The Remaining: Fractured Part 35

Deuce quirked his head, closed his jaws so that his lip was caught on the edge of one of his teeth. The picture of intense interest.

Lee grimaced. "Sorry, bud. I ate it all."

The dog appeared disappointed.

"When we get back," Lee huffed to the bottom of the stairs, took a breather as he looked around and made sure no dark shadows moved around in the interior of the antique shop. Made sure nothing had snuck in behind him. "When we get back I'll find a big-a.s.s piece of deer meat for you. And that is a solemn promise, my friend. If I fail you on that, I give you permission to eat me instead."

Deuce trotted away a few steps, disinterested.

"Yeah." Lee shrugged. "I know I'm not much to look at, but there's still some meat left on me."

He quieted as he moved through the antique shop again, approaching the open front door. Deuce sauntered around casually and seemed relaxed to Lee. He sniffed at a few pieces of furniture, p.i.s.sed on them, then moved on ahead, nose to the wind and giving no bad reaction to what he smelled.

Despite the cold and the sickness and the brutalized body that complained from every region of nerves, Lee felt suddenly and inexplicably at peace. Perhaps it was just some random firing of chemicals in his brain, a little sugar and chocolate and a heavy dose of relief. He stepped out of the doorway with the rifle snug in his shoulder and moved as smoothly as he could across the street, though his feet felt like sacks of sand, his limbs shaky like rickety sticks.

He climbed into the cold van, Deuce sniffing around before jumping up and climbing clumsily across Lee's lap to the pa.s.senger seat. He closed the door and looked into the back. Still some supplies leftover. He could feel the hunger in his stomach. A sharp, mindless ache that nearly overpowered his thought processes. He'd gone hungry during intense training, but he could honestly say that it was never this bad. He was actually starving now. A sensation that gave the word new meaning and made all his previous uses of it seem like bulls.h.i.+t.

He pulled the rifle strap off his shoulders and laid it between the two front seats. Made sure the doors were closed and locked, and then climbed into the back, telling himself repeatedly, whatever you do, DO NOT fall asleep back here. You CANNOT fall asleep back here.

Earlier, his fis.h.i.+ng around in the dark had yielded the bottle of water and the candy bar, but he was sure there was more to be had. He went through it again, trying to see the items in the darkness, seizing upon small shapes and holding them close to his face, trying to identify them. He found a few more items of junk food-didn't know what they were, but he opened them and ate them without hesitation. Sweet, creamy, cakey. Probably Swiss Rolls or something. He wasn't really paying attention.

A bag of peanuts. He ate a handful.

Mouth was dry, so he rooted around for water, found two more bottles. Gulped half of one down and then started to feel his stomach rebel, so he went a little slower. He offered the remainder of the peanuts to Deuce, pouring them into a cupped hand and putting them under the dog's muzzle. A gentle wag of the tail, and a soft, warm tongue scooped them out and let him know that Deuce was appreciative. He tried to find something to put the water in, but came up empty, so he used his hands as bowls again. Though it was clumsy and his hand-bowls leaked badly, Deuce got most of a bottle of water down.

"We good to go?" Lee asked quietly, feeling that dangerous drowsiness come swooping in again. "Because we need to go." He blinked. His eyes shot open a few seconds later, realizing he'd nearly fallen asleep. Deuce stared at him. He pulled himself forward towards the driver's seat. "I'll stop for coffee on the way," he muttered.

He sat in the driver's seat for a long moment, fighting off sleep and wondering where they would go. He had no idea where they were and when he looked up he saw no stars to tell him which compa.s.s direction he faced. Even if he did know which direction he faced, he had no idea which direction would bring him back to friendly territory.

He'd been northwest of Camp Ryder. He was sure he hadn't run too far on foot during the first few days when his head was a jumble of shorting wires. Probably hadn't gotten farther than five miles. Ten at the most. No idea which direction he'd run in. Then he'd been found by Shumate and his group and they'd put a hood over his head before they drove him to where they had their little camp set up. The little auto garage somewhere out there. Location a mystery.

Perhaps if he just knew the town he was in.

"I'm gonna drive," he said to himself.

