“The point I’m making is a fistfight is not so different. The body reacts the same to fear. Maybe you’ll remember that the next time you decide to take a swing at the Captain. You could never beat him fair and square. The guy has military training from somewhere, and you’d never get past it. He knows how to take punishment, and he knows how to dish it out. He let you off easy with what you got. So don’t antagonize the guy, okay? We happen to need you.”
“Thank you, Sergeant. I’ll remember that.”
Travis watches Fielding walk toward the Stryker, and spits into the dust.
Ray
As the sun melts into the horizon, Ray veers off the main road, taking a short detour north to a town called Milford. The idea was to drive into the night to gain more distance from the shooter on his tail, but he is exhausted. And he once had a friend who lived in Milford; he knows the ground, how to get in and out. Lola does not seem to mind.
“Tonight, you’re going to sleep in a real bed, honey.”
She says nothing.
“I know I’ll appreciate it. I’m dog tired.”
After everything he has been through, he feels like he could sleep for a week.
The truck passes an overgrown cemetery on the left, a white delivery van with its back doors wide open, driveways, mailboxes and a sign reading, SCHOOL BUS STOP AHEAD.
“Man, I haven’t been here in years.”
Dozens of corpses lay clumped around a roadblock of two trucks blocking both lanes; traffic cones direct him toward an abandoned checkpoint on the side of the road. Ray drives over the bodies, breathing through his mouth.
It is not hard for him to figure out what happened. The townsfolk set up the roadblock to keep people out. Like many roadblocks set up in the first days of the epidemic, however, it was overrun from within. On the right, a sign is riddled with bullet holes: KOCH FUNERAL HOME.
Moments later, Ray is in downtown Milford, consisting of an IGA, hardware store, tavern he knows well from back in the day, convenience store and post office. He spots a house where an old chemist ran a meth lab; someone spray painted VAYA CON DIOS across the front door. Further on, an American flag hangs limply from the top of a white pole set in front of the town firehouse.
The Infected creep from their hiding places, grimacing and reaching out to him as the truck rolls past. He is too tired to play around with them this time. He is too tired, and they are too goddamn pitiful.
The Infected wail in response, an eerie cry that sounds like laughter.
¦
Ray makes a right turn at a stop sign and drives ahead to a small, shabby motel where he remembers two prostitutes who worked 2A. The sign out front says NO VACANCY, which makes him chuckle. He stops the truck in front of the manager’s office and kills the engine.
The Unit 12 cops jump down, holding the weapons they were given by the mob back in Sugar Creek.
“Come on, honey. Let’s find us a room.”
Ray enters the office and emerges with a handful of keys.
“Second floor has a nice view of the woods out back.”
He finds a blackened corpse in the first room, its leaking, congealed body fluids fusing it to the bed next to the night table, which is covered in empty pill bottles and a jug of wine. He backpedals and slams the door.
After skipping the next two doors, he tries the third.
“Now, this is more like it.”
The air is stale and smells like dust, but it was cleaned before the epidemic, and the bed is made. The bedroom window in the back offers a view of the swimming pool, bone dry and half filled with a tangle of dead bodies.
Beyond the pool, Infected stagger out of the darkening woods, moaning.
And above the tops of the trees, he sees flashes of light along the horizon. The battle for Washington, DC, still playing itself out.
Ray sighs and closes the curtains.
In the living room, he inspects the drab couch, wood paneling, dead TV and painting on the wall of an empty rowboat grounded on an ocean beach. Two of his cops set boxes on the floor, brought to the motel as tribute by the Infected still living in the town. He can see them down in the parking lot, staring up at his room and moaning.
The sound of bottles clinking against each other brings a grin to his face.
“Jim Beam!” he says, inspecting one. He unscrews the cap, takes a sip, and sighs. “Here, honey, have a snort. You deserve it.”
Lola takes the bottle and drinks it like water, wincing.
“Whoa there, Nelly,” he says, taking it back and screwing the cap back on.
Working by candlelight, he undresses her and inspects her body for wounds. She has multiple bite marks on her arm, one of which broke the skin and appears red and inflamed, and her feet are cut and bloodied. Otherwise, her long legs are bruised but she appears to be healthy.
“Let’s get you fixed up, honey.”
Dipping a washcloth in the basin of water the Infected provided, he rubs her face and arms, clearing away the dirt. He dips her head into a second basin, washes her hair and brushes it out, taking his time. Then he washes the rest of her body.
“I’m sorry, you know,” he says, glancing at her face for a reaction.
Her face twitches, her eyes open and staring at the blank face of the TV. He wraps a blanket around her shoulders, covering her nudity.
“I’m sorry I hurt your boyfriend. Remember that? Long time ago, right? Well, I’m sorry about it, Lola. It was just me hating everything. This might sting a little, honey.”
Ray dabs her feet with hydrogen peroxide, making the tiny wounds fizz. Lola stiffens but says nothing. He reaches for the tube of antibiotic cream.
“I hated everything because if I liked something, I hurt it until it was gone. Stupid, huh?”
He takes another swig from the bottle of Jim Beam and inspects his work. The wounds on her feet and arm are now clean and bandaged.
“You know, you were the closest I ever came to loving someone. Even more than Tyler, and he was my best friend.”
Rummaging through other people’s luggage, he finds a simple sundress and pair of comfortable sneakers that appear to fit her. She puts them on obediently.
“The weird thing is I hated my dad, but I act just like him. I know right from wrong and all that. I just can’t help myself after a few beers.”
He stops, wondering how to continue. It is hard to explain.
“Screw it. You don’t even know what I’m saying anyway. Open wide, honey.”
He winces; Lola’s mouth smells like an open grave. He takes a needle from the first aid kit and flosses pieces of meat wedged between her teeth. Putting a large dollop of Crest on a motel toothbrush, he brushes her teeth and tells her to spit into the basin.
