Only The Dead Don't Die (32 page)

Scarlett had to drag open the dilapidated gate to get to the RV. It looked to be a hundred years old.
I
didn’t know they made RV’s that long ago.
Upon closer inspection, the RV appeared to be an old junker and probably hadn’t been driven in years if the dried-out leaves on the windshield and hood were any indicator.

A metallic-silver sunscreen covered the front window, and the doors were locked. Surely the RV must have
some
food? She grabbed the tire iron and peered inside the passenger’s side window. It was down about an inch, and she pried the window open with the tire iron until the glass popped and shattered like ice crackling over the surface of a winter’s frozen puddle.

A horrific stench flooded out just as three pairs of tiny hands reached up to the front seat, clawing the air. Gurgling cries sent chills up and down her spine. For an instant, she could not move. Suddenly three little creatures pounced onto the front seat and snarled; their decomposed fleshless-faces had melted off their bones. And Scarlett felt transported into a nightmare as if hypnotized by their lost-soulless eyes swirling like deadly pools of oil.

Abruptly, one of the little creepers jumped out of the window, latching onto her shoulder with fingernails that had mutated into claws. It ripped her jacket when she managed to yank it off, then she grabbed its arm and hurled it into the side of the mini-mart. The RV’s door sprung open, and Scarlett spun around just in the nick of time to slam the RV door on the next creature that was crouched, ready to pounce. The door caught it in the frame and because of the creeper’s size, a mere toddler; the door sandwiched the creeper, making a popping-like-gushing sound, like the sound of stomping on a plastic pudding cup.

The third miniature creature gurgled about madly, trying to body-slam the door open. Scarlett stared in sickening disgust as it slithered over the glass-shard lined window frame, scraping off what remained of its molten-flesh like some gruesome potato peeler. Scarlett watched repulsively at it wriggled over the jagged-glass window frame onto the gravel, the entire time its black iridescent eyes not leaving her neck. Without hesitation, she smashed-in its skull with the tire iron.

“Dear God!” She puked and stumbled about as if in slow motion until her knees gave, collapsing to the gravel. “They were only babies,” she cried. The horror of the entire situation got the best of her, and she ran to the Escalade (only because it was closer than the Subaru). She scrambled into the backseat, slamming the door, and curled up in a ball, arms hugging her knees, shaking uncontrollably. All the while the ghastly scene of the three grotesque toddler-creepers haunted her. She envisioned their mother or father returning to the RV to find that their children had become inflicted, and instead of putting the babies out of their misery, they had locked their babies inside for—forever. It seemed so uncompassionate, if not ruthless. Inhumane. Yet, what would she have done?

It made her think about her sister and nephews. What would Cyndi have done? Would Cyndi have been able to smash her babies heads-in, until they were mush . . . The guilt continued to plague Scarlett. She should have at least tried to get to Pinole. So what if Luther had warned it was far too dangerous. So what if Pinole was dangerously close to the San Francisco Bay Area: the No-Zone.

Scarlett crouched in the backseat of the Escalade and peered out of the dark tinted windows, waiting for a pack of creepers to find her. With all of her screams and the pitiful shrieks of the toddler-creepers, surely
they
would start crawling out from where ever
they
were hiding.
They
always did, remembering something Justin had said, “It’s a simple Z-equation: Noise = people = food.”

Her body went rigid, overwhelmed with fear, and she must have sat in the backseat for over an hour, waiting, barely breathing. But to her astonishment, the area remained creeper-free. It was a typical, brisk, January morning in the country, and she was lost and cold and hungry. Gradually, her breathing steadied after realizing she wasn’t about to be mauled by a mob of monsters like the people in the crushed convertible. Not now anyway.

She relaxed in the backseat, stretching out her cramped legs and noticed something on the floor, a child’s backpack, according to the Batman logo. She snatched it and hastily reviewed the contents. Her stomach growled knowingly when she spotted the candy wrapper, a Snickers Bar, king size to boot. “Fantastic!” She took a big bite, the chocolate so sweet it made her teeth hurt.

