200 Miles to Huntsville
CHRISTOPHER SMITH
“Can you please turn that shit off, man?” Taylor could tolerate talk radio for a while, but this fire and brimstone preacher was just too much. “I mean, c’mon guys, ain’t you got satellite in this heap?”
“This bother you, scumbag?” John Leyva turned to look at him from the passenger seat. “Too bad. All we get out here in the sticks.” He dialed up the volume a few notches. Being an officer in the Department of Criminal Justice had its moments.
“Brothers and Sisters, the time has come to shun the unworthy, the unclean, the unrepentant. The countless evils of modern man have brought down the Wrath of the Holiest of Holies. ‘Know Me, sayeth the Lord, for I have made Thee!’ Those that use the Lord’s gift of knowledge to make themselves into gods among men, have forsaken the Lord’s loving hand, and brought the rest of mankind into the void of Hell!”
“Jesus,” Taylor said, “You’d think this guy was gonna hole up with a shit ton of food and ammo, and blast anyone that came near.” He shook his head. “God bless Texas.”
“You know, a little churchin’ up might be good for you.” Leyva gave another smirk, one that Taylor desperately wanted to smear all over the windshield.
“Oh, me and God are on good terms.” Taylor turned to look out the window of the van. “He don’t talk my ear off, and I don’t bother him by whining.”
He tried to make himself comfortable—not an easy thing to do after Leyva short coupled his restraints—closing his eyes and ignoring the other man. Maybe faking sleep would keep the asshole from bothering him.
“They’re gonna love you up at Huntsville.” No such luck. “Them boys’ll think you’re real cute. You’re just dark enough for the Bloods, and not too dark for the Aryans. And that pretty shaved head of yours?” He gave a sadistic chuckle. “You’ll get more turns than a doorknob.”
Taylor didn’t move. “What’s the matter, boss? Pissed you can’t have a go? Didn’t figure you for that type.” He opened one eye. “Not that I give a damn, I just don’t swing that way.” Leyva’s face clouded over, as Taylor continued, “Don’t worry, though, I’m sure there’s plenty of boys back home that would be happy to take you up on it.”
Leyva glared at him through the divider. “You’re lucky I can’t get back there, jailbait.” He turned around.
Taylor couldn’t resist throwing a parting shot. “Yeah, I’m tired, and don’t want to have to keep one eye open to preserve my virginity.”
He found out how difficult it is to smile with your lips smashed into a metal grate.
“Brake check, sorry.” David Pascoe smiled in the rearview before turning back to the road. Being in the DCJ definitely had its moments. “Keep the flirting to a minimum. I’ve got enough to worry about.”
“Like what?” Leyva gestured at the countryside. “There ain’t shit out here but the occasional tumbleweed.”
Taylor silently agreed. They’d been on the road for a few hours and the scenery hadn’t changed much. Low scrub, a few trees, farmland, and cows. Lots of cows. Typical southeast Texas.
“Been reports of heavy cartel activity lately, expanding their territory up from Corpus,” Pascoe said. “And with our guest here on their short list, I’d rather not take any chances.”
Leyva chuckled. “You’re still stuck in the sandbox, New Boots. Looking for IEDs behind every bush. Lighten up.”
Taylor studied the younger man in the mirror. Early thirties, medium height but muscular build, dark red hair growing out from a high and tight. His eyes seemed to be everywhere—scanning the road ahead, flicking to the side mirrors—until they met his again. Taylor recognized what he saw in them—he’d not only seen shit, he’d been in it pretty deep. At his slight nod, Pascoe blinked in surprise, then looked away quickly. The kid had seen it in him, too.
Pascoe turned to Leyva. “I made it back, with all my parts. I’m comfortable with my paranoia, thank you.” He jerked a thumb towards his partner. “If you’d been just a bit more careful this morning, you wouldn’t have lost a chunk of your hand.”
“And if you hadn’t gotten froggy with the fresh meat, you wouldn’t be here today,” Leyva said. “Whatever. No one would’a seen that comin’. Lousy nutjob gang banger.” He fell silent. Taylor wondered how long it would last.
About thirty seconds.
Leyva squirmed in his seat. “Hey,” he said, “how far till the next town? I gotta piss like a racehorse.”
“Louise is a few miles up. We can stop there.”
“Step on it, will ya?” He grabbed the radio and keyed the mike. “Unit five-four to base, come in.”
“Base here, five-four. What’s up?”
“Gotta make a pit stop, shouldn’t be long.”
“That super-sized soda finally catch up with you, Leyva? What’s the location?”
Leyva glanced at the GPS. “Looks like there’s a place on the south side of Louise. A ‘Stop and Sip,’ just off Highway 59 and FM 271.”
“Roger, fifty-four. Out.”
Taylor spoke up. “I could use a break too.”
Leyva sneered. “No one gives a shit what you want, scumbag.”
“New policy is you have to let me relieve myself on trips longer than three hours, boss.” He looked around the back of the van. “I don’t see a honey pot back here.”
“He’s right, and the last thing we need is a complaint. Besides, we’re in the middle of nowhere.” Pascoe said, “We’ll make sure he drains the vein before we get stuck in Houston traffic.”
“Fucking Robocop.” Leyva grumbled. “Guy takes down two border guards and you’re worried about complaints.”
Taylor kept his voice low, “Shouldn’t have called me ‘nigger.’”
“What was that?” Leyva turned as far as the seat belt would let him. “You say something, shit heel?”
“Yeah, said your homeboys at the border should’a kept their mouth shut.” His grin was feral. “Don’t have a choice now. Jaws are all wired up, aren’t they?”
Pascoe eased off the highway and into a parking lot. “We’re here,” he said. Leyva stayed quiet, focused on disengaging himself from the seatbelt. Watching him struggle against his paunch and gun belt, Taylor ignored the pain from his split lip and grinned. Leyva caught it in the rearview.
“Keep it up, scumbag.” The belt released and he bolted for the store.
“Don’t antagonize him.” Pascoe looked pained. “I know you don’t owe me anything, but I’m trying to do my job here. I’m responsible for your safety during transit. Whether or not I think you’re a dick is meaningless. Leyva has seniority—he beats the shit out of you, and the report says ‘you fell,’ got it?”
“All right,” Taylor said, “Thanks for being straight with me. Just be aware—Dunkin’ Donuts tries shit, I’ll make him regret it.”
“And I won’t regret tasing you.” Pascoe got out and moved to Taylor’s door. “All right, by the numbers. We’ll go in, hit the head, grab some grub, and move out.”
