Chapter Thirty-Three

Guys Like Us

The backpack was where she’d said it would be. The oak tree with the decayed base was a bit moldy. Yellow and black slime smeared his fingers as he reached inside for the pack, but it had been an effective hiding place. No one had poached his stuff.

Iris had augmented the pack, he realized as he rummaged through it. In addition to the items he’d collected, he found a newer, sharper knife, another canteen, and more ammunition for both his Ruger and his crossbow.

Evidently, her job as barkeeper had allowed Iris to amass valuable possessions in this new world. He thought of the voluminous pack she carried on her shoulders and wondered what treasures she’d kept for herself. Whatever they were, Dez decided, she’d earned them. She’d managed to stay alive under Keaton’s tyrannical rule for nearly a year, and in the end, she’d gotten the information she needed and ultimately been the one to murder the son of a bitch.

He hoped he’d see her again.

Dez stood, made off through the woods. He didn’t feel good, but the weight of the backpack, far from encumbering him, kindled in him a fresh surge of hope.

Dez trudged forward, along a trail that was narrow but distinct. For a time, he willingly followed it, but soon he feared he was heading too far west, and for reasons he couldn’t explain, he felt that Chaney would have headed due south.

At least there was no more smoke, or only occasional tinges of it. He knew that most people who died in fires actually expired because of smoke inhalation, and he knew he’d inhaled a good damned bit of it. He took liberal draws from the canteens as he went, reasoning that a loud coughing fit was a greater peril than running out of water. Besides, he was terribly dehydrated, and the water was a balm for his itching, irritated throat.

After a couple minutes’ debate, Dez peeled off the trail and moved south. Without a blazed path, the going was slower. The October ground was scrimmed with a layer of hoarfrost, and the piled leaves and mounded humus made the going arduous. Even more bothersome were the snarls of thorn bushes and downed trees littering the forest. Navigating the numerous pitfalls made Dez feel like he was a contestant in some rustic reality show competition. He felt like utter dogshit, but it was either curl into a ball and try to sleep or persist in his attempts to locate Tom Chaney. Dez persisted.

It was after he’d bulled through the rugged undergrowth for nearly an hour that the idea first occurred to him. His plan all along had been to move in relative silence and hope to locate Chaney by sight. Calling out to him would have been beyond foolhardy – it would have been a death sentence. Dawn was creeping closer, but it was still full dark, and that meant the predators were out, scouring the countryside for fresh prey. Wildlife was abundant, and for the most part, the vampires could sate their bloodlust on rabbits, squirrels, deer, and other smaller mammals. Yet there was no question about their preferred quarry.

Dez leaned against a hickory tree and considered the possibility that Chaney had returned to Keaton’s house.

“Why would he do that?” Dez muttered aloud.

But he knew.

Knew and didn’t want to think about it.

Remember Keaton’s mistress?

No, he thought. You don’t know the whole story.

Yes, you do. You know it better than you want to.

Dez turned and gazed toward where he thought Iris and the others had gone. How close to the Buck Creek garage were they? Or had they been taken?

No, don’t think like that. Nothing took them. Nothing will attack them. And if something does, Iris will fight it off. She’s too clever to be ambushed, too tough to be overwhelmed by brute force.

And, he thought, starting through the forest again, she was too shrewd to be duped by some sort of fabricated story. If Chaney really had done something awful to Keaton’s mistress, Chaney had done so because he hadn’t been himself. The incident with Jim the Werewolf had proven it. In human form, Jim no more wanted to hurt Dez than he wanted to die himself. Even after Dez had taken Jim’s truck and compelled the old man to ride a bike over many miles of cracked asphalt, Jim had not taken it out on Dez with violence. Had merely reprimanded him and claimed what was rightfully his.

Chaney would not have gone back to Keaton’s house.

Still, without a definite path before him, Dez found himself trending toward where he thought Keaton’s land might be. It was difficult to tell for sure this deep in the forest, but Dez’s sense of direction had sharpened considerably in the past two years, and he suspected he was getting close.

