The End Time Saga (Book 2): The Breaking Page 12

  “I owe you, Kevin. Like it or not, we are a team now. Can I count on you?” Steele said.

  Kevin blinked at him for a moment. “We could try talking to them. They may listen to reason,” he said, after much thought.

  “After my first interaction with them, the time for talking is over. Tomorrow night we’ll strike. We’ll wait until they get drunk. Then you will lead another pack of infected this way as a distraction. In the confusion, I’ll free my friends and we’ll escape,” Steele said with a smile. He was conscious of the fact that he must look creepy smiling with his head wound.

  Kevin flattened his lips. “I’ve got a lot to lose by helping you, and I like living, even if it’s just scraping by. I’ll think about it. “

  GWEN

  Backbone Peak, WV

  Gwen gripped a piece of broken window glass in one hand, ignoring the sharp edges dangerously touching her skin. I won’t be a victim. I will fight. She crouched next to the bed, hand still cuffed to its frame.

  Men shouted outside. A gunshot rang out here and there. In a half hour, order was restored to the camp. Puck returned to the cabin with a mean look on his face, gore smeared on his overalls. His footsteps shook the cabin as he marched over to Gwen, and she shied away from him, thinking that he had come to beat her. She flinched away from his hand. Fishing a key from his pocket, he unlocked her from the bed.

  “Come,” he said. He threw her cuffs on the bed. She stood up and rubbed her raw wrists. Should I follow? Her feet led her out the door anyway. I almost hoped he wouldn’t come back, but if he didn’t then it would have just been the dead in his place.

  They walked through the camp. White corpses lay strewn about the ground. Heads were dented inward, and pink brains leaked from beneath blood-matted hair. He walked, kicking a decapitated head out of his path like it was a soccer ball. She flinched, although she knew she shouldn’t. That is not the last dead person you will see, she said to herself.

  He snaked her through the camp and led her down a path into the forest. A fence of barbwire lay rolled to either side.

  “Look,” he pointed with his axe. Bodies quivered in a trench of stakes. The points of the stakes had been driven through their torsos, arms, and legs. The dead had stacked up upon one another resulting in a human pincushion. A muddy infected arm reached for them, fingernails clawing the thick sludge with its hands. It moaned, unable to extricate itself from the pile of dead.

  With ease, Puck put the thick tread of his boot on the infected man’s neck and swung his axe downward with a sickening crunch. It was as if he were playing a game of croquet.

  Gore swirled in with the mud.

  Hefting his axe near his head, he bent down and pulled the wire up for her to see.

  His dark eyes probed hers. “Someone cut this,” he said.

  She shook her head. “I dunno. Was it?” she said, playing dumb. Her grandfather owned a Century Farm in Southeast Iowa. His farm spanned hundreds of acres of lush grassland and timber. She had spent enough time fixing fence to know when one had been cut by hand, not by chance.

  “Somebody cut this one, and the other ring over there,” Puck said. He stomped over to the other side of the staked ditch and held up another single wire.

  “What is that?”

  “Somebody cut this trip wire too and let the Satan spawn in,” he said, pausing in anger. “Not one has gotten inside until now.”

  “But you handled it, sweetie. You protected us,” she said, letting the slime drip off her tongue. His dark eyes burned into her, judging her words.

  “Everybody I know is here or dead. You know that, honey,” she said, stepping closer.

  “I am just grateful that you saved my life.” She wrapped her arms around his massive stinking torso. He held his arms out from his body not used to her affection. She tried to stay in front, avoiding his arm pits.

  Puck looked down at her. “It ain’t your fault,” he grumbled, patting her back. “Casey,” he hollered over his shoulder. “Get old Barnum and patch up this fence.”

  Casey nodded and walked off to get Old Barnum.

  “I’ve got to run down the mountain, but when I return, I’ll be good and hungry. Make sure that deer is all cooked up, but not too much. I like it a little bloody.”

  She smiled up at him as sweetly as she could. I’m going to poison you if I get the chance.

  “I’ll fix you up something delicious.”