The blast of hot air was a shock after the air conditioned van. Taylor kept his movements slow and careful, holding his legs out for Pascoe to inspect.
“I think you’re taking this a bit too far, Pascoe.” He jerked his chin at the landscape. “I mean, really, where am I going to go? There’s nothing out here but that trailer park, and that ugly-ass church, and more nothing. Both of them are far enough away that you’d be able to catch me or shoot me before I got anywhere near ’em.”
“Procedure. Get sloppy and things go to Hell.” He jerked his chin towards the store. “Inside, nice and easy so we don’t freak anyone out.”
Taylor grunted as they made their way, slowly, to the door.
The guy behind the counter turned as they walked in. Taylor smiled and waved, making sure to clank the chains connecting his cuffs.
Pascoe muttered, “Knock that off.”
The store was empty, aside from the cashier. Good thing, since the chest-high shelves were so close together, Taylor had to turn sideways to squeeze between them. They made their way toward the reach-in cooler running along the back wall.
“So, boss, tell me—any of this seem odd to you?”
Pascoe shook his head. “Not really, just another offender going to a new joint.” He scanned the selection of sodas.
“I’m getting the fast-track. What makes me so special?”
“You put two in the morgue, and two in the infirmary. Brass decided to flush you.” He shrugged. “Nothing strange there.”
“If they hadn’t tried to shiv me in the shower, I wouldn’t have had to.” He looked at Pascoe. “It ever cross your mind why that group of assholes decided to come after me?”
“Nope. Not my problem, offender. Yours.”
“You know why I’m in the joint in the first place?”
“I read your travel card.”
“Humor me, and I’ll stay quiet no matter what Leyva says.”
“Hmmph.” Pascoe glanced at him, “All right. You hit a bank, and your buddy got popped. Rolled on you for a better deal.”
“Yeah. Next question: you and Leyva usually on transport?” Uncertainty flicked across Pascoe’s face; Taylor pressed his advantage. “A rookie cop, and a guy that just got off sick leave, escorting a solo prisoner. It’s a setup, and you’re the lamb, boyo.”
Pascoe shook his head. “No way. Shut the fuck up.”
“All this open area, out in the middle of nowhere.” He swept his cuffed hands in a small circle. “Be real easy to say I got the jump on you—took you hostage, whatever—while the Dirty Boss calls some friends. You end up on the side of the road, I end up in Piedras Negras minus a few extremities.”
“And what, you want me to help you escape? Is that it?”
“Nah. Nowhere to run. Just keep your eyes open.”
Pascoe grinned. “What if I’m in on it, too?”
“You ain’t.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah.” Taylor said, nodding, “You saw some shit in the sandbox, and it’s stayin’ with you, like you gotta do something to prove to yourself you can make the world better.” He gave him a sad smile. “Trust me, I seen that thousand-yard stare on a bunch of vets. Some give up on the world and themselves. Others—like you—get harder, but try to get the world right again.”
“Hmmph.”
“Yeah, ‘hmmph.’ I see how you watch that pink fluffy motherfucker. He’s got the pull to make your life hell again, or at least he thinks he can. He ain’t seen but what? A few small brawls in the joint, maybe some street time twenty years ago?” Taylor jerked his chin towards the restroom. “He hates you for trying to do something right. Wants to bring you down or make you like him.”
“You talk a lot.”
“Yeah, well, ain’t like there’s nothin’ else right now, is there. Just think on what I said.” Taylor pointed toward the handwritten sign in the back of the store. “Gotta use the head, boss.”
Pascoe nodded, grabbed a soda, and walked towards the wooden door. “Leyva,” he said, knocking. “We’re coming in.”
The reply was muffled. “Yeah, give me just a sec.” Clothing rustled, followed by a faint zipper sound. “Clear.”
“Hey, boss,” Taylor raised his hands as far as the short-coupled chain would let him. “A little help? I’ll be good, I promise.”
“The cuffs stay on,” Pascoe said, disconnecting the belly chain. Taylor rolled his shoulders and sighed in relief as they walked through the door.
Taylor was surprised; the bathroom was larger than he expected for such a small store. Two stalls and a urinal were opposite the sinks and mirror. Clean, too, he noticed, the air carrying a strong odor of pine disinfectant. The porcelain tiles on the wall were slightly yellowed with age, but lacked the usual phone numbers, obscenity, or crude attempts at art.
“All right,” Pascoe said, “Get done and let’s get out of here.”
“I got this, rook,” Leyva said, his jaw set.
For a split second, Pascoe looked like he might protest. Leyva narrowed his eyes. “Why don’t you get me some chips?” His tone made it an order, not a suggestion. Pascoe nodded, shoulders slumping slightly as he walked out.
Leyva turned to Taylor. “Use the pisser, so I don’t have to worry about you trying anything.” He moved to the sink. “You know, punk,” he said, turning on the faucet, “you don’t have a lot of friends, inside or out. You should watch that smart mouth.”
Ignoring Taylor’s grunt, Leyva continued, “Now, me? I have lots of friends. Some who would love to find out exactly where you are right now.” He scrubbed harder, muttering to himself. “Damn meth head convict. Hand’s infected or something. Itches like crazy.” To Taylor he said, “Now, a smart man would think about being my friend, too. Maybe giving him some information, like exactly where something is hidden.”
“Someone like me could maybe,” Taylor heard the water pressure increase as Leyva continued, “I don’t know, tell his other friends a little white lie about where you are, maybe help you get somewhere else besides Huntsville.”
“Uh huh. All I have to do is tell you where everything is, and you’ll help me get away. Pull the other one.”
“All I’m sayin’ is that you have very few options.” His voice became edgier as he dug his nails into his hand. “What the fuck did that bastard do?”
Taylor finished and turned to the TDC officer. Leyva looked like he was trying to take his skin off.
“Let me put it this way, scumbag. You can take your chances with me, you can hope that my friends will let you live if you come clean, or you can take your chances in the pokey.” He gave Taylor a toothy smile. “Option C is unlikely. The guys I texted an hour ago are waiting for us.” He scratched harder.
“Tempting. How do I know you won’t kill me as soon as I talk?” Taylor watched as the long gashes on Leyva’s arms began bleeding.
“You think I’m stupid?”
“Yes.”
“Fuck you. I know how this works. I kill you, and my friends don’t get what they want. That puts me in a bad spot.” He continued scratching, moving up to his chest. “You and I take a ride, I keep Pascoe quiet, and we split the money ninety-ten.”
