Only The Dead Don't Die (34 page)

Scarlett spent the next two weeks inventorying and organizing all the supplies of the well-stocked bug out. She even found the solar power manual and had managed to get the power unit up and running; unfortunately, it didn’t provide much power, which made her wonder how a group of six had planned to live off of its meager power supply. She conserved the running water when she saw how small the water tank was and had already begun collecting the rain water on the patio and balcony. She was pleased that the LED lights worked great, but not so pleased to find out that the small cooking stove seemed to be the only heat source. Still, all and all, the modular, plastic-like bug out was a fabulous find, and she couldn’t help but wonder how much a contraption like it had cost.

She had oodles and oodles of bulk, freeze-dried, survivalist-type foods. So far, it all tasted like crap, but she was grateful, nevertheless. She found a shortwave radio she planned to start tinkering with. Dean had always planned to teach her how to use one back in Vacaville, but they’d never gotten around to it. She even found a small handgun with a box of ammo. She was surprised about that, expecting to find more guns. The owners must not have been into weapons.

For now, Scarlett was just relieved to be safe, away from Paxton and Nate. She enjoyed the peacefulness on the bedroom’s balcony cozied-up in two blankets to keep warm. It had drizzled on and off the past two weeks since she had taken up residence in the hideaway, giving her plenty of time to contemplate plans for the future. Much to her relief, she hadn’t seen a single creeper since her arrival. Although, she hadn’t left the security of the bug out yet.

She needed to scout out the surrounding area—she knew that. She blamed her hermit lifestyle on the dreary weather, yet deep down inside, she knew it was fear holding her hostage. She was safe nestled in the secluded treehouse high above the reaches of the endlessly ravenous freaks roving the lands.

Today, Scarlett sat on the balcony off of the kitchen, sipping a cup of powdered hot chocolate with itty-bitty dehydrated marshmallows.  Finally, the sun made an appearance, peeking through the spider-web of leafless tree limbs, infusing life to all it touched. She hoped that with more sunlight, the solar unit would provide more power, enough to watch a movie or listen to some music. The bug out came fully-loaded with a plastic tub of CDs and a CD player, provided she had the solar power to spare. She didn’t want to waste her few precious batteries on something as frivolous as music.

She sighed, taking in a deep breath of the fresh air, listening to the forest’s menagerie of birds. They always seemed to have something to say. The constant babbling of a creek seemed extra chatty today as if calling to her. “I can’t put if off any longer,” she smiled. It felt like it was going to be a great day.

She gathered her gear, complete with a camouflage hunting vest to carry the essentials.
Let’s see, what should I take
? She grabbed the flashlight out of habit, stuffed two granola bars in one of the pockets and a canteen of water in another pocket, added a mini notepad and pen, and slid the loaded gun into the inside vest pocket for quick and easy access. Then she draped a compass necklace around her neck, grabbed the tire iron, and cautiously climbed down the tree.

Despite the brisk January morning, it felt good to get out after being cooped up in the bug out the past two weeks. Glancing at her watch, she decided to walk twenty minutes in each direction and write notes of her surroundings.

Heading east,
she rediscovered the dilapidated barn and rusted-out water tower, then came across the old shack that looked as if it might collapse at any moment. She peered inside the door-less doorway with the aid of the flashlight, no signs of creepers or any other two-legged or four-legged creatures. She decided to investigate the small barn more thoroughly. With the tire iron ready in one hand and flashlight in the other, she dared herself inside.
Not too bad
. Although the roof had caved in at one corner and animal droppings littered the ground along with what appeared to be old hay scattered about.

The barn was completely empty; the only thing she noticed of interest was a ladder that led to a small loft. She shoved on the ladder testing its sturdiness. It was more stable that it appeared, the weathered-grey wood belying its age. Cautiously, she climbed a few steps up the ladder and flashed the light around.
I could have stayed here that first night
, she thought.

At the time, the storm had been so fierce; she hadn’t given the old shack a second thought, thinking it might blow away like the house in the
Wizard of Oz
dream she’d had. She smiled.
Good thing I went running wildly into the woods like some crazed banshee—that’s how I found my little bug out.
The barn might be a good place to store some supplies, she thought.

