Fountain of the Dead Page 16

  “What could possibly cause you to barge in here?” Crenshaw dropped into his desk chair and wiped tobacco spittle from his mouth. “That was my last cigar.” He held up a finger and motioned the thug over. “You’re one of Crowe’s men?” He nodded. “What did he tell you about disturbing me?” The thug went to speak and Crenshaw silenced him with a gesture.

  “Never interrupt Mr. Crenshaw.”

  “Now what was so important?”

  “We found squatters, living in one of the basement offices.”

  “How many?” Crenshaw rifled through his desk, not paying real attention.

  “Two men, one woman, three children.”

  “Ah children. My soft spot.” Crenshaw chuckled, it sounded like dry bones rubbing together. “When I first took over this complex, Crowe was my right hand man. He used to do some special jobs for me when we were corporate.” The thug looked on confused. “Don’t think. Ask yourself what would Crowe do?” Crenshaw wrinkled his brow tried to remember the man’s name. “That’s right, drop them in the pit.” The thug nodded and went for the door. “Lock it on the way out, or you’re in the pit, after them.”

  Crenshaw spun in his chair and snapped his fingers. “What is his name? Peters? Phillips? Smith?” Each name brought a new snap. He gave up trying to remember with a scowl across his face.

  Crenshaw reached back into the depths of the center drawer. His fingertips brushed against something cold and metallic. He pulled on it until it came free. The picture had notes taped all over the glass, covering the figures in the photograph; he pulled at the tape and the notes. Rubbed at the smudged glass and sighed. He kissed the picture and burrowed into the chair.

  “Ah, Catherine, my first ‘love’. The one that got away. The one I chased away.” The black and white 8x10 showed Richard Crenshaw and the new Mrs. Catherine Crenshaw on the steps of a church from their wedding.

  * * * * *

  The thug, James Waters, and his cronies pushed at the squatters, forcing them down the stairs of the parking garage. They went down the ramp past the street exit, where they screamed and cried for help. The other guards smiled and waved. Waters slapped them in the back of the head, almost turned on by the children’s cries. The ramp opened up to the bottom floor. Faded yellow, painted arrows on the concrete gave directions in and out. Grime crusted signs hung from each of the parking spots, “Reserved parking.” There were no vehicles in sight.

  The family, dirty and dressed in tattered clothes was led to the furthest corner of the bottom level. The ramp up to the street level was clear of obstruction; warning signs that read “Clearance 7 feet” were bolted to girders and support beams. A sign on a post read simply “Garage Full.” Waters watched his steps when he walked, not wanting to trip up and somehow land in the pit, even from this far away. He’d seen too many people thrown in there over the years. The intruders walked an arm’s length in front of Waters, his gun leveled at their backs.

  “Keep walking.” He yelled. “Beg for your lives.” In the middle of a ring of Jersey barriers was a pit. Waters stopped them. Outside the barriers was a ring of saw horses as a precaution; though smart people would run off from the stink of rotted flesh coming from the pit. The pit was ten feet deep, cut right through the floor of the garage. From the pit came shuffling and groaning. A pack of zombies bumped into each other and slipped on the old butchery scattered across the bottom.

  “Here’s the thing,” Waters said. “You get out of the pit, we put you on the street. Mr. Crenshaw isn’t totally heartless.” Waters winked at the kids. “What I would do, is have the two men get gnawed on, while the lady there gets the kids out. If you kids are quick, maybe you get her out too.” The ragged woman looked back at the men and then her children.

  “Look, I can be good to you.” The woman said. “Let us go, you and your boys can have some fun while everyone slips out.” She licked her lips, ran her fingertips down Waters’ chest. He stepped forward, grabbed her hair, sniffed her neck, and licked her from throat to forehead. Her clothes were threadbare and like the others, needed a shower. Waters could smell the fear rolling off her in waves.

  “Throw them in.” She screamed as the men were forced into the pit. Her kids wailed and clawed at the guards’ legs. Waters dragged her by the hair to the edge. The dead looked up desperate and hungry. He yanked her head around so she could watch the men get pushed in. Then it was her turn and before she could get up her kids toppled over the edge on top of her.