“You only want ten percent? Mighty reasonable, boss.”
“You stupid fuck, I get the ninety. Besides, my friends only really want the financial stuff. If it was just the money, they’d kill you quick, as a lesson. The other…well, that’s gonna make you hurt.” The smarmy little smirk was back. “I imagine they’ll start with your testicles, then take out an eye, then…”
“Go fuck yourself.”
Leyva’s face grew red. “Listen, you little pissant! I’m trying to help you out here, give you a chance to get out of a bad situation!”
“Bullshit, you’re trying to help yourself get in with your ‘friends.’” Taylor snorted. “Ten seconds after I give you what you want, you put a bullet in my head, or call them.” He nodded towards the officer. “You should probably get some cortisone or something before you take the skin off.”
“Shut the fuck up!” Leyva tore open his shirt, exposing his chest. “Give me the money, goddammit!” He launched himself at Taylor.
Taylor’s reflexes saved him, bringing his cuffed hands up to block as the other man fumbled at his clothes, trying to get a hold of his neck.
“What the fuck, you crazy bastard!” Leyva only howled in reply, lunging again. Taylor leaned back, jamming the chain of the cuffs into the officer’s throat. Leyva turned his head, biting at the air.
Taylor had the reach and muscles, but Leyva wasn’t restrained with cuffs, and massed about the same. He might have been doughy, but the shorter man was surprisingly strong. Taylor backed up and set his feet. “Pascoe!”
The bathroom door burst open as Pascoe charged in, taser drawn. “What the…”
“Just shoot him!” Taylor was struggling, the restraints keeping him from using his full strength against the smaller man. Leyva turned with a snarl, dropping Taylor in lieu of the other officer.
“Leyva—shit!” Pascoe hesitated, giving Leyva the opening he needed. He grabbed Pascoe’s arm, and bit down on his sleeve.
“Stun him, dammit! He’s gone nuts!” Taylor threw his cuffed hands over Leyva’s head, hooked the chain under his nose, and jerked back hard.
Pascoe shook loose, stepped back, and fired. Leyva continued struggling, jerking his head in an attempt to dislodge the chain. His movements pulled the darts free, scraps of cloth and meat coming with them.
Taylor jammed the chain in Leyva’s mouth, keeping his hands clear of the teeth. Pascoe fired again. Leyva dropped to the floor spasming.
“Keep it on him.” Taylor kicked the now unconscious officer. Or tried to. The leg chains made the strike ineffective.
“Knock that shit off.” Pascoe said, holstering the taser. “What the hell was that?”
“I don’t know, man, dude just went nuts.” Taylor looked at Pascoe’s arm. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” Pascoe rolled up his sleeve. “Didn’t break the skin.” Dark tooth marks were visible. “Gonna have a hell of a bruise, though.” He looked lost. “Shit, what am I supposed to do now?” he muttered.
The rookie was way out of his depth, and Taylor felt for the kid. A little. His situation was infinitely worse, all things considered. Bad enough getting popped in the first place, but this had just gone off the rails into “What the fuck?” territory.
Huntsville. He had contacts in Huntsville. If he could get there in one piece, he had a better chance. Problem was getting there.
All righty then, a little nudge was in order. “Hey, boss, I know you’re in a bad spot here…”
Pascoe looked at him like a lost butterbar. “Yeah, a bit.”
“All right, so what’s procedure?”
“Secure the prisoner. Never let the prisoner have the upper hand. Maintain discipline and control of the situation.”
“So, what’s the play?”
Pascoe seemed to find comfort in the routine. “First thing is to secure the prisoner, so I’ll be cuffing you to the stall.” He drew his cuffs from his belt. “Please extend your hands, slowly.”
Taylor complied. Pascoe closed one of the cuffs around Taylor’s wrist, the other to the upright of the stall.
“Okay, I’ll take Leyva to the car, you stay on good behavior.” Pascoe took Leyva’s cuffs from the unconscious man’s belt, and moved his hands into the “hogtie” position. The cuffs ratcheted shut.
Pascoe, in better shape but smaller than Leyva, had trouble with the heavier man. “Shit.” After several good tries he couldn’t get the other officer to move. Leyva began to stir.
“Okay, new plan,” Pascoe said. “He’s coming to. Give me your leg.”
Taylor extended his foot. Pascoe unlocked one of the leg irons, and secured it to the frame of the stall. The second cuff clicked closed on Leyva’s ankle.
“Well,” Pascoe said, “when he comes to, he won’t be able to get far.”
“May want to gag him,” Taylor said.
“Good point.” Pascoe pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, tying it around Leyva’s mouth.
Leyva snapped fully awake, struggling against his bonds. The red checked cloth barely contained his inhuman howls.
“You hang tight here, I’ll go call it in. We’ll have to sit on him for a little while until I can get an ambulance or something, get him checked into the local quack shack.”
Time to tip my hand a bit, Taylor thought. “Pascoe, I think we should move, call it from the road.”
“No,” Pascoe said, shaking his head. “Can’t leave him here like this. He could hurt himself or someone else.” For emphasis, Leyva began pounding his head against the floor, moaning and howling. A strong smell came from his direction.
“Jesus, he just shit himself.” Taylor made a face. “At least take me out there with you. Guy is creeping me out.”
Pascoe nodded, unfastening Taylor’s hands, and recuffing them behind his back. “You’re a very thorough man, boss.”
“Live by the procedure and everything tends to work out.”
They started out of the restroom, and into the shop proper. Taylor spoke, “Boss, Leyva said something about some ‘friends’ of his waiting for us. We may want to take a different route.”
“Unh, huh. Right.”
“Dead serious. What I took is real important to certain people. They want it back. I don’t want to be anywhere near them, you dig?”
“Right, like I’m taking the word of some scumbag.”
Taylor was cut off by the store’s clerk. “You boys just stay right there.” The black Mossberg he held didn’t waver.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Taylor said. He stared at the clerk. “I swear to God,” he glanced at the other man’s shirt, “Buford, if you say ‘Bring out the Gimp,’ I’ll kill you.”
Buford jerked the shotgun towards the back room. “Move.”
“I think there’s been a misunderstanding…” Pascoe started.
Buford’s finger caressed the trigger. “I said, move.”
They moved, keeping their motions slow and steady. Taylor had no desire to test the limits of his luck. The small back room was filled with mops, a rack for the fountain sodas, and cleaning supplies. A cheap braided cloth rug covered most of the concrete floor.
