Clickers. Part 19

Neither of them thought it possible they would sleep last night. They'd remained huddled on the floor of the jail, Rick inside the cell, Janice and Bobby on the other side as the Dark Ones pillaged and plundered through the town. Every once in a while screams arose from somewhere outside, sometimes gunfire, but for the most part the noises were coming from the Dark Ones as they destroyed.

And fed.

Luckily Bobby had gotten to sleep. He remained at the rear of the hallway, bundled up in some spare jackets Janice had found in the office. His sleep had been deep, too; not once had he woken in fear of the noises and screams from outside. Those sounds contributed to Janice and Rick remaining awake, sitting next to each other on the floor of the cell, holding hands through the bars, talking through the night about what they could do to escape. What they should do to escape. Whether anybody was going to recognize their plight and send somebody to rescue them-the army, the National Guard, anybody with enough guns and firepower to blow these green, scaly creatures back to whatever water-logged h.e.l.l they had come from.

After a while, that end of the conversation meandered onto other subjects. It was hard to tell how much time pa.s.sed, especially with the storm raging outside and the night so dark and brooding. The sounds of destruction retreated farther inland for a while, and they relaxed slightly, still on alert status. Janice slid a nine-millimeter pistol and several boxes of sh.e.l.ls through the bars of Rick's cell should they suddenly be embroiled in a war; she kept a large cache of the weapons she'd snagged by her side, like a camper guarding provisions. Fortunately the creatures outside didn't seem to sense that they were inside the sheriff's station. They were pretty much left alone.

So they talked more. Rick found himself continuing the conversation he'd begun with her earlier that afternoon when he first ran into her on the pier, back when things were innocent, when the future seemed brighter. When it seemed that he might have the extreme hots for her and was antic.i.p.ating a future with her. He remembered that she seemed to share his attraction and they had played off it at the pier, flirting like they were teenagers. And then that had been broken by Bobby's screams- Rick found himself intrigued by Janice's background as she spun the tale. She'd grown up in Phillipsport an only child. When her parents divorced she remained in town with her father, who succ.u.mbed to lung cancer five years later, the year she graduated high school. With no one in town left that she could call family, she left and headed to Bangor where she eventually drifted into college. She stuck with it, getting a degree in Liberal Arts five years later. Midway through she met Kevin Murphy, Bobby's father and her future husband. Kevin was an economics major. They married a year later and settled in Bangor and for once Janice thought she would be happy. She had a husband who loved her, a job she liked-she had gotten a job as a secretary at a securities firm-and she was pregnant with Bobby. She couldn't have asked for more.

The first five years were great, but she began to sense that Kevin was drifting. The hours at the office grew later, the business trips grew longer, became more frequent. He began spending less time with her and Bobby and worse, became less interested in raising their son. She forged on and the truth slapped her face brutally one Sunday morning when she was doing the laundry. She was putting Kevin's shirts in the wash for a cold cycle when she lifted one of them up and examined it closely. She checked out the collar. There was a smudge of red lipstick on the tip of the collar.

She confronted Kevin with it. He denied knowing anything about it at first, but after she nagged him about it, he broke down and confessed. She hadn't expected a confession. She expected he would deny it all along and the confession caught her off guard despite the fact that she had already convinced herself that he was having an affair. Hearing it from his own lips seemed to confirm the suspicions. The woman was a secretary at the firm he worked at. It was nothing serious, but- Besides gaining full custody of Bobby, she got the house, which she sold after the divorce was final. And she moved back to Phillipsport for a more quiet, more serene lifestyle. She wanted something more peaceful, especially for Bobby, but most of all she wanted to escape the past. Coming to Phillipsport did that for her.

Rick listened patiently, sympathizing with her. He had been burned by girlfriends and old lovers in the past too, and he emphasized this. He gave her examples. He tried to make it sound like his own excursions were funny and she laughed. She seemed to appreciate the humor he injected into the conversation. Sometimes the human spirit needed to laugh to break up the monotony of life.