  “Better hurry.” The men formed a weak barrier as the dead descended. The woman lifted the first child, her eldest son and the heaviest, desperately trying to get him up above the lip of the pit. He climbed up her and got on her shoulders. The first man screamed as he was ripped into, the dead tore at his arms and legs. One chewed a chunk of flesh from the side of his neck. He started to fall as blood fountained out from the bite.

  “Not yet,” she screamed. The woman grabbed for her daughter as the second man started to scream. She pushed her up as her thigh was bitten into screamed and staggered back. The boy reached out and grabbed the girl’s hand as her mother fell into the feeding frenzy. She hung there while she struggled for purchase. Her hand started to slide out of his. The woman fell watching her youngest being ripped apart.

  “Pull harder,” she screamed.

  “I can’t! Your hand is slippery. Use your legs, try climbing!”

  The harder he pulled the more she slipped, until her fingers disappeared over the edge. He peeked over to see her small arms flailing against the attackers. He curled into a ball and blocked his ears against the screams.

  Waters lifted him easily from the ground and turned him in his arms, looking at his face and build. Tears and snot rolled down the boy’s face. He was escorted up the ramps to the exit, and pushed towards the road.

  “What are you nine?” He looked back into the pit. “The little one didn’t have a chance. They dropped on him first.”

  “I’m eleven.” The boy sniffled. Waters rubbed his chin thoughtfully and shrugged his wide shoulders.

  “Skinny for your age. Start running north and you’ll most likely live. Get out of the city and don’t stop.” Waters leaned in close and whispered. “If you see a patrol, tell them Waters said to give you a ride to the city limits”

  “Please help me,” the boy whined.

  The boy looked out the entrance to the garage; men armed with guns looked annoyed at him. He pushed dark hair from his eyes and wiped at his face. The city spread out before him and he looked pleadingly into each of the guards’ eyes. One of them, with a jagged scar across his neck handed him a map and traced a line with his finger.

  Casey Quigley, the only survivor from his family, walked down the ramp and stepped passed the guards. He looked up and down the street deciding which way was best. He turned and the scarred man with the guns pointed. He took off running.

  “I did help you, kid.” Waters turned away to the sounds of worn sneakers slapping against the pavement and smiled, turning towards the stairs.

  * * * * *

  “We’re going to have to give them something to get in,” Frank said over the radio. He looked over the hood of the Jeep at the patrol into the city. Off on the shoulder hidden behind some trees and shrubs was the hint of a vehicle. They were smart to keep it concealed. That way Frank and company couldn’t see what they were riding in.

  “What will they want?” Beverly asked.

  “We’re just passing through, it shouldn’t be too much. We can try a case of water and some blankets. But that’s just to get past the patrol. Once we’re inside we may need to pay off more people to pass by different areas of the city. Think of the city run by gangs. Each gang has its own territory.”

  “What about getting out?” Catherine asked.

  “Shouldn’t be a problem. A spare clip of ammo goes a long way. Not that we have lots of those even with what I found.” Frank turned towards the back. “Let me do all the talking. Not a peep, Pierce.” The cars rolled forw
ard. “We’re close to the wooded areas, so hopefully the patrols will be too busy dealing with the dead, than with us.” Frank looked over at Gerry and the rifle. “Stow the rifle and hide all the guns.”

  They approached the patrol and were signaled to stop; three heavily armed men approached on foot. The man in the lead had better clothes and better weapons, obviously the man in charge, at least of this patrol. Frank didn’t stop the engine, just kept his foot on the brakes. The tail lights lit up Sam’s vehicle.

  “What’s your business?”

  “Our village burned out up north. We’re going as far south as we can,” Frank said.

  “What do you have?” The other two men circled the cars and looked in. Sam’s dog barked at them.

  “Some water, a few extra blankets.” Frank said eyeing the man, easily three inches taller than he was.

  “Useless. We want guns, food, and alcohol.” The lead man stared at Frank sizing him up; Frank didn’t look away.

  “We only have a couple of pistols, maybe a dozen clips. We eat when we find food.”