“Pull it back,” the clerk said, nodding at Pascoe, “nice and easy.”
Taylor rolled his eyes as the trapdoor was exposed. “Seriously, I’ve seen this movie. It doesn’t end well for you. Don’t let the skin tone fool you, I’m more of a Bruce Willis than a Ving Rames.”
“Shut up.” Buford nudged Pascoe with the barrel of the Mossberg. “Open it. Get down there.” Pascoe made his way down the ladder attached to the wall.
“Hey, man,” Taylor said, rattling his cuffs, “how do you expect me to climb with these?”
Buford shrugged, then snapped the stock of the shotgun forward. Taylor’s vision exploded into color as the wood connected with his chin. He staggered back involuntarily, realizing his mistake just as his foot dropped into the trap. He plunged into the hole, striking the back of his head on the frame.
* * *
Taylor came to in a small room. He squinted against the harsh light of an incandescent bulb as he took in his surroundings. The walls were wooden panels, seemingly slapped in place over two-by-four frames. Hard packed dirt peeked out between the pieces of scrap plywood that made up the floor. The rich, musty smell meant they were still underground.
“Welcome back to the land of the living,” Pascoe said. “Was worried you’d miss all the fun.”
“You have a very fucked up sense of fun.”
“Yeah, well, I’m still trying to figure out what the hell’s going on.”
Taylor sat up and took stock. He had a blinding headache. His hands were still cuffed behind him. Pascoe was on the opposite wall, hands and feet zip-tied, stripped of anything useful.
“Okay,” Taylor said, “we know we’re underground, somewhere near the gas station. Small room, only one door, no windows. What else?”
“As far as I could tell, we walked about three hundred yards, give or take. That should put us under the church we saw.”
“How’d I get here?”
“Two other guys dragged you over. They came from the other end of the tunnel and met us at the ladder. Clerk probably called them before he drew down on us.” A piercing howl came from somewhere outside. “Oh, and Buford had them go back for Leyva.”
“Shit. So I was out for a while.” Taylor’s head felt like a hippo was using his ear as a birth canal. That, coupled with the time he was down, pointed towards a concussion. Not good. “Any idea what these guys want?”
Pascoe snorted and shook his head. “Hell if I know. They seem to be pulling from Koresh’s old playbook, though. Militia? Cult? Some combination of the two? Don’t know.”
Taylor pressed. “C’mon, boss, what did you see? I know you didn’t leave your situational awareness in the sandbox.”
“Cut me some slack, I was a little freaked out by the whole thing. Preoccupied with staying upright and breathing.”
Taylor stared at him, trying to ignore the pain in his skull. Pascoe sighed.
“There’s not much,” he said. “Just a shored-up tunnel, with a couple of doors here and there.” He nodded at theirs. “Wood, so’s the frame. Seems to be set into the dirt, but it didn’t wiggle too much when they closed it, so probably reinforced as well.”
Taylor began working the cuffs behind his back, twisting the metal links around each other and applying careful pressure. He could bring them around to the front of his body, but didn’t want to take the chance of someone walking in while he worked. “Can you get out of those?”
Pascoe’s hands were in front of him, bound at the wrist. He wiggled them a bit. “No, they’re pretty tight.”
“Hold your arms out in front of you, and snap them into your chest.” Taylor had the chain on his cuffs tight. A quick twist of his wrists and the weld broke. He held his arms out in front of him. “Like this.” He demonstrated.
Pascoe followed suit, the flex cuff popping off with the motion. “Whoa.”
“Yeah, you pick things up.”
“All right,” Pascoe said. “Now what? We still have to get through the door.”
Taylor looked around the room, searching for something useful. Nothing jumped out; the room was devoid of any furnishings, supplies, or tools. He moved to the door and examined the frame.
“Don’t suppose you have a knife or something hidden on you we can use to jimmy this door with, do you?”
Pascoe shook his head. “No, they patted me down before they cuffed me. Oh, wait!” He reached under his uniform shirt and pulled out a wallet. “I do have this.” He removed what looked like a thin metal card. “This folds out into a knife. Cheap quality, but may do the trick.” He did what looked like origami and held out a small blade, roughly four inches long.
“Well, if it doesn’t work,” Taylor said, taking the knife, “we could always use that pink credit card next to it. What was that, Victoria’s Secret?”
Pascoe turned about three shades of red in two seconds. “I like their cologne.”
“Uh huh.” Taylor gave him a grin. “Hey, boss, I’m not judging. What you do in the privacy of your own home is up to you.”
“Shut up and get the door open.”
* * *
Some work with the knife and a few solid kicks had gotten them into the tunnel. No guards, just a hundred yards of reinforced dirt walls and bare bulbs strung to light the way. Taylor led the way up the stairs at the end.
Again, no sentries, as they came out of what looked like another storage room. The sound of singing greeted them, hundreds of voices joining into something resembling harmony.
“Let’s get to high ground, see what we may be dealing with,” Taylor said. Pascoe followed him towards the stairs marked “Balcony.”
Crouching, they moved softly up the stairs and around the corner, carefully making their way towards a low wall that separated the upper deck from the congregation area below. The singing stopped.
People were packed into the pews, the silence broken by random sniffles, coughs, and sneezes. All looked like they had just gotten over a bad case of the flu, or were in the process of going through it. Several were wrapped in blankets, huddling against a chill he didn’t feel. All eyes were on the man behind the pulpit.
The preacher wore blue jeans, boots and a faded green chambray work shirt. His tanned face had deep creases, evidence of long hours in the sun. This wasn’t your everyday sip-tea-and-study-scripture type of parson. This man worked outside when he wasn’t sermonizing. Earthy, personable, close to his flock. One that had experienced the hardships of rural life, not just heard about them from the others. He appeared to be in his mid-fifties, but his fine white hair hinted that he was older.
To his left a large cross lay horizontally, a few feet behind a marble altar. Heavy cable, attached to the cross by a large eyebolt, ran up to the ceiling, disappearing just out of Taylor’s line of sight somewhere above and behind him.
“Brothers and sisters, rejoice!” The preacher raised his hands and inclined his head, eyes closing in rapturous delight. “For the Lord has given us our salvation. The wicked will be struck from the Earth, as they were in the time of Noah, with a mighty hand of Judgement.” He paused for effect, allowing the words to hang in the relative silence before continuing. “The evils of Man and the science of Satan have brought the world low, and God Himself has chosen to start anew with his Chosen!”
