Red Runs the River Page 5

  While she was much younger than the now long dead man in the wilted cowboy hat, she still had almost two decades on Mitch. He had the good sense not to ask her actual age, but he could see it in her face, in the way her skin crinkled up around her eyes and mouth. And the way her breasts sagged down to the bottom of her rib cage. He suspected she was only a few years younger than his mother but tried not to think about that much as it only made their relationship feel weird.

  Relationship, he thought. That was a serious word for something that didn't amount to much more than a good fuck once or twice a week. And he knew he wasn't the only man who came calling at Sally Rose's stoop. She wasn't exactly a prostitute, but she wasn't likely to turn away a fellow who turned up with some hard to find item of food or good booze or maybe even a little coke.

  Still, Mitch thought he might be special to her. The smile she gave when she saw him reached all the way up to her eyes, and she never turned him away, even when he didn't come bearing gifts. Like tonight.

  "It's been a long day."

  Sally Rose grabbed his hand between her own and pulled him inside. Her skin felt so tender, like silk, it almost gave him goosebumps. "I heard about Boyd. That bastard. How'd he think he'd get away with that?"

  Mitch didn't want to talk about Boyd. Didn't want to rehash any of the day's events. Instead he took his free hand and gripped her belt and drew her in close to him. She fell into him and giggled, a sound that seemed too young for her age, yet perfect at the same time. The feel of her soft body against him made him hard and she giggled again. Mitch would have said Sally Rose was plain, with her fair skin and freckles, a generic oval face and drab brown eyes, but when she smiled he thought she was on the verge of beautiful. He thought that now as he looked at her.

  Mitch didn't think he was capable of loving anyone except maybe himself, but this woman had a way of making everything better and she was exactly what he needed.

  Chapter Eight

  Mead had just witnessed the impossible and the insane. A pastor proclaiming himself to have God on his speed dial had allowed himself to be bit by a zombie and survived with no ill effects. Then the man told all the onlookers that God had created the zombies to save mankind. The scene was so unbelievable that every man and woman in attendance at this tent revival got down on their knees and prayed with him.

  Everyone, except himself. Mead had never been the praying kind. Wasn't even sure whether he believed in the big man upstairs with the bushy, white beard or not. He wouldn't have called himself an atheist or agnostic, mostly because he wasn't really sure what either term actually meant, but he knew what he'd never believe. If there was a God, he wasn't going to be spreading his word via a crazy, little man like Grady O'Baker. Healed up bite wounds or not.

  After the spectacle, Mead grabbed the shoulder of Owen, the man with whom he'd travelled all the way from Brimley, Arkansas to this Alabama shithole in search of this traveling sideshow.

  "I don't know about you, but I've seen enough crazy for one day," Mead said.

  Owen stared at him, eyes glassy, like a man who'd just taken a hit of particularly strong marijuana. "What do you mean?"

  "I mean I want to hit the fucking road, Owen. This guy's loonier than Yosemite Sam and less than half as charming,"

  "What are you talking about, Mead?"

  What the fuck do you think I'm talking about, Mead thought. He stared at the man who he'd known for a few years and who had always seemed normal and practical and sane, albeit a bit of a bore. His face was blank, or he was wrapped up in some kind of awe. Mead couldn't tell which it was. "This is a trick or something, Owen. No different than those preachers who juggled rattlesnakes in the old black and white documentaries."

  Owen stared at him, clueless and stupid.

  "For all we know, they pulled all of that zombies' teeth."

  "But he bled, Mead."

  "Blood capsules. Or strawberry jam even. Hell, if they could pull it off in professional wrestling why not here? The point is, we don't know what we saw."

  "I saw him get bit and not turn into a zombie like every other person I've seen get bit over the last four years. I saw all his scars too. But it's more than that."

  Now it was Mead's turn to be confused and silent.

  "That man. Pastor O'Baker. He talks to God, Mead. I know that as sure as I know my date of birth."