  “Where’d you get the water from?”

  “Convenience store up on the Connecticut border, lost a friend jacking it from the store.”

  “That dog will make a good meal.” He said looking towards the Explorer.

  “It’s not my dog and I don’t think you could get him away from Sam.” The man smiled, several teeth were missing the ones that remained were brown.

  “You have any smokes? I’ll let you through right now.” Frank shook his head as he tapped his Mac 10. Several thirty round banana clips hung from his belt.

  “Christ, I hate you fucking villagers. You need to learn to scrounge for better shit.” He stood up and whistled for the other two to come back. “Give me the fucking blankets. Keep the water. You find tobacco, you remember me.” Frank nodded, put the Jeep in park and stepped out. He went to the Monte and opened the trunk, using his body as an obstacle to hide the medical supplies, he pulled out the blankets.

  The guard smelled them and cringed, “These all been slept in. They stink.”

  “You find me a fucking 24 hour laundry and I’ll wash them for you.” The guard laughed and rolled the blankets into a ball and pressed them against his chest.

  “You follow 81 all the way down. Don’t stop, don’t slow down. You stop, you’ll die. When you leave the city, high tail it to Wilkes Barre. It ain’t much, nothing more than a giant shanty town. But for whatever fucking reason they’re fond of you refugees. The downtown is mostly clear. Buildings are marked as cleaned or not.” The man turned and spat a wad of phlegm on the street. “Sure we can’t eat that dog?”

  Frank nodded and got back in the car. The guard grabbed him by the arm and leaned in close. Frank smelled his fetid breath, rotting teeth and bad food breath rolled over him. “You ever lie to me about guns again, and I’ll fucking kill you myself. You won’t have to worry about zombies and murder squads.”

  Frank pulled his arm free and drove off, the other vehicles close behind. The guard watched them leave and then flipped them off while they could still see him.

  * * * * *

  Frank clutched the steering wheel in a death grip, his knuckles bone white, his dark eyes darted to all the mirrors.

  “Pretty easy,” Pierce said.

  “You’re a fool, Doc. They let us go. You think anyone would let us through for a handful of slept in blankets?” Williams said. “They’ll be tailing us until they find a clear spot to fuck us hard, un-lubed.”

  “Nope, I think this place just has a bad rap is all,” Pierce said. Frank followed the road, dodging pot holes and burnt out cars. Bodies dotted the road like dead moths on the windshield, some zombie, some not.

  “Still thinking that, Doc?” Williams asked.

  “Not so much.”

  They stopped at the 81 overpass. Frank peered out of the window. Below on the road a group of refugees were being ripped apart by a gang of mercenaries. They were searched, shot in the abdomen and left to bleed out on the road, easy prey for any staggering zombies that might wander past. The mercs dug through their packs, took anything they thought valuable. One of them looked up saw Frank and fired a warning shot. Frank nodded and got back in the Jeep.

  “Should have stayed inside,” he said. Pierce watched the “landscape” passing by, family homes and residential streets looking they’d been the site of an air attack. Massive craters lined with crumbling buildings. Fires burned, be it someone trying to stay warm, or a beacon to the next safe zone or just a random attack from terrorists flushing out people. Frank glanced in the mirror in time to see the vehicle coming fast from behind at the Monte.

  “Better get a move on people. We have company.” Frank dropped the radio into Gerry’s lap and stepped on the accelerator. “So much for all that fuel we just got.” Frank watched in the mirror as the vehicle passed the Monte, easily. The rear driver’s side door was kicked open and a flurry of gunshots echoed out. The bullets dotted the side of the Monte with holes. Chunks of metal and paint flew off, leaving a breadcrumb trail on the road.

  The car sped up again; Frank watched the Monte in the mirror, nothing vital had been hit, that was the warning. The pursuit car looked like an old police cruiser, one of the unmarked jobs that used to camp out on highway shoulders. Williams went for the snaps of the soft top of the Jeep; Frank nodded approval as they worked it. The cover flew off, and sailed over the Explorer, missing the pursuit car.

