Sometimes We Ran (Book 3): Rescue (12 page)

Claire sensed my discomfort, and changed the subject. “How about you, Lyle? Any family?”

Lyle leaned back in his seat. “I've got family all over the Southeast. If there's a railroad, a house, or something else being built, you'll probably see one of my relatives living nearby. I come from a long line of people that worked with their hands.” He reached into his pocket, pulled out a creased photograph, and handed it back to Claire. “But that there is my pride and joy. My grandson, Brent.”

Claire showed me the picture. It was a blurry composition of a blond-haired little baby and a woman who looked a little like Lyle. Without facial hair, of course.

“Grandson?” I said. “If you don't mind me saying, Lyle, you don't look old enough to be a grandfather.”

“I got married young. We had a little accident, and I got my girl pregnant. Me and Betty were married a few weeks later.” Lyle carefully stowed the precious photo in his pocket. “I was about nineteen years old or so. Boy, her parents were mad as hornets. It worked out real well at first. I had a good job as a diesel mechanic, and she was getting help from her Mom. We lived on their farm in Texas. Plenty of room. We had a daughter. Named her Violet after my mother. I thought she looked like a Violet. Life kind of turned after that.”

“What happened?” Claire said.

“Betty drank too much, and I cheated on her a little. My fault, I admit it. One day, we decided to part company. We divorced, and she took my Violet as far away as she could. All the way to Savannah.”

“How sad,” Claire commented.

Lyle smoothed his mustache. “Wasn't too bad at first. I got to see Violet a few times each year. But then Betty got re-married to some boat guy, and I started moving around a lot, looking for work. I saw Violet less and less. A few years later, I stopped seeing her for good. We drifted apart. Even the cards and letters stopped. She was about nine or ten at that point.”

“Then you found out about your grandson. That was good news,” I said, trying to sound hopeful.

“Out of the blue one day, I get a letter in the mail. It had the photograph I just showed you, and a few lines written down on some fancy letter-writing paper with little birds all over it. It said, 'Hey Dad. This is your grandson Brent. Mama says he looks like her, but I think he favors you.' That's all it said.”

“How old was your daughter?” I asked.

“She had to be about twenty or twenty-one in the photograph. Nothing in the letter about a father or getting married. All of a sudden I had a grandson. Just like that.” Lyle snapped his fingers.

“Did you try to visit them?” Claire asked.

Lyle shifted uncomfortably in his seat. The leather seat made noise as he moved. “I sat down a few times and tried to write a return letter, but I could never find the words. I decided to take some time off and travel to Savannah to find them, but then I just ran out of time.” Lyle trailed off.

“I guess we all did,” I said.”

“Yeah. Just ran out of time.” Lyle stared out of the windshield.

Claire tried to be reassuring. “Maybe they made it through.”

Lyle smoothed his facial hair again. Must be a nervous habit. “Maybe. I don't know. I'd like to think they're living somewhere safe from all the monsters. I heard things got bad near the coast.”

Conversation drifted away as we thought about our lost loved ones. Soon, we were riding in silence as we each got lost in our visions of our past lives. Gas stations, and other commercial buildings of a small town began to appear in the windows of our van. After a few turns, I began to look for Safety Two. “Don't miss it,” Claire said.

“I won't. It's on the main road,” I said, scanning both sides of the road. The streets were clear of cars in this section of town.

We got to the intersection of the road from Cannon Fields and the main street through town. Cars and trucks were piled everywhere. Several accidents had blocked the road during the panic of the outbreak and doomed the town. The swarms of undead came up from nearby Birmingham and scoured the area. It was a scene repeated in small towns all over the south. Teams from Cannon Fields spent a few weeks trying to clean up the place. We did our best, but lacking heavy equipment, we couldn't totally clear the mess.

At least most of the Red-Eyes were gone.

“There it is.” I steered the van towards an unassuming white building along the main drag. In it's pre-zombie days, it had been a grocery store with ample parking. “I'll put it near the back door.”

“Okay.” Claire got her bat ready for action.

I pulled the van up to the short block of stairs leading to a back door, parking in such a way to make the van look abandoned at first glance. There were a few dead cars, an orange pick-up truck, and a flipped over trailer next to the building. They provided good camouflage: if you looked quick, the van became part of the supermarket's junkyard.

