Scavengers. Part 29

"I just think there's another way," David said, exasperated.

"No, it has to be me," Dejah said. "Evelyn hasn't come back. That means either Bal Shem let her go or she's still up there being eaten. Or they killed her. We all know she told him what she knew about me. It's only a matter of time until he comes for me...at least to verify her story anyway. At least this way we have the advantage and we can be prepared to act."

Dejah sat cross-legged in the circle of people, David at her right. Dr. Robbins and others willing to fight for their freedom sat side by side around the gathering. In all, they'd managed to pool about a dozen people from the motley crew in the barn, including a college-aged young man, the other solider named Abbott who'd been in their original group, a girl in her late twenties, named Torri, and a few others. Even Thomas had come around. Dejah wished he hadn't. She wasn't willing to let him redeem himself in her eyes. She knew it was selfish and stupid. Even in the midst of their last stand, she was thinking of a future with David. The bigger a.s.shole Thomas made of himself, the easier it would be for her to ... to what?

To move on.

Thomas was shaking his head at Dejah. "It shouldn't be you."

"Who should it be, Thomas? Are you volunteering?" Dejah asked.

Thomas set his jaw. His nostrils flared. It was a look she'd seen a million times. It was that look. In the past, it had been followed by his leaving for the night. Now, he sat before them, stewing in rage and disgust, a selfish desire to save his own skin the only keeping him from verbally las.h.i.+ng her.

Private Brooks had been quiet throughout the discussion, but now spoke.

"Here's my idea: Dejah asks the guards to take her to Bal Shem. If we're right, he's already heard of her from Evelyn and he'll be curious at least. While this is going on, someone causes a distraction. Now, there are three loose planks of wood at the back of the barn. We jimmy those off, and while Torri here is causing our distraction, David and Dr. Robbins slip through the loose boards and make a run for the old barn behind Bal Shem's clinic trailer." He reached into his front pocket, removing a silver whistle on a chain. "Dejah, you should keep this whistle. It'll be up to you to somehow keep Bal Shem occupied for the break-in. The main thing is that he doesn't have a chance to look outside and recognize what's going to happen, and he'll be distracted when David and Robbins come in the back. When it seems like the best time for them to come in - whatever's going on - blow the whistle. That will be the cue for David and Robbins to break into the trailer, and for the rest of us to launch our distraction."

"Must be a pretty loud G.o.dd.a.m.n whistle," Robbins said skeptically.

"It is. We were using them on patrol around H-Systems."

"Why David and the doctor?" Thomas said, anger in his voice.

David's face went scarlet. An ugly countenance of threat overcame him and he leaned toward Thomas, clearly, finally, having reached the end of his patience with the man. "Look here, you-"

The doctor raised his hand to calm both of them. "Let's not get into personal issues, okay? We really don't have time and it doesn't matter at this point. This might be our only chance for freedom. Now, Dejah wants her daughter back, and we want the h.e.l.l out of here. This plan might just kill two birds with one stone."

"Or kill all of us," an elderly lady in a flowered s.h.i.+rt said. "Have you stopped to think what happens if this plan fails?"

"I imagine things won't be very good," Brooks said.

"That's an understatement," she snapped.

"Well, we've got to do something," said Torri. "Things sure won't be very good if we stay here and wait for the next big flesh feast, either."

G.o.d bless you, Dejah thought. We can't talk about failure anymore. She and Torri traded smiles.

Robbins brought them back to the issue at hand. "As to your question, Thomas, I'm going because I have the serum to inject Bal Shem. They obey him; they listen to him. If we can get Bal Shem cured, he might call off the others or at least draw their attention while the rest of us get away. David's going because he has military training, he's strong, and I'll need help getting to Bal Shem. If one of us goes down, the other one will have to inject the b.a.s.t.a.r.d."

"So, we're basing this plan on the guess that he might be able to call off the infected? Isn't he the terrorist that blew up the f.u.c.king plane that started all of this?" Thomas said. The old woman and another man beside her grumbled to each other in whispers.