Scarlett didn’t find anything else of use, except for the backpack itself, it was small and light enough to keep on her at all times. The sugar-rush surged through her body, replacing her hunger pangs and with a new feeling of vitality. She decided to check out the rest of the vehicle for useful items. That’s when she noticed a clipboard on the front dashboard. A printout of MapQuest directions caught her attention, and she curiously flipped through the pages wondering where they (the people in the Escalade) had been going—before they had stopped here. The top of the MapQuest printout had the words “Bug Out” handwritten in red marker.

An overpowering sensation swept through her entire body with goosebumps and all. She had learned by now that these intense sensations or vivid imageries usually meant something really, really dreadful or something really, really great. Although, it didn’t always seem to work; it hadn’t warned her about the creepers in the RV or had it? Being in a constant state of fear, sometimes it was hard to differentiate between an actual warning and her current state of fear. This new sense was something she needed to learn how to trust and take advantage of.

Bug out?
She thought for a moment. As she recalled, a bug out was a sort of hideout for those fanatical survivalist-types in Idaho. She had watched a television show on survivalists a while back. These people stored weapons and food for a “shit hits the fan” catastrophe. She remembered thinking it to be a rather absurd, pessimistic, and expensive hobby.

Kevin had a friend, one of those survivalist-types, a “weekend warrior” the guy had bragged. They had invited the guy and his girlfriend (Butch and Samma) over for a barbecue. Kevin and Butch had argued tirelessly over the best types of weapons and foods to store. She had chalked it all up to a testosterone thing, for while Kevin and Butch had ranted on and on about the best types of equipment, she and Samma had raved about designer shoes and which stores like DSW and Burlington had the best deals.

Scarlett wished she could remember more about that day; however, they’d been drinking wine coolers and beer, so she didn’t recall much else, only that she had thought Butch to be an obsessive nut. Now that she thought about it, she did have a rather nice shoe collection, over a hundred pairs. He had probably thought she was the nut.
It looks like Butch is the sane one after all.
She’d been the frivolous, delusional one. She hoped he and his family were safe and sound in their secret bug out, wherever it was.

A thought emerged:
Go to the bug out
. “Why not? What do I have to lose?” But, what if these people had made it there?
Hmm, probably not.
The directions had been left behind since last August. A tingling sensation so intense caused her to drop the clipboard. Her head felt light like she was having an out of body experience. Too much sugar, she thought. Secretly, she heeded the urgent warning to move on.

Scarlett carefully studied the directions; as far as she could tell, the bug out location was about twenty to twenty-two miles away.
Jeez, I can walk there.
It was still morning. She could get there before dark unless she ran into trouble along the way. So far, it was the only plan she had, and Paxton would certainly never find her there—and that’s what made the final decision.

Unfortunately, someone had already siphoned the gas from all the vehicles. Someone desperate like her had already been here. The Subaru would only take her a few more miles before the gas tank gave out; then she risked having to get out of the car with no refuge. She decided it might be better to walk there from here that way the sound of the car wouldn’t alert any creepers along the way. And, if by some bizarre twist of fate Paxton had managed to track her this far, he’d never find her at the bug out. Not if she had the only set of directions. She thought about it for a few minutes.

“I’m going for it!” She snatched the Batman backpack and quickly loaded it with items from the Subaru: the flashlight, clock, the other two Dr. Peppers, a plastic, camouflage poncho raincoat still in its package, and on impulse, included the strand of garlic bulbs. Stuffing the directions inside her jacket pocket, she draped a multi-colored, crocheted blanket around her like a cape and grabbed her handy-dandy tire iron, deciding to forego the crowbar, because it was a bit too heavy for her.

Scarlett felt pleased with herself, now that she had finally made the decision. She was extremely grateful for the possible opportunity. She began the journey, walking the next twelve miles down Ridge Road. She walked about ten feet along the edge of the country road’s side, hoping
not
to be spotted by any two-legged creatures. That meant walking through ditches and around the edges of orchards, but the ditches and trees provided a bit of cover. Still, she held the tire iron with a firm grip, always ready, as she hiked her way towards the mysterious bug out.