I shut off the van, and we exited. We made our way quickly up the short flight of concrete stairs. I unlocked the door, and Claire and I stepped inside. Claire ran off to find a lantern in the darkness of the market.

Lyle paused at the doorway. He sniffed the air, and backed up. “Smells kind of dead in there.”

“Rotten food. We cleaned it out as much as possible, but the smell kind of hangs around.” I waved him inside. “It's okay. Nothing dead in here.”

He stepped inside, and I closed and locked the door. A warm, yellow glow came into the room and lit up the scene. It was Claire, with one of the camping lanterns we kept in the market. She turned it down to one of its lowest settings to keep it from showing outside and placed it on a nearby chair. “You look for the maps,” she said “I'll go keep watch.”

“Be careful. Shout out if trouble shows up,” I said, beginning my search for the elusive map of Alabama.

Claire waved her bat at me. “Will do.” She turned, and scampered into the supermarket.

Lyle took a few more steps into the storeroom of the supermarket. “Welcome to Safety Two,” I said. “A somewhat safe place to get off the road.” 

“Neat. Did you find anything useful here?” Lyle said, his voice echoing in the large space of the  storeroom.

“Not really.” I began rooting through the maps hidden in the small desk near the office. I still couldn't find the one I needed. This might be a short trip without a map.

Lyle walked back to the desk. “So, what town is this? I don't think I've ever been here before.”

“I think it was called Oneonta.” I finally found the map of Alabama, but it was torn in half. Yeah...Oneonta. Here it is.” I showed the map to Lyle.

“Why this town?” he asked.

I traced the roads coming in and out of the town on the map. “All these roads come through here. Bad guys often stumble through this place on the way to somewhere else. We can keep an eye on them. Cannon Fields sends occasional patrols down here to keep a lookout.”

“Pretty smart,” Lyle said, more admiration in his voice. “You guys have this survival thing figured out.”

“Some things. Most times we just see how it goes,” I said. The maps I found wouldn't work. They were still too marked up and torn to use. I was going to have to find new ones. “And it wasn't easy. This town was pretty infested.”

“John! We got company!” Claire called from the front of the store. Lyle and I broke into a run.

The glass front wall of the store offered a great view of the streets around the supermarket. Lyle and I found Claire hunched down, looking across a parking lot full of abandoned cars and trucks. The busted up newspaper and soda machines outside gave us good cover. We cowered behind them and set up a lookout.

“What's up?” Claire handed me her binoculars to check out the action.

“Looks like some kind of a flatbed truck and a couple of ugly guys,” she said. “They pulled up from behind the restaurant across the way and started looking around the parking lot.”

I placed the binoculars to my eyes, and took a look. There were three strangers, two in camo jackets and one fellow in a black trench coat, walking around the edge of the market's lot. As they walked, they peered into the windows of the dead cars and trucks. At every third or fourth vehicle, they would open the doors and search inside. I scanned them for weapons. The younger guys had automatic rifles. I couldn't see if Trench Coat was packing anything, but he might be hiding something under his long jacket.

I turned my attention to their vehicle. It was a large, flatbed truck with some yellow lights on the roof. I could make out the words “Buddy's Auto Repair” on the door. In the past, the truck had been used to transport ailing automobiles for repair at Buddy's garage. The flatbed tilted, and the car was hoisted on board by a heavy-duty winch at the front of the ramp.

Unfortunately, it was still being used for its intended purpose.

“Junkmen,” I said, handing the binoculars to Lyle.

“Who are the Junkmen?” Lyle asked. He took a look through the glasses.

I hunkered down at the window to keep an eye on our new friends. “They're from up north. They like to search the abandoned vehicles on the road for supplies. Sometimes, they take the whole car home with them. Supposed to be a home-built compound up north somewhere built out of metal to keep out the zombies. We nicknamed the place 'The Fort.'”

Lyle handed the binoculars to Claire. She trained her young, eagle eyes on the roaming bandits outside. “Have you seen it?” said Lyle.