He'd spent hours looking at maps of the region. Knew the cities and towns by heart, and the roads that connected them. If he could just stumble across one highway junction, or one sign that told him which munic.i.p.ality he was in, he would know where he was...hopefully.

Putting a lot of faith in my scrambled brain right now.

But he wouldn't stay here through the night. Not with a horde of infected sleeping somewhere nearby. Not with his death clock ticking, the bit of food and water and the antibiotics meant for fish just staying the advancing hands for a moment, giving him a little breathing room. Not at all taking him out of danger. He still needed help. Still needed to find his way back to Camp Ryder, or some friendly outpost as soon as he possibly could.

And he was awake now, at least for a time.

He cranked the van, felt his mind focus around a tiny little jolt of adrenaline as the sound seemed like a shotgun blast in the stillness of the night. Or early morning-he really had no idea what time it was. The clock on the dashboard said 2:34, with no AM/PM designation, and he had no way of knowing whether it was correct or not.

He pulled his rifle up so it leaned between the seats, barrel up. Easily accessible.

He dropped the van in drive and rumbled forward along the street. He went on through the darkness for a moment, then risked turning on his running lights, and then his headlights. The light scared him, like a beacon screaming for attention, and it made him press the accelerator down. He glanced at the gas gauge, reminded himself that it was on E now. But the light hadn't come on yet, which meant he had at least thirty miles to go before...

As if to tell him he was not quite so lucky, the light came on.

He stared at it and thought of the dream he'd had.

The one where Angela had told him he was cursed.

He looked up just in time to see something in the road, felt the hard crunch of it hitting the front right b.u.mper, the jolt of the wheels going over it. Deuce yelped and Lee cried out in alarm. He looked in his side view mirror, heart slamming the weariness out of him. He couldn't see anything in the redness of his taillights and he wasn't going to stick around to find out.

He slammed on the gas, feeling at any minute an infected was going to crash through his window.

The road roared underneath them.

Buildings turned to trees.

Deuce whined, unsettled.

A speed limit sign.

A caution sign depicting a T-intersection, but when they reached it they only found a gravel farm road.

His heartbeat eventually settled.

He came to another intersection, and this time slowed to a stop. The road he was on terminated in a larger highway, and the signage directly across from Lee bore the state highway symbol marked 421. The relief that came over him when he saw that sign post nearly made him tremble, but it was tempered by reality. 421 was a very long highway, and there were still many, many things that could go wrong. Not the least of which was determining where on that very long highway he was, and which direction he needed to turn to get back to friendly territory.

He looked around, but could see no sign telling him what road he was on that intersected with Highway 421. Each corner of the intersection was just a black overgrowth of weeds and trees. An abandoned car sat across from him on the right, a small, sub-compact that seemed nearly buried in the overgrowth now. The winds.h.i.+eld was smashed in, and the hood showed some damage. From underneath the front of the car, Lee could see the reflective green panels of a road sign.

He put the van in park and slowly opened the door. Deuce grumbled and whined, but made no overt reaction when he scented the air. Lee swung his legs out, taking his rifle up. He felt the exhaustion in every bit of him. He was back to that little ledge of consciousness where he knew it was no longer a question of whether his body was going to give out on him, but when. And he knew that it was going to hit him hard when it came, just like it had in the stairwell, barely able to move another foot.

Even now every muscle fiber felt like a rusted steel cable, creaking under a too-heavy-load. When he stood up, his legs complained stiffly. Holding his own rifle sent waves of fatigue up his arm. For the first time that he could recall, he was genuinely nervous about the possibility of being forced to fight, because he knew he wouldn't last long. He knew there was nothing he could do about it, but somehow still felt ashamed by it.

Grimacing, he forced movement out of the bound up machine of his body. Around the front of the van and to the side of the right shoulder of the road where he could get a better vantage point on the sign that the little sub-compact car had run over. He tilted his head and saw the numbers on the green road sign.

2195.

A second wave of relief, stronger than the first. He knew that road. He knew where he was. And he was not far from OP Lillington. Not far at all. Maybe another half-hour of driving? If he went fast and took some chances. Kept the windows down to stay awake. Talked to himself to keep his mind engaged. Yeah. He could make it.

