Part 11 (1/2)

She seemed to recognize him, and w.i.l.l.y seemed to think he remembered her too. w.i.l.l.y pulled over and got out of the vehicle to meet her. His excitement was squelched when the woman withdrew a Ruger pistol and aimed it right at him.

THE PIEDMONT INN.

Once inside The Piedmont Inn, James began re-piecing the barricade. James placed a large table against the entrance doors. The original lock on the double doors was missing, Brock noticed, as if it was unscrewed and completely removed. Brock joined in on the effort, and together, they tossed chairs, benches, and finally, a fine leather couch onto the heap. Stopping the effort once James seemed satisfied, the man rushed to the corner bar called ”The Blue Note Bistro.” Reaching beneath the counter, he located a baseball bat with the words ”Peacemaker” scrawled in magic marker across its stock.

”This is just a prop,” James said, ”but it's real. I knew the guy who ran this place. He tried to shoot me for the ten bucks I had left in my wallet only days ago.”

The last sentence threw Brock, but he didn't ask for more details. He instead thought about Angel. ”My sister said she was staying here, but I don't know in which room.”

Brock spotted the front desk and checked the computer. The screen had been smashed. Brock located the guestbook and read through the past week and a half. He wondered if this strange situation had been going on for that long. If so, why had Angel mailed him a letter to come visit her less than four days ago? Why wasn't the letter a distress call? Why weren't the police here? Blue Hills was a graveyard, the survivors being men with axes, guns, and criminal intentions, that was except for James, who appeared to be another victim who hadn't given up on his life or the hope of seeing the end of the situation.

”Is she in the guest book?” James asked, clutching the bat and eying the windows. He kept pivoting in a slow circle to ensure the way was safe. ”Hurry up, I'm getting nervous. I've lived this long by staying on the move. It's the only way to survive.”

Brock kept scanning the guest book. He was nervous as h.e.l.l that he didn't have a weapon or any means to protect himself. It also made him nervous James had a weapon. Brock couldn't completely trust the stranger.

Brock spotted Angel's name. She was staying in room 114.

”She's in room 114.”

”What if she's not there? Or she's...”

”Or she's what? You've got a lot to explain. Yes, you've helped me get to town, but you haven't been that much help other than that. This whole town is either dead or, or I don't know what. Why are the phones covered in steel squares? Can you at least tell me that?”

”I'll tell you everything, I promise. But first, let's deal with your sister.”

Brock followed the man down a hall of rooms: 101, 102, 103, and so on, until they stopped outside room 114. Brock took the initiative to knock first. James was behind him waving the baseball bat as if to take a Babe Ruth death swing.

”Open it,” James whispered to him. ”She won't answer. You'll see. n.o.body's there.”

He held back to urge to snap, How the f.u.c.k do you know?

Brock knocked again. There wasn't a response. ”Angel, it's me, your brother, Brock. Are you in there?”

”If she is, she's not answering. She's dead. Or she's like the rest of them. They'd slit your throat for a dollar.”

As good as it's been finding you, you're acting like a G.o.dd.a.m.n p.r.i.c.k. ”Why do you say that? And don't tell me it has to wait.”

”Do you think I'm f.u.c.king around? I've been here since this s.h.i.+t started. It's been two weeks of h.e.l.l. I have no idea why it's happening or what it is. Look, I'm in a bad place too. My wife drowned in burning hot oil that came up from the ground that was full of corpse bones. Does that make sense to you? Is that logical to you? And don't apologize to me, because it doesn't change a thing. My wife's gone forever. I'm helping you, and I'm trusting you not to stab me in the back or rob me and leave me for dead like everyone else has tried. Why I'm trusting you, I don't know.”

”Why would I rob you?”

”Because you'd...” He trailed off, resting his head against the wall and expelling a long, weary breath. He watched Brock carefully and made a realization. ”You really haven't been here that long, have you?”

”Two days, but most of that was spent in a house hiding.”

”You were wise to do that.” James's piercing eyes made Brock s.h.i.+ver. ”You open that door, see if you find your sister, and I'll tell you everything. But we must be safe when I tell you this. It's a long explanation. And you won't like it.”

Nervousness and a driving need for the truth compelled Brock to turn the doork.n.o.b. The door opened a crack, then it stopped against a barricade. ”d.a.m.n, it's blocked from the other side.”

James rammed his shoulder against it to little change, so he motioned for Brock to press his hands up against the door and combine their strength to defeat the barricade. ”Some shelves,” James grunted, ”and maybe a chair wedged underneath the doork.n.o.b. We'll get through it. Help me. Keep pus.h.i.+ng.”

