James Robert Smith, page 29
But no one was coming up the road. Around them the world pressed in on the asphalt way. There were ribbons of concrete on either side, the gutters had been revealed when the workers from City of Ruth had cleared the way. The road was like a huge ribbon in the world, leading up the hills. On either side there were trees and some buildings all closed in by weeds and bushes. But Maya knew not to go into those houses. They were dangerous. She would just have to keep going up the road until she found people to help them. Living people.
Back in City of Ruth, the sky was orange and red. It was on fire, she knew. Something bad had happened there and there weren’t any firefighters to put out so many fires. There was something comforting about the light of those fires, but she ignored that feeling of comfort and pressed on, Rick’s tiny hand in her small one.
She wasn’t cold, though. Her mother had bundled them both up layers of shirts and pants, as she always had done when it looked like they might have to face the dead people, the zombies. “They can’t bite through so many layers,” her mom had explained. “I know it’s hot, but it’ll protect you.” But, now, it wasn’t hot. It was nice. The layers kept her from getting cold. She turned and looked at Little Rick. He was wearing a toboggan, and she paused to pull it down over his ears.
“Are you okay?” she asked him.
“I’m okay,” he said. He turned and looked back down the road. “Are Mommy and Daddy coming? Mommy told us to run. Will she be able to catch up? I think Daddy might be lost. What do you think?” He looked up at his big sister.
“They’ll catch up,” she said, knowing it was a lie. “We just have to keep walking. Mommy said there’s a town up the hill and people there will be nice to us.”
“The people in City of Ruth are nice, too,” Little Rick said. “I like Deacon Sparks. Don’t’ you like Deacon Sparks? Do you think he’ll be waiting for us up the road?”
“I don’t know,” Maya said. “I don’t know where Deacon Sparks is.” She pulled the mittens over Little Rick’s hands and took his right one in her left. “Come on. We have to go.”
They continued on. The night was quiet around them. The trees pressed in like big black walls. The air was mild, and did not rattle the bare limbs or the dry leaves on the ground. For a long time there was just the sound of their breathing, and, from time to time, the noises of battles and muffled explosions from far back in City of Ruth.
So it was quite a surprise when Maya and Little Rick suddenly realized that a pair of dogs was standing in the road before them, blocking the way.
***
BC had smelled Tilly on the wind, but by that time she was dead. When he came upon the scene, the dead form of the one he’d long ago known as Ned was bent over her corpse and feasting on it. He was into a lust he’d rarely seen in the walkers. But sometimes a single one of the deaders would corner and kill one of the living and would consume far more of its victim than seemed possible. At such times, BC wondered where they put it all. Their guts must be enormous, indeed. When BC went close he saw that Tilly was opened up from throat to crotch. Everything inside her, it seemed, had been gnawed away. And even then the thing that had killed her was biting and chewing.
The pack leader turned away from this and followed his nose. There were still two trails to follow, and he still had something left to do.
He glanced back at New Hound and growled. Their eyes met and BC’s head dipped to the left. New Hound interpreted the signal and moved off in that direction, melting into the brush on the far side of the road while his pack leader did the same on the right. New Hound, too, had caught the scent of the two fleeing humans, and he realized that BC wanted to track them down. They would do so, of course, together.
Moving up the periphery of the road, the dogs covered about a mile in some haste. There was nothing else in this no-man’s land but rabbits and raccoon and opossum and foxes. The sign of these creatures were everywhere in the underbrush through which they trotted, but they ignored these creatures, even when they all but stumbled across the cowering forms of them under their paws. There was other prey to be had.
Finally, BC emerged from the tangle of bushes on his side of the road and he moved out into the middle of the way. He yipped once, very briefly, and New Hound stepped out to join him. They sat there, like two obedient dogs, as if waiting for their masters.
But it was nothing like that. Nothing like that, at all.
The pair of them had only to sit just so, waiting; almost smiling to themselves while the pair of children tottered toward them in the dark. They could see the little boy and the little girl walking in their direction quite perfectly, quite clearly. But they knew that humans could not see in the dark as dogs do. The children were all but walking blind in the pale moonlight. It was so damnably easy to just sit and wait for them.
The little ones were just a few feet away when they became aware of BC and his beta.
“Oh,” Maya said. In reflex, she stood between the dogs and Little Rick.
“What’s wrong?” Little Rick said.
BC rose from where he’d been sitting and took two strides toward the children. He lunged forward, shoving Maya aside and leaped upon the smaller of the two figures, bearing the tiny boy down onto the asphalt.
“Oof,” Little Rick said, his breath huffing out.
BC opened his mouth, baring his fangs, and poised them over Little Rick’s throat.
Little Rick’s heavily encumbered arms closed around BC’s neck, his mittened hands clasping the fur behind his canine skull.
“BC,” Little Rick’s tiny voice called out. “Maya! It’s BC! He’s come to help us!” The child buried his face in the matted fur beneath BC’s muzzle.
The pack leader froze. His heart stopped. If it had been within him, tears would have welled into his eyes. For the first time since he’d been abandoned by this pup’s father and mother, BC did not know what to do. For the first time in months he was confused.