“Never been to the Fort, but about two years ago we met a few of them on a scrounging mission near the Georgia border. Not the friendliest guys in the world. We tried to open some trade relations, but they just wanted our vehicles.” I paused to watch as the Junkmen crossed into the supermarket's lot, checking the cars and trucks as they walked around. “They usually stay close to their home base. I think they have fuel issues. Never seen them so far south before.”

Claire looked back at me. “Maybe they ran out of cars up there.”

Outside, something had caught the Junkmen's eye. Trench Coat had selected a silver minivan as their next victim. He directed one of his subordinates to get the truck, then stood by the door of the helpless van to direct traffic. He waved the ramp truck back to within a few feet of the minivan, and directed Subordinate Number Two to winch their new acquisition onto the truck.

Subordinate Number Two went into action. He worked the levers on the side of the ramp truck with great skill, tilting it down at an angle to retrieve the minivan. He reached up, grabbed the hook, and quickly attached it to something sturdy underneath their prize. He moved back to the levers, and began to winch the van onto the truck. The cable went taut, and the silver van began to move from its resting place. It was a very quick and efficient operation. It was obvious this group had snatched a few vehicles in the past.

Trench Coat stood guard, managing the operation from a short distance away. He looked around, scanning in all directions for trouble. A few times, he would bark an order or point to something on the ramp truck or the minivan. Subordinate Number Two would run and correct the problem. Under Trench Coat's strict supervision, the minivan reached the edge of the truck and began to climb up the ramp. After a few more seconds, the winch stopped. Subordinate Number Two began to tilt the ramp flat for travel. The operation was almost finished.

Maybe Subordinate Number Two mishandled the levers, or maybe the truck's hydraulics were failing, but the ramp fell the final few feet and slammed into the back deck of the truck. Even though we stood inside the market's front window, we all heard the audible, metallic thump as the ramp came down. The sound echoed off the empty buildings, and the ramp truck and the minivan jumped around for a few seconds. Trench Coat and Subordinate Number Two jumped away from the truck, just in case the hapless van fell off.

The mishap didn't make Trench Coat happy. He got in the face of Subordinate Number Two and started yelling at him. Subordinate Number Two's hands flew around as he argued back. Trench Coat would have none of it, and pulled a gun. He stuck it in his companion's face and began to advance. Subordinate Number Two started backing up, holding his hands up.

He was begging for his life. Me, Lyle, and Claire all pulled in our breath.

Trench Coat didn't shoot his subordinate. He just pistol-whipped him a few times. Trench Coat used the gun as a club. Subordinate Number Two fell down, and tried to cover his head. Trench Coat began kicking him as he lay on the ground. The beating went on for a few agonizing minutes.

My hands tightened into fists as I watched the one-sided fight. Besides the zombies, one of the more distasteful things about the apocalypse was the bullies and strongmen who preyed on weaker people. I fought the urge to go outside and help. It was too much of a risk, and we had a mission to complete.

“Can we help?” Lyle asked.

“No,” I answered. “Too risky. Our mission to get your people is our priority. If we go out there, they might want our van. We'll wait until they go away.”

We watched in silence as the beating continued for a few more seconds. Subordinate Number One exited the truck and tried to protect his friend. At first, I thought Trench Coat was going to beat him as well but he simply glared at him and walked away, barking orders. The Subordinates picked themselves up, and got in the truck.

Just go away. Please, God, don't let them see the van,
I thought. As if he heard what I was thinking, Trench Coat's evil gaze focused in our direction. He squinted his eyes and started walking towards the window.

In unison, Lyle, Claire, and I tried to make ourselves as small as possible in the dark store. We froze in place, eyes trained outside on our potential adversary as he approached the store. I could hear somebody breathing in gulps of air.

I think it was me.

“What should we do? Run like hell?” Lyle said in my ear.

“Just freeze. Maybe he didn't see us. Maybe he saw a reflection or something,” Claire said. Being the smallest, she was the closest to the floor. She peered out of the front window through a narrow slot of daylight between the soda machines outside.

Trench Coat broke into a slight jog, and got closer to the door. He stopped at the last row of cars, and took cover by a wrecked sedan. Every few seconds, his head would pop up and he would scan the entrance. Moving to another car, closer this time, he repeated the process. Soon, he was standing in the open, looking at the doors to the market.