The Living Dead 2 Part 3

"Was that one?" Kendrick whispered.

He hadn't known he was going to say that either, just like when he'd asked for a c.o.ke. Instead, he'd been thinking about the man's sign. STILL HERE.

"Don't know," Grandpa Joe said. "It's hard to tell. That's why you never stop."

They listened to the radio, neither of them speaking again for the rest of the ride.

Time was, Joseph Earl Davis III never would have driven past anyone on the road without giving them a chance to hop into the bed and ride out a few miles closer to wherever they were going. h.e.l.l, he'd picked up a group of six college-age kids and driven them to the Centralia compound back in April.

But Joe hadn't liked the look of that hitcher. Something about his walk. Or, maybe times were just different. If Kendrick hadn't been in the car, Jesus as his witness, Joe might have run that poor wanderer down where he walked. An ounce of prevention. That was what it had come to in Joe Davis's mind. Drastic measures. You just never knew; that was the thing.

EREH LLITS, the man's sign said in the mirror, receding into a tiny, unreadable blur.

Yeah, I'm still here, too, Joe thought. And not picking up hitchhikers was one way he intended to Joe thought. And not picking up hitchhikers was one way he intended to stay stay here, thanks a bunch for asking. here, thanks a bunch for asking.

Freaks cl.u.s.tered in the cities, but there were plenty of them wandering through the countryside nowadays, actual packs. Thousands, maybe. Joe had seen his first six months ago, coming into Longview to rescue his grandson. His first, his fifth, and his tenth. He'd done what he had to do to save the boy, then shut the memories away where they couldn't sneak into his dreams. Then drank enough to make the dreams blurry.

A week later, he'd seen one closer to home, not three miles beyond the gated road, not five miles from the cabin. not five miles from the cabin. Its face was bloated blue-gray, and flies buzzed around the open sores clotted with that dark red scabby s.h.i.t that grew under their skin. The thing could barely walk, but it had smelled him, swiveling in his direction like a scarecrow on a pivot. Its face was bloated blue-gray, and flies buzzed around the open sores clotted with that dark red scabby s.h.i.t that grew under their skin. The thing could barely walk, but it had smelled him, swiveling in his direction like a scarecrow on a pivot.

Joe still dreamed about that one every night. That one had chosen chosen him. him.

Joe left the freaks alone unless one came at him-that was safest if you were by yourself. He'd seen a poor guy shoot one down in a field, and then a swarm came from over a hill. Some of those f.u.c.kers could walk pretty fast, could run, run, and they weren't stupid, by G.o.d. and they weren't stupid, by G.o.d.

But Joe had killed that one, the pivoting one that had chosen him. He'd kill it a dozen times again if he had the chance; it was a favor to both of them. That shambling mess had been somebody's son, somebody's husband, somebody's father. People said freaks weren't really dead-they didn't climb out of graves like movie monsters-but they were as close to walking dead as Joe ever wanted to see. Something was eating them from the inside out, and if they bit you, the freak s.h.i.t would start eating you, too. You fell asleep, and you woke up different.

The movies had that part right, anyway.

As for the rest, n.o.body knew much. People who met freaks up close and personal didn't live long enough to write reports about them. Whatever they were, freaks weren't just a city problem anymore. They were everybody's problem.

"Can you hold on, Dad? My neighbor's knocking on the window."

That's what Ca.s.s had said the last time they'd spoken, then he hadn't heard any more from his daughter for ten agonizing minutes. The next time he'd heard her voice, he'd barely recognized it, so calm it could be nothing but a mask over mortal terror. "DADDY? Don't talk-just listen. I'm so sorry. For everything. No time to say it all. They're here. You need to come and get Kendrick. Use the danger word. Do you hear me, Daddy? And...bring guns. Shoot anyone suspicious. I mean anyone, anyone, Daddy." Daddy."

"Daddy," she'd called him. She hadn't called him that in years.

That day he'd woken up with alarm twisting his gut for no particular reason. That was why he'd raised Ca.s.sidy on the shortwave two hours earlier than he usually did, and she'd sounded irritated that he'd called before she was up. "My neighbor's knocking on the window."

