The King of Clayfield - 01 (15 page)

When he did do any talking himself, he was describing what was going on around him, what he was experiencing, what he was observing out his window, and what others were telling him from other parts of the world.

His site didn't look like much, but it was actually loaded with pertinent information. I read through several posts, and followed the links when it looked relevant to our particular needs.

According to the links he'd provided, it wasn't necessary to get drunk, but only to begin to feel the effects of the alcohol. Also, masks worked, but the disease could still be spread through
 
bites, scratches, and sexual contact.

I read one of his journal entries:

There has been a group of them outside for more than 12 hours. I've been watching them through the window.
 
I feel
 
like Dian Fossey observing her gorillas. There are 8 of them--3 men (I hesitate to call them men) and 5 women. There is a clear alpha male in the group. He has been having sex with all the women. The other two males are submissive but do attempt to initiate sex with the women when the alpha isn't looking.

It is fascinating
 
and grotesque.
 
Four of them are mostly
 
naked, yet they don't act like they are uncomfortable. I have noticed what looks like frostbite on some of their feet. Last night I saw them all huddle together under my maple tree; I presume this was for warmth.

I have to keep reminding myself that these were the same people I saw in restaurants and theaters. These were all people once.

"Where does he live?" I said.

"He's still in Clayfield," Jen said. "I see him and his boyfriend out all the time."

"Do you think they need help? His journal says he
 
has infected
 
out on his lawn."

"I'll send him a message," she said.

"I'm going to take the water out to the truck."

On my way, I took a look out the window. The minivan had an audience now. There were six of them out there walking around. They weren't trying to get in it yet, but they were curious.

"They've found the generator," I said.

Jen joined me at the window.
 

"We should go before many more show up," she said.

"I'll get the water loaded," I said. "You get a message to your friend. If he doesn't reply within fifteen minutes, we'll just have to try him again another time."

I went in the supply closet and emptied out a cardboard box I'd been using to store cleaning supplies. I was able to fit most of the water bottles in it. I carried it to the front door. No one was out front so I took it out as quickly and as quietly as I could and put it in the back. I could hear them pounding on the minivan now. Their noises would probably bring more.

I went back inside and locked the door.

"Make that
 
five minutes!" I said.

"Do you have a router?"

"A router? Why?"

"Yes or no?"
 
she said.

"There's one under the desk, but I quit using it because--"

"Does it work?" she said, impatient.

"Yes."

She disappeared behind the desk.

I went to get the rest of the water. When I got to the front door I looked into the office. She was brushing the dust bunnies from the router and plugging it in.

I loaded the rest of the water in the truck. I saw a woman over at the Chronicle office, but I don't think she saw me. When I got back inside, Jen was
 
on my laptop.

"We've got a signal," she said. "We can head out now.”

"The range on that thing is really short--"

"We'll sit in the truck," she said. "We'll stay close to the
 
building for a while."

I nodded; it sounded like a good idea. I went into the office to get the rifle and the liquor, and I looked out the office window to the big lot behind the building, then farther out to 6th Street. More were coming.

I
 
got in behind the wheel, and Jen sat in the passenger side with my computer in
 
her lap. We just pulled the doors shut gently, so the people around the other side of the building couldn't hear us.

A boy in his early teens, crossed the street near the transmission shop and headed our way. We sat very still inside the pickup, and he walked right by. He was shirtless, and there was a terrible gash
 
in his chest. It had bled a lot, but at that time the blood was all dried down his body
 
and right leg.

"I think there were people in that blue house," Jen said. "Those things were interested in something there. On the court square, too."

I nodded, suspecting she was right.

"There ain't
 
many of us left," she
 
continued. "We need to
 
help each other."

"It's getting too late to help all of them," I said. "First lets focus on your friend. Then, we'll see what is going on in the blue house tomorrow."

The crowd around the minivan had grown enough that it was beginning to extend around the edge of the building. We were no more than twenty feet away from them, and they didn't even know we were there.

"Someone is
 
removing the dead," I said, now feeling the need to whisper.

Jen looked at me, but didn't say
 
anything. I know
 
she was thinking about the man she'd shot
 
the day before--the one
 
eating the dog.

"That first day, I hit people with my car," I said. "I didn't mean to, but I did. They're not there now. Their bodies are gone.”

We couldn't actually see the
 
minivan from where we sat around the corner,
 
but the crowd around it was getting agitated.

"What if they get in or jerk the cord loose?" Jen said.

I shrugged, "I haven't seen them smash a car window yet, and I pulled the van up close enough to the building that I don't think they'll be able to get to the cord. They could turn the van over, I guess. That would do it."