She brought the story to a close: she found her present job as a secretary at the law firm, enrolled Bobby in school here in Phillipsport, and bought the nice little house Rick and Jack had rescued her from about eight hours before. She had known most everybody in town before she left, and she blended back into the community again with ease. She hung out with Carol Bradford and Sue Ba.n.a.li, who were secretaries at the Phillipsport Bank. Bobby had his friends from school. She worked her nine to five with a pause to pick her son up from school around two, although lately he was walking home by himself. They spent the evenings together, with Carol and Sue coming over sometimes for an evening of television. She usually spent her weekends with her son, but when the need arose to be with her friends, or spend a night on the town, there was always an available sitter in the parents of one of his friends. She hadn't dated much after the divorce, but she did drift into an affair with a coworker that ended much the same way it began. Her life had pretty much been the way she described it until she ran across Rick at the pier.

There was an uncomfortable silence, as if both of them were waiting for the other to begin something new. During the talk they sat on opposite sides of the bars, but during the last five minutes they had drawn closer. Rick's hand strayed out from the cell and Janice's found his, her fingers clasping it. He felt a surge of electricity run through him as their eyes met briefly. He supposed if things hadn't happened the way they had he would be sleeping with her right this minute. He almost voiced this observation, thought that he probably shouldn't jump the gun, and shifted the conversation to other topics.

But then somewhere along the way, they must have fallen asleep.

Now Janice shrugged sheepishly. She turned and went down the hallway to check on Bobby. Rick looked out the window; the sky outside was a dark gray-it was morning now. He wondered how long they'd slept.

"I wonder what time it is." Rick said.

"Quiet!" Janice was standing over Bobby, poised over him as if something was about to pounce on the building. Her head was c.o.c.ked at a questioning angle, as if she were listening to frequencies he couldn't pick up. Rick couldn't hear a thing.

He managed a whispered query. "What is it?"

Janice looked at him. "Do you hear anything?"

Rick listened, trying to pick up whatever noise she was hearing. Whatever it was, he couldn't. He didn't hear a thing.

"I know," Janice said. She looked almost elated. "It sounds like they're gone."

Rick listened. She was right. He detected no sound. None of the roaring and bleatings the creatures made as they plundered the town. No screams or moans from maimed and dying people. No gunfire, crashings. Nothing.

The silence was so still it was almost deafening.

Rick walked over to the window and looked out. His mind had mentally prepared him for what he saw outside but even then, it was still disturbing.

Main Street was deserted. And totally littered.

With bodies.

They lined the street three and four deep. They lay scattered about like soldiers on a Civil War battlefield. Despite the stark horror of the scene, Rick made out some familiar faces; George Cleaver, one of the countermen at the Diner where he had met Lee Shelby and Melissa Peterson two days before; William Reynolds, a man he'd met in Dr. Jorgensen's waiting room yesterday who was an Arrowhead Springs deliveryman who had come into Doc's office to make his drop and collect the empty. There were others. All of them people who'd fought to protect their town. And their loved ones.

Broken crab sh.e.l.ls lined the bodies of the dead.

The Dark Ones were nowhere to be seen.

Rick turned away from the window and approached the bars. "I don't see the Dark Ones anywhere. It's pretty dead out there." He paused, realizing the remark he just made. "Literally."

Janice looked grim. She looked down at Bobby, who was still asleep. He was curled up in the jackets, his arm tucked under his chin, his bandaged hand cradled to his chest. She looked from Bobby back to Rick, a grim realization in her face. "We've got to get out of here."

"I know."

Janice moved out toward the main office of the sheriff's station and stood in the middle of the room. Rick couldn't see her from the cell but he guessed she was looking out the big plate gla.s.s window at the carnage. He looked at Bobby, who was sleeping deeply. Poor kid had gone through a lot in the past twenty-four hours. No wonder he was conked like that.

Janice came back into the jail area. She picked up her jacket from the floor and put it on.

"Where are you going?" Rick asked.

"I think I see Sheriff Conklin outside," Janice said. Her face was grim.

A weird sense of elation swept through Rick. As much as the trouble Conklin had put them through, it would be the best news in the world right now if he was here bringing in the calvary. "He's alive?"

Janice shook her head. "I don't know." She stopped and looked at Rick. "He's across the street, and...he locked you in here. He probably still has the keys with him..."

Rick got the message. It sounded like the sheriff was dead. He nodded. "Be careful."

"I will." She started to walk out but Rick reached through the bars and grabbed her arm, holding her back. She spun back, surprised, the expression on her face saying what did I forget? "What?" She asked.

Rick didn't answer. He grabbed her face gently with his right hand and moved it toward the bars, guiding it so her lips met his. She offered no resistance once she realized what he was doing, and kissed him back. He released his grip on her and smiled at her. "Be careful, Janice."