After losing all of her supplies in Natomas and then again in the hotel fire, she wanted to store some supplies in case she had to make another fast getaway. She never wanted to be in that particular situation again—of that she was sure.
Think I should stash a set of clothing, a blanket, a few tins of Spam, a lantern, and a weapon.
Unfortunately, she was short on weapons, maybe a piece of sharp metal from all the old farm equipment she’d seen earlier. It got her thinking about the possibilities.

She climbed into the small loft, guessing it to be about ten by twenty feet, in size. She could hide a backpack of supplies under the pile of wood in the corner and cover it with a plastic camouflage tarp, something she had plenty of. Then, restack the wood over the tarp. She certainly wouldn’t ever want to actually live here, but it was a good place to store emergency supplies.

Note to self
. She jotted on her notepad: Search scrap metal for a weapon. The bug out was equipped with a few knives, but try killing a creeper with a knife. It was quite gruesome and nerve rattling, not to mention extremely messy. She had done it only once and hadn’t slept for a week. Even the thought of it now made her squeamish.

Scarlett continued east and remembered passing the old orchard of small trees, then continued until she came to River Valley Road. It had taken a few minutes before she found the fallen-down Payton’s Place street sign covered with vines. She stomped on the sign, embedding it further into the soft earth; then, carefully covered the sign with more vines, hoping no one would happen to stumble upon it as she had. Just in case, she thought. Just in case someone else happened to find a set of MapQuest directions floating around out there in an abandoned vehicle—like she had. After all, there had been at least three families on their way here. She couldn’t risk Paxton or anyone else for that matter, finding the directions.

Of course, the odds of Paxton coming across the directions were astronomical—
like owning a winning Powerball jackpot ticket,
a wry smile crossed her lips. Eventually, someone always won (used to win) the Powerball. It was only a matter of time. So no matter how ridiculous and absurd the possibility of someone accidentally finding her bug out sounded, she felt extremely better knowing it would be nearly impossible for anyone to find. She labeled it “peace of mind insurance.”

Scarlett retraced her steps back to the tree-lined cover of the old orchard and remained hidden and observed the roadway for any signs of life other than the creatures of the woods. All was quiet. Too quiet. Surreal. Rather suddenly, she felt as if her mind pulled her into a dreamlike state. How could she dream with her eyes wide open? Forcing herself to snap out of it, she jolted into a standing stance and began making her way back to continue mapping out the opposite direction.

She wouldn’t cross River Valley Road today. Though, as she forced herself back, she seemed to hear her name, “Scarlett . . .” whispering in the wind through the branches of the sleeping trees on the other side of the old country road. “Scarlett,” the wind seemed to beckon, but she ignored the silly notion, realizing that the long-term isolation was causing her mind to play tricks on her by seeking out alternative forms of companionship, even if it was only make-believe.

She continued her twenty-minute hike westbound, past the bug out, and that’s when she came upon the river. She heard it first.
Definitely not a little babbling creek
. Well, she certainly didn’t have to worry about running out of water, even if it would be a pain in the butt to haul.

She found a spot on the river’s edge, hidden amongst several evergreen bushes and enjoyed the tranquility of the river. Suddenly, it felt like everything was going to be all right. She watched as the sunlight shimmered across the rippling water while magpies and jays fluttered about the trees in apparent territorial disputes. At that very moment, it felt like the past few months had just been a horrific nightmare.

A plopping sound made her jump. She searched the shoreline but couldn’t find the source of the noise. Another plop. She couldn’t stop chuckling.
No creepers silly, just fish.
Of course, the river has fish! A wave of excitement swept over her. “I can fish.”
Great
, she hadn’t been looking forward to eating freeze-dried soup and Spam for the next three months. Only one problem, she didn’t know how to fish. She remembered seeing the fishing poles and a box of lures; apparently, the owners had intended to do some fishing as well. As she recalled, there was even a book, something like
Fishing for Dummies
.
Perfect
.

