“How big is this place?”
“Big enough to get lost in if you don’t know where you’re going. But there are quite a few trails in there. Usually you follow one of the trails and sooner or later you’ll find your way out.”
“If it’s that big, how do we find them?”
Taylor reached into the safe. He checked the magazine in the Glock, made sure it was loaded, and then tucked it into the waistband of his jeans. He handed the shotgun to Carl. Pulling out the rifle, he handed it to Tina and said, “Let’s worry about that when we get there.”
Chapter 7
Hell Out of Coldwater
They didn’t waste a lot of time gathering supplies. Most of the non-perishables had been taken, so the selection was sparse. The important things were the guns and ammunition their father had left for them to find. They also packed anything that would provide warmth; blankets, flannel shirts, some of their father’s thermal underwear. It could get cold in the mountains.
As they packed, Carl made frequent trips to the window, checking on the car to make sure more of the rabid things didn’t show up. They sky was beginning to shift colors; soft blues and piercing oranges. Light poured through a row of apple trees that had wept piles of white blossoms onto the ground.
“How’s it looking out there?” Taylor said.
“Good so far. Seems safer with light in the sky.”
Tina sat at the kitchen table. She thought heading to the so-called “mountains” sounded like a bad idea. She had to keep reminding herself that she was the tag-a-long in this thing and couldn’t afford to be demanding. She wasn’t prone to abandonment issues, but that possibility existed now. She stole glances at the brothers as they scrambled through the house.
The question you have to ask yourself, she thought, is would they be capable of leaving you behind?
Capable? Yes. But would they? She didn’t think so.
They carried the guns and ammo out to the car, arranging everything along the floor in front of the backseat. Taylor stuffed the Glock between the driver and passenger seats so that only the handle was visible. Everything else was packed into the trunk.
“Is that everything?”
Tina nodded. “I think so.”
“I brought this. For emergencies,” Carl said, smiling as he showed them a bottle of Wild Turkey he had wrapped in a flannel shirt.
“Alcohol?”
“Yep. It’s probably older than the gods. It could come in handy though.”
“How?”
“As a sleep aid.”
Carl winked at her and wrapped the flannel shirt around the bottle. “That about covers it I think.”
Tina slid into the backseat, careful not to step on the rifles. A pile of sleeping bags were stacked on the other side of the seat on top of the box of supplies they had taken from her father’s house. She scooted over next to them and leaned her head against the pile. “How long does it take to get there?” she asked, closing her eyes.
“A few hours. That’s under normal conditions. It’ll take longer now.”
Carl came around to the passenger side of the car when he saw them. Coldwater. Population: 1579. At least half of them had to be coming down the road as though they were part of a marathon. It was one of those situations where time stretches out like taffy.
Taylor saw his brother frozen in the act of getting into the car and glanced into the rearview mirror. “Hey. Hey! Get in the car!”
Carl was still in slow motion, but he managed to pivot, slump down in the seat, and pull the door closed.
Taylor gunned the engine, one hand moved to the butt of the Glock and stayed there. He watched the rabid things following after them. There were several agonizing seconds as the Escort’s lethargic engine debated on whether it would continue running, that he thought the mob would overtake them, that he saw them growing closer in the mirror, but the car gave a dramatic lurch and carried them forward and away from danger.
Carl wore a startled expression. He pulled the bottle of Wild Turkey from the flannel shirt and unscrewed the lid. He raised the bottle to his nose and sniffed it. The odor made him cringe, but he took a quick swallow anyway, trying not to taste it as it lit up his insides with a fire he could feel all the way down to his stomach. He held the bottle out to Taylor.
Taylor shook his head.
“Come on. You’re not that old.”
Taylor moved his hand from the handle of the Glock and took the bottle. He let some of it settle in his mouth, allowing it to rest there, the awful taste like a bitter magic that served to lighten the heavy lids of his eyes. After the initial burn subsided, a comforting warmth spread through his body.
He could feel a tickle at the back of his throat. Not painful yet but the subtle precursor of worse things to come. His body was wearing down. He needed rest. A hot meal would help, too, but sleep was what his body required now. He took another sip from the bottle and then handed it back to Carl.
“That’s the most we’ve seen,” Carl said. “It looked like damned near the whole town.”
“Looked like it.”
“It makes you wonder what a big city would look like. Think about it. What must Denver look like?”
“I don’t know,” Taylor said. “I think Dad had the right idea. Avoid places where there are a lot of people. Hide out. It’s the smart thing to do. Doesn’t matter how many guns we’ve got, there are too many of those things to try it any other way.”
“They found us again. You realize that don’t you? I would have figured they’d find us at my place after hearing the gunshots, but they found us at Mom and Dad’s.”
“There’s something to that. I just don’t know what yet. Some kind of special sense because they couldn’t have heard us all the way out here. We need to keep that in mind.”
Carl had the shotgun angled so that it rested against the dashboard, the barrel pointing toward the car’s ceiling. He kept it braced between his knees so it wouldn’t slide around.
Taylor waited until the rabid things had disappeared from view completely before taking a left on Seymour. Out of two places in town to get gas, one was a charred ruin. He prayed the other was in working order.
The shop was two blocks east of Main Street, sandwiched between a car dealership and a beauty salon. The town’s only bank, occupying a squat brick building, sat kitty corner from the shop. He could see the shop’s twin gas pumps standing side-by-side like metal headstones a hundred yards ahead.
Carl rolled down the passenger-side window and picked up the shotgun. “I’ll keep you covered,” he said.
“Yeah, well, just don’t accidentally go blowing us up.”
“How are you going to get gas? I mean, it looks like the thing works, but nobody’s inside to give you access to it.”
Taylor paused in the act of exiting the car. He removed his wallet and plucked out a plastic card. “For emergencies. Mom gave it to me years ago.”
He came around the side of the car, unscrewed the gas cap, and inserted his keycard into the slot of a metal reader that stood next to the pump. Nothing happened. Please, God, let this work. Just one damn thing. The ratio of good to bad is really jacked up right now. How about evening it out some?