Part 3 (1/2)
Thomas Corliss rolled to a stop behind a faded truck. The road in front was blockaded. Thomas could see the soldier talking with the driver, an old man in a ball cap and denim s.h.i.+rt.
He switched the radio channels around trying to find something that wasn't c.r.a.p that pa.s.sed as music. Selah sat in the backseat with a coloring book on her lap, seemingly oblivious to the twenty-minute (and counting) wait.
The soldier was making a phone call while the old guy waited. After another ten minutes or so, the soldiers manning the blockade waved the truck through. Thomas was ecstatic, and put his foot on the gas - only to be waved to a stop. One of the soldiers came to the window. Thomas pushed the power lever and the window slid down.
”I'm going to have to ask you to return to your home. This road is closed. Hunt and Rockwall counties are quarantined,” the soldier said.
”That's what I'm trying to do. We live in Arlington.”
”I'm sorry sir, but I can't let you pa.s.s.” The soldier stood his ground.
Thomas scowled. ”You just let that truck through.” He pointed in the direction of the departing vehicle, more than a little p.i.s.sed.
”He had medical clearance.”
”Well, what do I have to do to get clearance?” Thomas glanced in the rearview mirror at Selah who was listening intently.
”I'm sorry, sir, I'm going to have to ask you to return to your point of origin.”
”For how long?”
The soldier's face broke its icy composure for a fleeting second, and annoyance replaced it. Then he returned to his expressionless, trained visage. ”There's no information about the duration of the lock-down, sir. Now if you'd please turn your car around by the soldier with the flag.” He pointed to the flag-waving man in camouflage off to the right.
Thomas realized arguing was futile and, shaking his head, turned his car around as instructed.
”Your mother isn't going to be pleased about this.”
”Are we going home?” Selah said, crayon gripped tightly in her hand.
”Ssh, just a minute, honey. Let me call Mommy.” He used speed dial, calling Dejah at home. She picked up immediately.
”Thomas? Is that you? Is Selah okay?”
”Yeah, hey, listen. We just tried to get through the blockade and the soldiers made us turn around.”
”What? I can barely hear you. You're breaking up.”
”I'm out in the middle of nowhere, bad reception,” and then louder, ”They won't let us through the blockade. The soldiers made us turn around. We have to go back to Mom and Dad's.”
”Why? I mean, did they tell you for how long?” Dejah's voice rose in pitch; panic welled in her words.
”No. The soldier said that information hadn't been made available yet.”
”Great.”
”Hey, we'll call you when we know something.” Thomas turned onto the road leading to his parents' house.
”No, call me tonight. Have Selah call, okay?” Dejah almost pleaded.
”Yeah, okay. Bye.” He ended the call before she could say anything else.
Hoover drove over the rutty dirt road leading to Burt's house, or Burt's Country Club, as they jokingly referred to it. More than one wife had tried her d.a.m.nedest to pry Burt's mansion out of his clutches, but in the end, he was still firmly rooted out here in the middle of G.o.dd.a.m.n nowhere.
Hoover honked as he approached the circle drive. The dirt road ramped onto pebbled concrete. Burt thought by keeping the road that branched from the farm road unpaved, trespa.s.sers would a.s.sume there was some white trash trailer out here and leave him alone. It worked. He rarely had anyone come down the road that wasn't supposed to be there.
Hoover honked again, pulling up in front of the old plantation style house.
”That's funny. Where are the Boys?” Hoover slammed the bucket of lead he called a truck into park and opened his creaking door, looking for Burt's dogs, otherwise known as the Boys. ”Here, Boy, here Boy!” Both dogs were actually named Boy. Made things easier for Burt to keep straight he'd said. d.a.m.ned if he knew where they'd gotten off to.
Nothing but crickets in the gra.s.s.
Hoover got out his phone and fiddled with it for a minute. Matty asked him to snap a photo of Burt and send it back. He pressed a b.u.t.ton, taking a photo of the dirt. Yep, that's it.
He approached the front door. It was open a crack. Maybe Burt had just gone back inside. Hoover rang the doorbell, certain the chimes would bring Burt's two Rottweilers in a rush of black fur - out the door and around him in a flurry of barks - but, only the chimes and silence greeted him.
”Hey, Burt? You in there?” Hoover pushed on the door and hesitantly peered around the edge. He hoped Burt wasn't walking around in his birthday suit or something. ”Here Boy, here Boy!”
The door swung open at his touch. Hoover stared into the marble-floored foyer, the sounds of some old Kenny Rogers song playing on the radio somewhere in the house. He entered, closing the door behind him. ”Burt? It's Hoov. Matty sent me to check on you.”
He walked through the carpeted hall into the kitchen - and froze.
Burt sat on the kitchen floor surrounded by a heap of pulpy meat. The two dogs lay belly up on either side of Burt's legs, their abdomens spilled in a pile of gore, blood pooled over the yellow-gold tile. Hoover looked from the dog carca.s.ses to Burt's anguished face. He was stuffing handfuls of intestines, long and looping, into his mouth and chomping on the squeaky gut like it was spicy sausage from the Grandma's Special Breakfast Platter at the Cracker Barrel.
Burt looked at Hoover with a blank trance-like stare. His arms were dripping blood from his fingers to his armpits. The white oxford, usually heavily starched and crisp, was mangled, shredded, the fabric wet and deep red.
”Burt? Buddy?”
He was positively gray: the color of old campfire ash. His eyes were sunk into his skull like decapitated heads the Viet Cong left sticking on pikes outside of villages back in Vietnam.
”Burt?” Hoover's hand trembled violently as he raised his phone. He steadied it as best as he could while he punched the camera b.u.t.ton. A burst of light flashed, followed by the whir-and-click sounds. Hoover looked at the phone and hit the necessary keys to send the photo to Matt.
Burt made a noise that sounded like a cross between a gargle and a grunt and lurched from his dog meat feast on the floor to a precarious standing position. He started toward Hoover, who instinctively backed toward the hall to the front door.
”Hey, buddy, looks like you're not feeling too-”
Burt lunged and tackled Hoover with the strength of ten twenty-year-old men. Burt's fingernails had grown into ragged talon-like projections, the skin around the nail bed pulled back like that of a corpse. Bits of stringy dog meat clung to his teeth and his breath was pure decay.
Hoover fought Burt with every ounce of strength in his body, but Hoover was no match for him. Burt sank his teeth into Hoover's shoulder and tore a chunk of meat from the bone, denim s.h.i.+rt and all.
”Burt!” Hoover shouted, but followed his cry with a gurgle as Burt plunged his mouth into his neck, tearing the wrinkled flesh away and ripping his throat out in a spray of crimson that peppered the paneling, curtains, and plush carpet.