Fountain of the Dead (28 page)

“Not even a little bit,” Williams answered.

* * * * *

“Drive South on 95 and keep following it,” Pierce said. His wild hair blew in the wind.

“How far?” Frank asked squinting against the sun.

“Keep going until it ends, or we turn. The roads should be clear,” Pierce answered.

“And how do you know that?”

“I was here for awhile, spent forever getting back north. You think it’s a long drive? Try walking.” Pierce stood, using the roof supports for balance. “By clear, I mean no traffic jams there were very few vehicles from what I remember.”

“I don’t know what kind of spell you have over Catherine, Pierce. You cross us, you’re going to die.” Frank dodged a hole in the road, thought about jerking wheel, let Pierce fly out and get caught under the wheels. He smiled.

“You’ve said that over and over, Frank. Now drive.”

Frank growled at being ordered by Pierce. He squinted and looked down the road. Pierce’s hair fluttered in the wind like dried straw.

Frank looked down the road. The lanes of the highway were strewn with debris. Palm leaves, wood, planks, and anything not nailed down. Frank pointed through the windshield at a blue and white fishing buoy on the road. The boat it belonged to was half off its trailer on the side, the overturned truck hauling it in the lead. He scratched absently at some flaking skin on his head.

“What is all this shit?” Gerry asked.

“Hurricane debris,” Pierce said. “All this stuff is after the storm. Looks pretty dry though, so no idea how long it’s been here.”

They drove until the sky lightened. Frank rubbed at his eyes. In the rearview he could see the Monte swerving through lanes. Frank picked up the radio.

“You alright back there, Beverly.”

“I need a nap, Frank.”

“You and me both.” Frank handed off the radio to Gerry. “There any small towns or strip malls we can hide for a few hours, Pierce?”

“If there’s been recent storms, then we want to stay away from the coast. You might find some tourist stops, stores and stuff closer to Daytona.”

“How far away?”

“At least an hour.”

“No good. We need closer.”

They drove past wrecked beach chairs and bent umbrellas.

“You ever see that story, where a hurricane shot an umbrella through a tree, Pierce?”

“I was in the swamp, not exactly a resort town. We didn’t have beach umbrellas or boat drinks. We had rations and bug spray.”

Frank’s eyes went wide and glassy; he slowed the Jeep and pulled over. The others looked at him confused. They were in small parking lot, the painted lines barely visible from all the garbage and sand strewn about.

“God Bless you, Frank.” Catherine said over the radio. Catherine stepped out of the car an odd smile playing at the corner of her lips. “If there’s real coffee here, Frank I’m going to marry you.”

“Promises, Catherine, promises.”

Catherine went for the front door of the Dunkin’ Donuts, following Sam. Sharon took point at the back of the parking lot, watching for anything unnatural. Dirty hand prints smeared the front doors. Gerry shone his flashlight through the doors into the building. The racks behind the counter normally stocked with donuts, bagels and muffins, were empty. Sam eased the door open with his boot.

“You’re standing between a desperate woman and her coffee.”

Sam stepped in, pistols at the ready. The dining area was void of life, the tables and chairs still eerily in place. He peered over the counter, no one there either. Sliding over the Formica top, he went to the cooking room; all the walk-ins were empty. He looked to Catherine shaking his head. A hiss escaped her lips. Coffee makers and pots sat dormant on the counters. Microwaves and shelves lined the back wall. The glass for the drive-thru window was smashed in.

“I’m going into the store room. Gerry check the heads.” Gerry went off through a small side hallway. He kicked in the doors to the Ladies’ and Men’s rooms. He disappeared inside and kicked in the stall doors.

“Clear,” Gerry yelled.

Sam made his way into the storage room. It doubled as an office and break room. Coats hung on hooks; the desk still had daily tallies lying out, register receipts dangled limply towards the floor. The desk chair was over-turned but there was no blood, no sign of struggle. It was a possibility the employees walked away, or ran off screaming. There was a small table, with three chairs around, the closest the employees got to a lounge. Boxes were piled against one wall, Sam tore into them. Catherine sat down at one of the tables. She ran her fingers through the dirt across the top of it.

“You alright?” Gerry asked.

“Flashbacks from another life.”

“Got some good and bad news, Catherine,” Sam said coming out of the back. “I found some coffee, still sealed.”

“What’s the bad news?”

“We have no power to make the coffee pots or grinders work.” Gerry came out of the back carrying a box of brightly colored vacuum sealed bags.

“Figured at the very least we could get a box back home.”

“Gerry,” Catherine said and stood up. “Find me some filters and I’ll marry you and Frank.”

“Suddenly we’re in Utah?” Frank asked.

“Oh and at the very least? Get it all, Gerry. Every last bean and every last filter.”

* * * * *

Crowe drummed his fingers on the wheel. The morning sun beamed in through the rear window. He got out, stretching his legs. He walked out on the sand to the ocean, staying far enough back not to get wet. Further down the beach, seagulls pecked at a water bloated corpse. Crowe fired a shot to scatter the birds; there was a blizzard of feathers as they took flight.

Crowe shaded his eyes and squinted against the sun. He hadn’t noticed it before the gulls. There were dozens of undead on the beach, stuck in the sand. Some partially buried up to their knees, others shoulder deep. A lot of them were missing most of their exposed ‘skin.’ Either sloughed off in the ocean or worn down by wind and sand.

He rubbed his cheeks feeling the growth and frowned. Three days growth did not keep you in the corporate world, killer or not. Crowe walked away from the corpse, the stench hitting him from the ocean breeze. He turned back several times looking at the show in the sand. “Only in fucking Florida.” He watched the small waves come in and break in the sand. He stepped over drift wood and palm leaves. A stop sign half buried in the sand caught his attention. He fired a round through it.