"You bet I will," she said. Her eyes sparkled, her smile flashed wide and bright; she looked like the happiest person on earth at that moment. She squeezed his hand briefly, then set off down the hall.

Rick heard her footsteps retreat slowly through the main office, then pause by the front door. She was checking out the area before she stepped outside. Smart girl. Rick's heart pounded faintly, partly from fear, but a large part due to their emotional and physical connection. He was feeling a very strong attraction to her, and the thought that the feeling was reciprocated produced a strong burst of emotion through him that was so great that, if he wasn't sitting in this cell, he'd be singing. Her kiss was still on his lips, faint now, but sweet, and despite their predicament of life and death, that simple kiss had sent the area below his belt into a raging hard on.

Her footfalls shuffled beyond the hallway. A moment later he heard the click of the front door, and then the latch of the k.n.o.b as it shut behind her. She was outside.

It was, in a sense, incredible.

Janice stood on the sidewalk in front of the Phillipsport Sheriff station, her mind boggling at the sight before her. All up and down Main Street, the bodies of Phillipsport's finest lay on the streets, in the sidewalks, sprawled in doorways. The carnage continued to the pier due east and all the way to the T-intersection that bridged the town square to the west. Broken Clicker sh.e.l.ls littered the streets. Janice thought she would be sick to her stomach at the sight of all those bodies-some of them so horribly mangled that they hardly resembled human beings-but surprisingly, she coped well. Perhaps it was Bobby's run-in with the Clickers the day before that had mentally prepared her for what was at hand. What he'd gone through was nothing compared to the carnage that lay before her.

Most of the bodies she saw were ripped and mangled; chests ripped open, arms and legs torn off, decapitations. In some cases all that remained were b.l.o.o.d.y, lifeless, hollowed-out trunks. But in most cases the dead she saw were somewhat intact. The streets were soaked with blood and water from the rain. The air was thick with the smell of death.

A slight wind picked up, lifting Janice's hair and blowing it. It blew dead leaves and sc.r.a.ps of paper down the street, rustled her jacket. The darkness of night was slowly giving way to the gray of early morning. It was very foggy and the clouds overhead were dark and gray. It made Phillipsport seem more like a ghost town now, with nearly all of its inhabitants dead.

Janice took a deep breath and looked up and down the street. There was still no sign of life, human or otherwise. She looked across the street and down a ways, toward the pier. What she perceived to be Sheriff Conklin was nestled on top of a slew of bodies. She could make out tan slacks and a shirt that looked like it could be brown, but was probably a deep maroon from blood. He looked tall and lean, much like Conklin had been, but from here, as inside the station, it was hard to tell. What clinched it for her was what appeared to be the police-issue belt with a holster the man was wearing.

Janice set off down the street, keeping a steady pace, but trying to keep her footfalls light so as not to attract unwanted attention. She had to hop-scotch her way around bodies, Clicker sh.e.l.ls, and body parts. She felt her gorge rise briefly when she almost stepped on a severed forearm, hand still attached. An image of Bobby rose in her mind as she stepped away from the limb and she put her hand to her mouth, feeling her throat constrict. She stopped, fighting it back, and black spots began to dance in her vision. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. The wind was blowing the scent of blood away and she caught a whiff of good old fresh air. That felt better.

She opened her eyes, her composure gained, and set off down the street.

A sound startled her, a skittering sound that came from her right toward an empty car. She whirled around, taking a hopping step backward, her foot landing in a small puddle of blood-soaked rainwater. Janice's heart lodged in her throat, the flight instinct almost set to propel her back to the station and lock the door when she realized it was only a piece of paper flapping in the breeze. It was stuck between the windshield wipers of a car.

She sighed. G.o.d, I'm going to be a nervous wreck by the time I get down to Sheriff Conklin or who I hope is Conklin and- A Clicker suddenly came scurrying from behind a car parked diagonally across from her and began scuttling down the street, heading toward the beach. This time Janice did jump back and actually took a few running steps back the way she came before she realized the creature didn't seem to care she was there. She stopped, muscles tense, watching the Clicker scurry toward the pier. It grew smaller as it receded from view.

