Badlands Trilogy (Book 3): Out of the Badlands (10 page)

“Tea doesn’t really go bad,” Lester said. “Provided you keep it closed up.”

“Good to know,” Rita said. “I ain’t what you’d call a connoisseur, I guess.”

“Well, it’s good tea all the same,” Lester said. “So you’re doing something right.”

Rita nodded, taking a sip of the tea as if to agree. A long pause ensued, the silence in the room palpable.

“The windows,” Sam began, “they’re boarded up to keep out the carriers?”

“You bet,” Rita said. “Ain’t the prettiest bit of home improvement, but it serves the purpose.”

“Good idea. I don’t think fences work anymore, not without razor wire at the top.”

“Carriers can’t climb fences,” Rita said.

“I think the white ones can,” Sam insisted.

“The what?”

“My mom and I were living with a bunch of other people in an old school,” Sam continued. “It had a razor wire fence, but that storm we had brought a tree down on the fence. After that, the white carriers got in. They killed everybody, even my mom.”

“That’s awful,” Rita said. “Sorry to hear that. I think each and every one of us has a story like yours.”

Sam nodded.

“I never had any kids myself,” Rita continued. “Never married, either. I guess I was the picture of a spinster. I lived with my mom until she died. She was eighty-nine and spry up until the day she up and keeled over. Probably good that she never saw the shit storm the rest of us did.” She took another sip of tea. “I used to watch kids though. My mom and me both, right up until her passing and then just me. Good money, all under the table. Goddamn government always wanted to take more than their fair share. Look what that got ‘em. Virus hit and they just rolled over like a scolded dog.” She paused, looking toward the boarded up window behind the couch. “I sometimes wonder what happened to those little ones. I guess I know, but sometimes I still wonder.”

Silence ensued. No one spoke. Then Rita seemed to come out of the haze of old memories. “These white carriers, you seen ‘em close up?” she asked.

“Yeah,” Sam replied. He told her how he’d used his camera flash to blind them and about their escape.

“I only seen glimpses at night, here and there,” Rita said. “Wasn’t too sure what it was.”

“We think the carriers are changing into something else,” Lester said. “Maybe a new type of species.”

“Well, I’ll be goddamned,” Rita said, shaking her head. “Seems like we’re going from bad to worse.”

“It would appear,” Lester said.

Rita took a sip from her tea. “What were you planning to do tonight then? Don’t seem safe to be out, especially now.”

Lester shrugged. “Probably hole up in one of these old houses.”

“How about you stay here?” Rita asked. “Got some pretty good hooch that I’ve been saving for a special occasion.”

“You sure it wouldn’t put you out?” Lester asked.

“Hell no. Stay tonight. We’ll sip on that whiskey and talk ourselves up a storm. Then tomorrow you can be on your way.”

“We should stay,” Sam said. “It’s not like we have anywhere to be.”

“Chloe?” Lester asked.

“Sure,” Chloe said. “That sounds good.”

“Then it’s settled,” Rita said, smiling. “Now you stay right here while I go get that bottle.”

Jeremy struggled against the guard’s grip, but it proved too tight to allow escape. Enoch and the two men walked out of the prison area, through the small door and into the evening air. The setting sun hung in the hazy sky; an orange fireball slowly descending toward the distant horizon.

Enoch and the guards led Jeremy across a concrete walkway behind the church, eventually reaching a set of wooden steps. The steps had been built with the same materials and substandard quality of the makeshift prison. The steps stretched skyward toward a flat deck perhaps ten feet by ten feet. The deck was attached to a tree growing next to the tall, razor-wire tipped fence surrounding the church. The deck was taller than the fence, with a narrow board extending out and over the fence. A solid fifteen foot drop awaited at the end.

It didn’t take long for Jeremy figure out that the board was a plank. And Enoch planned for him to walk it.

Upon sight of the plank, Jeremy pulled and struggled, catching the guard by surprise and nearly breaking free before the grip on his arm tightened harder.

“Don’t struggle, kid,” the man said. “It’ll only make things worse for you.”