Joe had prayed he wouldn't find what he knew would be waiting in Longview. He'd known what might happen to Ca.s.s, Devon, and Kendrick the moment he'd found them letting neighbors use the shortwave and drink their water like they'd been elected the Rescue Committee. They couldn't even name name one of the women in their house. That was Ca.s.s and Devon for you. Acting like naive fools, and he'd told them as much. one of the women in their house. That was Ca.s.s and Devon for you. Acting like naive fools, and he'd told them as much.

Still, even though he'd tried to make himself expect the worst, he couldn't, really. If he ever dwelled on that day, he might lose his mind...and then what would happen to Kendrick?

Anytime Joe brought up that day, the kid's eyes whiffed out like a dead pilot light. It had taken Kendrick hours to finally open that reinforced door and let him in, even though Joe had used the danger word again and again. And Kendrick had spoken hardly a word since.

Little Soldier was doing all right today. Good. He'd need to be tougher, fast. The kid had regressed from nine to five or six, just when Joe needed him to be as old as he could get.

As Joe drove beyond the old tree farms, the countryside opened up on either side; fields on his left, a range of hills on his right. There'd been a cattle farm out here once, but the cattle were gone. Wasn't much else out here, and there never had been.

Except for Mike's. Nowadays, Mike's was the only thing left anyone recognized.

Mike's was a gas station off exit 46 with porta-potties out back and a few shelves inside crammed with things people wanted: flour, canned foods, cereal, powdered milk, lanterns, flashlights, batteries, first aid supplies, and bottled water. And gas, of course. How he kept getting this s.h.i.t, Joe had no idea. "If I told you that, I'd be out of business, bro," Mike had told him when Joe asked, barking a laugh at him.

Last time he'd driven out here, Joe had asked Mike why he'd stayed behind when so many others were gone. Why not move somewhere less isolated? Even then, almost a full month ago, folks had been clumping up in Longview, barricading the school, jail, and hospital. Had to be safer, if you could buy your way in. Being white helped, too. They said it didn't, but Joe Davis knew it did. Always had, always would. Things like that just went underground for a time, that's all. Times like these the ugly stuff festered and exploded back topside.

Mike wasn't quite as old as Joe-sixty-three to Joe's more c.u.mbersome seventy-one-but Joe thought he was foolhardy to keep the place open. Sure, all the stockpiling and bartering had made Mike a rich man, but was gasoline and Rice-A-Roni worth the risk? "I don't run, Joe. Guess I'm hardheaded." That was all he'd said.

Joe had known Mike since he first built his cedar cabin in 1989, after retiring from his berth as supply sergeant at Fort McArthur. Mike had just moved down from Alberta, and they'd talked movies, then jazz. They'd discovered a mutual love of Duke Ellington and old sitcoms. Mike had always been one of his few friends around here. Now he was the only one.

Joe didn't know whether to hope his friend would still be there or to pray he was gone. Better for him to be gone, Joe thought. One day he and the kid would have to move on, too, plain and simple. That day was coming soon. That day had probably come and gone twice over.

Joe saw a glint of the aluminum fencing posted around Mike's as he came around the bend, the end of the S in the road. Although it looked more like a prison camp, Mike's was an oasis, a tiny squat store and a row of gas pumps surrounded by a wire fence a man and a half tall. The fence was electrified at night: Joe had seen at least one barbecued body to prove it, and everyone had walked around the corpse as if it weren't there. With gas getting scarcer, Mike tended to trust the razor wire more, using the generator less these days.

Mike's three boys, who'd never proved to be much good at anything else, had come in handy for keeping order. They'd had two or three gunfights there, Mike had said, because strangers with guns thought they could go anywhere they pleased and take anything they wanted.

Today, the gate was hanging open. He'd never come to Mike's when there wasn't someone standing at the gate. All three of Mike's boys were usually there, with their greasy hair and their pale fleshy bellies bulging through their too-tight T-shirts. No one today.