  "You just got caught up in the spectacle of it. That's what they count on. Do a few tricks. Sing a couple songs. Work everyone up into a frenzy and next thing you know you're signing over your IRA. That's how it always works, man. Now come on. Let's head home."

  Owen shook his head. "This is my home now."

  Mead was tired of this. He'd never taken Owen to be such a rube. "Jesus Christ, Owen. Don't be so fucking naive."

  "This was real. Pastor O'Baker is real. And Mead, I've been needing something like this."

  "Like what? A post-apocalyptic carnival barker and his band of merry idiots?"

  Owen's eyes blazed, and Mead knew he was lost.

  "So that's it then? After all these years of me taking care of you, you're trading in Brimley and safety for a bunch of whackadoos who keep zombies around like they're house cats?"

  The man looked away, toward the sight of the revival where a few dozen workers were folding up the chairs and tearing down the tent.

  "Have it your way then. But keep these crazies away from Arkansas. Go spread your insane gospel somewhere else." Mead didn't know if Owen reacted because he turned his back on the man and stomped away. Their bicycles rested against trees at the edge of the road. Mead grabbed one, climbed on board and pedaled away.

  As far as dramatic exits go, it wasn't much but it was the best he could do under the circumstances.

  Mead was less than twenty yards away when he realized the bike he'd taken in such a hurry was the one Owen had ridden, and it was a girl's bike at that. But turning around and riding back would have been even more embarrassing, so he continued away from Owen, away from the religious zealots.

  He was annoyed by the whole series of events and pissed that he'd ever biked all the way to Alabama. It had taken them almost two weeks of riding and searching for the damned traveling tent revival before they found it. Hundreds of miles and one very sore ass.

  What bothered him more than all of that though, was that he realized he was scared. Not scared of Grady. Not directly. If push came to shove, Mead knew he could out-push and out-shove the man with one arm tied behind his back. And he wasn't scared of the crazy man's message. The notion that God had created zombies to save humanity was as likely as Mead waking up tomorrow with a second cock.

  What scared Mead was how easily the others bought into the man's fire and brimstone bullshit. How someone like Owen who had seen some bad shit and had been given a safe place to live was so willing to give it up because this nut job said it was Gods will.

  Mead couldn't understand how people could be such sheep. He didn't know much about the bible, but he was pretty sure in Revelations, it didn't say anything about the zombie apocalypse. So why would men and women who had seemed so normal and reasonable buy into that line of happy horse shit?

  He thought about that for the next several days and never did come up with a good reason.

  Chapter Nine

  Grady dressed in silence behind the tent. The fresh bite wounds on his arm had already stopped bleeding, the blood clotting to a deep crimson which rose up against his pale skin like globs of paint. He was careful to not disturb them as he pulled on a plain, button down shirt.

  "You were inspiring today. As always." It was Juli's voice and it was full of admiration.

  At times, he felt her kindness bordered on uncomfortable fawning. "I only spoke the words God provided."

  "But you delivered them with such passion, Grady. That's what brings them in. Why they stay."

  Grady finished buttoning his shirt, then tucked it into his slacks. "Not all of them. We lost one."

  Juli glanced toward the
dirt path that led away from the tent. "I spoke with his friend, Owen. He said the man who left was vain and blasphemous. I doubt we ever had a chance for him."

  Grady was shocked at the indifference, at her skepticism. "Surely you don't believe that. Even the greatest sinner isn't beyond redemption."

  Her gazed dropped to the ground. "Grady, I--"

  "Our flock is comprised entirely of sinners. Liars and thieves. Drug addicts and even murderers. And you and I, we certainly are not without sin."

  "I only meant that he--"

  "I failed today. I could have saved that man's soul. Instead he left to wander in the wind without God's protection."

  Juli eased her hand onto his forearm. "You can't save everyone, Grady. A person has to want to be saved."

  Grady sometimes wondered if the woman listened, really listened, to his sermons or if she only placated him. Every day, in his prayers, he asked God to speak to her the way He spoke to him because he felt even after these years, there was a part of Juli that didn't fully believe. That she was simply playing a role.