The whispered, “Amen,” of the congregation was loud enough to carry to the balcony. Taylor and Pascoe shared a glance.
“The temptation to play God, the arrogance of Man to believe himself equal to the Lord, and the turning away from the Almighty have forced His will upon us. You have heard of the sickness spreading in the sunken pits of depravity—New York, Los Angeles, even Houston,” The audience gave a low murmur, punctuated with coughing, only silenced by the preacher making a patting gesture. “I say let them fall! We, my flock, my family, are the meek, and we shall inherit a brave new world! Disease is pestilence, sent by Satan, germs and virus are his minions. These cannot touch the Faithful, those that have accepted God’s love and salvation!”
Taylor whispered, “Right. These folks are batshit. Let’s go.”
“Yeah,” Pascoe said, nodding. “I think I’ve seen just about everything I need to see. Think can we get out of here without getting caught again?”
Taylor’s reply was cut off as the preacher began speaking again.
“Behold, brothers and sisters, the Lord has delivered to us one of the wicked!” Taylor recognized Buford as he and another man dragged a violently thrashing and shirtless form up on the dais.
“Holy shit, that’s Leyva.”
The pudgy corrections officer appeared to have resisted heavily—both of his captors had bloody gashes on their face, and Buford was sporting a fresh bandage on his arm. By the way Leyva’s legs were flopping behind him, it appeared that Buford and company had taken out some of their aggression on him. With tire irons.
“Damn,” Taylor said with a wince, “that looks painful.”
“Yeah,” Pasco replied, “but he doesn’t seem to notice. Probably has multiple compound fractures at this point.” Sure enough, Leyva was still trying to get his feet under him, only to have them collapse.
Buford and his friend wrestled Leyva to the cross, forcing him onto it. After he was secure, The preacher reached under his pulpit. A mechanism above him hummed as the cross rose.
“What the hell are they doing?”
“They’re crucifying him.” Taylor swallowed hard, lips forming a snarl. His voice was harsh. “The sons of bitches are crucifying him.”
“What the fuck is wrong with these people?”
“Cult of personality. Strong leader with a Messiah Complex. Trusting, somewhat isolated group of faithful, but no other teacher. Makes me sick.”
“Really? Wouldn’t have figured this would bother you that much.”
“Look man, I’m probably going to hell for things I’ve done.” He watched as Leyva thrashed ineffectively against his bonds. “But I also believe in forgiveness. Way I see it, that’s between me and the Lord to figure out when the time comes. At least I’ve never perverted the teachings, and I’ve never claimed the evil I’ve done has been in His name.”
“You’re a very complex man.”
Taylor snorted.
The preacher reached under the podium and withdrew a clay chalice. “The wicked must suffer, brothers and sisters, before they can repent. This man has been found lacking in God’s eyes, and has been afflicted. His faith has been discarded, he has given himself over to Satan.” He approached the base of the cross, eyes level with Leyva’s knees, and nodded to Buford.
The bearded redneck crossed the stage and entered a small alcove. He returned shortly, carrying a wooden pole topped with an iron blade.
“Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” Pascoe breathed, turning pale.
The preacher raised the chalice, stretching his arms until it was next to Leyva’s ribcage. At his nod, Buford stepped forward, extended the spear, and carefully inserted the tip between the second and third rib, piercing the skin slightly. A stream of blood flowed down the bound man’s side, into the waiting cup.
After a minute, the preacher lowered his arms, placing the chalice gently on the altar in front of him. He raised his hands in benediction, once again inclining his head and closing his eyes.
“O mighty God, bless this, the blood of your fallen child, so that the penitent and faithful may live.”
Taylor tore his eyes away from the scene below and studied his companion.
Pascoe sat quiet, eyes wide, the shudder running through him a sign of either abject terror or barely suppressed rage. Taylor hoped for fear. Rage was all well and good, but could be an issue if Pascoe got the idea to wade into the crowd and fight his way to the podium. No, in this case the fear could be channeled into will to live. Or at least to get the hell out of here. As long as it didn’t paralyze him.
“Come, my children, let us partake of God’s blessing. The possessed can only be cured with Faith! By taking of his body into ourselves, we can cast the demon out!” He raised the cup, took a small sip, and set it down again. “God has given us a test, we would be less than worthy in His eyes if we did not accept it.” He smiled, lips stained deep red. “Come forward and receive God’s blessing.”
The parishioners slowly approached the altar single file. The preacher blessed each person as they took a small sip from the chalice, in a surreal perversion of Communion. “What Man hath wrought, God may tear asunder.”
Taylor leaned forward, risking a look further into the gallery below. The balcony’s drywall, cracked and stained from years of neglect, gave way as he shifted his weight, landing on the row of pews in the back of the room with a loud thud.
The canvas of his shirt cut into his neck as Pascoe pulled him back, saving him from falling into the crowd below. The preacher snapped his head up at the noise, his initial surprise disappearing as his face clouded over.
Taylor landed on his butt just as the congregation looked in his direction.
“Hey folks, don’t mind us, just enjoying the cannibalistic ritual.” He made a “get on with it” gesture. “Please, carry on. I’m sure God has been missing the human sacrifice aspect of worship.”
Taylor pointed at Buford, slowly drew his middle finger across his neck, and finished the gesture by extending it.
The preacher’s frown deepened as he shot a glance at Buford and the other goon. The two lugs nodded, turned abruptly, and left the way they came.
“Looks like it’s time to go,” Taylor said. “And this time I mean it.”
The preacher turned back to his flock. “Friends, we can see here that Satan is ever vigilant in corrupting the faithful. The Criminal and the Oppressor working hand in hand to infiltrate our congregation. They are the ones that brought this evil into our midst.” He gestured at Leyva, howling through the gag and thrashing against his bonds. “This is their vessel of demonic influence! They are trying to keep us from healing the wretch, undermining our efforts to purify the Fallen!”
The crowd’s vibe turned, going from quietly reverential to a murmuring hostility. Several parishioners had turned to glare at the pair on the balcony, pushing and shoving those around them in an effort to make their way forward.
A heavy tread on the stairs behind them alerted them to the approaching goons.
“Shit. We’re trapped.” Pascoe looked at the busted drywall. “’Bout fifteen-foot drop. Think we can jump?”
“Psh. Doubtful we’d make it five feet after we landed, if we don’t break both legs in the fall.” Taylor moved towards the stairs. “We gotta hit ’em head on. Let’s go.” He picked up speed as he approached the stairwell.