Something was wrong.

"s.h.i.t," Joe said aloud before he remembered he didn't want to scare the kid. He pinched Kendrick's chin between his forefinger and thumb, and his grandson peered up at him, resigned, the expression he always wore these days. "Let's just sit here a minute, okay?"

Little Soldier nodded. He was a good kid.

Joe coasted the truck to a stop outside the gate. While it idled, he tried to see what he could. The pumps stood silent and still on their concrete islands, like two men with their hands in their pockets. There was a light on inside, a super-white fluorescent glow through the picture windows painted with the words GAS, FOOD in red. He could make out a few shelves from where he was parked, but he didn't see anyone inside. The air pulsed with the steady burr of Mike's generator, still working.

At least it didn't look like anyone had rammed or cut the gate. The chain looked intact, so it had been unlocked. If there'd been trouble here, it had come with an invitation. Nothing would have made those boys open that gate otherwise. Maybe Mike and his boys had believed all that happy-talk on the radio, ditched their place, and moved to Longview. The idea made Joe feel so relieved that he forgot the ache in his knee.

And leave the generator on? Bulls.h.i.t.

Tire tracks drew patterns in hardened mud. Mike's was a busy place. d.a.m.n greedy fool.

Beside him, Joe felt the kid fidgeting in his seat, and Joe didn't blame him. He had more than half a mind to turn around and start driving back toward home. The jerky would keep. He had enough gas to last him. He'd come back when things looked right again.

But he'd promised the kid a c.o.ke. That was the only thing. And it would help erase a slew of memories if he could bring a grin to the kid's face today. Little Soldier's grins were a miracle. His little chipmunk cheeks were the spitting image of Ca.s.s's at his age.

"Daddy," she'd called him on the radio. "Daddy."

Don't think about that don't think don't- Joe leaned on his horn. He let it blow five seconds before he laid off.

After a few seconds, the door to the store opened, and Mike stood there leaning against the doorjamb, a big, ruddy white-haired Canuck with linebacker shoulders and a pigskin-sized bulge above his belt. He was wearing an ap.r.o.n like he always did, as if he ran a butcher shop instead of a gas station. Mike peered out at them and waved. "Come on in!" he called out.

Joe leaned out of the window. "Where the boys at?" he called back.

"They're fine!" Mike said. Over the years, Joe had tried a dozen times to convince Mike he couldn't hear worth s.h.i.t. No sense asking after the boys again until he got closer.

The wind skittered a few leaves along the ground between the truck and the door, and Joe watched their silent dance for a few seconds, considering. "I'm gonna go do this real quick, Kendrick," Joe finally said. "Stay in the truck."

The kid didn't say anything, but Joe saw the terror freeze his face. The kid's eyes went dead just like they did when he asked what had happened at the house in Longview.

Joe cracked open his door. "I'll only be a minute," he said, trying to sound casual.

"D-don't leave me. Please, Grandpa Joe? Let me c-come."

Well, I'll be d.a.m.ned, Joe thought. This kid was talking up a storm today. Joe thought. This kid was talking up a storm today.

Joe sighed, mulling it over. Pros and cons either way, he supposed. He reached under the seat and pulled out his Glock 9mm. He'd never liked automatics until maybe the mid-80s, when somebody figured out how to keep them from jamming so d.a.m.ned often. He had a Mossberg shotgun in a rack behind the seat, but that might seem a little too hostile. He'd give Kendrick the Remington 28-gauge. It had some kick, but the Little Soldier was used to it. He could trust Little Soldier not to fire into the ceiling. Or his back. Joe had seen to that.

"How many shots?" Joe asked him, handing over the little birder. Kendrick held up four stubby fingers, like a toddler. So much for talking.

"If you're coming with me, I d.a.m.n well better know you can talk if there's a reason to." Joe sounded angrier than he'd intended. "Now...how many shots?"

"Four!" That time, he'd nearly shouted it. That time, he'd nearly shouted it.

"Come on in," Mike called from the doorway. "I've got hot dogs today!"