Jeremy ignored the man’s advice and continued to fight as the guard dragged him up the steps and toward the deck. The second guard stepped in and gripped Jeremy’s other arm tightly, making his attempts to wriggle free futile. Following Enoch, the men guided Jeremy to the top of the steps and onto the deck’s surface. Fastened there was a thick chain coiled up near the edge of the platform, a crudely-made manacle attached to the free end. One of the men forced the cuff around Jeremy’s ankle, securing the metal clasp with a small padlock while the second guard held the boy still.

With the lock in place, the men stood. They smoothed out their ruffled robes before looking to Enoch for instruction.

“Good work,” Enoch said to the men. “God is pleased.” He glanced at Jeremy, sitting on the crudely made deck with an even more crudely made restraint around his ankle. “I will take things from here.”

“Yes, brother,” the first guard said as he bowed. The second guard bowed as well.

Enoch watched the men descend down the steps, the structure shaking with each placement of weight on the steps. Jeremy wondered if the thing might fall apart before they reached the bottom.

With the guards gone, Enoch looked at Jeremy and smiled, his eyes black pits. “Son, do you know what a martyr is?”

Jeremy shook his head.

“Do you believe in God?”

Jeremy shrugged.

Enoch frowned. “That is the fault of your father. God is real, my son. Very, very real. And not only is He real, He requires sacrifice. Do you know what it means to sacrifice?”

Jeremy nodded.

Enoch knelt beside Jeremy and leaned in close. Jeremy recoiled.

“I know you’re afraid, son. But there’s nothing to be afraid of. This will all be over soon and you won’t feel a thing. This I promise. We are not monsters here, despite what you may think.” He paused, smiling. “And once it is finally all over you will be in Heaven. You will meet God in person and you will never feel pain again.”

“Just let me go back to my dad,” Jeremy said, his voice shaky.

Enoch shook his head. “I am afraid that will not happen.” He rose and looked down upon Jeremy like a spider might gaze upon a fly in its web. “You know, son, in many ways I envy you. All I think about is meeting God. I think of all the questions I want to ask Him. I think of all my family members and how wonderful it will be to see them again.” He stared toward the setting sun. “So much grace, so much wonder.” He gestured toward the barren town surrounding them, the disintegrating remains of houses, cars and humanity. “And none of this.”

Then the smile faltered and the darkness returned to Enoch’s face. “You have until the sun sets to make your peace with God.” He turned and descended the steps, out of sight. The sound of a door opening and closing rose from somewhere beneath the platform.

Jeremy felt despair welling up from within. He thought of his father and his brother. Enoch planned to kill them all, no doubt. Jeremy didn’t want to die. He wanted to live, to see the safe haven in Hawaii. To do the things boys were supposed to do. To make his mother proud.

He wondered what his father would do in this situation. Would he sit and wait to die? Or would he fight?

Jeremy knew the answer to that question.

Enoch wanted him to give up, to accept death. But Jeremy didn’t plan on spending his last minutes making peace.

Instead, he would spend them making plans.

Just before dusk, Barnes saw them. A group of weirdos in robes, standing in the middle of the road like a bunch of assholes.

Womack spoke up from the passenger seat. “What the fuck is this shit?”

Barnes slowed the van. “Good question.”

“What are you gonna do?”

“I’m gonna stop.”

Womack nodded. “Looks like some kinda Hare Krishna shit to me.”

“Maybe,” Barnes replied. “They all taste the same, right?”

Womack smiled. “That they do.”

Barnes retrieved his pistol from his improvised shoulder holster. “When we hit ‘em, we hit ‘em hard, got it?”

“I got it,” Womack replied. “What about Buck?”

Barnes considered the man driving the van behind him. If there was a man more drawn to a fight than Buck Downton, Barnes hadn’t met him. “Once Buck sees the shit hit the fan he’ll be out of that van faster than a fart in a windstorm.”

“I count ten,” Womack said. “That’s a lot of meat.”

“Damn right,” Barnes replied. He glanced in the rearview. Buck trailed directly behind him, no more than ten feet away. Barnes felt the adrenaline begin to flow. He loved that feeling, right before shit was about to go down. The idea that he was about to send a bunch of assholes packing filled him with anticipation. He’d stopped caring a long time ago about whether or not he died. Everybody died eventually. Might be today, might be tomorrow. Either way, it would happen when it happened. Until then, he’d do what he fucking pleased.