”Angel, are you in there?” Brock asked, grunting as he pushed both hands against the door and hoping it would pop open. ”It's your brother. I'm not going to hurt you. I'm not those other people.”

”She's not buying it if she's in there.” James now spoke through gritted teeth. ”If she shoots at us, I'm getting out of here. It's been nice meeting someone who doesn't want to rob and kill me and all, but I'm not dying for you. No offense.”

”None taken.” Brock pushed harder, both old men working their arms and shoulders to their full potential until the door began to widen and widen, the sound of bending and creaking wood increasing as their vigor paid dividends. ”We're doing it! Keep pus.h.i.+ng!”

After the sound of a chair leg snapping, they were able to shove through the door. Brock followed James inside, and then James went about reapplying the barricade. He pushed the bookshelf they'd shoved back flush against the door. The man was about to locate another wedge when both of their gazes fell upon Angel.

Brock looked at his sister on the hotel bed. Angel was downy white. White as daffodil petals. Lips blue as ice over a frozen river. Her body was locked in a side fetal position, and her hands were positioned at her chest. Angel's black hair was askew and pasted on her forehead. She looked to be recently dead.

He was afraid to pose the question to himself never mind out loud, but Brock asked it anyway, ”If she's dead, why doesn't she...smell?”

James moved to the bed with practiced speed and confidence. He touched his fingers beneath her neck and spoke clinically, ”She's warm and still has a pulse. She recently went to sleep. If you stay like that for too long, you begin to rot. It requires more to bring you back to life in that case. It happened to my wife days before the oil swallowed her up.”

Brock tried his best to sound patient. ”What exactly happened to your wife?”

”It started with the voices you heard earlier carrying in the air. Then the smell arrived. Deathly smells, not just rotting, Brock, but varying forms of death. Open wounds. Burnt flesh. Singed hair. Gangrene infected flesh. Coffin rot. Spilled blood. Blood turned to smoke. Sulfur. It was all a form of putrescence that corrupted the air. I'm familiar with it, because I embalmed bodies for funerals. I did everything at that cemetery.

”And then anybody who tried to leave town suddenly couldn't leave. If they tried, the roads, the ground, whatever was below their feet, would open up. The death smell would come up through the ground as would that infernal black oil. Have you seen the black oil?” He wasn't asking Brock, only posing a rhetorical question. ”If you have, you've seen the bones floating in the boiling mess. The oil is as hot as magma beneath the earth's crust. If you ran from it, you'd be sucked down, then vaporized. You'd ultimately vanish. That insistent chattering would play on the air, those voices over voices over voices. I swear they're all speaking to different ends. Some are laughing, others are warning you danger's here, while others are instructing. G.o.d knows what their intentions are. I don't. So what do you do when you can't leave town? You call the police, right?” He eyed Brock, making sure his listener hadn't dismissed him as mad. ”What happens when the phone doesn't work anymore?”

Brock broke in, ”You panic, that's what you do.” He imagined his cell phone and how it had changed without any indication. ”My cell phone was covered in a steel plate, as was the phone in that house we hid in last night. It was like someone was trying to deny us the privilege.”

James nodded. ”Yes, everybody's phones and communication devices were suddenly covered in steel with that thin little slot in the middle. It literally happened overnight. One moment everything was normal, and the next, it was f.u.c.king crazy.”

”Why are things covered in steel like that? I still don't understand the significance.”

James pointed at Angel. ”Do me a favor and touch her.”

Offended, ”Excuse me.”

”Before I explain more, I want you to understand something. Check for yourself. She's warm. She's alive. Right?”

For the sake of receiving more of the explanation, Brock moved to the bed. He extended his hand and touched Angel's neck and was startled to feel the warmth. Her pulse was faint, as if on hibernation mode.

”She's alive, yes. Now what's your point?”

”I heard a rattling in your pocket. I pray it's what I'm thinking it is.”

Brock dug it out. He was shocked at how James's face lit up, as if he was an alcoholic and Brock had removed a fifth of bourbon from his pocket instead of the thirty-five cents. ”It's pocket change. So what?”

Relief played on the man's features. He pointed at Angel, afraid to come any closer to Brock's quarter and a dime. An expression of dread played upon his eyes, one of pure loathing. ”Okay, just do as I say.” He was out-of-breath, sweating profusely, and aiming his finger at Angel's arm. ”Just place the coins on her arm.”

”What?”

”Place them on her arm. And make sure they don't fall off.”