Janice stood frozen in the middle of the street, unable to decide whether to continue down this road. What else lay in store? More Clickers hiding out, waiting for their escape, much like she was? Would they attack her? It didn't seem likely. The one that just scurried down the beach had been eight feet away from her when it suddenly broke cover and ran for the beach. She imagined that the only thing on their tiny crustacean brains now was survival. Escaping into the ocean.

Janice started back on the path she'd retreated from, more boldly now. She meandered her way past bodies, over severed limbs and b.l.o.o.d.y pools of viscera. She kept her gaze straight ahead, all senses tuned in around her to catch the slightest noise, the slightest change in the atmosphere. She was surrounded by bodies, some stacked one on top of the other, some stuck to utility poles like grotesque trophies. Her main goal grew closer with each step she took. Recognition filtered through her brain as what she had thought to be Sheriff Conklin revealed to be the local lawman.

She stopped, breathing heavily. Conklin's eyes were open. He was lying on his back, his face b.l.o.o.d.y. His chest was mangled, his shirt ripped and horribly bloodstained. He was lying on top of a bank of newspaper machines. His right hand dangled over the side limply. Conklin looked deader than a door nail.

Janice's eyes locked on the belt around his waist. It contained an empty clasp that would normally contain his flashlight, but his handcuffs were still in place. His service revolver was missing, and Janice surmised it could have been knocked out of his hands by strong claws swiping the air to knock the lawman on his a.s.s. Besides, she wasn't interested in the gun. What interested her were the keys, which were dangling on his belt from a thick key ring clasped to his belt loop.

Janice reached forward and grasped the key ring. It was b.l.o.o.d.y, the garment the ring was attached to even bloodier, but she had to get it. She moved her thumb up to the clasp, pushed it, and wriggled it through the belt loops and off the dead man's pants. The keys jangled in her hands as she grasped them. She took a step back, her fingers tingling from the brief contact with the bloodied husk of what remained of Sheriff Conklin, and now she turned and threaded her way back to the station. Her gorge began rising again. It was just half a block up which had seemed miles on her trip out, but now it seemed much closer, more close to normal and it was, she was getting closer to the station, pa.s.sing bodies, fighting the nausea that threatened to overtake her, jumping over them as she ran back to the station and then she was inside, shutting the door behind her and racing to the rear of the building where the jail was, jangling the keys in her hand, barely able to contain her sickness as she fumbled with them in her hands, trying to find the right one to fit into the lock. Rick stood in the cell behind the bars, his voice soothing and low. "Take it easy, Janice, take it easy..."

She took a deep breath and forced herself to go slower. She closed her eyes. Black spots danced in her vision. She felt sick, but she could fight it. She'd get him out. She had the keys now, and she'd get him out and they'd be out of this mess. She took several deep breaths, and once she felt the sickness subside she opened her eyes and looked at Rick through the bars. He looked concerned. "Feel better?"

She nodded. "I will once you're out of there." She began inserting keys in the lock, taking her time so she wouldn't drop them or, worse yet, break one in the lock when a thought occurred to her: suppose this wasn't the right set of keys? Suppose they weren't the right set of keys and none of them fit? Suppose that- But then her fears were eliminated as the key she was currently trying slipped in the lock effortlessly. She turned the key, heard the familiar tumble of locks disengaging and then the door was open. Rick was in her arms, hugging her close. She wrapped her arms around him and as fast as he was in her arms, he was out, moving down to the end of the hall to where Bobby lay sleeping. "Let's get going. We need to get out of here and fast."

Janice took his lead and knelt down over her son to wake him up.

Rick moved into the Sheriff's office and checked the status outside. Still dead. It was getting light outside, the sky overhead dark and sullen. He turned to the cache of weapons Janice had pilfered the night before and began taking stock. There was a stockpile, everything from high-powered rifles to semi-automatic pistols. Boxes of sh.e.l.ls were stacked neatly on shelves in the storage area. He stuffed four boxes in his jacket pockets, found a holster and also equipped himself with a Remington .30-06. Janice was outfitting herself as well. "Make sure the sh.e.l.ls you get match the guns you're taking."

"Right," Rick said. He actually hadn't thought of that before. He checked, saw that the sh.e.l.ls he had were for .22s, and put them back. He was still hunting around for the right ammunition when something caught his eye in the corner.

