Fountain of the Dead Read online

  Richard stopped in the kitchen doorway, the liquor still strong on him. The fumes hung in the air like cheap perfume. Had he been at the bar with his “colleagues?” Or been outside sitting in the Jag and polishing off his secret bottle. Richard staggered a bit closer.

  “You ever threaten me again,” he said facing the dining room, disoriented from the alcohol in his system. “And I’ll fucking kill you.” He turned slowly to face Catherine so he wouldn’t get too dizzy and slurred his words halfway through. “You ever leave me, I’ll find you and kill you.” He finally faced her, eyes red with rage and booze. “I bought this house, I paid for your school, and I’m the one working 60 hours a week so you can live the artist’s life.”

  “I’m going back home. My mother is sick. We need to sell the house and the farm and get her an apartment.”

  “Good, I hate your mother. The thought of her living with us makes me sick.”

  “You’re such an asshole.”

  “But I’m an asshole with the house.”

  “Yeah and I’m the silly bitch who married the asshole.” She threw up her hands in disgust. “Catherine Crenshaw, what the hell was I was thinking? It’s an awful name!”

  Richard looked at the door, raised his eyebrows and then back to Catherine. “Anytime you want to leave. The door is there. You can take your stupid van and see how far it gets you. You’ll be fucking truckers for a ride back to the homeland.”

  “Even fucking truckers is better than fucking you.”

  Crenshaw raced forward and grabbed her by the hair. She screamed out and raked her nails down his face. He slapped her hard and her lip split. She spit blood on him; it splattered across his cheek. He balled his fist and punched her first in the gut and then in the face and blackness took her. When Catherine woke up, she was in the drive, her clothes, pictures, art supplies strewn about her. She packed them all into the van and on the way out of the driveway, stopped to take a crowbar to Richard’s Jag.

  “Wilson or Crenshaw,” she muttered. Her lips were sore from where he split them. She tongued them gingerly and grimaced. The top one was ok. The bottom one where the split was hadn’t scabbed over yet. She slid her hands down to her abdomen and lifted her shirt; there were two large fist shaped bruises, purple and ugly-yellow forming. Her touch lingered for a moment.

  “I have to get his monster out of me.” She stepped on the gas, the van coughed and sputtered and finally rolled out of the driveway.

  Catherine looked at the small house in the mirror and smiled a little seeing the damage she’d done to his precious car. His symbol of power. His attempt at having a bigger dick. She grimaced again, feeling the tickle of blood from her lip roll down her chin.

  * * * * *

  Catherine rubbed her eyes and felt the familiar vibration of tires against the pavement. Beverly looked over and smiled; she had fallen asleep on her shoulder. She sat up looking for signs.

  “Where are we? I hope I didn’t drool on you.” Catherine looked around the car; her people seemed a bit relaxed. Maybe too relaxed. Beverly was looking at her. Tony was staring out of the windshield, one arm on the rest, the other hand on the wheel. He switched hands often and nervously. Sharon was looking out the side and front windows. Sometimes glancing in the mirrors to keep an eye on what was behind them.

  “No, it’s OK, Meredith is the most drooly person I know. Don’t tell her I said that. You OK Catherine? Bad dream?”

  “More like a nightmare. I dreamt about the past, pre-village.”

  “Couldn’t have been all bad.”

  “Enough of it was.” She played with the engagement ring on her finger. “I have an awful feeling that something terrible is going to happen.” Beverly looked at Catherine’s hand, slender fingers, wrinkled knuckles, then the ring.

  “I never noticed that ring before.”

  “I don’t wear it often.”

  “Want to talk about it?” Sharon peered at them through the mirror. Tony stifled a yawn and swapped hands on the steering wheel.

  “I wore the ring, because I mean to throw it into the face of the man who gave it to me. And I have this feeling of dread I’ll be seeing him again soon.”

  Chapter 7

  Micah cradled the rifle in his arms. The clip slid and clacked across the dash as the Explorer traveled down the road. Sam caught it and handed it back. Micah lifted it, put the stock against his shoulder pointed it out the window and looked through the scope.