That was a first. Joe hadn't seen a hot dog in nearly a year and his mouth watered. Joe started to ask him again what the boys were up to, but Mike turned around and went inside.

"Stick close to me," Joe told Kendrick. "You're my other pair of eyes. Anything Anything looks funny, you point and speak up loud and clear. Anybody makes a move in your direction you don't like, looks funny, you point and speak up loud and clear. Anybody makes a move in your direction you don't like, shoot. shoot. Hear?" Hear?"

Kendrick nodded.

"That means anybody. anybody. I I don't care if it's Mike or his boys or Santa Claus or anybody else. You understand me?" don't care if it's Mike or his boys or Santa Claus or anybody else. You understand me?"

Kendrick nodded again, although he lowered his eyes sadly. "Like Mom said."

"d.a.m.n right. Exactly like your mom said," Joe told Kendrick, squeezing the kid's shoulder. For an instant, his chest burned so hot with grief that he knew a heart attack couldn't feel any worse. The kid might have watched watched what happened to Ca.s.s. Ca.s.s might have turned into one of them before his eyes. what happened to Ca.s.s. Ca.s.s might have turned into one of them before his eyes.

Joe thought of the pivoting, bloated freak he'd killed, the one that had smelled him, and his stomach clamped tight. "Let's go. Remember what I told you," Joe said.

"Yes, sir."

He'd leave the jerky alone, for now. He'd go inside and look around for himself first.

Joe's knee flared as his boot sank into soft mud just inside the gate. s.h.i.t. He was a useless f.u.c.king old man, and he had a bouncing Betty fifty klicks south of the DMZ to blame for it. In those happy days of Vietnam, none of them had known that the real real war was still forty years off-but coming fast-and he was going to need both knees for the real war, you dig? And he could use a real soldier at his side for this war, not just a little one. war was still forty years off-but coming fast-and he was going to need both knees for the real war, you dig? And he could use a real soldier at his side for this war, not just a little one.

"Closer," Joe said, and Kendrick pulled up behind him, his shadow.

When Joe pushed the gla.s.s door open, the salmon-shaped door chimes jangled merrily, like old times. Mike had vanished quick, because he wasn't behind the counter. A small television set on the counter erupted with laughter-old, canned laughter from people who were either dead or no longer saw much to laugh about. "EEEEEEEdith," Archie Bunker's voice crowed. On the screen, old Archie was so mad he was nearly jumping up and down. It was the episode with Sammy Davis Jr., where Sammy gives Archie a wet one on the cheek. Joe remembered watching that episode with Ca.s.s once upon a time. Mike was playing his VCR.

"Mike? Where'd you go?" Joe's finger ma.s.saged his shotgun trigger as he peered behind the counter.

Suddenly, there was a loud laugh from the back of the store, matching a new fit of laughter from the TV. He'd know that laugh blindfolded.

Mike was behind a broom, one of those school custodian brooms with a wide brush, sweeping up and back, and Joe heard large shards of gla.s.s clinking as he swept. Mike was laughing so hard, his face and crown had turned pink.

Joe saw what he was sweeping: The gla.s.s had been broken out of one of the refrigerated cases in back, which were now dark and empty. The others were still intact, plastered with Budweiser and Red Bull stickers, but the last door had broken clean off except for a few jagged pieces still standing upright, like a mountain range, close to the floor.

"Ya'll had some trouble?" Joe asked.

"Nope," Mike said, still laughing. He sounded congested, but otherwise all right. Mike kept a cold six months out of the year.

"Who broke your gla.s.s?"

"Tom broke it. The boys are fine." Suddenly, Mike laughed loudly again. "That Archie Bunker!" he said, and shook his head.

Kendrick, too, was staring at the television set, mesmerized. From the look on his face, he could be witnessing the parting of the Red Sea. The kid must miss TV, all right.

"Got any c.o.kes, Mike?" Joe said.