  “What’d you do that for?” Pierce asked, trying to block his face from the wind. Frank swerved passed an overturned Fedex truck in the road, packages and envelopes discarded on the road like dead leaves. Williams was handed the sniper rifle and he turned in the seat. His coat opened and the radio from Crowe bounced once on the bumper and then shattered on the road.

  The first shot from Williams nicked the passenger’s side windshield. The cruiser approached the Explorer and the door kicked open again. No shots were fired until it was past the fuel containers. Gunfire peppered the side as the car went faster down the road. Williams’ next shot took out the driver’s side mirror.

  “Getting closer!” Pierce shouted. Williams growled and took aim; his hands shaking and Frank’s crazy driving didn’t make it easy. A window on the Explorer slid down, a shaking hand holding a pistol poked out and fired, the jerk of the gun slammed Micah’s hand against the Explorer; the gun fired when it hit the pavement and the Monte ran over it. The unseen shooter put a shot through the open window and the glass on the opposite side exploded outward.

  “What the fuck are they packing under the hood?” Frank yelled.

  “What do they want?” Pierce asked.

  “They want the fuel. They didn’t shoot when they passed it. Those assholes at the front gate set us up.”

  The vehicle put on more speed, coming on hard. Frank pushed the Jeep but it was topping out at 90. Williams fired off a few more shots, abandoning the concept of aiming. Going for the tires, he shot several times into the front bumper and grill. Long parts of the car flew off and were crushed under the wheels. It was at the Jeeps’ rear bumper.

  “Why us?” Gerry yelled.

  “We’re the lead car. They think we’re in charge. Take us out the rest of the cars will stop.”

  Williams took a deep breath and squeezed the trigger; the bullet shot out, punched through the windshield and struck the driver in the forehead. It nudged the Jeep, spinning Frank out of control. The cruiser flipped, rolled over on its side and slid, leaving a trail of debris behind it. Sam steered out of the way and Tony barely. The cruiser came to a stop, and exploded in rich orange flames and dense black smoke. Frank stopped the Jeep and jumped out. He ran to the burning car and heard voices inside screaming, struggling to get out. A smile played across his mouth.

  The window exploded outward, smoke gushed out. An arm reached for freedom burnt and bloody and then a head. When Frank saw the face of the guard from the front gate, he put a bullet in his head. “I should have let you bu
rn, fucker.” Frank walked away, whistling as the car was totally engulfed in flames.

  * * * * *

  They stopped in the parking lot of the Wilkes-Barre airport. Everyone piled out of the vehicles to stretch their legs and get some air. Sam and Micah were absent. Sharon rushed over to the Explorer. Micah was in the back seat, crying, covered in blood. He was patting Sam’s dog lying dead in his lap, hit by a shot from the murder squad. He looked at Sharon and held up his hands, covered in dog hair and blood. He rushed out of the car and buried his face in her shoulder and wept. She comforted him, and stroked his head gently.

  “Fuckers killed my dog,” Sam said from the driver’s seat.

  “Something else wrong, Sam?” Frank asked.

  “Not really. I hate Pennsylvania.” Sam opened the door and got out. He looked through the open back door, where the seat was covered in blood.

  “Not as much as I hate Connecticut,” Frank said and checked the clip in his pistol.

  “Would it be out of line, Frank, if I walked up to the Jeep, and punched Pierce in the head, for my dog?”

  “Wait until we hit Florida, Sam. And then you can do whatever you want to him.” Frank stuck out his hand. Sam took it.

  “I’ll hold you to that, Frank.”

  “You have my word. And save some for me. I want to feel his ribs break under my boot.”

  * * * * *

  The caravan refueled at the airport with a sense of déjà vu. Sam found some space in a median between runways and buried the dog best he could. It was more covering than burying. After drawing straws, pieces of wire scrounged from the airport in Connecticut, Tony lost and cleaned the back of the Explorer.

  They flanked the PA turnpike opting to stay on the smaller roads, thinking there’d be less obstacles. Then hooked on to 80 and bypassed the last big friendly city in PA and went into West Virginia. Deer grazing at the side of road bolted off into the trees at the approach of the vehicles.