Red Runs the River Page 3

  Shard End had become a sort of Mecca for lowlifes and losers. There were no plans to build an army and conquer what was left of the world. No attempts to restore civilization. All these assholes cared about was getting drunk or high or laid and none of the three presented much of a challenge.

  Three times a day Mitch made the trek along the dirt paths that passed for streets, checking to make sure no one was killing or getting killed, that no one was on the verge of dying and reanimating, and keeping his finger on the pulse of the camp. The task was mind-numbing in its monotony, but there wasn't much else to do.

  "They wiggle, and they dance." The words rolled through the dry air and Mitch looked to the source. A man who Mitch and everyone else knew only as Lumpy stood under a tattered canvas awning. "They wiggle, and they dance!" The words were empty and emotionless, but Lumpy's eyes watched all passersby’s like a carnival barker beckoning his next mark.

  The man was on the downhill side of fifty with a pendulous gut that hung so low that the bottom few inches sagged out from under his stained shirt. His face was even less attractive, with small eyes that looked like black peppercorns and a roadmap of red spider veins crisscrossing his cheeks and nose. A feces-colored growth the size of a large cockroach clung to his lip and every time Mitch was subjected to it, he wanted to slice it off, so he'd never have to see it again.

  At Lumpy's side were two female zombies. One more than usual, Mitch thought. Both had ropes tied around their necks with the opposite end staked into the ground.

  The new arrival was clad in only a silver Dallas Cowboys bikini top and short shorts. She had a good figure, but her mottled, gray skin and dead eyes didn't cause a reaction in Mitch's jeans. Beside her, an older, equally dead woman whose spare tire sagged down over her crotch like she was smuggling a flounder under her skin, gave a thousand-yard stare into the empty landscape ahead. She was motionless, not wiggling or dancing, and as Mitch stared Lumpy must have caught on.

  "No slackers on my watch." He poked her with a sharp stick, the tip sinking into her pallid flesh. No blood came, just a thick dollop of black ooze. Spurred into action, the dead woman strained at her tethers, swaying slowly side to side. It still wasn't wiggling or dancing, but Mitch supposed it was close enough.

  A younger man, Mitch thought his name was Heath or Keith, watched the dead women with desperate, rape-y eyes.

  "No free looks, boy!" Lumpy said.

  "What are you gonna do about it, Lardass?"

  Without a hint of warning, Lumpy swung the stick, striking the onlooker on the cheek. An angry, pink welt rose up almost immediately.

  "Fucker!"

  "Now pony up some pay or scoot!"

  The man scooted, and a satisfied grin spread across Lumpy's face. He shared it with Mitch, then beckoned him with a clumsy wave. "Come over, Mitch."

  A morning chat with Lumpy wasn't high on Mitch's priority list, but keeping the peace was easier when he had their respect and he obliged.

  "Got me a new girl," Lumpy said as Mitch arrived on the scene.

  "I noticed."

  "I call her Debbie. Like Debbie Does Dallas." He leered at Mitch expecting a response, but Mitch was visibly clueless. "Before your time, I guess. Anyhow, ain’t she a looker."

  Mitch gave her a cursory examination. Nodded.

  "You took her teeth out, right?"

  "Of course. Of course." He flashed a broad wink. "Tell you what, buddy, you gimme a bottle and you can feel her up. And if you care to share any of that white powder you hoard, you can take the both of 'em in my camper and do whatever you please. No questions asked. No sir-ee bob."

  Mitch regretted joining this man and tried to avoid his stare. "Sorry, Lumpy. Dead pussy doesn't do much for me."

  Lumpy wasn't offended. "Maybe not for you. But the rest of this lot..." He looked toward the town, licked his lips. "Hell, I bet they'd fuck a wood knot if you greased it up for em."

  "That wouldn't surprise me."

  "How's Saw anyway? Haven't seen him out and about in a while."

  "Saw's fine. If you want, I'll pass along your concern."

  Lumpy's eyes grew wide, revealing a vaguely yellow color where they should have been white. "Hell, no! Less he thinks about me the better."

  "I doubt he gives you much of a thought."

