Cruel World Page 17

  “They were saying seventy to seventy-five percent death rate the last time I watched TV.”

  “Bullshit. I didn’t see anyone alive in town when we left, but there were several of those things meandering around.”

  Quinn shrugged. “Let’s say ninety-five percent death rate then.”

  “Sounds closer to reality. You can’t trust the news anyway. They’re a bunch of lying bastards.”

  Quinn laughed. “That’s true. So we have three hundred and seventeen million people alive after the last census and ninety-five percent of that is,” he closed his eyes and rubbed the back of his neck, “approximately three-hundred million people give or take a million. That leaves seventeen million people alive. And for every three that are still human, there are eleven that aren’t so…” He scrunched up his brow again, carrying numbers and shifting figures. “There’s four and a half million of us and—”

  “Over twelve million of them,” Alice finished.

  They sat in the heavy silence that pervaded the room like some oppressive fog.

  “Four million of us left in the entire country. Doesn’t feel like that many.” She sighed and drew her legs up to her chest. “Damn it, I need a drink.”

  “Yeah. That would be welcome,” he said, staring into the fire.

  “They can’t even feed on the dead since the people who got the plague turned into that stinking jelly. They’ll only have live food to go after.”

  “I hadn’t thought of that,” Quinn said.

  “Leave it to me to think of something gloomy.” She fell silent and gazed at the fire before glancing at him again. “By the way, are you some kind of math whiz or something?”

  “No. I was homeschooled and—” He almost blurted out everything to her but managed to stifle it at the last second. “We reached fairly high levels in most of the subjects.”

  “I guess. I’m terrible at math, always preferred art and English to algebra.”

  “Right brained.”

  “I don’t know if there’s anything right about it.”

  They sat in silence for a while, the fire crackling in the hearth, the quiet chirp of frogs somewhere off in the night. It could have been any night, any normal night. They could’ve been here as a family on holiday.

  He shook his head, casting the thoughts away as Alice spoke again.

  “There’s nothing left of them, is there? The people they once were,” she said.

  Quinn remembered the stilts’ cold stare of hatred, the hunger in their gazes as they pursued them down the street, how the thing Graham had become lifted him toward its waiting mouth.

  “No, I don’t think there is,” he replied.

  “How tall do you think they get?” Alice asked in almost a whisper. “I mean, really? The tallest one I saw was when we were leaving the apartment. It was walking along the next street, and its head was only a few feet under the stop light when it passed.”

  “You saw a taller one,” he said, readjusting himself on the floor. “We both did.”

  “Where?”

  “On the internet.”

  Her eyes widened a little and then she blinked. “How far away do you think that one was from the car?”

  “Not sure, but a pretty good distance since at first I thought it was a tree standing there.”

  “So did I.”

  “I would say it was way taller than the one you saw in your town.” Now they were both whispering.

  A knot popped in the fire like a gunshot and they jumped.

  Alice laughed under her breath. “Sitting around telling scary stories in the dark like kids.”

  “But now the stories are real,” Quinn said, dropping his gaze to his hands.

  They both fell quiet, and after a time, Alice volunteered for the first watch. Quinn curled up beside the couch on his sleeping bag, his rifle within easy reach. Ty’s small snores were the only sound besides the fire chewing the oak to cinders, and the tension from the day began to uncoil inside him like a rusted length of wire. His muscles slackened, their strains relaxing to dull aches. The burn on his shoulder still flared with each heartbeat, but it was muted somewhat by the lingering touch of Alice’s fingers. He imagined them there again and then pushed the thought away. There had never been room in his life for useless fantasy and there was even less in the world around him now.

  Their little visitor had retreated with a small piece of bread and was gnawing on it in the corner of the room. He watched it as sleep began to draw his eyes shut, and the last thing he saw was its tail disappearing through a gap in the floor.

  He awoke hours later to the feeling of fingers touching his face.

