100 Days in Deadland (Deadland Saga, #1)(7)
I wiped my chin and headed to the back of the cab. Fortunately, Alan was slouched over, his face hidden in his lap, which made it a bit easier to pretend that this wasn’t someone I’d worked alongside every weekday. Dark, brownish blood and brain bits were splattered everywhere. Dazedly, I noticed the blood around Alan seemed darker and more congealed than it should have been, but I was no expert. My parents would know that kind of detail. I nudged him with my toe to make sure he was really dead, as though a shotgun blast to the head hadn’t been convincing enough. No response. Some of the tension in my spine released.
Once I could breathe without gagging, I glanced around. A stack of folded bedding sat neatly in the corner, and I grabbed the top sheet already speckled with dark spots. Breathing through my mouth, I knelt by Alan and none-too-gracefully rolled him into the sheet. Frowning, I noticed his pants had been ripped, and I nudged the material aside to see a jagged wound in the shape of a human mouth.
“He was bit,” I said, taking a long breath to keep from throwing up. “In the calf.”
“Figured something like that was the case,” the trucker replied.
I continued wrapping Alan in the sheet, trying to distance myself by imagining this was anything but a human body, but my subconscious kept reminding me. Once he was fully wrapped, I tugged and dragged him to the door and had meant to lower him gently to the ground, but he was heavier than me and the position was awkward. The sheet-wrapped body slipped right out of my hands and landed on the concrete shoulder of the interstate with a solid thud.
I stared at the body. While Alan deserved better than to be left at the side of the road to rot, I really, really didn’t want to leave the safety of the truck and risk being left behind. Biting my lip, I turned back to the trucker.
He shifted the truck back into gear. “You’re cleaning up the rest of this mess when we get to my place.”
I collapsed onto the seat and slammed the door shut just as the truck moved forward. I let out a breath and stared outside, focusing on nothing in particular as the trucker drove and weaved around cars. As we left the city behind, traffic shrunk to nil. Other than a couple small military convoys and state troopers, few vehicles were heading into town, and those vehicles were speeding down the interstate, as though they were in a hurry to get to Des Moines.
No doubt they were trying to get to their families.
While I’m abandoning mine.
I sat in a numb trance, my head resting on the headrest. Stay safe, mom and dad. I’m coming back. I promise.
The radio was on, but the CB radio was louder, with truckers constantly reporting in status of the interstates. All the talk was of zeds and blocked roads. Every couple minutes I found the trucker eying me.
“I still feel okay,” I said each time I caught him looking at me.
Seemingly assured that I wasn’t going to go zed on him, he put on a Bluetooth and reported in on the CB. “This is Clutch dead-heading at yard stick 153 on I-80 reporting in. Avoid I-80 eastbound near Des Moines. Just passed through a bad 10-50 with zeds rubber necking the area. Over.”
“10-4, Clutch. This is Dog Man. Heading west from The Windy. How’s the big road westbound outside city limits? Over.”
“Hammer lane for now, Dog Man. But I wouldn’t count on it staying that way. Two Rivers has been overrun. Zed city. Over.”
Zed city. I thought of my parents, and the rock in my gut grew into a boulder, and I hugged myself. They’d be so worried right now, unable to get a hold of me.
They were okay, safe at home. They had to be okay.
“Same with The Windy,” the other driver said. “Also heard The Circle and The Gateway are zed city, too. Whatever this thing is, it’s spreading hard and fast. I saw a guy get nearly decapitated and he was back on his feet in two minutes joining up with the other nut jobs. Have three beavers on board, and hoping to make the Big Miss by dark. Over.”
“Picked up a seat cover myself. Watch your six, Dog Man. Clutch over and out.”
Clutch removed his Bluetooth, clicked off the CB, and turned the radio back up.
He shot me a look, then returned his focus to the road. I noticed he wasn’t as old as I’d first assumed—mid-forties, maybe. And he was big and tough and scary. He’d straightened his cap, hiding more of his brown crew cut. He wore nothing fancy, just old jeans and a T-shirt, with tattoos covering his arms. His clothes were clean, whereas I looked like I’d just escaped a war zone.
Which was too damn near the truth.
Clutch nodded toward the red cooler at my feet. “Grab me a beer, Cash.” Then he tacked on, “Grab something for yourself if you’re thirsty.”
I didn’t care that his last sentence came out more like a gripe than an offer. I reached in and pulled out a beer and a bottle of water from the ice. “My name’s Mia. You go by Clutch?” I asked. “Or, at least that’s your CB handle, right?”
He didn’t reply.
I handed him the can and opened the plastic bottle. The water was cold and oh so good. After throwing up, my throat was raw and my mouth tasted awful. The water soothed and I swooshed it around my teeth. I drank the entire bottle before opening my eyes. “So,” I said, drawing out the word. “Where are we headed?”
“My place.”
Three long tones beeped on the radio.
“About time,” he said as he cranked up the volume.