  Gwen burnt the meat as much as she could and still claim ignorance. Growing up in Iowa deer country, she had cooked more than enough venison in her lifetime. So much in fact, she couldn’t stand the gamey smell or taste. She held the iron pan in the flames, letting the meat char. She could feel his eyes upon her as she made good on her promise to cook for him.

  She dumped the slab of charred venison on his plate and put a tiny piece on hers. She looked at her cut of deer meat while he sawed into the meat and chewed noisily.

  “You have a man before here?” he said in between bites. The meat crunched as he chewed.

  “Yes.”

  “You never cook for him?”

  “No, I cooked for him.”

  “He dead?” Does he not even know that his people killed Mark?

  “Yes.” The words were bitter and didn’t feel right on her tongue.

  “I guess I know what killed him,” he said, cutting into his chunk of meat. They continued in silence as she picked at her food.

  “One of your friends shot him,” she said after a moment.

  He continued to eat, not looking up from his food.

  “To the victor, the spoils. He should have fought harder for his woman,” he said, smiling at her with gross intent.

  “I am no prize to be won. I choose my company.”

  “Strong words from a woman in chains.”

  “We are all caged by something.”

  He blinked at her, trying to digest her words. Food was caught in his beard like a black haired Christmas tree with crumbs as ornaments. She held his gaze momentarily and looked back at her food.

  “Eat. You’re lucky there’s food. Better than some coward could provide for ya,” he said.

  You don’t know anything about Mark.

  “Eat,” he said again. She put a fork into her food and sawed the tough meat.

  They ate the rest of their meal in an awkward silence. Gwen hoped she hadn’t overstepped herself and alienated her captor whose “generosity” and trust was paramount to her survival and escape. He eyed her with dark dim eyes. He rose to go outside for his nightly drinking.

  “Clean this up,” he ordered.

  “Puck, I was thinking that I could join you out there tonight. I get so scared when I am alone. Please.”

  He eyed her lustfully and nodded. “I have a half mind to take you right now,” he said and licked his lips.

  “Sweetie. Think about how much better it will be when I feel a bit more comfortable with my new surroundings,” she said softly. “I promise I will make it worth it.” She gave him a sexy smile, her insides roiling with each word. He growled a bit and walked outside. She swiped a piece of venison and stashed it under her clothes before accompanying him outside to the bonfire.

  Puck engulfed her hand and led her near a large fire that crackled and flared bright in the night. She could see through the firelight that her friends were still chained to the pole. Thank God, they survived the infected.

  The mountain folk quieted down as they approached, and after an awkward second, parted ways for them. Puck and her were like a hillbilly king and queen surrounded by their yokel court. Gwen felt their eyes upon her. Eyes that judged her. Hateful eyes that despised her. She was the outsider. The other.

  Puck picked her up with his massive paws and set her down on his lap like she was a ventriloquist dummy. Am I a dummy trying to befriend them?

  Prune-Face Old Barnum mumbled something to Casey and they burst out laughing. He produced a large mason jar and took a long swig. His puckered lips pursed a bit at the end
and he handed it to Casey. He took his turn and they passed it around the campfire.

  Everyone started yapping again, conversing loudly about the day’s happenings. Gwen listened quietly, watching them and looking for weaknesses she could exploit.

  In any other world, it would have looked like some country folk enjoying a campfire in the hills. In this world, they had killed her love, raped her friend, beaten them and held them hostage. The most sickening part was that they didn’t even seem to care. Whatever system that had once been in place to hold these people accountable had disappeared.

  Fat Chuck pulled out a banjo. He ran his thumb all the way down the strings before he began to pick them in sequence while his thumb rested on the top string. His fingers formed a C-like position as he strummed and twanged the instrument in time.

  Mark’s badge glinted in the firelight, draped around Chuck’s neck like some sort of grisly trophy. Play the part or they will never trust you. Gwen nestled into Puck’s chest, feeling his warmth. It repulsed her but it took her eyes away from the glittering badge that flickered in the firelight.

  The flames raged in Ashley’s eyes from across the fire. Gwen tried to not make eye contact, knowing the woman was placing a hex on her. Instead, Gwen snuggled into Puck’s furry arm. His body does make a relatively comfortable pillow.

