, turned in the direction of the slowing van. As the cold sun beat down upon the mob that spanned from one row of houses to the other, Scott slowed the van and stopped a good thirty meters from the line. The dead on the outer edge of the horde wavered and turned like a dark audience of headbangers left thrashing for far too long.

Then, five of the corpses rushed the van.

“Runners,” Gus yelled. “Back up!”

Scott shifted into reverse.

One of the runners stumbled and fell face down onto the cold asphalt, a sneaker flying into the air. The runner behind it tripped over the flailing arm of the fallen dead and likewise crashed.

The other three charged.

“Scott…” Gus put his hand on his seatbelt. If he had to, he would get his shotgun.

The beast swung around in a wild ninety-degree turn. Scott fumbled with the gears, got a lower one that made the engine groan.

Ten meters.

The three runners came on, their arms held straight out as if looking for hugs. Gus could see their gray-black features, the empty holes of their eye sockets. One didn’t have a jawbone, and its upper incisors hung down like nails worn to nubs.

Scott pushed the gear into
Reverse
and turned back the way they had come. A startling barrage of flesh beat upon the rear of the van, pounding out a mad bongo tune. Scott pressed down on the accelerator, and the beast shot forward, quickly getting up to forty.

“Do a fishtail!” Gus said.

“What?”

“Do it!”

Bending low over the steering wheel, Scott jerked it left, then right. His shoulder slammed against his door, and his helmet bounced off the glass. The connection startled him, but he maintained control of the vehicle.

Gus rolled down his window and stuck out his head, looking behind them. A moment later, he pulled back in and put up the window. “You just lost one unwanted hitchhiker.”

“Yeah?”

“Bastard was hangin’ on to something back there. It happens sometimes.” Gus pointed to the upcoming intersection. “Take a right here. We might be able to drive around them.”

Scott looked to Gus, the worry clear around his eyes as his helmet covered the rest. “We’re not goin’ into that subdivision, are we?”

“Through that tide?” Gus shook his head. “We go around it and find another place. Another street. There’s plenty. But shit, that pack back there blows my theory out of the water. I thought––hoped––they were thinning out.”

“Ain’t nothin’ thin about that goddamn convention.”

Gus rubbed a gloved hand over his helmet and adjusted it. “Turn here. I know this city. I know where we are.”

Following Gus’s directions, Scott drove the van to another part of the city. They crossed what was once the tidal flats lined with dikes, and proceeded into the neighborhood of Port Williams. They didn’t see any more dead, and avoided the main roads. The beast finally slowed and stopped on a side street lined with huge naked elms, behind which hundred-year-old houses squatted and waited to be visited. Some of the dwellings were newer and had plastic siding stuck to their ribs, while the older models were in bad need of a paint job. Scott backed the van into the driveway of the first house and killed the engine.

Gus looked out of his window and saw the state of decay the place was in. The front lawn had grown up into a yellow jungle while the white house looked as if it had been blasted by sand. Bare gray wood, ancient-looking under the sun, peeked out under the rotting white coat. Chips and long ragged strips hung off the soffit and fascia like droopy, cured flesh. The place needed a complete scraping and a solid coat of primer, followed by at least two coats of paint. It would have been a huge contract to paint such a house, Gus knew, back in the old days. That put a smile on his face. The old days were only a few years ago.

“We’ll do the whole street if there’s time,” Gus said and got up, moving into the back.

“Is this a three-story house?” Scott asked.

“Looks like two, but they probably have an attic. Wouldn’t want to be up there in the summer. Or the winter for that matter.” Gus slung his bat scabbard over his back, then took down the shotgun. He grabbed a fistful of shells and filled both of his pockets.

“Looks like a gas station down the street there.”

“Dry,” Gus said, slapping down his visor. “I was there about a year ago. Long looted, but I’m wondering about the houses.”

Taking the shotgun to the back of the van, Gus opened the door and jumped out. He closed the door softly behind him and walked down a short crushed-gravel driveway. The door to the house was on the left, but Gus pointed the shotgun toward the garden in the back, just past another elm with a lonely swing hanging from one of its lower limbs. The cold wind broke on his leather and helmet, but something about the white reeds wilted in the garden drew his attention. Checking the corner of the house, Gus warily moved forward, edging past the swing. The garden appeared like something washed up on a shore somewhere. Dead stalks formed a white weave over the earth, but Gus spotted a few wasted bulbs still attached. Looking around, he knelt and picked up one of the bulbs for closer study.

Garlic
. He squished it between his fingers. Someone grew their own garlic behind the house and probably a little something more, but Gus wasn’t an expert on produce. The valley was a farming hub right up until the end, and those who had the property to do so had possessed little gardens behind their houses. Gus got to his feet and tossed the dead plant back into its bed. He turned around and looked up at the house. A wind rose up and buffeted him, and the high windows seemed like dead eyes gazing off toward the Bay of Fundy. Gus didn’t like the chill that passed through him, and wasn’t certain if it was the wind or his own fear.

“Fuckin’ gimps.” He trekked to the door. He turned the old-fashioned brass knob of the wood and glass door and found it locked. The keyhole was another throwback to older times, but Gus wasn’t interested in remembering them. He ran his bare fingers over glass with edges freckled with paint, and peered in. A short hallway led to another closed door, as well as a staircase on the right. Not seeing any other way, Gus put his plastic-padded elbow through the glass with a tinkle and reached in. He felt wood against the door. Grunting, Gus put his helmeted head through the broken window and saw a piece of two-by-four nailed both into the floor and the door, creating a brace.

Frowning, Gus used the butt of his shotgun to clear the glass fragments from the window. He returned to the van, his thoughts dark and his craw boiling for some unknown reason. He knocked on the rear door before opening it. “It’s me,” he said, climbing into the back.

Scott looked back. “Problem?”

“Someone placed a brace against the front door on the inside,” Gus said, pulling out one of the crowbars.