"I think if we can inject the serum, then hold him hostage to his own shop of horrors, he'll do what we d.a.m.n well tell him to do," Robbins said.

"Do you have a better plan?" Abbott asked Thomas.

An elderly man from the back of the crowd chimed in. "If we have this serum, why not inject the guards outside this barn? Then, when they come to or begin to get better or whatever, we can negotiate with them, or sneak away. Surely anyone recovering from the infection would want to get away as badly as we do."

Brooks nodded. "We could, but then we're still posed with the problem of all the other zombies in the camp coming after us if they learn of our escape. If we get Bal Shem cured, he can control the whole camp, corral them or command them to set us free."

"Also," Robbins added, "There is an indication that the serum does not work on everyone. Eighteen out of the 20 people tested recovered from the infection. Two of them remained sick with the virus."

"So," the old man retorted, "What's to guarantee it'll work on him?"

"No guarantee," Robbins said.

"I still think it's our best chance for success," Brooks said. "If it works, we've got a h.e.l.luva lot better chance of getting out alive than if we all just run for it and die in a zombie fox hunt."

The crowd was silent as the realization settled over them. It seemed there was a general consensus that there was no foolproof plan, and they had to settle for this. Which was still better than nothing.

Abbott turned to Robbins. "Me and Brooks, we'll handle the disturbance to draw the zombies away from the trailer while you go for Bal Shem."

"Good," Robbins said.

"Who wants to go work on the loose boards?" David asked the group. Faces stared back at him. They looked scared.

The college-aged man raised his hand. "I'll get working on it right now." He got up, and left the circle. "I'll help," said Torri, and followed him into the back of the barn.

"Okay. Once we know those boards are removable, we'll get this plan in action," said Robbins. "I'll get the syringes ready. Brooks, Abbott form a group and plan for the disturbance, and try to arm as many people as possible with makes.h.i.+ft weapons. There's going to be a big risk when you leave the barn, but the larger your group, the better off you'll be for a while. When Dejah blows that whistle, all h.e.l.l needs to break loose to draw the infected away from the trailer so we can get in there and inject Bal Shem. As soon as we get the girl and Dejah free of the trailer, then we'll draw the zombies' attention back to Bal Shem's trailer again, force him to give the order for them to set us free, or at the very least try to draw them as a crowd away from you all." Robbins stood, and out of habit, brushed his dirty pants. Then he looked up at them and smiled.

"Sharp, doc. Looking good." David grinned.

"Let's rock," said Abbott.

The boards were loose. Robbins with his bag of syringes and David, armed with a small knife someone had managed to keep, were ready and positioned. Brooks and Abbott armed as many people who were willing to fight with improvised weapons, most of which consisted of boards with protruding rusty nails. There were a few sharpened wood handles from rakes and a.s.sorted farm tools found beneath floorboards or between hay bales. One man came up with a s.h.i.+rt-tied bag with empty food cans filled with dirt for weight. Another used the sharp lids from the tin cans and fas.h.i.+oned a rudimentary ax.

Brooks and Abbott used an old system of rope and wood pulleys to hoist a bale of hay over the door. After Dejah was taken and escorted to meet Bal Shem, they figured only one or two guards would be left at the barn. Brooks would take a swing at the nearest one. When the infected jumped him, a.s.suming they did, another man would let the hoisted bale fall. The key was trying to keep Brooks from being killed or hauled away to be eaten. While the commotion was going on, a group of people would form a wall to block the back section of the barn from view while Robbins and David slipped out. Behind them, Torri and the other young man would return the boards and use some hay to conceal the exit.

It all sounded good in theory. G.o.d help them carry it off.

Dejah pushed the barn door open a crack. Immediately three infected guards lurched toward her.

"I need to speak with Bal Shem."

"Go inside. Stay."