  With a start, he began to sit up, his hand reaching for the AR-15, but then he made out Ty’s small form kneeling beside him, only a shadow in the low light of the fire. The boy’s hands traced the humped curve of his cheekbones, the incongruence of his left eye socket, the jutting point of his jaw. The urge to pull back ebbed as Ty’s fingers ran down his nose and then fluttered across his forehead before falling away. Quinn lay there, frozen, waiting for Ty to begin crying or call out for his mother, but the boy simply sat beside him, looking down with eyes unseeing.

  “You’re different,” Ty finally said. “Like me.”

  Quinn struggled for words, but nothing would come. Ty smiled and rose from his knees to lie back down on the couch. Within minutes his breathing was deep and rhythmic once more.

  Chapter 15

  Forks in the Road

  “If there wasn’t anything blocking the highways, we’d be there in less than a day.”

  Alice glanced at him from the passenger seat, the early morning sunshine settling on her hair so that it shone like oil. They were on a four-lane highway, the sides of the road still heavy with trees and brush, its stretched path through the country unblemished save for a motionless car every few miles that they pulled around without looking into. The occasional farm would appear, dormant, without movement except for a flag attached to a porch or a weathervane tattooed against the sky atop a silo. He could barely keep his eyes on the road for all there was to see beyond it. The sky, the fields, the houses. Everything so large, so open and wide. The whole world beyond the windows.

  His stomach rumbled, and he placed one hand there. They’d risen early and eaten jerky since there was no hot water, and no one seemed in the mood for powdered eggs anyway. Without saying much of anything, they’d loaded the Tahoe and pulled away from the little farmhouse along with the glade it sat in. Now his appetite was returning again, the three square meals a day Graham had cooked only a memory from another life.

  “Seems strange, doesn’t it?” Quinn replied. “That so much could change in a few days’ time?”

  “Strange doesn’t touch it.”

  “There’s other people out there; we just have to find them,” Ty said from the backseat. He’d awoken better rested than either of them, though Quinn knew that wasn’t where the boy’s unfailing optimism came from.

  “You’re right, baby,” Alice said. “We’re on our way right now to look for them.”

  “The army, right?” Ty asked.

  “Yep.”

  “Like Grandpa Fisher was in?”

  Alice froze and something passed across her face. The clouds that were usually there deepening into a storm before sliding away again.

  “He was in the Navy,” Alice corrected him, but the timbre of her voice wavered on the last word. Quinn threw her a glance before focusing on the road once again.

  “And when we find them, they’ll protect us, right, Momma?”

  “Yes, they will.”

  “From the monsters.”

  “Yes, from the monsters.”

  “You’re not scared of them, though, are you, Quinn?” Ty asked. He could feel the boy’s small hands gripping the back of his seat to pull himself as far forward as his seatbelt would allow.

  “Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” Quinn said. “But we can learn from the things that scare us.”


  “Like what?”

  “We can learn how to beat them. We can learn about ourselves.”

  Alice shot him a look that he couldn’t quite interpret.

  “You mean like what makes us scared?” Ty said after a pause.

  “Something like that, yes.”

  “Momma’s scared of fire.”

  “Ty, that’s enough,” Alice said, turning in her seat. Her voice cut the air of the vehicle like a knife, and Quinn heard Ty sit back. Alice shifted again, her eyes staring out the windshield at the road that spooled away from them.

  Quinn cleared his throat. “We should stop sometime soon for gas and water.”

  “Yeah. Next town is Belford. It’s coming up in three miles,” Alice said, consulting the map on her phone.

  “Wonder how long the towers will hold,” Quinn said, motioning to the device.

  “Not sure. The power might stay on for weeks, but when that goes, I’m guessing the service will too.”

  “Then we’ll have to consult an actual paper map.” Quinn gave an exaggerated shiver.

  Alice chuckled. “Where the hell are we even going to find something like that?”

  Quinn reached out and tapped the glove compartment. “I put one in there before we left the house.”