  "It's my duty to make them want God as much as God wants then, Juli. That's why I've been given this mission. Ten men saved means nothing when the eleventh is lost."

  "You're right. I'm sorry."

  She turned away from him but not before he saw emotion in her eyes. It wasn't remorse, Grady thought. More a sadness. She slipped into the tent without giving him a chance to respond further and Grady wondered if he was too hard on her.

  She'd been at his side even before Grady himself understood his purpose. Before he understood God's plan. While he was lost in the darkness mourning the loss of his son, his Josiah, it was Juli who cared for him. Who protected him. And in the early days of his ministry, while others abandoned him and turned toward wicked lives, Juli remained. Of all his followers, she especially deserved his kindness and patience.

  He grabbed the tent flap and began to open it when he caught sight of the friend of the man who left. The fellow stared at the goings on around him with a mixture of awe and incredulity. Grady went to him.

  When the man saw Grady coming, his body tensed, and his eyes grew so wide Grady thought he might spin on his heels and run. Instead, he knelt before him and bowed his head.

  "Stand, please," Grady said.

  The man glanced up as if trying to make sure he wasn't being tested or pranked. "Really?"

  "Yes, yes."

  The man stood.

  "You can kneel before the cross and you can kneel in prayer. But not to me. We are equals, my friend. Fellow servants of God. I'm Grady and I'd like to know your name."

  Grady extended his small, almost fragile hand and the man swallowed it up between both of his own. "I'm Owen. Owen Varner."

  "I'm so pleased to meet you, Owen Varner. And I'm even more pleased that you've decided to remain with us and help spread God's word through what's left of the world. Thank you."

  Owen still clasped Grady's hand. "Thank me? Gosh no. I was never one for church, or religion at all for that matter. When I was a kid, we went on Christmas and Easter, but that was the whole of it. And when I got older, well, I didn't bother with it. Last time I was even in a church was when my dad died and that was more than thirty years ago."

  He dropped Grady's hand and broke eye contact, ashamed. "So, I'm not sure if you really have much use for someone like me."

  Grady put his hand on the man's shoulder. "I certainly do, Owen. And more importantly, God does too."

  Owen looked up, a befuddled grin on his face. "You really think so?"

  Grady gave his shoulder a light squeeze. "Yes, Owen. You're one of God's chosen ones and, together, we're going to carry out his wishes, aren't we?"

  The man nodded so hard his hair whipped around his head. "Yes, sir. I promise I'll do whatever's needed."

  "That's good. That's all God asks from any of us." Grady motioned to a few folding chairs setting nearby. "Sit with me for a spell, Owen. I want to hear your story. And, please start by telling me about your friend who elected not to stay and where you came from."

  Owen was more than happy to talk, and Grady was always willing to listen.

  Chapter Ten

  The man perched on a bicycle, riding down the middle of the highway. And, from what Wim could tell, it was a girl's bike. He also appeared to be padded up like a football player, making him look far too large for his ride. It was an odd sight, but then Wim remembered that he was sitting on an old wagon, being hauled by a horse, and supposed he shouldn't judge. He set the binoculars aside, laid a shotgun across his lap, and waited for the approaching rider to close in.

  His progress was slow, but he eventually closed the distance to a couple hundred yards and Wim assumed the cyclist then saw him too because his forward progress came to a halt. They both sat there like that for several minutes, waiting for the other to make the first move. Wim had a feeling this could go on for a good long while if he didn't put an end to it and gave the reins a shake. Gypsy snorted, reluctant to continue on, but grudgingly obliged.

  It didn't take long to get within shouting distance, and Wim hoped the rider would take the opportunity to speak. But he did not. He supposed he was going to have to make all the first moves and cupped one hand beside his mouth.

  "Hello, there. I mean you no harm." The words seemed silly once they came out of his mouth. As if a would-be assailant would confess to being a threat. Of course, they'd say something like 'I mean you no harm.' Sometimes he wondered why he bothered speaking at all.