Scarlett headed back to the bug out with a renewed zest for life.
See, what was I so scared about, you little scaredy cat
. She smiled, remembering the last camping trip at Lake Almanor with Cyndi, Randy, and the boys. Joshua had wanted to play in the lake without actually getting his feet wet. Cyndi had called him a scaredy cat, and that had turned out to be the catch phrase for the weekend. If you didn’t want to do “this or that” you were considered a scaredy cat—for that weekend, anyway, she sighed.

Scarlett decided that during the next few months (until her departure—she reminded herself), she’d teach herself how to fish and play around with the smoker. In the meantime, she could play around with the shortwave radio and maybe find out some news.
The government will have things under control by the spring
. At least that’s what she promised herself. She found instant relief knowing there were plenty of projects to keep her preoccupied. Scarlett was going to be just fine, “Just fine and dandy,” somehow hearing the words of Miss Purlie drifting in her mind.

“Holy Mother of . . . it can’t be!” Dean’s jaw must have dropped a foot when Luther pulled into the Sweet Suites parking lot.

“Hate to be the bearer of bad news—yup. That’s your hotel all right,” Luther hesitated and confirmed.

Dean hustled his way to the hotel’s charred foundation. “Damn thing burnt to the ground. What in tarnation happened here?” Dean stood at the edge of the rubble, flabbergasted.

“Hey now, they’ve got to be around here somewhere,” Luther consoled.

“Huh, reckon you’re right. Scarlett must have left a note,” he muttered more to himself than to Luther. She was the most logical of the bunch, usually.

He and Luther policed the parking lot, analyzing the remains of the hotel; he felt like one of those television investigators inspecting the crime scene, ‘cept he didn’t have a clue in hell what he was looking for.

Something’s not right
. Ever since that last phone call to Justin, Dean knew something must have gone wrong when the call had been disconnected. Standing here amongst the hotel’s ruins, he wondered how the hell a fire could have destroyed the entire building. Someone should have noticed the flames in time to put out the fire. Something was amiss here, but he couldn’t put his finger on it.

“Dean,” Luther hesitated, “you might want to see this.”

Dean noticed that both of the Stockton Boys’ trucks were gone, leaving only his Fiat and the Honda, the car Scarlett had been prepping for her Pinole trip.

“Check it,” Luther pointed to the back of the Civic.

Spray-painted on the Fiat’s windshield was the word: SUCKER. The orange paint blared out at Dean. Dean met Luther’s wary expression.

“Any idea what that means?” Luther asked, his eyes now darting around, eyeballing the area.

“Damned if I do. Sure sounds like something Paxton might say,” Dean said somewhat dumbfounded, and he checked out the inside of the car for any other signs.

Luther looked about nervously, “My skin’s quivering, ‘bout time to jet,” his voice wavered. “There—” Luther pointed to the east. “There’s a horde gathering over there.”

Sure enough, in the horizon, highlighted by the rising sun, a mob of dead-heads headed their way. Dean didn’t know what it was about Luther, but the huge man seemed to attract dead-heads like flies to honey. Seemed like no matter what time of day, or how quiet they were,
they
always seemed to be able to sniff-out Luther. Hell, that’s what had taken them so long to make it back to Vacaville. They’d barely escaped from one jam only to find themselves caught up in another jam.

“Yup, time to go,” Luther said somberly. The illuminated figures staggered closer, gaining speed. “Maybe three minutes—maybe not,” Luther’s voice warned.

Dean frantically scanned the parking lot, convinced there had to be a note, informing where the group had gone.

“We won’t get far without petrol, the truck’s running on fumes,” Luther reminded.

Dean paced the lot trying to remember that last phone call. Come to think of it, Justin had sounded anxious that day, but he’d figured it was Justin’s usual nature, on account the boy was always riled up about something or another.

“Yup, we got a situation here,” Luther warned.

Dean snapped back, “Should be gas in Scarlett’s car. Hell, I taught her how to siphon gas, and we filled it together the day before our trip to Travis. Reckon the Stockton Boys didn’t figure on that,” Dean’s voice faltered.

“I’ll start siphoning,” Dean started to say.

“Too late. . .” Luther pointed to the west. “A whole gang’s coming from that direction too. Got maybe—a minute,” Luther said, a note of panic in his voice.