  "And thank God for that."

  Mitch finally met his gaze. "You believe in God, Lumpy?"

  Lumpy licked his lips, his tongue brushing across the obscene growth, lingering as it dragged against the roughness.

  Shit, he's tasting it, Mitch thought.

  "It's just an expression, ain't it?" Lumpy said.

  "I don't know. That's why I'm asking."

  Lumpy stammered, trying to get out an answer, then gave up. Mitch decided he'd grown bored of this conversation and moved on.

  As he progressed, he passed a drunk passed out in the middle of the street. The man's shirt was off, and he still clutched a bottle of whisky in his hand. Not much further a boy in his early teens sat on the metal steps leading to a trailer and cooked heroin on a spoon.

  As Mitch approached, the kid looked his way with narrowed eyes. "What are you looking at?"

  "A piece of shit."

  The kid set his drugs and spoon aside and moved to stand but stopped when he saw Mitch's hand on the grip of a pistol.

  "Where'd you get the smack?"

  "None of your business, freak."

  This was a new arrival and Mitch realized he'd been slacking on his introductions. When he reached the kid, he kicked the drugs into the dirt, causing the teen to jump to his feet, his body pulsing with rage.

  "The fuck was that for? You think you're ugly now, you wait till I get done with you!"

  A few years ago, Mitch was about the same size as this kid, but he'd had his growth spurt and stood a full six feet tall. His baby fat had given way to lean, ropey muscle and he used that strength to grab the kid by the throat and shove him against the trailer wall.

  His arms swung, fists flailing, but that didn't deter Mitch.

  "I asked you a question, kid. Where'd you get the heroin?"

  "Fuck off!" The words came out in raspy hitches as he struggled for breath. He had balls and Mitch had to respect that. He still didn't like him though.

  Mitch squeezed harder, his fingers digging into the teen's neck. His nails ripped the flesh and drew blood. The teen's frantic movements waned. Mitch leaned in, so their faces were only inches apart.

  "I don't know where you think you landed kid, but it's no place good. You might have thought life was hard out there but out there all you had to be scared of were zombies. In here, everyone would kill you. Every single one. And no one's going to save you because no one gives a shit."

  The teen tried to speak but Mitch wouldn't lessen the pressure he had on his windpipe to allow him to do so.

  "The only thing separating this place from hell itself is me. So, I'm gonna ask you again and I expect an answer. Where'd you get the heroin?"

  Mitch didn't fully release the teen, but he let him breathe. After gulping down a few mouthfuls of air, he spoke. "Don't know his name. Skinny guy with a yellow mohawk."

  Mitch understood immediately. "What'd you pay him with?"

  The teen looked from Mitch to the ground and Mitch understood this too. He could have let the matter drop but wasn't going to let the kid off that easy.

  "Answer me."

  The teen still wouldn't look, but he answered. "I sucked him off, okay? You happy now?"

  "Definitely not." Mitch slapped the kid across the mouth hard enough to break his upper lip. The boy fell onto the steps spitting blood.

  "Heroin's off limits here. Any type of opiate. I catch you again, it'll be the last mistake you make."

  The teen looked up. "You'll kill me?"

  "No. I'll take you to the pit."

  The kid spit a mouthful of blood onto Mitch's shoe. Mitch decided he'd earned that much and left him.

  Chapter Five

  The town
bar was two forty-foot-long trailer homes butted end to end. Above the doorway someone had painted "Dry Snatch" and since there was no real owner to choose an alternate moniker, that stuck.

  On a day like this one, it was a metal sweatbox and even worse than the oppressive, damp heat was the combined aroma of a dozen and a half men and women who hadn't bathed in months trying to get drunk as fast as possible. For flavor, a pile of vomit festered on the floor beside the entrance. A man named Tully was passed out beside the puke and flies buzzed, landed, and ate off both the barf and the man who'd vomited it up.

  Mitch stepped over both as he entered.

  Diesel, the forty-something bartender, noticed him first. He whispered something to one of the drunks and soon murmurs filled the Snatch.