“BC! I knew you’d find us! I told Mommy and Daddy that you’d find us! I knew it!” The tiny child hugged the dog even tighter, clinging to his neck, his voice building into laughter. “BC!” Over and over.
The killing lust was suddenly gone from BC. Great confusion welled in him. But there was something going on, some pack instinct that was far beyond his ability to control. A whimper escaped from his throat.
He licked the boy’s tiny face. As he’d once been, he was now, again, the child’s protector.
Before the reversal of emotion had the time to roil through his mind, BC heard the familiar roar of New Hound preparing for the kill. He took his eyes from the pale, round face of Little Rick to see his huge beta male launching himself at the suddenly cowering form of Maya. As equally confused as BC, she had been stumbling toward him, prepared to try to tear him from her younger brother, then realizing that the dog was, indeed, their old friend. And then the growl of the larger, darker dog from the shadows, its nails scratching atop the roadway, its angry form spearing toward her.
BC shook himself free of the tiny boy clinging to his neck, still damp with blood from the killing of Rick Nuttman. He was just close enough and had just enough time to throw himself between Maya and New Hound before his partner could get his fangs into her flesh. In another mode entirely, he slammed full into the bigger dog. The force of the impact knocked both of them back, although New Hound felt the blow less severely than had BC.
New Hound turned his gaze suddenly to his pack leader. He was utterly confused. What was wrong? What could he possibly have done that was not the right thing? Had it been the angle of attack? He blinked, steadied himself, and once more launched his great head at the little human female who lay just to the right of his pack leader. This time, he would get it right.
Once more BC slammed into the beta. And he barked in vast anger at the big, heavy Lab whose coat was equally decorated with gore that, New Hound realized, was from the father of the boy-child, if not the girl’s. This blow was even more confusing to the big dog than the first had been. What was going on?
BC growled, the sound coming from very deep in his chest. In no uncertain terms he was forcing New Hound back, away from the two children.
And then, as with BC, the sociological hard wiring caused a breakdown. New Hound had done nothing wrong. He was merely doing as he’d done always, since he’d first submitted to the supremacy of BC, since the day his pack leader had found him cowering and hungry, trapped inside his old den, abandoned by his old human masters. And if he was doing nothing wrong, why was he being chastised? Why was he suffering attack? It made no sense. It did not compute.
He would not stand for it.
New Hound plunged headfirst toward BC, his 100-pound bulk bearing down on BC, who was, on the face of it, overmatched. The big Lab’s teeth sought for purchase on the Border collie’s neck, but the smaller dog was just too fast and those ivory fangs clicked shut on merely a mouthful of hair.
In the half an instant before New Hound could react or regain his feet, BC merely pushed forward and his jaws closed on the thick, strong muscles behind his beta male’s skull. His teeth found meat, and purchase, and he locked down hard and had his pack mate securely, canines and molars sinking deep and holding fast. He would either put New Hound back in his place, or kill him.
For his part, New Hound was no longer in a battle to be put back in his spot as second in command. He was now fighting for supremacy of the pack. The big Lab was now in a battle to kill, or be killed. The confusion that had confounded him just moments before had now become a blood lust, and there was no turning back. He was now bound to kill his former pack leader. BC would have to die.
New Hound pushed back with all fours, and twisted his body in an attempt to shake BC off. But the smaller dog held tight and the teeth in the Lab’s flesh held tight as the hide and the meat beneath it began to tear. Through the pain, New Hound continued to struggle. In his current position he was all but helpless and there was no way for him to take the offense. This way, he was no better than a cowering bitch.
With a high-pitched roar that exhibited more pain than challenge, New Hound renewed his efforts and with a great bloody wrench that caused the skin and tissue behind his skull to rip apart in great, bloody flaps, he found himself at a distance from BC. His eyes were wide, the contrasts of the moonlight filling his line of sight. From a distance there was still the dying symphony of battle, of diminishing gunfire, the crackle of flames, the screams of fleeing humans, the moans of feasting undead. But for New Hound, in that spot, in that instant, there was only BC—protecting these alien pups—and he would now put his old master to rest.
Once more New Hound threw himself on BC. He was a quarter heavier than the Border collie; and he stood a head taller. With more speed and agility than BC thought possible after the mauling he’d handed out, New Hound was on him, forcing his big, blocky head past the lighter dog’s parry, and his big jaws closed on BC’s right shoulder. The Lab shook BC then, not much less easily he would soon shake the corpses of these two human for which his old pack leader now fought. New Hound felt the meat under his teeth, and he could taste the blood, dark and sweet, in his mouth. He heard the tearing of muscle and the creak of bones as he bit down and down and shook harder and harder, BC’s feet coming free of the earth, no purchase to be found there, no way to break free.
In his blood lust to kill BC, the big Labrador did not hear Maya simply walking up behind him. He’d blocked out all sensation in his desire to kill his leader. It was because of his very success that he didn’t hear the ten-year-old at his back, nor realize that he was in any danger at all. The club—an abandoned axe-handle left by a worker who’d been clearing the road, smashed in New Hound’s skull. In fact, it smashed not only into his skull, but also into the gaping wound BC’s teeth had torn there before the big dog had worked himself free.