She passed orchard after orchard, row after row of barren trees lost in a deep winter’s slumber. The thought of all the fruit trees bearing fruit in the summer made her mouth water. Occasionally, she stopped to scout the area and search for any movements off in the horizon, but all she spied were birds, seemingly unaware that the world had gone mad—nothing had changed for them.

When Scarlett finally reached River Valley Road, she rested in a dry irrigation ditch and drank her second Dr. Pepper.
Halfway there . . .
The wind picked up. The temperature quickly dropped about ten degrees, and she noticed the sky darkening in the west. A winter storm was brewing. She put on the stupid-looking camouflage poncho, not wanting to catch pneumonia when the rain started. Then she panicked.
Does it snow here?
The elevation couldn’t be more than two thousand feet or so . . . she wasn’t sure. She was hungry and tired, deflating fast from the sugar-high, but the adrenaline kicked in with the thought of being stranded out here in the middle of a flippin’ snowstorm.

She slowed down upon walking by a long, windy driveway that led to a neglected farmhouse. The entrance was blocked off with what looked like old railroad ties. A strange odor lingered in the air. Several mangled, metal KEEP OUT signs were nailed into the crusty, creosote-soaked, wooden railway ties barricading the entrance, warning any passers-by.

The smell of old creosote engulfed her nostrils. Does anyone live there now? A part of her wanted to run up to the front door and ask for help. But she knew it could be a fatal mistake; someone might shoot her in the head, thinking she was a creeper, or shoot her in fear she was a looter or heck, shoot her dead just because—just because they could in a world-gone-mad and a government gone AWOL. All of humanity and compassion seem to be a luxury no one dared to risk these days.

By 3:45 PM her heart beat as erratically as the sky churned, the sky heavy with midnight-blue clouds. She felt the aloneness more than ever before. An intense feeling of desperation shrouded her—like she had inexplicitly become lost inside the lonely lyrics of a Lana Del Rey song; the singer’s hauntingly forlorn voice lingered in her heart. Scarlett was alone. Frantically, she tried to shake off the feeling of complete abandonment, the feeling that she was lost in another dimension.

Finally, she reached the area where she thought the bug out should be according to the directions, but nothing was here—absolutely nothing. She backtracked several times, searching the area for a side road, like a small turnoff or a dirt road. Her heart sank.

She restudied the map.
This has to be it.
While retracing her steps, her foot kicked a hard object. “Ah—” There on the ground, tangled in layers of ivy vines was a faded-blue street sign, halfway buried in the dirt as if intentionally disguised, she thought.

Scarlett parted the ivy and was instantly thankful to read the rusted street sign: PAYTON’S PLACE.
Bingo!
She found the sign, but Jeez Louise, where’s the road? After wandering around the area, she noticed a dirt path that a vehicle might barely be able to travel down between two aisles of winter-barren fruit trees. She followed what she hoped was an actual path and not a figment of her imagination. She came upon an old shack, which looked like it might collapse if a single bird landed on it. Then she passed an old weathered-grey barn that had collapsed, a rusted-out water tower, and found what looked like rusty pieces of dismantled farm equipment scattered about.

The orchard ended abruptly into an overgrown forest of ancient oak trees, leafless of course for the winter except plagued with a bad case of ivy and mistletoe. Several of the trees were completely overrun with the invasive ivy. The sight was quite breathtaking, giving her the sensation that she had somehow been transported into a long-lost fairyland dimension.

The wind blew the ivy strands wildly about, and all she could hear were the leaves and vines whispering and rustling, warning her of the approaching storm. She frantically searched the area for the bug out, but it seemed like the earth spun about her, playing tricks on her sense of direction. The sun was completely hidden by the ominous swirling clouds, causing her to lose track of east and west—north and south as if the four cardinal directions no longer existed. She was lost. Then, the sky let go. Hard droplets pounded at her. The harsh coldness stung at her face.