Nothing but a single dot for the pupil remained. The rest of her eyes were a grayish white. Grace reached back to grab for Candice and only swiped air. She turned her head for a second to look for her, saw she had backed up, and when she looked again at Macy, the small child had assumed a froglike position on the couch, preparing to leap.
“What do we do?” Eugene asked.
Upon hearing his voice, with an ear piercing squeal, Macy leapt from the couch, her aim on Candice.
Max quickly intercepted the four year old mid-jump, wrapping his arm around her waist. “Go!” he said. “Grab the stuff and go!”
Macy kicked and screamed, her hands slapping down, scratching into his arms furiously.
“Go!”
Grace grabbed Candice and lifted her up, watching Max the entire time.
“Let’s go!” Eugene grabbed her arm, pulling her along.
Max’s arms were bleeding badly as he fought to restrain the maddened child.
“Go!” Max yelled.
Eugene grabbed what he could of their things while ushering Grace to the basement door that led to the garage.
Once in the garage, Eugene opened the back door, tossed in their few bags of supplies, then got up front. Grace got in the back with Candice.
“Close the door, Grace, close it!” Eugene started the car.
“Don’t leave him!” Candice shouted. “Don’t leave Max.”
“I’m not. I’m getting ready to go.”
In the backseat, arm wrapped tightly around Candice, Grace watched the basement door. It seemed like an eternity, but Max eventually emerged, his arms bloody and looking like he was attacked by a dog. Within a second of him closing the door, it rattled on its hinges.
Max ran behind the car to the tool bench. searching for flashlights and other items, he saw the medium sized hammer that was on the workbench and he grabbed it. He swiped up the jar of nails, the single baseboard panel that lay next to the bench, and the can of spray paint.
Thankfully, the door opened into the garage and that worked in his favor.
It rattled insanely, banging and shaking. Macy was a small child. He could only imagine what a full grown adult could do.
Hurriedly, Max placed the baseboard plank over the door and quickly pounded two nails in each side. After putting the hammer in his back pocket, he lifted the spray can. He had every intention of writing ‘stay out’, but figured who would see it? The board alone was enough to indicate something dangerous was in there.
Instead of a warning, he sprayed Macy’s name on the door, with the letters RIP, set down the can, and opened the passenger door. He wanted for Grace’s sake to give her daughter a final resting place. The basement of a home wasn’t what he had in mind, but it had to do.
“Get ready to go,” Max said, then walked to the garage door, pressing the button. He hurried back to the car, jumping in as the door lifted, exposing the owner of the house standing in the driveway. He spun around when the door lifted all the way, the butcher knife still plunged under his chin.
“Gun it” Max instructed.
Eugene slammed down the gas pedal, sending the car forward in a shot. Butcher knife man jumped on the hood of the car, but as soon as Eugene turned right out of the driveway at a high rate of speed, the man fell off and on to the road.
Through the side view mirror, Max watched as he stood and raced after them. He turned around to Grace. “Everyone okay?”
“Yes,” Grace said, gripping Candice. “Yes.”
“What now?” Eugene asked.
Max took a second to catch his breath. “I don’t know. Just drive.”
TEN – SQUISH
A man named Beret joined Myron and Stanton on their jaunt to get Bessie and a school bus. The bus was the easy part, it wasn’t far from Caramount School, parked a few blocks away at the district bus lot.
Beret was immune, one of the few at the shelter who were. A smaller man with a thick gut and hair that needed a trim, he volunteered when they asked because of his skills. He was a truck driver and would be the best one to drive Bessie. He was a man of few words and kept making comments about how Stanton had a hint of a pee odor, which was pretty much all he said.
When they found the bus, since it was located in a relatively safe and infected free zone, Myron suggested that Stanton take the bus while he and Beret went for Bessie.
“I’m not wearing your urinary tract protection for nothing, you know,” commented Stanton.
They all rode the bus and parked it off of Greenmont Street, where it would be easy to retrieve later. They then made their way off Washington Road to the public safety building where Bessie was stored.
It was the main road; they expected blocked traffic, infected, however, the Ragers who were standing didn’t look twice at the three of them.
Storefronts in the upscale section of the neighborhood had been smashed. Some cars were left on the road, doors open, some containing bodies that were desecrated by hands and mouths.
Myron had a service pistol given to him by Stanton. Beret wasn’t a gun guy, and opted for a baseball bat. Stanton carried his M-4, nestled for safety’s sake in between Myron and Beret as they walked.
It was a warm day for March, yet Myron had placed a scarf over his nose. It didn’t help with the sour and pungent smell. There was a strange chirping, almost clicking sound in the air.
Carefully and quietly they stepped between each body that was on the ground.
“Not that I’m complaining,” Beret said, “but this smell mixed with Stanton’s is making me sick.”
There was a grunt and Myron looked back. Beret had walked into Stanton.
“What’s wrong?” Myron asked.
“This. There are way too many bodies,” Stanton peered left to right.
“They all dropped,” Myron replied.
“Yeah, they did. But we walked here. Did we see a massing like this anywhere else? Only when they are people around they want.”
Myron immediately looked to the buildings. There had to be apartments on top of most of the buildings. They’d passed a huge apartment building a block before and Stanton was right. There wasn’t any huge massing here.
“You think there are survivors somewhere?” Myron asked.
“Or were. Keep an ear out and I think maybe we should look.”
“What about once we’re on the truck, we honk the horn?” Myron suggested.
Both garage doors to the station were wide open and in front of the doors were even more bodies of infected.
Stanton said, “They were here. The survivors. Too many infected here. What is that clicking noise?”
Myron didn’t know. He directed Beret to Bessie. She wasn’t hard to miss; she was huge and shiny, bigger than the other truck. “Why don’t you go get her started.”
“And what? Pull out? How?” Beret asked then gestured to the bodies. “We can’t roll over them. Well, we can, but we take a chance of a body getting stuck in the wheel well.”
“Get the truck ready,” said Stanton. “We’ll move bodies. Myron, start on the left, I’ll take the right.”
“And do what?” Myron asked.
“Move them aside. Make a path.”
There was more than a mechanical reason that Stanton felt it important to move the bodies. It was a matter of respect. Something wasn’t right though, and instinctively Stanton felt it. They needed to clear a path. Myron did his best, and Stanton listened to the play by play description of Beret of getting the truck.
“Keys aren’t here.”
“Checking the office.”
“Nope. Wait. Hey. I found them.”
Great, Stanton thought. Now get it started. And what the hell is that noise?
He grabbed bodies by whatever means he could, arms, legs, and dragged them. They leaked bodily fluids. He placed a body near the mound of others and walked to grab another.