"I'm the mother of the child who heals the eaten people," Dejah said. She waited, her heart beating hard against her ribs. What if it isn't Selah in there? What if all of this is for nothing? But then she knew that, for everyone else, it wasn't about Selah, it was about getting out of this h.e.l.lhole. Shame burned her cheeks. She was as selfish as she'd accused Thomas of being, but she prayed that it was Selah in there, only because it meant she was alive and there was a chance for them. And if it wasn't if by some insane twist of fate it was some other child she would follow through anyway, and save that child as if it was her own.

The infected guards grunted between each other uncertainly before one shoved open the door. Two guards came into the barn; the third took Dejah by the arm and escorted her outside onto the path.

Everyone tried to relax. Tried to breathe easy. But it felt like everyone was holding a collective breath.

Dejah and her escort were out of earshot on their way to the trailers at the far end of camp.

Brooks snapped into action. Before the infected guards closed the doors, he lunged from the shadows and punched the nearest guard in the gut.

The infected man doubled over, gasping, and then Brooks unleashed a barrage of punis.h.i.+ng blows worthy of a champion kickboxer. The other guard lumbered into the fray, but Brooks backed up in time for the hay bale to drop onto them. While Abbott and a few other men jumped the guards now struggling beneath the fallen bale, Robbins and David slipped through the hole made by the loosened slats in the back of the barn. They splashed out into a rut of mud and ran, dodging for cover from tree to tree until they reached the dilapidated barn behind the trailer.

Thunder boomed overhead and a loud crack broke the heavens wide open sending a cascade of rain pouring to the earth.

Dejah walked through the rain, trying to keep her face directed away from the infected guard pulling her along. She could not look at him after she'd caught a glimpse of his eroded face. She could barely keep from shuddering at the touch of his skin, the flesh of his palm like gel upon her arm, his fingertips like wet bone. At the same time, she fought her curiosity in wanting to see if Robbins and David had made the run for the barn yet by keeping her eyes focused straight ahead, watching the path and the clinic trailer that grew closer as they approached. She tried not to inhale too much. The foul stench from the infected guard's body was nauseating, but the rain seemed to lessen the odor.

Mist lay over the camp, and mud was sticky in the dirt path between the rows of tents. Her boots made sucking noises at each step. She heard the groans of the dying and the infected issuing from the far corners of the camp, and the shouts of the people and guards in the barn behind.

Several of the feral infected wandered around in the rain, staring into the distance. When she went up the path, they spotted her. She resisted the urge to bolt. The guard clasped more tightly than before and held up a hand, staying the mindless ones shuffling near the path. They obeyed him. It was clear to Dejah that strict order had been established between the talking infected and the feral. She could only hope for the sake of their plan that Bal Shem truly was the one calling all the shots.

From the side of the path, three other infected guards made a semi-circle behind her, perhaps under orders to herd escapees instead of attacking them. They followed her like stray dogs torn between hunger and fear.

They reached the steps of Bal Shem's trailer. Water poured over the metal stairs, forming a huge puddle around the front of the trailer. She reached for the cold, wet handrail, and then froze. A wall of stink slammed into her: the smell of rotten flesh. She swallowed and resisted the urge to gag. Rain dripped from the eaves, rus.h.i.+ng over her head and body. Although freezing, the water washed the filth away, providing her a sense of renewal and hope. Her teeth began violently chattering, as the guard pulled her the rest of the way up the slippery stairs and shoved open the flimsy door.

She was inside. Lighting was poor, murky and brown through the curtains. The door banged shut behind her as her eyes adjusted. The talker walked into the room with her, still clinging to her arm. The man Dejah a.s.sumed to be Bal Shem sat behind a desk on the far side of the grimy room, staring vacantly at the wall to his left. The guard pushed her into a chair, and then went to speak with Bal Shem.

Dejah suddenly regretted coming here. Oh G.o.d, what had she been thinking? They're going to eat me again and again and again. Doubt washed over her as fast and furious as the rain had, and she knew the plan hatched in the confines of the pseudo-safety of the barn would never work. There were just too d.a.m.n many of them. She glanced around the room. Office furniture was shoved to the sides. The floor was stained by dark smears. Two zombies sat in chairs facing the desk, and the infected guard she came with stood next to Bal Shem discussing, she a.s.sumed, her claims about being the healing child's mother.