Barnes brought the van to a stop, just before the line of robed men. He watched in the rearview as Buck did the same with the second van. No doubt Buck already had pistol in hand, and the boys in the back were ready to pounce.

The robed man in the center stepped forward. He walked toward Barnes’s door and stopped, a wide grin on his face.

Barnes rolled down the window.

“Hello, friend,” Enoch’s representative said, the smile on his face widening.

Barnes smiled in return.

Then he raised his pistol and put a bullet between the freak’s eyes.

Rita opened a bottle of whiskey retrieved from a kitchen cabinet and picked up one of four glasses placed on a flimsy TV tray sitting in the middle of the living room. She poured two fingers’ worth into her guests glasses; three fingers’ into her own. No one mentioned the imbalance.

She placed the bottle back on the tray and picked up her glass. She raised it. “To good hooch and good company,” she said.

The others picked up their own glasses and joined her toast, tapping their glasses together lightly, producing a series of crisp dings that resonated throughout the nearly empty living room.

“You two ever drink before?” Rita asked Sam and Chloe. Both shook their heads.

“Well, you two are in for a treat,” Rita replied. She turned to Lester. “You ain’t uninitiated, I’m sure.”

Lester grinned. “I’ve been known to partake on occasion.”

Rita returned the smile. “Well, these two are getting their cherries popped tonight.” She raised her glass higher. “Down the hatch.”

Lester tipped the glass back and swallowed half of the amber liquid. He grimaced as the liquid went down. “Been a while,” he said, smiling weakly.

Rita chuckled. “Lightweight.” She downed her glass in a single gulp, slamming it down on the TV tray. It swayed precariously, but remained standing. “That, my friend, is how you put it down.”

Lester leaned back in his chair, sipping the whiskey. “Impressive.”

Rita turned to Sam and Chloe. “Go on,” she said. “Get them cherries popped.”

Chloe gulped a mouthful of the bourbon and grimaced. Sam followed, swallowing hard before wiping his mouth on his sleeve. “Geez,” he exclaimed, eyes watering. “That really burns!”

Rita chuckled. “You’ll get used to it. Wait’ll it hits your belly and the buzz comes. Nice and clean.” She poured a second glass and downed it, smacking her lips. “That’s the good shit,” she said, leaning back into her chair. She looked around the room. “Now, let’s kill this bottle.”

* * *

They talked, sharing stories of their lives before the world succumbed to the virus. Lester listened with rapt attention, nearly hard from all the psychoanalysis he was able to perform. Rita’s little drinking session turned out to be the perfect form of group therapy. Lester couldn’t have organized it better himself.

Sam was an open book. The boy spoke of his dead mother, their time on the road and her death at the hands of the white beasts that only came out at night. The boy spent much of his time afraid and when he wasn’t afraid he was trying to prove himself, to his mother and—most recently—to Chloe. Lester could tell the boy was in love with her. He might as well have had it tattooed on his stupid forehead.

Chloe was, as usual, guarded and selective. Her account of her life was merely a superficial version of events, never digging below the surface to the real fear and pain that lay beneath. Had the world still existed as before she would have been a particularly satisfying challenge; a tough nut to crack. But he would never have killed her if she was a patient; too easy to track it back to him.

But in this new world, he could have it both ways. If given the choice between the world pre-virus or post-virus, Lester knew he’d always choose the way things were now over the way they’d been. The new world was a playground where he could indulge his every whim. And he couldn’t wait to watch the light go out in Chloe’s eyes.

Rita…such a stupid cow. She was a low-brow dullard with a cookie cutter view of the world, courtesy of an equally dull upbringing; as unimaginative as she was unbearable. Lester watched her as she drank herself silly, thinking that a shotgun and a foul mouth had fooled him into believing she could be a killer. Rita wasn’t a killer. Who better than Lester to know? She threatened, but that was the extent of it. Should a self-defense situation present itself to her then she might very well pull that trigger, but under normal circumstances she had only a bluff card to play. Typical of those empathic souls—and stupid ones at that.

So he watched and he listened. He nodded where appropriate. He cycled through his list of learned emotions, the muscles in his face responding to learned stimuli, reacting like a puppet on a string, an actor playing a role. He smiled, he frowned, he laughed. He even teared up, when the time seemed right.