  "Why should I believe you?" The rider queried.

  Wim realized he had no good answer for that. "Well, I... I suppose I don't know. But it's the truth if that matters."

  "It might."

  The rider climbed off his bike and pushed it in Wim's direction. Wim noticed the man had something that looked like a spear strapped across his back and that the hand that wasn't holding the bike clutched that weapon. But, seeing that he had a shotgun hidden on his lap, he felt the odds were in his favor should things go bad.

  They were within twenty feet of one another when the rider stopped again. Wim saw his hand drop from the weapon and realized the man wasn't just looking at him, he was examining him. And he was smirking.

  "I'll be shit," the man said.

  That voice, it sounded like one he'd heard before and Wim decided it was his time to take a better look past the girl's bike and padding and denim and to really see the man who was in his path. His hair was long and stringy, hanging far past his shoulders and he had a poor excuse for a beard and mustache, but Wim thought he knew him.

  "Mead?"

  "The one and only."

  While Mead stomped down the kickstand and let the bike sit, Wim climbed out of the wagon to meet him halfway. He couldn't believe his eyes. He'd last seen Mead more than four years ago while they hunkered down in a warehouse in West Virginia. There were many more of them then, and he tried not to think about that part.

  "I saw that fucking plaid shirt and thought, 'That looks exactly like something Wim would wear' and holy shit, it really is you. Dogs balls, man, what are the odds?"

  Wim thought they were pretty extraordinary and leaned in to give the man an embrace, but Mead dodged that and went for a handshake instead. Wim grabbed Mead's palm between his own and pumped it. He'd assumed this man had died years earlier and he'd never been so happy to be wrong. "I thought you were dead."

  "Shit man, I'm too good to die. Came close a couple times but the devil doesn't want me just yet." Mead pulled his hand free of Wim's powerful grip and ran it through his hair, pushing it out of his face. "So, what the fuck are you doing in Alabama?"

  "I guess I thought, if I wandered around long enough, I could talk myself out of murdering a man."

  Mead's eyes grew wide. "No shit?"

  They spent the next few hours discussing the events of the last few years. Wim was impressed with everything Mead had done and accomplished, even though it sounded like he too had dealt with his share of traged
y. He was glad Mead had found his note at the warehouse and even more glad that Mead hadn't been taken to the Ark with the rest of them.

  When he told Mead about what happened there, and what happened later with Ramey, he thought the man's eyes misted over but that might have been because his own grew bleary.

  "Ramey’s fucking father was the one who started all this shit? Brought this hell down on all of us?"

  Wim nodded.

  "I'm sorry, Wim. I was only with the two of you for a short while, but I could tell even then you had something special."

  "We did."

  "Something most of us aren't lucky enough to ever experience."

  Mead looked away and Wim suddenly realized why Mead had left them. He wondered how he could have been so dumb to not realize it at the time but, in his defense, there had been a lot going on. Still, he couldn't help but feel a little guilty.

  They were both silent for a moment until the emotions passed, then Mead turned his face back to Wim. "Do you think there's a good chance her father, Doc, is still alive?"

  Wim thought about that a moment. "When we left, the Ark was on fire. There were zombies everywhere. But if anyone could survive that, it would be that weasel."

  Mead nodded. "Okay then."

  "Okay what?"

  "Let's go kill him."

  Wim was surprised. He hadn't expected this man, whom he hadn't seen in years, to be so willing to help. Especially since the trip back to West Virginia would take weeks, not days.

  "You'd go with me?"

  "Shit, Wim. If everything you said is true, and I've got no reason to believe it's not, I'll kill the bastard myself."

  "Well, thank you."

  "If you don't mind though, there's someone I'd like to bring along."

  "Anything you want, buddy."

  Mead had deposited the bicycle into the wagon and sat beside Wim as they headed west. As he told Wim about Brimley, the town he'd built, Wim realized it sounded familiar.