Sometimes We Ran (Book 3): Rescue (18 page)

Claire had already left the bushes “Cool. Let's go check it out.”

We made our way across the street, trying to be as inconspicuous as we could. Not running, but moving with a slight jog, we slid up the side of the driveway. Upon closer inspection of the house, the windows were broken and partially boarded up with old planks. The cracked driveway was overgrown with large weeds and grass, and the yard was littered with garbage and other debris. It looked like no one was home, but we still couldn't take any chances. We stayed low, and moved with a purpose to the truck.

Claire and I made it to the tarp-covered vehicle with no incident. The truck was in an open carport, surrounded by accumulated junk all covered by dusty cloths, sheets, and tarps. I lifted the covering, and black water cascaded down onto the carport floor. The truck was a long time resident.

“How's it look?” Claire asked.

It was one of those heavy-duty jobs with the double rear wheels and large cab. Several of the tires were flat, and dark pools of fluid were scattered on the floor. “Not good. Looks like it hasn't moved in a while.”

“Who's there? Are you trying to steal my neighbors truck?”

Someone had walked up to say hello. I stood up, finger off the trigger, to get the drop on our new guest. It was an old man with a bald head and long gray beard wearing a military jacket over a t-shirt. At first, I surprised him, but then he recovered and managed to put his hands up. We stood there for a minute, sizing each other up.

The old man smiled. “Easy, now.” He stepped closer, his hands still up with palms out. “I thought I heard something out here.”

As he moved closer, I aimed at his chest. Claire and I stayed silent. He looked unarmed and harmless, but both Claire and I knew that could change in a instant.

The old man laughed again. It was a coarse, grainy laugh of a man who didn't drink enough water. “I don't have any weapons. Unless you count my sharp sense of humor.” More coarse laughter followed his joke. “You two can stand down. I don't want to hurt you. In fact, I'm glad to see that there's still some living, breathing humans around.”

I nodded, and holstered my gun. “If you're all right, me and my friend here are going to move on down the road.” Something about the old man was a little off. His eyes didn't seem right. Claire and I started down the driveway, watching the old man over our shoulder.

The old man stepped in front of me. “No, wait. Come inside and rest a minute. Eat something.” He nodded towards Claire. “She's skin and bones and limping. I can help.”

I tried to wave him away. “It's okay. We just need to find something to drive, and we'll be out of here.”

The old man laughed. “You won't find anything in this neighborhood. Those assholes with their tow trucks have cleaned everything with wheels out of here.” He stopped, and pointed to his shiny head. “Not me though. I was smart. I've got a few things hidden in the back yard. If you need a vehicle, I got one.” He turned, and headed for his front door. “Come on in. While you're here, you can do me a favor.” The old man opened the door, and disappeared into the dark house.

Claire and I looked at each other. “Should we go inside?” Claire said.

“We need something to drive. He may be the only game in town,” I said. “Look sharp, and keep an eye out for an ambush.”

Claire and I stepped into the darkened house. The old man was in the kitchen, preparing something on a little camp stove. From floor to ceiling, the house was packed. Almost every square inch of the living and dining rooms were covered with cardboard boxes. In some areas, the boxes were taller than Claire. They towered over the old couch and recliner in the center of the room. I opened a few and found photo albums, papers, and other trinkets from people's lives.

Claire was doing the same. “This can't all be his stuff.”

“Looks like he's been raiding the neighbors,” I said.

The old man came back into the living room, carrying some utensils. “You two look petrified. Come on and sit down,” he said.

“Sorry. Forgive us. Strangers...you know,” I said.

“Maybe if you tell me your names we won't be strangers anymore,” the old man said.

“I'm John.” I nodded behind me. “Her name is Claire.”

He pointed to me, then at Claire. “John...and Claire. Got it. Nice to meet you both. See? Now were no longer strangers,” the old man said. There was still something crazy going on with his eyes.

“And your name?” I asked. The red flags were unfurling in my mind about this guy, and my hand crept a little closer to my gun.

The old man looked puzzled over my question. “You know...I've forgotten it. It's right on the tip of my tongue, but I can't remember my name. Weird.” He turned, and started for the kitchen. “It'll come to me. Don't worry. It'll come to me.”