Would Keaton’s wife try to shoot him?

Perhaps. The last time they’d met, Dez had been an intruder in her home. Whatever she’d said to her husband, it was enough for Keaton to condemn Dez and arrange a public execution.

For a time, Dez muscled his way through a particularly nasty stretch of forest. What would have taken him only minutes to navigate had there been a path took him nearly an hour because of the undergrowth’s density. Dez was lashed by thorns, his cheeks scourged by branches. What irony there would be, he thought, if he lost an eye, not in the insane fight to the death in the Four Winds, but to an ill-timed run-in with a sapling branch.

Dez was just getting ready to pause for a rest when he heard a door clack shut. A screen door.

He had reached Keaton’s house.

Dez knew it even before the trees thinned and he spotted the brick ranch ahead. He pushed through the bushes and saw how pallid the horizon had grown; dawn was encroaching swiftly now. As he was navigating the last few saplings on the forest’s edge, he saw the pale figure staggering away from the Keatons’ screened-in porch and shambling toward the front yard.

Tom Chaney. He could see that Tom was in the process of changing from a werewolf into a man again.

Dez swallowed hard. No.

Taking care not to make a sound, Dez emerged from the woods, made his way through the Keatons’ back yard, and rounded the corner of their brick ranch. He had no desire to enter the house.

When he reached the front yard he spotted Chaney lying supine, naked, gazing up at the pearly dark sky. Even from a distance Dez could discern the gleam of Chaney’s hairy skin. Something wet slicking his front. Something dark and wet.

No.

Chaney did not act surprised when Dez pulled up behind him. Dez studied Chaney upside down; the man’s expression seemed beatific, as though old demons had finally been laid to rest.

“I knew you’d find me,” Chaney said in his thick voice.

Chaney’s transformation was nearly complete; the only signs he’d been anything but human were the greater proliferation of hair on his chest and the slightly protuberant cheekbones. Yet even these were altering, the wolf form receding into its uneasy slumber.

“You remind me of my big brother,” Chaney said.

Dez could feel the heavy throb of his heart. Like mallet blows on his ribcage. “I didn’t know you had a brother.”

“I told you about my sister,” Chaney said, “but not my brother. He’s – was – very protective.”

“Oh yeah?” Dez said, staring off at the forest. Unable to look at Tom.

“Uh-huh. He always watched out for me. Before the bombs, I mean. He kept me out of trouble. Stuck up for me when the kids picked on me.”

Dez scarcely heard.

“When I’d do bad things,” Chaney murmured.

Dez glanced at him sharply. “What bad things?”

“It’s just nature,” Chaney said, grinning in a way that made Dez want to shriek in horror. “I always liked women. Anything wrong with that?” He looked up at Dez in challenge.

“That depends,” Dez said, his voice barely controlled.

“When my brother changed, he took off. He was smarter than I was. He knew what was happening to him. Or that something was happening to him. He went away so he wouldn’t…hurt one of us.”

A spate of dizziness threatened to buckle Dez’s knees. He forced himself to remain standing.

Chaney’s dark eyes scanned the sky overhead. “It’s getting light out.”

“What did you do?”

Chaney continued to watch the sky. “Need to find me some clothes. I bet Keaton has some.”

“Tom,” Dez said, louder this time. “What did you do?”

“Keaton deserved it,” Chaney said, his tone conversational. “Him and his family.”

Ah, fuck, Dez thought, closing his eyes. Already a wet heat was building in his chest. “Are they alive?” Dez asked, his throat dry. He nodded toward the brick ranch, where the windows were as black as pitch. “Are Keaton’s wife and daughter alive in there?”

Chaney’s grin widened. “They were.”

Dez turned away. Jesus Christ, he thought. Jesus Christ, no.