Rounding the corner, he paused briefly at the top step, just long enough to shift into a crouch. Buford, leading his partner as they climbed the stairs, clearly hadn’t expected a confrontation so soon—his eyes widened as he saw Taylor.
Capitalizing on their hesitation, Taylor sprang. His shoulder slammed into Buford’s chest, taking both men down the stairs in a heap. He regained his feet, snapping a vicious kick at the second goon’s temple. The man’s eyes rolled back as he slumped, unconscious.
Buford recovered somewhat faster, attempting to bring the shotgun around. Taylor slammed one foot down on the bearded man’s hand, holding it and the gun, immobile.
“Taylor!” The inmate looked up at Pascoe’s voice.
Taylor caught Buford’s movement just as the man’s pistol cleared the holster. He drew back his free leg, bringing it down hard on Buford’s throat.
Buford dropped the gun to clutch at his crushed windpipe. His lips moved, but produced only wet, gurgling sounds.
Pascoe reached the bottom of the stairs and stepped over the unconscious man, approaching Buford as Taylor lifted his foot. “Don’t do it, inmate.”
Taylor shifted, lowering his foot to the hardwood floor. “Wasn’t. Piece of shit can die slow.” He bent down and retrieved the pistol and shotgun, handing them to Pascoe. He took them, eyes questioning.
Taylor shrugged. “I figure you’d feel more comfortable with ’em.” He turned back to the dying man, staring him in the eyes. “I was wrong, you redneck piece of shit. Looks like I am more Marcellus than Butch. Tell Saint Peter I sent you.” He searched Buford’s pockets and belt, coming up with a folding knife and spare magazines. He passed these over as well.
“I get this guy’s stuff.” After another kick, he stripped the unconscious man of his gear. “Ready when you are, boss.”
* * *
Taylor busted through the door, stopping short to squint in the evening sun.
The church sat slightly forward of the trailer park he had seen from the Stop n’ Sip, the various single and double wides forming a rough circle around a central parking area about fifty yards away. Trucks, cars, and other vehicles were arranged in neat groups all facing the road.
It seemed that the parishioners had learned a lesson from the events in Waco—keep the units separate, don’t group everything together in an easy to assault fire trap, and allow for a quick dispersal of many people in an evacuation situation.
“What’s the plan?” Pascoe was leaning against the door, doing what little he could to secure the rear.
“We need to find a vehicle. I’m guessing they got rid of your van as soon as they got us underground, just in case.” He started for the trailers. “I really don’t want to be standing in the open when they decide to come find us, though.” He stopped, turning to look at the church. “Wonder why they haven’t—”
The sound of the crowd came suddenly, cutting off the rest of his question. What had been almost reverential silence erupted into a cacophony of voices—shouting punctuated with screams.
Not screams. Howls, like Leyva’s.
“Oh, shit.” Taylor glanced at Pascoe, and as one they ran for the nearest trailer. Their meager luck held—it was unlocked. He and Pascoe ducked in, slamming the door behind them.
The stench was overpowering, like the aftermath of an IED without the reek of burning plastic and metal. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Pascoe shift into high alert, bringing Buford’s Mossberg into ready position. Taylor drew his pistol, looked at the other man, and nodded.
The trailer was a standard doublewide, kitchen and dining area in the front, separated from the living area by a short bar. Beyond that, a hallway led back into what he assumed were the bedrooms.
The immediate vicinity was clear, and fairly clean. No signs of forced entry or that anyone had put up a fight. Pascoe, motioning with the shotgun, indicated that he’d take the right. They moved forward.
Taylor’s first door was closer to the front, he carefully turned the knob and opened it inwards. Inside, a workbench covered in reloading equipment monopolized the space in the center of the small room. Surrounding it, boxes of ammo shared the floor space with rifles, shotguns and large crates.
Taylor gave a low whistle. “This guy was ready for everything short of secession.”
Pascoe nodded and turned to his door. He opened it, revealing a bathroom decorated in a baseball motif. Neatly folded towels, sheets and other items occupied the closet just inside. The empty shower’s curtain hung bunched against the back wall.
The smell grew steadily stronger as they approached the end of the hallway. Taylor choked back a gag as they approached his next door.
The scene inside could have been direct from any slasher flick. Blood, collected in black pools, lay everywhere, with what looked like strips of muscle tissue and skin floating in the blood.
“Jesus.” Taylor forced himself to distance the horror in his mind, compartmentalizing it so he could observe the scene objectively. Boy’s room, approximately eight to twelve years old, as indicated by the robot toys and dinosaur posters. Fresh kill, no more than a few hours old. The sickly sweet odor of rotting carcass hadn’t had time to set in. He shook his head, closing the door and turning to the one across the hall.
This seemed to be a girl’s room, late teens. Posters of boy bands and pop groups decorated the walls, some torn to shreds. The smell of excrement and urine assaulted them, coming from the bed. No blood in here, just filth. They closed the door on the empty room and moved to the last one.
The stench hit them like a ton of bricks. Blood, open intestines, urine and shit mixed into an unholy miasma. What was left of the mother lay on her bed, eyes wide, throat torn out. The remains of the boy were there as well, most of the torso poking out from under the frame. At least one arm was conspicuously absent, while the other had been stripped to the bone.
Taylor heard Pascoe retch behind him, the sour vomit adding to the overall stench. He turned to see the cop bent at the waist, voiding what little had been in his stomach.
Taylor moved towards him, stopping as the other man raised his hand.
“I’m fine,” Pascoe said. “Just give me—”
A howl from the bedroom cut him off. Taylor spun in time to see the girl charge, clawed hands caked in her family’s blood. His pistol struck the doorjamb as he snapped it up, the unexpected shock causing it to drop from his hand. He backpedaled into the hallway, catching a heel on the ruined carpet in his haste. He hit the floor.
The Mossberg’s roar in close quarters was deafening—the girl’s chest blossomed into a bloody mess as the pellets tore into her. She dropped, showing Taylor the destruction to her back. The buckshot had blown open her ribs, bloody bones poking through in several places. She twitched weakly for a few more seconds, finally becoming still.
“Holy shit, that was close.” Taylor stood up. “Thanks, boss, I owe you another one.” He looked at Pascoe. “Boss?”
The TDC officer stared at the body of the girl, eyes wide and jaw slack. He dropped the shotgun as he sank to his knees.
“I just killed a kid.”