The old man couldn't remember his name. The final red flag had been raised.

“John...come check this out,” Claire said from behind me.

She was standing in the dining room, near an old folding table. More cardboard boxes, this time filled with cellphones, tablets, and other assorted electronics filled the space under the table. The old man was a bit of a hoarder.

“I'm not liking this. He can't remember his name. All this stuff that's not his,” Claire whispered.

“I know. We'll get his vehicle and get hell out of here. Keep on your toes. We may have to bolt.” My eyes fell upon a series of shelves with framed photographs of the old man's past life. One photo had a group of men in an office with party hats on their heads. One of the men resembled a plumper, hairier version of the old man in the kitchen. A banner on the wall behind the office party said, “Congratulations Nate – Top Salesman, 2005” in big printer-generated letters.

“Your name wouldn't be Nate, would it?” I called into the kitchen.

The old man appeared in the dining room carrying a tray with three steaming bowls. “Nate...yeah, that sounds familiar.”

“You were a salesman,” I said. Claire and I followed the old man who might be Nate into the living room.

Nate sat down on an old, ratty recliner. Claire and I took seats on the couch, watching Nate for any sudden moves. He handed us each a bowl of....something. “Salesman. That sounds right. I used to sell office supplies, chairs, something like that. That was a long time ago.”

“Who's the lady in the picture?” Claire nodded towards a large framed photograph on an end table of an Asian woman behind Nate.

“That is the love of my life, Mai.” Nate picked up the frame, and handed it to Claire for a closer look.

“What happened to her?” I asked.

“Died of breast cancer about five years before the zombies,” Nate said. “In a way, I'm kind of glad she was gone before all this stuff started. Mai wasn't much for disasters. We used to live in Florida, but she made me move here to get away from the hurricanes.” Nate paused for a second, and a dark look came over his face. “She really would have hated all this. Did you lose anyone in the outbreak, John?”

“I think we all lost someone,” I said.

“I guess you're right about that. Sometimes I think the lost ones are better off. They didn't have to go through all this. Sometimes I wish I was with Mai,” Nate said, his voice trailing off to a whisper. Nate's last statement sent the hairs on my neck standing. Being alone might have made him unstable.

“The past....the past.” Nate waved his hand in mid-air as if trying to shoo away visions of his dead wife like an errant housefly. He brought a spoonful of food to his mouth, and started to eat. “You guys need to eat. The young lady, she's so thin.”

I turned my attention to my bowl. It was some kind of meat with vegetables in a brown slimy sauce. Something was off about the smell. I brought the bowl to my nose, and took a deep breath, and nearly fell off the couch. The smell of rotting meat filled my nostrils. Claire had done the same thing. She shook her head to tell me not to eat the stinky concoction in the bowl.

I moved my spoon through the mass of meat and soggy vegetables. The stench of the rotting food was overpowering. “What kind of meat do we have here, Nate?” I asked.

He stopped eating for a minute, and looked in his bowl. “Squirrel, I think. I have traps set out all over my yard.”

“You know, you really shouldn't eat spoiled food. It could get you real sick, or dead.” I put my bowl of food down on the table, and pushed it away. Claire did the same. Despite not wanting to look ungrateful, eating the brown mess in our bowls would be suicide.

Nate sniffed a small sample on his spoon. “Spoiled? Really? I can't tell anymore.” Even though the meat had gone south, he continued to eat.

“Do any of these houses have any survivors, or are you alone?” I asked, trying to get him to stop eating the bad food.

“No. I'm all alone here. All the people here are either dead, became zombies, or just went away. Parker and his wife from across the street were the last ones besides me.” Nate ate a few more bites of his rotten stew, then realized I was right. He made a disgusted face, and placed the bowl on the table. “Parker and his wife, Sherry, they had the house on the corner across the street. We huddled together most nights trying to keep the deadheads at bay. When we started running out of supplies, things went kind of south.” Nate started to tremble.

I shot a glance at Claire. We met Parker at our kitchen table conference last night. Nate may have killed him. I readied my gun hand for a quick draw, and Claire moved her bat into position. Nate was making us both uneasy, so I tried to keep him talking and watched his hands. “How did it go bad?” I asked.