Chaney was speaking, but Dez hardly made out his words. “…and she got all uppity. You know how she is. Was. She told me to go. But by that time I’d seen the girl standing in the hall behind her. She was wearing these pink shortie shorts.” Chaney’s voice thickened. “What a body.”

Dez wiped a tear away. Said, “We gotta go, Tom. I told Iris and the others we’d meet them.”

Chaney’s voice altered, the fog of lust clearing. “Iris?”

Dez wiped his nose with the sleeve of his ill-fitting jacket. “She’s going with us.”

“She is?”

Dez nodded. “Let’s get you dressed so we can catch up to her.”

Chaney was on his feet in an instant. “Did she tell you to find me?”

Dez’s breath came in weary heaves. “Uh-huh.”

Something terrible played at the corners of Chaney’s eyes, and for a moment Dez saw the lycanthrope in him. Then it was gone. Chaney moved past him toward Keaton’s lane.

“Tom,” Dez said.

Chaney turned, frowning.

“Clothes?” Dez said, tossing a nod at Keaton’s house.

Chaney’s face spread in a goofy grin. “I forgot.” He came back, started toward the front porch.

Dez brought out the Ruger, thumbed off the safety.

Chaney heard it. His back muscles tensed.

Dez took a breath. “Tom?”

But Chaney was already turning. When he saw the gun he didn’t seem surprised. “You could let me go,” Chaney said.

Dez’s hand trembled, despite his attempts to steady it. His eyes were blurring too, and it had nothing to do with the smoke sting from the bar. “You’re obsessed with Iris.”

Chaney didn’t look scared at all. Maybe he didn’t believe Dez would do it. Or maybe the prospect of death no longer frightened him. “I’ll go the opposite way. Don’t need to take up with you guys if you don’t want me.” There was an impudent, spoiled-kid quality in Chaney’s tone. “Just let me go,” Chaney said, confident now. “No one needs to know.” The hint of a sneer. “You and Iris can be lovebirds.”

“You’ll do it again,” Dez said, to himself.

“It was the change,” Chaney said. He motioned toward the forest. “You saw it at the bar. I can’t control it.”

There was an infinitesimal moment in which Dez believed it, but it was gone so quickly it was as though it had never been there. “Why did you come to Keaton’s house?”

Chaney’s face went slack, all guile he’d been able to muster falling away. Chaney shrugged in a singularly unconvincing fashion. “I needed clothes. I knew Keaton would have some.”

“Tom,” Dez said, the gun steadying, “you didn’t come here for clothes.”

Chaney’s expression changed completely, the anguished creature Dez had known in the basement of the Four Winds returning. “They had me down there a year, Dez. More than a year. They…they treated me worse than a hound. They pissed on me, made me eat their shit to survive.” His eyes brimmed, his lips quivered. “Iris was the only reason they stopped it. Or stopped it some. She…she made them act nicer to me.”

Dez twitched the gun toward the house. “Did you rape them, Tom?”

Chaney’s eyes squeezed shut, tears streaming out the sides.

Dez asked, “Did you rape Keaton’s wife and daughter before you killed them?”

Chaney shook his head, his mouth working soundlessly.

Dez bared his teeth. “She was a child, Tom. Keaton’s daughter didn’t do anything wrong.” Dez’s voice had gone raw, almost as thick as Chaney’s. “Keaton’s wife didn’t do anything either. She didn’t deserve to be—”

“They were Keaton’s!” Chaney yelled. “They were his! They deserved everything they got!”

It worked on Dez like a jolt of electricity.

Chaney saw the change in Dez’s face, and Chaney’s eyes became huge, terrified moons. “You can’t do this.” Chaney shook his head. “You can’t do this!”

As Dez took aim, Chaney’s expression changed again, this time morphing into something bitter, something sinister. “My brother will hear about this. My brother will kill you.” A deranged grin. “He always knew when I was lying to him, and if you see him, he’ll know what you did.” Chaney took a step toward him, nodding. “He’s gonna make you pay for it. You and Iris and—”

Dez squeezed the trigger.

