Devoured - - (list of e readers .TXT) 📗

Yet it was there. He’d known her for a whole two days, yet he already cared for her.

Did she feel the same way? Did it even matter?

Lance didn’t know and didn’t particularly care.

Though the things Lance had seen and done still haunted him, the weight of it all was lessened, alleviated because he had someone to share the horrors with.

All while he was still legally married, though the idea of contracts and courts meant nothing anymore.

“Is the stadium on this side of the river?” Cass asked. “I’ve never been there and I’m having trouble remembering exactly where it is.”

“You’ve never been to Heinz Field?”

“Nah—I don’t like football.”

Lance glared at her. “I’m two seconds shy of throwing your ass out of this truck. I bleed black and gold.”

“Maybe we can go to a game together this fall. Oh wait, the entire team is dead. Dumbass.”

“Life without the Steelers. That might be the worst thought I’ve had since this happened.”

Cass shook her head. “I don’t understand men.”

“Good, because we don’t understand you either. Besides, earlier you said that the NFL is always talking about concussions. Now you’re saying that you don’t even like football.”

“The asshole I used to date watched football all the time. He got pissed if I didn’t sit beside him for every game.”

“Sounds like a real charmer.”

“−giant mushroom cloud. That’s right, folks. Word is that a nuclear power plant went boom somewhere in the Midwest. I’ve heard Illinois and Kentucky, but people are contradicting each other. So if you see a three-headed vampire out there, go the other way. You don’t need to have your gonads radiated. Hell no.”

They hit a relatively clear stretch of road and Lance accelerated, hitting thirty-five miles per hour. The number of daywalkers increased as they drove.

Lance watched them meander about, talking to themselves or chasing the truck, their minds eroding by the minute.

Two men, their clothes ripped, muscles starting to bulge, veins popping, ran down the road toward the armored vehicle. Lance eased off the gas a bit, but didn’t swerve, knowing that crashing into the median would cause more damage than hitting the two infected.

The truck’s grill smashed into them, sending their bodies toppling to the road. The tires ran over them, causing a small bump in the ride for Lance and Cass. Neither said anything as they drove away from the destroyed, twitching bodies.

An eighteen-wheeler blocked the road ahead, its trailer parked sideways across the lanes. The backend parked on the lawn of a brick home. Lance slowed down, squinting against the glare on the windshield. Cass turned the radio off and leaned forward, pointing through the glass.

“See that?”

“The big rig? Kind of hard to miss.”

“No, dumbass. The guy sitting in the cab, aiming a rifle through the window.”

Lance lowered the visor from the ceiling, giving him better visibility. When they were less than fifty yards from the truck, he spotted the man. He wore a camouflage baseball cap, the rest of his face obscured by the scope of the rifle he looked through.

“I don’t like the look of this.”

Another man stepped out from behind the backend of the trailer, a shotgun resting on his shoulder. He held a hand up for Lance to stop.

“I’m with you—this can’t be good. Keep your window up, no matter what.” Lance stopped the truck, but kept it in gear. “Can this glass stop a rifle round? I know the shotgun can’t pierce it, but that rifle worries me.”

“Don’t know. My subscription to Guns & Ammo ran out last year.”

Lance would have given her a pithy comeback if he wasn’t so focused on the shotgun-toting man approaching his side of the truck.

The man stopped beside the driver’s side door. He wore a flannel shirt and jeans with a tear over the thigh, the white of his pocket showing through the denim. A two-week beard covered his cheeks and chin.

He moved his free hand in a circular motion, wanting Lance to put his window down.

Lance shook his head.

The bearded man scratched his shaggy neck. He held his thumb and index finger an inch apart.

“I think you can crack the window,” Cass said. “Unless Grizzly Adams can curve bullets, we should be safe.”

“Be ready to duck. I’m going to punch the gas if things go south. Get out of the line of fire of that rifle.”

“Just stay cool.”

“Yeah.” Lance found the power window button and depressed it for a split second. The window lowered a fraction of an inch. He gave it one more tap, enough to stick one finger through.

Lance looked down at the man. “What’s going on?”

“Where are you headed?” the man asked.

“The stadium. Trying to get out of the city.”

The rifle cracked ahead, startling Lance. His head jerked around, looking for the point of impact on the truck, seeing none. “You OK, Cass?”

“Fine. What the hell is he shooting at?”

The man by the truck cackled, his laugh high and annoying. “Larry ain’t shootin’ at yinz.” He bobbed his head toward the back of the truck.

Lance looked in his mirror and spotted the body of a daywalker in the street, blood pooling around its ventilated head.

“Larry’s a good shot,” Lance said.

“Damn straight. You’d do best to remember that.”

“Why are you stopping us?” Lance didn’t like sitting in the open like this. They were in an armored truck, but enough of those things would make it difficult for them to get going again if they had to.

“How many you got with you?”

“Just the two of us.”

“Step on out of the truck.”

“Why are you stopping us?” Lance shifted in his seat, anxiety building. What was the play here?

“I said to get out of the truck. The woman too.”

“We aren’t moving unless you tell me what you want.”

The man sighed. “Yo, Larry! Get Ralph up here. Tell him we’ve got a couple of troublemakers up here.”

Lance barely held a gasp at bay.

Cass saw his body go rigid. “What?”

He turned his head toward her an inch and talked out of the side of his mouth. “It might be a coincidence, but one of the men who wanted to kill me in the restaurant was named Ralph. He was the leader of a big militia that ran around killing people when all this started. They wore camo too.”

“Shit.” Cass grabbed her buckled seatbelt and tugged on it, making sure it was secure.

“Sir, we just want to pass. We don’t have a problem with you.” Lance hoped he could talk his way out of this before Ralph arrived. If he was the man Lance thought him to be, the shit would hit the fan as soon as Ralph saw him.

“Won’t be a problem if you get out of the truck.” The man lowered the shotgun from his shoulder, aiming it at the window. “Now get the fuck out. You think you can just drive through our neighborhood and not pay the toll?”

“What’s the toll?” Lance spotted movement in the side mirror and glanced at it, trying not to wince when he saw ten camouflaged men sneaking up on the back of the truck.

They were surrounded by armed assholes.

“Whatever we want it to be. Don’t be stupid now. There’s a whole lot of us and just two of you. Get on out and I promise that you won’t be hurt.”

I guess their whole group wasn’t killed after all. Too bad.

Lance knew from his past experience with these marauders, that getting out of the truck would probably be the signature on their death sentences.

Feet appeared on the other side of the big rig, visible under the trailer, striding up the street in long steps. The person walked toward the back, appearing from behind the rear bumper and doors.

Ralph.

He made it three steps beyond the truck when he spotted Lance through the windshield, his face snarling in anger.