“We’ll take the Civic,” Dean said, thinking out loud.

“You happen to have the keys,” Luther asked dramatically, adjusting the front seat.

“If not in the ignition, flip the sun visor. One of our rules . . .”

“Gotcha—Good Rule!” Luther grinned, dangling the keys out of the window. “Battery’s dead,” Luther said with a sobering finality.

“Give me a second, I’ll hook up the jumper cables,” Dean said, popping the hood to the truck.

Dean connected the battery cables to both batteries and waited for Luther to turn the key, but the engine didn’t catch. The click, click, clickity sound of a dead battery haunted the parking lot.

“Check the connection,” Luther yelled out the window.

Dean turned around just as a dead-head charged him head first. Dean punched the sucker in the chest, giving him the precious seconds he needed to reach for his crowbar that he’d left leaning against the truck’s front bumper, and he struck down on the thing’s head, smashing-in its bulging skull with a single blow.

Suddenly the dead-heads were everywhere. Dean and Luther circled around in a back-to-back stance, brandishing and swinging their weapons, resembling a hellish-pinwheel with blood and guts spewing everywhere.

After they had demolished the mini-horde, Dean managed an out of breath whisper, “You all right, Luther?”

“Damn straight—and you,” Luther panted back.

“Never felt better,” Dean gasped, clutching his chest. “Reckon we got a ten-second window ‘fore that next bunch of dead-heads gets here,” Dean said, pointing to the two hordes that juddered as fast as they could towards their hopeful dinner.

“I’m on it. Check those connections, will you? I’ll try turning the engine again,” Luther said, already in the Fiat.

“Nothing,” Luther shouted.

Dean didn’t have time to get in the truck, he stretched his hand into the truck, pressing on the gas pedal and revved the engine until he heard the Fiat’s engine finally catch as its tailpipe belched out a puff of black smoke.

“Sweet, get your ass in here you crazy old man,” Luther hollered out with his thunderous voice.

Dean hesitated for a split second, then realized he didn’t have time to unhook the cables, and he slammed the car’s hood on the cables, causing the hood to crumple to a contorted shape. Dean scrambled into the passenger’s side just as Luther stomped on the gas. There was a sort of pause as the cables seemed to hold the car in place like a game of tug of war; finally, the cables connected to the truck’s battery went flying in the air and crashed into the windshield as they darted off in the Fiat.

Luther tore out of the parking lot with the cables dragging on the pavement behind them, emitting sporadic sparks. Luther swerved the car sharply to avoid a head-on collision with a new horde that appeared from out of nowhere. Dean shook his head in astonishment, watching from the side mirror as the sparking cables dragged past another horde and actually ignited one of the dead-heads; its tattered blue jean pants went up in flames.

The dead-head stood there in the middle of the horde, prancing around; its spluttering-scream piercing the morning. Dean watched in horror as its fellow hordes-men encircled it as if enchanted by the flames. But the horde got too close, and their old, ragged clothing went up in a poof, blazing like demonic sparklers. It looked like a scene right out of a homemade horror movie as the scorched creatures chased after the car.

“Hell Bells, you see that?” Dean shrieked. “There you have it, a new way to kill those bastards,” Dean laughed.
Justin would be proud!

“Gosh Almighty!” Luther exclaimed. “Did anyone ever tell you, you’re pretty damn tough for a white boy,” Luther shouted and let out a wide grin, showing off his pearly whites.

“Matter of fact, I believe
you
did yesterday when we escaped that mob on Monte Vista Avenue,” Dean said with much more conviction than he felt. He didn’t know how much more of this his heart could take. He turned facing the window, hoping Luther didn’t notice him clutching the left side of his chest in an attempt to suppress the pain.
Now wouldn’t that be a kicker if’n my ticker gives out now—after all this?

“Reno, here we come!” Luther bellowed out the window and slapped at the horn, alerting even more dead-heads.

The thing was, Dean had absolutely no desire to go to Reno. He was ready to call it quits and ride out the rest of his days in Winters.
Peacefully—in my own cabin—on my terms.
A feeling of despair swept over him as Luther drove past the I-505 exit for Winters. He was about to tell Luther to back up, that he had missed his exit, but the words “SUCKER” still haunted him. That’s when it dawned on him: Sacramento.
Was Justin trying to tell me they went to Sacramento?