Dejah's line of sight roamed from the infected deciding her immediate fate. The rest of the trailer had become a gruesome abattoir.

To her right was a kitchenette with a dining nook. Clearly the trailer had been intended for temporary housing before it was converted into a clinic. Cupboard doors swung on hinges, medical supplies stashed on the shelves. One quick look around revealed an examination table piled high with mutilated flesh. Dejah gasped at the awfulness of it, and the only thing that enabled her to look as long as she did was the fact that it just seemed so unreal. Gnawed bones, some with fleshy bits stuck to them, lay here and there. Cracked-open skulls dripped brains like tapioca. A striking Asian woman, beautiful even in the throes of infection, gripped a supple female thigh, blood dripping from her hands and smeared over her face. Dejah wondered if the thigh had once been a part of Lauren's body. The infected woman took the time to lick the congealing blood from between each of her fingers.

Dejah felt the surge and it happened quite suddenly; she vomited all over the floor. She closed her eyes in her sudden throes of revulsion, couldn't bear to look again at the gruesome table, or the ground around the table thick with unrecognizable clumps. Her bout of vomiting didn't seem to faze any of the other occupants of the room, and the woman at the table didn't stop her grisly feast.

Wiping her mouth on the back of her sleeve, Dejah hugged her aching stomach and blinked away tears. She focused on the infected guard and Bal Shem. They were still talking. Despite her resolve not to look again at the awful horrors in the kitchen nearby, gazing upon the visage of the infected terrorist wasn't much less revolting.

Bal Shem's body was a mutant blasphemy of rotting flesh. Arms bulged with muscle that wasn't quite covered by thin layers of skin, patchy in spots, blackened in others. The infection was taking its toll on his body, just as it had done on the rest of the infected. He may have remained more lucid than the others, but he obviously couldn't stop the physical ravishment of the disease. He wouldn't be so remarkably rational without Selah's touch, Dejah thought. Selah is keeping his mental faculties intact. Remove Selah from the equation and Bal Shem wouldn't be any more intelligent than the other talkers. And it wouldn't be long until his mind broke down and he turned into another of the feral infected roaming around on the other side of the cow pasture.

Bal Shem's chest was broad, and a network of muscle overlay a sinking ribcage. His skull was a patchwork of hair, one side of his face wet bone and cartilage, the other side peeling, dying flesh. He gave a lipless smile at the vision of Dejah before him.

"You don't like how I look, no?" he said to her, laughing. "A few hours ago, I barely looked ill. Only my thumb was beginning to rot. And now - now, look at me. This infection spreads so quickly. Some of these around me now will be dead in a matter of days." He gestured to the infected seated in the chairs before the desk.

Dejah didn't respond. What was she supposed to say?

"Bring her to me," he growled to the infected guard.

Dejah realized what a terrible mistake this was coming here like this, but there was no going back now.

The talker brought her to Bal Shem. Without warning, he lunged from his seat, grabbed her, tilted her head back, and savagely bit her throat.

Dejah reflexively inhaled with the shock of the sudden attack. Her windpipe filled with blood. She coughed as it filled her lungs. Bal Shem dragged her across the room, blood gus.h.i.+ng from the hole in her throat, and then threw her on the examination table atop fresh piles of human remains.

He ripped the legs of her pants until they hung around her in tattered strips, and then tore into her leg, ate her thighs, and ripped open the skin of her stomach to spill some of her guts over the edge of the table. Laughing maniacally, he straightened himself, flesh and entrails smeared over his cheek and slipping between his hands. Then he seized her leg and arm, and tossed her with a half-circle twirl into the corner.

She cracked paneling as she crashed against the wall. She fell into a heap, gurgling blood as consciousness slipped away.

Dejah came back to life in a cage of barbed wire, chicken wire, and aged, paint-peeled wood. She was in another room of the trailer. The light through the windows was a darker gray so she either regenerated through most of the day and it was now a dusky twilight or it was very early the next morning. Her hands were tied behind her back. Her body was screaming pain like it usually did after regeneration. She was disoriented, dizzy, and struggled to piece together what happened.