  Mitch ignored their whispers as he surveyed the crowd. It was the usual bunch and he didn’t so much as give them a cursory glance as he stepped to the bar.

  Diesel approached him, an empty glass in hand. The man's skin had the consistency of worn leather and his left eye was missing. He didn't have the decency to cover the wound with a patch or bandana, instead leaving the gaping, eggplant-colored hole exposed for the world to see. Mitch tried to avoid it.

  "Morning, Mitch. What's your poison?"

  "Little early, isn't it?"

  Diesel looked around the bar as if that was answer enough.

  "I'm looking for Boyd," Mitch said.

  Diesel's eye skirted to the left, toward the restroom. Mitch didn't wait for a verbal answer.

  The smell in the main part of the bar was a summer bouquet compared to the odor in the bathroom where piss, puke, and shit melded together to form a fragrance strong enough to make you question your reason for living. Mitch tried to block it out as he moved to a stall door under which he could see two sets of feet, both of which were partially covered by dropped pants and both faced the direction of the toilet.

  Groans and grunts seeped from the stall. Sometimes Mitch really hated being in charge.

  He pushed the door with his foot. It was unlocked and swung free, revealing one man bent over the shitter while another pounded him from behind.

  "Play time's up, Boyd."

  Boyd, he of the yellow mohawk, spun sideways at the sound of the voice and Mitch got a brief but still too good look at his narrow cock which was covered in blood and dotted with feces. The sight of it reminded Mitch of a banana split doused in strawberry sauce and chocolate sprinkles and he thought that might have been the worst thing he'd ever seen. He looked away as fast as his head could swivel. "Fuck me, Boyd. Cover that up."

  He then motioned to the receiver. "And you, get the hell out of here."

  Boyd grabbed for his discarded pants. The other man ran, jeans still around his ankles forcing him to duck-walk away. The door banged behind him as he fled.

  "What's the problem, Mitch? Can't blame a man for fulfilling his needs."

  "Are you dressed yet?"

  "Sure am."

  Mitch glanced his way, half-scared he was still naked from the waist down and he'd be subjected to his horrible cock again, but Boyd was indeed clothed. "What were you gonna give that man in return for tearing up his asshole?"

  Boyd grinned, revealing jagged, brown teeth that made Mitch think of some sort of wild animal, maybe a badger or wolverine. "Why, he simply couldn't resist my masculine charm, that's all."

  Mitch felt the only worthwhile response to such a quip was a hard punch to the jaw and doing just that sent Boyd to the filthy floor. Mitch took the opportunity to grab him by his yellow mohawk and drag him from the room. When they emerged into what passed for a bar, the few drunks who were still alert enough to realize something was happening (and that was very few) looked toward them.

  Mitch glared at them. "Boyd's been dealing H and I bet more than a few of you knew about it."

  The onlookers returned their attention to their spirits, whether in disinterest or guilt Mitch couldn't be certain. "He'll pay. And none of you better think about taking over his business or you will too." He set his gaze on Diesel, the one-eyed bartender. "That includes you."

  Diesel held up his hands in a not guilty motion.

  "Anyone wants to see what happens when you break the rules, go to the pit after sundown."

  That got their attention and the murmurs returned. The message had been sent and Mitch didn't see any sense in prolonging the spectacle.

  Boyd stayed unconscious long enough for Mitch to drag him about halfway to the pit. His hair had started to come loose in handfuls that included not only the roots but bloody bits and pieces of his scalp.

  Maybe it was the pain that brought him back around. Mitch was glad of that because he was tired of doing all the work.

  Trickles of red ran down Boyd's face, making a detour into his eyes and he wiped at them while he came back to the land of the living.

  "The fuck, man? You scalp me or something?"

  "Some of your hair decided to extricate itself from your head."

  "Extra-what?"

  "Never mind. Get on your feet."

  Boyd did, but his legs looked like limp noodles and Mitch had to steady him. "Thanks," he said, and Mitch thought there was genuine gratitude in the voice. If he only knew.

  "What are you gonna do to me? Put me in the stocks?"