  “You were thinking ahead. Were you doing that for us or had you already planned on coming with?”

  “For you.”

  Alice nodded and smoothed her hair back behind her ear. “We still haven’t talked about what’s going to happen.”

  “Happen?”

  “I know you’re here now, and maybe you think you’re some kind of knight or something…”

  He glanced at her then back at the road. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means we were supposed to part ways in Portland.”

  “Not sure you noticed but Portland didn’t really go as planned.”

  “No, it didn’t, and I already thanked you for what you did but…”

  “But now you want me gone.”

  “We don’t know you, Quinn. You seem like a nice guy, but we do better alone.”

  Ty began singing under his breath, an airy rendition of another popular song Quinn couldn’t name. His stomach roiled with hunger, and something else.

  “I’m not in this for anything. I’m living in the same world you are. If you really want me gone, I’ll find another car in town.”

  Alice wouldn’t meet his gaze, and Ty continued to sing.

  “In any case, it was smart thinking to bring the map,” she said finally.

  Quinn shrugged, begrudgingly. “My dad liked to plan; guess he passed it down to me.”

  “What did he do?”

  His mouth began to dry and he tried to swallow what felt like grit on his tongue. Not yet. The sign for the Belford exit appeared beside the road and he gestured at it.

  “We’ll have to be careful,” he said, curving the Tahoe onto the off ramp. “We can almost be sure to run into one or more of them in town.”

  Alice watched him for another span, but he didn’t meet her gaze. Finally she focused again on the landscape and slid the AR-15 beside her into her lap.

  Belford appeared with a lone gas station beside the road, a dizzying amount of plastic pinwheels made to look like flowers spinning in the grass apron before the store. A county dump truck was parked beneath the tall awning along with a red Volkswagen Rabbit. The Rabbit’s door was open, and something dark lay on the ground beneath it. It was only when they pulled to a stop near one of the pumps that they saw it was a man’s severed leg, still covered in dress slacks, the end that should’ve attached to a hip, a ragged mess of red tissue and white bone.

  “Let’s be quick,” Alice said, her eyes locked on the bloody splashes around the leg.

  “Yep,” Quinn said, stopping at a pump.

  When he stepped out, the air picked at his shirt, running its cool hands across his shoulders and neck. He shivered and looked up, avoiding the sight of the Rabbit and what was left of its occupant. The lights in the canopy still burned, and there were dark zeros in the digital readout of the pumps. Quinn filled the Tahoe’s tank and then re-filled the half-empty gas can in the back of the vehicle, all the while watching for movement behind the plate glass of the station or in the barren field filled with the prior year’s weeds.

  When he finished, they left the station behind and cruised into Belford itself. The town was small with what appeared to be two main streets intersecting at its center. The outlying boundaries were filled with homes, yards beginning to green now that the snow was completely gone, dark windows gazing at them as they rolled past. A grocery store sat on the closest corner, coupons plastered against the inside of the front doors. Darkness hung inside the store, only the first rows of food visible from the street.

  Quinn pulled the Tahoe to a stop at the curb, waiting for a full minute before putting the vehicle in park. They watched the street for a while, a dirty napkin and a plastic bag drifting on the sidewalk, the shine of the silver water tower looming above the buildings. Quinn leaned forward, squinting into the glare.

  “What?” Alice asked.

  “Thought I saw something move on the water tower.”

  They both scanned the scaffold surrounding the bulbous structure, its top wearing a triangular hat of steel.

  “I don’t see anything,” Alice said, sitting back.

  “No, me neither.”

  “Me neither,” Ty said, then giggled.

  Alice closed her eyes, shaking her head. “Tyrus, that’s terrible.” To Quinn she said, “He picked up a twisted sense of humor somewhere.”

  Ty continued to laugh, and Quinn glanced at her. “Yeah, wonder where?”

  He scanned the street again, shooting a final look at the water tower before opening his door. Dirt crackled beneath his boots as he made his way to the Tahoe’s rear and drew out his AR-15. Checking the safety, he stopped at the driver’s side.