Did the van have enough gas?

Maybe. Hard to tell.

He would just have to go for it.

Lee moved back to the van, his legs articulating stiffly. Deuce waited for him as he climbed in the van, licked his face tentatively. Doing his part to keep Lee awake. Lee slumped in the driver's seat for a moment, gathering himself for the effort that it took to pull the door closed and put the van in gear. Then he drove on, making the right-hand turn onto Highway 421 towards Lillington.

The highway stretched on hypnotically in the dark. The reflectors still shone brightly when his headlights. .h.i.t them, though the road was often covered by a thick layer of debris from storms and recently fallen leaves. He watched them pa.s.s underneath the van, one after the other, like a pocket-watch swinging back and forth. He kept closing his eyes and then snapping awake. Closing his eyes. Snapping awake.

He kept the van at seventy, but tried to keep an eye on the road ahead of him, and he slowed down for curves so that he wouldn't run into a roadblock. But mostly he just hope and prayed that nothing would stand in his way. That nothing would stop him from reaching Lillington. Because at this point, he couldn't slow down. It was a race against his own body. Betting against when the exhaustion would take over and force him into unconsciousness.

It almost went by without him noticing, but the road turned into four lanes with a double-yellow dividing them, and when he eventually realized this, he knew that he was close to Lillington. He began to see abandoned convenience stores and small gas stations, and the houses grouped together in small cl.u.s.ters. Everything dark and dilapidated, but he recognized many of the landmarks and knew that he was going to make it to Lillington.

If his memory served him, he would be able to see the OP Lillington just over the next rise in the road.

The car beeped at him urgently and he looked down at the gas light. The needle firmly on the E.

He looked up.

A shape loomed out of the darkness in front of him. An abandoned car, his sullied brain managed to register, and he slammed on the brakes. They screeched loudly, then locked. He jerked the steering wheel to the right, but the van only gave him a minor course adjustment, and he collided with the abandoned car going forty-five miles per hour.

CHAPTER 27: LOST AND FOUND.

Complete darkness. And fire. A dark fire that he couldn't see.

Lee's mind swam around, halfway to the surface of consciousness, like a submarine with a broken ballast that couldn't quite rise out of the water. In his mind's eye, he knew he was in a vehicle, but he saw himself when he was sixteen, sitting in an old, hunter-green Ford Ranger pickup, still gripping the wheel as steam rolled out of the crumpled hood and he sat terrified and wondering what the h.e.l.l he was going to tell his father about how he'd wrecked the truck...

Lee did not wake up, so to speak.

Lee became more aware of what was going on around him. None of it made any sense to him, but nevertheless his brain began interpreting signals from his eyes, from his nose, from the nerve endings on his face. None of the facts came together coherently for him, but rather just drifted around in some mental amniotic fluid, half-developed.

He could smell acrid smoke. That sharp, harsh smell from when the airbag deploys. And he could feel the burning sensation on his face, but he knew it wasn't actually a fire. He could see the big white bulk of the airbag deflating in front of him. He tried to reach out to push it away from him, but suddenly it seemed like it was miles away. His arm felt like it was stretching out for miles to reach it.

More unconsciousness.

Deuce growling loudly.

Lee reached over, started trying to find the dog, though he wasn't sure whether he was dreaming about doing it, or actually doing it in real life.

He opened his eyes and realized he'd just been laying there, motionless, his hands still limp at his sides. He tried to sit up a bit, but couldn't really complete the motion. Unconsciousness pulled at him like a black hole. He looked to his right, his eyes crossing as they moved, and he could see Deuce there, crumpled in the floorboard of the front seat, whimpering and shaking, one paw raised up as though it were injured.

"Deuce," Lee let out a dry whisper.

He heard a high-pitched motor. Something small. Like a dirt bike.

He reached out for Deuce with the last bit of anything he had, managed to touch the dog on the neck. Then his eyes rolled out the broken winds.h.i.+eld and he could see a single headlight bouncing towards him as the noisy whine of the dirt bike's engine drew closer.