  “I don’t think I can do this, Sam.” The rifle was heavy, even braced against his shoulder.

  “I thought I’d give you the option. See if you wanted to try.”

  “I’ve fired a gun once in my life and it was in your truck.” Micah couldn’t decide which he feared more, the rifle, the pistol or getting used to firing the weapons. He’d seen the look in people’s eyes before shooting the dead, like they enjoyed it, even Sharon’s.

  “All that time sitting by the gates in the village, and you never fired once?” Micah shook his head.

  “No, I was trying to keep a count of how many zombies were killed. I used to sketch my mother while she was in the tower. I used to have a check sheet for the kills, by sniper. I don’t know what happened to it. Which really bothers me.”

  “Why?” Sam asked he looked to Micah and then back to the road. Micah shrugged back. “No one is going to see it but us.”

  “We don’t have a way to publish this. When I get tired of doing this, I’ll pass it along. Then someone else can keep the history. Maybe they can figure out the right things we did.”

  “What if people figure out what we did wrong?” Sam asked. “Besides I thought that was Catherine’s job?”

  Micah looked over him, and then put the rifle in the back seat.

  “I don’t think Catherine takes enough notes. And if someone can learn from what we’ve done, then I guess it’s a good thing.”

  “Don’t tell her that.”

  “I have years of journals back at the house. I know there’s more someplace, probably hidden away in Catherine’s house, from before I started doing this. Frank gets me the empty books when he goes into the city. Says there’s an art supply store that not a lot of people know about. I don’t get the fancy leather bound ones anymore, just the pads. What I don’t sketch, I write down.”

  * * * * *

  “Why are we going to Savannah?” Frank asked.

  “Seemed like a good place to stop,” Catherine answered through the radio.

  “I thought we were avoiding the coast?”

  “As soon as we hit Florida, it’s pretty much all coast line once we cross over.”

  “We’re just stopping to refuel right? I’ve heard bad things about Georgia. Supposed to be one giant walking graveyard.”

  “We’ll have to watch the road for meteor hits and craters; if the cars get stuck in a hole there’ll be no getting it out.”

  “Be worse than getting caught in a sinkhole.” Gerry turned to look Frank. “You heard me, had the street collapse under my mail van once. The pavement just bowed, cracked and gave in, there was a broken water pipe under the street, and water had eroded all the dirt away. I was trapped down there, water filling the van; finally I crawled out a window and climbed up the side of the van. Was like the street swallowed me whole.”

  * * * * *

  Sam looked at the radio in Micah’s lap and reached for it. Micah caught his hand and gave it to him. Sam flicked on the switch and listened for a minute. Micah turned back to the window.

  “Sorry, kid, wasn’t thinking. Thing has been quiet all day. Frank can talk more than me on the road. Hard to believe, I know.” The radio hissed static. “That’s better.”

  “Williams, answer me.” The voice crackled. “This is Crowe.”

  “There’s no Williams here and who are you?”

  “Ah shit.”

  “It’s ok, we’ll tell him you called.” Sam switched over the radio to the correct channel, keeping one eye on the road, the other on the radio. He he
ard the familiar chatter of Catherine and Frank. Micah was tensed up in the seat next to him.

  “Hate to burst in here,” Sam said.

  “We thought you were asleep at the wheel,” Catherine said.

  “You better have a good reason for interrupting my story,” Frank said. “Yes, you’ve heard it before.”

  “Just got a call for Williams on the radio, wouldn’t leave a message. Said his name was Crowe.” Sam let the radio be for a moment waiting for a response, he turned to Micah. “This is going to be epic. Might want to get those notebooks out.”

  * * * * *

  Williams paled in the Jeep, as much as a bald, black man could. Pierce moved away from him in the seat, a little closer to the metal support poles. Frank stared at him through the mirror and slowed the Jeep. The caravan rolled to a stop in front of the “Welcome to Georgia” sign. The sign was huge and blue, a large peach decorated one side and the Olympic symbol on the other. Frank turned in the seat, killing the engine.

  “Something you want to tell us?”