“You had to.” Tayor hunkered down next to him. “You gotta block it out. You didn’t have a choice. You had to do it.”
“No, no. She was just a kid, man. God, I killed a kid!” Pascoe was shaking as the realization hit him full force. “I’m supposed to be the good guy. This is so fucked. I’m so fucked.”
“C’mon, boss, I need you with me here. We ain’t out of this mess yet. Get your game face on.”
“I can’t…it’s too much…” Pasco sat back, wrapping his arms around himself and rocking slightly. “Fucked. So fucked.”
Taylor took a step back and considered his options. Not good. Solo in unknown hostile territory doesn’t end well most of the time. Fuck.
Pascoe was sliding further into himself, muttering quietly. “A kid. Probably just had her first prom.”
No time to look for clothing that fits, and these are going to peg me for an escapee. And until we get out of here, I’m going to need someone to watch my back. Dammit. Taylor approached the other man.
“Boss.” No reaction. “PASCOE!” That got his attention. “You were infantry, right?” Pascoe nodded, eyes vacant, before dropping his head again. Taylor pulled out his best Drill Sergeant imitation. “Soldier! I’m talking to you! You don’t turn away from me!” Pascoe’s head snapped back, old instincts taking over. “That’s right, grunt. You look at me when I’m talking to you. What is your mission?”
Pascoe’s voice was soft, hard to hear even in the relative silence of the farmhouse. “To deliver the prisoner.”
“I can’t hear you.”
Stronger this time, “To deliver the prisoner.”
“I SAID I CAN’T HEAR YOU, ASSHOLE!”
“TO DELIVER THE PRISONER, SIR!” Taylor watched the change in Pascoe’s face, the officer’s eyes flashing in sudden anger. “To deliver you, inmate.”
Taylor smiled. “Good to have you back, Pascoe.”
Pascoe’s anger drained from his face as the exchange sank in. He laughed in spite of himself. “You know, I think something like that could get you tossed from the Fraternal Order of Bank Robbing Scumbags.”
Taylor shrugged. “Eh, let my membership lapse a while back. I’m not a lodge kinda guy. And I don’t look good in a fez.” He helped the other man to his feet. “We need to get moving. Things are going to get real nasty around here soon.”
“Right. Let’s get as much ammo and weapons as we can carry. I saw a truck through the bathroom window, it’s right outside. With any luck, it’s unlocked with the keys in it.” He looked Taylor in the eyes. “And thanks, Taylor.”
“I need you as much as you need me right now. Don’t read into it too much.”
“Right. Let’s move.”
In the gun room, they found two backpacks and stuffed them full of ammo and empty magazines. “All these guns, and no Tavor. Lame.” Taylor grabbed an AR and loaded it.
“Beggars, choosers, crazy rednecks with a death cult,” Pascoe said. “You takes what you can.” He rummaged in the closet, pulling out two tactical vests. He filled the pockets.
Both men turned to the window at the sound of more howling. As if on cue, the church’s doors burst open as several congregation members ran out into the fading daylight. Taylor winced as a larger man was tackled by several howling, naked others. His screams as they bit into him trailed off suddenly. More naked parishioners followed, chasing after anyone still clothed.
“They’re distracted, but I don’t think it would be a good idea to use the front door,” Pascoe said.
“Girl’s room window?”
“Sounds good.”
They scrambled through. Even though it was a tight fit with the weapons and gear, they made it into the parking area. Taylor scanned the vehicles.
“That one.” He pointed to a silver and white Chevy with a camper top, the two-toned paint job succumbing to rust and old age. “Those older models have a backup gas tank, and don’t have fancy electronics like the newer ones.” They ran for the truck. “Looks like it’s full of gear, too.”
Fortunately, the crazies were still occupied with the runners, and hadn’t noticed them yet. Pascoe reached the door and pulled the handle.
“Thank God, it’s open,” Then, “Shit. No keys.” He looked at Taylor. “Gonna have to hotwire it, cover me.”
“You know how to do that?”
“You don’t?” Pascoe pulled his knife and pried the cover from the steering column. “Shouldn’t that come with the ‘Bank Robbing Scumbag’ territory?”
“I missed that meeting.”
A chill ran through him as a chorus of howls split the air.
“Pascoe!”
“On it!”
Taylor kept his head on a swivel, trying to cover all avenues. A howling, naked man appeared between two trailers, fifty feet away. Taylor fired, catching him in the chest, then watched in shock as the crazy continued forward, ignoring the wound.
“You fucking kidding me?” Taylor shot again, and again, the bullets ripping into the man’s ribcage. He finally dropped, blood loss and tissue damage catching up to him.
Another freak appeared, accelerating towards him, howling at the top of his lungs. Taylor squeezed off three more rounds.
“They’re on to us!” Taylor backed towards the truck. “These guys aren’t slowing down!”
“Moving as fast as I can!”
“Unbunch those frilly little panties and move faster!”
“I buy the cologne!”
Taylor spun, aiming quickly at the closest approaching whacko, firing, then moving to the next. Click. “Damn.” He slapped in a new mag before the empty one hit the ground.
The fucking NATO round did little to nothing against the crazies. Granted, it did allow him to service targets at range, but dammit, it would be nice to drop the fuckers with only one shot. He worked the growing number of targets as fast as he could.
“Aaand…got it,” Pascoe said. The truck’s motor tried to turn over. “C’mon girl, you can do it.” The engine grumbled again, failing to catch.
Taylor spun, taking aim at a middle-aged woman. The rifle clicked as he pulled the trigger. “Fuck.” He let it fall onto the sling and drew his pistol, two quick shots dropping her. He tracked the next closest target.
This one had clothes, causing him to do a quick double take. It was the preacher. Taylor’s finger tightened on the trigger.
A pursuer appeared just as the preacher started in his direction. Taylor adjusted aim and put three into the naked man before turning back to the now kneeling preacher.
“Please, have mercy! Take me with you!”
“You’ve got a lot of nerve,” Taylor said, approaching. “A lot. Of. Fucking. Nerve.” He placed the barrel against the man’s forehead, taking satisfaction in the dark stain spreading across the front of the other man’s jeans.
“My name is Merwick, I can help you.” Tears rolled down his face. “I know of safe places, other compounds where we can hide.”
Taylor hesitated. He wouldn’t get far in prison garb in a sane world, and if this place was any indication, sane just took a long vacation.
“Taylor!” Pascoe’s shout brought him back. “Behind you!” One of the crazies, quieter than the others, had managed to get into bad breath range. Taylor spun, just in time to duck under the lunging grasp, jamming his .45 into the man’s ribs and firing.
