"Samuel," Buckley said to the other boy, "go check the windows. Gotta make sure we ain't being flanked."
"Damn, Adamski," came a gravel voice from behind him. "Them things aren’t gonna get in. We took care of the windows. Hell, my hands still hurt from all the hammering."
Buckley stared hard at the old man sitting on the edge of the couch. His name was Travis MacHenry and on a used car lot he was a god. But they weren’t on a used car lot. This was a war zone and here, sales acumen meant little to nothing. When they'd arrived, one of Buckley’s first moves was to remove all the interior doors except the one to the master bedroom and nail them over the windows. Although the doors were still wood and wouldn't last forever with the maggies constant gnawing, they'd at least delay the little bastards enough to provide the group a fighting chance. Buckley blinked slowly at the old man, a look he’d perfected on the streets. The blink said more than a thousand words.
You mean shit to me.
MacHenry read it right and dropped his eyes to the floor.
Buckley repeated himself. "Like I said, Samuel, get your fat ass down the hall and check on the windows."
Samuel looked longingly at Lashawna's body. They’d known each other since high school. He was the football player and she’d been the cheerleader. They’d been lovers. They’d been friends. Now, along with every other dream he’d held dear, she was gone. Buckley ordered him again. Finally, the boy lowered his head and ambled his three-hundred pounds down the hall, the barrel of his own Mossberg shotgun guiding the way.
With the exception of Grandma Riggs smoking the hell out of Bennie's crack in the middle of the living room and cackling at the antics of non-existent actors on the blank TV screen, the rest were silent, their eyes on Buckley, their ears attuned to the screams.
Their immediate problem was a simple one. Sally Struthers was infected. That wasn't her real name, but that's what everyone called her. A plump, saggy blonde, she’d been attempting to round up the children, trying in vain to save them. So far she’d only found one, Little Rashad, a lean ten-year-old who was now sitting with his back to the wall trying to act tough. Sally, who’d braved the streets way past the point of suicide, was now being digested by the maggies and all Buckley could do was wait for the screaming to end.
And in all honesty, that's all he intended to do.
There was just no way to fight them.
Within the decaying miles of his native state were a billion billion writhing forms in search of the living to promote their single-minded existence. No one really knew what they were. The smaller ones looked like maggots and during the first few days, when there were still newspapers and television, the term maggie became the popular name. Demons, aliens, maggots, miniature pink fucking elephants with an attitude, the name really didn't matter. What did matter was that there were different kinds, now. No longer were they just the common tiny white motes of wiggly nastiness.
There were the smokers-as long as a finger and smoky gray. Inching like slugs along the ground they were slow, but their slime was an acid that seemed able to eat through most anything, especially wood.
There were the swimmers- amphibious beasts that were all mouth and had depleted the fresh water fish supply along the Cape Fear within days and were best known to slide through the sewers, injecting themselves into unprotected asses.
Then there were the caddies- long and low-slung like their vehicular counterparts. According to the television, they didn't attack people. Their preferences were for glass and steel. They’d first been seen in Raleigh, back when there was a Raleigh. Their slow moving hulks left trails of digested planet in their passage. The few skyscrapers that had pierced the Wilmington skyline were now miserable masses of rubble. Buckley could only pray that the caddies would leave their poor building alone.
The creatures had originally surged forth from somewhere in the Smokey Mountains. The combined might of sixty thousand soldiers at Fort Bragg to include the elite Delta Force and two Special Forces groups had failed to even halt them. Like speed bumps, the Warriors of Democracy only slowed the massed enemy as battalion upon battalion became the snack food of creatures with no political preference.
It seemed as if nothing was able to stop their brand of evil. Nothing that is, except salt. That's why places like the Outer Banks and other islands off the coast had yet to be attacked. Salt acted upon the creatures like an acid and before the group had holed up in the bar, they’d collected quite a stash.
Buckley sighed as a song from Grandma Riggs interlaced with the screams from Sally outside.
"Two little girls dressed all in white,
Tried to get to heaven on the tail of a kite.
The kite string broke and down they fell,
They didn't get to heaven, but landed in hell."
Little Rashad and Bennie grinned broadly. Even Buckley cracked a smile. Gert, however, was fed up with everything and Grandma was the straw.
"Grandma, you better lighten up on that shit or it's gonna kill you," the fifty year old whore said. Ever friendly, her demeanor was undergoing a change as she realized her body wouldn't get her out of this one.
"Hell girl. Them damn maggies are gonna get me long before my brain rots away. I might as well enjoy my last few days.” Grandma sucked on her pipe. “Don’t you think?"
They’d picked up the old woman passed out in the front seat of an old Plymouth Valiant. Blind as a bat, she’d gone out looking to score some marijuana to ease the pain of her glaucoma. With her chocolate-chip cookie charm, it hadn’t taken her long to wheedle the ten grand worth of ice from Bennie who’d merely shrugged and said, 'Take it. No one to sell it to now, no how. Like money means anything anymore.'
Gert frowned, but beneath her ugly glare was the softness of the mother she’d never be, and Grandma Riggs was becoming the child she could never have. "Fine then. But if you puke all over yourself again, I ain't gonna clean it up." She stroked the old woman’s long hair. “You just be quiet now.”
Sally's screams crescendoed, as if her flesh were being ripped from her body. So went Buckley’s determination. The others were right. It was too much. Sally’s continuous shrieks were getting under everyone's skin. He could feel the tension in the air as everyone stared at him, waiting, begging for the command. Sally had been one of them and they couldn't let her die this way.
"Ahhhh, hell. Here we go.” Everyone shifted in anticipation. “Samuel, grab the emergency bucket from the kitchen. Bennie, hold the knob. When I say go, you open that motherfucking door, count to five and then slam it shut. Do you hear me boy?"
Bennie nodded fast and hard.
"Now, MacHenry, you shove Lashawna outside just as soon as we open it. Her body will make a buffer and give us a few seconds as the damnable things fry upon her salt."
MacHenry backed away.
Samuel seemed as if he was about to argue.
"Hey! You tough guys want the screaming to end, then don't get mushy on me. This fine young black woman is gone and there's nothing we can do about it. But if she stays here, she'll bloat up and explode with their eggs. I've seen it happen. I’ve seen respect for the dead kill people." He lowered his voice and placed a hand on Samuel's shoulder. "I'm sorry, son. This is hitting you hard, I know. But it has to be done the way I say it has to. Understand?"
Samuel returned the stare. The garbage man saw the cool fire of tempered anger. He recognized it for what it was. The boy wasn't mad at him, merely the world for what had happened.
Samuel nodded slowly. “I understand.”