  “I’ll go in and have a look around, and if it’s okay, we can all carry a few things out,” he said. He saw Alice’s eyes shift to a newer model Ford pickup a ways down the street.

  “We’ll load our things in that truck. You can have the Tahoe back,” she said.

  “No, I’ll take the truck. You guys keep this. I’d feel better about you having it.” Alice started to protest, but he held up a hand. “If I can’t come with you, this is the only way I can help. Honk if there’s trouble.”

  With that, he shut the door, cutting off her rebuttal, and moved to the front of the grocery store. He had to wedge his fingers between the doors and pry them apart, but once he did, they slid aside easily. He stopped in the entryway, letting his eyes adjust to the dark, his nose adjust to the stench the store held like trapped breath after the clean air outside. Quinn listened, his heartbeat the only sound in his ears. He stepped further into the store and flicked on the light mounted to his gun.

  The grocery wasn’t as large as some of the big chain stores they’d passed in Portland, but it still stretched further than his flashlight could reach. Many of the shelves were stripped bare, goods busted open and crushed on the floor. Three cash registers sat in designated lanes, their drawers open like surprised mouths, cash drooling over their lips. Quinn moved forward, his boots crunching chips and walnuts.

  He froze as a sound came to him. Had something clicked farther in the building, or had it been an echo of his own passage? He turned and surveyed the bright street outside. The Tahoe sat where he’d left it, Alice visible in the front seat, her gun poking out the side window. Quinn waited another span before moving forward, his light swinging from side to side.

  In the third aisle to his left, he found a stack of canned goods that had tipped over and rolled in every direction. Stew, soup, corn, beets, peas, chili, and more appeared in his beam. At the far end of the aisle, two cases of bottled water sat beside a cardboard box filled to the rim with food. He shined the light across its position, taking in the careful way it was packed along with
the shattered jar of spaghetti sauce, two footprints leading toward the rear of the store.

  Movement came from behind him and he tried to spin, bringing up the rifle, but a cold circle of steel buried itself into the soft skin behind his ear.

  “Drop the gun. Do it now or I drop you.” The voice was rough and deep, gravelly in a way that reminded him of people who smoked in the movies he’d watched.

  “I just want to get some food,” Quinn said. The gun barrel dug further into his flesh and shoved his head to the side.

  “Did I stutter, boy? Put the gun down or you’re dead.”

  Quinn lowered the AR-15 to the floor, stooping low and waiting for the moment when the man’s gun would leave his head, but it didn’t come. Whoever he was, he was careful. When Quinn stood again, he felt a hand fumble with the holster on his leg and then the XDM was gone too.

  “You alone?” the voice said.

  “Yes.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Getting food, the same as you.” There was more pressure from the gun barrel and then it was gone.

  “Turn around.” Quinn did as the voice asked, rotating in place until he faced the man.

  His captor was short and stocky, the details of his face hidden in the choppy shadows thrown by the dim light. A shock of gray hair swept back from his brow in a tangled wave, and the long barrel of the shotgun he held was centered on Quinn’s chest.

  The man squinted and then the shotgun’s barrel blocked most of his sight. Would he hear the blast that sawed most of his head away, or would it just be silent, the portions of his brain that received auditory signals already splattered down the aisle like more spilled food.

  “The fuck happened to you?” the man said.

  “Nothing. I was born this way. It’s called Fibrous Dysplasia.”

  “Can you catch it?” There was a note of fear in the man’s voice now, and Quinn noticed he’d taken a short step back.

  “No. It’s genetic.”

  “Don’t lie to me.”

  “It’s true.”

  The man backed away another two steps, the shotgun still trained on him, and a shaft of light fell on his face. He was in his late fifties or early sixties with a fresh growth of salt and pepper beard covering heavy jowls below a snub of nose. His eyes were sharpened points of green, flitting to Quinn and then to the side.