  “It’s a long story,” Williams said.

  “Why don’t you turn out your guns? I am only going to ask once,” Frank said. Williams held up his arms. Pierce took the gun out of his belt and patted him down like he knew how. Socks and shoes for hidden knives and slipped his hand around to check for concealed weapons in the small of his back. He handed the gun to Gerry. Pierce batted at the tarp as it tickled his head from a passing breeze.

  “I only have the one gun. I already handed over the one I showed up with.”

  Frank looked up at the footsteps coming down the road. Sharon led the way, rifle slung over her shoulder, revolver in hand, followed by Beverly, Catherine and then Tony.

  “No need for you two to come out,” Catherine said passing the Explorer. “If he kills us all, do your worst. We won’t be stopped for long. Keep an eye on Pierce. Keep the rifle on him, shoot to wound. Don’t kill him.” Catherine continued on to the Jeep. Sam reached over Micah for the rifle in the backseat. Just in case.

  Williams stepped out of the Jeep, climbing over the tail gate and hopping down from the bumper. He straightened his coat as Catherine approached. She stared at him and shook her head. She should have suspected him more when he mentioned the name of his “former” employer.

  “When I was a girl, my mother brought me to Georgia once to look at the foliage, while my father slept off his latest bender. He’d beaten her bad; she took the brunt of mine too. It was one of the few times she ever seemed alive to me; even battered and bruised, looking at the colors of the leaves. We went to a state park in a swamp and walked through on wooden bridges and looked at the leaves. She held my hand and walked with a slight limp. Smiling and grimacing at the same time. Everyone one else went to New England, drove up I-95 to New Hampshire and Maine to see fall in the mountains. The highways were always clogged with busloads of leaf peepers. Not my mother though. It’s one of a few good memories I have of my childhood.”

  “Sorry to ruin the memory, Catherine. But is there a point to this?” Frank asked.

  They heard a growl from the side of the highway. Sharon had the rifle un-slung and a bead on the noise, before a heart could beat; her finger rested on the trigger guard.

  “Frank, would say to leave you here, gut wound and bleeding out. Sam would most likely set you free leave you in this place alone and on foot. And I’m sure if I asked the rest of these people they’d have me leave you or have you shot. My mother, if she’s watching, would think badly of me if I left you here, bleeding or not.”

  “So what are you going to do?” Williams asked.

  “I’m sure by now, your contact has gone past us and is probably hunkered down someplace? Lying in wait to shoot us or feed Crenshaw more information?” Catherine asked.

  “He was always supposed to be only 15-20 minutes away.” Williams said and looked up and down the road. He caught the slight movement in the trees; just a breeze, not enough to be the dead or Crowe.

  “So he’s close,” Frank said pressing the gun barrel to the side of Williams’ head. “He can watch me splatter your brains across the road.”

  “His name is Crowe, I never learned his first name. He’s Crenshaw’s right hand and if he knows you’re on to him, he’s not going to wait for me to catch up. You can guarantee he’ll find us and kill as many as he sees fit, or as amuses Crenshaw.”

  “That’s what I figured. I can’t leave you here though.” A shot rang out, followed by a crash from the bushes. Sharon scouted the area, walking to the shoulder. She raised the rifle and fired again.

  “You better finish your chatting soon, there’s a mess of them and I’d like to keep some of my ammo for emergencies,” Sharon said.

  “Are you claustrophobic, Mr. Williams?” Catherine asked.

  “No.”

  “Good,” she motioned to Frank to hit Williams behind the ear with the gun. No one bothered to try and catch Williams when he fell. His face bounced off the road, his nose broke. “Fix his nose, Beverly, stop the bleeding. Bind his hands and feet, and throw him in the trunk of the Monte.”

  * * * * *

  Crowe looked at the phone on the seat next to him; he thought for a moment about calling Crenshaw who hated to be interrupted at anything. He rolled up the window, thinking his error merited the call. He waited for decent signal and stopped when had two out of five bars lit up. He remembered Crenshaw mumbling once, he’d be lost without his cell signal. Crowe pulled the car over to the shoulder out of habit. Crenshaw might have held the monopoly of cell towers and satellites on the eastern seaboard, but the reception still sucked. He lit a smoke, thought better of it and tossed it out of the window. The warm, humid breeze washed over him. Crowe watched the lit cigarette roll across the highway. He reached for the phone as it rang.