  They'd passed the stockades while Boyd was enjoying his siesta. Mitch hadn't given them any consideration. They were for minor offenses. What Boyd had been doing was as major as it got. To Mitch, even killing a man wasn't as bad as getting him hooked on heroin because a man on heroin wasn't only a danger to himself, he was a scourge on the entire settlement and put them all at risk.

  "No, Boyd. You knew the rules and you know the punishment for breaking them."

  Boyd's disposition changed fast. He tried to spin and run but he was still not all there, and Mitch grabbed onto what hair he had remaining.

  "Come on, man. You can't do that. I'll do whatever you want. You want to know what goes on around here when you ain't around? I'll tell you if you give me another chance. Shit, I’ll go undercover for you."

  Mitch considered this. But it didn't take him long to realize the word of a rat was of little use, especially when said rat knew his life was on the line.

  "Save your breath, Boyd."

  The man struggled and protested the remaining two hundred yards to the pit, but he saved the best for last. When they were at the edge of the fifteen-foot-deep, fifty-foot-wide circle that had been dug into the hard caliche two years ago, Boyd was crying so hard snot seeped from both nostrils and he slobbered like a rabid dog.

  "Take me to Saw, Mitch. It's my right."

  "Right? This isn’t even America, but no one's got rights anymore Boyd. You know that as well as anyone."

  "You stupid shit. You don't get it. Saw knows!"

  Mitch kicked him in the leg and Boyd fell to his knees. "Shut your mouth you damned liar."

  "I'm not lying, Mitch. You think anything goes on here that he don't know about? You’re smarter than that."

  Doubt seeped into Mitch's mind and he had to keep reminding himself that Boyd was scum and he was doing whatever he could to buy time. "Saw hasn't even been out of his house in over three weeks. He's not God. He isn't all seeing."

  "How can you be so fucking stupid? Saw knows I deal because he gets first dibs."

  Mitch looked down at the blubbering, pleading wreck of a man, into his eyes. And in them he saw the truth. He stood there, thinking, taking it in and some semblance of hope came back into Boyd's face.

  "You believe me now, don't you?"

  He did. He didn't want to, but he did. It was like finding a central piece to a jigsaw puzzle, the one where, once you have it in place, everything else comes together around it.

  "Yeah, I do."

  Boyd managed a smile, revealing those brown fang-ish teeth. Teeth Mitch never wanted to look at again.

  Mitch kicked him square in the chest, hard enough that he heard a rib snap and hard enough to send Boyd tumbling
backward ass over head. He'd been on the precipice of the pit, and the blow sent him careening into it.

  The man squawked in pain as he fell but those cries changed to screams of desperation, fear, and anger when he hit the bottom.

  "Get me out of here, you shit! You can't do this to me!"

  Mitch was tired of his voice. He turned and left the pit and Boyd behind. Apparently, he had bigger trouble to deal with.

  Chapter Six

  Saw's house stood almost half a mile from what passed for a town. It was a mansion almost as big as the one Mitch had grown up in and lived in before Senator SOB shipped him off to boarding school. It had a decidedly Texan feel with plenty of wood and iron and gigantic windows that stood two stories tall. The house was the reason Saw and Mitch and Mina stopped in this area in the first place. It was isolated and luxurious and situated on land so flat that it had an almost never-ending view.

  "Won't be no one sneaking up on us here, Mitchy," Saw assured him. As if there was anyone left to sneak. They'd found the house over three years earlier, late in the fall when the oppressive Texas heat was held at bay by the coming winter. It seemed a good climate then. Nothing like what it was now, of course. But by the time fall turned to winter and winter to spring, which brought with it that horrible, dry heat, they were settled in. Or Saw was anyway, and his opinion was the only one that mattered.

  As Mitch approached, he tried to peer into the windows that looked like black eyes peering out onto the land before them, but they were coated with a layer of dust so thick he couldn't see anything behind the glass. Anyone passing by would have thought the mansion abandoned.

  The only slight clue that it might contain residents came from the trash bags that filled the left side of the porch and were stacked four feet high. When Mitch reached them, he kicked one over and heard the telltale rattles and clangs of cans and bottles.