It looked like a rocket launcher. The barrel was huge and heavy. Rick picked it up, noting the body of the weapon, marveling at its weight. He saw a box near it and bent down to examine it closer. He noticed with amazement that the box contained ammunition for the rocket launcher. What the h.e.l.l is a small town police force doing with something like this? he thought. But then he realized the obvious. Sheriff Conklin had seemed like the type to have a weapon like this around. Why not?

A few moments later, he had everything he needed. He also took the rocket launcher and some ammunition for it. Janice's eyes grew wide when she saw it. "Jesus, where did you find that?"

"In the back," Rick said. "We may need it." Janice already had Bobby in tow. The boy was still sleepy-eyed and cranky, but at least he was walking. "Hi sport," Rick said. "Sleep good?"

"Yeah," Bobby said. He looked up at his mother. "Are we going home now?"

"Real soon, babe," Janice answered. Rick set the rocket launcher down and handed her a semi-automatic pistol and a holster. She put the holster on her hip and stuck the gun inside it. Rick was already made up. Janice took some sh.e.l.ls and put them in her inside jacket pocket. She picked up a rifle she had taken down the night before and an extra box of sh.e.l.ls. Bobby watched all this with slow dawning wonder.

"Are...things still weird?" he asked.

"Don't know yet," Rick answered him. He was ready and he darted to the door and checked out the vicinity outside. All was clear. He picked up the rocket launcher and turned back to Janice and Bobby. He reached into his pocket, took out a black hair tie and pulled his hair back into a pony tail. "I'm gonna go try and get a car. I want you to stay here with Bobby."

Janice opened her mouth to protest, then closed it. It was the only wise thing to do. As it was, Bobby had no knowledge of the carnage outside. If Rick could find a vehicle that would start-preferably with keys in the ignition-and wheel it around, he could pull it directly in front of the station and she could usher Bobby in without him seeing most of the carnage.

She leaned forward and planted a kiss on Rick's cheek. Rick smiled and kissed her back. He ruffled Bobby's hair. "I'll be right back."

"Be careful," Janice said.

Rick exited the station.

The first car Rick saw was a battered Plymouth parked in front of the post office next door. He went around to the driver's side and stopped. The door was ripped off its hinges and lay hanging by a strip of metal on the street. The front seat was empty, but the seat was slick with blood. Whoever the Dark Ones had dragged out of this vehicle, it would be safe to a.s.sume they were dead now.

"Next one," Rick said. He moved up the street to the next vehicle, which was empty and seemingly intact. Rick hoisted his rifle up and was about to ram the b.u.t.t through the window when a low moan rose from the deserted street.

He looked back down the street toward the beach. That moan sent a shiver of fear through Rick's spine. His first thought was that it was a Dark One lumbering down the street toward him. But there wasn't anything coming down the street at all. Just a bunch of bodies lying helter skelter all over the road.

The moan rose again. Distinctly human.

All the color ran out of Rick's face. "Oh, Jesus!" The tone of that voice sounded familiar.

He walked down the street toward the sound of the moan, which was rising more reverently now. The sound of the moan carried him over to the mangled figure lying on top of a bank of newspaper vending machines, the same man that Janice was convinced was Sheriff Conklin, the same body where she'd retrieved the keys from.

Rick stopped in front of the mangled remains of Sheriff Roy Conklin. The lawman's eyes were open, his bloodied face staring upwards, mouth open. His eyes were blinking, and Rick realized the lawman was still alive before Conklin let out another bloodcurdling moan.

G.o.d, how could he still be alive? Rick thought. He looked at the battered lawman's body. His chest had been ripped open; he thought he could see a portion of his b.l.o.o.d.y ribcage. His clothes were shredded. There was a gaping wound in his right leg that looked like a huge chunk of flesh had been taken from it. His face was shredded. Sheriff Conklin was horribly mangled, but he still lived. He must have been pa.s.sed out when Janice retrieved the jail keys from his body; in her fright she probably paid no attention whether he was alive or dead.

Roy's eyes crawled over Rick, their light gray showing slight fear, but now they held the realization of what had really happened to him. He looked like he'd been through h.e.l.l and back. The Sheriff's mouth moved. Rick leaned forward to catch what the lawman might say. Another low moan escaped his lips. He was trying to say something, but it was hard to make out. "Cccccc..."

Rick leaned forward. "Take it easy, guy."

Roy clung stubbornly to that "Cccc" sound. He lengthened the vowel so that it became a drawn out "aaaaa", then added a "eeerrrr". Rick picked up on it immediately.