He barely saw Chaney’s head snap back, didn’t watch the man as he fell. Dez stood there for several moments, listening to the muted trickle of Chaney’s blood on the sidewalk, stood there and wondered if Chaney could still change or heal.

He didn’t.

Dez engaged the safety and returned the Ruger to his pocket. He squinted toward the lane, an irrational part of him imagining one of Keaton’s trucks, drawn by the gunshot, rumbling up the lane to take retribution on Dez for what he’d done at the Four Winds.

The lane, and Keaton’s yard, remained barren of life.

Though the light was coming faster now, the chill in the air seemed to have deepened, so that the opening at the throat of the voluminous black jacket he wore let in a constant draft, one that shivered his bones and made him long for a fire. A warm, drowsy bed.

The last place he wanted to be was inside Keaton’s ranch.

But there were things that needed doing. After moving around Chaney’s motionless body, Dez entered through the screen door.

When he came upon the first body, he wasn’t prepared for it. It was Keaton’s daughter. Her body from the neck down was a ruin. Like she’d been fed through a wood chipper. He hoped the damage had been postmortem. He hoped she hadn’t suffered too much.

She suffered, he thought. Of course she suffered.

His throat burning with bile, he made his way to the back bedroom, where he found Keaton’s wife, on the bed, similarly mutilated. He couldn’t look at her for long.

Dez went to the walk-in closet, noted how crammed with clothes it was, both Keaton’s and his wife’s, as though they’d carried on a competition to see who could collect more. Between the bedroom closet, Keaton’s dresser, and the front closet, Dez found everything he needed. He also found another gun – a .45 Smith & Wesson that could blow holes through cinder block – along with two boxes of ammunition. His backpack now full to bursting, he stripped Keaton’s daughter’s bed of sheets and blankets and began the job of wrapping her in them. It was ghastly work, not only because of the ravaged state of her body, but because of her open, staring eyes. He didn’t feel accused by those eyes, but he did see dismay in them, perplexity. Why did this happen to me? the eyes asked. Why did Chaney have to come here after it all should have ended?

Though there were two sheets and a comforter around her, the blood still leaked onto Dez’s new clothes as he carried her out of the house. After laying her body near the tree line, he went to the garage and found a shovel. Bone-weary, he set to work digging a hole, but the October ground was uncooperative, like chipping away at frozen clay. By the time he was finished, his palms were blistered and bleeding, and a sun the color of asbestos was glaring down at the back yard.

Her grave was no more than six feet long, a few feet wide, maybe three feet deep. And uneven, so that when he laid her wrapped body in the hole, her midsection was higher than her head and her feet. He didn’t like that, but then again, he didn’t like any of it. He knew he should go inside and do the same for Keaton’s wife, but the lack of sleep – How long had it been? Twenty-eight hours? Thirty? – and the absolute exhaustion were conspiring to undo him. He felt like crawling into the hole with the wrapped body and sleeping for about a month.

Dez shook his head. Jesus. Crazy talk.

He buried the body as best he could, knowing it was a poor job, knowing full well the animals would be at it, the wild dogs and maybe even the human scavengers, cannibals and vampires and God knew what else. Then there was the matter of Keaton’s wife, just lying there in the bedroom. Soon she would begin to rot, and then what? Just…leave her? He supposed he could burn the house down, but even that would require energy, and it would draw attention to him.

Maybe he was a bad person, but he couldn’t do anything for Keaton’s wife. It wasn’t spite that made him shoulder his backpack and start for the lane; it was weariness.

And fear, he realized. If any of Keaton’s entourage yet survived – and Dez thought it likely some had, as it was a good bet there were other parties spread out on raiding runs – they would eventually return here to piece together what happened to their leader. And when they found Keaton’s wife, they’d want vengeance.

With a new pair of sneakers on – they were Keaton’s, size fourteen – Dez stepped onto the concrete and made his way down the wooded lane. Not once did he look back at Tom Chaney’s body.