Despite his overwhelming urge to kill his pack leader, to take on the mantle of alpha, the pain of the blow, delivered even as it had been by a small girl, was so great that New Hound was forced to release his hold on the collie. Turning the face the new threat, he left himself open.
Staggered, injured, bloody, BC saw his chance, perhaps his only chance, and he grappled for a hold on New Hound’s throat. His opponent was fortunately focused on another target and did not realize that BC had so quickly regained his footing. So he made no move at all to defend against the jaws which now closed on the right side of his neck, made no attempt to avoid the teeth which ripped into the soft flesh there, laying it open almost to the bone.
There was the sudden expulsion of arterial blood. It emerged in a tremendous shower that jetted across the roadbed. New Hound’s blood pressure plummeted. His head grew light, and he collapsed in a furry heap upon the cracked asphalt.
Seconds later, he was dead.
BC gazed down at the corpse of his companion. But he did not question what he’d just done. It had to be. To the rear, there were the sounds of the undead, not many of them, but enough. The scattered members of his pack, and of the associated packs that had joined them were spurring them forward. In the mix were some of the sub-alpha pack leaders whom BC had humiliated and subdued on occasion. He took a step toward Maya and Little Rick, pain radiating from his shoulder and neck. There was no way he could battle for them now, not in this condition.
Little Rick’s hands were once more on BC’s head. “He saved us,” the child said. “He killed that bad dog.”
Maya looked up the road, seeing it clear in the illumination of the moon. “We have to keep going,” she said and, taking her brother’s hand in hers once more, started up.
BC agreed, and fell in beside them, limping, the wounds no longer flowing, but trickling with every agonizing step he made. In the night, he took the lead.
The Scent of Ashes:
He walked all night. Behind him, City of Ruth was in ruins. He figured that at least a few had survived. Certainly soldiers would have made it out, but the numbers of the undead and their dog companions might even prevent many of them from getting free. There was nothing to do but wait and see who, or what, showed up at the city limits.
His muscles ached and he had to stop twice to find water, and he was lucky enough to have located a pair of springs in coves as he climbed the mountain. Stockman knew that he’d have made better time on the road, but he wanted to avoid that unless the going got any tougher. There was no telling what had come up from City of Ruth, and he had to make sure he didn’t get caught up in the midst of the undead. If he allowed that, he could very well end up as a target by some of Thompson’s men standing guard.
Just before dawn, he finally hit a point where the ridge along which he’d been hiking finally met up with the road. This was roughly the upper limit where the crews from City of Ruth had been clearing the way, waiting in vain for the Spartans to meet them half way. This was where, Roland Thompson was convinced, the religious enclave was going to station their armor, mortars, and cannon to attack Sparta.
Roland Thompson had probably been right about that, as he’d proven right about so many other things. The simple fact of the matter was that Nate Stockman was tired of being a soldier and he didn’t want any part of that kind of thing. He’d just wanted to live the rest of his life in as much peace as the situation allowed.
Scanning the road in the growing light of morning, Nate didn’t detect any movement or any sound out of the ordinary. Birds made their various sounds, and there were even cicadas going at it in some of the shrubs. So he walked out onto the pavement and headed west, and up. Sparta wasn’t far, now. And he was so tired and had so much to tell the Council.
Deep in concentration as he trudged along, his first indication that he was not quite alone was the faint tapping of nails on the asphalt. It was very slow, and a sound he’d heard quite a bit the previous day: a dog’s toenails clacking against the hard surface. But unlike that of the dogs from earlier, these sounds were very slow and very deliberate. It was almost as if the animal was moving casually.
There was a sudden rush of adrenaline and the fatigue was instantly gone in him. His breath froze up in his lungs and he had his rifle in his hands, his fingers tight about it, holding on and ready for a fight. Stockman senses were heightened and he began to hear things he’d ignored before, in his state of expectation and fatigue.
Sounds of feet shuffling along with the steps of the dog were obvious. It was coming from just around the bend in the road.
Stockman went into a crouch and hustled to the roadside as quickly as he was able. Then, carefully, slowly, he crept around the wide turn in the roadway, his eyes scanning ahead for movement.
He saw them as soon as he came around the turn. There was a dog, and the figures of two children. The dog was limping and seemed covered in blood. Beside it moved two very small figures—what appeared to have been a very young boy and a little girl who’d been, maybe, eight or nine years old, if that. But now they were dead, of course, and this dog, like the ones he’d seen before, was herding these pathetic deaders toward Sparta. The trio moved slowly, pitifully. The children who had become walking dead were still a problem for Stockman. He doubted that shooting them would ever become routine—not for him. But it had to be done.
He raised the gun to his shoulder. Best to take out the dog, first. Wounded though it was, the other two would be easy targets once the hound was out of the way. He peered down the barrel of the AK47. At this range, he couldn’t miss. His finger tightened on the trigger.