Mike could hardly swallow back his laughter long enough to answer. He squatted down, sweeping the gla.s.s onto an orange dustpan. "We've got hot dogs! They're-" Suddenly, Mike's face changed. He dropped his broom, and it clattered to the floor as he cradled one of his hands close to his chest. "Ow! s.h.i.t ON A STICK!" "Ow! s.h.i.t ON A STICK!"

"Careful there, old-timer," Joe said. "Cut yourself?"

"G.o.dd.a.m.n s.h.i.t on a stick, s.h.i.t on a stick, G.o.dd.a.m.n s.h.i.t on a stick."

Sounded like it might be bad, Joe realized. He hoped this fool hadn't messed around and cut himself somewhere he shouldn't have. Mike sank from a squat to a sitting position, still cradling his hand. Joe couldn't see any blood yet, but he hurried toward him. "Well, don't sit there whining over it."

"s.h.i.t on a on a stick, G.o.dd.a.m.n s.h.i.t on a stick." stick, G.o.dd.a.m.n s.h.i.t on a stick."

When Mike's wife, Kimmy, died a decade ago, Mike had gone down hard and come up a Christian. Joe hadn't heard a blasphemy pa.s.s his old friend's lips in years.

As Joe began to kneel down, Mike's shoulder heaved upward into Joe's midsection, stanching his breath and lifting him to his toes. For a moment Joe was too startled to react-the what-the-h.e.l.l reaction, stronger than reflex, which had nearly cost him his life more than once. He was frozen by the sheer surprise of it, the impossibility that he'd been talking talking to Mike one second and- to Mike one second and- Joe s.n.a.t.c.hed clumsily at the Glock in his belt and fired at Mike's throat. Missed. s.h.i.t. s.h.i.t.

The second shot hit Mike in the shoulder, but not before Joe had lost what was left of his balance and gone crashing backward into the broken refrigerator door. Three things happened at once: His arm snapped against the case doorway as he fell backward, knocking the gun out of his hand before he could feel it fall. A knife of broken gla.s.s carved him from below as he fell, slicing into the back of his thigh with such a sudden wave of pain that he screamed. And Mike had hiked up Joe's pant leg and taken hold of his calf in his teeth, gnawing at him like a dog with a beef rib.

"f.u.c.king son of a b.i.t.c.h." son of a b.i.t.c.h."

Joe kicked away at Mike's head with the only leg that was still responding to his body's commands. Still Mike hung on. Somehow, even inside the fog of pain from his lower-body injury, Joe felt a chunk of his calf tearing, more hot pain.

He was bitten, that was certain. He was bitten. He was bitten. Every alarm in his head and heart rang. Every alarm in his head and heart rang.

Oh, G.o.d, holy horses.h.i.t, he was bitten. He'd walked right up to him. They could make sounds-everybody said that-but this one had been talking, talking, putting words together, acting like...acting like... putting words together, acting like...acting like...

With a cry of agony, Joe pulled himself forward to leverage more of his weight, and kicked at Mike's head again. This time, he felt Mike's teeth withdraw. Another kick, and Joe's hiking boot sank squarely into Mike's face. Mike fell backward into the shelf of flashlights behind him.

"Kendrick!" Joe screamed. Joe screamed.

The shelves blocked his sight of the spot where his grandson had been standing.

Pain from the torn calf muscle rippled through Joe, clouding thought. The pain from his calf shot up to his neck, liquid fire. Did the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds have venom? Was that it?

Mike didn't lurch like the one on the road. Mike scrambled up again, untroubled by the blood spattering from his broken nose and teeth. "I have hot dogs," Mike said, whining it almost.

Joe reached back for the Glock, his injured thigh flaming, while Mike's face came at him, mouth gaping, teeth glittering crimson. Joe's fingers brushed the automatic, but it skittered away from him, and now Mike would bite, and bite, and then go after the Little Soldier- Mike's nose and mouth exploded in a mist of pink tissue. The sound registered a moment later, deafening in the confined s.p.a.ce, an explosion that sent Mike's useless body toppling to the floor. Then Joe saw Kendrick just behind him, his little birding gun smoking, face pinched, hands shaking.

Holy Jesus, Kendrick had done it. The kid had hit his mark.