  “I’m in transit. I should be there in a few hours.”

  “I made a mistake, sir.” Crowe said, embarrassed by the admittance.

  “Speak.”

  “I tried to make contact with Williams and someone else answered.”

  “So they know about you?”

  “Yes, Mr. Crenshaw.”

  Williams’ stupidity in first losing his radio and then changing channels on the colonials’ had put him in Crenshaw’s bad graces. Crenshaw was an asshole, but he had local power and protection. Crowe had lived well in that building doing any and everything that crossed Crenshaw’s warped mind. Even the most heinous acts made Crowe stronger.

  “And they know about Williams?”

  “I would agree to that.” Williams was now a casualty, there was no doubt. Somewhere along the trip he would die, by the colonists or by Crowe’s own pistol. A smile crept across his stony face.

  “I’m disappointed, Crowe. I’ll meet you at the airport.”

  “Do you still want me to acquire Pierce?”

  “No.” Crowe’s answer was cut short by the sound of the phone being stepped on and Crenshaw having a fit. He tossed the phone out of the window and continued towards Orlando. He checked the atlas against the highway signs.

  “I’ve wasted too much time.” He tossed the atlas on the seat. His fingers traced a new faster route to Orlando, cutting through Macon. Remembering the stories, he put two pistols on the seat, just in case. He wiped sweat from his brow and sped off looking for signs for RT-75.

  * * * * *

  Crenshaw panted in the center aisle; he wiped gray hair from his eyes and then turned to look at Waters. He ground parts of the phone beneath his heel going back to his seat.

  “Everything all right, boss?” Crenshaw turned and glared at him. Waters turned back to the window.

  “You’re loyal to me?” He nodded. “You’ll do what I say without question?” Waters continued to nod. “Stop that, you look like a moron.” The plane banked and dropped; Crenshaw’s stomach turned and he gripped the arm rests.

  “Sorry, Mr. Crenshaw,” came through the cockpit door.

  “Just keep us in the air. How much longer?” />
  “Two hours.”

  “We’re going to beat Crowe and the villagers there. They have at least another five to six hour drive.” Crenshaw steepled his fingers and glanced at Waters who was still staring at him. “I want you to kill Crowe when we land. And if Williams is there, do him too. When we get back to Boston, his family goes in the pit. No one touches the women in the caravan, they’re mine.”

  “Why would they send their women on a trip like this?”

  “They all do what Catherine says. Their medic is a female and one of their guns is also.”

  “We waste all the men, leave the rest to you.”

  “Very good.” Crenshaw ran a dry tongue over his lips. “What I wouldn’t give for a fucking sky waitress right now.”

  * * * * *

  “Are you sure this is the best way?” Frank said. They were still paused at the border.

  “I’m up for suggestions,” Catherine answered. Sharon’s shots interrupted their conversation.

  “Whatever you’re going to do,” Sharon shouted. “Do it fast.” Outside the cars, the dead converged, coming from both sides of the road, both Gerry and Sharon firing from the vehicles. “They’re in back of us,” Sharon screamed.

  “Follow me, the maps have us going through Atlanta. We can cut three hundred miles off our trip.”

  “Just do it, Frank.” Catherine said.

  “Hold on ladies, we’re going to cut back through South Carolina. Look for route 77 it will bring us to 95. And if you want to hit a few potholes to bounce Williams around, feel free. We still have Georgia, but not so much of it.”

  * * * * *

  “Myrtle Beach,” Frank said pointing at the sign. “I played golf there once.” He sighed as they drove under the sign. He aimed for a pothole and gritted his teeth. The wind whipped across the tarp. “We should have gone back for the soft top.”

  “Didn’t have much of a choice,” Gerry said. “I wish it had taken out a few of those assholes.”