The guy ignored the new holes in his chest and lunged again, getting a lucky swipe on Taylor’s gun hand. “Shit.” Taylor narrowly avoided a bite, responding with a quick pistol-whip to the temple as he swept the crazy’s leg, dropping him to the ground. A bullet to the forehead kept him there.
As quick as he had been, the extra time had allowed more rabid parishioners to close in. A sudden movement caught his eye—Merwick ran forward, tackling another crazy in Taylor’s blind spot.
The preacher shoved the crazy’s chin upward as Taylor approached, gnashing teeth narrowly missing his fingers. Taylor stomped, holding the crazy man’s head still as he pulled the trigger. Brain and bone painted the gravel.
* * *
More naked people, their faces covered in blood, appeared between the trailers. Taylor swung the pistol, firing quickly as he hauled Merwick to his feet.
“Son of a bitch,” he muttered, shoving the older man towards the truck. “Go! Before I change my mind.”
The engine caught, the big V-8 roaring to life. Taylor dropped two more attackers as he made his way to the passenger’s side door, taking the last one as the slide locked back. He wrenched the door open and got in, slamming it shut just as another crazy hit the window.
Pascoe glanced over at him. “It’s eighty-five miles to Houston, we’ve got full tanks of gas, a shit ton of ammo, it’s getting dark, and we’re wearing tac gear.”
“Just shut the fuck up and drive.”
Pascoe floored it, gravel and dust flying from the rear tires. He jerked the wheel to avoid the small mass of remaining people, fishtailing before he got it under control.
“Jesus, boss, don’t get us killed before we leave the driveway!”
“Backseat driver.”
Taylor turned, sliding the glass partition open between himself and the preacher. “You and I have a reckoning coming, but it’ll wait until we get some distance between us and your clusterfuck back there. You feel me, old man?” He felt the bump and the change in road surface as Pascoe turned onto 271.
“O, God! Why hast thou forsaken me?”
“Maybe because you perverted His Word to levels no one has seen before?”
“I was proud, thinking that I could see into God’s mind. This is my fall from Grace.” The older man’s shoulders slumped as he spoke. “My flock followed me, yet I led them down the wicked path. My weakness and blindness led them astray!”
He leaned forward, taking Taylor’s shoulder. The old man’s grip was fierce. “No! You don’t understand! You can’t see what I can see!” His head snapped up, red-rimmed eyes wild and overflowing with tears. “You are blind to the truth as I was!” He began squeezing harder.
“You need to move that hand before you lose it.”
“His entire world just came crashing down, Taylor,” Pascoe said. “Cut him some slack.”
“This crazy piece of shit crucified a man, drank his blood, and had us lined up for the next course.” Taylor raised the empty pistol. “I should end him right now.”
“He deserves it, sure.” Pascoe said. “But remember, ‘Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord.’”
“I’d just be arranging the meeting.”
“Leave him for the courts, Taylor. It’s the right—”
He was cut off by the preacher. “I will show you the light! You must let me cleanse your soul! Aaargh, God has sent the serpents to torment me until I fulfill my penance!” He began tearing at his shirt. “THE SERPENTS ARE HERE!”
Taylor dropped the mag, slammed home a new one, and brought the gun up. The preacher lunged forward just as Taylor slammed the window, bisecting the barrel as he pulled the trigger. Blood and brains covered the bed and boxes of supplies with red and gray lumps. There was a thump as the former holy man’s corpse fell back into the seat.
“Say hello to God for me.” Taylor said. He pulled the pistol back and shut the window. “Okay, now that we have some breathing room, what’s the plan?”
Pascoe shook his head slightly. “I don’t know. We’re out of touch with base, as well as anyone else that could tell us anything. We need info, first and foremost.”
“Yeah. Problem is, you saw how fast that went downhill back there. Chances are that whatever this is, it’s spreading. Hell, most of those people back there looked like they were getting over the flu, before they went through with the communion.”
“Best I can come up with now is to find a remote location, small, out of the way gas station or something, and make some phone calls.” Pascoe glanced down at the truck’s radio, and clicked the power knob. “Surf through the airwaves and see what you can find. We’ve got some time before we hit another town.”
Static crackled as Taylor spun the dial. The occasional burst of music was punctuated with voices.
“…And the Texas Department of Health confirmed another attack was caused by the ‘Human Rabies Virus,’ H7…”
“…Local health officials remind the citizens to stay indoors as much as possible, avoid contact with anyone that may be infected, and to use common safety precautions. Wash your hands, use antiviral sanitizer…”
“…The CDC announced today that the H7 virus is a major concern, and that a vaccine is in still in the development stage…”
“…No word as of yet as to where the strain has come from, only that it is not a naturally occurring form of the flu. State and Federal officials are requesting that anyone with any information…”
Taylor clicked off the radio. “Think we’ve heard all we need to hear for right now. Looks like this shit is spreading fast.”
Pascoe nodded. “Yeah, if that little speck on the map had it, I can only imagine how the bigger cities are getting screwed.”
“Zombies. The word no one is using.” Taylor laughed. “And with all the media in the last several years. Hell, I can’t believe I’m saying it.” His chuckle became louder, growing into a full-throated guffaw.
Pascoe held out a little longer, but a smile crept across his face. “Heh. All those times I’ve gone home worried about getting shanked in the lockup, and I really should’ve been worried about some prom queen feeling peckish.”
“Starved herself for months to get in that dress, what did you expect?”
“It’s the Om-nomnomageddon!” Pascoe was able to contain himself long enough to get the truck to the side of the road, then doubled over.
They both laughed, on the edge of hysteria, purging the strain and tension of the last several hours.
Taylor recovered first, wiping his eyes. “Oh man, talk about your totally fucked up situations. Zombie apocalypse, and I’m stuck with a cop as my battle buddy.”
“Hey, look at it from my side—I have to deal with a murderous scumbag, and he’s the best choice I have.”
“Speaking of murderous scumbags,” Taylor said, “I can contact the guys that hired me. Tell them to forget the lawyers, but bring guns and money. They have safehouses all over, maybe we can hole up until this blows over.”
“Better than anything I got.” Pascoe shrugged, adding, “I don’t think this is blowing over, Taylor.”
“Yeah, me neither.”
The other man nodded, his face set in determination. Without another word, he eased back onto the asphalt, guiding the truck towards the next town, and an uncertain future.