He gazed into space, like someone had shot him full of drugs. “We ran out of food first. Parker and I went to find more, but it was all gone. I made some snares and traps for small game, but that set Parker's wife right off. Sherry got it in her head that Huntsville was all right and functioning. That it was safe, and we should go there and find people, but Parker and I knew it was nonsense. Huntsville was dead, burned and dead.” Nate stood up, and moved to the fireplace. He began straightening the pictures and knick-knacks on the mantle. “Sherry wouldn't let it go. So one day, she just up and left. Wrote something to Parker, and disappeared.”

That explained the note on the kitchen table. “What happened next?” I asked. Claire and I stood up, keeping an eye on Nate.

“At first, Parker seemed fine,” Nate continued. “Didn't even want to go look for her or anything. We started collecting all the neighbors' stuff and storing it at my house. We put it here because my house was a little bigger.” He waved his arm over his cardboard box empire. “Some of the houses got fire damaged, or full of water. Parker and I thought people would want their stuff saved.”

“Very nice of you,” Claire said, from behind me.

Nate smiled. The smile sent chills up my spine. It was not the smile of a man in his right mind. “It was something to do. Kept us occupied.” Nate said, his smile fading away. ”Then, about a year ago, I heard a shot come from Parker's house. I ran over and found him in the kitchen, with half of his head all over the sink. He was so....cold. Never felt anything so cold before.” Nate's voice trailed off, and he seemed to droop a bit like he was going to pass out.

“You painted a red X on the door, and left him alone,” I said.

Nate looked up into my eyes, then looked at Claire. “You guys were over there? You saw him? I painted the door so no one would go inside and rob his house, but I don't think it did any good. You guys didn't take anything, did you?” A slight edge came to Nate's voice, and I took a half step back.

“We didn't take anything. We left Parker alone, and he's still at the table,” I said.

“Good....good. I didn't want to disturb him. I mean, it's his house. I did everything I could to preserve his memory. Did I do okay by him?” Nate asked. Tears began to show in his tired eyes.

“You did fine,” I said.

“Good,” Nate said again. He wiped his eyes. “Uh, I have a truck in my backyard you can use. I don't need it. I'm not going anywhere.” He paused like he forgot the rest of what he was going to say. “We'll have to get it to the road and try to push start the engine. The battery is probably dead. There's gas in the tank. It's a few years old, but I've been putting stabilizer in the tank to try and keep it fresh so it may work. You guys know how to push start a truck with a stick?”

“We know,” I said. I glanced at Claire. “We've done it before.”

“Good. Not too many people know how to do that these days. I'll show you the truck, and you guys can be on your way. First, you're going to have to do me that favor before you leave.” Nate said.

Nate took us to his backyard to show us his truck. With a flourish, he pulled an old blanket off a mid-eighties, compact pick-up truck in faded red paint. A quick inspection showed four bald, intact tires, gas in the tank, and the keys in the ignition. It was piece of junk, but it would get me and Claire down the road.

After poking around under the hood for a few minutes, I was satisfied the truck would work. I slammed it closed, and Claire joined me at the front to say goodbye. The sooner we could move on the better. “Thanks for the truck. We can take it from here. I just wanted to wish you good luck, and give you some food.” I rummaged through our backpack, and produced some freeze-dried camping food. It tasted like boiled cardboard, but it was better than spoiled meat. Nate took the food, and put it on a nearby picnic table. He turned, and extended his hand for a goodbye handshake.

I took off my glove and grasped his hand. As soon as our fingers touched, he clamped onto my hand with a vice grip. Nate began pulling me closer. “Before you go, you have to do me a favor. You promised to do me a favor,” he said. With his other hand, he grabbed my shoulder. Nate's pull became stronger. I sensed danger, and tried to pull away. Nate just seemed to pull me in stronger. Soon our faces were close together. “I really need this. I want you to kill me. Just shoot me, please. I can't take it any more,” Nate said, in a tortured whisper.

I managed to pull away, and Nate took a few steps back. “Go back into the house,” I said.

He didn't go back into the house. Instead, he began stomping around the yard like a child having a fit. “But you promised! I need you to do it! I can't kill myself. I tried....I can't do it!” he said. Nate's voice was very loud now, and in a higher register. He was losing control. I put Claire behind me. My hand was on my gun.