Ten years ago, there would have been kids wrapped in blankets having sex by camp fires, until the police shooed them away or arrested them. Muscled college guys playing football to impress girls. Now there were undead stuck in the tides. He smiled for a moment and it felt odd to him. He heard the cars before seeing them, and ran for his own. He gunned the engine, starting it, and drove it in back of a small stand of stores to hide. He hopped out and dove into a store, and checked out the caravan through broken windows clogged with flowered aloha shirts, that even the most desperate wouldn’t take. They rolled past him, three vehicles.

Crowe took out his gun and took aim; any of them would be dead. If he took the shot, he realized he would end up dead from the encounter. They had more firepower and probably more bullets. He saw Williams through the open Explorer window, watching the boardwalk side of the beach, hotels, bars restaurants, all boarded up or looted.

“Bang,” he said pointing the gun at Williams and walked around for his car, stopping for a moment to get a bright red flowered shirt and a baseball cap. He tossed them into his car and saw something in the sand that confused him. Next to a very old, wind smoothed rock, was a shell. He picked it up and ran it though his fingers.

“You’re getting soft,” he hissed to himself and crushed it under his heel.

* * * * *

“Where we going, psycho?”

“Lake Okeechobee.” Pierce looked out at the beach for a moment, and a smile crossed his face. “When I decided to bail on the lab trailers, I ended up in Daytona for a short stint. Met a couple of mercenaries, who decided to let me live. There was a surfboard close to the beach, with a zombie strapped to it. He couldn’t get to the shore, just kept splashing around the breakers.”

“So, just follow the signs then?”

Pierce nodded and pointed out the more bizarre storm debris. A boat in the wreckage of a t-shirt store. A giant “M” from a McDonalds’ sign half buried in the sand. “I appreciate the oddities, Pierce. But instead of looking for weirdness, look for things that we could use or that could kill us.”

Frank steered the Jeep around an overturned taxi; the gray black of the road was turned tan from eroded and windblown sand. Frank checked the mirrors; the other cars were following along. Then he saw something else. Another vehicle? There was definitely movement.

“Any of your team still alive?” Frank asked Pierce.

Pierce shook his head. “No one could have survived. I told you everyone is dead.”

Frank looked again in the mirror. The sun reflected off something, a windshield? He continued watching the mirror more than the road. He slowed the Jeep and took out the radio.

“As fucked up as this may sound, we’re being followed.”

Pierce spun in his seat almost falling out of the Jeep. Gerry reached out and grabbed his belt.

“Are you sure?” Sam asked.

“I saw movement, figured it was an animal or something. Then I saw the sun glare off something. Looks suspiciously like a windshield.”

“There are bound to be some people left,” Catherine said. “Or it’s Crenshaw’s man.”

“Driving cars, behind us? There’s a strip mall ahead, everyone pull into it and park around the back. I’m taking Gerry around the front.”

“It’s Crenshaw’s man,” Williams said, taking the radio. “His name is Crowe.”

“We know his name,” Frank said. “What’s he want?”

“Same thing you do,” Williams answered. “He wants the cure. And most of us murdered.”

“Get up here with me and Gerry, Williams. Pierce, you get in the Explorer.”

The small strip mall at one time housed a CVS, a Chinese takeout place, a Fish N Chips shop, and a beach boutique. What windows weren’t broken, were boarded up. Frank looked the stores over, no real good vantage points. No place to stash a sniper for an ambush. He drove the Jeep to the front of the mall and killed the engine, got out, and leaned against the hood.

“What are you doing?” Williams hissed. “This guy is a psycho killer.”

“That’s good, we have a psycho that needs to be killed,” Frank said as Williams came around front. “Do I have to worry about you, Williams?” Frank turned to stare into his dark eyes. “Are you going shoot me in the back when I talk to this man?”

Williams shook his head. “If you’re not afraid of getting shot, then you should give me a gun.”

Frank looked up the road, ignoring Williams’ comment. He bent and picked up a handful of sand and let it run through his fingers. He still didn’t trust him enough to arm him again. Williams lead Crowe here; he’d have no issue killing anyone in the caravan.

“What’s taking this guy so long? It’s a long tail if he’s supposed to be following--.”

A shot rang out and Frank dove to the side of the Jeep. Williams was flattened against the pavement, and Gerry was dead in the backseat with a neat hole in his forehead.

* * * * *

Frank got into a sitting position, his back against the Jeep. Williams crawled up beside him, his back against the rear tire. Gerry’s arm hung limp from the back, blood dripped down his fingers, spattered on the road.

“Can I take his gun?”

“I’ll shoot you myself if you don’t.” Frank dared a look over the bumper down the road; it was empty.

“Where is he?” Williams reached up and pulled on the rifle strap. Gerry’s body crashed down on him. He scrambled out from under the dead weight; his shirt was covered in blood and brain. He ripped it off. He patted Gerry’s corpse down and took his pistols.

“Why isn’t he shooting, Williams? He has us dead.”

“He’s either going for a new vantage point or that was a warning shot.”

“Warning shot?”

“Let us know he’s out there, that we’ve been sloppy watching our backs, putting the fear of Crenshaw in us. He’s playing with us.”

* * * * *

Crowe stared down the scope of his rifle. His finger tensed over the trigger. He knew he couldn’t shoot through the Jeep, but might be able to get a shot off, through the tires into someone’s ass. He lined up Williams’ foot in the crosshairs and fired with a smile as his foot blew off and he rolled away. He flipped on the safety and climbed down the fire escape of the walk in clinic.

* * * * *

Williams screamed and clutched at his leg. Blood gushed out between his fingers. Frank slid over to him and took off his belt. He tightened it around his calf. He crawled for the front and the radio.