I won't go again, he thought as he slipped. I won't let them take me again.

Not again.

Not again.

He dreamed dreams of reality.

Deuce was barking madly and Lee wanted to fight, but his body felt like something made of cast-iron. He thought of Angela on the rooftop, and how she had told him that he was cursed. That everyone around him died. Just like Deuce was about to die. And Lee couldn't stop it, because he was going to die too.

He felt himself falling, his feet tumbling over nothingness. Hands grabbed him. He felt cold and warm, all at once. This world collided with another full of his memories, and all the pieces intermingled. Mom and Dad in double coffins, and Deana standing next to him, except that it wasn't Deana-it was Angela.

"Everyone around you dies," she said sadly.

And then Dad was looking at him, angry. "What the h.e.l.l'd you do to my truck?"

Then another face, and he was on his back and the face was leaning over him. An infected, its mouth open wide, about to bite him. Lee struggled for his knife, felt his hands gripping it but the hardwood handle felt more like sand in his fingers. The infected yelled at him as he brought his knife up.

"Captain Harden!"

Then the infected grabbed Lee by the wrist and twisted the knife out of his hands. Lee jerked back and forth as best he could, trying to punch or kick at the infected, or get a hand around its neck, but again drifted into another place and the face of the infected was the face of Jacob and he was laughing like a madman.

"They're all dead!" Jacob shouted as he laughed. "They're all dead, Lee! All your friends! Everyone you knew! Everyone in the world! Everyone is dead! Complete and total and unequivocal extinction, my friend. You're completely alone. The only person left on the face of the planet."

Other infected came. They all bore the faces of people that he knew. He was carried. There was shouting. There were gunshots. Then he was carried further, and he was laid down again and it was cold metal that he lay on. Captain Brian Tomlin crouched next to him, shouting at someone else, and Lee wondered abstractly if Tomlin were still angry with Lee for throwing him in that metal box when he first showed up.

Maybe this was Tomlin's revenge. He came all the way from South Carolina, only for Lee to wrongly imprison him, and now he was an infected, and he was h.e.l.l-bent on revenge. He was going to put Lee into a metal box and in the dark he was going to eat Lee alive while he was barely conscious and couldn't fight...

Tomlin looked down at him. "We got you, Buddy."

Lee reached for Tomlin's neck, planning to choke him to death, but Tomlin just took his hand and held it firmly.

Back down into blackness. Back into formless void, like floating in a vacuum. And then like a meteor, he streaked through the firmament of his own mind, slamming down into earth, embedding there, dark and solid and shapeless and surrounded by megatons of smothering soil and there was nothing but him and the darkness, and his thoughts and memories could not reach him there.

When he did awake, he knew instantly that it was reality.

Lee's mind was instantly in high-gear. The fever that had clouded his brain seemed lessened, or perhaps broken completely, and the exhaustion was gone and replaced with a sudden and horrible energy, the positivity that he was being held somewhere, perhaps an infected den. A live bit of food for the pregnant females that were lurking in the darkness. The notion that he had to escape rippled through him like static electricity.

But it wasn't completely dark. He lay on his back and he could see rafters above his head. A high ceiling. Something like a warehouse, or maybe a large showroom. He got the impression of a vast s.p.a.ce. There was movement around him. Voices.

The next thing that he noticed was that he was not bound, and it set his heart to slamming. He would have to make a run now, while he still had a chance. He would have to just get up and start running.

He leaned up just slightly.

Stared in shock. Confusion.

It was a wide open s.p.a.ce, dimly lit. Some old cla.s.sic cars, once s.h.i.+ning and beautifully maintained, were now covered in a layer of brown dust and shoved off into the corners and against the walls to make room for a Humvee and a big bus. A big, white, church bus. Just like the one that Old Man Hughes and all the survivors from Dunn had used.

And there were people. People standing around. People milling about. Engaging in casual conversations. Not infected. Just regular people. And none of them were pointing a gun at Lee. None of them guarded the exits of this big open s.p.a.ce.

"What the f.u.c.k?" Lee murmured to himself.

His hand went to his side, reaching for his knife, but it was not in the sheath that still hung on his belt.