Two men tumbled out of the crowd near the corner of the building, and rolled together within a few feet of our truck. I recognized one of them. It was
 
Mr.
 
Aslam;
 
he owned the gas station I always went to. The other man didn't look familiar. They were biting each other. Another man came out of the crowd and joined the fight. He dragged Mr. Aslam off the other man and shoved him into the wall, then against our truck.

Mr. Aslam saw us. There was a moment when we made eye contact and I could have sworn he knew me, but it was only a moment. The fight didn't interest him anymore;
we
did. He leapt up onto the hood, sliding on his belly until his face hit the windshield.

I cranked the truck, and put it in reverse. Immediately, the mob came around the corner of the building.

"Ho-lee frickin' shit," Jen said.

There were far more than we thought; they'd been hidden from view by the building. I backed out into the street almost to the transmission shop.

"How about your friend?" I said.

"Nothing yet," she said looking at the laptop. "Can we drive around the building for a little while? Stay close to the signal and
 
give him some more time?"

They were running at us. Mr. Aslam was trying to chew through the glass. I put it in drive and gunned it around the
 
south side of the museum. The crowd followed.

"You'll have to get closer," she said. "I've lost it."

I got to the back of the building and stopped. The mob rounded the corner after me. I waited until they were almost at my tailgate, and I started off again. I went around the next corner to the side onto North Street where the minivan was parked.
 
The van
 
was covered in people. There were a few still in the street, but most of the crowd was chasing me around the building.

I kept it up for five laps.

"He responded!" she said. "He sent an address and a map to his place. Head west.”

I came around the building for the sixth time then got onto 8th Street then turned west onto Broadway. Mr. Aslam stayed with us for a while, holding
 
on to the windshield wiper.

I slowed enough so Mr. Aslam could get off, but he didn't want to. Jen tried rolling down the window and poking him with the rifle, but he still wouldn't budge. I didn't want to hurt him--he'd been a nice man once--but he had to go.

I did the only safe thing for us. I sped up, and then slammed on the brakes. Mr. Aslam flew off the hood, the right windshield wiper still in his grip.
 
I pulled around him, and proceeded down West Broadway.

It was hazy from the smoke.
 
We passed 15th Street, and I could see several houses had burned to the ground--just blackened chimneys and refrigerators sticking up.

"I'd like to go to my house," I said.

"Do you have stuff to get?"

"I do, I suppose, but I just want to see if
 
the house
 
is still there. I can come back later for the stuff."

I took a right onto 17th Street. My house had been spared, but farther down the street, the library had not. The building was brick, but it had been gutted by the fire. The windows were broken, and the roof had been consumed.
 
I felt gutted, too, thinking about what a place like that could mean
 
for us at a time like this. I also felt ashamed. It had been more than a year since I'd even been in there. Lately, the internet had provided all of my
 
reading
 
material and information.
 
Soon, it would be gone, too.

CHAPTER 15

Brian Davies lived just outside of Clayfield near the little community of Belfast. He had a huge front yard, and a long, paved driveway that led to a new brick
 
home. The drive was gated, but the gate was open.

We counted seventeen people on his lawn. They came at us when we pulled into the driveway. I started to back out, but then the front door opened, and Brian stepped out and waved at us with both arms. I stopped, and he pointed to the three-bay
 
garage. The door on the left
 
started going up.

"Hurry," Jen said. "Get in there."

I waited until the people were near us, then I sped toward the garage. They chased us, but we were inside and the door was down before they could catch up.

"Wow," I said, "Professional bloggers do pretty good."

To my right were two cars--a black Porsche 911 and a silver Mercedes AMG. There was also a
 
blue
 
Waverunner in there on a
 
little trailer, which meant there was probably another vehicle somewhere to pull the
 
trailer.

The interior door to the garage opened and Brian came out to greet us. He was holding a drink in one hand. I wish I could say that seeing him jogged my memory, but it didn't. I still didn't recognize him. He was about Jen's height and thin.
 
He was extremely
 
well-groomed and well-dressed
 
for a man
 
more than two days into the apocalypse.

"Jen!" he said. "It's been too long!"

He hugged Jen and kissed her cheek, holding his drink off to the side.

"It's been awful,"
 
he said.

"It's been hell," Jen
 
said.

He looked at me sideways.

"I sent you a friend
 
request like
 
two years ago, and you rejected
 
me," he said. "I've never gotten over it."

I didn't know what to say.

"Sorry, I--"

"Shut up," he laughed. "I'm joking.”

He got between us, hooked both our arms, and escorted us to his door. He sloshed a little drink on me in the process, and I think it was intentional.

The house was beautiful. There was art and antiques, aquariums and terrariums, specimen
 
bonsai trees.... It felt more like a museum than the actual museum where I worked.