She'd announced herself as Selah's mother, but it seemed clear that Bal Shem recognized her, probably from information he'd been given by Evelyn, no doubt.

He didn't kill Dejah, and he hadn't dragged her off to Selah - G.o.d, let it be Selah to be healed and "reused." Since he'd caged her, she could only guess one thing: the madman must have wanted to see if what he'd been told of her regenerative powers was true. And if so, he intended to keep her for a very long time.

Or as long as he survives.

Her cage was not far from the doorway of her room. She could see down the hall, past the slaughterhouse kitchen, into the main room. The talkers stood in a line on the other side of the room, but she couldn't see why they were lining up. Bal Shem rose from behind his desk and took his place at the head of the line. Dejah situated herself so she could see whatever it was that was happening in the other room.

Her heart caught in her throat.

Oh my G.o.d.

She wondered if she'd finally lost her mind. Was she hallucinating?

Bal Shem stood on the other side of the room where a disheveled, dirty girl was brought in on a wood platform, locked in a cage. The girl was thin, surrounded by her own refuse and the remnants of whatever sc.r.a.ps of food the infected fed her. They were keeping her alive, but not doing a very good job of it. The girl turned around toward some noise near the door.

Selah.

As soon as she saw her daughter gazing despondently through the bars of her cage, Dejah broke into violent, hitching sobs. "Selah!" She tried to speak, but her throat was still healing. Her voice emerged as a mere whisper. "Selah!"

Selah's arm was tied so her hand protruded from between the metal squares in the filth-covered chicken wire used to construct her cage. Bal Shem knelt beneath her, forcing her hand to touch his repulsive head. Dejah watched the transformation.

Oh G.o.d, she thought. Dejah closed her eyes to the memory of Selah's christening. Selah being blessed by the pastor. Selah healing the cancer that had spread through the man's body, leeching the life slowly from him. "Oh, dear Jesus," Dejah groaned.

Her fears were realized. Bal Shem somehow discovered Selah's gift and used her to rise to power among the other infected. He probably started out as a talker, she mused, maybe a bit smarter, until he was touched. It was evident, from the short line of infected waiting their turns, that Bal Shem allowed a chosen few limited access to Selah's touch - just enough so they could become an elite squadron fulfilling his wishes.

Now they were lining up for their promised rations.

Across the room, Selah's tiny hands, her precious little fingers, touched putrid flesh and gave it unholy life. Dejah focused in on her daughter's vacant stare. What she saw there ripped her very soul.

"Selah!" she cried. Now her voice came out in a harsh rasp. Bal Shem's chosen infected few jerked their pustule-covered faces toward her. "Selah!"

The sound of her mother's voice stirred Selah from near catatonia. "Mommy?" She started to cry. "Mommy?"

Dejah struggled against her bonds, but she was tied fast. "Selah! I'm here. Mommy's here!"

Bal Shem focused in on her, eyes swimming as he spotted her at the end of the hallway, bound in her cage. "Mommy?" His tone mocked her desperate words. He looked from daughter to mother, something working in his twisted mind. Nearing Dejah's cage, his gaze narrowed as he pointed at her, and then at Selah. "This girl is your daughter?" Then he muttered, more to himself, or a dim hallucinatory companion. "The woman before told the truth. Is this the truth?"

"What reason do I have to lie?"

He shuffled into the room at the end of the hall and knelt to examine her. This close, she could see too well that the right side of his face was in ruins, falling apart. His lower lip hung loose as the skin began to separate from the chin. It gave him a toothy sneer, gums blackening at the roots of his teeth. He breathed on her and it smelled like a dumpster in August.

Dejah spit in his face. She cursed and struggled against her ropes. The dirty fibers gave way, snapping amidst her struggle. Hands free, she grabbed the wire cage and shook her prison's walls.

Bal Shem watched her with a hateful smirk on his face, and then pointed to the door.

"Everyone out," he commanded firmly.