CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Men with guns poured out of a storage shed, scattering along the fence lines and climbing onto roofs and rusting farm equipment. Rooster bellowed orders, waving his walking stick to direct men to their positions. The men didn’t seem to be well trained, certainly not when compared to the precision of a military squad, but they projected a deep eagerness to lock down on their triggers.
Several men mounted horses, their rifles slung over their saddles, and galloped off down the dirt road toward the main road. DeVontay admired the grace and power of the animals and wished he had such an easy means of escape.
As the compound erupted into action, DeVontay wondered if he’d be able to slip away while Rooster was distracted. But before he could make a decision, Rooster tapped him on the shoulder with the walking stick. “So are you with us or against us?”
DeVontay didn’t think he had the option of neutrality. At any rate, better to buy a little more time than get gunned down before he knew the lay of the land. “I’m in. What do you want me to do?”
Rooster squinted at him. “Cover up that glass eye a sec.”
DeVontay placed a palm over it.
“Do you swear allegiance to the Republic of Stonewall?”
Holy shit, is this guy some kind of redneck Hitler?
DeVontay was about to make a wisecrack but Rooster’s face was grim. He believed in his “country,” apparently. He also considered himself a flawless judge of character. People like that were dangerous, but also easy to fool because of their vanity.
DeVontay thought of Stephen in the dark, windowless building with the other children, frightened by all the chaos. “I swear.”
Somebody shouted at Rooster but he ignored the man, instead keeping his gaze on DeVontay as if mulling it over. Then he nodded. “Okay,” he said, pointing his walking stick—which apparently he used like a baton—to a man standing guard by an old school bus whose tires had long rotted away. “Go tell Hardison you’ve enlisted. We’ll talk after we kill some Zaps.”
Rooster turned away, giving commands to two men who perched on the top of a water tower. “See anything?”
One, wielding binoculars, answered, “Looks like a whole herd of the fuckers.”
“Don’t shoot until we’re in position. We don’t want to attract any more of them until we’re ready.”
DeVontay felt Rooster’s eyes on his back as he crossed the compound. Although a few of the armed men had hurried out of the main gate in the wake of the makeshift cavalry, most had fanned out around the perimeter. Even if a battle erupted, DeVontay wasn’t sure he’d be able to get Stephen and slip away without being seen.
Hardison, standing at the rear emergency door of the bus, scowled at DeVontay. He had an old scar on one cheek and a scrap of mustache that looked as if it still held some of his breakfast. “What’s the password?”
“Rooster didn’t give me a password. He just said to tell you I’ve enlisted.”
Hardison swung open the rear door.” That’s the password.”
Stacked on the floor of the bus were several piles of weapons, mostly rifles, along with a few shotguns and handguns. “You a peashooter man or a bazooka?” Hardison asked.
“Excuse me?”
“Pistol or a twelve-gauge?”
“Might as well have a shotgun,’ DeVontay said, shrugging. “With only one eye, my aim isn’t so good.”
Hardison dug in the pile and pulled out a Remington pump. “We’ll set you up with a twenty-gauge. That way if you accidentally shoot yourself in the foot, you’ll probably not end up dying.”
DeVontay worked the pump and saw that the chamber was empty. “Won’t shoot much of anything at this rate.”
Hardison cracked open a box of yellow plastic-coated shells and gave him a handful. “Four in the magazine and one in the chamber.”
DeVontay nodded as if that made sense. He started to shove a shell into the slot on the side of the gun and Hardison laughed. “Better turn that around.”
DeVontay shoved the shell in and slid the others into the magazine. He wondered if Hardison had intentionally limited his supply of ammunition. If DeVontay turned on them, he’d only be able to take down a few before they got him. Maybe this was some kind of test. Rooster certainly seemed psycho enough to play deadly games. His way of weeding out the weak so the new breed would be strong.
“Where do you want me?” DeVontay asked.
Before Hardison could answer, a gun fired in the distance. Hardison grinned and closed the bus door, a shotgun across his arm, a rifle slung on a strap across his back, and two pistols shoved in his belt. “Get a front-row seat. It’s show time.”
Hardison hurried to the front gate where Rooster stood in the bed of a pickup truck surveying the surrounding terrain. DeVontay slipped between the bus and a storage shed until he was out of their view. He couldn’t reach the slaughterhouse without being seen, and the door was barred with a big metal hasp lock. He wasn’t sure he could find another way inside, but at least Stephen and the others would be safe. The walls were thick enough to repel bullets and, even if the Zapheads overwhelmed the compound, they’d have a hard time breaking in.
But Stephen would have a tough time breaking OUT, as well.
A few more shots rang out in a staccato burst, maybe half a mile away in direction of the village. DeVontay circled the slaughterhouse and found more abandoned vehicles, along with processing equipment, a concrete loading dock, and piles of warped pallets. Large plastic barrels were stacked on their sides along the back of the slaughterhouse beside a sliding metal door. That door, like the front one, was fastened with a thick lock.
Someone shouted at him from the fence line. A chubby man standing sentinel on a weed-covered slope motioned him forward. He wore a battered fedora and the top half of his face was hidden by the shadow of the brim. DeVontay climbed the bank and the man said, “You must be new.”
“Enlisted this morning.”
The man leaned his rifle against the fence, pulled a pint bottle of whiskey from his coat pocket, and took a swig. He wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve and said, “You ever shot one of them?”
“Never had a reason.”
“You’ll get your reason soon. They’re all over the place.” He held out the whiskey bottle but DeVontay waved it away.
“Why are you here?” DeVontay scanned the trees beyond the fence, but all seemed quiet at the moment.
“I was a truck driver,” the man said. “Hauling cow shit one week, ground beef the next, tankers, fridge units, flatbeds, anything. This was one of my regular stops. That’s my rig outside the gate. It just stopped running that day, and I got out to check under the hood. Some meat packer ran toward me, waving a bloody cleaver and making weird noises.
“I thought it was a gag—these guys get a dark sense of humor from cutting up parts all day. I figured he’d say something like ‘Did you know it’s Friday the thirteenth?’ and all that, but I was pissed because of the truck breaking down. But when he got close enough, I saw something was wrong with his eyes—and the look on his face—and I got my ass back in the cab and quick. He knocked the door a few times with the cleaver, and by then I saw a few other workers come out of the slaughterhouse, chopping and slicing at each other.”
“And that’s when you realized everything had gone to hell?”
“The scientists on the news said to expect weird shit because of the sun storms, but nobody said nothing about no killing. But I figured they had to be connected. So I waited for a few of them to wipe each other out. I got my pistol out of the glove box and climbed into the sleeper to hide. By sunset, only one man was left, walking around outside the slaughterhouse calling for help.”