Reckon I got a few good days left in me.
Dean absolutely had to give it one more shot to try to find Scarlett, Ella, and Justin. He certainly didn’t want to die without a clear conscience.
Got a feeling
they’re in a heap of trouble.
Dean realized the whole thing had been a set-up from the get-go. For after he had thought about it, he realized it was too much of a damn coincidence for the radio chatter to start up again the day after Luther’s arrival. Especially since it had been no secret, even to the Stockton Boys, that he’d been planning a road trip to Travis in search for help.

Might as well have put it in a box, wrapped it, and topped it with a ribbon, for Dean had walked right into Paxton and Nate’s plans. Still, Dean pondered, wouldn’t it have been much simpler just to kill him off, instead of going through all the trouble to create such a cockamamie bull plot to get him out of the picture.

Luther remained silent as they sped past the stranded vehicles on I-80 East. Dean drifted deep in thought and got to thinking about the sabotage of the generators. It hadn’t taken a rocket scientist to figure that someone had tampered with the generators, shutting them down. Dean had managed to Macgyver it, getting the generators running again minus a few crucial connecting parts. Come to think of it, there had been parts missing each time. Now he was beginning to see things in a different light. If the Stockton Boys had stolen the parts, that means they probably have their own place.
In Sacramento?

Hells bells, I walked right into their trap, the military chatter, the trip to Travis, and I just let it all happen right under my nose—let them bastards take over.
What if they had kidnapped Scarlett and Ella? And poor Justin; he was most likely caught up in the middle of it. He was just an innocent kid, most likely he had never even seen it coming.

As for LuLu, well Dean figured she did whatever it took to ensure her own livelihood. He had seen it many a time. When Dean was the only man in town, LuLu had offered herself to him: nightly. Then when the Stockton Boys came into the picture, she tended to ignore him, except for an occasional night when the Stockton Boys didn’t return to the hotel for whatever reason.
It all makes sense now.

Luther was driving lickety-split down I-80 East, and that’s when Dean noticed that there was a clear path. The highway hadn’t been this clear the last time he’d checked out this side of the freeway, back in September. He realized that the Stockton Boys had been working overtime these past few months and all the while playin’ him for the fool that he was.
Yesiree, I do believe they have been planning this for quite some time.
He felt responsible for Ella and Scarlett and Justin, and now he had let them down. Yet, what could he do? His days were numbered: he could hear his old aching bones whispering to him.

“What you thinkin’?” Luther’s voice interrupted Dean from his troubling thoughts.

“You notice anything peculiar?” Dean asked.

“You joshin’ me, right? You mean, besides starving walking corpses . . .”

Dean didn’t answer for a moment, carefully considering the situation. “Sacramento might be a good place to stock up on supplies and gas-up . . .”

“What'd ya have in mind?” Luther asked.

“Got enough petrol to make it to Sacramento?” Dean asked.

“Yup.”

“I know you got your heart set on Reno, but how’s about we make a pit stop in Sacramento at the first
unobstructed
exit. Maybe take a look-see, see if we spot any signs of them,” Dean said, aware that Luther was most likely getting fed up with of all these side ventures. Dean knew Luther only obliged because he felt obligated for that day Dean’s group had saved him at the Jack in the Box.

“Feel bad enough as it is—don’t want to delay your trip to Reno much longer. Hell, I already screwed up your plans, quite royally I might add.” It was Dean’s best offer of an apology.

“Yup, you and every black-eyed, fowl-smelling, walking-abomination roaming the streets,” Luther agreed with a cold-hearted laugh.

“How’s about we play it by ear, keep our eyes and ears open, and see what we run into,” Dean stated, not wanting to push his luck. Dean decided that if he didn’t find any signs of Ella, Justin, and Scarlett in Sacramento, he’d head back to Winters and weather out the end of his days like an old dog ready to die—in his own neck of the woods, rather than out here amongst the land of the walking dead. Besides, he might have a message waiting at home for him—from his son, Kyle. It was his one hope that kept him going day after day.