  “I feel safe with you,” she said up to him, the words tasting like a cigarette butt in her mouth.

  He looked down on her, wide smile showing gapped teeth. She gave him a sweet smile, fluttering her eyelashes with half-open eyes. She gave a triumphant look over at Ashley, who scowled even more. Give me a few more days and Puck will be eating out of my hand. Another week and I might run this camp. But I don’t have that much time.

  Casey’s rat-like face leaned over to them. His mustache belonged on an adolescent.

  “You wanna drink?” he said, giving Puck a nervous glance. Puck grunted.

  Gwen took the mason jar in her hands. She smelled it tentatively. Bitterly strong alcohol wafted into her nostrils, more like rubbing alcohol than anything else.

  “Yuck,” she said, twisting her head away. “Smells like pure gasoline.”

  “Ha. They say Old Barnum’s hooch made his wife go blind.”

  “Told her not to be sneakin’ my stash,” the wrinkled man wheezed from across the fire.

  “Give it here,” Puck said. He snatched the mason jar from her hands. “You do it like this,” he said, tipping the jar back and guzzling the grain alcohol down his throat. Liquid trails dribbled down his beard. “Ahhh,” he said. He wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve.

  “Oh my, Puck,” she exclaimed. Jesus, I’m not sure I can fake such happiness at such primitive behavior. Does he think I am impressed by his ability to drink rocket fuel?

  “I’ve never seen anyone drink like you.”

  “I’m a good drinker. You have some too,” Puck said, handing her the jar.

  Gwen had never been a big drinker. She almost gagged as the jar neared her lips.

  She took a sip and the fiery fluid burned down her throat. She coughed, and they all laughed at her.

  “Drink more,” Puck said. He laughed, his big belly jiggling with mirth like an Appalachian Santa.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Come on. Drink up,” Casey called over.

  “Little Miss Perfect prob’ly never been drunk before,” Ashley called at her.

  “What? It ain’t good enough for your high falootin’ ways?” Chuck said.

  “Oh okay,” she gushed. She took another small sip. She coughed and coughed. The more sober I stay, the better. They laughed at her city ways, and she passed the jar on. Puck possessively wrapped a heavy arm around her.

  The moonshiners told stories. For most of them, Gwen couldn’t tell if they were pre-or post-outbreak. It was difficult to tell. These people seemed to have always lived on the fringe of society. They had never abided by normal laws, but in reality had been a much smaller unit. More like a tribe and Puck was their chieftain; a position that he held by brute force.

  “I’ve lived up here since the war. They worked us to death in those days. Then, when the war was done, the company went away. Left us with nothing,” Old Barnum said.

  “He’s talkin’ bout World War II. The one versus the British,” Chuck said to Gwen.

  “Never left this mountain. Don’t suspect I ever will. Lotta boys who left, never came back from the war, nor the ones after.” Barnum nodded, affirming his survival to playing it safe, and never leaving home, or was it because he knew he would now die on the mountain. Gwen couldn’t tell.

  “Join up, they’d say. Serve your country, they’d say. See the world, they’d say. Then, all that came back were little yellow Western Union telegrams. A cave-in didn’t seem so bad compared to having a sneaky Jerry run you through with a bayonet in the snow.” They all nodded their heads as they listened to the old man.

  “After the war, I met your pa, Richard O’Neill. A real firebrand, that one. That war did him no service. Didn’t help Ma Betty either. Had to set him straight a few times.”

  “Quit reminiscing, you old fart. We all know about Pa. You don’t need to remind us,” Ashley called over.

  “I am just sayin’ war hurts a lot of people, up here.” He pointed to his head. “But nothing that a little hooch can’t fix,” he said with a laugh. He gripped the mason jar in both hands with a smile.

  As the night progressed, the stories flowed, complemented by rounds of alcohol, and Gwen had a hard time navigating their intertwined histories.