"Car?" Rick asked. "Where?"

"Blue," Roy spit this word out almost effortlessly. He p.r.o.nounced it "blphew", but Rick guessed the significance to color almost as immediately as he had deciphered the lawman's first word. Rick stood over Sheriff Conklin, encouraging him.

"A blue car."

Roy slowly nodded. Sweat rose on his face in rivulets. "Kkkk...eeeee...sssss...in...in..."

"The keys are still in the ignition?"

Conklin closed his eyes, breathing heavily.

That was all Rick needed to know. He took a hesitant step back then stopped. Sheriff Conklin had opened his eyes again and was looking at Rick. His breath was coming in harsh and fast. Rick could see the rise and fall of his ruined chest. His face was simultaneously riddled with fear, and expectant of what was coming to him; to Rick he seemed like a man coming to hard grips with the approaching reality of his own death. Rick couldn't just leave him like this, much as he didn't like the man. Sheriff Conklin himself seemed to have metamorphosed from a man with such personal demons that he'd been the most disliked man in town, to a man who had come to grips with the sins of his life and his existence as a human being. It radiated from his blood streaked face, which was wide-eyed, almost apologetic. Now was a bad time to be making amends to yourself and your maker for your faults, but- Roy Conklin's breathing became more labored, his mouth gasping as he struggled for breath. Rick moved forward, lightly placing a hand on his shoulder. Roy grasped Rick's hand and squeezed it as his breathing grew more labored, painful sounding, then slowing... slowing...slowing. The rise and fall of his chest slowed with it, and Roy's eyes moved from Rick to stare at the ceiling of the awning above him. His breathing grew fainter, fainter...fainter...

Then stopped.

Rick stood over the sheriff's body for perhaps two full minutes, waiting for a reprieve, another go-round as the lawman began another round in the fight for life. But there was no movement. Sheriff Conklin was dead.

Rick pried Conklin's fingers from his wrist and placed the hand back at his side. The limb fell over the side of the vending machine, then hung there, limp. Sheriff Conklin's mouth was still open as if straining for that last gasp of breath, his eyes still open and gazing at the ceiling. Staring at nothing.

Rick turned away from the sheriff and began looking for a blue car. As he searched, he felt a small burst of pride at his reaction to Sheriff Conklin's death; he thought he would have turned away from the man who had caused him so much trouble upon arriving in town. But he was better than Sheriff Conklin-he'd offered some measure of sympathy for the man as he lay there dying. He felt better as a human being, and he hoped Roy Conklin had felt some measure of peace before he pa.s.sed on.

Rick traveled fifty yards down Main Street, heading toward the beach when he saw it. A little blue Datsun, late eighties model. He ran toward it, being careful to jump over the bodies sprawled in the street. He got to the car and flung the door open. It was empty-and the keys were dangling in the ignition.

"Hot dog!" Rick exclaimed. He climbed in, slammed the door, keyed the ignition. The engine cranked to life and Rick felt a huge weight drop off his shoulders as he put the car in gear and made a U-turn, headed back toward the sheriff station. He tried slaloming around the bodies in the street, but that wasn't always possible; a few times he ended up having to drive over them. Rick's stomach turned queasily in his abdomen as he felt the cars' tires thump over the bodies, imagining their slickness becoming further mangled by the tread and weight of the car. After the third one he didn't think he could continue for this long without being sick, and then he was at the station.

He pulled up to it, driver's side against the curb. He could see Janice and Bobby hovering behind the plate gla.s.s window, watching him as he made his way down the street. When he pulled up to the curb the door opened, and Janice ushered Bobby out. Rick reached over and opened the pa.s.senger side door for her. She herded Bobby in the back seat and closed the door. Rick stepped out and together they transferred the weapons they had gathered into the car, then slid inside, slamming the doors behind them. "Drive," she said.

Rick drove. They pulled away from the curb and Janice cradled Bobby to her bosom, shielding the boy's face from the carnage outside. Rick could tell that the boy wasn't sleepy anymore, that more than anything he would want to lift his head from his mother's protective shield and look outside, but he wouldn't. Janice had probably told him not to look as she herded him outside and into the car. He surely was making no attempt to do so now. Smart kid.

"Where to?" Rick asked. They had just reached the intersection of Main Street and Elm. The carnage here appeared to have thinned out, but bodies still dotted the streets and sidewalks.