  Old Barnum, the oldest member and the patriarch in name only, was an uncle or grandpa to Casey and Henry, who in turn were cousins or friends with Fat Chuck. Owen was a brother to Ashley and was married to Virginia, who was sister to Hunchback Larry, who was cousins with Bobby and One-Eyed Sue. Puck Roberts was his own unit. She gave up trying to decipher everyone’s relation to one another but realized there was an intertwining of two major families: the Barnums and O’Neills, with a smattering of Connollys; they had always stuck together, fierce and proud. Distant relatives from the old country. All different branches of the same clan.

  After a few hours she stood up, stretching her legs.

  “I have to use the outhouse,” she whispered to Puck. He looked her in the eyes, deciding if he could trust her. She slapped him on the shoulder playfully.

  “Where would I go? You think I would run off into the mountains at night?” she said.

  Satisfied, he nodded. “Outhouse is over there.” He threw a thumb behind him.

  Gwen stepped slowly into the night, her first bit of freedom from Puck, scaring her. It was eerie leaving the people she hated, knowing that the night held endless dangers. Infected. Animals. Getting lost. Would I even make a run for it if I had the chance? Could I make it on my own in the unfamiliar mountains of West Virginia? No, I will not desert my friends. They need my help. I will not leave them to a fate worse than death. An opportunity will present itself.

  Chained forms materialized in the darkness. Will they see if I make contact? She furtively glanced behind her. Laughter roared at the campfire.

  She slowed down as she came alongside Mauser, Ahmed, and Eddie. Mauser looked up. His chained arms clinked above his head. He had grown a grizzled reddish beard and bruised darkness surrounded his swollen eyes. She couldn’t contain herself. She darted to him and knelt down near him.

  “Hey there, good looking,” Mauser started, a painful grin spreading over his face. She wanted to cry just looking at his broken face and body.

  She wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. “I’m fine, Ben. You don’t look so good.”

  “Nothing that a spa day won’t fix up,” he said. He coughed and it sounded painful.

  “Tomorrow night they are having some sort of party. I think they are going to do something horrible to you and Ahmed. We have to escape,” she rushed out. She gave another glance over her shoulder. Nobody watched from afar.

  Mauser’s
face was downcast. “They watch us almost all the time, and Ahmed and I are banged up too. They’ve only fed us once.” His face does look gaunt where it’s not swollen.

  “Eat this,” she said and shoved venison in his mouth. He gulped down the food.

  “Christ, that was terrible. Even for a sorry son of a bitch like me.”

  “A small act of rebellion on my part. I’ll continue to work on Puck. Maybe I can get the key and unchain you.” She smiled sadly at her battered longtime friend.

  Mauser chewed more meat greedily. He stopped. “His name is actually Puck? Jesus. Where the hell are we?”

  “Far from home,” she responded, watching the trees.

  He nodded and looked her fiercely in the eyes. “Just tell me when to run and I’ll run. Or fight,” Mauser said.

  A crack of a twig behind her gave away the uninvited. Gwen stood up and spun around, her heart racing in her chest. A feminine form emerged from the shadows. As she got closer, a nasty sneer crossed her lips. Ashley.

  “I heard what you are planning, bitch,” she said.

  Gwen composed herself, smoothing her dress. “Whatever are you talking about? I was just talking to my friend, here,” she said.

  Ashley reached out to grab Gwen by the sleeve. Gwen brushed her hand aside.

  “Don’t you touch me, or I will tell Puck,” Gwen said. Ashley stayed her hand, outrage settling on her face.

  “Puck would never take your word over mine,” Ash said.

  “Are you sure?” Gwen used her haughtiest glance and pursed her lips.

  “You don’t know nothin’ about us,” Ashley stammered.

  Gwen turned her back to her, continuing on her way to the outhouses. Better not jump me, bitch. Gwen tried to appear calm, but she was tense, waiting for Ashley to fight her. Step after step she relaxed. Please don’t call my bluff.

  Ashley called after her, shrill and mean, sending a shiver down Gwen’s spine.

  “Tomorrow, it won’t even matter, bitch. They’ll be dead, and you’ll be alone.”

  STEELE

  Backbone Peak, WV